Archive of Our Own

We could leave the Christmas lights up 'til January

11th January, 1996 | Brooklyn, New York | Third Year of their First Apartment after College

The kitchen table was crowded with a half-empty bottle of maple syrup, a stack of heavily annotated writing pads and a ceramic mug with a hairline fracture down the side that Mike refused to throw away. A persistent and menacing metallic clanking echoed from the cast-iron radiator beneath the window, a sound that usually meant the building was awake and angry. Outside, Brooklyn was a blur of wet, dark gray winter slush and yellow cabs cutting through the morning fog, but inside, the small flat smelled strongly of turpentine and scorched cinnamon toast.

Will was sitting cross-legged directly on a faded, paint-smeared Persian rug they had spent forty minutes dragging from a thrift store down the block. His thumb pressed firmly against the plastic cap of a cobalt blue acrylic tube, twisting until it closed with a sharp, clean click. Above his head hung a lopsided wooden bookshelf, bending under the weight of old sci-fi paperbacks and comic books that Mike called 'vintage.' Draped loosely over the frame was a tangled strand of oversized holiday bulbs that continued to burn stubbornly.

The heater was cranked up high because Mike had insisted on it. Will knew for a fact that Mike didn't actually mind the cold; in fact, he liked the winter chill. He just pulled these little stunts because he knew Will absolutely hated being it, doing it so quietly that Will wouldn't even realize it was for his sake. It was a small, silent act of love and Will felt a wave of pure warmth rush through him, deeply grateful for such a fiercely caring boyfriend.

Mike walked out from the narrow hallway, his flannel shirt hanging open over a gray t-shirt with a small hole near the collar. He had yet another writing pad tucked under his arm, his fingers covered in faint blue ink stains from a leaky ballpoint pen. He stopped at the edge of the rug, his bare toes curling slightly against the semi-cold wood floorboards, his eyes tracking from the green and red glow of the bulbs down to the back of Will's neck.

"I can hear you overthinking from across the room," Will said quietly. He didn't look up from his paint tubes, but his shoulders relaxed, dropping a fraction of an inch as he reached for a jar of zinc white.

"Was just looking at the lights." He chuckled, looking at the shining orbs. 

"Dustin is going to lose his shit when he visits us."

"Oh yeah, we're having a three-hour lecture about electricity wastage."

Mike let his pad slide onto a stack of art history textbooks, dropping his weight onto the rug beside Will with a heavy, clumsy thud. He stretched his long legs out until his shin pressed against Will's thigh, then reached over with his pen, using the plastic cap to tap Will gently on the chin until Will finally turned his head.

"What?" He whispered, trying not to be distracted by his boyfriend poking holes in his skin with a pen cap.

"You wanna take them down?" 

"No. I don't think I do. I like my living room colorful."

"Right?" Mike said, a soft, lazy grin breaking across his face. He leaned his elbow on his knee, his eyes fixed entirely on Will's face. "It looks like a total interrogation chamber without them."

"Yeah, let's leave these lights up until March just to mess with Dustin."

Will looked at him for a long moment, his green eyes catching the low, steady reflection of the bulb nearest the shelf. The soft smile that followed was small, private and slow to form.

For so many years, a blinking string of wires meant a countdown to cold dread, a warning that something was about to tear through the ceiling. They were a frantic shorthand for survival, used to map out exactly where destruction would strike next. Now, those same bulbs were stripped of their weight. They were just a lazy excuse to flood the small room with color, letting them ignore the chores waiting in the cold Thursday morning.

"I like how you think," Mike murmured, shifting his weight until his shoulder bumped against Will's arm, holding him in place. "Although when he starts pulling data about fire hazards, I'm running!"

"Deal," Will whispered, tilting his head just enough to press his lips against the side of Mike's lean jaw, lingering there until he further reached up to track his fingers through Mike's messy dark curls.

This is our place, we make the rules

1st June, 1993 | Brooklyn, New York | Moving into their Apartment 

A heavy, low-pitched screech of wooden furniture legs scraping against unvarnished parquet floors echoed through the living room. The apartment was small, but it was a good upgrade after spending the last few years in an even more cramped shared dorm. It was half a flight of steep stairs above an Italian bakery that flooded the bedroom with the smell of warm yeast and powdered sugar by four in the morning.

Right now, a mountain of half-unpacked cardboard boxes taped with crooked, black marker labels barricades the narrow hallway. Nancy stood near the fire escape window, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her denim shirt sleeves rolled tightly to her elbows. Her palms were firmly planted on her hips as she stared down at a bulky, forest-green corduroy sofa that looked entirely too large for the room and, not to forget, ugly.

Jonathan was on the opposite end of the sofa, his faded flannel shirt damp with sweat at the shoulder blades, his fingers hooked under the lower frame of the cushions. He looked thoroughly exhausted, his shoulders slouched as he gestured toward the far corner near the radiator.

"Nancy, if we put it against the brick wall, we’re completely blocking the hallway," Jonathan said, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead with his forearm. "No one's going to be able to carry anything past the front door without bruising their ass. It makes way more sense facing the kitchen island."

"If it faces the kitchen, you're looking directly at the fridge door and the trash can the second you sit down," Nancy countered, her voice dropping into that familiar, unyielding investigative tone she used when she was entirely convinced of her own logic. She pointed a finger toward the window. "If we angle it forty-five degrees over here, you actually get a view of the street and we leave enough space for a coffee table."

Mike was sitting on an upturned milk crate in the middle of the kitchen alcove, a pair of oversized wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose as he idly picked at a piece of packing tape stuck to his jeans. He let out a loud, theatrical sigh, rolling his eyes as he looked from his sister over to her boyfriend.

"You guys are doing it completely wrong," Mike chimed in, tossing a crumpled ball of tape into an empty box. He leaned his elbows on his knees, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "I don't like either of those spots. Mostly because they're stupid placements, but also because Will already drew a whole layout sketch of this room last night and he wants the couch against the inner partition wall so he can use the natural light from the window. It will shine directly on the left side of his easel because he paints with his right hand. Slightly tilted and it'll be perfect."

Nancy turned around, her eyebrows snapping together because clearly she didn't need all that information. "Mike, the inner wall doesn't have an outlet. Where are you going to plug in your hugeass lamp?"

"We'll buy an extension cord," Mike said simply, standing up and dusting off the seat of his jeans. He walked over to the sofa, planting his hands on Jonathan’s end of the frame. He gave a sharp, definitive nod toward the partition.

"But-" Jonathan started, before he was rudely interrupted.

"Will wants it over there, so it's going over there. End of discussion. Come on, chop-chop!"

Jonathan would've punched Mike if he weren't making all this effort for Will. Mike was quite annoying, but Jonathan didn't mind because half the time he's being annoying, he just wants everything to be perfect for Will. That's a sacrifice Jonathan can make because he loves his baby brother.

Listening to the argument, Will walked into the room from the bedroom. He was carrying a stack of neatly folded pillowcases, his face instantly flushing pink as he caught the tail end of Mike's words. He stopped, looking at Mike with a mixture of amusement and fondness that completely softened his features.

"Mike, it's fine," Will whispered, shifting the linens in his arms. "They've been helping us carry everything since noon, let them-"

"No way," Mike said, his voice dropping into that stubborn, fierce cadence that left absolutely no room for debate. He caught Will's chin between his fingers, looking at the parted lips, his expression instantly shifting from sarcastic to entirely devoted. He stepped closer from the couch for a fraction of a second, his hand briefly dropping onto the small of Will's back, a quick, reassuring weight through Will's t-shirt. "It's our place, Will. We make the rules here and if you want light while you paint, you get it."

Jonathan let out a quiet, tired laugh, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head and gripped the base of the green corduroy frame again. "You heard the boss, Nance. Lift on three."

And there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you, dear.

Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?

12th May, 1989 | Hawkins, Indiana | The Night of High School Graduation

The metal chains of the Hawkins Elementary School's swing groaned under the weight of the evening chill, a sharp, rusty sound that Mike could hear from the edge of the gravel parking lot. He had spent the last two hours driving Nancy's car through every corner of Hawkins, his palms slick against the steering wheel, his mind racing through the disastrous fallout of his and Will's argument in the basement. He had checked the ruins of Castle Byers, Lucas, Dustin and Max's homes, the quarry, the parking lot of their favorite diner and the empty space behind the library before the memory finally clicked into place.

It was a vivid picture of a partially cloudy Tuesday from when they were five years old.

Will was sitting on the rightmost swing, his frame hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He was still wearing his graduation clothes sans the gown. A wrinkled, white button-down dress shirt, the sleeves rolled awkwardly to his forearms. He had kicked his dress shoes into the dirt, his socks stained with damp playground soil and so were his black dress pants. His eyes were fixed on the shallow ruts his shoes had carved into the gravel.

Mike slowed his pace as he hit the edge of the woodchip fence near the blue and yellow merry-go-round, his chest heaving as he tried to stabilize his breathing. The panic that had been clawing at his throat since Will stormed out of the house slowly began to ease, replacing itself with a heavy, aching focus.

"Will. Thank God!" Mike said, his voice cracking slightly as he stepped onto the gravel. "I've been-It's been hours, Will."

Will didn't pull his gaze away from the dirt, but his knuckles tightened around the rusty iron links of the swing chain. "You shouldn't have looked for me, Mike."

"I had to," Mike said, taking a few tentative steps forward until he was standing just a yard away, his shadow falling across Will’s folded knees. "We didn't finish- You can't just drop a bomb like that in the middle of the day and then pedal away as if nothing happened."

Will let out a sharp, defensive breath, his shoulders squaring as he finally looks up. His eyes were red-rimmed, a fierce, protective guard instantly slamming up behind his expression because he was so good at building walls around himself.

"What was I supposed to do? Stay there and wait for you to tell me that we're friends? Oh no, thanks, best friends!"

Mike's expression faltered instantly. He really was a fool when it came to directing and expressing his feelings. Sometimes he wished he weren't so emotionally repressed. That would've saved him and Will a lot of hurt. Thanks, Ted.

"You kept demanding to know why I never said anything, Mike. You kept cornering me. I had to leave." He continued, his voice falling into a whisper.

"Because I-I just needed to understand!" Mike took another step, his hands coming out of his pockets, gesturing between them with frantic, uncoordinated energy. "Years, Will. You carried this burden in your heart for years. You watched me make a total fool of myself over things that didn't even matter and you never said a word. Why? Why would you keep that from me?"

"Because I didn't want to lose you!" Will said, his voice breaking as he stood up from the swing, the chains rattling violently behind him. He stood flat-footed in the gravel, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he glared at Mike, his arms wrapped tight across his ribs like he was physically holding himself together. "You don't get it. You've never had to think about it. If I told you the truth and you hated it, or you felt grossed out, you would have pulled away. I would have been the freak who ruined the party. I couldn't risk the only good thing in my life."

"You could never lose me," Mike said, his voice dropping into that quiet, desperate register that usually made Will stop running. Mike reached out, his long fingers catching the sleeve of Will’s shirt, his grip firm enough to anchor them both. "You have no idea what you mean to me, Will. You're the center of everything I do, every story I think of, it's always you."

Will pulled his arm back sharply, his expression hardening into something deeply defensive. He stepped back against the seat of the swing, his chin tilting up as if he were preparing for a blow. "Don't do that, Mike. Don't say things like that if you're just trying to make me feel better. I can't handle you trying to soften the edge. I know you're going to tell me that you don't feel the same way, just say it. Don't wrap it up in a speech."

Mike froze, his hands hovering in the space between them as the absolute weight of Will's fear hit him. He looked at Will and he saw a person entirely stripped of the old need for protection from the dark, standing instead as the sole anchor holding the entire trajectory of his life. The hazy, confusing uncertainty that had clouded Mike’s brain for the last few years suddenly cleared away, leaving behind a blindingly simple truth.

He didn't give Will room to pull away again. Mike closed the distance between them, his boots kicking up a small cloud of gravel as he reached out, his large hands coming up to cup the sides of Will’s face. His thumbs brushed against the sharp line of Will's cheekbones, his fingers tangling in the soft, familiar hair at the back of his neck.

"I'm not doing that, you idiot," Mike whispered fiercely, his forehead dropping down until it rested directly against Will’s. He was breathing heavily, his heart hammering against his ribs so loudly he was certain Will could hear it. "I am completely, entirely in love with you. I have been since before I even had a word for what it meant."

Will went completely rigid under his hands, his breath hitching in his throat. He didn't move for several seconds, his eyes wide and searching Mike's face for any sign of a cruel joke or a mistake or any sign that this was him coping with losses. "Mike..."

"Listen to me," Mike interrupted, his grip tightening slightly, grounded and real. He pulled back just an inch so he could force Will to look directly into his eyes. "Look at these stupid swings, Will. When we were five, I sat right here on this swing. Before I saw you, I was totally alone, I didn't know anyone and it was terrifying. You were sitting right here. You looked so small and you had this quiet way about you, the cute bowl cut and sweet, sweet smile."

A tiny, watery smile broke through the tension on Will’s face, his shoulders finally losing their rigid posture.

"I asked you to be my friend," Mike continued, his own throat tightening as he let out a shaky, relieved laugh. "You said yes... and from that exact second, Will, you were it for me. It was always you. Even through the chaos, our fights, our issues, every single thing in my life only mattered if you were standing there to see it. It took me more than a decade to figure out how to say it right, but I'm saying it now. I love you."

Will let out a long, shuddering sob, his hands finally coming up to grip Mike’s wrists, his fingers wrapping around the cuffs of Mike's shirt. He pulled Mike down, closing the remaining distance between them until their lips met in a clumsy, desperate kiss that tasted like salt and summer wind. It wasn't perfect and it wasn't neat or even deep, but it was entirely certain. Will clung to him, his forehead burying into the crook of Mike’s shoulder as the old, rusty chains of the swings settled into absolute silence behind them and their shadows disappeared into the night around them.

"I love you. I've always done that." He whispered back.

Can I go where you go?

14th June, 1989 | Hawkins, Indiana | Packing for College

A mountain of glossy college brochures, scholarship packets and handwritten packing lists covered the surface of the old table in the Wheeler basement. The lower room was relatively cool compared to the sticky June heat baking the floors upstairs, smelling mostly of old laundry detergent, damp carpet and the ink from the heavy black markers Mike was using to cross off dorm requirements.

Will sat on the edge of the worn sofa, his knees tucked slightly toward his chest, idly spinning a blue ballpoint pen between his fingers. He wore a faded green t-shirt with a small frayed seam at the shoulder and rolled-up denim shorts, his eyes tracking Mike, who was pacing back and forth across the linoleum with an intense, calculated stride as if he was trying to make sense of something. He rarely did.

Mike stopped mid-step, his long fingers trailing over the edge of an NYU housing packet before he grabbed it, turning sharply toward the couch.

"The single rooms are stupid, don't you think?" Mike said, his voice carrying that familiar, rapid-fire logic he used when he had spent three days obsessing over a campaign. He dropped onto the cushion next to Will, leaning in close enough that his dark curls brushed against Will’s temple. "If we check the box for a shared double dorm and list each other as preferred roommates, mail our forms together, then they have to put us in the same dorm."

Will quirked his eyebrows until they disappeared into his overgrown bowl cut. Trying to piece together what Mike just proposed. If they were friends, sharing a dorm wouldn't be an issue, but the problem is, they're not just friends anymore and sharing a dorm is the equivalent of moving in together. Will has always been a worrier, especially when he thought he could be too much for someone.

"I can hear you overthinking." Mike's hot breath lingered on his cheeks, followed by a small peck of reassurance. 

"Umm..."

"You know there's a housing shortage at NYU. They're buying crappy hotels in Greenwich to accommodate students."

"Did you just use a housing shortage excuse to make me agree?"

"Maybe." He snickered.

Will blinked, his thumb catching the spinning pen to hold it still against his knee. A small, tentative line reappeared between his eyebrows. "Mike, don't you think moving straight into a tiny dorm room together might be... a lot? For you? I mean it's... twelve square feet of shared concrete."

Mike let out a soft huff, shifting his weight until his side was pressed firmly against Will's. He reached down, his large hand sliding over Will's knuckles, his fingers tangling between Will's with an effortless, unhurried certainty.

"And how is this any different from how we've always lived?" Mike said, his voice dropping into a quiet, steady register that made the space between them feel completely insulated. "I mean, we've spent more time collectively sleeping in this basement than you or I did in our bedrooms."

Will nodded like the thought was actually making home in his mind.

"The only thing that would be different now is our lack of space..." 

"Oh my God, Mike." Will's blushed a deep crimson that was traveling all the way up to his face from his neck.

"Look at the positives, Will. We don't have to check if the basement stairs are creaking before I can hold your hand or pull you into a corner. We get to cuddle whenever we want and nobody gets to say a word about it."

Will’s chest rose and fell with a quiet breath, a slow, brilliant warmth coloring his cheeks as he looked down at their joined hands. The reality of it all: the simple, unpunished safety of Mike’s grip in the middle of a mundane afternoon, still made his heart hit his ribs a little too fast. He leaned his temple against Mike’s shoulder, his fingers tightening in response as the quiet weight of the choice settled over him.

"When you put it like that..."

"Oh, sweet Jesus, please give me a break from this romcom," a sharp voice cut through the quiet.

Max was standing halfway down the wooden basement stairs, her weight shifted completely onto one side as she balanced a red plastic cup of lemonade against her hip. She wore an oversized striped polo shirt and her signature denim shorts, her red hair tied back in a messy scrunchie with several loose strands framing her face. Her eyebrows were arched so high they nearly disappeared into her bangs, her mouth twisted into a look of profound and fake disgust.

"Are you guys seriously performing a soap opera next to the washing machine?" Max asked, stepping down the final two risers with a distinct, slow rhythm. She walked over to the table, tossing a stray brochure out of her way with one finger.

"How long have you been eavesdropping?" Mike said, huffing annoyedly.

"Since you were giving that weird, pathetic little audition for a romantic lead."

Mike immediately shot straight up, his face flushing a bright, defensive crimson as he glared across the room. "Max, nobody invited you down here. Aren't you supposed to be helping Lucas?"

"Lucas is helping your mom with groceries, something that you should've been doing by the way!" Max snapped smoothly, leaning her hip against the edge of the table.

She looked from Mike's frustrated expression down to where Will was still trying to hide a laugh behind his hand. She rolled her eyes, letting out a dry, sarcastic whistle. "And for the record, Wheeler? The whole 'I get to hold your hand now' speech is total bullshit. You two have been aggressively clinging to each other since forever."

Will let out a genuine laugh, dropping his chin into his palm as he looks up at her. "Max, be nice to him. He’s trying to figure out stuff."

"He’s trying to never be more than three inches away from you," Max clarified, a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes as her expression softened just a fraction. She picked up a stray NYU map from the table, tossing it directly into Mike’s chest. "Just check the roommate box and write we're a package deal. DO. NOT. SEPARATE."

"I liked you when you were in a coma."

"And I liked you when you were still in the closet. You were less insufferable."

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

22nd March, 2011 | Brooklyn, New York | Will's 40th Birthday

The dining room table was a massive, sprawling arrangement of mismatched serving platters, empty wine bottles and the lingering crumbs of a heavy potato salad. Over by the sound system in the corner, Dustin and Steve were engaged in a loud, incredibly stubborn debate about whether a classic rock vinyl transition was technically flawed, their voices rising above the low hum of dinner conversation. Joyce sat on the edge of the sofa near the window, her hand resting comfortably over Hopper’s forearm as she watched Jonathan show a series of printed photographs to Nancy and Jane. Across the room, Jon and Nancy's five-year-old daughter was curled up, sound asleep on Lucas's lap, her small head rising and falling against his soft jacket while Max idly traced patterns on the kid's small shoulder with her fingertips. She fondly remembers when their own daughter Lila was this age. Nowadays, she's just obsessed with Wii.

Will sat at the center of the table, wearing a simple navy knit shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. A small smudge of black icing sat right on the knuckle of his index finger. Directly in front of him sat a slightly lopsided chocolate cake, decorated with a forest of forty tiny birthday candles, courtesy of Robin, that were rapidly pooling onto the cake's base.

"Alright, Byers, blow them all out," Robin called out from the kitchen doorway, where she was balancing a tray of wine glasses while Vickie held her shoulders so she wouldn't tumble. "Some of us are dying to eat dessert."

Mike stepped up behind Will's chair, his long fingers instantly coming down to rest flat against the back of Will’s neck, his thumb rubbing a steady, familiar circle against the warm skin there. He wore a rumpled gray button-down, his collar slightly crooked. He leaned down, his chin hovering just above Will’s shoulder as the whole room fell into a loose, cheering chorus of birthday chants.

Will took a deep breath, his eyes closing for a brief fraction of a second and blew them all out in one steady exhale.

The room erupted into a messy burst of clapping and clinking glasses. As Lucas and Jonathan moved in to help split the candles from the frosting, Mike tugged gently at the fabric of Will's sweater, tilting his head upward. He was smiling up at Mike's loose glasses resting on his nose. Will caught the look, slipping out of his chair without drawing the attention of the rest of the party.

They stopped near the narrow pantry, where the noise from the dining room felt slightly muffled, reduced to a warm, rhythmic background track. Mike leaned his hip against the wood paneling, his dark eyes entirely fixed on Will’s face, tracing the small, familiar laugh lines around his eyes that had deepened over their decades together.

"Forty," Mike murmured, a slow, incredibly soft smile breaking across his face. He reached out, his long fingers sliding down Will's arm until his hand closed fully over Will’s palm, locking their fingers together with an unhurried, heavy certainty. "How does it feel to be ancient?"

"It feels good. Even better knowing you'll be joining me in two weeks," Will said, a quiet snort of laughter escaping him as he looked back toward the dining room, where Dustin was now gesturing wildly with a fork. He shifted his weight, stepping directly into Mike's space until their shoulders were pressed together, his head tilting naturally to rest against Mike's jaw. 

Mike lifted their joined hands, using his thumb to gently wipe away the small trace of black icing from Will’s knuckle. "You took your sweet time blowing the candles. What were you wishing for?"

Will went quiet for a moment, his chest expanding with a deep, slow breath as he looked down at the silver promise band gleaming on Mike's finger under the hall light. He looked at the kitchen, the framed sketches on the walls and the muffled sound of their family laughing just thirty feet away. The old, suffocating terror of his childhood, the constant, looming dread that their time was a finite currency about to be stolen away, had completely vanished over the years, replaced by an absolute, unshakable reality.

He tightened his grip on Mike's hand, his voice dropping into that fierce, clear register that had carried them across every single state line and milestone.

"I didn't wish for anything new," Will said, turning his head slightly so his eyes could lock directly onto Mike's. "I just asked the universe to keep me exactly this close to you. Every single day. Forever."

Mike's throat tightened, a sudden, fierce warmth hitting his chest so hard it stole his breath entirely. Words failed him. His writer-brain went completely silent, abandoning the need to find the perfect prose. He just stepped entirely into the space between them, his long arms wrapping firmly around Will’s waist to pull him flush against his chest, closing the distance until there wasn't a single inch of empty air left between them, kissing the top of his head and inhaling his sweet and pure scent that felt like home.

We could let our friends crash in the living room,

It's our place, we make the call

12th October, 2002 | Brooklyn, New York | They bought their First House

A trail of crumpled brown butcher paper, empty microbrew bottles and discarded jackets lined the front hallway of the multi-level brick brownstone. The housewarming party had finally dissolved into the quiet hours of past midnight. Near the heavy oak front door, Nancy was helping a thoroughly cross-eyed Robin into her denim jacket, while Jonathan held the door open, patiently anchoring Robin by her elbow so she didn't tilt sideways.

"I bet she'll try to open the window and sing to the bridge toll guys again," Mike said, leaning his shoulder against the newly polished wooden banister of the staircase. His flannel shirt sleeves were rolled loosely to his elbows.

"I am a delight at tolls, Michael," Robin informed him, her head rolling back against Jonathan’s shoulder with a heavy, wine-fueled sigh. "I’m so happy for you guys, I could cry right now. Also vomit-"

"Please don't do that, Robin," Nancy laughed, offering Will a warm, tired smile over Mike's shoulder. She reached out, giving Will's arm a quick squeeze. "The place is beautiful, Will. Call us whenever you need anything and... when the dead weights on your sofa wake up."

With a final, muffled round of goodnights, the heavy front door clicked shut. The house went quiet, save for the rhythmic, heavy thumping of two separate snoring patterns coming from the living room.

Will walked back into the living space, balancing a stack of stray plastic cups in his hands. He looked over at the massive, deep-set sectional sofa they had spent three hours wrestling through the narrow doorway the previous weekend. Dustin was currently sprawled completely upside down across the main cushions, his vintage cap covering his face. On the matching love seat, Lucas was crumpled into a tight ball, his head resting on the edge, his mouth slightly open as he snored a steady bassline.

"Well, they’re definitely not driving back tonight," Will murmured, setting the cups down on a cardboard packing box they were temporarily using as a side table.

"They didn't even try," Mike said, stepping up behind him. He looped his arms easily around Will's waist, resting his chin on Will’s shoulder. He watched Dustin twitch in his sleep, a smirk tugging at his lips. "This asshole took one look at the sofa and decided he was a permanent resident."

"Did Max actually make it up the stairs?"

"Oh, she's having the time of her life," a sharp voice called down from the first-floor landing.

Max was standing by the wooden railing, leaning heavily on it. Her face was pale from a long night of socializing, but her eyes held a distinct, giddy satisfaction. She had already claimed an oversized yellow flannel shirt from their closet, the hem falling past her knees. She gestured up toward the small guest bedroom at the top of the house with a sharp tilt of her chin.

"The guest bed is officially mine," Max announced, her voice a loud, echoing whisper that made Lucas stir slightly on the couch below. "I’m locking the door, so if either of you idiots needs to use the upstairs bathroom before noon, you’re out of luck."

"Max, that’s our only shower; the other two are still broken," Mike complained, though there was zero heat in his voice.

"Should've thought about that before you bought a place with character and broken showers," Max snapped smoothly, a brief, incredibly fond glint breaking through her sarcastic expression. She looked at the two of them standing together in the low light of the hallway, Mike's arms still securely anchored around Will’s ribs, Will leaning back into the hold without a single trace of hesitation. She let out a soft, satisfied huff. "Congrats again!"

She turned and swung her way back into the bedroom, the door clicking shut with a definitive, happy snap.

Will let his head drop back against Mike’s chest, his fingers coming up to wrap around Mike’s forearms, squeezing tight before he turned his head to kiss him thoroughly. Their breaths entwined, a quiet contrast to a whole day of loud socializing and the relentless clattering of people around them. After all the years of running, this was the end of the line. It felt like home. It felt like peace.

The house smelled like fresh water-based paint, old timber and the lingering warmth of the people who had loved and protected them since they were kids. No monsters were waiting under the floorboards, no government vans idling on the curb outside and no one to tell them who was allowed to sleep under their roof.

"We should probably put a blanket over Lucas," Will whispered, though he didn't make any move to break the embrace.

"Let that motherfucker freeze." Mike murmured, his arms tightening just a fraction more as he pressed another slow, lingering kiss into the soft hair behind Will’s ear as he laughed.

"Fuck you both." He mumbled in his sleep. 

I'm highly suspicious that everyone who sees you wants you

15th September, 2018 | Chicago, Illinois | Mike's Publisher's Wedding

A massive ice sculpture of two interlocking swans was slowly melting into a silver tray on the buffet table, dropping heavy, rhythmic beads of water onto a bed of crushed parsley. The grand ballroom of the hotel was a sea of black tuxedos, silk evening gowns and the clinking of champagne flutes. Mike’s publisher had spared absolutely no expense for his wedding reception, filling the space with a live jazz quintet that was currently swinging through a low-key rendition of a Cole Porter tune.

Will stood near one of the heavy velvet draperies by the balcony doors, idly swirling the melting ice cubes in his scotch. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that made his green eyes look dark under the low crystal chandeliers, his fingers lightly tapping against the gold wedding band on his left hand.

His eyes were locked on a spot near the grand piano. Mike was trapped over there, looking tall and slightly rumpled in his black three-piece suit and tie, a classic expression of polite endurance on his face. Stand-up conversations with literary agents or colleagues always made him look like he was trying to calculate the fastest route to an exit.

Right now, a young woman in a backless emerald silk dress was standing entirely too close to him. She was a new assistant editor the firm had hired out of Northwestern just two weeks prior, flown into Chicago for the weekend along with the rest of the core staff and writers. Unlike the older editors who had known Mike for a decade and regularly asked after Will's well-being and art gallery exhibits, she had no context for the quiet man by the balcony. She was laughing very loudly at something Mike had said, her manicured hand coming down to linger on the lapel of his tuxedo jacket for a second too long. Her posture was completely tilted into his space, her eyes tracking the sharp line of Mike's jaw with a predatory sort of focus.

Will watched Mike subtly step back, his hands coming up to cross casually over his chest, but the woman simply closed the distance again, tilting her head back to look up through her eyelashes.

A sharp knot tied itself right in the center of Will’s chest. It wasn't the volatile, terrifying insecurity of his teenage years; it was a deeply possessive irritation.

When the jazz band paused for an intermission, Mike finally managed to slip away, his long strides carrying him straight across the ballroom floor toward Will’s corner. He let out a long, dramatic breath as he stopped in front of his husband, his shoulders dropping three inches in relief.

"Thank God, I've been looking for you," Mike muttered, reaching over to steal a sip from Will’s glass. "I thought Sharon took you out for a smoke again."

Will didn't smile right away. He kept his eyes fixed on the piano, where the woman in the emerald dress was still looking over her shoulder toward them. "You seemed pretty occupied there. What was she laughing so much about?"

Mike blinked, following Will’s gaze back toward the piano. He looked at the woman, then back down at Will, a slow, highly amused grin breaking through his exhaustion. His dark eyes danced with a sudden, wicked brightness. "Wait. Are you jealous, Will?"

"I'm not jealous," Will said softly, though his knuckles tightened around his glass as he looked up into Mike’s face. His voice dropped into a private, fierce register. "I just- She was- She was flirting with you. I don't like that woman."

Mike let out a quiet, rumbling laugh that vibrated against Will’s shoulder as he stepped fully into Will's space, completely blocking the rest of the ballroom from view. He reached down, his long fingers wrapping firmly around Will’s wrist, his thumb pressing into the soft skin near his pulse point with an unhurried, heavy certainty.

"Come with me," Mike whispered, a small, confident smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Before Will could protest, Mike turned, his hand sliding down to lock their fingers together securely in the open light of the ballroom. He led Will straight back across the parquet floor, cutting through a group of senior executives until they stopped directly in front of the new assistant editor.

The woman’s face lit up instantly as Mike approached, her hand already lifting to smooth down the side of her silk dress. "Mike! I was just telling Janice that your prose style reminds me so much of-"

"Chloe, sorry to interrupt," Mike said smoothly, his tone perfectly polite but entirely stern. He didn't drop his grip on Will's fingers; instead, he lifted their joined hands just an inch, making the movement completely unavoidable. "I realized I haven't introduced you to the most important person in my life yet. This is Will."

Chloe blinked, her gaze dropping to their locked fingers, then tracking the identical gold bands catching the chandelier light.

"My husband," Mike added, his voice ringing out with a heavy, deliberate pride that left absolutely zero room for interpretation. He shifted his weight closer to Will, his shoulder bracing against Will's frame in a quiet show of total alignment. "He's the entire reason my first book exists. Will, this is Chloe from the junior editorial desk."

The woman’s practiced, flirtatious smile dropped instantly, a sudden, bright crimson flush creeping up her neck as her expression went completely flat. She froze for a fraction of a second, her shoulders locking before she forced a stiff, incredibly strained grin back onto her face.

"Oh," Chloe said, her voice dropping an octave as she awkwardly extended a hand toward Will. "I... see. It's very nice to meet you, Will."

Will took her hand, his grip firm and entirely relaxed, a small, polite smile finally spreading across his face as he felt the absolute safety of Mike's presence anchored right beside him. "Nice to meet you, Chloe. Enjoy the rest of the party."

He could see how embarrassed she was, hitting on a man with a husband, but Will didn’t care. The sole reason for his existence right now was to make her even more embarrassed with whatever anger he had inside him. The night was just beginning. 

I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all

12th May, 1992 | Manhattan, New York | Their Shared Dorm

A stack of thick, heavily highlighted literature anthologies held down the curling edges of a sketching paper on the long wooden desk they shared. Their dorm room was cramped, packed to the ceiling with Will’s stretched canvases leaning against the cinderblock walls and Mike’s research binders stacked precariously on top of the mini-fridge. It's been like this for the past three years. After sophomore year, they just gave up trying to tidy the place.

Outside the high window, the faint, metallic screech of the subway line cutting through the lower Manhattan evening provided a steady background hum, but inside, the small space was quiet, lit only by a cheap brass desk lamp that threw a long, warm glow across the worn linoleum floor.

Will was sitting at the edge of one of the two, unmade and pushed-together twin beds. He was wearing a soft, oversized gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He was carefully cleaning a fine-tipped ink pen with a scrap of flannel cloth, his head tilted down as he focused on the delicate metal nib.

Mike walked over from the desk, his long fingers nervously sliding in and out of the pocket of his denim jacket. He dropped his weight onto the mattress beside Will, causing the old springs to give a loud, familiar groan. He sat close enough that his shoulder pinned Will’s against the wall, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Will's profile.

"What?" Will asked softly, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he set the pen down on a textbook. "You've been pacing for twenty minutes. Is something wrong?"

"No, everything is fine," Mike said, his voice carrying a sudden, nervous intensity. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, dark velvet pouch, pressing it directly into Will's palm. "Here. Happy anniversary."

Will blinked, his fingers curling around the soft fabric. He loosened the drawstring and slid the contents into his palm. It was a silver disk on a delicate chain. He held it up to the lamplight, his chest tightening as he saw the engraving. It was their initials. A sharp, clean M and a softer W, seamlessly entwined together.

"Mike," Will whispered, his thumb brushing over the cool metal. "This is... beautiful."

"Exactly three years since the swings," Mike said, shifting closer until his knee pressed against Will's thigh. He reached out, his long fingers gently picking up the necklace from Will's hand to help him put it on. "I can't believe it's been three official summers of us?"

"It feels insane, doesn't it? Because it also feels like we just left Hawkins yesterday."

Will tilted his head forward, letting Mike click the clasp into place at the back of his neck. When he looked back up, Mike didn't let go, his hands shifting to cup the sides of Will’s jaw.

"I'm sorry... for taking so long," Mike murmured, his thumb catching the small line of tension between Will's eyebrows and smoothing it out.

"Mike. I already told you-"

"No, Will! I’ve been entirely in love with you before I even had a real word for what it meant. It was just always there and... to think I wasted all that time."

"You didn't waste anything, Mike. It was just meant to be at that time." He smiled, cupping his jaw back and leaning forward. "Plus, we have the rest of our summers to spend together. Every single one."

A brilliant, breathless warmth hit Mike’s face. Will's emerald eyes crinkled as a genuine, emotional laugh slipped past his lips, looking at the softening lines in his boyfriend's face. His hand goes down to grip Mike’s wrist, his fingers wrapping around the cuffs of his Nirvana shirt.

"Also, you're getting really good at romantic gestures." He smiled again, looking down at the necklace.

"Shut up," Mike whispered, a soft, lazy grin breaking across his face. "You should be loved properly and I intend to do just that... for the rest of our lives."

"Really?" Will murmured, scrunching up his nose along his cheek.

"Really..."

Mike closed the remaining distance between them, his lips meeting Will's in a deep, passionate kiss that completely silenced the noise of the city outside. It was slow and completely unhurried, a familiar rhythm they had built together over years of shared rooms and quiet choices. Will pulled him closer, his fingers tangling into the dark, messy curls at the back of Mike's neck as they sank back against the pillows, the silver initials resting warm against his chest.

Take me out, and take me home (forever and ever)

14th November, 2005 | Manhattan, New York | Days before Mike's Book Signing and Will's Exhibition

A low-hanging glass lamp cast a warm, amber circle over the small corner table at the Italian bistro, catching the dark red swirl of house wine in their glasses. The restaurant was tucked away down a quiet West Village side street, filled with the low clatter of heavy ceramic plates and the comfortable, rhythmic hum of old jazz pouring from a speaker near the bar.

Will leaned his elbows on the checkered tablecloth, his fingers lightly tracing the base of his wine glass. He wore a soft, olive-green sweater with the sleeves loosely pushed to his mid-forearms, his eyes bright as he looked across the table.

Mike was adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, a slightly dazed but intensely happy expression on his face. His fingers were resting on a sleek, navy-blue folder containing the papers for his first major multi-city book signing tour.

"I still can't wrap my head around it," Mike said, his voice quiet but hummed with a restless, excited energy. He looked down at the folder, then back up at Will. "Your gallery opening is on Thursday morning and my event is Friday night. It’s like the universe decided to dump every single thing we’ve been working toward into a forty-eight-hour window."

"It's about time, Mike," Will reminded him, a slow, incredibly proud smile softening his features. He reached across the small table, his palm resting flat against Mike's wrist, his thumb rubbing a steady, reassuring circle. "We earned this and we're allowed to just be happy about it."

"I am happy," Mike murmured, his fingers sliding into Will's hand, locking their fingers together securely under the low light. "Just terrified. Especially since our cavalry arrives tomorrow morning."

Will let out a genuine, soft laugh, shifting back slightly as the waiter dropped a basket of warm bread between them. "Jonathan called me before we left. He and Nancy are scrubbing their apartment down because Steve, Robin and Dustin are crashing at theirs."

"And my parents?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is Ted coming to our place?"

"Karen and Mom sorted it out already," Will explained, his eyes crinkling. "They knew you wouldn't last a day without fighting with Ted, so all of them booked rooms at that little motel three blocks away from our home. Mom specifically told me they didn't want to crowd us before our big days."

"Which is Joyce's code for: 'If your dad finds out we're staying with you guys and he's stuck at a motel, he will whine for a decade.' She's truly a saint."

"Yeah." Will laughed, stuffing his mouth with bologna. 

"A tactical retreat," Mike chuckled, shaking his head. "Honestly, thank God. Having Max and Lucas at our place is going to be loud enough. Their little one creates quite a spectacle."

"Lila is five, Mike. Of course, she will create a spectacle. Kids do that."

"You didn't do that when you were five!" he said, smiling toothily.

"But you did! You were a real asshole." He lightly smacked his arm, earning a chuckle.

"Geez, William!" He pressed a hand to his chest with the dramatic flair of a deeply offended White woman.

"Also, they're throwing us a massive joint celebration party on Saturday," Will said, his voice dropping into a cozy, contented register. "So it's good that everyone's staying close." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slightly crumpled, brightly colored piece of cardstock and sliding it across the table toward Mike. "This came in the mail today."

Mike picked it up, flipping it over to look at the vibrant, ink-stamped image of a bustling night market in Bangkok. His face softened instantly as he recognized the sharp, loopy handwriting on the back. "Fifth one this year after fifteen years of silence. It has to be some kind of record!"

"I still feel like I’m dreaming sometimes…" Will murmured. “Come on, read it.”

"Hi boys," Mike read aloud, his voice dropping into a quiet, fond cadence. "The food here is incredibly spicy and the colors look exactly like one of Will’s sketchbooks. I am learning so much. I promise I will take a flight out to New York the exact second the 'issue' is completely gone. Owens called me last week. He says his team is making real progress destroying the 'black hand' that still thinks Mage is out there. It's taking time, but it's working. I am safe. I love you both so much. Happy too many celebrations at once. Eat a piece of cake for me. Love El for Will and From El for Mike!"

A genuine, bright laugh broke from Will’s throat, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back against his chair. "She really didn't let that go, did she?"

"It’s been nineteen years... still keeping the score even."

Mike let out a loud, defeated groan, though a massive, affectionate grin completely ruined his attempt at looking miserable. He dropped his hand over his face, shaking his head as he stared down at the crisp cardstock. His eyes were still looking at Will's laughing self, who was turning red now.

"I was fifteen and incompetent, okay?" Mike defended, his voice jumping an octave in that classic, defensive pitch as he peeked through his fingers at Will. "I didn't know how to sign a letter! I thought 'From' was standard for mail!"

"Mike, you can't be serious right now!" Will teased, reaching across the checkered tablecloth to playfully nudge Mike’s arm. "You know you deserve the permanent petty sign-off and you know why you did that shit!"

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Mike muttered, dropping his hand and tracing the neat, looped ink of 'Love El for Will and From El for Mike.' His expression softened, a quiet, incredibly fond warmth settling into his eyes as he looked at the postcard. "At least she’s safe... and still exactly the same."

Mike carefully set the postcard down on top of his book contract, his chest rising and falling with a deep, incredibly grounded breath. The old shadows of their childhood felt incredibly distant now, reduced to harmless relics of a past they had successfully outrun. No hidden dangers were waiting for them in the dark anymore, just a crowded brownstone house, a clan that loved them unconditionally, a bunch of people who became their family and a future they were building entirely on their own terms.

He looked across the table at Will, his dark eyes reflecting the warm amber light of the candle between them. He tightened his grip on Will's fingers, his voice carrying an unhurried, heavy certainty.

"We should get the check," Mike whispered, a soft, intimate smile breaking across his face.

"Let's go home. We have a lot of people to welcome tomorrow." Will nodded, gulping down his remaining drink.

Home. It was a word permanently on their tongues now, coming to them as naturally as breathing. For as long as Mike could remember, Will had always been his definition of the word, but he had never actually allowed himself to believe that a physical home with him could be a reality. If he could go back and tell his fifteen-year-old self that he was here, with Will, completely happy and living entirely on their own terms, the younger Mike probably would have had a heart attack on the spot.

Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand?

26th June, 2015 | Brooklyn, New York | The Day Same-Sex Marriage was Legalized

An empty wooden bracket on the living room shelving unit marked where their heavy, flat-screen television usually sat. The display panel had gone entirely black earlier that week and it was currently sitting on a workbench at a local electronics repair shop down on Atlantic Avenue. Without the usual low background murmur of the evening broadcast, the house felt strangely insulated from the rest of the city, filled only with the distant, muffled honking of rush-hour traffic filtering up from the street.

Will was leaning over the wooden dining table, dressed down in an old, paint-smudged grey t-shirt and charcoal sweatpants. He plugged his phone into a wall charger, waiting a moment for the screen to light up so he could sort through his gallery emails in the quiet space.

The heavy front door suddenly rattled against its frame, flying back until the doorknob smacked hard into the drywall.

Will jumped, nearly knocking his coffee mug over as Mike stumbled into the entryway. His dark hair was a completely wild, windblown mess, his button-down work shirt was half-unbuttoned and he was chest-heaving as if he had sprinted the entire distance from the subway station. He was clutching a grease-stained white cardboard box from the bakery down the block in one hand, while his other fingers held an expensive bottle of red wine precariously by the neck.

"Mike?" Will asked, his eyebrows knitting together in total surprise as he stepped away from the table. "What's going on? What's all this?"

Mike didn't say a word. He practically threw the wine bottle onto the nearest counter space, dropped the square bakery box right over Will's papers, and immediately dropped onto both knees on the linoleum floor right in front of him.

"Hey, whoa, Mike-" A sudden, sharp spike of panic hit Will's chest. He dropped down to his knees too, reaching out to grasp Mike's trembling shoulders, his eyes searching his face. "What’s wrong? Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Mike managed to choke out. His voice was incredibly thick, cracking completely as he looked up. His dark eyes were already spilling over with hot tears, but a massive, breathless laugh tore straight out of his lungs. He grabbed Will’s hands, holding them so tightly their fingers locked together. "We can get married, Will."

Will froze, his heart slamming against his ribs. "What?"

"We can... get married," Mike rushed out, a tear tracking straight down his cheek as he squeezed Will's hands. "Nancy called my office line right after the news broke. It’s legal everywhere. The whole country. We-we don't have to wait anymore, Will. We don’t have to save to move to fucking Massachusetts or Neth- We can get married. Here."

The words struck Will like a sudden, breathtaking wave, fracturing a silence he had carried inside himself for decades. In the space of a single heartbeat, the years of quiet shielding, the stolen glances and the permanent, low-humming fear of being caught or perceived seemed to dissolve into nothingness. He looked into the absolute, unshielded brilliance of Mike’s face and his own world blurred into a wash of warm, tearful color.

A ragged, half-sobbed laugh broke from the center of Will’s throat. It was a sound of pure, unburdened relief. He reached out and threw his arms around Mike’s neck, pulling him in so fiercely that the momentum anchored them both flat against the floor.

Tangled together, they wept and laughed into each other’s shoulders, the sheer, beautiful magnitude of the moment shattering every layer of their practiced caution. Mike buried his face deeply into the crook of Will’s neck, his long fingers bunching tightly into the soft fabric of Will’s shirt. He held on as if the entire universe had quietly remade itself on a random Friday afternoon, finally tilting on its axis to give them a soft place to land.

"I didn't have time to get the real ring," Mike murmured against his skin, his voice shaking as he pulled back just an inch. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a thick, blue rubber band he had snapped off the bakery bag during his run home. He took Will’s left hand, his thumb brushing over his knuckles before sliding the rubber band down his ring finger. "I’m getting you a real one. A perfect one. Even beautful than our promise rings and a massive wedding with our whole clan there. I promise you, Will."

Will looked down at the bright blue band resting flat against his skin, a wet, emotional laugh breaking from his lips as he cupped Mike's face with both hands. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together while their tears mixed on their cheeks.

"I don't care about a real ring, Mike," Will whispered fiercely, his eyes locked onto Mike’s with absolute certainty. He leaned in and kissed him thoroughly. A deep, slow and unhurried promise that tasted of salt and a future that was finally, legally theirs. "I just want you. I've always just wanted you."

“Does that mean you will marry me?”

“You’re so stupid, Michael.” Will let out a loud chuckle, grabbing both his shoulders. “Of course I will.”

Mike pulled back just enough to look at him, his dark eyes wide and completely clear, searching Will's face as if to memorize the exact line of his smile. His thumbs brushed the damp heat from Will's cheekbones, his touch trembling but entirely grounded.

"I love you," Mike whispered, the words sounding different now. They were lighter, stripped of the old weight they used to carry when they were kids or when they were hiding in corners just to look at each other lovingly. "I love you so much, Will."

“I love you, Mike… more than you’ll ever know.” 

“So… do you wanna be husbands?” Mike snickered, like a clever son-of-a-bitch. 

Will laughed lightly, nodding his head as he leaned in again and caught Mike’s mouth with his own, closing the tiny distance between them in a kiss that felt like a quiet, final homecoming.

It wasn't a rushed or desperate kiss; it was slow, deep and heavy with the realization that they finally had all the time in the world. Will's hands slid up from Mike's shoulders, his fingers tangling firmly into the familiar, messy curls at the back of Mike's neck, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Mike let out a soft, shaky breath against Will's lips, his arms wrapping tightly around Will's waist, lifting him slightly as if to anchor him against his chest.

The kiss tasted of the salt from their shared tears, the faint bitterness of their morning coffees and a profound, unshakeable peace. Every public boundary they had ever lived behind seemed to melt away with the movement of their lips. It was a declaration, a quiet vow spoken onto each other's skin on their kitchen floor, surrounded by the ordinary mess of their life together.

When Mike finally parted his lips to breathe, he rested his forehead against Will's, his breath hot and uneven, a brilliant, lazy smile breaking across his face as his thumb traced the cheap blue rubber band still sitting proudly on Will's ring finger.

I take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover

12th May, 2016 | Galveston, Texas | Their Wedding

The worn wooden steps of the rented beach house were still dusted with fine, pale gulf sand that had drifted up from the beach during the morning tide. Wrapped entirely around the wide sun deck, low strings of heavy amber bulbs swayed in the coastal breeze, glowing warmly to match the exact moment the Texas sun began its long, lazy descent toward the horizon.

Will and Mike had built the entire day around this specific golden hour; the white linen tablecloths on the reception tables below caught the bruised-honey light and even the simple driftwood arch at the end of the deck seemed to radiate a soft, gilded warmth.

Mike stood beneath the arch, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His suit was a crisp, pale oatmeal color, paired with a matching vest that he had already unbuttoned at the top for a little breathing room. His dark curls were long, falling casually across his forehead with a few distinct silver strands catching the sunset light near his temples. He looked incredibly sharp, though his hands were jammed deep into his pockets to hide the slight tremor in his fingers.

When the heavy screen door of the beach house finally groaned open, the quiet chatter of the rows behind him dropped into a soft, collective breath.

Will stepped out onto the deck, flanked by Joyce on his left arm and Hopper on his right. He wore a structured suit in a rich, sun-warmed amber-slate that mirrored the deep hues of the evening sky. His hair was neatly parted and swept back, though the ocean wind was already working a few loose strands free at the nape of his neck.

As they walked down the short, makeshift aisle, the small deck felt entirely crowded with twenty-eight years of love and forty years of shared history, survival and a deep, unspoken protection.

In the front row, Joyce’s hands were shaking so hard she had to knot them into the fabric of her golden-yellow floral sundress, her hair pinned up in a loose, familiar twist with a few stray curls framing her face. Tears were already tracking down her lined cheeks, but her posture was entirely proud. Beside her, Hopper stood like an unshakeable cliffside. He wore a slightly boxy, charcoal-grey suit jacket that he clearly couldn't wait to take off, his eyes completely hidden behind a pair of dark aviator sunglasses to mask how suspiciously wet they were.

On the other side of the aisle, Karen Wheeler was openly weeping into a lace handkerchief. Her champagne-colored silk dress caught the golden light perfectly, her blonde hair styled into a perfectly smooth, elegant bob. Interlaced tightly with her fingers were Ted’s. Ted sat unusually quiet, dressed in a classic navy blazer that looked slightly too warm for Texas, his usual detached expression replaced by a heavy, solemn blinking as he looked at his son.

"You look beautiful, kid," Hopper muttered gruffly to Will, his voice thick with an unexpected weight as he gave Will’s shoulder a firm squeeze before stepping back to join Joyce in the front row.

Will took the final steps up to the driftwood arch, his eyes locking instantly with Mike’s. The moment their hands found each other, the nervous tension seemed to drain out of Mike's shoulders all at once. Mike let out a long, shuddering breath, a brilliant, helpless grin breaking across his face.

Directly in front of them, Lucas and Max sat close together. Max was leaning back in her chair, her copper hair styled into a thick, loose side-braid that rested over the shoulder of her terracotta-orange gown. Her dark sunglasses hid her eyes, but a single tear ran down her cheek, catching the golden light. Her hand rested on the knees of her daughter Lila, who wore a yellow sundress with her dark hair done up in two bouncy ponytails. Lila’s focus was divided between balancing an overflowing woven basket of flower petals on her knees and clicking photos of the event on her phone, though she had already eaten two petals out of pure boredom. Their plan busted because Will said that he doesn’t want to waste flowers. Now Lila is holding it in case the grooms change their minds and she can throw it at them after they say ‘I do.’ Lucas was holding Max’s other hand, looking incredibly sharp in a tailored tan suit with his hair cleanly faded, his expression completely soft and serene.

Next to them, Jonathan and Nancy sat with their daughter, Suzan. She was sitting up remarkably straight, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail that matched her mother's, her fingers busy taking rapid photos in her phone, giving the photographer a run for his money like her dad. Jonathan had his vintage Nikon camera resting on his knee too, his own dark suit jacket slightly wrinkled, his hair a bit longer and shaggier than usual. He was too busy blinking back his own tears to take an intimate photo of his family, his chest rising and falling with a great, quiet pride as he looked at his brother. Nancy leaned heavily against his shoulder, her sleeveless marigold dress brilliant under the sun, her hand resting on his knee with a small, knowing smile.

In the second-row, Steve and Robin sat side by side, looking exactly like a pair of proud, slightly chaotic older siblings. Vickie accompanied them from afar, busy fixing a last-minute detail in the backdrop for the couple's pictures by the sea. Steve was wearing a pair of overly expensive loafers and an open-collar cream shirt, his hair still maintaining its legendary, gravity-defying volume despite the coastal humidity. He spent half the time sniffing loudly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand while Robin aggressively nudged his ribs with her elbow. Robin was dressed in an unstructured, olive-green linen pantsuit with her short bob tucked behind her ears, her eyes wide and wet.

"If you start sobbing during the vows, Harrington, I'm never shutting up about it," Robin whispered, her voice noticeably tight.

"Shut up, Robin, I've got sand in my eye," Steve grumbled, though he didn't look away from the arch for a second.

Near the front railing, close to the arch, Dustin stood next to Jane. His tie was slightly crooked against his light blue shirt, his curls erupting out from under a straw fedora he had bought at the airport, a wide, gap-toothed grin splitting his face as he blinked rapidly. Jane stood beside him, completely radiant in a flowing, sunset-pink maxi dress she had brought back from her travels, her long, dark hair falling in natural waves past her shoulders. She wasn't trying to hide her tears at all; they fell freely down her cheeks, her hands resting flat against her chest over her heart as she watched two of her best friends at the altar.

The local marriage officiant, an older man with weathered skin and a kindly smile, stepped forward, his voice carrying clearly over the steady rumble of the tide.

"Michael and William, if you are ready, please share your words."

Mike took a deep breath, his fingers locking even tighter around Will’s. He didn't look down at the small piece of paper he had kept in his pocket; he just looked directly into Will’s eyes, his voice steadying as the words came out naturally.

"Will," Mike murmured, a faint, emotional tremor in his pitch that made Karen Wheeler sob into her handkerchief again. "I first started breathing when I found you on the swingset when we were five. You saw a rambling, stupid kid and you let him be your best friend."

A clatter of snickers and sobs broke out from the guests.

"I will forever be grateful to you for that. I'm grateful you saw a nervous kid and decided not to push him away. I'm so grateful that you shared your good and your bad with me. After that, for a long time, I thought our lives were defined by the things we had to run away from, but the second I stepped onto that swing again, my world found its center. I realized that you are the single most gravitating and brilliant force I have ever known. Pulling me back, keeping me whole and making me human. You forgave me for things I wouldn't have forgiven myself for. You preferred to walk with me when you could've run on your own. You held yourself back to give me time so we could match paces and build a beautiful life together. I'm so lucky to have such a kind, caring, compassionate and amazing man as my lover, my partner and my home. I vow to keep you safe, protected and loved forever. I'll always be by your side. Through whatever comes next."

Will looked down for a fraction of a second, his chin trembling as he let out a shaky, wet breath. When he looked back up, his green eyes were shimmering with a lifetime of held-back tears, entirely illuminated by the amber sunset. He squeezed Mike’s hands, his thumbs tracing the edges of Mike’s knuckles, grounding himself before he spoke.

"Mike," Will started, his voice dropping into a soft, fierce register that completely bypassed the roar of the surf. "When we were kids, I used to think the world, for me, was just a place where things got lost and battered. I spent so many years feeling like I was living in the spaces between the lines, waiting for the dark to catch up to me, or wondering if I was completely invisible."

He paused, a single tear breaking free and tracking slowly down his jaw line, though his smile never faded.

"But you never let me stay lost for long. You were the only one who always knew exactly where to look for me. You looked for me in the woods, you looked for me when I was trapped in places I couldn't escape and even when I tried to hide the scariest parts of myself from you because I was terrified of losing you, you just... reached into the dark and pulled me back into the light. You held my hand when everything was falling apart and you didn't let go."

Across the aisle, Joyce pressed a trembling hand over her mouth, a quiet, emotional sob escaping her that made Hopper instantly tighten his arm around her shoulders. Her mind was deeply accepting the fact that her baby was getting the happy ending he always deserved with the man he always wanted.

"I used to think that loving you was something I'd have to carry in secret forever," Will continued, his voice cracking slightly on the words, his eyes locked entirely on Mike's face. "I thought a future like this, standing under the sky, in front of everyone we love, holding your hands as your husband, was a story I could only imagine or paint, not live, but... you showed me that it doesn't have to be just a dream. You gave me a reality where I don't have to be afraid anymore."

Will took a deep, steadying breath, his fingers wrapping completely around Mike’s wrists.

"You aren't just my best friend, Mike. You are my anchor. You are my heart. You are the person who made me realize that I am worthy of a beautiful life. I promise to spend every single day making sure you feel that same gravity of love, that same unshakeable certainty. I vow to love you through the quiet mornings and the chaotic nights, to build a home with you that is completely ours and to never stop looking for you, no matter where life takes us. I choose you today, tomorrow and every single day we have left. No matter what the conditions."

The officiant stepped a fraction closer to the driftwood arch, his gaze shifting warmly between the two men as the steady cadence of the tide filled the brief silence.

"Michael Wheeler and William Byers," he began, his voice carrying a grounded, solemn weight over the ocean breeze, "Do you, Michael, take William to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love him unreservedly, to shelter his heart and to walk beside him in absolute truth for all the days of your li-"

"I do" broke from his lips before the officiant could even fully finish the sentence, drawing a watery chuckle from the front row. He didn't hesitate for a single heartbeat; his fingers tightened securely around Will's knuckles, his dark eyes fiercely clear as a breathless, absolute

Turning his smile toward Will, the officiant continued, "And William, do you take Michael to be your lawfully wedded husband, to anchor him in the storm, to celebrate his brilliant light and to build a life of profound safety and love by his side for as long as you both shall live?"

The coastal golden hour caught the deep, tearful shimmer in Will's eyes as he looked at the boy who had spent a lifetime searching for him in the dark. A peaceful, unshakeable smile settled onto his face, his shoulders dropping into a posture of total, beautiful surrender.

"I do," Will whispered, the two small words carrying the immense, poetic weight of twenty years of waiting, finally setting their shared future permanently in stone.

The officiant smiled, his hands resting over theirs. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you partners for life. Mike, you may kiss your husband."

They moved simultaneously, a magnetic pull finally snapping taut. Mike reached out, his hands finding purchase on the damp nape of Will’s neck, his thumb brushing the coarse hair at the base of Will's skull. Will’s hands came to rest on Mike’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of the suit, pulling him flush against the line of his body.

When their lips met, it wasn't chaste, hurried, or a performative peck of a wedding reception; it was more like a collision.

The kiss tasted of salt spray and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Mike tilted his head, deepening the angle, his mouth parting Will’s with an urgency that made the crowd fade into nothingness. There was a hesitation, a split-second of vertigo, before Will melted into him, a soft, broken exhale escaping his throat and ghosting over Mike’s cheek.

For a moment, time seemed to warp and stretch. Mike felt the roughness of Will’s upper lip, the softness of the lower, the heat of his breath mingling with the humid air. It was a sealing of wounds, a promise spoken in the language of teeth and tongue. Will’s fingers dug into Mike’s hips, anchoring them both to the earth, to the altar, to this life they were building.

They pulled back just enough to breathe, their foreheads resting together, noses brushing. The world rushed back in, the sound of the waves, the distant cry of a seagull, the applause from their families and friends, but Mike kept his eyes closed, savoring the phantom pressure of Will’s mouth, the feeling of finally, finally being home.

The deck erupted into a chaotic, beautiful roar of cheers and applause. Dustin let out a loud, piercing whistle that made his fedora fall off backward. Steve cheered at the top of his lungs and Jane laughed through her tears, clapping her hands fiercely against the sea wind. Lila, startled by the sudden noise, accidentally dumped her entire basket of flower petals straight over Lucas’s pristine tan shoes, making Max let out a bright, genuine laugh that echoed over the sound of the crashing waves.

Against Will's lips, Mike broke into a wide, breathless smile, tasting the salt of the ocean and the sweet, absolute freedom of a future they had fought for.

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

15th May, 1989 | Hawkins, Indiana | Mike's Bedroom and the Cursed Painting

Mike's bedroom layout was exactly as it had always been. Even after it was destroyed by the demogorgon, Karen somehow managed to have it remade entirely the same. Except for his closet. It was transparent now with chipped vinyl panels.

Everything felt entirely rearranged in that cramped space. A half-finished stack of D&D campaign notes sat abandoned on the nightstand, dust gathering on the plastic miniature figures, while a stray, unwashed flannel shirt hung over the arm of the bed. It was a drizzly Monday afternoon, the steady, rhythmic patter of rain tapping against the high, narrow windows, the only sound cutting through the quiet house.

Will stepped into the creaking floorboard, his sneakers making no sound on the thin carpet. He was wearing his favorite green corduroy jacket over a striped t-shirt, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He had come to grab his sketchbook, but his shoes glued themselves to the floor the second he looked toward the back corner of the room.

Mike was sitting on the edge of his mattress, his lanky frame slouched forward. He hadn't noticed Will's silent movement yet. His dark curls were a messy, unwashed tangle and he was still wearing the same crumpled grey sweatshirt from the day before. His entire attention was anchored to the desk, where the rolled-up canvas Will had painted for him in California was now fully unfurled, flattened out under the weight of two heavy textbooks. Mike was just staring at the painted knight, his thumb lightly tracing the edge of his shield with a little heart on it.

A sudden, sharp spike of vulnerability hit Will’s chest. The reality of what they had confessed to each other just three days prior was still so new, so terrifyingly fragile, that seeing Mike dissecting the painting made Will feel completely exposed. He instinctively took a half-step backward, his heel catching the edge of the door as he prepared to turn around and head back down to the kitchen.

"Will?" Mike’s voice broke the quiet, rough and sudden. He looked up, his dark eyes wide and slightly bloodshot as he caught sight of Will retreating. Before Will could even formulate an excuse, Mike was on his feet, his long legs crossing the bedroom floor in three strides. He reached out, his fingers gently but firmly wrapping around Will's forearm to halt him. "Hey. Stay."

Will stopped, his shoulders tensing slightly under his jacket, though he didn't pull away from the warmth of Mike’s grip. He looked down at the floor between them, then back up into Mike's searching face. "I was just... I didn't want to disturb you. You looked like you were completely somewhere else."

"I was," Mike murmured, his grip sliding down until his fingers loosely tangled with Will's. He let out a heavy, ragged sigh, his head dropping slightly as he looked at their joined hands. "I'm sorry, Will."

Will blinked, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "F-for what?"

"For being so completely blind," Mike said, his voice cracking on the words as he looked up, his eyes swimming with a sudden, intense wave of emotion. He gestured vaguely toward the desk with his free hand, his chest heaving under his sweatshirt. "I've been sitting here for an hour just looking at it. It feels so... whole and I feel so stupid." 

"Mike-"

"You didn't have to lie, you know? Although I know why you did, maybe I would've hurt you less if you had told me. Because it would've given me so many answers too. I kept running and…"

Will slowly nodded as if he understood what the weight of Mike's words implied. He had been through that already. He knew what it was like to look for answers in somebody else, but sometimes a little push is needed to click and the entire picture comes out framed. 

"I kept hurting you. You didn't deserve that bullshit, Will. You painted your own heart and handed it to me and I just... I didn't see it because I was… an idiot."

Will swallowed hard, the memory of that suffocating drive across the desert rising to the surface. "Mike, it's fine. You were scared about El, you were trying to figure things out-"

"No, it's not fine," Mike interrupted, his tone fierce but deeply tender as he stepped closer, closing the remaining distance until their sneakers were touching. A single tear slipped over his lower eyelid, tracking down his pale cheek. "My heart was so consumed by the guilt of not loving her the way she deserved to be loved. I spent so much time forcing myself to try and be this perfect boyfriend, running myself ragged over a lie, that I completely missed what was happening right in front of me. I was so occupied with trying to fix a thing that shouldn't have existed in the first place, I couldn't see that your heart was literally breaking to pieces right next to me. I let you carry that alone while I tried to make sense of myself."

The raw honesty of the words pierced through Will’s defenses, shattering the quiet caution he had maintained for years. The sheer weight of those lonely months in Lenora Hills, the agonizing certainty that he would always be on the outside looking in, the sadness of every call that didn't come and every letter that wasn't addressed to him. It suddenly dissolved into the damp air. A shaky, wet breath escaped Will’s lips and his own eyes filled with tears, blurring Mike’s face into a warm, familiar shadow.

"Mike..." Will whispered, his voice failing him entirely.

Mike didn't say anything else. He reached out with both arms and pulled Will against his chest, burying his face directly into the crook of Will’s neck. Will let out a quiet sob, his arms wrapping tightly around Mike’s waist, his fingers bunching into his shirt as he held on with everything he had. They stood there in the center of the room, swaying slightly, weeping into each other's shoulders as the old, lingering aches of the past few years finally washed away from their hearts.

After a long moment, Mike pulled back just an inch, his long fingers coming up to cup the sides of Will’s face. His thumbs gently wiped away the tears from Will's cheekbones, his touch incredibly soft, completely reverent.

"I'm sorry. I'm here and I promise you..." Mike whispered fiercely, his forehead coming to rest against Will's. "I will spend my life trying to make up for the hurt I caused you."

Will managed a small, tearful smile, his hands coming up to rest over Mike's wrists. "I know."

When Mike leaned down to kiss him, it felt entirely different from the hurried, nervous fumbling and fear of being caught from three days ago. This was slow, deep and heavy with a quiet, mutual understanding. Will parted his lips with a soft sigh, tangling his fingers into the curls at the back of Mike’s neck, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss tasted like love and beneath it all was an unshakeable, profound warmth. A silent vow that neither of them would ever have to hide in the dark again.

All's well that ends well to end up with you

12th December, 2017 | Hawkins, Indiana | Hawkins National Hospital

The rhythmic, electronic hum of the heart monitor filled Room 412, accompanied by the steady, muffled patter of winter sleet hitting the double-paned glass window. A plastic tray table sat near the corner, crowded with half-empty styrofoam coffee cups, a crumpled bag of pretzel sticks and a discarded hospital gown. The harsh overhead fluorescent lights had been switched off, leaving only the soft, amber glow of a single bedside lamp to illuminate the room.

Max was propped up against a mountain of stiff hospital pillows, her face completely pale and slick with sweat. Her signature copper hair was tied back in a messy, chaotic bun, a few damp strands clinging to her forehead. She was wearing an oversized, faded blue hospital gown, her breathing finally slowing down after hours of exhausting labor.

To her right, Will was sitting on the edge of the mattress, wrapped in a thick, oversized brown cardigan. His eyes were bright with tears as he looked down at the tiny, swaddled bundle cradled securely in his arms. The newborn baby girl let out a soft, tiny squeak, her minuscule fingers twitching against the pink flannel blanket.

Mike stood on Max's left side, looking entirely ruined in the best possible way. His dark curls were a wild, static-filled mess from where he had been nervously running his hands through them for twelve straight hours. His button-down shirt was completely wrinkled, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He was openly sobbing, his face completely red as he gripped Max's hand like it was a lifeline, his shoulders shaking with a massive, unburdened relief.

"Max, oh my god," Mike choked out, his voice cracking entirely as a fresh wave of tears spilled over his eyelashes. He squeezed her fingers, leaning down until his forehead almost touched the metal bedside railing. "Thank you. Seriously, thank you so much. I don't even-I can't even describe it. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Max let out a long, exhausted groan, rolling her eyes with whatever remaining strength she had left. She didn't pull her hand away from his grip, but she gave his fingers a sharp, weak squeeze.

"Wheeler, if you don't stop crying right now, I swear to god I'm going to kick you out of this room," Max muttered, her voice incredibly dry and raspy, though a soft, triumphant smirk played at the corner of her lips. She blinked up at him through her pale eyelashes, her expression shifting into her classic, biting wit. "And let’s be entirely clear, I did this for Will. Not you, okay?"

A watery, breathless laugh broke from Will's throat from the other side of the bed. He looked up from the baby, his eyes crinkling with absolute affection as he watched his best friend and his husband still bickering. "Don't listen to her, Mike. She held your hand through the entire last push."

"I wanted to see if I could break his fingers," Max shot back instantly, though her voice lacked any real venom. Her eyes drifted over to Will, softening completely as she looked at the tiny baby wrapped in the pink blanket. A genuine, quiet warmth settled into her face, her cynical guard dropping completely. "She's... she's actually really cute, Will. Thank god she looks kinda like you and not like this asshole."

"Hey!" Mike protested through his tears, a wet, ridiculous laugh bursting out of him as he wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. He looked down at Max, his chest rising and falling with a deep, profound gratitude that went entirely beyond words. He leaned down and gently pressed a soft, reverent kiss to the top of Max's damp forehead. "Thank you, Max. For everything."

"Yeah, yeah. You're paying for my sushi for the next five years," Max mumbled, her eyelids growing heavy as the absolute exhaustion of the day finally started to catch up with her. She adjusted her arm, settling deeper into the pillows with a tired, peaceful sigh.

Will shifted slightly, leaning over the bed so Max could get a closer look at the baby. He reached out with his free hand, tangling his fingers with Mike's across the hospital blanket. Mike’s grip was warm, solid and completely unshakeable.

While Max rested inside, a quiet, expectant energy settled over the rest of the family scattered across the hospital and beyond. Down the hall, Joyce, Lucas and Jonathan kept vigil in the plastic chairs of the waiting room, speaking in low, exhausted murmurs, while Nancy, Robin and Steve braved the midnight chill to hunt down food for everyone. Hopper was currently at his old, abandoned cabin, a pencil tucked behind his ear as he meticulously added final touches to the baby's crib by the low-hanging bulb, while Karen and Ted were busy transforming the Wheeler residence to accommodate the impending influx of family for the next few nights. Meanwhile, all the way back in New York, Jane and Dustin were already on their second pot of coffee, frantically airing out Mike and Will's house and preparing the space for the baby's arrival and celebration.

Looking down at their daughter, then at Max and finally into Mike's dark, tear-filled eyes, Will felt a quiet, monumental peace settle into his chest. The long, terrifying road of their childhood, the years of hiding and the quiet uncertainty of their future seemed to culminate right here in this quiet room. Everything had finally leveled out. They were exactly where they were supposed to be, surrounded by the people who had fought to keep them whole.

Everything from the hurt to the pain and to the horrors was worth it because at last they were here, holding their baby in their arms.

Swear to be overdramatic and true to my lover

14th November, 2021 | Brooklyn, New York | Toni's Latest Artistic Escapade

A massive, multi-colored mural of what vaguely resembled a purple creature riding a bicycle stretched across the lower half of the pristine, white-lacquered kitchen cabinets. The culprit sat smack-deed in the middle of the linoleum floor, completely covered from her messy brown curls down to her dinosaur-patterned overalls in a thick, blinding coat of pink craft glitter. Four-year-old Antoinette Wheeler-Byers was currently holding a capped black Crayola marker like a prized trophy, her lower lip tucked in as she blinked up at her parents with wide, completely innocent eyes.

Will stood by the kitchen island, his hands planted firmly on his hips. He was wearing an old, oversized charcoal sweater with the sleeves pushed past his elbows, a smudge of blue watercolor paint ironically drying on his own jawline. His eyebrows were drawn together in a fierce, disciplined scowl that he was trying incredibly hard to maintain, though his eyes kept darting to the sheer amount of sparkling adhesive tracking into the living room carpet.

"Mike, look at this," Will said, his voice dropping into a stern, authoritative parental tone that was completely ruined by a sharp edge of panic. He gestured dramatically to the purple marker dog. "Look at the cabinets. Look at the rug. We just got that rug cleaned last week! Tell her this is unacceptable. Ground her. Take away the iPad. Something!"

Sweet, innocent Mike was leaning against the doorframe, dressed in his wrinkled work slacks and a half-unbuttoned white shirt, his tie already flung somewhere near the couch. He looked at the purple bicycle-riding dog, then down at his sparkling, entirely pink daughter and his chest began to heave. He clamped his hand tightly over his mouth, his shoulders shaking violently as a muffled, desperate snort escaped his nose.

"Mike!" Will snapped, turning his glare entirely onto his husband, his arms flying up in pure, theatrical exasperation. "Stop it! Do not laugh in front of her! You are completely undermining my authority as a father right now."

"I'm trying, I'm trying!" Mike wheezed, finally dropping his hand, his face completely flushed red as a loud, breathless laugh broke free. He leaned his head back against the drywall, tears of amusement pricking the corners of his dark eyes. "Will, come on, look at it. It’s a masterpiece. The perspective of bicycle wheels is actually pretty advanced for her age. She inherited your artistic soul."

"It's permanent marker, Michael!" Will yelled dramatically, crossing his arms and pacing a tight circle around the kitchen island like a deeply offended Victorian lady who was just accused of being a witch. "She is a menace to our interior design! If we don't discipline her now, she’s going to grow up and vandalize walls. Is that what you want? A life of crime for our daughter?"

Antoinette's gaze bounced between her two fathers, her head tilting in complete, quiet confusion. She gripped her marker a little tighter, her small voice cutting through the dramatic back-and-forth. "Papa? Is the purple doggie bad?"

"Sweetie, the purple doggie is not bad, but the cabinet paint is destroyed," Will said, spinning around to face her, attempting to bring back the stern face. He pointed a finger at Mike. "And Daddy is being an incredibly bad influence by laughing at it."

"I can't help it, Will, I'm literally incapable of being the bad cop here," Mike pleaded, holding his hands up in total, truthful surrender as he shuffled over to the island. He wrapped his long arms around Will's waist from behind, burying his grinning face right into the crook of Will's neck despite the fierce, exaggerated stiffness of Will's shoulders. "I'm being honest to you, my love, but I cannot look at her looking like a disco ball and pretend to be angry. It’s physically impossible. My heart is too weak."

Will let out a long, theatrical sigh, though the rigid tension in his shoulders finally melted away against Mike's chest. A small, reluctant smile broke through his scowl that he quickly covered, his fingers reaching down to loosely tangle with Mike's hands at his waist. He looked at his glittering daughter, then back at his ridiculous, laughing husband.

"Fine," Will muttered, a genuine, soft hum escaping him as he leaned back into Mike's warmth. "But you are the one scrubbing the carpet and you, young lady... No iPad for a week."

"But papa-"

"Nope!" He shook his head, trying to keep his composure, but his control was slipping because Mike was holding him tight from behind while laughing in the crook of his neck. "I told you multiple times, Toni, you can paint on Papa's canvas and your sketchbooks, but not on furniture. You didn't listen, now you pay!" He untangled himself from Mike's hands and strutted into the room.

"Don't worry, he's just angry right now; he'll give you the iPad tomorrow!"

"I won't!" Will's voice cut through the room again as Mike tried to hold back his laughter, but failed, yet again.

Toni looked down at her hands, then at the cabinets and shook her head slowly. Demandingly whispering: “I want you to take a picture and send it to Uncle Jon.” 

Mike looked down at the stubborn, light-headed version of a kid that was half-Will and half-him. Right now, his own self was taking the lead. His eyebrows furrowed in utter mischievous expression.

“Really, Toni?” He could see she was being a menace right now. Mike tried his best to maintain a stern demeanor so she knows she isn’t going to be let off the hook so easily. 

“What? Papa took my iPad. I can’t send it. You do.” She said, grabbing his phone from the counter and putting it in his hands. “Please?”

Mike melted.

And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me

8th April, 1995 | Brooklyn, New York | Midnight after Mike's 24th Birthday 

A half-eaten slice of birthday cake sat on a paper plate on the kitchen table, right next to a cluster of empty beer bottles and a stack of colorful birthday cards from the Party. Their small, shared Brooklyn apartment had finally drifted into a deep midnight quiet hours after everyone had stumbled out the door to catch their cabs. The floorboards were still littered with a few stray pieces of wrapping paper and the only light in the bedroom came from the orange glow of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds, throwing long, familiar shadows across the mattress.

The air in the bedroom was heavy, thick with the salt-sweet musk of sweat and sex, the scent still clinging to their skin and the damp, rumpled sheets. Will was sitting up against the wall, a threadbare white sheet draped loosely over his legs, his skin still radiating a warm, intimate flush. His shaggy brown hair was completely wild and tangled from where Mike’s fingers had been pulling at it for the last hour. He had his heavy, spiral-bound sketchbook balanced on his thighs, his thumb smudged with dark graphite as his hand moved in fluid, instinctive strokes, capturing the sharp, lean lines of his boyfriend’s bare back.

Mike was sprawled out completely on his stomach beside him, the long, lanky frame taking up almost the entire width of the bed. The mattress creaked softly whenever he shifted, his dark curls flattened against the pillow as he kept his head turned toward Will. His dark eyes were hooded, heavy with a lazy, deep satisfaction, looking completely wrecked in the afterglow as he tracked the steady, scratching rhythm of the charcoal stick.

"Twenty-four. I’m officially old, Will," Mike murmured, his voice incredibly deep and rough from disuse, a slow, lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Would you leave me for a younger man?"

"If you keep moving, I’m gonna leave you out on the street," Will countered softly, a quiet, affectionate smile playing on his lips as he shaded the curve of Mike's shoulder blade without looking up. "Hold still. I'm trying to get the lighting right."

“My old fraying body can’t stay still for long, William.” Mike let out a low, vibrating hum, his gaze shifting down from Will's face, tracking slowly over his bare chest and landing on the tight grip Will had on the charcoal. 

“True. You’re losing your grip, Michael. I might have to leave you at the old age home soon.”

“Funny. My grip felt pretty tight when I was pinning you to the mattress a while ago.” Mike rasped, his hand sliding higher up Will's thigh to squeeze the soft, tender skin there. 

Will could only roll his eyes and kiss the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Trying not to recall the memory, or he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. 

The lazy warmth in Mike's eyes suddenly shifted, sharpening into something entirely dark, direct and heavy with intent. His body started speaking a language of impulse. His palm was now hot and heavy as his fingers slowly dragged up the inside of Will's calf beneath the sheet.

“I can still taste you on my tongue-”

“I’m ignoring you, Michael.” Will spat, playfully. 

“Why?” And his puppy-dog eyes were back. The ones Will couldn’t resist, no matter how much he tried. 

“Because we both have early meetings-”

“But you sleep like a baby after round two. It’ll help.”

“Mike!” Will snorted, looking at him disbelievingly. 

Mike’s sweet talk was completely failing to move him. Will could practically smell the sheer, unadulterated desperation radiating off him and it was thoroughly amusing to watch him try this hard to drag him back into the sheets for a second round. 

No matter how much Will’s own body was fiercely aching for it, he wasn’t about to give in easily. There was an intoxicating satisfaction in making Mike work for it and Will had absolutely no intention of surrendering without making him beg just a little bit first.

Out of sheer desperation, Mike tried yet another trick.

"Can you…" Mike drawled, his voice dropping into a quiet, raspy register that hit Will right in the nerves. "Draw something for me?” 

“Hmm.” Will was caught off-guard, knowing damn well Mike is not the one to back down when he knows Will is clearly messing with him. “What?”

“I want you to draw exactly what I look like buried inside you.”  

Will’s ears burned a furious, bright red as his eyes went wide. A sharp, caught gasp escaped his mouth before he could stop it. Mike always possessed a terrifyingly effective way with words, but the absolute filth spilling out of his mouth right now hit Will straight in the nerves, completely shattering his resolve. It was impossible to keep up the playful, teasing act when his entire body was suddenly vibrating with heat, his mind racing to keep up with just how effortlessly Mike could turn him inside out.

“I want you to draw the look on your face when I finally let you come for me.” 

The piece of charcoal snapped cleanly in half between Will's fingers.

Will froze, his breath hitching in a sharp snort as a sudden, blistering blush rushed violently up his neck, flooding his face with a heat so intense it felt like his skin was on fire. He turned his head, his green eyes wide and swimming with slight shock, his chest heaving slightly as he stared down at his boyfriend's smirking face. 

Even after all the time they had lived together, things like these falling from Mike’s lips could still completely short-circuit his brain. The effect he had on Will's poor brain was strong and he knew it very well.

"Mike," Will choked out, a flustered, breathless laugh escaping him as he tried to hide his burning face behind his hand. "Jesus."

"What? I’m commissioning it," Mike whispered, his smirk widening into something entirely wicked as he pulled himself up on one elbow. He leaned in closer, his bare shoulder brushing against Will's knee as he looked up through his dark eyelashes. 

“You’re unbelievable." Will whispered, looking into Mike’s blown pupils and lust-dripped gaze.

"Come here." Mike growled, the words low and guttural, vibrating against his chest. 

Will didn’t bother with the sketchbook. He simply let the sheets slide off his lap, thumping dully onto the rug, his hands instantly tangling in Mike’s hair to drag him up the length of his body. 

Their mouths crashed together, wet and desperate, the taste of beer and cake instantly forgotten under the overwhelming, metallic tang of need.

Mike groaned low in his throat, the vibration humming against Will’s lips as he crawled fully over him, settling his weight between Will’s thighs. There was no preamble or a slow build-up; the air was already thick with the memory of their pleasure and the friction of Mike’s bare skin dragging against Will’s own was enough to ignite a fresh, blistering wave of heat.

"Mike," Will gasped against his mouth, his back arching off the mattress as Mike’s teeth grazed the sensitive pulse point below his jaw. His hands scrambled for purchase on Mike’s shoulders, fingernails digging in hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks in the pale skin. 

"I've got you, baby," Mike rasped, his voice wrecked.

He ducked his head, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the center of Will’s chest, pausing to swirl his tongue over a nipple before biting down just hard enough to make Will cry out. He didn't stop there, kissing a path down the heaving plane of Will’s stomach, his hands hooking under Will’s knees to push them up and open, exposing him completely to the orange glow of the streetlamp.

Will threw his head back, his eyes squeezing shut as he felt the hot, damp puff of Mike’s breath against the skin of his thigh. The blush from moments ago had incinerated, leaving only a desperate, aching want. He looked down just as Mike looked up, the dark intensity in Mike’s eyes pinning him in place more effectively than any weight ever could.

"Happy birthday to me," Mike murmured, before biting down on Will’s exposed and already bruised thigh. 

The sensation left Will wanting more, as his hands dragged all along Mike’s shoulders, trying to pin his adrenaline-filled body to the bed below. Will threw his head back in ecstasy as Mike’s tongue met his shaft.

And at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover

14th October, 2000 | New York City, New York | Mike and Will's favorite Coffee Shop

A low, persistent hum of clinking ceramic mugs and the hiss of a steaming espresso machine drifted through the cramped cafe. Will sat in a small wooden booth near the back corner, his stomach letting out an aggressive, deeply impatient growl. He had been staring at the empty seat across from him for forty minutes, his fingers nervously tearing the edge of a paper napkin into a neat pile of shreds. He was wearing an oversized marigold cardigan over a black turtleneck, his shaggy hair slightly damp from the autumn drizzle outside. Mike’s meeting with his first major book publisher was supposed to wrap up an hour ago. Will was officially starving and also anxious about why Mike was taking this long.

His eyes scanned the crowded room, hoping to spot a lanky, six-foot-three frame pushing through the door, but his heart sank when his gaze landed on a familiar raven head near the counter.

Carlton Shortdick.

He was an old fine arts classmate from NYU who possessed the unique ability to make Will’s skin crawl just by existing. Back in college, Carlton had spent four solid years constantly hovering around Will's studio space, dropping aggressive, boundary-crossing compliments on his posture, his body and his eyes and asking him out under the guise of "critiquing each other’s portfolios." He had an inkling about Will’s preferences in romance and he instantly tried to make himself relevant like an unwelcome guest barging into your kitchen.

Mike had absolutely loathed him from the moment they met at a campus mixer, nearly getting into a literal fistfight by the keg because Carlton wouldn't take a hint and leave Will alone. They couldn't be so out and loud about their relationship at that time because Mike needed a bit more time to be like this in public and the public needed time to be more open-minded. They still weren't very appreciative of queer couples, so all their PDA moments and aggressive hand-holding were limited to their shared dorm room. Mike hated that he had to hide behind the label of a 'best friend' when all he wanted to do was kiss Will in front of all these douchebags so they don't even look at him again, knowing he's taken.

Will quickly looked down, shielding his face by leaning over his empty water glass and pretending to be intensely fascinated by his leather-bound sketchbook. He prayed the crowded tables would act as a natural camouflage, but luck was entirely against him.

"Hey, Will? Wow, I almost didn't recognize you."

I wish you didn’t. 

Will suppressed a long, heavy sigh and forced his shoulders to relax before looking up. Carlton was standing right by the edge of the booth, wearing an expensive, tailored wool coat and a smug, easy smile that screamed generational wealth. His hair was slicked back flawlessly, completely unbothered by the New York rain.

"Oh. Hey, Carlton," Will said, his voice entirely flat, offering a tight, polite nod that didn't reach his eyes.

"How are you doing? I haven't seen you since graduation," Carlton said, his eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep over Will’s face, his hands sliding casually into his coat pockets. "You look great, by the way."

"Thanks. I'm doing good," Will replied shortly, keeping his hands folded over his sketchbook to send a clear message that he was occupied and wasn't interested in further conversation. "Just waiting around for someone."

Ignoring the clear lack of an invitation, Carlton smiled and wrapped his fingers around the back of the empty wooden chair across from Will, preparing to slide right into the seat.

"Oh, actually, that seat is taken," Will said quickly, his tone instantly sharpening as his hand shot out slightly toward the table.

Carlton paused, his eyebrows arching up in a patronizing, slow expression. He didn't drop his hand from the wood. "Oh, hell. Please tell me it’s not reserved for Mike anymore. Is that guy still trailing behind you?"

Will’s jaw tightened, a sudden spike of heat hitting his chest. "What do you mean by that?"

"Come on, Will," Carlton chuckled, shaking his head as if they shared a private joke. He leaned his weight against the chair, his posture oozing an irritatingly casual confidence. "The guy was always like a rabid guard dog. It was honestly a little pathetic. I always wanted to just be your friend, maybe something more, but your best friend was so incredibly insecure he wouldn't let anyone get within five feet of you."

Will felt the pressure of the protective, fierce anger that had lived in his chest since he was a kid, bubble to the surface. He sat up completely straight, his fingers clenching into the fabric of his marigold cardigan as he glared directly into Carlton's face.

"Carlton, you really need to shut the fuck up. You don't know anything about him and you definitely don't get to talk shit about my-"

"Boyfriend," a booming, breathy voice barked out from directly behind Carlton’s shoulder.

Carlton jumped slightly, spinning around on his heel.

Mike was standing there, looking like an absolute storm cloud. His long black curls were completely windblown and wild, his cheeks flushed bright red from sprinting blocks through the city streets. He was wearing a dark tweed blazer that looked slightly damp, a leather satchel slung heavily across his shoulder. His dark eyes were fiercely locked onto Carlton, his chest heaving as he stepped right into the space between the table and the aisle.

"I'm his boyfriend, Carlton. Always have been," Mike splatted, his voice dripping with an intense, unshakeable authority that made a couple at the next table look over. He jammed a thumb firmly into his own chest, taking another half-step forward until his taller frame completely towered over the annoying guy. "I'm still right here. I've been here the whole time and that seat was indeed reserved for me, so you can fuck off now."

Carlton’s face went completely pale, his smug demeanor evaporating into an embarrassed, tight-lipped squint. He looked at Mike, then back at Will, who was now leaning back in the booth with his arms crossed, a thoroughly satisfied, amused smirk plastered across his face.

"Right," Carlton muttered, clearing his throat nervously as he adjusted his coat. "Whatever. Nice seeing you, Will."

He turned and practically bolted toward the front door, the bell above the entrance chiming sharply as he disappeared into the New York drizzle.

Mike watched him go until the door clicked shut, his rigid shoulders finally dropping all at once. He let out a long, dramatic gust of air, tossing his heavy leather satchel onto the floor before sliding into the wooden chair Carlton had just vacated. He slumped forward, his face buried directly into his hands with a pathetic, exhausted groan.

Will couldn't hold it in anymore. A bright, breathless laugh snorted out of his nose, his entire chest shaking as he watched his boyfriend recover from the encounter.

"A rabid guard dog, seriously?" Mike pulled his hands away from his face, a sheepish, completely defeated grin breaking across his lips as his dark eyes melted into a soft, familiar warmth.

"Well, you are... kinda territorial and you look cute doing that so..."

"Shut up. I ran ten blocks because the subway line got delayed and the first thing I saw was Shortdick trying to steal my seat. I had to defend our honor."

"You’re such a nerd," Will teased, reaching across the small wooden table to tangle his fingers with Mike's warm, long ones, squeezing tightly. "I told him the seat was taken. He wouldn't listen."

"I know," Mike murmured, his thumb rubbing gently over the back of Will's hand, his smile turning soft, private, and incredibly sweet. "But it feels really good to say 'boyfriend' out loud to people who deserve to hear it."

A waiter walked up, placing two steaming ceramic mugs of black coffee between them, their usual order, alongside a massive, powdered jelly donut and a big club sandwich that Will had desperately needed. Will tore the donut in half, sliding the larger piece over to Mike. They sat closely in the back corner of the noisy cafe, laughing softly over the steam of their mugs, completely settled into the quiet, unshakeable world they had built together in the middle of the city.

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

11th June, 2010 | Huntsville, Alabama | Jane and Dustin’s Wedding Week

A half-empty literal bucket of neon-orange cheese balls sat in the center of a scarred, folding plastic table, surrounded by a chaotic sea of character sheets, crumpled soda cans and a heavily smudged map of a fictional underworld. The rented wedding house in the self-proclaimed 'Rocket Science Capital of America' was massive, but the Party had instinctively gravitated down into the cold, unfinished concrete basement. It felt exactly like the 80's all over again, right down to the mismatched metal lawn chairs and the faint, familiar smell of damp masonry.

Mike sat at the head of the table, his still lanky but filled frame, hunched over a battered cardboard Dungeon Master screen. His dark curls, now peppered with distinct strands of gray, were a thoroughly tangled mess from where he’d been aggressively rubbing his temples for the last two hours. He was wearing a faded, oversized vintage Hellfire Club t-shirt that had seen better days, his dark eyes locked onto Dustin with absolute, unadulterated exasperation.

"For the last time, Dustin, you cannot use your Bardic voice to seduce the demilich," Mike groaned, slamming his hand lightly on the plastic table. "It doesn't have flesh. It is a floating, jewel-encrusted skull full of pure hatred. It does not care about your acoustic flute solo."

"It’s a magical flute, Mike, music is a universal language of flirtation!" Dustin shot back instantly, leaning across the table so fast his green trucker hat nearly tumbled off his head. He was wearing a bright yellow polo shirt that looked entirely too formal for a D&D game, his fingers wildly gesturing toward his character sheet. "I rolled a natural nineteen! With my modifier, that is a twenty-five. I am playing a power ballad so emotionally devastating that this skull should at least be crying spectral tears!"

"He's right, Mike, the rules technically allow it," Lucas chimed in with a calm, analytical smirk. He was relaxed back in his lawn chair, wearing a clean, zipped-up gray track jacket, lazily twirling a plastic twenty-sided die between his fingers. "I’m currently aiming my longbow directly at its eye socket, but I’d really prefer it if Dustin just confused it with his terrible music first so I get an advantage on the shot."

"It's not terrible, it's classic!" Dustin yelled.

To Mike's right, Will sat with his chin resting comfortably in his palm, a soft, incredibly warm smile crinkling the corners of his green eyes. He was wearing a comfortable, worn denim shirt over a white t-shirt, his fingers idly sketching a miniature version of his Cleric character on the margin of his spell sheet. 

Will leaned over, nudging Mike's shoulder gently with his own; his gaze didn't return to the map. Instead, his eyes were fixed completely on the faded black fabric of the vintage Hellfire shirt stretched taut across Mike’s broad shoulders and chest. Watching Mike command the room, the sharp, dominant edge in his voice as he argued the rules, the effortless authority of his stance and the way those long, familiar fingers tightly gripped the edge of the cardboard screen, sent a sudden, blistering jolt of heat straight down Will's spine.

It was a heavy, intoxicating pull that had nothing to do with the game. Beneath the plastic table, Will's breathing hitched slightly as a fierce, sudden ache settled deep in his core. He traced the sharp line of Mike's collarbone peeking out from the worn collar, imagining the exact taste of the warm skin there, his mind instantly racing back to their messy, breathless privacy. To say he was turned on was an understatement; it was a desperate, primal urge to yank Mike away from the table, drag him upstairs and rip that shirt completely off his frame.

Leaning a fraction closer, Will let his bare arm flush entirely against Mike's side, his voice dropping into a low, raspy murmur that was meant for Mike's ears alone. "Just let him try, Mike," Will murmured, his voice full of a quiet, playful fondness that instantly defused the tension in Mike's rigid shoulders. "I'm almost out of spell slots from healing Lucas's terrible tactical decisions anyway. We need the distraction."

Mike turned his head, his dark eyes instantly softening the second they landed on Will. The exasperated crease between his eyebrows completely vanished, replaced by a private, helpless smile. "Fine. Dustin, do not cry if this shit goes south."

From the far end of the table, a loud, aggressive crunch broke through the argument. Max was sitting propped up, her copper hair woven into a loose side braid, wearing a baggy green flannel shirt. She casually tossed another cheese ball into her mouth, her eyes fixed somewhere toward the center of the table as she leaned her head back with a sharp, sarcastic grin.

"I'm playing too, right?" Max asked, her voice dripping with her classic, biting wit. "Can I just use my turn to push Dustin into the lava pit?"

"One more love song to that bone and he can marry it instead," Jane said, stuffing her face boredly with cheeseballs.  

"Hey, babe!" Dustin protested, turning dramatically to his left.

Jane was sitting right next to him, wearing an oversized, colorful knit sweater that swallowed her small frame. She had her arms tightly crossed over her chest, her brow furrowed into a deep, thoroughly confused pout as she stared at the little plastic miniature figurine representing her Mage, which was currently lying completely flat on its side on the grid map.

"I do not like this game," Jane stated with absolute finality, her voice carrying that familiar, stubborn cadence.

"It's not our fault you died in the first ten minutes!" Mike grinned.

She pointed a fierce finger at Mike. "You killed me, Mike. A giant spider stepped on my head. It is stupid. This game is stupid!"

"Jane, it was an ambush!" Mike defended himself, raising his hands in a helpless gesture. "You walked right into the cave without checking for traps! I even gave you a saving throw!"

"Just cuz you two hate this game, you sabotaged this campaign for us, too." Lucas snickered, looking at the two bored ladies. 

"It is still stupid," Jane reiterated, though a tiny, reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of her lips when Dustin defensively wrapped an arm around her shoulder, murmuring something about rewriting the campaign rules just for her.

As the group instantly dissolved back into a loud, overlapping argument about saving throws, ordering barbecue options and who was responsible for bringing down the next bag of ice, Will felt a sudden, massive wave of emotion crash over his chest. He stopped looking over his miniature, his eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep around the table.

They were old now. They had gray hair, real-world mortgages, marriages, kids, jobs and a collective lifetime of psychological scars that should have broken them a thousand times over. Yet, sitting here under the harsh glare of a single, buzzing basement bulb in Alabama, the decades seemed to entirely melt away. The unshakeable, profound gravity of their childhood was still completely intact, but it was easier to breathe now.

Will reached beneath the plastic tabletop, his hand searching in the dim shadow until his fingers found Mike’s. Mike’s hand closed around him instantly, his long, warm fingers interlocking with Will's with a familiar, effortless perfection.

Mike squeezed his hand tightly, leaning in until his lips were just inches from Will's ear, his eyes shining with a quiet, intense clarity. "Hey. You okay?"

Will looked back into the face of the boy he had loved on the swingset, the kid who found him in the dark, the teenager who taught him the meaning of love and the man who shared his life in the best way possible. A small, breathless smile broke across his face, his thumb rubbing gently over Mike's knuckles.

"Yeah," Will whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming gratitude as the chaotic laughter of the Party echoed around them. "I was just thinking…” 

“About?”

“That I wanna… kiss you."

The basement could have caved in. The ceiling could have torn open to the Upside Down and Mike wouldn't have blinked. He didn't hesitate, didn't glance over his shoulder at the rest of the Party to see if they were looking. He simply dropped his hand from the screen, hooked his other hand's fingers gently into the front of Will’s shirt and tugged him forward.

Will went willingly, the momentum carrying him across the small gap.

Their lips met in the middle of the chaotic table, soft and sure. It wasn't a dramatic movie kiss; it was a quiet, secret thing, shared in the open air. Mike’s mouth was warm as he pressed in close, his thumb brushing against the hollow of Will’s throat, anchoring them together in the spinning room.

For a second, the shouting stopped. Lucas froze mid-sentence. Jane tilted her head, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. It was a simple routine. It was the love and warmth they've been seeing forever. Max and Dustin just smiled, looking at them and stuffing their faces with leftover snacks.

They pulled back just enough to breathe, their foreheads resting together. Mike’s eyes were crinkled at the corners, a wide, dopey grin spreading across his face that he couldn't suppress if he tried. Will felt his own face heat up, but he couldn't stop smiling back, a laugh bubbling up in his chest, bright and dizzyingly happy. Even after all these decades together, it felt new every time their lips collided.

"Boo!" Max's voice cut through the moment. A knowing smile plastered itself on everyone's face. "Get a room!"

Darling, you're my Lover

6th November, 2026 | Brooklyn, New York 

The quiet hum of a sleek, modern air purifier clipped rhythmically in the corner of the darkened bedroom, its tiny blue light throwing a faint glow across the polished oak floorboards. 

Decades of shared living had quietly accumulated in every corner of the brownstone house, turning it into a living gallery of their history. In the master bedroom, a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses sat resting on the nightstand, balanced precariously on top of a modern tablet, while a large, heavy canvas of an abstract sunset leaned securely against the far wall, waiting for a permanent frame.

Down the hallway, the kitchen tap dripped in a slow, rhythmic cadence that Mike had promised to fix so many times it had practically become a running joke between them. The old central air conditioning system hummed a low, steady bassline from the floorboards, its vents gently rustling the edges of the curtains. Just past the living room, Toni’s bedroom door creaked softly whenever the breeze caught it, a distinct, high-pitched protest from the hinges because Will kept forgetting to oil them, claiming the sound was the only way he could tell if their kid was trying to sneak out past midnight. It was a house built on years of small unfulfilled chores, deeply meaningful art and a chaotic, beautiful warmth that was entirely, permanently theirs.

Outside, the distant, muffled sirens of a New York midnight rolled through the glass panes, entirely removed from the small world they had built together.

Will sat wrapped tightly in a heavy fleece blanket right in the center of the mattress, his silver-threaded brown hair falling loosely across his forehead. His breathing had finally dropped into a steady, rhythmic pattern after a solid hour of terror. The nightmares had never truly left him over the last forty-three years; they had simply stretched out, the intervals growing longer, leaving months of peace before a sudden, icy grip would yank him back down.

As his heart rate finally leveled out, his thoughts drifted backward into the pitch-black fog of 1983. He remembered the suffocating weight of the Upside Down, the terrifying echo of his own childhood voice screaming out Mike's name, trying to not die while a vine choked him in darkness. It had been a desperate, impossible cry, but on the other side of the veil, a smartmouthed, stubborn kid had actually believed he was still out there. Mike had kept looking when everyone else was ready to bury a coffin with a fake body. He trusted a static-filled walkie-talkie and a weird, bald girl with powers until he brought his best friend home.

Mike sat directly behind him now, his long legs bracketed securely around Will’s lower back, his chest rising and falling in perfect sync against Will’s shoulders. His arms were wrapped like iron bands around Will’s torso, his large palms spread flat against Will's stomach to keep him firmly tethered to the present. His dark curls, now heavily salted with silver, brushed against the side of Will's neck as he pressed his chin into the soft fabric of Will's t-shirt.

"You're safe here," Mike murmured, his deep voice carrying the rough, gravelly rasp of sleep and decades of practice. He tightened his embrace, squeezing his fingers reassuringly against Will's side. "He is gone. Everything is gone, Will. They've been dead for decades. It's just us. The vines can't touch you anymore."

Will let out a long, shuddering sigh, leaning his weight fully back into the solid, warm chest of his husband. He turned his head slightly, his cheek pressing against Mike's graying temple. "I know. I'm sorry. It just felt so loud tonight. Everything felt like it was turning black again."

"Don't ever apologize for that, Will, I told you multiple times," Mike whispered fiercely, his lips tracing a soft, reverent kiss over the line of Will's jaw. "I've got you. I promised you before and I'm promising you right now, I am always going to keep you safe. You are completely secure in my arms and in our home."

They held onto each other in the deep quiet of the early morning. Navigating their lives together through the eighties, nineties and beyond had never been an easy path; being queer in a world that refused to look them in the eye without hatred meant constantly bracing for impact. They had built a fortress around their love, but the world still managed to throw stones at the walls.

Numerous professional cuts bled into their home life, like the slick New York publisher who rejected Mike’s first major manuscript the second he realized the romance wasn't between a man and a woman, or the high-end Manhattan gallery that pulled Will’s landscape series from the walls, explicitly calling his brushstrokes "unnatural and perverted" because he dared to paint the soft, tender reality of the queer expression. There were the low, venomous whispers on the subway, the heavy, judging glances of neighbors who looked at two men sharing a lease like they were a disease and the terrifying week Mike received typed threats in their mailbox accusing him of corrupting the youth with his stories.

Will had known that same suffocating rejection when he was abruptly fired from his first part-time art teaching job at a local academy, the principal hiding behind bureaucratic excuses because he couldn't stomach a gay man around children. Even their college years hadn't been a safe haven; they had spent a month looking over their shoulders after receiving graphic, handwritten threats of being hate-crimed outside their dorm, a nightmare that only ended when Hopper used his old federal connections to track the bastards down and throw them behind bars.

The heaviest trials weren't always from strangers; the deepest aches were the ones they carried in the quiet of their own living room. They had gone through the agonizing, hollow withdrawals of grief during the fifteen long years Jane vanished from their lives. Mike had spent late nights weeping into his hands, choked with a fierce, lingering guilt, wishing he could have just told her the truth about why he could never love her the way she had so desperately wanted him to. Will had suffered his own silent tragedy, sitting before his easel for hours, his hands shaking as he realized he was slowly, terrifyingly forgetting the exact shape of his sister's face while trying to paint her from memory.

When she finally reached out after a decade and a half of silence, the reunion had broken them completely. They had held each other in the middle of their home, crying tears of absolute relief and a miraculous second coming, a night where Will could finally map his sister's face on canvas again and Mike could finally lay his old, heavy guilts to rest on her feet.

Yet, for every terrible storm, their small world had also been anchored by a beautiful, chaotic warmth. They had laughed and sobbed in equal measure outside that hospital room when Max and Lucas finally brought Lila into the world. They had danced until their feet blistered and the sun came up the night Dustin and Jane finally got married under a canopy of string lights. There was the legendary night of Jonathan and Nancy’s first wedding anniversary, where the two of them got so aggressively wasted on cheap champagne that they completely passed out in a tangle of limbs on the living room rug, waking up with matching headaches and grins. They had spent decades sitting patiently at Hopper’s table, exchanging terrified, loving glances over Joyce’s notoriously terrible cooking, silently feeling immensely grateful whenever they were invited back to the Wheeler house for Sunday dinner, even if Ted remained entirely insufferable behind his newspaper, complaining about everything.

Their own wedding, Antoinette's birth and the hard-won milestones they reached together became the ultimate anchors, permanently grounding them in a life that was entirely, beautifully theirs.

It was a particularly hard, fiercely battered life, but the sharpness of the world never managed to pierce the center of it. Every bad year, every salty tear and every hard-fought battle had simply proven what they had always known since they were kids on the swingset. It was all okay because they went through the dark as a set. At the end of the day, when the city went quiet and the lights went out, they had each other and that was always more than enough.

The lingering scent of turpentine and fresh linseed oil from Will's painting desk suddenly triggered the exact same memory in both of them, a vivid flashback striking their chests simultaneously as Mike let out a soft, knowing huff of air against Will's shoulder.

It was 21st August, 1989 and the gravel driveway of the Hopper-Byers cabin crunched loudly under the bald tires of Nancy’s old, dented station wagon. The back of the car was packed to the absolute roof, a chaotic, packed tower of plastic boxes and crates stuffed to the brim with Will’s sketchbooks, loose canvas boards and charcoal sticks. They were all weighed down by Mike’s duffel bags and a box of old D&D manuals they couldn't bear to leave behind in Hawkins.

Dustin was sitting cross-legged on the hot hood of the station wagon, a half-eaten popsicle melting down his fingers as he yelled unsolicited directions about something no one was listening to. Lucas stood by the open trunk, his hands on his hips, shaking his head as Mike accidentally dropped his keys directly into a thorny sticker bush while trying to lift a particularly heavy crate of acrylic paints.

"Nice one, Mike," Lucas called out, a loud chuckle escaping him as he kicked a stray pebble. "If you drive like you lift, you guys aren't even going to make it."

"Shut up, Lucas!" Mike grumbled, his cheeks flushing bright red as he fished the keys out of the dirt and dusted off his jeans.

Max had been leaning back against the porch railing, her hands jammed deep into the pockets of her denim jacket, her dark sunglasses completely obscuring her eyes from the blinding Indiana sun. She let out a loud, dramatic sigh, pushing off the wood to join the rest of the group surrounding the battered car.

"You guys look like a total disaster," Max called out, her voice dry but completely lacking any real venom.

Dustin hopped down from the hood, wiping his sticky hands on his t-shirt as he slid up next to Lucas. "Spring campaign is on in Montauk! If you two became too snobby for D&D, I'm literally going to disown you both."

Max sauntered over to the driver’s side window, leaning her elbows heavily against the hot metal frame. She looked at Will, who was already buckled into the passenger seat, then at Mike, who was nervously adjusting a cassette tape pushed halfway into the dashboard stereo. It was a custom mixtape labeled 'Mixtape for Will' in messy black marker, one he had spent three solid days making alone in his bedroom.

The joking faded into a heavy, sweet quiet as the reality of the departure finally landed on the four of them. Max reached through the open window, giving Will’s shoulder a rough, deeply affectionate shove.

"Just don't get swallowed up by the city," Max said, her voice dropping into something fierce and protective. 

"NYU should watch its ass!"

Lucas stepped up behind her and Dustin, placing a solid hand on Mike's shoulder through the driver's side door, his expression warm and entirely proud.

"Take care of each other. We'll join you guys soon. Not as near as we were here, but still we'll be closer." 

"Yeah. Forget about me cuz I'm about to be across the damn country." Dustin muttered, swallowing hard as he shoved his hands into his pockets, offering a small, unusually quiet smile. 

Mike laughed, a bright, clear sound as he turned the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to life with a familiar roar. He looked across the seat, his eyes darting to Will with an unshakeable, profound certainty before he looked back out at the friends who were their lifelines.

"We won't forget any of you guys," Mike promised, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

"We'll see you all soon. Stop being sappy."

Will turned his palm up, interlocking his fingers perfectly with Mike's gray-haired knuckles, pressing their joined hands flat over his heart. Max's words from their basement echoed like a permanent, unshakeable truth through the quiet room: They were a matching set, entirely unseparated, bound by a gravity that had outlasted the dark and the hatred of the world. 

Love finally brought them home for good.