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Will lasted forty-seven minutes.
He knew because he had checked his watch at least a dozen times since he and Mike had arrived, watching the minutes drag themselves forward in ticking movement while the party pressed in around him from every side.
Forty-seven minutes of music rattling the windows. Forty-seven minutes of bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a house that smelled like beer, cheap cologne, weed, and something burnt from the kitchen. Forty-seven minutes of pretending he was fine.
Mike had wanted to come. Actually, that was not entirely fair. Lucas had wanted to come. Dustin had heard about it from someone in his physics lab. Max had declared that if they were all going to be “tragically lame college freshmen,” they might as well do it somewhere with bad music and free alcohol. Mike had acted like he was indifferent, like he was only going because everyone else was going, but Will knew him too well.
Mike had been excited. He had spent twenty minutes in front of his dorm mirror pretending he was not fixing his hair. He had asked Will, three separate times, whether his shirt looked stupid. He had rolled his eyes when Will said no, then changed anyway.
And Will had wanted to want it too. That was the problem. He wanted to be the kind of person who could lean against a wall at a party and laugh like he belonged there. He wanted to be easy. Normal. Fun. He wanted to stand beside Mike under flashing lights and not feel like the walls were breathing too close. He wanted to drink from a plastic cup without thinking about who had touched it. He wanted to stop flinching every time someone shouted behind him. Most of all, he wanted Mike to look at him and not see something fragile.
So Will stayed.
He nodded when someone from Mike’s literature seminar introduced herself and immediately forgot his name. He smiled when Dustin shouted something over the music that Will could not understand. He let Mike press a cup into his hand and say, “Just hold it if you don’t want any,” like that was supposed to help. For a while, it did.
Then the living room got hotter.
Someone knocked into his shoulder. Someone else spilled beer near his shoes. A girl screamed with laughter right beside his ear, and Will felt the sound slide under his skin like a needle. The bass thumped through the floorboards, up his legs, into his ribs, until his heartbeat could not tell whether it was following the music or fighting it.
He looked for Mike.
Mike was near the stairs, head tipped back, laughing at something some guy was saying. His cheeks were flushed. His hair had fallen into his eyes. There was a red cup in his hand, mostly empty.
He looked older in the shifting light. Not adult, exactly. Just unfamiliar.
Will took a breath. It did not go all the way in. He tried again. The room tilted slightly.
No, he thought. No, not here.
He set his untouched drink on the nearest windowsill and pushed through the crowd toward the front door. Nobody stopped him. That was good. That was awful.
Outside, the cold air hit him so hard he nearly gasped. The porch was empty except for a cracked plastic chair, a dead fern, and a string of yellow lights buzzing faintly along the railing. The night beyond the lawn was quiet in the way college towns got quiet after midnight, everything damp and dark and waiting.
Will stumbled down the porch steps and stopped near the walkway. He bent forward, hands on his knees.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Again.
Again.
He was not in Hawkins. He was not in the field. He was not in Castle Byers with the rain coming down and his whole body shaking itself apart.
He was at a stupid party.
He was twenty years old.
He was fine.
The door opened behind him. Will straightened too fast, shame rushing up before he even turned around.
Mike came out onto the porch and squinted into the dark. “Will?”
He was drunk. Not completely gone, but enough. His voice had that loose edge to it, annoyed and too loud. His steps were uneven when he came down the stairs. He had lost the careful self-consciousness he wore on campus like a jacket. Everything about him was open now. Sloppier.
Meaner, maybe.
Will wiped his hands on his jeans. “Hey.”
Mike stopped a few feet away. “What are you doing out here?”
“Getting some air.”
“You just left.”
“I said I’m getting some air.”
Mike looked back at the house, then at him. The music burst through the open door for one bright second before it slammed shut again behind him.
“You’ve been weird all night,” Mike said.
Will stared at him. “Thanks.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Mike gave an irritated laugh and dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. You said you wanted to come.”
“I said I’d come.”
“Okay, same thing.”
“It’s not.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “God, Will.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Maybe because they sounded practiced. Maybe because Will had heard that tone too many times before, from too many people who thought his fear was inconvenient.
He folded his arms across his chest. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
Mike swayed slightly on his feet. “I just don’t understand why you even came if you were gonna hate it the whole time.”
Will laughed once, sharp and humorless. “I was trying.”
“You call this trying?”
That did it. Will felt something hot climb up through his chest, cutting clean through the last of the panic.
“Yes, Mike. I call staying in there for almost an hour while everything felt like too much trying.”
Mike blinked. For a moment, Will thought he might soften. Instead, Mike’s mouth twisted.
“Right,” he said. “Of course.”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I can’t read your mind, Will.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You never ask. You just disappear and then everyone’s supposed to know what it means.”
Will recoiled slightly. “I came outside to breathe. I didn’t make some dramatic announcement.”
“Yeah, because that’s so much better.”
The porch light hummed above them.
Will stared at him, anger and hurt tangling together until he could not tell which one was holding him upright.
“What happened to Mike of 1984?” he asked.
Mike’s face changed. Only a little. Only for a second.
Will kept going anyway. “The Mike who was first by my side when I freaked out. The Mike who walked me home with an arm around my shoulder. Where’d he go?”
Mike looked away. His jaw tightened. Then he laughed. It was ugly.
“I didn’t think you’d still need coddling, like, eight years later. Damn.”
Will went still. The words seemed to hang between them, bright and poisonous.
“Coddling?” Will said.
Mike’s eyes flicked back to him, already defensive. “That’s not—”
“Mike. I can’t—are you serious?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like I’m the worst person in the world because I said one thing wrong.”
“One thing wrong?” Will repeated. “You think that was one thing wrong?”
Mike threw up his hands. “You’re so sensitive.”
Will’s breath caught. He looked down at the walkway, at the cracks splitting the concrete into crooked lines. He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. For one wild second, he wanted to turn around and walk all the way back to his dorm without another word. Let Mike stumble back inside. Let him wake up tomorrow with a headache and no idea how badly he had ruined things.
But Mike was still talking. “Seriously, Will, it’s exhausting sometimes. You freak out, and then I’m the bad guy if I don’t handle it perfectly.”
Will lifted his head slowly. “Handle me?”
Mike’s face flushed darker. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.”
“Well, maybe I’m not great at saying things when I’m drunk and tired and you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I failed you.”
Will opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Mike’s hands were shaking.
Will noticed it then. Really noticed it. The tremor in his fingers. The sharp, uneven rise and fall of his chest. The way he kept swallowing like there was something lodged in his throat.
Mike looked furious. But underneath it, he looked terrified.
“You’re not the only one who breaks down, Will,” Mike snapped.
Will froze.
Mike’s eyes were glassy now, bright under the porch light. “I’m hurting too. I get panic attacks too. But not all of us make it everyone else’s problem.”
The world seemed to go very quiet. Inside, someone cheered. A bottle shattered. The music kept pounding, muffled by the walls.
Will barely heard any of it. For a second, all he could feel was the insult.
Not all of us make it everyone else’s problem.
It went straight to the part of him that still believed every ugly thing anyone had ever implied about him. That he was too much. Too heavy. Too haunted. Too difficult to love without turning love into obligation.
He could have said something cruel back. He knew exactly where to aim. He could have told Mike that no one had asked him to be a hero. He could have told him that hiding pain did not make him noble. He could have told him that being scared did not give him permission to be an asshole.
All of that would have been true.
Then Mike inhaled shakily. Small. Ragged. Familiar.
Will’s anger did not vanish, but it shifted. It moved aside just enough for him to see the thing behind Mike’s eyes.
“Why…” Will swallowed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mike blinked. “What?”
“You get panic attacks?”
Mike’s face shut down instantly. “Forget it.”
“Mike.”
“I said forget it.”
“How long?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Mike laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah? Since when?”
Will flinched.
Mike saw it and closed his eyes. “Shit. I didn’t mean—”
“Since always,” Will said.
Mike opened his eyes.
Will’s voice was quieter now, but it did not shake. “Since you asked to be my best friend in kindergarten. Since you risked everything to find me when I was taken. Since I watched you fight with all you had to save the world.”
Mike looked away fast. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make me sound good right now.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No,” Will said. “I’m telling you why it matters.”
Mike shook his head. “It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“It doesn’t, Will, because it’s not—” Mike stopped and pressed the heel of his hand against one eye. “It’s not like yours.”
Will frowned. “Like mine?”
Mike dropped his hand. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
Mike’s voice rose. “You had a reason.”
Will went cold. The silence after that was worse than shouting.
Mike’s face crumpled almost immediately. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Will nodded slowly. “Yeah. You did.”
“No, I—”
“Maybe not all of it. But some part of you did.”
Mike looked wrecked. Will folded his arms tighter around himself, less from anger now than from the effort of staying there.
“You think I got permission to fall apart because bad things happened to me,” Will said. “And you didn’t.”
Mike’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“Is that it?” Will asked.
Mike looked down at his shoes. The porch light flickered once. The whole night seemed to hold its breath.
“I don’t know,” Mike said finally. It came out so quietly Will almost missed it. Then, even softer, “Maybe.”
Will’s chest hurt. “Mike.”
“No.” Mike shook his head hard. “No, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like you understand.”
“I do understand.”
“You don’t,” Mike said, but the fight had gone thin. “You don’t get it. I’m supposed to be fine.”
“Who said?”
“Nobody had to.”
Will stared at him.
Mike laughed once, broken and bitter. “That’s the whole thing, right? Nobody has to say it. You just figure it out. Nancy was busy being perfect. My mom was busy pretending she wasn’t miserable. My dad was—my dad.” He made a vague, sharp gesture, like Ted Wheeler could be summed up by the flick of a wrist. “And then everything happened, and you were gone, and El needed me, and everyone needed something, and I was good at that. I was good at being needed.” His voice cracked on the last word.
Will’s anger softened at the edges, but he held onto enough of it to stay steady.
“What about when you needed someone?” he asked.
Mike looked at him like the question itself was impossible. Then he shrugged. It was a terrible shrug. Small and helpless and too young. “I don’t know.”
Will took one careful step closer. “How long has this been happening?”
Mike wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, embarrassed. “Since senior year. Maybe before. I don’t know.”
“How often?”
“Will—”
“How often?”
Mike’s jaw worked.
“Enough,” he said.
Will waited.
Mike’s eyes shone. “Enough that I know which bathrooms in the library lock. Enough that I stopped drinking coffee before exams because I couldn’t tell if I was anxious or just caffeinated. Enough that sometimes I can’t sleep unless the light’s on, and then I hate myself for that because I’m twenty years old and I should be over it.”
Will’s throat tightened.
Mike looked away. “Happy?”
“No.”
Mike laughed miserably. “Yeah. Me neither.”
For a while, neither of them spoke. The door opened behind them, and the music surged louder. A couple stumbled out, laughing, clinging to each other. They glanced at Mike and Will, seemed to notice something in the air between them, and wandered off toward the side of the house. The door fell shut again.
Will rubbed his thumb over the side of his index finger, grounding himself in the small scrape of nail against skin.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked again.
Mike’s face twisted. “Because you had enough.”
Will breathed in.
“Because every time I thought about saying something,” Mike continued, voice rough, “I remembered you everything you've been through.”
Will went very still.
Mike looked at him then, drunk and miserable and too honest to stop himself. “What right did I have to come to you after that and say, hey, actually, I’m not doing great either?”
“Every right,” Will whispered.
Mike shook his head. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No, because I wasn’t supposed to be another thing you had to carry.”
Will stared at him. Then he said, “You idiot.”
Mike blinked.
Will stepped closer, anger sparking through the tenderness. “You absolute idiot.”
Mike’s mouth parted. “What?”
“You thought telling me the truth would make you something I had to carry?”
Mike said nothing.
“Mike, do you think that’s what you were to me? Back then?”
Mike’s face tightened.
“Do you think you carried me because I was a burden?”
“No,” Mike said immediately.
“Then why would you be one?”
Mike looked away.
Will waited, breathing hard.
When Mike spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Because I don’t know who I am if I’m not helping.”
Will felt that land somewhere deep.
There he was. Not the version of Mike yelling on the lawn. Not the version calling him oversensitive. Not the version drunk and defensive and cruel because hurt had filled him up until it had nowhere to go.
Just Mike.
Scared. Lonely. Convinced his love only counted when it was useful.
Will’s eyes burned. “You hurt me tonight,” he said.
Mike nodded fast, tears slipping over before he could hide them. “I know.”
“You don’t get to blame that on being drunk.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to call my panic needing coddling because you hate your own.”
Mike flinched, but he nodded again. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Will swallowed. “And I’m still mad.”
“You should be.”
“But I don’t want you to hurt alone.”
Mike’s breath hitched.
Will looked down, then back up at him. The words were right there. The ones that had started all of this. The ones he had carried for years, folded and hidden and pressed close to his chest until they had become part of him.
He should not say them now. Not when Mike was drunk. Not when they were both raw. Not when a confession could be mistaken for comfort or pity or another way to fix things.
But Mike was looking at him like he had already lost him. And Will was tired. So tired.
“What happened to Mike of 1984?” Will asked softly.
Mike’s face crumpled. “Will—”
“The Mike who was first by my side when I freaked out,” Will said. “The Mike who walked me home with an arm around my shoulder. Where’d he go?”
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I think he’s standing right here.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Will, I just said horrible things to you.”
“Yeah. You did.”
“I’m not that guy anymore.”
Will stepped closer. “You are.”
Mike let out a shaky, frustrated sound. “How can you say that?”
“Because the old you wasn’t perfect, Mike.” Will’s voice trembled. “He was just there. He stayed. That’s what I missed tonight.”
Mike stared at him.
Will’s heart pounded so hard he felt sick.
“I miss the old you because that’s the you I fell in love with.”
The second the words left his mouth, everything stopped.
Mike froze.
Will froze too.
For one bright, awful moment, the whole world narrowed to Mike’s face under the porch light.
Then Will’s stomach dropped.
“I—” He took a step back. “No. I didn’t mean—”
Mike’s voice was thin. “You fell in love with me?”
“Forget it.”
“Will.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You loved that version of me,” Mike said slowly.
Will’s chest tightened. “Mike—”
“And I’m not that person anymore.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Mike looked destroyed. “You said you fell in love with the old me.”
“Because I did!” Will snapped, then immediately softened, desperate now. “But not because I wanted you to stay twelve forever. Not because I wanted you to fix me or save me or coddle me. I fell in love with you because you made me feel like I wasn’t too much to stay for.”
Mike’s eyes searched his face.
“And tonight,” Will said, voice breaking, “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”
Mike inhaled sharply.
Will looked away fast, ashamed of how much he had said. “So, yeah. I missed him. I missed feeling safe with you. But that doesn’t mean I only loved you back then.”
Mike was very quiet. Too quiet.
Will forced himself to look at him. Mike’s face was pale beneath the flush from the alcohol. His tears had dried in uneven tracks on his cheeks. He looked more sober than he had since coming outside, but not less drunk. Just hollowed out by the weight of what had been said.
“Do you?” Mike asked.
Will’s pulse stumbled. “Do I what?”
Mike swallowed. “Love me now?”
Will could have lied. He almost did.
It would have been easier to laugh. To say Mike was drunk and they should forget this. To pack everything back into the safe, dark place where he had kept it for years. But Mike had asked like the answer might save him or ruin him.
Will looked at him for a long moment. Then he said, “Yes.”
Mike closed his eyes.
“But I’m not going to pretend tonight didn’t hurt,” Will said quickly.
Mike opened them again.
“And I’m not going to let you love me badly just because you don’t know how to be loved back.”
Mike’s mouth trembled. “Okay,” he whispered.
Will’s voice softened. “Okay?”
Mike nodded. “Okay. I—I don’t want to do that.”
“Then don’t.”
“I don’t know how.”
The honesty of it cracked something open in Will’s chest.
Mike gave a wet, embarrassed laugh and wiped his face with his sleeve. “That sounded pathetic.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“It did.”
“It sounded honest.”
Mike looked at him.
Will held his gaze.
The air between them changed. Not fixed. Not clean. There was still hurt there. Still the sting of Mike’s words, still the terrible fragile shape of Will’s confession, still the fact that Mike was swaying slightly and should probably drink water immediately.
But underneath all of that, there was something else. Something warm. Something waiting.
Mike took a small step forward, then stopped. “Can I say something?”
Will’s heart climbed into his throat. “You’re drunk.”
“I know.”
“So if this is something you’re only saying because you’re drunk—”
“It’s not.”
“Mike.”
“I love you too.”
Will stopped breathing.
Mike’s eyes widened a little, as if hearing himself say it out loud had shocked him too. Then his face settled into something scared but certain.
“I love you too,” he said again. “Not because I’m drunk. Not because you said it first. Not because I’m trying to make you forgive me.” He swallowed. “I’m not asking you to forgive me right now.”
Will could barely hear over his own heartbeat.
Mike kept going, words tumbling out like he was afraid he would lose them if he slowed down.
“I think I’ve loved you for a long time. I think I was just too stupid to know what it was, and then when I started knowing, I got scared. Because loving El was supposed to make sense, and loving you didn’t—not because it was wrong, but because it was you, and you mattered too much, and if I messed that up, then I didn’t know what I’d have left.”
Will’s eyes burned.
Mike looked down at the cracked concrete between them.
“And I did mess it up,” he said. “Tonight. Before tonight. A lot.”
Will said nothing.
Mike nodded to himself, like silence was the answer he deserved.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For all of it.”
Will breathed in slowly. The cold air hurt his lungs. “I believe you,” he said.
Mike looked up.
“I don’t forgive all of it yet,” Will said.
Mike nodded quickly. “Okay.”
“But I believe you’re sorry.”
Mike’s face folded with relief so naked it almost hurt to look at.
Will rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, frustrated when they came away damp. “This is such a stupid place to have this conversation.”
Mike let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah.”
“And you’re still drunk.”
“Yeah.”
“And you were an asshole.”
Mike winced. “Yeah.”
Will looked at him.
Mike looked back, miserable and hopeful and scared.
Will sighed. “I’m not kissing you tonight.”
Mike blinked.
Then his face went bright red. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”
Will raised an eyebrow.
Mike shut his mouth.
Despite everything, Will almost smiled.
“I’m not kissing you when you’re drunk and apologizing,” Will said. “That’s not how I want it.”
Mike nodded, serious now. “Okay.”
“And tomorrow, you’re going to remember this.”
“I will.”
“And you’re going to apologize again.”
“I will.”
“And we’re going to talk about it when neither of us is standing outside a house party having the worst night of our lives.”
Mike huffed out a tiny laugh. “Top five, maybe.”
Will gave him a look.
“Sorry.”
Will shook his head, but this time, the corner of his mouth did lift.
Mike saw it. His whole face changed. Not into happiness exactly. Not yet. But into something like hope.
“Can I walk you home?” Mike asked.
Will glanced at the house. “What about the party?”
“I don’t want to go back in there.”
“Me neither.”
Mike shifted on his feet. “And not because you need coddling. I know that’s not—God, Will, I’m so sorry I said that.”
Will’s chest tightened, but he nodded. “I know.”
Mike looked at him carefully. “Can I walk you home because I want to?”
Will studied him for a second. Then he said, “Yeah.”
Mike exhaled.
They started down the sidewalk together, leaving the party behind them. The music faded with every step, becoming less like a heartbeat and more like thunder moving away. The night opened up around them, cold and wide. Streetlights spilled yellow over the pavement. Somewhere far off, a car passed with its windows down, music drifting faintly into the dark.
For the first half block, they did not touch. Will kept his hands in his jacket pockets. Mike walked beside him with his arms folded tightly across his chest, like he did not trust himself to reach out.
Then, at the corner, Mike stopped.
Will turned. “What?”
Mike looked younger than he had all night. “Can I…?”
He gestured awkwardly toward Will’s shoulder.
The movement hit Will so hard he had to look away. Not because it was the same as before. Because it was not. This Mike was not twelve. This Mike was not fearless. This Mike had hurt him. This Mike was hurting. This Mike was asking.
Will nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly.
Mike stepped closer and put an arm around his shoulders. Carefully. Like permission mattered. Like Will mattered.
For a second, Will stayed stiff. Then his body betrayed him, or maybe finally told the truth. He leaned into Mike’s side, just enough.
Mike’s breath caught. Neither of them mentioned it. They kept walking.
After a while, Mike said, “The bathrooms in the science building are the worst.”
Will glanced up at him. “What?”
“For panic attacks.” Mike stared straight ahead, face flushed with embarrassment. “The lights buzz. It makes it worse.”
Will’s heart squeezed. “What are the best?” he asked.
Mike looked at him, surprised.
Will looked back.
“The ones in the old art building,” Mike said after a moment. “Second floor. Nobody’s ever there after six.”
Will nodded. “Okay.”
Mike’s arm tightened slightly around him. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Will said. “Now I know where to look.”
Mike’s eyes filled again. “Sorry,” he muttered, looking away.
Will leaned a little closer. “Stop apologizing for crying.”
Mike laughed weakly. “I’m not good at that.”
“I noticed.”
They walked another block.
The dorms came into view at the end of the street, windows glowing softly against the dark. Will felt exhaustion settle into him all at once. The fight, the panic, the confession, the shape of Mike’s arm around him—it was too much and not enough, terrifying and tender and unfinished.
At the steps outside Will’s building, they stopped. Mike let his arm fall away slowly. The absence of it felt immediate.
Will turned to face him.
Mike shoved his hands into his pockets. “I still mean it.”
Will’s pulse jumped. “Mike.”
“I know. I’m drunk.” Mike nodded quickly. “I know that. I’m not asking you to say anything back.”
“I already did.”
Mike’s face softened. “Yeah.”
Will looked down, cheeks warm despite the cold. “Ask me tomorrow.”
Mike blinked. “What?”
Will met his eyes. “When you’re sober. Ask me tomorrow if I meant it.”
Mike stared at him.
“And I’ll ask you,” Will said.
Mike’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Okay.”
Will turned toward the door, then stopped.
Behind him, Mike said, “Will?”
He looked back.
Mike stood at the bottom of the steps under the dormitory light, messy and tear-streaked and trying very hard not to look like he was hoping for too much.
Will’s chest ached. “You should drink water,” he said.
Mike blinked. Then he laughed. A real laugh this time. Small, but real. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
“And call me when you get back.”
“I will.”
Will hesitated. Then, because he was tired of being careful, he walked back down one step and hugged him.
Mike went completely still. Only for a second. Then his arms came around Will, tight and shaking.
Will closed his eyes.
This was not a kiss. It was not forgiveness. It was not the end of the conversation. But it was Mike holding on like he had forgotten he was allowed to. It was Will staying.
When he pulled back, Mike’s eyes were wet again. Will’s probably were too.
“Tomorrow,” Will said.
Mike nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Will went inside. His chest hurt. But for the first time all night, he could breathe.