Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.” 

Chapter Text

From outside, the house is considerably large, and through the windows college kids can be seen scattered around in huddles or weaving around each other— probably looking for someone they either lost or pissed off. They all have cups and bottles clutched in their hands, and there’s a whole range of costumes on display, from classic skeletons and ghosts to more obscure movie characters that Mike recognises but can’t name. 

On the porch, there are clusters of people smoking: some who are laughing and cracking jokes, and others who have their heads bent together, whispering intimately, so engrossed in each other that they don’t seem to be aware of anyone else’s existence. 

The two of them look like quite the pair as they approach the steps. Will and his whole bad boy vampire look, his bloody torn up t-shirt and distressed jeans, black denim jacket and his trusty black and white converse, the slight waves in his hair falling in just the right way. As Mike shrugs off his jacket and ties it around his waist so he can slide on the wings, he realises that it must look like they deliberately planned this. 

They’ve come as opposites, in a way, and if Mike were going to overthink it, he’s pretty sure it would make more sense if Will was the angel. Well, to anyone looking in from the outside it would. But Mike knows him better than that, and for some reason, his costume just makes so much sense for him. He’s not sure he can explain why, though. 

Weirdly, Mike feels like his own costume makes sense for himself, too. That’s not him saying he thinks he’s an angel by any means, because he knows damn well that he’s not, but it’s the whole look that he’s really quite enjoying. He feels cool and confident (which are feelings he’s typically unfamiliar with), especially with Will at his side like this. It all just feels right, and he’d be lying if he said it wouldn’t feel even better if the both of them were completely covered in blood. Now that would’ve been an interesting story—if Mike were allowed to tell it, that is. 

When they trail inside, he recognises a handful of people, and he greets them with smiles and nods, but it’s Will that seems to flourish in this setting. He’s giving out hugs to people Mike barely recognises (maybe because they’re all in various outrageous costumes), and he finds out they’re in Will’s classes when he turns to introduce them. Bright and quirky art-types, girls and guys. Oh, you’re Will’s roommate! How adorable, it’s so nice to meet you! 

Being reduced to his roommate feels like a stab in the chest when he’s been his best friend for over ten years, but, hey, who cares? Mike certainly doesn’t. Maybe tonight will be easier for him if he pretends that roommate is all he is to Will. Hell, why doesn’t he just pretend he doesn't know him at all? 

Not fucking possible.

Mike thinks he might abandon him for his new friends, but he tells them he’ll catch them later and pulls him into the kitchen where an insane amount of drinks are up for grabs. The two of them head straight for the suspicious looking bright red punch and help themselves to a cup each. Mike suggests that they chug it so they can quickly get another, and luckily, Will doesn’t question him. 

Mike watches him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand when he’s done, and realises that his costume not being bloody enough is actually really bothering him. 

Like, a concerning amount. 

The urge to ask him if he can fix it claws at his throat, but he swallows it down. Even the thought feels like way too much. It doesn’t work, because almost as soon as the idea crosses his mind, he can already see it. So vivid, it’s like he’s remembering something that’s already happened. Covering his own hands with fake blood, spreading it over Will’s bottom lip, down his chin, his neck, over his chest—

He stands there long enough imagining it all in excruciating detail, that when he comes back to reality, Will is already trailing off to the living room. 

He takes the deepest breath he can manage and follows his disappearing figure, squeezing through clusters of people, apologising whenever his wings brush up against them. He feels a little stupid and he finds himself wishing he convinced Will to stay at home and they could’ve watched a movie instead. A movie that had absolutely no vampires in it, to be specific. 

Will could’ve rested his legs across his lap like he always does, and Mike would mindlessly fiddle with the ankle of his sweatpants, appreciating how normal and easy everything is. He wouldn’t have known (well, remembered) what Will looked like with blood on his mouth, and all of this stuff he’d pushed down wouldn’t have come to the surface because of it. 

He’s here now, though, and Mike’s always been an all or nothing kinda guy, so if he gets through tonight without knowing what Will covered in blood is supposed to look like, then there’s a chance that it might drive him even more insane. He’s nothing if not self destructive. 

He throws himself down beside Will who’s talking to a guy that’s sitting on the arm of the sofa. He has his head ducked so Will can hear him over the music, and he’s smiling, and Will laughs at something, which makes Mike feel a little bit sick. He has a mask hanging from his neck and is wearing an orange jumpsuit in what Mike guesses is a poor attempt at Hannibal Lecter, and when he catches his gaze he seems to inspect him from head to toe. 

Right. His own costume. He has to admit he stands out amongst the more traditionally dressed party goers, but he definitely isn’t the only guy wearing makeup which is somewhat of a comfort. He’d thrown on his pair of black Docs and a few silver necklaces before they left—another last minute suggestion from Will—and now he’s pulling at one of the pendants in an effort to distract himself from how utterly insane he feels, the cool metal between his fingertips slightly slowing his erratic heartbeat. 

Dollar store Dr. Lecter pulls a face as if to say fair play and raises his red cup in lieu of a greeting. “Mike, right?” 

Mike gives him a closed mouth smile, to be polite. “That’s me.” 

“Awesome costume, man.” He smiles, and Mike nods in thanks, but he can’t bring himself to return the compliment. “I’m James, I’m in one of Will’s classes.”

“Nice to meet you, dude.” Mike takes another sip of his drink, hoping that it will calm him down a little more, but it hasn’t seemed to be working so far. He’s tipsy and still goddamn stressed. 

Will, who’s comfortably nestled into the back of the sofa, turns to James and places a hand on his knee as if he remembered something he needed to tell him. Mike’s gut clenches uncomfortably at the sight of it. “I suggested the makeup, it really works, don’t you think?” 

“Totally,” James nods, and the two of them give Mike a once over that almost makes him choke on his drink. Guys checking him out, his childhood best friend no less, is not something he’s used to. “Got yourself a whole art project there, Byers.” 

Mike knows damn well he means it as a joke, but it makes his blood boil a little bit. Him? Will’s art project? As if. He made that choice himself. He did it himself. Why should Will get the credit? Why should Will get to do what he wants with him?

He knows that what’s actually pissing him off is the fact that he would let him. What’s pissing him off even more, is that he wants Will to be his own art project because he still wants to fix this fake blood situation really fucking badly. 

So first, he needs to get this guy out of the way.

“Oh, it was all him.” Will points out, bumping his knee against Mike’s.

“Give yourself some credit, Will.” Mike sighs, and leans back against the sofa so his and Will’s arms are pressed firmly against each other. 

“All I did was point you in the right direction,” Will shrugs, and turns to James yet again. “Even that piercing was his own idea.”

“Damn, dude. Did it hurt?” James asks, genuinely curious. 

Mike wants to disappear. He’s not particularly fond of being perceived by anyone other than Will, as it turns out, and even that’s driving him a little crazy right now. 

He shrugs. “Not really.” 

Will sends him a look of disbelief that, fortunately, James can’t see. Mike only smirks in return, and the three of them sit in silence for a few moments as the rest of the party swirls around them in a blur of lights, smoke, and bodies. Will stretches his arm out behind Mike’s head, and starts to lightly tap the beat of the song on his exposed shoulder.

It’s totally normal behaviour for the two of them when they’re at home, but being at a college party, slightly drunk, and in the midst of an internal crisis of his own, it makes Mike feel electric. He tilts his head just a little, just to encourage Will to slide his fingers into the ends of his hair, and he does it without hesitation.

Mike can feel James watching them suspiciously, and, as if he didn’t want to crawl out of his own skin badly enough already, he utters: “So, uh… Are you guys, like—”

“Actually, Will? I needed to talk to you about something.” Mike jolts up, and Will withdraws his hand and holds it to his chest like it had been slapped away. “Yeah. Super important apartment stuff. James, do you mind?” 

James stares at him blankly for a few moments until his brain catches up. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll just—” He gestures vaguely behind him, then rises to his feet. “See you in class, Will.” 

Will, clearly a little confused, looks at Mike, and then back at James who’s already trailing off. “Okay, see you.” 

Well, it did the trick, but now Mike just wants to shrivel up and die.

The question that James was about to oh so casually throw into the air was pretty damn clear even though he didn’t give him the chance to finish asking it. Is it really so hard to be physically affectionate with your best friend without onlookers taking it the wrong way and assuming there’s something going on? Or, even more terrifyingly, did James actually take it the right way, and Mike is just super fucking naive? 

Has everyone been taking it the right way this entire time? Because, god, this isn’t the first time someone’s given the two of them the side eye. His own mother included, mind you, when they were much younger than they are now. 

But it had always been so normal, which begs a question that Mike doesn’t want to answer. 

Had they not always been something a little more than just friends? 

Just friends don’t act the way they do— it seems that Mike might be the last person on earth to realise it, and deep down, somewhere in his gut where he stows away all the things he doesn’t want think about, and instead tells himself another time, maybe, he thinks that Will might have known it from the start. 

Once James is out of earshot, he rounds on Mike. “What the hell was that about?” 

“What?”

Will sits up and angles himself to face him where he remains pressed into the sofa he hopes will swallow him whole. “That— you. Being weird.” 

Arms drawn across his chest. “I wasn’t being weird!” 

“What's the apartment stuff, then?” 

“Oh, right. Yeah, well—” he didn’t think this far, clearly. “We already talked about the toothbrush holder, so I was thinking of other things, and…”

A few seconds of silence pass and it’s enough to make Will scoff. “And?”

“Well, there are a lot of other things!”

“Such as?” 

“I can’t remember right now.”

“Oh, I see what you did there.”

“What? I didn’t do anything!”

“You just wanted to get rid of him.”

“Well, not exactly,” Mike tries, but it’s not like he can lie to Will, especially when he’s looking at him like that. “Okay, fine. I did. Whatever. You did say you wanted to hang out with me tonight, didn’t you?” 

It’s a selfish thing to say, of course, but Will’s gonna know he doesn’t mean it like that. Well, he hopes he knows, anyway. He’s always been a little bit protective of him. 

Will’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he speaks again, his cup hovering in mid air. He smirks a little, like he knows it’s all a joke. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t talk to other people.” 

“It does, though."

“What’s the point in us being here, then? Why didn’t we just stay at home?”

He’s clutching at straws. “To observe! Then we’ll, you know… be super prepared for all of our future college parties.” 

“And what have you observed so far, Mike?”

A few moments of silence pass whilst Mike pretends to consider his answer. “Your friend’s costume sucks.”

He’s starts smiling like an idiot because he’s under the impression that he’s hilarious, so Will scoffs out a laugh. “Okay, I’ve had it. Who made you an expert?”

“You don’t need to be an expert to have an opinion on someone’s costume! It’s just called… having an opinion." Mike rambles, gesturing vaguely in front of him as if it will make his point clearer. 

“I’m not saying I don’t agree with you,” Will shrugs, then leans back into the sofa until his left arm is pressed firmly against Mike’s right one, again. “I’m just wondering why you’re feeling so entitled tonight.” 

“I’m not entitled!” 

“That’s exactly what an entitled person would say!” Will laughs, turning his head to look at Mike, who’s keeping his gaze focused on literally anything else. The group of friends squished together on the sofa opposite them, laughing, smiling, and slouching lazily against each other, then the colourful threaded friendship bracelets on his own wrist—made lovingly by Holly—that he has a habit of fiddling with when he overthinks. It’s definitely going to be a pile of string by the end of the night. 

He frowns, pressing a maroon thread between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you still pissed off because I said your costume wasn’t bloody enough?” 

“Maybe.” Will sighs, and out of the corner of his eye, Mike can see him turn to look at the people opposite them, too. “You’re still entitled, though.” 

“Alright, listen— all I was saying is that I don’t think any vampire would actually worry about how much blood they were getting on their face. Like, I doubt even Dracula was like ‘ah shit, this is getting all over me’ he was probably just… really fucking hungry. Like, so hungry that he didn’t care that blood was getting everywhere. It’s just not the most accurate representation of a vampire—”

“Jesus, Mike.”

“I’m just— I think details are important, that’s all! I don’t know… it feels like an important detail.” Mike tries to explain. He can sense Will looking at him again, and now he can’t resist the urge to look back. Somehow, he’s even closer than he first thought. “You should’ve let me help you with it.”

Will smirks, his voice much quieter now that their faces are so close. “What would you have done differently, then, huh?” 

“Well, um, I would’ve, uh—” Mike swallows thickly, trying to keep his gaze focused on Will’s eyes. Just his eyes. Just keep looking straight into his pretty eyes. Nope, that’s his mouth. Shit. This is going terribly. His face feels very warm all of a sudden. His palms are sweaty. His throat has dried up. Will’s bloody mouth. Will’s mouth that’s bloody but not bloody enough. “I just would’ve done it better than you.” 

“Really? And your costume is so sensational?” Will argues, knocking his knee against Mike’s. Again. 

“Hey! I like my costume, so what if it was an easy choice?” 

“I like it too, but it doesn’t mean you’re not being super hypocritical right now.” 

“I’m not!” Mike says, and Will gives him a disbelieving look that makes him cave in almost instantly. He turns away again, dragging his sweaty palms over his jeans. “Okay, sorry. I am. I’m sorry. Forget it, you look— you look great. I wouldn’t change a thing. You look perfect exactly how you are.” 

Will scoffs, but there’s no malice in it. Mike knows he likes to rile him up because it’s usually pretty entertaining, so he can’t even blame him. “Jesus, you don’t have to be a liar, too.” 

“Will!” Mike whines, his tipsiness suddenly washing over him until his head sways to the side and he has no choice but to rest it on Will’s shoulder. Yes, you heard that right. No choice. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Will looks down at him. “How did you mean it, then?”

“I don’t know. I’m just… it’s just not— it could just be so much more—” Mike sighs when he realises he can’t explicitly put this into words without outright saying something like ‘seeing you with blood on your mouth is making me feel things and I need to make it worse so I can figure out why.’

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.” Will laughs, seemingly enjoying this whole thing. Mike lets himself rest his head on his shoulder for a little while longer. 

“Seriously, Will, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. Please just tell me to shut up.” Mike sighs and forces himself up, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, scrubbing his hands over his face before he digs his palm heels into his eyes as if it will snap him out of this strange trance he’s under. 

Vampires can hypnotise their victims, Mike knows that much from growing up on D&D and a healthy amount of fantasy books. Is that what Will’s doing right now? Well, of course he’s not literally doing that, unless he was suffering some sort of delayed reaction to the upside down bullshit, and he’s ended up with the actual abilities of a vampire. Mike clings to this logic for a moment before he has to accept that it’s impossible. 

All access to the upside down was closed off more than five years ago, and Will’s been Will ever since. So this is definitely… the other thing.

Will’s not really a vampire, and Mike’s not really his victim. These truths should be comforting, but something heavy and sharp edged sitting in the pit of his stomach tells him it’s a shame that Will doesn’t want to drink his blood and enjoy it more than anything he’s ever tasted.

Mike presses his eyes harder, until he starts to see stars. 

“Oh, I’d never do that.”

Mike can feel his watchful eyes on the back of his head, and when he turns to look, he tells himself it’s something Will must instruct him to do whilst he focuses on his blotchy vision correcting itself after he pulls his hands away from his face. Turn around, look at me. It’d be rude not to. 

When he does, he looks the same as he did just moments before: rosy cheeks, slightly droopy eyes, arms crossed over his chest. 

Still not enough blood. 

He sighs heavily and slouches back into the sofa. He feels Will’s gaze follow him as he moves. “Well, you should, because I’m just being a pretentious dick right now.”

“Okay, well, I can’t disagree with that.” Will says before finishing off his drink and holding the empty cup against his thigh. Mike stares at the small red mark on the white rim so hard that he’s surprised it doesn’t burst into flames. Then, Will sits up and angles himself towards Mike, suddenly looking a little smug. “There might be a chance you can make it up to me, though.” 

Mike makes a face. “What?”

Will scans the room as if he’s looking for something specific, and when he spots it, he lets out a quiet gasp and pushes himself up from the sofa. He wanders across the room towards the side table where the stereo is surrounded by a whole bunch of red solos, greasy paper plates, and abandoned glowsticks in various fluorescent colours. Mike can’t see what exactly he picks up, because when he turns around he tucks it under his arm like he’s just robbed a packet of candy from a grocery store and is trying to subtly make it to the exit without getting caught.

When he ends up standing in front of Mike, who’s pushed himself up, he reveals a bottle of fake blood. Not like one of those small, cheap tubes you could probably get from a gas station, but a whole bottle. It fits snugly into Will’s hand like a fresh tub of his favourite crimson acrylic paint. 

His free hand finds its way into the space between them. “Be an angel and fix it for me?” 

Mike chest caves in. 

His next breath catches in his throat, and he looks up at Will who’s waiting patiently for an answer to this gut twisting question, his expression melting effortlessly into a smirk. Mike worries that when he looks down, he’ll find that all of his insides have involuntarily fallen out of him and he will have to act like everything is completely fine as he falls to his knees and desperately tries to scoop up his vital organs from the floor. 

He breathes in again, feels his chest rise and his lungs fill, sees that Will is still looking at him like he has him right where he wants him, and reminds himself he’s still in one piece. 

After he nods, though, he has to accept that he might not be later.  

He grabs onto Will’s outstretched hand and an electric current shoots up his arm and right into his chest. He lets himself be pulled up from the sofa and through the twists and turns of the unfamiliar house, squeezing through huddles of fellow college kids and couples in corners making out as I Ran (So Far Away) blares loudly from every speaker they pass by. 

He can hear Will laughing, so he’s laughing, too; so much that his stomach starts to hurt. He doesn’t know what’s funny—everything just feels hazy and his limbs feel lighter with each step he takes, and he almost forgets what they’re doing until Will comes to a stop in front of a door at the end of a hallway on the second floor. 

Both hands occupied, he pushes it open with his foot to reveal a small bathroom—not much bigger than the size of a broom closet. A single naked lightbulb hangs by its wire from the ceiling, and though it’s already turned on, its light barely reaches the corners of the space.  

They share a glance for a moment until they both burst into another fit of laughter. Will lets go of Mike’s hand and steps inside, looks around for a moment even though there’s not much to look at, and then takes a seat on the lid of the toilet. Mike stands in the doorway, breathless and giddy, but he’s not sure if he can bring himself to step inside the room. Let himself, rather.

He gives Will enough time to get up and say he was just messing around, but all he does is lean back slightly and cross his arms over his chest. 

Then, Mike’s feet carry him over the threshold without waiting for his own permission. 

When he steps inside he closes the door behind him, making sure not to overthink it when he instinctively twists the lock. The sound from outside drowns out as Madonna kicks in with Like a Prayer, and it’s funny because he feels like he’s just entered a confession booth, and he’s about to declare his sins and beg for forgiveness. The truth is that there’s no priest behind the adjacent wall, and in front of him there’s only Will Byers holding a bottle of fake blood, waiting for Mike to cover him in it with his bare hands. 

His thoughts about it alone had felt like sins worth confessing, though if he allows himself to actually commit the act, he doubts he’ll be given absolution. 

Heaven fucking help me. 

Mike lets himself lean against the closed door for a moment to catch his breath, his head slightly tilted upwards so he has an excuse to look at the wall above Will instead of directly at him. He doesn’t hold off for long, and lets his gaze flick down to find him sitting there expectantly with the bottle held out into the air between them, and he can’t help but let out a giggle. What an unbelievably funny situation he’s gotten himself into. He feels like he needs to bite his tongue to stop the words ‘forgive me father for I have sinned’ from spilling out of him, too, because he’d probably proceed to burst into flames, but at least he wouldn’t have to freak out about this anymore. 

Then, has two striking revelations right at the same time: he’s definitely more drunk than he thought he was, and this was absolutely a terrible idea. 

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to do it. Like… really, really badly. 

“Well, uh… what do you want me to do?” He asks, trying to keep any elements of seriousness out of his voice, because this is not serious. This is just two best friends, a little drunk at their first college Halloween party, locking themselves in a bathroom and doing something funny that they will definitely just laugh about later. 

“I don’t know, Mike,” Will sighs, an infectious smile playing on his red stained lips. “You’re the expert, apparently.”

“I’m not, I just—” Mike shrugs awkwardly, suddenly feeling out of place in his own skin. He finds himself wanting to peel off the wings, but that wouldn’t leave him much to hide behind. Without them, he really is just Mike. “I don’t know either.” 

“Bullshit.” Will quickly retorts, and holds the bottle closer. Another inch and he would have it pressed up against his stomach. “Just… make me look exactly how you want me to look.” 

Mike swallows thickly. Part of him hopes the door will just fall off its hinges and it’ll throw him out into the open and out of this situation that he’s gotten himself into. The other wants it to jam shut completely so he and Will are stuck in here forever. 

How does he want him to look? That’s the question Mike is asking himself now. It’s not to say that he doesn’t appreciate how Will looks in general, because he does, very much so, actually. He’s always been well put together, and his sense of style has certainly blossomed in recent years: layering shirts that compliment his skin tone particularly nicely, especially when he rolls them up to his elbows so his forearms can be seen, or even when he’s just woke up and is looking for something to eat in the warm morning light, wearing a loose fitting band t-shirt that is sometimes a little gaped at the neck making his collarbones peek out, and an old pair of shorts that reveal his legs that remain tanned even in the cold winter months. 

Mike likes Will like that, when he can see his skin. Even just a little bit. He’s pretty sure knows why, now—but the blood? He supposes there’s only one way to find out.  

Now, he has to ask, because what’s the point in this if Will doesn’t want it too? 

“Is that what you want?” 

He only nods, and it’s a small and slight gesture, but the way he’s looking at him right now makes it hit him right in the gut. Almost like he’s never meant anything more. 

The silence that follows feels like it covers every inch of this house, even though he’s well aware that the party is continuing behind the door, he feels like he and Will are the only two people for miles. 

Just how he likes it. 

He takes a deep breath and puts a small amount of the blood onto his fingertips, and it’s taken him until now to realise where he needs to put it first. His heart leaps in his chest, and it feels strange that he’s spent all evening trying his best to avoid looking at Will’s mouth but now there’s no reason for him to be looking anywhere else. 

He brings up his hand and touches Will’s bottom lip with his blood-covered finger, delicate, barely-there touches at first, a few tiny dots of it. It’s when he uses his clean thumb to touch up that he feels the softness of his skin, and it drives that dagger straight into his heart all over again. He could be bleeding out himself right now, for all he knows—but even if he was, he doesn’t think he could bring himself to look away from Will’s bloody mouth, even to tend to his own wounds. 

He pours more of the sticky liquid onto his fingers and reaches out again, slightly more confident this time, and uses his other hand to cup Will’s cheek. He applies more blood, and uses his thumb again to get it where he wants it, feeling dizzy when he starts allowing himself to use a little more pressure and, without intending to, slightly drags his bottom lip downwards. He must react to this, because Will smiles, and if Mike could see any better in this stupid dimly lit room, he’d be able to see if he’s blushing as much as he is right now. 

He pulls his hand away and tries to keep his expression vacant, but he can’t help but catch Will’s smile like it’s contagious. “Stop smiling, you’re making it difficult.”

“Okay, sorry— sorry. I’ll try.” Will rushes out, straightening up and taking a breath that Mike feels on his hand that’s still hovering in mid air. He relaxes his mouth, and when Mike reaches forward to try again, Will immediately breaks out into another smile that’s instantly met by Mike’s stern gaze. “Shit, sorry, I swear I’m trying, you’re just—” 

When Will pauses, Mike quirks up a brow as if he’s silently nudging him to finish his sentence. To his annoyance, he doesn’t, and instead ducks his head and lets out a light, airy laugh.

At least he’s finding this as funny as Mike definitely is. 

“Are you laughing at me?” Mike’s voice is filled with mock offence, and Will lifts his head to the point where it’s slightly tilted back and Mike has a very clear view of his neck. 

He keeps his eyes closed, and takes a steady breath as if he’s preparing himself. “I just don’t think I can look at you.” 

“Why not?”

“It’s just funny to see you concentrate so hard.” Will explains, although it feels like a coverup for something else, because Mike knows his breath visibly caught in his throat when he accidentally pulled down his lip, and he knows that Will definitely saw it. “I’ll just keep my eyes closed.” 

Is Will flustered? Is that what this is? 

“Seriously?” 

“What, you’d rather I stare at you?”

Yes. No. I don’t know. 

“Just do what you want, Will.” Mike says. “Permission to continue?” 

“Granted.” Will says, and Mike expects him to lower his head a little, but he stays the way he is, eyes firmly closed. 

Mike continues, carefully spreading the blood over his chin with his fingertips. Now that Will isn’t looking at him, he feels like he could really let himself drown in the sight of him. He’s never allowed himself to look at him (well, his face) this closely for this long, and he finds himself trying to absorb every detail into his memory just in case he never gets to do this again. His thick eyelashes, the placements of every mole, the way his eyebrows scrunch slightly in anticipation and how they relax when Mike gently touches his face. 

It starts to feel a little too intimate, so Mike grasps for something to keep him distracted from the task at hand so he stops overthinking each and every movement he makes. “How does it feel?”

“Cold. And kinda sticky, actually.” Will says, his voice low, almost like he’d just woken up from a nap. “It’s pretty relaxing, though.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Is it too cold?”

Will smiles but forces himself to stop. “No, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I can try and warm it up.” 

“That’s thoughtful, but it’s okay.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yes! It’s not like you’d be able to anyway, your hands are always freezing.” 

“Well, I know, but I could blow on it or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I thought I was being thoughtful.”

“Well, you can be both.”

“How about ridiculously thoughtful?” 

“Sure, if that’ll help you sleep at night.” 

“It won’t, but thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome.” Will smirks, and it’s quiet for a few moments until he’s frowning. “What if it just starts burning, anyway? Like, is it safe to be all over my skin?”

“I would assume so since it’s fake blood and you’re supposed to bleed from your fucking skin so what would be the point—“

“Okay, gross. What I mean is, some is for clothes and some you can have on your skin and it’s safe to ingest or whatever.” 

“I glanced at it and thought it was fine but I'll check again just for you.” Mike sighs and turns away to inspect the label on the bottle for a few moments, and then he’s turning back towards Will who quickly closes his eyes again. “Yep. Totally safe. You could drink it if you wanted to, but it’s obviously not recommended.” 

“Good to know.” Will nods as Mike places the bottle back on the edge of the sink and gets back to work.

It’s short lived, though, because all of a sudden Will’s eyes fly open at the sound of three heavy knocks on the bathroom door, and the two of them stare at each other like they’d been caught doing something much more scandalous and painfully embarrassing—but even if they were, it’s not like the person can see them. Mike’s hand still cups Will’s cheek, and there seems to be a silent agreement between them that they need to stay as quiet as possible until they’re left alone. 

More knocks, aggressive this time. A drunk girl’s agitated voice comes from the other side. “Anyone in there? I need to fucking pee!” 

Will stifles a laugh and has to bite down on his bottom lip, and Mike momentarily squeezes his eyes shut as if it’ll make him invisible in case she somehow manages to kick down the door. They’re both resisting the urge to burst into hysterics, and when Mike opens his eyes again, it’s difficult to even look at Will without laughing. They quickly start shushing each other like a pair of kids huddled in the corner of a classroom, and as if Mike wasn’t breathless enough already, the repressed laughter in his lungs is so great that it hurts. 

He considers turning away from Will for a moment to recover, but soon enough, the girl whacks on the door much harder this time. “I can hear you in there! You better not be screwing, I swear to god—”

He can’t hold it in anymore—Mike snorts, loud, and Will’s hand instantly swings out and lands right over his mouth to shut him up. 

It does the trick, because Mike’s heart plummets and the urge to laugh quickly dissolves into something else and the small room falls into silence. The girl is probably still banging on the door and screaming to be let in, but he can’t hear her anymore. 

The longer Will stays there, looking up at him as he releases his bottom lip from his teeth, the more Mike is certain that what he wants right now, more than anything, is to kiss him. 

Oh fuck. 

He’s admitted it. No going back. He’s fucked. Completely. And it’s bad, because it’s been there, and this entire time he’s just been creeping around saying the actual words in his own head. Now that he has, it’s like the floodgates have opened and every repressed desire comes crashing down on him in full force. 

He doesn’t just want to kiss Will. He wants him. Needs him, carnally, spiritually, in every possible shape and form and sense of the words. Has he ever experienced a feeling this strong? This soul-possessing? How the fuck is he supposed to move on after this? How is he supposed to leave this room and act like everything is fine? How is he supposed to act like this isn’t all he’s ever wanted? 

How is he supposed to live on like he wasn’t made to give himself completely to Will? 

“I think she’s gone.” 

It comes out muffled, Will’s hand still over his mouth. “Huh?”

“The girl. I think she’s gone.” 

Will drops his hand into his lap and Mike continues to stare at him like he’d just punched him square in the face. “Oh.” 

“You okay?” 

“Mhm.” Mike nods, causing his hair to fall in front of his eyes. He reaches up to push it out of the way but stops when he remembers that his hands aren’t clean. “Shit.” 

“Here.” Will reaches out, and for the second time today, brushes Mike’s hair away from his face, only this time he takes his sweet time doing it, almost like he knows exactly what’s going on in Mike’s head right now and he’s playing right into it. Testing the waters. Trying to see what kind of reaction he’ll get. All while challenging him to a silent staring contest, and giving him that very same look he did all those years ago when he was tending to his wound. 

He knew something then, and he definitely knows something now. Or senses it, at least. 

Mike needs a drink. He should’ve brought one in here with him. One wouldn’t be enough, though. He thinks several shots would suffice, maybe more. Apparently big realisations like these sober you up pretty fucking fast, so the quicker Mike gets out of here, the quicker he can drown himself in the huge bowl of punch that’s in the kitchen. 

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re all set, so, uh…”

Will frowns. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Will rises to his feet and then, because the room is so narrow, squeezes himself between the sink and Mike so he can look in the mirror. Mike’s entire body tenses, and he steps to the side a little to give Will more room, but they’re still way closer than he can cope with right now. If he breathes too hard he’s certain that it'll land on the skin on the back of Will’s neck. 

Mike’s heart is beating so aggressively that he can feel it slamming against his ribcage. He contemplates just ripping it out completely to put himself out of his misery.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“What?” 

“Mike,” Will's voice is stern as he glances at Mike’s reflection in the mirror. “I know you can do better than that.” 

Mike crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt to make the distance between them feel bigger, but all it does is stain his own shirt that deep, dark red. “I’m not exactly an artist, Will.”

Will uses his pointer finger to dab at his chin. “It’s fake blood, you don’t need to be one.”

Mike forces himself to look at the real Will, now. “Just tell me how I can do better, then.” 

“You were the one with the vision, weren’t you?” Will turns around, and Mike’s breath catches in his throat when his hip nudges his own slightly in the movement and he’s forced to look down at him in their close proximity. Will, however, doesn’t seem phased by it. He leans against the edge of the sink, his voice quieter when he next speaks. “You just— you don’t have to be so gentle.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You are.”

“I’m just trying to make sure it’s right.”

Will huffs out a quiet laugh, shuffling past Mike and sitting back down on the lid of the toilet as he does his best impression of Mike’s earlier ramblings. “Well— uh— I don’t know. I just don’t think Dracula would care about getting messy—”

“Oh, come on.” Mike faces him again and frees a hand to jab him in the shoulder, but it doesn’t stop him from smirking. He knew this would come back to bite him (he’d laugh at the pun if he didn’t feel so insane right now). He should’ve just kept his mouth shut. It's an appropriate moment for Will to laugh, but he doesn’t, and instead keeps looking at Mike like that, so of course, he has no choice but to meet him on his level. In the silence, it takes him a moment to gather enough breath to quietly release his next words. “But, it’s true. He was probably just—” his stomach is surely going to cave in any second now. “Really fucking hungry.”

Will Byers, oh Will Byers, Mike’s very first best friend. Always his favourite. Always the one he wanted to be near. Always the one he missed. Smiling at him in the playground, stealing glances across the D&D board, the first face he looked for every day when the world was about to end in fear that he’d never see it again, and the face he will look for every day for the rest of his life. This face, this sweet, beautiful face, looking up at him like this. He’d starved himself of the possibility that’s always lived and breathed between them, and he can’t fucking take it anymore. 

Will’s ready to confess, and he’s asking Mike to see it. I’m here, I’ve always been here. See me for what I am, and let me see you. 

“So,” his voice is barely above a whisper, and it lures Mike even deeper into his heart. “Make me look really fucking hungry.”

Mike bites the skin on the inside of his lip, hard, until he’s confident enough to let himself really look at Will, not forcing himself to tear his eyes away sooner than he truly wants to. He likes that he’s looking up at him like his fate rests between his own palms. Like he doesn’t even care what it is, he just wants him to be the one to seal it. 

He steadies his breathing as well as he can and all noise from outside this enclosed space is drowned out, leaving him with the sound of his own, very real, blood rushing in his ears. He takes the bottle and slowly pours it into one of his hands, then places it down carefully on the edge of the sink before covering his other with it. 

He pauses for a moment, looking down at his canvas. Is this what Will feels like before he’s about to start a really important painting? Mike thinks back to the painting then, and what he guessed it meant but has never really been completely sure, but if Will was intending to send a secret message with it then Mike hopes it still holds up now. 

He looks down to the sticky maroon liquid that covers his palms, and then waits for Will to give him one last nod of encouragement before he lets himself reach forward and place his hands at either side of his neck. 

He hesitates for a second, the brutal gun fight in his chest refusing to let up. When the contact is made, he feels Will’s pulse against his palms as he sucks in a breath in reaction, though he seems to immediately relax into it, like it’s also something he’s unknowingly been craving all this time. Mike stays that way for a moment, and then it hits him that they’re not laughing anymore. This is supposed to be funny and they’re supposed to be laughing, and Mike is supposed to be able to do this without freaking out to prove to himself that tonight’s revelations don’t have to change anything. That they won’t change anything, but the silence is saying it’s too late. 

He slowly slides his fingers into the hair at the nape of Will’s neck, and he watches his eyes droop as his shoulders completely relax. He lingers, and then drags his palms back over the sides of his neck before smearing what he has left gently over his throat, stopping in the middle for long enough to feel him swallow in anticipation for what might come next. 

He pulls his hands away and reaches for more blood, then places them firmly on Will’s shoulders. He drags them down his chest, and with the amount of empty space he’s got to work with, he picks up the pace, applies more pressure, and smears red all the way down to his stomach. More blood again, Will leaning back in response to Mike’s hands all over him, tilting his head when he comes back up to his neck, breathing heavily, willing his eyes open when Mike finally cups his face. He slows down and works towards his mouth, dragging his thumb over his bottom lip in such a way that encourages Will’s hands to find Mike’s hips and pull him closer. 

Mike’s heart weeps but he doesn’t stop. Not for a second. Instead, he props his knee in the space between Will’s legs, leans down closer, and makes sure this boy looks like he’s just had the best feed of his fucking life. 

He’s drunk. God, he’s so drunk. But he’s doing something right, because Will looks fucking breathtaking, here in this stupid dingy lighting, covered in the blood of his own creation, not once taking his heavy lidded gaze off his own, Mike steadying him with his stained hands when he sways a little too much from the pressure. Getting back to work, slower, heavier breaths that desperately escape their lungs mixing in the little space between them and filling the room to the brim. 

Mike’s going to die tonight.

And, strangely, it’s not such a bad thought. Dying at the hands of the boy looking up at him—his pretty mouth slick with his own warm blood—would be more of a blessing than it would be a curse. 

But it’s not his blood. It’s not real. It’s a sick fantasy of his own imagination, and there’s every chance that Will isn’t enjoying this as much as he is, but, hell, he looks like he’s having the time of his goddamn life. 

Mike, always with the seed of doubt. He’s got enough to plant a garden. Will could kiss him right now and he’d probably be able to convince himself that he’d imagined it. His vision is hazy, clouded at the edges, tilting on its axis, Will’s content smile warping into something a little more sinister and gut wrenching. 

He’s got an out. All he has to do is succumb to the denial and doubt that he’s been so comforted by for the last—what? Eight years of his life? He just has to shroud himself in it, let it swallow him whole, but something— someone else with much sharper fangs has its teeth latched firmly onto the soft flesh of his neck and is drawing the truth out of him in a bright red gush. 

Will’s eyes are glassed over as Mike makes his finishing touches—one final swipe at the left corner of his mouth. When he draws his hand away, they remain static aside from their shoulders that rise and fall with staggered breaths. It’s as if they’d just spent the last few minutes pressed up against the wall, mouths latched hungrily together, desperately trying to pour in everything they’d always wanted to say to each other but never had. A ghostly sensation washes over Mike’s lips and he fights the impulse to touch them, just to see if his fingertips come away that very same shiny scarlet.

He blinks, taking it all in, the sickening, beautiful reality washing over him. Will sits there, breaths evening out, eyes somehow darker than they were before, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. He looks perfect, he’s always looked perfect, but like this? Oh, like this. It’s everything. 

Spoken like a true artist: “That’s it.”

Will’s smile reveals to him, at last— the slightest bit of blood collecting where his gums meet the tops of his teeth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mike breathes out, and watches as Will carefully runs his tongue across them, stopping a little longer at each canine. Mike plants both of his feet back on the ground. “Stand up, let me see.”

When Will stands he ends up much closer to the overhead light which brings out the stark, messy red smeared over the lower half of his face. He also ends up much closer to Mike, who—for once—doesn’t step back, and instead inspects his work closely, even though he already knows damn well that he’s satisfied. 

Will, almost shy, only glances at Mike for a second before he casts his gaze downwards. “How do I look?” 

“Fucking—insane.” Mike blurts, voice still quiet, not wanting to shatter the intimate moment they’re so perfectly encased in. When Will meets his eyes, suddenly he’s back in Hawkins. Kneeling in front of him, feeling that dagger inch deeper and deeper into his chest. 

At surface level, he has to admit he finds the blood incredibly attractive and he thinks he might just have a thing for it. Which is—well, it’s fair. It’s not unheard of, even Will himself had admitted he thought it was hot, so it’s totally normal. But Mike’s seen women in horror movies absolutely drenched in blood and he’s never been interested in that way. They never gave him that gut twisting, heart pounding, brain scrambling feeling that Will is giving him right now. 

In a daze, he places a hooked finger under Will’s chin and tilts his head up, basking his face completely in the light. “Incredible.” 

Yeah. This is definitely way less about the blood, and more about Will. 

It’s always been about Will. Being close to Will. Being able to touch Will. It’s about seeing Will like this. It’s about Mike realising he is willing to give anything to satisfy Will’s hunger if there’s a chance he feels it as deeply as he does. Because he knows this ache. He’s known this ache for longer than he likes to admit. 

Mike has to shake himself out of it and leans back a little, dropping his hand to his side. Will’s gazing up at him, speechless, and to give himself a moment of respite, he wipes at a corner of his mouth where a little too much of the liquid had gathered. He stares at it on his finger, fascinated, like he’d never seen such a thing before. Like he’d just experienced his first feed, his first kill. Before it can drip to the ground, he reaches forward and swipes it slowly across the skin on Mike’s neck. 

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit. 

In Mike’s defence—

No, actually. He’s got nothing. 

He brought this on himself, and now he’s having a weird, blood obsessed gay freak out over his childhood best friend who he’s just basically made out with—minus the actual kissing—and he’s so ridiculously drunk but so aware of the burning sensation Will’s finger left on his neck and so desperate for it to be his mouth instead. But, really, what else did he expect to happen? He was screwed well before they entered this room. 

Mike is pretty sure the whole thing happened in slow motion, and before he’s even begun to digest it, Will’s hand has already dropped back to his side. 

“Looks like I bit you.” Will tilts his head to get a better look. All Mike can do is stare at him. His fluffy hair at the front, clumped pieces at the back where he’d slid his fingers in a mere few minutes before. His pretty green eyes that look hazel or even brown in this light, the dark circles he gets when he drinks framing them like intricate paintings. A satisfied, bloody smile. 

Mike isn’t satisfied. He swallows thickly, choking down the words don’t you want more? 

The room is spinning now. He successfully dug a hole big enough for his feelings, but now he’s pretty sure he’s the one who’s six feet under. “Yeah?” 

Will has the shovel, but Mike hopes he’ll get in with him before he covers them with dirt. “Mmm.” 

“Well—” Mike breathes. “If you ever get hungry, I’m all yours.” 

He means it. God, he means it more than anything, but all he’s hoping for now, right in this moment, is for Will to laugh. Break eye contact. Make a joke. Anything. But he doesn’t. It’s suffocating. All of the air has been sucked out of the room. Will stares at him, like he knows this isn’t a joke at all. Like he’s just figured out how serious this actually is. 

His eyes search Mike’s face for anything that’s going to prove him wrong, prove to him that Mike is the one who’s messing around, but when his expression softens and his lips part to release a shaky breath, it's clear. He’s got nothing.

Will shakes his head disbelievingly as he looks down, and he’s smiling, but in a blink-and-you’ll miss it moment he almost looks like he wants to cry. “You gonna wash that off?”

“No.” Mike says, a little too quickly. “It adds a little more mystery to my costume, I think.”

“Right.” Will laughs quietly, gaze firmly fixed on Mike’s stained hands that now hover between them, upturned: most of it is gathered on his fingers, but there's smudges of it all over, all the way up to his wrists. “Well, it’s an improvement, but I’m not sure there’s much mystery about it. It’s pretty clear what happened here.”

“I don’t think anyone will notice.” Mike shrugs, turning them over, knowing the two of them are using it as a welcome distraction.

“Why? Would you mind?” 

“No.” Mike hums, his heart thumping so wildly in his chest that he can feel it in his throat. As he stares at his own hands, all he can think about is how Will felt under them, and how much he wants to reach for him again.

He’s never been so hungry in his whole goddamn life. 

“Good.” Will breathes out, looking back up, and even though Mike knows he can’t take it anymore, he meets his eyes and takes the firm blow to his gut. His eyes are glassy, sad but somewhat hopeful. 

Mike can’t pretend he doesn’t know what for, anymore. 

“You wanna—?” Mike trails off, not quite having enough breath to finish his sentence, gesturing vaguely at the closed door that’s behind him. As much as he doesn’t want to, he needs to get out of here before he passes out. Or, you know, actually kisses Will or something. 

He wonders, then, if he could live with it. He wonders if he’d be strong enough to kiss Will just to know what it felt like, just to stop the insistent voice in his head that has apparently been dying to know for years, and then move on as if nothing had happened, or treat it like something dumb you do with your best friend at your first college party when you’re both drunk off your asses. He wonders if he could stomach knowing what it feels like and never let himself do it again. 

He realises it’s a stupid thing to wonder because he already knows the answer. He couldn’t live with it, he wouldn’t be strong enough, and he would absolutely not be able to stomach it. But, after the bloodbath that’s occurred tonight, he doesn’t think he can bear to deny himself anymore. 

Either way, Mike Wheeler is positively fucked. 

“Get another drink?” Will suggests, smiling, and it relieves the tension in the room enough for Mike to let out a quiet sigh of relief. 

“God, yes. Please.” He laughs, definitely feeling way too sober for his liking and comforted by the fact that Will seems to feel the same. “Everyone’s probably gonna be staring at us as soon as we go out there.” 

“Fine by me.” Will breathes, his heavy lidded gaze still keeping Mike from turning around. “You sure you’re happy, now?” 

“Absolutely.”

When Mike still doesn’t move, Will carefully studies his expression before dropping his voice once again to a playful whisper. “Then why aren’t we leaving?”

“I’m just—” Mike falters, his heart taking another risky leap in his chest. “Looking.”

The truth is, Mike can’t stop looking. He’s not even disguising the fact that he keeps looking at his mouth anymore. He thinks Will might have to spin him around and physically force him to leave the room. 

“So you’re not satisfied?”

“I am!” Mike stresses, not stopping himself from impulsively reaching for Will’s shoulders and sliding his hands down to grip his, well—he doesn’t know why he’s only just noticing this now, actually—rather firm biceps. “I’m just appreciating my work. You don’t stop looking at your paintings as soon as you’re done, do you?” 

“Well, no, but—” Will’s eyes are a little wide at Mike’s hands on him again, clearly caught off guard by the touch. He relaxes when Mike gives his arms a slight squeeze. “You’re completely sure you’re happy?”

Mike can’t let go of him. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Will squints, then giggles a little nervously. “I don’t know, you just have that look on your face that you get when you’re in perfectionist mode.” 

“I do not! That’s different, that’s more like—” Mike then pulls a different, more disgusted face, eyebrows drawn closer together and a tighter frown. “You know?”

“Okay, fair point.” Will laughs at how ridiculous he looks, and then Mike’s expression must change back to what it was before. The expression he apparently has on his face when he’s thinking about how much he needs to kiss his best friend. Mike’s grip goes slack and he slides his hands down to loosely cup Will’s elbows, who tilts his head and peers at him curiously. “Then what’s this look?”

I can’t tell you. 

“I haven’t decided yet,” Mike says quietly, more to himself than to Will. “But I promise I’m happy.” 

“So does that mean you won't complain about anything else for the rest of the night?” 

“Complaining is in my nature. You of all people should know that.” Mike forces himself to drop his hands back down to his sides. “But I swear I have no more complaints about your costume.” 

“Alright, I guess I can live with that.” 

Mike finds himself fiddling with his bracelet again. “It’s not like you have a choice, is it?” 

“I’ve always had a choice, Mike.” Will points out, but it’s like there’s something deeper under the surface of what he’s saying. “And here I am.” 

“With me. In a…” Mike looks around briefly, then right back at Will. “Tiny bathroom.” 

“It’s not the worst place I’ve ever been.” Will says. His voice then softens, and he reaches forwards to hold onto Mike’s wrists. Just a little thing he’s always done to stop him from fiddling, but it feels different now. “My point is, you’re here… so—”

“Me?” 

“Don’t act dumb,” Will begins, and it’s the word act that sends a chill right down Mike’s spine. Will looks down at Mike’s hands again, but this time they’re resting on top of his own. “You know I’d always choose you.” 

It’s an obvious statement. The two of them have always chosen each other, time and time again without fail. That’s never been a secret. It’s not what Will said that Mike’s finding difficult to unpack, it’s the way he said it. Like it was some sort of confession. The distant echo of California rings in his ears louder than it ever has, and everything suddenly slides into place. Mike already knew what Will was saying to him in the back of that van. He’d figured it out a long time ago. He just refused to believe it until now. 

“Well, I hope so.” Mike starts, and he could say something a little more endearing and suggestive, and he wants to, but instead, in true Mike Wheeler fashion— “Because you’re my best friend, and all.” 

Suddenly, those words don’t fit anymore. 

Not that they aren’t true, they just don't do them justice. 

Hell, what does? What ever could?

Will lets out a deep sigh and lets go of Mike’s hands, then crosses his arms securely across his chest. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“And I’d choose you, too.” Mike reassures him, a little lamely and a beat too late. It’s almost like he’s lost him as quickly as he got closer than he ever has before. 

“I know you would, Mike.” Will says quietly, looking up and giving him a closed mouth smile. Mike feels sick. “Shall we go get that drink?”

“Sure.” Mike nods, taking one last look at Will here in this stupid, tiny bathroom, knowing how much more real everything is going to feel once they leave. 

He wishes he’d just swing his fist out and punch him or something. Maybe that would help him get his shit together. Or maybe he'd start bleeding all over the place for real, and he could sit helplessly on the ground, covered in blood, saying this is how badly I want you! This is how badly I want you to have me! 

Mike makes himself turn around, and opens the door to find the world continuing on outside. When he steps over the threshold he still feels just as electric; just as starving and hopeless. Will follows closely behind him, the two of them emerging from the darkness like they’d just committed a murder together and grown unbreakably closer in the process. 

When the door is shut with a firm click, Mike sees every single smudge and swipe his own hands had made on his skin, and nothing has ever made more sense to him than this:

He’s in love with Will Byers, and has been for a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

As much as Mike thought he wouldn’t make it out of the bathroom alive, the night continued on. 

He and Will got themselves more drinks and threw themselves into the party, not caring about anyone else around them as they yelled the lyrics of each song drunkenly at each other. Dancing together, laughing, pressing up a little too close to allow room for someone else to squeeze by but not moving away once they passed. Mike grabbing onto Will’s shoulders and shaking him excitedly when Fleetwood Mac came blaring through the speakers, that iconic part in The Chain making them jump up and down, pure adrenaline coursing through their veins. 

Mike loved it so much that even now, on their way home, he wont stop singing it. 

“Listen to the wind blowwww, watch the sun riseeee!” 

And—even though he keeps refusing to admit it—he’s pretty drunk. 

So is Will, of course, but he’s always done a way better job of keeping himself composed. They’re used to handling themselves around each other when they’re like this, and tonight they’ve fallen into the very same routine—well, apart from the terrifying feelings and underlying tension that Mike’s trying really hard not to think about or talk about out loud, and being drunk—as well as Will being completely covered in blood—is making it way harder to do either of those things.

Something had been unearthed after their experience in the bathroom. Two pairs of hands had plunged into a shallow grave and grasped onto what had been right under their feet this entire time. In between dancing, singing, and drinking, they’d find themselves in quiet corners, mouths close to each other's ears to talk because of how loud the music was, a little more confident in their closeness and stolen touches. Much longer glances, Will sat on a kitchen counter, Mike stood beside him with his hip resting against the edge of it, arm loosely around Will’s waist, occasionally mindlessly fiddling with one of his belt loops. 

Towards the end of the night, they were sharing a cup, the white edge of it stained completely red. James passed by them again and asked ‘what the hell happened to you guys?’ to which Will just shrugged, but Mike said: Will just got a little hungry. I think he might’ve skipped lunch. He quickly received an elbow in his ribs, and when James shot them another knowing glance and walked away, the two of them burst into hysterics. 

Luckily, they seem to reach the point of wanting to go home at exactly the same time, a quick glance and quirk of an eyebrow is enough to encourage the other to wordlessly follow to the exit. Now, they’re walking (occasionally stumbling) back home, singing in the street, bumping shoulders and hips, and anyone they pass by doesn’t seem to care about how loud they’re being because they’re all equally as intoxicated. 

The crescent moon hangs watching them in the sky, guarded by smokey clouds and clusters of stars. Mike keeps grabbing Will’s hand and swinging their arms back and forth as if they’re two kids about to run through a playground, like some strange echo of their younger selves. Will eventually loosens his grip as a silent you can let go if you want each time, which only makes Mike hold on tighter.

“Running in the shadows— Will, come on!”

Will rolls his eyes, having gone through this routine already, but this time he twists around and positions himself in front of Mike, taking his other hand. He pulls him down, just a little, and stands on his toes so he’s very close to his face. “Damn your love!” 

“Damn your lies!” Mike almost headbutts him with the amount of drama he’s putting into the words, and it sends him giggling; the dungeon master in him seems to come out when he’s had one too many. 

Will walks backwards slowly, and Mike’s impressed. If he tried to walk backwards right now, he’s absolutely certain he would be flat on his ass in a matter of seconds. He almost forgets the next line as he watches Will carefully guide him, their fingers laced together. The sight of him is much more menacing when they pass under each streetlight now; he really does look like he’s enjoyed a three course meal. 

Mike stumbles and curses his long legs for doing him no favours when he’s drunk, his feet landing in all the wrong places every time he takes a step. Will steadies him, his smile morphing into a smirk for a beat before he lets go of Mike’s left hand and adjusts the other one so he can walk beside him again. Any more lyrics seem to have died in both of their throats, but Mike still thinks them over, so much that the words begin to repeat in his mind:

If you don’t love me now, you will never love me again. 

“Finally bored of singing?” Will glances at Mike for a moment before focusing back on the sidewalk. He sways a little, his shoulder bumping into Mike’s upper arm.

“No, my throat just hurts.” Mike shrugs. The angel wings are hooked over his other arm again, and he clears his throat a little disjointedly to prove that he’s not lying, because he really isn’t. He totally didn’t get distracted and forget how to do anything other than stare at Will, because that would be ridiculous. 

“You are considerably louder when you’re drunk.” Will teases, loosening his grip again. Why does he keep doing that? Mike pulls him back in, fingers flexing out and then back around Will’s hand like he’s going to vanish into thin air if he lets go. 

“I’m not—!” Mike starts, but when Will sends him the most disbelieving look he’s had from him all night (which has, unsurprisingly, been a lot) he sighs, defeated. “Whatever.” 

Will laughs lightly and then finally returns one of the many squeezes Mike has been giving to his hand periodically for the last fifteen minutes. His breath catches in his throat for a moment and it takes everything in him to not choke on it. 

Mike has realised, and experienced, a whole lot of things tonight, and he’s been trying really hard to process it all. He cycles through his mental checklist for, what feels like, the thousandth time: 

Will is attractive (this, he already knew, but it’s important to note given everything else), Will covered in blood makes him feel a certain type of way, Will letting him put it all over him was probably the hottest thing he’s ever experienced in his life (Will saying make me look really fucking hungry has not stopped replaying in his mind), Will literally pulled him in closer by the waist and clearly enjoyed the whole thing just as much as he did. 

Each thing is terrifying on its own, but it’s nothing compared to the realisation that he’s been in love with him, for like, a really really long time and has been trying his hardest to not blurt it all out to him in the middle of the party, or even here in the goddamn street.

It wouldn’t come out the way he wants it to, though. He knows that. A writer who can’t get his words to make sense when he’s trying to pull them straight from the heart and actually speak them out loud. It’s all so perfectly fine and easy when he’s hiding behind a story or a character or literally anything else that’s not actually him—but this is eating him up inside, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without acting out or just deteriorating completely. 

Maybe he’ll be fine once he’s sober, and he can throw all of these feelings back in their unmarked grave and forget where he buried them. Then he and Will can continue as they are, and he won’t have to risk fucking up the friendship that means more to him than anything else in the entire world. 

Drunk Mike, however, thinks it might be a risk he’s willing to take. 

There are a considerable amount of signs that point to the fact that Will does indeed reciprocate these feelings, and also has done so for a very long time—Mike would have to be blind not to see that. 

Like him looking at him the way he always has, all the touches and brushing his hair delicately out of the way, enjoying being touched by him, saying he would always choose him, entertaining every single one of Mike’s stupid whims even though they clearly drive him crazy, looking disappointed when Mike had stressed the phrase best friends after the insanely intimate encounter they just had, how domestic they’ve been since they moved in together, the fucking painting, surviving the end of the world side by side and being one of the first people he’d gravitate towards in any moment of danger. Not to mention every single night he’d fallen asleep peacefully as soon as he was in Mike’s arms after a nightmare. 

The evidence is damning, but despite all of it, Mike still isn’t completely sure. 

The boundaries of their friendship have always been a little hard to judge, and he’s always been perfectly fine with that. They both have. That’s what makes it so difficult to figure out if this is just another one of those things that is categorised as normal for them. 

But Mike isn’t stupid. Tonight is different. There’s a blatant magnetic force between them that’s pulling them together like one of Dustin’s compasses to a gate. There’s tension, clear attraction, or electricity or whatever, which has knocked them up a few levels. It’s the thick air between them, the staring, the blushing, the sheer amount of touches. 

He knows it would be impossible to feel this tension if it were truly one-sided, and when have he and Will not been on the same page? 

Well, eventually, at least.

And, obviously, very intimately covering someone in blood isn’t an act of friendship by any means. Mike has no choice but to accept that. 

He’s not even registered that his unknown sexuality is another issue that’s risen to the surface, because if he’s completely honest, right now it doesn’t even seem to matter. Like, yeah, it’s crossed his mind plenty of times, but he’s never stopped on the thought for long enough to actually figure anything out. Yes, it’s a little scary because Will’s a guy, but more than anything it freaks Mike out because it’s Will. He can work everything else out later. 

All he knows, at this moment, is that he needs him more than oxygen into his lungs and if that makes him gay or whatever the fuck then he really could not care less. He’s too drunk to worry about exactly what he is right now, other than hopelessly in love with his best friend— that’s quite enough to digest, thank you very much. 

“How much further?” 

“A few minutes, I think.” Will tells him, even though it’s clear he already knows exactly how far away they are from home right now. 

Mike slows his pace down slightly, if that’s even possible, and glances at him. “Did you have fun?” 

“‘Course I did.” 

“Good. That’s good.” Mike nods, awkwardly clearing his throat, then, apparently, he says: “I uh, I hope I wasn’t, like, weird or anything, you know, when I— Like I hope that wasn’t… weird, for you.”

Will is thoughtfully quiet for a moment. Mike can only hear the sound of their shoes against the sidewalk and the light breeze brushing past his ears that’s starting to make him feel dizzy. 

“Did you find it weird?” Will asks tentatively, keeping his eyes on his own shoes as he walks. Reluctantly, Mike loosens his grip to let his hand go, and in the act of pulling away, Will’s fingers brush against his own before he tucks both fists into his jacket pockets. 

“No! No, I didn’t. I liked it— I mean, I mean it was like— an experience, you know?” Mike rambles. 

“Sure,” Will says quietly, letting Mike’s words soak into his skin as he tucks his own hands away. “It wasn’t weird for me, no. It just felt…”

“Normal?” Mike provides after he trails off, hoping it was the word he was looking for. It’s the word that feels right for him, at least. 

Will exhales a breath that sounds like it’s been stuck in his throat all night. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” 

“Me too. And, like, it’s not really a normal thing to do, but I’m super comfortable with you, so doing that with a stranger or like, I don’t know, even Dustin or Lucas would feel really weird. But with you I kinda just felt like I was doing what I was supposed to be doing, you know?” 

Mike curses himself internally after all of this haphazardly falls out of his mouth, because it’s already getting away from him. The right words ploughing a good few steps ahead and lurching out of his grasp. At this point, saying so much whilst being incredibly vague at the same time has become one of his talents. Being drunk only makes it worse.

Will digests his words, seemingly dissecting them and trying to figure out what he actually means underneath all of the rambling—something he’s very used to doing at this point. “Which is… drenching me in fake blood?”

Mike laughs. “Not that, it’s just…”

“What?” 

“I don’t think I can explain it.”

Will smirks. “Try me.” 

“You—” Mike falters, digging his nails into his palms in the comfort of his pockets. He focuses on Will, glancing down at him slightly over his own shoulder. “It’s just you, okay?”

Will narrows his eyes quizzically, matching Mike’s gaze. “What about me?”

Mike internally begs him not to make him say it. Can’t I just throw a bunch of incoherent bullshit at you and you can just figure out what I mean? Or, even better, can’t you just read my mind? That would save me a fuck ton of embarrassment. Or maybe I can just stop running my mouth, talk about something else, and pretend nothing even happened. Yeah. That should do it.

But, as much as he wants to, this isn’t something he can run from anymore. 

He turns away and looks up to a streetlight. “You know…”

“I don’t think I do.” Will laughs lightly, which makes the situation feel a little easier, somehow. Mike considers breaking out into a song again, and they can race home and crawl into their separate beds and he can try to erase every single memory from tonight. The sensory ones are particularly concerning. They’ve left the palms of his hands feeling like they’re screaming. God knows how Will feels right now. Mike wonders if his body is crying out from every place it was touched.  

“Okay, forget it. I’m just digging myself into a massive hole right now.” Mike sways again, bumping into Will. He mumbles an apology and wonders why he isn’t sobering up. He didn’t even feel that bad before they left. Something about the fresh air, probably. 

“You’re not, just tell me what you mean.”

“Will, please—”

“What? Just tell me!” Will giggles. “Nothing you can say will be weird to me, I promise.”

“How can you promise that?!”

“I just can, alright?”

“No way.”

“Mike!”

“Fine, fine!” Mike holds his hands up in defence, and practically chokes out: “It’s fucking attractive, okay!”

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say before he said it, and he could’ve said something much worse, so it really isn’t that bad. 

But Will stops walking. Why isn’t he walking? Mike continues on for a few steps before he realises and turns on his heel to see Will just standing there, looking a little puzzled but also amused. 

“What?” is all he can say, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he just heard and needs to hear it again to confirm he’s not going crazy, and that Mike didn’t really say what he just said. 

He must’ve been expecting something like that, right? Because what else would it be? There’s not really any other explanation anyway, so Mike’s not really sure why he looks so surprised. 

Mike takes a deep breath, one of his hands finding its way into the hair at the back of his neck. He pulls at it a little bit to brace himself for whatever the hell is going to fly out of his mouth next, then he slowly drags it out from his scalp and massages the side of his neck where Will left his mark. He has to stop himself from scratching at it in an attempt to make the burning feeling go away, so he drops both hands to his sides. 

“Well, of course you are. Attractive, I mean. But like, the blood? It just stirred something up in me, and I had to, like, work out what the fuck was going on in my head. I needed to see you like this. And it’s—” Mike pauses only to look at Will again, trying to figure out if he’s pushed it too far. To see if he looks disgusted. But he just stands there, waiting, so he continues on. “It’s just really hot and I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable or whatever because you’re my best friend but— but I just feel like— we’re way past that now? Like, my hands were literally all over you and you were letting me put it wherever and jesus fucking christ you look so good.” 

Well. 

Shit.

No turning back now. 

Will doesn’t say anything for an insane amount of time and the silence makes Mike want to crawl out of his skin. He keeps looking at the ground, his face burning hotter than the fucking sun, until he glances up at Will to see him just peering at him thoughtfully as if Mike didn’t just confess… all that. 

Mike isn’t very perceptive. He’s never been any good at figuring out how other people are feeling from their expression or body language alone, but he always thought Will was an exception. Apparently not. Right now, he has no idea. 

“Okay, I’ve made it weird. I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget—”

“No, Mike. It’s okay.” Will shakes his head, taking a slight step forward. He’s smiling a little bit, which slows Mike’s heart to a slightly steadier pace, though he still wouldn’t be surprised if it lurched right out of his chest. 

Mike tries not to choke. “Is it?” 

“I promise it’s fine.” Will confirms, his voice level and reassuring. Mike releases some of the tension from his shoulders, relaxes his frown, and crosses his arms. 

“Okay. Okay, good.” His throat is very dry all of a sudden, and he clears it awkwardly before he next speaks. “And I’m like, not just… Like I know you’re, um—”

“What?”

He can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t know why. “You know, you being…”

It’s been common knowledge between the two of them for years, and he’s always been comfortable with Will talking about it. He asks questions, sometimes; only because he’s curious. But he’s never brought it up first, let alone in relation to himself, so this is uncharted territory. 

Part of him even wants to lay it all out for Will and ask him to help him figure out what he is. He’s lived it all. He’s known Mike forever. He would absolutely be the best person to give him advice. But that would involve a lot of talking and perhaps a verbal confession and even the mere thought of that makes Mike want to throw up into a nearby bush, even though he’s pretty much damned himself already. 

So, he’s going to continue to be vague and suggestive, and if he makes it home without face planting then maybe he can try and communicate his feelings nonverbally (whatever that entails) because being close with him in that bathroom was too damn easy in the end. He just needs that moment back. He won’t fuck it up this time. 

But again, no. Will deserves to hear it. 

If only Mike weren’t so terrible at words. 

Will raises an eyebrow, still looking calmly amused. “...Gay?”

“Yeah. I don’t want you to think this is just me saying stuff just because of that, like it’s a reason to get away with it. It’s not! If anything, it incriminates me a little more, but—”

“Okay, slow down. I don’t think that at all— but, what are you even saying to me right now, Mike?”

“I don’t know!” Mike groans. “I just think you’re very attractive and I wanted to take a moment—well, the entire night, actually—to appreciate it, and I didn’t want you to think that it was a joke.” 

It’s painfully quiet for a few moments until Will starts laughing. 

He’s fucking laughing. So hard that he leans forward a bit and clutches his arms over his stomach. Mike stares at him, completely bewildered, wondering if he’s really embarrassed himself that much. 

“What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?”

Will straightens his posture, and Mike’s heart sinks at the sight of him all over again. He keeps expecting the blood to vanish every time he doesn’t see it for a matter of seconds, but there it is. His artwork. As red as ever. “You’re so clueless it’s actually hilarious.”

“What does that mean?”

Will rolls his eyes. “You find a guy attractive and suddenly it’s the end of the world.”

“It’s not just some guy, Will. It’s you.” Mike stresses, throwing his arms out to gesture to him. 

“So? I find you attractive, too.”

“I— what?” 

“You are!” 

“You’ll really hurt my feelings if you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Wait, you really— What?” 

“What?” 

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” 

Will looks a little smug, and he’s closer to Mike again even though he swears he didn’t see him move. “Not at all.” 

“Oh.” Mike says quietly, and watches Will carefully as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He takes one out and places it between his lips before stuffing the rest of the pack away. He strikes the lighter a few times, and then looks at Mike expectantly when he has no luck.  

“Help me out, here.” He urges, and Mike’s muscle memory kicks in and he cups both of his blood stained hands around the cigarette. 

Neither of them smoke regularly—they tend to share one when they’ve had a drink or a particularly draining day, so Mike was expecting this to happen at some point tonight, but it’s never felt this intimate before. 

As Will focuses on catching the flame, Mike stares at him, fascinated, and Will stares right back. Once it’s lit, he takes a deep inhale and blows the smoke away from Mike’s face, then frowns at him because he’s standing there like an idiot. “What? Have I made you uncomfortable now?”

Mike drops his hands to his sides. “No! No, I just… I didn’t think anyone saw me that way. Especially not you.” 

“Mike.” Will sighs, then takes another drag, holding it in his lungs for a little longer until he breathes out his next words accompanied by a cloud of smoke. “You’re acting dumb again because you know that’s not true.” 

“Stop calling me dumb!” 

“I will when you stop being dumb and admit you’re good looking.” He says sternly, and holds the cigarette out for Mike to take. 

Mike takes it slowly, the tips of his fingers knocking Will’s. “I can’t admit something that’s not true.” 

“That’s fine, but you’re wrong.” Will shrugs, then watches patiently as Mike places the cigarette between his own lips, an orange glow illuminating his face just slightly. When he pulls it away, he sees a little red mark on the end of it that Will’s looking at, too. “So, can we go back to that massive hole you were digging for a second—”

Mike clears his throat and flicks the ash from the end. “You said I wasn’t!”

Will snorts out a laugh. “Well, regardless, can we just circle back—”

“To what?” Mike takes it as his cue to hand the cigarette back to Will and turn on his heel so the two of them can start walking again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Seriously?” he’s following him closely, a cloud of smoke trailing behind them. “You tell me that you found covering me in blood really attractive and it was like ‘something you were supposed to be doing’ and you expect me to just move on from that?” 

“Yes, actually. That sounds like a wonderful idea.” Mike says dramatically. He’d complain about the fact that this was brought up in the first place, but it was all him. Every single thing that has made his head spin tonight has been all of his own doing, leaving him only with himself to blame. 

“Too bad, there’s no way I’m letting that go.” 

“Well, you have to.”

Will nudges him in the arm. “No, I don’t!”

“Will!”

“Alright, alright. We’ll do it your way, then.” Will storms ahead, placing himself in front of Mike again and blocking his path forward. He holds out the cigarette. “Hold this.” 

Mike takes it, and allows Will to position him where he wants him as if the two of them are in drama class and they’re about to perform a Shakespeare scene or something, his hands firm on Mike’s shoulders.

“What are you doing?” 

“Just trust me for a second.” Will says, and when he’s happy with where he’s placed Mike right underneath a streetlight, he takes a couple of steps back until he’s standing far enough into the shadows that Mike can’t see him. “If I was like, legitimately a vampire right now, what would you do?” 

Mike scoffs. “What kind of question is that?”

“You’re more comfortable talking about things like they’re a story, right?” 

Mike sighs. “What’s your point?” 

“If you didn’t know me, and I came up to you like this,” Will says slowly as he takes a couple of steps forward and looks at Mike curiously. Like, exactly how vampires look at people they want to bite. Desire, yearning, and hunger paint his expression, and Mike wonders if Will’s been taking acting classes in secret or if he’s actually in love with him, too. “What would you do?” 

Mike swallows thickly. “Well, probably run in the other direction because you look like you just killed an entire family.” 

“Would you, though?” Will peers at him suggestively, taking another step. Mike feels like he’s going to pass out. 

“Well, no,” Mike starts, trying to look anywhere else for a few seconds to give himself a moment to catch his breath. A tree. The front door of the house across the street. Literally anything else. “But you’d probably hypnotise me or something—”

“I wouldn’t,” Will says steadily. “Not you.”

Jesus.

“Then— Then I’d… I don’t know!”

“You must know. You’ve clearly been thinking about it all night.” 

“I haven’t!”

“Tell me one other thought you’ve had.” Will challenges. Has Mike really been so transparent tonight? Or has Will really been reading his mind?

“Wait— what exactly are you implying I’ve been thinking about?” 

“Nothing! You’ve just been very insistent on this whole thing and you keep bringing it up, so…” Will shrugs, plucking the forgotten cigarette from Mike’s fingers and sticking it between his lips.

“Please forgive me, Will, for being a little freaked out by how much I want—” Mike sighs, exasperated. “Wanted to do all that. I can’t explain it.” 

Will looks at him thoughtfully like he is, in fact, seeing right through him. “So when you said it’s hot… was that just the blood thing, or—”

“No! You are. The blood just… adds to it, and I enjoyed the… you know…” Mike shrugs, throwing his hands out in front of him and almost grazing Will’s chest with his fingertips.

Will takes a drag and raises his eyebrows, expectantly waiting for Mike to continue even though he keeps trying to unspokenly make his point. “What?” 

“Like, the whole…” Mike gestures to Will with his hands in an awkward up and down motion, knowing it’s clear enough what he’s trying to say. Will smirks because he does know, but crosses his arms and continues to wait anyway. 

“Use your words.” 

Mike’s knees buckle underneath him a little bit and after he locks them back into place he stares at Will, mouth hanging open slightly, completely lost for words.

He’s flirting with him. He has been this whole time. And shamelessly, at that. 

Yeah. He’s way too weak for this shit.

Suddenly, Mike feels extremely unwell. 

“Um. Well, you know what I mean! Just—” he stammers. Use his words? He can’t use his words. How can Will look at him and talk to him like that and expect him to string a sentence together that even vaguely makes sense? Especially when he looks like that. Especially when Mike was the one who made him look like that. 

Thankfully, Will puts him out of his misery. “Having your hands on me?” 

“Jesus— Will!” Mike yells, his face burning even though it’s ice cold outside. “God, you’re making this sound so much worse.” 

“It’s not a bad thing, Mike.” Will chuckles lightly, offering Mike the last bit of the cigarette who quickly shakes his head. He feels way too nauseous now. Will finishes it off himself whilst Mike tries not to have a panic attack. “I mean, it makes sense, you were probably just… touch deprived.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!” 

“Well, you were probably just craving a little bit of intimacy. Like, since El you’ve not been the slightest bit interested in anyone else, which is fine! But that was a long time ago, and you probably just wanted to be close to someone and you’re comfortable with me, so like, why not, we were— are— both drunk…” Will theorises, crouching down for a moment to stub out the cigarette on the ground. 

No. 

No, that’s not it. 

That’s really not it. 

Well, it’s partially it. Will’s right on the money with a few things. He was craving intimacy, but he’s pretty sure he wasn’t interested in El in that way at all, and this whole time he has been interested in the person who’s always been right in front of him and he’d tried (and failed) to project all of those bottled up feelings onto her. 

He did want to be close to someone. Wants to be close to someone. To Will. Yes, he’s comfortable with him. Yes, they are both drunk. But Mike has to admit those things don’t make this not real and they don’t explain it away like Will is clearly trying to do right now in an effort to give Mike a way out if what he said is the only thing that’s true. If that’s really where the line is drawn, Will’s giving him the means to distance himself from it. To brush it off like it’s nothing. To step away. 

It’s a classic Will Byers move. He used his own feelings to try and fix Mike’s relationship with El all those years ago, and now he’s telling Mike that if all that was back in the bathroom was a desperate act of loneliness, then it’s okay, and he understands.

God. Mike wants to tell him. To grab him by the shoulders and say you’re not getting it! He wants Will to know how badly he wants him, but he cannot, for the life of him, find the right words to do any of it justice. 

He’s been trying to pretend it isn’t real for years, the last thing he wants is Will doing the same. 

“That makes it sound like I was using you.” Mike sighs, because if he makes anything clear to him right now, it’s going to be the fact that he didn’t do it just because he was feeling lonely. 

“Were you?” Will asks, looking somewhat hesitant to even question it.

“No!”

“Good, because it didn’t feel like you were.” 

“Will, I would never. I swear.”

“I know, I know, it’s just—”

“And I didn’t do it because I was drunk, okay?” 

“Then why did you?”

One of Mike’s hands finds its way into his hair again. “I already told you why, I just get so fixated on some things it’s hard to ignore a thought once it’s there and I just have to see it through, and maybe I was touch deprived or whatever, but more than that I just—” Mike sighs. “I don’t know how to explain it.” 

Will is quiet for a few moments, arms crossed and cigarette butt still sitting between his fingers. He shrugs, his voice much softer when he next speaks. “Maybe try and give me a shorter answer.” 

Mike swallows thickly. “There is no short answer for this shit, Will.” 

“Well, a simpler one, at least.” Will gently encourages. 

Now, Mike feels a little pathetic. Will is literally having to coach him through this weird veiled confession, trying to ask him the right questions and steer him towards the things he really wants to say but clearly has no idea how. All whilst being so patient and calm and understanding even though Mike knows damn well a lot of what he’s saying isn’t making any sense. It’s just so Will, and though it does make Mike feel utterly hopeless, it’s working— and he loves him even more for it, if such a thing is even possible. 

“Okay, well, I guess I did it because…” Mike tries, heart racing, blood pumping much quicker through his veins, staring at his and Will’s shoes pointing towards each other.

“Because?” 

Mike closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath before looking back at him. “Because I wanted to.” 

Will smiles, taking a few seconds to let those simple words process in his mind, head tilted slightly, looking like he’d just heard what he’d been waiting to hear all night, or forever, even. “That wasn’t so terrible to admit, was it?” 

“No.” Mike slides his hands into his jean pockets to stop himself from nervously fidgeting. “What about you, huh?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you let me?” 

Will shrugs like his answer is the most obvious thing in the world, and there’s no real reason for him to have to say it out loud. “Because I wanted to.” 

Mike nods, relaxing just slightly. “Okay, cool.”

“Cool.” Will hums, that quiet confidence radiating off him, making Mike feel like he’s going to melt into the ground under his feet.

He tries to remain cool, but he’s well aware of the stupid grin that’s on his face right now. “Glad we’re on the same page.” 

And it’s fine, because Will’s grinning too, and Mike’s stomach does quite the flip at the sight of it.

“When aren’t we?” 

There’s a moment, then, somewhere between his last breath and Will’s next, that seems to unearth everything. The undeniable truth. A solid, mutual understanding. It’s something you have to pay attention to catch, like the brief earthy scent just before it’s about to rain, and you know you’ll have to give in to what comes next and let it wash over you. Or drown you, if that’s what you so desire. 

They’re still gazing at each other as their smiles fade into something a little more intuitive, like they’re understanding each other’s thoughts completely without having to speak. It’s as if their conversation continues in those few moments after that first rumble of thunder—then suddenly, their shared ache becomes tangible, and it’s taken the shape of both the sinner and the saint. Mike almost feels like he can reach out and touch it, and in the midst of the thought, his blood red fingers twitch, extending towards Will in a quiet, instinctive gesture. Will’s breath catches in his throat when his gaze is drawn there for a split second, but then it’s gone, and he smiles at him like he can feel it, too. 

They continue on, Mike’s heart slamming against his ribcage so hard he’s surprised he can still methodically place one foot in front of the other. He wishes he hadn’t repressed this whole thing so much because at least then he could’ve gone over what he wanted to say in his head. Like, he could’ve had literal years of preparation. Drafted as many speeches as he wanted until he landed on the perfect one. Will deserves that, doesn’t he? 

But Mike is impulsive. He wants to act on his emotions as soon as he feels them (or as soon as he can identify them), so he knows that regardless of when he accepted these feelings he’d still want to do something about them right in the heat of the moment. 

Which is why he’s going to kiss him when they get home. 

Yeah. He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna kiss Will Byers. His best friend. Just like that. 

He’s already crossed a fuck ton of boundaries tonight— what’s one more? 

And the funny thing is, it’s like they both know it’s going to happen. After this conversation they’ve landed firmly on the same wavelength. Unfortunately, this power hasn’t extended to being able to read minds, so Mike has no idea exactly what Will is thinking (even though he feels like he’s coming pretty close at this point) which is inconvenient because right now all he wants is to know every single thought that passes through his head. 

How long has he felt this way? How long has he wanted this? How badly has he wanted this? Every time they shared a bed, did he wish that he never had to leave? Did he pray to some higher power that their embraces would never end? Did he spend sleepless nights wondering how he could ever move on from it? Does he still? How many times has he thought about kissing Mike? Being with him in the way that, it seems, they were always supposed to? 

There are literal years worth of longing and yearning between them, which makes everything feel a thousand times more intense. Each glance, each touch, each suggestive comment, is so weighted with it all that actually crossing that final boundary will surely feel like nothing either of them have ever felt before, and will probably never feel again. 

It’s just a kiss. It’ll be so easy. Because it’s just a kiss, and it’s just Will. Except it’s not, because it’s Will. 

He can’t fuck this up. 

Mike’s only ever kissed El, so his experience is limited, but he’s relieved that he at least knows the fundamentals. It’s not like Will has much more experience than him, either— one time Mike asked him if he’d ever kissed anyone before (out of pure curiosity) and he told him that he had a short lived make out session with a guy at a party back in high school, but he shrugged it off like it was no big deal and was pretty confused when Mike started immediately throwing millions of questions at him. Who was it? Did I know him? Where and when exactly did this happen? Were you guys ever a thing? Would you kiss him again? 

He even remembers that, at the party in question, he’d spent those twenty minutes sulking on the sofa because Will had left him alone with Max, who took it as an opportunity to theorise every possible reason why he looked so miserable without him by his side.

God, you’re acting like you’re in love with him, or something. 

Yeah. Or something. 

They walk in a content silence until they reach their apartment building, shuffling through the doors and the lobby, still occasionally bumping shoulders and letting out quiet giggles that they think the other can’t hear. Mike’s sobered up a little more after the journey home, but he’s still got enough liquid courage in him to go through with this plan. Maybe Will has a plan, too. Maybe he’ll beat him to it. It would make Mike’s life a whole lot easier, that’s for sure—but he knows nothing is ever that simple.

He presses the elevator button, and as the two of them are waiting, he feels Will turn to look at him. “Can I be honest with you?” 

His heart drops, just a bit. “Uh— yeah. Always.”

“This is not how I saw the night going, like, at all.” Will whispers, leaning closer to him, clearly not wanting to talk too loud because of how late it is. Mike doesn’t even know the time. He’d rather not know, actually. 

“Is that a bad thing?” 

“No. It was just different. I mostly didn’t expect you to call me hot, but—”

Mike snaps his head up and focuses on the elevator’s metal doors, voice raising slightly. “Oh my god, please stop talking.”

“Shh!” Will elbows him. “I mean, take it back if you want.”

“I’m not taking it back, but I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear you say that.” 

“Mike—”

“Sorry, can’t hear you.” Mike shrugs, even though he can’t keep the smirk off his face when he feels Will giving him daggers. 

“Seriously?” Will scoffs, and Mike remains quiet as the elevator finally reaches the ground floor. “Wow, silent treatment. Awesome.”

“No, I’m not giving you the silent treatment, I just want you to forget that I called you—” Mike says as the two of them step inside, pressing the button for their floor. Will’s looking incredibly smug yet again. “Oh, shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

The doors slide closed and suddenly Mike feels like he’s in that stupid bathroom all over again. 

Maybe he never left. Maybe he never will. 

At this point, he supposes such a thing wouldn’t be so bad. 

“Oh, come on.” Will says as Mike leans his back against the wall to his right, and Will lays his palm flat against the cool metal surface next to his shoulder, body still facing the doors but head turned to the side as he leans closer to him. “Say it again for me?” 

If Mike can’t handle this flirting how the fuck is he supposed to handle actually kissing him?

He plays into it, anyway, and ducks his head closer to Will’s. “I think I’ve said enough for one night.”

“Please?” 

Mike glares at him as if it’ll disguise the fact that his face is quickly turning almost as red as Will’s is. “No,” he says. “Besides, it’s not something that needs to be said, it’s just true.” 

“Okay, but…” Will starts, and Mike stares at his own red fingerprints around his mouth. “What if I want to hear you say it again?” 

“I’m not saying it again.” 

“Fine.” Will groans. “But I call dibs on the shower—”

“No!” Mike almost yells, and Will looks at him with widened eyes. “I mean, no. Just leave it. For a little longer. The night isn’t over, is it?” 

Will glares at him in disbelief for a moment before he pushes himself away from the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. “God, I really am going to fucking bite you.”

Mike raises a brow, reaches forward to poke Will in his side, then says: “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

Which is his pathetic idea of flirting, apparently. 

Will tries to defend himself with his elbow as the doors slide open, the familiar dimly lit stretch of hallway in front of him. “Oh, wow.” 

“Sorry, that was way funnier in my head.” Mike rambles, following behind Will who fishes his set of keys out of his pocket, focusing his attention on finding the right one amongst his many colourful keyrings. 

“Sure it was.” Will laughs lightly, and Mike watches his hands closely as he finally locates the key, holding it so hard that his thumb almost turns white. Is he nervous, too? Is Mike nervous? Apparently so. Very much so, actually. It seems to be getting worse the closer they get to their apartment. 

“Just don’t wash it off yet.”

“Why?” 

“Just don’t.”

Will frowns. “Doesn’t it… remind you of all the upside down bullshit?”

“Not really.” Mike shrugs. “It’s not like you’re dressed as a fucking demogorgon, is it?” 

“No, but, it’s a little intense.” Will says through a laugh, and then clears his throat. “Does it not even make you feel a little bit… dizzy?” 

“Oh, believe me, I have bigger things making me feel that way right now.” 

“Really?”

“Totally.” Mike mumbles, coming to a firm stop behind Will when they reach the door. He’s a little too close because, in his defence, he didn’t realise how close they were to getting there, and he wasn’t really paying attention, but now he’s right behind Will, watching him push the key into the lock over his shoulder. He takes advantage of the situation, though, and ducks to whisper right next to his ear. “I might be a little drunk.”

Will pauses for a moment, shoulders tensing up slightly, before he pushes the door open. “I know.”

He steps inside, then holds it open for Mike who trails in behind him. The comfort of being in their own home settles as a calm warmth in his chest. “Are you?”

“Uh huh.” Will says as he locks the door. He then walks towards the kitchen, dumps his keys onto the counter, and begins untying his shoes.

“Awesome.” Mike nods, trying not to trip over his own feet as he kicks off his boots. 

Will places his neatly by the table, then shuffles off his jacket and hangs it on the back of one of the dining chairs. Mike sets the angel wings down by the door and throws his own jacket over the back of the sofa, but, still feeling a little cold from the walk, he grabs one of his —Will’s?— sweatshirts that he sees on top of their clean laundry pile. A soft dark green one. Probably Will’s. He slides it on without a second thought.

He straightens it out and brushes his hair out of his face, then carefully readjusts his piercing, the metal a little cold against the pads of his fingers. He considers taking off the rest of his jewellery, or at least going to wash the makeup off his face, but it wouldn’t exactly be fair when he’d practically begged Will to remain in costume for some completely undisclosed but quietly obvious reason. He reaches into the neck of the sweatshirt and fishes out the silver pendant he’d been fiddling with all night, letting it rest against his chest like it’s the only anchor he has left tying him down to sanity.

“Hey, Will.“ Mike starts, the name suddenly feeling heavy in his mouth. “I have a question.” 

“Yeah?” Will asks. Back turned to him, he reaches into a cupboard for two empty glasses and begins to fill them with water. Another wonderful idea. Mike wouldn’t have remembered to drink any water if it weren’t for Will. He’d probably be dead without him, he thinks. He lingers by the sofa, trying not to focus too hard on the fact that he feels like he’s swaying when he’s pretty sure he isn’t. 

“What do you think of my piercing?”

The faucet is shut off so quickly that the sudden absence of the sound of running water is jarring, and Will quietly places the two filled glasses down. He turns, leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Are you seriously asking me that? Again?”

“Yes.” Mike says simply, stepping into the kitchen and mirroring him against the counter opposite. Will looks him up and down for a brief moment when he notices he’s changed, but doesn’t comment on it. “Tell me. Honestly, this time.” 

“I’ve been honest every time you’ve asked.” Will shrugs. It’s dark in here, which makes him look all the more unsettlingly beautiful. The moonlight pours in from the window at the other end of the living room, giving everything this weird, bluish tint that makes Mike feel like he’s watching a movie instead of existing in his own life. 

He sighs. “No— don’t give me that bullshit. You know what I mean.” 

Will’s mouth opens slightly like he’s about to hit him back with some sort of playful argument, or a vague, non-specific opinion that he knows Mike doesn’t want to hear. He brings his lips back together and pauses for a few seconds, staring him down.

“Well, according to your logic,” Will says as he turns to grab the waters, proceeding to pass one to Mike who accepts it and holds it against his chest. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“The hell does that mean?” 

Mike waits impatiently for Will’s answer as he finishes most of his glass and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know exactly what it means.” 

“No, I don’t.” Mike says firmly, taking a small sip himself after Will stares at him, then the drink, as a silent encouragement.

Will turns his back to him to place his empty glass in the sink. “I think you do.” 

“Well,” Mike starts, now looking at the smudged blood on the back of Will’s neck. “I don’t understand.”

“You understand just fine.” Will says quietly, fussing with the rest of the dishes that they left earlier, seemingly trying to distract himself from this conversation. 

“Just tell me what you think of it.” Mike pleads, then takes another steady drink. When Will stays silent, he places the glass down and steps towards him, leaning against the counter so he can duck his head and try to catch his eyes. “I keep worrying that you hate it.” 

“I don’t hate it.” 

“Will, please.” Mike says gently. “I just need to know.” 

Will finally looks up at him—well, it’s more of a glare—and Mike gives him his best pretty please face that seems to work every time.

“Okay,” he gives in, drying his hands quickly on a dish towel and hanging it on one of the lower cupboard door handles. He turns, and then pushes himself up so he can sit on the counter, his thigh coming to rest just slightly against Mike’s stomach. He leans forward and clasps his hands together, pausing for a tense moment, before: “I think it’s hot.” 

Mike immediately frowns. “Shut up.” 

“What?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not,” Will says calmly. “I’m serious.” 

Mike scoffs. “Well, you could’ve just told me that in the first place!”

“I couldn’t, though.” Will shakes his head. “It’s okay if you call me hot because it doesn’t mean anything to you, but I didn’t want you to— I don’t know. Think it was weird coming from me.” 

Doesn’t mean anything to me? Is he being serious? 

“Stop it. No. That’s ridiculous.”

“Just didn’t wanna freak you out, that’s all.” 

“It wouldn’t have.” Mike says firmly, his hand suddenly itching to rest on Will’s thigh. He leans closer, just a little, and the pressure on his stomach is oddly comforting. 

“Well,” Will shrugs, looking out of the window that’s now opposite him. “Couldn’t be sure.” 

“Well, uh— thank you?” 

“Satisfied now?”

“Yeah,” Mike nods. “Promise I won't ask you again.”

“Good.” Will chuckles lightly, then looks down to his joined hands where he runs a thumb comfortingly over his skin in a slow rhythmic motion, like he’s trying to distract himself or calm down. 

Mike knows him too well. He knows how he goes into himself when he’s having a hard time. Hell, he even managed to do it when he was being possessed by a goddamn interdimensional monster. He always puts everyone else’s feelings before his own, and apparently, he’ll even do it with something as seemingly miniscule as his opinion on Mike’s recent piercing choices. If he’d said it in the first place like Mike had so desperately wanted him to, there was a risk that he’d take it the wrong way, which, to Will, clearly wasn’t worth taking until now. 

But that’s not what he meant. That’s not even what he said. He should’ve known well enough that Mike would never take it the wrong way because he’d always been so accepting of him. Yeah, he’s a little awkward around the subject, but ever since he’s known he’s been completely supportive of him and he wouldn’t be caught dead being the type of ‘friend’ that would get offended or freaked out at such a comment, regardless of sexuality. 

Will had to know that. Will does know that.

Which leaves Mike with only one plausible answer. Yes, Will’s always been confident in telling Mike he’s a good looking guy, and tonight he’s proved that continually, but something about the piercing had driven it home, right in his gut, that his love extends to want, and his comfort to craving. It was to Will what the blood is to Mike. In the grand scheme of things, these oddly specific things don’t really matter, they’re just catalysts that fuel the feelings sitting, waiting, at the bottom of their guts. 

And Mike doesn’t have a clue how deep it goes for him, how far back— to the painting, at least, so there’s every chance he’s already experienced other catalysts over the years with just as much force as this one. Other little things that solidify the fact that there is no one else. That there will never be anyone else. The difference is, Will’s clearly been aware of his feelings for much longer—whereas Mike has done an astounding job at repressing them—and it’s turned into such a fragile thing that he’s had to keep guarded all this time. The confession he made was a trivial one, yes, but it’s clear to see it’s something so much bigger than that. 

“Listen, uh—” Mike clears his throat. “It doesn’t mean nothing to me, alright?” 

“What?”

“Like I said before, I really mean it. I’m not just saying this shit for fun.” 

Will breathes out shakily, still keeping his gaze fixed on his own hands. “Then why are you saying it?” 

It’s right there. Right in Mike’s throat, it’s balled up in a tangled mess, but it’s there. He’d give it to Will like that if he could get it out. They could pull it apart together. 

He tries not to swallow it down. “You’re not making this easy for me, you know that?”

Will finally looks at him, their faces close again. He searches Mike’s eyes for a few moments, seemingly in an attempt to wash away final doubts of his own. Mike hopes he’s looking at him intently enough for him to get the message loud and clear. Head ducked, tilted slightly, a slow glance down towards his mouth and then back up again.

He thinks he has the upper hand for a moment until Will holds him there, staring at him hard enough that it prevents him from moving at all. “You’re not making it easy for yourself.” 

“I know,” Mike says, voice quiet, heart beating loudly in his ears. “What am I supposed to do?” 

“Do what you want to do,” Will says, his eyes pleading. It’s clear enough what Mike wants to do right now, and Will does a pretty good job of making it obvious he knows exactly what that is by keeping his eyes locked on his own lips. “I’m right here.”

Mike’s breath catches in his throat. “What are we actually talking about right now?” 

It’s a stupid question. They’ve already offered themselves up to each other countless times throughout the night in a suggestive back and forth: If you ever get hungry, I’m all yours. I’d always choose you. I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. Because I wanted to. I’m right here. 

Really, they should talk about it. Make sense of it all. It would be the sensible thing to do. But what else needs to be said at this point? Everything made sense back in that bathroom, where they reached for each other in the dark, didn’t say a word, and embraced what has been living dormant for far too long. 

Will looks at him, as if to say: it’s obvious, isn’t it? 

“Mike.” 

Even though it’s just his own name, uttered quietly through a steady breath, it’s confession enough. It’s more weighted than the rest of it, and it knocks the breath right out of Mike’s lungs. 

Now would be as good a time as any. Right here in the kitchen. Right like this. They stare at each other knowingly for a few moments, Mike even sways forward just a little. It would be so easy to just lean that little bit further. Close the gap. He could turn to stand in front of him, even. Between his thighs. Put his arms around his waist. 

But something isn’t right.  

He lets himself rest a hand on Will’s thigh, just for a moment, before he turns and leaves him sitting there on the counter. If he’s gonna kiss him anywhere, he wants it to be in a place where he can be completely surrounded by him and his things and literally everything that comes with him; which is why he starts heading towards Will’s room.

Call him a perfectionist, but apparently somewhere deep in his brain, or maybe in a dream he forced himself to forget, he’s seen this play out before and this is how it’s supposed to go. This is where it happens. It just makes sense. Now all Will has to do is follow him. 

He flicks on the orange lava lamp that sits on the dresser, and it fills the space with a dim, peaceful glow. He then heads straight for the bed and throws himself down, letting the comfort of it wash over him. He accidentally catches sight of the alarm clock and the green numbers scream 3:17AM at him which doesn’t seem to add up because this entire night feels like it’s lasted five minutes—he’s never been so awake in his life. 

At least neither of them have class in the morning. He and Will could make out all night if they wanted to.

Ah. Shit. Yes. The whole reason he’s here right now. 

Kissing Will. 

Which is fine. Everything is totally fine. 

Mike isn’t really dying, he just feels like he is. 

He shuffles, trying to make himself more comfortable, resting his head on Will’s pillow. His heart beats erratically against his ribs, his stomach is doing somersaults, and the empty space there is churning for what he’s truly been after all night, plus the last ten years. 

Then, he hears him jump off the counter, and his gentle footsteps are at a steady pace until he reaches the doorway.  

He stands at the threshold, the same way he did when he first showed Mike his costume. Tilting his head slightly, he looks down at him. “You lost?”

“No,” Mike says. “I just like it in here”

“What’s wrong with your room?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, turning to stare up at the ceiling. “Just wanna… hang out.” 

“Okay,” Will says, sounding uncertain but clearly deciding not to question it. 

Mike waits for him to move, to step in the room at least, but he stays exactly where he is. It’s deadly silent, all he can hear is the high pitched ringing in his ears that’s most likely a result of all the loud music he’s been exposed to tonight. But that’s the least of his problems right now; his main concern is why the hell Will is so far away from him. 

He tries not to sigh like a spoiled child, but he can’t help himself. “Are you just gonna stand there?”

A silence long enough for him to have to turn and meet Will’s gaze follows, and he’s looking at him like that again. 

“You haven’t invited me in.” 

Oh. So now he wants to play the fucking vampire? 

Mike raises a brow at him “Well, it’s your room so I'm not sure that applies, but— you may enter.” 

Will bows his head, slowly steps inside and then leans against his dresser, continuing to look at Mike thoughtfully. It’s quite a picture, seeing him standing there, and Mike wouldn’t be surprised if he actually did turn out to be a vampire because he wears it so well. The persona fits him just right, hugs his body in all the right places, just like Mike knew it would. But, as much as he would love to lie here and look at him all night, he’s still too far away. 

Is he seriously going to make him work this hard for it? 

He has no choice but to take matters into his own hands. 

“My head’s fucking spinning,” he groans. “Help me up?”

“Seriously?”

Mike pathetically holds his arms out, waiting for him to step closer. “Please?”

Will clearly knows it’s a ploy, but he moves forward anyway, to the side of the bed, and reaches forward to grip onto Mike’s forearms. He tries to pull him up, but all Mike does is pull him right back down until he falls onto him, landing between his legs, his chest up against his own, pressing him down into the mattress. 

“Wow, you’re such a jerk.” Will laughs and tries to climb off him, but Mike slides his hands around him and pulls him closer, holding him in place. 

“And you should’ve seen that coming.” He teases as Will continues to struggle. He feels staggered, heavy heartbeats coming from his chest, but he can’t tell which are his, and which are Will’s—but one thing’s for certain, they’re both going crazy. 

“Well, I don’t wanna get blood stains all over my sheets.” Will manages to jab at Mike’s side, making him squirm. “Let me go.” 

Mike stills them both, holding Will as firmly as he can, moving his head to catch his eyes so he can look at him pointedly, like he’s never been more serious in his life. 

“No.”

“Mike—”

“I will wash them myself.” 

Will scoffs out a laugh. “No, you won’t.”

“Promise I will.” Mike pleads, voice softening. “Just stay.”

Will looks at him long and hard, and for a moment Mike really isn’t sure whether he’s going to just get it over with already and kiss him or drain him for every ounce of blood in his body. 

At this point, he’ll take either.  

Will adjusts himself, placing one of his thighs outside of Mike’s so he can prop himself up more, their legs now loosely slotted between each other. His right palm lays flat near Mike’s shoulder, and he holds himself above him, creating just a little bit more distance. 

“What exactly is your plan, here?”

“Well, I didn’t answer your question,” Mike starts, completely mesmerised by every inch of Will’s face. “From before.”

Will frowns. “What?” 

“The vampire question.” 

“Oh— so, what? I’m getting a demonstration?” Will laughs, moving to rest on his elbow instead, which brings him much closer to Mike’s face.  

Oh. God. 

“You sure are.” 

Will instinctively uses his index finger to brush his hair away from his piercing again. “Okay, what’s your next move?” 

Oh. God. 

Like most things tonight, Mike hasn’t thought this through, but he lets his impulse take over and he brings his outside leg up to hook around Will’s hip. He’s not strong by any means, and he’s still a little intoxicated, so he doesn’t know how he does it, but he manages to push up slightly and then flip him over until he’s the one laying flat on his back, their legs still slotted together. He holds himself up with his palms resting either side of his head, looks down, and, well, it’s quite a sight. 

Will’s chest is rising and falling with irregular breaths, and he looks up at Mike with a wild grin on his face. He can see his own handprints all over him from this angle, from his mouth to his hips. 

“Alright,” he reaches up to delicately hold the silver pendant that’s now hanging just above his face. “Now what?” 

Mike says it like it’s obvious. “You’ve gotta fight back.” 

Will scoffs, giving the necklace the slightest tug. “Are you sure?”

Mike swallows thickly, then nods. 

Will shrugs as if to say suit yourself and then circles both of Mike’s wrists with his hands, knocking him off his balance so he falls against his chest, causing the two of them to erupt into a fit of giggles. Will has no problem quickly flipping them back over, and the whole thing plays out like a hazy movie fight sequence until he has his forearm propped horizontally under Mike’s chin, pinning him firmly in place. 

He’s smiling, breathless. “Now I think you’d just go for the kill.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Mike encourages, tilting his chin up and angling his neck to the side. 

And, yes. He’s serious. Deadly serious, in fact. 

Will lets out a quiet, breathy sound—something between disbelief and amusement—and takes his arm away to hold himself up, giving Mike a moment to breathe. “I’m not actually going to bite you, Mike.”

“Just do it. I have a high pain tolerance now.”

“Bull. This is ridiculous.” Will giggles, until Mike doesn’t. 

“Will, come on,” his smile falls until he’s looking up at him with a far more intentful expression on his face, parting his lips to release a shallow breath. “Please?” 

Will doesn’t take long to start seriously considering it. 

His own smile fades and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, and when he releases it, it’s far less red than earlier, but in this light it doesn’t really make a difference. Shiny from the saliva, Mike’s eyes are drawn there like a magnet as he takes a deep breath in, and as much as he’s been trying all night, nothing could have prepared him for this. 

He knew exactly what he was asking for, and yet, it still catches him off guard when it happens. Will spends a little while staring at the spot on Mike’s neck that he’d already mapped out for himself earlier before he slowly leans down, hovering there for a painful beat before he steadily exhales, and when Mike feels the warm breath on his skin, a chill spreads through his entire nervous system in intricate tendrils, pulling all of his organs together and calming his body to a peaceful rhythm. 

Will’s teeth land on his skin as softly as they possibly can, just grazing him gently until he applies the smallest bit of pressure in his most careful version of a bite. Mike jolts a little in reaction, and he lets out a nervous giggle because he’s not sure what else to do. It hurts, just a bit, but in a strange, almost fucked up way, it feels nice. 

Will makes a small hum of a sound as he pulls away, like he truly gets it now, and stays hovering by his neck like he’s curious to see what he’s going to do next. Completely rendered speechless, and convinced he’s now immobile, Mike lays there helplessly like he’s more ready than ever for Will to take whatever he wants from him. 

Then, Will leans back into the same spot and delicately kisses it. 

It’s a quiet and soft gesture, but it makes Mike’s heart sink right through the mattress. Will’s lips against his skin feels like, what a vampire would call, a little drink: a small amount of blood taken from a victim to gauge a reaction before the real feed. 

Will pulls back, face just inches from Mike’s, and he’s not sure what his reaction actually is, but it’s enough to make Will smile at him softly, and then slowly roll off him to lie by his side. 

Mike feels immediately cold without the pressure of his body against him, and he wonders if he’s really messed this whole thing up for good this time. He didn’t even say anything, and yet he’s still managed to freak him out. Mike Wheeler, serial fuck up. Delusional weirdo and idiot. Always pushing it one step too far. This was bound to go sideways. 

It’s painfully quiet for a while until Will turns to lay on his side, propping his head up on his elbow. Mike is forced to make his brain catch up with the rest of his body, and he realises that a small part of him is still scared for everything to change. What’s about to happen is huge for him, for them both, so he’s putting too much pressure on himself for it to play out perfectly. It’s fragile, and Mike’s notoriously heavy handed, so he’s well aware there’s still a possibility he could break it. Will must’ve seen his worry, even for a split second, in the look on his face, or at least felt it in the speed of his heart against his chest. 

Mike can feel his eyes on him, scanning every inch of his face. “Talk to me.” 

He keeps looking at the ceiling as he takes a deep breath in, and then he turns to look at Will who’s still considerably close to him, his heavy lidded gaze and soft smile turning his insides to liquid. He relaxes, and realises that all Will wants to do right now is help him through this, like he has been this entire time. He owes him his honesty. 

“Will—” he starts, and it comes out a little scratchy before he swallows to clear his throat. He can still feel their ankles loosely slotted together. “This is… a lot.”

“I know,” Will hums, bringing up his free hand to rest against Mike’s arm, rubbing his thumb back and forth, grounding him back in reality. “You’re fine.” 

Mike breathes out shakily, suddenly feeling like he’s going to cry. He was holding it together so well until now. “I feel like everything’s changed.” 

“Is that bad?”

“No, fuck— Not at all.” 

“Then what are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid. This is just— it’s all so new, and I don’t wanna fuck it up.” Mike sighs, feeling like the whole conversation is happening before his mind can even process it. He’s finding it hard to believe he and Will are even directly talking about this right now. “I don’t know you like this—”

“But you do.” Will argues, and Mike feels his own expression soften. “How did it feel? Back in that bathroom?”

It’s a loaded question, but the answer is simple. “It felt right.”

“Then you know me.” Will reaches forward, his warm hand coming to rest against the side of Mike’s face. “Stop overthinking it.” 

“I can’t help it.”

“I know,” Will sighs. “But can you try?” 

Mike nods lightly, and shuts his eyes for a moment as he leans into the touch of Will’s palm, completely unable to fathom how he’s so good at making him relax almost instantly. He supposes they’ve always been that person for each other, from the first time Will fell in the playground and scraped his knee, to quietly comforting each other through every life threatening battle, to right now. 

For some reason, this moment felt the scariest of them all, until suddenly it doesn’t anymore. 

Now, there’s just one more thing he needs to know. “How long?”

“Huh?”

“How long have you—” Mike tries, looking back at him. “You know.”

“Liked you?”

Mike’s heart almost stops. “So you do like me?”

“Do you seriously have to ask that?” Will laughs quietly, hand sliding down to rest against Mike’s chest. 

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around all this, alright?” Mike manages a laugh, then rests his own hand on top of Will’s. 

“Not even thirty minutes ago, you literally told me you thought we were way past best friends.” 

“Shit,” Mike winces. “I didn’t think you caught that.” 

“You underestimate me, Wheeler. I’m extremely observant.”

“That, you are.” Mike agrees, laughing lightly, until he turns his attention to their hands and runs his fingertips over Will’s soft skin, mapping out the curves of the bones underneath. “So… how long?” 

Will goes quiet, taking a deep breath, watching Mike trace his methodical patterns over his fingers like the sight of it is some obscure painting, hidden in the back of a museum that he can’t quite accept is truly taken from real life. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever not liked you, Mike.” 

Oh. 

Mike digests that easier than everything else he’s experienced tonight.

And suddenly, everything he’d been working out in his mind this whole time, becomes undeniably real in just a few words. Just a few seconds. He can feel all the years of their friendship surrounding him like an ocean, and he sinks completely. Right in the middle of it. 

“That’s—” he tries, but he doesn’t know what else to say. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Will almost whispers, the weight of it now hanging in the air instead of on his chest.  

“I think—” Mike starts, and it takes everything in him to muster up the courage to utter his next words. “I think I’ve felt the same for a long time, too. I just buried it so deep I couldn’t reach it until now.” 

Will’s breath catches in his throat, his own eyes now welling up just slightly, and as soon as Mike notices this, he shuffles his position, resting on his side so he’s mirroring him, his head propped on his own hand. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Will says, unable to keep the smile off his face. “What do you wanna do about that?” 

Mike finally breathes it out. 

The thing that’s been stuck in his gut for as long as he can remember, whether he could name it or not. 

“I just really wanna kiss you.”

And Will sighs with relief that the words have finally graced his ears.

“So kiss me.” 

Heart hammering wildly in his chest, Mike shuffles forward just slightly and moves his hand up to cup Will’s face. Will watches him patiently as he traces the fading blood stains with the tips of his fingers for what feels like forever until he, once again, hooks a finger underneath his chin and tilts his head up a little, making sure the angle is just right before he leans forward. 

He feels Will’s shaky breath on his mouth before he finally closes the distance, their lips landing softly against each other. Will goes still for a moment until he completely relaxes in an echo of the moment Mike slid his blood slicked fingers into the back of his hair earlier, and it settles in him like a brand new sensation that feels strangely familiar. It’s nothing like he ever could’ve imagined. It’s almost indescribable. The feeling spreads through his veins, underneath his flesh, warming his heart and filling it up to the brim, satisfying the unearthed hunger that had been subconsciously driving him crazy for years.

It’s so soft that Mike feels like he’s going to disintegrate or start bleeding out for real, and he almost expects to feel a trickle of blood slide out the corner of his own mouth. The sound of the kiss rings in his ears after he pulls back, and thankfully, Will is beaming at him like he’s the most incredible thing to ever grace the earth and he can’t quite believe that he’s real, that any of this is real. So, Mike needs to make sure he proves to him that it is, whilst also proving it to himself, because right now, he feels like he’s dreaming. Any moment he’s going to wake up in his own room, longing for the boy on the other side of the wall. 

He leans in, just as delicate, and kisses him again, letting it last for a little bit longer this time, sliding his hand to rest against the back of his neck. When he pulls away, he can tell his skin is flushed even in this dim light, and Mike finds himself trying to take it all in, because, god, the look on his face right now is something he never wants to forget. 

His hand finds its way to Mike’s side, fingers splayed in alignment with his ribs. “You okay?” 

“I’m good,” Mike nods a little bit eagerly. They stare at each other, trying to fathom their new reality. “Are you?” 

Will just nods, eyes desperately drawn to Mike’s mouth, silently begging him to indulge himself once again—and how could he ever dream of denying him? How can he deny himself anymore?

Hand coming to rest against Will’s shoulder, he slowly pushes him down until he’s flat against the mattress, and he hovers over him from the side. Then, he loosely props a leg up to rest across his thighs, brushes his hair softly out of his face, and then leans back down, leaving a handful of soft kisses against his lips that he so graciously returns, almost like the two of them are trying to get used to the feeling and familiarise themselves with the taste of it, and each time, they get a little longer, a little deeper. Mike makes a map of his mouth, kissing each corner delicately, his top lip, then the bottom, then realigning them again carefully until Will suddenly pushes up with a little bit more force, propping himself up on his elbows. He chases after Mike who pulls back and gapes at him, images of his own bloody hands all over Will’s body flashing through his mind in quick succession. It’s clear he knows exactly, and specifically, what Mike wants, and he’s telling him he can have it. 

He smirks at Mike’s reaction. “Didn’t I say you don’t have to be so gentle?” 

And, well, he doesn’t have to tell him twice. 

Mike practically climbs on top of him, knees either side of his hips. Their mouths connect disjointedly and hungrily as desperation fills the two of them up until there’s nothing left apart from the pure desire to devour each other completely so they can attempt to merge into one. Until their blood is running through each other’s veins. 

Will’s hands are all over him, like they’re not sure where they want to land. He didn’t have the pleasure of experiencing the taste of it earlier like Mike did, so now his palms travel across his body like he’s learning how to truly see him for the first time. Cupping his face, hands at the sides of his neck, traveling down his chest, warm fingers sliding just slightly underneath his sweater, resting delicately against his skin until they dig into it just a bit. Mike shudders at the feeling and smiles against Will’s mouth, and in return he slides his fingers into his hair, not resisting the urge to give it the slightest tug which only makes Will smile right back. 

It’s deep, it’s desperate, it’s slow and hungry. Mike only pulls back for a moment to slowly run his tongue, upwards, over Will’s bottom lip and then the top, which immediately makes him push up again, then pull Mike until he comes crashing down against him, refusing to take a moment to separate for a breath. Open mouthed, they kiss each other over and over, tongues and teeth grazing until Mike finds himself trailing kisses across Will’s jaw and down the side of his neck. He rests his hand on his chest, fingers sliding up to lay across his collar bones where he feels his erratic pulse slow to a steadier rhythm. 

He still can’t quite believe it’s happening, and yet, nothing has ever felt so real. He must spend too long divulging himself in the soft, scarlet smudged flesh of his neck, because his head is being tilted up again and his mouth meets his best friend’s once more like he needs him more than anything, and this is proving to him that he’ll always need him. That he never wants to lose him, and if he was going to lose him, he’d rather get it over with quick, like ripping off a—

The memory makes Mike kiss him harder, if that's even possible at this point, and in it, he’s saying thank you. Thank you for needing me. For choosing me. For being my best friend. For loving me all this time despite how long I took to finally get here. Thank you for waiting for me, because you knew, somewhere deep down, that there was a chance we could have this. You must’ve seen it in me, despite how quiet it was at times, because it’s impossible to completely hide something that lives in me as deeply as this does. 

It’s like Will’s talking back to him in their own made up language that no one else will ever be able to understand, and Mike is terrible at specifics, but this he feels all over him, much stronger than anything else. 

I need you and I want you echo in his ears like a sacred prayer. But the loudest one of all is, undoubtedly, I love you. 

Mike takes a moment, pulling back, suddenly feeling incredibly flustered and completely stone cold sober. Which isn’t a bad thing, it just gives the entire situation a new kind of clarity and sharpness to its edges, and he looks at Will, both of their faces bright red, until they burst into a hysterical fit of laughter. He slides off him, ending back up against his side, letting his head drop and rest in the crook of his neck, giggles erupting from deep in their stomachs. 

It’s such a relief to be laughing, because yes, everything’s changed—but they’re still them. 

“I can’t believe we just—” Mike mumbles against him until lifts his head up and meets his eyes. “Will. We just kissed.”

Will scoffs out a laugh. “Okay, kissed is an understatement.”

“I guess,” Mike says, laughter subsiding. He then holds his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment where all he can taste is Will. “Well— how was it?” 

“Are you really asking me for a performance review right now?” Will chuckles. “Way to kill the mood.” 

“Come on, indulge me.” Mike presses, poking him in his side. 

“All I’ve been doing tonight is indulging you.”

“You love it.” Mike teases, and Will doesn’t deny it. “So how did I do?” 

He glares at him long and hard, smirk resting easy on his mouth. “You did good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Very good.” Will nods slowly until Mike shuffles up to meet his face closely again. “Exceeded my expectations.”

“You had expectations?” Mike’s eyebrows are drawn up in surprise.

“Not expectations, I guess. More like—” Will shrugs. “What I’d pictured in my head.” 

The thought that Will had imagined kissing him before this makes his face burn. “Oh.” 

“What?” 

“You’ve thought about it?”

“How could I not?” Will smiles, hand sliding into the back of Mike’s hair. “So many times. All the time. I mean, look at you, you’re—”

He doesn’t say anything else and just stares at Mike, his face full of calm admiration, the exact same way he’s always looked at him that feels so much clearer now. 

“What?”

“You’re beautiful.” 

That hits Mike considerably hard, and he’s rendered speechless for a few moments, knowing he’s looking back at him exactly the same way. Suddenly, he’s struck with images of them when they were kids, when they were unafraid to cling to each other when they felt like it because of the pass their innocence gave them: holding hands on those earlier journeys to Castle Byers, linking pinkies under the dinner table, arms pressed firmly against each other on the sofa in the Wheeler basement, huddling for warmth during a sleepover. 

At some point, these moments had gone quiet, but even then they’d never stopped seeping through the cracks. Their love had always translated so seamlessly into actions, even when they’d tried to ignore it or push it away, so of course, of course, being like this now feels as easy as breathing. Easier, even.  

And it’s such a sweet relief to finally embrace it for what it is.

“Well,” Mike shrugs, still a little flustered from Will’s compliment. “You don’t have to imagine it anymore.” 

“So you’re telling me I’m not dreaming right now?” 

“I don’t know, are you?” Mike teases as Will’s hand slides down to rest back on his own chest. Mike delicately picks it up and holds the backs of his fingers against his mouth, proceeding to mumble against his skin, “I might be.” 

“You’re not.” Will confirms, gazing calmly at him. “We’re not.” 

“Prove it,” Mike smirks, dropping Will’s hand. “If you’re so sure.” 

Will scoffs, then suddenly sits up and turns to push Mike down until he’s the one laying on his back. In a fit of giggles, he climbs onto him and sits where his hips meet the bottom of his stomach, and Mike props his legs up so that Will can lean back against his thighs.

“Is that a challenge?” 

“Maybe.” Mike shrugs, smiling underneath him, hands resting on his knees. “Or I might just want you to kiss me again.” 

“Like it’s that simple, huh?”

“It is that simple.” His hands slide up Will’s thighs and eventually reach underneath the hem of his bloody t-shirt, his palms laying against his warm skin. “Are you just dragging this out to tease me?”

“Of course I am,” Will answers simply, shuddering slightly at the touch. “You’ve got blood all over your face, by the way.” 

Mike then reaches up to the area around his mouth with one hand, and sure enough, his skin is tacky with the substance that had transferred there. “Oh. Jesus.”

“You brought it on yourself.” Will smirks. “I get it now, though.” 

“Get what?”

He shrugs. “It suits you.” 

“Does it?”

“Yeah,” Will nods, leaning down a little so he can swipe his thumb slowly over Mike’s bottom lip. “I just don’t understand how you managed to get so much of it on you.”

“Well, can you blame me?” Mike tries to pull him down closer, but Will remains firmly in place, hand now cupping his jaw. “I was hungry.” 

He finally lowers himself down further until he’s hovering just inches above him, and he traces his fingers over the side of Mike’s face with so much care that it tears his heart to pieces and instantly puts it back together. “Are you still?” 

Mike runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “Starving.” 

Then there’s nothing else to say. Will meets him in the middle and they completely melt into each other, like two souls colliding in the darkness that have finally reached the resting place they’ve been searching aimlessly for, only to realise it had been right in between them all along. They cycle seamlessly through the soft and the delicate to the sharp and hungry, laughing and picking apart all the moments that lead up to this. 

There’s enough to dig their teeth into until the sun comes up, and it’s a strange relief, that when the morning light pours into the room, they don’t go up in flames.