Chapter Text
Statistically speaking, the odds of losing a coin flip 10 times in a row are about 1 in 1024. Will’s life hasn't necessarily been a series of coin flips –things are much more complex– but goddamn if he doesn’t think he should've won something by now.
In reality, Will has done nothing but lose for the majority of his life. He lost his dad, though whether that's a true loss for Will is debatable. He lost his innocence at 12 to unspeakable horrors, too young to even understand what was being stolen from him. He lost his friends, his brother, his mom. He lost his way in the upside-down, and he nearly lost his mind. He was saved, sure, just to immediately lose his body and autonomy. He lost his place in the party only to be added back in like some kind of strange patchwork, as if the spot had never belonged to him to begin with.
His friends stayed by his side, and in doing so, they put themselves in immense danger. He almost wishes they hadn’t bothered. Didn’t they know Will is a plague? Cursed with terrible luck against crazy odds.
He lost his grip on reality and his faith in happy endings. He lost to bullies, the Demogorgon, the Mind Flayer. He lost his safe space to a girl he’d never met, to the girl who had apparently saved his life. He came back changed, and the worst thing is that he wasn’t the only one.
The others were changed too.
Max appeared, and El came back, perhaps something gained. But through the critical lens of a boy who expects the worst, he lost his best friends again in the process. Their attention at least.
Will is someone who loses, and he hates the bile that burns his throat when he sees his sister now, years later, because El? She is someone who wins. She's someone who loves, and is loved, and fights, and wins. He loves El like flesh and blood, and they've grown nearly inseparable in their time together, but sometimes he grits his teeth in the solitude and safety of his darkened room. Sometimes, he wishes he could hate her. After all, many of her past victories hinged on Will’s failures. He’s the catalyst, and she’s the savior.
But he can’t. How could he? El is kind, and brave, and strong. She’s all the things Will wishes he was and knows he isn’t. El is beautiful, a beacon of hope, and a winner.
Will is a loser, and he’ll play the part as long as he needs to. As long as it keeps a smile on everyone’s faces, and as long as it allows El to save the day. Even if it means losing to her.
It’s no surprise to Will when Hawkins beckons him back like some sick curse. He feels nauseous when El disappears again, because he knows it isn’t, but what if it’s his fault? Isn’t everything? His sister claims to be a monster, but Will knows the truth.
El works herself to the bone to save the day as only she can, but it's so much. It's too much for one little girl to handle, and Will aches with uselessness. He watches her nearly kill herself. He watches Mike talk to her, trying to rally her– Will’s own suggestion. A sacrifice stuffed down to hide with the rest.
He watches Mike’s conviction waver, the lights flicker, and the blood drip from El’s nose. And for maybe the first time, he watches her truly lose.
Max.
While that day didn’t signify their total loss, and they eventually succeeded in banishing Henry, if only temporarily, something changed. Shifted. El no longer seemed invincible. It showed in everyone’s newfound hesitation, and it showed on her face.
Seventeen months passed in relative normalcy, but the fear never quite left El, and it certainly never left Will.
He doubts it ever will.
**********
The Wheeler basement feels different. Colder and lonelier. Will swears he hears the ghosts of voices around him sometimes. He hears faded shouts of victory and the clatter of dice rolling on the table. The table sits to the right of him now, empty.
A light hanging from the ceiling flickers, and Will’s body goes cold. It only happens once, but Will stares at the bulb for what feels like hours, waiting for it to shift into something bluer and darker and rotted.
He stares for so long his vision goes spotty, and his breathing stays shallow. His shoulders tremble with a pathetic response he hasn’t ever been able to shake, and he's so lost in the fear of it all, he doesn’t hear the knock on the door at the top of the basement. He doesn’t hear the door open, nor does he see a hesitant figure peek down the stairs.
He knows he’s safe, and it's just a wiring issue in a big house being overloaded by seven people trying to live in it. He feels no goosebumps and hears no voice in his head. He stays curled into himself on the couch anyway, sketchbook resting on his knees.
Someone enters his line of sight, and he pulls his gaze away from the light, blinking a few times.
“Jonathan?”
“Hey, bud, sorry to startle you. I knocked a few times, but you didn’t answer.”
Will furrows his brow and adjusts to have more open body language where he’s sitting. It's something he’s been challenging himself to do: be open in safe spaces. “Sorry, I was… distracted.”
Jonathan glances to the light above the table, always able to hear what Will doesn’t say, but he graciously accepts the half-truth. “Mm. Well, I just wanted to let you know Mom’s on the phone.”
Will perks up. It’s been a few days since he talked to his mom; she’s been busy with her new job. Busy with Hopper… busy with El. “Oh, ok. Thanks.” He gives Jonathan a small smile, which he returns with a warmth Will doesn’t deserve but is grateful for. He stands up on stiff legs when Jonathan jogs back up the stairs. He makes his way to the basement phone and picks it up.
“Mom?”
“Will!” His smile grows at his mom’s enthusiasm. “How are you, baby?”
Will wonders quietly if it’s normal to still be treated so gently by his mother at his age, but he doesn’t feel shame or embarrassment. He just feels loved. “I’m good.” He responds. It's mostly the truth. “Miss you and El, though. How’s the training going? How’s Hop?”
He traps the phone between his ear and shoulder and picks at his cuticles as his mom fills him in on what’s happening at the Byers-Hopper residence. The smile never leaves his face, but it melts into something softer as his mom continues talking. At one point, he hears El’s voice in the background, higher-pitched than his mother's but just as sweet.
The phone is passed in a small burst of chaotic noise, and then he’s talking to his sister. They speak in a rhythm that has become uniquely them over time. He sometimes thinks that maybe they really are twins separated at birth. Will tells El how he’s struggling with the October cold creeping in alongside winter, and she tells him about her frustration with training.
“I’ve been stuck with the same time for 3 days now.” She says solemnly, and Will tries not to scoff.
“Thirteen minutes and four seconds is an incredible time, El, and you’ve already come such a long way. That course would probably take me more than thirty minutes.” Every word is sincere; he's often amazed by what his sister has accomplished. “Not to mention you can literally fly. That’s cool as hell, regardless of a stupid time.”
El chuckles softly, and Will mirrors it. “Maybe… I don’t think it would take you all that long. You’ve gotten pretty fast.” Will flushes in embarrassment and huffs out a shy breath.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Mike would collapse halfway through, though, so I guess you have a point.”
Will can’t stop the surprised laugh that bubbles out of him. He ignores the way his throat tightens slightly at the mention of Mike’s name. “You don’t give him enough credit. At least he’s not the slowest in P.E. anymore.”
“Third slowest is not very good either,” El says entirely seriously. “I hope he never needs to run from Henry…” They laugh together again, but it fizzles into silence shortly. “You haven’t felt anything, have you?”
Will shakes his head even though El can't see him. “No. It’s been so long since I have. Sometimes I worry I won’t remember what it’s like when he’s there, and I won't be able to warn anyone. I'm so damn paranoid.” It’s become easy for him to be honest with her in a way he can’t be with anyone else.
“You will remember.” She says with absolute certainty that she’s right. She is. Will could never forget, not really.
“I almost wish he would just show up already, I feel like I can’t be… normal.” He swallows thickly and ignores the heaviness of those words. “Not until he’s gone.”
He can hear El’s smile in her words. “We will never be normal, Will.”
“I guess you’re right.” He finds himself smiling too in a bittersweet way. He’ll always have a companion in his sister. Someone who understands, to a certain extent at least.
“The important thing is he isn’t here yet. We can protect them. We’re safe.” She pauses for a moment. “Mike is safe.”
Will holds his breath and lets his eyes slip shut. His next breath comes out shaky, but he doesn’t care. He can’t escape her scrutinous attention to detail. “He is- they all are. You’re right. You can protect them.”
“We.” She corrects quietly, and Will can’t help but tear up. She’s wrong this time. Will can’t protect Mike. He can’t protect anyone. He’s useless.
“Mom’s calling me for dinner, so I have to go now.” Silence hangs between them for a beat. “We’re okay, Will. I love you?” Her tone ticks upwards at the end, a silent question of whether he’s alright. WIll hears it.
“Love you too.” He answers as steadily as he can. “Bye, El.”
He rubs his eyes and sighs heavily when he hangs up the phone. God, he loves his sister. He could never hate her.
He decides he’s hidden himself away for long enough and makes his way up the basement stairs to become a member of society again, whether he's a functioning one is a topic for debate.
He hears clamor in the kitchen and naturally wanders towards it. Mrs. Wheeler is chopping vegetables at the kitchen island, and her perfectly painted lips twitch up with a smile when she sees him. “Hi, sweetheart.” She hesitates, small but noticeable. “Are you doing alright?”
He smiles crookedly back at her, reminds himself that she isn’t checking in on him because she pities him… at least he hopes she isn’t. “I’m alright, was just a little tired. Do you need any help?” He nods towards the assortment of vegetables. He likes staying busy, distracted.
She waves him off. “No, no, that’s alright. Why don’t you go check in on Mike? I’m hardly even sure if he’s alive at this point. He barely leaves his room these days.” She rolls her eyes and looks at Will as if they're sharing a joke. He supposes they are, so he laughs.
“Sure thing Mrs. Wheeler.”
“Dinner will be ready before too long.” She calls to his retreating form.
“I’ll tell Mike.” He assures over his shoulder.
He drags his feet walking up the stairs to Mike’s room. He fights the frown overtaking his face. They're… fine. That is to say, nothing bad has happened. Nothing good has really happened either, but there's a saying about beggars and choosers and such for a reason.
They haven’t fought, and they still interact with each other with stilted normalcy in front of the others. But something feels heavier when they’re alone. Kind of like they can’t figure out how they're supposed to talk to one another anymore. Sometimes Will doubts whether Mike wants to talk to him at all.
He finds himself at Mike’s door all too soon. He hears muted sounds of quiet gunfire and explosions. He sighs and knocks on the closed door. He hears the sounds pause and a muffled “Come in,” and opens the door slowly.
“Hey,” he greets hesitantly.
Mike smiles at him, slightly confused. “Hi. Everything good?” He sets his Atari to the side on the bed, giving Will his full attention, palpable and intense as ever.
He looks down at his hands, awkwardly hovering in Mike’s doorway. He’s about to speak when Mike beats him to it, sensing his hesitation at a speed that’s kind of ridiculous. “Wanna see the game I just got?”
Will glances back to the joystick controller Mike placed beside him and briefly worries about how taut the cord is. Mike is sitting on the very edge of the bed and it just barely reaches from the console.
Will nods silently and walks over to Mike’s bed. After a split second of pause, he sits on the edge of the bed beside him. Mike scoots over immediately, not even glancing at Will as he moves to sit criss-crossed next to him. He starts up the game again without another word. Years ago, Mike would’ve jumped into an explanation about the game’s controls and graphics. He’s quiet now. He’s quiet most of the time.
The game is bright and exciting, and normally, Will would be thrilled, eagerly asking to have a turn. Now, all he can think about is leaving enough space between the two of them that their knees don't accidentally brush. He focuses on breathing evenly and wonders if it's too loud. Can Mike hear it? Does it bother him? Will’s become quiet, too, it seems.
After a few minutes, Will clears his throat, and Mike snaps his head over to look at him expectantly for a beat, eyes questioning in a way that makes Will nervous. “Your mom said dinner will be ready soon, by the way.”
Will watches his face fall slightly in a way he doesn’t understand. He hums in understanding and returns his eyes to the screen. Which, now that Will thinks about it: when did Mike get a TV in his room anyway? That seems absurd. That… that’s what the basement was always for. Will can’t help but feel like he’s fucked something up but has no idea how.
He’s even more confused when Mike’s knee knocks against his. When the hell did they get so close? Had he subconsciously shifted closer, pulled in by Mike’s orbit as he always is? He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes glaze over as he keeps them on the screen.
Mike swears loudly as he loses the game and throws his head back with a frustrated groan. It’s dramatic, and it's the most Mike-like thing he's seen in a while. Will hides a laugh behind his hand, swallowing thickly as his eyes scan the expanse of pale skin stretching across Mike’s throat.
Mike sighs and lazily rolls his head to the side to look at Will. Feeling caught, he tears his gaze away. Will flushes, hyper-aware of the burning feeling of their legs touching. He feels eyes boring into him, and he wonders if there will be a smoldering hole in his head soon. The pressure against his knee feels firmer, but everything seems heightened right now, so who’s to say.
“It’s hard, huh?” Will’s voice is rough when he speaks, looking up at the TV screen instead of Mike’s face. He hears Mike choke, and he turns to him in concern.
“W-what?” Mike asks with wide eyes as he coughs loudly.
“The game…,” Will clarifies with furrowed brows. “Are you alright?” He reaches out to pat Mike on the back, but thinks better of it. Don’t touch him. His brain reminds him harshly. He wouldn’t be near you at all if he knew.
Mike ducks his head and thumps his chest a few times. “Yeah, I’m- I’m good. Just swallowed wrong.” His voice is tight, and Will is already moving.
“I’ll grab you some water.’ He pushes himself up and steps off the bed, but he's yanked back before he can take more than a step. He turns around and looks at where Mike has grabbed his wrist with bewilderment. Mike looks more surprised than Will.
“No!” Another awkward cough. “No, no. It’s fine, you don't uh- you don’t need to leave.”
Will’s head is swimming, and Mike’s fingers leave sparks where they dig into his arm. Will appreciates the touch because he's pathetic, but Mike’s grip is rough, and that is unusual. Despite himself, Will lifts his hand and gently covers Mike’s, encouraging him to loosen his hold.
“Fuck, sorry,” Mike mutters as his fingers go slack around Will’s wrist, but he doesn’t let go, not fully. He tugs Will slightly, a question more than a demand. And perplexed as he may be, Will goes easily. He always does for Mike.
He sits on the edge of the bed, and Mike finally lets him go. If Will mourns the touch already, that's nobody’s business but his own. He leans back on his hand, and Mike settles his on the bed close enough to Will’s that their pinkies nearly brush. He’s chewing his lip and staring at the comforter.
“So, am I going to get an explanation, or should I expect that my arm is free game for the foreseeable future?” Will’s voice comes out lighter than he feels, a small blessing. He expects Mike to laugh, apologize, and maybe go back to his game. They’ll shrug it off as a random, awkward encounter and move on. Mike gives Will a small chuckle, and then he goes off script.
“That was weird, I’m sorry…”
“A little,” Will agrees tentatively. “I’m not like- mad or anything? If you're worried about that.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it's just. Fuck, this is embarrassing.” Mike lifts the hand that isn’t close to Will and scrubs it across his face.
Will leans down, trying to catch Mike’s gaze. “You can talk to me,” he hesitates a moment before continuing. “About anything, Mike. You know that.” It’s perhaps too honest, but Mike’s next breath sounds relieved, so maybe it’s just honest enough.
“I feel like I don’t see you a lot, and I feel like it’s mostly my fault.” Mike still refuses to meet his gaze, which he typically does with unwavering confidence.
Alarm bells go off in Will’s mind. Now??? He’s doing this now!?
“Mike….”
“No, please. Just- let me talk for a second. Please.” Will’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. Mike lifts his eyes. “I’m sorry. If you–” he clenches his jaw and flits his eyes to the side for a moment. “If you ever felt alone. O-or isolated. Because of me. And I know you have El and Lucas and Dustin and all them, and it’s not like I’m your only friend, and I wouldn’t try to act like that because that would be insane and weird, obviously. But I feel like we were always different, which is stupid now that I say it, but I feel like I feel like I have a certain responsibility as your best frie-”
“Mike!” Will cuts him off with wide eyes. “Breathe, please.”
Mike takes a breath, and drops his hands, which had been waving around wildly, to his lap.
“Right, I’m totally rambling.” Another breath, this one less shaky than the last. “Look, all I’m trying to say is I know I’ve been making things weird. And I’m sorry. I was angry. I was hurt. But shutting you out wasn’t the answer to that. Like, at all.”
Will pulls his hand back slightly and feels himself becoming guarded. “You’ve been angry… with me?” He knows that that isn’t Mike’s point, but he can’t help the hot flash of indignance he feels.
Mike groans. “Fucks sake, I’m so bad at this.” He rolls to the other side of the bed and stands up. Will watches in stunned silence as Mike starts literally pacing. “No, I’m not mad at you. I mean, yeah, I was, but not anymore. Well, not as much. I mean, you did lie to me about stuff that was kind of really important, and I was definitely mad for a while.” He gestures to Will pointedly before shaking his hands and head alike. “But that's a different conversation entirely. Right now I’m trying to apologize.”
“It kind of feels like you want an apology from me.” Will crosses his arms, turning his defensiveness into a physical barrier. A wall. Will doesn’t even necessarily believe what he’s saying, but how is he supposed to take something like that lying down? He had only been trying to help back then.
“What?” Mike’s face crinkles up in frustration. “No, that’s not- that’s not what I’m saying. Fuck Will, please work with me here.”
Will clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache. Mike is looking at him with such blatant desperation. It puts a pit in his stomach that he isn't sure how to dissect. “I mean,” Will picks at his cuticles. “I get what you’re trying to say…. Thank you, Mike.”
Mike's face twists up even more. He looks miserable, and Will kind of wants to die for putting that expression there. Mike paces to the side of the bed Will is sitting on and flops beside him. Their legs are pressed together, and Will can hardly breathe. “You don’t believe me,” Mike says it like it's true.
Maybe it is.
“It isn't a matter of belief.” Will says carefully. Mike's thigh is warm. “I believe that you’re sorry, and that means a lot to me.” His nail beds are raw. That doesn’t stop him, it never does. “And I’m– I do feel guilty.” Mike’s breath hitches, but he isn’t looking at Will’s face.
After a few seconds of tense silence, Will turns his head. Mike carefully reaches over and picks up one of Will’s hands. He doesn’t coddle him, doesn’t flutter around him with worry like his mother would. Doesn’t sigh heavily as if it’s his own fault like Jonathan would. He squints his eyes and rubs his thumb over Will's knuckles. Will feels his face flush and his stomach twist. He doesn’t mean it like that. He’s just worried.
“You should stop doing that,” is all he says before he drops Will’s hand, stands, and… leaves the room?
The sound of the door shutting sounds louder than it probably is. Will’s body feels tingly and numb at the same time. He stares at the door Mike disappeared through and struggles to fight down the wave of shocked tears that form at his lash line. What did he do wrong? He had thought Mike was referring to his bad habit, but maybe he was telling Will to stop doing something else. Was he not being careful enough? Did Mike figure him out?
He sits paralyzed on Mike’s bed, and his hands shake in a way that feels too violent for the situation. Every second Mike is gone feels like the air is being sucked out of the room. He should leave. He should go down to the basement. Or maybe he should fake his death, skip town, and change his name.
Mike’s door swings back open. “–eriously, Will, that's a nasty habit, your hands are literally blee–” He cuts off with a gasp. “Will, what's wrong?” Mike's voice tips into panic, and he rushes back to the bed. He sets whatever he was carrying on the sheets and crouches in front of Will. “Hey, hey, look at me.” His voice is so soft it makes a new wave of tears form in Will’s eyes. Fucking pathetic. Mike’s hand hovers indecisively for a moment before coming to rest on Will’s knee.
Will looks at him.
And feels every bit as ashamed as he should. Seriously? Crying, because Mike left the fucking room? And now Mike is blinking at him with such concern. His throat constricts with disgust. “Sorry,” he croaks out, and his voice is so tight that it barely sounds like him at all.
When Mike speaks again, it’s hardly above a whisper. “Why are you crying?” He reaches up and swipes Will’s cheek with the back of his knuckle, seemingly on instinct. Will is a terrible person, and he wants to lean into the touch all the same. He feels Mike’s thumb brush over his knee. Mike touches him very, very rarely, but he’s always gentle when he does. Gentler than he should be. “Was it… was it him?”
Will shakes his head. “N-no. I’m sorry, I thought you- I thought maybe I-” He can’t seem to get a complete thought out, and his hands are still fucking shaking, but Mike’s eyes widen in understanding.
“Oh, I'm a dumbass,” Mike hangs his head, and when he looks back up, his expression is so earnest that Will has to look away. “Saying all that to you and then just leaving, fuck, that was stupid. I’m so sorry, Will. I didn’t– I was just getting some stuff for your hands, but I didn’t say that, so of course you would assume… I’m sorry.”
Will scrubs at his eyes in embarrassment. “S’okay. I shouldn’t be so fucking sensitive.”
Mike doesn’t say anything, but his eyes? Will feels them.
He stands up from his crouch and sits next to Will, grabbing whatever he had brought with him. “Give me your hand.” Will knows this is not a request, but a Mike Wheeler demand. Will gives Mike his hand and shakes the whole time.
**********
Will floats down the stairs on quiet feet behind Mike. He can hear Mrs. Wheeler humming as the two of them get closer to the dining room. It's soothing, in a practiced way. His mom never hums, singing loudly and off-key, sure, but she isn’t so soft. He doesn’t mind. They both have their charms.
Mike rounds the table and flops into his usual chair, lazily greeting his mom. Will heads to the other side, where Holly is hard at work on some new masterpiece. It reminds him of a happier, smaller version of himself. He sits down next to her and asks to see what she's drawing.
He catches Mike giving him the expression of a kicked puppy, perhaps an irritated kicked puppy, in between Holly’s excited ramblings about a new character she’s created. Will gives him a pointed look, gesturing to his sister. Mike huffs but gives up on trying to psionically lift Will to his side of the table.
“You’re not listening,” Holly says, frustratedly. Will snaps his head back to Holly and finds smaller, sadder puppy dog eyes looking up at him.
“Sorry, Holly, I’m listening, I promise!” Will smiles at her and asks about her creative decision to make the prince’s skin purple. Holly gives him a look that says she thinks he’s full of shit, and wow, her face has really taken on the Wheeler sibling characteristics in the past few years.
Luckily for Will, she deems continuing her explanation more important than her skepticism of his investment. He hears a clipped laugh from Mike, and they share a small but sincere smile before Will truly gives the littlest Wheeler his full attention.
Dinner passes with bland conversation and quiet compliments to Mrs. Wheeler’s cooking. She accepts them graciously and inquires about everyone's days. The Wheeler children give half-assed answers, while Will and Jonathan at least try to seem engaged for her sake. Ted doesn’t give a shit, which is to be expected.
Nancy glances subtly at her watch every few minutes, and Jonathan’s leg shakes under the table. He wonders absently what they’re both waiting for, but he doesn’t care enough to risk outing them by asking.
Eventually, the stiff conversation melts into everyone eating quietly while Holly chatters about her classmates. ‘-and then Derek told Miss Harris to suck a fat one.” Chaos erupts at the table, and Will’s nose burns when he chokes on his soda.
Nancy and Jonathan use the noise as an opportunity to excuse themselves, and Mrs. Wheeler tries to explain to Holly that what Derek said is not appropriate and shouldn't be repeated. Ted looks slightly more irked than normal, and Will catches Mike’s eye while they both try desperately not to laugh.
With dinner effectively over, Will offers to help Mrs. Wheeler clean up. She takes him up on the offer this time with a grateful smile.
They load the dishwasher in comfortable silence. They find a flow quickly, and it doesn’t take long before they’re finished. Will is drying his hands when Mrs. Wheeler puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for your help, Will.”
Will furrows his brows slightly. It’s not that big of a deal, is it? “Of course, Mrs. Wheeler.” He looks around the spotless kitchen. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
She looks over Will’s shoulder and returns her gaze to Will in a way that makes him feel like she knows something he doesn’t. “That’s alright, you go on ahead. I think you have someone waiting for you anyway.”
Will turns around and sees a flash of curly black hair disappear from the entrance to the kitchen. He’s so… weird. Will sighs and looks at Mrs. Wheeler in confusion.
“He’s been there for a while,” She says with a shrug. Will shakes his head and bids her goodnight.
When he rounds the corner, he sees Mike propped very awkwardly with one socked foot behind him on the wall. He’s looking at the ceiling and pretends to be surprised when Will steps closer to him. It’s fucking ridiculous. Will is so in love.
“O-oh, hey! What are you doing, um… here?” Will looks at Mike, dumbfounded. Is he seriously committing to this bit?
“Well, I do currently live here. I didn’t know I was sharing a house with a super spy, though.” Mike’s face pales, and Will bites back a smile as he walks past him in the direction of the basement. He hears him clumsily stumble to follow behind him after a few seconds.
“That obvious?” Mike mumbles sullenly.
Will grins fully now without turning around. “No, no, I really think you might have a future in surveillance and espionage, Mike.” He keeps his tone light-hearted and hears Mike groan behind him.
“I just didn’t want to interrupt, but then I was just waiting there, and that felt weird too.”
“So your solution was slinking around James Bond style?” He reaches the top of the basement and keeps the door open for Mike. He ignores the tentative flutter in his stomach when Mike follows him down the stairs.
“I wasn’t– slinking! I was just, y’know.”
Will does not know. “Did it occur to you that you could’ve just come in and helped us?” He looks over his shoulder in time to see Mike pause in contemplation.
“Not really, actually.” Will wants to be annoyed, but he is instead, stupidly endeared.
“Of course not.” He laughs and opens the wardrobe that he and Jonathan share. He roots around for something soft to wear to sleep, a sweater maybe. He wonders how awful it would be of him if he were to ask Mike to borrow one of his…
When Mike doesn’t say anything for a while, Will leans back and looks around the door of the dresser. Mike is standing awkwardly in the middle of the basement like he isn’t sure what to do. Will frowns.
“What’s up with you today?”
Mike looks startled, as if pulled out of deep thought. He quickly steels his expression, clenching his jaw and fists alike. Will notices this because it's Mike, and Will Byers notices everything that Mike Wheeler does. Will raises an eyebrow in curious surprise.
“Do you want to have a sleepover?” Mike asks bluntly.
Will’s jaw drops. The silence in the room is thick. Will clears his throat, “A sleepover?” He tries as hard as possible to stop the question from sounding like a rejection, because it really, really isn’t.
“Yeah, I mean, we had sleepovers all the time when we were younger, right? And we’ve been living together, sure, but today made me realize just how much I’ve–” Mike’s voice softens, and he tilts his head slightly. Will is certain he’s going to go into cardiac arrest. “I’ve missed you.”
Will’s mouth moves on its own, “I’ve missed you too.” Mike’s shoulders melt in relief. Will doesn’t know what’s happening. He knows he should probably be apprehensive, but he's just so fucking happy. Mike missed him.
“Cool, cool, so I was thinking,” Mike lifts his hands and gestures like he’s about to explain his game plan for a campaign. “Jonathan and Nancy aren’t going to be here tonight–”
“Wait, where are they going?”
“I don’t know.” Mike sighs. “Nancy just told me to cover for her if Mom or Dad asked anything. But the point is,” Mike takes a quick breath, like he’s too excited to breathe and speak at the same time. “The point is, they won’t be here, so I can come stay with you in the basement, o-or you could come stay in my room with me. Either is fine, really.”
Will finds himself mirroring Mike’s enthusiasm. After all, it really has been a while since they've spent time alone together. Will decides it’s more exciting than daunting. But there’s one part of Mike’s genius plan that Will can’t understand. “Yeah, that sounds really nice. But why, um, why does it matter if Jonathan and Nancy are gone?”
Mike’s face flushes, and he looks to the side like maybe he doesn’t know the answer either. “Well, if Jonathan were here, I wouldn’t be able to come down, y’know? Cause he sleeps on the couch.” Mike looks satisfied with his answer.
Will squints his eyes. Jonathan certainly does not sleep on the couch, and he’s pretty sure Mike knows that too. But Will hasn’t been gifted horses very often and he’s not going to make a habit of looking them in the mouth now.
“Smart thinking.” Will says evenly.
“Yup.” Mike nods quickly. “So… here?”
Will twists his mouth to hide an amused smile. What is going on with him? “Yeah, Mike. Here is good.”
He goes back to rummaging through the sweaters he has, but he pauses. Maybe… maybe he could ask Mike for one. He closes the door with a huff. Mike is still standing in the middle of the room.
Will furrows his brows. “Mike?”
Mike snaps his head up. “Yeah?”
Will walks over to him and Mike’s face goes weirdly neutral. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
Mike nods, eyes struggling to settle on one part of Will’s face. It makes him self conscious in part, but more than anything it makes him flustered. He’s not used to Mike looking at him anymore. He wrings his hands nervously.
“Wanna bring your Atari down?”
Mike perks up at the idea with a small smile. Will desperately tries to calm the frantic beating of his heart.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go get it.” Mike nods his head. He also doesn’t move.
“Mike.”
“Right.” He turns around mechanically and trips on his way up the stairs.
Will stays frozen for a beat, suddenly alone in the basement, before a bewildered giggle bursts from his mouth. What is happening? He feels lighter than he has in a while. He wants to be irritated that one singular day of experiencing Mike’s antics can bring him so much happiness, but he can’t. He can’t begrudge himself that joy. He’s sure whatever is going on with Mike won’t last long, so Will will enjoy it while it’s there.
**********
Will sits on a pillow on the floor, in his same sweater from the morning, unchanged and irritated about it, while Mike hooks his console up to the basement TV.
“I didn’t even realize you moved everything to your room.” Will says conversationally, tucking his knees under him and leaning back on his hand.
Mike tenses slightly. “Uh, yeah… I didn’t feel like coming down here to bother you and Jonathan at all hours of the night.”
“It’s your house, Mike. It wouldn’t bother me.” He specifically doesn’t acknowledge what Jonathan would or wouldn’t be bothered by, because Jonathan isn’t staying in the basement and he’s still unsure of why they’re pretending he is.
Mike huffs and stands up with a groan. “At three in the morning, though?” He turns around and shoots Will a skeptical glance. “I doubt it.”
Mike walks over and sits next to Will on the floor. Right next to him. There’s a whole floor, why does he feel the need to sit so close to Will that he can feel the body heat radiating from him?
The cord is short, Will tells himself. It’s necessity.
Mike starts up his game, the same one from earlier, but Will keeps his eyes on Mike’s profile, turning slightly to face him. Mike must feel his stare and looks over at him.
“What’s up?” He asks.
“Why are you awake at three in the morning?”
Mike laughs. “I’m sixteen, Will. I think it’s a right of passage. Rebellion and poor decisions and all that.”
Will doesn’t think Mike is being honest, but maybe he’s not so good at reading him anymore. He doesn’t want to break this tentative friendship Mike is clearly trying to rebuild, so he decides not to call him on it. He simply hums in agreement and holds a hand out.
“Um.” Mike says, looking between Will’s hand and his face. With obvious confusion, Mike sets the joystick down and lifts his hand to place it in Will’s.
Will laughs and shakes his hand off in embarrassment. He doesn’t let his mind linger on how warm Mike’s fingers felt against his palm.
“The controller, Mike.” He says with a smile. “Give it to me.”
“Oh.” Mike looks embarrassed. He’s so expressive today, which is a drastic change from how unreadable he’s been the past months. He grabs the controller and hands it to Will.
They make tense eye contact before Will snaps his head to the front, shifting to sit more comfortably. “Okay, so….” He trails off and MIke picks it up seamlessly.
“I’ll talk you through it.” Mike offers immediately, and Jesus fucking Christ, Will’s throat is dry. Mike adjusts his position on the carpet to be closer to Will.
Why! Is! He! Doing that! Doesn’t he know Will is going to die?
“Oh my god.” Slips out under Will’s breath.
“Hm?”
“Nothing.” Will says quickly. “What do I do?”
“Okay, it’s simple.” Mike says, leaning over and bumping his knee into Will’s thigh.
The game is simple, if difficult. That’s pretty much the only thing that’s simple.
For example, controlling his breathing as Mike places a hand behind Will and leans into his space to watch his game play with frustratingly attractive attention is… extremely complicated.
Maybe that’s the reason he can’t focus long enough to get more than a quarter of the way through the level. “Fuck.” He hisses when ‘Game Over’ flashes across the screen again. He slams the controller into his lap and pushes his palms into his eyes. “Stupid goddamn ships.”
Mike laughs softly. “Start from the left next time.” He murmurs. His eyes are glued to the screen, scrutinizing where Will went wrong, probably. This is good, because Will thinks if he turned to look at Will their noses might bump.
He’s that fucking close.
“Why?” He manages.
“They cluster there.” He gestures to the screen. “If you start in the center or right, they’ll overwhelm you by the time you make it over there.” His shoulder knocks into Will’s as he moves his arm. “I would know, it took me forever to figure it out.”
“Ah. Okay.” He dutifully resets the level. He resituates himself and leans forward, trying desperately to focus on the television and tiny little battleships that he’s tasked with destroying.
Mike was right. He starts on the left this time and he gets much further before dying.
Will groans and immediately restarts the level. Makes it a bit further. Dies again. He grits his teeth, actually beginning to focus on making progress.
Mike hums in approval. “You’re getting better.” He says quietly. It’s encouragement, which isn’t unusual from Mike, but it lands… differently– when he’s this close and his voice is this soft. “You’re so good at this shit. You’ve always picked things up fast.”
Will swallows thickly and feels the back of his neck and the tips of his ears go hot. “I’m still dying.” He argues with as even of a voice as he can muster. He clears his throat to cover any shake. He looks over to Mike with a frustrated frown.
Mike looks back. Their noses don’t bump, but it’s a near thing.
He grabs the console from Will’s slackened hands. His eyes stray from Will’s and there’s a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks.
Will isn’t imagining it. He knows he’s not.
“What are you doing?” He whispers, looking down at Mike’s hands. He has beautiful hands and Will is immediately distracted. Will’s cheeks flame as he remembers the pages upon pages in his sketchbook filled with nothing but wide palms, prominent knuckles, and thin, dexterous fingers.
At fourteen, Will was painting dragons. At fifteen, Will was trying desperately to do figure studies that didn’t turn into his best friend. At sixteen? Hands. Wrists. Veins. Sometimes Lips. Shiny curls or broad shoulders. Disjointed and isolated features that would turn into the person next to him if scrutinized long enough.
He protects that sketchbook with his life. As Mike flexes his fingers against the joystick, it takes everything in Will to not glance at the place where his deepest secret is burning a hole in the couch cushions behind them.
“Watch me play a round.” Mike brings Will’s attention back to him.
“I watched you earlier.” Will reminds him, brain thankfully providing him with an appropriate response in the midst of his internal struggles.
“Pay attention this time.”
Will scoffs. “Are you saying I wasn’t paying attention before?”
Mike smiles, soft and warm, like he used to when they were young. “I didn’t say that. Just,” He leans back and waves his hand. “Watch my strategy.”
“Okay, but if you die immediately I’m never trusting strategic advice from you again.”
“Oh yee of little faith.” Mike chides, taking the controller firmly and restarting the level. “You’re about to watch a master at work.”
“Oh I’m sure.” Will stretches his legs in front of him and leans his weight back on his hands.
Mike is, unfortunately, very good at this game. He was clearly on a much more difficult level when Will was watching him before. He clears the section Will was repeatedly dying on with ease. He turns to Will with a triumphant smirk.
“God, you’re so annoying.” Will grits out. “Just rubbing it in my face.”
Mike laughs. “I’m not! I’m just showing you what to do. You paid attention right?”
Will snatches the controller and glares at him. “What are you, a teacher?”
“Depends on how good of a student you are. If you show signs of improvement I will absolutely take credit.” Mike says with a diplomatic tone, as if this is something worth heavily considering.
Will decides to indulge him and responds with an equally considerate tone. “And if I don’t?”
Mike smiles quizzically. “Don’t what?”
The voice in his brain that usually tells him to stay away from Mike, and to not be weird has been muffled to the point that Will apparently abandons all thought entirely. That’s the only explanation for how he finds the confidence to lean heavily into Mike’s space when he clarifies. “What if I don’t improve?”
Mike raises his eyebrows in surprise before smoothing his face into something teasing. Will immediately realizes he’s initiated a game he is certain he can’t win. Mike is competitive. Will has never once seen him back down from a challenge, and Will has just thrown down an extremely dangerous gauntlet.
“Then maybe you just need a little extra help.” Mike covers Will’s hand on the joystick and it sucks the breath out of Will’s lungs. “Maybe I’ll have to be your tutor instead.” He manipulates Will’s hand into the proper position on the controller and refuses to pull his own hand away when he’s done.
“H–how is that different from a teacher?” Will asks, valiantly keeping himself from exploding into a million pieces. “Your distinction is moot.”
Mike laughs and tilts his head. His eyes sparkle when he answers Will’s question. “A teacher demonstrates.” He gently shifts his fingers across the back of Will’s hand, leaving buzzing trails in their wake. “A tutor guides.”
“Guides.” Will repeats breathlessly. His whole body is burning. Mike is too close. Mike is touching his hand. Mike is… is teasing him. If he didn’t know better he would say Mike is flirting with him.
“Guides.” Mike nods. All at once, he pulls back from Will, releasing his hand. He has the decency to look a little embarrassed. “We’ll see if you need it.” He gestures to the TV.
Right. It was a joke. A bit. Jesus Christ he needs to get a grip. He clears his throat.
“I won’t.” Will says with determination. “I know what to do.”
“I’m sure.” Mike says good naturedly. “After all, I am a good teacher.”
“Shut up.”
The sound of tiny gunfire is overshadowed by Mike’s loud laugh. It’s been so long since Will has heard him laugh this much. He feels something shrivelled in his chest warm slightly. He feels it glow, and he wonders if Mike will be able to see it shining through Will’s skin. He hopes not.
Much to Will’s relief, or possibly dismay, he does improve. In fact, once he gets the hang of it, he blows through levels so easily that Mike starts squirming anxiously. He snatches the controller back at one point, complaining that he wants a turn, but it's clear to Will that he just doesn’t want Will to surpass him.
Mike dies on a level that Will had succeeded on and he curses lowly.
Will laughs so hard he ends up on his back. “Jesus, Mike, maybe you need a tutor.”
“Shut up,” Mike whines. “This is why I can’t play anything with you. You’re too good.” He flops down next to Will dramatically and they both turn onto their sides to face each other.
“Beginner’s luck?” Will offers with a sympathetic smile.
Mike blows out air through his nose and shakes his head. “Hardly. I fear you’re just talented, Will the Wise.”
The air between them prickles as if a tiny electrical current runs through it. The loading screen music plays faintly from the TV. Will takes a steadying breath.
“I don’t think learning how to play a standard shooter game counts as talent.”
“Says who?” Mike counters.
Will rolls his eyes hopelessly. “I guess no one’s ever said that, technically, but–”
“Then my point stands.” Mike cuts him off.
Will nods, speechless when faced with that unique, distinctly Mike Wheeler, conviction.
“You tired?” Mike asks.
Will realizes that actually, he is tired. His eyelids are slightly heavy. Something about being with Mike tonight is putting him at ease. It’s such a nice change from the usual stiffness. The aching, inexplicable distance that had grown between them.
“Not, really.” He lies, not wanting this moment to end. He worries he’ll wake up, Mike will be gone, and it will never happen again. He’s hardly sure it’s happening in the first place.
Mike smiles fondly. “Liar.”
Will pouts, something he would normally keep at bay if he were more coherent, but now that the idea has been planted in his head, it’s as if his body is slowly shutting down to sleep.
“No. I’m not–” His protest is broken by a yawn. “Tired….” He finishes lamely, a sheepish smile blooming on his face.
He thinks he hears Mike mutter something that sounds like ‘cute’ as he sits up. That’s how Will knows he really is delusional and probably should sleep before he does something that ruins their friendship for good.
Mike pulls him to his feet and they both stumble slightly. Mike laughs, walking backwards and pulling a dramatically wobbly Will by his wrists. Mike loses his footing when his ankles hit Will’s mattress. He releases one of Will’s wrists to steady himself with a surprised laugh.
Will watches him fondly. Too fondly, objectively, and he just hopes Mike won’t think he’s weird when he notices. But when Mike finds his face again, he’s smiling too.
Then his eyes drop from Will’s face, and his smile turns into a complicated frown. “You’ve worn that all day.”
“What?” Will looks down at himself. “My sweater?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Will scratches the back of his neck. “My comfortable sweaters are all in the laundry.” It’s not entirely a lie. The honest truth is that Will’s most comfortable sweaters belong to Mike, and Will can’t really say that.
Mike nods and then releases his other wrist. “Stay here.” He says and then walks over to the basement stairs, taking them two at a time.
This time when Mike leaves, Will doesn’t feel the same dread as before. Though something in him still warns he’s done something wrong, a bigger part of him knows Mike will be back. He sits on his mattress, he waits, and he barely wrings his hands nervously while he does so.
Sure enough, Mike is bounding back down the basement stairs not too long later. “Here,” Mike starts, standing in front of Will. “You like this one, right?” He holds out a soft purple sweater to Will.
Will feels his face flush, and he hopes the low lighting of the basement is enough to hide it. He does like that sweater– has stolen it on multiple occasions. He was stupid to think Mike wouldn't notice. And now he’s here, offering that sweater specifically to Will.
“Um, yeah.” He says, taking it with cautious hands. “It’s really soft.” He adds, because he enjoys digging graves.
“It is.” Mike agrees. “Just keep it,” he adds, sending Will into an arrest of some kind. “I see you in it more often than I wear it.”
That’s probably true. And definitely humiliating. But the sweater is soft, and it smells like Mike.
“Oh.” He rubs his hand over the fabric of the sleeves. Mike is still just looking down at him and he feels pinned. “Sorry.”
“What?” Mike asks, obviously confused. “Why are you apologizing, I don’t mind. You can always borrow my stuff.”
“Okay.” He nods. “I um….” He brings his hands to the hem of his own sweater and looks up at Mike. “I’m just gonna–”
Mike inhales sharply. “Right, yeah, of course.” He turns around with an impressively quick swivel and Will almost laughs.
Will can admit that it’s a little weird. They’re– they’re boys. They shouldn’t be weird about changing in front of each other. Locker rooms, sports, pools. It shouldn’t be a big deal to see another boy’s bare chest.
Will has always been… conservative, with his body. Mike probably knows that, of course he does. Mike is being respectful of Will’s weird shyness. That’s all. He’s kind like that. An attentive friend.
He slips the sweater over his head and tries to keep his breathing even and quiet. Mike taps his fingers against the sides of his thighs rhythmically. Standing in front of Will but facing away. Stiff. Weird. He pulls Mike’s sweater on and mutters a quiet ‘okay’ to let Mike know he’s done.
“Cool.” Mike turns back around and looks at Will quietly for a beat.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me wearing this? Are you okay like, generally?”
“I am.” Mike says firmly. “I want you to wear it. Want you to have it.” He shrugs. “It looks better on you.”
“Oh.” He’s blushing. He’s absolutely blushing and there’s no way Mike can’t see it. He ducks his head in some attempt at self preservation. “Thanks Mike.” He’s too flustered by Mike’s attention on him to call him out for not answering WIll’s second question.
“Of course.”
Will says nothing.
Mike says nothing.
They both say nothing and Will is sitting on the edge of his mattress looking up at Mike who is standing in front of the mattress looking at Will’s chest? Torso? Arms? Somewhere below his face, certainly. And they’re not saying anything, why is no one saying anything?
“Are you tired?” Will asks, just to fucking say something.
“No.” Mike answers. “You are, though.”
“I– well. Yeah, kinda. We can still hang out if you’re not tired yet.”
Mike shakes his head and shoves his hands into his sweatpants pockets. “Nah, you should probably sleep. I’ll go upstairs.”
“What?” Will feels an uncomfortable pit open in his stomach. Is Mike lying? Does he just want to get away from Will after all? Despite how he fights it, dread creeps back into his body. “I thought the point was to have a sleepover.”
Mike shifts back and forth on his feet. “I don’t want to keep you up.” He’s staring at Will like he wants something. Will has no fucking idea what he wants.
“Oh.” He moves his hands to pick at his cuticles and is stopped by the bandaids there. He folds his hands in his lap instead. “I mean… you’re not bothering me.”
“Still….” Mike looks uncomfortable.
Oh, alright. Will clenches his teeth. “If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.” He says resolutely, turning and pulling back the blankets to get under them. “I won’t force you to stay.” He can’t help the way it stings.
This whole night has been weird. Like Mike put a bandage over a fresh wound, pulled it back immediately, and wondered why it wasn’t healed yet.
This was Mike’s fucking idea. Will always follows Mike’s lead, scared to overstep, to seem too eager, too needy. What did he even do wrong this time? He followed Mike beat for fucking beat. He sighs and doesn’t look back at his friend. If he can even call him that.
“Will–” Mike says, though his voice is drastically different now.
“It’s fine.” He doesn’t bother wasting energy trying to dissect Mike’s change in demeanor. He won’t understand it. He apparently never does. “I am tired. You can go.”
“Right,” Mike says, sounding hurt. Will doesn’t know why he sounds hurt when the sleepover was his idea and bailing on said sleepover was also his idea. It’s like no matter what Will does, he’s fucking something up.
He gets under the covers and turns his back to Mike who is still just standing in front of his mattress. Whatever. This is what Will gets for letting his guard down. He was stupid to think things were actually changing. Mike is a foot away but he feels further from him than he has during the months of near silence.
“Please turn the light off when you leave.” He says quietly, hoping to any deity out there that his voice doesn’t sound as watery as it feels.
“Okay,” Mike whispers. “I….” He pauses for long enough that Will almost turns back to look at him. He doesn’t. “Goodnight, Will.”
“Night.”
“I had fun tonight.” Mike adds quietly, like he isn’t sure he wants Will to hear it.
Will blinks his tears away and burrows deeper into his blankets, pretending he can’t smell Mike on the sweater surrounding him. “Yeah. Thanks for bringing the Atari.”
“I can… leave it down here.” Mike suggests.
Will doesn’t know why he’s still talking. Why hasn’t he left yet? It doesn’t sound like he’s even moved.
“You should take it.” Will says. “Especially if you can’t sleep. Don’t want you to be bored.”
“Oh, um– okay.”
Will hears him moving now– hesitant shuffling. He hears the TV switch off and the Atari being unplugged.
He hears Mike walk towards the stairs and hears the light switch off, plunging Will into darkness that will certainly feel suffocatingly lonely in mere seconds.
He hears a soft ‘Sleep well, Will,” that he refuses to acknowledge. There’s silence, expectant and heavy. Then steps up the stairs, the basement door opening, the basement door closing just as softly.
Will hears the hum of nothingness. He hears just how loud the silence really is. What the fuck happened? He pushes away the memory of how Mike’s fingers felt tracing over his own. He won’t feel it again. It was clearly a mistake.
He considers taking Mike’s sweater off, but he’s weak. It smells like home, and he’s upset enough that he knows he might not fall asleep without it. He needs to sleep, so he pulls the collar up over his nose, lets himself cry a bit, and eventually wishes for sleep to simply take him.
Sleep is kinder than usual and grants him his wish.