Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One: Will

When Nancy Wheeler suggested we all stay at their house, I nearly threw up in her kitchen sink (which happens to be where we’re all gathered—me, Mike, Nancy, Jonathan, El, my mom, and, weirdly, Hop—he refuses to go back to his cabin just yet).

“Um…really? Is that a good idea, what with El and all?” My eyes dart back and forth between her and Mike, whose gazes seem to be purposefully looking anywhere but at each other. Ever since we’ve returned to Hawkins, something’s been a little off with them. I can’t quite figure out what it is. Post-love confession, I’d assume everything’d return to normal. Or at least, as normal as it could get.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mom responds, hurrying over to where El sits at the Wheeler’s dining room table. She puts the back of her hand up to El’s forehead, as if checking her temperature.

“Did something else happen? Since we got back?” El shakes her head a little, a swift no, while I rush to cover up what I meant.

“No! No. I just meant that she’s still recovering and it might be nice for her to get to rest in Hopper’s cabin. Since that’s where she used to live, she might be more comfortable…” my voice trails off as everyone looks my way, uncomprehending. Jonathan raises an eyebrow at me before wrapping a hand around Nancy’s waist.

“I think what Will’s trying to say is that it’s a very generous offer, but…there’s so many of us. El needs to rest, and we’d kind of be a lot of people to put up. We don’t want to put that on you or your parents.”

“Yes!” I nearly shout, relieved. My hands fiddle with the hem of my button-up. Then, quieter: “that’s all I was trying to say.”

“Okay, well, that’s ridiculous,” Nancy interjects. “You wouldn’t be a burden at all, and plus, in case you don’t remember—Hop’s cabin has a giant hole in it. I don’t think that would be too habitable.”

Mom looks at me, then at Hop, who lifts his chin. “I can find a hotel room for me, if you’re really okay with hosting Joyce and the kids. El and I will figure something out eventually.” He looks fondly over at his daughter, then glances back to Nancy. “You’d have to check with your parents first, though.”

“Of course,” Nancy nods, then turns to El. “You can stay in the basement. Jonathan, you’ll stay in my room—”

“Nope! Not happening.” My mom gives Nancy a glare I’d hate to see directed my way. Mike’s sister only rolls her eyes.

“Fine. Holly will sleep with me, and Jonathan can stay in her room for now. Joyce, you can take the guest bedroom.” Then she turns.

“Will, you’ll stay with Mike.”

My face flushes and I clasp my hands into fists at my sides, hoping against hope that red isn’t creeping into my cheeks. Amidst everything happening—Max’s comma, the literal holes in the ground outside that descend into smoke—sharing a room with my supposed best friend should not be the thing that causes anxiety to snake around my ankles and up my calves. And yet, before Nancy said that, I wasn’t rooted to the ground. Right now, on the other hand…

I sneak a look over at Mike, who’s softly clapping his hands against his thighs and looking around the room—at the dining table, at the toaster, at the carton of milk left on the counter—anywhere but at me. Finally, his gaze lands on Nancy.

“Cool.” He nods.

“All right, then. El, follow me. I’ll show you where the bedsheets are. And you can borrow some of my clothes…though I’m pretty sure you know where my closet is.” El smiles softly, and I think back to the way the party described her when they first met: sopping wet, and in a yellow t-shirt that seemed to swallow her whole. Whenever Mike talks about the blonde wig and pink dress she borrowed, he always smiles. My life started that day we found you in the woods. I smother the urge to strangle Mike, the same urge I always get when I think back to the way he said that, to the soft look in his eyes. The very same day I thought I was going to die, hell, the day I thought I was already dead—that’s the day his life began. I swallow the coal in my throat. Since his confession, I’ve been trying to keep my distance. For a moment in that van, when he was unrolling my painting, I thought there was a small, minuscule possibility he felt the same way I did. Now, I hear his voice: I love you El. Do you hear me? I love you.

I sigh, thinking about the fact that we’re about to spend the next couple nights in the same cramped room together. So much for keeping my distance.

El looks my way before following Nancy around the corner. She knits her eyebrows together, as if to ask, you okay? I nod slightly and she disappears.

Once the others begin to disperse—Jonathan to Holly’s room, mom and Hop to the guest room—Mike finally looks at me.

“Alright,” he says, before getting up off his chair to start towards the stairs. I stand for a moment, unsure where to step without cracking the awkward tension building up inside my bones, when Mike turns around at the base of the banister. “You coming?”

I nod, too fast to be normal, but if he notices he doesn’t say anything. He just starts climbing, and I shuffle towards him. We walk to his room in silence, and when we get there, he just flops himself on his bed and asks if I could shut the door behind me. I do, and then I scuffle over to where he lies, sprawled out over the comforter. I sit on the edge, ever-so-aware of my body, or rather, its proximity to his.

Mike takes a ball off his bedside table, the kind that’s made entirely of rubber bands. He starts tossing it up into the air, then catching it again. Toss, catch. Toss, catch. He’s wearing a blue pull-over, the same one from our cross-country road trip. I’m not sure how—I want to burn my clothes from that god-awful pizza van. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. The hem of it is riding up with each toss, exposing a strip of bare skin just above his jeans.

I try not to stare. The silence stretches between us, thick and tangible and god I just need to say something. Anything, really. But he beats me to it.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“What’s up?”

“Well, you know how you said El commissioned that painting you made? The one of the dragon, and my shield, and…everything?”

“Yeah?” My heartrate spikes.

“Well, I asked her about it.”

Ah, shit.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, and it’s funny, because she didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.” The blood rushes to my face, heating my cheeks and my ears until I get the vague feeling that this is how Vecna must have felt post-upside-down flambé. Absolutely on fire.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Mike stops tossing the ball in the air and sits up, propping himself into a seated position with his elbows. I stare at my shoes. “It’s weird, because when we first talked after her fight with Vecna, I told her how much the painting meant to me. How her seeing me as the heart gave me the courage to tell her how I felt.”

I’m silent.

“And then she said…well, she didn’t so much say. She just asked me, what painting?”

Oh. So that’s why I haven’t seen them talking too much after Mike told her he loved her.

“And then I tried to explain, I said, the one you commissioned from Will. And she didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.”

“That’s weird.” I say, weakly. “Maybe she forgot?”

Mike searches my face with such intensity that for a second I think he’s going to reach out and touch me, the way he did in Hop’s cabin. I feel my shoulder tingle, as if the ghost of his hand is still there. He doesn’t touch me, though. Instead, his voice grows hard. He looks directly in my eyes.

“Why would you lie about that?” I freeze, stumbling over my thoughts in an attempt to find an answer that might make sense, other than, of course, the truth. He’s staring at me, his eyes scrunched together in a look that I can’t decipher. Is it anger? Or…no, it wouldn’t be concern. It can’t be.

“Boys! Hopper’s leaving!” All of a sudden, I hear my mom’s voice coming from downstairs. “Come say bye!”

“One minute!” Mike hollers, before I can respond. He scoots a little closer to where I’m at the edge of the bed, lays his fingers down next to where mine are pressed down for stability on the comforter. Our hands are one, maybe two inches away from each other. He lowers his voice.

“I just…I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if it was something you made yourself? Why say El made it?”

“I thought…” I pause, then sigh. “I didn’t want to make things weird.” I turn my head away, looking towards the door.

“Why would that make things weird?” Mike asks, and his voice is so genuine. His hands rise to my shoulder, hovering there, and I can feel the warmth emanating from his wrist. Then, as if re-thinking, he lowers it back onto the bed. But when he does, his pinkie lands on mine. It could be a mistake, just an accident, but every nerve in my body is focalized on that one spot where his skin lays against me. I wish I could tell what he’s thinking.

I have no idea how to respond, but thankfully I don’t have to.

“Boys!” My mom calls. “Now!”

I take one last look at Mike, shrugging vaguely, before standing up to head downstairs. He sighs.

“Alright, but this conversation isn’t over.”

I walk out the door, pretending not to hear.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Mike

I follow Will down the stairs, hundreds of questions pinging around in my head: why would he pretend not to hear me? Why did he seem to be in such a rush getting out of my room? Or, I guess…our room?

And most importantly: why lie about the painting?

He’s been acting strange ever since we got back to Hawkins, or maybe even a little bit before then. I don’t quite understand it, but when it comes to Will, I can’t not worry about him. Whenever I suspect something’s wrong, it’s like I’m thrown back into the dynamic we had at 13: him, slumped on the ground after a particularly terrifying episode, and me, arms around him, reassuring him in soft whispers that everything’s going to be okay. The stranger thing is that I think he feels the same way, too. Like in the van, or on top of the car in that junkyard, when he was telling me how he understands how scary it is to open up. I could swear that he feels that dynamic, too, that pull to be taken care of, just as I feel the pull to take care of him.

So why, now, does he seem to be pulling in the opposite direction?

When we get downstairs, everyone’s gathered in the kitchen once again. Hopper’s putting on his jacket, and he tips his hat towards me. I’m still not quite used to his frame, to the way his time in prison seemed to take chunks out of his skin. It’s hard not to look at him differently. He used to take up so much space, be such a force. He still is, of course, but it’s hard not to notice what’s missing. Russia took more from him than just his body.

“Thanks. For taking them in.” He says, like it was my idea and not my sister’s.

“Yeah. Yeah, anytime.” I respond.

“And thanks for not trying to get El to sleep in your room,” He winks, then looks over at Nancy. “Wish I could say the same for your sister and Jonathan.”

I blink. It hadn’t even occurred to me to get El to share my room. In fact, as soon as Nancy suggested Will sleep there, I felt a sense of sharp relief. Distracted, I just nod in Hopper’s direction.

“Sure.”

Will throws an odd look my way, and as I’m mulling over what it could mean, I feel a tug on my sleeve.

“Mike,” comes El’s voice. I lean in to face her, just in time to catch Will turn his head sharply away from my direction.

“What’s up?” I say to El.

“Can we…talk?” It’s ominous, and I don’t like the way it sounds, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “Yeah, sure.”

As Hopper’s walking out the door, El takes my hand, leading me into the basement before taking a seat on the couch.

She pats the cushion next to her.

“Sit.”

I sit.

“I wanted to…talk.” She says.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard that. What’s up?”

“I think we should—” she pauses, like she always does when she’s thinking through something. Then she takes a deep breath in, starting again.

“I want to break up with you.”

“What? Why?” My heart starts beating, fast. I can’t conceptualize a world without El in it; the thought of it squeezes my chest tight with anxiety. I search her face, trying to think of anything that could’ve happened in the last two days to initiate this. I gave her what she wanted, I told her I loved her. And I do, that’s the thing. I love her so, so much.

But sometimes I wonder if it’s the kind of feeling everyone gets when they’re in love. I think about why I couldn’t say anything, before she was floating in an ice bath, choking to death on invisible vines.

Because the truth is, when El sat at her desk meticulously painting Hop’s cabin back in California, tears in her eyes, when she asked if I didn't love her anymore…all I could think about was my sister. For some godforsaken reason, I just keep having flashes to the way Nancy looks at Jonathan: the secret glances they share when they think no one’s watching, the way he kisses her forehead with such tenderness. The way they gravitate towards each other whenever both are in the room, as if the thought of being apart just for a second is unbearable. About the way Jonathan signed his letters to Nancy, the ones she hung on her bedside mirror.

You can’t even write it, Mike. And instead of saying it, right then and there, like any normal person would do, I just…I told her she was being ridiculous. Hot shame flows through me. Of course she wants to break up. The confession wasn’t enough to make her stay.

She looks at me, and I want to hold her hand.

Then I think, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s a part of why she wants to leave. I only ever want to hold her hand.

And as much as it hurts to think about her gone from my life, there’s a sort of calm that washes over me, too. It’s the same feeling from when Nancy didn’t try to room us together. Relief.

It’s too much to decipher, too many feelings to wade through, and instead of focusing on them I look in El’s eyes. She finally answers my question.

“I love you, Mike. And now, I know you love me.” She says.

“Then why? Why do you want to break up?”

“Because you do not love me the way I love you.” She looks down.

“And I cannot focus on that when I should be focusing on Vecna.”

The way she says it, so plain and simple, crushes me. And I know it’s because she’s right. As much as I want to love her, as much as I want to enjoy being with her in that way—holding her, kissing her— whenever we do I have this urge to stop. To burst into song, or keep my eyes open.

When we first met, before we actually did any of that, I thought it would be different. That I’d enjoy having my lips on hers, my hands nestled in her lap. But I don’t. I want to, but I don’t. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why.

“Mike,” El breaks me out of my trance, grabbing my hand.

Against my better judgement, I make one last attempt before she can go on. “El, I want to be with you. I swear. I know I’ve been acting weird, but I really, I really do want to be with you.”

She looks at me, a soft, sad look.

“Mike. Friends don’t lie.”

And I know then that she means it, that this is her breaking up with me with a sort of finality that was never there before. I know by the way she says that word. Friends.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: Will

When Mike and El come up from the basement, the air between them is charged with a sort of frenzied electricity I can’t quite put my hands on. I, meanwhile, am sitting by the kitchen, holding a shotgun while Nancy demonstrates technique.

I want to frame the look on Mike’s face.

“Will!” He rushes over to me, and Eleven stays where she is, equally baffled.

“Should you really be carrying one of these?” He asks, frantic. I roll my eyes, then nod my chin to Jonathan.

“Our dad taught both of us,” he explains. “I just happen to be shit at it. Will, meanwhile…well, he’s not half bad.”

I try to hide my smile.

“Okay, okay, fine. But is this really the best place to be? The kitchen?”

“It’s raining.” Nancy says simply.

“Yeah. Dust.” Comes Mike’s response. “This cannot be responsible.”

He’s not entirely wrong, but it annoys me slightly that he’s trying to control what I’m doing, to have a say in my safety. He’s just my friend. He said so himself.

“Will can handle himself,” Jonathan tells Mike. “Besides, the safety’s on.”

I give Jonathan an appreciative look. Mike huffs, as if he’s not quite satisfied with that answer. Nancy, meanwhile, just keeps on adjusting my position.

El looks at me, then to Nancy, then to Mike, and finally, back at me.

“Bitchin’.”

I smile, then try once again to adjust my hips and hands according to Nancy’s direction. Jonathan attempts to chime in with instructions, too, but Nancy quickly shuts that down.

El offers, “You should drop your gun. Stick your hands up, palms out. It works for me.”

I burst out laughing, as does the rest of our little group. Mike’s just silent. I watch him leave out of the corner of my eye, and it could just be me, but his foot seems to stomp just a little harder than normal on the stairs.

I turn to El, who doesn’t move to go after him.

She gives me a meaningful look. “I think it should be you. This time.”

Confused, I just nod before carefully handing over my gun to Nancy, then start down the stairs to Mike’s basement.

He’s sitting at the edge of the couch. My drawings, ones from when I was 11, then 13, then 14, frame his face. Something inside me aches.

He talks before I can.

“El broke up with me.”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

“It just feels so…out of nowhere. She said I don’t love her the same way she loves me. What could that even mean? I love her! Of course I love her. It might not be crazy, in-your-face, I-want-to-have-my-hands-all-over-you-all-the-time type love, but, I mean, that doesn’t mean it’s not real. At least, I don’t think it does. Right?” He looks at me.

There’s something in his eyes, and it’s a sort of desperation I haven’t seen in a while. I move to respond, but am once again beat to it.

“And also—since when can you shoot a gun? And in my kitchen?! Will, come on. You know better than that.”

My mind swivels from the sudden change in conversation topic.

“That’s what you want to talk about right now? The fact that I can shoot a gun?”

“Well, sort of. I didn’t actually see you shoot it, so, that remains to be seen.”

“And now you’re doubting my abilities?”

“I’m not doubting, I’m simply…questioning your version of the truth.” He smiles. He’s so goddamn pretty when he smiles.

“I’m supposed to be consoling you about breaking up with your girlfriend, Mike.” I respond, attempting to mask any blush that may or may not be appearing in my cheeks. “Which does not leave time for you to criticize my skills with a rifle.”

His face softens. “Maybe…maybe I don’t need consoling.” He sighs. “I don’t want to believe it, but she’s not entirely wrong. I love her, I really do. But I don’t think it’s the same type of love other people talk about.” He takes a deep breath, as if he’s finally dispelled of a thought that he hasn’t been able to voice just yet. Like it’s a weight off his chest. He looks at me, and a seed of improbable light takes root in my chest, infusing my veins with a delicious hope that I haven’t quite let myself feel until this very moment.

“Anyways.” He shakes his head, as if coming out of a reverie. “Can we please talk about the gun situation? I don’t want you accidentally shooting a hand off.”

“I’m not going to shoot my hand off! Or anybody else’s, for that matter. Unless it’s Vecna’s, of course.”

“Will, seriously. I don’t like the idea of you with a gun.”

“Mike, come on.” I roll my eyes.

“No, Will, I won’t come on. What if you got hurt?” His voice shakes a little, and there’s genuine anger behind it.

“Mike, you can’t seriously be upset.” I say, dumbfounded. “You’ve seen your sister use a gun countless times, but with me, it’s a problem? That’s unfair.”

“You’re far from my sister, Will. It’s not unfair.” It could be my imagination, but he scoots a little closer to me on the couch, so much so that our thighs are nearly touching. There’s a hot anger building in my throat as he draws towards me, and the same thought from earlier emerges: who is he to tell me what to do?

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

I would be touched if I wasn’t so goddamn infuriated.

“Why do you care so much, Mike?” The words come out, hot and fast. Mike’s face scrunches into an expression that’s half embarrassment, half confusion.

“What do you mean, why do I care? Of course I care, Will.” His voice quiets. “Plus, we’re a team, now. Remember?”

“If we’re a team, then that means you should trust me. In case you don’t remember, I survived an entire week in the Upside Down by myself. I’m pretty sure I can handle shooting a gun.”

“It’s not a matter of if you can handle it, Will! It’s a matter of if you should be. And I don’t think you should! Why put yourself in harm's way?”

“Are you even listening to yourself?!” I’m off the couch now, pacing around the room as my voice steadily rises in volume. “Dustin just watched someone die. Max herself volunteered as bait, and now she’s in a coma. El just nearly choked to death, and you’re worried about putting myself in harm’s way with one stupid gun? Why wouldn’t I put myself in harm’s way, Mike? God, I just want to be useful for a change!”

He stares at me, quiet. Before I can comprehend what he’s doing, he lifts himself off the couch and crosses over to me. Reaching his hands up, he rests a palm on my arm, fingers gripping my shoulder. Almost immediately, my anger dissipates with a sharp intake of breath. All I can focus on is his hand on my body, the way his eyes look down into mine. His smell, musk and pine and something else that I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Will.” His voice is velvet. It slips through me, over me, settling into my body with an achingly familiar comfort. He’s close enough that if I wanted to, I could twist my fingers into his jumper. Pull him towards me with the fabric and grab onto his wrist.

“Will, I can’t.” His voice cracks and his eyes look up, searching mine. “I can’t lose you again.” His grip tightens as his voice lowers. I’m overly aware of my body, of the way my hands fall at my sides and the depth of my breath and the angle of my chin.

“You’re not going to lose me, Mike.” I risk bringing my hand up to cover his, letting my fingers fall against him. “I promise.”

Mike swallows. He nods his head slightly, and then, as if suddenly remembering how close we are, he quickly draws his hand away from my shoulder and takes a step back.

“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. He won’t meet my gaze as he moves to ascend the stairs back to the kitchen. “Yeah, I know.”

He leaves me there, in his basement. I lift my hand up to my shoulder, grasping to remember the feeling of his skin against me before it gets the chance to hide behind a memory.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Mike

I leave the basement with a lingering feeling that I should not have put my hand there. But that’s stupid, right? It shouldn’t matter where I put my hand on a friend; I clap my hand against Lucas’s shoulder all the time. Or Dustin’s back.

I know I should be focused on El, and our breakup, but as I walk up the stairs and into the kitchen it’s Will that won’t escape my brain: his grip on the gun, fingers wrapped around the trigger with a steadfast confidence I could hardly recognize. The devilish smirk he threw my way after I questioned his abilities.

The look he gave me when I told him I can’t lose him again.

I pass El, Nancy, and Jonathan in the kitchen, all huddled over the counter and speaking in low tones. I make my way into the backyard, near the power lines where I first told Eleven to meet us after school. It’s starting to get dark out, although that doesn’t mean too much, anymore: more often than not clouds descend and turn what should be sunlit afternoons into a smoky hellscape. The images are stuck in a loop in my mind: gun, smirk, round eyes that look at me the same way they always have.

I wish he would just listen to me. Will doesn’t need a damn gun. He should be here, at my house, helping plan. Not partaking in the plan. That’s how he can be useful.

I’m kicking a rock around with my toes, trying to figure out the best way I can convince him not to fight, when I hear footsteps behind me. Glancing up, I find a startled, slightly off-kilter Will Byers. The thought hits me, not for the first time: he looks so different than he did just a year ago. In the six months we were apart, it seems like his body finally caught up to the strength of his character. Muscles ripple along his arms as he walks, and his chest is broader, sturdy in stature. Don’t get me wrong, he still carries himself with an air of awkwardness, but there’s just…more of him. I fight an urge to reach out my arm and feel for myself the new grooves along his skin, then quickly shoo the thought away. How ridiculous.

“Hey,” He says as he comes closer. “Jonathan sent me to come get you because Karen came home. I think we’re going to explain the situation to them over dinner…my mom cooked something.”

“Really?” I ask, trying to figure out why my face feels so flushed while actively working to hide it. “Joyce cooked?”

“Hey, don’t act so surprised. She made a casserole.”

“A casserole?”

“Yeah, it’s like this dish that comes in one pan, pretty common in group settings. Super nutritious, according to moms everywhere. Ever heard of it?”

“Shut up.” I throw a look his way and he smiles. We start walking together, back towards the house. He’s quiet, and I want to speak, but I can’t for the life of me think of anything to say. I keep wondering what he’s thinking. God, what is he thinking?

Dinner passes kind of like that: Will and I in a sticky silence while the others try to act normal in front of my parents, like the world isn’t falling apart. Joyce occasionally thanks my mom for letting her family crash, and she responds in kind, expressing appreciation for the dinner. El even talks to me, and I find it’s easier than I thought it would be. In some ways, it feels better like this.

I’m about to tell the table that I’m heading up to bed, hoping that I’ll be able to fall asleep when my mom says that she has an announcement.

“I know I’ve been strict about staying home in the past, but, I’ve been thinking.” I give her a side-eye. I’m pretty sure Will picks up on it, because he glances at me, distressed. I immediately ease my expression.

“Well, with everything going on, I think you kids deserve a break. Will suggested you all go to a casino…” I raise an eyebrow at him, and he gives me a sly smile, feigning innocence. It’s the same idea he mentioned in the pizza van, but I didn’t think he’d have the audacity to actually bring it up to my parents. Since when does he even speak with them? Especially my dad, who’s been noticeably silent this whole dinner. I don’t think he loves the idea of another family staying here. “...And while I don’t exactly support underage gambling—” my mom gives Will a look that would make Joyce proud “—I do think it’ll be nice for you young folk to get out of the house. Get some fresh air. As long as you’re back before the curfew, of course.”

Will turns to look at his mom, who nods her approval at the idea—I wonder how much arguing with Karen that took. “You could invite Dustin and Lucas, too. Make a day of it.”

It’s hard for me not to think of this as some kind of ploy for the adults to have some alone time, but hey, I’ll take it. Far be it for me to complain about the opportunity to leave. Ever since the "earthquake," my mom’s been pretty strict. This is a welcome change, to say the least.

“Tonight, of course, you’ll all still be staying inside.” She concludes.

“Agreed.” Joyce offers her support. As if dismissing us, both parents get up from the table to start washing dishes. I mumble a goodnight to everyone, padding up the steps to my room.

I hang my forehead in my hands, listening to the distant chatter from the kitchen table. I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth when I think I hear Will and El’s laughter blending together. Despite myself, I smile.

After washing my face and heading back to my room, I strip down to a pair of red boxers before climbing on the bed. I sit, legs crossed, and try to focus on making a plan for tomorrow:

Step One: Figure out why the hell Will lied about that goddamn painting.

Step Two: Get Will to drop this whole gun thing. He doesn’t need to be shooting. He can’t be shooting. What was he thinking out there today?

Step Three: Talk to El. We may not be a couple anymore, but I think I should still establish what kind of friendship we want? That seems like the reasonable thing to do, right?

Step Four: Make sure Will—

Except I never get to the rest of step four, because Will opens the door to my room before I can think of it. He stares at me with his lips parted and I am suddenly very, very, aware of the fact that I’m only in my underwear. I scramble to find a comforter and throw it over my legs. It shouldn’t matter this much—after all, Dustin and Lucas have seen me change, like, a hundred times. But when I went to stay with Will in Lenora, I somehow made it a point never to undress in front of him.

His eyes are wide as I struggle to cover myself, before he quickly turns away.

“Sorry! So sorry, my bad, so so sorry.” He sputters out, covering his eyes comedically with one hand and reaching blindly for my doorknob with the other.

“No! No. Don’t…don’t go back out.” I think about all the people who might pass by my room in the second he opens the door again to leave. “Just…give me a second.”

“Yup! Yes, of course.” Will stays turned around, one hand still shielding his face, and I take the moment to pull on a pair of sweatpants.

“Okay. You can, um, turn around.” Will does, and for a second I could swear his gaze lingers on my chest. A bolt of warmth streaks up my torso, before he starts apologizing again.
“Really, I’m so sorry. I should’ve knocked. I just– well, I guess I thought you would lock it, if…”

“It’s okay, Will. Seriously.” I cut him off. “I should’ve remembered that you’d be staying here tonight.”

He just nods, grateful. “Which, by the way…I think my mom donated all our sleeping stuff to the center they set up, just in case people need it over at the high school. Which unfortunately means we don’t have any sleeping bags, or a spare mattress.” I can’t read the expression on his face. I’ve kind of been nervous to tell him this news, but I guess now that it’s actually dark he needs to know where he’ll be sleeping. Plus, I’m not exactly sure where the nerves are coming from. We used to share a bed all the time, when we were kids. Granted, there was more room back then, seeing as how he wasn’t quite as…muscle-y. But still.

“Anyways, since you’ve been assigned to my room—” I let out a breathy chuckle. God, why do I sound like that? “—I was thinking we could just both sleep in this bed for the night? I’d offer up the couch, but usually my dad sleeps there.”

Will looks at me for a brief second, the oddest expression on his face, before turning on his heels in a frenzy and leaving the room without a word.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Will

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. I stand above Mike Wheeler’s bathroom sink, ignoring the sounds of him chasing after me, as I splash my face with water in an attempt to calm the pink that seems to have violently taken over my cheeks. God, I hope Mike didn’t see that. I turned around as quickly as I could to avoid his peering eyes from catching my blush.

You know what’s not a good combination when you’re trying to keep your distance from your best-friend/sisters-ex-boyfriend/potential-love-of-your-life? Sharing a bed after walking in on him in his underwear. That’s what.

After the morbid embarrassment of catching him in boxers finally managed to pass, my brain refused to do anything but think about the way he looked in those red briefs. Since when did Mike have chest hair? And since when did his legs turn from scrawny to…well, not scrawny? I absentmindedly wonder what they would feel like on either side of mine, then slap my cheek as a reality check. I hear Mike’s footsteps retreat.

Looking in the mirror, I swallow, watching my adam's apple bob up and down. Splash my face one more time. It’s just one night, I tell myself. You’ve got this. I try to ignore the voice in my head talking back, saying, yeah, it’s just one night for now. After one final deep breath, I open the bathroom door.

I slowly make my way back to Mike’s room, taking as long as humanly possible in his hallway. I rap on the door with my knuckles when I arrive, and when a voice hollers at me to come in, I’m greeted by a still-shirtless Mike reading something on his bed. Upon seeing me he immediately sets it down.

“Hey, you alright?” The words come out soft, coated in honey. I love it when he speaks to me like this, mainly because I’ve never heard him use that kind of tone with anyone else—even El. It’s also a tone that never fails to calm me down. To help my feet touch the ground, again.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m alright.” I say, shutting the door behind me. “I just…I remembered I needed to tell Eleven something.” If Mike catches onto the blatant lie, he doesn’t reveal it.

“Oh? What’d you need to tell her?”

“Nothing important.” I don’t elaborate. He gives me a questioning look, but he must decide it’s not worth his time because thankfully, he lets it go.

“So, uh, I set out a shirt of mine for you to borrow. I realized you don’t have any stuff here, and, well, my things should fit.”

“Oh,” I say, looking at the Hellfire Club tank that’s laid on the bed. I’ve only ever seen the long-sleeve version, but this one seems kind of nice. I wonder idly how Mike might look in it. “Thank you.” He nods in response, picking back up whatever he was reading.

He makes a point of being busy, and I take it as an opportunity to change—I’m not going to ask him to leave the room, because somehow, I think that would make this weird one-sided tension even harder to deal with. So, I unbutton my flannel before putting on the Hellfire tank and slipping out of my jeans. I have a brief moment of panic about the fact that Mike didn’t lay out any pajama bottoms for me, but if he doesn’t mind, I guess I don’t, either. I usually sleep in my boxers, anyway.

I sit, once again, on the edge of his bed—flashbacks from earlier this morning come to my mind when he was asking about the painting. I think about the way it ended, the finality in Mike’s voice: this conversation isn’t over. He hasn’t brought it up since, though, so maybe he’s forgotten about it.

I’m mulling over whether this thought is founded or simply delusional when Mike puts his book down, again, and pats the space next to him on the bed wordlessly. Slightly confused, I make my way to the headboard. Mike had his twin bed replaced a couple years ago (thank God), but it’s still not wide enough for me to sit without the edges of our limbs touching: arm against arm, thigh against thigh.

“So,” Mike begins. I’m attempting to zoom in on his voice, but my veins are glowing with a nervous frenzy at every point of contact. Suffice it to say, I’m having trouble focusing. “What are you thinking for tomorrow?”

“Hmm?” I ask, distracted. I just noticed the line of hair that starts at his midriff and disappears beneath his waistband, and now all my attention is devoted to getting the thought holy shit Mike has a happy trail off the continuous loop it seems to hold in my brain.

“I said, what are you thinking for tomorrow?”

“Oh, uh. Maybe we could go to the arcade? We haven’t been there in a while. Or visit Steve and Robin at the video store?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “That’s lame. You can’t think of anything better?”

“What, like you can?” I ask. He shifts, and now the whole of his bare arm is pressed against mine.

“Uh, yeah I can. Screw my mom, let’s go to a casino! She won’t know, anyways. Plus, you said it yourself—El could get us super rich.”

“I mean, you’re not entirely wrong.” I supply. “It was kind of a genius idea on my part.”

“Woah, don’t get too cocky on me, now.” Mike sits higher up to nudge my arm with his elbow. And when he does, I catch a glimpse of the book he had set down a couple minutes earlier. As I look at it more closely, though, I realize it actually isn’t a book at all: it’s a sketchpad. Then I stare at it for a couple more seconds. Scratch that. It’s my sketchpad.

“Um, hello?” I turn abruptly, abandoning the casino conversation. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Mike’s face grows a brilliant shade of red, and for a second it takes me so far aback I have to contain myself. He’s flustered. The Mike Wheeler is flustered.

And damnit if it isn’t so fucking adorable.

“Uh, well, uh–” he sputters out, and I try not to delight in his complete and utter lack of composure.

“Mm-hmm?” I know I shouldn’t, but it’s too good an opportunity not to egg him on.

At my interjection, he gives me a hard stare. “Sue me, Will. I like looking at your drawings. What, I can’t appreciate that my best friend’s talented?”

My heart drops a little at the way he says that: best friend. All the delight from earlier saps out of my skin.

“No, no. You can appreciate it.” I say, dropping the teasing tone. But then, against my better judgement, I ask softly, “You think I’m talented?”

“Think?” Mike seems incredulous. “Will, I know you're talented.” He flips to a drawing in the pad, an early sketch of the painting I eventually gifted him in that godawful pizza van: the party, facing off a three-headed dragon. Just pencil, no color, with Mike’s shield donning a small gray heart. That heart? That’s always been there. It’s been there from the very beginning. “I don’t know how you could think this is a normal thing to draw.” He points at the dragon. In the early stages, the sketch showed the creature breathing fire. I gave it up in the painting because I ran out of orange paint, but here, in my notepad, sparks rain down over the party. In fact, the whole page seems to be engulfed in flames.

I sniff, not facing him, but he continues talking as if he couldn’t care less.

“It’s not a normal thing to draw.” He repeats himself and something flares inside my chest. I sit up and turn to face him, crossing my arms in defiance.

“Would you stop saying that? I get it! It’s not normal. You’ve made your point.” The words come out harsh, maybe harsher than I meant them to, but it’s hard not to feel defensive. Why the hell would he choose that point to hone in on?

“No, Will, no.” He draws closer to me, shifting his body so we’re now both sitting cross-legged on the bed, knees touching. He leans his forehead towards mine.

“I mean it’s not normal in a good way. In the best way. The way you drew this tail?” His fingers trace across the shading in the dragon’s scales, careful not to smudge. “It’s incredible, Will. You’re incredible.”

And I’m distracted. By his smell again, that pine, by his chest, and the way his hair falls into his eyelashes. God, his eyelashes. It should be illegal to have eyelashes that long, to be able to look up at me through them the way he is now, slouched a little on the bed. His bed. Our bed. I almost forget myself, almost lean my forehead close enough to touch his, when he asks me his next question. Maybe the question he’s been building up to with that sketchpad this whole time.

“But I don’t get it, Will. Why tell me El commissioned it, when it’s clear you put in so much work?” He briefly flips through a couple pages, showing the drawing in its different stages, before I picked exactly what to paint. I tense as he goes through it, hoping against hope he’s only seen the sketches he’s showing me now. There are certain things in that book that I cannot risk letting Mike see. Before I can let the thought trouble me further, I snatch it out of his hands.

“Where’d you even get this, anyways?” I deflect.

“You’re deflecting,” Mike says. Ah. Should’ve seen that one coming.

“So what if I am? Still doesn’t give you the right to steal my stuff.”

“Does it count as ‘your stuff’ if I took it from a donation box?”

“Um, yes?” I say. “Obviously? Next question.”

“Okay, fine. Why. did. you. lie.” He draws it out, emphasizing each word.

I roll my eyes. “Any question but that question. Besides, I already answered it. You just don’t like my answer.”

“Yeah, that’s because it’s a bullshit answer!” Mike leans back, clearly upset. I take the opportunity to slide the notebook under my thigh, taking a mental note to put it in my backpack later. I let out a sigh. Crisis averted, for now.

I shrug. “It’s the truth. I didn’t want to make things weird.” My body’s tingling all over, and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to hold this conversation, this close to him, without internally combusting.

“But why, Will?” Mike groans. “Why would you giving me a painting make things weird? You used to give me all your drawings. They’re hung up in my basement, for Christ’s sake! Why is this one so different?”

“BECAUSE!” I yell, throwing my hands in the air. Mike looks at me expectantly. “Because we hadn’t written to each other in months, we had barely spoken, and I wasn’t sure if you even wanted to be my friend anymore!” There it is. A half-truth.

Mike’s face breaks into a kaleidoscope of hurt, varying degrees of pain refracting across his cheeks. Seeing his expression sends a fierce drive in me to take it back. To undo whatever I had just done.

“Which is fine!” I squeak out. “It’s normal! I moved away, and friends drift apart. And I know you already apologized. I just…I just didn’t think it would happen to us, that’s all.”

From the look on Mike’s face, you’d think I just told him El and I are moving to Lenora all over again.

“Will, I.” His voice cracks and he looks at me with such deep sincerity that I shiver. “I meant what I said before, about us being a team now. And I’m sorry it ever got to that point. I think maybe it is on me. I am the bad guy.”

I smile weakly at his attempt at a joke, and he presses on. “I know you tried calling, and that you wrote to me, and I—” he looks torn apart, more so than he did even a couple seconds ago, like each word is a thorn he must pick out of his throat. Like it hurts, to talk about this with me. “—I let you down. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t explain, but he does apologize, and that’s worth something. It’s hard not to feel like it’s worth everything.

“And I just want you to know that when you gave me that painting, well, it meant a shit ton to me. And I meant what I told you earlier. About how it gave me courage. I know I had been a bad friend. But it’s not because of anything you said, or did, it was because…” His voice trails off. “Because of my own shit. But I still think of you as my best friend. I always have. I have from the very beginning.” He says it so openly, so earnestly, that it takes everything in me not to break out in a shit-eating grin. The little voice in my head saying ‘just friend?’ can shut up. At least for now.

“You too, Mike.” I say, and he smiles.

“So we’re good?” He asks, reaching out both his hands to grab my shoulders and shaking me a little. I’m dizzy with the contact, and this time, I do grin. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.”

“Good.” He responds, before letting go and climbing under the covers. When I don’t move, he just unfolds the comforter to his side.

“Now, you ready to sleep?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Mike

Will climbs into bed beside me gingerly, as if one wrong move will set off a landmine I have hidden under the covers. It takes everything I have not to stare as he does it: at the way his arms look in my Hellfire Tank, at the loose plaid boxers slung low on his hips. I guess I’m just still not used to all the ways he’s changed since getting back from Lenora. I’m sure I’d react the same way if it was Dustin or Lucas who left for the year and came back looking the way Will did. Although, to be fair, I don’t think they’ve actually changed as much. There’s a reason Will’s the only one out of the three of us who gets hit on by girls. The thought leaves a sour taste on my tongue, but I shake it off before I can think too deeply about it.

Right before Will pulls the covers over him, I notice he takes out his sketchpad from under his thighs and slips it beneath the bed. It’s not like he can put it in a pocket. Which, in my defense: I didn’t mean to omit a pair of pajama pants, but when he didn’t ask for them I figured he must not’ve thought about it—which would make it weird if I offered.

I’m not sure why I took out the notepad. I guess it’s just, with everything going the way it is…I’d never tell him, but I always look at Will’s sketches after a particularly hard day. When he was in California, all those times my hand hovered above the phone without picking it up and punching in the numbers, I often turned to his book in the absence of his voice. His art made it seem like he was still here.

I was never certain if Will knew I had taken it from him, that I had sneaked it out of a donation box he meant to give Erika. But his reaction made it clear he didn’t know about it. And he seemed genuinely agitated, especially when I brought the painting back up. I think about the way his voice rose higher as he threw the words at me: I wasn’t sure if you even wanted to be my friend anymore.

I sigh. How could he think that? But then again, how could he not? He’s right, that’s the thing. I didn’t call, I didn’t write him letters. Every time I started one, I would just get nervous, a frantic energy burning through me until no words looked right on the page. The result was always the same: a page with Dear Will written on it and nothing else, crumpled up in the waste bin. And I don’t have a single excuse for my lack of communication, if only because I can’t even put the why of it all into words myself.

Will shifts beside me, and it’s like he’s making a pointed effort not to make any contact with my body. Like I’ve got some disease he can’t risk catching. It’s vaguely annoying. “Is it alright if I turn off the light?” I ask, shrugging it off and gesturing to the lamp that sits on my bedside table.

“Actually, uh, would you mind if we keep it on for a little bit longer?” He responds. I move a bit closer, just to test if I’m making up his avoidance in my mind. As soon as I do, he shuffles closer to his edge of the bed. Uh, okay. So not making it up. Weird.

“Yeah, yeah sure. Any particular reason?”

“I’m just not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight, is all.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” I ask, trying not to let my offense leak into the question. First he avoids me like the plague, and now my bed isn’t good enough for him to sleep well? Wasn’t he the one who just declared that we’re good?

“Not really,” Will sniffles.

“Uh, okay.” I say, trying to settle in beside him. It’s distracting, being this close to another person, even if it is just Will. When El and I had sleepovers, I always opted for the spare mattress—she had a twin bed, and it just made more sense that way. Taking Will’s cue, I’m careful to avoid accidentally brushing any exposed skin together, which is hard given the fact that I’m in just sweatpants and he’s in boxer shorts. It takes what feels like hours to fall asleep, but I must drift off eventually, because the next thing I see is my bedside alarm clock, blinking 1:52 AM at me in red digits. Will must’ve eventually shut the lamp off, because the room is pitch-black.

Then I notice the figure beside me: Will, huddled over his sketchbook in the dark, colored pencils scattered haphazardly on the comforter around him. I peer at him through a hazy sleep. Where did he even get those from?

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask groggily.

“Nope.”

“Watchya drawing?” I try again.

“Nothin’.” God, what is with this boy and avoiding answering questions these days?

“Okay.” I say, propping myself up. The second I do, Will curls the sketchbook into his chest in what I take as an obvious attempt to hide it from me. I give him a curious look.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I’m talking to you right now.”

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

I give him a pointed stare, hoping he’s able to see it. “Even earlier. You told me a bit about the painting, but I feel like there’s something else going on. Can you just, like, trust me enough to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“Okay, okay. Fine.” He puts down the colored pencil and opts to answer my first question, about why he couldn’t sleep—notably leaving out the second.

“I couldn’t sleep because I was having a nightmare.” He tells me softly, as if it’s an admission of guilt. I draw closer to him and he slips the sketchpad under the bed again. I don’t talk, a silent invitation for him to continue. “We were all visiting Max in the hospital—me, El, Dustin, Lucas.” He pauses, finally making eye contact with me. “You.”

I give him a subtle nod. Go on.

“Well, we were all there, and then suddenly, Max was moving again. But she seemed different. She pulled out all the tubes in her arms, clawed off the brace around her neck. She was frantic. Unrecognizable.” His voice is shaking, now. “And when she finally looked up to acknowledge us, her eyes were pure black. It was like her pupils had exploded in their sockets.” Will looks back down, chewing on his lip. “And then she looked right at me, and she told me…” His voice cracks. “She told me I was next. But that unlike her, I would deserve it. Just like the others who died because of what they are. That I’d be next because of…because of what I am.” Will won’t look directly at me.

And there’s so much pain scrawled across his shadowed face, so much fear etched into every edge of his expression, that it makes something inside of me break. I’m not sure what to do, or what he even means, so instead I just look at him, arms outstretched, eyebrows knitted together in both concern and invitation. His hesitancy from earlier seems to fall away, slipping out into the darkness cocooning us both. Unabashedly, Will Byers falls into me—his cheeks against my chest, his limbs tangling between my thighs. I raise both my arms and gather them tight around his body, pulling him closer.

“It’s okay,” I whisper softly. “Vecna can’t get you here. We have Eleven, now. And Hop, and your mom. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.” I can tell there’s more to his dream than just Vecna, but I’m not sure what it is, so I just continue to speak to him softly, rubbing light circles into his back with my thumb. We stay there, bodies intertwined, for a long time. I wait until Will’s breathing steadies, until the tears stop rolling off his cheeks to lie both of us back down. I know I should sleep, too, but it’s hard to detach myself. I feel like how I did when I was thirteen, and the mindflayer got to him. Like I would sleep on his floor all night if it meant he would feel safe. With that memory in mind, I pull tighter into him. Press my chest into his back, softly bend my legs into his. I rest one arm across his waist, the other tucked tight into my side. Just before I close my eyes again, Will clutches my arm closer to him in his sleep. The last thing I remember is smiling softly, close enough that my nose is filled with the scent of his shampoo. I can still do this, I remember thinking. I can protect.

The next time I wake, dawn is filtering through my window, scattering bluish light across both of our bodies. I notice that we’ve somehow swapped positions: it’s now Will who’s curving around my torso, his hands resting against my stomach. His face is buried in the back of my neck, and I can feel his chest against my back, rising and falling with each heartbeat. It takes a second for me to note that it’s in sync with my own breath. The sun starts to watch over us, and as it does I’m struck with a vague, prickly sensation that this isn’t necessarily a normal thing to do with your friend. I swat the thought away as soon as it comes, willing it to die on impact. Of course it’s normal. My friend was just having a nightmare, and I was comforting him. That’s all there is to it.

It’s that thought circling endlessly in my mind the entire morning. That thought—this is normal, this is how a normal friend might comfort another— pounding against my head as I detangle myself from his limbs, put on a shirt, and head downstairs, putting as much distance as possible between the boy in my bed and myself.

Chapter Text

I wake up to a cascade of sunlight over rumpled sheets. Slowly, memories from the previous night start to return to me. My nightmare, the rush of sweat and cold that strangled me as I woke up in a startled fever. Sketching to calm myself down, only to hide it the moment Mike looked over at me. Mike looking over at me. The way he rubbed my back. The way he hugged me tighter when he thought I was sleeping.

I probably said too much, about the dream. But I couldn’t help it in the moment: he was there, and he was asking—no, he was begging—me to talk to him. And besides, I don’t think he necessarily picked up on the secret Vecna-from-my-nightmares was haunting me with. Mocking me with. I can still hear his scratchy voice, smell his wretched breath: Just look at the others like you. You’re next, Byers boy. And you’ll be suffering a fate much worse. Despite myself, I shiver. His next words are somehow even more foreboding: I have plans for you. Beautiful plans.

I shake my head, trying to pry the memory away in the light of morning. I shrug on the same pair of jeans I wore yesterday, opting to stay in Mike’s Hellfire tank as I trot to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Making one last stop at Mike’s room to tuck my sketchbook carefully away under the bed, I start for the kitchen.

Halfway down the stairs, two familiar voices float up to where I’m stepping, making me halt in my tracks.

“Can I ask you a question?” This, from Mike. Unlike me, it seems like Mike has been awake for a while—his voice is missing the distinct grogginess that usually clings to him after having just risen from sleep.

“Yes.” Comes El’s response. I know I should probably keep walking, or let them know in some way that I can hear them. But the tone in Mike’s speech makes me pause.

“Erm,” Mike starts, followed immediately by silence.

“Yes?” El prompts.

“We’re cool, right? Like we’re okay?” My breath rattles out of me. What is this? Is Mike trying to get back together with El? For a second, after my nightmare last night, I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. It clearly isn’t the reality.

“Yes.” El says. “We are friends now.”

“Friends?”

“Friends.” I peer around the corner, just enough to see the two of them standing by the fridge.

“Okay, well, friend-to-friend,” Mike asks, “How did you—”

Before Mike can finish his question, I walk down the stairs and step into the kitchen. Call me selfish, sure, but I’m not going to sit by and do nothing while my crush tries to get back together with my sister. It’s low, especially for me—usually I’m the one to actively push them towards one another. But there was so much finality in Mike’s tone when he told me the news that it actually gave me a smattering of hope. And no matter how utterly improbable it is, no matter how ridiculous, the fact remains: now that there’s hope, there’s something to lose.

So I cut Mike off, walking past him with an air of importance that I hardly ever wield. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Nothing!” Mike is quick to react, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around the room, avoiding eye contact. He looks like someone just yelled at him to act natural!

I move past him to grab orange juice from the fridge, and when I do, I swear I feel his whole body tense up beside me. He takes one step closer to El, away from me, as I move to reach a lone drinking glass from the top shelf. Which I can’t reach.

I side-eye the two of them, who both seem absorbed in their respective thoughts. Mike is still looking anywhere but at me, whereas El is staring at me directly, a quizzical expression on her face. Feeling rather bold, I nudge Mike’s elbow, which startles him and results in a muffled and startled “mm-hmm?”

“Would you mind grabbing that glass for me? I can’t reach.”

“Oh, um, yeah. Sure.” Mike stretches, towering over me as he grabs for the cup. He presents it to me awkwardly a second later. “Here.”

“Thanks,” I say, before pouring out my orange juice. Mike just nods, and returns to his weird game of avoiding eye contact at all costs.

Okay, so what the actual fuck.

“What are you guys thinking for today?” El asks us, breaking the awkward silence.

“Mike thinks we should go to the casino.” I say, looking over at him to judge his reaction. He just keeps looking the opposite way, as if I’m not here.

“Really?” El turns to him. “Karen said we should not do that, though.”

“Well, it’s not like she’ll know. We can just tell her we’re going to the arcade, or something.” Oh, great. So he’ll acknowledge El, but not me.

“Are there any cah-see-nos near us?” El sounds out the word, as if getting used to the way it feels on her tongue.

“There’s one just outside of Hawkins. I’ve been there a couple times.” I offer. At that, Mike finally looks at me, eyes wide.

“You’ve been to a casino?”

“Well, kinda, yeah. My dad used to take me with him after school sometimes. Made me wait outside in the car while he went inside. He always claimed it’d only be a couple minutes, but I usually ended up in the passenger seat for a couple hours. So I know the exterior pretty well, but I’ve never actually stepped foot in it.”

Mike’s face melts at that, his expression shifting from surprise to concern.

“It wasn’t a big deal!” I rush to backtrack, to make sure they know it wasn’t like a big trauma, or anything. It was just…a regular part of my life. “And it wasn’t like it was every day.”

But Mike’s still looking at me in that way of his, and it’s hard to look away. I think back to the night before; his arms wrapped around my waist, his breath in my ear. The way he whispered as I fell asleep, lulling me to dreams in honey medleys; it’ll be okay.

He has the same concern in his eyes that he did under our covers, but his body language is completely different. From the way he’s acting now, you’d never know he was curled around me last night. Is it because he regrets it? Having his arms around me? I’m sure it didn’t mean the same to him as it did to me—after all, I’ve seen him hug Lucas or Dustin in a moment of hardship without any reservations. But what if…does he know? Is it different from Dustin or Lucas because he somehow found out about me, and now he thinks I’m some freak trying to get him to touch me whenever I can?

Mike smiles at me softly, and there’s a bit of shyness in it. It was that smile that I came back to time and time again: in Lenora, during my episodes that one horrible Fall anniversary, and especially in the Upside Down. Looking at it, the onslaught of questions fade into nothingness. He’s avoiding touching me, sure, but his eyes show that he doesn’t know. Relief courses through me.

El interrupts my train of thought, taking the conversation back to matters at hand: “So how are we going to get there? We cannot bike.”

I nod in agreement, trying to think over different possibilities. “Any ideas?”

Then Mike looks back and forth between El and I, his smile turning from one of concern to one of mischief: “I might have something.”

Chapter Text

I’ve got to get my shit together. The thought, the, this is normal, everything is normal thought, won’t stop repeating in my brain. It’s with me when I gear up to ask El a question, even if I’m not 100% sure what the question will be. It’s with me when I see Will walking down the stairs, and my body remembers the feel of his skin against mine before I can so much as form a greeting. It’s with me as Will reaches on his toes for a glass, my breath hitching at the smell of his flannel. It’s with me as Will asks for any ideas, and I pretend I have a functioning brain just so I can get the hell out of there.

What is happening? My thoughts are clouded over, and there’s a damning feeling in my gut, but I won’t let myself think about any of it for long enough to actually find some relief. So instead, I’m charging up the stairs under the pretense of some magical idea—a way to get us to this damned casino—with absolutely zero clue how to do so and not a single hint on where to start.

That’s when I see the walkie in my room, and realize maybe what I need is a distraction. I’m too worked up right now; too anxious. My friend’s just having nightmares and I don’t know how to deal with it—which is a completely normal dilemma. It’ll help to talk to somebody else, anybody else. To clear my mind, that’s all. I pick up the supercomm.

I try Lucas first, to no avail. Then I switch channels.

“Dustin? Are you there? It’s Mike, Over.” My voice is frantic, but I’m hoping he won’t be able to tell over the radio feedback. I wait for a second when I hear the static crackle back on.

“Yeah, I’m here. Going over to Harrington’s in a sec. Over.” And at that, I finally, finally start to form something that vaguely resembles an idea.

“You are? Over.”

“Um…yes? Why would I lie about that? Over.”

I roll my eyes before I remember that he can’t actually see.

“Because we need him. Well, more specifically, we need his car. Think you can help? Over.”

Dustin lets out a laugh that makes me smile, and I realize just how long it's been since we’ve had the whole party together—me, Dustin, Lucas. Will.

“I most certainly can, Sir Mike. Where do we start?” Dustin’s voice is eager, and I quickly tell him my haphazard plan: we bribe Steve for time with Nance (I’m well past my refusing-to-prostitute-my-sister phase), and in exchange for that, he drives us to and from the casino. Simple and easy.

“Get in contact when you’ve initiated Phase One. Over.” I say.

“Will do. Stay in touch. Over and Out.” Dustin responds, and I click down the antenna on the supercomm. El and Will’s voices are still muffled from downstairs, and I take the opportunity to steady myself, sitting down on Will’s side of the bed and resting my hands on my thighs. It’s there that I see the edges of his sketchbook peeking out from beneath the sheets spooled on my floor. I listen carefully once again to the voices from downstairs, determining whether the conversation between them remains lively. A bubbly laugh from El confirms that they’re still deeply engaged, and I decide to do something I’m not entirely proud of.

I pull his sketchpad out from under my bed. My heartbeat steadily rises as I trace my fingers across the first page, then flip to the inside cover where Property of Will Byers is written in slightly stilted handwriting. Will hasn’t changed the way he writes since we were in fourth grade; I used to tease him about it constantly. Now I trace my fingers over those words, too.

Pausing once again to confirm that Will and El are still talking, I slowly turn the page over. The first couple sketches are things I’ve seen before, things I could recall with my eyes closed given the amount of nights I pored over them when Will was in California. There are sketches of scenes from the upside down, a tapestry of wet vines slipping over rotting wood and descending into cracked pavement. But there are beautiful things, too. A daisy peeking out of the sidewalk. The party huddled over a game of D&D in my basement. Slowly, I make my way through each one, getting charcoal dust on my thumbs from some pages and tracing lightly over pastel scenes from others.

Considering Will was so upset when he learned I stole this the first time, I know he would consider what I’m doing right now a breach of trust. And yet, I can’t help the compulsion that keeps my fingers turning from one page to the next, from looking over everything he so delicately crafted with only his mind, the colors and shapes he spilled out onto the page and breathed life into with only a pencil and some paper. And talent, of course. Pure, raw, talent.

I get to what I know as his last entry, where his drawings usually give way to an eternity of blank, milky papers until the sketchbook ends, when I notice a peak of color from the corner of the next page. Something registers in my brain: this must be what he was working on last night, after his nightmare. My fingers are slightly trembling, and I know Will wouldn’t want me to do this. I know he’d be upset.

But I also have to know what he’s drawing. I just have to. And I’ve never been one to think first, act second.

So I turn the page, a sharp intake of breath when the scene he drew comes into full view. It’s a simple concept, really; a self-portrait. It’s clearly Will, but from the back: I’d know that brown flannel and haircut anywhere. But it’s what he’s doing that takes me by surprise.

He’s holding someone’s hand.

A funny feeling rises in my gut as I keep searching the sketch. The hand in question belongs to someone whose body is out-of-frame, leaving only a wrist and what looks like a black quarter-sleeve shirt. I knew Will was doing a hell of a lot of art in Lenora, and if that painting was any indication, I knew he was getting better. But this is…well, it’s another level. The light falls on their hands, the focal point of the drawing, in such a way that it seems as if both are glowing. My feeling of unease rises as I roam over every detail, uncomprehending mixing with apprehension as I wonder how he could’ve drawn something like this just last night, in the pitch-black of my room. As I wonder who the hell those fingers he’s holding belong to.

I keep staring, looking for anything that might indicate who this girl could possibly be, getting frustrated at the lack of bracelets or jewelry and rather generic clothing, when I finally notice it: the hand he’s holding isn’t dainty, nor is it thin, like a girls’ might be. No, Will’s taken special care to sketch out a broad palm and a light dusting of hair on the knuckles. The nails are bitten and chewed up, no polish. They look like…well, they kind of look like a boy’s hand. The more I think it, the clearer it seems. In fact, it’s rather unmistakable. That hand belongs to a man.

And as soon as the thought crosses my mind, as soon as it enters my bloodstream, I hear my best friend’s words from earlier today echo in my mind, too: Because of what they are. Because of what I am.

Will is…Will likes boys.

And right when I think it, I swear to God, all the air leaves my body. My fingers are twitching, my ankles tapping restlessly against the floor, like my body knows something that I don’t, yet. That I don’t necessarily want to.

And yet, no matter how much I force it down, the thought floats to the surface. And if I’m being honest, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve had it. But now, knowing this, it’s harder to keep shoving it away.

Because if Will can like boys, if someone I’ve known my entire life could be, well, gay…it takes me five deep breathes to even let myself ask the question, to crystalize it: could I be, too?

The question spirals through my brain, and it’s like I’ve unlocked something that I’ve only ever dismissed, or scoffed at. Something I’ve never truly let myself think.

Because right when I ask it, right when I genuinely allow myself to contemplate the possibility, it’s like a thousand tiny little locks click into place: The fact that I never wanted to do more than hold El’s hands, that I always found excuses to break up a kiss. The fray of nerves I got when I joined the Hellfire club and looked at Eddie Munson for the first time. Holy shit, Eddie Munson. I can’t stop the thoughts; it’s like an onslaught of different memories and emotions that never quite made sense are suddenly knocking on my door, shouting to look at me! open it! do you get it? do you understand now?

But the scariest thoughts, the ones that I still don’t quite let myself feel, are the ones that come back to Will. Which, if I’m being honest, is nearly all of them.

The way I reacted when I first found out he was gone, all those years ago. That tingling feeling I get whenever he comes close, the excuses I make to touch him. The fact that I could never bring myself to call him when he was living in Lenora, that it made me more nervous than calling El. Crazy together, right? The way I wrapped my arms around him, last night. His breath, slow and steady on my face. The heat that rose in my cheeks. In my stomach.

And ah, shit. I am deeply and truly fucked.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: Mike

I’ve been back and forth from my room to the bathroom at least five times, rummaging around so that El and Will think I’m doing something, but the voices from downstairs are starting to putter out.

I can’t do it. I can’t face him. Him and his stupid flannel, his stupid hair—no wonder I’m always looking at his goddamn hair. I make a pause in front of the full-length mirror in my closet, staring at myself like my reflection will tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do now, when I hear the walkie crackle to life.

“Mike? You there? It’s Dustin. Over.”

“Dustin!” I say, a bit breathless. “Yes, yes I’m here. Over.”

“You good dude? You sound out-of-breath. Over.”

“I’m good, I’m good.” I try to come off annoyed, rather than caught thinking things I objectively should not be thinking. “What’s going on? Any update? Over.”

“Steve’s on board. He says he’s just doing it to be nice though, not to hang out with Nance. Over.”

“Is he lying? Over.”

“Probably.” A pause, then: “Over.”

Before I can respond, it crackles back to life: “Do we really have to say over every time? It gets extremely repetitive, Mike.”

I don’t answer in defiance. A few seconds later, I hear what sounds like a sigh before he lets out a dejected: “Over.”

“Yes we do,” I say, smiling slightly. “And we’ll figure out the Nancy stuff later. Can you pick us up? We’re at my house. Over.”

“Yeah, sure. Be there in five. Over and out.”

I scrub my face once more and evaluate my hair: slightly askew, but nothing awful. My cheeks are extremely red, though I’m hoping neither El or Will notices. I think of him downstairs and my heartbeat quickens. Well, I have to face him eventually, and Dustin’s coming soon. So basically, it’s now or never.

“Will! El!” I holler down the banister.

“Yes Mike?” Comes El’s response.

“You guys ready to go soon?”

“Yeah, if you’re ready to tell us what your stupid plan is!” Will’s voice, this time. And goddamnit, my heartbeat is already quickening.

“You’ll see!” I yell again, not quite ready to see their faces. I’ve got to at least wait for the pink in my face to cool down. “Dustin and Steve are gonna pick us up!”

“Dustin?” I hear El say, excitement tinting her voice.

“...Steve?” Will asks, in a tone that most definitely veers more towards confused than excited.

I hear them shuffle around a bit, then take one last chance in the mirror to smooth out my hair. Here goes nothing.

“Yeah, Steve,” I say, finally making my way down the stairs and back into the kitchen. “It’s not ideal, but…you know anybody else who has a car?”

“Fair point.” Will shrugs, and god the way his hair falls into his face. The way his lips tug up in a sly smile. For a split second, I catch myself wondering what it might be like to kiss those lips; to feel them against my own. Something stirs in my chest, only to be stilled a moment later when I start to suspect I’m staring at his mouth for what some might consider an unacceptably long amount of time.

Will begins to throw strange looks my way, and I turn sharply towards the wall, guilt clawing its way through my skin. I’m trying to shake off the feeling when I’m saved by someone ringing our doorbell incessantly.

“Mike? Open up, it’s Dustin!” This, followed by a couple of impatient pounds on the door that make it seem like he didn’t just get here.

Will rolls his eyes before telling us that he’s got it, and making his way over to the entry way. I take the opportunity to ask El what they were talking about it in my absence.

“Nothing, really. Will was just telling me about his times at the Casino. Why?”

“Just curious,” I reply, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible. El looks like she’s about to ask me another question, but Will and Dustin come into the kitchen before she gets the chance.

“Come on! Steve’s in the car and he’s gonna get pissed if we take longer than two minutes.” Dustin says, before walking right back out the door. The three of us look at each other before following close behind.

* * *

On the ride to the casino it becomes glaringly apparent that none of us actually knows what goes on in Casinos. Lucas, who we picked up from the Hospital on our way, spends a vast majority of the ride grilling Will about different ways to gamble. Will, in response, spent most of the car ride convincing the four of us that he really hadn’t gone in before and wouldn’t be much help in that department.

None of us believe him until we get there, but the second we all step foot in the door and try to convince the man at the door that we are, indeed, 21, the way that Will is tripping over his words makes it abundantly clear that he had, indeed, always stayed in the car.

Eventually, Steve slips the bouncer a twenty and he lets us all through. Lucas’ face lights up at some bar across the way before he nudges Dustin’s shoulder. It’s nice to see Lucas smile. Things have been tense since…well, since everything.

“Come on, let’s try Blackjack.” Lucas says. Dustin turns to Steve, who shrugs, and the three make their way to a suspicious-looking table with a suspicious-looking bar. When El doesn’t follow, they turn back.

“Well, come on. We’re gonna need our good luck charm!” Dustin exclaims with his hand out. El smiles wordlessly at him and follows, and he puts her arm around her while they walk away.

I’m acutely aware of the fact that they’ve just left me and Will alone to our respective devices.

“Come on,” Will says, a bit awkwardly. “I don’t know much about Casinos, but I think we could figure out Slots.” He tugs on my arm and I stare, again. He must notice, because he quickly drops it and turns his back to me so he can walk in the direction of the Slots. My shoulder burns with the ghost of his touch.

I swallow and quickly catch up to him, and the walk to the slot machines is painfully silent.

When we get there, I sit down next to the one open machine. Granted, there’s only three of them, but still…who knew a Casino in Indiana would actually get foot traffic?

“Excuse me?” Will asks when I sit down, crossing his arms.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Who said you were gonna be the one to play?”

“Um, no one? I just figured…”

“Well, you figured wrong.” He cuts me off. “Last I recall, I’m the one who actually suggested this.” His eyebrows scrunch together. God, he’s cute when he does that.

“So what?” I say, slightly emboldened by his own sheer forwardness. “I got here first.” It’s a low blow for sure, but it doesn’t feel that way when Will rolls his eyes as a slight smile plays on his lips.

“All right then, let’s see it. What’ve you got?” He stands with his eyebrow cocked and it takes everything I have to tear my eyes off his.

I face the machine, only to be instantly confused by the buttons. And I thought Slots was supposed to be the easy option. Sheepishly, I look back up at Will.

“Um, you said you knew how to play this?”

Will lets out a small laugh before shoving into the seat beside me. “Move over.”

And then we’re scrunched together on the seat that’s clearly meant for one person only. His leg is next to mine, warmth radiating through his jeans. His arm nudges slightly into my ribcage and his hair lightly skims my neck. Then he’s reaching over me, probably putting cash in the machine and definitely doing something else with the buttons that I can’t focus on because his hair is lightly skimming my neck.

Jesus Christ. I have a crush. And not just that—I have a crush on Will, on my Will. I have—

“Mike?”

“Huh?” I ask, flustered at the interruption.

“I asked if you wanted to try to pull the lever. You know, because you got here first? ” Will smirks at his clear imitation of me.

“Hey! No making fun!” I say, and his smile absolutely melts me, to the point where I struggle to actually find the lever.

“You good?” Will asks once I finally get a good grip on the handle.

“What? Yeah! Um, yeah, uh, I’m fine.”

“O-kay,” He says, adding a slightly sing-songy nature to the word. It takes everything in me not to stare at him. Where did this confidence even come from? And how does it have the power to make me forget basic mechanics of the English language?

In lieu of a proper response, I just pull the handle.

It comes back up with three symbols across the machine, none of which match.

“That can’t mean anything good, can it?” I say, scooting in my seat while still avoiding eye contact.

“Nope.” He laughs. “We definitely lost.”

“This game is bullshit.” I say.

“Does that mean you don’t wanna try again?”

“Sure does! In fact, I’d rather just leave right now.”

“Same. Let’s go outside.”

At this, I turn. “Seriously?” I ask. “But this was your idea?”

“Oh so now you’ll admit that this was my idea?” Will raises his eyebrows at me and I groan.

“I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant—”

“Screw that, we both know what you meant.” His eyes are so, so green. There’s glitter in the irises from the casino lights, and mischief dances across them. The thought from the kitchen fleets through my mind once again: what might it be like? To taste him against me? I shiver.

“And now I’m saying we should go outside. And you agreed. So, let’s go.” The words are a bit stilted, but if Will notices he doesn’t let on. Instead, he silently gets up and starts walking towards the door, and the bench feels hollow with his sudden absence. When I don't rise immediately, he looks back.

“You coming out or what?”

I pray to God he didn’t use that phrasing on purpose, then do the only thing I can think to do. I follow him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten: Will

I have no idea what the fuck is happening with Mike, but I needed to get off that goddamn bench. So when he offered to go outside, of course I took him up on it. Plus, I could use a cigarette.

We’re both leaning against the brick wall of a casino, and I’m trying to figure out how to broach the topic of smoking. I haven’t told anyone in the party yet about my new little habit—only Jonathan knows—and I’m not sure how Mike will take it. Plus, from the way he’s been acting all morning, he’s already on edge.

At first, it was his absolute refusal to look at me this morning in the kitchen. But then when he came back downstairs, something shifted again. His energy turned frenetic, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He was wringing his hands together in the car, looking strictly out the window while tapping his ankles.

I know I got bolder with my words by the machine, that I was probably out of my mind when I squished us together in a seat clearly meant for one person. But I needed to know if his behavior had anything to do with me—with our night together—and getting close was the only way I could think of to test it out. His feverish motions only became more apparent then: stumbling over words, messing with the lever on the Slots. It’s like he’s one big ball of energy.

It’s confusing as hell. It’s also the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

So yeah, sue me if I want a cigarette. My best-friend—aka my sister’s ex-boyfriend aka my crush aka the straightest boy in the world—is acting fucking adorable, and I can’t do a single thing about it. God, I need nicotine.

Slowly, I take out the pack of Marlboro’s from my back pocket. Mike’s eyes dart to them, then immediately back up at me.

“What’s that?” He asks, concern lacing his tone.

“Um, cigarettes?”

“Since when do you smoke?” His voice turns hard.

“Since we moved to Lenora,” I say, opting for honesty. “I stole them from my mom’s purse. Honestly, they just…calm me down. Reminds me of her, and of Hop, too.”

“That shit’s not good for you, Will.”

“Depends on how you look at it.” I say with a sly smile, taking out a lighter and placing the cigarette in my mouth.

Feeling bold, I hold one out to him.

“What is it that Argyle used to say? Try before you deny?” Mike rolls his eyes, but to my surprise, he doesn’t argue. In fact, he accepts the challenge.

“Give me that.”

I give him a look, impressed. “Changed your tune pretty quick.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t be worse for me than anything I inhaled in that pizza van.”

At that, I laugh, and hand over the cigarette. Dubious, Mike puts it to his lips.

And he looks so goddamn pretty. One leg up against the brick wall, his arms crossed over his chest. I want to draw him, draw the way the cigarette dangles from his mouth, the soft crease in his face as he contemplates what to do next. The small of his back as it makes contact with the wall, and the way his shirt rides up ever-so-slightly, so I can see a hint of the happy trail that I discovered for the first time just last night.

As I look more, I find it harder to breathe. My chest constricts with a sharp mix of sorrow and guilt, and I have to turn away. I shouldn’t have come out here with him.

“You okay?” Mike asks. He’s using that tone again, the soft one reserved just for me.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” He can tell I’m lying; he’s always been able to. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for whenever something’s bothering me.

Sometimes I really, really hate him.

I take a lighter from my front pocket and strike it against the butt end of my cigarette. Inhaling deeply, I wait for it to hit my bloodstream, and close my eyes at the immediate relief once it does. My muscles soften, and I feel the tension in my veins start to smooth out, eased by the familiar smell. The buzz doesn’t last long, so I take another drag.

“So when is it my turn?” Mike asks softly. I feel shy suddenly, having temporarily forgotten he was there. I was too lost in the nicotine, and I try to shake off any feelings of embarrassment from him witnessing my indulgence. It’s just a cigarette.

“Um, we can try now?” I say, my low tone matching his. I reach out the lighter for him to take. He looks at me, unblinking. Doesn’t take it.

“Show me how you did it.” He says. I didn’t realize how close he was. So close that his hand brushes against mine, up alongside the wall. So close that I can feel his breath on my face. On my lips.

I swallow, then press my thumb down on the lighter, creating friction as I tug against the spark wheel. My hands are trembling slightly, and I pray he doesn’t notice.

“Like that.” I say. He looks at me, eyes wide and soft. He shakes his head, no.

“Show me how you did it,” he whispers again. But this time, he places his fingers on top of mine, so we’re both clutching the lighter. He guides us so our hands are against the end of his cigarette. Puts his thumb on top of mine.

He’s so close and my skin is radiant in his presence, absorbing all the attention he’s giving me like its sunlight. For all I know, he is sunlight. Who is Mike Wheeler if not a lifesource? If not my lifesource?

Slowly, so slowly, I strike my thumb against the lighter. My face is close enough to his that I can count the individual freckles scattered across his nose, his cheeks.

When his cigarette catches, his gaze turns at me. He doesn’t breathe it in.

No, instead, Mike Wheeler drops the cigarette into the dirt and grinds it out underneath his foot, refusing to take his eyes off me the entire time.

“Mike? What are you doing? That was my last cigarette.” I’m still speaking in low tones. My voice cracks and his lips are so, so close. Then he plucks the cigarette out of my mouth and tosses that on the ground, too. Crushes out the last sparks.

“What? Mi—”

But before I can finish saying his name, his hands are on my shoulder and he’s pressed me up against the brick wall. His grip glows amber on my arm and he’s looking at me with a kind of intensity I’m sure I’ll have tattooed on my mind for the rest of my life. I’m on fire, I know, absolutely engulfed in flames and swollen with the look in his eyes, the crest of red chasing his cheeks.

And then, before I can think, before I can speak, he presses his lips against mine.

In all the moments I’ve dreamed about this, all the times I’ve thought about what it might be like to have Mike Wheeler’s hands on my body and his mouth on mine, it was always me to initiate, me to finally confess my feelings and be met with a hesitant exploration.

But Mike Wheeler is not kissing me with hesitancy. No, he’s kissing me like I’m oxygen, like I’m the breath on his lips and the air in his lungs. Like any moment I’ll be ripped apart from him.

He’s kissing me like he’s been waiting to kiss me for a long, long time.

I melt wherever his hands find me: on my arms, on my chest. Against my collarbone. I don’t have time to process anything other than the feeling that I’m freefalling, plunging into the melody of his body pressed against mine and the way he sighs at my sharp intake of breath in between kisses, at the way my hands grip his sides with feverish want.

I made Mike Wheeler sigh. I’m making Mike Wheeler sigh.

And then, just as quick as it started, he pulls away from me. His eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. I reach out my hand to touch his face.

And that’s when Mike Wheeler turns and runs away from me.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: Mike

The music from the casino speakers pounds in my ears as I clash through the doors, a consistent bass beat that echoes the rhythm of my frantic breathing. All I can think, while I’m swallowed whole by scalding neon lights, is three things:

1. I just kissed a boy.

2. Not just any boy. I just kissed Will Byers.

And then,

3. I should not have done that.

I can hear the door opening behind me, but I’m not ready to face him. Not yet. I make a beeline for where I think the bathroom is, putting as many people between Will and I as possible, when I get intercepted by none other than Steve Harrington.

“Wheeler? You okay?” He asks, holding a beer can in one hand.

Disoriented, I just shake my head before stumbling forward, leaving a confused Steve in my wake. Thankfully, he doesn't follow.

When I finally make it to the bathroom, I find it blissfully empty. There are only two stalls and a chipped, slightly fogged-over mirror hung crookedly over the sink. Slowly, I turn on the faucet and splash my face, willing the pink in my cheeks to go away.

I stare at my reflection. My lips are red and I put up two of my fingers to feel them, remembering the imprint of Will’s mouth. The way he pressed with a heat that clawed through me, into me. I think about the cigarette that dangled from his mouth in the moments before I did the stupidest thing I could’ve possibly done.

But the ease in his shoulders as he inhaled, the curl of smoke that framed his face and the rasp of his voice as he spoke—I don’t think there’s a world where that conversation ended any other way.

How absolutely, unrelentingly terrifying.

A brief panic crosses my mind—technically, I don’t even know if Will likes me in that way. He just drew a drawing of him holding someone’s hand, for god’s sake; for all I know, he has a massive crush on someone else.

But when I remember his lips hovering over mine in the seconds before I closed the distance between us, his grip on my waist as I pushed him against the wall—I know I didn’t imagine that. He wanted it, too. He wanted me.

It’s an odd feeling, for your world to both shatter and expand all at once. I think about Will and the green lilt of his gaze. I think about my father, and the Reagan/Bush sign outside our house that he’s kept up all these years. About the things he said when Will first went missing. About the things other people said, too.

The door opens, shaking me from my thoughts. Will Byers steps in, and all the worry saps out of me. Instead, sweet relief plunges through my arms, my chest. There’s still the quiet I should not have done that, but it’s a lot softer now than it was even just a couple moments ago.

Because look at him. Just look.

“Mike?” He asks.

I don’t know why, but the first thing that comes out of my mouth in response is an apology.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. It strikes me, just how much Will Byers has the power to undo me. With everyone else—Nancy, my mom, even El—it takes me hours to rip the words i’m sorry from my throat, and even then it’s always because I know it’s what they want to hear. But with Will…

With Will I can’t imagine a world where he thinks I hurt him on purpose. And like it or not, the reality of what just happened is that no matter how good it felt, no matter how utterly right—it’s going to hurt us. And that thought cracks my heart.

“Mike,” Will says again, rushing over to me. He looks me dead in the eye, tentatively placing a hand around the nape of my neck. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

When did this boy get so goddamn confident? How can he say that with so much ease, so much conviction? I want to believe him. So badly, I want to believe him.

“Are you sure?” I’m searching his eyes, looking for any hints of doubt—any signs that I had somehow imagined this mutual attraction, that he regrets his hands around my waist.

In answer, he presses his lips against me. It’s sweet and light and fast—he pulls away only a second later. But it tells me exactly what I need to hear. His taste lingers all over me; the velvet cadence of his mouth hums against me even when he draws back. Will presses his forehead to mine. Looks in my eyes.

“Is this real?” He says, softly. And I think, What an odd question.

“Of course it’s real, Will. I’m right here.”

“Of course,” Will echoes, chuckling softly to himself. Then, “I’ve been wanting to do that since we were twelve years old, Mike.”

Oh. Oh. It never occurred to me, in those moments that I clasped our hands together in the quiet of his bedroom, or stole looks at his lips in between whispered conversations in my basement, that he was looking at me, too. That he always has been.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realize.” I whisper softly, apologizing once more. “I think—” I pause. “I know I’ve been wanting to do that since that day you came back to us. You were in that hospital gown, and I didn’t know why a hug didn’t feel like enough to welcome you home.”

He just looks at me, gentle and eager. Willing me to go on.

But all I can muster, at least for now, is yet another apology. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.” I repeat, my voice cracking this time. I feel something wet on my cheeks, and realize I’m crying.

“It’s okay,” Will responds, pressing our foreheads closer together. “I would’ve waited for you forever.” It should sound corny, but the way he says it—matter-of-factly, without an ounce of hesitation—I know he means it. I know it’s true.

My heart aches and I’m about to say something else, about to raise my chin to his and kiss him once more, when the bathroom door springs open. It’s nearly comical, how fast we spring apart: Will to the mirror, me to the paper-towel dispenser. I do my best to make it seem purposeful and lean up against the wall, crossing my hands over my chest.

Lucas looks back and forth between the two of us. “What’re you guys doing in here?” He doesn’t sound suspicious, more like confused.

“Nothing!” Will and says at the same time that I yell, “Peeing!”

“Oh-kay.” Lucas responds, drawing out the word. Now he looks a bit more suspicious. I see Dustin coming up behind him, along with Steve and El. Seeing her makes me freeze. How will she react to this? Did she know? I think of her voice: Because you do not love me the way I love you.

“Ooo, party in the bathroom!” Dustin says, before I can ruminate further. He pushes past Lucas and comes into the tight stalls. Upon entering, he scrunches up his nose at the smell and gives both Will and I a strange look.

“Why are we having a party in this bathroom?” He asks.

I groan, rolling my eyes. “We’re not! In fact, we’re leaving right now.” I say. I make eye contact with Will from across the room, furrowing my eyebrows together. You okay? I ask silently. He gives a quick nod in return.

With a deep breath out, I get up, bracing myself to push past the rest of the party and find another excuse to get Will alone again. Because by god, do I need to get that boy alone. I’m thinking of all the potential excuses to get out: I’m tired! I just remembered, my mom needs my help with something! Actually Will took up smoking, and he needs a cigarette (although I guess that one isn’t far off from the truth—which I still can’t wrap my head around. Somehow I’ve gotta get that boy to quit…no matter how hot he looks doing it). Before I can settle on one specific lie, the static on Dustin’s radio fills the bathroom.

“Dustin?” I hear a voice, and it sounds vaguely like Nancy. But that can’t be right—she’s supposed to still be at our house, which would be way out of range.

“Nancy?” I guess Dustin’s having the same thought process, because he sounds vaguely dubious. “What’s going on? Over.”

“I had an idea and I didn’t want to wait to tell you guys. Jonathan and I went for a ride to get in range. When’s the soonest you guys can come home?”

“Uh, I’m not sure.” Dustin turns to me, eyebrows knitted in question. “We’ll leave right now!” I answer before he can, a little too loudly, just so Nancy can hear me. “Meet us back at the house in 20. Over and out.”

Dustin gives me a strange look before shutting off his supercomm. But the way I see it, the sooner we get this meeting over with, the sooner I’ll have Will to myself again. And if that means getting some questioning looks from my friend because I essentially made a group decision without consulting anyone, well, to be honest, that’s perfectly okay with me.

“Okay,” Dustin addresses the rest of us. “I guess that means we’re leaving.”

“Sweet.” Steve says. “I was getting tired of you little shits, anyway.”

“Yeah, right.” Dustin responds, sticking out his tongue.

“I’m being serious!”

“Like you could ever get tired of this pretty face.” Dustin laughs, taking his hand to his chin as if to say, see? see how pretty?

“Whatever, Henderson.” Steve ruffles Dustin’s hair affectionately as they both leave the bathroom in a fit of what I think is well-meaning bickering, leaving us all to follow.

I linger behind, waiting for everyone to file out in the hopes that I’ll get a moment alone with Will. He must have the same idea, because we’re both the last ones to leave the bathroom. I take a moment to brush my hand against his. When he doesn’t pull away, I wrap my fingers into his, bringing our hands together, and trace my thumb lightly against his skin. I get the urge to bring our clasped hands up to my lips, to kiss the spot right above his wrist.

“You guys coming?” Lucas hollers from up ahead before I can act on it. Probably for the best—I still have no idea what Will’s comfort level with affection is, especially when the others are close by.

“Yeah!” I shout back. Will squeezes my hand quickly before letting go of me. I guess that tells me something.

I sigh, wishing the moment could last longer. Will must sense my disappointment, because he whispers in my ear. “Later,” he says, before stepping ahead of me and walking out the door to the others.

I once again marvel at his confidence—it’s like our kiss brought out a side of him that had been dormant for all these years. And now that it’s out, it’s like he can’t put it away. And as for me? I can’t get enough of it.

I sigh one last time and follow him out.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve: Will

I haven’t felt this way since I discovered D&D for the very first time—like I’m seeing in technocolor, each fragment of my vision sparked in gold. Like maybe there are little corners of the world built just for me, and maybe I deserve to be there. To find them.

Of course, there’s still the deluge of doubts that accompany my waking hours on a daily basis, although they’re admittedly amplified by the sheer amount of revelations that’ve been made in the past day—hell, the past hour. The worst of them? That he’s lying. That it’s some kind of trick, and I’m falling for it. Hard.

But for the most part, for the part of myself that dares to believe him when he tells me he’s sorry, my brain is occupied with a singular thought, fueled by his words in the bathroom and his touch against my hand: Mike Wheeler likes me back.

And that thought makes everything else absolutely disappear.

Mike keeps sneaking looks at me in the car ride home, and I’m trying my best not to hold them. Who knew he was this awful at being discreet? I never really caught him catching glimpses of El when they were together. Although, now that I think about it, I wonder if that was because he didn’t love her, in that way.

We have a lot to go over, I’m realizing.

My time in the car not spend avoiding eye contact with Mike is spent scheming over ways to get him alone. I’m not sure if he’s feeling the way I am: like now that I’ve tasted him against me, now that I know he wants me—it’s addicting.

And I need it again, as soon as humanly possible.

Unfortunately, Nancy makes carrying out that plan extremely difficult. As soon as we get into the house, she yells at us to get down to the basement, where we all find respective seating and sit to listen. I find a spot on the couch, and to my surprise, Mike sits next to me. I’m not sure why, but I wasn’t expecting him to try and get near me when we’re in the group. When Nancy stands up and starts speaking, he presses his thigh up against mine. It takes everything I have not to react.

“Let’s hear it,” says Lucas.

“Alright.” Nancy takes her time, looking at all of us individually. I steal a glance at Mike and find that he’s already looking at me. I turn back to his sister, ignoring the warm feeling in my stomach.

“When’s the only time any of us have effectively been able to communicate with Vecna?” Nancy starts surveying us, like a teacher with a specific answer in mind that’s waiting for her student to guess it.

“When they’ve been under his spell.” Says Dustin.

“Exactly.” Comes Nancy’s reply. “And as of right now, that’s the only thing we know. We don’t know what he wants—”

“Yes we do!” Lucas nearly shouts, interrupting. “He wants to take over the world!”

“Yes,” Nancy rolls her eyes, impatient. “But we don’t know how.”

“Um, yes we do.” Lucas says once again, standing up and crossing his arms. “By killing people.”

Nancy grunts in frustration, tapping her shoe furiously against the ground. “All right then, Lucas. When’s his next attack? Who’s he planning to kill? How’s he going to kill them?”

Lucas is silent.

“See?” Nancy raises her voice. “We barely know anything. And how are we supposed to stop him if we can’t anticipate his next move? Hmm?”

We all look at her expectantly, knowing this isn’t something she actually wants an answer to. No, this is something she wants to explain herself. “Let’s look at the facts, shall we? Fact One: Vecna and Will are weirdly…tied together. Will can feel him, always.” A couple of them turn to look at me, and I nod. It’s the truth. “Fact Two,” Nancy continues. “Vecna’s been trying to get in contact with him. You think Will feels him because Vecna forgot to close their connection? No. It’s gotta be on purpose.”

“So?” Asks Steve. “Vecna’s got a thing for Will. Great. How does that help us, again?”

“So,” Nancy starts again, more impatient than ever, “If Vecna wants to talk to Will? We let him. That way, we can at least start to figure out his strategy.”

Mike jumps up beside me before Nancy can even finish talking. “This is your big idea? What you just couldn’t wait to tell us?”

“Um—”

“No. No way,” he cuts her off again, and all eyes turn to him. “You saw what happened when we used Max for bait.” Lucas winces. So do I.

“And now you want to use my—” Mike stutters. “Now you want to use Will? Not happening.”

I give him a look. How was he planning on ending that sentence?

“Come on, Mike.” This, from Nancy. “It’s risky, but it’s also progress. When was the last time we were able to say we’re making progress?”

“Nope. Forget it. Come up with another plan; this one is too reckless.”

“I agree,” Lucas adds. “Mike’s not wrong, about Max. We shouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

“I don’t know.” A tentative voice begins speaking and I glance over to see Dustin rising, a thought clearly forming in his head. “A lot went wrong with Max that we couldn’t have predicted. We could do it in a more controlled environment this time, one where we’d know for sure we’d be able to turn on The Clash. We could have, like, three Walkmans ready. And more than one person on guard.”

“Are you insane?” Mike glares at him. “You actually—”

“What would it look like?” I interrupt him and turn to Nancy, speaking for the very first time. Everyone goes quiet. “How would we do it?”

“Will.” Mike gives me a look before his sister can answer. “You can’t possibly be considering this.” His voice is scratchy, and he sounds…well, he sounds scared. I want to touch his arm, to reassure him in some small way.

“I mean, if it’ll help.” I shrug. “I wouldn’t want us to not try something just because of risk. Think about all the times El has risked her life to save us.”

“That’s different, Will, and you know it.”

It shouldn’t hurt, the way he says that. But it does. When he sees the look on my face, he reigns in his tone a bit. His voice goes soft, and I forget about all the eyes on us. About every person sitting in his living room.

“Come on, Will.” He says, and I think he forgot about them, too, because he takes a step closer to me. “Can you at least think about this?”

I give him a look, one that tries to communicate: think about what you’re asking of me. To sit out on something just because it’s a risk? If every one of us did that, nothing would ever get done.

I’m not sure how much he can get from just the way I move my eyes, but I know what he’s thinking, his expression communicating words that are just as clear as anything he could say: I don’t care. This is you, we’re talking about, he tries to tell me. You. Not them.

I’m trying to think of another nonverbal response when I hear Dustin clear his throat theatrically. “Ahem? Care to share with this class?”

I feel my face heat up and I back away from Mike—I hadn’t realized how close we came to each other over the course of our silent conversation. I immediately feel shame grab at my ankles and burn up my legs. How could we have lost track of ourselves that easily? Did the others pick up on anything?

If they did, they don’t say it. But their silence at the way Mike and I have clearly formed our own little bubble leaves me on edge.

“We should just talk about this in the morning.” Mike says, also stepping away, and I’m grateful for his ability to detract attention away from us and solely onto him. “We’re all tired. It’s not worth it to argue right now.”

Nancy looks like she’s about to say something, but Jonathan cuts her off.

“He’s right, Nance. We should let everyone sleep on it before making a decision. Especially Will.” He nods at me, and I shoot him a grateful look. Dustin is eyeing Mike and me back and forth, but I ignore it. Mike’s always been overprotective; his behavior tonight really isn’t necessarily out of the norm.

It briefly occurs to me that I might be underestimating the others’ level of perception.

In a slightly delusional attempt to cover up whatever it is that just happened, I try to put more distance between Mike and myself, walking across the room and standing next to Jonathan.

“I’ll think on it.” I say, and Mike shoots me another look. I ignore him. “Let’s meet in the morning,” I continue. “If anyone comes up with a better plan overnight…we can go from there.”

Mike looks at me one last time before storming out of the room, leaving the rest of the group in a confused silence. I catch Dustin staring at me, but if there’s something he wants to say, he doesn’t say it. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by sheer exhaustion, twisted by the effort of backtracking Mike and I’s blatant intimacy and the possibility of seeing Vecna for the very first time.

“I’m, uh, gonna go lie down,” I announce to the room.

“Need anything?” Jonathan asks me.

“No, no, I’m good.” I reply. I start to walk up the stairs, only to be haunted by the image of Max in a hospital bed following me across the banister.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen: Will

“Okay, so what the hell was that?” I ask when I finally get to Mike’s bedroom. I find him seated on the floor with his back against the closet and his knees tucked up into his chest. He looks so small from where I stand in the doorframe. Everyone else is still huddled in the basement, talking about god-knows-what, but I needed to see him as soon as I could.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Mike asks from his seat on the floor. His voice is wavering slightly, but unmistakably tinged with anger. It irks me.

“Okay, I will tell you,” I respond. “Nancy had an idea. It was a good idea, and we’d be stupid not to entertain it.”

“No, we’d be stupid to entertain it. You’re not risking your life for no reason.”

“It’s not no reason,” I say, shutting the door behind me. “It’s so we can figure out what to do next.”

“And why do we have to put your life in danger to do that?”

“Because it’s what makes the most sense! And it’s not like I’d be in real danger—we’d do what Dustin said. Set up my stereo with The Clash and make sure we’re in a place no one can get to.”

“I don’t like this.” He says, refusing to look at me. “We should just come up with another goddamn plan.”

“Mike, I wasn’t kidding when I said all that in the basement. Think about all the times everyone in that room has risked their life. Willingly. Everytime I’ve been in danger, it was because I didn’t have a choice.” I look at him. “I want to have a choice.”

He sighs, still staring at the ground. There’s something about the lilt in his breath that makes its way through me, dissipating the lingering annoyance at his stubbornness. I lower myself down so I’m seated next to him against the closet. Finally, he lifts up his head. Looks at me.

“I know,” he whispers. “I want you to have a choice, too.” His eyes are wide, and I’m struck by our proximity. In all the times Mike Wheeler has sat next to me, that he’s been close enough that I can feel his skin against mine—I was never able to do anything about it. But now? Now I—

“I just wish…well, I kind of wish you’d choose something else.” Mike interrupts my train of thought. He lets out a breathy laugh and I knock my leg against his.

“Well, it’s not the only thing I choose.” I say, then cringe at myself as soon as the words leave my mouth. But Mike doesn’t seem to react that way. No, he’s staring at me as if anything I say is dipped in reverence, not awkwardness.

“What else do you choose?” He asks.

I shrug, sheepish. “Well…you.”

Mike shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. I’m silent.

“I had no idea you could make me feel like…well, like whatever the hell it is I’m feeling.” He says. I give him a confused look, jarred by the change in topic, and he hastily continues. “I mean, I guess I always knew that I felt…different around you. You know, than the way I did with Lucas or Dustin. I just didn’t know how, or why. I thought that’s what it meant to have a best friend. It’s not until–” he pauses. “It wasn’t until last night that I let myself think about you. In that way.” He’s fidgeting with his hands, nervous. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted to hear; it’s years of guilt-ridden, late-night, made-up scenarios coming to life in vivid motion. It’s like a painting, I think.

And just when I think he’s done, just when I hold my breath and start to think about how the hell to respond, he keeps going. It’s like he’s had this bottled up and needs to get it all out, to tell me every single thought that led up to this moment.

“And I…I just keep thinking about every time you tried to tell me. How fucking dumb I was.

We’ve almost lost you so many times, Will. I almost lost you. And each time, each time it felt like my bones were crumbling inside my body. When they pulled your body out of the water, when we had to stick you with needles. When you—” He chokes. “—you almost forgot my name. And then you remembered, and it was like I could breathe again.”

I’m not quite sure what he’s getting at, but he’s gone back to looking at the ground, still fidgeting anxiously, and it’s clear that he’s trying to sort out his thoughts in his head, too. That he’s hacking through vines of emotion in order to form a coherent sentence. For me. For himself, too, I think.

“And it’s like…it’s like I wouldn’t let myself understand or think about why I felt so deeply. And whenever you weren’t in that danger anymore, the intensity of the feeling lowered just slightly. But that tiny difference made it easier to push it down, to ignore. To pretend it was never there in the first place. But now that I know, now that I feel it and it’s real…how could I let you put yourself in danger willingly? How could I watch you go through that, again?”

I’m looking at him, and for a brief moment I feel angry. Not at him; never at him. For the fact that he’s been thinking about me like this since he was twelve, and I’ve been thinking about him for what feels like my whole life, and he’s been wanting to help me, to save me, too. But it was something he had to push down. I’m angry because it’s taken eleven years of our lives to tell each other. I’m angry because we should’ve been able to tell each other sooner, to figure this out about ourselves and each other sooner.

I’m angry that it’s not our fault we haven’t yet. But the time was stolen from us anyway.

“Mike,” I whisper.

“Will,” he says, cutting me off from continuing. “Even if it wasn’t about me; you knew this about yourself and I—I’m sorry I didn’t make you feel like you could tell me. That I made you feel so alone when I was…when I was dealing with the same thing and I just didn’t quite understand what ‘it’ was yet. When we could’ve been figuring it out together.”

“You’ve got to stop apologizing,” I say, laughing lightly through tears.

“Will,” he says. Softly. So, so softly. So I think about all the times he hurt me; I think about Rink-O-Mania and our fight in the rain. I don’t tell him it’s okay, and I don’t tell him to stop apologizing.

“I forgive you.” I tell him instead. “But you’ve got to let me at least think about this one for myself, at least. Mike, okay? Let me choose.”

He hugs me, nestling his chin in the crook of my neck and wrapping his arms around me. I feel so warm, like.

“Yeah.” He says. His voice is shaking. “Yeah. But no more thinking through shit alone. We'll figure it out together from now on. Okay?” He mumbles into my neck.

“Promise?” I whisper.

He sighs, and his breath against me feels like when I first pick up a paint brush. Like home and hope, all at once. “Promise.”