Archive of Our Own ^beta

“C’mon, scoot over,” Mike says, rather needlessly, and then drops onto Will, anyway; loose-limbed and relaxed. Not at all bothered by the proximity and blissfully unaware of Will’s spiking heartbeat, hitched breath, sweaty palms. Obtuse, as he tends to be. A small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. “What’re you drawing?”

Will rolls his shoulders back, forcing his muscles to untense, his shoulders to drop. “Just… sketching.”

Mike rolls off Will’s thighs – thank fuck –, and situates himself next to him against the headboard instead. He peers down at where Will has been trying, and failing, to outline dynamic movements of faceless figures. Their shoulders press together, as do their legs, with how Mike is leaning into him, over him, with the same insouciance he’s had when they were younger; casual and nonchalant. His hair brushes over Will’s jaw, his cheekbone, and it makes him want to scream, just a little.

“Never know how you do it, it looks so good,” Mike says with sincerity dripping from between the words, no less amazed than when they were children, and he’s grinning. Brightly, openly, genuinely. So very beautiful that Will’s muscles lock up with the unhelpful urge to reach out, touch.

It is… well, it’s fucking weird, is what it is. Highly alarming and very distressing, too, having Mike back in a way Will’s already given up on. Already made his peace with, half a year ago – six months in California, two short calls from Mike – which were for El, originally, Will just picked them up accidentally –, and one letter – even briefer than the calls, Hey Will, hope you’re alright, we miss you, Mike. It was pretty clear, then, that they didn’t have… anything, anymore. Whatever semblance of friendship Will tried so hard to cling to, stupidly, pathetically, has eroded naturally with the lack of contact and the bone-deep fear of fucking up even more by initiating.

That’s what Will thought. Was halfway getting over it, too; the stabbing pain in his chest at El’s stack of letters lessening to a slight ache of acceptance. It was fine, Will was fine. He was getting there. And then (awkward half-hug at the airport, getting pushed aside, ignored, nearly yelled at, We’re friends, we’re friends, government-issued house arrest, It’s not the same without you, the painting, My life started the day–, crying, crying, crying) –

And then Mike came crashing back into his life, careless, ruthless. So very dangerous for Will and his penchant for harbouring hope where there – isn’t. Hopelessness an ugly pit in his stomach, despondency lived-in and comforting in its own way. It was alright, because Will was used to it. The disappointment, over and over and over again, and the self-hatred at his own ridiculousness. It was alright, until it wasn’t, because Mike came back like a hurricane, making a mess of Will attempts to live in the empty space between them. Closed the distance that Will so desperately tried to preserve. Ripped holes into the weak carapace for Will’s fragile little emotions, making them seep through the cracks again.

The thing with Mike is – there’s a lot of things, honestly. Mike’s a multitude of different little facets, good, perfect, terrible, cruel, more than anything, though, he is – unsteady. Mike is up and down, on-off, flickering back and forth with his big personality. Going from Maybe you should have reached out more to I feel like I lost you, or something. Being disinterested in Will and his campaign the summer before, apologizing, It’s not my fault you don’t like girls, rushing after him in the storm. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done and My life started the day–

Mike is scattered, like he cannot quite decide which direction to go with his feelings, what to do with them, so he spits them out, spills them over everyone in close vicinity like venom, in quick, heart-breaking succession. Giving Will whiplash from the change in trajectory, ripping his heart out with gentle hands, just to then feed him hope. Mike is – fleeting, with his emotions; fickle and fitful with his words; completely disconcerting with his actions. Always has been, ever since they were thirteen, fourteen, and it’s the only consistency he possesses. The only stable variable in the computation that is Mike Wheeler.

This, too, will not… persist. This facsimile of the friendship they once had, when they were young and inseparable.

But – the thing with Will is that he’s stupid. Foolish, really, in holding out hope, holding out for Mike, while knowing that it will not last. Because it will not, it never does. We’re friends, said like vitriol and self-defence and a death sentence. A team. Friends. Best friends, and being discarded the second they found El in the desert. A pile of apologies in the back of Will’s mind, at the edges of his conscience with every half-hearted interaction Mike forces them through.

But Will is self-destructive in all things Mike, helpless against his everchanging waves of emotions, and he will enjoy it for as long as this weird little I want to be your best friend again routine retains. Will selfishly take and enjoy and burrow into the soft little moments, and then will lock them away when Mike will, inevitably, take it away from him again.

It’s fine. It’s going to be just fine, Will won’t let himself get swept up in all that is Mike and his casual touches and his contagious smiles, won’t make the same mistake of having high hopes, and he won’t be disappointed when it’ll end.

(He will be. Disappointed. Heartbroken and left to gather the shattered pieces of himself. More so than a fool, Will is a liar, though, and he will continue to be for as long as he will be able to bear it.)

xx.

“I’m – sorry, Will,” Mike said, somewhat nonsensically and utterly unprompted, the first words he directed at Will since they’d arrived in Hawkins. They startled him, after three days of silent glances and painful avoidance. “So sorry. I meant it when I said that I wanted to be friends again. Best friends. A team. And I know I didn’t act like it, and I know I was an asshole for – ever. Forever. A year. Longer than that. I was a piece of shit and you – weren’t. Of course, you weren’t, because you’re so… you. Good, too good, although you had every right to, to be angry. Furious. I wish you were, sometimes. For you to just – scream at me, a little, so I wouldn’t feel so bad, which is also very selfish, and – god, I’m an asshole. Still only talking about myself. What I mean is – I’m sorry. I want to be your friend again – I will be. If you let me. If you want to.”

And Will – he is stupid, after all, and so very weak to Mike being genuine and sincere and earnest, and he nodded through the rant with a closed-up throat, barely following over the rush of blood in his ears. Said, “Yeah, I’d like that.” and accepted Mike’s words, his apologies, his promises, as empty as Will knew them to be. As ephemeral as Mike himself, but Will took them, anyway, with all the regret soaking them and the guilt clinging to Mike’s lips. Took them, knowing that Mike was merely feeling bad; for Will, for himself, and it wouldn’t last.

Will nodded, and said Yeah, I’d like that, and Mike grinned at him something precious and wide and blinding, and it was almost enough for Will not to regret it.

After that half-conversation – Mike rambling, Will listening –, he didn’t expect, well. Anything. Mike’s not a liar, never has been, has never been particularly good at it, either, and he probably really meant what he said. He’s charmingly earnest like that. But he also never thinks before he speaks, just – bursting out the words whirring around his head with ruthless abandon. Will used to like that about him. Will’s also gotten hurt numerous times by it (It’s not my fault you don’t like girls)(That’s because she’s my girlfriend, Will)(We’re friends)(My life started–)

He certainly didn’t expect Mike – trying. But he is. Has been, since the conversation outside of Hopper’s cabin that Will immediately filed away in a mental folder, tucked next to the memories of holding hands, of apologies, of hugging before he moved away to California. He didn’t anticipate it to be more than something small and quietly cherished, something he would conjure up in the dead of night and cry himself to sleep to. He was wrong, then, because Mike Wheeler is made up of unpredictability, and, apparently, made it his mission to do good on his words.

For the past three and a half weeks – twenty-five days –, Mike has been… a lot.

(A lot being: signing up for helping out at the school-turned-shelter because Will did, making sure to be at the same station as Will, bringing Will food and water and forcing him to take breaks regularly, carving out a new habit of picking Will up each morning with his bike and dropping him off again, evolving into not even leaving anymore, after a while, staying with Will in the semi-restored cabin until he’s being chased out by an annoyed Hopper or a call from his mother.

A lot being: touching Will, without the split-second and heart-wrenching hesitation he had in California; throwing an arm around Will’s shoulders, grabbing his wrist, his hand, pulling him along without listening to possible complaints – there aren’t any –, sitting down next to Will, without fault, every time, bumping their shoulders together, poking Will into the side with his elbow, pressing their thighs together, knocking his knee into Will’s under the table when Hopper tries to be authoritative.

A lot being: paying attention to Will like he hasn’t done since they were twelve, thirteen – listening with rapt attention to every small little word Will says, asking for elaborations and clarifications and Really? That’s new, tell me more–, and demanding attention from Will in return – tugging at his arm when Will’s painting, loudly lamenting about being ignored, insisting on Will telling him about the book he’s reading, the campaigns he’s writing, insisting on being by his side even if it’s only drying the dishes Will is washing.

A lot being: Mike being Mike, in the way he hasn’t been in so long; so attentive it makes Will slightly uncomfortable and hot and squirm a little; tactile and close, closer, too close; cheerful and bright and without a trace of the agonizingly obvious, heart-breaking uncertainty.)

It’s too much, enough for Will to feel horrified by his own recklessness of indulging. He should not, he knows. Shouldn’t have accepted Mike’s attempt at reconciling, shouldn’t have fallen back into Mike like an old habit. There’s only pain waiting at the end of this whole ordeal, but it’s – nice. Having Mike burst into his bedroom unbidden, crawling through his window, interrupting him, distracting him, like they’re still children and sneaking into each other’s rooms. Talking to Mike like nothing’s changed at all; like there weren’t fights in the rain and year-long radio silences and a glaring lack of letters. Like they are – they, once again.

It’s so nice, having Mike like that. Really fucking dangerous, too.

Will is already preparing to take – this, the last few weeks of erratic elation and uncanny easiness, and bottle it up; vacuum-seal the moments when Will forgets that it’s going to change, and put it on the mental shelf with all the others. Add it do his personal little collection of liquid misery, between Crazy together and Mike holding his hand after nightmares.

He’s trying, so fucking hard, not to get lost in all that is – Mike. He’s failing miserably, too, as Mike doesn’t exactly make it easy. Mike is overwhelming in his endeavour of rebuilding the friendship they once had, picking at the undone seams and threading them together again, carefully, slowly, precisely, until it’s nearly the same. The effort does not go unnoticed – because nothing about Mike could ever be unnoticeable –, and Will just doesn’t… understand. It. Him. The whole fuckery Mike’s putting him through in good faith and adorable persistence.

Mike is, unknowingly but no less cruelly, re-adhering the band-aid Will thought he already ripped off. With soft hands and an even softer smile, like he did when they were in kindergarten, and it tears Will’s sanity to shreds. Doesn’t soothe the bone-deep ache, either, like it would whenever Mike kissed Will’s bruises and scraped knees almost a decade ago. At least he doesn’t do that – Will certainly wouldn’t survive.

xx.

“I think your brother doesn’t like me very much,” Mike says from where he sits on the floor with back against Will’s bed and an old X-Men comic in his lap. He rolls his head back onto the mattress to look at Will, a little lopsided, a little beautiful, and his hair brushes against Will’s bare thigh. A shiver rattles its way up Will’s spine, and his knuckles turn white around his pencil with the sheer force of not flinching from it. Mike’s hair is so soft, tickling on his skin, and Will nearly bites out his own teeth. His own damn fault for wearing shorts.

“What makes you say that,” Will asks, not trying very hard to overlay the amusement. Or the sarcasm. Doesn’t bother to deny what they both know to be true, either. Jonathan’s never been particularly skilled at hiding anything, so the vitriolic stares and obvious half-quips and the loaded silences aren’t lost on anyone, not even Mike Oblivious As Shit Wheeler. Both a miracle and a nuisance.

“I just don’t know why,” Mike says. “He used to love me!”

Jonathan did, Mike’s right about that. Not necessarily because of Mike, though, because – Mike’s always been sharp-tongued and fast to provoke, and he is never malicious with it, though it is sometimes ill-timed and, occasionally, dangerous. It’s quite simple, really; Mike was Will’s first friend, and Jonathan likes anyone who likes Will, and then Will went and gotten himself hurt over and over and over, stupidly, naively, a little lovestruck. And Johnathan – he’s not stupid, and although Will has never said, Jonathan knows, anyway. Johnathan likes whoever likes Will, but he also, being blindly loyal and uncomfortably overprotective, despises whoever causes Will pain. Whoever in question being Mike, albeit unknowingly.

Will can’t say that, though. Hey, yeah, my brother loved you like a brother because I loved you – not like a brother, and then you started treating me like shit, and I had to convince him not to bash your head against the dinner table more times than is probably healthy. That would require – addressing. Acknowledging. The strange little in-between space of trying to be friends again after not being anything for a year – longer, probably, heartbreakingly – and expertly brushing over the barely contained hurt from it all. Which then, in turn, would start a conversation too raw and too painful, and Will would break from it, surely. He’s done enough of that already.

He shrugs, hoping for I don’t know, either, and Mike drops the topic. There’s a slight frown pulling his eyebrows together, creasing his forehead, easing only when Will shows him his drawing. Mike compliments it with the little accurate terms he has at his disposal, I like the – the brushstrokes, and then he gets a little red in the face when Will tells him there’s no such thing as brushstrokes in a pencil drawing, and then they laugh, and it’s almost – normal. Will can work with that. Will can be normal. Friendly, amicable, cordial, like it used to be. Like it should be.

Will can be normal.

xx.

Turns out, Will can’t. Be normal. Not that he ever thought he was, or could be, with the glaringly obvious absence of normalcy laced into his very being, but he can’t even pretend anymore. Lying through his teeth was easier when Mike wasn’t there, the I’m fine getting more believable the more he practiced the words in front of the mirror, the mimicry of a smile more genuine, and he was almost content with repressing everything raw and unwanted into bitter nothingness. Almost.

That was before, though. Furthered by distance and a phone that never rang for Will and awkward half-hugs at the airport and My life started the day– and clearly disinterested letters asking about his well-being.

Before Mike decided to be Mike, and a lot, and annoyingly insistent on being friends again, and so lovely it made Will want to cry; still does. Before Mike crawled through Will’s window at two in the morning, grinning broadly, bouncing on his heels like an overexcited little kid, and handing over a thick binder. With every single photograph ever taken in their childhood, apparently, carefully organized and titled and glued onto the pages. Little notes, too, in Mike’s awful penmanship; First friend! over a picture of them on the same swing set they met, young and unbroken and buoyant; Movie Night! in glittery letters over embarrassing shots of them curled around each other on the couch in the Wheelers’ basement; Will, followed by photos Will’s never seen but only contain him as the only one of the party with a dedicated space in Mike’s childhood photo album.

It is not the first – attempt at reconciling materially. Mike is not the most adequate with his words, with his feelings, his thoughts, and he struggles to give voice to his inner workings in a coherent way. In an inoffensive way. Creating physical manifestations of his persistence in healing the open wound that is their friendship has become a… habit. The world’s most charming and, to Will specifically, painful pattern of gift-giving, either out of helpfulness or Mike-typical sincerity. At first, it was clothes, which was pure necessity but given with much enthusiasm with the prospect of being able to help, and Will drowned in Mike’s large shirts for the following days. Then it was drawing utensils, because Can’t have you bored, and books and comics and other means of entertainment. Movies, all reminiscent and nostalgic, Ghostbusters and The Apartment and Star Wars; food, mostly teeth-rotting candy and chocolate and everything Will used to like and didn’t have the heart to say he doesn’t, anymore.

The tape. Consisting of an achingly familiar selection of Will’s favourites throughout the years, from his very first when he was in middle school that temporarily eased the mind-lock of possession, up to the current one that sliced through nightmarish visions, saving his bones from splintering. Mike was wide-eyed and teary when he handed Will the small cassette titled For Will. Love, Mike, saying, “When Vecna got you – I didn’t know. I didn’t know, and I tried every song I remembered, but none of them worked, until Johnathan found Boys Don’t Cry. So, I made… it. This. With all the songs I remember you liked for the past years. Just in – in case. Just so you know that I care.”

Will has yet to gather the courage to listen to it, too afraid of the accuracy he knows to be there, too afraid of knowing that Mike knows him, has known him, ever since they were little, despite all it felt they didn’t know each other at all, for a while. Afraid of the inevitable overwriting of Mike’s name of his favourite songs, resounding them with Mike, Mike, Mike, and then Will won’t ever be able to listen to them again without heartbreak.

“You were weird since you came back,” Mike says, as if that explains anything. Holding up his hands placatingly without waiting for Will to even try to respond to that, he adds, “Not – not weird, that’s not what I mean. Just – absent? A bit distant. Y’know? And I didn’t know how to ask, and maybe you don’t even want to talk about it, not with me, at least, but I didn’t want to do nothing so – the album.”

Will wants to cry. Scream, too, at Mike and at himself and at everything in general. At the world for being fucked up. At the universe, for making him different – weird, abnormal – and making him suffer in every capacity it has to offer. At Mike, for clinging as tightly to the remnants of them as much as Will tries to let it go. Mike kissing his scraped knees, his bruised knuckles, leaving behind a litany of scars so deep, they’re invisible.

“Mike,” Will says, the name tasting bittersweet, rotten on his tongue. “You should stop this. You should – let it go. Let me go.”

Mike’s face falls, the nervous excitement slipping clean off his features.

“It’s – I’m,” Will starts, and stops. Tries to go about this right, articulate it in a way Mike would understand. “Like an old shirt. One of your favourite old shirts that you loved when you were younger, and you would always wear it, but it’s – you’ve outgrown it. It doesn’t fit anymore. It’s too small and it has holes and it’s unwearable, now, but you can’t throw it away just yet because – it was your favourite. Because of the memories. Because how it fit – whatever the reason. And that’s fine, it’s okay, but please don’t – don’t keep me around just because I remind you of a better time.”

“Will,” Mike says, voice soft and patient. He sounds a lot like he did when they were young, younger, when he would talk Will through semi-brutal panic attacks, the aftermath of violent nightmares. The familiarity of it makes Will’s throat close up. “The only true part in that metaphor is that you were – are, you still are – my favourite. Everyone’s favourite, actually.”

The thing is – Mike is not a liar, and he means what he says and says what he means in varying degrees of conscious truthfulness, and it hurts. The sincerity making the edges of his voice soft, making Will soft, and it really does not help. Doesn’t make it easier.

“Don’t say that,” Will says – pleads, with all the desperation he has. A last resort in a pointless attempt to shelter whatever’s left of him. “Don’t say things like that when you don’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it?” Mike tilts his head to the side, confusion furrowing his eyebrows, and Will hates himself for wanting to reach out, to touch; to smooth out the worry underneath his fingertips. He smothers the urge, bites down on his teeth until it feels like the muscles in his jaw are about to snap.

“Please – stop,” Will says, no louder than a whisper.

“Will, I – I don’t know what you mean? I thought this would make you happy.”

I thought this would make you happy. Mike, sweet, beautiful, heroic Mike and his fucking saviour complex, thinking he has to, what? Fix him? Like he thinks he has to fix their friendship, single-handedly, stubbornly, without seeing that he was the one to let it wither. Like he thinks he has to fix little Will Byers with his panic attacks and nightmares and looming mental breakdowns. As if it’s that easy, in the first place, to fix something – someone – so irreparably broken.

“Well, it doesn’t, Mike! How could it? You rummage through old photo albums of us and, what? Think it’s enough to mend something that’s been broken for so long? It doesn’t. It isn’t. If anything, it just – hurts even more. Why would you do that to me?”

Mike takes a step back and then three forward, pressing the album against his chest with one arm. Right over his heart, and it almost makes Will laugh. “I don’t – what am I doing to you? Tell me, please–”

“You make me feel good,” Will half-shouts, accusatory and maniacal, and it does not exactly make sense, without the context that only he possesses. Why feeling good is tantamount to being pushed off a cliff. Figuratively. Emotionally, too.

“Do you not… want me to make you feel good?”

“No! I mean, yes. Don’t be – nice, all the time. Don’t be nice and cute and bring me a photo album just to make me happy,” Will says, still too loud, still too angry, although he really should not be saying anything, anymore. He’s already said too much.

“You… think I’m cute?” Mike asks, and he’s getting red again. Which is so – weird, it’s fucking weird, why would Mike flush. Because of Will, of all fucking people.

Will shuts his stupid fucking mouth that has always said too little and too much, uncontrollable like everything else about him; too quick to vomit out words that should stay locked up.

“You should go,” he says, already too exhausted, too exposed, and lets himself fall backwards onto the bed. He wants to close his eyes – screw them shut and not have to watch Mike leave –, wants to bury himself under the heaviness of his own little emotions, stay there. Curse the universe that has cursed him in a ridiculously petty rebellion. He doesn’t. Can’t. Because Mike doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move anywhere near the window that he exclusively uses as his exits, but slowly, carefully, cautiously, moves to sit next to where Will is laying. Close enough for their knees to knock, their thighs to press together, and Will hates him a little bit.

“You’re not a shirt,” Mike says, using Will’s words against him. He puts down the album somewhere next to him, out of Will’s direct sight, to tap his fingers against his thighs in an indiscernible rhythm. A nervous habit promising nothing good. “I’m not clinging to you – I mean, I am clinging to you, yes, but not because I think I have to.”

The need to scream, to yell, to cry builds, pushes against the walls of Will’s lungs, against his skin, stretches him thin. “Mike,” he says, “It’s okay, I get it. You said shitty things to me, and you feel bad, and you want to make it up to me–”

“No,” Mike interrupts immediately, his hand twitching like it wants to – do something. Will has matured enough not to read into it. “Yes, I wanna make it up to you, but not out of – of guilt.”

“Please,” Will says flatly, gesturing grandly with one arm. “Go ahead. Enlighten me.”

“I didn’t want to – say,” Mike says, quieter than even his usually soft-spoken way, breaking eye-contact abruptly. Says it like a secret into the room; an admission of something monumental without clarifying the nature. It feels big, though. Serious, like It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Serious enough for Will to wrestle himself upwards, sitting hunched into himself. His shoulder presses against Mike’s, now, and maybe sitting up is just about the stupidest thing he could have done. “I didn’t want to tell you. Not yet. Not now. But – I think I have to, because I’m sure it will kill me if I keep it in any longer. Just know that – I meant to wait. I wanted to wait, just a little longer. Until you felt comfortable with me again.”

“Mike–”

“I know you don’t. Feel comfortable. And that’s my fault, one that is on me to correct. And I will. And I – really wanted to wait until I did. Correct. Fix all the things I did to you. But,” Mike says, words jumbled together in a mess of something he seems to have kept buried somewhere deep, clumsy in their hurry to get out. “But I’ll tell you now, I don’t want you to misunderstand. Wait, no, that’s not–” He waves a hand in front of his face, nearly slapping Will in the process. “I don’t want to be misunderstood. I want to be – clear, for once. I always say the exact thing I don’t want to say, because what I want to say is not – it’s not good. It’s weird and strange and fucking terrifying. That’s probably why I waited until now, and wanted to wait even longer. Hoping it would get easier to say.”

“Mike,” Will interjects a second time, and now, at last, Mike turns his way. His eyes are dark and wide and – horrified. Mike is afraid, of whatever he wants to say – or, doesn’t want to say –, and Will’s skin feels too tight, in the same manner it does whenever Mike looks at him, guarded and closed-off, like he can read all the pathetic feelings off the lines of Will’s face, and a chorus of he knows, he knows, he knows echoes and locks up his bones and makes him turn away. Now, too, it echoes in between the blank spaces of trepidation, mirrored by Mike’s eyes, recondite and resolute.

“I’m,” Mike starts again, voice breaking and flickering out just as soon. Tenacious as he always is, he barrels on, anyway, sounding raw and helpless, “In love. With you. Will, I like you, so fucking much. And – I didn’t want to fix our friendship because I wanted to coax you into – whatever, responding positively to this. Or because I felt like I had to, now that you’re here again. It’s just – I wanted you back. As a friend. As my best friend. And I thought that would be enough. I prayed that it would be enough, but – it’s not. It isn’t. I’m probably being selfish again, telling you something I really fucking shouldn’t, but going back to what we used to be didn’t work, and you’re upset because I wasn’t clear again, thinking you’ve guilt-tripped me into wanting to be close again, and – I like you. I just wanted you back. I’m sorry that I hurt you again. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear.”

Mike is – crying. Fuck, he’s crying, silently, stoically; heartbreakingly trying to hold himself together, grasping at his own arms and breathing in deep shudders. It is abhorrently reminiscent of – of Will being only semi-lucid with the aftermaths of a panic attack shuddering through his body, Mike gripping at him, holding him, pressing him gently to his chest, voice low and raspy from tears, trying so hard to be calm and strong and the stability that Will needed, while simultaneously breaking apart with sympathy and fear and terror. The sight is like a punch to the gut, like a vice around the heart. Unforgiving, discomfiting, aching. Satisfying, in a perversely sadistic little corner within Will’s mind; seeing suffering indirectly but unequivocally caused by him, for once not the other way around. Viciousness born out of desperation and pain makes Will want to push. Further Mike’s openly displayed vulnerability, hurt him, just a little, a bit more, like he hurt Will so many times before, over so many years.

“You’re cruel, Michael Wheeler,” Will says through gritted teeth and a tight throat and years of accumulated anger dissipating into something sticky and sweet. Says it softly, but Mike winces, anyway. It is both gut-wrenching and sickly satisfying. “So cruel, and you don’t even know. Do you have any idea how long I’ve tried to – to get over you?”

Mike’s head whips towards him so fast, Will briefly wonders if it hurt him. The tears have died down, but the wetness is still there, under his eyes, on his cheeks, clinging to his lips, and Will wants to reach out and wipe them away. Feeling like a man on his deathbed, freed by his sins, he doesn’t bite down on the urge. Touches Mike’s face, pale and sharp and gorgeous, and brushes tears clinging to Mike’s eyelashes away.

“You – huh?”

“So eloquent,” Will says, trying for sarcastic, and failing spectacularly with his choked-up voice sounding deep and a little broken. Mike is still just staring, infinitely incredulous and disconcertingly distraught, and looking like he’s just been all but slapped across the face. Without breaking that unnerving focus, he catches Will’s wrist still rubbing at his face. Doesn’t remove it, doesn’t take it away. Just holds Will’s wrist in the space between them. They are so close – when did they get so close? – that Will feels Mike’s breath on his face.

“What do you mean, getting over me?” Mike asks. Will almost snorts in response, at Mike and his density and the absurdity of this whole entire situation. He doesn’t, though, because – Mike’s eyes bleed sincerity, genuineness, and the hand on his wrist is tight, desperate, unsure. For once, maybe for the very first time, it is not misconstruction built on purposefully vague words or obliviousness that make Mike ask but the need of confirmation of a hope so fragile, he doesn’t dare to assume. It’s – cute. Adorable, even, and so innately real of him. Not wanting to speculate, to hope for something unattainable, not wanting to shatter from the answer. Will is very familiar with that particular feeling.

“I’m so embarrassingly in love with you, it’s a miracle you didn’t notice,” Will says with finality, like last words, like the ending of a prayer. Instead of – whatever he used to imagine in the nights sleep wasn’t kind to him, in the shameful moments of self-indulgence, shedding light on his sins, he doesn’t get pushed away. Doesn’t get spat on, shoved off, cursed out like he curses himself. The grip on his wrist loosens, however, and disappears, lets his hand fall onto his lap. Before despondency can even begin its course, an arm loops around his neck, and pulls.

Mike pulls him in, fast and urgent and forceful, dipping down, and – their mouths meet. Clumsily, awkwardly, a little too hard. A crash of lips and desperation. They are angled toward one another uncomfortably, and their teeth click together, and Will has never felt – this. Anything like it. It’s harsh and frantic, and so good, he thinks he’s getting drunk from it.

Then Mike’s eyes snap open, and he pulls away as fast as he’s leaned down. Unhooking his arm around Will, he rubs a hand over his face, and says, “I’m – so sorry, I – I didn’t even ask, I shouldn’t have–”

Thing is, Will has been in love with Mike since before he even knew what it meant. For a decade – longer, longer than that –, he’s been tortured by his own feelings, the wrongness, the sickness, of being in love with someone he should not be. Hopelessness something omnipresent, something lived-in; his own new normal. And – he was halfway through accepting that. The misery, the despair, the absolute impossibility of him finding the kind of happiness he’s wished for since he was a child but knew to be unfeasible, for him specifically. For people like him. And Mike’s just given him the impossible.

Will, while completely out of his depth, leans in towards Mike, slow and careful not to be rough with the feelings bursting within him, and presses their mouths together again, effectively cutting off whatever delirious apologies spilling from Mike’s lips – because he must be delusional, thinking he has to apologize for giving Will something he’s always hated himself for wanting. Starts moving, unsure and probably very obviously ineptly, but Mike, yet to snap back into his body, apparently moves on sheer instinct. The arm around Will’s neck is back, less forceful and more suggestively tight, and Mike arches his back when Will lays a gentle hand on his waist, shoving further into Will’s space, curled into him when Will expected to be recoiled from upon confessing what he thought would die with him.

Mike is, in kissing more than anywhere else in his life, careful, slow, soft, contrary to the rare and shameful little anticipations Will might have had for this moment. Guiding and leading and so very tender, it makes Will feel precious and fragile. There is no harshness, only languid movements, hands pliant and soft and firm in quiet approval, and gasped, groaned, moaned encouragements, while seemingly completely content with giving up control to Will and his inexperience. Letting Will touch, roam, caress. Letting Will tug at his hair, lick into his mouth, bite at his lip. At Will’s mercy, and content there.

Snaking an arm around Mike’s waist, Will pushes forward, with his mouth, his entire body, and Mike – goes. Mike goes so easily, lets himself be guided backwards onto the bed, be pressed into the mattress, pulling Will along eagerly. Hovering over Mike is like freefall. Like falling out of the sky. Terrifying, wonderful, powerful. Like Will deserves that, being let, looming over something – someone – so beautiful, so divine, it feels like a sin. Someone so precious, so loved, Will gets dizzy from it. Light-headed, light-hearted, with the force of his feelings returning back to him, from Mike. Splitting him clean open.

Pushing up to his knees, Will repositions his legs over Mikes narrow hips, and immediately gets rewarded with long, pale fingers digging into his thighs viciously. Sliding further, up, the thumbs brushing along the insides, curling around Will’s hips. Grounding, calming, thrilling. Burning brands of appreciation, right into his bones. Will’s breath hitches with the touch, and Mike places a hand against his jaw, securely, lovingly, licks into his mouth so maliciously, it’s all Will can do not to grind down against Mike.

“I think I’m having a heart attack,” Will says – gasps, pants, when Mike kisses along his jaw, his throat. Laughs hotly against sensitive skin, making Will shiver with – something. Frightening and grave and consuming. And then Mike sucks, ruthless and hard, and Will thinks he’s dying.

“Wait, hold on,” Mike says, very urgently all of a sudden, and it sends flares of pure panic-induced adrenaline through Will’s veins. Despite the – despite everything, despite not having been punched in the face immediately upon confessing his sins, there is still the bone-deep feeling of caution. Laced between his rips, rooted somewhere cellular, yelling Don’t get your hopes up, only marginally quietened by Mike’s mouth on his.

“I’m – sorry,” Will says, unlatching from Mike with no small emotional resistance, but necessity. There’s a litany of apologies on his tongue, pressing against the back of his teeth, but Mike, as usual, doesn’t let it get that far.

“No – what? Why are you apologizing?” Mike doesn’t let Will pull away; grabs at his waist and pulls him down again. It’s soothing, and confusing as all hell.

“I don’t – I thought–”

“Don’t. Don’t think, because knowing you, it’s nothing good,” Mike interrupts again, more gently now. He taps his knuckles against Will’s temple as if to emphasize. “I just – realized. Something. Maybe I should’ve gone about that differently, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Okay,” Will says slowly, still not fully untensing. “Care to share with the class, or…”

Mike, at least, has the decency to look apologetic. Placing his arms around Will’s shoulders again, pulling him in again – which is still a lot physical contact for Will, personally, who hasn’t been hugged by anyone outside of his family –, he smirks, like the heathen that he is. Says, “Is that why your brother doesn’t like me, anymore? Because of his brother complex?”

And – it’s not really funny, Jonathan’s bad habit of hovering and fussing. The origins are so fucking tragic, but Will starts to laugh, anyway. So hard, he keels over and knocks his forehead against Mike’s jaw, and then he almost chokes on it.

“He’s probably going to give you the shovel talk,” Will says, voice lighter than before, the fear draining out of him, and rests his forehead against Mike’s collarbones. They are bony and sharp, and Will would love to cut himself on them. Specifically his tongue. Will thinks he could slice himself open on Mike’s sharp angles, rub himself open at Mike’s pale skin, bleed out, and still die happy. In some sort of weird hysterical over-spill, he says as much. Says, “I want to cut myself on you.”

“I think I’m gonna cut myself on you,” Mike says without hesitation, a grin in his voice like gaps of sunlight, and arches his back. Grinds up, into Will, and rips an embarrassingly loud moan right from his throat. Maybe even deeper than that. “Didn’t know you had all that in you, Byers.”

“You have no idea what I have in me, Wheeler.”

“You should show me,” Mike says. Honestly, curiously, easily, like being witness to Will’s emotions that have always been too world-shattering is not just about the last thing anyone would want. Says it like he means it. “I’d love to see.”

Will thinks he would do anything for Mike, in exchange of his life, if necessary. Would run off the edge of the earth if Mike were to ask him to. That is too big a thing to show, though, too big, too soon, so Will starts small. He grinds down.