Work Text:
“Stop moving,” Will murmurs, quieter this time, like if he says it too loud the moment might break. His paintbrush drags a thin line of green along the slope of Mike’s jaw, catching slightly where his skin warms under the touch.
Mike huffs out a small breath, shoulders twitching. “Tickles,” he whispers, voice barely there, like he’s afraid to disturb something too. Like he understood, even if Will knows he couldn’t, not really. His hands flex uselessly against his thighs, fingers curling into the fabric, his whole body too still in that way that means he wants to move but won’t. Will lets out a soft, crooked snicker, pulling the brush back just enough to look at what he’s done. He’s kneeling on the floor, legs starting to ache under him, but he doesn’t shift. He doesn’t want to break the angle, doesn’t want to lose this view of Mike above him, painted in pieces, like something unfinished and fragile.
“Maybe I should’ve asked Dustin,” Will says after a long pause, though he doesn’t sound like he means it. His eyes drift instead, catching on the blue zigzags stretched across Mike’s chest. They look too bright against him, too alive, like they don’t belong to something that can leave.
Mike makes a quiet noise, dismissive. “You would’ve gotten annoyed halfway through and kicked him out.” His head tilts back slightly, rolling to the side. His eyes are still closed, lashes resting against his cheeks. Will knows that movement, knows it’s the closest Mike can get to rolling his eyes without actually opening them.
The studio is too bright today. The light spills in through the window and catches in Mike’s hair, makes the red at the tips glow where Will had worked the pigment in earlier. He remembers how careful he’d been then, fingers gentler than necessary, scrunching color into curls that fell right back into place like they didn’t need him at all.
It matches the smear on Mike’s chest, right over his heart. Will’s throat tightens at the sight of it. It had started as a handprint. His handprint.
For a second, just one that he allowed himself to have, he’d pressed his palm flat there, feeling the warmth underneath, the steady beat he pretended not to notice. His fingers had left swirls, uneven and unmistakably his, fingerprints embedded into Mike’s pores. Something too real. Something that looked too much like proof.
He’d panicked and turned it into a dragon instead, dragging his finger through the paint, reshaping it into something easier, something imaginary. Something that didn’t mean anything. Now it sits there anyway, not quite one thing or the other.
“...Not true,” Will says eventually, though it comes out soft, distracted. His hands tighten against his knees, and he only realizes too late that he’s smearing paint into his jeans, streaks of green and blue soaking into the fabric. Mike grins at that, lazy and easy, teeth a little crooked, a little too sharp in the light. It’s the kind of smile Will has seen a hundred times, but something about it right now makes his chest ache. Will swallows hard, eyes stinging for no good reason.
“Where’d you go?” Mike asks after a moment. He shifts on the stool, slouching forward awkwardly, spine bending like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, then snapping back up again. “I’m sure there’s still some bare skin somewhere.”
There’s something joking in it, something light, but Will hears the tension, the underlying nerves. Will snorts despite himself, quick and quiet, dipping his fingers back into the green paint just to have something to do, something to anchor himself. When he reaches up again, rising up to stand, Mike flinches at the first touch, just a small jolt, before leaning into it without thinking.
Will notices that, too.
Of course he does.
He drags the green slowly down Mike’s jaw, more carefully this time, like he’s memorizing the shape of it. Down to his neck. Across the slope of his shoulder. The paint catches in the tiny dips of his skin, settling into places Will shouldn’t be paying attention to. “Sorry,” Will mutters, though he doesn’t stop. “I was just- thinking.”
He doesn’t say about what, and Mike doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say about how none of this will probably wash out completely. How there will be traces left behind in the lines of Mike’s skin, under his nails, in the ends of his hair. He doesn’t say that part of him hopes it doesn’t, and he thinks about it staining, the image in his mind a little too much to handle. Instead, he gently tilts Mike’s head to the side, thumb brushing under his chin without meaning to linger, just so he can see better. Green blooms under his touch, spreading into something softer this time. Not sharp lines or creatures or symbols, just a meadow, loose and uneven, the suggestion of grass and small flowers curling up toward Mike’s cheek, all the way down to his bicep.
Something that could be from one of Mike’s campaigns if he closed his eyes, mythical and sparkling. Something safe. Will focuses on the painting, on the way the colors blend, on anything that isn’t the warmth of Mike’s skin or the way he keeps leaning closer without noticing. He tells himself it’s just paint and that it doesn’t mean anything, but his hands won’t stop shaking, just a little.
“I'm running out of ideas here.” Will says it like a joke, but it lands too heavy in the quiet room. The words linger between them, unfinished, like something he doesn’t want to examine too closely. He’d been hoping the break the silence, but now he was really wishing he’d just put on some music, or something.
For a moment, nothing happens, Will feeling awfully rejected, and then Mike’s hand moves. It’s slow, almost hesitant, like he’s giving Will time to pull away if he wants to, but he doesn’t. His fingers brush the small of Will’s back, barely there at first, just a ghost of contact through the thin fabric of his shirt. Will freezes anyway. His whole body goes still, breath catching halfway in his lungs, like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
Mike’s palm settles a second later, warmer now, firmer. Real. A line of connection pressed right into him. “I can’t imagine that,” Mike murmurs quietly, like Will hadn’t just admitted something bigger than he meant to. His thumb shifts slightly, absentminded, tracing a small line along Will’s spine. “You’re full of creativity.”
“...Okay.” Will doesn’t move, not when he can feel every place Mike is touching him. “Thank you.”
“Do you remember that one time you turned Lucas’ ripped bandana into a canvas?” Mike continues, voice picking up just a little, like he’s trying to keep things light. “And then you painted that whole scene where he was shooting a demo in the head with an arrow? Right on top of the fabric?” Will lets out a faint breath through his nose, but it doesn’t quite reach a laugh. “That was insane, Will,” Mike goes on. “Me and Max were just thinking about cutting off the ripped parts and giving it to him like that, and Dustin was convinced he could sew it better- even though he’s literally never sewn anything in his life.”
There’s a pause. Will swallows. His throat bobs, the motion small but tight, like it hurts. He leans back, just a little, into Mike’s hand before he can stop himself. “…Yeah,” he breathes. “I remember.” Mike’s fingers shift in response, almost instinctively, trailing up and down his spine in a slow, thoughtless rhythm. It makes something in Will’s chest twist. “He was really upset about it,” Will adds, softer now. “I kept freaking out and asking Jon if I was doing the right thing. I thought I ruined it-”
“You didn’t,” Mike says immediately. Too fast. Too certain. Will doesn’t respond. The brush in his hand moves instead, adding something small along Mike’s shoulder. A tulip, delicate and half-hidden in long strokes of painted grass. It tucks itself into the space like it’s not meant to be noticed. “I was jealous,” Mike blurts.
Will stills. The brush pauses mid-stroke, hovering just above Mike’s skin. For a second, everything feels too loud, his heartbeat, his breathing, the weight of Mike’s hand still resting against him. “…What?” Will asks, but it comes out quieter than he meant it to.
“When you gave him that painting,” Mike clarifies, words coming slower now, like he’s picking them carefully but still getting caught on them anyway. “I was so-... so jealous.” Will’s fingers tighten slightly around the brush. “You spent days on that, nonstop. You wouldn’t tell anyone what you were painting, either, and for a while I thought-” He cuts himself off.
Will shifts just enough to glance back at him, though he doesn’t fully turn. “Thought what?” he asks, gently, like he’s afraid the question might scare him away. He lowers the brush again, forcing his hand to move, painting a set of tiny dice into the shallow dips of Mike’s collarbones. The lines aren’t as steady as they were before, and he tries to not let it ruin him.
“I don’t know,” Mike says, but it’s clear he does. His hand presses a little more firmly into Will’s back, knuckles nudging into the dimples there, grounding himself. “I just thought that maybe… you were painting it for someone you liked.” The words hang there.
Will’s breath stutters. “…Oh,” he whispers after a moment. “No, I was just-”
“I know that now,” Mike cuts in quickly, like he needs to fix it, like he can hear the way Will’s voice changed. His hand shifts again, pressing just enough to pull Will a fraction closer without asking, thumb caressing him though his shirt, back and forth. “It just made me think about-” His voice breaks.
The sound of it hits something deep in Will’s chest, sharp and sudden. “You don’t have to say it,” Will rushes, almost tripping over the words. His heart is pounding too hard, too fast, like it’s trying to get out. “I know it hurts.”
There’s a long silence after that. Mike’s hand doesn’t move, and Will doesn’t try to side step it, even if he thinks he’d be more comfortable hiding away.
“…Do you think she’s out there?” Mike asks eventually, voice so quiet it barely feels real. “Somewhere?”
Will doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he exhales all at once, the word coming out in one sharp breath. “I do.”
He has to believe that. The look on Mike’s face all those years ago, desperate- he has to believe it.
“…I don’t,” Mike admits, and Will flinches. “I don’t think I ever did, I think maybe I just felt… guilty.” His fingers curl slightly against Will’s back, gripping fabric for just a second before loosening again. “She was stuck spending her last moments with me,” he chokes, voice uneven. “And I couldn’t- I couldn’t tell her what she wanted.” Will’s chest tightens painfully. “I still can’t,” Mike adds. “Even when I visit her grave. Hopper just… gives me this look, and I-” He exhales shakily. “I don’t know.” Will stares down at the paint on his brush, vision blurring at the edges. “Maybe if I said things better,” Mike whispers, “she wouldn’t have felt the need to-”
“Stop,” Will snaps, cutting him off. It comes out sharper than he meant for it too, more demanding than he’d like to be. He swallows hard, forcing his voice to soften when he speaks again. “That’s not-” he starts, then falters. “That’s not how it works.”
“Will-”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Will continues, but it sounds thinner than he wants it to. Mike doesn’t answer. Will forces himself to keep painting, even though his vision won’t stop blurring, even though his hands won’t stop trembling. The meadow spreads further across Mike’s skin, flowers and grass and tiny details no one will ever notice. He can’t think of anything to say that could fix this, and he’s pretty sure a part of himself died just now.
“I’m always the one doing something wrong, somehow,” Mike whispers, a bit defeated.
“Mike,” Will pleads, not ready for this conversation, even years later. “There was nothing you could have done.”
“...I can think of a few things,” Mike lets out a laugh but it’s not funny at all.
“She made that choice,” Will adds, softer now, trying to steady his voice, trying to make it sound certain. “And- and it must have been so scary for her.” The words catch halfway out and his throat tightens, painfully, like something’s wrapped around it. For a second, the studio isn’t the studio anymore. It’s cold. Wrong.
He can almost feel it again, ropes biting into his wrists, too tight, too rough, skin rubbed raw from struggling even when he knew it wouldn’t do anything. The flicker of a dying bulb overhead, swinging just enough to make the shadows shift, stretch, crawl. The smell of something rotten. The sound of his own breathing, too loud, too panicked.
And Mike.
Mike standing there, looking at him like the world was ending. Eyes wide. Wet. Terrified. Will swallows hard, blinking quickly, trying to push it away, but it lingers anyway, bleeding into the present. He remembers the choice. That awful, quiet moment where everything narrows down to one thing, one decision, and you know, you know, that whatever you do is going to hurt.
He remembers thinking it would be worth it if it meant Mike was safe. His first friend. His closest friend. His Tammy, somehow.
“My-” he starts, and has to stop, pressing his lips together, forcing himself to breathe before trying again. “I think she’s- I think she’s happy. Wherever she is.”
“How? How could she possibly be-”
“You were there,” Will answers, not letting Mike finish, each word careful and deliberate.“When she needed you- you didn’t leave her alone. You didn’t run, or hide, or… or pretend it wasn’t happening.” His hand trembles where it hovers near Mike’s shoulder, paint gathering at the tip of the brush but not touching down. “You never could’ve changed her mind,” he says, and his voice wavers despite how hard he tries to hold it steady. “Even if you- if you begged, or pleaded, or offered to go with her.”
“Will-” Mike’s breath stutters, pained.
“People don’t… they don’t stop when they’ve already decided,” Will cuts in, murmuring, more to himself than to Mike now. “Not when they think it’s the only way.” And he understands that better than he should, maybe. He understood that when he was young and got prescribed little bottles to make him happy. He understood for years, wishing he could just stop the whispers in his head, the looks on the street, the feeling on his neck. He understands it now, too. The want.
The way it could fix so much, be such an easy solution, no consequences to face.
He would have, if he’s not constantly so horrified by the knowledge that even if he gave in, he still wouldn’t see her. Not where he’s going. She’s forever happy, or she’s somewhere wandering, and either way, one or the other, Will knows where he’d damned to be for the rest of eternity, suffering for the beating in his chest.
He used to think, when it all first happened, that maybe it was the grim reaper following him home, and it just looked nothing like the stories. He thought it brought him to hell, that he was already facing punishment for sleepovers where he was a bit too happy and holding hands with a boy for a little too long. He thought that was the worst it could be, and to be honest, Will’s terrified to find out if the real deal is going to be worse, somehow.
He squeezes his eyes shut for just a second. “She did what she felt she had to,” he finishes, barely above a whisper. Will tries to keep going, Mike's silence too much to handle, thumb pushing under his shirt to caress his skin, soothing. “I-” His voice cracks, sharp and sudden. He winces, shaking his head a little like he can physically dislodge it. “I miss her, maybe not the way that you miss her, but- Ithink about Lenora, and how I should’ve- should’ve been there more. I should’ve spent more time with her, and I just… I didn’t.” His grip tightens around the brush until his knuckles ache. “I was stuck working on some stupid- some stupid thing that didn’t even matter,” he chokes, cutting himself off like the words are too heavy to carry all the way through. His vision blurs. He blinks hard, once, twice, trying to clear it.
Don’t cry. Not now. Not here. Not in front of him.
“We all made mistakes,” Will says, forcing the words out, even though they scrape on the way. “All we can do is live with them. Okay?” He swallows again, throat aching. “Don’t you dare look down on yourself for that,” he adds, a little firmer now, even if his voice still shakes. “You were sixteen, Mike.”
“I love you,” Mike whispers.
It’s so soft it almost doesn’t register at first, but it does. He flicks his eyes down to see Mike already looking up at him, wide and watery. Unbelievably dark, flicking along Will's face, tongue darting out to lick his lips.
There’s something in his expression that makes Will’s stomach drop, hard and sudden, like missing a step on a staircase in the dark. He can remember a handful of times Mike has looked at him like this, but never with his palm pushing up the back of Will's shirt, fingers scratching along skin, a smile tugging at his lips and looking so… Will can't even put a word to it. It feels like something Will dreamed up, somehow.
He wonders, just for a moment, if he looks like Jane right now. If that's why.
“Will,” Mike repeats, fingers digging into his skin. “I love you.”
The use of his name makes it more real, somehow. Will’s chest aches so badly it almost feels like it’s caving in, struggling to breathe. Mike says it to his mother, to his friends, but never like this. Never without a laugh or a shove. Never so soft, so whispered. “I-” he starts, and immediately falters, because there’s only one answer that would match that, and he can’t. Not like this.
“I care about you,” Will stammers instead, the words coming out strained, wrong, too small for what’s sitting between them. “So much.” He hears it as soon as it leaves his mouth, awkward, but it's worse to see it in the way Mike's face falls.
His lips twitch like he’s trying to fix it, like he’s trying to make it not hurt, but he can’t quite manage it. Will’s stomach twists violently.
For a second, Will wonders if this is how Mike felt all those years ago. Feeling something so big, so overwhelming, and having nowhere to put it. No safe way to say it. No guarantee it wouldn’t ruin everything if you did. Being forced to swallow it down, over and over, until it just… sat there. Rotting. Growing mold.
He can’t even imagine what it must’ve been like for Mike, saying it to her in that pizza freezer, finally getting it out, if the relief was worth it all.
Will's wrong for it, but he finds himself wondering if Mike had said it more than once in the void. If he’d repeated it, over and over, voice breaking, desperate, like if he said it enough times it might change something. If he told her he loved her until his throat hurt, until the words lost their shape. If he begged. If he pleaded.
Will knows, stupidly, that if Will had been the one in her place, it would have been enough to make him stay. He would have done anything to get a taste of it, he would have spent his life in hiding and running to countries he didn't even know the names of, just to have something as silly as a kiss, Mike's lips on his, hands intertwined. A part of him, even now, would still kill for that chance.
Sleeping in late together, sharing a bed, noses brushing while they whisper in the early morning. A pot of coffee and a carton or orange juice on the table, eggs with syrup and bacon dipped in runny yolks, feet nudging under a table while they ate breakfast past noon. Watching Mike write, getting to scratch him down onto paper with charcoal at the same time, kissing his lips when Mike complains about how his glasses cut into his nose.
Will would do anything.
Mike looks away. His gaze drops to the floor, like it’s easier to look at something empty than at Will. His hands pull into his lap, Will's back feeling unbearably cold. “You care about me,” he mutters, a bit bitter. “…Yeah. Yeah, I get it now.”
“…Get what?” Will asks, barely breathing, feeling stupid for being so scared. Did his voice give it away? His face? His hands? Was it obvious that Will meant more than Mike did, was it obvious that Will wanted more, that he was greedy, and sick, and wrong to his core?
Mike shakes his head slightly, not looking up. “It’s nothing, Will.” It doesn’t sound like nothing. “Are you going to keep painting?” he adds, like they can just move on. It's an offer Will couldn't pass up, the opportunity to live past this without it haunting him, for Mike to pretend it meant nothing at all.
“…Do you want me to?” he asks carefully.
Mike’s throat works. His fingers tense, folding his hands in his lap, eyebrows furrowed, nodding like it hurts. “I always want your artwork, Will,” His words are off, carefully said, each syllabus defined and pronounced like he's speaking to some business associate, putting distance back where it wasn’t before.
Will’s chest aches. “This is kind of different,” Will murmurs, trying desperately to fix something he doesn’t fully understand how he broke. “It’s not the same as some doodle from me to you-”
“From?” The single word cuts him off and Will freezes. It feels like he’s stepped wrong, like he’s tripped over something invisible and now everything is tilting around him.
“I-I’m sorry,” he stammers, turning a little more toward Mike now, panic creeping in. “Are you- are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Mike says quickly. “Course I am.” He still doesn’t look at him. “Keep going-?”
“...Are you sure?”
“Please, Will,” Mike whispers, voice soft and a little too defeated. Will’s expression falters and he nods, even though Mike can’t see it, even though it feels like agreeing to something he doesn’t understand.
“…Okay. Stay still?”
“Always,” Mike mutters, snorting meanly at himself. “It's not like I'll be going anywhere, anyways.”