Chapter Text
October 31st, 1992
“Does it still hurt?”
Mike stands inches away from the bathroom mirror, his hips resting against the edge of the sink. He’s poking—with a cotton swab he’s doused in warm salt water—at the small piece of metal that’s lodged firmly through the skin at his left eyebrow.
“Only when I touch it.”
“Then stop touching it.” Will calls back, his voice low, like he’s concentrating on something else and releasing the words from his lungs comes as a second thought.
Mike doesn’t need to see him to know he’s sat cross legged on his bedroom floor, in front of his standing mirror that’s propped up against the wall because neither of them have any idea how to hang it. Will’s brand new The Cure CD is playing from the speakers in the living room at a moderate volume, and Mike swears he’s already heard him humming along even though it’s only played through twice.
“I’ve gotta clean it, Will! What if it gets infected or something?” He turns the swab around to make use of the other end, reminding himself to be more gentle this time.
Will’s steady painter’s hands would’ve had no problem completing this task; Mike would bet any money the guy could even perform an emergency surgery on him if he had to and neatly stitch him back up without breaking much of a sweat.
But, despite his acute awareness of how heavy handed he can be sometimes, he insisted that he could do it himself. He regrets it bitterly now, though, because it fucking hurts and he kinda misses Will even though he’s only in the next room.
He’s been feeling like that a lot lately: missing him when he’s not immediately in his line of vision, or missing the warmth of their arms pressed up against each other when it’s not cold enough for them to huddle in the middle of the sofa to share a blanket. When they're instead sitting at their designated sides which leaves Mike feeling like they may as well be several miles apart.
He misses all of these small, annoying things, and craves them often, but he’ll never ask for them even though he knows that Will would probably say yes because that’s the kind of person he is.
That being said—although he’ll never directly ask—Mike is well aware he keeps making up completely unrelated excuses to cause these moments of closeness. He tries not to overthink it; it’s just easier to be consistently close to Will now that they finally have a place together. He’s not any different than he already was, really. The two of them being physically close to each other has always been a fundamental part of their friendship, anyway, and all Mike is trying to do is maintain that.
Just a week ago, he was looking out their living room window into the street below, and he caught sight of a black cat. He called for Will to come and look, pointing to the shrub he saw it disappear under when he arrived at his side. Where? I don’t see anything he said, craning his neck to try and get a better angle, and Mike let his hands rest firmly on his shoulders as he repositioned him, standing close enough behind him that they might as well have been looking out of the same pair of eyes.
There, see! when it reemerged, and Will was smiling, and when he turned his head, Mike was pretty sure their faces had never been that close before. His voice was quiet, and it was a choice he only could’ve made because of that fact. Do you think we should get a cat?
Weirdly, it felt like an appropriate moment to slide his arms around his best friend’s body from behind. Maybe nestle his face into the side of his neck and say whatever you want. The urge had taken him by surprise, so much so that he had to step away with not much left to offer than a simple shrug. A bitter chill washed over him, and the distance he’d made between them felt necessary, but he had to admit that it wasn’t something he wanted.
If he’s completely honest with himself, missing Will has felt like an ever present emotion for him since he can remember. His life has been an endless cycle of losing him, getting him back, and yeah, most of it has been down to all of the interdimensional bullshit, so he can’t really blame himself for it (though sometimes, he tries to) and the other times? Well, he’d just pissed him off for some reason or another in the way friends do when they’ve known each other as long as the two of them have.
But no matter what it is, missing Will always leaves him feeling like he’s been hollowed out with his last remaining purpose being finding him again. So, the question that’s been bugging Mike ever since they moved, is why does he miss him more than he ever has before? Why now, when they share a space and see each other pretty much every single day without fail?
It just doesn’t make sense.
“Well, that could’ve been a pretty awesome Halloween costume, don’t you think?” Will offers, and Mike’s pretty certain it’s a dig at the lack of effort he’s put into what he’s actually chosen to wear tonight.
He’s got bigger things to worry about right now, like this goddamn piercing that’s probably hurting more than it should be.
“That literally makes zero sense! You can’t make a costume out of an infected piercing.”
“You totally could, if you tried.” Will argues, and Mike wonders if he’ll ever stop trying to be so damn creative about every little thing they talk about. He hopes he won't. It’s one of his favourite things about him. “It’d be more interesting than what you’re actually gonna wear, anyway.”
Huh. So it was a dig—which is fine, he deserves it. He winces again before he steadily exhales. “That’s bull.”
In his defence, it’s college, and you’re not supposed to put too much effort into your Halloween costume, anyway. At least that’s what Nancy told him, as well as the rest of the party—who are already a few years into their respective bachelor's degrees in different cities.
After all of the upside down bullshit (Mike knows it’s a light way of putting it; but it’s the way he and Will have been referring to it in recent years) was eventually put to rest, Vecna defeated and all of the gates closed for good, Mike was initially keen to peel himself away from Hawkins without a second thought. Most of the party did, and he didn’t blame them; they saw through their high school educations before venturing away to wherever the hell they wanted, healthily funded by the government in exchange for their sworn silence about it all.
Initially, it had felt like the easiest decision in the world to make—why would he want to stay in Hawkins, surrounded by all of the traumatising memories it held firmly within its grasp? Not to mention that all the talk about it from those who knew, and speculation from the general public, was bound to last a lifetime; buses full of tourists would often pass by through the town, everyone keen to see the damage that ‘the earthquake sent from hell’ had left behind, even though most of it had been rebuilt anyway, so Mike never really understood what exactly they wanted to look at.
He was itching to make his escape. He wanted to be surrounded by people who had no idea what the upside down was, and the meanings behind phrases like hive mind and shadow monster would just materialise into distant memories. Naturally easier said than done, of course—sometimes he felt like if he stared really hard into a dark corner of his room he could make out the outline of one of the many bloodthirsty creatures he’d encountered in his youth, growling and waiting for him to stir. He wanted to get far away enough from the memories to be able to use them as fuel for his creative writing assignments, but he’d grown so tired of it all that he’d been straying from the fantasy genre all together.
Not that it was fantasy to him—that’s just what he’d tell his tutor if it was the sort of thing he wanted to write. He tried at the start of the semester, but real life had landed in Mike’s lap much later than the average person and he found himself a little more focused on trying to catch up, so naturally, that’s what he gravitated towards writing about. It had also felt mildly insensitive to use the things that had traumatised Will so much as creative fuel, even though he had reassured him countless times that he could if he wanted to.
Hazy, middle-of-the-night memories come back to him often, mostly from the early years post upside down, hearing Will sniffling to himself quietly at a sleepover—if the others were there, he would shuffle as close as he could without touching him (they’d always be under the same blanket, anyway) and whisper reassurances to him until he was lulled back to sleep.
If they were alone, he’d reach out a hand to place firmly on his arm, running his thumb back and forth on the skin just underneath his t-shirt sleeve, and he wouldn’t need to say anything at all. He’d count his breaths as they slowed, and watch the trail of goosebumps appear on his neck when he’d sometimes let his fingers trail all the way down to his wrist, and back up again.
Even now, they sometimes find themselves in each other’s beds at night, depending on where Will feels the most comfortable. As soon as they moved, it happened at least a few nights a week. Will has trouble adjusting to new surroundings as it is, never mind a new apartment in a new city, so he was glad that his best friend could be an anchor to tether himself to.
Mike will hear him anxiously pacing around in his room, a way his therapist had suggested he could ground himself back in reality after a nightmare, and he’ll rarely ever ask him for help, almost like he’s challenging himself to see how long he can go without it.
Mike can’t ever bear it, though, and he always pushes himself out of his own bed to cross the hall and knock lightly on Will’s door. Neither of them say anything most of the time—Mike just offers him a reassuring smile, pulls his sleepy figure back into bed, lets him turn his back to him, holds him as close as he can against his chest and doesn’t let himself sleep until Will’s breathing is as slow and steady as his own.
It hasn’t happened in a while, which is good. It’s really good, actually. Mike could not be happier that his best friend is healing from his trauma and having nightmares way less frequently. That’s not to say he doesn’t force himself to stay awake as long as physically possible every single night, staring at the dark expanse of his ceiling, covers half on half off in case he hears those anxious footsteps and needs to climb into the comforting warmth of Will’s bed to help him get back to sleep.
It’s just a precaution he has to take, you see, even if it means he has to drink an extra cup of coffee the following day. He’s doing it for Will, and to Mike, anything is worth it if it makes him feel safe. He’ll always make sure he’s near—which is also why he waited for two years until Will wanted to go to college so the pair of them could go together. That’s just the kind of friend Mike is.
As high school came to a close and the rest of the party were making their decisions about the cities they wanted to go to (all firmly set on the idea of anywhere but here) Will told him that he wasn’t ready to leave yet, one quiet night when the two of them were watching a movie in the Wheeler basement. He’d realised he needed at least a couple of years after high school to somewhat mentally recover from it all, especially because he had been right in the centre of it.
He wasn’t ready to tear himself away from the comfort of his home and his family, feeling like a huge portion of his childhood had been taken away from him by force and he was left with a desperate need to reclaim it without the focus of his education holding him back. Jumping straight into college just felt wrong, so his easy decision had been to stay, make use of the government issued therapy so he didn’t have to talk about everything in riddles to someone who didn’t know what happened, and take up a job at the Family Video store, working on his art in his free time.
He encouraged Mike to do what felt right for him, and to leave if it was what he wanted—but, since he could remember, Mike had always been set on the idea of them going to college together, so if Will wanted to wait, he was going to wait, too.
What Mike didn’t realise was that he’d never voiced this to Will out loud, and he seemed pretty taken aback when he immediately told him he’d hang back in Hawkins for however long he wanted. A lot of are you sure’s later, Mike had finally convinced him that there was no way they weren’t going to college together, and that no amount of protesting was going to change his mind.
When El had—pretty inevitably, he had to admit—broken up with him, she was confident that the two of them would function much better as friends; and when Mike had listened to her explain it, he began to realise that maybe that’s all they ever were. She needed time on her own to find herself, to figure out who she really was outside all of the trauma and chaos, and somewhere amongst it, she encouraged him to do the same.
He still doesn’t know what she meant by that, but he’d just nodded and smiled, then pulled her in for a hug and made her promise she wasn’t going to die, and told her it wasn’t going to hurt any less now if she did. Turns out, she was right, and after she saved the world for, hopefully, the final time, she and Mike quickly found their footing in their friendship, and things between them have been easy ever since.
Will’s childhood home survived the destruction, and it shortly ended up back on the market, so after a good while of living between the cabin and Mike’s basement, he moved back with his mom, Hopper, and El. When fall rolled around, Dustin, Max, and Lucas left for college, and with Jonathan and Nancy already gone, Mike had started to feel all the more attached to Will—strangely more than usual.
He likes to call them the quiet years, the time between almost the end of the world, and starting college. His weeks would usually consist of a few shifts at the diner on the edge of town, where he served drip coffee and pancakes to the very tourists he despised so much; they’d ask him questions he couldn’t answer about the town’s history, and then for directions to the nearest motel. He saved money, even though he knew he was in a position where he didn’t need to, but it felt good to have earned it. He swapped his bike for a car, sometimes picked up Holly from school, went for walks with El to check in, dove head first into countless short story outlines, and spent an unhealthy amount of time glued firmly to Will’s side.
He’d hang out at the video store when he was working, and Will did the same at the diner, the two of them enjoying free rentals and leftovers pretty much whenever they wanted. They’d go for drives to the edge of town, and on the occasional weekend they’d even venture into the city for a gig, bumping shoulders as they walked through the streets, hanging at the back of the venue because of Will’s discomfort in crowds, the two of them spending more time screaming the lyrics to each others faces instead of giving their full attention to the act.
Then, Will came out to him.
Nothing changed, really. Mike drove him home after he’d spent the evening hanging out at Family Video, he parked his car across the street and left it running until Will blurted out that there was something he couldn’t keep from him anymore. He kept his teary eyes firmly fixed on the street ahead of them and exhaled the breath he seemed to have been holding for years, and he was sorry that Mike was pretty much the last person (within their immediate circle, at least) to be told—he just didn’t want his best friend in the whole entire world, and one of the most important people in his life, to think of him differently. When he explained that the hardest people to tell had been the people he cared about the most, Mike understood.
Despite his clear nervousness, his voice was steady and even, like he’d rehearsed it to himself thousands of times before. Mike slowly reached forward to turn off the engine when he finished, and the silence that followed was only broken up from the occasional sniffle from Will who still couldn’t bring himself to look at him.
Will, look at me, please. In one, instinctive motion, he reached forward to take his icy cold hand into his own, and he squeezed it as tight as he could without hurting him. He finally turned, and Mike gave him the most encouraging smile he could muster: Hey, listen, you’re my best friend. You always will be. Nothing could ever change that. And, I’m really glad you told me, even if I am the last to know. That got a laugh out of him, at least, and any worries that remained had finally been lifted from Will’s shoulders.
They had a brief ‘you got your eye on anyone’ type conversation that felt much like a formality and very unlike anything they’d ever really talked about; to which the answer, apparently to Mike’s relief, was no.
Then, Will climbed out of the car with a cheery ‘same time tomorrow?’ and Mike had said of course, as always, and on the drive back home he began the long, laborious task of analysing every interaction he and Will had ever had, not pausing for long enough to answer the question of why.
Nothing stuck out, really (not that he actually knew what he was looking for) until he came to a firm stop right around the spring break of ‘86. California. The painting Will had given him in the back of that stupid Surfer Boy Pizza van, the one he’d said El had commissioned and later found out she didn’t when he asked her about it. He never questioned it, or brought it up with Will. It didn’t feel necessary, and he’d just assumed Will was doing a nice thing for him when he was feeling down, because, again, that’s what friends do.
But on this particular occasion he’d landed on this memory, it was like he was seeing it through a fresh set of eyes. He began to remember other details he otherwise had long forgotten—a line from one of El’s letters in particular, rose from the surface like a rusty nail, where she’d been talking about Will working on a painting and how she thought it was for a girl. I think there is someone he likes.
Ah. Well, Will doesn’t like girls, and Mike received a painting not long after this letter, and Will lied about it being from El, and—
He had to stop thinking about it, then, because he almost lost control of his car and swerved off the road.
He shrugged it off, told himself he was completely overthinking it, and moved on. Will being gay is just a fact that is commonly known, and it’s something that neither of them have to talk about aside from lighthearted, casual comments. They haven’t needed to talk about anything directly, and it’s been completely fine. There have been no issues, and Mike has not once thought of him differently. Not at all. He is, well and truly, absolutely okay with it. There is not a single reason why he wouldn’t be.
And now, life just passes in a way that Mike’s sure it was always supposed to, in a cosy two bed apartment not far from campus that’s basically their respective childhood bedrooms merged into one. An open plan kitchen and living room adorned with nerdy trinkets and posters, string lights hanging above their 27-inch TV, the wooden stand underneath packed with a combined movie collection that keeps on growing, a sofa that’s somewhat on the small side for two grown boys, a colourful crochet blanket of Will’s draped over the back. A small dining table that doubles as a desk, mostly covered in papers, sketchbooks, pens, and pencils; a chair either side.
Even their closets have overlapped, Will sometimes emerging from his room in the morning in one of Mike’s sweaters, or Mike sleeping in one of Will’s many band t-shirts. It’s just easier, because they both suck at keeping on top of laundry anyway, so why not just share everything? They have game night every week (Will’s currently on a very impressive winning streak), movie night is every night, and they’re trying really hard to do more cooking instead of living off takeout and microwave meals, but being an adult is proving to be hard, so at least living with Will is the easiest thing Mike has ever done.
“I don’t know, you could make it work. Just imagine it—" Will clears his throat before he dramatically says: "'smalltown nerd starts college, decides he’s cool now, gets a piercing, and it goes terribly wrong’.”
Mike scoffs, pushes a strand of his hair out of his face, and notes that he should probably get it cut soon. “Are you trying to tell me I wasn’t already cool?”
“You’ve never not been cool to me, Mike.” Will says firmly, and Mike hears him clattering around in one of his drawers. “I just hope it was something you did for yourself.”
Back to the issue at hand—Mike had decided, impulsively, to get an eyebrow piercing just a few days prior. He’s not sure why, his pain tolerance is basically nonexistent and he’d never had an urge to get one before; whenever anyone had asked out of curiosity, his answer was always a firm no, not in a million years! Since starting college, though, he felt like he was settling into his own skin, like it didn’t really fit him properly until he’d moved into this little apartment with Will.
Something told him that listening to every urge that lurked at the corners of his brain would make him feel more like himself, so he had been, and one of these urges had crept up on him when the two of them were taking a walk in the city and he’d caught sight of a piercing place on a street corner. About an hour and some mild freaking out later—as well as insisting that Will needed to hold his hand as it happened, and for a little while after—he’d left with the piercing and an electric feeling in his chest that he craved to feel more often.
“I wouldn’t voluntarily get the skin on my face stabbed just to impress someone else.” Mike explains it like it’s obvious.
“Not even me?”
Will’s playful tone rings in his ears for a moment, and he drops his hand from where it was resting on his cheek, then uses it to steady himself against the edge of the sink.
“Depends,” he shrugs, turning his head to look out of the open door into the living room as if it will bounce his next question off the wall and into Will’s room more clearly this way. “Are you impressed?”
He smirks to himself until the silence lasts longer than he expects. Although Will hasn’t made his opinion on his decision particularly clear, he still makes an effort to be supportive of it: every time Mike complains about it hurting, he wordlessly places painkillers and a glass of water in front of him. As much as Mike appreciates it, this alone hasn’t proved to be enough, and he needs to know exactly what Will thinks. He’s asked him at least three times every day since and has only received shrugs with some variation of if you like it, I like it , or a curt nod across the kitchen table as they both work on their respective projects: It doesn’t matter what I think, Mike.
Much to his annoyance, it does. He thinks Will’s opinion matters much more than anyone else’s, even his own. It’s always been that way—he’s never thought to question it.
“Like I said, I like it.”
He tries not to sigh. “Is that it?”
“No, it looks good. It suits you, and if it feels like you, well…”—the sound of a bottle cap popping back into place. “Of course I’m impressed.”
It’s not exactly what he’s looking for, but it settles the weird anxious feeling he’d had in his chest all the same. Though hearing it looks good and it suits you seems to stir up something else that Mike likes to tell himself doesn’t mean anything.
He shrugs it off, but is now left feeling like he has to avoid looking his own reflection in the eye.
“Good enough for me.” He steps on the peddle of the trashcan and drops the used swab into it. After he stares at the sink’s plughole for a moment and gets no further response, he turns towards the open door again. “Hey, can you come in here for a second?”
He hears Will place something on the floor and push himself off the ground, the bones in his legs cracking in an all too familiar rhythm, and then his gentle footsteps covering the short distance to the threshold of the bathroom.
Mike feels a stabbing pain right in his gut when his eyes land on him, but he quickly reminds himself that he’s probably just hungry because he hasn’t eaten much today.
Will leans against one side of the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest and one leg over the other, looking expectantly at him. His outfit is simple enough, a white t-shirt that’s torn up in a few places, as well as a pair of dark jeans that are ripped at the knees.
At first, it strikes him because this isn’t something that Will would typically wear, and it feels different, out of character almost, but still unapologetically him. Then, the details draw him in like a moth to a flame. Under each small rip in his shirt, he’s placed a—clearly well considered—amount of fake blood. Then, there’s a slightly more healthy spreading of it around his shirt collar, and two finger swipes stemming from each corner of his mouth, reaching the bottom of his chin.
He’d decided he was going to be a vampire when the two of them were rewatching The Lost Boys on one of their first nights at the apartment, when they still didn’t have a sofa and were sitting in a mound of pillows and blankets on the floor. Will had made a comment about how attractive he thought it was (to which Mike made sure he only shrugged) and announced that it would be the perfect costume for their first college Halloween party.
So it’s not like Mike didn’t know what to expect, but seeing Will like this makes his chest feel heavy, like someone is pushing down on him hard, trying to take all of the air out of his lungs. His stomach is what gets him, though—it’s hollowed out in an instant, and he’s sure right there and then that he’s never felt hunger like it.
When he feels it threaten to rumble, he quickly rests a hand there in case it makes a sound.
Will frowns, his initial confidence faltering. “What?”
Mike quickly blinks and shakes his head, then grips the edge of the sink with his free hand. “Nothing— uh, wow. You look great.”
It’s the truth, he knows that; but he feels like he’s just lied to his face. It’s not that he doesn’t look good, because he does, Mike just thinks something isn’t quite right. He can’t put his finger on it right now. He doesn’t want to, actually.
When Will finally smiles, he almost expects there to be blood on his teeth, and feels sick with disappointment when there isn’t.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, totally.” he nods, maybe a bit too eagerly, and is glad when Will doesn’t question why he’s suddenly acting so strange because he definitely doesn’t have an answer for that. “Where are your fangs?”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pair of plastic fangs that are paper white, then holds them out and clicks them together twice with a laugh. “I start gagging if I wear them for too long, I’ll just have to show people if they ask what I’m supposed to be.”
“Makes sense.” Mike nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, letting himself give Will another once over, which makes it about four times over by now. “Well, you look good, anyway.”
“Thanks.” Will smiles, and when Mike doesn’t say anything further— “You needed me?”
“Oh, shit. Yeah.” He gathers himself, standing up straight and wiping his palms on the front of his jeans. “Can you just check if it looks okay? I’ve been looking in this mirror for so long I don’t even recognise my own stupid face anymore.”
“Shut up,” Will laughs, taking a step closer. “But yeah, ‘course I can.”
He pockets the fangs. Mike feels like he has to brace himself for what comes next.
Even though he’s the one to invite him to step closer, he holds his breath when Will ends up inches from his face and reaches his hand up to delicately brush the front pieces of his hair out of the way.
All of a sudden, his throat feels dry and he can’t decide if it would be weirder if he closed his eyes or left them open. He chooses the latter, but then he doesn’t really know where to look and ends up focusing on Will’s t-shirt collar as his hair is held back by his fingers.
The blood looks like it’s dried onto the white fabric, and there’s none of it actually on his neck, which doesn’t make sense. There should be blood on his neck, right? It’s like he’s looking at a piece of artwork and sections of the canvas have been left completely untouched. Will’s an artist, so he doesn’t know how he’s okay with it.
Mike wants to say something about it, but now he’s looking at Will’s mouth, slightly parted as he concentrates, and he swears he doesn’t mean to, his eyes just land there, and now he can’t stop, because there’s something about the scarlet smudges on his bottom lip and how they trail down his chin that makes him feel lightheaded. But that’s probably because he hasn’t taken a breath this whole time and has no idea why.
He inhales as steadily as he can, but nothing changes. He’s still lightheaded, and completely starving. He needs to eat before he starts drinking or he’s just gonna get shitfaced dangerously fast and embarrass himself. If he’s honest right now, though, he already feels tipsy despite the complete lack of alcohol in his system.
Something is definitely wrong with him.
“Looks fine to me, just don’t let your hair get stuck in it.” Will nods, pulling his hand away and allowing his hair to flop back down into place. A sharp chill crawls up Mike’s spine, and settles as an ache right at the back of his neck at the sudden absence of contact, but after a moment's hesitation, Will delicately uses his pointer finger to swipe a single strand out of the piercing’s way. “There.”
He feels uncomfortably hot and cold at the same time, like his ribs are guarding his organs a little too tightly, pressing them all together, leaving him unable to decipher where his heart ends and his stomach begins. He thinks they might be slowly merging into the one thing, and the feeling only gets worse as long as he allows himself to look at Will this closely.
Jesus. What’s wrong with him? It’s just Will. His best friend who’s now frowning at him because he’s standing there looking completely dumbfounded, and he really needs to say something before he makes himself look even more insane than he definitely already does.
For some reason, the words somewhat choked out, he settles on: “We need something to put our toothbrushes in.”
Will’s still frowning, but thankfully he laughs. “What?”
Mike turns and awkwardly gestures to the sink, where their blue and yellow toothbrushes sit side by side in a glass they took from their kitchen cupboard. “You know, like a…”
“Toothbrush holder?” Will asks, clearly trying his best to help Mike out of this weird panic he’s landed himself in the middle of. He wonders if he knows he’s doing it, but he doesn’t really care. He just needs things to be normal for a second, and if Will’s going to help him out then he couldn’t care less what his motivations are.
“Yeah, exactly.” Mike nods, inching himself away slightly because Will still hasn’t stepped back from him and he can’t bear to feel his breath on the tip of his nose again.
Has he ever felt Will’s breath on his face like this? Probably not. He would’ve noticed.
Will seems to pick up on him creating some distance, and folds his arms over his chest as he takes a slight step back. “Is the cup not good enough for you?”
“No, it’s not.” Mike shrugs. “I think we should get a toothbrush holder.”
“Okay, we’ll pick one up.” Will nods. “Along with all the other random shit we didn’t realise we needed when we moved in.”
This relaxes Mike, and he lets his tense shoulders drop slightly. “Perfect.”
Will offers him a slightly awkward smile, then turns to head back out of the room.
Mike almost leaps to shut the door so he can curse himself in private, but Will stops in the doorway. “Can I make a suggestion? For your costume, I mean.”
Mike’s gripping the edge of the sink again, but he doesn’t remember how his hand got there. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Eyeliner. And a little bit of glitter, if you’re feeling adventurous.” Will shrugs, clearly surprised when Mike remains silent instead of outright refusing. “I got a whole shitty Halloween makeup kit and there’s plenty to go around.”
Mike feels faint, but he keeps his voice playful. “You think I know how to do that shit?”
“It’s Halloween, Mike.” Will shrugs, nonchalant. “It’s not like it matters if it’s messy.”
“What if I get laughed at?”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, I don’t,” Will smiles. “But I promise I’ll think you look great.”
Strangely, it feels like enough. “You sure about that?”
“Of course.” Will nods, quiet and certain, but something in his tone knocks the air right out of Mike’s lungs.
He drops his head, hair hanging down in front of his eyes, which makes it easier to avoid eye contact with Will who is still standing there waiting for him to make his decision. He wants him to go away, actually. Far away. No. That’s not it. He wants him to come back and hold his hair out of his face again. Maybe. He most definitely wants to throw his fist right into the mirror. He wants—
What does he want?
He considers looking at Will again, as if he’ll give him the answer, but he can’t bring himself to do it.
Why can’t he look at him all of a sudden? Is it the blood? It might be the blood. Why the hell would it be the blood? He knows he has a history of feeling a little nauseous at the sight of it, from squeezing his eyes shut to avoid looking at his own scraped knee when he was a kid to feeling dizzy seeing his friends all bleeding, battered, and bruised after their several close calls with various upside down creatures over the years.
Both of them had bled then, of course, and he managed okay. Yet, a memory of taking a damp cloth to the side of Will’s face after he’d suffered a blow to the head comes, unwanted, to the surface of his mind. It’s hazy and disjointed, but he remembers him taking a moment to sit in a quiet corner as the rest of the group gathered to reassess their plan of action, and how he slowly followed suit to kneel in front of him and wipe it away. The deep red trickle had slid down his forehead, over his cheek, pooled in one corner of his mouth, and spilled, just slightly, down his chin.
As he offered him an encouraging smile and cleaned him up—his movements slow and careful—just for one, fleeting moment, Mike felt exactly how he’s feeling right now.
It’s a feeling he’s never been able to name, even though it’s periodically bothered him ever since it struck him that day, like a dagger had been thrust, unexpectedly, straight into his chest. Will’s tired eyes were still happy to see him despite it all, and in a silent pause, Mike let himself watch as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to clean off the excess there, and just for a moment, he let himself wonder what it tasted like.
At the time, he forced himself to forget about it, but the déjà vu feels violent enough to remind him that it does, without a doubt, feel like a craving for something he isn’t supposed to want.
He brushed it off then, boiled it down to the high stakes heightening all of his emotions, even though Will had clearly latched onto something in his own expression, ducked his head to catch his eyes like he was trying to read him, and then blinked to shake himself out of it as if he’d just had the most ridiculous, impossible thought in the world.
What? Mike had whispered, his face burning hot.
You— Will frowned, puzzled, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. Forget it. I think I’m seeing things.
Oh. Was all Mike could say, even though he felt like something had found its way into the air between them, and had stayed there quiet and steady ever since. If he thinks about it long enough, though, he’s pretty sure it’s been there since he can remember.
But, of course, he’d buried it deep, and he’s going to bury it again now.
Mike looks back at Will, long and hard, his breath catching slightly in his throat. “Alright. Sure.”
A grin finds a home on Will’s face, and Mike prays to god he doesn’t do anything tonight that’ll make it go away.
Will disappears back into his room and returns with a few makeup palettes and pencils, and although Mike is pretty sure he can work out what’s what, he listens to him explain it anyway, his voice low and close to his ear as the two of them lean over the products.
He finds himself holding his breath again when Will gestures to areas on his face that he thinks will look good and if things keep going the way that they have been so far, Mike is pretty damn sure he’s going to be dead by the end of the night from lack of oxygen or starvation or maybe he might even end up stabbing himself. You know, just your typical halloween festivities.
Will leaves him to it, and he spends a little while carefully fiddling with what he’d been given. He ends up applying some smudged eyeliner and dots a bit of glitter across his cheekbones. It’s not a lot, he keeps it very subtle because, admittedly, he’s still deathly afraid of being judged, but it turns out it makes him feel good, and the fact that it nicely accentuates his new piercing is a bonus.
He stares back at himself in the mirror once he’s done, and yeah, he has to admit it’s pretty clear he hasn’t put a lot of effort into this whole thing, but for him it’s different enough that it makes him feel like he’s wearing a costume even though it doesn’t exactly look that way.
White vest, blue jeans, and a pair of gold angel wings he asked Nancy to bring last time she visited. He may have taken her advice a little too seriously when she said keep it casual, but he’d rather play it safe than have a repeat of Halloween ‘84 when he and the party showed up to school in ghostbusters jumpsuits and were apparently the only ones who didn’t get the memo that dressing up wasn’t cool anymore. You get over that kind of thing in middle school, but Mike’s not willing to take that kind of risk now.
Despite its simplicity, he likes this costume. It gives him the same kind of feeling the piercing has been giving him ever since he got it. Yeah, he feels a little weird, but after he allows himself a moment to get used to it, a sense of comfort washes over him. It feels like he’s slowly sliding into a newer version of himself. Or maybe it’s the version of himself he’s always been, now that he’s not shrouded in polos from The Gap, sat in his big empty house at the end of the cul-de-sac, trying to convince himself that he’s in love with the girl he found in the woods.
Mike shudders and decides he’d rather not think about that right now, so he takes a deep breath before he trails out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. He finds Will, back turned to him, fussing with some drinks at the counter and humming quietly to the music playing from the stereo. He positions himself awkwardly by the sofa, crossing his arms over his chest because he feels a little more exposed than usual, and clears his throat. Will jumps, cursing when he spills some cherry soda on his hand, and when he turns around to the sound he’s in the process of cleaning it off, the side of his thumb sitting between his lips.
He freezes when he sees him, eyes widening, thumb not moving from his mouth for a few moments that seem to stretch on forever. Then, he’s showering him with compliments and I told you so’s, putting a drink in his hand as he asks if he’s hungry (of course he is), and then he’s digging through the cupboards and the fridge trying to find something for the two of them to eat.
Mike helps, of course, standing at the counter with him as he puts together some instant noodles, the alcohol settling pleasantly in his system, making everything a little bit funnier, for some reason. Then they’re bumping shoulders and glancing at each other for a bit longer than usual. Mike pokes Will in his side, but Will pokes him right back and Mike’s way more ticklish than he is, so Mike’s hair falls in his eyes again when he doubles over, and Will stops to brush it out of the way again like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Mike chugs the rest of his drink and asks if Will can kindly pour him another.
The night air has a sharp chill that cuts Mike right to the bone, the dark brown corduroy jacket he’s wearing atop his stupid vest isn’t doing much to conserve the little body heat in his possession. He has the straps of the angel wings hooked over one shoulder, and every time they pass under a streetlight he can see their breath curling up into the air in clouds of orange.
The house they’re going to isn’t far, so they made the decision to walk after Will put together a sweet alcoholic concoction and poured it into a plastic cherry cola bottle so they could pass it back and forth on their journey. It doesn’t take Mike long to start feeling a little giddy, so naturally all of his thoughts start flying out of his mouth before he has a chance to think them over.
He nudges Will’s shoulder with his own and glances at him. “Don’t you think your costume should be a little more bloody?”
To bury your feelings—even the ones you don’t fully understand yet—you’ve gotta dig the hole first, right?
Right?
Will shoots him a puzzled look. “I don’t know, I thought it was fine.”
“Well, vampires can get pretty messy when they eat— or drink, whatever you wanna call it.”
“Feed.” Will finds the word for him, eyes now fixed on his feet as he walks. “I mean, I guess. Maybe I’m just one of those super sophisticated ones.”
“Oh, for sure.” Mike nods in agreement, albeit sarcastically, and hands the bottle back to him.
“Like… maybe I drink my blood from a fancy glass.” He takes it, and Mike watches a drop of the sticky liquid slide down his chin before he catches it with his thumb. Sophisticated, huh?
“The rest of your outfit says otherwise.” Mike points out, craning his neck slightly to take in the sight of him all over again.
“Does it?”
He swings out an arm in a philosophical gesture. “Well, if you were a fancy vampire, then wouldn’t you be wearing a suit?”
Will scoffs and tries his best not to roll his eyes. “Not necessarily.”
“Sure you would.” Mike reaches for the bottle, and Will gives it to him. “You’d be wearing a suit and a cape. Oh— and you’d have your hair all slicked back. The whole nine yards.”
“You know that’s not what I was going for.” Will’s walking so closely to him that it’s easy when he gives him a playful shove with his elbow, and the small ache it leaves on his arm is the most real thing he’s felt in a while.
Mike shoves him back, lightly, just for good measure. “What were you going for, then?”
Whilst Will considers his answer, he takes a moment to slide a hand into the pocket of his black denim jacket. “Well, just me but if I was a vampire.”
“Right.” Mike says quietly, then finds himself chewing on the inside of his lip.
This isn’t good. This could actually be really fucking terrible. How is he supposed to act like none of this is real if Will won’t play his role? It’s true, if Will was actually a vampire, he would still be Will. Still Mike’s best friend. This sudden thirst for blood doesn’t change anything other than bring up something that has—most likely—been stewing in his gut for years.
He feels a wave of nausea wash over him at the thought and almost has to stop and sit on the sidewalk, but he takes a deep inhale, looks at Will for a few moments longer, and is surprised when it doesn’t make him feel worse.
The costume gives him an edgy, almost exciting quality, and looking at him like this gives Mike the same feeling you get just before you’re about to plummet on a really fast roller coaster, but he’s all soft edges, and the warmth that’s in his voice and expression is reminding him, over and over, that it’s just Will. It’s his best friend. Probably (no, definitely) his favourite person on this stupid planet—of course he feels immediately calm at the sight of him, even when everything else is freaking him out beyond belief.
“Can you stop that?”
Mike frowns and sees that Will is smiling nervously at him. God. He’s been staring. He’s already fucking everything up and they haven’t even made it to the party yet.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that!” Will explains, his voice pitched up slightly.
Mike feels his face growing warm. “Like what?”
“Like you’re judging me.”
Mike scoffs and makes sure he keeps his eyes fixed on the ground ahead of them. “I’m not judging you!”
“Okay, not me, maybe—” Will starts, kicking at a loose piece of gravel with the toe of his well-worn converse. “You’re judging my costume, though.”
“I’m not judging your costume, I just think you should’ve made it more bloody.” Mike shrugs, and the words feel ridiculous as soon as they’re out of his mouth. He doesn’t know why he’s making this such a big deal, but it’s almost like he can’t resist.
He feels Will’s eyes on him, and the accusatory tone in his voice makes him swallow the lump in his throat. “So you think I’d be a messy vampire then, huh?”
Mike takes another drink before he passes the bottle back. “Well, yeah—”
“Why?”
Defensive, as always: “I don’t know!”
Will laughs. “That’s not an answer, Mike.”
“It is, actually.”
“Well, it’s not a good enough answer.”
Mike’s eyebrows are drawn together in his classic ‘this is ridiculous!’ expression that he likes to sport even when he’s at fault. “So?”
“So… by law, you owe me a real answer.” Will muses, a hint of humour in his voice, and Mike watches his skin change as they pass under another streetlight, the blood morphing from red, to deep orange, then to almost black when they’re back under the light of the moon.
“What are you gonna do if I don’t, huh?” Mike taunts, fully aware that he should really stop talking now. “Bite me?”
Will almost splutters the drink he has in his mouth all over the ground, but quickly composes himself and forces it down. “Jesus— tempting, but no.”
“Okay, fine.” he sighs, metaphorical shovel ready to dig himself even deeper, ignoring his growling stomach. “You’re not, like, a messy person. That’s not what I’m saying. All I’m saying is that if you actually were a vampire, you probably wouldn’t be afraid to… you know, get a little messy.”
Will smirks. “Probably?”
“I don’t know, it just makes sense to me, alright?” Mike says it through a laugh, even though why it makes sense is something he really doesn’t know right now.
“Whatever you say.” Will teases, and Mike wants to turn on his heel and go back home. He’d actually quite like to crawl into his bed and pretend this entire day never even happened, but he continues to walk beside Will as if he’s being pulled along by a magnet. “What’s your story, then?”
Mike pauses for a moment, considering, and he’s thankful when he ends up with the last bit of liquid in the bottle. He promptly finishes it, squeezes the plastic until it’s compact, and then screws the lid back on. “You tell me.”
Will scoffs. “You really wanna do this?”
“Sure,” Mike shrugs as casually as he can manage. “It can be something for just us to know, it’ll be more fun that way.”
“Okay, well, you probably got kicked out of heaven.”
“Kicked out? Interesting.” Mike smiles, eyebrows drawn upwards. “Pick a sin for me, Byers.”
“You seriously wanna get that specific?” Will argues, pulling his jacket tighter around him. When Mike doesn’t respond and sends him an expectant look, Will peels his eyes away and looks ahead in thought. “Shit, I mean— I don’t know, is ‘whining too much’ a sin?”
“Oh, give me a break!” Mike shoves him with his shoulder again, and the touch, even though it’s his own doing, suddenly makes him want to throw himself into the middle of the road. “I do not— doesn’t matter, actually, that’s not the point. We’ll talk about that later. Just pick a better one, please.”
“I mean, you’re already drunk, so that’s not a good start—”
God. He’s not getting it.
“I’m not— okay, wait, no. You’re supposed to make something up.”
“Why would I make something up when you’re technically already sinning?”
“Because it’s way more fun!”
“Alright, I get it, but can’t we just leave the storytelling alone for one night?”
“But it’s Halloween, Will! The whole point is to be someone else.”
“I know, but—” Will stops walking abruptly and puts a hand on Mike’s upper arm to stop him in his tracks, forcing him to turn and look at him head on. It’s close enough for Will to have to tilt his head up to meet his gaze. “Look, I know it’s Halloween, but I wanna hang out with you tonight, okay? Not some made up character.”
“Will, come on, I just thought—”
“Let’s just have fun, alright?” Will says firmly as he gives his arm a slight squeeze. Mike thinks he almost looks like he’s waiting for the right moment to pull him into a nearby alley and drink him dry. “Just as Mike and Will. Think you can manage that?”
He’s not sure he can, actually.
He tells himself his feelings are just make believe, and their costumes will be a strange facade to stay firmly behind. He tells himself that the sensation of his guts twisting themselves around each other is simply just the anticipation of getting to be someone else for one night. He tells himself, over and over, that this isn’t real. He tells himself that long as they’re not themselves, everything is fine.
Because it would be perfectly fine if the angel feels these things for the vampire, because that’s a pretty interesting story to be told, and it’ll be a story that won’t be grounded in reality. It’s fine if the angel wants the vampire to sink his teeth right into the soft flesh of his neck. It’s fine if the angel wants to kiss the vampire, hold him close, taste the blood on his mouth, hear his heavy breath in his ear, and feel his warm skin underneath his fingertips.
If Mike wants these things from Will, though, then he’s screwed.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He offers him a smile, and when it’s returned, his eyes immediately lock onto Will’s bloody mouth, and the pit in his stomach opens right up. “And I’m not drunk yet, by the way.”
“Famous last words, Wheeler.”