Chapter Text
It was movie night.
Mrs. Wheeler had made pot roast for dinner, making the entire house smell delicious — rich and savory, the kind of aroma that seeped into every corner and made your mouth water before you even saw the food. Earlier that day she had sent Will and Mike to run to the store for some last-minute ingredients.
Instead of turning the fifteen-minute bike ride into a race with the promise of the winner picking the snack for the movies tonight — something that would have been automatic just months ago — it took them nearly three times as long to deal with the groceries.
First, Mike had to be forcefully (vocally) removed from his own room on the second floor, in which he had holed himself up since his and El's dispute. His mother's voice had carried through the walls, sharp with frustration and something that sounded dangerously close to desperation.
Then, Mike sprang up an argument about having to accompany Will and why he couldn't get the few items on his own, to which Mrs. Wheeler shot him a disappointed glance before whipping out her mom-voice and near-yelling that he couldn't mourn forever.
About what would've been a mystery if Mike and El hadn't avoided each other these past weeks. El had confided in Will after their fight and he had been by her side to lend comfort. It was strange, being the person she turned to — strange and guilt-inducing in ways Will couldn't quite articulate, even to himself.
And lastly, it took Mike a fabulous ten minutes to fetch his shoes, jacket, and wallet, which ended up not being used at all seeing as Mrs. Wheeler insisted Will be the money-bearer.
Safe to say, the ride to the store was silent, with Mike sulking and Will not wanting to rub salt into the wound.
The autumn air bit at their faces as they pedaled, leaves crunching beneath their tires. Will kept stealing glances at Mike from the corner of his eye — the set of his jaw, the way his dark hair whipped back from his face, the tension in his shoulders that hadn't eased in weeks.
Every time their eyes accidentally met, Will's heart did something complicated in his chest, and he had to look away before Mike could read anything in his expression.
After an unbelievable thirty minutes they finally arrived. Locking up their bikes, Will fetched them a cart and met Mike at the entrance, whose eyes were glued to the floor as if the linoleum held answers to questions he couldn't voice.
Will didn't harbor any resentment for him. They were friends, and had been for too long to dislike him when he and his sister fell apart. Even though he had spent the better part of his summer attempting to mend and stitch Mike and El's relationship together just for them to break up.
It was for the better.
Even if Mike seemed to have his qualms with that.
Even if a small, shameful part of Will felt something like relief.
Finally entering the shop, a warm breeze from the AC engulfed them before running down their backs. It wasn't even that cold yet — windy sure, cold not so much — but still the town of Hawkins was cranking up their heaters.
Even the Wheeler house was warmed up, though that could also mostly be blamed on the cacophony of humans that crowded the space.
There weren't many people inside the small grocery shop. Just a man and his kid on aisle three and some pairs of teens here and there. Will didn't mind the few people, especially if that meant they were avoidable altogether.
If the store would have been packed it would be an entirely different story. Will was glad to be away from the packed house his family had moved into, and Mike had barely had any human contact for long enough that the small amount of human interaction shouldn't scar him now.
"What do we need?" Mike was picking at the hem of his sweater and glanced in Will's direction. His voice was slightly raspy, as if he was thirsty. Perhaps they could buy themselves a cooled soft drink before they left.
The sound of Mike's voice after so much silence made something in Will's chest loosen, just slightly.
“Potatoes and onions. Some other vegetables. Mh.. Milk, flour, wine,” Will recited, mentally running through Mrs. Wheeler’s list. “She said you were almost out.”
"Flour? For pot roast?"
"For the gravy I think. She just said she'd run out."
Mike hummed in response and steered them to the produce.
After nearly an hour of walking around the shop — most of the time wasted staring at labels and comparing prices or passing the same items repeatedly — they finally loaded up the conveyor belt. Behind the register an elderly lady sat and eyed them weirdly, her gaze sharp and assessing in a way that made Will's skin prickle with unease.
"Good evening. How are you doing?" she inquired in greeting, though her tone suggested she didn't particularly care about the answer.
"Hello! Good, we're doing good." Will answered absentmindedly, finishing up placing the contents of their cart on the belt. The lady's eyes fell onto Mike who was standing behind the cart, looking everywhere but at Will or the lady.
"And you?" Her tone fell into a sort of annoyance as she eyed Mike, checking out the groceries with deliberate slowness.
"Good," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
Will sensed the upcoming scrutiny and attempted a distraction. "It's gotten cold quite quickly these past days." Successfully diverting her attention, she eyed him before scoffing.
"I wasn't finished with that young gentleman back there. Does he need a bodyguard?" Her tone had the bagger upfront shoot Will an apologetic look before he resumed his work, unfolding another bag.
Silence stretched between the cashier and both boys. Gladly she was about to wrap up checking them out.
"Thirty-eight ninet-eight." She spoke with condensation dripping from every syllable.
Will handed her two twenty-dollar bills that Mrs. Wheeler had given him. The lady shot him another scrutinizing look as she handed him the change, her fingers lingering just long enough to make the exchange uncomfortable.
"You better gain ground, fags." She nearly whispered the insult, but the boys still caught it.
Will felt his blood run ice cold.
How did she know?
She wouldn't know. Right?
Was it that obvious?
A tiny part of him remembered his old house, when Lonnie was still around — the slurs, the disgust, the way his father's face would twist when Will did something too soft, too wrong. But a bigger part of him remembered his company and what such a reputation brought with it.
Quickly he took their bags from the bagger upfront, not daring to look him in the eye before scurrying out of the building into the fresh air.
His hands were shaking. His vision was swimming at the edges. The word echoed in his head — fags, fags, fags — like it was being shouted instead of whispered, like everyone in the store had heard it, like it was written across his forehead for the whole world to see.
Only when he arrived outside did he remember Mike, but he was close on his tail. With the fresh air around them Will's mind cleared slightly and he took some deep breaths to steady himself, but they came too fast, too shallow.
"Will?" Mike's voice cut through his mental fog, gentle in a way that made Will's chest ache. "Will? Do you want me to take one of the bags?"
His gentle tone melted Will's blood from its frozen form. Why did he have to be so nice?
Why did his voice have to sound like that — soft and concerned and careful, like Will was something precious that might break?
Shaking himself from his trance he handed one of the two bags to Mike who took it and looped it over his shoulder. With Will's breath evening out — or at least slowed to something that didn't feel like drowning — he looked at Mike and their eyes met.
For a moment, something passed between them. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition. Mike's eyes were dark and searching, and Will wondered what he saw when he looked at him like that.
"We cycling back?" Mike asked, and Will remembered his scratchy voice.
"Want to pick up something to drink first?"
"Sure," he answered and they made their way across the street to a small convenience store.
Both ended up picking up a Coke and sat down on the sidewalk in front of the shop. The silence between them wasn't heavy, exactly, but it was fragile — the kind that felt like it might shatter if Will breathed too loudly.
It was chilly out, the sort of biting cold that settled into your marrow, but Will didn't mind. Or, he told himself he didn't.
That was until the shaking started.
At first, it was just his fingers, but then the sensation crawled. A faint, icy memory crept up his spine, phantom limbs tingling with a cold that didn't belong to the Hawkins air.
It’s fine, he thought, gripping his soda can until his knuckles turned white. I’m okay.
But the edges of his vision began to swim, blurring the storefront into a haze of bruised purples and greys. He stared down at his hands and his heart stuttered; for a terrifying second, he could swear the faint blue veins beneath his skin were turning a murky, pulsing black — inky rot spreading toward his wrists.
The ghost of the Mind Flayer brushed against the back of his neck, invasive and suffocating, reaching for the parts of him it still thought it owned.
He was safe.
He was with Mike.
He was—
"Will?"
The name was a lifeline. The darkness under his skin snapped back into ordinary blue as Mike’s voice cut through the static.
Will blinked, his breath hitching in his throat as the world rushed back in. Mike was leaning closer now, his own grief-shadowed eyes momentarily cleared by a sharp, instinctive focus.
"Are you cold?" Mike asked. Concern seeped through his words and cradled Will's heart like something fragile and vital.
"I'm fine," Will mumbled as an answer, his tongue heavy. "We should ride back soon..." He continued, definitely slurring his words. This was supposed to distract Mike from Will's shivering form, but only resulted in some shuffling at his side before Mike's jacket was draped over his shoulders.
"There."
Will froze.
The jacket was warm — impossibly warm, like Mike had been holding heat inside it just for him. It smelled like Mike too: his cologne, the shampoo he "borrowed" from Nancy much to her disdain, and something else, something distinctly Mike that Will couldn't name but would recognize anywhere.
"Won't you become cold?" He turned his head toward Mike sitting next to him, looking ahead.
Will felt bad. They should just return to the Wheeler house. Mike shouldn't have to give up his jacket and freeze himself. Plus, it wasn't even that bad.
On the other hand, Will reveled in the care Mike showed for him. He had always been very protective of Will, but the last few weeks — not to forget the time they were apart — felt really stale. As if they were no longer friends no matter what Mike had said.
Will couldn't blame him. If the sadness overwhelmed Mike and he avoided everyone by hiding in his room then there wasn't a lot of space for friends. That didn't mean it didn't hurt.
Mike still hadn't answered him. He simply kept sipping his Coke and staring ahead, almost unseeing, his profile sharp against the dimming sky.
Will kept quiet, enjoying the warmth that clung to Mike's jacket and wrapping it tighter around himself. If he were anywhere else, with no company, he'd bury his face in the fabric and inhale.
Embarrassingly, it calmed Will down more than he would like to admit. Now it wasn't just Mike sitting next to him, but his smell surrounding him, enveloping him like an embrace. Calming the storm in his brain and cradling his heart in a soft embrace, Will closed his eyes and basked in the comfort.
With his eyes closed he couldn't see Mike's eyes wandering and landing on his — no longer shivering — form. He couldn't see the fondness with which Mike's features softened nor the sad smile tugging the corners of his mouth upward. He couldn't see the way Mike's fingers twitched toward him before pulling back, or the way Mike's throat worked as he swallowed hard.
When Will opened his eyes again, Mike's gaze was already turned away from him, sipping the last bit from his Coke. Will quickly downed the rest of his drink too and made to sit up when Mike's voice cut him off.
"Can we stay a little longer?" It was almost inaudible, barely more than a breath, but Will caught it nonetheless — caught the vulnerability in it, the plea.
He lowered himself a smidge closer to Mike, about half a foot separating them, and took a seat. The space between them felt charged, electric, like the air before a storm.
"Won't you become cold?" he asked again, softer this time.
Mike didn't answer. Instead, he shifted almost imperceptibly closer, and their shoulders brushed. Neither of them moved away.
The sun was setting now, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and the wind had picked up, but Will had never felt warmer. Mike's presence beside him was solid and real and right in a way that made Will's chest ache with longing.
They sat there as the light faded, two boys on a sidewalk with grocery bags at their feet, wrapped in a silence that said everything they couldn't.