pitch upon

"He plugs the projector into the wall with gusto, and the beam of light jets out of the lens and clears the white wall next to their broken TV. In large Times New Roman, Mike’s words flash at them. Why I Should Be Your Boyfriend, and in tinier font below, A Briefing by Mike Wheeler."

(or) the one where Mike makes a presentation to convince Will to be his boyfriend.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Mike is so sly.

So fucking sly that he puts foxes to shame. Said foxes are slinking back into the shadows, cowering at the glory that Mike is and aspiring to be him. He’s so fucking subtle. Subtlety. That’s what his superhero suit should be made out of.

That’s what he’d be if he had powers. A man in a normal suit, walking around the city, being unassuming. And the best part -his powers are nothing pompous, because- get this. They aren’t there. Will could help him out with the characterisation, of course.

He makes a note to himself as he continues his visual traverse over the lines of one Will Byers, thrown artfully (ha!) across the length of their love-seat, sneaker-ladden feet crossed at the ankles as he lays back against an arm rest and tastefully reads an X-Men comic. He’s still in his bunchy, washed jeans and Mike is confused as to why he’s not in sweats.

Will loves and hates denim. He pulls them off, and he knows it, but he hates it because… well. He hates it. He’d change out of his clothes the minute he was done with the outdoors.

Mike furrows his brows and looks away from perusing his best-friend over his cup of coffee. How does he not know why Will doesn’t like jeans? He’s well-versed with The Almanac of William Leonard Byers, preceded by The Chronicles of Will the Wise, and unfortunately as he carded through them, he couldn’t come up with an answer.

He fixes his gaze back on Will and pretends to swallow a mouthful of presumably lukewarm coffee.

Unassuming, Mike might be. But, not as much as Will.

These days, all Mike wants to do is walk up to him and grab him by the collar and ask him how dare he. Just look into those heart-breakers that he calls eyes and demand the truth from him. But-

The fact is that Will Byers should dare. He should dare all he wants, with whatever he sees fit. The world is his and Mike will be a plaything if he has to be-

“Stop doing that,” mutters Will.

It zips Mike out of his reverie and slams him back to his predicament. He clears his throat and wipes at the corner of his mouth like he’s dribbling his coffee.

“Stop what?”

Will’s eyes stay trained on his book, and he doesn’t even glance up as he flips a page. “Staring at me.”

That has Mike sputtering, gasping for air. Subtlety, he mentally reinforces as he feels a flush blot up his neck. He’s got this. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t staring. I wasn’t staring!” He tips his mug at Will, heedlessly. “I’m just here trying to drink my coffee-”

“Your coffee’s been gone an hour ago. That’s empty.”

“-innocently, in the comfort of my own home, and I have to deal with your accusations-” he backtracks when he realises. “Will!”

Finally, Will glances up over his book. Doesn’t move, doesn’t crane his head. His eyes just flit over to Mike, sharp and imploring. Like the argument isn’t even worth pursuing, like he knows he’s just that right about Mike.

Mike has to watch his breath and try not to show that he’s at a position where there’s been an abrupt lack of oxygen. It’s easy. In. And out. In and out.

“You’re saying if I get off his couch and come over and look into your cup, I’m not gonna-”

“You’re mean, you know that,” Mike accuses. “You don’t trust me.”

“Yes, Mike,” he says dryly, going back to flicking through his comic book. “Because this is a matter of trust. You just want my comic. Too bad you aren’t getting it until I’m done with it.”

The tower of excuses he’d rapidly built in his mind goes crumbling down. He blinks, while frantically trying to ease his way back into the conversation. What comes out is an eloquent ‘huh?’

“Don’t tell me you’re not pretending to scheme a heist when I’m not looking,” says Will, flicking his comic at him.

Mike reluctantly focuses on the cover this time. It’s then that he notices the familiar large, red character over the majority of it. The Return of Juggernaut, it says in block-y blue and green font. Oh- Mike hasn’t read that one yet. No one has. It’s barely been out a week. Consider his interest piqued twice over.

“How did you even get it?”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

Mike wishes he would.

He clears his throat over that thought. “Who’d you kill?”

“Your-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Mike cuts across.

Will falls mum at once, and doesn’t offer anything else up.

“Why couldn’t we read it together,” Mike decides to protest instead. “We do everything together as it is. You’re my alarm clock and I’m your coffee machine. We mock-grade each others’ essays. You’re always my partner for beer pong and we fold each other’s socks. We eat together, sleep-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” parrots Will. “You know we don’t.”

“Potay-to, Potah-to.”

Will puts the comic down and stares at him, brows on their way to being knit. “I don’t think you’re saying what you think you’re saying. It’s tomato-”

“You’re not listening to what I’m saying,” Mike corrects him. Before Will can give anymore into the banter, Mike cuts across with a thought that will just not go away. “Why don’t you like jeans?”

Will stops, puzzled. He throws Mike a look. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t like jeans,” he says. “I know that. I don’t know why though.”

At that, Will looks down at his legs and then back at Mike. He throws aside his comic and jumps up from the couch like he just noticed. “They’re not comfortable,” he says slowly. “Why else?”

Mike supposes it’s just that obvious. “Why wear them then?”

Will shrugs. “Beauty is pain.”

That- Mike’s heard that way too much while growing up, and he’s heard it way too many times for him to not know what it means. He’d walked in on his mom sat at her vanity and puckering on red lipstick when she first sighed it, and then he’d heard it from the girls he grew up around. He’d always wondered why he’d never heard a man say it- but coming from Will’s mouth the first time ever, he can only assume one thing.

That Will emanates beauty and leaves everyone else in pain. Mike is no less guilty of being a casualty.

He bounds away, probably to change out of his jeans, leaving Mike at a wake of thoughts that he’s usually a victim to. He lets himself watch after Will and leaves the broken recliner he’d perched himself on for the love-seat.

They’d gotten a love-seat where they never sit together. Mike is a sick man.

The cushions are still warm from Will strewn across them and he burrows himself in it. It wasn’t as if he’d given it a thought, but the view to the recliner is painfully evident if one were to look at the someone on the love-seat, but Mike isn’t confirming anything. Maybe he should find a new locus to infect and carrying on his cataloging of Will, like the kitchen counter. But that’s too far away.

He feels himself frown at that, idly picking up the comic book wedged between the pillows.

Before it knows it, a hand shoots out and pushes his chest into the backrest, and suddenly Mike is looking up at his best-friend, this time eyebrows much knit together, this time without the safety of physical distance, looming over Mike like he’s meant to block out every other light. This time having completely stolen Mike’s breath. He doesn’t get the time to coach himself to inandout and inandout, because Will makes it worse by fixing him with a pointed look.

“Told you,” he says breezily, as the plucks the book out of Mike’s slackened hand. “Always watching you.”

Was he though? Was he paying attention? Could he not tell that Mike was just about ready to die for him? That anything Will did at all, was killing Mike anyway?

He sashays away, book hanging triumphantly from his fingertips, but Mike can’t hear him over the swimming in his ears. He waits until Will’s padded into his room before muffling his scream into a lumpy bolster.

***

“Careful, you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

Mike stops in his tracks at once, and glances at Will. They’re in their usual posts when in their tiny-as-fuck living room; Will over the love-seat and Mike either in his broken recliner, or like this time, pacing in front of their broken TV. That should really say something about him.

“Huh?”

“All that pacing,” is all Will replies with, shaking his head. Said head is bent over a sketch pad. Always watching, his ass.

“I hate public speaking,” he mutters. “You know I hate public speaking.”

“Go on,” says Will. He finally glances up, and his sketch pad falls into his lap revealing work that’s not usually Will’s style. It explains why he’d sat there for ages now, doing rapid hand movements with a pen, rather than his customary strokes with an oil pastel. His assignment on pointillism, yes. The one that Mike’s been oh so curious about and physically stopping himself from asking about. ‘Performance anxiety’, Will said when Mike is too enthusiastic. Will said a lot of weird things. That’s why they’re meant to be.

Um. Why they’re meant to be best friends. The iteration was tortuously important to keep Mike’s runaway mind in line.

“Michael.”

Mike blinks and stares at him.

“You drive yourself crazy and then ask if you can practice with me,” he pauses, eyes flying to a spot beside Mike’s face. “Stage two. You’re pulling on your hair.”

He didn’t even notice, but Mike silently lets go of the back of his hair with a wince.

Will tilts his head at him. “Hit me with it.”

After a minute of ruminating, Mike lets it go with a sigh. He might as well- Will often steadied a perfect balance of biased and critical that he needed. He called him out when it was required, and was gentle with the parts that called for it. He’d hate to be embarrassed, but with Will, there was a recovery period that only lasted the customary two to three business days.

“I have a defence to do for The Outsider by Albert Camus,” he explains. “I have to talk about the intentions of the narrator.”

While Mike launches into a short summary of the book, Will sits up and criss-cross-applesauce’s his legs and nods at the right points. He asks questions, and frowns at the places Mike expects him to. It’s evident that Will doesn’t like the story, just like he thought he would. Another derivation from The Almanac of William Leonard Byers, if anything.

“You’re defending this guy then?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Not actually defending him. Just going up against another student who thinks he’s a piece of shit.”

Will hums, nodding for him to go on.

The notes he’d written on the palm of his hand are smudged with sweat, rampant blue pen marks running down his wrist. Mike gives them a futile squint and looks up at the ceiling. He’s gotta ad-lib this. He’s horrible as it, for someone who ad-libs his way through life.

“The reason that the book works so well is because of the themes of irony. Mersault comes across as an unreliable narrator, not because he’s hiding something from the reader, but because he’s not. He’s truthful to a fault, even if that means he comes off as apathetic. He’s detached emotionally in way that’s freeing.” He backtracks and glances at Will. “In a way that he thinks is freeing. He doesn’t pretend to feel something he doesn’t. He’s open to emotion, mainly pessimism, because he believes that the world is doomed and there’s no purpose to life, and that death is inevitable. He’s accepting of it. He’s accepting of his fate, and that’s what frees him. Even if ironically,” he says pointedly. “He feels free because of this, in spite of being behind bars.”

Will eyes him.

“What?”

“It’s well said,” says Will. “You know what you’re saying and it’s- it’s crisp. I don’t think you should be worried about it. You’ve got it.”

Mike presses his lips together. “Tell me what you actually think.”

Will shrugs. “Tell me what you actually think,” he counters. “Because you don’t look like you believe it.”

That strangely jarrs Mike. He knows what he thinks, of course. He doesn’t know how to say it. “I…”

It takes mere seconds for him to plume together everything in his junk drawer of a mind.

“I hate him,” Mike spits out suddenly. “I understand him and where he’s coming from, but I hate him. I hate his outlook on life. How he thinks there’s no purpose to life and he doesn’t mind wasting it away. I think he takes the easy way out because he doesn’t want to try for something better.”

Will nods slowly, glittering eyes trained on him.

Maybe it’s the unwavering eye contact, maybe it’s just Will and how he looks at him like the words coming out of Mike’s mouth could enter the atmosphere and take up meaning. Like they aren’t wasted the way Mike thinks he wastes them when he spews shit or he tears page after page from his typewriter and crumples them up. If anything, Will just hands him a glass of water when he’s on a rage, and he was the first person who insisted he buy a laptop. Maybe it’s this and maybe it’s that- but it emboldens Mike into going on.

“He takes the cards he’s dealt with. He accepts the fate he’s been assigned. He doesn’t change anything because he doesn’t see beyond his negativity and he doesn’t want to be a better person or do better by people. And, he,” Mike blows out a frustrated breath. “Makes me so angry. I want to grab him by the shoulders and tell him what he’s missing out on. Sure, the sun is hot during his mother’s funeral and the water is nice when he’s swimming with Marie. But, dude,” he finds himself exclaiming. “Your mother! You don’t even know how old she is and how you made her cry, how you made her happy. You can’t think about anything besides how the water was nice because you were swimming with Marie, who you don’t even know that you love but you miss her! You miss having sex with her, but you actually miss holding her! You’re a- he’s a coward.”

“Yeah?”

Mike realises his eyes are bugging out at the floor, and looks over at Will, who just watches him over his impassioned rant and doesn’t laugh. That’s all Mike needs. “He can make something for himself if he really grabbed life the way he was meant to. We’re all confused and bored and lost here and we’re all just trying to find a way to nowhere, but we try! He! He just- just accepts his fate. He accepts his fate. The worst kind of coward is what he is.”

A second after his outburst, Mike finds his body again and notices that he’s just standing across the love-seat and going off. Will has sat up, feet on the floor, enraptured. The tea table is the only thing stopping them from whatever this was. Mike from reaching over and cupping Will’s face and telling him the truth, and Will from running away from the verbose mess Mike was.

Will hums, chin tilted down and glancing over his lashes. His stupid long, long lashes. There are diary entries about how Mike wonders they’d feel on his face, but that’s for later. For never. “Never took you for a philosopher, Mike Wheeler.”

Mike feels himself violently blush. Curse his genetics- his Aunt Marjorie’s plum face dancing behind his eyelids. “Chicken nuggets for dinner?” He’s already walking away; anything to take his face away from Will’s inquisitive gaze. “Last box in the freezer.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he wrenches the fridge open and celebratorily hollers about having found some old ketchup.

Later when Mike is raiding the chocolate stash under his bed, Will knocks on his door. He gives assent with his mouthful.

Will pokes his head in and laughs. “Why are you on the floor?”

“It’s a bitch to get out of my sheets.”

“Gimme,” says Will as he lets himself in. He’s not too perturbed about sitting on the floor beside Mike. Their bare knees touch and they smile at each other under the low lamp light as they chomp away on squares of Hershey’s.

There’s something so childlike about it that it makes Mike’s heart sing. As his smile starts to widen, he looks down at his lap and clears his throat. Between the nightmares and the memories and the second guessing and the secret keeping, he supposes they still have each other. In the moment, though, Mike can’t look at much beyond it. They have each other, should anything else matter?

It’s a dangerous thought. The only way to evade the looming damage of a dangerous thought is by bowling into it with another, though.

“What did you want?”

“Chocolate, obviously,” says Will.

“Obviously,” says Mike.

Will snorts, licking his lips as he finishes eating. He watches Mike and begins chewing on his lip instead. “I wanted to…”

“Yeah?”

“Say that I,” Will pauses again. “I like your interpretation of that book better than the one you wrote for class. I can’t decide for you if you want to present that instead or if you can at all, but,” he shrugs. His eyes begin to shine again. “I think it’s a brave way to look at it. You could agree with him, but you don’t.”

Mike stops chewing and gawks instead.

“That part about changing your fate? It’s so,” he shrugs again. The Almanac of William Leonard Byers doesn’t explain if that’s dubiety or casualness. Superscript footnote: up to Mike, privilege of having authored it. “I don’t know if you see yourself in him. Without the jail part. But. You changed your fate, Mike,” he says. He’s so gentle and sincere that it makes Mike want to throw up. Also up to interpretation. “I hope you know that.”

“Will.”

“I know you thought you were meant to stay in Hawkins and- and-” he shakes his head. “Become your dad,” he grins when Mike laughs at that. “But, you didn’t. I’m so glad you didn’t. I’m glad you came with me when you did, and that you’ve decided to live with me this year. And that you’re enjoying college.”

Mike doesn’t know what to say. “Yep,” he says eloquently.

“Cool, that’s all I wanted to say,” Will perks up at once, almost like he noticed something and dusts off his shorts like he’s about to stand up.

Mike sits up too. “Cool. Thanks.”

Will does get up and offers him a wan smile. “Good night.”

He leaves before Mike can say it back to him.

***

It’s 10:24 PM and Mike is blissfully drunk on boxed wine.

Yes, it’s a Friday evening and yes, he’s pretending to watch the broken TV. Yes, the boxed wine tastes more like cardboard than alcohol. Yes, there’s nothing blissful about it. But, as Mike would say, potay-to, potah-to. Maybe the ignorance he’s bluffing can be blissful.

He should have found a party, and found harder alcohol because why not, when everyone he knows is out-

Nevermind. He’s self-reflecting and he’s having a good time.

It’s still 10:24. Or at least, that’s what the little digital clock that they found at the dumpster traitorously blinks at him.

He could go to the library to study. Maybe being under the influence would be interesting, and maybe he can quantitatively figure out how much he’s imbibing and how much he isn’t. He’d have to figure out to do quantitative measurements first, of course. That would come naturally to a English major like himself, of course. He wouldn’t get help, of course. Because everyone was out having a Friday Night, of course.

Unless there’s another despondent lovesick idiot at the library-

Mike is at home. He’s having a great time.

At least the clock says 10:25 now. Not really broken, then. Mike brain, though? Questionable.

He could write. It would be fun to write. He could write about a boy in the city. A boy with green eyes, that turn brown, like a kaleidoscope. Like magic because that’s what he was made of-

It’s getting increasingly difficult, and Mike ever the masochist, does a smarmy swirl of the shitty wine in his paper cup and downs it. Yep, still disgusting. Still cardboard-y.

The sound of keys steal Mike’s poor attention, making him sit up. He acts quick, throws his feet onto the tea table and urges the stiffness out of his body to sink against the backrest. He can suddenly hear his heartbeat, and it chimes down harder as the door swings open. He aims for casual as he looks over his shoulder. He prays-

He prays that it’s just Will. Not Will plus his hot date.

It’s a singular set of footsteps, pausing to nudge off their shoes and a little puttering later, Will appears before him. “Aren’t you having fun,” he snarks before he snatches an extra cup off the table and crashes into the armchair.

A love-seat it will never be, Mike thinks, as he blinks at the empty spot beside him.

He manages to catch the question and pitch an answer in time. It’s doubtful whether he’s straying from Karen Wheeler’s silhouette when he came home too late and she sat up late to interrogate him at the door. Maybe it’s a blessing- turning into your mother as opposed to your father, at least in his case. “Not too much. What about you? Did you have fun?”

Will doesn’t answer him, doesn’t look at him. He shuffles to the edge of his seat and tips some wine into his glass.

“Will?”

A loud slurp.

The Almanac of William Leonard Byers says that this is avoidance. Mike Wheeler’s footnotes however, urge something of a nudge nonetheless.

“Will. Wiiiiill. Wiiiiiiiiiii-”

“Shut up,” snaps Will, not unkindly. He hides his face behind another sip. “It was okay. Nothing that stood out enough to talk about. Wanna play Monopoly?”

“No thank you, I’d like to stay friends with you,” Mike replies. His heart has calmed down, but his mind is still racing. He wants to know if his date treated him well, if he made Will laugh, if they shared dessert, if they fed each other dessert and giggled over it. Did they play footsie under the table? Did Will walk away with the guy’s heart like he probably always did?

The worst part isn’t that he wants to know all of this, it’s that he wants to ask Will.

Mike grits his teeth. He can’t. This isn’t about him. But, he can be a good friend. “Was it really that bad?”

“It wasn’t,” Will falters as he still avoids Mike’s eyes. It’s truly horrible. “I just- I don’t think…” his shoulders drop with a gust of a sigh. “I don’t think I’m cut out for dating. That’s all.”

Mike’s stream of thoughts come to a steep flow, and he sobers up a little. “Why do you think that?”

“I’m just not, okay,” Will insists. “I can’t explain- I don’t want to explain it, Mike. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

Will shakes his head, tipping it back. “I don’t want you to be.”

“Still. I’m sorry that these men are never nice to you.”

Slowly, Will tilts his head down and frowns at him. Mike misses watches the line of his throat at once. “Who said that? They are nice.”

“Then, why-”

“Mike. Please. Not today.”

‘Not ever’, The Almanac of William Leonard Byers supplies.

Mike might be good at making things about himself, and being in the general space of staying ignorant to anything besides himself- but he can’t keep doing that. Will is his best friend, and that comes first. His duty as that comes before everything else.

“You deserve someone-” Mike cuts across himself. He’s talking in circles. “You deserve love. To love and to be loved, Will. If it’s not,” he shrugs. “Happening now, it will happen soon. If it’s anyone that gets to have something like that, it should be you. You-” he feels himself blush when he realises what he sounds like. “You’re worth it, you know? You’re worth getting to know. You’re worth knowing.”

“And you’re drunk,” Will tags on.

Mike sits up, feet flat on the floor as he leans over his knees. Fuck being lax, fuck being aloof because Will would catch on or some bullshit. He lingers at a height where they can meet eyes. “I’m serious, Will.” He can only hope his grave tone conveys it.

Will glances back at him in stunned silence.

Footnote for Mike Wheeler: curb it the fuck in. Christ.

He opens his mouth one last time to suggest digging into day old leftovers so he’d have something occupying his mouth to make sure he doesn’t embarrass himself anymore-

But, Will gets there too. And they blurt over each other.

Mike wills himself to pause and inhale, but there’s hope blooming in him. Did Will say something to that? Did Will ask if he’s offering? “What d’you say?” he asks breathlessly.

“Have you heard of the Foo Fighters?”

“No?” Mike waits with bated breath for an allegory, maybe.

“They’re new,” says Will. He’s gone back to avoiding Mike’s eyes. He’s also slunk away from where they were sat to their bookcase. He pulls out a record sleeve and waves it in the air. “I bought it a while ago and haven’t listened to it. What do you think?”

Mike’s chest caves and his heart sinks. His head fills so fast with cotton that he almost says ‘Whatever you want, Will’ just to placate himself and shrink back into the truth he’d been both waffling past and drowning in. “Yeah,” he chokes out. That’s that.

***

Mike’s heart has taken over. Always does when it comes to Will.

Unfortunately, Mike’s brain is slow on the uptake and can’t understand the concept of masochism. Mike’s id though, is very comfortable with it. Encourages it when time complies. Which is most of the time. He really needs to stop dissecting himself up when he can’t understand what he does, and point fingers at parts that he thinks are at fault.

Every part of you is Will’s, his heart sings in response.

Mike’s brain tells it to shut up but the sound is lost in the torrents.

Now, he’s making a vinaigrette for a salad that they won’t eat. Salad means effort though- that’s what Mike knows. Will on the other hand will just nudge it to a side of his plate with a twist of his features and probably distract him by complimenting his lasagna.To be honest, he’s replacing the olive oil with canola oil, and the balsamic vinegar for ranch. Leaves are meant for companions to flowers, and as illusions of health to a dinner plate.

Brain is preoccupied, clearly, while Heart is taking decisions. He’s about to talk himself into an aneurysm like a Victorian heroine when he hears the the front door open.

“That smells amazing,” Will calls while the sound of shoes bouncing off the wall follow. “Lasagna?”

“You bet,” Mike calls out. He peeks past the divider of their tiny kitchen and sees Will throw his satchel beside his shoes. “How was your day?”

Will rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out like a silly snake. “Boring.”

It’s so ridiculous because it’s new and it makes Mike guffaw at the chopping board he’s busy with. He turns to make fun of Will, but finds him next to him. Most days Mike can’t take how tiny their apartment is, almost like a dollhouse where they have to step around and try not to step on things. Like he could acquire claustrophobic elements from prolonged exposure. But. But, if it means Will and him end up shoulder to shoulder in their kitchen while doing absolutely nothing, he’ll take it. It’s their dollhouse, after all.

Up close, Mike can smell the day on Will. The stale smell of coffee beans from his shift at the cafe, the stark chemical that’s unmissable from his art classes, the slight metallic smell of sweat that clings of Will’s skin from toiling away. The aroma of earth from the drizzle of rain he probably caught on his way in. Mike quietly takes in a lungful and puts his brain on pause.

“What’s that?”

Will doesn’t wait for an answer as he saunters away to raid the fridge.

“Vinaigrette.”

At that, Will darts his head out before he even looks into the cavity of the fridge. “For a salad? When was the last time we had a vegetable?” He chortles at Mike’s response about it being Christmas last year at Hopper’s, but soon enough gets shadowed when he gasps at the fridge. “Cheesecake? Did you buy cheesecake?!”

“Made it, actually.”

“You made it?”

“Yeah.”

Will straightens out and gapes at him. “You made it?”

“Yes, Will.”

“You made it?”

Mike tries not to smile as he gets on slicing the strawberries he’d left to dry on the board. He eases the knife along a length of one. “I think in this case, emphasis on any of the words in that sentence wouldn’t make a difference with the meaning,” he muses.

Will reaches into the fridge and pulls out a plucked grape and flings it in Mike’s direction. When Mike steps away, the grape hits the kitchen counter and bounces away. In response, Mike spikes a strawberry at him that Will catches with cupped hands and eats wolfishly, and smugly.

Mike has to look away. The strawberries need done.

The fridge closes with a bang and Will is beside him with a carton of apple juice before he jumps onto the small counter space beside Mike and makes himself comfortable. He looks down shortly at the chopping board before he busies himself into drinking straight from the carton. From the corner of his eye, Mike peers at the long line of his throat. A rivulet of juice trails past the corner of his lips and down to the dip between his collarbones. Suddenly, Mike is thirsty.

Will just wipes at his mouth like it’s nothing. “Do you want me to stay out the night?”

“What?”

“I can take the subway to Jonathan’s, if you want. He won’t mind having me over.”

Mike is confused. He halts his cutting and stares up at him. “Huh?”

Will shrugs, mouth twisted. “For your date.”

“My date?”

“Yeah,” Will says, his tone obvious. “Isn’t all of this for a date?”

That pinches Mike’s breath- and complimentary to that comes a blush that he can’t stop in time. He feels like his face and chest are on fire. He has to remind himself to breathe. Even for the second that he loses track of it. “N-No,” he says. “Not a date. It’s…”

He steels himself with a grit of his teeth. “For,” you, he nearly says. “Us. It’s for us.”

Will fish-mouths for a second, frozen and mirrored much like himself. “What’s, um. What’s the occasion?”

Mike tries to not take the mortification at its absolute. But it has his stomach flipping, and a flash of nausea racks him for a second. “Made an extra seventy on tips yesterday.”

A teasing hum sounds from Will, and suddenly they’re back to normal. Back to best friends that have known each other too long, that rib each other and poke in places that are sore. Back to Mike hiding his hurt in the spots the sun won’t touch. Back to Mike pretending to be human rather than the puddle of fucked up feelings. Back to Mike disregarding how this was all a ruse to sit together and have something nice because Will deserves it.

“Well,” announces Will. “Thank you for treating me to it, I guess.”

There’s a prickle of pain in his left hand, and Mike looks down to the seeping red onto the chopping board. He glares with spite at the dribbling blood, and a pang of dizziness follows. He’s gonna have throw those strawberries in the trash now. His finger though-

“Mike!”

Will’s hand relieves him of the knife and grasps his wrist, pulling the rest of Mike’s body along with him and leads him into the bathroom. He twists the faucet on and drags Mike’s hand under it. When Mike chances a look at it, he can’t see the red and his heart slows down. He hadn’t even noticed over his lightheadedness that he was on the way to panicking. “Keep it there,” he commands as he rifles through the cabinet under the sink for the box of Band-aids. They weren’t cultured enough for a first aid kit- the Band-aids were a cursory buy when they first moved. Seems like ages ago now.

“You didn’t need to do something so elaborate,” Will grumbles as he mops at the cut with a piece of toilet paper.

“I was cutting strawberries,” says Mike, hotly. “Strawberries. What is-”

“Michael.”

Mike snaps his mouth shut, watching his finger be gingerly bandaged. It’s all too easy for his eyes to stray past that and to Will’s concentration-furrowed eyebrows, lashes fluttering as he scans Mike’s cut with a frown. He’s muttering under his breath so low that it’s inaudible- only the soft tut of lips is loud enough for Mike’s ears.

“You,” he clears his throat, making Will look up. “We deserve nice things, don’t we? Like a break from mac and cheese and PB&Js.”

Will snorts lightly. “We do have nice things. Nicer things than most college kids. I don’t know if you remember our childhood, but now the government is literally-”

Mike shushes him like someone is listening in on them. He’d rather not know the extent of Dr Owens’ authority, even if it were revealed that their walls do have ears.

“Okay, but,” Will barrels on either way. “I like your pasta. We can have pasta everyday. I don’t get tired of it. When you throw in some of that rotisserie chicken that’s on sale sometimes,” he exaggeratedly ‘mhmms’, unchaining a laugh that comes all the way from Mike’s fluttering belly. “That should be a part of my last meal.”

“Stop it,” Mike hisses.

Will has a gleam in his eye when he throws his head back and dramatically wails to the ceiling. “Put me on death row now,” he cries out. Where was this even coming from? Who was this? “Mike’s pasta, here I come.”

“Will!”

As Mike gets progressively redder, Will only laughs harder. “I’m serious. I love your pasta.”

“Lasagna is pasta.”

“It is,” agrees Will. “Are you okay? I know you don’t like seeing blood.”

“It’s stupid,” grumbles Mike.

“It’s not stupid,” Will counters. “You know what’s stupid? That your lasagna is better than your mom’s. How is that even possible?”

“You can stop now, Will.” He lets Will’s protests go on deaf ears. He doesn’t need this right now- another crisis from Will being the kind person that he is. Making it worse for Mike because when Will so much as breathes, he gets deeper and deeper into that pit of ahem, fallinginlove (huh? what was that? who said what?) while all Will does is be a decent human being.

But, the driver of this vehicle is no one in particular because Heart and Brain are wrestling for the steering wheel and leaving Mike a mess that will drive off a cliff (literally, he can only hope) when he lets himself think this is Will for him. The way he could be only towards Mike.

A fool is what he is, if he’s being nice to himself.

“Let’s pretend none of that happened,” he says instead of all of that. He should just be glad he didn’t have a panic attack this time at the sight of blood. He hasn’t been the same November 1987, not since he saw Will’s glowing eyes and he’s branded that into a part of his mind he doesn’t dare visit unless his masochism has reached the seventh circle of hell. That’s neither here, nor there though.

“If that makes you feel better.”

Mike looks at him imploringly and finds nothing but sincereity and if that doesn’t make him want to find that cliff right this instant. “We have a lasagna to demolish,” he announces and leaves the bathroom first.

***

This time, Heart lets Brain take the wheel.

Mostly because they’ve both devised a plan together that compromises Mike. He doesn’t even care anymore. Being in love with Will is making him sick. Making him sick enough to give in and admit it now. He’s never had the prospect of looking anywhere outside himself and hope Will will want him back like this. Mike knows it used to be there- a time when Will looked at him with beacons shining out of his eyes, and before Mike could understand what it meant, the light dwindled to dullness and Mike lost his chance.

He thinks back to the time Will said he used to have a crush, while staring straight at Mike and that was it. Mike felt his heart drop to his feet, and it was never the same after that. By the time his heart made its way back to his chest, it had brought along hurt with it. And anger. Way too much anger that had Mike punching down pillows and blaming himself for not noticing on time. He’d lost the one thing he didn’t even know he had the capacity of having.

But, Will didn’t go off and find love first thing when they got to college, the way Mike hoped and dreaded at the same time.

A small part of him -a small, pathetic, cruel, optimistic part of him- was still clinging to the potential of Will realising it isn’t a crush.

Maybe that’s why it took so long for Mike. He had looked far and wide for the butterflies, the fireworks, the distractions, the cliches he’d heard about. What he didn’t know for the longest was that it would be natural and it would settle like a tyndall. That he was looking forward to an actualisation that wouldn’t happen, because he was always there.

Will could never be reduced to a crush. As unsure as Mike was with every little aspect of his life -his clothes, his classes, his essays, his self esteem, his senses- this was something that cemented itself down and grew roots before he gained consciousness. It was that obvious, and Will couldn’t see it yet. They were destined for love, they were.

It’s simple, said Brain. Lay out the facts. Clear and logically.

He’ll have to listen, Heart swooned. It only makes sense.

Mike stayed mum and cracked open his laptop.

***

“I think I’m gonna tell Will,” Mike mumbles into the receiver. He glances at the person lingering at the copier, rather suspiciously. It’s obvious that the man is listening- his eyes flickering to the corners to watch Mike while he pretends to busy himself in watching the copy machine spit out blackened paper.

Lucas hums. “What are you gonna tell him?”

“You know,” says Mike, dryly. “That he’s the father.”

At that, Lucas gasps dramatically, in tandem with the man at the copier glancing at him, alarmed. “He’s what?”

“This baby is his,” he keeps up. “He needs to step up and take responsibility. We’re gonna need to paint the nursery soon and stock up on diapers.”

The man abandons his shitty copying job and begins blatantly staring at Mike. This is what he gets for using a public phone and what this stranger gets for eavesdropping.

Lucas on the line, scoffs. “Don’t joke about this shit, Mike. It’s distasteful.”

“Distasteful?” he demands. “What, did you have a dictionary for breakfast?”

“It’s a perfectly normal word,” Lucas protests. “What, just ‘cause you’re a writer-”

“I don’t know, Lucas,” he says, exasperated. This is digressing more than he gave it permission to. But, then again, everything that comes out Mike’s mouth is just a severely malformed collection of his wayward thoughts, so polluted from his context origins. It’s on him that his friends have begun to cotton to it. “Your vocabulary is limited to ‘water’ and ‘hungry’ and ‘Max’.”

“The Holy Trinity,” announces Lucas. “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

It’s 1993 and the Lucas Sinclair just made a flippant biblical reference. Their very own resident bible thumper- Mike couldn’t be prouder. Maybe Christ will come for them after all. “Lucas.”

“What more do I need, Mike?”

“A brain,” he supplies. Digressing wasn’t just on the agenda anymore, it had become the agenda, it would seem. Never mind the secondary iota Mike notes about all this talk of paternal figures; bible-verse or not. He thinks the stranger across him would take well to Mike ripping open the quagmire that was his daddy issues. “And some focus. Because you’re not listening.”

“I’m listening, Mike,” says Lucas.

He’s rolling his eyes. Mike can smell it. Maybe Mike should make an underpass at the father figure conversation, he’s convinced that the stranger might sit him down and help his quasi-psychoanalysis. Lucas’s minor in psychology would probably provide good medium too.

“Mike!”

He flinches and gets back to the matter at hand. “Lucas. Listen. I’m gonna tell Will. I’m gonna tell him.”

Lucas takes a second too long to get it.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

“Fuck indeed.”

The stranger hisses at him. Mike glares back in return. He can talk of unwed pregnancies and get away with it, but a cuss word is the line? He almost calls bullshit out loud.

“Ohohoho,” Lucas heaps, and then teeters it into laughter. Chicago has changed his oldest friend, certainly made him more intolerable. Mike supposes him reaching his full potential was of inevitability. “Finally found the balls?”

“As opposed to your lack of them?”

Lucas’s peals cut short. There’s a stretch of silence that Mike uses to bask in his triumph, until Lucas clears his throat and muddies it. At least, they aren’t bickering again like they did when they were kids. That was always Lucas and Dustin’s thing. Did Chicago change that between them though?

“You’re gonna do it?” asks Lucas. “Just like that?”

“Yeah,” he says, short. There’s nothing else to say. Lucas knows enough about his obsessive need to keep his feelings about Will quiet, even called him out on it on occasions. Called him out for being obvious, but never a coward. Mike the Brave was an alter ego he only wished he could be, and no one pointed out that it was a gross misnomer. Not even Lucas, who’d seen him through the shittiest of things.

Lucas waits a second. “Good luck,” he says eventually.

“That’s it?” he demands to that. “No telling me it’s a bad idea? No telling me I’m screwed?”

The stranger sighs deep and tired.

“No,” Lucas says in his ear. “I’ve got nothing. But, Mike. You’ve got this. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Agree with me like you believe me,” Lucas says pointedly.

“I don’t, though.”

“I’m not gonna say it’s gonna go great, like Will won’t jump into your arms and swoop you into a kiss and run off into the sunset together-”

Mike snorts. “Gee, thanks, Lucas. Remind me why I come to you?”

“-um, if that’s what gay dudes do-”

“Oh yeah, ‘cause we’re not like normal people-”

“Mike, stop interrupting me,” Lucas shouts, and it makes Mike fall quiet. “What I’m trying to say is that… we don’t know how Will is going to react,” he draws in a breath. “But it won’t wrong, that’s all I know. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Tell me.”

His mouth is faster than his brain. “Will stops being my friend.”

“Exactly! In what universe would Will stop being your friend? He loves you. We all do. We’ve been through so much shit together and nothing could take that away. Even if,” Lucas trails off and picks it up after a second. “Even if Will doesn’t love you romantically, he will always love you like a friend. That’s guaranteed.”

Maybe Mike is too selfish to want more.

Maybe Mike is lying. The worst thing to happen is Will being too nice to turn him down. Or worse than that, them continuing to be friends and Will seeing the depth of his feelings every time he looked at Mike, knowing that Mike loves him senselessly. The shame he would have to feel every single day and every single time he would be in Will’s presence. Maybe it’s not rejection he fears, it’s the embarrassment. His time on earth with fellow humans have eventually led Mike to understand and appreciate love, to love at all, but not to love freely.

Love comes with a cost, Mike, his mom always said. She always had loads of unsolicited advice to give him.

“Okay,” he breathes out. “Can you not tell Max yet, please?”

He can hear Lucas wincing on the other end. “She can sniff it out when I’m lying.”

“You’re not lying,” he protests. “You’re respecting my secret.”

“You’re right,” says Lucas with a sigh. “I’m gonna say it now.”

“You’re gonna say what?”

“I’m gonna say it, Mike…”

“What?”

“Go on, Mike,” he says breezily. “Go get your baby daddy.”

Mike scrunches his face up, trying not to laugh. “You’re so goddamn right, I should. He is the father. This is all his fault,” he glances at the stranger, who has now abandoned his post of pretending not to eavesdrop, to straight up scowling at Mike. “Men don’t learn to pull out-”

“Too much, Mike, too much!”

***

“Oh no,” is the first thing Will says when he comes into the apartment. He’s brought in the rain with him, carrying it in his stringy hair, his coat, and dotted all over his umbrella. The way he shakes himself off at the door is perfunctory, but the followed ritual of lining up his sopping shoes is intentional, even if the wall beside him has flecks of water over the length of it from his endeavour. It’s an entertaining event to add to The Almanac of William Leonard Byers.

“You’ll dry off soon,” supplies Mike. “Nothing a hot shower won’t fix.”

“It’s not that,” says Will. He stands at the door, wide-stanced and gaping back at him.

Mike is confused, and he says so.

“Stage three,” Will says, gravely. “You’re biting your nails. How bad is it?”

No point in lying. “Bad,” he whispers. It somehow rings loud in their living room. The narrow walls help bring it closer, the word wrapping around the quiet that’s tinged with the faraway sound of the skies opening up.

“Hit me with it,” Will says. The determination in his tone knows nothing of what’s in store for him, how when Mike were to do what he’s been vigorously planning, it could slither back into a place Mike wouldn’t see again and maybe Will would not speak to him ever again.

They were destined for love, though. If not now, in the future. If nothing happened now, Mike would wait. Mike would always wait for Will- at the school cafeteria line, by the bus stop with an umbrella to walk them back to the apartment, at the coffee shop for Will to finish his shift. For Will to realise that something was waiting for them. Something tremendous. Something that could break them and put them back together into a mosaic of each other.

Mike still wants to buy himself some time though. “Shower first.”

Will doesn’t fight him, padding away to get to it.

A few minutes later, Mike lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in when he hears the shower start running. The rain made Will take a longer shower than usual, which gives Mike enough time to set up and pull off the extra task of sending himself into a spiral. The first part is easy though. Pull up the Powerpoint presentation on his laptop and turn on the projector. He’d used the college’s privileges, of course- a crash course on Microsoft and renting out the projector under the guise of a project.

It is a project, though. Maybe it would have been less daunting if he named it. Project Get Will Byers. Project Friends to Lovers. Project Ruin the Friendship. Project Make Will Hate Him. Project-

“Okay,” Will announces as he enters the living room. It makes Mike flinch, the last of his thoughts circling the drain. “Defence or presentation?” he asks as he crashes into a side of the love seat. He’s wearing a threadbare shirt and pinstriped pajamas. His hair is wetter, and the smell of his menthol shampoo settles like waves around them. His face is scrubbed red and his eyes are beady as they look about. “You pulled out a big guns,” he nods at the laptop and projector.

“Yeah,” Mike chokes out. “Are you ready?”

Will sits up straighter. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

A confused smile begins playing across Will’s lips. “Yeah?”

“Okay,” Mike whispers. “If you’re sure.”

Because Mike isn’t sure. He’s ad-libing again because he doesn’t trust himself to not sound monotonous with something rehearsed. Will deserves something beyond the normalcy of rehearsed.

He plugs the projector into the wall with gusto, and the beam of light jets out of the lens and clears the white wall next to their broken TV. In large Times New Roman, Mike’s words flash at them. Why I Should Be Your Boyfriend, and in tinier font below, A Briefing by Mike Wheeler.

Will stares, slack-mouthed.

“It’s- It’s pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it,” says Mike. His voice comes out high and shaky. “I’m trying to lay out the facts.” He leaves space for Will to say something, but he’s seemingly pushed him into a state of shock. The floor is all Mike’s. He presses for the next slide on his laptop and watches the slide change on the wall. Reason #1 it says, followed by digitized pictures of them. Mike had to ask his mother to send them by post, and it took him a few more days (and Jonathan’s suspicions and help) to scan them and put copies of them on the presentation.

“We’ve known each other a long time, Will,” he says. “Seventeen years, to be exact. That’s, like, almost an adult on its own. It means the statistical implication of either of us leaving the other is,” he switches to the next slide. “Is almost 0%.”

In the center of the white is an equation:

“In fact,” says Mike. “If I’m being accurate, it’s 0.78 percent, according to my sources. I think that’s a bet we can take. Especially if the probability gets halved with time. Which brings me to my next point.” He flicks to the next slide where it says ‘Reason #563: We already work well together’.

He doesn’t look at Will as he goes on, knowing that if he does, he’s gonna forget what he rehearsed. He needs to get through this. “This is given,” he says. “I don’t need a mathematical calculation to tell me that we’re good together from how well we know each other. Here’s math of my own,” he dishes out. “More time equals more memories equals more experiences. Directly proportional to familiarity. Get me?

“We have a morning routine that I think,” he emphasises with a point of his finger in Will’s general direction. “will get grossly interrupted if you got a new boyfriend that wasn’t me. What if your boyfriend woke you up a little off time- that would ultimately throw me off my wakey time. What if you were at his place? What if he doesn’t make you your coffee? What if he makes it wrong?” He pauses for effect, apprehension creeping into his tone. “What if he… Will, what if he has a,” he gasps theatrically. “A fancy coffee machine?”

He gives into the temptation and finally glances at Will, who’s as white as a sheet. No harm yet.

“This, of course, only serves as an example with the start of the day. The rest of our lives not included because,” he pretends to peer at the nonexistent watch on his wrist. “We’re short on time. Moving on…”

The next slide says Reason #2432 with a collage of Will’s drawings, their favourite comic characters, scanned clippings of a cleric and a paladin from a thrifted D&D manual. “We’re nerds. Most importantly, we’re nerds together. We love D&D, we’re fanastic at it. It worked as a foundation for our friendship for very long and even now. You’re an amazing artist, and I’m a writer,” He raises his eyebrows. “I’m a writer, Will. I can be romantic as hell, immortalise you in my words, but we can discuss that later.” He quickly jumps back on the wagon. “Anyways, our art goes together. It’s a forecast of how we can fit together.”

Will apparently just remembers to talk. “Mike-”

“I’ll take questions at the end,” Mike cuts across, primly. “Thanks for your patience.”

At that, Will clamps his mouth shut.

Before Mike can feel bad about understanding whether he’d snapped or not, his hands are faster to switch to the next part of the presentation. #Reason 178348 is two pedigree charts of their families.

“We never have to worry about meeting the parents!” exclaims Mike. “Because we’ve met them already! Your mom loves me and my mom loves you, in fact, she’d rather you be her son. Our elder siblings are engaged,” he supplies, then grits his teeth to mutter, “After some back and forth and fixing-upping, because they like drama. Holly loves you. My dad would love you if he knew how to love. Hopper would love me if the urge to kill me wasn’t so strong, but those are just variables, am I right?

“And lastly, we would have the best story to tell,” announces Mike. “Max and Lucas who? We’d be the couple of the Party. Dustin and his girlfriend can try, but fuck them,” he refrains from saying anything about El, but then again, El didn’t seem like she was gonna take on a boyfriend and put herself in the race any time soon. “You get me?”

Will holds onto silence.

Mike needs to fill it with his words.

#Reason Eleventy Billion!!??!!!! his brain reminds him. His mouth is faster though. “I could do this for you,” he concedes. “I could be everything you need, do whatever you wanted and make you comfortable. Take care of you. Will?”

It’s not enough though because Will stubbornly digs his heels into his wordlessness and it’s sending Mike reeling into nervously babbling, except he doesn’t know how much he has in him anymore.

He needs to curb himself. He finally chances a look at Will and sees his clenched jaw and his flared nostrils, biting down hard enough for the muscles in his neck to jut out. Almost like he was biting down on his own words.

That is-

A referral to The Almanac of William Leonard Byers says that Will is… well, he’s. Seething.

Oh boy. One of the uncommon reactions. Mike should have stayed quiet and given him the time. That’s what he does. He stays quiet.

A few seconds pass.

A minute.

Two.

Three minutes.

Mike is going to scream-

“You could do this for me,” Will parrots, slowly dragging out the words. He swallows and glares daggers at Mike. They don’t miss their aim when they hit Mike square in the chest. “Could you?” he asks, words a taunt.

“That’s not-”

“Because you pity me?”

Mike’s jaw drops open. This isn’t going the way he’d imagined. His stomach turns violently and he imagines throwing up everywhere, on his shoes, the projector, on his laptop. Then he imagines a chasm opening up under his feet. He blinks and it’s gone. “I don’t,” he hurries to say. “I don’t, that’s not what I meant. Will. That’s not what I meant!”

“What did you mean, then, Mike?” he challenges. “You made a fucking presentation about offering to be my boyfriend. You’re offering, aren’t you? Because you think I can’t find love or some bullshit,” he lets out a shaky breath, rubbing his face with his hands. “I should have known.”

Will doesn’t curse unless he has to.

Mike is scared, nay, he’s terrified. It’s all going so wrong, so fast. His heart never sank this rapidly. “Will…”

“All that stuff with- that pep talk you gave me after I came back from that date, that dinner you cooked us… That was a part of this wasn’t it?”

“It’s not,” he says feebly and then truly hears the words.

“No, Mike,” he points a finger in his direction. “I don’t want to hear it. This is so,” he chokes out. “So humiliating. I let you get away with anything, Mike, but this is unfair. I get to choose what happens in my love life. Me! If I say I don’t want to date, then I don’t! I don’t need you to throw this in my face. I don’t need your logic or your reasons or,” his voice takes on a dangerous edge. “Your fucking help. I don’t need you to be my boyfriend.”

Mike stops breathing.

“You can’t just-” Will’s face goes red, blotches painting the tops of his cheeks. “You can’t say things like that. I know that,” he swallows. “Your intentions are good, Mike, but I don’t think you understand-” he huffs, his ire annealing to irritation. “I want a boyfriend who will love me and hold me and care for me. Someone who lets me do all that to him. Someone I can kiss and- and-” Will blurts out, “Have sex with! Do you see that?”

“I could do all that,” Mike spouts. “I would do whatever you asked.”

“Stop it, Mike,” Will’s tone is sharp and unforgiving. “Do you hear yourself?”

“But-”

Will begins shaking his head. “Don’t make it worse. You just gave me a elevator pitch to become my boyfriend. It can’t get anymore absurd than this. This is a new low, even for you, Mike. It’s like you don’t even…”

“Don’t even what,” Mike croaks out. He knows what’s coming, but he needs to hear it and he needs it to hurt on the way in.

“You don’t respect me,” Will concludes. “Not even as your friend. You’ve just reduced my needs down to something you can do for me. It’s so selfish, Mike. It’s so fucking selfish of you. Can’t you see that?”

It’s like Mike is hearing himself back- he knows he’s selfish. That’s why the turmoil hadn’t been stagnant; it twisted and turned so many times.Why he sat on the truth for months, for years almost. Because he didn’t give Will the chance at the right time and now that he’s caught up, he wants something that just isn’t up for grabs anymore.

But, maybe he could try again, just a nudge and not a push. Give into his selfishness one final time before he gave up at all.

Because as he stands across the room and watches defeat weigh down Will’s features, one thing becomes clear. He didn’t need a presentation- he didn’t need to plan it out and cite a reflective piece on why it was an idea for the ages. That was all Mike- he was the one who needed clarity and rationale. The one who ran a study because he couldn’t comprehend that things between him and Will are irrespective of petty things like time and synthesis. All Will needed was the truth- barren and given to him without an alloy.

“Will,” he says, voice low. The bravado he reaches for in the center of himself doesn’t fight him when he makes a grab for it. It’s easier now that he’s already royally fucked up. “I don’t pity you. I’m not humiliating you, I promise. And I’m not doing you any favors,” he pauses. “You’d be the one doing me a favour.”

Will bites down on his teeth.

“I should have mentioned the most important reason of them all,” he says with a sigh. “I love you. I’m- I love you like the way the flowers love the morning dew, and the way that bees love honey, and the way-” he shakes his head. He’d veered off deplorably into quoting his diary entries and his confession was now diving towards a character assassination.

He starts again. “Ignore that. Ignore it. Please. I don’t know what love looks like, Will. I only know from what I’ve seen from the outside. I don’t know if that means we have to kiss and have sex. But, I know that I want that with you. You’re the only person I want it with because touching anyone else is too much, and sometimes I look at you and it drives me crazy that no one else sees what I see, and,” he cuts across himself- he’s doing that thing where he rambles again. Christ on a cross. “I think love looks like you, Will. It just took too much time for me to look up see that did.”

Will just stares at him, eyebrows slanting. “You’re,” he whispers to the darkening silence, and it drops like a weight through the air. “You’re not gay, Mike. All I’ve gotten from you is a stupid drunk comment about ‘boys being okay’ like, one year ago. How do I- How am I meant to…”

That’s on Mike; the fact that he hadn’t mentioned Michael Wheeler’s Comprehensive Guide to a Gay Awakening (Read: Existential Crisis of 1991), a whole autobiographical book of its own, and how it took Mike an extra year of recuperation, and how he was still not okay. He’d kept it pretty under wraps, storing away his cerebration for late nights, most times screaming them into a pillow. Times when he didn’t live with Will and had enough time to himself to do it. Times when roommates looked at him funny and he thought it would be practice with the homophobes.

It would divert them treacherously if he were to get into that though. “Will,” he says voice trembling. “Look at me. You’ve known me my whole life, did you think I- that I wasn’t the slightest bit,” he swallows. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care for saying it out loud in the sanctity of their living room, where the walls won’t stop closing in. “Gay? I can’t,” he breathes out harshly in exasperation. “I don’t know how to prove it to you now because that’s not what this is about. It’s about you.

“And,” he begins again before he loses his nerve. “I um, I want you. I should’ve have started with that instead of- that’s it, Will. That’s the truth. I want you, and I want you to want me. That’s all there is to it, and I’ll stop pretending it’s anything but that. I’m yours to have, if you want.”

When he focuses back on Will, he notices that Will has gone from anger-red to ashen again. He wants answers, and he knows he’s cornered Will with all of this, and he has to be patient. But, he wants them. He wants them now, because he’s waited too long even if Will didn’t know he did.

He’s about to do that thing where he shoves and wrings Will out of his own insistent curiosity, that horrible thing he does because he can’t deal with the onslaught of his own thoughts-

But then, Will is off the love-seat. In a second, he’s left the living room. Footsteps grow quieter past the kitchen and into the apartment. It’s never felt so big -their apartment- not when Mike is waiting for the resurgence of his march back to Mike. Preferably Mike’s arms.

No words. Nothing. Will’s bedroom door slams shut.

The deafening silence is nothing like it had been before- ringing in Mike’s ears and taking over the rest of his thoughts. For the first time in his life, he can’t afford anything besides some optimism, and he waits for the door open, for Will to say something, for the world to stop spinning.

None of that happens.

He waits a minute too long, brain working in that it’s all over. He’s fucked up-

He’s fucked up, and with that notion, Mike Wheeler finally sits the fuck down. Crumples to his knees and sits on the living room floor, and cries because no one else is there to see.

Mike steeps in his heartache for a few hours. It’s nothing new from the self-inflicted feelings freight train he’s on all the time, except this time he’s tied to the tracks and the stupid train keeps running over and backing up and running over him again. Again and again.

He’s also utter shit at not gravitating towards Will.

None of this is in The Almanac of William Leonard Byers. Because footnote; when they fight, it’s painfully dramatic and words shoot like lasers from Will’s mouth and from Mike’s, they drag out like they claim his soul. They fight like they know each other, and Will fights like he’s defending himself. He fights like he’s trying to get a raise out of Mike. Because he’s usually hurt- because Mike hurt him.

And in response, Mike gets the signal and mellows out. But this time, Mike doesn’t have it, or at least he doesn’t think he does. Because they aren’t fighting. This isn’t a fight.

Will stormed off but he hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t said a word after everything Mike told him, and that was what was throwing Mike off.

It’s only a matter of time before Mike knocks on Will’s bedroom door, not seconds after that realisation sets in.

He gets no response, but let it be known that Mike is as insistent as they come. Especially, if he was referring to The Almanac. Will never really wanted to be alone- that was Mike. Mike always took to his loneliness like second nature, but Will wasn’t like that. Even when he was irate, he preferred Mike’s presence in the room, even if it meant Will would shove things around angrily before he said something at all.

Pushing the door open, Mike tentatively peeks his head in and finds Will’s sleeping form on the bed, lying on his side like a comma. Before he can say something, Will groans. “Go away, Mike.”

That only emboldens Mike. “No,” he says as he makes his way in.

He can hear rustling and sees that Will is pressing his hands to his eyes. “I want you to go away.”

“No, you don’t,” he insists right back. He saunters in and rounds the bed to the nearest side, coming to face Wills back. It’s better that than to see the rejection blank on his face. At least like this, he could cry without Will seeing it. He’s gearing up already, his eyes on the way to being filled. It can’t get worse than he’s already feeling. “Will, please talk to me.”

Will doesn’t respond.

“Please,” he says again, softly. “It’s okay if you don’t think you can feel like that again. I just think-”

But this time, Will cuts across him. “It’s not that.”

“Then, what?”

“I don’t know…”

“What-” Mike huffs, looking away from the lump on the bed. “What is it? I’m telling you, if you don’t feel-”

“Mike,” he says pointedly. “It’s. Not. That. I feel…”

“How do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” he says again, exasperated. His chin tilts over his shoulder for a second and he lays back down again. “Mike, up until yesterday you were scared to touch me and now you just said you-” hesitates for a second, “you said the opposite. I don’t know how I feel. Not about you. About this. About what you said.”

That leaves Mike puzzled.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to climb onto the bed. To lay down behind Will and reach for his shoulder. This always brought him comfort, and maybe Mike is betting on that. But, he doesn’t know anymore. Up close, he can see that Will’s hair has dried funny at the back. The pillow is cool against his flushed face, and he can smell their detergent and the faint smell of Will’s sweat from the little distance between them. He doesn’t reach for him although he nearly does. “Is it a bad feeling?”

“No,” Will mumbles. “It’s not bad. I’m just…”

Mike stays quiet.

“Hurt, I guess,” Will finishes. “I’ve,” he gulps, choking around the next words. “It’s not fair because I’ve lo- I’ve loved you for so long that I had to force myself to kill those feelings, you know? It’s okay that it took you time to come around. It is. But, I’m still hurt. I know I shouldn’t be… but I just never thought you’d feel it too. You’re Mike Wheeler. You’re my best friend. You’re,” a sob catches in his throat. “Untouchable.”

Mike does reach out this time and lays a tentative hand on Will’s shoulder, feeling it tense up and then release. “Can you turn around, please?”

There’s a nerve wracking beat that Will takes before he shuffles around and faces Mike. The space between them narrows and widens all at once- suddenly, Will is insurmountably away from him. Up close and having gone cross-eyed, Mike can’t tell if he’s close enough to feel the charge between them or too far apart that Will is unreachable. The first thing he notices are how red his eyes when he finally meet gazes dubiously.

“You’ve been crying,” Mike whispers. His heart sinks harder as his eyes catch the tremble of Will’s lips. He braves himself into stroking the damp skin under Will’s waterline. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I really didn’t know for so long, and when I did,” he blows out a breath. “It took me so long to be brave enough to tell you. I wasn’t gonna,” he squeezes his eyes shut for just a second before he holds Will’s eyes. “Tell you. But, lately, I’ve been feeling like I was gonna die if I didn’t.”

Will stares at him. Mike wishes he didn’t because there’s no excuse to look elsewhere, because there isn’t anywhere else to look at him.

“Will,” his voice trembles around the name he’s called out to numerous times. In pain, in merriment, in ire. But, never like this. Never in such vulnerability. He knows what he’s doing though- he’s putting his cobwebbed heart in Will’s hands and asking him to powder it to nothing. “I’m telling you. If it’s not like that for you anymore, I understand-” he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t, but it doesn’t matter. Will couldn’t wait on him, he wasn’t indebted to. He can talk himself into thinking they’re destined, but the truth was that destiny and time went hand in hand. Sometimes, the time just isn’t right. It’s going to be another one of those things Mike has regrets about, even if this one time, it’s going to leave a bruise that won’t go away.

Tears prick Mike’s eyes, and he sincerely hopes Will can’t see them in the dark of the room. “It’s okay,” he mutters even if it feels like it isn’t, even if his mouth is smarting like it’s gonna give into crying. He’s late. Like he always is.

Will’s fingers curl round the hand on his face, squeezing Mike’s sweaty palm once, and then twice. His glossy eyes dart around Mike’s face, and land firmly on Mike’s eyes. His wet lashes flutter and sight of it makes Mike’s chest ache.

How would they be tomorrow? Would they be friends? Would they be the same?

“Sit up.”

Mike stops drowning for a second, a rush of unwelcome air going into his lungs. “Huh?”

“Sit up, Mike.”

He doesn’t wait for a response as he leans on his elbow and folds his legs to sit up sideways on the bed. He’s looking down at Mike inquisitively, flicking his head to the side. “C’mon.”

Perplexed, Mike does -he sits up and mirrors Will’s position- tucking his feet under his thighs. He doesn’t know how Will is so close now, his bare knees brushing against the hair standing up on Mike’s calves. He’s about to open his mouth to ask what this is, what are they doing but he falls quiet when Will slides his hands into his. He peers up at Mike, and dips down to kiss him.

William Leonard Byers is kissing him. The Almanac’s author is pleased, if anything.

Mike makes a confused noise against their mouths before his eyes close.

It’s over before he can comprehend it, but Will doesn’t stray. He stays a breath away, close enough to be illegal and far enough to be illegal. He looks at Mike, and he can see it now. Mike can see it now, the part about Will saying he always watches him. Narrowed eyed and probing for all of a second before he swallows it down to drift in and kiss Mike oh-so-sweetly again. Just the gentle press of his lips. It’s strangely familiar, like a recall to their childhood. Like their history is hanging like an apple between them. Like there was love, but it hadn’t been adulterated with hurt.

“Will?” he whispers between them.

Will squeezes his hands and tilts his head further to catch his lips. This kiss is different- less innocent, more audacious. Insistent, but Mike stays frozen. If he moves, it’s gonna fissure. It’s long enough for the swell of Mike heart to reach a crest. Long enough for Mike to gather the courage to break free from Will’s grip and grasp his face. And-

Kiss him the way he’s been dreaming of. If this is a dream, he can at least say he seized his chance.

Will doesn’t resist it when Mike leads, when he leans into the little air between them and kisses him first. Lets him take his lips between his own and lets Mike saw his sighs apart and splay him open. His eyelashes when they beat against Mike’s cheek are no comparison to the way he’d imagined it.

Fists bunch in the front of Mike’s shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. A preliminary to the possibility that Will might climb into his lap. There might be a time in the future that Mike can survive it, but not today. He huffs out a hot breath and lets himself be pulled flush against Will’s chest. He can only hope Will finds it in himself to never let go.

But, Will pulls away to look at him. To check in on him. To see if this was real. At least, Mike hopes that’s what it is. Because that’s what it is for him.

He follows the afterthought of that instinct and tilts head towards Will, cupping his face with a hand. He slots his thumb into the divot behind Will’s ear and strokes the soft skin. Will grins and he feels it widen against his mouth, teeth and all.

There’s a rhythm to kissing that Mike’s never been accustomed to before. He loves almost immediately how in tune the rest of his body is to it, and how easy it is despite how tentative it is. Sure, everything in him is screaming and giving in, and his brain keeps trying to comprehend that he’s kissing Will Byers, Best Friend rather than understanding that it’s Will Byers, Potential Boyfriend.

New additions must be made to The Almanac. Especially-

But then, it’s suddenly all too much and Mike needs a break. How pathetic.

He leans away and contemplates leaning back again, but he gets a good look at Will. Bleary eyed and precious. It’s hard to choose.

It’s too hard to say anything now. Does he ask Will if that means they’re together? Does Will still like him back? Had he not killed the feelings he was talking about? What does any of this mean?

But what comes out is a bumbling underground thought. “How was that for your first kiss?”

Will stills. “What?”

“Did you like it?” he asks hesitantly. “Was I good?”

“That wasn’t my first kiss,” Will says instead.

That wasn’t my-

“Excuse me,” Mike begins to ask. “I don’t think I heard that right.”

“Mike-”

“Did you just say that wasn’t your first kiss?” he demands. This is unfair. It’s a lot of things, but first and foremost, it was unfair. “What do you mean? How-”

“How?” Will counters. “What do you mean ‘how’? You know how, Mike. You just kissed me.”

“Was that- Was I-” Mike searches around for the words and fails at coming up with something even slightly articulate. “It wasn’t?”

“No?”

Mike presses his lips together, ignoring how raw they feel from Will having his way- focus, he tells himself. There was a conflict that needed understanding before him. He knew Will was going on dates and that they were supposedly unsuccessful, and he never brought them home. He hadn’t stopped to think that there was an in-between- a space between the date ending averagely and Will making it home. An awkward goodnight kiss that led nowhere, a casual romp in an alleyway, a minuscule bravery after too many drinks. A desire for Will’s company by someone who wasn’t Mike. Obviously they wanted Will, how could they not.

How could Mike forget one of the main variables? That he had competition, and now he’d have to beat contenders off with a stick.

“Are you upset?”

Mike looks up at him. He’s holding his breath. Why was he doing this now, why was he ruining things like he always does. Why does he never learn. “No, of course not,” he says too fast.

“We’re twenty one, Mike. Did you expect me to-”

“I didn’t expect anything,” Mike cuts across before he looks like a fool. Before Will saying whatever he’s saying out loud and cementing the fact that Mike is a fool. “I didn’t, I swear. You just-” he shrugs, looking down. “You never mentioned it. I told you about my first kiss when it happened. You never did, so I thought it didn’t happen.”

Will chews on his lip, glancing up at Mike through his lashes and glances away in dubiety. Now that- Will doesn’t know that it’s driving Mike crazy. A simple gesture like that. There’s things about Will that Mike stitched together and strung into a long piece of evidence for his evisceration. Will doesn’t ever need to know.

“Well,” says Will, slowly. His voice is so deep, resonating through the air and all the way into the apple of Mike’s feeble chest. His heart groans. “I didn’t want to tell the boy I actually I wanted to kiss, about the below-average kiss from a drunk nobody at a stupid party, you know?”

Someone throw Mike off a cliff because he was shit at it when he tried it himself.

“I’m sorry,” is all Mike can say.

“Don’t be,” Will says around a smile. He looks like he’s holding something else in, his eyes alight with a secret. Something tells Mike that he’ll tell him eventually. They’ve lived in a saturnine capsule all these years and now the air around them was filled with words, too many, too much to breathe through. Especially when there should be more kissing and less talking already.

“I go on dates, Mike.”

As if Mike needed that sour reminder. “I know,” he says, cross.

“Do you think I don’t kiss them?”

Mike’s already settled the realisation in his head, but it begins swirling about again. “You don’t bring them back,” he counters.

Will shrugs.

Blowing a breath out, Mike clenches his eyes shut. “How many.”

“Mike,” Will stretches his name out the way he does when he chides him.

“How many, Will? Tell me.”

Will’s grimace melts into an expression of sympathy. “Six?”

“Six?!” exclaims Mike. “I have to compete against six guys?!”

He can see it- Mike in the middle of a boxing ring, the corners holding the four tall, dark and handsome guys who had the privilege of kissing Will, two more with a head-start on coming in towards him. All hunks, all other-worldly good looking. Inching in on him and ready to kick the shit out of him.

“Competing? Who said anything about-”

“How do I fight them,” he gasps. “How big are they? How handsome are they? Where do they live?”

“Mike-”

“Will, you’ve seen me. I’m scrawny! How do I-” he searches for words that don’t come together and sound stupid and he knows he’s failing already. “I can’t fight four guys,” he says meekly at the end.

At that, Will pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. “You’re kidding me,” he mutters. He drops his hand and looks up at Mike. “Oh my god, Mike, I don’t need you to fight anyone.”

Mike gapes at him.

“And-” he drops his voice. “You’re not scrawny.” He reaches out and grips Mike’s shoulders and gives them a rub and squeeze. Even lower to a whisper. “These have come in and they’ve been…”

“They’ve been what?” Mike whispers back.

“Making me mad crazy,” he says flippantly as he looks at them and gives the rest of Mike’s torso a cursory glance. No matter, the path of his eyes still ignites something under Mike’s skin and when he looks back up at Mike’s face, the strike is through and Mike is aflame.

Beneath all that though, is the uncertainty that Will shutters away rapidly.

“That’s not fair,” says Mike’s mouth.

“What do you mean?”

Mike remembers seeing him when he visited Lenora the time when they were fourteen and not being able to take his eyes off Will. He remembers seeing him again after months of being away from each other -him in Hawkins and Will in Montauk- and coming to the city together for college. Remembers seeing him again for the first time, bringing in boxes, his stringy sweaty hair and line of his jaw and his bulging biceps-

“All of you came in,” he says listlessly because he can’t do details just yet. Will would have a grand time with him in his head, but Will, Best-Friend-Turned-Potential-Boyfriend-Not-Minutes-Ago didn’t know yet, and he couldn’t. “What am I supposed to do? Have you thought about my feelings?”

Will rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, Mike. Your feelings.”

“My feelings,” Mike bites back, petulant. “That you completely disregard.”

At that, Will shoves at his shoulder, sending him reeling back. “You’re so stupid.”

“Me?!” squawks Mike. He grabs for the pillow beside his head to lob at Will, and he does so halfheartedly. The pillow flails near Will’s knee and flops down. But it’s enough to kick-start Will’s own reaction of snatching up at the pillow and throwing it at Mike.

That’s that. But, under his weak protests and the pillow fight, Mike makes it all a memory and puts it away in a place he can reach over and over again.

There’s nothing monumental the next day. They’d gone to bed in their own rooms, and Will wakes him up, and Mike decides to get on making the coffee as usual.

Except, there very much is something large brewing beneath them. Will mulls over him- actually leans over him, watching Mike’s face come to life as he wakes up and he stays like that because there was a line before but they had smudged it the night before with gentle brushes of their tongues across kissed lips.

Mike can’t fight the shudders from the tea leaves of those thoughts. He’s allowed them now, or that’s what he thinks. No part of Will’s slacken body language seems to impart otherwise.

He thinks there’s a second where Will might kiss him, and he’s ready to give in, morning breath and all, and if it were just a dream, he’d at least have the silhouette of that to live on.

But, Will just smiles at him and bounds away like he expects Mike to follow.

Of course, Mike follows. Where else would he go? The newest edition of The Almanac of William Leonard Byers is positively vandalised- has ‘SIREN’ spray painted in bold red on the first page. He notes it with a ghost of a passing smile when Will jumps up and perches himself at his usual place on the kitchen counter, and Mike busies himself with their coffees. Nothing extravagant over instant powder and chipped mugs, but he can feel Will’s eyes on him and when he glances up, Will is studying his nails instead.

They haven’t said a word to each other. Was it because they said too much the day before?

He gapes at Will long enough for their eyes to meet again, and this time Mike doesn’t let himself look away as much as it hurts. He’s allowed this now. He has to tell himself.

He’s allowed-

Mike abandons the coffee and does what his diary entries have suggested. He’s allowed.

He nudges his way between Will’s thighs and stands there like he belongs there. He can’t care if he doesn’t, because in the moment, Will won’t look anywhere else and no one else and what their thoughts were, never mattered any less. Even if that no one was Mike.

They haven’t said anything, but does anything have to be said anymore?

There’s a pinprick of doubt that still exists, even as he’s close enough to see the way the sunlight hits Will’s eyes. To observe them past green and brown to a warm hazel. He once thought he could never get past the vision of Will using his powers, his eyes rolled to their gleaming whites. But, this. This was-

He has to ask. He’d be a coward if he didn’t.

“Can I-”

Will is already nodding, and he’s already reaching for Mike and his fingers are already in Mike’s hair and it’s enough. Mike is enough.

He tilts in on his toes, chasing the secondary scent of orange juice on toothpaste. But, Will slides down to meet him- hops off the counter but stays hitched up and steadily trapping Mike against him like he wasn’t willing to let him go. Mike hopes he never does. It only inspires Mike into snaking his hands around the small of his back and pushes them flush together.

On a Thursday morning, an hour before either of their first class of the day, Mike kisses William Leonard Byers like it’s the truth. Like this truth will never be starker and never be someone else’s. Like it’s all theirs and untarnished. Like the night was of glass, but it gave way to this.

The morning is still glass and kiss is still crystal.

There’s something so sparingly glorious about the uncertainty when their lips meet, like a promise of knowing each other in ways they’ve not known before. He pinches himself and he can’t feel it- it’s that unreal. Mike will learn it any day, he’ll give his life up to this if he has to. He’ll give his sanity away to the way Will gasps under his breath when the kisses turn languid and longer. He will sink to his knees if he has to go another day without the solid feeling of Will’s trembling shoulders against his.

It’s-

Will winces and darts his head away, leaving Mike disappointed. “What are you doing?” he rasps out.

Mike takes the sound of his voice in, the roughness that came out of nowhere. “Huh?”

At that, Will swats the hands braces around his hip away. “Why are you pinching me? That hurts.”

“I-” begins Mike. There was no way he wasn’t gonna sound stupid, but it wasn’t like Will had a choice now but to put up with his shit. “I, um, thought I was pinching myself.”

Will raises his eyebrows. “Do you like to be pinched while kissing?”

“N-No,” Mike sputters. “I just-” he huffs out an embarrassed breath. “I just couldn’t believe it was real, that’s all.”

He expects Will to laugh, but all that comes from his mouth is a sigh of disbelief. “Mike,” he says his name in an exhale. “It’s real, okay?”

Mike presses his lips together and looks into his eyes. His sunlit eyes, bordering on golden. There was nothing else he could do but agree, to tentatively nod. “Can I make sure?”

“Can you make sure,” Will parrots. “What do you mean?”

At that, Mike shrugs and leans back in to peck his lips, smiling when Will giggles against him. It’s so new, but so easy to fall into it. It’s so right, but it has Mike’s heart threatening to jump out against his ribs, tear through his chest and make a run for it. He can almost imagine the kind of dust cloud it would leave behind, but that thought turns to phosphenes when Will bites between kisses.

Will interrupts them again, hand to Mike’s chest.

“Not pinching you this time,” mutters Mike, cross.

“Okay, smooth operator,” Will muses. He’s beaming, eyes trained low on Mike’s mouth like he’s thinking about not stopping. Please, god, please don’t, Mike prays in vain. “Coffee now.”

“Coffee,” guffaws Mike. “We have more important things to do.”

“Mhmm, I’m sure,” teases Will. “I can think of something.”

Mike feels himself light up. Literally. His body is on fire. “Yeah?” he pokes breathlessly.

“Yeah,” says Will. “Breakfast.”

Mike groans and drops his head in defeat. “Will.”

“Hey,” says Will, softly, and just that one word strums at Mike’s heartstrings. A calloused hand slips under his chin and tilts his head up. Will is looking at him, really looking at him, unbridled. In a way that Mike isn’t used to, but knows he can shine under. Mike hates being seen, being perceived, being analysed by anyone. But, Will? Will can do it any time if this is how it’s meant to feel. For as long as Mike’s known that he’s loved Will, he’s wanted him. Wanted to hold Will and keep him safe and keep him his.

Now, knowing how Will won’t look away, Mike wants to be looked at. He wants Will to want him. He wants Will to put his warm hands and his cold fingers on Mike’s face and never look away.

The rough of Will’s thumb roves from his chin to his cheek. “I want to, too,” he says lowly. A secret just for them. Delicate words for delicate ears, because any louder would mean they would grow brittle. Mike’s never known tenderness like that, and he can’t wait to see how it fares. “Trust me, Mike. This is unbelievable to me. I want to…”

“What,” Mike chokes out when he trails off. “What do you want to?”

Will chews on his lip, his gaze darts around the confines of Mike’s face- between both his eyes, his mouth, back to his eyes. His thumb stops stroking and brushes down to Mike’s bottom lip. He traces it gingerly, nearly pulling at it. Mike’s breath catches when Will’s almost slides his finger into his mouth.

But, at once, Will snatches his hand back. “We need to have breakfast because I’m starving and then we need to have a conversation.”

Sorely disappointed, Mike pouts and looks up at him. “But-”

“We need to,” Will insists. “We’re horrible at communication and we need to do this if we need to work.”

“But-”

“No, Mike,” he says with a sigh. “Dustin’s math means nothing to me. We’re gonna have to do this freestyle,” he throws a Mike a pointed look. “I can’t believe you got Dustin involved.”

“Lucas is expecting a call about it sometime soon.”

“Lucas too?!” exclaims Will. “Who else?”

Mike frowns.

“Mike, tell me.”

“El.”

“El? Why El?!”

Mike has nothing to say about it- he wanted to hear from her just how good this idea was and just how bad they were, and just how unconnected all of it was. “It takes a village, doesn’t it?”

“Especially if it’s to do with the village idiot.”

“Heeeeey,” he protests, but doesn’t take the bait. He steps back and begins to walk towards the fridge, although his body won’t let him just yet. “I’ll make eggs,” he mutters.

“Eggcellent,” says Will. He laughs at Mike’s glare. The tension is momentarily broken, but back in a different chord. He plucks the bottle of maple syrup off the counter and pushes himself off the counter. The bottle swings from his hand as he heads to the living room.

For all that has happened and all that will happen at breakfast, Mike eventually coaxes his brain into staying empty while he makes their eggs. He manages to focus on his task, steadily reminding himself of what he’s doing to keep everything else at bay- turn stove on, put pan on, oil, break eggs, salt, milk, beat beat beat, water, beat beat beat.

He makes them extra fluffy the way Will likes them even though Mike likes them over-easy, himself. He sees Will on the love-seat when he comes into the living room. He offers one of the plates he’s holding to Will, and he’s grateful when Will doesn’t comment on how shaky his hands are. Except, Will clutches his now empty hand and pulls him down to his height. He throws Mike an unsure look and then shifts to press his lips to Mike’s cheek. He lingers long enough for him to feel Mike’s blush and then grins at him. “Thank you.”

Mike does like himself some special treatment.

It still makes him freeze up and straighten up mechanically and pad away despite the hotness in his face. He’s about to sit on the recliner-

“What are you doing?” asks Will.

He glances over, frozen.

Will pats the space next to him on the love-seat. “Come here, silly.”

Mike can feel himself grinning at that, and he supposes he won’t tell Will why just yet. He can keep this secret for a little while longer.

Notes:

hope you liked this as much i liked writing it. love me some gay panic haha x

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