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If Nancy knew what he was about to do, she'd kill him for sure. But she doesn't, and he'll make sure she never does. With his hands wrapped tight around his bedroom door, he scans the hallway. It's late, his mom is probably taking her candle-lit bath, 'me time', as she likes to put it, and his father is almost guaranteed to be snoring in his La-Z-Boy while that Reaganite radio station he listens to droans on in the background. Nancy is out with Jonathan, she climbed out the window almost thirty minutes ago now, so no need to worry about her. The coast is clear.
Still, he tiptoes over to her room, turns the doorknob excruciatingly slow, pauses for a second, two, then pushes the door open. He winces at the creak it makes, curses himself for forgetting about it, and pauses again. An ABBA song drifts through the gap under the bathroom door. Other than that, nothing. He releases the handle.
Mike is on a mission. The heist of a lifetime. Everything he needs is sitting out in the open, scattered around like they were used in a hurry; lipstick with the lid half off; mascara on the floor; multiple pots of eyeshadow strewn about, like Nancy couldn't quite decide which one to wear; powder blush with a thin layer of product dusting the white desk beneath it. He blinks at it all, taking it in, memorizing the layout—he'd need to put everything back exactly where he found it if he doesn't want to be caught. Lipstick, mascara, eyeshadow, blush. For a moment he considers writing it down, drawing a diagram, maybe. But then he remembers—Will, in his room, waiting patiently for the spoils of the excursion, and he can't keep him waiting any longer. So he scoops it all up, and prays his memory will serve him well tonight.
Back in Mike's room, Will is laying on his stomach reading a comic. His feet kick at the air, and he's humming a gentle tune. It's that song he likes, the same one he always sings. Mike can't remember the name of it. And at first, Mike had hated it. He didn't like the song one bit, and had begged Will to cut it out almost every time he'd start up. Now, after everything, it may as well be Mike's favorite sound—Will humming, not the song itself. Mike grins as he walks in to find him humming away without a care in the world. He closes the door with his shoulder, and kicks back at it until he hears a click. They couldn't risk anyone walking in, not tonight. He sets the treasure he secured down in a careless heap.
"Got it!" he whisper-yells, and Will looks over his shoulder with a smile. A thin thing that tries its best to hide the excitement underneath, something the glint in his eyes fail to do. Will swivels around, cross-legged and stares at the pile in awe. "Scoot over a bit." Mike hops on the bed next to Will, excitement thrilling inside his bones.
Using makeup is wrong. They're boys. They shouldn't be doing this whatsoever, let alone stealing everything from Mike's older sister. But as long as they're careful, as long as they're not caught, they should be fine. And actually, it being so wrong is what makes it exciting—at least to Mike.
It had taken a little bit of convincing for Will to agree, despite the longing in his features. Mike knew Will had experimented with makeup before, he'd had told him all about it after he arrived at the Wheeler house one day uninvited, a red raw stain streaked across his cheek. That was three years ago now, and evidently it still plays on his mind. Mike needs to show that he's safe for Will. That Will can talk to him about this stuff—embarrassing stuff. So it was only natural that he'd offer to help him out within the safety of Mike's own four walls.
"You'd look so good!" Mike had blurted out earlier that night, "I mean, you kind of already look like a girl, so…" Will had flushed a pretty pink at that, and instead of looking, Mike watched himself pick at his nails. "Besides, I've seen Nancy put makeup on like a hundred times before. How hard could it be, really?"
For Will? Super hard. After the incident, he'd told Mike that he had smooshed his mom's red lipstick down to a stub. It was expensive, and she'd cried about it when she thought Will wasn't looking. He'd felt guilty enough to ask Mike if they could combine the quarters they'd been saving up for the arcade to buy her a new one, which of course Mike agreed to. It was cheap, and the wrong shade entirely, but when they presented the lipstick to Mrs Byers she had smiled her down-turned smile with tears brimming her bright eyes, thanking them both with a crushing hug. She still wears it occasionally, Mike has noticed.
"So," Mike muses, hands flitting over the products, waggling his fingers curiously, "How about… this, first?" He grabs at the pot of eyeshadow, a metallic silver, and tosses it carelessly in the air. Luckily, he catches it—decides not to do that again, he would rather not face Nancy's wrath.
Will nods, uneven. "Yeah."
The lid whirs as Mike loosens it. He lifts it up to his nose and sniffs. It smells like nothing. Will asks to smell too, so Mike lets him, watches as his nose scrunches up in disappointment.
Carefully, Mike dabs the pad of his middle finger into the pot, coating it in a satisfactory film.
"Close your eyes," he says, voice sitting lower than usual. Will's eyelashes are long. They fan out over his cheeks, like a girl's. Mike swallows thick, and brings his finger up to the eyelid, huffs out a laugh when the eye underneath starts shifting about. "Try and look up. Like that, yeah. Stay still."
Softly, he drags his finger across. It takes a couple of tries to get it to sit smoothly, but eventually he gets there. Once satisfied, he dabs in again, this time going for Will's right eye. "You know," Mike says, "your eyes are so big already. I bet they'll look crazy with this on."
"Crazy good, or crazy bad?"
"Crazy good." He squints and leans closer. Will's eyes search to the left, Mike feels the movement under his fingertip. "Hold still." Once he's satisfied he leans back, admiring his work. With the pads of his fingers, Mike tilts Will's head to the left, and then the right. A satisfied hum leaves his lips. "There. Open."
Mike almost swears when he does. It looks good. So good, that it sends a little shock through Mike's nerves. He pats himself on the back for the color choice, as it makes Will's green irises sparkle.
"Does it look stupid?" Will's prominent bunny teeth bite into his lower lip.
"No! No, you look…" the word tumbleweeds across Mike's tongue. He chews on it carefully before handing it over, "pretty."
Will's cheeks flare. "Oh. Thanks."
The redness of his cheeks reminds Mike of the blush, so he grabs that next. There's a big fluffy brush that he thinks he's seen Nancy use on her cheeks before, so he picks that up, too.
"This is for your cheeks," Mike mumbles, swirling the brush in product, "I think it makes you look like you're blushing."
Right now, Mike doesn't really think Will needs it—his cheeks are red enough. Still, he went to the trouble of bringing it with him, so he may as well make the most of it. Lightly, he brushes it onto Will's cheeks. It's a soft purplish-pink (Sundown Girl, the pot says. Whatever that means), and it's nowhere near as deep as the natural flush that's now made its way to the tips of Will's ears.
"Okay. Uhm," Mike pouts in concentration, swishing the brush in the air mindlessly. A moment just like that passes, and an idea flashes behind his eyes. He tickles the tip of Will's nose with the blush. Cute. Like he'd been out in snow. "Done," he mutters, more to himself than anybody. He tosses the brush and pot to the side, swears when powder transfers from the brush to his linen sheets. That'll need to be washed.
Though, it can wait until Mike is done here—he can't just leave his best friend hanging.
"This is fun," Will whispers, his knee knocking against Mike's own.
Nodding, "Yeah, it is." He knocks back.
Next he picks the mascara. He makes a face when he unscrews the lid and it comes up in globs. For a second, he stares dumbly at it until Will reaches out his hand.
"Here, let me." Will scrapes the spool against the tube. "Like when you get too much butter on a knife," he reasons. With a tentative smile, he hands the mascara back to Mike.
Mike swallows. He could've sworn his hands weren't so shaky before—but now, as he holds the wand up to Will's eye, tremors wrack their way through him, unforgiving. He'll have to be quick. Shimmying the wand through the first eye's lashes is easy enough. On the second, he gets more unsteady. Leaning impossibly closer, he starts. He's close enough to smell Will's apple shampoo, the sweat, and the grass from playing outside all day. The little golden flecks in Will's eyes are visible from this close, too, and then the way his pupils almost swallow them whole. Just as he starts on Will's lower lashes, his hand jerks. Will yelps as the spool makes contact with his eye, and his hands fly up to cover it. Mike freezes.
"Ow," Will whimpers.
"Shit! Sorry, Will. Hey. Hey, look at me," he tilts Will's face towards himself, and taps at Will's hands. "Let me see."
Pulling away, Will shakes his head. "No—no, it's fine. Just. Give me a second." He flutters his lashes, and his eyes water. It smudges the mascara underneath a little.
Mike itches to reach out, to fix it into place, but he restrains himself, fists sitting curled in his lap.
"You sure you're okay?"
Will nods solemnly, and tries to reassure Mike with a smile. "Yeah, I'm good." He removes his hand, only to scratch at the inner corner of his eye, like that might help. "Sorry. I was just being dramatic."
A flash of irritation sparks through Mike's chest. Why on Earth is Will apologizing? It was Mike who'd gone and nearly poked his eye out with a mascara spoolie—it couldn't even be blamed on Will moving. Sometimes he truly doesn't understand Will at all.
"No," Mike grumbles, he licks his finger and reaches up to finally swipe at the smeared mascara, "it was my fault. I literally nearly took your eye out."
"It's fine."
A pause. "You promise?"
"Yeah. I promise. Can we keep going?"
So, they keep going. Finishing off the lower lashes feels like doing open-heart surgery. Mike steels his fingers as best as he can—he rests his fist against Will's cheek, and surprisingly it helps steady him enough. Or at least enough to not take Will's eye out. It's obvious Will is still a little scared, though, eyelids fluttering with every stroke.
Leaning back to admire his work, "Okay," he says. "Both eyes still intact. It's a miracle." Will huffs out a laugh at that. The lashes are a little clumpy, and Mike's saliva wasn't able to entirely get rid of the smudged mascara—but it opens Will's eyes impossibly wide. Mike's breath catches in his throat. God, his best friend is just…all eyes. Like a pleading puppy dog. Except Will isn't pleading. This is him simply existing. It's almost unfair how much real estate eyes take up on his face.
"That bad?"
Shaking himself out of his trance, he says, "What?"
"You're looking at me funny," he pouts, fingers fidgeting with his too-long sleeves—an old, tartan pair of Jonathan's pajamas that, according to Joyce and her bank account, are still good enough to wear. "Did my crying mess everything up?"
"I—No! No. You—It—No."
A tiny crease forms between Will's eyebrows. "Then, what?"
"What do you mean, 'what'?"
"Your face was all scrunched up. I don't know. Do I look ugly?"
The question sends Mike's heart plummeting straight down and out his ass. Ugly? Ugly? Is that what Mike's face reads as? That he thinks Will looks ugly? Immediately, he schools his face into something neutral, smoothing out all the creases he didn't know were there.
"You're not ugly. You're not." Mike's fingers tangle themselves in each other. "I told you before, didn't I? You look good." Swallowing the lump in his throat, he gears himself up to say that word again. "Pretty. You look pretty."
Will makes a face, the one he always makes when he doesn't quite believe whatever is being told to him. In any other circumstance, Mike would find it cute; in this circumstance, it's a goddamn abomination. It needs to go.
"So, uh. Lipstick?" He grabs the lipstick, the lid pops off with the flick of his thumb. "Ready?"
There it is. The anxious twitching, the nervous eyes. Mike turns to see what Will is looking at—the door.
"You okay?" Mike asks, bobbing his way into Will's vision. His eyes lock on to Mike instantly, and there's an near invisible current running through his small frame. He almost looks like one of those sad little puppies from those sad little commercials. Mike's stomach ties itself into a knot.
"Isn't this—" Will swallows—"too much?"
The room shakes. Or rather, it looks like it does to Mike, whose head is going back and forth so fast that his brain rattles wildly against his skull.
"No! Not at all."
"I just don't wanna get caught. This was stupid."
Whining now, "Will we're almost done." So what if Mike just wants to see Will in full makeup? That's not a crime. "It's just the lipstick—you can wash it off right away."
For a moment Will sits there, contemplating. His lips twist off to the side, and his nose scrunches up while he looks at Mike as if he can't quite figure him out. Mike shifts under his stare. For some reason, his heart beats irregular.
"Okay," Will sighs. It takes everything in Mike to not leap up to his feet from excitement. Instead, he beams so wide at the other boy he's scared his face might split apart at the seams.
"Okay! C'mere." Patting his leg, Mike holds the lipstick ready, and a devious thought forms in his head.
What if—what if Mike messed it up? On accident, of course. What if Mike messed up Will's lipstick, and he got to fix it? Like the mascara. With his thumb. His thumb on Will's lip. He's thought about it before—touching Will's lips. They look soft, plush. And since kissing El the thought of doing it with Will hasn't left his mind. He wonders how they would compare. Of course, he knows he shouldn't, that's a given. They're both boys. They can't kiss. It went against the rules of…everything. But this? The opportunity to swipe at Will's lower lip with his thumb—it was enough. It would have to be, anyway. He'd swipe at Will's lips, and his curiosity would be quenched, and he wouldn't—he absolutely would not get the urge to surge forward and—and—
Mike clears his throat.
"Ready?"
Will nods and closes his eyes. A laugh almost bubbles out of Mike, because he doesn't need to close his eyes, but he refrains. If he laughs now, Will would back out. And if Will backs out, Mike wouldn't get to…
Remembering his technique from before, he rests his shaky pinky on Wills chin. It absorbs most of the tremors, and he swipes at Will's puckered lips. And maybe God is on Mike's side today, because with how tense Will's lips are, the lipstick ends up uneven, and a little misses his lips entirely. He tuts.
"You need to relax, Will," he murmurs. Will's breath fans across Mike's cheek. When did he get so close? "I can't apply it properly if you're so tense."
Mike has no room to talk. None whatsoever. The muscles in his arms are locked tight, and his thighs are beginning to shake from exhaustion. Will nods anyway, and his lips go loose.
Now.
Gently, Mike swipes at his mistakes. It's like a hundred tiny firecrackers going off all at once. "See?" he says, and swipes some more. It's a little tacky under his finger. "I messed up just now. Relax. Good."
Again, he glides the lipstick across, and this time it goes smoothly. Mike is almost a little proud of how perfect it turned out. And lady luck must've been on his side when he picked the products at random, because Will—he looks amazing. It almost looks like he matched everything on purpose (or rather Nancy had, when she was getting ready for her late night date with Jonathan). And for a thirteen year old boy who'd never even touched makeup before? Yeah, Mike thinks he's done great.
"Check it out!" He shoves a handheld mirror into Will's palms (one he'd stolen from Nancy a while back, she didn't mind at the time because there was a hairline fracture in the top left corner and she was meaning to ask for a new one anyway), and leans back, eyes wide and unblinking, because he can't miss a second of Will's reaction.
Will blinks at his reflection. He tilts his head up and down, side to side. He pouts his lips and then smacks them, the corners tugging upwards ever so slightly. A shimmer falls over his eyes, and he looks so happy.
"Thank you, Mike," Will whispers, eyes still glued to the mirror. That same flush from before reclaims his face and he breaks out into a grin. "I love it." Finally, his eyes tear away from the mirror, looking up at Mike from underneath those long, and thick eyelashes.
The room spins this time, and Mike's head might just be full of lead. God, it's unfair. Will can't just look at him like that. It must be some sort of spell, because Mike doesn't think he's ever felt anything like this before. In fact, he thinks it might be making him stupid, because instead of acknowledging Will's thanks, or boasting about his apparent skills in applying makeup, he says;
"If you were a girl…" Mike swallows. "If you were a girl, you'd be the prettiest in our class—no, the year. Maybe even the whole school, actually."
"Prettier than Jennifer Hayes?"
"Way prettier," Mike says, all too seriously. He plucks the mirror from Will and tosses it to the side. If it cracks further, that's none of his business. He scoots forward, entirely too close. Personal space be damned. "You know, if you were a girl—" he locks eyes with Will, whose eyes flit nervously between Mike's own—"you'd probably be my girlfriend."
And it's as if Will stops altogether. His chest stops rising and falling, his eyes still, unblinking. After a moment he whispers, "But I'm a boy."
"I—I know. That's why I said 'if'." He can't look at Will right now, so instead he focuses on the sheet of paper on the wall behind Will's head. Of course it's one of Will's drawings, a t-rex and a triceratops from when they were obsessed with dinosaurs a couple of years ago. "But right now you could totally pass as one, you know?"
"I could?"
Nodding furiously, "Yeah, totally."
Will pauses. His teeth worry over his bottom lip, like he's thinking hard. It's difficult for Mike to resist reaching out to stop him from ruining the lipstick, but somehow he manages.
"We could—I don't know. Pretend?"
Pretend?
"What?" he blanches, his jaw going slack. Did he hear that right?
"Pretend that I'm a girl."
Forget lead—his head is a balloon. With each breath helium pumps in, more and more, until it starts to float up, up, and away into the atmosphere where it inevitably pops and shoots plummeting down, straight through every circle of hell and lands on its ass into limbo.
Pretend. That Will—his Will—is a girl?
Is it hot in here, or is it just Mike?
"Just for a bit," there's a wobble to Will's voice, like it's a struggle to get the words out, "before I take off the makeup." The panic from before wriggles its way back behind Will's eyes. "I mean, it's—it's fine if you don't want to. It was stupid. It was a stupid idea. Forget it. Plus there's El, you have El. I don't even know why I—"
"Let's do it."
The words sound so sure of themselves that it's a surprise to Mike they even came from him at all. Will makes a sound like he's being strangled, and also a little like 'huh'.
"Pretend, I mean. That you're a girl."
Will visibly fractures, "Oh," it comes out in a little puff of breath that Mike regrets not being able to feel against his own face. "Yeah."
The room seems to hold its breath with them as they both shuffle forward. Mike can feel Will's body heat, and wants to bathe in it, like a cat in the sun. Nerves buzz through him and his fists curl then loosen over and over.
Girlfriend. The word plays in a loop in his head. If Will is his girlfriend, then it's fine, right?
This is happening. One hand reaches up to cup Will's head, holding him gently behind his ears. "Can I?" he asks. His heart rabbits when Will nods. Oh God, it really is happening.
"Okay. Okay. I'm gonna—I'm gonna do it now."
"Okay," Will whispers. Mike catches Will's eyes watching his lips, then flicking up to his eyes, then back down again. Something complicated happens in his jaw. His eyes slip shut. "Okay."
Will's breath—Mike can feel it. It's closer than before, hotter. He can taste it a little, the minty toothpaste he used an hour ago. Mike'stoothpaste. The thought makes him dizzy again.
If Mike were any closer, they'd be kissing.
Mike feels, more than hears, Will whimper, and then his small hand is curling into the arm of Mike's sleeve. He's nervous, too. Taking a deep breath, Mike lets his eyes shut, and he pushes forward.
It's warm. Soft. He holds for a second before pulling away. In his ears, the steady drumbeat of his heart thunders away, and he wonders silently if he might die. He licks at his lips and he can taste the lipstick. He wants to do it again.
So he asks. And Will says yes.
More confident now, his other hand comes to rest in Will's hair. It's silky between his fingers, and he can't help stroking it a little. He gulps at the air, and then presses their lips together again. It lasts a moment or two longer, and it feels good—no, great. It feels better than anything, everything. He tries not to think too hard about that.
When they pull apart, Will giggles.
"You have more lipstick on than I do."
Mike grins. He probably does.
"Why? You want it back?" Will nods, so Mike surges forward, misses, and knocks his forehead against the other boy's. They share a giggle, and Will is just so cute that Mike kind of wants to squeeze him till he pops. "You're so pretty, Will. I wish you were a girl for real." The words hurt a little when they come out, something about them lands wrong. Like they reach down into Mike's stomach just wring it dry.
"Yeah, me too."
A while passes where nothing at all happens, and they both stare at their hands that lie useless in their laps.
Mike wishes Will was a girl so bad. He wishes he could kiss him all the time, he wishes he could hold his hand, he wishes that Dustin and Lucas would make fun of them, call them cheesy nicknames, or gag when they sat too close or they touched too long. Mike wishes he could look at Will for as long as he wants, whenever he wants. He wishes for a lot of things, for everything and more. But he can't help but wonder, if Will were a girl, that he might not like him at all. That maybe Mike likes Will because he's a boy. Or maybe he just likes him because he's Will.
In a moment of bravery he reaches for Will's hand. He turns it palm up, and traces little shapes, and words, taps in morse code, and smooths his fingers across to hold his wrist, to feel his pulse. Will, who's hand sits limp, looks like he might cry.
"It's okay for tonight though, right?"
Will nods. "Yeah. For tonight."