Archive of Our Own ^beta

The rain hurt Mike's face as he walked. The sky above was almost black, lacking its normal inky deep blues and navys, the silver pinpricks of stars almost entirely blotted out by the looming storm clouds. The wind howled as if a warning sign, groaning down the street like a spectre hanging over the town, while the rain lashed and stung the skin, as if trying to drown someone for daring to defy it.

Mike had no idea why Will had asked to meet him so late; it wasn't usual. But after everything that had happened recently, Mike felt like he owed Will this at least, and despite the thundering storm, Mike tried to stay hopeful. He thought back on nights spent with his best friend, buried in blanket forts and consuming enough sugar to rot them from the inside out. Of horror films and long evenings where they'd talk for hours about seemingly nothing. Will had always felt like home, a safe space Mike could exist in without question. No nagging voices from his parents, no alarmed screeching from his siblings, it was as if his mind was quiet, like his thoughts couldn't penetrate his mental walls, which became more sturdy by the day. When he was with Will, it was like the outside world went quiet, the chaos reduced to a light tapping at the window panes begging to be let in like some grandious present, howling from an inability to touch them.

He smiled gently to himself as he approached the Byers. It must have been around 11 pm at this point; it was likely that Joyce was already asleep, and he'd had the absolute pleasure of spending another dinner with Jonathan lingering round the table, like some flighty, skittish cat. He shook his head slightly at the memory, making the conscious choice to leave it out in the storm. He wanted to enjoy tonight; he always enjoyed spending time with Will.

He knocked at the door, loud enough to be heard over the storm but not so loud it would wake Joyce. Mike was only left waiting in the harsh porch light for about five seconds before the door swung open.

"Hi!" Mike said, a bounce in his voice that it normally held, a tone that alluded to a positivity it was surprising he hadn't been stripped of yet, but he made a conscious effort to try and remain positive. In a lot of ways, he attributed that to El. After everything she had been through, some of which she still refused to speak about, Mike found it almost inspiring. The kind of dominating human spirit which survives in the harshest of conditions. He found her beautiful in that sense. How every year, she seemed to uncover more of herself that was once locked away and heavily guarded. How she never seemed to lose her childlike wonder at the world, no matter the terrors that came to claw and snarl at night, many of which Mike had held her through, leaving soft kisses on her forehead, followed by aching, soft words in a gentle effort to ground her. But still every morning, she persisted, she continued, she lived, and Mike saw that every time he looked at her, his eyes softening a little more, and his heart was more devoted to her.

"Hey," Will replied, his voice sounding a tad sleepy, maybe even with an edge of raspiness, but still content. He offered a friendly smile to Mike, which was easily returned.

The two moved into Will's house. Mike already knew this place like the back of his hand. "So anything in particular you wanna do?" Mike asked casually. He would be more than happy to spend time with Will, but it wasn't common for Will to ask him over this late.

Will's gaze flicked down to his feet for a moment before coming back up to look at Mike, his eyes trying to keep eye contact, but they felt flitting away as if unable to. "Just the storm…You know how it is." Will responded.

"Yeah, I get that. You wanna do something to get your mind off it?" Mike said with a smile.

"Uhh, sure," Will said, moving around the living room as if physically searching for something to do. Mike was slightly surprised by this; he'd assumed Will would have something in mind. 'Maybe the storm had really done a number on him.' Mike thought, excusing the behaviour.

Instead, he moved to take off his coat, hanging it up somewhere it could dry, his hair still sopping from where the rain had slipped through his coat and left him cold to the touch. "You don't happen to have a towel, do you?"He asked as raindrops, once gripping his deep brown curls, fell and pitter-pattered onto the floor.

Will moved quickly, as if something was lingering in his space. "Yeah." He replied as he moved towards the downstairs bathroom. Mike once again excused it as Will just being antsy from the storm and old memories coming back to swirl in Will's mind, creating a cocktail of haunting, encroaching horrors.

It made sense, the storm didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon, and from how it caused the house to slightly creak and the windows to distort, creating a strange, eerie sound, Mike could see how it may be anxiety-inducing.

"Here," Will said, his voice noticeably calmer than before as he handed Mike the towel, holding eye contact this time as they both softly exchanged smiles.

Mike towel-dried his hair as Will moved to sit on the sofa. Mike, as if on instinct, followed him, sitting down next to him, like they had a million times before. After a few beats of silence, Mike was the one to break it. "You want to see what's on TV?" He asked, in hopes that they'd just do something, a tiny amount of tension stretching between them in those beats of silence that Mike couldn't stand. He always hated silence.

He tossed the towel over the sofa's armrest, happy with his still slightly damp locs, and reached for the remote, unsurpisingly there wasn't much of anything on, but it didn't stop him from flicking through the channels in the growing urgency to cover the silence. He wasn't sure why his mind was reacting the way it was. This was Will, his best friend. The one he'd known since they were kids, the person he'd shared his lunches with in elementary school, the person who had helped with his maths homework when his dad was 'too busy' to help, the person who Mike knew would always have his back. So why did any moment of silence feel suffocating? He blamed the way the storm howled just outside, as if desperate to encroach through the house, infect it like a virus, spread from room to room and tear the warmth away until all that was left was the beating heart of this bloody, poisonous storm!

Mike forced his mind to still, unsure why anger had spread up his spinal cord and flooded his mind like a hazy mist. He didn't mind storms; in fact, he quite liked them. He found them oddly comforting; they were always his moments to be brave with El, to protect her when she was so often protecting him. His father had spent little time with him growing up, but he had instilled one important message: 'a man should always protect their loved ones, especially their girlfriend or wife.' He was raised to be strong, the only other man of the house, and although he'd never admit it out loud, especially not to El, having her protect him in times of danger made him feel weak. Even if she did have psychic powers, the simple fact that Mike was cowering behind her like some frightened little boy made him feel sick. Like a bile that clawed at his oesophagus, leaving hot tar and ash to run through his body and spread through his bloodstream. So in the moments he got to protect her, it felt correct, like he was serving his proper function as a man. The storms gave him a chance to be strong and masculine, as he should be; he loved them for that. He wished he were with her now; flipping through channels was taking its toll, and Will didn't seem in the mood for conversation.

Mike finally settled on some news channel, the droning noise at least enough to keep a true silence at bay, but even artificial noise was starting to lose its charm in conquering the growing, insistent silence.

"You okay?" Mike asked, turning to look at Will, his voice genuine and caring, desperately hoping to ease the energy that was starting to gently claw at his skin.

"Yeah…Just….Sorry, I guess I'm a bit out of it from the storm." Will said with a small laugh, his voice cracking a tiny bit, which he coughed slightly to cover.

"That's okay, El gets like that too." Mike offered, his voice soft and gentle, similar to how he might speak to El. It was a way he comforted, it was, it had to be.

Will instinctively tensed a tiny bit at the mention of her name. Mike caught it, but he didn't comment; he blamed the storm. Even after Will couldn't meet his eyes for a moment.

"It just- It reminds me of…It all." Will said slowly, letting out a shaky breath and awkwardly swallowing.

For a moment, Mike wasn't sure what to do. What words of comfort could he offer? He knew he couldn't fix it; he never tried to fix things he knew couldn't be, but he wanted to ease the obvious flecks of pain in Will's eyes when they did manage to hold his own gaze for long enough. But it was harder than with El; it wasn't like he could hold him, it wasn't like he could kiss him gently and mutter that the storm couldn't touch them, that he mattered, that he was loved, that he was more important than words could express, that he-

Mike instantly moved to grab the remote, sitting up on the sofa, so his feet were firmly on the floor now, no longer curled up like he was moments ago. He kept flicking through channels, forcing his mind to focus on the static, on the hazy TV snow that snapped through the noise every so often, on the groaning voices, on anything but his own mind or the warm body curled up too close to him, too close, body heat radiating, breathing just audible from how Mike couldn't ignore it, not touching, never touching, but too close that Mike felt like brambles were sprouting up from the sofa. Curling around his ankles and snaking up his legs, thorns were tearing into his skin and making him bleed until they'd snaked all the way up to his neck, where it grew tighter and tighter and tighter, suffocating him until he was nothing but a lifeless husk.

He kept flicking through channels, the action more of an anxious tic at this point, the storm growing nasty until a harsh white light illuminated the room, piercing through the house, exposing every crack and water stain in harsh, clinical apathy. The clap of thunder followed, and it snarled and barked in an almost cruel manner. The sound causes Will to let out a sharp breath and a small yelp and suddenly move, his hand bunching into Mike's shirt and shaking. His grip was so tight on the fabric, like he was afraid Mike would disappear from under him.

Will was curled up so close to Mike, and in that moment, he felt like he couldn't breathe. Like all the air had been stolen from his lungs, and he couldn't possibly get enough in, all of it feeling heavy and sitting like concrete in his throat. His mind's only thought was of shaking hands, gripping his shirt, how he could feel Will's body mere inches away from his own, how the yelp had sounded damaged and a tad broken. The thorns continued their bleeding cuts, pinning him to the sofa in a way he couldn't escape.

Mike was paralysed for a moment, the TV landing on some channel showing a nature documentary, it was peaceful in a way no other channel had seemed to hold, but even if Mike had wanted to change it, he couldn't, he couldn't move, stuck on this wretched sofa, in this miserable house, with his wretched 'best friend'.

He had never felt so trapped before. He tried desperately to think of anything else, his dad's words of being a man, of El's soft gaze and loving words, of hands still gripping his shirt, and how he hoped to God they wouldn't stop.

He didn't even realise his own breathing and body were lightly shaking until the gripped hands slowly unfurled, letting the fabric fall back over Mike's back. Until they were wrapped around him in a hug that felt warped and wrong and strange and comforting. His mind was trying desperately to remember his father's words, of never being weak, of being the protector, of looking after those he loved, but being held, in the gentle yellow lighting of the sitting room, hidden under the cover of the storm, was the only thing he could truly think about. How he could feel Will's heartbeat, hammering against his chest, racing like a man at war, how his own was making him feel lightheaded from its insatiable beating. How hot Will's body ran, how he smelt more smoky than Mike remembered from when they were younger and still used to hug, before they grew up.

He couldn't move, his gaze transfixed on the nature documentary, how the moment was almost dreamlike, soft edges and warm lighting and a storm which raged but could never reach them. He didn't realise just how cold the room was until Will moved back, letting his arms fall to his side and putting the few inches they'd carefully maintained like it was a sacrament. The brambles and thorns were easing, no longer cutting and bleeding him dry, yet he couldn't help the loss that spread through him, branching out from his chest and aiming to swallow him whole.

Mike didn't know what he was doing; he wasn't thinking. He would tell himself that over and over again until the words rang true and they bled on his tongue. But he slowly managed to move his head, hanging low, as if terrified. He ever so slowly looked up, coming to hold Will's gaze like it was the only thing that mattered, the only gaze that had ever mattered. He couldn't look away, and neither could Will. It could have been ten seconds, it could have been two hours, Mike would never know how long they stayed like that, seemingly just looking at each other. Mike could feel the way his gut twisted with anxiety, butterflies that the logical part of his brain was screaming to kill bloomed like wild flowers in spring in his stomach. His breathing became shallow again, every fleeting, late-night, desperate, longing thought flashing in his mind at once until he couldn't bear it anymore.

He acted without thinking, but before he knew what was happening, he was already pulling back from the peck he'd planted on Will. For a second, Will just sat there stunned, and Mike wanted the abyss to swallow him whole and tear him limb from limb until he was nothing but a faint memory in his mother's mind. But then Will leaned forward and kissed him properly. It was gentle and filled with years of longing, of grieving, of tears shed in shared beds, and it was everything.

As Mike kissed back, he felt his world for a split second light up in a technicoloured collidiscope, as if everything that had existed and ever would held no weight or power in this moment. Like Will's touch had provided an ultraviolet beauty to Mike's life, a gentle haze that felt more welcoming than any storm ever had.

They were so close their knees were touching before they even realised it, Mike moving to cup Will's cheeks as they traded soft kisses in a moment that felt like it would last a lifetime. He felt Will smile against his lips in between kisses, and he couldn't help the soft, joyful laugh that escaped his own throat, every touch gentle, every kiss an attempt to make up for so much lost time and in the cosy, warm, yellow lighting, Mike swore that he felt infinite.

That was until a harsh white light killed the warmth in its clinical precision, and an ugly crack of thunder roared between them. Mike instantly jumped backwards, putting as much distance between himself and Will as the sofa would allow, his hand coming to grip onto the still-damp towel, grounding him back to reality from that deformed and unsightly dream.

His mind was instantly flooded with guilt and gnawing shame, not just for how he'd betrayed El in the most grotesque way possible, but for how he'd also committed such an action so willingly. He had been the one to engage first, and the mere thought of it made him feel sick. The way he could still feel Will's soft lips on his, the way his hands had perfectly mapped how it felt to cup his face, the way he had for a moment believed he was enjoying it. God, he was sick.

Mike instantly flipped the channel over to some TV static, the noise harsh and grinding on the senses, unpleasant to listen to, and fully killing and lingering tension, trying desperately to survive in the chasm dug between them now. One Mike would make sure stood the test of time.

He stood, straightening his back, making himself appear taller than he was. "I should go." His voice was colder, strained in a way where it wasn't clear if it was covering an aching, raw sadness or a plite of disgust.

Will, without really thinking, let out a tsk sound.

Mike's brain short-circuited in that moment, feeling the anger snap through him like a gunshot as the wind outside snarled. He shot Will a gaze, his eyes icy in a way he had never looked before, daggers pointed at Will, like he would rather attack the other than ever get close to touching him with any kindness. "What?" He half spat, his voice sounding fed up and annoyed by even still being here.

"Nothing, just go. We both know you want to." Will said, unable to hold Mike's gaze, like the simple act of looking in Mike's eyes might poison the memory.

"Gladly." Mike spat.

He marched towards the door, already making a concerted effort to bury the touches, the feeling, the memory, deep down, below everything that had happened and would happen, needing to rid himself of any memory of it.

He grabbed his coat, put on his shoes quickly and headed out the door faster than he ever had before. He'd much prefer the company of the storm to the hell that existed in that house. Clearly, it was cursed, claiming anybody who lingered too long in its walls and providing them a perfectly tailored death sentence.

What he didn't expect, though, was the sound of the door slamming again when he was already a few paces down the road. He turned instinctively, seeing Will, already starting to get drenched in rain, quickly approaching where he stood.

"What?!" Mike shot, venom dripping onto his words.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Will barked back, but under the bark was a clear emotional cord, one that was bleeding out on the pavement right in front of Mike's eyes, as if Will's soul was starting to come apart at the seams.

Mike let out a sharp laugh. "What's wrong with me?!" He spat, moving closer to Will until they stood mere inches apart again. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! Looking like some sick puppy dog, inviting me over for what? Because you were scared?! Grow up, it's a fucking storm!" Mike snarled.

"Fuck you." The words emotional and ripping through Will, and it was as if Mike could see his soul starting to crack open, spilling a dark black tar all over the ground, the same horrific substance that had infected his skin and still clung to his body, infecting his pores like a deadly parasite. "You were the one who kissed me!" Will added, mustering up a bit more courage and fight again.

That caused something in Mike to flip, his anger blinding him to anything else, the urge to purge himself of his crime a desperate need that spilt from his lips like poison. The storm was hammering down harder around them, as if swelling with them. "Like you weren't begging for it! So pathetically desperate to have anyone love you, it's amazing anyone does with how obviously broken you are." The words spilt without thought, low and harsh, his only aim, to hurt, to damage, to maim, to be free of this torment.

Will physically stumbled back a few paces from that, as if he'd actually been hit, the pain evident in his eyes, even in the low light of the streetlights. Mike watched as he beat down the pain for a moment, desperately trying to claw back any sense of dominance in the situation. "Yeah? Well, at least I'm not swapping spit with some stupid girl, playing pretend!"

"El's not stupid!" Mike wildly tried to defend.

Will moved closer to Mike again, his gaze causing Mike's to temporarily snap away, and to swallow hard. "What's the plan, huh? To keep this act up and end up playing house? To pretend that tonight never happened!"

Before Mike could even think of a rebuttal, Will shoved him with more force than Mike knew he had. In turn, Mike stumbled back a few steps, getting close to physically lunging for the other now. But instead, he channelled his growing violent hatred into his words, stepping closer until he filled Will's space, making use of the fact that he was a few inches taller. "At least I'm not some fag so desperate for attention he'll look for someone else's scraps, because face it, Will…" Mike let his voice trail off for a moment. The storm was snarling and groaning around them. "No one is ever going to love you like you crave. Who could? There's nothing left or worth holding gently and delicately. You're a husk of an eleven-year-old boy with nothing to offer." His words dripped in a truly nasty, cruel tone he wasn't even aware he could muster. His eyes were completely void of any love or compassion he once might have shown the other.

His words seemed to do their job perfectly, hitting their mark as Will stepped back a few paces, his eyes wide and full of hurt. Mike just stared at him like he was nothing, like he was less than nothing.

"Just….Go home, Mike." Will said, his voice sounding defeated and tragically broken. Mike was surprised by the lack of any emotion in his chest towards the others' broken words.

"See you around." Mike coldly said, turning to walk away from the scene, the storm digging into his skin through its cold winds, as if trying to rip out any warmth that might have seeped into his chest from earlier. Mike welcomed it.

He heard Will scurry back to his house, but he didn't turn around; instead, he forced himself to keep walking, unsure of what would become of him if he did.

That night, Mike tossed and turned, the storm finally easing, yet the lack of spitting wind or hurling rain offered little comfort, the silence too loud for his brain. He replayed the events of the night over and over again in his head. Channelling the thought that it was simply a moment of weakness, of naivety, of wanting to comfort his friend and letting some sick energy swallow him whole for a moment. That wasn't who Mike was; he didn't know what he was doing, his body acted as it did with El, his mind too swept up in the storm and TV to really know what it was doing. He was just attempting to be strong, just like his father had taught him, comforting and present for a man who was clearly delusional and sick. He swallowed his own lies easily, repeating them like a mantra over and over again, consciously in his mind until they started to settle and be accepted as fact. Any thought or creeping emotion that suggested otherwise was promptly killed or buried so deep down he would never be able to find it again.

He swallowed the lies consistently, drugging himself with them like he would swallow the contents of a bottle as he grew older. Anytime, even a slight wistful hope or dreamlike thought emerged, no matter how fleeting, he would swallow the lies, no longer even lies to him.

But the memory of just how broken Will had looked at the end of that night remained in his brain, lingering like a ghost who wouldn't release its shadowy talons from his skin. He saw flashes of it every time he looked at Will afterwards, neither of them able to meet the other's gaze anymore. At first, people commented on how they seemed distant, but over time, people just assumed they'd grown apart. Mike was more than happy to play into that. But late at night, when the silence grew too loud or the storms outside raged too loudly and his liquor cabinet had run dry, he was faced with the haunting truth that while his heart would always belong to El, he had bared his and willingly given Will his soul that night, and in return, he had cut up and slaughtered Will's. Forever damned to hold the broken fragments and gaze upon the possibility of what could have been.