Chapter Text
It’s August of 1986, and Will Byers is fucked.
Gloriously, gobsmackingly, irreversibly fucked.
And guess what? The world is ending in slow-motion anyway. So does it really matter?
No. No it does not.
Now, I know what you’re here for. You’re here for one more hit of that angsty smutty fluffy Byler slow burn with a side dollop of the comedic stylings of the Party. You’re here to watch the cheekboned gangly one fall flat on his face, and for the sappy pretty one to melt into a puddle at his feet, until they commingle into something undeniable and true.
And they will. They always do.
So let’s picture together an unassuming door in an open field.
The weather is clear, but the handle is hot. Because on the other side, Hawkins is burning.
Everything was crimson and conflagration. The sky; the ground; the very air. There was nothing left to breathe anymore. It was all gone.
Gone, gone, gone.
And it was all Will’s fault.
His lungs burned as he ran.
Holy fuck, they burned.
He was so desperate to stop.
It didn’t matter anymore. Winning. There was nothing left to win.
He just wanted it to be over. He'd wanted it to be over so long ago.
His vision started going soft around the edges as his pace slowed. It felt good, giving in.
Someone, quick. Wave the white flag for him, because he didn’t even have the energy to surrender.
It was then Mike realized Will was no longer beside him, keeping pace. Blood and sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, it made no movement, even as he frantically looked behind him, searching.
“WILL!”
“Hmm?” Will hummed, feeling the world go sideways. Nothing was making any sense, which was just fine, now that it was over.
It's finally over.
“WILL!”
The pretty preying mantis in the distance was making an awful screeching sound. It was coming closer.
“WILL!”
Oh, right. It was Mike.
“Mike."
“Will, I'm so sorry. We have to keep moving. I know you don’t want to. I know it hurts. We’re so close, Will. Please don’t give up, baby. C’mon. Please.”
The sound of Mike’s voice, imploring and worried and impossibly sweet, made Will smile.
He could feel himself being lifted, his head hanging heavily, as his vision went black.
Smack.
Jonathan lightly hit him with the pillow he’d just removed from behind Will's head.
“Will! C’mon, bud. Gotta get up. Last warning.”
“Mike?” Will said into his flimsy little mattress in the Wheeler’s basement.
“Nope, sorry. Not Mike. Just Jonathan.”
“Mmmh,” Will murmured, hands jutting out across the bed, searching for his pillow. It landed with a soft thud on his head.
Well he wasn’t dead yet, apparently.
Go figure, because he really felt dead that time. Like really really dead. Extra dead. Extra fried.
His stomach grumbled.
“What time is it?” He yawned into the faded Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sheets beneath him.
“Time to get up,” Jonathan said. “Mom’s making breakfast.”
Will sighed, dragging a free hand down his face, his hair an adorable disaster. “I’ll get the fire extinguisher.”
“Mom, shouldn’t we be making more of, y’know, an active effort to look for a new home?”
Jonathan attempted to make his tone casual, but it came out abruptly nonetheless. He'd broken through what was essentially silence, aside from the sizzle of frozen breakfast sausages going clunk in Karen’s new non-stick cookware, and the ear-tingling scrape, scrape, scrape of the scrambled eggs in the Byers’ old metal pan.
Will knew with great reluctance that Jonathan was right. It was August now; time to get the hell out before they overstayed their welcome.
“Well —” Joyce looked back at Jonathan and Will, lightly apoplectic, distracted, a cigarette hanging precariously from her lips. The eggs were about to start burning.
The Wheelers were currently at church; the Byers finally had a moment to themselves. And Jonathan was disturbing the peace.
“Hon, I don’t know if you know this, but we’re not made of money,” Joyce said through a joyless, exasperated laugh. “That whole encyclopedia Brittanica game was a fucking racket.”
“Mom,” Will laughed.
“Mom, I know, but we don’t have to get a house,” Jonathan said, as gently as he could. “Who cares about a house? I already told you I’d give you everything I’m making so we can get an apartment. Can we maybe start actually doing that?”
“Jonathan, I’m not having this conversation again. That’s your money, and you’re saving it for NYU, and as soon as all of this is over with that fucking prick —”
“Mom!” Will was laughing again.
It wasn’t funny. None of this was funny.
...But that was kinda funny.
“What? As soon as all of this is over, you’re going to go to your dream school. Which just so happens to be one of the most expensive in the country. Which is fine! That’s — that’s great. Only the best for my son,” Joyce finished with a flourish of her crusty spatula.
“Mom, community college is really —”
“Jonathan. We’re done talking about this.”
Her tone was resolute. It made them both sit up a little straighter. She'd struck the Mom decibel.
Will secretly celebrated as they ate their afternoon breakfast at the Wheelers’ kitchen table in a comfortable silence. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this kind of uninterrupted time with Mike; not yet.
Speaking of —
Ugh. Let’s skip the additional exposition. Quarantine, quarantine, government-mandated gas masks, the air is poison, ooooh, super scary, blah blah blah. You get it.
But before the Wheelers burst in the door, Will would like to make one thing clear.
He was over Mike.
He was over it.
Okay?
He cried like a sweet sweet gay disaster in the Surfer Boy van, what, five whole months ago?
Pssh, old news. Mike Wheeler? Who even is that? How do you even spell that?
Never heard of him.
Okay, he’s joking, obviously.
But really, he was over his, um. His silly little crush.
...Well, I mean, yeah, he lived with Mike now, so sure, he thought about Mike.
And talked about Mike.
And dreamed of Mike.
But not in a weird way.
More like in a totally normal, platonic, “I love my best friend as a friend and I’m glad we’re a team again” kind of way.
…
What?
Why is that so hard to believe?
I can feel you smirking.
…Stop that, you guys.
Seriously.
…Like it’s — it’s genuinely not cool.
Will left all of those unspeakable feelings, and unspeakable thoughts, back west in the desert dust.
Okay?
Everything was good now. I mean, everything was a shit show, but they were good now. They were Will and Mike again. They were Mike and Will, the lamest of losers and the best of best friends. Nothing could possibly be better than that.
As that old crusty song by one of those dead guys goes, “Who could ask for anything more?”
Period.
End of story.
That…was that.
Jonathan was drying the last dish as Will sat atop the red formica kitchen island, swinging his legs, while his Mom talked about her latest job opportunity, when the door burst open, letting the semblance of peace out along with it.
Holly was first in the door.
“Will, Will! I wish you’d been there!”
“What? What happened?!”
Will indulged her excitedly as he jumped off the counter before Karen could see.
Will suspected Holly had a tiny crush on him these days. He could still remember her first birthday, and the way she smashed her face into that Marsh Supermarket vanilla cake with sprinkles. And here she was, a whole tiny person.
Did he look different too? He must, but he didn’t see it.
He was growing out his hair a little bit and he was a little taller, but other than that, he felt like he’d looked the same for a long time.
The same moles he wished he could scrub away. The same two front teeth that were quite a bit bigger than the rest. The same nose he could never seem to grow into.
Mike, on the other hand —
“Oh my god, Will, it was fucking hilarious.”
“Michael! Language!”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Holly! Earmuffs!” He held his hands over Holly’s ears as she squirmed out from between them, and stuck her tongue out at him. He returned it with a fat raspberry.
He leaned in close to Will conspiratorially. “You would’ve lost your fucking mind —”
Will was instantly dizzy at the proximity. The world slowed as Will’s senses turned to static.
He was so close to Mike that the only thing really in his line of vision were his brown eyes. And his messy raven hair. And the haphazard smattering of freckles that sat perfectly atop those cheekbones. And the slope of his nose that was so uniquely his. And his crooked smile, constantly up to something.
Fuck.
Will noted that today, Mike smelled faintly of the musk of sleepy teenage boy, and the Fruit Stripe smacking obnoxiously in between his teeth. Without thinking, he took another whiff.
Platonically, we should make clear. He took another platonic whiff.
...What, you don't whiff your bros?
“Michael!”
“WHAT?”
“Groceries!”
“ARRGH!”
The two of them walked outside to help unload the back of the station wagon. It was very much still summer, but the atmosphere had an unmistakable chill on the sunniest of days. Against the bluest sky you could look out and see the flakes of the Upside Down as they gently fell, contaminating the air and the ground below. It was foreboding as hell.
And yes, by the way, Will should've put on a gas mask. But that's — it was all the way back in the house, and he's all the way at the car now. He'll just hold his breath instead. That'll help. Right?
“Why didn’t you grab a bag before you went inside?” Nancy chided, lifting up her gas mask, as she and Jonathan, paper bags in hand, moved past Mike towards the open door.
“Jesus Christ; I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“MICHAEL JOSEPH. We JUST talked about this.”
“Talked about what?”
Mike Wheeler, ever the — how shall we call it — selective listener.
Karen shook her head, exasperated, as she walked at a clip behind Nancy and Jonathan.
“Ted?”
“Hmm?”
The Golf Channel was already on.
“Can you please ask your son once again to stop using so many expletives? Considering we just came from church?”
“Language,” Ted droned from his La-Z-Boy, not even gazing up for a moment from his newspaper.
“I agreed to go to mass once a week, not become a priest!” Mike bellowed at the open door.
He put two heavy brown bags into Will’s hands, before awkwardly juggling three in his own. They walked back towards the front door, elbows bumping clumsily.
“So, the old dude priest, right? They have to do this thing where they kneel in front of everybody, y'know?”
They passed through the open door. Will was smacked in the face with the air conditioning. He was instantly covered in goosebumps, which he tried to ignore.
The A/C’s just too high. You’re okay. You’re safe. Mike’s here. You’re fine.
“Mhmm,” Will nodded, with less than zero idea what he was talking about. All he knew was Mike just got back home, and already the world was more full of life for having him in it.
…More platonically full of platonic life.
Mike was throwing the groceries on the island, sloppily removing each item and hucking it at the counter, with no regard for order, or where anything belonged. In stark contrast, Will gently put down his bags, removing each item thoughtfully, as he listened intently.
“The old dude cannot get up. Like, he’s supposed to be delivering his boring-ass lecture or whatever —” Mike waves a box of cereal at this, showing his disdain.
“It’s silent. Like, dead silent. And then, Lucas, who was a few rows ahead of me, turns around and finds my eyes. And then he rips one. Will, I swear to fucking god, it was the longest fart I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Mike was now doing that thing where he was looking at Will and bracing against his shoulder. His other hand was on the kitchen counter, as tears of laughter came to his eyes. And then Will started to laugh.
Normally Will’s above laughing about a fart, but in that context? And the way Mike was telling it? Okay come on — that shit was funny.
And now he couldn't stop laughing. He didn’t really even know what he was laughing at anymore; it made him feel a little delirious. He and Mike were holding onto each other and crying and going through waves of giggles and he felt sick and he wanted it to never ever stop.
Mike sighed as another cycle of laughter died down. Both of his hands were braced against Will’s waist, and somehow Will’s arms were loosely draped around his neck. Not — quite sure when that happened. That’s a normal laughing position, right?
“Dude, I thought I was going to pass out."
Mike tried to catch his breath. He let out a big gush of air as he spoke.
"Oh, fuck. I wish you were there.”
“MIKE!”
Will jumped a mile, remembering that other people existed.
This particular yell came from Nancy, leaning over the banister, chin to the polished wood, as Jonathan patiently waited for her within the glowing sanctuary of her room.
“WHAT?”
“Can you STOP SHOUTING?”
“Pretty sure YOU’RE shouting.”
“I’m only shouting to tell you to SHUT UP.”
“NANCY! MICHAEL!”
“C’mon Will,” Mike rolled his eyes as he grabbed Will’s wrist, dragging him towards the basement.
“Thank you so much for the groceries, Mrs. Wheeler!”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Karen and Joyce continued to chat about something boring as they organized the kitchen, and Mike slammed the basement door.
Let’s spend a bit of time understanding the lead-up to what occurs that August afternoon once the basement door slams shut. The event will hitherto be known as The Sketchbook Incident of ‘86 (TM).
Not that said event will provide anything for Will in the way of clarity, in case that was your expectation. God forbid Will Byers enjoy a bit of clarity when it comes to Mike Wheeler.
But a door gets pushed open.
Not all the way. Not yet.
But it’s the door of doubt. A delicious, welcome doubt.
Before then, Will had been so certain he understood his best friend. What he wanted. What he needed. Luckily for him, and for us, he was wrong.
Welcome to the past!
We now find ourselves two months earlier. It’s Friday, June 6th, 1986.
Will had been sleeping down in the basement since the Byers fully moved back in May.
They were all still getting settled into this bizarre Brady Bunch-ass arrangement, and he was too nervous to let the Wheeler house feel like home. Whether it would ever feel like home was hard to say.
All of his and Jonathan’s things were arranged neatly in the dark brown, busted up old bureau they’d brought back from California, tucked as far out of the way as possible. He didn’t want to give anybody a single reason to kick him out. Not when he went from a 9-month Mike drought to a practical oasis.
…A practical, platonic oasis.
That Friday night, they were watching Cheers, and arguing about whether or not Sam and Diane should end up together.
Mike hit “mute” on the remote. He could barely process what Will had just said.
“What are you talking about? It’s such horse shit,” he said, between the fistfuls of popcorn he shoveled into his mouth. Will was surprised he hadn’t choked.
He smiled at him then, thinking: if the Demogorgon had taken Mike instead of him, Vecna probably would've brought him back.
“Mike, their relationship is completely fraught. It’s a bad idea for the both of them.”
“No way is Sam done fighting for her. He wants her so bad!”
Mike was excitedly yelling, leaning into Will’s shoulder with his own for emphasis.
“So? Why should he get his way?” Will turned to Mike, planting his knees on the cushion, sitting back on his feet, growing more animated.
“Because he’s our god damn protagonist, Will! His name is Sam Cheers, for Christ’s sake!”
Mike mirrored Will’s action, until the two of them, knees nearly knocking, were in each other’s faces, wobbling on the weathered, structurally questionable couch.
Will was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.
“SAM CHEERS? His name is Sam Malone, Mike!”
“SAME THING. I’m telling you, they’re meant to be. What else is all this will-they-won’t-they bullshit for?!”
Will was shaking his head, getting a little lightheaded from laughing so much.
“Also you’re wrong. His name is in the song,” Mike insisted, poking Will in the chest as a punctuation.
“Where is it in the song?”
“You know.”
“I don’t think I do.”
Mike did the unthinkable. He began to sing.
“Sometimes you wanna go —”
Will joined in, singing the right words at him simultaneously.
MIKE: “To Sam Cheers’ place, yeah it’s called Cheers. And they’re always glad you’re here.”
WILL: “Where everybody knows your name. And they’re always glad you came.”
Mike kept going, taking it up the octave for good measure.
“YOU WANNA BE WHERE BLAH BLAH BLAH. SAM’S LAST NAME IS CHEERS.”
Will was screaming with laughter as he put his hand over Mike’s mouth. He continued to belt it out from behind his hand.
“YOU WANNA GO WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOU’RE HERE.”
On his last word, as Mike gesticulated with his right hand for emphasis, the entire bowl of popcorn went flying out of his grasp.
Will doubled over, feeling a little loopy now. He tried desperately to ignore the way his body responded to the palm of his hand having been flush with Mike’s mouth for 6 whole seconds.
Mike, for his part, went into fits of lamentation over this MONUMENTAL loss. There was so much popcorn left.
“No! No! God damn it, Will, look what you’ve made me do!” Mike exclaimed dramatically, grasping Will’s arms. Will was sent into another fit of laughter.
Mike was beaming as he looked at Will, but after a moment, Mike grew quiet, his smile fading.
He suddenly had a look of panic on his face that he quickly tried to conceal, but Will had already spotted it.
“What? Is there something behind me?” Will turned around, concerned.
“No, no. You’re safe. I’m sorry to scare you.” Mike chuckled a little, dropping his hands to his sides, wiping them along his jeans, leaving faint smatterings of salt in its wake.
“What’s wrong? Are you actually upset about the popcorn? We can make more,” Will offered, pinching his eyebrows together in worry.
“No, no, it’s fine.”
“I don’t actually care about the lyrics, y’know. I like your version better.”
“No, yeah. Um. I know. Or I guess I didn’t know, but.”
Mike shook his head, awkwardly getting up from the couch, as Will slowly sank back onto his heels. He had made Mike uncomfortable, and he didn’t know why.
Maybe it was his hand. He had gotten too close. That must’ve been it.
Shit.
Mike got on his hands and knees, scraping up popcorn, haphazardly putting the fuselage back into the bowl, his displeasure at the texture written all over his bratty, ever-expressive face.
Will tried to help, but Mike was too quick.
He shot up, and stiffly, hastily climbed the stairs, the bowl placed squarely atop his low stomach.
“Uh, light on? Off?”
“Oh! Um. Off’s fine?” Will answered, bewildered.
It was so early. This was bad.
“Cool,” Mike said rigidly.
“Night,” Will replied hastily, and before he could say anything else, the overhead light was off, and the basement door was closed.
All was bathed in the eerie glow of the silent television as Will waited.
He stared at the basement floor, waiting for Mike’s big dumb clunky feet to shuffle off to his bedroom.
He then closed his eyes, and took a shaky breath as he sank into the couch. He picked up a rogue piece of popcorn as the sensations he’d been ignoring for the past hour frantically teemed to life. The arc of the kernel missed the trashcan by a mile.
Will sighed, shaking his head to himself in tacit disapproval.
Since our boy is finally alone for the first time in this story, it’s probably a good time to come clean.
This might shock you, but Will’s feelings towards Mike weren’t actually entirely platonic.
He told himself they were, and he said it over and over (and over) again in the hopes of helping the reality of their dynamic sync in. He’d lost Mike once, and he was never going to let that happen again.
Because being best friends with Mike was the honor of his life. It really was.
But…his body didn’t exactly get the memo. It often stood at odds, and in stark contrast, to his wishes to remain exceedingly appropriate.
Under the Wheeler’s roof, Will had quickly developed a system. A way of coping. It might’ve made him sick with self-loathing, but it was a loathing he could live with. Because at least this way, Mike would never know. And the paramount importance of his not knowing took precedence over all else.
Friends don’t lie. But Will was a bad friend, so he had to.
Before he could think about it any more, and again, not that he was proud of it. But he had to, um, touch himself, to, y’know, keep the feelings at bay.
...That's how that works, right?
He flipped off the television and turned on the lamp (like hell he’d ever sleep in the dark down there). Grabbing his comforter, he clutched it to his chest, and ashamedly sank into his mattress in the corner of the room.
This evening’s interaction was completely confusing, but of course it made the blood rush below Will’s hips, constricting his favorite brown corduroys. He couldn’t help but feel that familiar, pulsating heat in his groin whenever he and Mike were too close for too long.
Really, Will thought, this current arrangement was the best-case scenario. He could close his eyes, quickly tug on himself, and clear it all away. He could clear it away, and keep from sullying their friendship with his repugnant urges.
He could picture the way the ends of Mike’s hair curled against his neck; imagine the glint in his eyes as he laughed, and the way Mike’s warm mouth had felt against the palm of his hand —
“Hey Will?”
Jesus Christ.
Thank god he was obscured by the couch in front of him. He instinctively flattened himself against the bed. He shakily responded, a disembodied voice in a sea of bad interior design.
“...Yeah?”
“I was just on the walkie with Dustin. Did you want to go to the movies tomorrow afternoon? Your walkie’s off, by the way. Gotta get used to the old system again, I guess.”
He couldn't get his heart to slow down.
Just...pretend you were dozing off.
“Sounds good!” Will’s voice cracked like he was Peter Brady.
Perfect.
“Okay great. Hey Will?”
Death, swallow me whole.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
No. Now please leave. Me and your mouth are trying to have a platonic moment over here.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Uh huh.”
“Okay. Well — goodnight,” Mike said to the furniture.
“...Night!” Will called back from behind the couch, with a hair too much enthusiasm.
His pulse was in his ears from the residual panic. That was way too close of a call.
And that was the issue.
To be around Mike, to have him all to himself, was absolute heaven, but barely having a bedroom made it a bit tough to manage.
Will now understood that the way his body felt around Mike wasn’t something he could control. Not really. No one would ever ask for this kind of feeling to come between them and the most important person in their life.
So he did what any sensible person would do. He managed the sensation, and then moved on to the next occasion, in which it inevitably surfaced once more.
Crisis? Management. Easy peasy.
Will wiped his face before reluctantly putting it back inside his boxer briefs.
He had no idea if he’d have any more interruptions, so he squeezed his eyes shut, and worked as quickly as possible.
Mike’s open mouth Mike’s thick thick black hair Mike’s cute ear that pokes out from behind his thick black hair; tugging on his wavy hair; sweat dampening his beautiful wavy hair.
Mike’s perfect pouty lips; the back of his hand wiping, dragging across his mouth his mouth his mouth.
His eyes his eyes his big brown eyes half-lidded; his eyebrows stitched together, a little pained. Whining. He’s moaning. He’s on his knees and he’s panting and he’s moaning.
His open mouth his warm mouth his beautiful fucking mouth.
Filling, filling his perfect fucking mouth. Too much, too much for his warm, wet mouth.
Softly holding his throat. His long pretty throat. Twitching and pumping cum down the back of Mike’s long pretty throat.
He's panting, wiping the back of his mouth, and smiling.
Whew.
See? Crisis managed.
Will lay breathless, his heart thumping, as he looked down at the mess he’d made of his stomach; his chest.
The fresh shame crashed into his sternum, the guilt dampening his full-body euphoria. It made him sick.
Mike was innocently singing and eating popcorn next to you and all your body could think of was using his throat.
Do you hear yourself? Using his throat?
What would he think; what would he say if he knew? He would never speak to you again. Don’t you understand that he would never speak to you again?
He squeezed his eyes shut as the hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He was a mess in every sense of the word.
For tonight, the worst was over. He could go back to being a normal person again, and the thoughts of Mike could now retreat to the recesses of his memories; his desires.
He would clean himself up. His skin, along with his feelings, and his friendship, would be scrubbed clean of the filth of his mind. And he’d be clean again too. Maybe forever this time.
He was handling it, no sweat. Easy peasy.
At The Hawk the following day, there was a spirited debate. Because of course there was.
“I’m not seeing Top Gun again.”
“Why not?”
“Dustin, we’ve already seen it twice.”
“Lucas, you saw Rambo First Blood Part II four times.”
“Yes but I didn’t force you to come with me! If Max were here —”
“Don’t even, Lucas. Don’t pull the coma card on me.”
“The coma card?! Do you even hear yourself?”
“GUYS. Can’t we just see Ferris Bueller’s Day Off instead?” Will offered.
“Who’s even in that?” Dustin asked.
“Charlie Sheen. And the girl from the Swayze movie; whatsherface.” Mike was so good with details.
“You mean Dirty Dancing? Jennifer Grey?”
“Yeah, her. Jennifer Grey.”
Will looked over at Mike as he walked to the ticket counter without another word.
“Who’s Ferris Bueller?”
“I don’t know. Some guy.”
Some incredibly hot guy, Will thought.
“What kind of a name is Ferris anyway?”
“I don’t know, Lucas! What kind of a name is Rambo? Is that really that much better?” Will chided, more harshly than he’d intended.
“Rambo’s obviously a last name.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t play stupid, Dustin.”
“I’m not. I’m genuinely asking. What? I am!”
Mike was already walking back to them, tickets in hand for Ferris Bueller. He was the decider, and he’d decided that Will had won. Surprise, surprise.
“That’s $2.50 each. Cough it up.”
“God, I wish Steve still worked at Scoops Ahoy.”
“Don’t we all.”
Will opened his backpack, and handed them their contraband supplies. Lucas always requested a Dr. Pepper and some red vines. This time, Dustin got a bag of pork rinds (gross). He handed Mike his Coke, and zipped the bag back up. Moneybags Mike even bought a bag of popcorn tonight. Fancy.
Will looked at him for a second too long, Mike’s pale skin alabaster against the flashing blue light of the screen. He looked like he didn’t belong on Earth. Like this world didn’t deserve anyone so beautiful.
And now he was looking back, a little question etched into that face.
Will dry swallowed, forcing himself to tear his eyes away.
“What about yours?” Mike whispered.
“Didn’t want to take too many Cokes. I don’t understand how rations work.”
“Me neither.”
As Mike began eating his popcorn, his eyebrows went up a little. That's what happens to his face when he thinks. He pushed both the bag of popcorn and the can of Coke between them.
“Well, here. Have some of mine.”
“Are you sure?”
“What? Of course.”
Ferris Bueller was good. And funny. And hot, too. So hot. Ferris kinda reminded Will of Mike, actually. If he tried, he could have the whole of Hawkins at his feet.
But Will could barely pay attention, because every time he and Mike went for popcorn at the same time, their hands brushed, and Will felt like someone dropped boiling acid into his stomach.
And don’t get him started on sharing a can of Coke. It was practically obscene. He’d watch Mike put his lips up to the opening, and tilt his head back, Will watching his Adam’s apple ripple down and back up as he swallowed. He’d then hand Will the can, the heat from their fingers brushing in stark contrast to the cold, sweaty soda. He felt Mike’s eyes on him as he too took a sip, his neck cocked back more and more as the liquid in the can lessened. He’d then hand the can back to Mike, who’d put it back in the cup rest.
They did that six whole times. Six. Will shifted in his seat as he thought about Mike’s spit mingling with the Coke that he got to suck down.
Fuck.
He willed the thought away. He also Will’d the thought away, in that he didn’t do a very good job of willing the thought away.
“Actually, Mike, I found another. I guess we didn’t have to share after all. Wanna open one more?”
Crack.
A tiny bit of the soda landed on Will’s chin.
“Will, you — got a little on you.”
Mike placed his thumb on Will’s chin, allowing his thumb, and his eyes, to linger on the spot.
“Will —”
But it wasn’t really happening, right? He wasn’t really saying his name, was he?
“WILL!”
“Huh?”
“I said the movie’s over; we gotta get up.”
“Sorry.”
Mike put his hand on Will’s shoulder, looking a little worried in that way he does so well. Because he was the best.
He next spoke in the Will decibel. We all know the one.
It was that soft, dulcet-toned voice Mike had reserved for Will for the past 13 years. The one that makes Will melt; the one he most often heard as he drifted off to sleep back in California, 2,000 miles from Mike. From home.
“You okay?”
Will nodded.
“Mhmm. I think I got a little sleepy or something.”
“You sure?”
Will tried to give a more convincing nod, accompanied with a smile.
“Yeah.”
“Guys!” Dustin called from the end of the aisle. “What are we doing after this?”
Mike turned to Will and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “You in?”
Whatever it was, the answer was yes. The answer would always be yes.
As they clambered into Mike’s basement, they threw their gas masks into a pile in the corner. They all washed any exposed skin in the basement bathroom, taking turns. After Mike was done, he stayed in the bathroom, leaning against the pink tiled wall, until Will was finished, too. Will was a little surprised he hadn’t left the room, but rejecting Mike’s company on any occasion wasn’t in his vocabulary.
Mike hadn’t been prepared for a session, so while they couldn’t quite play DnD tonight, at least they could talk about it.
Lucas and Dustin sat on the couch. Mike and Will sat on the ground, as Mike, in excruciating detail, recounted the DnD campaign Eddie had so beautifully constructed that spring. He sat close to Will; too close for Will’s comfort. Their knees were nearly touching, and he kept squeezing the spot above Will’s right knee for emphasis. Will could feel the heat in his face, his breath catching.
Mike, for as little as he paid attention to most things, could really paint a beautiful picture with his words when he wanted to.
Will was transfixed, allowing himself to get wrapped up in the story. How could he not be, at Mike's retelling? It was masterful.
His jaw dropped at the unexpected addition of Lady Applejack. He watched as Mike’s hands moved like a conductor to a score, the choral chants of “TO THE DEATH!” ringing in Will’s ears.
He was laughing, feeling like he’d really been there as Mike got up and did what seemed like a spot-on impression of Eddie as Erica rolled the nat 20 death blow. His movements were jerky and deliriously charming and Will sighed with glee as Mike —
“MIKE. I can’t take it anymore. I really can’t.”
Dustin was standing now too, but he wasn’t getting in on the action. He was leaving.
“What? What do you mean?”
“Eddie’s gone, Mike. I don’t understand how this is fun for you.”
“What? It’s not. It’s just that Will wasn’t there, so I wanted to —”
“That’s fine. You’re welcome to. I just really can’t participate in that any more tonight. Okay? You can understand that, right?”
Will spoke up from the ground, hugging his knees together with guilt.
“I’m sorry, Dustin. I feel like it’s my fault. I was the one who asked.”
Dustin shook his head, pursing his lips as he grabbed a gas mask.
“It’s not your fault, Will. I wish you were there. Eddie was the best DM I’ve ever known.”
“HEY. I’m standing right here.”
“I know you are, Mike.”
Without another word, Dustin ascended the stairs.
“DUSTIN!”
The door clicked shut behind him.
“Just let him go,” Lucas said, to Mike’s mouth that hung agape, and his outstretched hand, still gesturing towards the stairs.
Mike stalked over and collapsed on the couch in a huff.
“Am I a bad DM?”
“Of course not, Mike,” Will offered warmly.
Mike screwed up his mouth to the side, giving a little appreciative nod.
“Lucas? Am I?”
“No, Mike. That’s not —”
Lucas sighed, stopping himself. He wasn’t in the mood to argue, which was unlike him.
“It doesn’t matter. Maybe I should go, too.”
“What?! Lucas, it’s one of the first Saturdays of the summer. You can’t go home now.”
“I want to get to the hospital early tomorrow.”
“Can’t you go to the hospital at any time? It’s not like Max knows what time it is.”
They both looked at Mike. Even Mike knew he screwed up with that one.
“Yeah, I’m — I’m gonna go.”
“Lucas.” This was the closest Mike came to begging. Lucas stood and grabbed his gas mask.
“Lucas! I’m sorry I — I didn’t mean it like that.”
Lucas glanced at Mike, opting to ignore him.
“Will, you’ll come to the hospital soon, right? She’ll be really happy to hear your voice.”
“Of course I will.”
“What about me? Does Max want to hear my voice?”
“Sure she does, Mike.”
“That sounds like sarcasm.”
Lucas was already ascending the stairs without looking behind him.
“LUCAS. I said that sounds like sarcasm!”
“Night, you guys.”
“Night,” Will called from his spot on the floor.
Mike spun around as Lucas shut the door behind him.
“They have to be joking.”
“I know. I'm sorry,” Will said with an apologetic smile.
Mike shook his head.
“What did I do wrong?”
He looked so lost. He stood there, waiting for Will to tell him what to do.
Will watched his face as he let a bit of silence in. Mike closed and opened his mouth, the words evading him.
“Everything’s so weird right now, Mike. Just give them time.”
“But you’re not being weird!”
Mike threw himself back down on the couch in another huff.
Will absentmindedly scratched the wood of the coffee table with his index finger as he considered this.
“Yeah, but — I haven’t been through what they went through. I mean…Eddie died in Dustin’s arms, y’know? And everything with Max, it’s — it's really intense.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mike said so softly Will barely heard it.
Will bit his lip as he tried not to hold his tongue.
“Mike, do you —”
“What?” Mike snapped, his face a little red and splotchy.
“I just mean to say, um, I’m sorry about Eddie. You lost him, too.”
Mike looked at the ground with a thousand yard stare as he pulled down on his hunter green polo, fidgeting.
“Thanks. Dustin, uh — Dustin tends to forget.”
Another pause.
Will cautiously stood up, and sank down on the couch beside Mike.
“What do you wanna do now?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said, but his demeanor was a little easier now. He put his feet on the couch, laying his head on the busted armrest, his hands cradling the base of his skull.
Will stood up, put Led Zeppelin IV in the boombox, and pressed play, before sitting back down, cross-legged beside him.
Mike nodded along in appreciation. He’d chosen well.
“Hey Will?”
“Yeah?”
“I'm really glad you're home.”
“Me too.”
They sat like that for a long time without another word. Being near each other was enough. That said enough.
Will’s dream that night was a little less tame.
Dream Mike was kneeling on dream Will’s bed.
“Go ahead.”
Will’s mouth was watering.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to lick it.”
Will swallowed, hard. He was staring at Mike’s, um. Yeah.
“Any — part in particular?”
“The whole thing.”
He looked up at Mike, his brows furrowed in concentration. Mike’s breathing was slow, his mouth open, waiting for Will to begin.
“Go ahead, Will. Be a good boy for me.”
He groaned, the phrase having shot through his body like electricity.
Will closed his eyes, leaned forward, and —
He woke up with a start. He came before he could even begin, which felt a little unfair. He looked over at the couch. No Jonathan tonight; he was once again up in Nancy’s room. Thank god for that.
Will quickly washed himself and put on a pair of fresh underwear. He ashamedly stuffed the sticky pair into the bottom of the hamper, as if there weren’t already three other pairs in a similar state from this week alone.
At this rate, he was either going to have to start doing laundry more often than once a week, or smother this sickness of his once and for all.
Neither option felt particularly enticing. But one certainly felt more doable than the other.
He made a mental note to request they buy more fabric softener.