Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a mundane Thursday in the middle of summer (if that’s what you can call this weather: the sky is thick and grey like cement and the air is choked with spores floating around daintily as if they haven’t arisen from the depths of a rotting world) when Mike realises that he’s done something wrong. 

The grim sight of the outside world peeks through the large kitchen windows that are covered ambitiously by yellow, checkered curtains. (Mike’s mother doesn’t want Holly to look outside). Murky light, reminiscent of the abandoned dregs of tea left at the bottom of a cup, shines weakly through the gaps in the thin curtains, lighting up the kitchen in a sombre, pitiful excuse for sunlight.

But the gloomy weather doesn’t change the fact that it is summer and hot. Mike’s fingers itch for the worn handlebars of his bike, the serenity of the wind that flows against his face when he rides it and the crispness of the tree-cooled air. (Or at least the air used to be cool. It’s stifling now). He wants to do something: open a window and pretend that the air is clean and fresh, go outside and feel the deliciously cold rain on his skin, sit on a bench and go bird watching, just something, anything. (The last part’s funny, Mike doesn’t think he’s seen a bird in weeks. They’ve all flown away. Mike wishes he could fly away too). 

But then he remembers his mom’s face, a look he can only describe as ‘haunted’, when he suggested he go outside, just for a bit, to breathe. He tried to argue back when she refused, expressing how horrified she was at the thought of him going outside when the outside world was, well, that. But all protests died in his throat when he saw tears pool in her eyes, her lashes darkening with tears. His mother was stretching herself thin: cooking and cleaning for eight people living in one house and keeping an eye on her children with a desperation so fearful that Mike had been scared by the raw vulnerability she was exposing. It was like seeing a lion cower. So he stayed inside and never asked again. 

He’s standing in front of the kitchen sink, drenching his hands in tantalisingly cool water before splashing it on his warm face, when he hears someone walk in. He turns around, the front pieces of his hair dripping with water, and sees Will.

When Mike was younger, he used to dream of living with Will. They used to talk about it sometimes, and oh, how Mike missed their talks. They would mumble to each other drowsily in their sleeping bags, their hands reaching clumsily towards each other in the darkness, about who would make breakfast every morning and who would wash the dishes. But that must have been when Mike was seven years old. Mike is fifteen now and living with Will feels more suffocating than anything. Things are different now; there’s an unknown tension built between them that leaves Mike dizzy with confusion whenever they speak to each other. 

“Hey,” Mike greets, wiping his face dry with his sleeve.

“Hey,” Will says back, and that’s about as far as their conversations go these days. The corners of Will’s mouth lift in a faint smirk, and he glances down at the water collecting in a small pool on the tiled floor before looking back up at his face. “Have you gone for a swim?” 

Mike doesn’t know why he feels like his skin is made of glass when Will looks at him. It’s an odd way to describe the sensation, but that’s all he can think of. Will looks at him as if he can see through him, like he can see his heart thumping wildly against his chest and the hot, red blood thrumming through his veins. The intensity of it is too much sometimes, and Mike can’t help but look away, an ineffable sensation burning like fire in the depths of his belly.  

Mike rolls his eyes and squeezes the water out of his hair. “Leave me alone,” he snaps, but there’s no bite to his tone. “It’s hot today.”

“I know, Mike,” Will laughs, “why do you think I'm here?” He walks towards the fridge door, but Mike is closer and quicker, so he wrenches it open and takes out a pitcher of water, its glass shiny with beads of condensation.

Will raises his eyebrows in a subtle arc, surprised by the gesture. “Thanks,” he says awkwardly, his fingers lifting to tug at the short, brown hair at the back of his neck, while Mike busies himself with filling a glass for Will.

As he passes him his glass, their fingers brush momentarily, and that is the moment when Mike realises. 

Will snatches his hand back as if he’s been burned, and water sloshes out of the glass and splashes onto both of their hands. 

“Sorry,” Will mutters before fleeing from the kitchen.

Mike stands there, his hand raised stupidly, cupping thin air where the glass was less than five seconds ago, and stares at the spot where Will was. Will, who avoided his fingers and pulled his own back as if Mike’s touch hurt him. He tries to convince himself that the interaction was more dramatic in his head, that Will didn’t think anything of it, but he can feel the water on his hand. When he glances down at his fingers, he notices that they’re trembling. 

Suddenly, the cold water doesn’t feel so refreshing on his skin anymore.

—

After his encounter with Will in the kitchen, Mike finds himself hyper-aware of every interaction he has with him. Or lack of interaction. At dinner, he passes Will a dish and tries not to flinch when Will takes it without brushing Mike’s fingers even the slightest, the tips of Mike’s fingers left buzzing with the absence of warmth. The next morning, when Mike notices the sleeve of Will’s t-shirt wrinkled around the shoulder, he reaches out to fix it - fingers itching, burning to touch, but Will turns around so fast that Mike gets whiplash.

Later that night, Mike finds Will and Holly in the living room. Holly’s lying on the rug on her belly. Her legs are stretched out languidly like a sleepy cat, and her long blonde hair is splayed across her back like golden waves of honey. She’s holding a marker in her hand and scribbling on paper, and Will-

Well, Will is sitting next to her on the rug. While resting his weight on the palm of his hand, he leans over and points at something in Holly’s notebook. The room is dimly lit, illuminated by the warm lamps by the couch, and Will’s face is captured in an orange glow of light. Mike tries not to stare (he really does!), but he can’t help but watch the way Will’s eyelashes flutter as he looks down and the long dark shadows they cast on his cheeks. 

Mike is struck with an overwhelming urge - to touch the shadows on Will’s face and gaze brazenly at his glowing skin in the lamplight. But he doesn’t, of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he plops himself down on the rug with them and tries to cover up the quivering of his heart with an awkward laugh. Their knees brush as he does so, and Will sits up so straight as if he’s been electrocuted and mumbles something about getting water before beginning to stand up, and Mike feels like he’s done something terribly, terribly wrong. But, Holly sits up too and grabs Will’s arm, her tiny hands wrapped in semi-circles around his forearm, imploring that he get her lemonade from the kitchen and Mike’s breath stutters as he inhales.

Because Will isn’t avoiding touch.

He’s avoiding Mike’s touch.

He’s avoiding Mike.  

Holly looks up at him, her blue eyes wide with concern as she asks unknowingly. “What’s wrong, Mike? Did you want something to drink too?” 

But Mike simply pushes his lips into a tight smile and forces himself to shake his head, trying to blink back the hot tears in his eyes as he asks Holly about her latest drawing because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if something’s wrong. All he knows is that Will doesn’t want to be touched by him for some reason, and it's because of something he’s done. Fear begins to swirl dangerously in the pit of his stomach, churning amongst the acid and anxiety. Thoughts of the Mind Flayer and Vecna fill his mind before he can stop them, and dread invades the crevices of his mind, plaguing the blood that circulates through his brain. He desperately tries to remember whether Will’s eyes were dark brown or green when he was sitting in the orange light and feels sick when he can’t. 

“-Mike! Mike, are you paying attention?” Holly snaps, frowning at Mike with pre-teen sass and annoyance etched on her face. 

Mike mutters out a soft, “sorry, bathroom”, before bolting out of the living room. He stumbles into his bedroom with shaking knees and collapses onto the edge of his bed. He hugs his knees to his chest like he’s five years old again and tries his best not to cry.

—

The morning greets Mike with cloudy skies and the smell of burnt pancakes, and it’s around half past ten when he gathers the energy to stumble downstairs. 

Holly’s at her regular spot at the kitchen table, surrounded by piles and piles of art supplies, sketching something with a focus so great that Mike’s seen on Nancy’s face when she’s holding a gun: eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. Mike is suddenly hit with a melancholic pang, filled with the wish that he never has to see his little sister holding a weapon.

Mrs Byers smiles up at him, her eyes warm and sweet. “You okay, hon? It’s late.”

“Yeah…thanks, Mrs Byers. I was just really tired this morning.” 

She shoots him an understanding smile before turning around and asking Will a question. Will, who didn’t even look up to greet Mike as he walked into the kitchen. But any feeling of anger is quickly snuffed out like a weak candle in a thunderstorm when Mike sees his face - replaced with a myriad of emotions: sadness, worry, fear and that feeling that has dug itself dangerously deep inside his body like a dormant volcano that he can’t put a name to. 

Mike sits down in the chair opposite Will as his mom sets a plate of eggs and pancakes in front of him, and Will wordlessly pushes the syrup towards him without looking at him, and the warmth in his stomach blooms in response. 

He watches Will doodle something absent-mindedly on the corner of Holly’s paper and feels his heart stumble in his chest when Will looks up because Mike can see his eyes. And they're green. The relief hits him like a cold shower, and he lets himself stare unabashedly. He takes in the pool of dark gold that collects around his pupil, the green that comes out in the pale, white sunlight, like deep, terrene moss or clear pools of river water, and the dark lashes that frame those eyes like they’re precious and belong in a museum because they are and they do. 

Will frowns at him in confusion, his nose wrinkling in a painfully endearing way. “What are you looking at?” He asks as he tilts his head. 

Mike feels his breath catch in his throat beneath Will’s expectant gaze. He feels hot under Will’s stare, his tongue tangled up in feelings of hesitation and affection. “Nothing,” he says. “I was looking at nothing.” His cheeks are aflame, he can feel their heat, and he prays that no one can see it on his face. He stares down at his plate, his hair providing a much-needed curtain to hide his cheeks, and stabs a pancake with his fork.

He can hear his mother tutting vaguely in the background about how he needs a haircut, but he ignores it. He opts to watch Will from beneath his lids as discreetly as he can because there is no way he is getting caught again. He watches Mrs Byers sweep hair from her son’s forehead, and Mike’s fingers twinge with that same urge that he felt last night. To reach out and touch Will’s face, to feel his silky, brown hair between his fingertips and his cool skin beneath his palm. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Will doesn’t want to be touched by Mike. And Mike has to deal with that, he has to. He can’t bear the thought of taking what’s not his and doing something to Will, something he doesn’t want. So he clenches his hand into a fist and digs his nails into his palm, hoping the pain will soothe the craving burning beneath his skin.

—

Mike finds himself sitting with Holly and Will on the kitchen table again, a few days later. 

It reminds him of when they were younger. When he and Will would spend hours on end in his basement, Holly used to come tottering down the stairs slowly with a blanket cape trailing after her or fairy wings on her back. She would wander around silently with watchful eyes on the two boys and shyly approach their table, clambering onto a chair with the help of Will’s arm and hiding her face in the crook of Mike’s elbow. 

Mike wishes his heart didn’t ache for the past as much as it does. 

The kitchen is stuffy with summer heat, and Mike can hear the sizzling of something cooking and his mom humming to a faint song on the radio. Holly has a piece of paper spread out on the kitchen table. She’s drawing a castle - tall, pink turrets stretch along the white paper, and a blue moat encircles the bottom of the page - it’s an impressive scene, and Mike’s heart almost bursts with pride. 

Will is drawing as well, sketching details onto the bricks of a tower, with his cheek resting on his palm. He looks focused, concentrated, and Mike wants nothing more than to smooth the crease between his eyebrows with his thumb. He doesn’t, of course. Rather, he tries to draw a dragon in the corner of the paper, but it ends up looking more like a string of spaghetti than anything. Will and Holly look up at him with matching half-perplexed, half-amused grins on their faces. Then, Holly snickers, the corners of her eyes scrunching up with laughter, and moments later, Will joins in too, and Mike wishes he could say that the sound of Will’s laughter doesn’t make his insides warm with the urge that’s grown so familiar within his body. 

“You have marker,” Holly says between laughs. “All. Over. Your. Face.”

Mike doesn’t care about that, though. He seizes the moment to take in, really take in, how good happiness looks on Will. All rosy, blushed cheeks and a scrunched-up nose. His eyes sparkle green in the kitchen light, shining like sunlight-kissed verdant waters. For a brief second, they lock eyes, and Will reaches his hand out towards Mike’s face to wipe the ink off, and Mike’s heart falters weakly in his chest, excitement buzzing in his veins because he’s been waiting. Waiting for Will’s touch.

But as quickly as the moment begins, it ends just as fast. 

Mike’s breath hitches as Will’s hand stops dead mid-air, frozen in time. He drops his hand back to the table, the smile on his face wavering, and turns back to Holly to start a conversation again. But Mike can see the way his hands are trembling ever so slightly and tries not to let the devastating ache echoing throughout his body swallow him whole.  

—

Mike watches Will from afar. He’s bickering with Jonathan, probably about music or movies, but Mike doesn’t know because he isn’t listening. He’s looking. He studies how Will’s arms move as he gestures passionately in retort to whatever stupid thing Jonathan just said and tries very hard not to think about what it would feel like to be wrapped up in them. He imagines walking up to Will and collapsing onto his body - curling up around him so tightly that he can feel Will’s heart beat against his own - and pressing his face into the warm curve where his neck meets his shoulder, feeling his pulse beneath his lips. He doesn’t, of course. Because Will doesn’t want him with the hunger that Mike does, and Mike has to be okay with that. He has to. 

—

Nancy pulls him aside one day with worry carved into her features. 

“Are you okay?” She demands, her voice barely above a whisper as if she’s discussing something of utmost secrecy. Her eyes stare into Mike’s with a severity that makes him feel too vulnerable. He’s afraid that if she looks at him any longer, everything he’s been feeling and thinking will unravel itself from his tongue. 

He averts his gaze and stares at the carpet instead. “I’m fine.”

She frowns. Mike swears he sees a shine in her eyes, but maybe that’s just a reflection of light. She chews on her bottom lip with her teeth before speaking again. “Remember, those years ago, when we promised we’d tell each other everything? I know you’re not telling me everything, Mike, and I’m not telling you everything, either. But I… I feel like all these secrets…these lies. They’re just going to come crashing down on us.” Her voice trembles at the last word, and for a horrifying second, Mike is afraid that she’s going to start crying. 

“I just,” he starts, surprised by how quiet his voice comes out, and her eyes widen in surprise. “I feel like I keep doing things wrong. Like everything I do…messes something up. Like everything’s my fault.”

Nancy’s bottom lip quivers, her breath hitching as she nods her head, recognition painting her features. Mike vaguely thinks she’s going to ask them to make another promise, one neither of them will keep, but instead she pulls him in for a hug. 

It’s stiff and slightly uncomfortable. Nancy’s always had such pointy arms, and she’s squeezing too tightly around Mike’s torso, but Mike can’t find it in him to care. He wraps his arms around her shoulders tentatively and breathes in the familiar scent of her perfume. He closes his eyes and lets himself relax in his sister’s warmth, and for a moment, the aching buzzing beneath his skin subsides.

—

“Hey,” Will greets him.

It’s nearing nine in the night, and Mike is clearing Holly’s art supplies off the breakfast table. 

“Oh, hey,” Mike says back as he puts her markers back into their box. His heart flutters in his chest instinctually. It’s been doing that a lot lately. “Everything okay?”

Will nods and smiles. “Yeah, just heading down to the basement.” He walks over to Mike and gathers Holly’s books that have piled up by the fruit bowl.

“Thanks, you didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no problem.”

They look at each other awkwardly. Will’s fingers drum with trapped energy against the books, and Mike fidgets with the zipper of Holly’s pencil case. Silence fills the room, its unbearable weight presses down on them. There was never silence between the two of them, heavy silence, that is. The air between them used to be filled with noise, whether it was Mike rambling on about something, a meaningless squabble over a comic, Will softly explaining something to him or the sound of their synchronised breathing to fill the emptiness; they were never silent around each other. The quiet feels insidious and cold, creeping up on Mike and cruelly taunting, “This is what your friendship has become. This is what you did.” 

“Are we…” Mike begins. “Are we okay?” He whispers, his voice dying at the last word, and for a second, he’s afraid Will didn’t even hear him.

But Will’s eyes soften, his eyebrows furrow in a gentle frown, and he presses his lips together. “Yeah, Mike. We’re okay,” his voice comes out painfully tender, and Mike feels it in his bones. 

Mike hates that he can feel his eyes water, the tears threatening to burn their way down his face, but he blinks them away. “Are you sure? After everything that happened in California, and coming back here…I was so horrible to you and-and how are you not upset with me?” He asks, the words tremble in his throat like rippling water as guilt burns his insides. “I just want us to go back to how we used to be. Back to being friends” 

Mike can see the way Will’s whole body tenses up, his shoulders stiffen, and his jaw tightens. He fixes Mike with a gaze so intense he can’t help but avert his eyes. “I’m not upset with you, Mike. We’re friends, okay? But what happened was…a lot, and I’m sorry if things aren’t the same, aren’t the way you want them to be. But,” he inhales sharply, “a year apart changes things, Mike. We barely talked, barely wrote to each other. I don’t know how you can expect things to go back to normal-”

“-And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about everything, Will.” Mike’s eyes stay glued to his feet, staring at the ridiculous design on his socks. He thinks that if he looks at Will, he’ll start crying, and he definitely doesn’t want that to happen.

The harshness in Will’s eyes dissipates, like the waves eroding the jagged edges of a rock, and all that’s left is exhaustion in his face. “I know, Mike,” he says quietly. He hands Mike Holly’s books, careful not to let their fingers touch (and that hurts) and turns to the doorway. “Goodnight.”

“I called you,” Mike says before he can stop himself, his voice echoing in the empty kitchen.

Will turns around, something unreadable on his face as he looks at Mike with those wide, green eyes. His lips are parted ever so slightly, bitten red and faintly chapped. His face glows warmly in the kitchen light, the tips of his brown hair tinted golden.“What?”

“When you left…I called you, or I tried to call you, almost every day. But the line was always busy. You never reached out…and whenever the phone did ring, it was Jonathan for Nancy, so…I- I don’t know. I figured you just didn’t want to talk to me after that summer. And I heard about you from El’s letters, that you were happy and good in Lenora, and I thought you didn’t want me anymore…as a friend.”

Will stares at him, incredulous with wonder. “I didn’t know,” he mumbles after a moment. “I didn’t know,” he says again, softer as if telling it to himself. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with me, Mike. You kept sending letters for El and none for me, I thought…I thought that our-our friendship was done.”

“Oh,” Mike says simply because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah, oh,” Will lets out a watery laugh, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands.

“I’m sorry you thought that, Will. You have to believe me when I say it’s so, so far from the truth.”

“I’m sorry, too, Mike.”

Mike beams at him, properly for the first time in what feels like months, and he soaks in the smile he gets back, the warmth of it seeping into his body. “So, we’re okay? For real?” He asks tentatively.

“Yes, Mike. We are.”

Will looks at him one last time before heading towards the basement stairs, and Mike carries the way Will’s eyes gleamed green with kindness and the way his cheeks flushed with emotion with him all the way upstairs to his bedroom.

—

That night, Mike wakes up in the basement.

It’s confusing at first; he swears he remembers falling asleep in his own bed, sweltering in the summer heat with his neck curled against his chest in an uncomfortable position. But he’s awake, curled up on the basement couch. Maybe he wandered down here? Maybe he sleepwalked? Mike doesn’t think he’s ever sleepwalked in his life, but anything’s possible, he supposes as he looks around.

The basement is shrouded in soft yellow light, as if he’s looking at it through glasses made of amber, and warm. A nice warm, so unlike the suffocating heat of his bedroom. It envelops him kindly, like a weighted blanket hugging him. The edges of his vision are pleasantly blurred, fuzzy like a television screen. He leans his back against the couch sleepily, his eyes fluttering open and shut as sleep embraces him gently, luring him into its welcoming arms. But he can’t seem to fall asleep yet, even though the drowsiness makes his head spin.

“Mike?” A voice inquires, cutting through the dim, hazy air around him.

Mike reluctantly peeks an eye open, making out a figure through his bleary sight. He rubs his eyes and stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. “Will?”

“Hey,” Will smiles kindly, and Mike’s chest glows at the sight of it. 

He looks beautiful, Mike finds himself thinking before he can stop himself. His hair is tousled with sleep, the brown tresses fall to frame his face, and Mike’s fingers itch to tuck them behind his ear. Will approaches the couch and sits next to Mike, turning to beam at Mike when their legs touch. 

Mike stares at where their knees are pushed against each other, eyes wide with awe as he meets Will’s eyes and asks. “Are you sure we’re okay now?” The touch is electrifying, to say the least; it warms Mike up from the hairs on his head to the tips of his toes, and the hunger in his belly gleams in satisfaction. 

“Yeah, Mike,” he murmurs. “Of course we are.” He reaches for Mike’s hands, intertwining their fingers and caressing the back of Mike’s hands with his thumb.

Mike’s gaze is wide with wonder as he looks down at their hands, and he grins so hard his cheeks hurt. “What am I doing down here?”

“You came down to find me, remember?” Will’s eyes are round, the gold specks beneath the green glimmering like grains of sand beneath sunlight, and Mike stares mesmerised as they shimmer from the reflected light.  

“Did I?” Mike wonders faintly, distracted by Will’s hand on his own. “I don’t really remember.”

“It’s okay. C’mon, it’s late, let’s sleep?” 

“Yeah,” Mike breathes. “Okay.”

Will smiles at him again, and Mike’s heart flutters beneath his ribs. He lies down on the couch, stretching his legs so his feet bump against the armrest before tucking his knees against his chest like he used to sleep when they were younger during their sleepovers. Mike watches him, entranced by how lovely sleep looks on him. He looks peaceful, so much like how he used to before everything happened. The remnants of the smile rest on his face, his lips slightly curved in peace, and the perpetual furrow between his eyebrows is smoothed out completely.

“C’mere,” Will mumbles with his eyes shut. “Come closer.” 

Mike does what he’s told (how could he not?) and moves closer until the side of his leg is pressed up against the top of Will’s head. Will hums contentedly, and Mike melts at the sound, and he lifts his head, putting it on Mike’s lap and Mike-

Well, Mike can’t breathe. Or he’s trying his best to at least.

His breath catches in his throat at the weight of Will’s head resting on his legs, his mind swimming at the contact that lights his stomach aflame. He feels the warmth everywhere; it drills deep into the marrow of his bones and embeds beneath the layers of his flesh. His skin buzzes, charged and alive with electricity. 

“Will,” Mike utters, more like a plea than anything else. “Are you sure this is okay?”  

“Yes, Mike, of course it is.”

Mike lifts his hand, fearful at how it trembles, like the frail quivering wings of a dragonfly and warily presses his fingertips to Will’s face. His touch is featherlight, afraid that if he presses too hard, he’ll disappear beneath his hand. He combs his fingers through Will’s hair as delicately as he can, taking in how soft it feels, like how a drowning man takes in air. Will shifts momentarily and burrows deeper into Mike’s shirt, wrapping his arms around Mike’s waist and pressing his lips against his stomach through the fabric and Mike-

Mike wakes up.

He doesn’t know why he’s shaking so much when he sits up, his arms weak as he reaches out blindly for the switch to his bedside lamp. His chest heaves with desperation as he gasps for air he didn’t know he was lacking, his shoulders shuddering as he buries his face in his hands, gripping at his hair so tightly that it hurts. He doesn’t notice the tears at first, but they stream down his face with such ferocity that it’s hard to ignore. They’re hot and salty, feeling more like rough scars ripping through his cheeks than water, and burn his eyes like fire. 

“No,” he whispers into his hands, his voice wavering weakly. “No,” he says again, digging his nails deeper into his scalp. “No, no, no, no, no, no.” 

The pleasant warmth that had circulated his blood feels more like acid now, scorching his insides wildly and burning away the sweetness that lingered from the balmy, golden tail-end of his dream. He clutches his torso, trying to push away that feeling. The one that lives deep inside the pit of his stomach, the one he so foolishly has no name for, that flares up whenever Will so much as looks at him. He tries to choke it away, like he’s swallowing pills without water, and the shame scrapes against his throat with sharp nails as it rips its way down. He wishes he could deny it, blame it on the fear of everything that’s been happening, or the anxiety after what he’s been through, and Mike is many things, but he isn’t stupid. He knows how he’s feeling. He knows. But his mind won’t let him conceive it; the words refuse to form in his head. 

Mike lets the last of his tears fall and shuts his eyes tight, imagining how different his life would be if he were a braver boy. 

—

After dinner one night, Holly insists that everyone watch a movie with her in the living room. Mike can’t find himself to deny her request, so he finds himself sitting on the couch with enough space between him and Will to fit a whole other person and tries to ignore the ache that pangs in his chest when he looks at the empty distance between their knees. He faintly hears Nancy whispering to Jonathan in the background of the hum from the television, and he tries to focus on the movie, but his eyes are drawn to the boy, the beautiful boy, next to him instead. 

He studies Will’s face, an outline he has committed to memory by now (an outline he wishes he could trace with his fingers despite the shame that forms a pressure in the back of his throat). The way the bright glow from the TV kisses the elegant slope of his nose, the thick, dark lashes that line his eyes and graze his eyebrows whenever he looks up, the shadows that paint his face gently and darken the distinct cut of his jaw, the slight flush that tints his round cheeks a delectable shade of pink, and more and more and more that Mike could go on about. 

He hates that his eyes naturally fall to Will’s lips, like it’s instinctual and primal, as if it’s wired into Mike’s brain and coded into his DNA. If Mike were a stronger boy, he would tear his eyes away, push down those urges to touch and watch the movie on the television screen. But Mike is weak, and he knows this. He is weak and pathetic and can’t look away. He goes over the curve of Will’s cupid bow with his gaze, flushed crimson and sweet, entranced when he catches his bottom lip between his teeth, all red and velvety, and bites down. He thinks about pressing their lips together, feeling Will’s warm mouth beneath his, and all the lovely noises he can elicit out of his mouth-

“-Mike?” Will asks, oblivious.

The sound of Will’s voice makes Mike let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. Heat creeps up the back of his neck. “Yeah?” He answers, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper as he tries to ignore the pounding of his own heartbeat and the roaring of his blood in his ears. 

“You okay? You were just…um. Staring,” Will murmurs.

“No, yeah, I-I’m fine. Fine. Absolutely fine.”

Will nods slowly, as if he doesn’t fully believe him, before turning back to the television screen. Mike stares at the screen too. His head spins. From what? He doesn’t know. The lack of oxygen circling his body? The breaths that don’t seem to be going into his lungs? The dangerous warmth that swirls inside of him? 

For a moment, Mike is horrified, struck with the devastating fear that Will can see his thoughts. See every dream, every hope, every feeling that is stricken with greed and pure selfish desire, an affliction that gnaws at every corner and crevice inside of his body. He breathes deeply in a pitiful attempt to calm the violent beating of blood against his chest - fearing his heart might burst from his ribcage - and tame the blaze of heat in his stomach, all the while the words nonononono echo throughout his head.

But then Will smiles at him, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, and Mike loses himself in the light. 

—

It’s half past ten when Mike hears a knock on his door. He whisper-yells in acknowledgement, surprised when Nancy opens the door. 

“Oh…Hey,” he greets, sitting up from his place on his bed.

“Hey. This was in my closet,” she says, handing Mike a sweater.

“Thanks.”

She stands against the doorway awkwardly and opens her mouth to speak. “Do you want to go outside? With me? Just for a bit.” She asks, and to Mike’s utter surprise, she almost sounds nervous.

“Outside? But Mom said-”

“Yeah, I know Mom doesn’t want us out. But she’s asleep, okay? And what she doesn’t know won’t kill her. C’mon, aren’t you going insane trapped inside this house? Because I know I am,” she exhales loudly, looking at Mike with imploring eyes. 

“Okay,” he says softly. His sisters are very convincing after all. 

The night is lit with a faint yellow sheen from the dim streetlights and is empty of stars. Mike thought he would feel relieved once he stepped out of his house, hoping the cool wind he’d been dreaming about for weeks would calm the nerves firing beneath his skin, but all he feels is a hollow ache of wrongness inside of his ribs when the breeze brushes his cheeks. He notices the stars first, or lack thereof. Ever since the ravaging hunger of the gates ripped themselves into Hawkins, destroying the Earth and soil with incandescent scars of crimson, ugly plumes of ashen smoke began to creep into the clean air, bringing spores and the scent of charred trees into Hawkins and taking the sight of the stars out. 

When Mike gazes up at the black sky, he thinks about how much he misses the stars. How much he misses everything.

He turns to Nancy, but she’s already looking at him. She looks older, painfully older. Her face looks hardened, and she’s paler than ever. The circles under her eyes are dark and deep, her cheekbones defined and jutting out. Her eyes are toughened and numbed - accustomed to the horrors they’ve witnessed - and the glimmer of that girlish youth that once resided there is long gone. Her eyebrows crease as she glances at him with a knowing gaze.

“Mike,” she says.

“Yeah?”

She purses her lips and contemplates him. “I don’t know if you remember this, but years ago, way before…all this, I dressed up as an elf for you and your friends. For one of your stupid D&D campaigns.” She laughs to herself quietly. “I hate that I’m telling you this, but at the time, I had so much fun. Wearing those funny ears, putting on Mom’s old, long dress, seeing you and your friends laugh so, so much…”

Mike smiles at the anecdote, vaguely picturing the scene in his basement, feelings of nostalgia exploding like fireworks in his memory. “Why are you telling me this?” He asks curiously.

“After the campaign, once all your friends went home, you asked me if I could do it again. Dress up for you guys, I mean, and I said yes. I promised that I’d dress up for your next campaign as whatever you wanted me to, and I never did. So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t keep my promise, and I’m sorry I yelled at you the next time you asked.”

“Why now? After all this time?”

Nancy lets out a shuddering breath and gazes up at the empty sky. “Sometimes…I wonder how different our relationship would be if I had just said yes again. If I kept dressing up for your ridiculous campaigns. If we were closer, if we told each other more things. I could have been there for you if you ever needed me.”

Mike’s heart breaks a little at the last sentence Nancy says, and he reaches out a hand and places it firmly on her shoulder. He looks down into her watery eyes (since when did he get so tall? He remembers when Nancy used to tower over him.). “Nance,” he sighs, “that’s not your fault.”

Her bottom lip trembles, and a tear falls slowly from her eye, rolling down her face before she wipes it away with the back of her hand. “You were so young.” And that’s when her voice shatters. “When everything happened, Will went missing, and then El disappeared. God, there were points when you thought they were dead and I wasn’t there for you.” 

“Nancy,” he says earnestly. “You were young, too.”

She shakes her head vehemently, “I just want you to know that I’m here for you now, okay? I want you to know that you can tell me anything, Mike. Anything at all. There’s nothing you could tell me that would ever make me abandon you or stop talking to you. I need you to know that.” She says desperately.  

Her dark eyes seem to search deep inside of him, and Mike is struck with the overwhelming feeling that she knows too much. “Anything?” He whispers. 

Her gaze brightens. “Anything,” she reassures him fiercely.

The intense feeling of fear shocks through Mike’s body like he’s been burnt, and his breath hitches, trying to gulp in air to provide oxygen to his pounding heart. “Nance,” is all he can muster. 

He opens his mouth to speak, to say something, but no sound comes out. Everything he’s thinking is trapped beneath the cage that is his mind, the words he so hopelessly wants to express retching in the depths of his chest like an ugly, sick cough and burning his insides like bile. Claws of shame find their way around his neck, tightening and squeezing until the pressure in his throat aches. They tear into the flesh of his neck mercilessly, ripping out crimson muscle and jagged, white bone and leave him to choke on hot blood. “I can’t,” he says between gasps. “Nancy, I can’t say it,” he stutters. His words come out as a whine, pitifully agonising as he trembles. 

“It’s okay, Mike. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything,” Nancy reaches out towards him. 

Her arms pull him against her fiercely in their second hug of the week (month? year?). Her hands press into his back firmly, and she squeezes him so strongly that it knocks the breath out of him. Mike buries his head in her shoulder, clinging to her tightly. He feels like a child again, how he used to run to his big sister in elementary school when Troy would say something cruel and crumble into her arms.  

“When you’re ready, you can tell me,” she says, and God Mike wants to. 

—

When everyone’s setting the table for lunch, Nancy almost drops a bowl of salad. Will reaches to catch it, saving it from smashing into the floor and hands the bowl back to her. Mike watches as their hands meet, and Will pats her shoulder sympathetically, and sharp, bitter jealousy pierces the walls of his stomach. It’s ridiculous. Will’s being nice; he helped Nancy. Mike just has to fight the urge to grab Will’s hands in his own. He presses his nails into his skin and tries not to think about feeling Will’s callouses from holding his paintbrush too tightly against his fingers and the smooth, soft skin of his palm; tracing the freckles that dot his knuckles; and pressing his mouth onto the pale inside of his wrist and tasting his pulse with his tongue.

The nerves beneath his skin ache in longing to reach and hold the boy who occupies his every waking thought. He doesn’t, of course. Instead, he watches Will when he’s distracted and looks away before he can notice anything.

“Has something been bothering you, Michael?” His mom asks him after lunch while they’re washing the dishes. 

Mike stares at the soap-suds that coat the sink. Their iridescent surface reflects light, and faint rainbows glitter in the sink. He vaguely wonders about how something as dull as soapy dishes can look so pretty. “No, Mom,” he lies. “I’m okay.” 

She considers him carefully, her eyes studying with an expression on her face that he can’t read. “You’ve seemed quiet lately. I hope you’re not getting too caught up with all those thoughts in your head.”

“No,” Mike smiles. “I’m fine.”

—

Will is sitting next to him on the living room couch, engrossed in a cartoon that Holly’s watching on the television as she sits, wide-eyed and crossed-legged on her usual spot on the carpet. Mike can’t avoid biting back a smile at the sight of Holly and Will equally captivated by the show on the TV, matching in expressions of amazement. 

Will glances up to find Mike staring and mouths, “what?” over the sound of the TV chattering in the background. 

Mike’s face warms at the sight of the amused grin on Will’s face, and the thought “I love you” comes so naturally to him that he doesn’t even question its occurrence. “I love you” and then “you’re so beautiful” demand to spill out from his mouth. He settles on, “you’re just…really enjoying that cartoon,” hoping the joke hides the waver in his voice. 

“Shut up,” Will groans, and Mike laughs.

Their eyes meet, glittering with lingering happiness, and for a moment, Mike thinks he could be brave enough to tell him everything. To open himself up and expose his insides all raw and bloody, to lay himself bare and reveal every single thought that occupies his head. But the moment ends, Will looks away, returning his gaze to the television, and Mike sits and watches him because that’s all he can do.

—

Mike lies awake in his bed, staring at the faint imprints of glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling that shine feebly in the darkness. His room is hot, like always, the light breeze from his ceiling fan pushing wisps of sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. The longer he looks at the stars, the bigger and brighter they seem to get, expanding in size until their green glow invades his vision before he blinks and the light disappears. 

He had woken up from another dream. 

You see, nightmares haunt some people. They face horrors during the day and have to confront them at night, monsters and memories waiting for them to drift into the yawning pit of sleep and darkness, where they pounce. Yet it’s Mike who wakes up with tears soaking his cheeks, heat licking the inside of his belly, and his heart pounding violently in his ribs as though he’s been chased and tormented by abhorrent shadows with grotesque features in his mind and not touched and held by a beautiful boy. Because Mike doesn’t have nightmares, no. It’s quite ridiculous, actually. He dreams of long, slender fingers and reddened lips and his own hands buried beneath brown hair and strong arms encircled around him and- 

The ceiling fan hums loudly, silencing the thoughts tormenting his head momentarily, and Mike gets out of bed. His legs take him into the hallway, and before he can realise, his hand hovers above Holly’s doorknob. 

Her bedroom is engulfed in her nightlight’s glow, which bathes the room in a ghostly pink; her mirror twinkles beneath the beam, reflecting flashes of rose-coloured rays that stream in funny shapes on her bed. Holly is curled up in a small ball that could easily be mistaken for a pile of blankets, the only recognisable feature being the small tuft of wavy, golden hair that peeks out from underneath the green blanket. Mike pushes his sister gently to the edge of the bed to make space for himself and holds his breath when her delicate snores stutter to a stop for a brief moment before they continue again in their wave-like pattern. He tugs a little bit of the blanket out of Holly’s clutches and spreads it out so it evenly covers both of them. 

“Mike?” A whispered voice echoes throughout the room, and Mike looks up to see Nancy standing hesitantly at the doorway. Her eyes are wide awake, but the dark circles beneath them are more pronounced in the faint darkness. Her curls are messy, sticking out in some places and lying flat in others, and her pyjamas are rumpled and wrinkled like she’d been tossing and turning. “I heard noise in the hallway, I checked your bedroom, and-and you weren’t there…” She takes a deep breath. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just…didn’t really want to be alone.”

Her eyes soften, and she carefully shuts the door behind her. She sits on the bed and reaches out a hand to caress the hair off of Holly’s face tenderly.

“Have you ever wanted something?” Mike whispers into the silence.“Something so bad that you didn’t know what to do with yourself?”

For a moment, all he hears is Holly’s breathing and the movement of Nancy’s hand brushing through Holly’s hair before she speaks. “Yes, I have.”

Mike turns onto his side to look out of the window. He watches the dull, lavender cirrus clouds drift dreamily, like aimless wanderers, through the sky. The pale orange of the sunset that glittered through the window during the evening has now faded to a muted blue. “What was it?”

Nancy sighs, and Mike can hear her shuffling in the bed. “Do you remember when I was working during the summer for that internship? I wanted to be taken seriously so badly. I wanted to be so much more than just a small-town reporter, getting coffee and sandwiches for people who didn’t think anything of me. It was that summer when I realised how badly I wanted to get out. To escape and be something bigger.” 

Mike’s heart pangs with sadness. “I’m sorry that you haven’t gotten out yet.” He says, eyes still fixed on the window.

Nancy laughs dryly, “I will, Mike.” She tells him with such strong certainty and fierce determination that he believes her. “And you will too.”

It’s quiet for a moment before he startles when Holly’s arm crashes into his chest. He tears his eyes away from the window. Holly is always much gentler in her sleep, so much younger. All her sharp, snarky edges blur and soften into raw youth. Mike studies his little sister: he feels the weight of her forehead on his shoulder, the heat of her exhales on his neck, and her arm wrapped around his stomach; listens to her dulcet breathing; inhales the scent of her girly, strawberry shampoo and brushes away the strands of her hair that tickle his chin. Slowly, Mike hugs his sister back. 

“What do you want, then?” Nancy demands.

“What?”

“What something do you want so badly?”

Mike’s bottom lip quivers, and he doesn’t realise he’s shaking until his voice comes out. “Not something.” He can’t bear to look at Nancy, can’t bear to see her face, so he shuts his eyes tight and buries his face in Holly’s hair. “Someone.” The silence that follows is suffocating. Everything is still, and all Mike can hear is the ringing in his ears and the blood rushing to his head. 

“Who, Mike?” Nancy inquires, but Mike has a feeling she already knows.

“It’s…it’s Will,” he shudders out a sob, and his voice breaks embarrassingly, pathetically fragile like glass. “Nancy, I love him.” His vision blurs with tears, and he can’t make out the look on Nancy’s face. He doesn’t think he wants to. He can’t endure the horror, the disgust, the remorse that he’s sure is etched on her face, an expression he’s imagined far too many times. He sucks in a shaky breath, but breathing feels like drowning. He strangles beneath freezing water as white-hot pain stabs his insides and burns his lungs, leaving them blackened and singed. He can hear Nancy’s voice from above the ocean and feel her warm hands on his shoulder, trying to pull him out of the current, but he can’t make out what she’s saying.

“-Mike,” she says firmly, and oh, that’s his name, isn’t it? “Listen to me, please.” She pleads urgently, and her fingers dig deeper into his skin. “Mike, there’s nothing wrong with that, okay? And I need you to know that.”

He gasps, his head forced out of the water, and the oxygen on his tongue tastes sweet. “I- I tried to ignore it, Nance, I really did. But I can’t change how I feel. I tried. I tried to pretend it wasn’t what I thought it was, but-” He rambles incoherently, the words coming out in sharp chokes. 

“-Mike, please,” she begs, “you don’t have to change. I don’t want you to change. I love you, and nothing is ever going to stop me from loving you.” She clutches his tear-stained face in her hands and desperately holds the back of his neck, wiping away his tears with her fingers. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” She whispers.

Mike nods weakly. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Nancy gives him a teary-eyed smile, so full of love and warmth, and hugs him (their third hug, might he add. The world really must be ending.). “Dramatic idiot,” she snipes fondly, and Mike lets out a choked laugh. “You should tell him.”

“No,” Mike interrupts suddenly. “Will doesn’t…he doesn’t want me in that way.” It hurts to say, and the words scratch themselves out of his throat with the brutality of a knife.

“You’d be surprised,” Nancy says gently. 

Mike considers her words carefully. “I don’t really want to talk about this anymore,” he admits.

“Okay. But Mike-”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, Nance, I know. I love you too.”

It’s a mess of limbs. Holly (who has miraculously slept through this whole ordeal)’s knees poke his hip, her pointy chin digs into his shoulder, her arms wrap tightly around his middle, Nancy’s arms envelop all of them, and her legs press against his own. But it’s warm and tender, and Mike feels the weight in his chest soothe slightly (despite his two sisters piled up on him). 

He falls asleep feeling safe for the first time in a while.

—

It’s late in the evening when Mike wanders into the kitchen, thirsty and sleepy. He freezes as he heads towards the fridge at the sight of Will sitting at the breakfast table. He didn’t notice Mike come in, lost in the drawing he’s sketching onto a pad of kitchen paper, and Mike leaps at the opportunity to watch him. He gazes distractingly at Will’s hands as they grip his pen with concentration; the white of his bones shines beneath his tanned fingers, and his knuckles move smoothly beneath his freckled skin. Will looks up, his cheeks blushing slightly, and smiles. You’d be surprised, echoes throughout Mike’s mind as he drinks in Will’s curved lips with captivation, before he snaps his eyes up to meet Will’s with the mortifying terror of getting caught. 

Mike clears his throat, and Will raises his eyebrows in amusement. “Heading to bed soon?” Mike asks with feigned casualness as he pours himself a glass of water, trying to calm the beating of his heart that feels like it's running a marathon at the mere sight of him. 

He hums in response. “I don’t want to sleep just yet,” he motions to the paper in front of him, and Mike’s chest twinges in sympathy, frowning in concern at the faint purple beneath Will’s eyes and the tired lines that darken the shadows on his face. 

You’d be surprised-

“Do you want to go out for a bit?” Mike asks in a burst of courage, and Will’s eyes widen. “Just to the backyard, definitely nowhere far.” He jumps to reassure him.

Will relaxes slightly, “yeah,” he says faintly. “Yeah, okay.”

The grass of the Wheelers’ backyard is a dreary green from the vestiges of Upside Down smoke and slightly overgrown, tickling Mike’s ankles as he breathes in the stifling air. Indigo streaks paint the sky from the setting sun, and the moon peeks out between the dark clouds, winking down at the Earth. The grass billows gently in the cool evening wind, and each droplet on every blade glows beneath the silvery moonlight.

Mike turns to face Will, intending to say something, but is caught off guard by the pearly gleam of moonlight on his face. The misty light illuminates his features, the silver tracing the graceful curve of his nose, his dark eyelashes and the shadows on his neck…Mike can’t help his pathetic stare.

Mike takes a deep breath, fear wracking his entire body, and Will gazes up at him questioningly. “What did I do wrong?” He asks, his voice coming out as a whisper and fading into nothing in the humid night air. 

Will looks taken aback by the softness of his voice. “What?” 

The lump building in Mike’s throat tightens ferociously, and his eyes burn with tears threatening to spill. Sobs wrack throughout his body with the force of a tsunami before he can stop them. Will’s mouth opens in confusion, and his eyebrows knit together with panic as Mike’s hands tremble to wipe away the tears on his face. “What did I do to hurt you? Because clearly something’s wrong, I did something to push you away, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Will. And-and I need you to tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it-” He gasps shudderingly for air through the words, each of his sentences coming out in mangled pieces. 

“Mike, you haven’t done anything wrong. What are you talking about?” Will implores, and he reaches his hands out. For a split second, hope fills Mike, and he thinks he’s made it all up in his head. That Will hasn’t been avoiding Mike’s touch. That Will will hold out his hands, take Mike into his arms and reassure him that everything between them is okay. That this is something they can laugh about one day. But Will’s hands falter and stop dead in the air, and he pulls them back, his arms swinging weakly at the side of his body. 

“I must have,” he trembles and hot tears spill past his eyes, scorching an unforgiving past down his cheeks. “God, you’re making me feel like I’m going crazy. You tell me that we’re okay and that you know that I’m sorry, but then you just, you just-”

“I just what, Mike?” Will begs, his face is stricken with fright, and his bottom lip quivers with emotion.

“You won’t touch me,” Mike shouts. His voice cuts through the air, and silence echoes around him; even the wind seems to hold its breath in unease. Guilt overwhelms him when Will cowers back, eyes shining with tears. But the words are out, and he can’t stop now. “These past few weeks have been awful. I feel like I’ve done something bad, something so terrible that you can’t tell me, that you can’t even bear to touch me. I don’t know what I did, but it hurts, Will. And I’ve been trying so hard not to hug you or hold you or-or touch you because you don’t want me to, but it’s hard, and it hurts-”  

Will’s eyes are wide and pained, and Mike wants to say more. He wants to beg Will for an explanation, to repent for what he did, but he’s tired. The words are choked up in his throat, his windpipe aches and his lungs are squeezed of all their air. Will looks up at him with those aching green eyes, with pools of tears darkening his bottom eyelashes and grief glinting in the gold of his pupils, and holds out his arms and-

Hugs him.

Mike can’t help the strangled breath that escapes him when he feels Will’s arms around him. His arms are strong, solid, and hold Mike tightly against him. Their bodies are pressed so close that he can feel the rise and fall of Will’s chest against his own, and Mike faintly thinks this is what being struck by lightning must feel like. 

The contact burns heat beneath his flesh and alights his nerve endings, ignites the hot blood roaring in his veins and kindles every chamber in his pounding heart. Will’s cheek is buried in the crook of Mike’s neck, and the hotness of his tears soaks into Mike’s skin like liquid sunlight. It’s warm and familiar, and Mike melts completely - worried his legs are going to give out from how badly he’s shaking. He carefully reaches back like he’s yearned to do for weeks and wraps his arms around Will slowly, taking in every single inch of contact as though it might be his last. He pulls him against him as close as he can, crushing their ribs together and intertwining every blood vessel, every nerve, every fibre in their bodies, and it feels like holding the sun beneath his palms. 

“I’m so sorry,” Will murmurs over and over again.

“I don’t understand,” Mike mumbles into Will’s neck, his voice hoarse from crying. “I thought…I thought you didn’t want this.” 

Will pulls away slightly so he can look him in the eyes, and a whimper slips from Mike’s lips at the loss of contact. He presses their foreheads together, cupping the back of Mike’s neck with one hand with such tenderness that Mike feels undeserving and keeping the other pressed against the small of Mike’s back. Mike feels his heart flutter at how close their faces are. He can see every sparkle of amber in Will’s eyes, the darkness of the indigo that dots his irises, the faint freckles that rest on his rosy cheekbones, the stubborn tan on his skin from all those months in California, and-

“Mike, there’s nothing I want more than this,” Will whispers gingerly, gesturing to where their foreheads meet. Mike meets his gaze once again. He stares in awe and confusion because Will is smiling. His eyes are shining, and his cheeks are streaked with tear tracks, and he’s beautiful, and he’s smiling. “I thought it was you who didn’t.”

Mike’s lips part with surprise, and he raises his eyebrows in confusion. “What?” He mumbles gingerly. “How could you ever think that?”

Will lets out a sad laugh, a fresh wave of tears spills from his eyes, and Mike spares no time to hold Will’s face in his hands gently and wipe the tears away with his thumbs. “W-When you came to California for spring break, you were acting all weird around me. I thought you knew…Knew…um, something. That you were disturbed or grossed out, and I just wanted to make things less strained between us, less weird. So I tried to distance myself from you, to stop myself from touching you, because I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable-”

Mike frowns. “I’m so sorry I made you feel like that-”

“-God, do you ever stop apologising? It’s my fault, I’m the one who hurt you, Mike.”

“No,” Mike urges, “it’s not. But I don’t understand. What did you think I knew, Will?”

A pained cry escapes his mouth. “I can’t say it,” he whispers, achingly quiet. “Don’t make me say it. Tell me you know.”

“I-” He breathes, tightening his hold on Will’s face like a lifeline. 

The air around him feels thin; there isn’t enough oxygen in his lungs to supply his hammering heart. You’d be surprised, rustles in his head. The thought of hope, no matter how indiscernible and flickering it is, makes him gasp softly. He watches the trembling of Will’s lips with a newly discovered amazement and the shimmering in his eyes with a profound understanding. He can see fear in his face, from the curve of his eyebrows to the clench of his jaw. A fear he’s become so accustomed to, a fear that leaves him lying awake at night, a fear that makes dread pool in his gut and his heart race at its intensity. 

“I think I do. But you need to tell me, Will. I have to know that I’m not wrong about this.”

“I can’t-”

“Will, please. Tell me.”

“Tell you what, Mike?” Will exclaims, his cheeks flushed. “That-that I think about you more than I should? That I’m so horribly selfish that I want to touch you all the time? That I can’t think, can’t focus, can’t breathe when you’re around me? That I love you? That I’m in love with you? ” He’s crying now. Properly crying. His face has twisted into an expression of pure, heartwrenching pain, and tears stream down his face violently, dripping down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his dampening t-shirt.

Mike inches his face closer ever so slightly, such an infinitesimal distance that it could be unnoticeable, but Will’s breath hitches. Their noses are touching, and Mike’s lips hover millimetres away from Will's. The gap between their mouths is unbearable. He can feel Will’s shaky breaths and the radiating heat of his mouth against his lips, and he wants so badly to close the distance, but he can’t. Not yet. 

“Will,” Mike murmurs. 

He recalls being seven years old, holding his mom’s favourite vase in his shaking hands, watching it fall from his sweaty grasp and shatter into millions of pieces. It was a gorgeous vase too, decorated with deftly painted yellow flowers that wrapped around the ceramic and glittered like the golden sparks of sunlight on water. Will is delicate and precious beneath his palms, and Mike holds him like he’s made of porcelain. He trembles slightly, worry twisting in his chest, because Will is beautiful and he’s afraid of breaking him, of destroying him with the callousness of a child holding a pretty vase. So he asks, begs for permission because he can’t bear the thought of hurting Will and watching him shatter beneath his palms. 

“Can I? Please, can I-” He pleads as he touches Will with as much gentleness as he can muster. 

Will doesn’t let him finish, and Mike is eternally grateful. 

Will’s mouth is warm and sweet like honey, his hair is velvet between Mike’s fingers, and Mike thinks he must be dreaming. 

The heat in his belly bursts in an explosion, firing the walls of his stomach and the blood circulating through his body in satisfaction. He relishes the aching warmth of Will’s salt-stained lips, savouring the lovely taste of his tears. He can feel Will’s palm against his own head, his soft fingers lost in Mike’s hair to try and steady the shaking of his hand. His nails dig into his scalp and brush through his hair, and the burning want in Mike’s body ignites in hunger when Will’s fingers tighten their hold and tug at strands of his hair. 

He gasps into Will’s mouth, and Will presses forward, starvingly in response: pushing their mouths even closer together and kissing him hard that Mike can see stars. His arm tightens around Mike’s waist. His fingers inching near the hem of his t-shirt, grasping searchingly and roaming the skin beneath the fabric, burning hot handprints into his waist in their wake. Mike encircles his arms around Will’s neck, pulling him closer to him, but not close enough, his mind insists. He tugs him closer and closer, until their bodies flush against each other, but it’s not nearly as much as Mike wants, not as hot, not enough to indulge the never-ending, gnawing craving in his ribs. He pulls and pulls until he vaguely registers his back pushed against the backyard wall, and Will gasps in surprise.

He takes Will’s bottom lip between his own and teases his lips open, all complaisant and deliciously wet, with his tongue. Will’s lips part against his pliantly and eagerly, and the sunlight of his mouth pours into Mike’s throat, devouring him whole. Will makes a hungry noise in his mouth - guttural and emanating from deep inside of his throat, and Mike drinks in its heat - and Will licks fire into his mouth and Mike, well…Mike’s brain short-circuits at the touch. All sensations in his body burn brighter and brighter until they blaze into the white-hot fever of the core of a star. 

Will’s breath catches in his throat, and Mike can feel Will’s mouth moving lighter and lighter until he stills completely, simply resting his lips, featherlight and gentle, against Mike’s. He pulls away slightly, and Mike can’t control the involuntary, low whine that escapes his throat as he chases after Will’s mouth with his own. Slowly and reluctantly, they break apart, resting their foreheads together while their heavy breaths mingle in the charged air between them. Will’s pupils are blown, and his eyes are wide with wonder, slightly dazed, and red from crying. His mouth is parted in awe, his lips delectably crimson and swollen, his chesnut hair is mussed, rumpled strands sticking out from Mike’s hands running through them, and an odd feeling of satisfaction fills Mike that he’s the reason why Will looks as painstakingly beautiful as he does. 

Hot tears run down Will’s flushed cheeks, and Mike’s heart twinges. “Hey,” Mike says quietly, “why’re you crying?” He asks sadly as he brushes away Will’s tears. 

Will gives him a watery smile. “These are happy tears, I promise. I’ve just…wanted this for a really, really, really long time.” He lets out a choked laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Mike grins at him and kisses him again, softer and slower this time, and he can feel Will smiling. He pulls away slightly, exhilaration thrumming in his body, before saying, “Oh, I love you too, by the way. If that wasn’t obvious…” 

Will scoffs, but there’s no bite behind it, and he rolls his eyes, beaming up at Mike. “Shut up,” he tells him, and Mike obliges happily. 

When Will traces Mike’s bottom lip with his thumb in fascination and brings their mouths together once more, Mike recollects the tale of Icarus. He remembers, when he was young, being confused by Icarus’ fate, irritated by his stupidity in flying too close to the sun despite warnings, which melted the wax in his wings and led to his doom. But Mike understands now, he understands what it’s like to have a taste of sunlight, to feel its warmth on his body. Like Icarus, he too knows what it’s like to fall in love with the sun. 

—

They settle in Mike’s bedroom. The lamplight is gentle, illuminating Will’s face in the softest of ways, casting a warm, orange glow on his skin. He smiles widely. His eyes sparkle brightly and crinkle, and his cheeks threaten to swallow them whole. Mike’s body feels deliriously sunny because Will’s in his bedroom, he’s smiling at Mike, and everything’s okay between them. 

They lie in his bed, the whirring of the ceiling fan droning in the background, and Mike wastes no time pulling Will into his chest. He wraps his arms around Will’s stomach, soaking in the warmth of his solid body, rests his chin on his shoulder, hides his nose in his honeyed, silken hair and tucks his legs between his knees, tangling their feet together. He indulges in every point of contact, everywhere their skin meets and their bodies press together, making his stomach buzz with a mellow craving. A reminder of what he’s wanted so badly and everything he’ll do to keep it. He’s afraid he might be dreaming, that he’ll wake up and the golden gleam of his bedroom will vanish, taking Will and everything beautiful with it. 

He hears Will whine in surprise and frowns. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Will says drowsily, his voice slightly rough, and Mike’s heart skips at the sound. “Your feet are cold, and they woke me up…I was almost asleep,” he grumbles. 

“Sorry,” Mike beams, pressing his lips behind Will’s ear in apology, because he can and Will hums in response. 

“‘S okay…The rest of you is warm.”

Mike drags his mouth down the sweet curve of Will’s neck and smiles against his shoulder. “Will?” He asks gently.

“Hmm?”

He takes a deep breath, taking in the comforting scent of Will’s shampoo, and gently traces the shape of his ear with his finger. “I was…sad when you didn’t touch me. I wasn’t lying when I said it hurt. But…I’m even sadder than you felt like you had to. I’m sorry you were afraid of making our friendship uncomfortable; you didn’t deserve that. I should have…I should have realised and helped you. I should have been…better,” he sighs softly.

“Mike,” Will says, and suddenly, he sounds wide-awake. He turns around so he can look Mike in the eyes and holds his face in his hands firmly, stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs. “It’s okay,” he insists. “And I didn’t want you to realise, it was my secret to keep. I did everything that I thought would keep us together, Mike. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Mike’s eyes sting with tears. “How long?”

“What?”

“How long did you…keep your feelings a secret?” He implores quietly, brushing brown hair away from Will’s forehead.

Will’s eyes widen, and he inhales sharply, his lips tugging down in a heart-wrenchingly melancholic pout, and Mike wants to do nothing but kiss it away. He opens his mouth to speak and sucks in a shuddering breath. “For as long as I can remember.”

“Oh,” Mike mumbles and his ribs shatter in pain, jagged shards of bone stabbing into the raw muscles and tissue of his chest. “You were so young and you- you carried this with you, alone,” his voice wavers weakly. 

“Yeah,” Will whispers, and the admission makes him cry. 

Mike hugs him as tightly as he possibly can, pulling their chests close to each other and keeping his hands placed firmly on his back. He can feel Will shaking in his arms, the salty dampness of his tears collecting at his collar, and Will’s hands clutching onto the fabric of his shirt. “You’re the strongest person I know,” he insists into Will’s neck. “And I’m sorry for all those years. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that all on your own.”

“I know,” Will says, and he smiles mournfully once they pull apart. “But I have you now.”

“Yeah,” Mike nods solemnly. He leans forward and kisses him. 

He wonders if they’ll ever kiss without the taste of tears on his tongue, but right now, he can feel Will’s warmth around him. His touch brightens every cell, every capillary, every neuron in his body and burns away any lingering shame as it does. 

Mike falls asleep with Will holding him, and his dreams burst with golden light, content with the knowledge that when he wakes up, the sun will still be beside him and he won’t be afraid to reach out and touch.