The Unmarked Mixtape - midnighteverlark (2024)

Chapter 1: Sleepover

Chapter Text

Mike hisses and Will flinches back, grimacing with guilt. He keeps forgetting about Mike’s ribs. They’re still pretty badly bruised from Troy and his henchmen kicking him while he was down. Bastards.

“‘Sokay,” Mike breathes, and leans into Will’s space again. He keeps saying that. It’s okay, I’m fine, it’s nothing. He likes to play tough. Like it doesn’t bother him. But Will sees him wince whenever he moves wrong. It’s better than it was a few days ago at least.

He guides Will’s cupped palms back to his sides, where Will lets them rest - gingerly, this time - on the firm curve of ribs under flesh. His fingers splay, feeling their way over the skin-warmed fabric of Mike’s tee shirt.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. Being allowed to touch. He spent so long wanting, with no expectation of ever actually getting to live out his fantasy, that now he has to remind himself each time. It’s okay. He can do this. He can scoot closer, run his palms from ribs to spine, catch Mike’s lower lip between his teeth.

The old The Knack cassette catches and pops, tape worn thin from years of use. They selected it at random. Neither one has particularly been paying attention. Now, as the music starts to fizzle slightly over the same lyrics that it always does, Will’s socked foot bumps against a warm, fuzzy form. The form huffs and paws at their legs. He breaks the kiss with a laugh and reaches down to scratch behind Chester’s ears.

“Not getting enough attention?” he says, and Chester lolls his tongue out contentedly. Mike leans down to scrub a palm down the dog’s back. Chester flops over and begs for a belly rub with head thrown back, watching them upside-down. He’s starting to get old, Will reflects as their makeout session is put on pause. Silver hairs are spreading through the white of his muzzle and eyebrows. Chester licks his wrist as Will tries to trace the gray hairs with his fingers.

It’s a good day. Fridays almost always are, after all, but this one especially. The morning was gray and damp, prompting Will to show up to school in the brown sweater Mike left behind a few days ago - a fact that did not go unnoticed by Mike, and caused a slew of elbowing and flushed cheeks and sharp whispers. What if they notice? he hissed, but either the Party didn’t make the connection or didn’t pay it much mind.

The clouds cleared up by the early afternoon, but Will kept the sweater on anyway, despite it being just this side of too warm. It smells like Mike. Old Spice bar soap and warm skin and the Wheeler’s basem*nt.

Technically, Mike is grounded.

Well, if you want to be exact about it, they’re both grounded. Despite the fact that the fight was entirely Troy’s fault, Mike didn’t even get one good hit in, and Will -

Well.

They’ve both been grounded since Tuesday.

But Joyce just raised a brow, shook her head, and waved Mike in when he showed up at the door. She did, however, collect a door tax: a handful of the peanut M&Ms Mike brought for the movie later. So they should be in the clear. Karen is visiting some friends tonight, and Mike slipped out of the house yelling, “Be-at-Will’s-back-tomorrow-bye!” to Ted, hoping that either his father didn’t know he was grounded, had forgotten, or didn’t care enough to stop him. And apparently at least one of those was true, because Mike wasn’t chased down or shouted after as he got on his bike and took off.

And now here they are. Kneeling beside Will’s bed, raining attention down on a tail-thumping, panting canine as Joyce hollers, “Boys! Dinner!”

Mike sneaks another kiss before they reach the door. Already far more casually than he would have two weeks ago, or even a week. Will’s skin tingles under the hem of his stolen sweater even after Mike has let go and reached for the door.

Can you believe it’s almost been two weeks? Will wants to say, but they’re already on their way to the dining room. And besides, maybe that’s too sappy to actually say aloud. So instead he squeezes Mike’s hand one last time before they let go and round the corner.

The taste of peanut butter M&Ms coats Will’s tongue. Sticky, colorful marks dot his left palm, barely discernible in the light of the TV screen. Will licks a long stripe up his palm, gaze focused somewhere beyond the movie. He wipes his hand on Mike’s arm and ignores the sound of protest.

Jonathan actually sat down to dinner with them for once. Usually he’s so busy with work shifts and homework and commuting to the college in the city that he’s not even home at dinnertime. Which means that today was a rare opportunity for attending to the little-brotherly duties of teasing, poking, checking in on, and relentlessly questioning the older sibling. Will did not let this opportunity slip through his fingers. And Jonathan, struck by a rare sunny mood, teased and poked right back. Dinner was jovial.

But Will was in a hurry to clear the table afterwards. He slipped Chester a scrap of chicken instead of scolding him for begging, and barely rinsed the plates before stacking them in the sink. Mike laughed at him as Will all but pulled them both into the living room. Maybe it should have faded by now. It’s been almost two weeks. But he can’t help it. It’s like he has to check, he has to make sure. That it all happened, it’s still real, that the last thirteen days weren’t just some elaborate and cruel trick of his imagination. And Mike hasn’t seemed to mind Will checking.

Will tunes back into the present and digs for another palmful of M&Ms.

It’s dark in the living room, the only light coming from the screen and the kitchen light above the sink. That glow is warm yellow but dim, especially from down the hall. They’re curled up in front of the couch, where the blue light of the TV dominates. Sprawled out in a nest of sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows. A bowl of popcorn and the bag of M&Ms sit in front of them, two clearly definable shapes in the softer shadows of the bedding. It’s comfortable. Familiar. The bedding is warm with their body heat, and they’ve watched this movie at least half a dozen times since it came out on VHS: Stand By Me, one of Will’s current favorites.

But the breathless tension that hovers around them - that’s new. Like a fraying rope, seconds from whip-snapping. Because they’re curled up just a little too close. And their hands are joined, fingers shifting and playing absently. And if Will’s mother or brother happens to come out to say goodnight at the wrong moment - game over. Something shrivels up and squirms uncomfortably in the pit of Will’s gut. It’s a thought that keeps coming back, over and over, uninvited. That if they slip up - just once - one wrong word or gesture -

No. They won’t. Can’t. That can’t happen. A long breath spills through his parted lips. It won’t happen because he won’t let it happen. He just got this. They just got this. If someone found out, if their parents found out - jesus, Lonnie would kill them both on sight. Mike’s parents would send him away to some boarding school, they’d never see each other again. And they’d be marked, forever, and -

No. He won’t let it happen. He’ll be careful; they’ll be careful. Bad things happen to people like them, if they aren’t careful. Beatings and black eyes. Couples turned away at business doors on sight. Innocent people killed, attacked on the street, harassed and heckled. Sent away to be cured, or so some people say. Brains shot through with electricity until -

Something moves through Will’s nerves like a roll of thunder on the horizon. The hair on his arms stands up. Power pools like saliva in his spine and the base of his skull. Gut-twisting, instinctual. He closes his eyes for a moment, forcing it down. The energy trembles and lapses back into nothing before it can reach his fingertips.

Not now, he tells himself sternly. It’s okay. It’s not time for that.

It dissipates. Will releases the tension in his shoulders and they drop at least three inches. That was close. He can’t keep letting it get out of hand like that.

But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t let go of Mike’s hand. He holds on a bit tighter, and breathes a little easier when Mike squeezes back. And maybe that’s the part that scares him the most.

Will closes the last inch or two between them and snuggles against Mike with a sigh. Then he deliberately focuses on the movie.

He successfully passes most of an hour with his eyes on the screen and his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder. They pipe up occasionally, pointing something out or commenting on an old-fashioned detail of the 50s setting, but apparently Mike has a lot to think about too. They’re unusually quiet through most of it. That suits Will just fine; he’s content where he is. But then the movie comes to its last half hour and Will’s mind goes wandering off again. It goes from Chris to Mike to River Phoenix to Chris again.

Mike. Mike is like Chris. A best friend. A leader. Honorable, kind. Undeniably good-looking.

God, he hopes he doesn’t f*ck this up.

Because if he does, that’s not just his boyfriend he’d lose - his first boyfriend, mind you, and his longtime crush - but his best friend in the world. Mike. Mike’s distinctive, contagious laugh. His somewhat adorable bouts of grumpiness when he’s hungry. His stories and campaigns brewing in his head, jotted down on scraps of paper and the backs of envelopes. Gone in one swift, grim swoop.

He really hopes he doesn’t f*ck this up.

But for right now - for right now - nothing is wrong. Will tells himself that over and over as the movie winds down, like a mantra. Nothing is wrong. It’s okay. They’re okay. It’s Friday night. He’s safe at home. They have peanut butter M&Ms and a little popcorn left. They’re finishing up the first movie of the night and already digging around in Mike’s backpack for the second: the Wheeler’s barely-touched VHS of Nightmare on Elm Street . (The original, of course. They agreed long ago that all the sequels have mainly been garbage.) Will’s mother and then brother retired to their respective rooms long ago, so the sound has been turned down, and they whisper together as they rewind Stand By Me.

Will makes it about fifteen minutes into Nightmare on Elm Street before he gives in and pulls Mike’s mouth to his. He needs this. He managed to get himself all strung tight and now -

Mike presses back immediately. He tastes like chocolate and oily popcorn butter and the stale sweetness of the soda he finished an hour and a half ago. He lets out a little puff of breath as they turn, fumbling for a moment for a more comfortable position without breaking contact.

Will’s heart is pounding. Skin prickling with heat that wells up from within him. There’s an energy in the air of the living room, tangible, like static or humidity right before a huge storm. Like if Will raked his fingers through the empty space in front of them he’d feel it brushing through the spaces between his fingers. Secrets dart in the air around them, filling the dim space until it feels crowded, wriggling against Will’s skin. His tongue darts into Mike’s mouth in turn. A soft groan escapes Mike’s throat before he cuts it off, and Will smiles into the kiss.

Onscreen, Johnny Depp and - who’s the actress? Heather something? - are talking back and forth, but Will isn’t even processing the dialogue. It fades to background noise as Mike’s scent washes over him.

This is how it’s been, since that Saturday. During the day, everything is normal. They talk, they hang around the party, they ride their bikes side-by-side like always. Aside from the meaningful glances and the occasional game of footsie under the table, or the briefest of touches on the arm or shoulder, everything is as it’s always been. The Party is relieved to have their Paladin and Cleric on good terms again, after that week of tension, and life goes on as usual. Until they’re alone. And then it’s... well. It’s like this. Impatient, borderline needy. Touching constantly, conversations devolving into kissing. It’s been difficult the past few days, being grounded and all. Maybe that’s why they’re so fervent now - or maybe it can all be chalked up to teenage hormones. Either way, Will has no complaints.

He feels good, in moments like these. In-control. Giddy. When his stomach is abuzz with this is secret, this is forbidden, this isn’t supposed to be happening but it is. Nerves awash with an equally potent mix of don’t let them catch you, don’t let them see you, don’t let them see, don’t let them -

When he can feel his pulse in his temples and fingertips. When Mike is just melting under his touch. When he can make his boyfriend tilt his head or open his mouth or lie back against the rumpled mess of blankets with only the slightest touch, no words necessary. It’s a small power, but it’s dizzying. Addictive. Makes Will want to crawl right on top of Mike’s tall, lanky form and dig his fingers into his flesh, makes him want to bite and claim and take. Will’s fingers twitch into fists. God. Mike trusts him so much - doesn’t he? It’s an odd realization, but undeniable now that it has struck. Mike is trusting him with everything right now. Neck loose as a noodle, throat exposed, letting Will lead the kiss with a palm snugged to his jaw. Hands moving over Will’s torso. And, god, he’s gorgeous. All ivory-pale skin, made almost ghoulishly white in the glow of the screen, and dark-wavy-curly hair, and that dusting of freckles. Faint but everywhere.

Will wants to see just how far those freckles go. He wants to curl his fingers around the knobby bones of Mike’s wrists and drag his hands over his head, pin them there, hold him down and -

His hand lands on Mike’s ribs and Mike twists away with a clipped grunt.

Will falls back.

f*ck.

He’s breathing hard enough that he can feel his stomach caving in with every exhale, muscles aching under his skin. He’s hard. He hops off Mike’s lap and wonders when he got there, face radiating heat. He wonders if Mike could feel it just moments ago, when their faces were pressed together, mouths moving urgently.

Will draws his knees to his chest. Mike sits up, confused.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Sorry. Forgot about the bruises.”

Mike tosses his head with a glib - and false - smile. “It’s fine, it doesn’t really hurt anymore. Just looks grody.”

Which is why you flinched, right? Will thinks, but just turns to face the screen again. He lets Mike toss an arm around his shoulders, but doesn’t uncurl until he’s calmed down. God, he’s a moron. He has got to stop doing that. Mike isn’t like him - not completely, at least. He said it himself: he likes both. Boys and girls. He doesn’t want the same kind of things Will does - he wouldn’t. If he knew the things that go through Will’s mind when they’re making out, he’d freak.

Which is fine. Just as long as those thoughts stay in Will’s mind. They can’t do any harm there. But he has to keep control. Mike has risked so much already doing this, given him so much more than Will ever dared hope. He knows that. And that’s enough - more than enough. It really is. Just as long as he keeps in control.

It’s approximately 2:30am when they finally turn off Will’s old Atari. They’ve consumed a truly irresponsible amount of peanut M&Ms and soda and ridden the sugar high all the way through its various stages of giggly, slap-happy, hyper, and abrupt crash . Now they’re finally stumbling their way towards bed.

Will stands in the middle of the dark living room, scrubbing the pads of his fingers over his eyes as Mike gathers up the popcorn bowl and other detritus and piles it aside.

“You wanna sleep in my room?” he says. He wasn’t really thinking about the words when they came out of his mouth; he’s just tired, and not really thinking straight, and his bed sounds so much better than the living room floor right now.

“Sure,” Mike agrees, and they drag the sleeping bags past the stripe of yellow light from the kitchen and through the outline of Will’s door. It’s as they’re closing the door behind them that logic catches up to him.

“You know, it’s kind of stupid to use these. I mean, there’s a bed.”

Mike shrugs and clicks on one of Will’s lava lamps for light. They’re talking under their breath, aware of the late hour of the night - er, morning - and the thin walls. “I always sleep on the floor.”

“You don’t... have to.”

Will’s feet rub together where he stands on the nubbly carpet. Nerves have kick-started his heart again and settled a tart ache right at the base of his skull. But he already said it. And Mike’s head is tilted in consideration.

He’s seconds away from taking it back somehow, trying to undo the damage - it’s probably way too soon for that, right? He probably just made things awkward. He definitely just made things awkward. Goddamnit. Alright, this is fine, he can fix this, he’ll just say it was a joke or -

“Okay. I’m gonna brush my teeth.”

And with that Mike drops his sleeping bag in an unceremonious lump, grabs his toothbrush from his backpack, and pads off to the bathroom.

The nerves migrate to Will’s stomach and sink their claws in, sharp and stubborn, as the two boys take turns in the bathroom and arrive back in the pink-hued semi-darkness of Will’s room. The lava lamp gives just enough light to navigate by, and the room is still dark enough that Will can make out the spangling of green-ish glow-in-the-dark stars in the far corners.

He wobbles for a moment on his left foot, the right pressed over his cold toes. Then he realizes he’s waiting for no reason, and clambers into bed. The mattress tilts and squeaks as Mike’s weight sinks into the other side. For a few moments, they shift and fumble with the covers, getting settled. Then it’s still. Quiet.

“Night,” Will blurts, awkwardly.

“Night,” Mike says back.

And then Will spends the next fifteen minutes wide awake, despite the time.

They’re not on opposite ends of the mattress, but they’re not exactly cuddled up together, either. Still, Mike is here. In Will’s bed. He can feel his warmth radiating across the small space between them, filling the bubble under the blankets. One of his feet grazes Will’s calf. Will can make out his scent - his natural scent. It’s been a long day since this morning’s shower, and the manmade scents of soap and shampoo and cologne have been worn away, and now it’s just him. Something warm and organic and as familiar as Will’s own face in the mirror. Like skin and sunlight and the Wheeler’s laundry soap and a hint of musk.

Will doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to disturb this. Somehow, it feels so incredibly fragile. Maybe Mike is asleep already, because his breathing is rhythmic. Soft and steady and reassuring as the waves on the pebble beach that the Byers visit every year or so.

How is he supposed to sleep like this? This is like his most pathetic daydreams come to life. How many times when he was twelve, thirteen, fourteen - hell, always - did he wish so desperately for this exact scenario? That Mike would just climb up from the sleeping bag beside the bed and slip under the covers? It never did happen though. The closest they ever came was that humiliating moment during a Party camping trip. When they had to share a sleeping bag, thanks to Will dropping his in the stream. He woke early the next morning to find himself cuddled up to Mike’s back, forehead pressed to the back of Mike’s neck. It was one of the most mortifying moments of his life to date, and he had never been so grateful to look around and find everyone else still asleep.

Will’s pulse calms gradually. Mike is asleep. He hasn’t moved a muscle in a long time, except for his foot twitching occasionally against Will’s leg. Will turns onto his side - facing away from Mike this time so that the events of the camping trip can’t be repeated - and relaxes into the mattress. A deep breath lifts and releases his ribcage.

Today was a good day.

Of course, the universe can’t let that stand for long.

He’s mid-cry when he comes to, the noise clawing out of his mouth like a rat desperately scrabbling to escape a trap. His throat is dry, gummy, scratched. His voice dies in an ugly waver and he kicks at the - vines? - no, blankets - around his legs. He’s disoriented and it’s dark and oh god something is touching him -

His hand strikes something fleshy -

Energy bolts down his arm, leaving the whole appendage vaguely numb - like it fell asleep and is just getting the feeling back - it zaps through his palm and -

“Ow!”

Will’s wildly flailing legs disentangle themselves from the sheets at the exact moment that he manages to lurch upright and flip over.

And see his boyfriend rubbing his upper arm with a grimace.

“I’m sorry!” Will rasps. Something catches in his throat and he has to swallow hard. He’s already groping over the bed, grabbing at Mike’s arm and moving his hand out of the way, searching for damage. The damage Will did. “I’m - Mike - are you okay? I’m so - god, I’m sorry -”

“What? No - Will - hey, Will. No, I’m fine. It was just a spark, it was nothing. Just surprised me. Pretty strong though.” He catches Will’s hand and massages a thumb into the soft spot in the center of his palm. “Probably got you pretty good too, huh? Staticky sheets.”

But Will can’t say anything. He can’t breathe. He’s breathing too much - can’t get a word in edgewise.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

Slow down, slow down -

Will curls into himself. He’s fighting his own lungs. sh*t. sh*t, sh*t, sh*t, he almost killed him. He could have hurt him. He could have killed him.

Control, something in his whispers, echoing a thought from hours ago. You need to learn control.

And the nightmare -

He remembers it now. He had been running. Sprinting, pushed far beyond his body’s ability, legs flailing and nearly tangling, nearly giving out. It was after him again. You know, just the typical run-of-the-mill nightmare. Old memories, old scars. But it was bad this time. He couldn’t wake up, and something had grabbed him -

Mike. Mike had tried to wake him up. He must have been moving in his sleep, or making noise. So Mike shook him. And Will lashed out. Guilt sours in the back of his throat.

There’s a hand rubbing slow circles into his back, between his shoulder blades. Mike is talking. Quietly. Not really saying anything, just repeating things like, “Hey, slow down, okay?” and “Will,” and “I’ve got you.” The touch is grounding, and as the steel fist around Will’s diaphragm gradually loosens, he presses into Mike’s side. Gasping gives way to sobbing, which he struggles to shut down as fast as he can. Without much success.

Ugh, he inwardly sneers, crying? Really? Could you be any more pathetic? Get a f*cking grip, Byers.

So he does. Slowly. With Mike’s arms curled around his shoulders and his head braced in the curve of Mike’s throat.

“Sorry,” he whispers at last. He shifts his head minutely to see the clock. 4:11am. The lava lamp is still on. His mom always nags him about turning it off before he goes to sleep, but nothing’s caught fire yet.

Mike’s own head tilts down, his chin resting on Will’s hair. “It’s okay.” His legs stir, kicking the twisted blankets the rest of the way off. “Can we move, though? My spine is like two seconds from developing a permanent kink.”

Will chuckles and nods, and they slide down. They end up chest-to-chest, Will’s head pillowed on Mike’s shoulder, and he speaks into the collar of Mike’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Mike jostles him with the arm that’s curled over Will’s torso. “Nah.”

Will chews on his lower lip, then shrugs. He doesn’t have the energy to argue. Plus, now that he’s gotten his sh*t mostly back together, he’s actually comfortable enough to fall asleep again. But he doesn’t want to - not quite yet. The nightmare is too fresh in his mind.

Mike surprises him by speaking up again.

“Prom is next week.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Next Saturday, to be exact. The Party is going as a group - mostly to humor Max and Dustin, who actually enjoy those kinds of happenings. They’re going to get ice cream or something afterwards, and probably have a sleepover of some sort. They planned it weeks ago.

Mike breathes in, seems to reconsider, and then takes another breath. Will can’t see his face from this angle, but his voice is halting when he finally speaks. “I mean, hey - we could... yeah?”

It takes a moment for Will to process. Then he twists, half sitting up. The beginnings of a grin are tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You wanna go...”

Mike makes a gesture linking the two of them. “Together?”

“Like...”

“Like together together.”

“Like dates?”

“Yeah? I mean if -”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Totally. That - yeah. I’d - that’d be great.” Will’s head is bobbing, and the grin has fully broken through by now. Mike grins too. A curve of white teeth in the murky light of the lava lamp.

Mike nods back, still smiling. “Cool.”

Agreement reached, Will starts to lie back down on Mike’s chest. He reconsiders last minute, pops up, and presses a kiss to the grin on Mike’s mouth. Because he can. And because his sleep-deprived brain is just now catching up: prom. They’re going to prom together.

Mike’s kiss is sloppy with sleep, and Will has no doubt they’ll both be fully unconscious again in a matter of minutes. It is 4:14am after all.

It’s 4:15am on the dot when Joyce eases her bedroom door closed behind her. Her left hand grips her glass of water so tightly she’s half afraid it might break. Her right hand is pressed hard over her mouth. She thinks she might be smiling, but she can’t quite tell. It could also be a grimace.

Joyce stands, stiff and frozen, in her dark bedroom. Then she tilts the glass of water to her mouth and chugs it in one go.

The door was cracked no more than a centimeter, but there’s no denying what she just saw. No other way to interpret the image. Her son just kissed Mike Wheeler full on the mouth.

Chapter 2: Blueberry Pancakes

Chapter Text

The Byers’ household has always been, well... a disaster.

It’s the kind of house where, by New Years, the Christmas Tree is a crackly, dry fire hazard because no one remembered to water it. Where the car keys go missing on a daily basis because Joyce just throws them somewhere as soon as she gets through the door. Where they have the same meals nearly every week because that’s what she - and sometimes Jonathan - knows how to cook. (Friday is grilled chicken and mixed-veggies-from-a-frozen-bag night.) Where everything has a place, technically, but things drift around seemingly on their own, crayons making their way into every nook and cranny and half-empty mugs appearing on every surface. There are usually at least a few dishes stacked up on the counter. Nothing has been dusted in years.

Joyce tries - she really does. She wants to be a good mother. To have a neat, sparkling kitchen and perfectly styled hair and a large savings account and chewy, golden-brown cookies like Karen Wheeler. But her kitchen is in a perpetual state of disarray, and her hair turns out frizzy and unkempt no matter what she does to it, and between her and Jonathan they pay the bills alright but have little to nothing put away -

And what is she going to do when Will goes to college too, what is she going to do -

And somehow her baking turns out lightly burned on the bottom no matter how attentively she watches the oven -

And a nagging voice in the back of her head that sounds hauntingly like her ex husband whispers, You’ll never have your sh*t together, will you, Joyce? Can’t even run a goddamn household. You wanted to be an artist when you were little - do you remember? Now look at you.

Most days it’s all right. She takes one day at a time, and they get by. But today was rough. Everything seemed to happen all at once. A huge load of laundry, an unexpected bill, the car acting up, Chester getting ahold of an old photo album, Jim calling to reschedule for the second time this week... She didn’t even have the energy to fight it when Mike showed up at the door at a quarter to five, backpack clearly loaded up for a sleepover. Mike, who she knows for a fact is currently grounded. And that’s not to mention that Will is grounded too, and shouldn't be having friends over. But f*ck it. It’s been three days, that’s... probably enough.

Maybe she is a bad mother.

It’s 4:09am when Joyce eases her bedroom door open and pads, barefoot, down the hallway. She needs water. She’s slept horribly. Worries and unfinished work kept her up late, visions of bills and bitchy customers swimming above her head as she tossed and turned. She went to bed just past 10:30, couldn’t sleep until midnight, and woke up around 1am. Turned over, worried some more, and drifted off. And then woke up again at 2:45, and now again just past 4:00. And now she’s pissed. At this point she’s just waiting for the sun to rise so she can call the night a wash and drag herself to the coffee machine. But there are a couple hours before she can do that.

For now, water.

It’s the noise that catches her attention. Barely audible, but unmistakable: sniffling. The sound of nearly-repressed tears. She recognizes it instantly; how could she not? At seventeen weeks or seventeen years, no mother could ignore the sound of their child in distress. So, water in hand, she moves back down the hall and hovers just outside her youngest’s door. It’s cracked open, most likely by accident. In the past few years, the old hinges have developed a tendency of not quite wanting to close. So sometimes if she’s passing by late at night, going to the restroom or the kitchen, she can see the tiniest sliver of Will’s room as she passes. Like now. Now she sees Will - wait - no, that’s not Will’s profile. That’s... she’s seeing... what is she seeing?

By the pink-ish glow of Will’s largest lava lamp, she can make out a hair-thin slice of the scene. Will’s room. And his bed. And Mike Wheeler, in his bed, practically wrapped around her son.

She knows immediately that she should go. That this was not meant for her eyes. But she’s suddenly, irrationally afraid that if she moves she’ll be discovered. Her foot will fall on a creaking patch of floor, or the ice in her cup will clink. And she’ll have to explain why she’s hovering outside the door, clearly spying. Not that she meant to. But it’s not a conversation she’s eager to have - and she doesn’t imagine they’d be too pleased with it either. Or with her, for that matter.

So she freezes.

They’re whispering together. And now that she’s here, just outside the door, she can make out words if she really focuses. Which she shouldn’t. But Will was struggling to contain tears just moments ago, she’s sure of it, and she knows he still has nightmares sometimes, and -

It’s been years, but she can still hear the exact inflection in his voice, the exact way it broke over the last word - I felt it. Everywhere.

She just needs to make sure he’s okay. She can’t help it. She’ll sneak back to her own room in just a second. Right now, actually. This is stupid. She’ll just step -

“Prom is next week,” Mike is saying.

Will hums an affirmative. Joyce shifts her weight and gets a better grip on her glass, readying herself to move swiftly and silently across the hall and to the safety of her own room. To the too-large bed, where she still sleeps on the left side despite having the entire mattress to herself. But something is holding her back. Something about that tiny glimpse of the boys curled up on Will’s bed, blankets a mess around them. Something seems off, somehow. Unfamiliar. Out of place.

Her eyes dart down. She can’t quite tell through the crack in the door, but she doesn’t think Mike’s usual sleeping bag is even there. And that’s - well, wrong . Like a painfully flat note smack-dab in the middle of a familiar song. Mike always sleeps beside the bed. He has for years. Ever since the Shadow.

They’re still talking.

“I mean, hey - we could... yeah?”

A rustle as Will moves. “You wanna go...”

Mike’s voice again. Nervous. “Together?”

“Like...”

“Like together together.”

Joyce drifts just an inch closer. Together together? Something is niggling in the back of her brain.

“Like dates?”

“Yeah? I mean if -”

She moves even closer. Her brow bone almost touches the door frame, eye fit neatly to the gap. A strand of her hair is in her face, stuck to her cheek, but she doesn’t dare lift a hand to flick it off.

Dates?

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Totally. That - yeah. I’d - that’d be great.”

Prom.

Dates.

Joyce blinks. Blinks. And her eyes go wide. About half a dozen things coalesce and click into place all at once. Half-formed thoughts and images.

Her son’s eyes have always softened around his best friend, ever since they were little -

They were acting weird the night of the storm - she knew they were -

And that notebook - the sketchbook she wasn’t meant to see, years ago -

“Cool,” Mike says.

sh*t, she should go. She needs to leave. She never should have -

A blur of movement, and from her vantage point she’s at the perfect angle to see Will -

And she’s moving. Leaving. On her way down the hallway, through her bedroom door.

It’s 4:15am on the dot when Joyce eases her bedroom door closed behind her. Her left hand grips her glass of water so tightly she’s half afraid it might break. Her right hand is pressed hard over her mouth. She thinks she might be smiling, but she can’t quite tell. It could also be a grimace.

Joyce stands, stiff and frozen, in her dark bedroom. Then she tilts the glass of water to her mouth and chugs it in one go.

The door was cracked no more than a centimeter, but there’s no denying what she just saw. No other way to interpret the image. Her son just kissed Mike Wheeler full on the mouth.

Joyce moves to her bed and sits, gingerly. She sets the cup on her nightstand; her fingers splay out over the knees of her threadbare fleece pajamas.

When was it that Will killed that spider? They must have been - what - five? Maybe six. But it wasn’t too long after they met. They were very small - Will especially. When Jonathan tells the story he swears it was a black widow, but it wasn’t. It was a brown recluse. She had plenty of time to identify it as she wiped the half-squished remains into the trash.

Maybe it’s a mom thing, but it takes absolutely no effort at all to summon up that little voice in her memory -

“Don’t move, Mikey! I’m coming!”

Joyce’s finger pauses on the page of her book. That’s a different tone. That’s a serious tone - not the play-serious of imaginary peril, but real urgency.

Will swoops through the back door before she’s even up from her chair.

“Sweetheart? Is something the m-”

But he’s gone again. Scrawny legs pumping, hair flopping all over his face. Snatching the fly swatter from the wall and skittering through the screen door and out of sight.

“Hey, watch the door!” Lonnie shouts from a room away as the screen screeches and slams, bouncing back before it settles on its hinges. Will doesn’t even shout back a “sorry.”

Joyce hesitates, marks her page, and pursues.

It’s too damn hot to be outside, in her opinion, but the boys wouldn’t hear of playing indoors. It was enough of a battle to get sunscreen on them, much less convince them to come in. They’ve been having a riotous time chasing back and forth in the yard, water guns bared, squealing and giggling and getting nicely covered in mud, grass stains and hose water. But now the door to the largest shed hangs open. And Jonathan - who was supposed to be watching them - is nowhere to be seen. And Will’s muddy yellow shirt is disappearing through that door.

His voice sounds out again, pitched high. A rough little, “Ow!”

Joyce’s quickening pace carries her through the door of the shed in time to see Will pick himself up. Red is starting to well up at his knee, where the skin clearly met the rough floor with painful, unforgiving abruptness. Will doesn’t seem to notice. He’s sidling towards a corner of the shed with the fly swatter held out in front of him.

Her eyes adjust, and the shape of Mike Wheeler appears in the far corner. He’s curled up halfway between some storage boxes and an upturned wheelbarrow, cowering from a gauzy shred of something white-ish just beside his own knee.

A speck moves over the white gauze and Mike gives a full-body shudder, cheeks already wet and splotched red.

And Joyce understands.

And doesn’t understand, at the same time.

Will hates spiders. Hates them more than snakes, more than bees. Refuses to go anywhere near them. He gasps or shrieks whenever he runs afoul of one. But now he inches closer and closer, standing over the half-torn web with his jaw set.

Three things happen at once. Jonathan’s footsteps skid through the door; Joyce darts forward, reaching for Will; and Will brings the fly swatter down with a whistle and a satisfying thwack.

Her hand closes on the tail of his yellow tee shirt and she drags him back, away from the tiny brown shape. It’s not quite dead. One leg twitches, curls, and goes still.

She fishes Mike out from behind the wheelbarrow with the other hand and shepherds them all out into the sunlight. And that’s where she gets the whole story.

In short: they were playing. Jonathan got bored of babysitting and went off on his own. They decided that the shed was a secret tunnel, and Mike was supposed to hide and them jump out and ambush the bad guys. And that’s when he kicked a spider web on his way by, completely oblivious until he had gotten himself wedged into a corner not a centimeter from the startled arachnid. He was stuck; he couldn’t move without getting closer to the spider. Panicked, he called for Will.

The whole story takes a few minutes to piece together, thanks to their joint storytelling skills.

“I was hiding,” Mike eventually gets out. His chin dimples as he struggles valiantly to contain the sniffling. “I broke its web but I didn’t mean to but I think it was angry at me an’ -”

Will was sniffling too, by that point. Joyce remembers that clearly. He had noticed the scrape on his knee a few minutes after the slaying of the beast.

She sent them inside by themselves - she remembers that too. She sent Mike and Will inside with instructions to wash off Will’s knee while she stayed to lightly scold her oldest. The usual he’s just five, you can’t just leave him all alone without telling me, you’re almost nine now and you need to take more responsibility spiel. And when she sent Jonathan off with a ruffle of his hair to signal forgiveness, she had discovered the boys perched on the edge of the tub with the contents of the first aid kit spread out over the bathroom floor. You would have expected a severed limb at least with all the gauze and scissors and q-tips scattered everywhere. Mike had selected the largest band aid in the box, and as Joyce watched, he stuck it over Will’s battle wound. Very seriously. He was funny that way - his somewhat chubby little face would turn so serious, intent on his task.

Some morbid curiosity had pulled her back to the shed. As Jonathan retreated to his room and the boys got back to their game, spider quickly forgotten, she wiped up the remains of both weaver and web. The violin pattern on the thing’s back was unmistakable. Brown recluse, for sure. A bite would have been a problem - a real problem.

She doesn’t know why this is the memory that comes to mind as she’s lying in bed, eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling. She tries to puzzle it out - after all, it’s not like she’ll be getting much sleep now anyway. She lies there, and she turns over, and her mind goes in circles. But she doesn’t know why those three images won’t disconnect in her brain. Little Will, all three feet and six-point-seven-five inches of him squared up against the spider - tiny, really, but venomous. Little Mike, very seriously smoothing a too-large bandaid over the scrape on Will’s knee. And the both of them, just now. Will’s hands braced on Mike’s chest as he leaned up. No hesitation at all in his movements as he fit their lips together.

Her nose is pricking, and a hand comes up to cover it again.

Joyce pulls a fistful of blankets up to her chin. Her feet are still chilled from the kitchen floor, and the queen size bed is big and empty and a little cold. But -

But Will’s isn’t. Just on the other side of that hallway, Will is almost definitely warm.

If sugar hangovers are possible, Mike has one.

And if they’re impossible, he still has one.

He’s been drifting in that one-quarter-awake, mostly-asleep zone for an indeterminable amount of time. It’s morning - there’s light - but he’s not getting up until it becomes necessary. Or even opening his eyes for that matter. Or moving.

Well, he might be convinced to move. It’s too hot inside the sleeping bag, and his right hand is entirely numb - possibly his entire arm. It’s gonna be a bitch to regain feeling. He must have slept on it weird, but fixing that requires moving, and he doesn’t want to. Not when he’s so comfy otherwise. Seriously, the floor has never been so comfortable. Or warm. Or...

He’s not on the floor, is he?

From this angle, it takes his brain a couple seconds to process what he’s seeing and put it together into the familiar layout of Will’s room. It’s just, usually he’s seeing it from a couple feet lower down and slightly farther to the left. And usually his vision is impeded by the bed instead of a head of brown hair. A head which just so happens to be resting on his shoulder. Which explains why his arm is, so far as his nerves can tell, nonexistent.

His head turns and the clock comes just into view. 9:37am.

On the one hand, Mike has absolutely no problem letting his head fall back into the pillow and going to sleep until noon. On the other hand, he can’t un-notice Will now that he’s somewhat more conscious.

Will is turned half on his stomach, half on his side, draped over Mike with his face pressed into Mike’s shoulder. And he’s asleep. And for a solid three minutes, Mike lies completely still, at a loss for what to do.

He feels like he should be mildly embarrassed by this. This is bizarre. He’s in bed with his best friend, arms wrapped around him. Holding him - holding a boy . And he knows it’s stupid - he knows perfectly well that he’s been over this at least once a day for the past two-ish weeks, and he knows that he decided he doesn’t care - he doesn’t give a single f*ck! - but. There it goes again. He can tell himself that he doesn’t care all he wants, but it doesn’t shut his brain up. And he has to spend the next five minutes trying to convince himself not to be a dumbass.

It’s too damn early for this.

Despite it being nearly 10:00.

Whatever. He’ll get over it. He drops his nose into Will’s hair almost petulantly, determined not to let himself ruin this by overthinking. His bedmate stirs minutely, but his breaths remain even.

The bed smells like them. Or maybe that’s just Will’s hair. Probably both, to be fair. In any case, Mike closes his eyes again and breathes in. Maybe he will go back to sleep. It wouldn’t be too hard.

It’s the same scent that usually hangs around the room after a sleepover, unnoticable until he leaves and then returns. Now it’s stronger, headier. It’s the somewhat flat smell of dormant bodies and bedsheets and morning air, and this time, it’s also both of their own scents melded together. It’s not especially sweet; definitely not a man-made smell you’d find in a bottle or a bar of soap. But it’s not bad, either.

He’s not sure at first, because his shoulder is so dead, but - yes, Will is moving. Nuzzling into his shoulder. Mike is gonna kill him. He kind of wants to shove him off the bed and grumble, Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re adorable. Now wake up before all this sap kills one or both of us. He wants to poke Will until he opens his eyes, or pull the blankets off him. Normal guy-friends-giving-each-other-a-hard-time stuff. Anything to diffuse this... this... god, Mike wants to kiss him.

Will’s eyes open and Mike pokes him gently on the nose.

“Care to join us in the land of the living?” he teases. Like he didn’t just wake up a few minutes ago himself.

“No,” Will says, and turns his face into Mike’s chest again.

“Your breath is awful.” Mike shakes him. “Get up, I want breakfast.”

Will scoots up, pushes a hard kiss onto Mike’s mouth in retaliation, and blows a warm puff of morning breath in his face. And Mike feels a little less weird about climbing out of the bed they just shared, laughing and shoving at each other.

The weirdness returns in the kitchen. Because Mike can’t remember the last time Joyce made pancakes - or any kind of breakfast, for that matter. Jonathan is the designated morning cook, and when he’s asleep or gone, they forage for themselves. Cereal or toast, usually - pretty hard to mess up. Except for that one time. But look, that wasn’t Mike’s fault. The toaster had gremlins and possibly electrical problems.

Anyway.

The point remains that Mrs. Byers is standing in front of the stove in her pajamas and a thin sweater, a box of pancake mix at her elbow. The radio sits on the other end of the counter and she’s almost, though not quite, swaying along to the chorus of Danger Zone . Jonathan must be up and out already, because he’s nowhere to be seen. If he was home he’d definitely be hanging around the kitchen. No force on earth can keep Jonathan from pancakes. Nancy learned that the hard way.

“Late shift today?” Will says by way of greeting, and she jumps a little, as if pulled from a deep thought. Then she smiles at them, nods, and turns back to the stove.

“Noon to nine.”

“Gonna take you right into the danger zone,” Kenny Loggins interjects from the radio. Joyce turns it down another notch and rubs at her cheek. Her thumb leaves a smudge of flour just beside her nose, the white a stark contrast to the circles under her eyes.

Will makes a sympathetic face. “Hopefully After Hours Guy isn’t there tonight.”

Joyce pulls a face in return and echoes, “After Hours Guy,” in a groan.

Mike co*cks his head from the table and Joyce starts in on a brief but heated explanation about the customer who almost always comes in mere seconds before they’re supposed to close.

She seems tired. She’s usually up earlier than this – isn’t she? Mike doesn’t know her well enough to be sure, but it is kind of weird to see her in pajamas at 10am on a work day. And is she acting weird? A little stiff? Or maybe stilted? She keeps staring deep into the colander of blueberries she’s washing and then saying, “What?” when one of them says anything. Again, maybe she’s just tired.

Mike frowns into his orange juice. They probably kept her up last night. Damnit. Now he feels bad.

Will starts the coffee pot and watches in disgust as Mike heaps milk and sugar into his cup.

“Gross,” is Will’s comment, and Mike dumps a spoonful into Will’s mug. Half of the sugar scatters on the floor by their feet as Will blocks it with a squawk, but the other half makes it into the coffee, and Mike cackles as Will sets it down and mutters, “Ruined.”

He picks it up and drinks it a few seconds later, though, so Mike knows he’s not really mad.

The pancakes are neither burned nor doughy. Mike wouldn’t have particularly minded if they had been either, but as it is, he puts away approximately five. Once, when he looks up, he finds Joyce’s eyes already on him from across the table. She gives him a small, tired smile, and goes back to her own mug of coffee.

“It just - shouldn’t -” Will sighs impatiently, searching for words. He’s loading up his arms with soda cans as if they’re ammunition, glaring at the fridge. “It’s not like we can’t trust them. We can trust them.”

“I know we can. We can,” Mike agrees. The counter presses into his hip where he leans against it, hands scrubbing over his face. “But we can’t just -”

“Why not?”

Mike gives an incredulous huff. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it. Two weeks ago Will was telling him how terrified he was that someone might find out about him. Now he wants to just go ahead and tell the whole party about the both of them? What the hell.

“What do you want?” Mike’s voice is low, but his hands jab at his sides to make up for it. His parents are upstairs and everyone else is in the basem*nt, door closed, but the kitchen isn’t that far away. “We’re supposed to say, oh, yeah, by the way, we’re dating now. You guys are cool with that, right? ”

“Yeah?” Will shrugs and almost drops one of the Dr. Peppers. “No. I don’t know. I don’t - I don’t not want them to know.”

Mike kind of doesn’t want them to know, though. Will gets that. He has to get that. How could he not? Why are they fighting about this? Are they fighting about this?

Mike selects a tin of mixed nuts and a bag of pretzels with perhaps more force than necessary. Max started it. She was the one that made the comment. Are you guys done holding hands under the table over there or is someone gonna roll? She didn’t mean anything by it. She teases like that all the time. And it’s not just them. She teases Dustin and Lucas, and El, and even Jonathan and Steve and Nancy if any of them are around. It’s just, this time the roulette wheel fell on Mike and Will. And it hit just a little too close to home.

They weren’t even holding hands. That’s the thing. And it makes Mike even more antsy. They weren’t even holding hands. Will reached out and nudged Mike’s knee with his hand, but Mike didn’t take it. He didn’t want anyone seeing. He felt bad immediately, but what was he supposed to do? And then Max just had to make that comment and -

Will mutters to his shoes. “I hate that we have to sneak around.”

Guilt from earlier twists in Mike’s gut, like someone’s stirring his insides around with a fork. Damnit. He tosses the snacks onto the counter and the pretzels miss and hit the floor.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and goes to hug Will with a quick glance at the basem*nt door. Still closed. The sodas are cold between them, slippery enough that one almost slides out under Will’s sleeve. He draws his elbow in to catch it. He won’t meet Mike’s gaze.

“Yeah,” Mike says again. “I know. I do too. But...” he casts around. “It might not be all bad.”

Will’s face folds into something half-skeptical, half-curious. He has to tilt his chin up slightly to finally meet Mike’s eyes, as close as they are.

“Do you remember when we were little and we’d play spies?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“We’d write notes in invisible ink and have secret codes and make up missions and stuff.”

“So?”

“ So, maybe...” Mike shrugs, all at once unsure. This sounded better in his head. “This could be like that. Like grown-up spies.”

Will arches a brow delicately - an expression that Mike is almost certain he picked up from El. “Grown-up? We’re teenagers.”

“Hey, we’re adults. We’re grown.”

“Is that why you have barbeque chips and three comic books in your backpack but no planner?”

“First of all -” Mike pokes Will just under the ribs and Will nearly drops the cans of soda. “Nosy. Second of all, yes, yes it is. And anyway, my spy idea is brilliant.” Will is still fighting to maintain an unimpressed facade, so Mike pulls out an invisible radio and makes a static sound effect. “This is Agent Wheeler calling base for stats on Mission: Make Agent Byers smile.”

Will resists, cracks a smile, and then snorts. His head tosses back with the half-laugh, half-grin, and Mike stares for a second. Just a second. Because even a few years after changing it, Will still looks really good with his hair parted to the side and brushed back like that. And now that the tension has broken and dissipated, Mike can grin right back.

“Shut up, you’re such a goof.”

Mike throws his fists above his head. “Mission success!”

“Would you pick up the pretzels and get down here already? They’ve probably made their own DM out of spare parts and are halfway through the ruins by now.”

“No Franken-Master can replace me.”

“You mean Franken-Master’s Monster?”

“Frankenstein’s Dungeon Monster.”

“Ooh, nice.”

Downstairs, the campaign resumes, fueled by snacks. But something has shifted. Mike dodged the real issue - he knows that. And he is summarily ignoring that fact. That’s a later-problem. Right now he has to figure out how to corral the Party in the right direction, and all of them keep getting hung up on stupidly unimportant details. It’s like trying to herd cats, honestly. They spend ten real-life minutes trying to interrogate a rock he described as looking vaguely like an old man’s face. Ten minutes! It’s just a rock, guys, stay on target!

It doesn’t take too long for the whole Party to dissolve into laughter after that, and Mike is feeling normal again.

But certain things become much harder to ignore when Will bumps Mike under the table again. And this time, Mike slowly flips his hand. Their fingers interlace as Mike looks up the stats for an approaching monster.

Just when he thinks his heart rate has returned to normal, Will leans over in a moment of general shouting and laughter and anarchy, and whispers, “We should sleep together again tonight.”

Chapter 3: Christmas Lights

Chapter Text

“It doesn’t feel like anything from the Upside Down.”

El’s first knuckle bumps along the sharp edges of her incisors, tracing the shape of her mouth. Her head is bent, brow tense. She speaks around her hand, anticipating Mike’s reply before he gets it out.

“I’m sure. Those things - that place - it has an energy. Very...” Her hand leaves her lips to flutter beside her head, as if she’s trying to grab the word out of the air. “Unique.”

“Then maybe it’s nothing.”

Her head slants down towards one shoulder in a kind of half-nod. “If it was one time. Yeah. Nothing.”

“But it keeps happening?”

“I’ve been keeping track of it.”

“And?”

“Don’t know yet.”

Mike rubs a hand over his own mouth with a sigh and a shift of his weight. They’re standing in the shadowed half-corridor between the kitchen and the living room, listening to the bumps and shouts of the others getting ready to leave. Cozy yellow light spills from the open basem*nt door, but no one has started tromping up the stairs yet. Dustin yells something Mike can’t make out from here, but Max’s answering holler of, “f*ck you and the horse you rode in on!” is loud and clear. El’s expression of worry loosens for a moment as she rolls her eyes.

“Look, Ellie,” Mike says, taking advantage of her momentary smile. The old nickname brings her gaze to his. “You worry too much. And work too much. It’s just the power grid. You know how Hawkins is, especially with that new power company that took over. And the weather last month.”

El rolls her eyes again, this time with a nod. Last month’s storms, and the outages and delays they caused, have been the talk of the town.

“It’s probably just the power grid,” Mike says again. “Which means it’s the company’s problem to fix, not yours. Don’t worry about it.”

She’s not the least bit convinced, and he can tell. But she just shrugs. There’s a theory brewing behind the warm brown of her eyes - something she’s not saying, at least not yet - but Mike’s not worried. This isn’t the first time an electrical disturbance or two has made Party members jumpy. It’s been years, but certain flickers of light - certain smells, certain distant sounds - can still send any one of them into an irritable tailspin, on some days. It’s happened before. And his gut says that this is no different. After all, El said herself that she didn’t feel anything from the Upside Down. So what else would it be? Gremlins?

His train of thought takes an abrupt turn as he notices her face scrunch up in mischief.

“What?”

She makes an aloof face and crosses her arms.

“What?”

“So?”

“So what?”

El leans forward and Mike’s heart sinks as he realizes what’s coming.

“Soooo,” she says again.

Mike mutters, “Aw, f*ck off,” and tries to elbow her gently away, but it’s too late; she’s already pounced. She attaches herself to him like a monkey, poking at his sides and grinning evilly, her laughter washing over his protests.

“No - hey, c’mon -” He’s starting to laugh too, despite his best efforts. “Stop it, come on -”

“I told you so,” she sings in his ear, evading his attempts to dislodge her.

“Shut up, seriously.”

Recognizing the real warning in his voice, she drops her volume. She’s agreed not to tell the others, despite a long and mildly infuriating argument. But that doesn’t stop her teasing.

Voice pitched low, she repeats, “I told you so, I told you so,” until she devolves into laughter again at his failed attempts to escape her clutches. She’s acting like a kid sister, teasing and tussling, all seriousness from mere minutes ago seemingly evaporated. Like the kid she never really got to be, he supposes. That doesn’t keep his annoyance meter from creeping into the red, and he sulks away when he finally succeeds in shoving her off.

She follows, undaunted. “Say I was right.”

“No.”

“But I was.”

She swings around the doorframe and blocks his path down the steps. “Say it or no passage.”

He glares and she imitates him, pursing her lips. Then she laughs, and her tone evens out a little; she’s not playing anymore. “Mike. You know I’m just happy for you.”

And maybe it’s just his imagination, but the tiniest flicker of sadness seems to darken her smile too. But then it’s gone. And she presses a kiss to his cheek and disappears down the stairs, her curls flicking against his nose as she turns. She nearly collides with Max on the bottom step, and Mike swears he sees a hint of pink rise to El’s cheeks as they do the side-to-side dance and eventually laugh and slip past one another.

The Party has departed; Mike’s mother is upstairs, probably almost in bed; his father is dozing off in front of the TV, feet propped up on the La-Z-Boy. The basem*nt door is firmly shut. They stole the radio from the kitchen counter, and it now sits on the table, volume turned down low enough not to reach the levels above. The Christmas lights are plugged in - a holdover from when they were thirteen and the soft pink-ish glow made it easier for them all to sleep. By now the lights are more tradition than anything else.

And though Will can - usually - sleep okay in the dark, he still feels just a little better with the string of lights plugged in. Mike didn’t know that, until recently. It’s one of the things Will has told him since the day at Castle Byers; more accurately, one of the things they’ve told each other. They’ve talked so much, in the past two weeks. Because why not? What’s an old confession or a furtive wish or a guilty pleasure when they’ve already exposed their darkest secrets to each other?

But they’re not talking just now. Those lights waver at the edge of Mike’s vision. He and Will are half-lying on the Wheeler’s old yellow-ish couch, just underneath where they strung up the lights almost four years ago and never quite got around to taking them down.

Will is sleeping over. As per his suggestion, and a surprise to no one. Being best friends for over a decade, it would be unusual if one wasn’t at the other’s house over the weekend. Still, Mike’s heart picked up in his chest when he poked his head around the corner to say, “Hey, Mom, Will’s gonna stay over.” Of course she just said, “Okay,” over her book, told Mike to clean up their snacks this time, and that was that. But he felt, stupidly, like he narrowly avoided detection somehow. As if everyone can see, just by his face, that something is different. Something has changed. That the sleepovers of late aren’t quite the same as they used to be. As if the rest of the Party, hollering goodbye on their way out, would take one look at Mike standing next to his best friend and know immediately what they were up to.

Well. El did. But she just smirked on her way to Hop’s car and said nothing. The rest trickled out one at a time, completely unaware that Will’s fidgeting was due to impatience and not sugar rush.

Fingers flutter over Mike’s field of vision.

“You in there?”

Mike blinks. Then he smiles. “Hey.”

Will grins back, almost laughing. “Hey. Watcha thinkin’ about?”

He hesitates. They already had an almost-fight today about what the others know and don’t know. “The lights,” he answers, truthfully.

Will glances up. The multicolored glow touches the planes of one half of his face; the other half is shadowed. They’re the only light source in the basem*nt; beyond the couch is just warm, familiar darkness. “We could turn them off,” Will is saying, but Mike shakes his head.

“They’re fine. I’m too comfy to move, anyway.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because I’m losing feeling in my arm. Scooch.”

Groaning, Mike turns. They’ve been half-lying across the couch, Will squashed against the back while Mike’s ass just about hangs over the edge of the cushions. When they were twelve they could lie on this couch side-by-side with no issue. Now... not so much. Not unless they really squeeze together.

Mike gets up on his knees, balancing on the old cushion while Will settles into the middle of the couch and stretches dramatically. The opportunity is too good to pass up, and Mike’s hands shoot to Will’s ribs. Will yelps. His whole body scrunches in on itself, like a startled pill-bug - and then the surprised gleam in his eyes turns challenging. And it’s on.

Mike’s evasive roll takes him directly off the edge and onto the floor, and then he’s up and Will is right on his heels. They dodge around the indistinct shapes of furniture by memory. Whisper-shouting because Ted is just a floor above. Circling and feinting around the table before Will lunges directly over it and Mike stumbles back in surprise. His heel rams into something he can’t see and he hits the carpet.

“Oh, sh*t,” Will giggles in a stage-whisper, “You okay?”

“No, I’m dead.” He sprawls out on the floor and closes his eyes. Will’s knees land at his side, hands jiggling his shoulders until Mike barks, “Psych!”

Will reacts fast - but not quite fast enough. Mike’s hands close over his wrists and a brief struggle lands him with short breath and a knee on Will’s chest.

“Get off,” Will finally huffs, after failing to dislodge Mike’s weight. “I can’t breathe.”

“You’re fine.” But he moves his knee from Will’s sternum.

They ended up just at the edge of the pool of dim light, and it makes the flush of Will’s face even more pronounced as he takes a few deep, recovering breaths. Mike can see his pulse jumping in his neck. His own heart matches Will’s pace, and he dives down - and stops. Familiar. So familiar. Too familiar. How many times? How many times have they been in a similar position, just after wrestling for the remote or shotgun or just because? How many times has Mike looked at his best friend afterwards and wanted - somewhere, deep in the unconscious back of his brain, suppressed and half-ashamed - wanted -

Will closes the last of the space between them, sitting up on his elbows to reach.

They’re lazy, at first, too out of breath from their brief but intense chase to do much more than kiss. Mike stretches out and, after a second of hesitation, settles his weight over Will. But apparently he can breathe just fine now, because Will doesn’t make a single sound of protest. He just tilts his head the other way and curls his fingers into Mike’s hair. He seems to like doing that.

The shift comes all at once. Will’s body, pressed tight between Mike and the floor, melts and then goes taut as a wire. A shiver races up Mike’s spine and into the base of his skull before his mind catches up. He isn’t startled when his boyfriend rears up and tugs at the roots of Mike’s hair. His little gasp isn’t of surprise, or even pain - it doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t resist or question when Will pulls them to their feet, barely breaking the kiss for a second. Because some small, secret part of himself expected this. Maybe even hoped for it.

In the back of his mind, he hears the radio advertisem*nts end, the station’s signature jingle, and the introduction to the next song. Tonight Tonight Tonight by Genesis, apparently. The song starts up as Will maneuvers them to their feet.

Standing makes him painfully aware of how tight his jeans have become. His cheeks go hot. But he doesn’t think he could break away and adjust himself if he tried. He feels like a ragdoll, like Will could do whatever he wanted with him at this point. With Will’s tongue tracing over his lips and one cold hand pushing up under Mike’s shirt. Stand up? Sure. Stumble to the couch? Okay. Lie down? No problem.

“Try to shake it loose, cut it free,” the radio sings, over the vaguely electronic instrumentals. “Just let it go, just get it away from me, oh; 'Cause tonight, tonight, tonight, oh; I'm gonna make it right; Tonight, tonight, tonight, oh...”

If Mike was thinking straight he would almost definitely be mortified. He should not be this turned on by Will snapping his teeth on Mike’s lower lip and crawling over him with that slow, deliberate grace. And when he realizes he’s trapped, caged in by Will’s limbs, he should be recoiling. Wriggling away. Annoyed or uncomfortable - or even scared. Not tilting his head back to expose a neck prickling with gooseflesh. Not going hot and cold under Will’s teeth - not letting out a small, strangled noise when those teeth sink down hard into the sensitive juncture between neck and shoulder. And his hips really, really shouldn’t twitch up in a sort of desperate, instinctual stutter when Will suddenly caves and drops his whole solid, warm weight over Mike’s body.

But no matter how hot Mike’s whole head has become with blood-blush, from the tips of his ears to the back of his neck, his hands still find Will’s shoulders. His fingers still curl and grip tight, and his face still drops into the mop of brown hair. Will’s mouth moves along his neck, leaving a wet trail, and then he bites down again and his cheeks hollow out and Mike’s body bows against Will’s at the burst of hard suction. It almost hurts, and then it does hurt, and Mike squirms even though he’s not really trying to get away. His pulse throbs through his whole body; his dick, still trapped in his jeans, is pressed firmly to Will’s hip. Which Will can almost definitely feel. The muscles of Mike’s stomach contract instinctually in embarrassment, trying to pull him away, but there’s nowhere to go but the couch cushion below.

Will breaks away, leaving a patch of saliva to cool in the chilled basem*nt air. His cheeks are scarlet-tipped, lips dark and swollen. His eyes sweep over Mike’s, and there’s a second - just a second - of trembling pause. Then Will has Mike’s head in his hands and a shallow breath sucks against Mike’s cheek as Will draws their mouths together.

Pops of static ripple along their forms intermittently, like soap bubbles bursting one after another. The sting is tiny and impotent, and when they move, a tiny lightning storm crackles between their torsos. Like when you kick your legs around inside a fleece sleeping bag.

Will shifted, sometime in the last few moments, and now he’s settled squarely over Mike’s frame. And he swears, as the radio chimes away from the table, that he almost feels Will’s own hips press harder against him when Mike rubs his tongue over Will’s. Will is frenzied, insistent. Mike can barely keep up, but he doesn’t mind. His mind went kind of warm and fuzzy a while ago. He’s drifting in sensation and perfectly content to lie back and do so. Will’s weight, solid and warm and reassuring, pressing him down into the cushions. His tongue in Mike’s mouth, hot, slick. Will’s scent, rising in waves from the heat of his skin.

An current of arousal sinks deep into Mike’s belly when he realizes that there’s been something prodding insistently against his own stomach.

It’s all gone in an instant, leaving a vacuum of cold.

Confusion and a sting of rejection push through the fog in Mike’s mind. He sits up as Will tugs his shirt straight, clearly avoiding eye contact.

“What?”

“Sorry. Just. Didn’t want to smoosh you.” The answer comes out clipped, and Will is still looking down.

And Mike doesn’t know what he did wrong. What he keeps doing wrong, evidently. Because this keeps happening. Right in the middle of things, Will pulls away. And there’s no pattern Mike can find - no obvious trigger. He sits up further, and Will moves to let him out.

“No,” Mike says, “What’s wrong?”

What did I do?

Will shrugs. He nervous-laughs. He tries to sound casual. None of it is fooling Mike for a second. “Nothing. It really - it’s just, I know you’re not as -” He fumbles. Starts picking at a thread in the couch. “I mean, I know you - you wouldn’t want -”

He thinks I’m scared. The thought is automatic and barbed. Defensive. Because Will could have just come out and said it. Or asked. He didn’t have to - to - and - and Mike isn’t scared, anyway. He’s not afraid, not for a second. He’s not afraid and he’s not ashamed of this. Of how much he wants this - this - this wrong, (deliciously) dirty - he’s not scared. He’s not.

“Maybe I would,” he snaps.

Will grumbles right back. “You like girls too, it’s not the same.”

Something snaps in Mike’s chest. Small and clean, like the stem of a flower. He opens his mouth, but suddenly all the air in his lungs is flat.

Oh.

It’s not the same. You like girls too. You’re not really like me. You’re not really the same; you’re not the real thing. You’re just half.

Will’s eyes are finally on Mike’s, and they’re wide. His tongue trips over itself to blurt out, “I didn’t mean -!”

Mike stands.

“Wait, no - that’s - Mike. That’s not what I meant.”

Will catches Mike halfway around the table and Mike speaks without looking at him. He wants to snap again, but there’s no venom in his voice - not much of anything, in fact. It comes out soft and toneless. “Then what did you mean?”

Will’s throat is closing. How did this happen? Sixty seconds ago they were cuddled up on the couch, making out with the radio playing softly in the background. Now -

He’s such a moron. God, he’s an asshole. Why did it come out of his mouth like that? If he had thought for another half a second about what he was saying -

The truth. That’s all there is for it. He has to say it.

“I just don’t want you to be disgusted by me.”

Mike’s stance shifts. He doesn’t face Will, doesn’t look him in the eye or offer any embrace of forgiveness, but his posture is looser. The lines of his shoulders aren’t as hard under his shirt.

Will swallows. This train of thought is too similar to what kept him silent all those years. Wasn’t it his greatest fear? Isn’t it still, really? That Mike would be disgusted. That old phantom nightmare swims before Will’s eyes, backing away, lip curled, spitting, What is wrong with you?

“I just don’t want to -” It sounds stupid, coming out of his mouth. Like it doesn’t really capture what’s tangled up in his overactive neurons. He makes a sharp gesture at his temples and pushes the rest out. “To overwhelm you or - or - or gross you out or -”

He shuts down his nearly-wobbling voice with a tight jaw. He will not cry. He will not break down right now. He won’t, it’s not fair. Mike is the one that’s upset - no, hurt. Will has to be the strong one right now. He has to make this right. He can’t be blubbering.

Mike turns, finally. “What?” He shakes his head. “You don’t... Will. You’re not gonna overwhelm me.” His eyes roll skyward to accentuate the sentence. He doesn’t do finger quotes, but it’s clearly a close call. He’s annoyed now. Frustrated. He pulls a hand through his hair. “I think I can handle it.”

Will nods. Unconvinced. Handle it? Sure, maybe. Yeah. But there’s a difference between putting up with something - or simply being okay with something - and actually wanting it. And Will doesn’t want to just be put up with.

He wants to snap at Mike. He wants to sulk and cross his arms and he wants to pull his boyfriend back to him and pepper kisses all over his face until the hurt he caused is gone. He wants to say, no, you don’t understand, there’s something dark inside me. You don’t know. You don’t know what I want to do to you. You have no idea how much I need to hear you beg.

The words, even just inside his own head, make him hot all over with shame and embarrassment and a spike of arousal that cramps the muscles of his lower belly. His hand shakes when it reaches out and lands on Mike’s shoulder. Will speaks softly.

“I’m sorry.”

Mike doesn’t react. But he doesn’t jerk away, either.

Will draws in a breath. “I’m sorry, Mike. I swear I didn’t mean how that sounded.”

“Sounded real f*cked up.”

Annoyance twitches in his belly - I’m trying to apologize, damnit - and Will pushes it down. “Yeah. It - um, yeah, it was. I said it and then thought about what it sounded like and I just... I f*cked up.”

Mike sighs. And then his arm extends and he pulls Will roughly against him. “Stop it. It’s okay.”

Will burrows into the hug tightly enough that Mike can’t change his mind even if he wants to. “Now you.”

“Hm?”

“Now you’re supposed to say what you did wrong.”

“What, did you read some step-by-step apology manuel?”

“Just do it, dipsh*t, we’re making up.”

Mike shakes his head. His nose brushes back and forth along the crown of Will’s head. But after a moment of thought - or perhaps just stubbornness - he says, “I stormed off?” He thinks. “And... made... assumptions? f*ck, man, I don’t know. I don’t know how this works. That sounded mature, did that work?”

“Gold star for effort.”

“f*ck you.”

“Well, if you insist.”

They both pull back an inch, looking at each other with mirrored expressions of shock. Then they burst into laughter. Deep, loud belly-laughs that can probably be heard throughout the house.

“ Will,” Mike gets out. His whole face is tomato-red.

Will’s hands are plastered over his mouth, so his voice is muffled when he gasps out, “I didn’t think I was gonna say - I didn’t know -”

They lean on each other, weak, trying to smother their laughter. It goes on for a whole radio song. Every time they think they’re done they make eye contact and go off again. Eventually, as they wind down with hiccups, Will speaks up.

“I really am sorry.”

Mike slides down one last burble of laughter and rubs a watering eye. “Yeah, me too.”

Weight lifts from Will’s chest like a balloon with its string cut. He tilts his head up and Mike doesn’t hesitate to tilt his own down, meeting in the middle.

It’s another few hours before they decide to go to bed. And for the first time since they were twelve, they go to sleep on the couch, side-by-side, cocooned in one of the Wheeler’s giant army-green sleeping bags. It’s a tight fit, but not too uncomfortable. Mike’s back presses into the back of the couch; Will’s back presses into Mike’s front. Mike drapes his arm over Will’s waist to lace their fingers together.

The inside of the sleeping bag smells like cedar, the Wheeler’s basem*nt, and Mike. And with the gentle glow of the Christmas lights above them, and Mike’s breath rising and falling against Will’s back, he realizes that he feels safer than he has in a long time. Yesterday this was too new to really process it. He was too overwhelmed by the situation itself to think about much else. But now he can’t fathom another nightmare lurking in the dark corners of the basem*nt. Not with their legs rubbing together like crickets in the warm depths of the sleeping bag and Mike’s arm a gentle anchor over his waist.

They forgot to turn the radio off. They turned it down so low, a little while ago, that they barely noticed. But now it’s the only sound in the basem*nt, and Will can’t ignore it.

Will blinks, and the radio goes quiet.

He wriggles further back against his boyfriend, tucks his nose into the sleeping bag, and shuts his eyes.

There’s a hickey on Mike’s neck.

Clear as day, dark as the grape jelly Mike is spreading on his toast.

Will stuffs a piece of bacon into his mouth and keeps his head down. Hoping fervently that no one will notice. For now, luck is on his side. He’s the only one sitting to the left of Mike. Ted and Karen are both to the right. Holley is bouncing around telling Ted all about the differences between turtles and tortoises.

Mike must have noticed. He brushed his teeth in front of the mirror. He can’t have missed it. It’s not exactly subtle. High on the neck, too. The collar of his sweater does absolutely nothing. But all throughout breakfast, they chatter and clean their plates and Mike gives no indication of knowing that there’s a souvenir of last night about three inches under his earlobe.

Will still isn’t sure if Mike has noticed or not by the time he gathers his stuff and announces regretfully that if he doesn't get home his mom will start getting antsy.

He’s halfway out the garage door, where his bike is parked, when Mike lets a blur of mumbled words out of his mouth. Will stops.

“What?”

“Do you want to go on a date?” Mike repeats, softly. He closes the door behind him and then adds, “With me?”

As if he meant anyone else.

Will’s mouth curls up in a smile that shows his teeth. “Yeah.”

Mike’s hand lifts and nearly paws at the mark on his neck before it drops again. So he does know.

“Uh, great.” He gives a little laugh.

“When?”

Ted left for work already, and Karen is upstairs with Holly, but they still talk in near-whispers. The corners of Mike’s mouth pull down briefly. “Friday?”

“That’s in a like a week.”

“Oh yeah. Um. Monday.”

“Track,” Will says, at the same time that Mike says, “Drama.”

“Tuesday,” Will proposes.

Mike agrees, “Tuesday.”

Will swings a leg over his bike and kicks forward as Mike wanders out of the shade, into the morning sunlight. It turns his dark eyes to molten coffee-brown, and he squints. “I have a lot of quarters.”

“Arcade?”

“‘S what I was thinking.”

“Definitely.”

Will circles the yard, waves goodbye, and bumps down into the street. He wonders if the bruise will have faded by Tuesday. He wonders how they’re going to have a real date if no one else can know it’s a date. He wonders how bad the fallout will be when Karen notices what’s on her son’s neck. He wonders why he can’t stop grinning in spite of all that.

Chapter 4: The Palace

Chapter Text

It’s El that catches wind of it at first. Which, in itself, isn’t an issue. Except that she happens to utter the syllables “ar-cade” within Max’s hearing range. And then it’s all over.

“Ooh, tonight?” Max swings herself into her traditional seat at the lunch table. The blue of her eyes sparkles with interest. “I’m down.”

Lucas plops down next to her and flicks some of her hair off his food. “Down for what?”

“The Palace, I think.” Max turns to Dustin. “What about you? You busy after school?”

“Club,” Dustin grunts through his sandwich. He doesn’t bother specifying which one. In fact, he himself may not even know. Dustin hops between science clubs like he’s playing after-school-hot-potato.

Lucas shrugs. “So, evening then?”

“Evening what?”

“The Palace,” Max reiterates.

Dustin grins and pumps his fist, mouth still full of ham-on-rye.

El has already settled at her spot, seemingly in no hurry to comment on the mess she’s created. She just crunches on a chip and regards the scene like a queen looking over her kingdom, mouth quirked up just a degree. She always has thrived on just a touch of chaos.

Will’s gaze cuts to Mike over his juice box. Mike has frozen. Like a rabbit on the road at night, hoping that if it does its best impression of a rock, maybe the headlights won’t see it anymore.

And meanwhile, Will is still trying to piece together what just happened. As far as he can tell, the order of events is this: Mike and El arrived at the lunch table hip-to-hip, talking in low voices. El said something that included the words arcade and tonight. Mike started to say something. And then Max, who had been approaching from behind, honed in on their conversation like a bloodhound picking up a scent.

And now they’re rather in a bind. Because they can’t exactly say, “Oh, no, actually, none of you can come. It’s just us. Why? No reason except f*ck you, that’s why.” But they can’t really say, “Well, actually, it was going to be a date,” either. Or -? No. For just a second, Will wondered if maybe this was the time. It was the briefest of seconds, though. He knows this isn’t the right time, and definitely not the right place. And Mike is adamant about their secrecy, even to the Party. So, what’s left to say?

“Uh,” Mike says. He looks at Will, and Will looks at him, and they send each other what do we do vibes. They both look at El. She and the rest of the Party stare back at them.

Will twitches one shoulder up and digs into his lunch box, breaking eye contact. A clear signal of, your call.

“Yeah.” Mike regains his footing with a shrug and a smile. “This evening. Sounds good.”

“Six?” Lucas proposes, and there’s a ripple of general nodding and approval.

So, sh*t.

Mike catches his eye as they start eating, and they exchange expressions that mean we’ll sort it out later. When Will looks away, he happens to catch El’s eye across the table.

El knows. About them. Mike told him at Castle Byers. And really, Will’s not surprised. And he has no right to be mad. The way Mike tells it, El was instrumental in convincing him to take the chance and meet Will at Castle Byers at 2:00pm that Saturday. She was the one that talked him into taking the leap. The fact that Mike had to tell her about the letter - about Will - is... forgivable. Irksome, but forgivable. And he’s had a couple weeks to process it, which helps.

But it’s been weird with El ever since. Over the years, and after an initial sort of cold-war rivalry, El and Will grew nearly sibling-close. Shared experience and all that. And with the same brown hair and a similar nose, many people assume they’re related anyway. El is one of the few people Will feels comfortable opening up to. On especially bad nights, or when the weather turns frosty and the memories just won't stop, El understands.

They’ve barely spoken for the past couple weeks. The thought sours the food in Will’s stomach. It’s not that he’s been avoiding her - well, maybe he has, a little. But what is he supposed to say? “Hey, so, I’m dating your ex! Thanks for helping set us up and all. Funny how that works, huh? I’ll pay you back by... uh... by... somehow. Anyway, how’s that book?”

She co*cks her head a little and stares right through his eyes in that unnerving way of hers. He swallows his bite and says, “May the Fourth be with you.”

She blinks, slowly, like a cat. Then she grins. “No, May the Fourth be with you. ”

“Aw, you beat me to it!” Dustin slaps the table. “I was gonna say that.”

Actually, Will’s mother beat everyone to it. She squeezed both their shoulders on the way by - Jonathan about to leave for his commute to campus, Will on his way to school - and delivered the line with obvious pride. It made Will laugh and roll his eyes with a drawn out, “Mom.” And it made him think. It could be his imagination - maybe he’s just paranoid, now that he has something so precious to protect - but it seems like she’s been acting weird lately. Not a lot weird - just a little weird. A tad more smiley, more playful. He can’t tell if she’s honestly been in a good mood for a while, or if it’s fake-happy.

It may just all be in his head.

Will paces.

Mike is supposed to pick him up at 5:45pm. For their date. It is still a date, they decided, even though the Party will be there.

His watch says 5:46.

Footsteps and movement behind him draw his attention away from the window. Joyce flickers in and out of view as she passes the doorway to her bedroom. She got home from work a little early today, and has been bustling about with a purpose ever since. But now, walking closer, Will takes note of the details he hadn’t seen before. The deep-bright crimson red of her blouse. The sculpted curl of her hair. The heels - shoes Will knows for a fact she hates wearing, because she complains at every moderately fancy event they attend. She pats at her hair in the mirror; she hasn’t noticed him yet.

A knock on the door makes them both turn. Will’s mother gives the slightest pause when she sees him. Like a stutter. Then she’s clicking past in her heels, giving him a smile, and opening the door. And it’s not Mike; it’s Hop.

With Mike a few steps behind him.

Mike’s ugly, slant-nosed, taupe-ish Toyota is parked a few feet away from the police chief’s solid Chevrolet Blazer. Will can see it over their shoulders, parked in the Byers’ long driveway in the dappled shade. They make an odd pair.

Joyce’s nose scrunches in a smile as she greets “Jim” - somewhere in the craziness of those two autumns, years ago, they got on a first-name basis and have never looked back - and then ruffles Mike’s hair as he ducks past with a wave.

“Looks like we’re both headed out, then,” Will says. His mother does not miss the teasing edge in his tone, and she gives him an exasperated glance - devoid of venom - as she locates her purse.

“Where are you boys headed?”

“The Palace,” the say at once.

“With the Party,” Mike adds.

And for the first time, Will is glad that they unknowingly invited themselves along. Because Hop just nods and says, “Yeah, just dropped off the kiddo. You guys be careful heading home.”

“Yes, sir.”

They move out the door in a herd and Joyce closes the door behind them. “I’ll be back late.”

Will looks at her curiously, but they’re already heading to their separate cars. And it’s not like this is the first time she’s gone on a date with the police chief. It’s just the first time Will has actually witnessed it. And the closest she’s come to admitting it to his face.

He doesn’t think about it for long. He has his own date to focus on, after all.

Mike takes his time adjusting the radio until Hop pulls around and takes off down the long driveway. Once the brown of his car disappears around the bend, they lean over the center console and pick up where they had to leave off yesterday. They haven’t had much opportunity to steal moments alone today. It’s been busy. And Will has been waiting for this. He’s been eyeing Mike all day.

He’s almost embarrassed. Those old patterns of thought come chugging back through his brain, mechanical, automatic. Mike has looked damn good all day. But Will only noticed for sketching inspiration. He’s been wearing high-necked sweaters, the last few days, to cover the fading hickey, but today he went with a button-up shirt under a thin jacket. The pale bruise peeks out just above the collar, but you wouldn’t notice it unless you already knew it was there. But he shouldn’t be paying attention to things like that. And Mike’s eyes, dark and expressive, found Will’s over and over during the course of the day. But Will isn’t planning on pouncing the moment they’re alone, nope, because he needs to tone it down, he can’t be so intense, so off-putting, it’s gonna weird him out -

And Will is, for once, very proud of himself for the restraint he shows in the car. He kisses Mike with his torso twisted, the center console digging into his ribs. And then he lets go. He leans back, despite wanting to click off their buckles and pull Mike to the back seat and spend half an hour there.

They’re late to The Palace anyway.

Halfway across the parking lot, Mike says, “Wait.” They halt and he reaches out, face serious, and tugs at Will’s vest until it settles straight on his frame. His hand moves up to fix Will’s collar. “There.”

Will’s weight shifts minutely. He glances towards the glass double doors of the Palace, but there’s no one there. They’re alone in the sleepy, dusty-gold light of early evening.

A smile is pushing through, unsure but genuine. They haven’t done anything like that before - what his mother calls “fussing.” Not with each other, and not in public. When Joyce does it he almost always sighs or laughs and ducks away. But now he can feel heat filling his neck and cheeks. Which is dumb. They’ve shared more secrets than they can count and made out on top of each other; he should not be blushing because Mike is standing close to him. That’s stupid. But despite all logic, he’s fighting down a goofy smile like he’s thirteen again. Like they’re sitting on the Wheeler’s couch again, Halloween candy spread out in front of them, his heart beating hard at the words he’s never quite forgotten since.

After a moment he extends a hand of his own. Mike’s hair has been in mild disarray since Joyce ruffled it. Will fixes that now, taking a few seconds to arrange the almost-curls while Mike makes an artificially weirded-out face until they both laugh.

“C’mon,” Will says, and pulls them to the doors.

Inside, they find the Party exactly where the expected: Dig Dug, with Max at the helm. The traditional starting place.

“What, you get lost on the way?” Lucas shuffles aside to let them into the circle. Four quarters gleam from the bottom corner of the screen. If history is an accurate judge, Dustin will be next in line, followed by Lucas, then El.

Mike digs around in his pockets, then ducks away to feed a couple crumpled bills into the change machine. Over the chaotic plink-plonking of the games, and the burble of voices, and the frantic click of buttons as Max evades a fygar, Will can just make out the bouncy chords of a Michael Jackson song.

“ I'll pick you up in my car; and we'll paint the town,” pipes from the speakers above. Max makes a sharp turn and tunnels furiously towards the enemy that’s been stalking her. The Party cheers encouragement. “ Just kiss me baby; and tell me twice; that you're the one for me; the way you make me feel.”

Will braces the crease of a palm on the side of the machine, leaning over El’s shoulder to see. It’s familiar and solid under his grip, the paint just on this side of gummy from years of hands doing exactly what Will is doing now. Mike has disappeared around the corner of an aisle, but he swears he can hear the grating whirr of the change machine rejecting a bill, followed by Mike’s impatient mumbling. Will grins. Maybe he should be more nervous - this being their first date, after all - but it’s hard to be on edge here. This is home turf, as much a part of their lives as the Wheeler’s basem*nt or the AV room. Plus, ever since he was about thirteen, this place has had a sort of energy to him. An energy that he’s just now starting to recognize. It’s as if there’s a blacklight radiating out from every machine, every neon sign. Invisible to the human eye, but there. It’s invigorating. A buzz of energy sits low in the pit of Will’s stomach, at the base of his spine. He touches his fingertips together a few times, in the pocket of his vest, and a crackle of sparks discharges some of the tension.

Will could map out this place in his sleep. Dig Dug here. To their right, Galaga, and Asteroids against the wall. Dragon’s Lair near a back corner. Pac-Man and Mrs. Pac-Man stand a few cabinets apart, like Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler at dinner. The blue walls and matching ceiling panels, lit by slashes of blue and orange fluorescents, give an illusion of something otherworldly. An escape from reality.

The Palace is, perhaps, just on the edge of a decline. With more and more households boasting home gaming systems, there’s been talk of arcades like this being eclipsed and pushed out of business. Dustin showed them a magazine article all about it. And maybe they’re right, because their old childhood haunt has been looking just a tad worse for the wear. The brightly tiled floor is started to get a bit faded in the most heavily-trafficked paths. A couple of the skeeball machines near the back have been out of order for a month. The neon lights in the windows fizz behind increasingly dusty blinds, and the buttons and toggles on some of the games are alternately sticky or loose. High school seniors sometimes lean against the orange support beams out front, smoking, too cool to actually go in but at a loss for where else to go.

It’s still a popular destination - Hawkins doesn’t really have much in the way of entertainment - and The Palace is regularly booming during weekend and summer evenings. However, this being a Tuesday in early May, it’s relatively quiet. Maybe half a dozen groups are scattered here and there, mostly keeping to themselves. The upshot: the Party will pretty much have their pick of the games, with very little time spent waiting in lines.

Max goes down just as Mike finally returns with quarters, victorious from his battle with the change machine. She grumbles as she taps in her name. It’s not a high score, by her standards, but it’s enough to earn an impressed nod by a guy passing by with his friends.

“Right,” Dustin chirps, and plucks his quarter from the line. “My turn.”

Mike holds out a handful of quarters. “How’d she do?”

“Solidly mediocre,” Max says, at the same time that Will answers, “Brilliant.”

Will accepts the quarters. They slip from Mike’s palm to his, and for a moment, Mike leaves his cupped hand in the cage of Will’s fingers. Quarters resting in a jumble in the center of their hands. Mike’s eyes reflect the flashy neon of the arcade. And all at once, Will is nervous. Because now this does feel kind of like a date.

Especially when Mike tilts just a little closer and mutters, “Stakes?”

Oh. So it’s a game, is it? Will feels an impish grin take over his face. Okay. Game on.

“Loser...” He thinks. Their hands are still cupped together around the quarters. Several things flash through his mind - none of which he can say. He goes with something safer, voice low enough to be drowned out by the electronic jangling of the games. “Loser picks next date. And picks movies and music for a week.”

“A week ?”

“Better get moving.”

Their hands part. Will grips the pile of quarters in a hot palm. They’re warm. Mike grins.

“Prepared to lose?”

“In your dreams, Wheeler.”

They slap down their quarters for Dig Dug - you can’t just go the The Palace and not play Dig Dug first, it’s tradition - but after that, they’re all over the place. It’s not technically a race, but they half-run between cabinets anyway, standing side-by-side as they take turns. The Party absorbs them now and again, like an amoeba. The girls have teamed up sometime in the past twenty minutes, and are now working together to beat Lucas’s high score on Asteroids. Ribbons of tickets pile up. Will and Mike are neck-and-neck, counting their spoils meticulously between each game. Mike pulls ahead with a particularly long run of Rampage, of all things. And Will - well, he can’t have Mike winning. He already has his movies of choice in mind. So he drags them over to the front, where Tetris stands near the front desk. Another group is just wandering away.

“Really?” Mike gripes.

Will plugs in a quarter while making direct eye contact. Mike gives an exaggerated groan.

Will does adequately. Which is fine. He didn’t need a stellar score, he just needs to catch up. And Mike has never been a huge fan of Tetris. Mostly because he’s always sucked at it.

Will watches him struggle for about a round and a half before taking pity on him. He’s starting to feel just a little bad for intentionally choosing the one game he knows Mike hates, and besides, Mike’s starting to pout. And that’s not a good time for anyone. So, Will steps forward.

The stark neon glow shines in the curl of Mike’s hair. Orange and purple and blue. His face is set in stubborn concentration. Brows pulled down over his eyes. Will lines himself up with his back, threads his arms under Mike’s, and presses them both closer to the machine. A quick look over his shoulder confirms that no one is really nearby; everyone is focused on their games. And even if they did look over, it’s not like they’re doing anything. He’s just standing close. Looking over his friend’s shoulder, watching him play. Nothing unusual here. Still, his heart kicks at his ribs, and he’s ready to quickly and casually step away should anyone come around a corner or look too closely.

Will pushes them a half-step forward, gently, until Mike’s belt clicks against the front edge of the cabinet. He tilts his head curiously, sparing Will a glance, but he can’t look away for long without losing progress.

Mike’s skin is hot under Will’s palms. He can tell Mike is already thoroughly annoyed with the game, because he hands over the controls immediately, so to speak. His hands go pliant under Will’s, letting his boyfriend guide him. Will is more pleased with this development than he maybe should be.

All things considered, it doesn’t work very well. Piloting another person’s hands is about the equivalent of dialing up the difficulty of the game by a factor of ten. They make it another level, and then promptly lose. But they’re both laughing hard enough to be out of breath by the end, and Will counts that as a win.

“Here,” Mike says, trying to suppress the last of his giggles. He counts the tickets and tears the laughably short strip in two. “I think technically we both won these.”

“I think technically we lost,” Will counters, but he accepts his share: a grand total of three tickets.

It’s as they’re walking away, following the raised voices of the rest of the Party, that Mike takes Will by surprise. They’re in a sort of half-aisle between rows of cabinets, out of sight from those on either side. And Mike, with a sharp swoop of his head, drops a kiss on Will’s left temple.

Will gives a giggle of surprise, ducks his head, and then straightens. He leans in.

And whispers, “Weirdo,” in Mike’s ear.

Mike’s indignant, sputtering laughter follows him to the Party, where El is giving Dragon’s Lair a run for its money.

Mike’s shoes crunch over loose nuggets of asphalt, scattered cigarette butts, and a small halo of broken glass. They’re halfway across the parking lot; the evening has turned from gold to blue to purple. They pass the Palace sign, which spins lazily, beaming orange light into the soft indigo of the descending night. Will’s trajectory cants towards it for a moment. As if he’s planning on stopping at the island of bricks that makes up the base. But they simply loop around it and head for the car.

It was Mike that made an excuse to the Party and pulled them away. Will may have won - by only seven, mind you - but Mike has plans of his own.

The car is parked strategically at the very edge of the parking lot, at the end of a row. On one side, an overgrown and rather scraggly bush hides them from view of the road. On the other, there’s just the empty parking lot, swathed in a layer of darkness save for the regular slow pulse of orange. And - hallelujah - no one else has parked on this side of the lot since they arrived. Which was Mike’s hope when he first parked here.

Because it’s not a date if they don’t get at least a little time alone, is it?

They didn’t even spend their tickets. There’s nothing good under the counter that they could afford, and the rest is all junk. Junk that they’ve bought several times before, in fact. So rather than add to their collection of plastic finger toys, kazoos, slinkys, and tiny off-brand action figures, they just stuffed their tickets into their pockets and made their escape.

Now, when Mike slides into the back seat rather than the driver’s, Will gets the idea right away. He hops in, slams the door, and locks it.

Outside it’s cool, just on the edge of cold, spotty clouds pulling in over the purplish sky. But the bubble of air in the car has retained the day’s warmth. It’s a small, cramped space. The beige cloth of the seats bears the marks of two cigarette burns from owners past. The smell of smoke is still, just barely, discernible, but it’s mixed in with the scent of the tree-shaped air freshener Mike’s mother made him hang. It’s a woodsy, resin-y kind of smell. Which, you know, would stand to reason. At least it’s not the type his father hangs from his own rearview mirror, which is some sort of pine or eucalyptus or something, so strong and so sharp it almost makes Mike’s eyes water.

And anyway, with his boyfriend pressed up against him - by necessity, in this narrow space - all he can smell is Will. Ivory bar soap and - cologne? He dips his head, trying not to be creepy about smelling him. Yup. It’s the cologne Will uses only once in a blue moon. Something earthy and fresh, like juniper. Mike associates it with holidays, and big events. School dances; Jonathan’s graduation; birthday parties. And, apparently, dates.

He wants to laugh and shake his head and say, nah, you didn’t have to do that. That’s for special occasions. I’m not special. I’m just me. But Will is already busy arranging them in the small space, and it’s not important enough to ruin the moment over.

They discover that if they lie down, heads nearly smashed against one door and legs folded up like accordions, they have just enough room to... well, to still be vaguely uncomfortable. But it’s better than nothing. And, bonus: they’re out of sight.

Will arches up at the same time that he pulls Mike down.

Mike nuzzles into the kiss. He’s surprised to find that this has become muscle memory. He doesn’t need to think about how to move, how to angle his head to align with Will’s. He can just settle his knees at a better slant on either side of Will’s, legs slotted together, and let it carry him off.

But he can’t entirely lose focus. Not today. Today he has a mission. His plan is simple: give Will as much leeway as possible. Give him the reigns; let him take charge. Because clearly there’s something Mike has been doing - he doesn’t know what, but clearly there’s something he’s doing wrong - that sets Will on edge. Something that makes him retreat, makes him doubt and think twice. Not this time. Because if Mike lets Will take the lead, he can’t possibly end up doing whatever it is that’s been pushing him away. That’s the plan, anyway.

It’s not difficult. Will has been naturally assertive since the first time they kissed like this - surprisingly so. Mike grins against Will’s mouth. If only they knew. No one would ever suspect polite, reserved, introspective Will Byers of nipping and pushing and tugging until he gets what he wants.

And Mike never suspected himself of being so amenable to it. But what Will wants often coincides with what Mike wants, so who is he to complain?

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t go hot in the face and squirm just the slightest bit when Will’s hands slip under his jacket and then the hem of his shirt. Shyly at first, then with more confidence when Mike makes no protest. Fingers press into the flesh of Mike’s sides, and he feels as though he can make out each individual fingerprint where they send a trembling kind of warmth through his torso.

He realizes all at once that nearly his full weight is resting on Will’s frame, sandwiching him between Mike and the cloth seat. He sits up a little.

“Can you breathe okay?”

“Mike,” Will laughs, and pulls him back down with a palm cupped at the nape of his neck.

And, okay, maybe Mike gets a little off track with his plan. Or maybe his plan wasn’t working so he switched tactics. The world may never know. (Mike doesn’t know.) But when Will seems to sense his compliance, he runs an experimental tongue around the shape of Mike’s mouth - and Mike pulls back. Teasing. Playful. He’s in a mischievous mood, suddenly. He waits until Will moves in again, then allows just a chaste kiss with barely a hint of a tongue. He didn’t mean to do it; he’s not really sure why he’s doing it. But every time Will has to chase Mike’s lips, or arch up to maintain contact, a little thrill lights up in Mike’s belly. Maybe because he knows exactly what’s coming.

Aaaand there it is. Mike can feel the exact moment that Will gets frustrated. His legs shift and all at once he’s scooting back, sitting up, and grasping Mike by the shoulders to reposition them. Then one hand jumps to Mike’s hair, holding him still for a hard kiss. A little noise gets trapped between their mouths. Hot, sweet tension is coiled low in his belly. Like something inside him is saying, yes. This.

So, maybe Mike did stray from his plan a little. But end result? Mission success.

They fumble for a few seconds, and then Will manages to finagle them into position. This time, he doesn’t hesitate to straddle Mike’s lap, with Mike sitting at the center of the backseat. They both glance to the window, but the sun has fully set by now, light drained from the sky. It's dark outside; it’s dark inside. Anyone across the parking lot would only see the reflection of the arcade’s lights in the window.

Mike’s heart throbs in his throat. His pants are becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and Will isn’t helping that by rocking forward the way he is. Then Will’s hands are tugging at his jacket, and he sits forward to help get it off. It’s way too hot in this car, anyway. Will discards his own vest, and it goes to join the jacket somewhere in the void between seats. Their lips meet again and Will’s tongue probes into Mike’s mouth, and his hands are pushing up under his shirt again, coaxing. Tugging it up, up -

And then he’s gone. Sitting back, neck hunched under the low roof of the car. And Mike wants to groan in frustration.

Goddamnit.

Will is, somehow, handsomely rumpled. With his vest gone and his shirt a tad askew, buttons just off-center, and his hair all over the place. And in the semi-darkness, Mike can just make out the slight frown on his face as he stares at his hands and mutters, “Sorry.”

Mike lets his head fall back against the headrest in exasperation. “Would you stop?”

Will’s eyes flicker up, wide with panic. “Sorry. God. I’m s- I did - I tried to stop. I stopped. I’m sorry, I won’t -”

“No,” Mike cuts him off. He has to talk over Will’s nervous babbling. “That’s not what I mean. Will.” Will trails off and meets Mike’s eyes. “I mean, would you stop pulling back like that?” Will’s brows twitch into a bemused frown and Mike lifts his hands. “I know you think you’re going to overwhelm me or some sh*t, but -”

And that’s where he stutters. Because he planned to say, but you won’t, okay? But that doesn’t feel right. It feels weak. Unconvincing. And he’s frustrated - in more ways than one. So he mouths silently for a second, and then blurts something unplanned.

“I want you, okay?”

There’s a moment where they just stare at each other. Mike’s fingers twitch with nerves. He feels like his body is touching a livewire - or perhaps that he is one. He’s aware of every tiny feeling and sound.

“You do?”

Mike nods. The movement comes out crooked. It takes him a second to find his voice again. “Yeah.”

Mike swears he sees Will’s throat move in a swallow. It could just be the darkness playing tricks on him. His voice comes out quiet - though not soft. “You mean it?”

He nods again. Firmly, this time.

“It’s -” Will licks his lips. “You know - I mean, I know it’s not the same as...”

“As...?” Mike tilts his head, trying to get Will to meet his gaze again. His hazel eyes have fallen. “As... being with a girl?” he guesses. Will nods minutely and Mike snorts. “Yeah, well, no f*cking sh*t.”

Will’s lips tilt up in the ghost of a smile. Then he heaves a deep sigh, like he’s trying to dislodge something from his chest. He rubs three fingers over his eyes. “I guess. I just. I don’t want to...”

“Weird me out,” Mike finishes for him. “You said that. And I said, not gonna happen. Look, would I be here if this wasn’t what I wanted?”

For the first time, Will looks almost convinced. He’s nodding along, expression open as he listens. Head tilted, a corner of his lip between his teeth. When his teeth release his lip and he speaks, it’s in a hoarse near-whisper. “You don’t know what I want to do to you.”

Well, f*ck. That’s mildly terrifying, and now Mike is hard again. So suddenly, in fact, that he has a second of lightheadedness. He can’t help the question the comes up his throat. “Like what?”

Will’s head shakes. “I c... I can’t...”

Can’t say it.

“You could show me.”

Something flashes in Will’s expression. His head whips up - a small, swift motion that makes his hair bob. “Show...?”

Mike nods.

Will breathes deep, once, twice. Then his hands rise, like two pale knives in the darkness, and find Mike’s face, and he bears down to kiss him.

Headlights flash over them, blinding. They shoot down so fast Mike bashes his head on the door. Outside, the crunch of tires swings smoothly out of the parking lot and down the road. No hesitation; no cartoonish shouts of, Hey! You two! Stop right there! Just someone pulling away. They’re already gone; in all likelihood they didn’t see a single thing. They probably didn’t even notice that there was anyone in the backseat of the car in the corner of the parking lot.

But Mike’s heart won’t stop hammering, and he goes limp against Will with a shaky laugh. Will collapses into the awkward hug with a laugh of his own. They’re both trembling.

They decide to head home after that. The moment was broken, and besides, Will is getting a tad antsy. He doesn’t say anything, of course. But Mike sees the way his eyes stay glued to the windows after that; how his limbs seem stiff, strung tight. So he offers to take him home.

The radio helps to dull the sharp blade of silence. Will turns it on in the intro of a song. It’s eardrum-shaking loud, thanks to Mike’s earlier enthusiasm, and the volume makes them both jump before Will dials it down.

“ I was caught in the crossfire of a silent scream; where one man's nightmare is another man's dream. Pull the covers up high and pray for the mornin' light; 'cause you're livin' alone in the heat of the night,” the radio sings.

He turns it down two more notches as Mike pulls out of the parking lot. “Mike?”

“Yeah?”

The old car picks up speed with all the efficiency of an old woman on roller skates, and eventually the lane markers start flashing by. Will takes his time before speaking again.

“Thanks. For. You know.”

Mike doesn’t know, exactly, but he can make some educated guesses. One hand stays on the steering wheel. The other reaches over and feels for Will’s fingers. He gives them a squeeze. “Yeah.”

Hawkins rolls past, lit by streetlights. The buzz of anxiety in Mike’s skull is just starting to fade. They weren’t caught; they weren’t seen. No one’s coming after them. It’s okay.

The radio sings on.

“In the heat of the night they'll be comin' around. They'll be lookin' for answers, they'll be chasin' you down; in the heat of the night. Where you gonna hide when it all comes down? Don't look back, don't ever turn around.”

Chapter 5: Last Snow

Chapter Text

It’s too hot inside this nice jacket. Sweat pricks at the back of Will’s neck and the small of his back. The pads of his fingers pinch and slide over his collar, the cuffs of his sleeves, his tie. Shiny shoes scuff over the somewhat grimy gym floor. He drags a piece of confetti around with his toe.

In big cities, prom is held in real ballrooms - or so legend tells. The kind in hotels or event centers. Once, at summer camp, someone said that his sister’s senior prom was held in an aquarium, right in front of one of the largest tanks in America.

But this is Hawkins. Prom is being held in the same place it always is; the same place as all the other school dances. Good old Hawkins High School Gymnasium. Tyson the Tiger ( Tough! Truthful! Talented! ) roars out over the heads of the newly arriving partygoers from the far brick wall, half covered by a paper cut-out. Will scans the slow trickle of arrivals, but doesn’t see Mike.

This year’s theme, as proudly announced last week by the student government, is The Great Gatsby. Jonathan said that his senior prom - the only dance Nancy could drag him to - was a bit underwhelming as far as atmosphere. But they didn’t do too shabby this year. Some incredibly dedicated and enthusiastic student government members made sure of that; Will has a feeling that a certain Ms. Emmy Stevens was heavily involved.

Yellow archways of balloons lead into the gym. There’s a green lightbulb in a lantern hung up above the makeshift stage. Shimmering white and gold streamers are everywhere. Someone went to great pains to cut out silhouettes of ladies in 1920s flapper attire dancing with gentlemen in suits and top hats and taped them up on the walls. The photo station is piled with props: black and yellow feather boas, fake moustaches taped onto chopsticks, monocles, fake cigars, plastic martini glasses, strings of pearls. Someone with a dark sense of humor has put up a sign that reads, “ <--Swimming Pool closed due to maintenance.”

The music rather ruins the effect, though. When Will arrived in the carpool, they were playing some upbeat, swinging music as an intro, but they gave that up within five minutes and switched to familiar songs. The 1920s hits, apparently, don’t lend themselves well to modern dancing.

A tap on his shoulder. He turns and catches a flash of emerald green. Another tap, a giggle, and he has to turn all the way around again before El comes to a halt in front of him.

El opted for a 20s-esque vibe, as per the theme. Voracious reader that she is, she finished The Great Gatsby two days after it was assigned, and announced it to be stuffy, but not bad. Apparently she liked it enough to base her outfit on, though. She’s sleek and elegant in a sleeveless, knee-length dress and pearl-encrusted headband, her wild curls sculpted into a loose bun. Gold eyeshadow glimmers on her lids as she throws out her arms, awaiting judgement.

Will exclaims appreciatively and interprets her open arms as a hug, which she returns with a laugh. She pulls away with a swirl of musky-fruity perfume and pulls him to the rest of the Party.

He watches her as she greets Dustin and Lucas, and finally Max. Conflicting emotions push-pull in the cage of his ribs like two opposing ends of a magnet. She’s beautiful. Delicate and strong and brimming with life. And Will, in his navy hand-me-down suit last worn by Jonathan sometime in early high school, can’t help but feel a bit plain in comparison. Even in his prom night attire, he can’t possibly compare to her. Something like doubt and something like triumph clash in his mind. It’s a strange mix of, Mike prefers me over that?and Mike prefers me over that.

And speaking of Mike, he’s later by the minute.

“And now my mom’s on both our cases,” Lucas whines as Will and El insert themselves into the group. “Which - I mean - how is that fair? Blame Erica, not me. It’s not my fault she got her hands on a magazine. It’s not like I go through my little sister’s backpack to make sure she’s not reading 16. She probably just got it from a friend or something, but nooo, somehow this is on me because I’m the big brother.”

“El,” Will chirps, turning away from Lucas to hide the beginnings of a chuckle. “Let’s get some exercise, yeah?”

She eyes him curiously, but takes his arm without comment. Rock Me Amadeus starts up as they move towards the center of the gym, and El’s glossed lips quirk up, most likely at the memory of the Party headbanging to this song in the Sinclairs’ van a few months ago.

“ 16 ?” she says as they enter the fringes of the crowd. Apparently she picked up on Will’s knowing grin.

Will shakes his head at her, innocent as can be. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

She just snorts, not bothering to inquire any further.

As a dance partner, El isn’t half bad. She’s naturally graceful, and bold enough to dance freely in the thickening crowd of awkwardly shuffling, heavily perfumed and cologned teenagers. They jokingly join hands, laughing as they dip back and forth the way Will’s mother showed him way back before their Snow Ball. It’s nice to joke around with her like this. It seems like they haven’t really hung out in weeks. And the song isn’t half bad. But his eyes keep wandering to the doors.

El follows his gaze. “He’s late?”

A nod.

“Thought he was coming in the carpool with you guys.”

Another nod. “His mom wanted pictures,” Will says, but he hears the uncertainty leaching into his own voice. Mike radioed in last minute, just as Lucas was about to come pick them up. He said to go on without him; his mom was being annoying about pictures and he didn’t want to delay them. He’d just come in his own car. But that was - what? Twenty five minutes ago? Enough time for Lucas to collect the rest of the Party in the van one by one, arrive in the school parking lot, and file through the golden balloon archways. and wait for Mike. And wait.

And wait.

And if Will stares at the doorways any longer he’s going to look creepy or insane, so he looks back to El. She gives a grimace of sympathy and he brushes it away with a half-forced smile.

“Haven’t seen much of you lately,” he says, partly to change the subject and partly because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Her reply is flat. “Because you’ve been avoiding me.”

He cringes. They nearly collide with an awkwardly dancing couple and El spins them both away to the right.

“Sorry. I - yeah.” There’s no point lying to El. Friends don’t lie.

El shrugs. “It’s okay.”

It’s not, really, and Will knows it, but she’s already on to something else. He can tell by the sly tilt of her head. Her voice lowers and he has to step in closer to hear over the beat of the music.

“Will. Have you felt anything from the Upside Down lately?”

It’s out of nowhere, and it tears Will’s eyes away from the doors again. But his spike of alarm tapers off when he sees her expression. It’s calm. Curious, maybe. Her gold-shadowed eyes stare right into his even as they keep bobbing and swaying to their goofy dance. They’re the same height; she doesn’t have to look up at all to meet his expression of confusion.

“No,” he says carefully. “Why?” And then, with a touch of urgency - “Have you?”

“No.” She shakes her head. A loose curl sways at her cheek. “I didn’t think it was from the Upside Down. It didn’t feel like it. But I wanted to double check.”

“Didn’t think what was from -?”

“Small energy disturbances.” She seems to be watching him closely. “Could be the power grid. Could be something natural - weather. Could be nothing. But you pick up on that stuff sometimes. Wanted to ask.”

Will is nodding along. His heart rate drops. And then rises again as a very familiar silhouette emerges at the far end of the gym.

“Yeah,” he says as the song ends. “Yeah, uh, keep me posted.”

She lets him go with a glance and a smirk, and Will makes a mental note to check back on that later. But right at the moment he has other priorities.

The next song is starting up. It’s a slow song, this time, and the crowd fluctuates as some flee the dance floor and some make a beeline for it. “Watching every motion; in my foolish lover's game,” Berlin croons through the speakers as girls pull their reluctant dates onto the floor.

Will weaves through the crowd. Mike has spotted the Party and is making his way towards them, his head swinging to and fro as if scanning for Will. His legs are longer, and Will has to change trajectories to catch up with him, closing in from the side. And it’s stupid. It’s really stupid how happy it makes him when Mike’s head turns and he visibly lights up upon recognizing Will’s approaching figure.

He’s got something wrapped in a bandana, and he moves his hand slightly behind him as Will gets close enough to say, “Took you long enough.” His eyes linger on the paisley-printed bundle, but Mike just shifts it further out of view with a grin. “I guess your mom wanted about a thousand pictures.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, and shakes his head. “Just about.” His laugh is nervous, and maybe a little forced. “Hey, uh, c’mere for a second?”

Will watches him with some suspicion as they cut across the gym. He doesn’t blame Mrs. Wheeler for keeping him behind, really. It’s not often that you can talk Mike into a suit, and he really does look good in them.

In Will’s mind, nothing will ever beat how he looked when Will first saw him in the forest, at 2:07pm in front of Castle Byers, all sun-lit and breathless and impossible. But he has to admit, Mike does clean up pretty good, even though he’s clearly uncomfortable in the formal getup. He’s sleek and put-together in a gray pinstripe suit, which is only slightly too short for his gangly limbs. His tie is a sleek dark blue, his shoes shiny and obviously newly purchased. Most likely Karen’s work. His hair is almost unrecognizably neat, falling in a characteristic swoop over his forehead and curling at his temples and the nape of his neck. One strand of his bangs just barely brushes his lashes when he glances up. The pads of Will’s fingers rub together at his side, itching to smooth the strand back into place.

They swing around the corner of the half-hallway leading to the locker rooms. Water fountains protrude from the walls next to each locker room door; a girl in a ruffly red dress straightens just as they turn the corner, dabbing a drop from her chin with a long sleeve. She leaves with barely a glance at them, maybe hurrying off to dance. The song is just launching into the second verse. Then they’re alone.

It’s slightly darker here. No one bothered to turn on the lights for the locker room hallway, and there’s a solid brick wall between them and the rest of the gym. At the opposite end of the hall, the athletic office is dark and shuttered, with a sign in the window proclaiming, “Mr. Attias is in out!”

Mike produces the bandana and unwraps it under Will’s curious stare. He unfolds it haltingly. Like he’s second-guessing himself with every other fold. Two small-ish cornflowers emerge - only very slightly rumpled.

“You’re supposed to pin them -” Mike starts to explain, half-gesturing at Will’s lapel. It comes out a little strange, like he cut off in the middle of a thought. His cheeks are stained pink. He makes the same gesture at his own lapel, with only slightly more confidence. “My mom said it didn’t matter if I didn’t have a boutonniere, since I don’t have a date, but -” he does something approximating jazz hands. “Surprise!”

Will can’t help it. He laughs. “Surprise!” he echoes. “Okay. Do we have anything to pin...?”

“I actually thought of that, believe it or not.” Mike thumbs at the fabric and the bandana reveals two small safety pins, secured to a fold.

The process is more finicky than one might expect. It takes both their combined effort to puzzle out how to skewer the flowers through their stems, just below the heavy heads, and finagle the pins through the stiff fabric of the lapel. Will manages to get Mike’s in place, only a bit crooked, and they go for a high five - which turns out to be a mistake, since it jiggles the safety pin in Mike’s fingers and forces him to start over again. Still, Will can’t stop smiling. Surprise, indeed. Surprise! He does have a date. I do have a date. See? Matching boutonnieres. Maybe - now, that’s an idea. Maybe they could dance. It would have to be a faster song. Two friends jamming out with air guitar raises far fewer eyebrows than two friends slow-dancing. That thought dampens Will’s mood just a degree. Then he rallies. Who cares? Who cares if they can’t slow-dance together? Slow dancing is boring, anyway. They’re at prom together. As dates. And the individual flowers pinned to their lapels give proof to that, even if they’re the only ones who know.

Footsteps approaching; at least two pairs. Voices. A couple taking a water break, probably. Mike moves faster to secure the topheavy blossom, tugging at Will’s lapel, but the pin springs out and he gives a jerk and a hiss. A tiny bead of red crops up at his fingertip and he sucks it away, securing the cornflower to Will’s suit and -

“The hell is happening here?”

Of course. Of course, of all the people who could have gotten a bit thirsty at this particular moment, it had to be Troy. It couldn’t have been the girl in red again, or one of the Party members, or even a teacher chaperone. Nope. Troy. Troy, and - yep, there come his buddies just behind him. Fan-friggin-tastic. What are the odds?

Or maybe -

Will’s heart begins a slow descent through his feet and into the floorboards.

Maybe it wasn’t chance. Maybe they were followed. The fight flashes through Will’s mind. He knew that wouldn’t be the end of it; he knew perfectly well that Troy wouldn’t stay down. That he wouldn’t let that injury to his pride go without retribution. But, damnit, it wasn’t supposed to be now. It can’t be now. This is their - this was supposed to be -

No. No, damnit, he won’t let them ruin this.

“The hell are those?” Troy squints. Then he starts to grin. It’s not a kind smile. “Are those flowers ?”

“Take my breath away,” the speakers sing, over and over as the song nears its end. The soft instrumentals are so out of place, now, with Troy and James slinking forward to corner then, that it feels almost bizarre.

Actually, no. No. This is prom; Troy and James - they’re the ones out of place, not the music. They’re the ones going out of their way to f*ck this up.

Will’s feet take an angry stride before he realizes it, and surprise lifts Troy’s brows as Will growls, “Oh, won’t you just f*ck off? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Troy recovers fast. “Moi? I was just going to get a drink.” He points with a flat palm at the water fountain. “You’re the ones feeling each other up in a dark corner.”

Mike’s retort is dry, clipped. “Might want to get your eyes checked.”

There’s a small tug at the back of Will’s jacket. Mike is trying to pull him back, to edge sideways and escape back into the crowded gym. Will won’t budge.

Troy’s eyes dart down, and Will realizes his hand is half-raised. He’s gratified to see the new caution in the bully’s stance. Proud, even. They’ve done nothing but sneer, yet, and Will can’t help but think that’s because of him.

Yeah, that’s right, Will thinks, you remember last time.

It’s a shame, really. Troy might be cute - handsome even - if he wasn’t such an asshole. With his turned-up nose and brown waves, gelled back for the special occasion. For one absurd moment, Will almost considers saying it, seeing the look on his face. You know, you’d be cute - if it weren’t for the personality. It might almost be worth it. But then James pipes up with a snigg*r.

“We probably interrupted a blow j*b,” he says to Troy, and the tug on Will’s jacket stutters.

In the hallway? is Will’s first thought. No, dumbasses, that’s what locked doors are for. Like the AV room. Or a car. Or a f*cking bathroom stall. Not the hallway.

Then the full meaning of the words penetrate his adrenaline and his whole face goes hot.

“Look how red they are.” Troy smacks James on the shoulder and then jerks a hand at them. “I told you. Didn’t I tell you? f*ckin’ fairies.”

Normally, Will would sigh internally and try to slink away. He’d press his lips together and try to forget it. This is nothing new. At least, not to him. But not this time. Because this time, he’s not the only one on the receiving end.

And this time it’s dangerous. If Troy starts running his mouth - if a rumor spreads - if the wrong people are waiting at the end of the grapevine -

So Will swallows his pride, turns with a glare, and walks away. He wants to fight - he wants to get ahold of both of them and send a couple thousands volts through them - but he knows better.

He hears Mike spitting something smart-mouthed at them as they slip past the pair and out into the gym, but Will is only half paying attention. There’s a sour coating at the back of his throat. It’s what he’s always done before, when Troy or James or some co*cky football player cornered him. Just ignore what they say and slip away; try to forget it. He thought he was used to it. He’s been through this song-and-dance since he was twelve, after all.

He’s pushing his way through the crowd, muttering sorry at the grunts of protest. It’s too hot in here. There’s no air to breathe. His collar is pressed up to his throat; the crowd is elbow-to-elbow, suffocating.

He never meant to drag Mike into this.

A swath of party streamers comb over his face, papery and dry, and he cringes away at the unexpected touch. He doesn’t know where Mike is; he lost him somewhere in the crush of bodies. Voices blend with the music. The gently spinning lights, green and gold, are making him seasick. He needs somewhere quiet.

He needs to leave.

The good news: either they lost Troy and James in the crowd, or they didn’t bother following.

The bad news: Mike has also lost Will in the crowd.

It was Mike’s fault, really. Maybe flowers were too much. Maybe he should have known. But it’s not like it was a whole bouquet or anything. And, as flowers go, cornflowers are fairly sensible blossoms. Not too bright or frilly. The flower on his own lapel nods along as he maneuvers between elbows and shoulders. He pushes up on tip-toes to see over the clockwork swirl of heads, but he can’t spot Will. There, is that -? No, that’s not him.

Maybe it was dumb. But it seemed like a great idea when he first thought of it.

“Hmm,” his mother had hummed. She was tugging at his suit, straightening it for what must have been the tenth picture. “We didn’t get you a boutonniere.” She shrugged. “Oh, well. You’re just going with your friends, anyway. Next year you’ll have to go with a date. We’ll make sure you have one then.”

And thus, Mike’s plan formed almost instantaneously. He’d just tell the Party to go ahead, nip out back and harvest a bloom or two from his mother’s garden. The only snag: none of his mother’s flowers are blooming yet, in the front or back yard. And she chemical-bombed and decapitated all the dandelions just a few days ago. And he didn’t have time to stop by a shop for a real boutonniere - not that he’d know where to buy one, anyway. And, he didn’t exactly expect crabby old Mrs. York to be peeking out her window at the exact moment that he hopped the fence and selected two blue blossoms from her flower bed.

The hunched old lady lectured him for five full minutes before he could get a word in edgewise. She did take pity on him, finally, when he explained that it was for his prom date, but by then he was already late.

Will is nowhere. Mike’s chest begins to tighten. He can’t help it; it’s an instinctual reaction. You’d think after almost five years, the memory would have faded. And Mike knows Will doesn’t appreciate being watched like a hawk every time he wanders off alone. That doesn’t keep the anxiety from trickling into his bloodstream. His hands go cold and sweat-damp, despite the muggy heat that presses down over their heads. It’s getting warmer in here than Mike’s formal tie and jacket really allow for.

Led by a sudden hunch, Mike heads for the back of the gym. Past the refreshments table. Past the teacher-chaperone who’s been sweeping his flashlight over any dancing couple getting just a little too friendly. Past a hanging display of party streamers, which flutter and sway in the muggy air.

Half-hidden in the shadows of a far corner is the gym’s back door. It leads outside.

Mike eases it open and slips out.

It’s snowing.

The “Just Kidding Snow,” is what Mike’s mom calls it. As in, yay, it’s spring now - just kidding! The last snow before spring really sets in, usually right around the end of April - just in time for the frost to kill off all the newly-sprouting growth. It was chilly in Mrs. York’s garden - cold and spitting rain when Mike arrived to school. Now the scale has tilted just enough for the drops to turn to flakes. It’s the soft, tranquil kind of snowfall. No wind, no ice. Just big, wet clumps of flakes floating in silence.

Mike’s shiny-new shoes skid on the slick asphalt. It’s not icy yet, but these soles were designed for indoor surfaces, not wet pavement. Especially not when the wearer is in a hurry, striding with a purpose around the corner of a building. Mike nearly falls at least once and a half before he rounds the bend.

He recognizes the silhouette instantly, even through the fast-thickening veil of snowflakes. Will is pacing behind the bleachers, head down, hands in pockets. He straightens and turns when he hears Mike’s approaching footsteps.

“Hey.” Mike bites his lip in time to keep himself from adding, you okay? to the greeting. Will probably heard it anyway.

“Hey.” A shrug. The tip of Will’s nose is just beginning to redden with cold. “Sorry. Needed some air.”

Mike shrugs back, and his eyes dart down. The flower is still pinned to Will’s suit. He didn’t take it off. Despite Troy. The sight hits him right in the chest, for some reason, and he throws an arm around Will’s shoulders with just the slightest ache in his throat. Will leans into him, warm and heavy in the sharp-cold air. They resume pacing.

“I would’ve hit them,” Will says abruptly, just as Mike is inhaling to say something. He scuffs one heel along the pebbly pavement and scowls. “Wanted to.”

“He’s not worth it,” is Mike’s automatic response. The same thing he’s been saying for years. But this time is different, and they both know it. “Anyway, didn’t you get enough detention last time?”

Will’s hands leave his pockets to gesture in a goofy I-dunno motion. “You know, I kind of miss it. I don’t think a week was enough. Was hoping to land at least another two.”

“And you didn’t invite me? Rude.”

“Who said you weren’t helping?”

Mike looks down at him, eyebrows arched. “Oh, now you’re dragging me into this.”

“I thought you wanted in.”

“I wanted to be invited. That doesn’t mean I actually wanted to go.”

“Oh, so, you just wanted to be included.”

“Right.”

Will grins. “Oh, well, in that case. I apologize.”

“You better.”

They’ve stopped just at the edge of the school’s sad excuse for an outdoor basketball court, where athletically-inclined souls leap around after a ball during the lunch hour. Right now, though, the rough square of concrete is silent as the surrounding landscape. The only sound comes from within the school building. The music is muffled and bassey, all treble contained within the gym’s walls, but they can still make out the tune of the song. It’s a slow song, again, and Mike almost chokes on his own spit as he recognizes the lyrics. Will’s head tilts towards him in question and Mike gestures to the school, laughing.

“Taking this crazy chance to be all alone,” the song hums, soft and muffled, from within the school. “We both know that we should not be together; 'Cause if they found out, it could mess up, both our happy homes.”

“Oh, my god,” Will says blankly. Then he starts laughing, too. “That’s not... that’s Secret Lovers. ”

Mike echoes, “Oh my god. Is that what it’s really called?”

“The universe is mocking us.” Will rubs at his face, still laughing, and then makes a not me gesture. “I swear I’m not doing this.”

“I didn’t assume you were responsible for the audio system, no,” Mike ribs, and Will does an odd kind of half-grin.

They walk for a moment more, still shaking their heads at the music. The snow is barely beginning to stick. It turns the patchy grass silvery in little clumps. Will sniffs; cold air always makes his nose stuff up. One large snowflake is caught in his bangs, lighter than air, clinging to two strands.

“Hey,” Mike blurts, and Will’s neck twists to look up at him. “We should - I mean, we could dance?”

His cheeks burn, and not from cold. He waits for a response without meeting his boyfriend’s eyes, unsure what his reaction will be. Seconds crawl by and he starts preparing his totally kidding! spiel.

“I don’t know if we can,” Will replies quietly. One hand drifts up to touch the petals of the flower at his lapel.

“I mean out here.”

“Here?” Will looks at the basketball court. Then he smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, why not. Sure.”

It takes a lot of missteps and awkward laughter to get arranged. Mike has never been good at dancing to start with, and he has no idea how to approach this . With Will’s guidance, they settle on something comfortable. Each has one hand on the other’s shoulder and the other at their waist. Mike isn’t sure this is how people are technically supposed to dance, but, hey, whatever works right?

And it does work. It works fine, especially when Mike gives up trying to lead. Will is steadier on the wet ground, anyway.

The snow is heavier now. It ripples and whorls around them, like patterns of steam from a mug. It’s getting cold fast; cold enough for Mike’s nostrils to stick together when he inhales. They must be right on the edge of the cold front. Mike imagines that - thinks about the massive, silvery sheet of snow and cloud and cold air, rolling over Indiana, completely silent. The only sound is the slow scuff of their footsteps, smoother now on the concrete court, and the steady beat of the music. Like a heartbeat muffled under ribs. The snow is streaked warm gold every few yards with the glow of the streetlights; between them, it’s blue and silver. The basketball court is situated just under one such light, and the snow around them flutters like a curtain in the orange-ish glow.

Will’s hand shifts on Mike’s waist. Mike swallows the question in his throat - are you cold? - and instead says, “Sorry I was late.”

The fidgeting hand leaves Mike’s waist to hover beside his temple, where Will takes a strand of hair between two fingers and tucks it away. “‘Sokay.” The hand settles again, this time just over Mike’s hip. “This is better, anyway.”

“Than inside?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, the decorations were just a tad creepy. Honestly.”

“With the silhouettes and -?”

“Did you see the pool sign?”

Will laughs. “That wasn’t creepy, that was funny.”

Mike is about to argue back, but he never gets the chance. Will stops moving abruptly, making Mike stumble against him, and takes Mike’s head in his hands. His face and lips are chilled, his nose icy where it’s tucked beside Mike’s, but his mouth is hot.

They flee the snow with linked hands and red-flushed cheeks. Their fancy suits are wet with the heavy flakes, on their shoulders and backs. It melts in their hair, successfully undoing all the careful work of styling. Back in the green-and-gold lights of the gym, they weave through streamers and confetti to find the Party. Max and Dustin seize them immediately and everyone is dragged out to the dance floor in a group to jam out to Funkytown.

It’s only as the night is ending that Mike notices it. Everyone out of breath, laughing, ties undone and hanging around their necks, the girls carrying their shoes in their hands. Mike is walking along next to Will, their elbows touching as they move, hands in their pockets. And he feels eyes on him. When he looks, he only catches the brief impression of heads turning away. Whispers, maybe - or that could be his imagination. But then it happens again, just a few minutes later, and this time Mike swears he sees a few pairs of eyes lingering on their rubbing elbows.

He tries to shrug it off.

It becomes a lot harder to ignore when someone jostles past him and mutters, “Move, fa*g.”

Mike twists around in surprise, but whoever it was has already pushed off into the crowd.

“What?” Will is staring up at him. He didn’t hear it.

Mike gives up scanning the crowd. There’s a knot in his stomach - a voice in the back of his head chanting, not good, not good, not good.

“Nothing,” he says. Will gives him a skeptical look and he tries to smile. “Nothing. Watcha wanna do after this? Twizzlers and a movie?”

Will rolls his eyes. “Whoa. Calm down there, party animal.”

Mike can tell he hasn’t quite succeeded in diverting the subject, but by the time the Party wanders out the doors and into the snowy night, the moment has passed.

Chapter 6: A Discovery

Chapter Text

Karen tosses the glossy scrap of paper aside and digs into the mess again. It’s been a week and a half since prom and Mike’s tie is still crumpled on the floor. Honestly, that child. Has he even cleaned his closet since -?

Her hands slow, then stop. Her head turns. The long strip of photo paper, crisp-edged and slightly curled, lies face-down on the carpet. It had fallen out of a book she picked up, and her gaze barely flicked over it before she was reaching for the next item on the pile.

She’s been cleaning all day. Nancy came home from college days ago and the house is still a wreck. She meant to get it nice before she arrived, but somehow it just never happened. Now, her hair is shoved up in a loosening knot, the back of her shirt is damp with sweat, and her knees ache from kneeling. She’s been scrubbing and dusting and polishing since lunch time. It was on her way to the bathroom that she happened to glance into Mike’s room and - well, it’s filthy. Clothes everywhere, books everywhere, homework scattered to the four corners. Half the household’s cups and plates are balanced precariously in little piles. And he’s been out all day - he said he’d be at Dustin’s after school, she thinks, or was that yesterday? - and he’s been so busy with finals coming up, so...

She was trying to do something nice for him. Tidy up his room a little instead of yelling at him to do it himself. Maybe that’d earn her a hug or a grateful smile instead of the tired teenage routine of sarcasm. That’s the only reason she’s in here. That’s the only reason she scooped up one of his heavy old fantasy books from where it was half-shoved under the bed. Now -

Karen’s fingertips catch the edge of the paper and flip it.

It’s a photobooth strip. Specifically, it’s from the space-themed photo booth in the middle of that new mall. The background is black with cartoon stars, and the caption at the bottom reads, Out of this world! Her eyes zero in on the second to last picture immediately. She was right. She did see it. Her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.

The first picture features Mike aiming his fingers at Will, as if pointing a gun, while Will aims his own imaginary weapon right back. In the second they’re laughing, looking at each other instead of the camera, and clearly mid-way through lowering their arms. The third is harder to make out. A bit blurred, like they were moving fast. Either leaning in or just breaking apart. It had to be one of those two, because the image, though a tad fuzzy, is unmistakable. Their faces - lips - are pressed together - as in, lips pressed together, by no accident - Will’s hand cupping Mike’s jaw -

They’re both laughing again in the last picture, Mike’s hands covering the lower half of his face, and Karen slams straight through the floor of shock into something much colder. Something dark and sickeningly heavy twists in her stomach.

No...

She looks again - she doesn’t want to, but she looks - and her breath stutters as she stares at the picture of her son. How his cheek is bunched up by the tip of Will’s nose. How his jaw is relaxed, like - god - like his mouth is open -

Her feet and calves tingle. She’s been sitting on them, kneeling on the ground, for minutes straight. She hadn’t realized she was going numb. She swallows.

When Mike was four, he stepped right off the top of the jungle gym and sprained his ankle, banged his head up pretty good and had bruises all over his hands and knees for weeks. It’s one of the moments she regrets most, from any of her kids’ childhoods, mostly because she just wasn’t paying attention. She was reading some magazine. Keeping half an ear out, but not watching. She should have been watching.

Mike was her second. Her sweetest. Nancy was headstrong and stubborn since she could crawl, but Mike was a sweet little boy. And Karen felt so bad - so bad when he fell. She ran across the gravel playground in her heels to pick him up. She remembers stumbling in the pebbles, scooping him up and trying desperately to shush him, thinking, oh, Mikey, I’m sorry - I’m so sorry - I should have been there - I should have paid more attention -

Her hand claps down over the photo strip, covering the images, and her head turns. But, no. There’s no one at the door, no one at the window. Of course not. No one else is home. Ted is at work until six, Nancy went out with friends, and Mike said he was going to Dustin’s today after school. Holly is still at her playdate with the Ferguson’s little girl. Karen is alone, and the big house all at once feels suffocating. She bends the stiff paper in half, creases it, and slides it deep into the pocket of her ratty work jeans. It pokes and prods at her thigh through the thin fabric of the pocket as she descends the stairs. Her numb feet burst into prickles with every step.

This is her fault.

There’s some wine in the fridge. They had it with the salmon last night, and the bottle is still at least half full. She takes down a glass with remarkably steady hands and pours. Just halfway. Not to the top of the glass; she needs to think.

The cold, sick knot in her belly has only gotten worse, but she drinks her glass steadily.

Will. Of course it was Will. Karen has always liked Will, of course. He’s a sweet kid. Smart. Polite. He’s been a good friend to Mike since they were just a little over knee-high. But she’s not too shocked that he - well, there’s a type, you know. Even in a nice, conservative, cozy little town like this, it happens. It does happen. She knows that all too well. And Will Byers has always been kind of a sensitive kid. They had plenty of words for boys like him, back when she was in school. She’s sure they still do. So, she’s surprised - but not shocked. And it’s not that she thinks he’s a bad kid. It’s not like she can blame him. You don’t blame somebody for getting the flu, do you? And Will really is a good kid. Really. He just needs a little time - a little help - not that it’s her business.

But Mike?

The pads of her right fingertips come up to massage the bridge of her nose. Will pulled Mike into this. And that makes it her business. She’s sure that’s how it happened. It must have. Mike wouldn’t...

She stops, the rim of her glass just barely touching her lower lip. Mike wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Right?

She can’t be so terrible of a mother that she never noticed. This has to be a new thing. Something he was pressured into, or swept up in. It’s not like this has always been there.

But it was there. The more she thinks about it, the more she tries to convince herself that the kiss was a one-time thing - a joke, even - the more she knows she’s wrong. She can just tell. It’s a gut feeling.

This is her fault.

And it’s not fair. She did everything right. She forgot about it, honest to god. But it snuck back anyway - snuck right past her and into her child, right next to her brown eyes and wide mouth.

She has to do something. This is her fault. She has to do something.

Mike hasn’t taken the car today, and it only takes a few minutes to find the keys and her pea coat and get out the door. It’s a bit of a bumpy ride, thanks to downing the wine too fast, but she swallows and forges on. She’s fine. She can still drive after two glasses; one is no problem. Mike left the radio on high volume, and she leaves it there. She’d rather hear music than her own thoughts right now, even if it’s that crappy modern-pop stuff.

“I have a tale to tell,” the radio tells her. A sharp corner of the photo paper jabs into her hip. “Sometimes it gets so hard to hide it well. I was not ready for the fall; too blind to see the writing on the wall. A man can tell a thousand lies; I've learned my lesson well. Hope I live to tell the secret I have learned; 'till then, it will burn inside of me.”

Karen realizes all at once where she’s going, and steps down a little more firmly on the gas. She will fix this.

Mike grins.

He’s been keeping a very close ear on his mother’s progress through the house. She came down the stairs to the main floor a little while ago, paced the kitchen a few times, and now the front door is closing with its familiar whoosh-squeak-boom rhythm. She didn’t even poke her head into the basem*nt to yell goodbye. Although, she was vacuuming when they said hi on the way in, so it’s possible she just didn’t know they were home. Which is fine by Mike. They’ve been back from school for at least an hour, and most of it was spent trying to beat a dungeon in Zelda. Most of it. For the past few minutes, though, Link has been stuck on pause.

And now Mike doesn’t have to split his attention between Will and the footsteps upstairs. He can concentrate wholly on readjusting his legs over Will’s, tilting his head to accept a nuzzle at his jaw.

“Mom just left,” he says, and Will hums an affirmative as he lifts his head again. He’s been in a cuddly mood today, and they’ve had to wait through the whole school day. Which, by the way, sucked.

Today was one of those impossibly long, slow school days just near the end of the year, when every class feels three hours long and even the teachers are clearly done. The sky has been low and flat and gray, but not quite heavy enough to rain. The air tastes thick with moisture, and the school hallways felt twice as muggy as usual. Seniors have been flying around in a haze of jittery excitement, talking nonstop about graduation robes and class rings and colleges and yearbooks. Everyone else has been talking about the summer. And Nancy, whose summer already started a week ago, spent the whole morning before school badgering Mike about his hair, about school, about the car. Now that she’s two years deep into her degree she seems to think she’s his second mom or something. Damn infuriating.

In short, it’s been a long, slow day. Full of finals study guides, sub-par cafeteria nuggets, restless students and worn-out teachers. And Mike couldn’t be happier to be on the couch in the basem*nt, with a video game blinking on the screen and Will sinking into the cushions beneath him. And now they have the house to themselves.

If only his mother knew what was happening ten feet below her, just minutes ago.

A burst of noise makes Mike startle, flattening himself over Will. His head whips around, but -

Just the radio turning on. Again. It’s been doing that; something bogus with the battery, probably. Or the wiring. And Holley knocked it off the table yesterday, which couldn’t have helped. Still, Mike wasn’t expecting to suddenly hear a voice halfway across the room when no one else was supposed to be home.

He huffs and hoists himself up, heart rate slowing again. “We gotta check that thing for gremlins.”

Will’s laugh is just a bit forced. He was probably a little spooked too.

Mike clicks the radio off right in the middle of Faith by George Michael, then pulls out the batteries for good measure. He doesn’t want it going off again. Interrupting.

Will is sitting up by the time he gets back to the couch, but he hasn’t resumed the game. The remote is still on the floor where it fell, cord snaking across the carpet.

It doesn’t take long for them to get back to where they were. And then further.

The little tree-shaped air freshener swings wildly from the rearview mirror. It gives off a woodsy scent, like pine needles and firewood, and Karen takes deep, slow lungfuls as she navigates potholes. She’s trying not to panic, but she is. And that damn song is stuck in her head and she wishes it would just give it a rest for a second. She needs to think.

It’s almost ironic. Or maybe just a cruel joke of a universe. She snorts and shakes her head, swinging around the eroded dip in the dirt road that they still haven’t fixed since two years ago.

Ironic. That Karen is going back to her now, for this. But step one is getting some help. Someone on her side who can help make this right. She can’t face it all alone; she’s smart enough to know that, at least.

She turns onto the long driveway, and the little cardboard tree flails on its string.

Will actually gasps when his shoulders slam down on the couch cushion. For a second Mike is afraid he knocked the wind out of him, but Will just tilts up to reach his mouth and snarls a hand in Mike’s hair. His scent rises from the heat of his skin, clean and vaguely earthy and swirled with the undertones of the charcoal and pastels they used in art class. And something else. Something a little heavier, a little darker. Something Mike has come to associate with stolen moments like this. Will smells like want, and Mike barely manages to repress a shudder as something hot and restless surges up in his lungs.

It’s like a cosmic scale has tilted. With the house to themselves, they don’t have to worry. They don’t have to be on guard. They’re safe. And Mike swears it took under a minute for them to hurdle straight from cozy to heated to desperate. Maybe because they’ve been waiting all day.

Will breaks the kiss to pant, and his deep breaths lift his ribcage under his shirt. Their eyes meet as Will’s tongue swipes over his lips. He shifts to settle himself into a more comfortable crease in the cushions, and Mike knows he should be moving, but he just stares and breathes deep breaths of his own. Will is a mess. His hazel eyes are dark and hooded, and his mouth is red from kissing. The soft fabric of one of his well-loved button-up shirts is wrinkled and twisted on his frame. One hand trails down Mike’s arm, having released its grip on his hair; the other is soft and open next to his head, palm upturned and fingers curled. An impulse sends Mike’s fingers folding into Will’s. His heartbeat throbs in his fingertips where they’re pressed to the back of Mike’s hand.

He didn’t realize until now how horny he is. Or that he’s apparently been grinding down against Will. The embarrassment only lasts for a few seconds, though, before it melts away under Will’s curious blinking. He’s not sure why it’s hitting him all at once, but he’s too high-strung to be embarrassed. Not tense; he’s not nervous. Just unforgivingly here. Hypersensitive. Every little throb of Will’s pulse through his hand is like a drum beat; his shirt is too soft over the skin of his chest, uncomfortable. He’s half-hard and getting harder, and his whole body bears down for a second as he dives to tuck his nose to Will’s pulse point. Will’s breath stutters, but he doesn’t move.

It’s like coming abruptly out of a fog. A moment of clarity. Mike breathes in Will’s scent, feels him trembling beneath him, and he understands all at once. He has to be the one to do something. He wants this. He’s not level-headed enough to know what this is, just yet, but he knows he wants more than what they’ve had so far. And he’s willing to bet money that Will does too. And Will clearly isn’t going to go for it, so that leaves Mike.

“Mike?” Will half-whispers. His voice flutters right in the middle of the soft exhalation, and Mike noses at his throat one more time before sitting up. Will’s pulse is a hummingbird in his hand.

It’s a risk, but a calculated risk, and Mike takes it.

Three sharp knocks ring out in the Byers’ front yard. Too loud. Karen glances over her shoulder, but the driveway is empty except for the ugly tan-beige car she shares with Mike and Joyce’s Pinto. She faces the door again. She has the script looping in her head. I’m so sorry I didn’t call first, but it’s important. It’s about our sons. I need to talk to -

The door opens and what comes out of her mouth is, “I need to talk to - did you know about -? I need to -”

Joyce, bewildered, steps aside to let Karen shoulder inside. She waits until the door is firmly closed behind them, and then half-lifts her hands. “Is anyone else home?”

Joyce has the wary posture of a wild animal. Her hands wring in front of her, but her eyes are keen as ever. There’s a dark water stain on the stomach of her faded flowery blouse, and the sharp-clean scent of lemony dish soap hangs around her. She’s been doing the dishes.

“No,” she says at last. One of her hands comes up to grip Karen’s shoulder, guiding her to the kitchen. The smell of artificial lemon grows stronger.

Karen can’t accept the seat Joyce offers. She paces instead. She wants to handle this well, but -

“Do you know what our sons are doing?” She whips the picture out of her pocket. Brandishes it towards Joyce’s expression of concern. Anger is rising up, hot and slippery, probably to cover up the tremor in her voice. She can’t be weak right now. She has to be angry, or she’ll break.

Joyce reaches out. There’s something curious in her expression, and she plucks the bent photo strip from Karen’s fingers. The wrinkles at either side of her mouth deepen as she stares down at the damning evidence.

Joyce sets the photos down on the table and turns back to her dishes. She digs her hands into the water, and Karen mouths soundlessly. She’s not reacting how she should. Maybe she doesn’t understand, maybe -

And that song - that god damn song - is still stuck in her head. Taunting her. “ I know where beauty lives; I've seen it once, I know the warmth she gives. The light that you could never see; it shines inside, you can't take that from me.”

Karen takes a stride forward so she can address Joyce’s profile. “Didn’t you see that?” she asks. “Our sons are engaging in... in...” Joyce’s brows lift, but she doesn’t look away from her dishes. Karen spits it out. “In hom*osexual behavior!”

Joyce slaps down the dish towel with a snarl. “ Keep your voice down. ”

“Didn’t you see it?” she asks again. Three steps take her to the table and she snatches up the picture again. “Look at this. And I should have known, I should have seen the signs - the clothes, the secrecy, the lies -”

Karen is starting to sob. So much for being strong and angry.

But that’s all right. Joyce has angry down all on her own, it seems. She stalks across the kitchen, chasing Karen into the doorway, hands dripping soap froth. She always has been beautiful, but she’s glorious when she’s angry. Powerful in a way that Karen doesn’t think she could ever achieve. “And so what?”

“So we - we - should do - something -” Karen stutters, and Joyce’s face goes through a ballet of expressions. None of them happy.

She thrusts out a hand, palm-up. “Give me that.”

“No.” The photo strip goes back into Karen’s pocket. She needs this. For evidence. It’s all she has.

Joyce seems to think for a moment, fire blazing in her deep brown eyes. Her eyes haven’t aged a single day since high school. Then her posture shifts, and she holds up both hands like she’s placating a small child.

“Karen. Let’s slow down.”

Everything keeps going faster and faster. It’s so easy he’s almost surprised. Like picking up speed on a hill. The momentum carries them both without effort, one domino tumbling into the other. Mike’s mouth is buried against Will’s, hands grasping, and Will presses up into him with a choked little mmph. He can feel Will’s ribs shift under his skin, through his shirt. He feels so small, in that moment, though he’s not that much smaller than Mike anymore except in height. In fact, being in track has given Will more definition than Mike has ever boasted. You wouldn’t know it unless you saw him like this. Up close, with the lean muscle of Will’s arms winding around Mike’s shoulders with vice-like strength.

He can tell almost immediately that this time is different. And that in itself sends a sharp crackle of heat through the cradle of his hips. Because Mike pushes, and pushes further, and Will doesn’t pull back. All teeth and tongue and fingertips slipping under the hem of Will’s shirt and heavy breaths. They’re moving together, rhythmic, slow and then a little faster. And Mike pushes further still. He pushes them past where they usually stop, into new territory, and Will doesn’t pull back - not when Mike’s shirt has been rucked up nearly to his collar bone, not when there’s no pretending that they haven’t been grinding against one another, not even when Will arches up to sink his teeth into Mike’s neck. This time, he doesn’t turn off, doesn’t turn away.

Mike’s whole body thrums with energy, a familiar ache gathering where their hips roll together. It’s silly, but what sets off the flush of shyness in his cheeks is that it feels good. Not that he expected it to be bad, that is, just - he didn’t expect - he huffs out a breath against Will’s cheek and his head ducks instinctively. He didn’t expect to lose himself like this. He didn’t expect to be swept up in waves of pure physical feeling . But now that they’re headed down this hill, picking up momentum until the speed feels dangerous, it’s like they can’t stop.

In a burst of stomach-twisting bravery, Mike pulls back an inch or two and hooks one finger into the back of his collar. Uncertainty swims in his guts like eels, and then he’s yanking it over his head and it’s too late for doubt now.

A touch at his ribs makes him jolt. His eyes flick up, but Will’s gaze is down. Dragging over Mike’s bare skin. It’s not much; he knows. Somewhat scrawny, with not much more than a thin layer of stomach fat. Some freckles. A scar on his left shoulder from where he hit a mailbox on his bike when he was eight. Kind of skinny arms. Will has seen him shirtless before, of course, but this is different. This isn’t swimming in the public pool or changing after gym class or hanging out on the Byers’ back porch on the hottest day of July.

Mike almost goes to say something - an apology, maybe - but then Will looks up. Their eyes meet for the second time, and all at once everything in Mike goes taut. He feels trapped, and it makes his dick throb almost painfully in his jeans. Something deep in the instinctual stem of his brain is shivering, goosebumps forming over his neck and forearms.

Will blinks, once. And then he snaps. One second Mike is hovering over Will, bare-chested and blushing so hard his face could cook an egg, and the next thing he knows he’s being flipped right off the couch. His back hits the floor and he winces, and Will cups the back of his head in an apology. That lasts barely a second, though, before the barrage begins. Will’s mouth hits Mike’s hard enough to hurt, and he doesn’t ease up even at Mike’s little exclamation of surprise. He just tugs at his hair until Mike has to tilt his head and kisses him again. Like it’s less a gesture of affection, at this point, and more just... possession. His palms are hard on Mike’s skin, shoving, yanking. He’s crouched over Mike on elbows and knees, something almost unsettling in his eyes when he pulls back half an inch.

Mike’s hips stutter, completely out of his control, but Will doesn’t pull away from the thrust. He just grins against Mike’s mouth, readjusts his grip, and grinds down. Mike’s lips part in a hard huff. He could tell before, but there’s absolutely no denying it now. Will is as hard as Mike is. It’s too late to be shy now - far too late - but Mike can’t help hiding his face in Will’s shoulder as pleasure spikes through him. Will pulls his face up by the chin, waits until Mike looks him in the eyes, and then rocks against him again until his breath hitches. He feels a vague sense of triumph, somewhere under the layers of sensation, but he’s too far gone to puzzle out what that means now.

Will’s hands have left Mike’s torso. They’re moving down the line of buttons on his shirt, flicking them out on by one. Mike goes to work at the other end and their fingers meet in the middle, fumbling, and then the fabric of his overshirt parts and Mike’s hands bury underneath. Will shucks it like a shot and tugs the undershirt over his head with a growl of impatience. When Mike half sits up to reach for another kiss, it’s softer. Less demanding. Will cards his fingers through Mike’s hair, and his tongue laps out against Mike’s lower lip. Mike allows himself to be pressed down again, gently this time, and sighs at the immediate heat of skin-against-skin.

Will hesitates for the first time when he moves one hand from Mike’s shoulder. They haven’t spoken a word, so far, and Mike can’t bring himself to break the silence even when Will’s eyebrows lift in question. He just nods, and then nods again to Will’s expression of incredulousness.

“It’s because of me,” Karen wails at last. They’ve been bickering back and forth for the past five minutes - maybe ten, maybe fifteen, she doesn’t know - and neither is making any progress. And now, at last, she dredges up the truth from the place she thought she buried long ago.

“What are you talking about?” Joyce’s voice is flat. Smoke rises in a gossamer ribbon and billows around her head, but the cigarette has smoldered untouched for the past few minutes. She taps it on the ashtray but doesn't quite get around to taking a drag.

Karen can’t bring herself to admit it again. The old fear in her ribcage is too strong, choking the words before they can form. So she just shakes her head wordlessly and pleads, for the hundredth time, “They need help.”

“Bull-f*cking-”

“It’s not their fault, just -”

“sh*t!”

Karen throws her hands down from her face and snaps, “So we should just let this happen to them?”

Joyce laughs. “Happen? Don’t you remember being that age?” She takes half a breath, then adds, “Being in love?”

Karen doesn’t like the glint in Joyce’s eye, doesn’t like it at all, and her voice goes low and dangerous when she says, “I got better.”

The song loops in her head, tormenting her with the only few lines she can really remember. “The truth is never far behind; you kept it hidden well. If I live to tell the secret I knew then, will I ever have the chance again?”

Joyce is standing, putting out her cigarette, walking to the sink again. She half-turns to look down at her friend, steely-eyed. “Do you care about either of our sons at all?”

Karen blinks. “Yes, of course I -”

“Then keep your mouth -” Joyce points the dishrag at her. It drips dirty suds onto the kitchen tiles. “Shut.”

And she goes back to washing dishes.

Will’s touch is cautious, curious. Mike can only hold his breath and try not to move. Even through a sturdy layer of denim, plus boxers somewhere underneath, it’s a struggle not to push up into the touch. Will’s eyes trail down and then Mike can’t watch anymore, and he hides his face again under the guise of leaving bruises up and down his boyfriend’s neck. Will twitches and groans, low and muted, as Mike sucks hard enough to leave a clear mark. His palm flattens against the front of Mike’s jeans, and then traces up the clearly-defined shape within, and that’s it. That’s all Mike can take. He pulls back, just an inch, and Will retreats at once.

“Sorry,” Will whispers, but Mike is already shaking his head. He finds the back of Will’s skull with one hand and draws him into a kiss, and they end up back on the couch before too long. Just kissing, now. Mike is still rock-hard in his jeans, and he can’t seem to calm down for several long minutes.

They’re still shirtless when they finally locate the controller again. The basem*nt is chilly, but neither of them wants to admit to being cold; they just lean together for as long as they can, before a door opens upstairs and they have to pull their shirts on again. Just in case.

Chapter 7: Soap and Rumors

Chapter Text

Mike braces the heels of his hands against the Byers’ bathroom sink and tilts his head in the mirror. He’s looking for changes - differences. Does he look any different than he did a month ago? Some glint in his eyes, maybe, or a mark on his skin? Well. He twists his head further and tugs down his shirt collar. Marks on his skin are hardly an anomaly at this point. Two hickeys bloom on his skin just below the collar of his shirt. He’s starting to think Will does it purposefully, just to mark him. Max spotted one at school today and jumped on him, teasing and wheedling and ribbing until he had to make up some vague story about a girl in study hall. Later, he found her quirking a skeptical eyebrow at him from across the classroom. He can only hope it doesn’t mean that she tried to fact-check him.

But the light at the end of the tunnel is within sight. They only have three days until summer vacation, and then they won’t have to face the whispers in the hallways for a whole three months.

Will brought it up again a couple days ago. Telling the Party. And Mike almost considered it this time. Troy’s been spreading his bullsh*t, and it’s been putting Mike on edge. Ultimately, it’s fine. It’s fine. Dumb rumors spread around like this all the time. They catch on like wildfire, sweep through the school, and then they’re forgotten within a few days and the masses move on to something else. Will’s suggestion was that they tell the Party before some half-truth makes it there first, and - well, it does make sense. Really. But he’s just not ready. He still has to convince himself that this is okay, that he’s allowed to do this, that the universe isn’t going to abruptly collapse on him the next time he touches Will’s hand or lips. How is he supposed to face all of his friends and just hand himself over like that? He could barely do it with Will, and that was an exceptionally unique circ*mstance.

Mike shakes his head and pumps two globs of soap into his palm. He knows that conversation is going to come up again. It always does. But for now, Will has let it go.

He takes a deep breath as he washes his hands, and almost smiles. Joyce has been buying the exact same scent of hand soap for the bathroom for approximately fifteen years. It’s a bright, cirtrusy lemon-sage scent that Mike will always, always associate with the Byers’ house. With sleepovers and after-school playdates and Will. He’s been washing his hands at this sink, with this soap, since the very first time he visited. Five years old, with chubby cheeks and a bandaid on his knee, ecstatic to have made a new friend - a new friend who had a huge backyard, no less. This smell is something that has never changed since.

In the dining room, Joyce is trying to get Jonathan to set the table. She glances towards Mike as he enters and watches him for just a beat longer than normal. Then she turns to the kitchen and says, “Mike, get Will, would you? Food’s ready.”

She’s been acting weird lately. Not super weird, just weird enough that Mike and Will have been theorizing about what’s up. Will thinks it’s the approaching end of the school year. Jonathan is one year closer to graduating college, Will is one year closer to graduating high school, and Joyce is starting to get overly maternal about it. She took them both by the shoulders the other day, like she was measuring their height, and shook her head.

“Weren’t you just knee-height?” she said, and Will ducked away with a laugh of, “ Mom. ”

Now, when Mike locates Will and they make an appearance at the table, she gives them one of those too-long thoughtful glances again. Will tilts his head at Mike when she’s not looking and rolls his eyes. Mike huffs out a silent laugh, and they start eating.

Joyce flicks her sleeve out of the way and checks her watch.

“Okay,” she says, “We have about... about twenty minutes before we need to leave.”

Jonathan nods amiably through a bite of potato. He doesn’t even roll his eyes at her or say, I know, Mom. He’s been in a better mood now that his semester is over. He’s home for good now, for the summer - no more long daily commutes to campus. No more nightly homework. She’s almost as relieved as he is. He’s been storming in and out for the past few weeks, returning home late at night with bags under his eyes, spending all his time either doing or avoiding homework and studying. His relaxed smile is a welcome change.

The younger boys still have a few more days of school before their vacation starts.

Across the table, Mike pushes his tomatoes onto Will’s plate when he thinks no one is looking. Joyce, mid-sip, pretends she can’t see past her cup.

It’s things like that. She wouldn’t have noticed them before, and wouldn’t have thought anything of them if she did. But now that she knows what they mean, she can’t stop seeing them. Mike didn’t used to push his least-favorite foods over onto Will’s plate. He didn’t used to sleep beside Will in bed during sleepovers, or reach out to straighten Will’s rumpled shirt collar. Will didn’t used to show up at home wearing shirts that Joyce knows she didn’t buy for him. He didn’t used to spend hours on the phone, talking quietly, or playfully needle Mike until Mike pushed him off in exasperation. If she didn’t know, all of it would have slipped right below her radar. But she does know. So she does see.

The problem is that Karen knows, too.

Joyce sticks a forkful of chicken into her mouth and frowns down at her plate. It would be fine, if Karen wasn’t so bound and determined to squeeze her life into a little box labeled perfect. It’s been that way since high school, when she was a cheerleader with a flawless blonde ponytail swinging behind her.

Now, clearly, Karen can’t be trusted not to blab about this. The very first thing she did was go and tell Joyce all about it, for Christ’s sake. Next she’d be on her way to her husband or worse. A counselor or a doctor; someone who could do real damage. Ted is the best-case scenario, but Joyce doesn’t particularly want him getting into this either. Because she knows how that would end up. Spineless as he is, Ted has firm opinions about queers and what to do with them.

Joyce works at her dinner, deep in thought, while the boys talk. She knows she handled that whole conversation badly, but what else could she do? She was unprepared. Maybe if Karen hadn’t stormed in like a bat out of hell and burst into tears in her kitchen, she would have come up with a better response. For now, it’ll do. She did what she could. It’s not her battle; she knows that. She’s struggled with that since the Demogorgon. Stepping back and watching her kids struggle - especially Will - is hard for her. She wants to protect them. The government is bad right now even in the biggest, most progressive cities. Reagan. The AIDS panic. Talk of “electrotherapy.” And this isn’t a big city, this is Hawkins - so, they’re smart to be hiding. And they’ve been doing a pretty good job of it, until they slipped up with the photobooth strip.

Through dinner, Joyce debates. She could sit them down, after the last day of school perhaps, and tell them about Karen. She could, but - should? No, she decides eventually. They’d just panic. And plus, they don’t exactly want Joyce knowing about them either; if they did, they would have told her. It’s best to just leave them alone.

She checks her watch again and inhales sharply, nearly choking.

“Oh, god. We’re gonna be late.”

She and Jonathan scarf down the last of their food and drop their plates in the kitchen.

“Do you mind clearing up?” she says as she slings her purse over her coat.

Will shakes his head. “I got it.”

Jonathan leads the way out the door, heading for his half-broken car. This is the last drive to campus he’ll have to make all summer. She promised him she’d go with him to a celebratory end-of-semester, student-run concert tonight. Or maybe it was a play? She’s been so busy lately that she forgot it existed until Jonathan mentioned it this afternoon.

They hop into the car. It’s still so weird to her to be riding in the passenger seat while her son drives.

“Okie dokie,” she says, clicking her buckle into place. “Off we go.”

“We don’t have -”

“No, no, it’s fine. I mean, I’d like to.”

“We really don’t have to.”

“Will,” Mike laughs. The laugh comes out a tad forced, and Will’s lips flatten with skepticism. “It’s fine.”

The knobs of the bathtub stare out at them like two blank eyes, the nozzle drooping into a shiny elephant’s nose between them. The overflow drain cover makes a round mouth, completing the face. They’re standing in the small bathroom, near the sink. Mike’s elbow nearly knocks the soap over when he turns.

Will looks at him like he’s studying him, searching for signs of discomfort or untruthfulness; Mike lets his hands lie slack in his pockets, trying to exude ease and confidence. No big deal, right? It’s just a shower. Hell, they took a bath or two together when they were really little. He just wasn’t expecting it, is all. He’s just surprised. Not nervous.

Will gestures with one hand, movement a little stilted. “I just thought - well, we both had to shower, anyway, so. We don’t really have to waste the water to do it - you know - separately.”

Mike quirks an eyebrow. “Waste water? Really? You’re going for the saving water excuse?”

“Shut up,” Will grumbles, and pulls his shirt over his head.

Mike peels his sweatshirt from one arm, then the other, and then tugs his own shirt off a little self-consciously. He folds them both, for no real reason, and sets them on the ground before going about the business of undoing his belt. Will, meanwhile, kneels shirtless beside the tub to get the water going. It sprays over his outstretched hand, the force of it splaying his fingers. Mike hesitates a moment, faced with this untested boundary, and then tells himself not to be a puss* and kicks off his pants. One leg, and then the other. He folds those too, a little haphazardly, and tosses them on the pile on top of his shirt, sweatshirt, and belt. Will’s shirt is in a crumpled heap near the foot of the sink, and as Mike pretends to check the temperature of the water for himself, a pair of jeans plops down next to it. He’s been consciously avoiding eye contact, trying to act casual and unconcerned, but now he finds himself staring at Will’s pile of clothes as one final piece hits the floor: blue striped boxers.

Will cranks the knob and the showerhead sputters to life. The curtain rattles as pulls it closed, and Mike lets out a long breath. Are you gonna shower with your underwear on? he chides himself, and finally pushes his own boxers down his hips and toes them onto the pile of clothes. The next hurdle: actually lifting his eyes from his feet. He can’t stand here on the other side of the bathroom for much longer without it becoming awkward. His time is up; he has to move across the tiles and meet Will’s eyes.

“Ready?” Will says, as if showering requires some special preparation.

Mike just nods and follows him around the curtain and through the spray of lukewarm water. Will fiddles with the knobs until it turns warm, then hot.

“Oh,” he says, and makes a move like he’s about to change it again. Then he decides against it with a shrug. “You can turn down the heat if you want, I just - I dunno, I’m weird. I like to shower in boiling water.”

Mike nods sagely. “Mm. Yes. Why just clean yourself with soap when you could scald off the first layer of your skin entirely?”

“Exactly.”

It’s becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore how naked they both are. Which is, you know, a given. They are in the shower. Showering. And it’s a tiny, narrow space, slippery with water and thick with steam, so there’s not a whole lot of buffer room between them.

Thus far, Will has been acting very blasé about this whole venture, but now Mike gets a glimpse through the nonchalant front. Will is the one avoiding eye contact, now, and he mumbles an apology when they bump elbows. The tension is broken when they lock eyes and both burst into laughter, giggling uncontrollably at the sheer awkwardness of it all, and when Will steps into the stream of water both of their movements are looser. This is okay. Mike can do this. Not a big deal.

Will’s head tilts back, face lifted to the hot water, eyes closed. He rakes his hair back from his forehead with his fingers as the water plasters it down against his head. And Mike, standing in the billow of steam not a foot away, takes his first real look at the figure in front of him - up and down. He didn’t really plan to, but he can’t resist taking the quickest glance of curiosity - barely a flicker. And then another, slightly longer look as Will snorts water out of his nose and wipes it out of his eyes.

Mike has always been a jarring mosh-posh of opposites. Sharp angles and too-long limbs. Dark hair against pale skin, hands too big and hair too wiry. Not quite curly - not like characters in movies with their handsomely messy curls. Just kind of weird and aggressively wavy, like it gave up halfway between textures. Freckles goddamn everywhere, like acne that doesn’t go away. And of course, that vaguely amphibious face that he’s never been able to escape. When he was a kid he could have passed for cute-ugly - like those smash-faced little dogs. Now that he’s grown out of his baby fat, he’s just weird-looking.

Will, on the other hand, seems to fit together much more coherently. His skin is peaches-and-cream, with the barest hint of a tan hanging on from last summer - half a shade darker than Mike’s. Slender, nimble fingers - artist’s fingers - and limbs strengthened from track. He’s still small and slight, like he has been since they were little kids, but the running has given him a kind of lean, powerful build. The water turns his hair from chestnut brown to near-black, and it moulds to the curve of his skull and neck. Tiny beads of moisture cling to his lashes where they lie against his cheeks. The water sleuces down his shoulders, down the curve of his back, and -

And now Mike needs to grab some shampoo or soap or something because he’s definitely checking out Will’s ass. And he’s almost surprised when he finds himself glancing at his dick. Surprised, as if he wasn’t acutely aware that they’re naked in close proximity. As if he expected anything else to be there. Goldfish, perhaps? he thinks to himself dryly, splashing water onto his arms just for something to do. A polaroid camera? Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace ? He starts reciting multiplication tables in his head to ward off the boner that almost just happened.

When Will finally opens his eyes, Mike is busy locating the soap. No sign that he was checking anyone out just a second ago - no sir. You can’t prove anything.

“Here,” Will is saying, moving out of the stream of water, and Mike hands over the bar of soap as they switch places.

Standing underneath the spray of water gives him an excuse to close his own eyes for a moment. The water weighs down his hair and he uses the brief respite to breathe deep, soaking in the warmth. Then he opens his eyes again and now he’s in deeper trouble because Will is lathering up the soap bar between his hands, and the scent is all around him. Ivory soap. Clean and light and vaguely masculine. Something almost like liquorish, but not as strong or sweet. It’s the same scent that stuck in Mike’s head like a song when they stood together in the aisle of the bookstore, so close they were nearly touching. The same scent that he breathed in when they stood in the dappled light of the forest, and in the arcade, and the back of his car, and the couch in his basem*nt.

Mike grabs the shampoo and starts scrubbing it into his hair. He could be imagining it, but he thinks he sees Will’s eyes slide over him. He rinses the suds out of his hair, feigning ignorance, and when he emerges from the water Will is an inch away. Tilting in for a kiss.

Hot, soapy fingers wrap around Mike’s shoulders, and Will kisses him with the spray of water hitting them both in the side. Mike’s pulse picks up, his blood a medley of nerves and adrenaline and arousal tempered with uncertainty. He can’t will away his hard-on anymore, and for a moment he draws back. Will’s eyes open in question, so close that Mike can make out all the miniscule details in the streaks of hazel. The ring of olive green, the sunburst of warm brown. A drop of moisture hangs, shining, from the curve of his lower lip. It falls as Mike watches, joining the little streams that flow over his chest and shoulders, and Will’s grip loosens.

“You okay?” he asks, and somehow that’s what does it. If Mike shakes his head and steps away - if he withdraws in embarrassment and breaks their embrace - Will isn’t going to stop him. He’ll let Mike go. They’ll soap off and rinse and get out of the shower and go on with their day, and it would be fine. And that, more than anything, is what reassures him most.

He teeters for a moment between decisions, and then his head moves in a nod. “Yeah,” he says, and relaxes into place again. “Yeah.”

Will gives him one more searching look, to make sure, and then - gently - eases him back against the wall.

A noise of protest rises in Mike’s throat as his ass and shoulders hit the cold, slick tiles, but it fades quickly under Will’s mouth.

Will’s body is just as hot to the touch as his palms, skin warmed by the mildly scalding water, and slick with soap. Mike is sandwiched between the chilled wall and the heat of Will’s skin, and he leans into the kiss. Parts his lips to run his tongue over his boyfriend’s. The kiss is familiar territory. They’ve done this more times than he can count. But they’ve never made out with quite so little clothing between them, and now they’re pressed together toes-to-shoulders, nothing but skin. Hard flesh bumping up together. Mike couldn’t tamp down his arousal now if the water turned freezing cold. All the muscles in his body have pulled taut, abdomen contracting with every breath. He shivers and kisses back until Will has to break away to breathe for a second.

Mike’s only intent is to move away from the chill of the tiles. Honestly. But Will’s stance just happens to shift at the exact moment that Mike tries to push them into the warm water, and his push turns into a sharp and completely unintentional thrust.

Their breath stutters in sync as they rub together, and Mike is just about to laugh out a strained apology when Will pushes back. Once, twice, almost like he’s testing it out. Mike bites back a groan at the friction. Then Will falls in even closer, one forearm braced on the wall by Mike’s head, and starts grinding against him. He catches Mike’s lip between his teeth and Mike swipes his tongue into Will’s mouth. His body is reacting all on its own, matching Will’s rhythm, breathing hard. Pleasure lights up in the pit of his abdomen with every thrust, sinking coils of tension throughout his body.

Will is panting, too, his hard breaths puffing out against Mike’s cheek, and when he breaks the kiss to bite down his neck Mike actually moans. He cuts the noise off abruptly, red-faced, and he swears he feels Will huff out a laugh. Will noses along his throat until he reaches the junction between Mike’s neck and shoulder. There he stops, and Mike grits his teeth. Will knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s learned, in the past weeks, to hone in on that particular curve of skin. Maybe some tangle of nerves is housed just beneath the flesh there, because Will has simply to nip at it and Mike’s limbs go weak.

Now, Will nuzzles right at the crook of Mike’s neck and shoulder, mouth curved up in an impish grin. Mike narrows his eyes, stubbornly resisting the urge to tilt his head and give Will better access. That lasts for about five seconds before Will grinds against him again, pinning him more firmly against the wall, and Mike tosses his head aside with a half-irritated and half-impatient sigh. Will wastes no time in sinking his teeth in, and Mike squirms at the twinge of pain and then nearly shudders with a different kind of ache. Will is a force to be reckoned with, all reaching hands and soft tongue and desperate, unchecked energy. He sucks a bruise into Mike’s neck and when he pulls back, Mike is surprised not to see a smug grin on his face. Instead, Will’s eyes are dark and his expression is urgent.

“I want - can I touch you?” he whispers. Whispers, even though the water drowns out their words and there’s no one else home anyway.

“What?” The words process half a second after Mike speaks, and something like a sledgehammer bangs into his chest, setting his pulse into a frenzy.

Will’s throat moves in a swallow, but he maintains eye contact as he repeats, “Can I touch you?”

Mike’s nod is slow, but definite. Will’s eyes go round - like he can’t believe Mike agreed. Mike kind of can’t believe it, either. But Will’s right hand is already moving, fingers flexing as if in preparation, and he barely has time to feel nervous before he feels the first touch. Will’s palm is still coated with a slick film of soap lather, and his touch is nearly frictionless. His exploratory grip tightens after a moment and Mike’s breath hitches. Will’s eyes flicker up, over his face, and then back down. Watching his efforts with a focused gaze. In some distant corner of his mind, Mike feels like he should be imploding with shame, but not a whisper of it reaches him now. Will’s hand pumps over him, grip tight, and Mike’s own hand has never felt this good. He can’t believe he pulled away from this last time. Now that the milestone has been breached, his hesitance is quickly flaking away and running down the drain with the water.

Will’s thumb swipes over the head and Mike’s hips jolt, out of his own control. And Will, picking up on the reaction, repeats the touch again, again, every time his fist bobs to the head of Mike’s dick. Mike bucks into his hand with a clipped groan, and - there we go. There’s that smugly triumphant grin.

Will has this thing, Mike has noticed, where he wants to see Mike’s face during these moments. Like he’s studying his expressions. Everyone always says Mike wears his heart on his sleeve, so he supposes that makes sense. Usually it makes him a little squeamish - being watched so closely during such a vulnerable moment often makes him withdraw into his shell, even though it’s just Will watching. But not this time. He’s so lost in the steady throb of sensation that he doesn’t mind - barely even notices - when Will uses his free hand to pull his chin up and locks eyes with him. This time, as Will’s hand pumps over him in a rapid tempo, Mike doesn’t feel the urge to pull away or look down. Will stares right into his eyes, so intense and so single mindedly focused that it could be frightening, if Mike was fully rational. He doesn’t think he could break eye contact if he wanted to. He pants into the steam-smooth air between them, little noises rising up the back of his throat with increasing frequency, and Will seems to soak it in like a sponge. Like he’s reveling in it, thriving, like his energy is feeding directly off of Mike’s tremors and groans.

“Will,” Mike breathes, and Will’s tempo quickens. Mike’s head thumps back against the hard tiles, then rocks forward again to meet Will’s hard kiss. Teeth and tongue and Mike can hear the obscenely wet sounds of Will’s hand on his flesh over the roar of the shower. He moans against his mouth, past caring about trying to stop the sound. He can feel his body jerking, the strength draining from his limbs and gathering somewhere near the base of his spine, and he wants to slow down. To draw this out, make it last. But Will won’t let up, and Mike can only kiss back clumsily as Will pushes him closer and closer to the edge.

He hangs on for barely a minute or two longer before the blood pounds in his ears and he comes into Will’s hand with a jagged thrust.

He’s out of breath, heart pounding, and the tiles behind him are no longer cold. They’ve been warmed by his skin, and when Will kisses him again he braces himself gratefully against the wall.

As they kiss, and Mike pants through his nose to catch his breath, he feels Will’s dick press against his hip. Still hard.

“I could...” he says as soon as they lean apart. He’s not bold enough to finish that sentence, so he just reaches out, pausing as Will’s face fills with surprise.

“Yeah?” Will mumbles, and Mike nods. It’s only fair. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. He’s come this far; he may as well.

He moves blindly until he feels hard, stove-hot skin under his palm.

Now he knows why Will seemed so intent on taking in Mike’s reactions. Mike has barely started stroking - up and down and up again, getting a feel for it - and already Will is practically melting against him. Mike braves a look down, watching Will’s stomach cave as Mike gets a steady rhythm going. It’s at once intimately familiar and completely alien - the weight and shape of Will in his hand.

It doesn’t take long at all. Will must have been close to the edge before Mike even touched him, because barely a minute passes before he groans against Mike’s throat and goes still.

Believe it or not, they actually do soap off and shower, after that.

It’s Thursday the 27th. The second to last day of school.

Everyone in Drama kept singing the refrain of One Day More until Mr. Mello turned on the radio in exasperation. Now, as class wraps up, Small Town is playing on the local radio station - appropriately enough. Mike hums along with the country-ish tune as he shoves his things into his backpack.

“Well I was born in a small town; and I live in a small town. Probably die in a small town. Oh, those small communities; all my friends are so small town, my parents live in the same small town. My job is so small town; provides little opportunity.”

It’s been a pretty good day, actually, despite the stress of finals. He only has a couple tests left, and those are tomorrow. Their final projects in this class were completed earlier this week, so today was a fun day. Skits and improv, and then a few minutes of free time. Now, the lunch bell rings and Mr. Mello lifts a hand and yells, “All right, I’ll see y’all tomorrow! Leave your worksheets on my desk on the way out!”

The upbeat country song fades behind him as Mike is swept out into the hallway by the crush of bodies. Chatter, laughter and random yells fill the air. Anticipation for summer is palpable.

Will intentionally slams into Mike’s back, sending him nearly stumbling forward.

“Ugh,” he sighs, falling into step next to Mike and ignoring the middle finger aimed his way. “That test was bullsh*t. She said there wouldn’t be any material from last semester on it, but guess what?”

“I guess there was material from last semester on it,” Mike dadpans, and Will groans. “Well, it’s over now.”

“Almost. I’ve got another one right after lunch and one tomorrow. You?”

“Two tomorrow.”

Mike moves to get the door as they enter the cafeteria, then catches himself. Right. He’s not supposed to do that.

Will brought it up yesterday. Mike has, allegedly, been treating Will like “the girl,” every once in a while. Holding the door, offering to pay for things. Just little stuff like that. But apparently it was starting to bug him. Mike has been trying not to be annoyed about that. What else is he supposed to do, just let the door close in his face? (Apparently the answer is, yes. )

He’s working on it.

Their usual table is empty except for El when they arrive. Max slumps in soon after they do, grumpy and sporting dark bags under eyes. She just grunts when they greet her and drags a study guide out of her notebook. It’s another five minutes before Dustin or Lucas show up - which is weird. Usually they’re the first ones here.

When they appear, their expressions are sour. They sit down with a glance at each other and poke at their trays.

“What’s up with you guys?” Mike says through a bite of sandwich.

Dustin shrugs, a little stiff. “Just Troy again.”

“As usual,” El drawls.

Will picks apart his own sandwich like a reverse one-man assembly line. “What’d he do this time?”

“Just spreading rumors around,” Lucas says quickly, and then nods to El. “Like you said. The usual.”

They bend their heads over their food like they’re trying to avoid eye contact. Will looks at Mike and they both make I dunno faces at each other.

Mike decides to poke the bear. “What?”

Dustin takes his time in chewing, and then swallows and says curtly, “Just some bullsh*t. You know how he is. It’s just the usual -”

Lucas cuts in to rip the bandaid off. “He’s telling everyone you two have been f*cking.”

Mike chokes on a sip of juice, coughs, and meanwhile Will pulls off an impressive facade of confusion and mild amusem*nt.

“Us?” Will says, blandly, like they’re discussing the weather. Mike is abruptly, deeply grateful that at least one of them isn’t a complete open book.

Max thumps him on the back until he stops coughing and pushes her off.

The Party is scrambling to reassure them.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about -”

“Troy’s been blowing hot air for so long that everybody just tunes him out at this point. He ran out of material like three years ago.”

“Yeah, no one’s gonna believe him. Don’t sweat it.”

Mike, having finally recovered, summons up a wry grin and says, “I can say with one hundred percent confidence that we haven’t been f*cking, no.”

Beside him, Will makes a very quiet noise in his chest, like he just tried to swallow and cough at the same time. When Mike looks over, he’s covering the lower half of his face with one hand, clearly trying hard not to laugh. Then their eyes meet and the whole thing has backfired because now Mike is struggling to suppress the nervous laughter bubbling up to his own lips. The Party is laughing, tension easing, moving on to topics of finals and summer and whether all ketchup is created equal. El and Max join forces to shout Dustin down in the ketchup argument. And Will and Mike exchange a look that says, that was close.

It’s not until the second to last class of the day that Will hears the whispering.

He looks up just as Justin Cobbler steps up to his desk, gap teeth showing prominently behind his thin lips. He’s got a friend with him. Paul something-or-other, Will thinks. Solidly built guy. Glasses. He doesn’t know either of them except in passing. The class just broke to do a worksheet, and the room is full of chatter and activity. The teacher has given up on enforcing any kind of order.

“So,” Justin says, “Is it true?”

Will glances down at the paper on his desk. #1) Solve log 5 3x 2 = 1.96. Give x to the hundredths place.

“Yes, it’s true,” he says, flatly. “X does truly equal plus or minus two point eight.”

Paul Something crinkles his eyebrows and looks down at the paper in his own hand. He starts buffing out pencil marks with his eraser.

Justin shakes his head and says, “No, is it true that you got with Wheeler?”

More whispers, and this time Will pinpoints the source. There’s a group of friends huddled together two tables over, watching but trying not to be too conspicuous about it. One of them looks away when he makes eye contact. Will looks back to Justin - clearly the elected spokesperson. There’s a mean glint in his eye, and in the eyes of those watching, and Will knows it doesn’t really matter what he says. They don’t really want an answer, they just want to see what he’ll do. Will just has to decide how to play this.

The spokesperson goes on. “James said they saw Wheeler giving you a blowj*b at prom.”

Will assesses his tone in a split second and chooses a response. He reclines in his chair and gives a slow, Steve-ish grin. “Damn, I wish prom was that interesting.”

“Don’t we all,” adds the other guy, Maybe-Paul, and Will fake-laughs along with their real laughs, hating it.

The spokesperson still doesn’t look convinced, so Will adds, “You sure James wasn’t just daydreaming aloud?”

His stomach twists as soon as he says it. That was unfair, deflecting suspicion onto James like that - not that James is an especially great person, but still. The guys chortle to themselves and move back to their own table, Maybe-Paul still muttering about the log equation, but Will can’t feel proud of the accomplishment.

He knows he’s f*cked the moment he turns back to his paper and none of the numbers make sense. His pencil taps at the wood of his desk, but it doesn’t fade. There’s a tightness in his chest that won’t loosen, a frantic adrenaline rising. He grips his pencil harder and stares at the paper until it starts to make sense again. He won’t do this today.

Some girl across the room has been humming the same song repeatedly for the past ten minutes, and Will thinks if he hears it one more time he’s going to snap. It would be better if he could just remember the lyrics, but they escape him. He recognizes the melody, but the words are just beyond reach.

It isn’t fading. Guilt and worry stew together like a chemical reaction in his chest, catalyzing the anxiety that pulses in his veins until it bleeds into panic. He hunkers down in his chair and sets his jaw, determined to wait it out. He can tamp it down. He can. He will. He’s not gonna do this today. Not because of this.

Notorious. That’s the song she’s been humming. He glares across the room at her as she starts from the top again, but she’s oblivious to the death rays being beamed at her head.

The thoughts keep coming back, nudging at him. The truth’s out now. Why did you think you’d be safe? You chose to do this, and now it’s gonna come back and bite you in the ass.

Shut up, he hisses at it, but he can’t stem the steady flood. His breath is starting to come in sharp little gasps. The girl next to him gives him a look that’s part weirded-out, part concerned.

The second the bell rings he’s out of his seat and bolting for the AV room. The panic nips at his heels as he power-walks through the crowd, driving him to move faster. There are too many people, all around him, elbows and hair and feet pressing in on all sides. The lights are too bright for his eyes, the crowd loud as a revving motorbike.

He makes it to the AV room and prays that it’s unlocked. It is. He slams the door behind him and locks it.

There are only three keys to this door. The janitorial staff has one, somewhere. Mr. Clarke has one. And the third resides with the president of the Hawkins AV Club. No one will follow him in here.

He can still hear the chatter of the crowd, but it’s muffled behind the thick wood of the door. He flicks on the lights and they buzz to life, a soft yellow - not as unforgivingly bright as the hallway. He makes his way across the room, bracing himself on the table. He could navigate this space with his eyes closed. In the logical part of his mind, he knows it’s a familiar place - a safe place. But the logical part of his mind is less and less in control.

Will makes it to a far corner, underneath an old Apple poster, and slides down the wall. His ass hits the cold floor a little harder than he meant to, and he works his arms out of his backpack straps. He props it up behind him as a pillow. He’s doing a little better just at the moment - breathing easier, able to concentrate. Time to regroup and prepare. But he’s been through this song and dance too many times to count, ever since he was twelve. He knows how this goes. It comes in waves. The intensity and length depends on how bad the attack is, but he knows better than to think he can go back to class now. He’ll probably be in here for another half hour, if not until the end of the school day. He can only be grateful he already took his test for this class.

He has maybe three minutes to breathe and rest before he feels it rising again. He can tell it’s a bad one before it even hits. Resigned to his fate, he hugs his knees to his chest and listens to his own lungs race out of his control. His surroundings shift and blend like a magic eye picture and he tucks his face down behind his knees. The ground is cold.

You’re not there, he tells himself, but he’s not quite sure anymore. Again he thinks, you’re not there anymore, but this time it’s more of a wish than a truth. Pins and needles travel up and down his fingers, his hands, his arms.

He dragged Mike into this. This is his fault. He f*cked up. The truth is out now. Everyone’s gonna know, and Mike’s gonna hate him for dragging him down with him, and it’s his own damn fault because he f*cked up, he f*cked up, he f*cked up -

Dizziness creeps into his head, and that charge of pins and needles pulses and builds up in his fingertips. Panicked, confused, he clasps his hands to try to suppress it, but a spark the size of a baseball bangs between his hands as soon as they meet. He cries out in surprise, and he can’t tell if that’s slime and roots underneath him or just the cold AV room floor, he can’t tell -

There’s static crawling through his hair like ants, static making his clothes cling to his skin. Beyond the tangle of his arms and legs, the lights flicker. Will gives a dry sob. It’s coming. It’s coming and it’s his own fault. His hands jam against his ears, trying preemptively to block out His voice, but then he moves to cover his face instead. The lights flicker again, red and black through the flesh of his fingers. The radio on the desk turns on with a pop and blares static, and he peeks out to see dials oscillating. Equipment on the shelves lights up and beeps. A battery-powered R2D2 toy that broke long ago powers up, beeps and whistles, rolls right off the top shelf and falls with a crash. The lights strobe on and off and Will can’t block it out with his hands, he can still see it, and then one bulb bursts entirely and he feels like his whole body is a live wire, alight with blinding white energy that won’t stop -

Desperate, dizzy, Will blindly thrusts out one hand and discharges the current in one great burst.

Everything stops.

Slowly, his head lifts. It’s dark. Pitch dark. His right arm is numb to the shoulder. He tries to flex his fingers but can’t tell if they’re moving or not.

In the valley between waves, he thinks, I can’t do that again. I can’t. I need to control this.

Sparks pop and flicker in the spaces between his fingers, and then die away with a fizzle. It’s been quiet lately, barely noticeable. He’s had plenty of distractions to keep his mind busy. Finals, and his brother on break, and a new book series, and Mike. He’s been putting it off, ignoring it. But he can’t ignore it anymore. Not when this is happening. He has to learn to control it.

That’s the last real coherent thought he has before the complete darkness breaks him down into hysterics.

The next thing he really registers is a touch on his shoulder, jostling him. His head whips up so quickly that he cracks his skull against the wall behind him, and he’s pushing himself away across the floor but -

Mike. It’s Mike. Mike’s voice, Mike’s hand on his shoulder.

“Let go,” Will gasps, and Mike does.

Mike is in the Upside Down, how did - ? Wait, no. They’re not there. He’s not there. The lights are on. When did the lights come back on? The power grid must have come back online after -

“Hey, hey,” Mike is saying, and Will tries his hardest to slow his breaths but he just can’t stop. His lungs are working like the bellows of a forge, pounding fast as train pistons.

“Lock the door,” he manages, and Mike says, “I did. It’s locked.”

Will nods. Good. That could buy them some time if it comes looking for them. Not that it really matters. Solid walls are no problem for the Demogorgon.

His forehead hits his knees again and he curses himself for this. For letting Mike see this. Normally he’d hide this away from his friends - even his family. When he was younger, it just made everything so much worse to see his mother walk on eggshells around him, to hear his friends change the tone of their voices when they talked to him. So he learned to put a closed door between this and the rest of the world. He kept quiet and out of the way, and when it was over he’d go rejoin his friends or family with an excuse. He’s plenty strong enough to handle this on his own. He’s not weak, and he doesn’t need anyone looking at him that way.

But Mike - Mike talked him through one of these, once. The Halloween just before the Mind Flayer. Now, like then, Mike kneels next to Will on the ground and says, “Are you okay?”

And now, like then, Will latches onto his best friend’s voice like a life raft. No, his boyfriend’s voice. Will remembers that all at once and looks up, meeting the pair of dark eyes. Mike reaches out when he doesn’t answer, and then pauses and says, “Is - can I touch you?”

All at once, Will barks out a watery laugh. It’s an exact echo of what he said himself, just this Tuesday - god, was it really just two days ago? - but so very different. Can I touch you? He nods.

Mike settles next to him, one arm wrapping cautiously around Will’s shoulders. When he doesn’t protest, Mike pulls Will more firmly against him.

“Slow down,” he prompts, and Will makes a face.

I’m trying, he thinks. Try telling my lungs that.

Mike takes a deep, slow breath to demonstrate. Will squeezes his eyes shut against another wave of, hide, you have to hide, you have to run or he’ll find you, it’s your fault, this is all your fault, run run run. When it passes and he opens his eyes again he throws himself into slowing his breath, trying to match Mike’s.

“Where is it?” he gasps out the next time he has breath, and Mike says, “What?” When Will can’t respond he guesses, “The Demogorgon?”

Will’s head jerks up and down. “Is it -?”

“No.” Mike’s arm squeezes around him. “It’s dead. Long dead, remember? You’re okay. Nothing else is in here, it’s just us.”

Will nods again, wanting desperately to believe it, but it takes him another half hour to finally ride out the last spike of panic. Another half hour of trembling and gasping and hearing Mike’s voice talk him through the worst patches. Calm, steady, patient. And when it finally fades, Will rubs the grit from his eyes and apologizes. Over and over, and Mike will have none of it.

“Why can’t it just leave me alone?” Will bursts out, in the middle of Mike trying yet again to convince him that he doesn’t need to be sorry. They’re still sitting in the same corner of the AV room, ignoring the fact that they’re supposed to be in class. Will scuffs one shoe along the floor. “It’s been years. Why can’t...”

“It’s... a lot better than it was...” Mike ventures, and Will tosses his hands in the air.

“Sure. I guess. But I don’t - it doesn’t -” He lets out the rest of his breath and settles back against his backpack. He picks at a crack in the floor, loathe to admit what’s going through his mind. It’s only very quietly that he says, “Maybe it’s me. Maybe it did end years ago, I’m just - I’m what’s wrong.”

“Will -”

“It’s like I can’t get it off of me - like it’s stuck to my skin. No matter what I do, just... it’s still there.” Will’s fingers wrap around his own forearms - not hugging himself but restraining himself. “It’s like I never really got it out of me. After -”

After the fire, the tunnels, the shed, the heat from all sides burning him alive.

Mike is quiet. Will shuts his mouth and curses himself for ever opening it, but then -

“Were you there on the day that Mr. Clarke introduced the unit on cells?”

Will makes a face at him. That was years ago; he barely remembers. “Yeah, I think so.”

“And he was talking about how the cells in our bodies are constantly regenerating and being replaced?”

“Sure.”

Mike is getting on a roll, gesturing with the arm that isn’t wrapped around Will. “He said that every seven years, every single cell in our bodies is replaced - every single cell.”

“Yeah, so?”

Mike’s chin dips, his eyes widening a degree as he delivers his point. “ So, in seven years, you’ll have a body that the Mind Flayer never touched.” Will stares at him. Mike takes a half-breath and adds, “And every day, a little bit more of you is completely new.”

Mike shrugs his shoulders, like he’s embarrassed of his short but passionate speech, and Will blinks. He never thought of that. And it doesn’t fix everything - not nearly - but somehow, it helps to balance out the stutter in his diaphragm. For now, it’s enough. And he turns and crawls into Mike’s lap to kiss him.

Chapter 8: The Calm Before

Chapter Text

It’s officially summer vacation.

Cue celebratory Alice Cooper.

On the way home from the Wheeler’s house the morning after the Party’s traditional end-of-school-year D&D sleepover, Will takes a detour past the school. A blocky maintenance truck is still parked near one of the side doors, equipment spilling from the back. As he rides by, the school janitor steps out to talk to one of the maintenance guys. They gesture towards the school, smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand, and Will faces forward just in time to avoid skidding into the fence.

The last couple days of school were punctuated with scenes like this. On Thursday, a surge in the power grid swept through nearly three blocks of Hawkins, Indiana, blowing bulbs and scorching wires. The school seemed to take the worst of the damage. The resulting blackout only lasted a few minutes until power was restored to the area, but it’s the talk of the town nevertheless. Townspeople grumble about the new power company; students swap tales of the school going dark. And Will? Will rides past, wondering how expensive that’s all going to be to fix.

That can’t happen again. He can’t let that happen again.

He needs to learn to control it.

His bike sweeps down the curve of the road towards the outskirts of town. The Party congregated yesterday, the moment school ended, and they’ve been celebrating ever since. Will took every opportunity to pull Mike away and kiss him, almost wishing that someone would come around a corner. Almost. He knows they can’t risk that. He knows how squeamish Mike is about anyone finding out. And Will understands - of course he does. He knows perfectly well what could happen. But - but. Maybe it’s selfish, but just once he wants someone to see. To know. To prove to them that - what? To prove to himself, maybe, that this is real.

But morning came and the sleepover drew to a close without incident, and now as Will bikes the last leg of the journey home, he plans. He’ll need something metal - lots, actually. Different kinds. And some electronic stuff he doesn’t mind possibly getting blown up - old toys, maybe.

At home, he heads straight for the recycling can. A jumbled mess of plastic, cardboard, and - yes - assorted metals gleams up at him.

Bingo.

He feels a little silly. It’s all set up. Empty soup and soda cans all lined up on a plank of wood propped up between two crates (what passes for a “bench” in the shed). Nuts and bolts sprinkled a little ways away. One small toy car, battery-powered, idling beyond the bolts. The radio is placed near the door, switched on to a pop station for some background music. Door itself closed; rubber gloves: on. They’re technically dishwashing gloves, but his mom never uses them - and anyway, he needs a failsafe. If the energy gets out of control, he can pop on the gloves. Avoid electrocuting half of Hawkins again.

But now, as he tugs off the gloves and sets them aside, he feels silly. Especially when he stretches out a hand towards the row of cans, awkwardly, like a little kid trying to use the Force. He lets his arm drop, blows out a sigh, and paces to the radio to flick through stations. Maybe he can find a good song. He’s been keeping his ears perked for songs to put on Mike’s mixtape - songs that remind him of Mike, or of them, together. He has about fifteen songs on the list, so far. Soon he can start on the actual tape. It’s cheesy, he knows - but then again, Mike kinda likes cheesy sh*t like that. And it feels good, doing something like that for Mike - for his boyfriend.

Will lands on a station announcing Control by Janet Jackson. Hm. Not quite mixtape material, but it’ll do for now.

He twists the volume up a couple notches and returns to the chalk line on the floor, about six feet from his targets.

“ This is story about control,” the song begins, over a backdrop of buzzing instrumentals. “ My control. Control of what I say; control of what I do; and this time I'm gonna do it my way. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do. Are we ready? I am. 'Cause it's all about control; and I've got lots of it.”

Okay. Okay. Time to do this. On purpose, this time. Will bounces on his toes, takes another long breath, and closes his eyes. Now that he’s actually trying, he can’t feel even a fizzle of the power that felt so hopelessly out of control in the AV room. He tries to focus, to remember what it felt like. The fizzing tension that started somewhere in his spine and spread like static to the tips of his fingers. That pricking, sparkling buzz, like his blood was carbonated. He tries to summon it up, but it’s like reaching for goldfish; every time he gets close it darts away, frictionless and elusive under his mental grasp.

This isn’t working. He opens his eyes.

How does El do this? How did he do this? In the AV room, or when he shoved Troy down in the hallway for kicking Mike, or when he jolted awake from a nightmare and gave his boyfriend a solid shock in the arm. Or, hell, even that day at Castle Byers, when he was so nervous he thought he might retch into the bushes or... or...

He stops pacing and turns to look at the line of empty cans. That’s it. The common element. It’s defensive. All those times, it bubbled up from inside him with some strong emotion. Panic, anger, fear, anxiety.

And Will kicks at a post in the wall in frustration, because that can’t be it. He carries too many negative tokens from the Upside Down already. Nightmares, half-memories, panic, snappishness, sleeplessness, doubt... This can’t just be one more item on the laundry list of what’s wrong with him. It won’t be - he won’t let it.

No. There have been good times, too.

The song on the radio bounces along, blithely cheerful as Will’s jaw sets in determination.

There have been good times. There have. Like in the principal’s office just after standing up to Troy, when sparks snapped between his fingers under the table. Or in the Palace, where he could feel the energy all around him, humming, pulsing like a heartbeat, invigorating. Or on the evening of that one sleepover, a week before Prom, when Mike kissed him and he had to pull back for a moment to force down the swelling current that nearly reached his hands.

For the second time, Will’s hand lifts. When has he been happy? He thinks of dancing with El in their prom attire, goofing around like siblings. He thinks of the Party encountering a vaguely face-shaped rock and interrogating it for no good reason, Max and Dustin rolling for intimidation with faces red from laughing. His mother, smiling to herself and shaking her head as he wrestled Jonathan for the last serving of cereal. Charcoal staining the pads of his fingers. The reddish packed dirt of the track field, marked with lines of white chalk. And Mike.

Will always, even as a kid, thought that he’d be alone. Until college, at least, or maybe forever. There aren’t many people like him in a small, conservative town like this, and Mike? Mike would be horrified if he knew how Will felt about him. At least, that’s what he always thought. But now he thinks about Mike’s nervous little shrug when their eyes met at Castle Byers; Mike’s lips quirked up in a tiny smile every time Will falls back after a kiss; Mike’s fingers zippered into Will’s with a grip like he doesn’t want to let go. He thinks about all the things he never thought he’d have. Dates, and quick kisses when everyone else is around the corner, and Mike. Mike’s head on his shoulder, dead asleep, the weight of it turning Will’s whole arm tingling-numb, but he wouldn’t move in a million years.

“First time I fell in love,” the radio pipes from the corner, at the edge of Will’s attention. “I didn't know what hit me. So young and so naive, I thought it would be easy.”

He doesn’t think, he just exhales and unfolds his fist, barely flinching at the cloud of tiny lightning strikes that crackle around his palm. The little storm dies away quickly, leaving his hair floating on end and his clothes clinging to his skin with static, but it’s near the surface now. He can feel it again, if he just reaches and -

Oops.

A razor-thin arc of electricity strikes a nail in the wall catty-corner to the radio. A fine ribbon of smoke curls from that section of plywood.

He tries again with squared shoulders. He will do this.

“Now I know I got to take - control!”

Energy jolts down his arm, and six feet away, blueish sparks buzz inside the nearest tin can.

“Now I’ve got a lot - control!”

He tries again, pushing the current down the length of his arm, flinging it - it misses and hits the floor, leaving a small, dark burn.

“To get what I want - control!” Janet Jackson croons.

Will relaxes his arm, shakes it out, and aims again.

“I’m never gonna stop - control!”

The white-blue arc hits the lip of the soup can with a sharp, satisfying sound. It sits, silent and seeming almost bewildered, for a second and a half before the paper label catches on fire.

“Control.”

Will steps back, realizing too late that he’s panting, hands shaking hard enough that he can feel it all up his arms. The exhaustion hits him a second later and his knees buckle, sending him to the ground in an awkward heap of limbs. There he slumps, legs crossed, elbows braced on his thighs. Panting. He’s winded - sore, like he just stumbled off the track field.

The label quietly burns itself out, one corner curling into ash, and then there’s just the smell of smoke and ozone and singed metal, and the radio cheerfully singing away to itself behind him.

He’s gonna need some help, he realizes all at once. Somebody who knows how all this works. Someone who’s had experience with stuff like this.

When his strength returns, Will stands and locates the gloves. He stuffs them over his hands again, just in case, and makes his way inside to the phone.

“What the hell, Mike?”

“Language,” intones their father. Mike and Nancy continue to tussle, ignoring him.

“Yeah, what the hell, Mike?” Holly parrots, and their mother slaps down her fork with an exclamation of, “ Language! ”

Everyone drops back into their seats, silent but suppressing laughter. Will dutifully keeps eating his cornbread, eyes alight with amusem*nt but keeping to his own corner of the table. Nancy scrapes hot sauce off of her food with the flat of her fork, glaring, and Holly mimics the expression from across the table. When Nancy is off at college, Mike can barely escape his little sister - but now, with the prodigal daughter home for the summer, Holly is one hundred percent Team Nancy.

It’s been a grand total of two and a half weeks since she got back, and Mike is tired of her already. Seriously. He barely missed her, and anyway, it’s not like he’s glad she’s back. She’s a pain in the ass. That being said, he’s never gonna pass up the opportunity to dump hot sauce on her food just to start a poke-war at the table. Just like old times, before she went off and left him practically alone in the house with their parents.

“We don’t say those words,” their mother is saying to Holly, eyes wide to show that she’s serious. “Okay? And big sister shouldn’t be saying them either.”

She shoots a look in Nancy’s direction and Nancy jabs a hand at Mike. “He was -!”

But their mother is already turning back to her husband, saying, “At least Hart dropped out of the running.”

A hand grazes along the knee of Mike’s jeans, and he tilts his head to send Will a small smile. He doesn’t take his boyfriend’s hand, though, and after a moment Will just squeezes his knee and retreats. They can’t risk that; not with his parents here.

Although, Mike reflects as conversation starts up again, his parents are in an unusually good mood tonight - mainly because they’re talking about politics, one of the only topics they actually agree on. At least they’re talking to each other. Having a real conversation. Mike watches them over his glass as he takes a sip. His mother’s eyes are keen, voice strong and clear as she leans into the conversation, and his father is actually responding in full sentences for once. It’s a good night.

At least, it is until Ted says, “I mean, they’re bleeding us out. More and more and more taxes.” The flat of his hand cuts through the air with each more . “We’re supposed to pay for everything. Why should we have to fork over our hard-earned dollars for... for what, more hospital rooms for hom*osexuals with aids?”

Mike meets Nancy’s eyes across the table as all three of the younger generation pull oh god, here we go again faces. Even Holly senses the spike in tension and frowns through her bite of chicken. Ted plows on, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere.

“You know, when I was a kid we didn’t have any of that. People didn’t go to hospitals, they went to church.”

Mike stuffs his own mouth full of roast chicken and stares down at the decorative yellow-ish flowers that line the circumference of his plate. It’s nothing to do with you, he reminds himself. It’s fine. He doesn’t know. No one knows. It’s not about you. But still, heat starts to pool in the tips of his cheekbones and crawl up his throat.

His father keeps talking. “Maybe that’s the problem. That’s why there are so many of them nowadays - I mean, you see it all the time. There are articles in the papers. People go marching around with signs trying to beg special privileges from the government -”

Nancy makes the slightest noise in her throat, but Ted rolls on.

“I’m just saying, no one was gay when I was a kid. Television is all people care about, these days - people stopped paying attention to religion, and now there’s this new phenomenon -”

Karen cuts in with a lukewarm retort, and Mike terraforms his cornbread with a hard grip on his fork, thinking, oh, please. That’s not even really what you think. You don’t give that much of a sh*t about church, you just heard it on the news and now you’re parotting it because it sounds impressive and for once you have everyone’s attention.

And that’s all it is, really. This happens nearly every time Nancy comes home from university - with all of his kids gathered in the same place, and his wife in a good mood, Ted makes some attempt at imparting fatherly wisdom. Sometimes it comes off well enough. Other times...

Well, other times he goes off on a rant about the healing power of prayer and how maybe if more people made room in their lives for what’s really important, they wouldn’t be “waving signs around begging for attention.” Mike tries his best to just shut it out. Nancy’s face is going through a ballet of expressions, Holly is offering her stuffed tiger bites of her food, and Karen is nodding along, thoughtfully. Mike starts mentally singing the finale of last semester’s musical as loudly as he can, hoping the topic moves on soon.

He tunes back in around the time that Ted is wrapping up his speech, hands folded on the table in front of him.

“In our modern world, not enough people pray anymore.” He gazes around the table, secure in the assumption that everyone is learning from his patriarchal wisdom. And then, earnestly, confidently, he delivers the moral of his lecture. “The most powerful position you can take is on your knees.”

Mike tries. He really tries. But the laughter pops in his diaphragm anyway, making him half-choke on his sip of milk. His father’s face is completely serious, and Mike sputters silently into his napkin to disguise the laugh.

And then, with equal sincerity, Will replies. “I completely agree.”

Mike’s subdued sputtering crescendos into a bark of startled laughter, quickly camouflaged into a series of staged coughs. Which then turn into genuine ones. His chair squeaks across the floor as he stands, trying desperately not to imagine Will on his knees.

“‘Scuse me,” he manages between spasms, and then he’s fleeing the dining room with his napkin plastered over his face to hide the deep flush. He sees his mother’s mouth twitching on the way by, like she’s trying to suppress a giggle of her own, and then their eyes meet for a split second and he looks away again.

He makes it to the kitchen and spends at least a minute hacking up some speck of milk that lodged itself in his windpipe. Eyes watering, face burning - not from the coughing fit, or even from the spasms of involuntary giggles that keep jiggling his shoulders, but from that thought that’s stuck in his brain now. That image. Will. On his knees. Hazel eyes sparkling with mischief as he -

Mike coughs harder and begins to silently recite multiplication tables. Anything to ward off the situation in his jeans that almost just happened.

He returns to the table with his composure on firm lockdown. He’s not thinking about it - not even a little bit. Not even when the conversation has long since moved on to Holly’s part in her elementary school play, and her horror at having to wear a sheep costume. Not even when Mike feels another soft touch at his thigh and jumps so badly that the tines of his fork squeal against his plate. Will squeezes his leg, gently, and then the questing hand flips over and bares an open palm. Mike’s eyes flit back and forth between his parents, both wholeheartedly focused on their youngest as she chatters. Will’s hand is a soft weight just above Mike’s knee - and this time, he takes it.

If anyone notices Will eating with his left hand, no one mentions it.

“He doesn’t even believe that stuff!”

Mike swings a solid kick at the pillow, which is still lying in a lump on the ground where he slapped it down a moment ago. He mostly misses and his toe catches the very corner, flipping the throw pillow over with a muffled little thwump.

“He doesn’t give sh*t about - about prayer or whatever bullsh*t, since when did he give a sh*t? Since when did anyone ? Mom hasn’t made us go to church since Holly was a baby.”

He snatches up the pillow and hurls it down again, and this time it flattens against the carpet.

They’re in the basem*nt. String lights plugged in. Door closed, with a blanket stuffed against the crack underneath to block sound. Will is curled up in the corner of the old couch, watching Mike pace in circles, and Mike is - well, Mike is yelling.

“He just heard it on TV.” The pillow takes another hit. “And now he’s vomiting it back up because it makes him sound -” And another. “- like he knows -” Another. “- what he’s talking about.”

Mike finally slams the pillow against the opposite end of the couch, running out of steam. He throws himself down beside Will, then slides from the couch to the floor with a groan. Will scoots across the cushion to sit just behind him, and Mike rests his head on Will’s knee.

“God, I can’t wait to get the f*ck out of here.”

“Mm-hmm,” Will hums simply - which Mike knows from experience is his way of saying you’re being a drama queen without actually saying it.

“I mean, you heard all that bullsh*t .” Mike jabs a hand towards the staircase, as if indicating everything and everyone beyond the basem*nt door.

“Yeah.”

He can feel Will’s hands as they begin to thread through his hair, absently, stroking it as he thinks for a moment. Eventually he murmurs, “Just one more year.”

Will’s fingers drag through his hair, carefully working through the occasional tangle, but all at once Mike feels the muscles in his shoulders harden with tension. He half-turns to look up at Will. “... and then?”

“And then we graduate, dummy.”

“Yeah, I know . But -”

He cuts off, sheepish. He doesn’t want to say that there’s a keen, swelling anxiousness in the pit of his gut - a fear that they’ll graduate, and get accepted to different colleges halfway across the map from each other, and then... then... then what? Would they be long-distance? They might keep it up for a while, but they’d have different lives. Separate lives. They’d talk less and less. Months would go by between visits, and then years, and...

Mike’s lips push together as he fights a pulse of emotion that seems to heat up just behind the mask of his face. He can’t lose Will. He couldn’t lose Will before - back when Will was no more than his best friend. The person he’d spent more of his life with than without. The person who knew so many of his secrets; who knew him best; who’d seen him at his best and worst. The person he cared about more than almost anything. Losing Will then would have broken Mike right down the middle. But now? After everything?

Will senses the shift. His hands stop, and he leans forward to meet Mike’s gaze at an awkward angle. “What?”

Several moments of silence crawl by, and finally Mike opens his mouth. “Do you think... maybe...”

Will jostles his head with a knee, concern pinching his face at Mike’s uncharacteristic reluctance to speak.

He tries again. “Do you think we could maybe... I don’t know, look at colleges in the same state, or - or apply to some of the same... universities...” And he’s trailing off again because it sounds so stupid, out loud. His gesturing hands flop around like fish out of water, for a moment, and then they drop into his lap. He looks down, away from Will, and picks at a spot in the carpet.

Will’s hands go back to work. Carding through his hair. He’s worked out all the tangles, by now, and the motion is smooth, constant, repetitive. “You mean like,” he says, and pauses for a moment to push one hand up into Mike’s hair and give it a vigorous shake. Tossing waves and half-curls over Mike’s face. “Go to college together?”

Mike swipes the hair out of his eyes. “What are you even doing?”

“Messing up your hair.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Will tousles his hair once again for emphasis, and then goes back to brushing it with his fingers. Mike takes several deep breaths, lips clicking as they part to speak but coming up empty each time.

“Maybe there’s one that has both our majors,” he ventures at last. “I just. I mean, I was just thinking.” That damn heat is back, swelling right behind his nose and eyes, and he clenches his jaw to push it down. “I just started thinking and...” He can’t spit it out. Every time he goes to say I don’t know what I’ll do without you, his throat clamps down over the words and he can’t breathe through them. He clears his throat. “Well. Yeah. Maybe we could -”

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

He turns again, so abruptly that his spine pops in two places. Will looks down at him, the soft multicolored glow of the string lights soaking into his hair and touching one side of his face.

“Yeah?”

Will shrugs. “There’s gotta be at least one college out there with an art major and ... uh, have you even chosen a major yet?”

Mike’s arm twists back to whack ineffectively against Will’s upper arm. “I have a year left, leave me alone.” But then he grins. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” Will grins back, this time with a glimmer of that sweet shyness that he was known for as a kid. “Together, right?”

Mike knows immediately what he’s referencing. It was years ago, but the moment plays through his mind - Hey, well, if we’re both going crazy, then we’ll go crazy together, right? His heart gives a funny little flutter-lurch behind his ribcage, and then starts beating hard. Not fast - just hard , like it’s trying to bruise the inside of his chest.

“Right,” Mike confirms. “Together.”

They’re getting bolder.

Or maybe she’s just better at noticing it, now. Better at paying attention.

Karen stares right through the pot she’s scrubbing. The sharp, clean scent of dishwasher soap rises around her with the steam, and all she can see is Will’s fork balanced clumsily in his left hand. His right arm was angled just slightly towards Mike, disappearing under the table.

They were holding hands. Right there, at dinner.

She had that dream again - the one she keeps having. About that day when Mike was four and he fell off the jungle gym. Her brain keeps serving it up again and again, tormenting her with the memory. And that’s the thing, it’s not a nightmare. She can’t just wake up and think, oh, thank god it wasn’t real. Because it was real. Mike really did fall, all those years ago when she should have been paying attention. He stepped right off the edge and that was it - sprained ankle, banged-up head, bruises all over. She remembers running in her heels to reach him, nearly crying with guilt. She remembers his chubby little cheeks, flushed and tear-streaked, as he looked up at her in pained bewilderment. Like he couldn’t believe what just happened.

And now Karen is standing in the kitchen in her socks, mindlessly scouring the pot she cooked dinner in, trying not to think about how quickly her son vanished into the basem*nt. How Will went down first, glancing over his shoulder to see if Mike was following, and Mike didn’t even hesitate before closing the door behind him.

How is she supposed to just turn off her mother’s instincts? She can’t just watch her child wander off down a dark path and do nothing.

She can’t just stand by.

Mike faces forward again, drained as if he just ran a mile, but in a good way. Relief loosens the knot in his gut and he leans back against the couch, sighing as Will repositions himself. He settles one leg on either side of Mike and scoots forward an inch or two, giving himself optimal access to Mike’s head and shoulders. Mike rolls his eyes when Will’s hands bury themselves into his hair again, but he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t really want Will to stop, anyway. The gentle, repetitive tugs send shivers running down the back of his neck.

After a few heartbeats of quiet, Mike speaks. “Where do you want to go?”

“Away,” is Will’s immediate answer. “I don’t know. Maybe a big city.”

Mike makes a face. “A big city?”

He laughs. “I dunno. Just somewhere different from here.”

Mike hums agreement. Then he hisses - a spark of static electricity popped between Will’s hands and his scalp, stinging slightly. Will presses both palms down over his head in apology, muttering, “Sorry, sorry. You okay?”

“Fine.”

It was nothing - just a spark. But that’s been happening a lot lately, come to think of it. What is it with Will and being a magnet for static? Does he constantly go around shuffling wool socks on the carpet?

His attention is waylayed when Will’s hands slip from the crown of his head, down the back of his neck, and then to his shoulders. His palms press down, firm, like he’s testing the give. Mike is about to ask what he’s doing when Will’s fingers wrap around the muscles right at the junction of his neck and shoulders and clamp down. Then his hands move down an inch and pinch again, and Mike gives a little grimace. There’s a delicate, tart-tender ache settled into his muscles, accumulated over weeks and months of tension and worry, and the tendons give a little twinge of discomfort as Will starts pressing firm circles on either side of the base of his skull. Then Will grinds the heels of his hands into the flesh just below the collar of Mike’s shirt, and Mike’s groan ebbs into a sigh as his shoulders start to relax under the touch.

Why is Will so good at this? Mike didn’t realize how tightly strung he was until Will started wringing the tension from his muscles. He reclines against the couch, bracketed by Will’s legs, and closes his eyes. Will isn’t gentle about it - he digs his fingers and palms deep into the stiff muscles, making them ache in a way that almost feels good. He works at Mike’s neck, first, kneading the delicate tendons that extend down into the rest of his body. And then, when Mike’s head has lolled forward, skin hot with a blood-blush from the touch, Will moves on. To the tops of his shoulders, his upper back, rubbing and squeezing with those long artist’s fingers that Mike can’t help but admire. He layers slow, smooth strokes along Mike’s shoulders, pushing and kneading, and Mike can feel himself melting into a putty. Undivided attention from his boyfriend tends to do that, these days.

Karen places the pot on the draining rack. Moving with that too-careful, too-precise kind of self control that only comes from nearly being out of control. She’s made a decision - now what’s left is following through with it.

She stands in the kitchen for several long minutes, too deep in thought to even sit down, before she hears the TV click off. Ted gets up from his La-Z-Boy, and the familiar rhythm of his footsteps start to trudge up the stairs.

Pushing her limbs into action, she follows him.

The thought rises quietly from the back of his mind, without warning. Like a bubble deep underwater, rising calmly and steadily towards the surface. He really loves me, huh?

It startles Mike so much that he lets his head fall back to look at Will upside-down. At this angle, he can see the exact shape of Will’s jaw and the plump curve of his lower lip. Will gives a self-satisfied grin, still kneading Mike’s shoulders.

“Hey,” is all Will says.

And Mike’s heart does that funny little flutter-lurch again that he can feel between his ribs, and this time his pulse does pick up, and he can feel himself going red. He can feel the delicate, immediate heat rising like a mist to the tips of his cheeks and warming in his neck and ears, and he knows Will can see it because that smirk widens just a degree.

Mike almost says it. His mouth gets as far as forming the shapes I lo- but then he catches the words just behind his teeth and swallows them down, and instead just whispers back, “Hey,” in one dry, half-cracked syllable. He’s not ready to say that yet - not quite. But -

He loves me.

It’s half statement, half realization. Mike knew that before, of course - he knew that. He knew it since Will signed his letter Love, Sincerely, Love, Will. And he knew it before then, really, in that half-conscious instinctual way. He knew it the way he knows how many steps there are in his house, even in the dark, or the way he knows how to pitch his voice to draw in the players in a campaign. He knew it the way he knew that he would have crumbled inside of himself if Will hadn’t come back from that cabin where they all but burned him alive. But he’s never considered it as a fact before, as something that can be stated aloud. The sky is blue. Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. Will loves me.

He’s too full of fizzy sunlight to sit still, so he arches back and pushes up until he catches Will’s mouth at perhaps the most awkward angle known to man. He abandons that idea in about two seconds and crawls up onto the couch, tackling Will immediately in another kiss - a real one, this time, and Will laughs into it.

“Stop smiling,” he scolds, poking Mike in the ribs. “I can’t kiss you if you’re smiling.”

Mike just nuzzles his face into his boyfriend’s throat, breathing in his scent, and then kisses a trail up Will’s neck and over his jaw until he reaches his mouth again. He gently bowls Will over and shifts himself on top, and Will is laughing again by this point, squirming underneath him.

“You’re in a good mood all the sudden,” he comments, and Mike just hums and nips at the soft lobe of his ear. This draws a sharp little inhale from Will, who then slots his legs together with Mike’s and hooks one palm around the back of Mike’s head, into the waves that Will himself thoroughly disheveled.

Their lips work against each other, warm and willing, and Mike traces the shape of Will’s lower lip with the very tip of his tongue until Will gets impatient and licks into Mike’s mouth. Around them, the house settles. The basem*nt has always been a receptacle for all those inner-workings-of-the-building sounds. Sleepovers past have always been set against a backdrop of footsteps above, water rushing through pipes, the whoosh-bang of the heater kicking on, creaks and drafts and all the rest. Mike knows the sounds of the house as well as he knows his own heartbeat. So he instantly recognizes the sound of the kitchen sink shutting off, the clunk of his father’s La-Z-Boy folding shut, and then two pairs of footsteps ascending the stairs. His parents are turning in for the night. His sisters both went upstairs already, too.

All clear.

Karen climbs the stairs like one ascending to the gallows. Her right palm, sweat-damp and clammy, drags along the bannister. Her left hand tightens into a fist beside her, and then splays out. She can do this. She has to do this.

It’s because of you, that voice pipes up calmly, coldly from the back of her mind.

She swallows it down and climbs the last few steps with leaden feet. Ted is sitting on the bed when she comes in, busy unbuttoning the sleeves of his work shirt. He glances up when she enters, but it’s not until she presses the door shut behind her that his face wrinkles up in confusion.

“Uh-oh,” he says, his tone only half-joking as she sits gingerly a few feet away from him. “What’d I do now?”

She can feel her voice going all wobbly before she even speaks, and she hesitates for several long moments. Once she tells him she won’t be able to take it back. Maybe Joyce was right. Maybe she should keep her mouth shut. But... no, she decided. She decided already. This is her fault. She can fix this - she’s gonna fix this. She has to. But she can’t do it alone.

“Ted, it’s...” she begins, and the waterworks start up at once. She clasps her hands in her lap, avoiding his eyes until finally she looks up and says, “It’s about our son.”

He could never admit it aloud, but Mike loves moments like these. When they really get going and the momentum carries them effortlessly, without having to think or hesitate or question his next move. They’re tangled up on the couch now, all hard breaths and mouths sliding together and Will’s tongue stroking fervently against Mike’s, hot and so smooth. Mike’s hands shoved up under Will’s shirt; Will’s hands stroking down his neck, his arms, fisting against the front of his sweater. Mike isn’t sure if he’s the one that starts it, or if it was Will, but one thrust turns into two and just like that they’ve found a rhythm, sinuous and pulsing. Mike’s hips grinding Will’s down into the cushion and Will’s tilting up to meet him. There’s no denying how hard they both are - Mike can feel it through the stiff layers of denim, and he chases it without thinking. Swiveling his hips down in a messy, unfocused pulse. They’re still relatively unpracticed, and every few seconds they either miss a beat or jar their hips together on accident. But he doesn’t care. Instinct has him bearing down with a groan, burying his mouth against Will’s as they writhe against each other.

And it’s not enough. He realizes that as frustration mounts in his chest, even as Will nips playfully at his tongue. That shower spoiled him. Now that he’s felt Will pressed up against him, head-to-toe with nothing between them but soap lather, dry-humping through these thick layers of fabric can’t hold a candle. He just wants more - he wants to be closer, to feel more . He wants the body heat of skin on skin and he wants - god. A fresh tingle of blood-blush rises to his skin. He wants Will’s hands on him again. They haven’t touched like that since the shower, and suddenly it feels like an eternity ago.

First order of business: he wants this damn shirt off.

Mike rears up to yank the thing over his head. He flings it aside and tries not to balk as Will’s eyes sweep over him, drinking in Mike’s bare torso as if it’s anything worth looking at. Will’s fingers come up to dance over the smattering of freckles that trail down his shoulders, but Mike is already crawling over him again.

It’s weird. Usually Will is the eager one, fidgeting impatiently until they can get a moment alone, hands burrowing under Mike’s shirt, teeth snapping at his lower lip. But now Mike finds himself taking the lead, riding that wave of inexplicable, stomach-swooping happiness. That warmth turns quickly to heat as Will responds, and it sparkles like soda in his veins, at his cheeks and the tips of his ears and the delicate skin of his wrists. The arousal seems to sink roots deep into his belly, pulling taut as Mike cages Will in with his limbs and listens to his boyfriend breathe out in hard little puffs of air against his cheek.

With the tart-sweet tension singing through his entire body, like the plucked string of a guitar, Mike noses his way under Will’s jaw. He finds the soft spot just under his ear, and first only presses his lips there, and then flicks out a tip of tongue. Tasting the warm, musky-fresh essence of his skin. From here, at that sensitive hollow of skin and chestnut hair and the collar of Will’s shirt, Will’s scent is all around him. Light, clean, earthy, and with that dark-sweet twist of something almost like fennel or liquorish. Mike inhales until he’s on the teetering edge of dizziness, and then nips at that patch of skin - Will’s body bows underneath him, the warm solidness of his body pressing up against Mike, and Mike swipes his tongue over the spot again. But he knows better than to bite down any harder. Not this far up, above the collar. He pulls back and Will makes a breathy noise that’s dangerously close to a whine of disappointment, but then Mike’s lips are dragging down the column of Will’s throat with a whisper of wetness, and his mouth lands at the ticklish point between neck and shoulder - just where Will was rubbing the tension out of Mike, minutes before - and there he latches on. Teeth closing over the flesh until Will makes a clipped noise of pain, and then giving a hard pull of suction until that noise stutters into a needy groan and Will’s hips pulse up against Mike’s, once, twice, while Mike sucks hard at the base of his neck. When he pulls away the skin is an angry red. It’ll darken to a bruise by the time they leave the basem*nt.

A noise rises in Will’s throat, making it halfway out of his mouth, but whatever he was going to say is cut short as Mike dives again. To the other side of his neck, this time, licking and grazing his teeth over the familiar shape of Will’s throat until he bites down again, and Will just throws his head to the side and sighs. Mike feels gooseflesh light up under his tongue. It could be his imagination, but he thinks, through the lids of his closed eyes, that he sees glow of the string lights brighten and fluctuate with Will’s gasps. Everything is back to normal when he draws back and opens his eyes. He chalks it up to his imagination, but tucks it away in the back of his mind. He doesn’t have time to think about it right now.

He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. His body is flying down that slope of momentum, and he can only watch. He’s impatient, almost frenzied, not thinking straight - his mind has gone at once foggy and hyper-aware, and he can feel every tiny thread and crease in his pants. And oh, by the way, he wants those off too. He’s painfully hard inside them, stuck halfway between wanting to shove them off so they stop chafing and wanting to buck down against Will again just to get any sort of friction. The shirt. Will is still wearing his shirt. And that just won’t do.

Mike’s hands start fumbling over buttons, and Will is panting, “Here, I’ll -” and then before Mike quite knows what happened he’s wrestling Will’s shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, and Will has somehow managed to pop the button of Mike’s jeans and is tugging at the zipper. There’s a moment of jostling and bumping and static popping between them as they struggle out of the rest of their clothes. Will winds up catching Mike square in the nose with a knee and they both have to stop for a moment to laugh and de-tangle themselves. Then Mike has to sit up onto his knees to get his pants off, one leg at a time, and Will peels his undershirt from his torso with lithe grace and kicks his own jeans down his legs and onto the floor, and then all at once they’re both completely bare. Vulnerable, exposed, and it’s what Mike wanted in the first place but he finds himself unable to move for a moment. He just hovers over Will, arousal and echoes of pleasure swirling together like a thunderstorm inside him, skin prickling with a shiver in the cool air of the basem*nt.

Their eyes lock, Will’s chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath, and for a moment that’s all Mike can do. He just stares down at the creature below him - this powerful, fiery, handsome, adorable, brilliant person who eagerly, impossibly offered himself up to Mike, as if Mike could possibly be worthy. Mike takes in the soft fringe of hair that frames his face, all messied up from their exertions. The green-brown eyes, like - like... Mike has about a hundred ways to describe Will’s eyes, and none of them ever seem quite right. He made a list, actually. Coffee and jade; bark and pine; chocolate and seaglass. Right now Will’s pupils are blown wide, half from the dim light and half from arousal. Mike’s eyes trail down. Over the ripening hickeys, down the slim torso, over the slightest ripple of ribs and the dip of his belly, flat from lying on his back. And for the second time ever, Mike forces his gaze lower, almost sheepish as he takes in the entirety of Will’s form. His legs are stronger than Mike’s, toned from years in track, and his skin is just half a shade darker. Mike has always been pale, with a tendency to sunburn; Will manages to hold on to a whisper of tan in the warmer months. But the skin of Will’s thighs and belly is as pale as Mike’s, untouched by sun, and his dick is a splash of color right at the center of his body. Angry red, standing in a nest of deep brown curls.

When Mike looks back up Will is already watching him, emotions clashing in his eyes. His head gives a nervous little dip, and then he glances back up at Mike through his lashes as if awaiting approval.

Mike just shakes his head, overwhelmed and awe-struck that he’s even here. That this is even happening.

“God, you’re amazing,” is what falls out of his mouth, and he didn’t mean to say that - never consciously planned the words before he spoke them - but once he starts he doesn’t want to stop. It’s like he’s smashed right through some icy film of hesitance that was holding him in check before, and now that it’s gone the floodgates have opened. “You’re perfect, look at you -”

He’s interspersing his words with kisses, peppering them over Will’s lips and then his nose and cheeks and back to his lips.

“- I can’t f*cking believe you’re mine .”

Will’s head has twisted to the side, as if trying to hide his flushed face, but he’s smiling - a small, hesitant smile that Mike hasn’t seen on Will in a long time.

“Did you think about this?”

Mike keeps talking, thoughts flowing right out of his mouth without filter, and on an impulse he reaches down to palm the stove-hot flesh of Will’s dick. Will bucks up into the touch with a small toss of his hips, like the motion was completely unintentional, and Mike’s voice comes out unsteady and frayed.

“Before? Did you imagine it?”

He doesn’t know why, but he has to know. He bends his wrist nearly in half to reach Will, filling his palm with the soft tip. When he pulls down, over the shaft, he can feel the rapid drumbeat of Will’s pulse through the soft skin. Will’s scent has shifted, sharpened into something darker, something more organic than the manmade smell of soap and cologne - he smells like want , and it sends a hot little thrill of energy through Mike’s belly. He can smell how much Will wants him, and just that - the simple fact of being wanted - makes his thoughts unravel into a messy cacophony of sensation.

At last, Will nods. Stiltedly, like it was hard to drag the answer out of himself. “Yeah,” he breathes. His eyes squeeze shut and his head tilts back, brows drawing together in a little frown of concentration as Mike strokes him. “I - yeah.” And then his eyes are opening and he’s looking right at Mike, face open and questioning. “Did you?”

Mike licks his lips. His mind is too hazy to come up with anything but the truth. He nods, and he swears he hears Will’s breath catch. “Yeah,” he admits in a hoarse whisper. And then, rushing ahead before the words evaporate - “I didn’t - I wouldn’t let myself. For a long time.”

Will nods, all at once looking far more serious and understanding than is entirely befitting of their situation. Mike breathes out shakily and makes himself explain, because he wants Will to know - for the first time, ever, he wants somebody to know about this. But no - not just somebody . Will. Only Will.

“I usually just tried to ignore it, but -”

Mike goes quiet for too long and Will prompts, “What?”

He can’t look Will in the eye anymore. He looks down instead, pretending to be too intent on his efforts to make eye contact. “When we’d fight over something,” he blurts. Face burning. Heart pounding away at his ribs, pulse throbbing in his temples and fingertips and dick. “Like. When we’d wrestle for the remote, or. Whatever. I’d imagine this.”

It was both the bane of Mike’s existence and the highlight of his day, back before the letter. He would always tell himself that it was all in good fun - that they were just giving each other a hard time, like guy friends do. But deep down, acknowledged only during his most sleepless late nights, he knew perfectly well that he just couldn’t resist that amount of contact. Fingers wrapped around wrists, legs rubbing, the movement, the warmth. Will’s scent. Hands grasping, torsos bucking, mouths giving little gasps as they tried to throw each other off. It was entirely too much like something far less G-rated, and Mike always refused to admit it even to himself.

“I wanted you before I even knew that I did.”

His mouth seals shut, courage spent, but it’s enough to make Will do that little disbelieving smile again. His eyes have fluttered half-closed, his lips parted just slightly as he listens. Now his jaw drops a little further with a fervent inhale, and he pushes up into Mike’s hand as he answers.

“I - ah - wanted you too.” And then as Mike gives another, harder stroke he’s gasping out, “ Hah - Mike -” and Mike is suddenly glad that Will isn’t touching him, because if he was Mike probably would have finished then and there.

But they’re going to have to stop soon. Mike doesn’t exactly have a secret stash of lube in the basem*nt -

Note to self: put a secret stash of lube in the basem*nt.

- and the movement of his hand is going to start to chafe soon, if it hasn’t already. His hand slows. Will gives another rough little noise in the back of his throat, like he’s complaining, and Mike murmurs, “The lube’s upstairs. You think we should get...?”

Will’s head turns to peer towards the staircase. “From your room?”

“No, from China.”

Will gives a cursory kick, jostling Mike with no real venom. He sighs. “I guess one of us has to go up there.”

They look at each other, both pulling the same face. Neither one willing to put clothes back on and casually saunter up into the house with wild hair, swollen lips, and smelling like sex. But then, as Will’s eyes flicker down over Mike’s figure and his tongue slips along his lips to wet them, that idea comes creeping back into Mike’s head.

He moves his hand from Will’s dick to his ribs, and he can feel them moving under his skin as Will sighs in frustration. Mike is thinking. His first thought was to spit into his palm, but spit doesn’t last very long as a lubricant - at least, not just on a hand. And that’s what did it. That image came flashing through his mind again, the same image that had him nearly suffocating at the dinner table. But Mike can’t ask for that. He’d die of embarrassment and keel over right there before he could get the words out. But maybe - maybe he doesn’t have to ask. Maybe he could offer, instead.

“Can I...” he says, and hesitates. Then he tells himself not to be a puss* and spits it out. “Is it okay if I use my mouth on you?”

Will gapes. Like he’s shocked Mike would even suggest it. sh*t, Mike thinks, and opens his mouth to apologize because clearly that was out of line, but -

Will breathes, “You want to?”

He nods, once, decisively. Will’s breath goes a little ragged and he nods back, eyes huge.

“Okay - yeah, that’s... how should I...?”

They fumble around, getting positioned, guiding each other. Mike ends up kneeling in front of the couch, with Will sitting at the very edge of the cushion, half-reclined back on his elbows. Mike pushes Will’s knees apart and crawls up between them, the old carpet of the basem*nt itching and abrasive against his knees.

Okay. Here we go. He can do this. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, and his stomach is churning with nerves now that he’s here, but -

God, what the f*ck is he doing?

Okay, he thinks again. Not that complicated. Just do it.

His hand closes around the base of Will’s shaft. The tip is shining with precum already, and that smell that’s so purely and uniquely Will and want is most concentrated here. Before he can chicken out, Mike dives forward and brings his mouth down over the tip. He closes his lips around it and gives an experimental swipe with his tongue, mainly from curiosity. As soon as the strange, almost-saltiness of it touches his tongue, Will’s hips stutter and he gives a soft, “ Ah -” which is cut off abruptly, as if he shoved a hand over his own mouth. Mike lifts his eyes, meeting Will’s gaze, and that seems to be Will’s undoing. Will moans through his fingers, and triumph bursts through Mike’s nerves.

This feels filthy, somehow - but not at all how he expected. Not unclean. He expected to be half-mortified, but maybe he’s just too focused on his task to feel any of that. Maybe he will later. But right now, Will is trembling, and Mike pulls his lips over the velvety tip and sticks his tongue out to lick from base to top. His whole body primed, attuned to the hard push of Will’s breaths, to the way he’s shaking just slightly under Mike’s hands, the little sounds that are rising with increasing frequency from his lips. The coarse curls of hair around the base brush Mike’s nose, and he breathes in the scent with his eyes closed. He tries again, summoning up a mouthful of saliva before running his tongue from bottom to top, and then parting his lips wide to slide his mouth down onto Will as far as he can go - and then a little farther, just to prove himself that he can. He takes his time. Familiarizing himself with the feel of it, the weight of Will on his tongue, the taste of skin and something else, something warm and half-familiar. Then he remembers that he’s supposed to be moving and he pulls back to the tip. (That’s his favorite part, he decides somewhere in the murky depths of his mind, because the skin there is softest - like the tender cap of a mushroom.) He bobs down, and up again, feeling out a clumsy pattern. Will whispers a few times - “f*ck,” and “Mike,” and little inaudible murmurs that send an ache wobbling through Mike’s gut and straight to his own dick.

It doesn’t take long for Will to wind his hands into Mike’s hair. Mike can’t suppress the resulting shiver. His whole body is so hot and hypersensitive that the tug at the roots of his hair seems to waterfall through the rest of him. Will starts to guide him. Pressing softly until he sinks nearly to the very base, concentrating hard to relax the back of his throat to keep the gag reflex from triggering. Then Will pulls him back, gently, by the hair, and pushes him down again. Mike allows the exchange of power without complaint. He takes himself in one hand, giving an unintentional little moan at the long-awaited touch, while the other grips Will’s hip. Bracing himself as Will starts the pull-and-push rhythm, slowly at first, being careful not to force Mike’s head too far down, rolling his hips in sync. Mike, for his part, pushes through his inexperience and makes every attempt to do what seems right. He tries to hollow out his cheeks at the right times, to keep his teeth out of the way, to drag his tongue along the underside of the impossibly hot, solid flesh. It’s a challenge, and one he’s determined to rise to. However, it’s getting increasingly difficult. Both of their movements are growing erratic, Will’s breath going ragged and his pulse - which thrums away under Mike’s tongue - beginning to jackhammer. Mike keeps barking his knuckles against the front of the couch as he pumps himself, and he’s really missing that lube about now, but it’s enough - he can feel himself going limp-tense, strength draining out of his limbs and his abdomen clenching down with every throb of pleasure that goes through him.

Will’s grip on his hair turns painful, but all Mike can feel is the tension coiling at the base of his spine. His jaw aches, and he’s panting through his nose, saliva dripping over his bottom lip as Will gives a shallow thrust, and then another. The tip of his dick brushes accidentally against the soft tissues at the back of Mike’s throat, making him sputter.

The liquid fills his mouth before he realizes what’s happening, and he manages to swallow before much of it runs over his lips. It’s not salty, like everyone says. At least, not like table salt. Vaguely sour, but without any bite. Warm. Strange, but not unpleasant.

Will’s hands slip from his hair and Mike sits back on his heels, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath. His chin is wet with cooling saliva and... and, well, other things, and he swipes a wrist across his mouth to wipe it away.

“f*ck,” is what Will says first. He sits up - at some point he must have fallen from his elbows to his back - and scans over Mike with glittering eyes. His gaze falls on the hard-on that still hasn’t been resolved, and he waves a hand.

“Here - here, let me -”

He pulls Mike up, onto his lap, and Mike is all too willing to lean back against Will’s chest and groan as Will spits into a palm and reaches around to grip him. Will repays him for the hickeys, sinking his teeth into Mike’s neck as Mike twitches and bucks his way towards completion. He’s so close that Will’s spit has barely started to go tacky before Mike is shuddering, muffling a too-loud moan behind a hand, and then it’s silent except for their labored breaths and the settling house.

Minutes pass, and Will drags an old, threadbare blanket down from the back of the couch to cover themselves with as they flop onto the cushions. Mike’s limbs feel like jelly, and he absolutely, positively needs to hide a bottle of lube down here somewhere, because he’ll definitely be feeling that later. But for now he couldn’t feel regret if he tried.

“Yeah,” he says, dreamily, and noses at Will’s cheek. They’re side-by-side, pressed together to avoid Mike falling off the edge of the narrow couch, sharing the warmth of the blanket. “You’re not escaping in college.”

Will gives a bark of laughter, and then hooks one leg over Mike’s with a sigh. “I suppose I could keep you around for a while.”

Mike hums agreement. “Hmm. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He feels Will shift under the blanket, and when he opens his eyes he finds one pinky extended right in front of his nose. “Promise?”

His right hand maneuvers free of the blanket and he hooks his pinky into Will’s.

“Promise.”

Chapter 9: The Storm: Part 1

Chapter Text

All is not well at the Wheeler abode.

Mike’s parents had another fight. A big one. They haven’t said a word about it, but the atmosphere at breakfast yesterday was a dead giveaway. Ted and Karen were silent, stiff, with matching dark bags under their eyes. They kept sending each other quick, clearly uncomfortable glances throughout the whole meal, prompting Mike and Will to escape the Wheeler house as quickly as they could. It’s been nearly twenty four hours, and Mike has yet to return home - he knows better than to get anywhere near that sh*tfest. He’ll just shower at the Byers’ today.

They emerge from Will’s room just past 8:00am - not because Mike wanted to get up so early, but because Will woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, and, well, that was that. When Will can’t sleep, Mike can’t sleep. Them’s the rules. He was shaken awake at 7:52am, opening bleary eyes to his boyfriend saying, “Wake up, dork, I had a really weird dream about lizards.”

It took another twenty minutes for Will to drag Mike upright - mostly because it’s become a game, at this point, to be as stubborn and difficult as possible, always burrowing back under the sheets every time Will thinks he’s won. Will’s checkmate tactic is usually to leap directly on top of Mike and bounce on him, sing-songing obnoxiously until Mike gives in with a cry of, “I’m uuuuup!”

And, you know, he misses it. On days when he sleeps alone, at home, he misses Will. They spend enough nights curled up together, spine-to-stomach, listening to each other breathe, that Mike’s twin bed is starting to feel big and cold and empty on the nights they’re apart.

You’ve got it bad, that voice remarks calmly as they emerge from Will’s room. That same voice that, two days ago, very nearly whispered, I love you.

Will’s head tilts, and he sniffs. “Mm.”

Mike yawns. “Hm?”

“Coffee.”

“Yay.”

He’s right; it does smell like coffee. And eggs. That’s unusual. Joyce is the self-proclaimed worst egg cook in town, and Jonathan isn’t usually up this early on his free days. When they round the corner, Chester is perched hopefully on his haunches near the legs of one Jim Hopper, tail swishing back and forth in anticipation of scraps. Hop stands in front of the stove, poking at a frying pan full of eggs. Joyce, at the kitchen table, has on threadbare plaid pajama pants and a huge tee shirt that... actually, come to think of it, Mike doesn’t think that’s her shirt. Not that he’s super familiar with Joyce Byers’ wardrobe, but it doesn’t look all that familiar. Her hair is wild, but her eyes are bright. She looks up when they come in, and then immediately looks down again, hiding her face behind a long sip of coffee.

Will’s eyes slide back and forth between his mother and the police chief. A smirk begins to twist up one corner of his mouth. “Morning.”

Hop turns, seeming only mildly surprised to find Mike standing beside Will, and lifts the spatula in greeting. “Morning,” he echoes, and goes back to jabbing at the eggs.

Mike leans on the counter, peering hopefully at the stove in case there just so happen to be four eggs sizzling. There are only two. Then Hop sees him looking and wordlessly cracks two more into the pan. Will, meanwhile, is staring intensely at his mother, clearly attempting some form of mother-son-telepathic communication. She insists on examining a miniscule ridge on the side of the table, running her thumbnail along the wood. Mike nudges Will in a knock it off gesture, and he relents with a small shake of his head.

“‘S over easy okay?” Hop asks, speaking to the room in general, and receives three yeah s back.

It’s peaceful, Mike reflects. Morning sunlight, watery and golden, falling across the table and wall. Birds hopping around singing good morning songs in the Byers’ backyard. Joyce getting up to peer over Hop’s shoulder, setting an affectionate hand on his arm as she checks the eggs. Will making coffee at Mike’s side, gently pushing Chester away when he sticks his snout up onto the counter. It’s so different from yesterday. Not for the first time, Mike dreads going home. He accepts the cup Will hands to him and shakes the thought out of his mind. He doesn’t have to deal with that just yet.

Jonathan’s bedroom door opens with a characteristic squeak of hinges a moment later. Jonathan slumps around the corner, shadows under his eyes and a pillow line on his cheek - and a second figure enters the kitchen behind him. Nancy, in sleep shorts and an old pink tank top, her brown waves flat on one side of her head.

For a moment, no one says anything. Mike looks at Nancy, who looks at Hop, who looks at Joyce, who looks at Jonathan, who looks at Will. Everyone seems to be doing the math. One house; three bedrooms; six people. Of course, Mike and Will have an alibi. They have sleepovers in Will’s room all the time. They even rolled out the sleeping bag beside the bed, just in case. They’re just having a sleepover during summer vacation, like always. But the others?

Oh, Mike is gonna tease Nancy about this for weeks.

The moment ends, and Hop simply says, “Guess I’ll start another pot of coffee.”

As Mike fixes his sister with a gleefully accusatory stare, Will wanders to the radio on the counter and flicks it on. He twirls he dial until he finds music, as if to assuage the awkward silence, and it seems to work. The tension in the room fades a bit as Joyce starts laying strips of bacon alongside the eggs and Nancy greets Hop with a nod.

“ It's just another manic Monday,” the Bangles proclaim loudly from the radio, and Will turns it down a notch or two. “I wish it was Sunday. 'Cause that's my fun day - my I don't have to run day. It's just another manic Monday.”

It’s not Monday; it’s Thursday, the air close and muggy already despite being just over a week into June. The day tastes like rain already, though the sky is bright and cloudless. They’ve been forecasting a storm since Tuesday.

“Thought you were at Dustin’s.” Mike’s sister has appeared at his elbow, and she quirks her lips at him haughtily, as if he didn’t grow an inch taller than her over the past two years.

“Thought you were home,” he shoots back, and she just lifts her eyebrows.

“Touché.” Then she straightens, extending one hand to try to swipe a piece of bacon straight out of the pan. “I’m avoiding home for now, anyway. Ow.” She scoops her prize onto a napkin and flutters her burnt fingertips. “Mom and Dad are...” Her face twists as she trails off, and Mike laughs.

“Yeah, I know. What do you figure it is this time?”

Nancy shrugs, with an expression that says, hell if I care, and blows on her pilfered bacon before biting into it.

They sit down to breakfast together, six of them squeezing in at the kitchen table. The music on the radio is upbeat, as if the DJ knows it’s a bright and promising summer day with no school or homework to ruin it. Chester settles down at Joyce’s feet and sticks his cold nose onto people’s legs every few seconds, hoping some morsel will fall down under the table. Hop tells Joyce about a book series that El has been pestering him to read. Nancy and Jonathan lean together comfortably, no doubt happy to be in the same state for once. Mike nudges Will’s foot with his own under the table, and Will steals a bite of egg from Mike’s plate with a grin.

The Party is on their way to the Byers’. Max just called on the radio to let them know. Everyone’s gonna go help Dustin with some science project (even though “It’s summer vacation, Dustin! We don’t even have a science class !” ). Well, everyone except for Will and El, who have opted to stay behind and be hermits his time. Mike is a tad bummed, to be perfectly honest - he was looking forward to having the whole Party together. But he reminds himself to be glad for them; Will’s been saying that he barely gets to hang out with El anymore because of how busy they both are, and they are each other’s best friends, too, not just Mike’s.

But right at this very moment, the Party hasn’t even arrived yet, and Will is pulling Mike into the backyard.

“What surprise?” Mike says, and Will rolls his eyes.

“Yes, because I can tell you what the surprise is. That’s how surprises work.”

“Do I get a hint?”

“Your hint is, shut up and stand here.”

Will maneuvers Mike around the corner of the shed, hiding them from sight of the house, and Mike snaps off an exaggerated salute. “Sir, yes sir.”

Will laughs at him as he retreats, disappearing around the corner with a shake of his head. “Oh, my god, shut up . You’re such a dork.” Mike hears the old shed door open, slowly squeak closed, and then open again. Will reappears, clearly carrying something behind his back.

“Weasel,” Mike guesses, grinning.

Will tuts. “Aw, you guessed it.” He plants himself a few feet away, an odd nervousness rising in his expression as he nods to Mike’s hands. “Okay, close your eyes. And hold out your hands.”

Mike does. He’s wary, though. Half of him is expecting something sweet, like a drawing or something. The other half is suspicious. He remembers all too well being handed various worms and toads over the years because seven-year-old Mike hated wriggly, crawly things, and seven-year-old Will took advantage of this regularly. But the object that’s pressed into his hands is hard plastic, rectangular, and about the size of his palm.

“Okay,” Will says, and his voice is hitched up just a degree higher than usual. “Open.”

It’s a cassette tape, snug and glossy in its clear plastic case. Mike turns it over in his hands, bemused, but there’s no label. He looks to Will for clues - only to find his boyfriend chewing on a nail, brows drawn together, clearly waiting for a reaction.

“Oh -” Will says, abruptly, “I was going to decorate it, but I -” His eyes flicker down with a shrug, that nervousness making his movements stiff. “I wanted to give it to you now. I dunno. I just didn’t feel like I should wait, you know? Maybe that’s stupid. I’ll - I’ll make a cover later, but uh...”

Will reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of cardstock, cut to size. It’s covered in song titles, carefully numbered in Will’s blocky handwriting, and that’s when Mike realizes what he’s holding. It’s not just a tape, it’s a mixtape . Something Will must have spent hours on. Something he put together specifically for Mike. And Mike does not blush - because he really, really should be past that by now - but he does smile, the expression sudden and unbidden, and mutters, “Aw. Wow, thanks, I...”

He tilts open the case so Will can slide the card into place, and then he scans through the song list.

“Oh, you put this one on just to f*ck with me,” he laughs, jabbing a finger at Secret Lovers by Atlantic Starr, and Will gives that same evil chuckle he’s had since he was five.

“I did, yes.” Then he sobers. “But, uh...” He traces a fingertip over the list, seeming to fish for the right words. “The rest of them... I guess, mostly they remind me of you. Or us.”

There’s Queen. Bowie, of course. Pseudo Echo. Mike huffs out a laugh when he sees Kyrie by Mr. Mister.

“You know, I’m always going to associate that song with your letter,” he says quietly, pointing to the title. Will quirks his head at him and Mike goes on, “There was this car driving past when I was reading it -”

“Playing Kyrie, ” Will cuts in, eyes wide. “With the windows rolled down.”

Mike nods, taken aback. “Uh - yeah.”

“I rode right past that car. On my bike. I came to talk to you but you weren’t home, and -” He gives a disbelieving little scoff. “We must’ve just missed each other.”

“You came to talk to me?”

Will half-shrugs, one shoulder tilting up higher than the other one, and then lets his arms fall in a kind of helpless gesture. “I kind of panicked.”

“That’s fair.” Another laugh. “Me too.”

Mike finds himself almost surprised at how... well, romantic a lot of the songs are. The Power of Love by Huey Lewis. Crazy Little Thing Called Love by Queen. Need You Tonight by INXS. Sweet Emotion by Aerosmith. You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away by The Beatles - he snorts at that one. And then he half-laughs again at Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ by Journey. Don’t Go by Pseudo Echo. Blackbird by The Beatles. Modern Love by David Bowie. There are twenty two songs total, listed under Side A and Side B , and not all of them are sappy like that. But most of them are. And Mike finds himself getting stupidly, needlessly flustered.

The thing is, he and Will aren’t usually very upfront with that mushy, lovey-dovey romance stuff. It’s like they haven’t quite figured out how to push past that ingrained barrier that says, stop here - that’s not allowed. They’re still a little awkward and unsure, often adding a good-natured insult or a playful shove to water down anything too sweet or sentimental. Like they’re still expecting the other shoe to drop. Like they’re still just waiting for the universe to exact its retribution upon them for what they’ve done - what they’re doing . Always a little afraid that the next kiss, the next gentle word will trigger some cosmic switch, and everything will come crashing down. But now, as Mike cups the gift in his palms, he feels almost hopeful. That weight of worry that’s been on his shoulders lifts - just a little. Not entirely. But for the first time in a while, he leans easily into his boyfriend’s space and kisses him with no underlying anxiety. No fear. No expectation that someone is about to come bursting in and take this good thing away from him.

The powdery-minty taste of toothpaste still lingers in Will’s mouth, and Mike runs the tip of his tongue along the glossy edge of Will’s incisors as he melts in closer. Mike’s hand is pinned between them, still holding the tape, and the hard plastic corners dig into his chest as Will leans against him. He doesn’t care. And, right then, he realizes something strange. He’s happy. That weird, unbearable feeling that’s actually happy. He can feel it like he can feel the sunlight, already stove-hot on his skin though it’s still morning. Like the thickly humid air, which seems to lay physical hands on the back of Mike’s neck and the sides of his face, the heat carrying tantalizing whiffs of the incoming rain.

When he pulls away it’s only by an inch, and he pops in again to kiss the tip of Will’s nose, and then his forehead, and then Will is laughing and trying to squirm away so of course Mike has to pin him in place and do it all over again.

“ Michael ,” Will scolds, finally freeing himself. But he doesn’t go far. He stays just within arm’s reach, scrubbing at his face with the back of a wrist in mock-disgust, smiling. “What’s wrong with you today? You knock a screw loose or something?”

Mike just shakes his head with a grin. And then, because he’s feeling just positive enough to actually say it - “We’re gonna be okay, you know?”

Will’s exasperated smile relaxes into something calmer. More serious. “Yeah.” And maybe it’s Mike’s imagination, but something like worry glimmers in his eyes, like a flicker of light deep underwater.

Mike’s brows sink in a frown of concern. “What?”

“Just a feeling.” Will looks down, chews on his bottom lip, releases it, and then looks up again. “I don’t know. Nothing.” His expression smooths, and the smile reappears. “Just worried. And, uh, terrified? We’re seniors . College is in a year. Do you know how much we have to do in the next twelve mon-”

Mike’s hand smothers the end of Will’s sentence, and Mike whispers, “Shhh, summer vacation time. No talking about school until September.”

Will retaliates by licking a long, hot stripe down Mike’s palm and across his wrist, and Mike wipes his hand on Will’s arm with a groan. But the shadow in Will’s eyes is gone, and as they walk back to the house Mike tucks the mixtape safely away in his pocket.

“Be back later!” Mike hollers over his shoulder as he rides away, a tad behind the rest of the Party.

Well, the rest of the Party minus Will and El.

“Bye!” Will yells back, and at his side, El waves.

By some unspoken agreement, they wait until the Party rounds the bend before turning for the backyard.

“Okay,” El says, all business. “Tell me.”

Will sighs. He didn’t tell her much over the phone, two days ago. Just that he needed to talk to her - alone, in person. And if that didn’t tip her off that something was up before, Will’s anxiousness certainly is now. He’s awkward and jittery as he guides her to the shed and points her inside. She holds off long enough for Will to close the door behind them before turning and saying, “Will. What is it?” Her eyebrows climb her forehead. “Spill.”

Will looks down at his hands. He’s not good at words. His plan had been to just show her, without having to build up to it with an explanation, but he can tell that won’t be happening. He feels not a twinge of energy in his gut - not even the weakest current. He thought he was getting better at summoning it, but now apparently his biological generators have stage fright.

So, words it is.

He pushes one hand through his hair, raking it back from his forehead, puffs out his cheeks with an exhale, and sits heavily on the makeshift bench. El sits beside him, poised as a panther in her tattered darkwash jeans and -

“ Hey ,” Will cries, and El frowns.

“What?”

“That looks so familiar.”

El looks down at the Labyrinth tee shirt that Will has been looking for since April. She holds out for about three seconds before she cracks, a giggle wobbling in her voice as she says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m gonna need that back, you know.”

“Need what back?”

He shoves her, and she shoves back harder. When the chuckle fades from Will’s lips, he speaks to the ground in front of them. Spitting up the words before they evaporate again. “I can do things.” He feels her look at him, but he doesn’t look back. After a moment of silence, he reiterates: “I mean, I can - do things.”

It sounds so unbelievably stupid now that it’s out of his mouth, but El doesn’t laugh at him. She just nods, once, the motion a bob in the corner of Will’s field of vision. “What things?” she asks simply, and he breathes in deeply.

“Electricity. Anything to do with electricity. I can -”

“It was you!” She’s on her feet, aiming a triumphant finger at him, and Will almost flinches.

“... what?”

She’s pacing, ponytail of curls flicking behind her with every turn. “I’ve been sensing that for months. I knew it was you, it had to be -”

“Wait, wait. You’ve been sensing it? What do you mean?”

“Yeah.” She stops. “I tried to tell you at prom, remember? At first I thought maybe it was something...” She draws in a little breath, and they understand one another without having to speak the words. “Else. But it wasn’t that. It didn’t feel like the Upside Down.”

“Are you sure?”

El’s energy lulls at Will’s tone of voice, and her face pinches. “Sure what?”

He can tell his voice is going to come out sharp and reedy before he even speaks, and he pushes through the tightness in his throat. “Are you sure it’s not something from the Upside Down?”

She nods. “Yes. I can tell it’s you, it f-”

“But what if I am that?” he bursts out.

It’s been haunting him for days. At first, when he discovered this... this energy, this ability, he was just focused on figuring out what it was. How to control it. But ever since two days ago, when he finally felt like he had some measure of control over it, a new worry has been percolating through the back of his mind. He has so many marks of the Upside Down on him - physically and otherwise. Scars. What if this power is just another extension of that place, slowly growing in him?

The plank of wood shifts underneath him as El sits down again, and her hand braces itself against his knee. “You’re not.” She squeezes. “It’s not.”

“But are you sure?”

“Yes.” He lifts his head, meeting her eyes for the first time since he sat down, and she looks back unblinkingly as she says, “It doesn’t feel like that. Things from that place, they have a unique... wavelength, almost? It’s distinct. It’s like they glow, but in reverse. Does that make sense?”

“No.” They laugh. “But yeah, kinda. And I don’t... I don’t feel like that?”

She shakes her head. “No. You just feel like you. Same as always. Like I said, I was gonna tell you at prom, but you got a little -” The tiniest smirk twitches at one corner of her pink-glossed lips. “Distracted.” She waits for an answer that’s not forthcoming, eventually nudging him. “So?”

“So?”

“So... are we gonna talk about it?”

He bristles a little. “What?”

“What?” she mimics in a deep voice. Then she rolls her eyes. “Mike. Duh.”

Will’s fingers interlock, squeeze together, and then he finds that he can’t look her in the eyes anymore. He’s still a little guilty about that whole thing. It’s irrational, he knows, but sometimes he looks at her joking around with Mike and guilt starts to pool in his stomach like lead. Like he stole Mike away from her. Which isn’t what happened, and he knows that, but it doesn’t make it any easier to acknowledge aloud like this.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last.

“Why? I told him to do it.” Will doesn’t really know what to say to that, and after a few seconds of somewhat awkward silence, El tilts toward him conspiratorially. “What’s it like?”

There’s genuine curiosity in her voice, and Will is surprised when he doesn’t instinctually draw back. With anyone else he’d clam up, mistrustful and loathe to let slip any details, but this is El. She’s as much his sister as Jonathan is his brother. So Will just sighs, tilting his head back as he thinks.

“It’s... amazing,” he answers, quietly, and he can feel his face redden at the honesty. But El deserves the truth, and part of Will has been desperate to tell somebody about it since the beginning.

He thinks about Mike. About how they’re so much closer now than they’ve ever been, and it’s not the physical stuff - although, that too. It’s about how open they are with each other, now. How they’re not afraid to show emotions around the other, no matter how silly or sentimental. He thinks about how they’re not perfect, and they’ve hurt each other without meaning to; Will still has to nag Mike not to treat him like “the girl” sometimes, and Will knows he can be too snappish and all too often say something hurtful unintentionally. But they trust each other. He thinks about how Mike used to make his heart race, but now he makes Will feel calm. Safe. Like everything is okay, or will be, even when it isn’t.

But he doesn’t know how to say all that, and he’s not sure El wants to hear it. So he just says, “I never... I dunno. I never really thought I’d have this. You know?”

She nods, soberly. “Is it how you expected? Like in movies?”

“No,” Will answers immediately. “No, it’s... nothing like I expected.” And he doesn’t know how to say this, either, but somehow it’s better . Because it’s not like the movies. Because it’s real. “We fight,” he says, and then adds, “A lot.”

And El laughs. And Will laughs, too, because it feels like such a relief to talk to her about this.

“We never fight dirty, though. Not like -” Not like our parents , he thinks. “Not... no yelling, no name calling. No ignoring each other.”

Because they made an agreement, weeks and weeks ago. They agreed never to treat each other like their parents did. Joyce and Lonnie’s explosive yelling matches. Ted and Karen’s sullen, resentful cold-shoulders. They refuse to do that. If they’re going to fight, they have it out, and it’s usually resolved by the next day.

El is nodding along, smiling a little. “When are you gonna tell the others?”

“Ah, I dunno.” Will gives a loose sort of beats me gesture. “I keep saying we should, but Mike... He’s pretty nervous about somebody finding out already. I mean, I get it. You know how his parents are. And I know the others wouldn’t tell anybody, but...”

“He’s scared.”

“Yeah.” For the second time since this morning, something goes off at the edge of Will’s consciousness. A little red flag. He glances to the door, the small window, but there’s no one there. Still, he hikes his shoulders up a little as he repeats, “I get it. I mean, I am, too.”

El frowns, like she’s realizing something. “Have you told Mike? About -” She gestures vaguely, indicating Will and his makeshift training setup in the shed. “This?”

He shakes his head. “I will. Soon. I just - I need to control it first. I don’t...” And here he trails off, because the truth is hard to say. But it’s El, and if anyone on this whole planet would understand, El would. She always does. “I don’t want him to be scared. Of me,” he admits quietly. “I was scared - when I first realized. I don’t want him to think that I might hurt him, I... I almost did. The week before prom, I had a nightmare and...” He looks down at his hands.

El listens, silent and motionless, her warm brown eyes the only indication that she’s not a statue in the dim light.

“He woke me up, but I almost... I know I shocked him.” He looks up at her. “What if it had been just a little bit more powerful? I could’ve -”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I could’ve . And it scared the hell out of me. And I don’t want Mike to be scared of me too. I wanna be able to control it, before I tell him. So I can show him. So I can show him I’ve got it under control, so he doesn’t have to worry that I might...”

El puts a hand on Will’s shoulder, those infinitely wise, childish eyes boring right through his head. “Will. I understand.”

He nods and sniffs, suddenly becoming aware of the heat rising behind his nose, stinging his eyes.

She hefts herself to her feet in one smooth motion, unfolding like a crane, and thrusts out a hand. “So let’s do it.”

“What?”

She waits until he takes her hand. “Practice.”

It’s hard work, and El is a strict teacher. Every time Will misses a mark, or has to sit down to catch his breath, she simply taps him and says, “Again.”

She has him try to strike one of the cans across the room, like he did last time. Each one, in order, starting over each time he miscalculates.

“Again.”

She sets up the radio, an old lamp, and the toy car across the room and drills him until he can turn them on and off without lifting a finger.

“Again.”

She digs out a string of Christmas lights from a storage box, lays them out across the floor, and waits patiently while Will struggles to light them up. One at a time, all the way down the string. Blue, then white, then pink, then orange, then blue. It gets easy, after a minute or two. Far too easy. And far too familiar - but he pushes that out of his mind as he concentrates. He grows bold about halfway down the string and begins blinking out messages in morse, to El’s delight - and then to her horror as a spiral of lightheadedness sends him to his knees. He puts his head down until the dizziness fades a little, El rubbing his back and saying, “Okay, let’s take a break, let’s take a break.”

She makes him sit down while she nips inside the house, and when she returns she’s carrying a glass of juice and a piece of toast, slathered with dijon mustard and topped with sandwich meat. As a rule, Will doesn’t like dijon, but he eats it without complaint.

“Protein,” she says matter-of-factly as he chews. “Helps get your energy back. Sugar -” She points to the juice - “Helps too.”

As they rest, Will explains what he learned last time. How he thought the power was only defensive, at first, but he was wrong.

“I was only able to do it last time when I started thinking about things that made me -”

El cuts in, murmuring, “Angry.”

Will shakes his head and swallows the bite of toast and turkey. “Happy,” he says, and her head twitches up to look at him. “I just... I tried to think about good things. Good days. And...”

He puts down the toast and holds his hands a few inches apart. Hair-thin blue-white bolts sparkle between them, like a miniscule, monochrome fireworks show.

There’s an odd expression on her face. Proud, maybe, but curious. When she nods to his hands, her features are smooth again. “Feeling better?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Let’s finish up with the lights, then. Maybe after that we’ll call it a day.”

They spend another half an hour in the shed, but Will is getting tired, and El is leery of pushing him too hard after he collapsed last time. Before they go inside, Will blinks out one last message on the lights:

- .... .- -. -.- / -.-- --- ..-

God damn that was the longest dinner of Will’s life.

It’s because of that damn shower. Mike was sweaty and grimy after spending all afternoon with the Party, helping Dustin set up his scientific contraption, and Will wasn’t in a much better state after his training session with El. They had to be quick, though. Jonathan was due back any minute to make dinner, and he definitely would have raised an eyebrow if he saw the two of them emerging from the bathroom together. A kiss or two under the hot water was all they had time for before soaping off and jumping out. And ever since, Will has been about ready to burst with pent-up tension. Thank god his mother is working late tonight, or her eagle-eyes would have seen right away how high-strung he was. Jonathan, on the other hand, was content to chatter on with Mike about... honestly, Will isn’t even sure what they were talking about. He joined in the conversation on autopilot, but he was entirely focused on trying not to pop a boner at the dinner table. His dumb brain just wouldn’t shut up about what he was going to do with Mike the very second they were alone - and hey, presto! Now they are.

Mike came straight back to the Byers’ after hanging out with the Party. His excuse was that he didn’t feel like going home, what with how weird his parents are being. “I feel like the second I walk through the door they’re gonna swoop in and bite my head off,” he joked as they cleared up after dinner. But Will has a sneaking suspicion that it’s more than that. Maybe he wasn’t the only one with unfinished business after that shower.

So the moment the bedroom door is closed, Will wastes no time in backing Mike up against a wall and slotting their mouths together.

Mike tries to push back, but Will won’t let him. He’s in a strange mood. Maybe it’s just because he’s been waiting since the shower, but now he’s caught up in a keen surge of possessiveness. He wants Mike - but not just that. He wants to claim Mike. He wants to take and bite and control, and it’s getting harder and harder to suppress that urge. The kiss is all saliva and teeth, but Will’s stance is almost - protective? Yes, protective. He doesn’t know why. But something, some instinct in him is rising, driving him to cage Mike in with his limbs, to press his body over Mike’s into the wall, like he’s shielding him. Some vague but undeniable feeling curls through the spokes of Will’s ribs in ribbons, like his breath is trying to breach the skin of his own body and press into his boyfriend’s. And as Will snarls one hand into Mike’s hair and Mike gives a sharp little gasp, something in him is growling, You’re mine. You’re okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re mine. It’s okay. You’re okay.

Which is weird. Because nothing bad has happened today - today was a really good day, actually. But that’s just the way his weird, f*cked-up brain is, sometimes. It sees danger and threat where there is none.

Despite the intensity that permeates all of Will’s actions, they’re not in a rush. Will is thorough, attentive. It’s a good day, summer vacation stretches out before them, rain is just beginning to tap at the windowpane, and he has Mike all to himself. And Mike doesn’t seem to mind. He’s sandwiched between Will and the wall, and seemingly perfectly content to stay there. Neck loose, head tilting to meet Will’s, jaw working languidly as he lets Will slide his tongue against Mike’s.

Will has made a recent discovery, these past few days: Mike’s ass is great for grabbing. And that’s what he does now, hands sliding down Mike’s sides and around his back until he reaches his destination. It never fails to make Mike jump. Now, to be objective about it, Mike doesn’t have the greatest ass ever, but damn is it cute. Just the right size for unexpectedly grabbing whilst making out, for the sole purpose of pulling Mike’s hips against his own.

Weeks ago, Will would have balked at the thought of rocking his hips against Mike’s, unannounced and abrupt. He would have pulled away from the thought, reminding himself not to be too weird or overwhelming. He doesn’t care now. If he overwhelms Mike, good. Let him be overwhelmed. Let him drown in sensation, and let Will watch. That’s all he wants. So when they start grinding together and Mike’s own boner prods against Will’s lower belly, Will shivers. The arousal that he’s been desperately trying to tamp down all evening now roars to the surface, making him groan and buck blindly against Mike in a moment of pure impatient impulse. Mike bites at his lip and then mumbles, “Jonathan’s home.”

That’s right. They have to keep quiet. How annoying.

The blinds are closed, but the blue-gray light of the rainy summer evening still manages to seep into the room. Will draws back just far enough trace his eyes over Mike’s face. In the soft light, it’s harder to make out the faint Milky Way of freckles that spans Mike’s cheeks and nose. They’re becoming more conspicuous, now that it’s summer. By the fall they’ll be dark enough to see from across a room - but not yet. Just now, at the very beginning of summer, you have to be very close to properly make them out. Will drags the pad of one thumb across Mike’s cheekbone, following that faint smattering of freckles, and then seals their mouths together. And that’s when a switch goes off somewhere in his brain, impatience catalyzing all the heat and need in him. One second he’s intently making out with Mike against the wall, and the next he’s pulling Mike across the room by the shirtfront and pushing him down onto the mattress.

It’s here, crawling over Mike in one slow, deliberate motion, that something hits him. As much as Will has a pretty obvious kink for control - no real denying that one - he’s starting to think that Mike likes being controlled. It’s something Will has taken notice of before, but never fully realized - and now that he’s really paying attention, it’s undeniable. Loud, headstrong, stubborn Mike, the natural leader, gets off on relinquishing control. He’s practically whining now , going pliant under Will’s hands - not limp. Not ragdoll. Just pliant, allowing himself to be guided and positioned. And Will, nearly feverish with this new realization, decides to see just how far he can push it.

“Lift up,” he says, and though he tries to sound confident his voice shakes. He’s never intentionally been, well, dominant before, and he’s a nervous wreck about what he’s about to try.

Mike’s brows furrow in confusion for a moment, but then he understands and sits halfway up so that Will can bunch his shirt up and over his head. And then, perched with his knees on either side of Mike’s thighs, he reaches for the buckle of his belt. A quick glance and a nod gives him permission, and he undoes the clasp in a heartbeat. The metal of the buckle is warm from Mike’s body heat, and Will takes the time to draw the belt all the way free, one loop at a time, before dropping it onto the carpet with a dull clink. He’s careful not to brush the tent in Mike’s jeans as he works at the button and zipper. Mike lifts his hips without being asked. Will hooks his fingertips into the band of Mike’s boxers and pulls them down along with the jeans, careful to maneuver them over his dick without jarring anything. Mike shifts a little, then, clearly surprised to find himself fully naked without warning. Will pushes the clothes off the side of the bed and sits there, fully clothed, gazing down at his prey. His heart is pounding, his pulse ticking away in the tips of his fingers. Mike squirms under the inspection, seeming unsure what to do with himself, and Will swallows.

From his seat on Mike’s thighs, Will takes in the scene before him. Mike is all limbs, laid out over Will’s unmade bed, gangly and ungainly in a way that’s endearing. He’s always had proportionally long limbs and big hands, even when he was a little kid. His skin is pale and freckled, and Will’s eyes ghost over his frame, taking in those freckles that - yes - are dusted all the way from head to feet, just like he used to imagine. From the thick cluster on the tops of Mike’s shoulders, they trail down his arms and chest. Only a few are peppered over his stomach, and even fewer down his thighs. But Will’s attention has been waylaid. He has to swallow again, and realizes belatedly that his mouth is flooding with saliva.

He’s seen Mike naked before. Several times, by now - but never like this. They’re always in a frenzied rush, distracted by undressing and kissing and touching, bodies pressed tight together. He’s never gotten to just sit back and observe before, and he must say, he’s not sure why he passed up that opportunity before now. Mike’s chest is rising and falling with each heavy breath. His face is a gorgeous mess, hair on end from Will’s attentions, lips flushed and swollen from kissing, eyes dark and bright. His dick stands up against his belly, flushed a deeper shade than his lips. And maybe it’s immature, but Will can’t help but compare. Mike’s, he thinks, is a tad thicker - though not quite as long - and the coarse hair that trails down his lower belly and between his thighs is tightly curled and jet black.

Will wants to taste him. And all at once, with a kind of jolt, he realizes - he can. He’s not just pining from a distance anymore, always yearning for something he can never touch. He’s here, and this is happening, and it’s real. He’s perched on top of his fully nude boyfriend, with arousal rippling through him like a plucked wire and rain drumming at the window and roof, drowning out the small noises of their movements. And moreover: Mike wants him, too. Will finally started to believe that on the couch in the Wheelers’ basem*nt, where Mike actually asked to give Will a blowj*b. As if Will was doing Mike a favor, and not the other way around. And the sounds Mike made, with those beautifully shaped lips wrapped around him and those deep-dark eyes looking up through his eyelashes - god. It was like a dream. Like his fantasies come to life.

Mike wants him - really, truly. He’s not just putting up with this, playing along for Will’s benefit. Mike wants this, and the full reality of it makes Will grin in a way that bares his teeth. Not a smile, exactly, but something halfway-savage.

Mike’s breath catches audibly. “What?” he says, and Will just quirks an eyebrow and slides back a foot or two. Positioning himself.

He swoops down without warning. His tongue is dripping saliva already, making his path frictionless as he drags it from base to tip. Mike makes this choked sound, twitching up against Will’s mouth, and Will wraps a hand around the base of the shaft to angle it. The taste is just on the shivering edge of familiar. It tastes like Mike. Not like his soap or cologne or shampoo, but like him. Like the way the skin of his neck tastes, on the rare early mornings that Will can entice a half-asleep Mike into a makeout session. Something like musk and warmth, heavy, with a hint of salt. Will licks up the whole length again, eyes closed, trying to lock the flavor into his mind. He flicks his tongue over the slit, exploring the shape - learning the ridges and slopes of the flared head, which is curved differently than Will’s. Mike has dragged Will’s pillow over his head, and is now releasing a steady stream of weak, muffled noises into it.

And, well, that’s no good, is it? Will likes to see his face. He likes to see the expressions he can draw out of him.

Will pulls away, a spidersilk-fine thread of saliva bridging his lower lip and the head of Mike’s dick for just a split-second. He cants forward, drags the pillow out of Mike’s hands and off his face, and drops a kiss on his lips.

“Don’t move,” he whispers, and before Mike can react, Will is on his feet. He crosses the room to grab his desk chair, goes to the door, and braces the back of the chair under the handle - just in case. It’s locked, of course, but with Jonathan home... can’t be too careful.

A small shock of satisfaction runs through him when he turns back and sees that Mike hasn’t moved. He’s in the same position, cheeks stained a dark pink, breathing hard and watching Will.

Half of Will wants to saunter over slowly, making Mike wait. But the other half wins out within half a second, and two steps carry him back across the room and on top of Mike, who arches up into the kiss with a sweet, strangled little moan.

“Can you -” Mike says against his lips, and cuts off with a shallow breath. His hands come up to tug at the sides of Will’s shirt.

“What?” Will says, deciding to tease. He knows what Mike is asking, but he won’t give it to him that easy.

That backfires when Mike doesn’t complain, doesn’t withdraw, doesn’t even pout. He just gives the fabric another small tug and half-whispers, “Take this off?”

Because, f*cking hell, if Will wasn’t turned on before he is painfully so now. He wastes no time in granting the request, flinging his shirt somewhere into the increasingly dim light of the room. When he returns to the kiss their chests brush together, the skin-to-skin contact turning Will’s whole body blood-hot and sensitive.

Will cards his fingers through Mike’s hair, and for the first time, gives in entirely to that dark, vicious side of himself that he’s been trying so hard to quash. He grinds down mercilessly, letting Mike thrust up against the rough fabric of Will’s pants - and then he pops his hips up, hovering too high for Mike to reach, and a groan of frustration slips past Mike’s lips. Will kisses him to muffle it, and that’s when another impulse hits him. This time he acts on it immediately, digging around in the loose bedding until he finds Mike’s wrists. His heart thuds in his ears as he pulls Mike’s hands up, up, up over his head, pinning them there and watching a little flash of fear cut through Mike’s eyes.

“This okay?” Will murmurs, pausing for a moment to nuzzle against Mike’s temple. He waits until Mike nods, knocking their foreheads together slightly.

“You’ve still got pants on,” Mike points out.

“So I do.”

Mike huffs at him, and Will suppresses the smile that almost curled his lips. Truth be told, he’d much rather have the pants off. His skin is crawling with energy, hypersensitive to the point of feeling raw, but this has become a game. And he won’t lose.

Mike fidgets, maybe a little shy about voicing his desires aloud, but after a moment he closes his eyes and again whispers, “Take them off?”

“Hmm.” Will noses along the underside of Mike’s jaw, breathing in his scent. “No.”

“Please?”

The skin of Will’s scalp and the back of his neck tightens with gooseflesh. Unbidden, his body collapses into a hard, messy kiss, molding itself to Mike’s. Because Mike saying please - just please, in that particular quiet, desperate tone - is Will’s absolute undoing. Mike could say please like that and Will would do anything. He’d kill somebody if Mike asked. He’d face any number of monsters. He’d turn back time.

Holding Mike’s wrists in one hand, Will manages to work himself free from his jeans with the other. He shoves them down his hips, impatient, and kicks them off his legs, miraculously never breaking the kiss. Mike’s body gives a little spasm as Will finally lines himself up with him, their bodies pressed together head-to-toe. Legs tangled, hips rolling in a continuous, involuntary pulse of motion, mouths open to each other. Will feels like his whole being has been carbonated. Like his lungs, his blood, his heart and brain are all fizzing and sparkling with lust. He presses Mike down into the mattress and kisses him until his lips ache.

The pressure and friction between them is exquisite, but not nearly enough, and Will finds himself just about ready to crawl out of his skin with need. Mike must be similarly frustrated, because when Will breaks the kiss to pant against his neck, Mike says, “Will - god - can you -?”

Will draws back and waits, reveling in the power that roars up like a fire in his belly when Mike realizes he has to say it.

Mike licks his lips - and, f*ck, that should be illegal - and then, red-faced, he looks Will directly in the eyes. And he must have noticed the effect of that word on his boyfriend, because he uses it again, intentionally this time. “Touch me,” he breathes, “Will, please. ”

Will feels his co*ck twitch where it’s pinned between them. He nips one more kiss into Mike’s mouth, and then releases his wrists and rolls to the other side of the bed. At the very back of the bottom drawer of his bedside table, there’s a half-empty bottle of lube.

“See,” he says, a little out of breath and waving the bottle teasingly. “I, unlike some people, was prepared.”

“f*ck off,” Mike laughs, and then groans as Will gets a palmful of the silk-smooth liquid and slathers it down his length.

The faint beginnings of an idea start to prod at Will’s brain as he watches Mike. Mike is thrusting up into his hand already, head pushed back into the pillow, and honestly Will could just finish him off here and now. But he doesn’t want this to be over yet. The thought drifts through his consciousness, quiet and innocuous as a cloud. And once it’s there, he can’t let go if it. Can’t stop imagining it. The idea has occurred to him before, but he never, ever thought Mike would be the slightest bit into it. But now... Will isn’t sure. Especially with Mike so caught up in lust, putty in Will’s hands, and especially after that blow j*b that convinced Will that maybe Mike does want all of him, after all. Will has always been a little nervous about being on the receiving end, because it seems like such an intensely vulnerable thing. Even with Mike, who he trusts more than anyone, that makes him balk a little. Even years after everything happened, he still has issues with feeling vulnerable. But if he was the one doing it to Mike, well...

Will’s hand has slowed, and Mike makes a questioning noise.

At the very least, he can try. He can ask.

Will crawls over him, and flips them. Mike follows without complaint, accepting the offered kiss. Mike’s legs end up draping over Will’s, knees parted around Will’s body. He’s propped up slightly on his elbows to avoid dropping all of his weight onto his boyfriend’s slightly smaller frame. And Will draws in a long breath. He just needs to ask, but all at once he’s nervous - maybe because he wants to so badly, and he’s so afraid that it’s going to ruin everything. That Mike will shove him away with a disgusted snarl of, “Are you serious?”

But Will forces himself to swallow down his anxieties, and tilts back from the kiss to murmur, “Babe?” And an immediate ripple of sheepishness pulls through him, making him curl into himself a little, because he did not mean to use a pet name.

But Mike just hums, “Hmm?” and Will spends every last ounce of his bravery to say, “Can I try something?”

Mike is already nodding, and it makes Will’s heart swell because Mike trusts him so much that he didn’t even hesitate.

Will still hurries to say, “We don’t have to. Just - just tell me to stop and I will. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mike says, and now he sounds maybe the slightest bit nervous - probably because Will made such a big deal out of it - but he nuzzles immediately into the kiss when Will tilts his face up.

Without breaking the kiss, Will finagles the bottle of lube open and manages to get a good amount on his right hand - his fingers, specifically. Mike’s upper body is still propped up a little on his elbows, legs parted over Will’s thighs, calves relaxed on either side of Will’s. Will doesn’t even have to adjust them; he just snakes his hand around Mike’s side, down his lower back. A drop of lube drips from the tip of Will’s forefinger as he moves, landing on Mike’s skin - giving Mike a second’s forewarning. Mike stops when he feels the drop hit his ass cheek, and Will holds his breath. Expecting him to pull away any second - expecting that disgusted scoff to rise from Mike’s throat. But no. Mike just pauses, and then slowly begins to kiss back again, and something in Will’s chest and throat is vibrating with tension as he keeps moving.

Will’s hand dips, two fingers curling down to their destination. He moves as smoothly as he can - not quickly enough to startle Mike, but not so slowly that he’ll lose his nerve, either. The heel of his hand comes to rest right at the base of Mike’s spine - at that smooth transition between his lower back and his ass, right between those two dimples that Will just adores. And then just another inch or so further down. Mike goes a little tense over Will - no, not tense, exactly - more like taut , like an energy is running through him - but otherwise he remains still. He doesn’t cringe away. He doesn’t say no, stop, I changed my mind. Will’s two fingers, meanwhile, swipe down between the cheeks.

Will is so focused on Mike’s reaction that he can hear both of their heartbeats while he moves. He thinks maybe he’s holding his breath, and their kiss goes still as the pads of Will’s fingers, dripping with lube, trace up the cleft until they locate their target. Now, Will is a little lost from this point forward. Sex Ed in sixth grade didn’t exactly cover this. At the very least, he knows he’s supposed to start slow. The small handful of times he’s done this on himself - and he doesn’t do it very often, since every time he ends up overwhelmingly guilty about how undeniably it proves that he’s a disgusting fa*g , and he always feels ashamed and vaguely dirty for hours afterwards - but the small number of times he has tried it has given him a tiny bit of experience. He knows to start slow. And quite frankly it would seem a little rude to just go ahead and stick a whole finger in without permission, anyway.

So he starts by just rubbing. Slowly. One soft swipe over the delicate pucker of skin - which, by the way, is so much smoother than he expected. He didn’t know what he expected. When he did this to himself he wasn’t really worried about texture - he was mostly just trying to twist his wrist at an uncomfortable angle, awash in mixed excitement and shame for enjoying something that he really should not have been enjoying. But this? Will actually can’t believe how much he’s looking forward to this. He’s got Mike draped over him - one warm, heavy mass, his scent washing over Will - and Will’s upper arm is snugged around Mike’s side, his wrist at just the right position to reach his target without straining. It’s comfortable. It feels natural, somehow. And Will finds himself sighing, eagerly anticipating when he can slip one finger past that tight barrier, just to see what it feels like. But not yet. For now, he swipes back over the ripple of skin, spreading the lube. And then begins to rub. Gently, in little circles, using the pads of both fingers to stroke.

Mike breaks away from Will’s lips and ducks his head, like he’s trying to hide his face. Will listens for the slightest whisper, the barest hint of a word - he’s still expecting that no, stop to come out any minute - but Mike just breathes. Just a little bit harder than normal - like he’s consciously controlling his breaths. Under Will’s fingers, he feels Mike twitch, and it sends a little thrill through Will’s belly. He strokes a little more firmly, pressing down just the slightest bit with the tip of one finger - and his breath catches with another wave of gratification when he feels the flesh yield.

“Can I...?” he whispers, and waits with his heart in his throat, because dear god he does not want to pull away now that the delicious heat is literally at his fingertips, but of course he’ll stop if Mike doesn’t want - but - sh*t. Holy sh*t. Mike just nodded . “Yeah?” Will whispers, and then nudges Mike’s head with his own. “Say it, okay? I won’t do it without a yes.”

And Mike, trembling a little in Will’s arms and breathing in long, ragged breaths, mumbles a cracked, “Yeah,” into Will’s neck.

Will fumbles with his free hand to get more lube, lifting away regretfully to re-slather his fingers, and then presses his hand back in place and lines up a finger. Feels Mike tense. Nudges up Mike’s head until he can draw him into a kiss, waits until Mike relaxes a little. And that’s when Will presses in. Just a fingertip, to start.

Will’s heart begins to jackhammer. Something warm and weightless is swelling just above his diaphragm, filling up his lungs until he can’t breathe, climbing his throat and swimming behind his eyes until all he can see is Mike. He’s trying to absorb everything, every detail, every sound and scent. He wants to remember everything.

He goes incrementally. Mike is about a thousand degrees and so incredibly smooth - like butter . It seems like both a millenia and a split second before Will finally sinks his finger in to the second knuckle and moans softly at the same time that Mike does. He pulls out, the lube making the motion slick and effortless - and then presses back in. Slowly, a little farther, and then again just a degree faster, and then he sinks in fully. And, oh, god . He never expected it to be so soft, or smooth, or so scorching hot. He draws back almost entirely, and Mike gives a nearly imperceptible shudder, and then he sinks back in from fingertip to knuckle. He starts to pump in and out - just the one finger, for now - and he realizes that he’s started to grind himself up against Mike’s stomach, because f*ck, he’s more turned on than he ever has been in his life.

“Okay?” Will asks, his voice little more than a thin whisper. He gets a small nod in return.

He didn’t notice at first, focused on his task as he was, but now as he establishes a rhythm he feels it. Mike’s boner - which slacked off a little, understandably - is back, prodding at Will’s hip as Will humps up against him, hungrily seeking friction. It buoys Will’s confidence exponentially. Tendrils of pleasure curl through him, tightening, sinking roots deep into his belly until he shivers.

Will can feel the exact moment that Mike’s muscles start to relax and his walls start to clench. He takes it as a sign to speed up, getting just a little rougher. Thrusting rather than stroking. And that’s when Mike moans aloud for the first time since this started. It’s a low, choked little sound, and it seems to shoot straight down Will’s spine and to his dick.

He presses his lips into Mike’s hair to check in again with a whisper. “Should I stop?”

Mike pants against Will’s neck, and then lifts his face for the first time in minutes. His eyes flick away almost immediately upon meeting Will’s, as if his gaze is a bright light, but Will can still make out the little scrunch of pleasured concentration between his eyebrows. Mike’s weight long ago sagged onto Will, making it a tad harder to breathe, but he doesn’t care a bit.

Finally, as if battling himself and losing, Mike shakes his head with a shuddering inhale. Don’t stop.

“Can I add another?” Will asks, and he actually sees the color rise up Mike’s neck and into his face - but he feels Mike’s walls flutter at the mere suggestion, and he knows before Mike nods what the answer will be.

Will doesn’t force a verbal yes out of him this time, he only withdraws his hand, rubs his fingers together to make sure they’re still slick enough, and then eases two fingers in. Mike lets out a little puff of breath, eyes squeezing shut, and then rolls forward to capture Will’s mouth with his own, thrusting his tongue against Will’s in a sloppy, unfocused, fervent kiss. Will’s brain is just an aching, melting chaos of heat and want and Mike , and as their teeth scrape together all he can think is mine mine mine.

Will has been pulsing his hips up against Mike since the beginning, hard flesh sliding together in a way that’s awkward and wonderful , but now - completely accidentally, this first time - his movements sync up. For a beat or two he finds himself pushing his hips up at the same moment that his fingers pump down, and Mike makes a sound that can only be described as a mewl . Will crashes their lips together, muffling the noise, because Jonathan is just two rooms away. But once it happens, Will keeps chasing it. He’s not very good at maintaining the rhythm, but he keeps trying, and his reward is the twitching, quivering flesh that’s opening up to him, swelling under the pads of his fingers.

Will can’t help it. As they move together, he starts to daydream. He imagines what it would be like to bury himself in that smooth, buttery heat, and he gasps involuntarily at the thought, arousal trembling through him, lighting up his sweat-damp skin in waves of tingling want. He imagines flipping them, hiking Mike’s legs up around his waist, watching Mike’s face as he eases down. Will bites hard on Mike’s lower lip, that strange possessiveness coiling in him again, and Mike lets out a breathy sound of either pain or encouragement, Will can’t tell which. Will’s hips are pumping up against Mike’s without his control, now, grinding against whatever he can reach, and Mike is bucking against him in turn - emitting low, breathy sounds every few seconds, his whole body tight as a wire over Will, hips pulling down to meet Will’s and then arching back to meet his fingers. They’re writhing together in an unpracticed, uncoordinated dance.

He wants to add a third finger, he wants to do so many things - but he won’t. Not this time. This time, two is more than enough, and he can feel the tunnel twitching and pulsing around his fingers. Will’s wrist is starting to ache and cramp from the see-sawing motion, and they end up changing positions at his suggestion. Will rolls them onto their sides so that he can keep pulsing his fingers into Mike - at a different angle, now, and it makes Mike gasp and full-body jerk - while Mike grasps himself. There’s barely enough room between them to move at all, but it doesn’t seem to hinder Mike any. He pumps himself, breathing harshly, until he comes just a minute or two later. When he does, he clamps down over Will’s fingers, fluttering, and Will kisses him to swallow the soft, intense little “ Hah -” that he emits.

Afterwards, Mike insists on taking some of the lube for himself and finishing off Will, too, though Will would have been perfectly happy even if he didn’t come at all. It doesn’t take much to convince him, though, and Will hooks an arm around Mike’s neck while Mike touches him. He falls back into his fantasy, pretending that it’s not just Mike’s hand that’s squeezing his length but Mike , pulsing with his rapid heartbeat and scorching hot and so tight, and Will leaves tooth marks in Mike’s shoulder because he comes so close to groaning out his name.

“Do you have to?”

“Yeah,” Mike answers regretfully as he zips up the hoodie that Will insisted he borrow. It’s a little small on him, but it’s better than nothing. The rain isn’t so bad, but he’d freeze biking home in just a tee shirt. “I have to do laundry. Or at the very least, grab some more clothes. I’ve been wearing these ones for like three days.”

Will bats a hand through the air, dismissive. “Three days? Pfft. Amateur.”

Mike grins as he tucks his Walkman down his shirtfront. He’s got the mixtape loaded up, ready to play, and carefully he pulls the hood up over his headphones to shield them from the rain. Will fidgets. That gut instinct is back. The sudden, baseless worry that something is going to go wrong. What, he’s not sure. It’s harder to dismiss, this time, and he peers at the sky as he opens the front door. It’s nearly 7:45pm, but the sun hasn’t set yet - not that you could tell through the clouds and the rain. Still, it’s plenty light enough to see, and that eases his anxiety a little. Mike won’t be riding home in the dark, at least.

Jonathan is still hiding away in his room, so Will presses up for one last kiss before Mike rides away. “Bye.”

He swallows the ridiculous urge to add, be careful.

“Bye.”

Mike fishes out the Walkman to hit play , then shoves it safely into his clothes again before running his bike a few feet and hopping on.

Something in Will wants to watch him ride away until he’s out of sight. He doesn’t. He turns away and shuts the door against the patter of rain and the smell of mud. Back in his room, he sits down on the edge of his mattress and holds his hands a few inches apart. Focuses. Lightning jumps between them.

Lightning jumps between two clouds as Mike pedals towards home. He’s riding into the storm; he can actually make out the wave of rain coming towards him, and he braces himself as it hits. The Walkman should be fine - he’ll be home before the rain quite soaks through Will’s hoodie.

He already listened to a few of the songs earlier today, on his way back to the Byers’. Mr. Mister, Pseudo Echo, Queen, Bowie. Now he listens through Need You Tonight by INXS as he coasts through the edge of town, head down against the rain, and another Queen song starts up as he nears his own neighborhood. You’re My Best Friend. He huffs out a little laugh. For all that Will teases Mike about being a sap, he’s just as guilty of it.

The rain hasn’t managed to dampen his spirits, yet, and he even hums along a little as he coasts down a hill. The closing chords fade out, and the opening notes of the next song burst around him, sparkling and upbeat as he turns onto his street. Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now by Starship. He’s bubbly-happy, still high off Will, wrapped in his boyfriend’s hoodie, happily daydreaming as he arrives home and stows his bike against the side of the house. Lightning strobes over the sky again, but the music drowns out the growl of thunder.

“ Let 'em say we're crazy, I don't care about that. Put your hand in my hand, baby, don't ever look back. Let the world around us just fall apart; baby, we can make it if we're heart-to-heart.”

He unlocks the front door with a flourish and walks in, singing along under his breath, a bounce in his step. He tosses the keys in the air, catches them with a swipe of his palm, and drops them into the key bowl.

“ And we can build this dream together, standing strong forever. Nothing's gonna stop -”

The music in his head cuts off like somebody grabbed the singer in a chokehold. Because something is immediately and terribly wrong. Mike pushes the headphones down from his ears, his heart rate picking up as he meets the solemn gaze of his parents. He pulls the Walkman out of his shirt and fumbles at the pause button until the song stops.

They’re sitting at the kitchen table. Just sitting, not talking, not eating, not doing anything. And then Mike notices the scrap of glossy paper on the table between them. It’s bent in the middle, one half sticking up in the air from the crease. It’s a photostrip, and even from here Mike can make out the familiar shapes of the pictures. And in a single moment, everything shatters.

Chapter 10: The Storm: Part 2

Chapter Text

Rain drums against the side of the house. The kitchen is lit by a single lamp, which hangs over the table where Mike’s parents sit, facing each other. Mike stands in the vaguely cluttered space between the entryway and the kitchen, trying to convince himself that he’s wrong. That this isn’t what it looks like.

He can’t move. Everything inside him is dropping, imploding, like he’s folding in on himself and falling through the floor at the same time. It’s a hollow, sick feeling, somehow crushingly tight and nauseatingly detached at the same time - like the boundaries of the world just glitched, and all at once his consciousness isn’t quite tethered to his body anymore. He’s drifting, an inch one way and then the other - and then, when his father speaks, his soul snaps into his body again and he sucks in a breath, like he just remembered, oh, yeah, I can breathe - I should probably breathe.

“Son,” Ted says, with a nod and a twist of the wrist, gesturing to the chair between them “Why don’t you sit down?” Not coldly. Not aggressively. Just mild - neutral. And somehow that’s worse.

Mike’s mind is rocketing in circles. Trying desperately to convince himself. This doesn’t mean what you think it means. It’s not what it looks like. That’s not really the photo booth picture, your eyes just played tricks on you because you’re paranoid. It’s fine, don’t panic, just don’t panic. You don’t know for sure.

So he plays dumb. Because maybe - just maybe - this is something completely harmless. Or something completely unrelated. Maybe they want to talk about college. Or maybe they’re here to tell him they’re filing for divorce. A guy can dream. Mike clips the Walkman to the hip of his belt - still paused - and approaches. Heart in his throat. Hands and feet numb. He focuses on relaxing the muscles of his face as he takes a couple steps into the kitchen and hovers about a yard away from the table. And he doesn’t look at the glossy strip of bent paper. He doesn’t look. Because, in some deep corner of his mind, he knows what it is. And if he looks, and sees it there in front of him, then this all becomes real. Somehow, irrationally, he feels like he’s okay as long as he doesn’t see it. This isn’t real, this isn’t happening, until he looks at that picture and knows for sure what it is - what it means.

So he forces himself to stand casually a few feet from the table, the foamy headphones of the Walkman hugging the glands of his throat. “Hey.” He’s proud of how steady his voice is, though the word tilts up at the end in the slightest hint of a question.

He looks to his mother, just to look at something - anything but the picture. She may as well be a statue. She’s just sitting there, sad and silent, eyes swollen, hair up in a sagging bun, a wine glass at her fingertips. Then, as he watches, her gaze flickers up from the table. It flits over Mike’s face, not quite meeting his eyes, and then slides down. Down to the hunter green hoodie that’s a size too small on him. Will’s hoodie. And her gaze subsides to the tabletop again.

“Sit down,” Ted says again, a little more firmly this time, and something in Mike wriggles in base horror, everything in him screaming to run.

“I should actually -” Mike blurts, and he doesn’t know what comes next. He flaps an arm vaguely towards the staircase. He wants to leave. He still won’t look at the picture, because as long as he doesn’t confirm it, he can still deny what might be happening. More than anything he wants to turn away, climb the stairs, and close his door. He wants to curl himself into the corner of his bed, open a book, read until he passes out - and then maybe, just maybe in the morning this will all have disappeared. The muscles in his legs ache with the desire to move, to run, to leave. But he can’t move his feet. He’s trapped. “I’m kinda tired, I should probably...”

The paper-thin excuse breaks down mid-sentence. Outside, the wind picks up with a whistle, pushing hard against the side of the house. Rain lashes at the kitchen window. The lamp hanging above the table illuminates the room, but the light seems thin, somehow, cold despite the yellowish glow.

He doesn’t mean to - doesn’t want to - but he looks. The glossy paper draws his eyes like a magnet and once he looks he’s frozen. Immobile, breath scraping in and out of his lungs, heart jittering at a million miles an hour as he takes in the details of the photo booth strip that he and Will got at the mall, weeks and weeks ago. Out of this world! the caption at the bottom reads, printed in a cheerful, goofy font. Cartoon stars pop around the black margins. He remembers taking those pictures. It was on a whim. Will wanted to do it, and Mike hates pictures of himself, but he agreed reluctantly. They were just playing around, at first, joking about alien ray-guns, pretending to shoot at each other. But then...

It’s just a tiny square, from here - a minuscule fraction of his field of view. But the third picture seems to swell and ripple, dancing in his vision until it’s all he can see. They’re turned towards each other, in the picture, Will’s nose pressed into Mike’s cheek, Mike’s mouth parted slightly to Will’s tongue. It’s blurry from their sudden movement, but there’s no mistaking what’s happening.

And that’s where it starts. Or, rather, where it ends. Everything. All of Mike’s fears popping like firecrackers before his eyes, all at once, coming true in one sickening swoop like missing a step on a staircase. Everything imploding on him all at once, all the consequences catching up to him.

He can’t look away. Something in his chest and throat is shaking, trembling hard, adrenaline zinging through his limbs in hard little bursts with the pumping of his heart.

Ted takes a half-breath, makes some movement that Mike can barely make out from of the corner of his eye - maybe clasping his hands together - and then says, “Look, we were hoping to have a...” He clicks his tongue behind his teeth, apparently searching for words. “A calm, adult conversation. Okay? That’s all. We’re not here to attack you.”

Mike considers saying, what’s this about? But he quickly abandons the idea. The time has clearly passed for playing dumb. They’ve all seen it, now. They all know why they’re here.

“We’d like to get you some help,” Ted is saying. “We’re on your side here.”

Mike finally drags his gaze away from the picture, struggling to process the words he’s hearing. “Help?” he rasps out eventually, and both of his parents nod encouragingly.

“Like I said, no one’s here to attack you. You’re not in trouble. We just -”

“Help with what?” Mike cuts in sharply, and Ted sighs. His hands, laced together, bounce a bit over the table like he’s choosing his words. Eventually he says, “Your mother...”

Karen’s head wobbles towards him, her lips parting in a little breath like she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. She just looks at her husband with puffy, red eyes as he goes on.

“Your mother found this while she was cleaning your room.” It’s a dry, clinical statement. Ted gestures with both of his clasped hands to the photos.

“What were you doing going through my stuff?” Mike tremors. He’s trying to be angry, indignant - because if he can summon up that fire, maybe it’ll burn through the rest of what he’s feeling.

“Well, it’s not fair to be mad at her,” his father is saying, “she was just trying to lend a hand.”

Karen sits up a little bit, leaning forward a degree, and speaks for the first time since he walked in the door. “Mike,” she says, and it’s clear that she’s been crying. She looks at him with those brown eyes - his brown eyes - and she sounds so incredibly gentle when she says, “I know it’s... I know it’s hard, baby, and that you don’t want to talk to us about it, but -”

Mike falls back on playing clueless, as long as he possibly can, and snaps, “About what? ”

She just looks up at him where he’s standing, something strange in her eyes. “Sweetheart... I know you’re in a -” Her wrist twirls for a moment as she makes a noise in her throat, like she’s trying to force something out. “A - hom*osexual relationship. With Will.”

Mike’s instinctual reaction of self-preservation is to start laughing. A strange, high-strung, high-pitched laugh that foams up his throat like vomit. “What?” he half-laughs. “What are -”

“It’s okay,” Karen says. She’s still looking at him, right into him, and she repeats in a half-whisper, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault, it’s -” And she makes an aborted gesture, one hand jerking towards her sternum as if she was about to indicate herself.

Something horrible occurs to Mike, just then, and he makes an entire one-hundred-and-eighty degree swing from nervous laughter to a venomous snarl. “Leave him alone.”

“We -”

“ Don’t f*cking touch him. ”

“Whether Will decides to seek help or not is his business,” she says, and it’s the first time that Mike looks her in the eyes and trusts what she’s saying. “He’s not our son. You are.”

She looks to Ted and he nods in agreement. “Will’s not our concern here. We just want to talk through some options with you,” he says, and then adds, “Sit down, okay?”

Mike doesn’t sit down. His head has gone fuzzy with disbelief. He’s trying to reconcile how this day went so wrong, so quickly. An hour ago wasn’t he sprawled out in Will’s rumpled bedsheets, with his boyfriend pressed against him and the whole summer ahead of them, shiny-new and sparkling with possibility? And now -

Ted looks at Karen, like he’s expecting her to say something else, but when she doesn’t he rubs a hand over his face and starts talking about help , about professionals , about doctors and options and not your fault. Mike stares at the floor and tries to block it out, but he can’t stop seeing the “cures” he’s heard about. He imagines hearing a generator powering up. Feels phantom paddles pressed to his temples. The back of his throat tightens and lurches, tongue pulling to the back of his mouth in a near retch.

“- we understand how hard this must be for you, Mikey -”

“Don’t call me that,” Mike snarls, but Ted talks over him.

“- but we just want you to know that you’re not alone. We want to help you. We’re gonna help you fix this.”

Feeling floods back into his limbs in a surge of pins and needles and Mike pulls away, everything inside him sick and trembling as he spits out, “I’m not broken.”

“No, of course not. That’s not what we mean. We’re not saying you’re broken beyond repair, son. If that was the case there’d be no point in lending you a hand. But we do want to lend a hand. If you’re having these... these tendencies, you need some... That is to say, if you are a-”

“A what?” Mike challenges. He waits a second, watching his father get uncomfortable, and then says it again. “A what? A queer?”

“Well -” He breathes out a long breath, looking down at the table. “Well, yes, that’s -”

“So what if I am?” The words come out iron-hard, rusty in his throat but cold and unyielding. It sends a heady rush of blood straight to his brain, like he’s about to pass out. Because that’s the first time he’s ever admitted it to anyone besides himself, or El, or Will.

And then all at once he’s striding forward again, snatching up the photograph from the table and tearing it. Ripping it down the middle, and then crosswise, again and again until he can’t tear it anymore, and then he goes to the sink and stuffs the pieces into the garbage disposal, turns on the water, and runs it. He feels a pang of loss for the picture - it was one of the few tangible reminders he had of him and Will - but he won’t let it out them to anyone else.

He leans over the sink with both hands braced on the rim as he watches the pulpy remains dance and get swallowed up by the pipes. He thinks he might throw up. His movements are slow and precise as he turns off the water and the disposal, and even in the silence that follows he doesn’t hear his mother approach until she touches his shoulder. He jerks away.

“Sweetheart, we just want to help you feel better...” She looks him right in the eye, open and earnest and searching - and suddenly, Mike knows where he inherited that expression. The one Will says that Mike himself wears so often - the one he’s seen in some of Will’s drawings. “Please let me help you, honey. I know how -” Her voice strains and she switches tracks with a helpless gesture, fingertips twitching. “It doesn’t have to be this way, does it? Couldn’t you find a nice girl? Elle was so sweet...”

That’s how she always pronounces El. Like it’s just short of being Eleanor or Elizabeth.

Thunder rolls over the house. Ted, apparently feeling left out, stands and wanders forward to plant himself at his wife’s shoulder so that they’re both facing Mike. Waiting expectantly for his reaction - for him to agree, relent.

That’s when it hits him. They know. They know already. He’s no longer hiding, he’s... he’s... And he almost snorts to himself, because he never really thought about it in these terms before, but: he’s not in the closet anymore. They already dragged him out against his will - there’s no point in being defensive anymore. He can no longer protect himself; they already caught him. And the anger he was reaching for before is abruptly at his fingertips, hot and electric, because, damnit, he was happy. What he has with Will is good, and they were doing so well, and he was just starting to feel hopeful. And they’re trying to rip him away from that? Because of - of what, their outdated biases? Being queer was taken off the list of mental disorders fifteen whole years ago, for f*ck’s sake. And his parents are still acting like he’s sick - like he has the flu, or cancer or something. f*ck that. f*ck that, and f*ck them.

His voice is beginning to wobble, wetly, but it comes out flat and stiff when he opens his mouth. “f*ck you.”

“ Hey,” Karen snaps, but Mike spits it out again, and again, voice growing more and more unsteady as he backs up blindly until he bumps into the counter -

“f*ck you, f*ck you -”

And then his father is trying to regain control of the situation, telling Mike not to be unreasonable, threatening and coaxing in turns, but Mike is barely processing the words. They keep going despite his silence, asking questions that Mike doesn’t answer, talking themselves down one branch of interrogation and then another. His father goes on at length, and then his mother interjects.

How long has this been going on?

We’re just disappointed that you never approached us about this problem before it got out of hand.

We raised you better than this, come now. You wouldn’t start doing heroin, would you? You wouldn’t join a gang, would you? So why do this ?

And, perhaps the worst: Did Will seduce you into it? We’re not going to judge you, everyone falls prey to temptation now and then. We just want an honest answer.

But Mike doesn’t resurface until his father wraps up a lecture with, “You have to realize that what you’re feeling isn’t real.”

“Oh, shut up, just shut up!” His voice whip-snaps into a hoarse shout halfway through the sentence, and once he starts yelling he can’t stop. “You don’t know anything about us, you don’t know!”

He’s mortified to realize that he’s started to cry. Ugly, pathetic sobs heaving up between words. He hates himself for it.

Ted frowns, looking uncomfortable again. “Excuse me, young man, there’s no need for yelling here. We’re trying to have a calm adult conversation with you, you’re being unreasonable.”

“Why do you care what I do, anyway? Since w-when have you ever cared? It’s my business who I’m in a relationship with, so - so why do -”

Ted cuts in, entirely too matter-of-factly, “It’s not up to me. I didn’t make the rules, son, but they are the rules.”

“What rules?” Mike spits, “What f*cking rules?”

His father makes small, flat gestures with him palm as he spells it out: “Human beings were designed a certain way for a reason . We were not designed for hom*osexual relationships -”

“Oh, bull -!”

“- and a hom*osexual relationship cannot ultimately successfully emulate a real -”

“-sh*t!”

He’s fully crying now, cheeks wet, the skin of his face hot and tender, his diaphragm jolting. He can’t stop. It’s like everything from the past months is pouring out. Everything. All the anxiety, all the paranoia, all the self-doubt, all the shame, the confusion, the longing, the fear, the anger - it’s all bubbling and swirling together now, and he tries to stop - he really tries to suppress the tears, to look up and force them back, to freeze his diaphragm so the sobbing stops. He tries so hard to be strong, to be stoic, to man up. But it’s hard, and he’s so tired, and he’s so scared. He can’t go to that place. He can’t. He can’t let them take part of himself away from him, he can’t -

“All right, look. I’m putting my foot down. I won’t have a fa*ggot living in my house.”

Both Mike and Karen turn to look at him, wordless, because he sounds so uncharacteristically firm. That, and Mike can’t remember him ever using a slur like that. Usually when he’s off on a rant about this stuff he’ll use the very dry, medical term - “hom*osexuals.”

He goes on - “That crosses a line. We have a little girl living here. She’s eight, for christssake. I won’t have her exposed to that stuff. I won’t have drugs in my house, I won’t have satanic rituals in my house, and I won’t have fa*ggots in my house. That’s not so unreasonable, is it?”

Mike flinches when he hears the word a second time, and then because it’s all he can do, he explodes again. Crying and yelling at once, screaming, saying things without thinking them, without even remembering them. There’s snot blocking his nose and threatening to run down his face, his lungs are heaving, he’s gesturing wildly, pointing, pacing. His father tries reasoning with him, and then switches tactics to reprimanding, accusing him of blubbering and dramatics and acting like a baby isn’t going to get you anywhere, you know, so just cut it out.

It comes to a halt all at once. One moment Mike is shaking his head, stuttering, arguing in a last-ditch effort at self defense, and the next it’s over.

“I’m not going to - I’m not going to any doctor, I won’t - no. ”

“Then if you feel like you’re old enough to make that decision, you’re old enough to take care of yourself. There’s the door.”

He blinks, breathing hard, not understanding. And then he does understand. He looks back and forth between his parents, helplessly, tears running freely down his cheeks. Waiting to see if it’s a bluff. But it’s not. His father is standing firm, for once in his life, and his mother is avoiding his eyes - but then she presses her lips together and nods in agreement.

Mike’s throat feels raw from yelling. He swallows. “What?”

“If you’re old enough to be making decisions like that, then you’re plenty old enough to be on your own,” he reiterates. “So, it’s up to you. We won’t force you. But if you’d like to remain a part of this household, you will be seeking medical attention for your condition. That is non-negotiable.”

Mike gapes at them. This can’t be real. “I...”

“Well, look, don’t make the decision now,” his father says, almost kindly. It turns Mike’s stomach. “We’ll sleep on it. It’s been a long night for everyone, let’s take a breather. We can have a mature discussion in the morning, and if you’re still determined to cling to this fantasy by then, you can see yourself out.”

Mike feels himself break then and there. He feels his whole life slipping through his fingers, running through his grip like sand. He looks at the choice in front of him, but - no. It’s not a choice. He has no choice.

Another wave of rain pulses against the house - a sharp and tattering sound, staccato. Mike barely hears his little sister’s voice over the noise.

“What’s going on?”

All three of them jump, turning to face the doorway. Holly and Nancy stand at the edge of the kitchen, Nancy’s hand on Holly’s shoulder. Holly looks back and forth between her brother’s red face and her parents. Her lower lip trembles. She always cries whenever Mike does.

Nancy steps around her and tries to hold out an arm to Mike, but he shrinks away. He can’t stand to have anyone touch him right now, not even her.

“What’s going on?” Nancy echoes. She turns on their parents. “What did you do? What’s going on?”

Karen is crying again. Ted is feebly attempting to regain control, shepherding Holly towards the stairs. “Holly, go back to bed, honey. Nancy -”

Karen steps forward, sobbing over the chaos as Mike backs towards the stairs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry - don’t, Michael, wait, let's talk about -”

But he’s already on the first step, slipping out of her reach, repeating, “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.”

It’s over.

He flees.

Up the stairs, around the corner, into his room. Once the door slams behind him he claws the headphones off his neck and tosses the Walkman onto his bed.

There’s a weird, larger-than-life feeling hanging around him, turning the familiar angles and corners of the house strange, twisting shadows and turning colors lurid and acidic. He feels like he’s living out a scene from a movie. Things like this don’t happen in real life. The yelling, the ultimatums, the desperate flight up the stairs, pulling a suitcase from the closet, blindly shoving items into it. This can’t be real life. But it is. And Mike feels both acutely, unforgivingly here, present - and at the same time numb and distant. But underlying all that there’s an elusive, heady sense of relief - of a weight vanishing from his shoulders, despite everything, because it’s over. It’s done. He doesn’t have to worry about his parents finding out anymore; he doesn’t have to worry about being caught. It already happened. Now all he has to do is survive the fallout. And it’s this twisted relief that makes him really break down, falling onto the corner of his bed and sobbing like a baby into his hands, snot oozing down his upper lip, eyes growing hot and swollen. He’s so full of emotions that his stomach hurts. It’s done with. It’s done. He can leave, but -

But he has to leave. He has to leave his childhood home, the only home he’s ever known. He has to leave behind everything -

But he’s free. He gets to leave this house, he gets to leave it all behind - just like he’s wished for years. He’s not shackled to his parents anymore, he doesn’t have to watch them fight and bicker and mope. The dual sense of loss and freedom, devastation and relief, war inside his head as he drags himself upright and makes himself pack.

He just wants Will. It’s been barely an hour since he saw his boyfriend last - god, has it been an hour already? Has it only been an hour? - and he misses him.

The suitcase that Mike dragged down from his closet is an old, hand-me-down, hardshell case. It was periwinkle blue, once, but now it’s faded and grubby. It still has the tags from their family trip to Disney World fluttering from the handle, from when Mike was nine. He makes an impulsive grab for them and rips them off, letting them flutter to the floor.

The door clicks open and Mike jumps violently, whirling. It’s Nancy. Clad in pajamas, hair loose around her freckled shoulders. Her record player in her arms. She enters without permission, closes the door behind her, and sets the record player on his desk. She plugs it in, twists the volume up and it begins blasting Madonna. Mike looks at her in confusion.

“So they can’t hear,” she says quietly, approaching so he can hear her over the music. “What in the hell is going on?”

He’s still half-sobbing - blubbering, his father’s voice sneers in his head. He covers the lower half of his face with a palm to hide the worst of it, using the other hand to grab onto things with rubbery fingers and shakily shove them into the suitcase. Barely aware of what he’s packing.

He manages to sputter out, “I c-can’t go to one of tho-oh-ose doctors, I won’t, I have to - to -” He cuts off to wipe his face on a shirt he just picked up off the floor, mopping up snot and tears, regaining at least a modicum of dignity.

“What the hell are you talking about? What doctors? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me!” he snaps, trying to convince himself as much as her.

She pitches her voice low. The obnoxiously peppy music almost drowns her out. “Is it about the Upside Down?”

He turns back to packing. “No, not that.”

His movement is cut off as she grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at her. She waits until he meets her eye and then firmly, simply says, “Mike. Tell me what’s going on.”

And because they’re going to tell her anyway, and because he’s beyond caring at this point, Mike just takes a deep, shuddering breath, and says, “Mom and Dad found out that I’m queer.”

Something changes in Nancy’s gaze - some glimmer, deep in her eyes - but her face only gives the slightest twitch of surprise before she smooths it out.

Mike goes on, “She f-found out about... me and Will?” and this dries out into a question, voice closing into a reedy wobble at the end, and Mike’s hand comes up to scrub over his face to hide how it’s crumpling again. Because this is harder to say. This is more precious to him.

Mike puzzled out that he like girls and guys years ago. And he’s a lot more comfortable with that part of himself now, after sorting through some of it with Will and some of it alone. So, that part’s not as hard to say to his sister. He is queer. His parents found out. These are facts. But the part about Will... that’s harder. Because what he has with Will is still new, fragile - fiercely guarded. And worse, he feels like he failed. Like he failed Will. He allowed this to happen. He must have left that picture lying around somewhere, and now... now everything is falling apart.

“They want me to get...”

“Conversion therapy?” Nancy finishes. She lets go of his shoulders, her eyes flashing. Her voice hardens to a keen edge. “Are you?”

“No!”

“Good.”

Mike looks at her. Her jaw is set, her eyes hard. She’s angry - but, for once, not at him. Her eyes flick from him to the closed door to the suitcase.

“You’re leaving?” It’s phrased as a question, but he can tell she’s not really asking.

He’s so raw, so close to the edge, that even that simple sentence makes his throat ache and begin to close again. He has to move. He starts shoving items around in the suitcase, not really organizing, just keeping his hands busy. “They said if I stayed I’d have to...” He still can’t say it. It’s too sore, too soon.

He keeps his eyes down, preparing himself for another argument. She’s not gonna be happy with him, and he knows that. So when she does speak, he’s already prepared with an answer. “Now? Tonight? But it’s insane out there. There’s gotta be two inches of water on the roads. You’ll get washed away.”

As if to reinforce her point, the rain redoubles on the roof, roaring for a beat or two before slacking off to a hard patter again.

“Exactly. They’d never expect me to leave now. And -” He throws his arms out in a gesture of defeat. “I’ve gotta get out of here, Nance. Now. Before they try to convince me again. Whatever else they have to say, I don’t wanna hear it. I just - I need to go. I need to go.”

His parents expect the conversation to continue in the morning. That’s twelve hours of painful, tense waiting for Mike - and twelve hours of time for them to plan, regroup, come up with new arguments and new angles. And he will not have that conversation again. He’ll be long gone by the time they realize he’s already made his decision.

She doesn’t try to argue with him. She doesn’t even ask where he’s going. They both know. She just works her jaw for a moment, arms folded in front of her, gripping her elbows in her palms. And then she nods, moves to his dresser, and begins pulling out pairs of jeans. “I’ll cover for you as long as I can,” she says, selecting a small assortment of clothes and piling them on the bed. Jeans, shorts, tees, underwear, a sweatshirt. “By morning they’ll be looking for you, but I can keep them off your trail until then. And I’ll talk to Holly,” she adds as an afterthought. “I’m sure you don’t want her getting their explanation first.”

She’s about halfway through Tetris-ing his clothes into the suitcase when Mike tackle-hugs her.

“Ugh, gross. You’re all snotty,” she mutters, but she winds her slender arms around him like a vice anyway. He can’t bring himself to let go, and she doesn’t either. He’s taller than her, now, but he feels about twelve years old when she squeezes him, her sweet-herbal perfume surrounding him. “It’s okay,” she says, quietly - and he can’t tell if she means the snot, or the situation in general, or if that was her expression of acceptance. It’s okay that you’re queer. I’ll still hug you. I’ll help you pack. I’ll cover for you. You lost your family but you still have a big sister.

She waits for him to pull away first.

Nancy ducks out of the room, and when she comes back a few minutes later she’s carrying a toiletry bag presumably full of his things. Mike, meanwhile, sets about gathering his most necessary possessions. The toiletry bag, the clothes. His set of Lord of the Rings , which - yes, he breathes in relief, still has Will’s letter tucked into The Two Towers . Several drawings from Will and a couple from Holly, as well as a birthday card from the Party, which he quickly takes down from the cork board on his wall. Stephen King’s It, because he never did finish reading it and it’s nice and thick - lots of material to get through. And then, because he would feel guilty about leaving them behind, he packs a few more books for good measure. He slips his most recent notebooks into his backpack, as well as his radio. He dumps his savings jar into a bandanna and ties it up tight, and stuffs that into his backpack too - his monetary worth now equaling a grand total of $33.74. He wants to get the D&D things, but they’re in the basem*nt.

What else? He grabs his flashlight from his desk and packs it, as well as a couple random comics. Then he digs through his closet until he finds the length of rope that the Party used to try to put up a sheet tent for camping, once, years ago. He can use it to tie the suitcase onto his bike. What else is there? Some clothes, a couple books, some mementos, a handful of cash tied up in a bandanna. His life in a suitcase. It seems like so much and so little at once.

Nancy slips out of the room again, hissing, “Stay here,” and closes the door softly behind her. She’s gone for the length of an entire song. Mike wants to shut the record off, but it’s drowning out their conversation from any prying ears. And anyway, he’s not sure he could deal with silence right now. He sits gingerly on the end of his bed, looking around at his childhood bedroom. Wondering if he’ll get the chance to come back for the rest of his stuff. Wondering if he’ll ever see it again. Wondering if his plan will actually work. After all, the Byers are under no obligation to take him in. Sure, they’d let him stay for a few days - but after that? Where does he go if they’re not willing to embrace another hungry mouth into their home? Not that he’d blame them. He wouldn’t want to be abruptly saddled with himself, either.

When Nancy comes back, the record has reached Papa Don’t Preach. She’s holding a manila folder, thick with papers. She holds it out.

“Birth certificate. Documents. Records. I got everything I could... might have missed some stuff. Keep this safe , okay?” She twitches it out of his reach just as he’s about to grab it. “ Don’t lose it.” She hands it over. Mike wraps it in a plastic bag to keep it dry and slips it into his backpack, safely sandwiched between two notebooks.

They stand in the middle of the room for a moment before Mike realizes, that’s it. The suitcase is full; the rain isn’t going to get any better. He has no more reason to hang around. The song blasts through the room, filling up the silence between them.

“The one you warned me all about; the one you said I could do without; we're in an awful mess. And I don't mean maybe, please. Papa don't preach, I'm in trouble deep. Papa don't preach, I've been losing sleep; but I made up my mind, I'm keeping my baby.”

“Right,” Mike says, stiffly. “Um. I should go.”

She nods. It could be his own watery vision, but he thinks he sees a touch of pink around her eyes and the tip of her nose. “I’ll stay in here tonight,” she says, and then nods at the room. “So it sounds like there’s someone in here. Can you climb out the window?”

He heaves his backpack on and pulls the loop of rope over one shoulder. “I can try.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. Steve used to do it all the time.”

He would laugh, if it weren’t for the circ*mstances.

Nancy slides his window open. Slowly. Inch by inch, so the noise doesn’t reverberate through the walls of the house. Rain billows into the room on a cold gust of wind, and Mike’s stomach twists with a pang of nerves as he steps up to the frame. Cold drops pepper his skin.

“Don’t fall and break your neck,” she advises, deadpan. “I’ll throw your suitcase down after you.”

He nods, throws one leg over the frame, and resists the strong urge to take one more look back. He ducks through and crawls out onto the slick-grainy tiles of the roof below his window. The rain wets down his hair immediately, freezing cold on his scalp, running down the back of his neck into his shirt. He nearly slips and falls trying to shuffle across the roof, to the side where he can scramble down the woodpile. Everything is cold and soaked through with rain, and when he hits the grass his sneakers sink right in, mud and water oozing up around his ankles.

Nancy’s silhouette appears in his window, leans out, and before he’s ready she hurls the suitcase over the lip of the roof. It flips end-over-end and he just barely catches it, half-falling in the process.

His head keeps snapping towards the windows of the house as he fumbles at the rope, trying to secure the unwieldy suitcase behind the seat of the bike. It’s not nearly as easy as he assumed, and every second that he spends beside the house is another second that he might be caught. He has to get away from the windows before somebody looks out. But, at last, he manages it.

His sister must be watching him from the open window, because he can still hear the Madonna record playing as he jogs the bike across the lawn, jumps onto the seat, and pushes off. He doesn’t dare look back.

The suitcase makes it nearly impossible to gain momentum or maintain balance. He comes within half a degree of keeling over with every turn, and it seems to take three times as much effort to pedal or steer. He hasn’t gone three blocks before his arms and legs begin to ache, lactic acid simmering away in his muscles. It’s like riding up a steep hill, lugging all that weight, and his bike jolts and swerves with a mind of its own.

He just has to make it to Will’s house. He just has to make it that far, and then the day is over, and he can rest. More than anything, he just wants to press himself to Will and go to sleep and forget about everything.

The rain isn’t playing around. It lashes over him, stinging his skin even through the hoodie, running into his eyes, turning him numb, soaking through his clothes. The tires of his bike fling water up his legs, spraying him from below while the rain drives down on him from above. His bangs hang in his eyes and he can barely see, but he knows better than to lift a hand to swipe them away. He’s white-knuckling the handles, using all of his strength to keep control of the bike. The shimmering reflection of streetlights streaks along the wet roads and sidewalks, throwing an eerie glow over the world. Once he reaches the edge of town the streetlights become more and more infrequent, fading out until he’s riding in the dark. Pedaling hard, leaning over the handlebars, panting with effort.

In the dark, he doesn’t see the patch of mud. The bike slams to a halt all at once, jarring his arms with the shock. The wheels are stuck in half a foot of sticky clay-mud. He has to dismount and yank it free, shuddering with shock and cold, hoping and praying that his knotwork holds up until he reaches the Byers’. He thinks maybe he’s crying again - he can’t tell if the water on his cheeks is tears or rain, and he can’t tell if he’s sobbing or just huffing with effort. Regardless, he tells himself to get a f*cking grip, Wheeler, and gets back on the bike.

He can barely see where he’s going. His vision is so smeared and glossy with tears and rainwater, points of light splintering into prisms, that everything is a blur. The rain is a constant, heavy force, flung at the earth by the gusting wind. It’s coming down so hard that a fine spray bounces back from the asphalt, seeming to emit its own glow, playing tricks on his eyes. But he’s approaching the edge of the woods, now, swerving heavily to avoid the potholes that plague these back roads and -

Headlights. Right in his face. A car horn, blaring, blasting in his ears.

The corner of the fender avoids clipping him by half an inch. The car shoots off down the road behind him in a spray of water, hoking again for good measure - but Mike pitches forward. He turned so sharply to avoid being flattened that the front tire twisted sideways, and he has about a quarter of a second to think oh fu- before he smashes into the ground, skids, rolls, comes to a stop. One handlebar spiked straight into his stomach when he want down, digging deep, and for a moment all he can do is lie there. Curled around his stomach on the ground, gasping, trembling. His skin stings when he finally pushes himself upright. The asphalt grated all the skin off his knees, the heels of his hands, and his knuckles.

He’s bleeding and limping when he rights the bike, and this time he doesn’t bother getting back on. He just holds the handles and walks, steadily, breath hitching every time that bruise in his stomach aches. All at once he’s acutely aware of just how lost he is. He knows his physical location, but the rest of his life? He can’t go back home. He just lost his family - as much as he wanted to escape them, sometimes, they were still his family. His sisters. His mother. And even his father, useless though he is. The only life he’s ever known, torn from him within the space of an hour. He’s adrift. No home. No family. No car. No college funds or possessions except what he’s carrying in the faded periwinkle blue hardshell suitcase on the back of his bike, which is slowly but surely getting soaked. He really hopes his books survive.

The last half mile of his journey is slow going. He’s slogging through two inches of water, limbs frozen down to the bone, struggling to absorb the enormity of what just happened. Completely unsure of what the next few days hold for him - much less every day of his life after that. Where does he go if Joyce is, understandably, less than enthused about him crash-landing in her house? Could he couch-surf? Could he live with his spunky but vaguely senile grandma in the city? What about the last year of school? Could he live in Hawkins under a bridge somewhere until college?

For one weak, shameful moment he considers turning around. Crawling back home. But then he thinks about what that would mean, and he pushes forward. The Byers’ porch light appears through the trees as he turns onto their long driveway, the pinprick of light sending one last wave of strength through his limbs until - finally - he’s at the porch steps.

He unties his suitcase from the bike and wrestles it onto the porch, setting it aside - out of the rain, but also out of view of the door. Because somehow he can’t bring himself to show up at their doorstep with a suitcase, waiting expectantly for them to take pity on him. So when he knocks on the door it’s just him, empty-handed, his bike gleaming in the porch light behind him, leaning up against the railing.

The door swings open before he’s prepared, and there’s Joyce, still wearing her work clothes. Her face scrunches up in confusion. And then her eyes move down, taking in his face, his dripping-wet clothes, the blood darkening the knee of one pant leg and the forearm of the opposite sleeve. He opens his mouth to say something, but - what can he say? His own eyes drop to his shoes, vaguely embarrassed at how pathetic he must look right now. Puffy-eyed and shivering, with his hair plastered to his skull and dripping into his face.

Without a word, she sweeps him into the house.

He’s attracted a small crowd, but not Will - yet. The door of Will’s room is closed, the beat of his music audible from within. Jonathan, on the other hand, was in the kitchen when Mike knocked. He hovers nearby as Joyce pulls a towel out of the closet and starts buffing it over Mike’s hair and clothes like he’s a little kid, asking question after question. Chester barks, then whines when he smells the blood and sees that one of his humans is upset. He tries to jump up and lick Mike’s face but Joyce pulls him down, so he pads around them in circles, occasionally pushing a cold, wet nose against the back of Mike’s hand.

Jonathan and Mike have never been especially close, but they they’ve known each other long enough to consider each other friends - if only through proximity. So when he sees Mike’s bloody hands and knees, he just says, “I’ll get the first aid kit.” And goes to fetch it from the bathroom.

Joyce keeps trying, repeating, “What happened to you? What happened?”

Mike doesn’t even know where to begin. Finally, in a voice that sounds so disgustingly weak, he says, “Can I stay here tonight?”

She’s quick to say, “Of course. Yeah. Did...” There’s suspicion in her voice, and Mike gets the strangest feeling that she knows when she says, “Did something... happen?”

The music in Will’s room stops and his door opens. A beat later he emerges, wearing gray boxers and a battered, faded-red Enjoy co*ke tee. His hair is rumpled, his face a little shiny with oil that he hasn’t washed away yet, and his fingers are smudged with a cool palette of color - he’s been painting. There’s a smudge of gray-blue on his forearm, a streak of peach just beside his nose. He’s carrying a jar of cloudy gray water, a paintbrush sticking out of it, on his way to the bathroom sink with a far-off, absorbed expression, like he’s still deep in his artistic process. And Mike is so overwhelmingly glad to see him. He almost bolts forward and scoops Will up then and there, remembering just in time that they have an audience.

And then Will catches sight of Mike. Soaking wet and bloody, muddying up the living room floor with his dirty shoes, fending off Joyce’s well-meaning toweling attempts.

His eyes widen and he abandons the jar on the hall table immediately, striding forward until he reaches his boyfriend. Reaching up to ever-so-gently take Mike’s face in his hands, scanning him, those hazel eyes flicking over him in a flurry of anxious examination. “What the hell?” is his opening line. “Mike - what the hell ? What happened, are you okay? Did somebody hurt you? Talk to me, tell me.”

Will is in full boyfriend-mode, audience be damned, and Mike doesn’t even bother to send him a frown of reprimand. He can’t muster up the energy to care anymore. He just leans into Will’s touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he breathes. Will’s voice has tilted up an octave higher than usual in concern, and he thumbs lightly at the scrape on Mike’s temple. He picks up Mike’s hands and turns them over, hissing when he sees the gouges on his knuckles, calling to Jonathan to hand over the first aid kit. Mike stops him before he can crack the white plastic case open. If he doesn’t say it now, he doesn’t know if he ever will.

“Will,” he says, and Will pauses, brows scrunched up in worry.

Mike swallows. He won’t cry again, not now, he won’t, he won’t - he’s stronger than that, damnit. He’s not a baby. He’s not going to cry. He clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth ache and looks up at the lumpy popcorn ceiling. When he looks down again, Will is watching him, waiting.

He says it under his breath, low enough that maybe the others won’t hear. “My parents know.” Will goes stiff, and Mike spits out the worst part before he can lose his nerve. “They kicked me out.”

Will blinks, lips parting in a small inhale - but it’s Joyce that speaks first.

“They what?” Her voice is tight with anger. When Mike looks at her she’s already moving towards the phone. “They - oh, I’m gonna -”

Mike grasps at her sleeve, pulling her back from the phone before she can lift it. “No, no - no, don’t - they don’t know I’m here, they -”

Jonathan shoulders his way into the huddle, head swinging from person to person in concern and confusion. “Wait, wait, they kicked you out ? For what? What happened?”

This is it. The moment of truth. Mike looks at Will, silently communicating, We have to tell them, don’t we? Because even if they kept their silence, his parents would almost certainly blab anyway. Will nods with solemn eyes and Mike takes a breath, preparing himself, but suddenly he’s petrified. Terrified that this is just going to be a repeat of what happened in his house.

Normally he’s so good at saying something. Words are easy for him. But now, uncharacteristically, he feels himself shutting down. He freezes. His mind is completely blank, and everyone is waiting for an answer.

He croaks, “I can’t -” And he said he wouldn’t cry, but fresh moisture is swelling behind his eyes, trembling at his lashes until he blinks and it streaks down his face. Will pulls him into a hug and Mike folds into it, talking in jagged breaths into Will’s hair. “I can’t - do this again -”

“It’s okay,” Will murmurs. “It’s okay, I can do it. I’ll do it. Should I just...?”

Should I just tell them?

Mike sniffs. And nods. But maybe Will is a little nervous about proclaiming the truth, too, because instead of making a statement to the room he leans in and lowers his voice. “Was it me? Did they kick you out because of us?”

Mike straightens. Shakes his head with a wet snuffle. “No. No, it wasn’t you. It was just - it’s just me. It’s my fault. I -”

He hadn’t noticed it before, but there are tears in Will’s eyes, too. Magnifying the kaleidoscope-streaks of green and brown in his irises. A little prickle of static stings Mike’s hand when Will’s fingers brush his, but the warmth of Will’s palm soothes it away within seconds.

In the end, Mike doesn’t have to finish his sentence at all. Joyce wordlessly crushes them both into a hug before they can say anything, squeezing the breath out of them. Mike feels another arm wrap around his shoulder as Jonathan joins in. The rain reverberates over the roof of the one-story house, and over the noise, Will speaks up.

“So... I’m gay.”

Mike can’t help it. He snorts. The bout of unexpected laughter shakes his ribs, and then Will starts anxious-giggling too, and the awkward group hug jostles with the movement. Even Joyce and Jonathan half-laugh as the tension breaks.

Mike lifts a hand, pointing feebly to himself. “I’m, uh... yeah.”

“I know,” Joyce says.

Mike breaks down. Yet again. But this time, as he clings to Will like he’s the only lifeline in a storming ocean - the two of them sandwiched between Will’s brother and mother - he feels just a little better. It hurts, and he’s terrified, and nothing is okay. But for the first time tonight, the tears feel almost cathartic.

Chapter 11: Home

Chapter Text

The door closes behind them with a click. Will’s heart is racing. His mouth is dry.

It happened.

He doesn’t know if he should be relieved or devastated. Right now he’s stuck somewhere in the middle.

The beginnings of a painting are drying on his desk. He barely got the first layer done before he stepped out of his room to rinse the brushes, and there was Mike. A rusty gloss of blood on his fingers, trickling from the gouges in the skin of his knuckles and the heels of his hands. Dark bloodstains creeping down the knees of his jeans and the elbows of his hoodie. Soaked to the bone and puffy-eyed. And Will abandoned the painting without a second thought. f*ck the painting. What painting? He doesn’t even bother to salvage the pools of paint that are drying on the palette, going to waste. His only concern is the boy in front of him. He’s on high-alert, every sound a gunshot in his ears, every touch a shock.

He does feel a little bad about lashing out at his own brother like he did, but he couldn’t really help it. Plus, Mike is clearly not in a good headspace for company right now - even just Joyce and Jonathan.

Jonathan offered to patch up Mike’s cuts and scrapes, and before he knew it Will was scooping up the first aid box, growling, “Leave it. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” And then, addressing Mike, “Should we go to my room? Let’s go sit down, yeah?”

With one arm snugged around Mike’s waist, he guided his boyfriend down the hall, supporting him even though Mike didn’t really need the help. Mike slung his own arm over Will in turn, the motion instinctive, automatic. Muscle memory, more than conscious will, drawing the familiar weight of Mike’s arm around the contours of Will’s shoulders. Will snapped off a brief explanation to his family, and then they retreated behind the relative safety of a locked door.

Now, as Will returns from retrieving Mike’s dripping-wet suitcase from the porch, Mike is in the same place that Will left him: standing in the middle of the room, cupping his elbows like he’s cold despite the muggy heat, or trying to take up less space. His eyes hazy and half-wild, like he’s a skittish horse ready to bolt. Will approaches accordingly.

Mike is clearly still in shock, and as Will looks him over, taking stock of the situation, that old survival instinct kicks in. Telling him to prioritize. To take care of the most pressing issue first. Will’s head is swimming, a headache tightening around his skull as the implications of what just happened come crashing down over him, but - his clothes, the rational side of his mind says. They’re sopping wet. He’s freezing.

So Will sets a hand on Mike’s arm, trying to draw him out of his thoughts, and says, “Wanna get into pajamas?”

Mike’s head swivels up like he just noticed Will was in the room. He blinks those big, dark eyes twice, nods, but doesn’t make a move to change. Will takes the zipper of the hoodie and lifts his eyebrows, and with Mike’s nod of approval, eases it down. Slides his hands into the damp layers of cloth and peels them from Mike’s torso, one at a time. The hoodie, then the shirt. Then, because holding onto Mike left damp patches on his own clothes, Will pops his own shirt over his head and tosses it onto the bed. He looks to the suitcase.

“You got clothes in there?”

“No,” Mike says, surfacing from his brain-fog enough to undo his own belt and kick off his jeans. “I packed exclusively books and whole sleeves of Oreo cookies.”

“Yeah, feels like. It’s heavy enough.”

Will goes to the suitcase and unlatches it, flipping the top open. Mike did pack clothes. Several layers are dampened, but he digs into the middle and finds a dry pair of sweatpants, which he tosses to Mike.

All the windows are shut tight against the driving rain, and heat pools in the air like intangible steam. Close and muggy. Neither of them bother with shirts as Will opens the first aid kit. Mike sinks onto the desk chair in his sweatpants, and Will, in boxers, slips across the hall to get a damp washcloth. He can hear his mother and Jonathan talking lowly in the kitchen on the way by, and he’s glad to make it back into his room without either of them calling out to him. He’s not sure he could handle that conversation just now.

Back at Mike’s side, he begins cleaning the wounds. He wipes away the smudges of blood, first, and then begins blotting at the scrapes themselves. He’s trying to be gentle, but there are flecks of stone and asphalt ground into Mike’s knees and hands, and Will has to pick them out with shaking hands. Mike makes a noise or two of pain, but mostly he just sits mutely as Will crouches in front of him, hating Ted and Karen Wheeler with all his soul.

Mike, meanwhile, takes notice of the beginnings of the painting on the desk. “What’s that?”

Will pretends to be absorbed in extracting a shard of gravel from the heel of Mike’s hand. Because no way he’s about to admit that.

It was going to be Mike, as Will saw him earlier today. Naked in the blue-gray light of Will’s bedroom, waiting patiently for Will to finish barricading the door. Right now the painting is just blobs of color - vague blocks of shape, only really recognizable if you already know what to look for.

“Rough draft,” Will mumbles, and to avoid explaining further - and because he really does need to know - he says, “So... what happened?”

Mike is quiet as Will finishes cleaning out the wounds and picks up the disinfectant, wetting down a corner of the washcloth with it. He stands and picks up Mike’s hands, dabbing at the bloody gouges, and Mike jerks and hisses. “Sorry,” Will breathes.

After a moment, Mike speaks. “They found that picture,” he half-whispers. “You know. From the photo booth?”

Will remembers it. They were at the mall. It wasn’t a date - at least, not one they intentionally planned. They were there with Max and Lucas, but then when those two wandered off, they...

And all at once Will has stopped moving. Something unnameable is swelling in him, hot, choking. It was his idea. Those pictures were Will’s idea. He should have known it was too risky, but he insisted, and now - f*ck, he’s an idiot. He resumes his attentions, biting his tongue, angry at himself.

Mike goes on slowly. “I came home and -” His voice wobbles. He swallows. “And they were just... waiting. At the kitchen table. They w-” Something hot and wet hits the back of Will’s hand and he looks up to see Mike clenching his jaw against tears. Both of his hands caught in Will’s, he’s unable to wipe away the shining path left behind by the drop that ran over. He takes two deep breaths, as if trying to steady himself, and talks to a spot somewhere over Will’s head. “They wanted me to go to a doctor. To -” His face twists and he spits out, “To fix me. I said no, and -”

His voice opens up into a dry sob, and he pulls one hand out of Will’s grip to cover his mouth. He’s shaking again. Trembling like he’s freezing cold, despite the tacky heat that sticks to their skin. “‘M sorry,” he gasps out behind his curled fingers.

He’s so clearly trying to shut it down, trying to ball up him emotions in a tight little wad somewhere below his lungs. Will knows, because he recognizes that expression, that posture. He’s done it so often himself. And, moreover, he knows how thoroughly that sucks. So he sets aside the first aid supplies and reaches for Mike, shaking his head.

“‘Sokay. Hey. Mike, it’s okay.”

Everything’s getting all jumbled up in his throat, and Will wishes he was better at saying things. If he could talk like Mike can, always knowing the right words to use, he’d say, it’s okay to cry. Please cry. I would so much rather let you cry on me than watch you shove it all down until it festers. Maybe Mike gets the message anyway, because he tugs at Will until he’s standing between Mike’s knees, his own legs bumping against the front edge of the chair. He tucks his wet face against Will’s chest and just quietly shakes, crying without making any noise.

After a moment he lifts his head and begins speaking again, doing his best to finish the explanation through hiccups. “I said I wouldn’t do it, a-and they said if I - if I didn’t, I’d have to leave - or, if I stayed they’d m-make me -”

His words break down, unintelligible, and Will is reeling. He hadn’t realized that Mike’s parents were planning on forcing him into goddamn conversion therapy .

Mike sniffs, steadying himself enough to finish. “I said no. And they said, get out.” He shrugs, like he’s trying to downplay the words, but it’s a weak and unconvincing gesture. His lips rub together. “What am I gonna do? Where am I gonna go?”

Will takes half a step back to look down at him. “What are you talking about? You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“I can’t just... just invade your lives and crash on your couch like some useless -”

“Like hell. Like f*cking hell, Wheeler. First of all, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m gonna let you live on the street or some sh*t. Second of all, you basically live here anyway. I doubt anyone will notice the difference, to be perfectly honest. And third - ” He holds up the third finger in front of Mike’s nose as he counts them off. “You better not be sleeping on the couch. I’ve got a perfectly nice bed right here.”

He’s trying to coax a laugh out of Mike, and it works - for half a moment. Mike gives a soft, watery chuckle, and then his expression crumples in on itself again and his head swings back and forth like a pendulum. He lifts an arm, swiping the moisture from his eyes with his forearm since his hands are rather out of commission. It’s such a childish gesture that for a moment Will swears he’s seeing five-year-old Mike on the playground, with his chubby cheeks and gap teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Mike says again, and Will says, “Why? For what?”

“It’s my fault.”

Frustration is beginning to chafe at him. He’s trying, but what else can he say? “No, it’s n-”

“No, it is. It was that picture, it was that damn -” Mike makes a fist in mid-air and brings it down on his knee, wincing as he strikes about seven scrapes at once. “- picture. Because I’m stupid, and I left it out somewhere, and now everything -” He cuts off with a sob and then bangs his fist into his knee again, grimacing like he’s mad at himself for the sound. “Everything - everything... I’m sorry. God, I f*cked up.”

And Will is starting to get desperate, because he wasn’t trained for this and nothing is working - everything’s f*cked, their lives just got turned sideways, his boyfriend is blaming himself for it, and Will doesn’t know what to do. Nothing he’s saying is making Mike feel better - and, f*ck, he realizes that Mike’s not gonna just bounce back and be smiley and chipper after a thing like that, but Will just feels so useless. His hands lift and drop, restlessly, talking over Mike’s stuttering. He’s close to crying himself.

“No, Mikey -”

“I’m sor-”

“Hey, shh, Mike - no.” He pulls Mike’s face up, determined. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t you dare.” He presses a kiss to Mike’s mouth, to prevent another rebuttal, and then begins to scatter them across his face - something that used to make him giggle like mad when they were little kids. And somehow, finally, it works. Mike falls silent, his lashes flicking against Will’s cheeks as he blinks a few times. When he speaks the words are low, muffled. Raw, and wobbly, and quiet - but certain.

“I love you.”

Will freezes in place for one, two heartbeats, and then his whole body sags into Mike. Curling against him, hands fisting into Mike’s damp hair, and Will whispers it back, fiercely, forehead pressed to Mike’s so hard it almost hurts -

“I love you.”

Mike’s nod of acknowledgement is abrupt, stilted. He sniffs with a little laugh. “Great. Glad we, uh, cleared that up.” He lasts for about another two seconds before mumbling, “C’mere,” tugging at Will’s waist until he climbs onto Mike’s lap. Arms draped over Mike’s shoulders, thighs braced around his hips. Mike’s head falls back, chin tilting up to reach him, and his arms slip around Will’s back as their lips touch.

Will expected a frenzied kiss - something as violent and messy as their situation. He’s not prepared for the slow reverence of Mike’s lips brushing his, just barely touching. Mike skims his mouth over Will’s, the whisper of sensation as acute as an electric shock. After what feels like hours, their lips finally ease together. Pressing together gently, parting just slightly, not so much sliding against each other as just being. Slow, soft kisses. Like the first time they ever kissed. Will slips the tip of his tongue over the smooth curve of Mike’s lower lip and Mike’s jaw goes slack, mouth opening to Will’s. Some of the night’s steely tension melts from his frame as he draws Will more tightly against him, sighing as their tongues meet.

And despite the circ*mstances, Will is full to bursting with a sudden, fierce surge of something like happiness.

“I love you,” he says again against Mike’s lips, hoarsely, the syllables pressed out of his lungs without conscious effort. “I love you. God, I love you.” And he laughs, caught up in the sheer, simple fact of being able to say it.

Will bandaged up Mike as best he could. And in the meantime, he quoted Lord of the Rings.

Because, look, if Will can’t come up with any good words of his own, he’ll just have to use someone else’s. And who better than Gandalf the Gray? Anyway, Mike set him up for it perfectly while Will was finishing up the last bandage.

“It’s so stupid,” Mike was saying. “It was just one tiny picture... Damnit, why’d she have to go through my room? I wish she had just -” He sighed, most likely realizing that he was going over the same train of thought aloud for about the dozenth time. “Just left it alone.”

Will saw the opportunity, and he took it. “ So... do all ,” he recited, slowly, “ who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is -”

And Mike followed along, his voice overlapping syllable-for-syllable with Will’s as they finished, “ - what to do with the time that is given us.”

One corner of Mike’s mouth twitched up - and then his eyes went wide, back straightening abruptly as he blurted, “sh*t, my books!”

Which is why, now, they’re kneeling in front of Mike’s suitcase. Well, Will is kneeling. Mike is sitting criss-cross applesauce to avoid putting weight on his torn-up knees. They lift items out of the suitcase one at a time, sponging at them with towels, setting them aside to air-dry. Thankfully, most of the books he packed escaped unscathed. A couple of them are wet at the edges, one corner of the pages gone all wavy with the moisture. His set of Lord of the Rings is one of them. Will flips through each book, fanning out the pages, making sure they don’t stick together when he sets them upright to dry. When he reaches The Two Towers, a pack of lined papers slips out from between the pages and lands softly on the carpet between them.

Mike’s breath catches as Will picks it up, unfolding the much-loved papers to find a very familiar handwriting. It takes Will a second to realize what he’s holding.

He looks to Mike. “You kept this?”

“Well, yeah.” Mike nods with a shug.

It’s the letter. His letter. Will hasn’t laid eyes on this since he wrote it and stowed it away in a distinctive red envelope for safekeeping. It’s bizarre, seeing the things he wrote - being blasted back to what feels like such a different time in his life. He scans over the lines and wants to cringe. Why’d he have to say that? Or - oh, god, he’s not even going to look at that line. He’s moving on. Nope, turning the page. Ugh.

Then, as he leafs slowly through the lined papers, he starts chewing on a corner of his lip. Something has been bothering him ever since Mike mentioned the letter earlier today. It’s been eating at him.

He’s gotta tell Mike sooner or later, and, well... Tonight seems to be the night for conversations. May as well squeeze in one more. So, haltingly, he begins to explain.

“You know, I -” He keeps looking at the papers, thumbing at that oh-so-familiar line - those words that were permanently scorched into his brain. If you’re open to trying it... “When I first wrote this, I didn’t think I was actually... gonna send it.”

He waits for Mike’s reaction, and after a beat Mike says, “What made you change your mind?”

Will tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a cough. “I - uh - didn’t.” He can feel Mike looking at him, but he can’t look back just yet. He carefully re-folds the papers and tucks them back into the book, since it’s clearly Mike’s preferred hiding place for them. “I actually... I left the envelope on my desk by accident and I didn’t realize you had picked it up.” It comes out in a rush, and then he’s able to turn and meet Mike’s expression of bewilderment. He trips over himself to explain, words getting tangled just behind his teeth. “That’s why I was so - I mean, you know how I was that week, I - I was going out of my mind.”

“Jesus,” Mike mutters, and looks down at The Two Towers. “So you never actually meant for...”

Will puts down the book and reaches towards Mike. He’s afraid, now, that Mike is disappointed. That maybe he feels tricked or lied to. Stupid Will. Stupid, stupid. He shouldn’t have brought it up. “No, hey - Mike. I meant ev- you know I meant everything I said in there. I just...”

“Didn’t mean for me to read it,” Mike finishes. His voice is flat, making it hard for Will to get a reading on his reaction.

“I’m glad you did.”

Mike picks up another item from the suitcase and begins patting it dry. Keeping his hands busy as if to appear casual. “Yeah?”

“Really glad.” Will leans over and bumps Mike with his shoulder. His heart is still in his throat, anxious that he said exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.

After a moment, Mike jostles him back. “I mean, we could just call it off.” He sends a smirk in Will’s direction, and Will hoists himself to his feet with an exaggerated shrug.

“Nothin’ for it. We had a good run.”

Mike stands and crosses his arms. “I get the car.”

“Neither of us has a car anym-”

Mike cuts him off with a finger and leans into Will’s space, struggling to keep his face serious. “ I get the car. ”

Will laughs. “What car?”

“ The car.”

“What -”

“Shhh. Don’t ask questions.”

They break down into laughter for a moment. It’s a brief moment, but it’s enough to ease the ache of stress in Will’s belly. “I really am glad, you know,” he says. “I mean, you have no idea...”

Mike nods, serious now, and says, “Me too.”

“Really?” Will looks back steadily. “Even though...” He gestures vaguely, as if flopping a hand in the general direction of their entire predicament, and Mike’s head does an uneven, sideways wobble.

“Jury’s still out,” he says, and then seeing Will’s face, “No, I mean, I’m glad about us. Of course I’m glad about us, dummy.” He pushes Will’s head affectionately. “Just not...” He blows out a breath. “Not really sure what happens now. You know?”

“Like right now?”

Mike nods, and Will offers a tired smile. “Bed?”

Mike groans. “f*ck. Yes. ”

It’s strange. It’s like a sleepover - and completely different at the same time. The conflicting spheres of normalcy and novelty, chaos and the mundane, seem to overlap and color their vision as they get ready for bed. They brush their teeth like always. Will gets his cup of water to leave on the bedside table like he has every night since he was six. They turn off the lights and turn on one lava lamp, as usual - the red one. Just enough light to soften the darkness in the corners of the room, but not enough to ruin their night vision. They climb under the sheets on what has started to become their respective sides of the bed - Will on the left, Mike on the right. And the whole time, as they go through the motions of this familiar ritual, they’re hyper-aware of how different this time is from all the others. Because this time, this is the end of something. Or the start of something. This time, Mike won’t be heading home tomorrow morning. This isn’t a sleepover, anymore, like when they were kids - this is just how things are, now. He realizes, as he mulls it over, that Mike isn’t really sharing Will’s bed anymore. It’s their bed.

His takes a breath to share this revelation, only to find Mike already dead asleep.

It takes Will much longer to drift off himself. Rain drums at the walls and roof, the occasional lightning flash turning the curtains white-blue for a split second. The lava lamp puts out a serene, rosy light, the blobs within caught in slow-motion as they drift and wobble.

Once he was bandaged up, Mike did his best not to break down again. As if he was determined to face the situation with a set jaw - to be strong. Like maybe he was trying to convince himself, as much as everyone else, that he was okay. All of that is gone now. In his sleep, he clings to Will. Arms wrapped around Will’s torso, head on Will’s chest just under his chin. Mike is curled up like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible, all 5’9 of him scrunched up to curl into Will’s frame like a little kid. Like even in his sleep he’s seeking comfort. The minutes drag on, and as it becomes increasingly clear that Will won’t be sleeping much tonight, something else fogs up his brain. Will is furious . Because despite how clearly Mike is trying to keep it together, it’s unmistakable how affected he is by all this. How obviously, viscerally upset and shaken and scarred Mike was by tonight’s events. Will doesn’t think he’s seen his best friend cry that much at one time since they were kids.

He’s never gonna get to sleep like this. He’s so full of flame-hot, springloaded angry energy that he feels like he could split apart.

Will slips one arm out from under the sheets and slides his fingers along the wall until he finds an outlet. Through this gate, he thrusts his consciousness out into the gently humming grid of wires and filaments and outlets around him. He twines himself into the mesh until he can feel it, like a second set of bones and sinews, and gives one hard pulse - like clenching an immaterial fist.

A ripple of power rolls through the outskirts of Hawkins, flickering street lights, buzzing in the telephone wires. Will can see it, somehow, feel it, though he’s still firmly in bed in his room. The pulse fades. He withdraws.

He tucks his arm back under the sheets and drapes it over Mike’s back. He feels better, now - not so supercharged with tension. And, hey, nothing blew up this time - that he knows of. That’s an improvement.

He might actually be able to fall asleep, now, and he strokes Mike’s hair absently as he watches the numbers on his clock march steadily onwards. Mike’s breath lifts Will’s arm where it’s curled over his ribcage. It’s too hot to be snuggled up together, really, especially since they can’t open the windows right now. Sweat slicks up their skin where their legs are tangled together, and Will ends up tossing the sheet completely off. But he doesn’t mind much. He’s just glad Mike is here.

Minutes pass, the familiar struggle with sleeplessness continues, and Will’s thoughts wander. The events of the evening. The letter. That week during April.

It hits him gradually, incrementally, until he’s staring it in the face: they came so incredibly close to missing this. Mike could have thought this was disgusting; he could have rejected any and all thought of it. He could have believed his parents, and looked at this as a sickness. He could have wrinkled his nose and drawn his lips back over his teeth and shook his head and said, “No f*cking way.” Lots of guys would have. Most guys would have. Mike could have ripped that letter up and stuffed it in the trash and carefully avoided Castle Byers that Saturday afternoon, and Will would have waited around for an hour, maybe two, growing increasingly heart-heavy until he finally turned his boots towards home. Mike could have showed up at school that Monday with a smile on his face, pretending nothing ever happened, and Will would have gone along with it. Mike could have taken the safe road. He could have avoided any and all of this - but he didn’t. He arrived at 2:07pm, all sun-dappled and perfect under the trees, his dark eyes uncertain and vulnerable.

Will has, many times, thought about what that day must have been like for Mike. He knows Mike better now. They’ve grown so much closer. So now, Will looks back and he knows just how hard it must have been to show up. Mike must have been in crisis that whole week, just like Will. Struggling with his feelings, with himself. Terrified that someone would find out about him and everything would come crashing down. Knowing the kind of risk he was taking in accepting Will’s offer. And Will is so f*cking glad that Mike gave him a chance. That he gave this a chance. Despite what it caused.

It’s gonna be okay. They’re gonna be okay. He swears that as he finally feels himself start to drift off.

It’s 10:52am when the Byers’ phone rings.

In Will’s room, Mike goes stiff. He’s been expecting, dreading that noise all morning. It was only a matter of time before his parents realized he wasn’t in his room - or anywhere else in the Wheeler house. His eyes meet Will’s as they hear footsteps cross the house and Joyce’s muffled voice flow over the inflections of, hello?

They’ve been hiding in Will’s room since they woke up, barring brief excursions to the shower and the kitchen. They ate cereal on the floor with dripping hair, avoiding The Conversation for as long as they could.

There’s a pause as someone on the other end of the line says something, and Joyce responds shortly, her voice cold. They can’t quite make out words, from here, but her tone of voice comes through loud and clear. Another pause. Another clipped response. The next time, her voice rises a degree. She’s getting angry.

Will holds out a hand, palm-up, and then pats the opposite fist into it. Lifting his eyebrows. Rock paper scissors? He’s trying to distract Mike, and Mike goes along with it without complaint. Their hands move silently. Rock, paper, scissors, shoot. Two scissors. A draw. Rock, paper, scissors, shoot. Another draw - both rock, this time. Joyce’s volume falls, her tone going low and dangerous. Rock, paper, scissors, shoot. Mike wins. He snips his fingers over Will’s flat palm. Beyond the door, the phone slams onto the receiver.

“Think we should go out there?” Mike says, and Will pulls a face.

“I guess we better.”

They emerge cautiously. At the other end of the hall, Jonathan is already poking his head around the corner. Joyce, standing by the phone with one hand pushing her hair back from her face, looks back and forth between the three boys. Wordlessly, she gestures to the kitchen.

Mike’s mouth is dry as they all sit at the table. Joyce starts a pot of coffee and then settles in her chair, waiting for Jonathan’s nod of approval before she begins. Jonathan interjects a time or two - clearly this is a subject they discussed already, between the two of them - but by-and-large he leaves the talking to her.

There’s a bit of stuttering. A circuitous tangent or two. A few awkward moments where somebody hesitates and trips over words like dating or couple. But the gist of it is: Mike can stay as long as he needs to.

“Whether that’s a few weeks, or...” Joyce’s head bobs sideways for just a moment. “Until college.”

Mike swallows thickly, and because he doesn’t know if he could do justice to the words thank you right now, he opens his mouth and mutters, “I’m gonna get a job.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Will’s head turn. Mike hadn’t mentioned that to Will yet - mostly because he thought it up about two and a half seconds ago. Mike’s fingers fold under his palms and he pushes his knuckles against the grain of the table, just for something to do with his hands.

“I’ll... pay rent, or...” Joyce tosses a dismissive hand with a shake of her head, frowning a little, but Mike insists, “Or groceries or - look, let me help. I want to do something .”

He doesn’t want to say, and I know you’re tight on money already, but the unspoken words hang over the table.

Joyce’s long, graceful hands knit together as she looks back at him, and then she gives a single nod. “Okay. We can talk about that later.” She takes a sip of her coffee, her expression changing. Mike braces himself for the but .

She goes on after a moment to say that, while Mike is absolutely welcome here -

(Will cuts in, jokingly, “Just Mike?” and Jonathan says, “Yeah, we’re swapping you out. Pack your bags.”)

- his age is a concern. He won’t turn 18 until near the end of the summer, meaning his parents could still legally make him do something he doesn’t want to do - and, if they really wanted to, they could get Joyce in trouble for harboring him. Mike looks down at the table as she talks, feeling a little sick, because he hadn’t thought of that.

Joyce goes on, “Thankfully, that’s only an issue for two and a half months. But... it is an issue. Or at least, it could be.”

Mike mutters, “They were the ones that told me to leave. It’s not like I ran away. I got kicked out.”

“And we get that,” Jonathan pipes up, “But it’s something to keep in mind just in case.”

Will says, “So, what do we do? Is there anything we can do?”

“Besides just hold our breath until the end of the summer and hope for the best?” Joyce makes a vague I don’t know gesture. “Not really.”

Mike blows out a long breath, nodding unhappily, and Will takes his hand. Above the table. An instinctual flutter of panic yanks Mike’s fingers out from between Will’s - and then he remembers, and presses their palms together again before Will can feel hurt. He tries his best not to be uncomfortable when Jonathan’s gaze flicks down to their joined hands for half a second.

The most pressing issues addressed, the conversation turns to details. Jonathan offers to sneak some more of Mike’s stuff out of his parents house. Mike tells him that Nancy would probably help with that if they asked. Will asks what Karen said on the phone. Mike tries to tune out Joyce’s answer. Mike apologizes at least twice for causing all this, and for getting in the way, and Joyce stubbornly shuts him down each time.

The third time he attempts it, she gets up from the table wordlessly and goes around the corner. They hear a jingle from the key rack, and a moment later she returns, handing Mike a single key on an enameled Mickey Mouse keychain. Mike takes it with a quizzical glance.

“Spare house key,” she says. “Put it on your keychain.”

Over the next week, Jonathan and Nancy team up to sneak more of Mike’s stuff to the Byers’. They bring his D&D things, at his request, as well as more of his books, all the notebooks they can find - so they don’t fall into the hands of his parents - a small assortment of keepsakes, and the fake sword that he got for his 15th birthday, which he had mounted on the wall over his door. On Tuesday, Nancy brings over a hamper full of his clothes.

She also brings information.

His parents haven’t outed him to anyone else. Not even family, not even Holly - whether out of embarrassment for having a queer kid, or in some tiny, twisted show of support, it’s not clear. Then again, if they were trying to do him a favor by keeping his secret, they have a funny way of showing it.

“They talk like you ran off to pursue a life of crime,” she says with an eye roll, that evening as she and Mike sit on the Byers’ front porch, watching the fireflies blink in the fading light. Mike picks at the tab of his soda can, the metallic plink, plink, plink filling up the silence between them. After a moment Nancy adds, “And they’re fighting again.”

“About?”

“Ugh, what aren’t they fighting about? It’s constant. It’s like living in no man’s land. Just be glad you’re not there.”

She realizes her mistake as soon as she says it, wincing, but Mike just shrugs and turns back to watching the fireflies. Some days have been worse than others; right now he’s okay. It’s a peaceful evening. The heat of the day still lingers, rising from the sun-baked earth, but the sun went down half an hour ago and now the cool air of the night steals over Hawkins with the blue-purple shadows. The fireflies wink and swirl in the patchy field in front of the Byers’ house, and there’s a cricket cheeping away to itself somewhere under the porch. Through the open living room window, they can hear the TV playing while Jonathan ribs Will about something.

“They did say something, though,” she goes on, her voice stiff, and Mike prepares himself with a grimace.

“Good for them.” He takes a long sip before finally asking, “What?”

“They said - their words, not mine - that you’re welcome back, but only...”

“Only if I -” Mike’s voice drops three octaves and he aggressively air-quotes with his free hand. “ Seek professional help for my condition? ”

“Those were almost the exact words they used, yes.”

“Yeah, so they’ve said.” He bends the tab of his can so far that it snaps off and falls right into his soda. He’s heard it several times, by now. At first he had a vague thought that maybe his parents would fold after a few days and rescind the bluff. But it’s not a bluff. They’ve been holding firm, and after several messages carried back and forth by Nancy and one somewhat explosive phone call, Mike has accepted it. He’s not going back.

Now, just because he’s accepted the fact doesn’t mean he’s dealing with it particularly well, but, baby steps.

One of those baby steps already happened this morning.

They haven’t really told anyone what happened yet. They’ve been too busy trying to move Mike in... dealing with his parents being dramatic assholes... recuperating... etcetera. They’ve been somewhat radio silent to the Party for most of the week. So when El marched right into the living room to find them on the couch this morning, the first words out of her mouth were, “Oh, so, you’re not dead. That’s good to know. We were kind of wondering, you know, since you vanished off the face of the Earth for like four -” She cut off abruptly, taking a good look at them, clearly picking up on something. Her voice softened. “What happened?”

Will looked at Mike. Mike nodded with a sigh. Will explained.

El already knew about the two of them, anyway. She’s known since Mike sought her council about the letter, and she’s been gleefully teasing him ever since, boasting about how right she had been. But there was no teasing this morning. This morning, she just listened with big eyes, her curly bangs falling into her face unheeded. When they were done talking she tugged them both up, off of the couch, and tucked them into a three-way hug.

“Want me to kill them?” she offered gently, her voice muffled from being squashed between the two boys.

“Yeah,” Mike said, “But that’s a lot of paperwork though. I mean, just ‘cause Hop’s your dad doesn’t mean you get a free murder pass.”

“She does,” Will interjected, “She just already used her annual pass this year.”

“Yeah, it’s one per year.”

“Damn. Wait, who was it?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m worried.”

El shushed them both and repeated, “Don’t worry about it.”

They broke apart chuckling and spent the better part of ten minutes arguing the pros and cons of murder via spoon.

Before she left this afternoon, Mike made a request. He asked her not to tell the Party what happened - at least, not just yet. He can tell Will is unhappy with him about that. It’s probably gonna come back and bite him in the ass, but until then he’s happy to avoid it.

“I should go,” Nancy says, quietly. The light is fading, and more crickets are beginning to pipe up. She stands from her chair, draining the last of her soda. “I’ll be back this weekend, probably. Call if you need something, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Will stands in the middle of his bedroom, hands on his hips, eyeing the space critically. “I bet we could move the desk over -”

Mike cuts in. “I don’t want to mess up your space just for -”

“Our,” Will corrects, one eyebrow quirking up, and Mike sucks in his cheeks with an unconvinced nod. Will steps closer to him, dropping his hands from his hips. “Look, I’ve been wanting to change it anyway. It’s been the same for years. I’m gonna go insane if I keep living in the exact same room I had in eighth grade.”

He’s already moving again, pacing around, scanning the walls and furniture.

Will brought it up at breakfast. Mike’s stuff from his room - well, from his old room - has been piling up, dumped in a corner of Will’s room to be dealt with later. There’s not really any place to put it all - at least, not in the room’s current configuration. Now it’s 10:55am on Wednesday, nearly a week after The Day, and Mike wanders over to Will. He bumps their hips together, interrupting Will’s train of thought, and leans against him.

It’s not a bad idea, in all honesty. It is a little cramped in here, after years of stuff building up and drifting around, and Mike certainly wouldn’t mind a project to take his mind off things. They could be working all day. They’d have to clean, first, just so they could see what they were working with. They’d have to pack away some old stuff. Move things around. Rearrange and reorganize. Lots of physical labor. Plenty to keep their hands busy and their minds occupied. It sounds pretty damn good, actually.

And beyond just that... Well, it’s stupid. But maybe Mike would be able to feel more at home here if it felt less like Will’s room and more like a new space, put together for both of them. He’s been tiptoeing around all week, feeling a little awkward every time he gets a plate dirty or uses the hot water for a shower. Like he’s a guest overstaying his welcome. The Byers have all assured him that they don’t mind his presence, but it’s hard to feel completely at home here yet. It’s driving him insane. But maybe... maybe Will is right. Maybe a change would be a good thing. Maybe if they can tear this room apart and put it back together again, this time as their space, Mike will feel less like he’s just visiting.

He nods, more in response to his own thoughts than Will’s words, and then meets Will’s eyes. “Where would we start?”

The first few hours of the day are spent cleaning. Tearing through the room and tossing things onto the floor, and then sitting on the carpet and sorting them into boxes. Will sits next to his closet and empties it entirely, tossing aside old and ill-fitting clothes, clearing out some room for Mike’s. Mike buries himself in the mess in the center of the room, holding up objects and saying “This?” when he’s unsure of what to do with something. They’ve taken everything down off the walls, and the room looks odd and bare as they work. Some of Will’s oldest posters go in the trash; some are rolled up and carefully packed away; some go in the to use pile. An old keepsake here, a binder full of sketches there, a barely-touched set of colored pencils that Will pounces on with a shout of, “Hey, I forgot about these!” Trash, pack, use, pack, use, trash. Books, clothes, odds and ends, wrappers, a stray mug or two, art supplies, school assignments, a few empty cassette cases.

By the time they finally finish sorting the contents of the room, Mike is convinced that the hard part is over. Because you’d think that rearranging a room is a fairly simple venture. Now that they’ve cleared out the old stuff, it’s just a matter of finding a space for the new stuff. And if something doesn’t fit, just move things around until it works, right? Wrong. They’re bickering from the get-go.

First Mike suggests that they take the mattress off the bedframe and just put it on the floor, since it would clear up some room, and that bed frame is too damn loud for certain activities, anyway. Will argues that it would be way too short, and besides, it’s stupid to have a bed with no bed frame. They squabble back and forth for some minutes before Mike finally convinces him to try it, and Will concedes with a sigh and an eye roll. As it turns out, shoving the mattress and box spring into the corner between the door and window actually works pretty damn well. Plus, now the frame-less bed can daylight as a large couch. So that’s score one for Mike.

Then Will wants to ask Jonathan if they can have his small TV. Jonathan himself inherited it from Hop a couple years ago, and it’s been sitting mainly untouched in the corner of his room ever since. Mike argues against it, saying he doesn’t want to be a nuisance. Will waves away his concerns, much to Mike’s annoyance, and asks anyway. He returns from Jonathan’s room with a smug smile and the heavy device in his arms.

They hook it up to Will’s Atari and put it against the closet wall, across from the bed. A short bookshelf functions as a TV stand. And, Mike has to admit, it turns out pretty well. They can sit on the bed-couch now and play games, or watch one of the few channels picked up by the little TV. Score one for Will.

And so it goes. They rearrange the remaining posters, adding in Mike’s to the mix, and tack them onto the walls. They argue about where the desk should go, eventually moving it where the bed used to be. From the shed out back they pilfer a small dresser to supplement closet space. It used to be Will’s, but he hasn’t used it in years. With the bed tucked away neatly in the corner, there’s room for the extra piece of furniture. They dust off Will’s lava lamps and reposition them. They load up Will’s shelves with their combined library of books, comic books, notebooks and sketchbooks, plus an array of knick knacks. Mike still has the trophy they won together for the science fair in sixth grade, and he places it on a shelf with care. Will’s radio goes on the corner of the desk. It’s a little singed, Mike notes, like it got zapped by a power surge. When he asks about it, Will just shrugs, absorbed in trying to arrange photographs and Polaroids in the spaces between posters.

It’s when they start yelling at each other for real that they decide to take a food break. It’s been a rough week, tensions are high, and this whole making-a-new-bedroom thing is unexpectedly stressful. They cool down over sandwiches, stretching out their tired muscles, and when they get back to it Will goes to the singed radio. He flicks it on, finds a station playing music, and claps his hands together.

“Right,” he says, “Almost done.”

Almost done is perhaps an overstatement, but the big things are taken care of. From here it’s just little stuff, and the tension eases as the radio plays and they dive back in. The bickering fades into a more relaxed, cheerful flow. Mike even starts to dance, badly, purposefully making Will groan, “ Stop, oh my god.”

“I'm gonna get myself 'cross the river; that's the price I'm willing to pay,” Billy Ocean sings from the radio, fizzling a bit with static, and Mike grabs at Will’s belt loop.

“No,” Will says. Mike just grins and tugs him closer.

“ I'm gonna make you stand and deliver, and give me love in the old-fashion way, wo-ah. Darlin', I'll climb any mountain. Darlin', I'll do anything.”

“No,” Will says again, “I am not dancing.”

“Fine, I’ll just dance around you then.”

“Stop,” Will laughs, covering his eyes as Mike does his goofiest dance around his exasperated boyfriend. “Stop it. I hate you.”

He doesn’t, and Mike knows it. He peeks through his fingers and grins at Mike, and Mike smiles back. He picks up on Will’s unspoken comment - You seem better. You haven’t been this cheerful all week. - and sends back his own with a little toss of his head. I feel a little better, yeah.

The rest of the day goes by quickly. They fill the empty spaces on the walls with pictures, some of Will’s drawings, plus various memories - movie tickets, a pamphlet for the play Mike was in last semester. They take down the old curtains and tack up some faded seaweed green sheets over the blinds instead, using twine to tie the makeshift curtains aside during the day. Joyce witnesses this development from the doorway and shakes her head, muttering “Guys...”

Mike jokingly hangs up a dream catcher in the window next to the bed - and then, on second thought, leaves it there. They keep the string lights, as always, arranging them over the bed and around the corner. Mike mounts his sword over the door with thumb tacks. Will sets up the rotating fan in one corner, and for a few minutes they just stand in front of it as it ruffles a cool breeze over the stuffy summer air. Will upturns a blue plastic milk crate as a secondary bedside table.

Joyce is the one that suggests they use the rug. They wouldn’t have even thought of it, but she digs it out from a closet and beats the dust out, offering it with a knock on the door.

“I never had a place for it,” she says, holding it out to Will. “It should be used, though. It’s nice.”

It is nice. It’s an old woven rug from her parents’ house, apparently, big and round and soft. Faded brown-ish, shot through with threads of green and blue.

“It’ll match the... curtains,” she says, pausing with a shake of her head as if she hesitated to use the word curtains to describe the sheets tacked over the windows.

Not long after, Joyce hollers goodbye on her way to work, and Jonathan pokes his head in to say he’ll be out with Nancy. The front door closes, and all at once they’re alone. And in the same moment, Mike realizes that they’re done. The boxes are sealed; the furniture is in place; his stuff has been integrated into the room; the rug is on the floor. There’s nothing else to do.

“Is that it?” he says, mildly surprised.

“Yup,” Will decides, and flops face-first onto the bed. Mike flops down next to him, jostling him on the mattress, and then gives a few more experimental bounces. The mattress squeaks, but quietly. No bed frame creaking or groaning or hitting the wall. He grins.

“See, ” he gloats. “It is quieter.”

“Mmph,” Will says into a pillow, and reaches out blindly to pull Mike down beside him.

For a few minutes they just lie in bed, admiring their work. Will’s walls are a yellowish color, the curtains are seaweed green, the furniture and rug are various shades of brown, the lava lamps give off a pinkish-orangeish glow, and the string lights are a rainbow of colors. It’s a strange mishmash of tones and shades that don’t match, and furniture that doesn’t match, and possessions that don’t match either. It’s a bit crowded and already untidy. But it’s cozy. Warm, and messy in that comfortable way, and full of familiar things. Unfamiliar in their arrangement, but familiar nonetheless. It feels like Will’s room, but it also feels a little like Mike’s room. It feels, Mike reflects as they snuggle together, almost like it could be their room.

“So where do you wanna work?”

They’ve been cuddling for several minutes, just taking a breather after working all day. The radio is on, volume turned down low, and the rotating fan hums away to itself in the corner. Every few seconds a wave of vaguely cool air brushes past them. The “curtains” are down but the windows are open, letting in the fresh evening air.

“Dunno,” Mike says. He smooths a palm down Will’s arm, stroking it absentmindedly. “Anywhere that pays, I guess.”

“That would be step one,” Will agrees dryly. “You could work at the ice cream place like Steve did.”

Mike’s nose wrinkles. “In the mall?”

“Why not?” Will twists to look at him, an impish glitter in his eyes. “I bet you’d look adorable in the sailor suit and the hat -”

“Aaand I’m crossing that one off the list right now.”

“Aw, come on. Say ahoy. ”

Mike sits up, picks up a pillow and holds it threateningly over Will’s head. “I’m gonna murder you now.”

“Say it.”

“I’m murdering you now.”

He pushes the pillow over Will’s face. A muffled giggle filters through.

“Stop giggling. No giggling while you’re dying.” Will goes limp and Mike lifts the pillow to find him playing dead. “Whelp, he’s dead. Time to look through his pockets for spare change.”

He fumbles at Will’s pockets and Will springs to life again, squawking and batting him away. Then his laugher fades and he looks up at Mike with thoughtful eyes, his bangs ruffled by the fan as he lies on his - their - bed.

“Do you feel better?”

A breath spills over Mike’s lower lip, and he nods. “Yeah, a little.”

Will nods, the mischief in his eyes now replaced by earnestness. “I’m glad.”

It’s there, looking down at Will, that a thought occurs. Mike crawls forward, bracketing Will with his limbs, and Will seems neither opposed nor surprised when Mike presses down and catches his lips. Will responds softly, and then gives a little noise of surprise as Mike flicks his tongue past Will’s teeth and nips at his lower lip. He catches up with Mike quickly, falling into step, matching Mike’s energy without missing a beat. It’s only when Mike slides a hand up into Will’s shirt that Will gives a small, interrogative groan.

Mike has an idea. It’s been a good day, overall, and he’d like to keep it that way. He doesn’t want to think about his parents right now; he doesn’t want to think about what happened, or what’s going to happen next. He just wants to forget all that. And anyway... he may as well, right? His parents already found out about him. They already think that he’s sick and perverted and whatever else. His whole life just got shattered and rearranged into something new and strange and terrifying and, dare he say, cautiously optimistic. Everything is f*cked. He may as well get literally f*cked while he’s at it.

Well, maybe not - maybe not all the way. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for that yet. But Will’s fingers... well, that’s another matter.

Anticipation buzzes under Mike’s skin as his hips drop, his weight settling between Will’s legs and making Will draw in a sharp breath. Mike’s own breath is already ragged. He remembers, vividly , how it felt to be touched like that. The way Will touched him last time. And while he wouldn’t admit it in a thousand years, he’s just about crawling out of his skin with the desire to feel it again - that completely foreign sensation of fullness, alien in a way that was as addictive as it was unthinkable. The edge of discomfort and shame overpowered by a strange, deep-seated, yearning kind of pleasure. The bittersweet stretch; the irresistible urge to push back against the welcome-unwelcome-welcome intrusion, trying to eke out every last whisper of sensation from the too-gentle pulse of Will’s fingers. Aching for more yet totally unable to ask for it.

But Mike wants, and he doubts Will would have many complaints about trying again. So, rather than go through the mortifying ordeal of opening his mouth and asking aloud, Mike begins to tease Will. Enticing him. Rocking his hips against Will’s, welcoming Will’s hot-slick tongue into his mouth, stroking Will’s abdomen - and then drawing back. Pulling away an inch until Will has to follow him to maintain contact. Easing himself onto his own back, offering a sweet smile as Will takes the bait and crawls over him. He relaxes into the kiss, bringing his knees up to hug Will’s hips and craning his head to the side when Will begins sucking a trail down his neck. He’s putting out as many inviting vibes as possible. Using his whole body to say, here I am. I’m all yours. Don’t you want me? Come and get me.

Will catches on quickly. He takes the lead, pulling off first his own shirt and then Mike’s, and then reaching between them to palm at the front of Mike’s pants. Feeling out the shape of his arousal. Rubbing. Mike’s head falls back and Will leans down, his breath hot and damp in Mike’s ear.

“What do you want?”

Mike’s eyes snap open - apparently he closed them - and Will begins grinding against him again, making his eyelids flutter.

“What?” Mike croaks out. And then, because he wants to respond in a way that’s at least halfway intelligent, “I thought I made that pretty obvious.”

“Well, sure, but...”

Will circles his hips over Mike’s, latching on to the sensitive, soft patch of skin just behind his ear and sucking hard until Mike’s hips toss up against him. Normally Will wouldn’t dare leave a hickey that high up, but - well, they don’t have to give a f*ck about that anymore. A shudder drags its way from the base of Mike’s spine to the back of his skull at the sweet suction of Will’s mouth, bordering on pain. When Will breaks away Mike is breathing hard.

“There are options,” Will purrs into Mike’s ear, and goddamnit, Mike was supposed to be the one seducing Will here. Will goes on. “It’s been one helluva week.”

“It’s been a week,” Mike agrees, his voice only a tad out of breath, and Will draws back a little to smirk down at him.

“I want to give you what you want. Okay?”

Mike breathes, “Okay,” with his heart fluttering away in his throat. Will maintains his rhythm. Slow, smooth, and steady. Circling his hips against Mike’s, grinding their hard flesh together through the layers of their jeans.

“So?” Will prompts. “What’ll it be, babe? I could...” He tilts his head, his slender neck bending in the warm light of the lava lamps and string lights. His eyes glint. “I could touch you... Suck you off... Or, we could just do this.” He punctuates the sentence with a demonstrative thrust.

Mike licks his lips. This backfired. He didn’t think he’d have to say it. How the hell is he supposed to say that? “I - uh.”

Will’s motions slow. He tilts his head curiously. “What?”

“I... don’t want to say.”

Mike’s face is burning, and he’s suddenly glad for the pinkish-orangeish hue of the light, because maybe Will can’t see the blush. Or maybe he can, because all at once there’s a sly sort of understanding dawning in his eyes.

“I could...” Will starts, but he doesn’t seem sure about the end of the sentence. He’s watching Mike’s eyes. Waiting.

Finally, squirming under the pressure of Will’s weight over his hips, nervous, impatient, Mike blurts, “Like last time.”

He swears he sees the corner of Will’s mouth move, one cheek giving the slightest twitch - like he was about to smile. Then it’s gone, and in its place is something darker. Something hungrier. Will swoops down, kissing Mike with all teeth and saliva and then pulling back slowly.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and Mike’s heart jolts inside his chest. “Let’s get these pants off, then, yeah?”

Chapter 12: Radio

Chapter Text

The radio is on, but the volume is turned down just low enough that the music and chatter slurs together with the hum and buzz of the rotating fan, blending into a soft white noise. The air outside has finally begun to cool, and every once in a while, a slow glub of summer-evening-scented air will roll through the window, making the sheet-curtain ripple and billow before it settles into place again. The smell of cooling sun-baked earth and grass and dusty dirt roads and the woods; the smell of the Byers’ backyard. The same as it has been since their first sleepover, when they secretly stayed up way past their bedtime - all the way until 10:30pm! - and whispered and giggled as they continued their ongoing action figure story-game. Outside, crickets and toads cheep and chirrup to themselves, coming alive as the sky goes dark.

Mike tugs at his belt, ineffectually. “Hmm,” he hums, brows furrowed with mock-seriousness. “I can’t quite seem to figure out this pants thing...”

“Oh, yeah, those can be tricky,” Will agrees, a twitch of amusem*nt on his lips belying his earnest tone. “Maybe I can help?”

“Good idea.”

Sitting all the way up, balancing on the mattress with a knee on either side of Mike’s thighs, Will reaches for Mike’s belt. “Never fear, I am a professional.”

Their shirts have already been discarded, tossed somewhere on the floor, but Mike’s skin prickles with a fine, nearly imperceptible mist of sweat. The fan helps, as does the evening air from the window, but the room is still uncomfortably hot - not to mention his heart rate is a tad high just at the moment, lifting a delicate blood-blush to the surface of his skin.

Will pushes the end of the belt back through the loop, lifts it from the prong, and separates the two ends with a musical, metallic jingle. Mike watches from where he’s propped up on his elbows.

“Oh, is that how you do it?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Will slips the belt free from the loops of Mike’s jeans and casts it aside without looking, where it slithers off the edge of the mattress and lands on the floor with a clink . Mike’s hips lift before Will has even popped the button of his jeans, allowing him to undo the zipper and tug the denim down his thighs. He kicks them the rest of the way off, huffing in annoyance when they get caught on one ankle.

“I see how it works,” Mike says, finishing out the joke though the playful tilt in the air has steadied into something warmer, calmer. He sits most of the way up to return the favor. His hands graze the front of Will’s jeans as he works, and he’s tempted to cup him while he’s at it - but he doesn’t. He can tell Will is resisting the urge to arch forward, into the glancing touch, and Mike wants to tease. So he merely undoes Will’s belt, unhooks the button of his jeans, and carefully drags the zipper down - without putting too much pressure on the bulge, still sheathed in the fabric of his underwear, that pushes past the unzipped flaps of denim.

From his position half-sitting, half-reclining on the bed, with Will hovering over him, Mike sways forward and kisses whatever happens to be at face-level. His mouth lands on Will’s ribs, where he drops a few damp kisses as Will wriggles out of his jeans one leg at a time. Mike breathes in his scent for a moment. Ivory bar soap; earthy-fresh shampoo. Clean, light, masculine; vaguely reminiscent of the forest, with a dark almost-sweet twist of something like fennel or liquorish. But it’s been a long day, full of physical work, and those manmade scents have started to fade and rub away, half-masked under the more organic notes of sweat and skin and, faintly, Joyce’s cigarette smoke. Mike noses along Will’s side. He mouths at the firm curve of ribs under the skin until Will gives a thin half-giggle-half-gasp and twitches away like it tickles. Mike grins up at him, and Will shakes his head, falling gracefully onto his side and cupping the back of Mike’s head with a murmur of, “C’mere.”

They’re sidetracked for several minutes. Lips sliding together, fingers pulling gently through hair, legs slotted together, noses nudging at cheeks, tongues touching softly, nothing urgent about it - just revelling in the human contact and affection and solid, grounding touch of skin-on-skin. That simple, wordless, ancient thing that, in any language, means, I’m here. They’re down to underwear, which is a relief in the muggy heat, and the radio pops and fizzles with a touch of static every so often, but Mike doesn’t mind. He’s not really listening to the advertisem*nts or the over-enthusiastic jockey or even the music; it all just blurs into the drone of the fan and the peep of crickets. With the horizon absorbing the last of the daylight, and neither of them bothering to get up and turn on a lamp, the lava lamps and string lights become the dominant light source in the room.

A new energy tightens in the air, cutting through the slow, sweet, honey-like atmosphere, when Mike’s palm slips down Will’s back and unthinkingly cups the curve of his ass to pull him closer. Will makes a choked sound into Mike’s mouth, and that’s it. That’s the first domino to fall. Because then Will is squirming against Mike, the motion sending waves of tingling goosebumps from Mike’s scalp to the tips of his extremities, and Will’s own hands start getting restless, sliding down Mike’s hair from his part to the base of his neck, then stroking down his back and around his sides, his hip, his belly, his chest, and - as he often does in moments like these - Mike has a fleeting moment where he wonders how Will doesn’t find him inadequate. With very little muscle at all, a thin layer of fat over his belly, and a smattering of acne - not to mention the bizarrely-shaped face that earned him his middle school moniker - he’s not exactly the kind of guy you might see in a movie or magazine. Not like Will with his kaleidoscope-hazel eyes and side-parted chestnut hair and sun-bright smile. And yet, Will clutches Mike to him as they kiss, like he’s something valuable, something good.

Mike is the one that starts it. He’s to blame. He’s the one that wanted to tease, earlier, and now he’s the one that gives in first, pushing a hand between them and deftly palming Will through his boxers, hesitating barely a moment before hooking his fingers under the waistband and finding flame-hot flesh waiting there. Will wriggles closer in response, hooking his teeth minutely into Mike’s lower lip. The ease with which he touches Will surprises Mike somewhat. A month ago it would have taken him hours to work up to that one simple gesture, but now he’s feeling out the shape of the shaft with a sort of comfortable familiarity, fingertips dragging over the sensitive, petal-soft skin and thumb pushing over the slit at the tip in a slow circular rhythm that has Will sighing into his mouth and canting his hips forward in a silent request for more. Mike obliges. Pulling one fist all the way from top to root, then drawing back for a moment to get those irksome boxers out of the way.

He whispers, “Hold on,” and breaks away with a peck on Will’s nose.

“Where could you possibly be going?” Will gripes, as Mike rolls off the bed and starts poking around for the lube. They must have put it somewhere. Everything got all shuffled around while they were rearranging. He finds it within about fifteen or twenty seconds, but it may as well be twenty minutes. By the time he gets back to bed, Will is sitting up, stroking himself absently, watching Mike with half-lidded eyes, and Mike climbs back onto the low mattress with a grin.

“Excuse you,” he protests, shoving his own boxers down his hips and kicking them off without ceremony. “You couldn’t wait ten seconds for me?”

“Well don’t take so long, then,” Will counters, halting to reach out and boop Mike playfully on the nose - payback for the kiss.

Automatically, Mike catches Will’s wrist and gives a swift, impish lick up the side of his forefinger, from the webbing of his thumb to the second knuckle. The same way he’d do if they were play-fighting, the same as he’s done dozens of times before - I licked it so it’s mine. That sort of thing. A gross-out - or at least it used to be when they were twelve, wrestling for the cereal box prize at the kitchen table. Now, Mike drags the wet pad of his tongue up the angles of Will’s finger, tasting the light salt-sweat on him, and at the very last second his eyes flick up and catch Will’s.

He freezes in place, muscles locked, tongue drawing back into his mouth. Cooling saliva is slick on his kiss-swollen, sensitized lips, and the tip of Will’s finger just barely grazes his mouth.

Will’s body is stove-hot and heavy beside Mike’s, their combined weight pressing a dip into the mattress, the occasional pass of the fan sending a ruffle of lukewarm air over their bare skin. At some point in the past few moments, Mike’s other hand has made its way to Will’s hip - maybe to steady himself. In his peripheral vision, he can make out the shape of Will’s hard-on standing up in the narrow space between them, flushed red against the pale skin of his stomach. Mike swallows.

Will has always been shorter than Mike, ever since they were little, but he’s no longer scrawny. Years of track has made him not skinny, but lean - strong in that coiled, lithe way. Like one of those silent mountain cats that are always prowling around in books, on the hunt with a low, creeping gait and glowing eyes. As much as people tend to view Will as shy - “that sweet, quiet kid that doodles in the back of class,” or “the good student,” or “the kid that never really talks,” etcetera - there’s something wild about him. Something dark, and half-feral at times - something that Mike thinks he should be afraid of. But how could he be? This is Will. His partner.

Will’s eyes darken, something dangerous glimmering in them as he blows out a slow, controlled breath from his nose, and Mike feels not a wobble of fear despite how Will looks like he’s seconds from snapping. Instead, he parts his lips and retraces his path with the soft tip of his tongue. From the base of Will’s forefinger all the way to the tip this time. All the strength has drained from Will’s wrist, leaving it slack in Mike’s hand, and he can feel the delicate shift and pull of tendons as he gets a better grip and angles Will’s palm. With one of his own knuckles he guides Will’s first two fingers into place, side-by-side, like two-thirds of the Boy Scout salute. And then he dives. Taking both fingers entirely into his mouth, coating them in saliva, rubbing his tongue along the sensitive undersides - and then hollowing out his cheeks, sucking on them like a popsicle. Bobbing.

Will has nimble fingers. Artist’s fingers, Mike has teased before. Girl hands, Will has rebuffed unhappily, frowning down at his splayed fingers. Long, somewhat slender hands, adept at sketching and drawing and - more recently - painting. And he’s wrong - they don’t look like girl’s hands, not really. They’re a little blockier, a size or two too big; bigger than El’s hands, smaller than Mike’s.

Mike engulfs the underside of Will’s fingers in the fleshy, slick-soft muscle of his tongue, resisting the urge to smirk at how he can feel Will’s pulse tripping along at an increasingly quick rate, beating hard in the tips of his fingers - which Mike draws back to suckle on, lightly, cheerfully ignoring Will’s exhalation of, “You f*cker.”

A hot palm wraps around the base of Mike’s dick unexpectedly and he groans around the digits in his mouth, eyes fluttering shut appreciatively as Will begins to stroke. The welcome pressure disappears for a moment, only to return dripping with lube, and pleasure winds tight in the core of Mike’s abdomen as Will starts up a firm, steady rhythm.

He tugs at Will’s wrist until his lips bump against the knobs of Will’s knuckles. If Will flexed his fingers just right he could probably trigger Mike’s gag reflex, but they remain limp, pliant, only twitching occasionally in Mike’s mouth. Across the room, the radio crackles, volume spiking for a moment. He swears that thing has a short circuit - or else gremlins.

It’s probably just his mind running away with him, but Mike almost imagines he can feel each tiny ridge of Will’s fingerprints against the buds of his tongue. His head is all foggy, his scope of consideration narrowing to here and now , barely thinking beyond the next moment. In some removed, impersonal way, he realizes that he’s enjoying this far too much. This is ridiculous, and filthy, and fun. He grips Will’s hand a little harder and his head dips down again, bobbing a time or two, intentionally emulating what he once did in his parents’ basem*nt under the cover of darkness. The flat of his tongue undulating, heavy and wet, over Will’s fingers. The very tip of it flicking quick and playful as a minnow over the sensitive pad of Will’s forefinger, until all at once Will’s palm flexes and his hand yanks away from Mike so fast that his lips pop over the tips, suction breaking with a thread of saliva that breaks a millisecond later.

That dark, wild glimmer is back, and Will darts forward, quick and sinuous as a cobra, mouthing hotly at Mike’s throat.

“You f*cker,” he says again, and Mike throws his head back, a murmur of warning rising in his throat as Will’s pistoning hand comes entirely too close to bringing him to the edge. The warning dies on his lips as Will pumps him, fist tightening until Mike’s belly goes rigid with tension, the muscles in his thighs aching. He’s panting, open-mouthed as Will leaves marks down the side of his throat - and then Will eases up, abruptly, the harsh loss of friction like a bucket of cold water over his head.

“Huh?” he breathes, frustrated in a dozen ways, and Will noses up his jaw to kiss him.

Hard, wet and sloppy, the pressure of it makes his lips ache for a moment as Will draws away and says, “Lie down, okay?” Floating in his fog, Mike begins to comply, but then Will is poking and prodding him, pushing him onto his front and saying, “No - I wanna be able to see what I’m doing.”

And only then does the fog clear, burning up all at once in a shock of understanding. Only then does Mike remember what he asked for in the first place.

A little shyly - which is stupid, because he’s done this once before, so he really shouldn’t be turning lobster-red the way he is - Mike turns onto his stomach, settling gingerly, trying to find a position that doesn’t put too much pressure on his dick where it’s trapped up against his belly. Will kneels just behind him, his knees slotted on either side of one of Mike’s thighs. Shifting around. Getting comfortable. Settling, eventually, to sit on the backs of Mike’s legs, his presence a warm weight pinning Mike’s lower body to the mattress.

And Mike? Mike is burning up. With lust and vulnerability and embarrassment, but anticipation, too, and honestly? He kind of likes this. This position. At least here he can grab Will’s (their) pillow and shove his face into it, hiding his face and muffling his voice, and that helps - and plus, the pillow is heady with Will’s scent. And that helps too.

“Stop me if... you want,” Will says, softly, and Mike nods. He’s already all worked up from before - which, he now realizes, may have been Will’s intention - and the heat of arousal is getting all tangled up with the rising flutter of nerves. Butterflies the size of birds ricocheting around in his stomach. With his face buried in the familiar scent of the pillow, the humid heat of his breath turning the fabric hot around his mouth, Mike is brimming with tension. He can’t see what Will is doing - he doesn’t think he wants to see - he can only hear the low sounds of Will shifting around, feel the mattress rock slightly underneath him. The crisp little crack of the lube opening is as loud as a gunshot. He tells himself to relax. Breathes out into the pillow. Tries to unwind his muscles - to sink into the mattress, like the mind games he plays sometimes when he can’t sleep. Still, when Will’s left palm skims up his outer thigh, over his hip, and splays out at his lower back, Mike feels as taut as a wire. And when he feels the second touch, dripping-wet with lube and cautiously exploratory, he jumps.

“Just me,” Will says, a hint of dark humor dancing around the edges of his tone. Then his voice softens to something a little more uncertain, more hesitant. “Is this still okay?”

Mike turns his head sideways to answer, the gulp of cool air refreshing after being buried in the pillow. “Yeah,” he says, hoarsely.

It’s a little difficult to formulate an intelligent answer, seeing as two of Will’s fingertips are currently resting gently against the hard ring of muscle, his slender artist’s fingers nestled right up between the cheeks of Mike’s ass like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Mike hides his face again right away as a prickling hot flush sweeps through his head, making him dizzy. And then, when he feels like he’ll go insane from just waiting, he mumbles, “Please move.”

He’s not sure if the words are at all understandable through the pillow, but Will gets the message. That feather-light touch presses down again, slippery with lube, Will’s fingers carefully circling the pucker of flesh.

It’s awkward, at first. Neither of them really know what they’re doing, despite their grand total of one rounds of prior experience. It’s still a little fumbling, and new, and skirting the borders of discomfort - but tantalizing, with airy whisps of pleasure that slip out of Mike’s grasp if he tries to hold onto them. Will rubs patiently at the sensitive, twitching opening, seemingly in no hurry, and Mike channels his concentration into accepting the stimulus. There’s something in him - maybe just the memory of last time - that knows that this can be good. That wants that. And it’s the anticipation more than the sensation, at this point, that makes the blood turn hot and rich in his cheeks, his heart pounding with a medley of nerves and lust and expectation, his dick beginning to harden again against the mattress from going somewhat soft before.

Will must sense this shift, somehow. Because a few moments later Mike is almost surprised to feel a centimeter or so of Will’s forefinger probe cautiously forward, meeting minimal resistance until Mike realizes what’s happening and he feels himself flutter around the small intrusion on instinct, pulse shivering in his throat as he realizes, oh, my god, this is really happening. Like last time, Will draws back, traces the rim, teasing, and then - gradually, with a gentleness that could be either uncertainty or slow exploration - pushes forward again. Mike exhales, deeply, the fabric of the pillow going slightly damp with his breath. His hands flex. The slowness is torture. It allows him to feel every millimeter of smooth, enticing stretch, every little shift of trajectory - and yet the unbearable, leisurely pace minimizes any real discomfort.

It’s strange, and vaguely uncomfortable in a tentative, foreign way, and his body keeps oscillating rapidly between trying to reject the intrusion and welcoming it. It’s like a magic eye picture; like how your brain switches back and forth between seeing it and not seeing it, phasing between two perceptions like the capricious wobble of a top. See-it, don’t-see-it, see-it, don’t-see-it; good, weird, good, weird. Then Will draws back again, a little more quickly, and the next time his finger sinks in a few millimeters farther. And then again. And again. Going incrementally, the motion oil-smooth and effortless thanks to the lube, the alien pressure dragging along the delicate inner skin, and Mike is getting impatient. He tilts his hips back before he quite realizes what he’s doing, and Will obliges the unspoken message, finally sliding in to the knuckle, making Mike give a shallow little gasp at the sudden, tantalizing feeling of fullness that, at the same time, isn’t anywhere near enough. The discomfort has faded into the background now, barely registering at all, and instead those insubstantial echoes of pleasure have started to solidify somewhere deep in his belly. He turns his head to the side for fresh air, acclimating himself to the feeling of something inside of him.

f*ck. Holy f*ck.

Will seats himself there for a moment, the single digit lodged as deep as it’ll go, and Mike can hear him breathing a little unsteadily. Then the mattress sways slightly as Will repositions himself, bobbing down to drop a light, warm kiss on Mike’s back and muttering, “You okay?”

Mike grimaces, a little miffed that Will is making him produce intelligible English words right now, and opens his mouth to say something along the lines of, I’m good or Yeah, fine. What comes out instead, after a moment of stuttering, is, “Jus’ - just please move.”

“You okay?” Will asks again, his tone sharpened with concern, and Mike nods. With his cheek resting on the corner of the pillow like this, he’s gazing out into the room, his eyes unfocused, the space a warm-toned blur of lava lamps and posters and colorful strings lights and the fan cycling steadily back and forth, back and forth, the ripple of warm air rolling over them every few moments. Arousal, sharp-edged and lava-thick, throbs in the cradle of his hips, creeping up his spine, urging him to move, making him want to thrust forward, or maybe back. Making him wriggle in place, caught between trying to relieve the chafing pressure on his dick and trying to increase it.

“Yeah,” he decides.

He’s resisting the mounting urge to squirm back against Will’s hand, increasingly desperate for any kind of motion, any pressure or friction to alleviate the fervent ache that’s building in him. But Will doesn’t move - doesn’t speak - doesn’t do anything, for a long moment, until he ventures, “Does...”

Mike hears him inhale shallowly, and then a tiny wet sound, like he licked his lips.

“Does it feel good?”

Under normal circ*mstances, Mike would probably cease to exist from sheer embarrassment upon hearing that question. His body would simply reject existence, atoms reversing their polarity all at once and vanishing from this universe. But he’s trembling, prone on the mattress, something fluttering anxiously, impatiently in the core of his throat and chest and belly, and he just wants - he just -

“Yeah,” he whispers again, so quietly he’s not sure if Will heard.

But apparently Will did, because after another torturous few seconds, he whispers back, “Good.”

And then he sits back and begins to move.

It’s a much more confident motion than last time, straight off the bat. Will proceeds languidly, at first, respectful of Mike’s shallow, catching breaths, his hands fisted nervously in the pillow, his half-eager, half-uncertain little murmurs - but it’s a smooth, steady, pulsing motion, unlike the shaky, exploratory strokes of last time. And after a minute or two, Will’s confidence begins to soothe Mike’s nerves a little. It’s easier to relax into it - easier to just breathe and sigh and absorb the waves of sensation - when the rhythm is so sleek and velvety and regular, stroking in with a slight burst of force - not much - not enough - just enough to give the suggestion of a thrust - and then out again on the next beat, only to gently thrust back in, and out, and in. It’s like the ticking of a clock, like waves on a beach - even, smooth, reassuring.

The shift happens the same way you pick up momentum on a downward slope. Little-by-little, mounting with some effort - and then all at once, in a stomach-swooping rush. The first real jolt of pleasure blooms, sharp and abrupt at the raw ends of his nerves, clenching deep in his belly. His lips part in a voiceless groan, and the next time Will thrusts in, he pushes back - and is rewarded with another sparkle of marrow-deep sensation, dark-sweet and aching and needy and good. And once he manages to get ahold of that elusive tug of pleasure, and tap into it, and sink into the feeling - then, that’s that. Game over for Mike. You lose. You win? Whatever the case, you’re f*cked.

Will whispers something that Mike almost doesn’t catch, something about one more? , and he nods sharply, without hesitating. The relative girth of two fingers presses into him. A twinge of that foreign discomfort rears its head for a moment, but he’s aroused enough by now that it does nothing to dull the swells of pleasure that are lapping over him - and he won’t admit it, not even to himself, but this is what he’s been waiting for. This.

Will is thorough. Attentive. He takes the time to work both fingers around for a few moments, twisting, stretching gently, getting Mike used to it - and, for a moment, scissoring them inside him in a way that makes Mike go taut against the blankets. And then he begins thrusting again, and Mike sighs, blanking out a little as he just rides the current of stimulation. The firm, rhythmic thrusts, the welcome fullness. This.

“Good?” Will checks in, and Mike can tell that the last of his self-consciousness is melting away under Will’s fingers, his scent, his left hand gripping Mike’s ass cheek in a way that might be functional or might just be possessive. Because he doesn’t even hesitate before answering, and what comes out is the truth.

“God,” he croaks, voice cracking as the hand on his ass flexes a bit. “Yes. God, yes.”

He’s no longer able to stifle the little moan that buzzes in his chest the next time Will gives a particularly firm thrust. Mike’s hips lift slightly to meet it, and then without quite remembering how it started, he’s pushing back against Will’s fingers unthinkingly. The blankets have long since started to chafe against his dick, but he can’t help grinding down against the mattress despite that, just to feel something touch him there. He’s tipped over the crest of that hill, and momentum takes over effortlessly, sweeping him along with neither intention nor thought, making it so, so easy to rock and then thrust back in time with Will’s fingers, letting out a steady stream of raw, throaty noises. Losing himself more and more to the powerful compulsion to chase that pleasure.

The hand on his ass cheek has disappeared, and there’s a slight, off-beat thump against the mattress every few seconds. Will’s breath has gone quick and shallow. Mike guesses, without having to look, that he’s pumping himself with his free hand, and part of Mike wishes he was the one doing that, but he can’t exactly reach - and plus, he’s a bit out for the count just at the moment.

All at once, Will’s movements hitch and slow, and he gives a hissing breath.

“Hm?” Mike hums, and Will’s fingers withdraw entirely for a moment. Mike is just barely able to see him if he cranes his neck back, and he watches Will roll his wrist one way and then the other.

“Hand just started cramping,” Will says by way of explanation, but it’s barely a moment more before he’s back to work - his hand turned the other way, this time, palm facing downwards.

At this point, Mike would say he’s getting used to the feeling of his boyfriend’s fingers inside him. Well, he’s not sure he’ll ever be used to it, but it’s starting to feel almost familiar. Comfortable. Right. He’s familiarizing himself to all the different sensations, the angles, the rhythms. He’s acclimating to it. It’s not so startling and bizarre anymore.

All of that is tossed out the window when, upon stroking in at a particularly steep angle, Will’s fingers just barely brush something that has Mike jerking, a hollow breath getting stuck in his throat, his body pushing back against Will’s hand. Trying to get him to brush it again. Will goes still for a heartbeat, picking up on this new reaction, most likely assessing Mike’s posture for any indication of pain. And then, more deliberately this time, he sinks his fingers in to the hilt, searching. Pulsing into him roughly, at different angles and Mike, unsure exactly what just happened, debates pushing up onto his knees to escape the pressure of the blankets, but he’s too preoccupied by Will’s dogged attempts to replicate whatever just occurred. His fingers scissor a few times inside Mike, pushing against the sides of the swollen channel in a way that makes Mike groan. And then, without warning, Will crooks his fingers forward, curling them experimentally, and Mike is shuddering and squirming against the pressure and letting out a pleasured little, “ Aah - god, Will - ”

It’s a spike of... He doesn’t know if he’d call it pleasure. Not like he’s used to, at least - not like Will’s hand on his dick, or even his mouth. It’s not as sharp, not as sweet. But it’s stronger. Deep, and rich, and trembling, shooting tendrils through the muscles of his thighs and the trembling depths of his abdomen and up the nerves of his spine. Burning through the pleasure centers of his brain, making him forget everything, making his whole body shake. It’s like dark chocolate as opposed to honey; the resounding vibrations of a cello as opposed to the piping of a flute. And Will is merciless. Once he locates that spot, he won’t let up, pressing the pads of his fingers against it with every few thrusts until Mike is a panting, writhing mess, half-formed words making their way out of his mouth alongside the noises he’s not cognizant enough to suppress anymore, because he didn’t know this kind of feeling existed.

In the hazy depths of his mind, a thought occurs. This, his brain pipes up quietly, must be close to how it feels to be f*cked for real.

The thought triggers a completely unintentional moan, and of course - of f*cking course - once he thinks it, he can’t help but imagine it. Not just Will’s fingers pulsing into him, but Will - Will’s co*ck moving inside him, Will’s teeth clamping down at the junction of his neck and shoulder -

As if picking up on the wave of near-manic energy that’s sweeping through him, Will speaks up, his voice strained. “Have you ever done this to yourself? Have you ever f*cked yourself with your fingers before?”

“Jesus,” Mike mutters, his face turning briefly into the pillow as shock cuts through him. Somehow hearing the words makes it unavoidably, terribly real. He shakes his head.

A few more beats go by, during which the fan shudders over them again and the hair on Mike’s arms stand up with goosebumps at the wave of fresh air, and then Will says - quietly, as if to himself - “I’m the only one that’s ever done this to you.” Mike can’t decipher his tone - if he’s surprised or wondering or proud or maybe just horny.

Will pitches forward abruptly, lowering himself onto an elbow beside Mike to kiss him. Mike accepts the kiss with a soft moan, greedily soaking in the affection, and Will nuzzles into it. It’s a somewhat awkward angle, with Mike’s head twisted to the side and Will stooping down to reach him, but they kiss for several moments anyway. Unfocused and hungry, Mike tilting half onto his side to get closer, Will’s hand still moving - slowly, at a cumbersome angle, but moving. And once Mike has rolled up on one shoulder, he’s so relieved not to be lying on his front anymore that he shifts positions entirely, tugging at Will until they’re lying side-by-side, Will’s own arousal grazing the skin of Mike’s lower belly. Will adjusts the positioning of his arm and scoots closer, sealing their mouths together again as he curls his fingers into the quivering tunnel. Mike is surprised how effortless it is, how readily his muscles clench and loosen around Will’s fingers, when he adds a third. He bunches it in with the other two at first, forming a triangle rather than a straight line, lessening the shock of the sudden extra width. Mike’s breaths shudder through his lungs, his diaphragm heaving. A sheen of sweat rises at his temples, the dip of his collarbone, the bridge of his nose. The tension of arousal and pleasure resonates through him, aching in his tensed muscles, making his heartbeat jackhammer against his ribcage.

He’s right on the cusp of tipping over the edge when Will draws back, caesing completely, and Mike can’t help the sputtering protest that pushes past his lips. But Will is pushing up, clambering back to lean against the wall, beckoning.

“Here, here - c’mere -”

It takes Mike a moment to realize what Will wants, but after a second he figures it out and sits up to climb onto Will’s lap, a little confused, his thighs parted over Will’s legs.

It’s a test of his comfort zone. There’s no hiding like this. Now Will can see his face, can watch every reaction as he gets a fresh coat of lube over his fingers and reaches around to press two of them in, easily now, with no resistance. He begins stroking them in and out, scrutinizing Mike’s features as his eyelids flutter and his lips pull into a loose “oh” shape. Mike’s eyes squeeze closed for a moment, shyness taking over. This feels more vulnerable, somehow - raw and open and exposed in a way that makes him squirm. But he trusts Will, and after a few moments he’s able to open his eyes again - and that’s when he sees it. He sees how his own reactions are affecting his boyfriend. Mike’s drawn-together brows, his heavy eyelids, his jaw working soundlessly as he gasps and shudders - they all seem to have a direct impact on Will, making him shake and groan in turn, turning their pleasure into a feedback loop. And it’s this, more than anything, that loosens the reins of self-consciousness and allows him to drift again, without trying to suppress his reactions. He just winds his arms around his boyfriend’s neck and rides the thrumming current of momentum.

Under normal circ*mstances, Will is handsome. And, often, exceptionally cute. But in the low, warm light, gazing up at Mike with his pupils blown, he’s magnificent. Mike draws back an inch or two and takes it all in with a lick of his lips. How the tips of Will’s cheekbones are flushed a delicate pink and shining with miniscule beads of sweat. How his hair is falling into his face, the heat and exertion making it come loose from its usual side-parted, brushed-back style, a sweaty strand or two hanging over his forehead and threatening to get in his eyes. His slender, toned limbs, beginning to acquire just a whisper of tan the way he does in summer months. His lips red from kissing. His abdomen bowing and flexing under Mike, the burn scar on his left side a finger-length knot of shiny, pink tissue.

A definite advantage of this position: they can grind against each other. A jolting, clumsy rhythm that turns smooth and sinuous as they get the hang of it.

Will is being entirely too gentle. The delicious pulse of his fingers leaves Mike eager, insatiable - and frustrated. He’s rocking in Will’s lap, nearly bouncing, trying to eke out every whisper of sensation. He wants more friction, more pressure, but doesn’t know how to ask for it. Will hooks the pads of his fingers into the soft nexus of nerves inside Mike that makes him go taut from toes to scalp, and he ends up moaning, “Will.”

Will, who’s been sucking hard at the sensitive pressure point right at the base of Mike’s neck, detaches and says, “What?”

He knows Mike wants something but won’t say it - Mike can tell he knows. He can see it in the searching way Will meets his gaze, trying to read his expression. He knocks his forehead lightly against Mike’s, coaxing. “What do you want, Mikey?” he breathes. “Say it. Anything you want.”

Will’s pet names seem to come out most often during sex, and Mike just about melts at the use of this old one. He almost shies away from it - it should feel so wrong here, this thing from their childhood - but the old nickname seems to click right into the moment like a puzzle piece, fitting perfectly, lighting up a warm glow in Mike’s belly. Not lust, this time, but a simple, deep affection. And after a moment he’s able to whisper, “ Harder. ”

Will’s breath catches. Something like disbelief flashing in his eyes, like he can’t believe Mike would want that - and then the rhythm of his fingers grows firmer, thrusting up into him. And it’s good, but -

“Like that?”

Mike nods, but he’s still squirming, biting back murmurs and whimpers, not quite there yet, still chasing something. And Will, who knows him so well, nibbles at his lower lip and purrs, “Faster?”

Mike’s head jacks up and down in a desperate nod, and just like that Will starts a rapid, throbbing rhythm, probably testing the endurance of his hand and arm and wrist. Mike gives a sob , gasping out, “Oh, f*ck - f*ck, Will - ”

“What, love?” Will teases, smiling against Mike’s lips, head co*cked mischievously.

Well. Two can play at that game.

“f*ck me,” he breathes.

He’s rewarded instantly by Will’s body juddering up into a hard kiss, writhing against Mike’s, grinding hard flesh together in a messy and desperate pulse. His fingers jackhammering into Mike until Mike gathers up fistfuls of Will’s hair, tugging gently and then more firmly as the hot, sparkling pleasure coils deep in the core of his body, pulling his whole being taut, his stomach caving in as his abdomen clenches down on each breath, the muscles in his thighs primed and aching with tension, not a rational thought in his head except that he needs to be closer to Will, he needs to move faster, give more, feel more.

Mike fumbles between them and can’t resist stroking himself a few times before he finds Will, and Will groans as if in relief as Mike blindly locates the bottle of lube, dumps an excessive amount in his palm, and begins pumping Will’s length with a clumsy vigor. Will bucks into the touch eagerly, his head falling back, his own hand slowing for a moment as Mike traces his thumb around the sensitive ridge at the head of Will’s dick. They’re both sweating, slick skin sliding together, limbs slipping and hands grasping to remain stable, bouncing the mattress with the intensity of their actions.

Will is already close, based on the frequency of his full-body twitches, jerks and clipped groans, and Mike is enjoying his boyfriend’s fingers in his ass far too much. A moment of abrupt, cold self-awareness intrudes, and all at once he’s harshly, inescapably cognizant of just what he’s doing - specifically, just how f*cking good it feels to have two of Will’s fingers f*cking into him, filling him, filling up an aching emptiness that he only recently became aware of. Will’s knuckles digging against the sensitized flesh of Mike’s ass with every thrust. The tips of his fingers curling every few beats to just barely brush that soft, elusive spot inside him that bursts into a strange, alien, flame-hot, resonant pleasure when Will presses into it - something that quivers through him like the reverberating of a huge bell, making his whole body clamp down, everything in him laser-focusing on that point, his mind going blank for a second as his world narrows to Will, and Will’s fingers crooking to spike into that spot, and Will’s hot, damp breath at Mike’s neck, and Will’s scent, and the rock-hard heat of Will’s flesh under Mike’s palm -

Mike becomes aware of this all at once. And something in him hisses, look at you. Look what you’re doing. Look what you’ve turned into.

Yeah, he thinks back, hazily, I guess I have.

A prickling shiver crawls down the back of Mike’s head and rushes down his spine, and then he tosses the thought aside with a hard kiss to Will’s mouth.

“Do you know,” Will rasps as he leans back, punctuating the sentence with a shallow twitch against Mike’s body, “how f-f- f*cking easy it would be - to just f*ck you right now?”

Somehow, Mike flushes an even deeper shade, blood rising in a prickling rush to the surface of his skin toes-to-scalp. His mouth drops open as he breathes hard, eyes fluttering half-closed, and Will goes on.

“I co- ugh - I could just move you a little bit forward and -”

He halts with a sharp half-inhale, eyes flickering up to Mike’s face from underneath his eyelashes as if he’s afraid this is out of line.

He’s just playing, just fantasizing, and they both know it. They’re too close to the edge to do much else, and it’s too soon, anyway. Neither of them is quite ready for that. But that doesn’t mean Mike can’t play along.

“It’d - it’d probably be easy, yeah,” he agrees, hoarsely. “You think you’d -?”

“Fit?”

Mike gives a strange, stilted chuckle, embarrassed and really, really f*cking horny and very aware of the way Will is intentionally using every trick up his sleeve to wind him even higher, and he sasses back, “I guess you would. I mean, people must do it someho -oh -”

The word opens up into a full-throated moan as a particularly sharp wave of pleasure sparkles low in his belly, intense enough that it aches in the tendons of his thighs.

Will echoes his embarrassed laugh, pitches forward, breathes, “God,” into Mike’s shoulder. He presses a cursory kiss there and says, “You’re so f*cking hot.” Mike is about to laugh awkwardly and say, thanks? but then Will clarifies, “I mean inside. You’re like a million degrees. And smooth. You’re like butter. I bet you-ou’d feel incredible. ”

Mike jerks involuntarily - all that tension is winding up at the base of his spine, and he can tell he can’t hold on much longer. He grinds out, “You’d want to - like this?” meaning the position they’re in, with Mike perched on Will’s lap.

Will considers for a moment, licking his lips, and then pants, “Yeah. Well - I’d wanna. See your face. Don’t want it hidden. Wanna see you.”

Mike suddenly understands why Will wanted to change positions earlier. “Face-to-face then,” he decides.

He’s imagining it, and he knows Will is too. He writhes, hips snapping back against the fierce push-pull of Will’s fingers, his arm burning with fatigue as he works Will in one hand.

“Maybe - hah - maybe since the bed’s on the floor - you could just kneel on the ground and -”

Will shoves into a clumsy, wet kiss before he can finish. He buries his fingers into Mike as deep as they’ll go and spikes them into the sensitive hot-spot mercilessly, stroking until it’s too much and Mike moans weakly, brokenly, and twitches in place, caught halfway between pulling away from the overstimulation and shoving into it, and he’s coming before he even realizes it, going stiff and trembling over Will, and then melting. As he comes down he realizes that Will must have, too, because his abdomen is painted with a streak of liquid and he’s gone soft and boneless as Mike, trying to catch his breath.

They don’t move for a few minutes. When Will finally does withdraw his fingers from Mike, Mike winces at the tenderness, but waves away Will’s frown of concern. They collapse onto the mattress, exhausted and sore and panting, skin going tacky with drying sweat and - in some cases - other liquids. Chester barks from the other side of the door. He’s probably been barking for a while, they just tuned it out entirely until now. Will gives a half-hearted yell of, “Chess. No bark.”

Minutes go by. Cool evening air bubbles past the sheet-curtain. The radio has settled on a mellow rock song, the sound running clear for once. Mike shivers like a rabbit, skin twitching as he snuggles closer to Will. With the window open, and the fan on, and his skin damp and bare, he’s actually a little chilly. It’s refreshing, after the close heat of the day.

It seems ridiculous, after what they just did, but Will sounds almost shy when he speaks up. “Would you really want... that? Or...”

That.

Do you know how f*cking easy it would be to just f*ck you right now?

Mike shifts, getting his legs in a more comfortable position, using the motion to hesitate before he mumbles, “I dunno.” He’s not sure, just now. It seems like a lot. It seems a little scary. So he shies away, and answers with a noncommittal, “Maybe.”

But contrary to his expectation, Will’s tone is hopeful when he whispers back, “Really? You think maybe...?” Mike doesn’t know how to answer, and Will goes on after a moment. “I didn’t think you’d want...”

Such a long time goes by before Mike gathers the courage to speak up that Will seems to have accepted the silence as his answer. “I wanted to,” Mike says, very quietly, and he feels Will’s head move to look at him. He swallows, not meeting Will’s eyes, and says, “I... Right at the end there... I really wanted to.”

Will, unlike Mike, is quick to answer, “Me too.”

And that’s his limit. That’s as much as Mike can take, as much as he can say, so he tucks his face against Will’s shoulder. Overwhelmed and unsure and happy and nervous and exhausted, and he doesn’t know how to say, I’ve never done anything like that before, or, I never knew I wanted something like that, or , It scares me how much I liked that. Not to mention, My whole life has shattered and I don’t know what to do from here, or, This all still feels like it’s not quite real - like it’s some dream I’ll wake up from, back in my bed in my parents’ house, or, You’re one of the few things left in my life that still makes sense and feels safe.

He ends up just paraphrasing that last one, mumbling, “I love you.”

Will squeezes Mike so hard he wheezes, “Ribs,” and says, “I love you, too.”

Joyce arrives home just after 10:45pm, after her closing shift.

She’s been various levels of of stressed all day, scratching out budgets on pieces of loose paper behind the register, making sure she can afford another full-time son in her house. They’ll make it just fine; they always do. And honestly, this won’t be a huge change from before. Mike was over here - or else Will was at the Wheeler’s - more often than not. Still, the extra expense will be... not inconsiderable, let’s put it that way. But they’ve been through much rougher spots, and though she at first tried to wave it off, Mike did say he was going to look for some part-time work to help out. She’d be lying if she said that wasn’t somewhat of a relief.

Chester comes loping across the house to greet her, tail beating at the air behind him, and she scratches at his head as she peels her blue work jacket down her arms and drops it on the back of the couch. It’s late. Jonathan’s door is closed, no light glowing from underneath, so she doesn’t call out - but down the hall, there’s a golden sliver of light seeping out from underneath Will’s door. She hovers near the kitchen, debating, until she hears low conversation and what sounds like a TV inside.

She approaches, listens for a moment to make sure she’s not - well - interrupting anything, and then knocks. Will’s voice rises from a low buzz to say, “Come in!” and she cracks the door open to lean in. Chester pushes past her legs and goes straight to the bed - well, the mattress. They’ve forgone the frame, for whatever reason, and put the mattress and box spring straight on the floor, in the corner between the door and window. Chester hops up beside the boys, curling up with a heavy sigh.

Mike and Will are sitting on the bed, using it like a big couch as they play some sort of video game on Jonathan’s old TV. They’re sitting just an inch too far apart, postures just a tad too stiff - clearly they had been cuddling, and moved apart when they heard her knock. Still, Will smiles when he sees her, and she reflects it back.

“Hello, hello,” she says, a fresh wave of energy coming out of nowhere to bolster her after her long day. “May I enter?”

“Yeah, you can come in,” Will says again, and she side-steps through the door and closes it behind her.

“Thank you, sir.”

She looks around, curiously. They still have the old seaweed-green sheets tacked up over the windows - apparently those are the curtains, now. She resists the urge to shake her head. But, hey, they put her parents’ old rug down on the floor, and there are new posters up on the walls - Mike’s, she assumes - and on the whole, it doesn’t look half bad. It’s gonna take her a while to get used to the furniture being in different places, after so long of Will’s room being the same. She gnaws on the inside of her lip as she gazes around the new arrangement.

Joyce isn’t one hundred percent thrilled to have Mike living with them full-time, it’s true. It’s a somewhat abrupt disruption to their usual day-to-day family routine; it’ll be like having a houseguest 24/7, until she gets used to it. Small talk in the kitchen. Extra dishes. Having to account for an extra body moving in and out of the house at various times of the day. Adjusting to sharing a bathroom and hot water with one more person. She figures it won’t take long before it becomes the new norm. What will take more getting used to is having a couple living in the house - not just Mike and Will, but Mike and Will . But ultimately, this is for her son, and for Mike, who is basically an honorary Byers anyway. She would have taken Mike in even if he wasn’t dating Will. He’s done plenty for her over the years - not that she’s doing this out of a sense of debt, but still. She still remembers how he helped her into the car outside the lab, right after Bob...

“Looks good,” she comments, pulling out the desk chair to perch on. Mike pauses the game, tossing aside the controller, and they chit-chat for a few minutes. She gripes to them about annoying customers; they exclaim over the Atari game that they rediscovered. Chester rests his silvering muzzle on Will’s thigh and dozes.

“How are you doing?” she says, as the conversation begins to wind down. She tries not to sound too pointed. “You need anything?”

They glance at each other. Will is the one that speaks. “No, we’re fine.”

“Thank you,” Mike adds. The formality is a little stiff, hanging in the air like a wrong note. Mike clearly doesn’t feel quite at home here, yet; he’s been tiptoeing around since he first arrived at the house a week ago. Always using too many please and thank you s, always looking a little sheepish about setting another dirty dish in the sink. Zipping in and out of the shower like it’s money flowing down the drain and not hot water. Drifting around at Will’s heels as if he’s not allowed to use the living room or kitchen on his own.

He’ll settle, eventually. He just needs time.

“All right,” she says, and then calls, “Chester. C’mon.”

The old dog hefts himself up from the bed and plods dutifully to her side, ready to curl up at the foot of his mistress’s bed for the night. Joyce rises and goes to drop a kiss on Will’s hair. The same way she’s done every night - or, at least, every night that he’ll let her - since he was a newborn. He mutters, “ Mom, ” but he doesn’t duck away. And then, just as she’s about to turn for the door, she pauses. Her split-second deliberation is over as soon as it begins, and she stoops again on the way by to drop a kiss on the top of Mike’s head, too. She doesn’t get to see his reaction, moving as quickly as she is, and then she’s already out the door saying, “Good night,” over her shoulder.

“Why are you so f*cking against anyone knowing about us?”

They’re standing on the back porch, waist-deep in an argument that’s been brewing for a while. It came to a head just now, when Will dared to bring up the fact that they’re going to have to tell the Party something eventually. They can’t be hermits around the house forever, and pretty soon, somebody is going to ask why Mike is having a full-time, indefinite sleepover at the Byers’. And hey, the worst part’s over, right? They made it through, no one died, no one got hurt, and now they get to live together. That’s great. Right?

Wrong, apparently. Mike has been a regular sourpuss for the past few days. Grumpy, depressed, and on-edge, slinking around with his hackles up like a cat on the way to the vet. Just a few minutes ago, Will finally tossed off the line that’s been on his mind for days: “Who took a dump in your Cheerios? Come on, it’s summer vacation. We should be out doing something.”

It was a casual, lighthearted jab - or so Will thought. But when he turned, Mike was staring at him like he had grown a second head, and after a moment Will said, “What?”

“Who took -?” Mike scoffed, incredulously. And then Will actually witnessed the shift occur in Mike’s eyes as he finally launched into the fight that’s been building all week. “My family just disowned me, asshole!”

“I thought you said you felt better,” Will countered, spreading his palms in a helpless kind of how was I supposed to know? gesture.

“Well I did right at that moment, but not forever!”

“Well what do you wanna do, I - wh- what would help?” Will sputtered, at a loss. What else could he do? What did Mike want? What was he supposed to do ? He thought Mike felt better. He said he felt better. Will thought things were getting better, damnit, he thought they were through the worst of it. It’s supposed to be smooth sailing from here. It’s not fair.

They went back and forth for some minutes, not really getting anywhere, following the same circles and getting increasingly wound up. And somehow - he’s not even sure how it came to this, quite honestly, but somehow they ended up on the subject of the Party. Specifically, telling the Party. That old, well-worn argument. And now, an old fear whips to the surface and breaks through before Will can stop it.

“Are you ashamed of us?”

Mike’s face pinches and he lifts his hands, pushing them down through the air like he’s physically batting away the idea. “No!”

“Then what is it?”

“What is it? You saw what happened last time somebody found out!”

Will swings around the end of his pacing-loop, gesticulating broadly. “Oh, that was just your parents, Mike. The Party’s not gonna be like that.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t und-”

Frustrated, upset, Will cuts him off. “I wanna be able to show them, Mike!”

Mike falls silent. The skin between his brows is creased with worry, but he’s listening with a glum, empathetic kind of set to his shoulders, which Will takes as a go-ahead to continue.

“I want to - to - to hold your hand during campaigns - above the table - and be able to kiss you without having to sneak around a corner like we’re committing a goddamn crime , and -” He huffs out a little breath as his voice begins to waver, and then spreads his arms in a loose shrug. “I want to show you off. Is that so bad? I mean -” He paces across the porch towards his boyfriend, slowly, palms up in a conciliatory manner. “You’re a huge dork, and a weirdo -”

Mike snorts, a tiny smile peeking through.

“But you’re my weirdo.” Will reaches him and comes close. “And you’re not exactly hard to look at, either.”

The smile grows just a degree and Mike shakes his head. “Stop it.”

Delicately, Will hooks a thumb into the loop of Mike’s belt, tilting his head just slightly to look up at him. Mike allows Will to tug him a step closer, their hips bumping. In the backyard, Chester barks halfheartedly at a squirrel, and the plastic yard sprinkler oscillates slowly back and forth, throwing a fine arc of water over the crispy grass. A weak, hot breeze flutters in Mike’s bangs, which are curlier and frizzier than normal thanks to heat and humidity.

“I love you. And I’m tired of acting like we’re doing something wrong.”

The words come out with much more confidence than he expected, considering he’s still trying to convince himself that they aren’t.

The thing is, if they tell the Party, and the Party is cool with it - that should count for something, shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t they feel a little better, more secure - validated somehow? If Will can look the Party in the eyes and tell them the truth about them - about him - maybe he’ll feel a little better. And maybe Mike will feel better, too. They’re bound to be less on edge all the time if they can just hold hands above the table and not be hiding around corners like kisses are contraband. Things will get easier once they can stop holding their breath. They have to. If only Mike would see that.

Mike’s head swivels. First a nod, then a shake, then an odd, stilted shrug halfway in-between.

Will’s brows pinch. “What?”

“I just -” He clicks his tongue, his head rolling for a second like the words he’s reaching for will appear somewhere in the sky. “I dunno if I can tell them. I can’t do it.”

Will rubs one hand over his face with a groan, because they’re right back at square one. When he emerges from his palm he snaps. “You know, if you’re not ashamed of us then why can’t you stand to tell anybody?”

“I’m not ashamed of us,” Mike snaps right back, pulling away from Will’s hand on his waist, “I’m ashamed of me, okay? It’s not that I don’t want them to know about us, I just don’t want them to know about me. ” His voice cracks wetly. The skin around his eyes and nose is going pink. He makes a stilted half-gesture with one arm, like he’s caught between lashing out at the world and indicating himself. “What am I supposed to tell them, huh? Oh, by the way, my parents didn’t want me because I’m broken? I’ve been hiding it because I’m scared? Oops, sorry, forgot to mention that I’m - I’m - I’m some queer failure that can’t even be happy for my boyfriend.” The words pinch off with a waver as Mike aims an impotent kick at the railing of the porch.

Will’s eyes close in a wince, unbidden. It’s like a bucket of cold water splashed right in his face. For a moment, neither of them speaks, and Will blinks back the moisture in his own eyes. His mind is moving at a million miles per hour. Reassessing. Recontextualizing. I’m not ashamed of us, I’m ashamed of me.

He understands.

“Mike,” he starts, meaning to say I get it, really, I feel that same way, or maybe, you’re not broken - or at least, you’re broken in some of the same ways I am, and we can get through it together - just like always -

But Mike is, all at once, striding for the porch stairs, his head of frizzy hair swinging back and forth.

“Where are you going?” Will manages, and Mike simply replies, “Walk.”

And with that he’s gone, leaving Will alone on the porch.

For a moment he considers going after him. Then he turns with a flick and clatters into the house, retreating into their room to draw and sulk.

He’s getting a sunburn.

Just add that to the list of things he’s f*cked up today.

No, not just today. This whole week, really.

He’s been out for nearly an hour, wandering the neighborhood, turning around when he got too close to his own - his parents’ - street. Slapping at mosquitoes and jabbing at the pavement with every step until his anger leached out onto the sidewalk, leaving him wilted and disheartened and a little headachy. Now, meandering along the overgrown curb of Mirkwood, he toys with the keychain that’s pushed deep into one pocket. The sharp edges of the keys bite into his thumb, and he feels out one particular shape: the Mickey Mouse enamel keychain, glossy-smooth glass on one side and powdery-rough metal on the other. Warm from resting in his pocket, against his thigh. The spare key to the Byers’ house - his key, now. He’s kept it in his pocket day and night ever since Joyce gave it to him, rubbing it like a talisman. His thumb rubs over it now.

He’s not that against telling the Party about him and Will. He’ll feel pretty weird about it, true. His stomach is in knots, aching already just at the thought, but - it’s not telling the Party about them that he’s so afraid of. It’s him. It’s that he’s terrified that once they find out, they’re going to look at him differently. Treat him differently. And besides that, he can’t help but fear the worst: that the Party will be like his parents.

He shouldn’t have yelled at Will. He’s been an asshole lately, and he knows it. He’s been so keyed up, and they’re still adjusting to living together, and...

And he knows what he needs to do.

Back at the house, he lets himself in the front door. Will probably left the back door unlocked for him, but he likes using the key.

He finds Will in their room, hunched over a drawing with the radio on and the door open. No headphones; no closed doors. No silent but unmistakable signals of go away, don’t talk to me. With Will, that’s important. He needs his space. When the headphones are on, you try again later. Them’s the rules. But they’re not, right now, and Will looks up as Mike steps haltingly through the doorway.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Will returns, neutrally, and reaches to turn down the volume. Exposé goes quiet, singing softly to the electronic beat as Mike leans over Will’s shoulder to see the drawing. Several rough sketches are scattered across the desk, none of them filled out beyond basic shapes. A pose here, the angles of a hand there. The one in front of him looks like a study in textures - nothing more than various abstract wrinkles and grains, stitched together in a grid.

“Seasons change, feelings change. It's been so long since I found you; yet it seems like yesterday. Seasons change, people change; I'll sacrifice tomorrow just to have you here today.”

Mike sets an experimental hand on Will’s shoulder, testing the boundaries, and when he’s not shrugged off he settles there.

“Watcha working on?”

“I want you, don't hide your feelings from inside,” the radio interjects, and Will nudges the volume down another notch or two with the eraser of his pencil. Then he brushes eraser crumbs off his current sketch and goes back to work on it.

“Just some warm-ups.”

There’s a slight but definite frostiness in the air, and it doesn’t escape Mike’s notice. He sighs. He had a plan, on the way back - he was silently rehearsing to himself as he walked up the long driveway - but now all of that has evaporated from his mind.

“You’re right,” he blurts, and Will glances up at him as if in surprise.

“About?”

“I have been kind of an ass.”

Will deflates a degree, turning back to his sketch. He feathers in detail to a section of multi-faceted, leaf-like patterns. “No, you weren’t. I mean, yeah. You were. But...” His shoulder rises and falls under Mike’s hand. “‘S not like you don’t have good reason.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“Yeah. But I shouldn’t have either. And I was being -”

“A stubborn-ass?”

“I was gonna say insensitive. But, you know, whatever works.”

Mike gives a dry laugh, and then lets it drop. Will’s shoulder is hard as a steel cable under his palm, hiked up nearly to his ear with tension, and Mike brings his other hand up to rest on the opposite side of Will’s neck. Will’s muscles move and jump under Mike’s fingers as he sketches, and Mike stand behind him, squeezing the rigid muscles at the nape of his neck, his shoulders. Rubbing. After a few minutes, Will sits up a little straighter, rolling his head from side to side to stretch his neck as Mike begins to grind his thumbs in slow circles on either side of Will’s spine.

This is one of those new things. They never would have been touching each other like this, even just on the shoulders, before they were dating. Mike never would have pressed up behind Will’s seat and slid his fingers down the curve of Will’s shoulders, squeezed, pressed his thumbs on either side of his nape and leaned down to murmur, “Doing okay?” Will never would have hummed out an ambiguous answer, leaning - melting - back into Mike’s hands, cringing a little as the stiff-sore muscles protested with a little spasm before easing into the touch. Mike never would have worked the aching muscles on either side of Will’s neck with firm gentleness until Will sighed. He never, ever would have leaned around one shoulder, tilting his head, and Will never would have craned his own neck to meet the brief, awkwardly-angled kiss.

When Mike straightens again, he says it before he can talk himself out of it. “I’m sorry. You were right, we’re gonna have to tell them sometime. We should tell them. Let’s tell them.”

Will freezes, the tip of his pencil screeching to a halt right in the middle of jotting out some bubbles in an underwater texture. It takes him several seconds to respond.

“Really?”

Mike nods, realizing too late that Will can’t see him.

“You’re not messing with me?”

With a deep breath, Mike’s hands slip from Will’s shoulders. He reaches for the desk, where their Supercomms sit side-by-side. Will gives a nod of confirmation at Mike’s glance, and Mike turns the radio to the Party channel with rubbery fingers.

Dustin answers first.

“Is Lucas with you?” Mike says immediately. He’s so nervous that he almost forgets to add, “Over.”

Dustin’s voice comes in loud and clear, his answer prompt. “Yeah, we’re eating cheese puffs and playing gin rummy. Wanna come over? Max keeps saying we should play poker, we could invite her too. Over.”

“No - I mean, yes, get Max. And El too. But -” He meets Will’s eyes. “We need to talk to you here, actually. At the Byers’. All of you. Over.”

There’s a rustle, some bumping and static, and a moment later Lucas’s voice says, “Is everything okay? Over?”

Lucas knows Mike well. He must have picked up on the strange quality to his voice.

“Code Yellow,” Mike says after a moment of debating how to respond. “Just get everyone over here. Over and out.”

He clicks off the radio before he can back out, collapsing the antenna with a swift, decisive gesture. Then he blows out a long breath, anxiety coiling around his lungs and squeezing hard. He looks to Will, and gives a tense, lopsided smile. “Okay,” he says, half to Will and half to himself. “Let’s do this.”

He’s gonna die.

Chapter 13: Friends and Foes

Chapter Text

He really did get a sunburn.

He wasn’t even out for that long. How did he get so red? It’s not even July yet, it shouldn’t be this hot. This is bullsh*t.

The skin of Mike’s arms, nose, and the back of his neck is hot and tender, and he keeps shifting on the couch, trying to find something to do with his arms that doesn’t rub the sunburn against the rough fabric. He clasps his hands in his lap, decides that looks weird and unclasps them, props one elbow up on the arm of the couch, takes it down again. Beside him, Will tilts minutely in a wordless invitation for Mike to sling his arm around his shoulders, but he can’t. He can barely make himself breathe normally, much less make a move like that right now.

They’re in the living room. Joyce left with Hopper after he dropped off El - Mike suspects Will had a hushed, hurried conversation with her sometime in the past half hour - but Jonathan is mere yards away, in his room with the door respectfully shut, ready to step in should they need backup. And the Party is gathered in front of them, all confused expressions and lively chatter. El has curled up in the arm chair like a cat, Dustin is half-leaning-half-sitting on one arm of the chair, and Max and Lucas sit criss-cross-applesauce on the floor, all - except El - firing off questions. Where have they been? Why didn’t they come with everyone else to get ice cream the other day? What’s the code-yellow meeting about? Is something up? What’s up? Why have they been so radio silent lately? Are there chips in the kitchen? Can the Party eat the chips in the kitchen?

“And why couldn’t we have this conversation at your place again?” Lucas complains loudly, and it’s the first thing that cuts through Mike’s fog of dull panic. Lucas is looking right at him, clearly curious and annoyed, and it makes Mike’s blood pressure creep up yet again until his heart is wriggling around uncomfortably behind his ribs. “Was it really necessary to have us all book it all the way across town? Why so cloak and dagger?”

His tone is light, joking, but it hits home. Mike’s head dips, and he swallows.

Mike senses Will’s head turn. He’s watching Mike, letting him take the lead, and for that at least Mike is grateful. What Will really wants to do, he knows, is just lean over and kiss Mike full on the mouth then and there - he said as much just before everyone arrived, and Mike summarily vetoed that idea. But now, without Will’s intervention, that means that it’s up to Mike to take the leap.

He scrubs two hands over his face and then drops them into his lap with a long outbreath, where his fingers lace together and fidget. And then, from his spot on the couch beside Will, Mike looks across at the Party and says, “I... My parents kicked me out.”

The announcement is met, instantly, by a disbelieving chorus of, “What?” and “Why?” And Mike’s heart is pumping away, adrenaline shivering through his body in acidic little wobbles, because this is it. The final test - or at least, it feels like it.

He looks over at Will and finds nerves fizzing in his gaze, too. He gives Mike a little chin tilt, eyes widening like, it’s okay, go on. Mike faces the Party, but now his throat is closing up and his hands are starting to shake and he puts his head down again. They can tell he’s about to break down, and they’ve hushed themselves into a solemn, attentive silence, waiting. Will’s hand snakes out and takes Mike’s, interlacing their fingers, squeezing in both reassurance and demonstration. And Mike doesn’t know why this scares him so much. He already had this conversation with his parents - this should be nothing. He doesn’t know why his stomach is aching from tension, or why his hand is sweating in Will’s, or why he feels jittery, like he wants to crawl out of his skin. Will squeezes his hand again and when Mike looks, he lifts his eyebrows and tilts his head just a degree, silently communicating, do you want me to say it? And Mike shakes his head back minutely - no, I can do it.

He takes a steadying breath, looks up at his friends, looks down again because meeting their eyes is too intense, and starts twisting a loose thread in the couch by his knee with his free hand. “They kicked me out,” he says, evenly - too evenly, concentrating hard to keep his voice smooth - “because they found out...”

“That you killed somebody,” Lucas guesses, trying to lighten the mood with a smile.

Dustin catches onto what he’s doing and jumps onboard: “That you’ve been doing crystal meth? No - that you’ve been selling crystal meth.”

Max’s contribution: “You’re actually an alien and you’re here to ask us to return with you to your home planet.”

Dustin groans. “Ugh, good! Abduct me already, I don’t ever want to do finals week again.”

And it works; Mike chuckles a little, and then starts shaking his head - “No - no, just. Uh, yeah. Crystal meth.”

Dustin tuts. “And you didn’t share with me.”

Mike huffs out a half-laugh, steadies himself again, swallows, and tugs at the loose thread. “No. My parents kicked me out... because they found out that I’m gay? Well, queer.”

He doesn’t know what to call himself. He supposes that he’s in a relationship with Will, so... that must make him gay, right? Bisexual is the word that Nancy suggested, but he still isn’t used to how that feels on his lips. He watches the thread twirl and fray between the pads of his fingers, frozen, unable to look up. Will’s thumb rubs over his knuckles, but the motion does nothing to soothe him.

And then, in the heartbeats of silence following, Will adds, “More specifically, they found out about us. ” And Mike just braces himself for it.

Lucas reacts first. “So,” he says, “You’re both...”

“Dating,” Will asserts, an almost proud tilt to his voice, and Mike wants to die. He pulls the string so hard it snaps right off the cushion.

Lucas says, “But, so, you’re both - queer?”

By the sounds of it, Max smacks him. “They wouldn’t be dating each other if they weren’t both queer, dumbass. That’s how dating works.”

Mike still hasn’t looked up, so he has no idea what kind of facial expressions are being directed towards him right now - especially when an awkward silence falls over the room. Mike fights the urge to pull his fingers out from between Will’s. He’s sure he can feel surreptitious eyes on their linked hands, like a hot beam of light. Automatic apologies keep jumping up his throat, only catching behind his teeth because he’s not sure exactly what it is he keeps wanting to apologize for.

For the second time, it’s Lucas that breaks the silence. “Hey,” he ventures, sounding about as uncertain as Mike feels, “it’s chill, man.”

Mike hazards a peek out from under his bangs. Lucas is making a heroic attempt at eye contact, Dustin looks like he’s struggling to puzzle out a complicated trigonometric equation, and Max is looking back and forth between Will and everyone else, glancing occasionally to El as if for help.

“Chill?” Mike echoes, and this time Dustin answers.

“Yeah.” He’s patting his palms on his knees, nodding around at everyone, as if trying to prompt them into agreement. “Totally - totally chill. You know? It’s no business of ours if you guys wanna get in bed together, that’s not -”

“It’s not about sex,” Mike mutters automatically, cutting him off, and there’s an uncomfortable pause.

His gaze has skittered to his knees again. Will has gone a little stiff beside him, clearly bristling, but he remains quiet as Lucas picks up the thread.

“Right. Right. But it’s just - what you two do behind closed doors is your business. Is...” Motion in the periphery of Mike’s vision as Lucas indicates Dustin. “... is the point he was going for, I think.”

Noises of confirmation from Dustin.

El interjects. “I think the point is that they’re opening the doors.”

Will nods gratefully at this and reiterates, “We’re dating. Not just f*cking.”

And Mike goes hot all up his neck and face and ears because Will just admitted to everyone that they’ve been f*cking. Not just f*cking, he said. But before he can act on his burgeoning plan to leap through the window and make a run for it, Lucas pipes up conversationally. “So who...?” He’s flicking one finger back and forth between Mike and Will, seeming genuinely perplexed. “You know. I’ve just always wondered. I mean, it’s not like I’d know about how any of that works.” He lifts his hands, something about the gesture screaming, Hey, don’t look at me! Me, involved in something like that? Hell no.

Mike sinks a little deeper into the eternal void between couch cushions.

“What?” Will says sharply.

Lucas picks up on the defensive edge to Will’s voice and hurries to clarify, “No, no, I’m just - it’s totally cool, yeah? I’m totally cool, I’m just not really sure how this works. I’m just a little confused, that’s all.” They stare at him, and after a moment he sighs and rolls his wrist in a you know gesture. “Well, to start with - who’s the girl?”

Will is about a millisecond from blowing his lid, but fortunately for Lucas, Mike has finally recovered enough to look up and rejoin the conversation. Dryly, he says, “I feel like you may have a fundamental misunderstanding of what gay means.”

Laughter all around. Everyone is so tense - unsure, awkward, treading on unfamiliar and volatile territory - that the burst of comic relief carries them further than it normally would. Especially when, riding on the wave of embarrassed giggling, Dustin quietly wonders aloud, “So, uh, is the sex better?”

Mike and Will are both shocked into wordlessness, but Max leans over to shove him, still laughing. “God, Dustin, you can’t just ask about people’s sex lives!”

“I was just joking, god! Ow, El, quit it! I’m just trying to lighten the mood here. Lucas was the one that brought it up, hit him !”

Max startles suddenly and audibly enough to draw the whole Party’s attention. Her index finger pops up like she just had a lightbulb moment.

“Wait! Oh my god, so Troy did walk in on a blowj*b at prom?”

“No!” Mike howls, bursting into fresh peals of laughter as a sheet of tension in his chest gives way under its own weight. His hands cut through the air as if striking down the very idea, but now he’s laughing too hard to form a coherent sentence. “That’s not - no, he -”

Dustin, meanwhile, has covered his reddening face, laughing, “Holy sh*t.”

“No, no,” Will is saying, scrambling to clear it up, but by now everyone is talking over each other, laughing, joking, doing impressions of Troy and James. And from there, it’s easier. The bomb has been dropped. All they have to do now is wait for the smoke to clear and see what damage was done. Damage which, to Mike’s lightheaded relief, seems to be minimal. The Party isn’t exactly perfect about it, but then, he didn’t expect them all to instantaneously undergo a major shift in societal mindset, either. He’s just happy that nobody got up and left, backing through the front door apologetically, unable to stand being around him.

Will’s gonna be insufferable after this, he reflects. Because he was right. None of Mike’s worst fears came true. The Party didn’t lean away in disgust, or get up and leave, or start talking like Mike was sick or broken. Like his parents did. They’re a little shaky on what’s okay or not to say, but they’re clearly at least trying to be supportive. Especially as the conversation goes on, and Mike’s thundering heart rate starts to fade from where it had been pulsing hard in his temples and chest and fingertips, and the Party is stumbling all over themselves trying to piece together a timeline. Verbally working their way through the meandering equivalent of this explains so much.

Max is halfway through a sentence when Dustin’s lighthearted expression dies from his face as suddenly as a blown-out candle. “Your parents kicked you out because of this?” he blurts, and the grave shock ripples across the rest of the Party as they all seem to remember how this whole conversation started.

Mike nods into the abrupt silence.

“Oh sh*t,” Max says, blankly. “When?”

“Maybe a week ago? A little over.” He speaks as if he’s lost track of the days already, but he hasn’t. He could probably report the time elapsed down to the hour if he needed to.

Lucas’s features twist from grave to hurt. “A week? ”

“Yeah.”

“A week.”

“Yeah?”

“Mike.”

“Lucas?”

He gestures repeatedly with both palms, emphasizing each word. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m like three doors down, dude, you could’ve crashed with me.”

The Party devolves briefly into a whirl of concerned chatter. Even more questions. Expressions of outrage and disbelief directed at the senior Wheelers. Piece by piece, out of order, and aided by Will, they get the whole story out of him. How he left the Byers’ that evening, rode home in the rain, and found his parents at the kitchen table. The photo strip from the mall. Mike skims over the salient points of the conversation, his face slack and his voice empty because if he allows any modicum of emotion to rise it’ll all come out in a flood. His throat is rough by the time he rushes through the conclusion, brusquely summing up the ultimatum, Nancy, and his nighttime flight through the storm. He stops almost in the middle of a word, because he knows for sure that if he goes on his voice will start to wobble, and on top of everything he doesn’t want to cry right now.

“Holy sh*t,” Max says again, seeming at a loss for any other words, and Dustin offers, “That’s intense. That’s heavy.”

“So...” Lucas ventures eventually, “What are you gonna do? I - can we help?”

“My mom loves you, come stay with me,” Dustin says immediately, his cheeks bunching up in an easy grin. “We’ve got a spare bed. I’ll have to clear it with Yertle, though.”

“He’s obviously staying here,” Max says, and then looks to Mike. “Right?”

“Joyce is gonna let me hang around until college,” he confirms. It seems weird to say aloud. He’s still trying to make his brain believe that it’s the truth, that his life isn’t going to spontaneously reset itself to normal. “She’s been really cool about everything.”

“So she knows?”

“How long have you been...?” Dustin cuts in, hesitating with expectantly lifted eyebrows before he actually says the word, “Dating?”

“Since April,” Will says, and Mike quietly adds, “Seventeenth.”

Dustin’s answering nod is thoughtful. “I could tell. I mean, I didn’t know, ” he clarifies when they blink in surprise, “But I knew something was up. You guys were always... tense, I guess? Or it seemed like whenever you two were around us you were on the defense. Like you were waiting for something.”

Mike isn’t terribly shocked at this. Dustin is perceptive. But he doesn’t get to comment on it before Max’s eyes narrow.

“You knew, too,” she accuses. Her spine twists to look back at El, who tosses off a nonchalant little shrug. “You did!” Max cries, slapping the carpet. “This whole time, you’ve been covering for them, haven’t you?”

More overlapping talk. Lucas’s voice rises above the fray. “Why’d El get to know but not us?”

“Because I think society’s rules are stupid,” El says bluntly. Sometime in the past five minutes she must have covertly floated a bag of chips from the kitchen into the living room, and has been quietly crunching on them as the chaos unfolds. Now she arches her eyebrows and adopts a silly voice to mimic Society, Capital-S. “Pink is just for girls. Girls can only date boys. Theft is against the law. ”

Everyone giggles. Will stretches out one foot to jab at El, who primly lifts her legs out of reach.

The conversation slips on, the tension almost entirely dissipated, Mike’s fingers trembling from the aftereffects of adrenaline. Various Party members start making wrapping up the topic noises, to his relief. It’s just as they seem to be moving on to discussing weekend plans that Lucas says, “Just don’t start making out in front of us and it’s cool, yeah?”

He clearly meant it as a joke, and Mike is ready to give a grudging chuckle and move on, but Will’s eyes have gone hard. Before Mike realizes what’s happening, his boyfriend has turned and tilted ninety percent of the way into a kiss. Mike ducks away just in time, hissing, “ Will! ”

Will only smiles, smug as a cat. He doesn’t need to say anything; his point has already been made. He has no intention of keeping anything on the down-low for the Party’s benefit. If he wants to kiss his boyfriend he’s damn well gonna kiss his boyfriend. Mike just wishes he had the same confidence - or at least, that he could fake it as well as Will.

While Mike is fighting the overwhelming urge to hide in his hands and Will is trying to mask his sheepishness under brash nonchalance, the Party is... reacting. Lucas looks taken aback, Max glances away for a moment before recovering with a huff of laughter, and Dustin’s face attempts to execute several expressions simultaneously. But they quickly get over the initial hurdle of surprise, and the atmosphere thaws in an instant as Max mutters, “Aw,” and El says, “You missed.”

Dustin is the one that starts chanting. “Do it, do it, do it -”

Lucas, as if to amend his tone-deaf joke, joins in the chant. Then Max, then El, and Mike has long since given up and buried his face in his hands, fire-engine-red and shaking his head and laughing, “Stop it, stop -”

“Do it, do it, do it -”

“I hate you all -”

His hands drop and there’s Will, and this time Mike gives in and bobs in for the quickest of pecks, to whoops and applause.

Before the Party officially moves on to other activities for the evening, they make a promise.

“You guys know no one can know about this,” Will says, meeting each of their eyes in turn, and Mike is only partly kidding around when he adds, “Yeah, nobody run your big mouth about this.”

They’re met with a chorus of earnest agreement. Mike holds out his pinky to the group, and they all crawl forward to hook their pinkies together in a spiral of bent little fingers - a mass-pinky-promise, like they used to do when they were baby-faced kids in middle school.

“All right, then,” he says, and they unravel.

The rest of the night transpires mainly as though nothing ever happened. After that burst of brazen demonstration, Will seems to retreat into his shell a little, and for the evening they’re back to playing the roles of just-best-friends. Mike doesn’t mind. He’s exhausted himself. Happy, yes - he’s out to all the most important people in his life, now, and it could have gone so much worse - but exhausted. He feels kind of like he wants to throw up, or maybe just pass out and sleep for three to five business days because of how many emotions just wrung out his brain like a washcloth. But it’s a good kind of tired. The kind that means you might actually get to rest .

And when the Party settles down to watch a movie, Mike wordlessly pulls Will into his lap.

Warm night air, peppered with a mist of humidity that fogs up the edges of the car windows. The radio, on as always. The bone-deep familiarity of the smell of cigarette smoke soaked into the seats. A light spattering of summer rain taps infrequently on the metal roof of the Pinto, and the multicolored glow of downtown Hawkins - streetlights, movie theater lights, a neon open sign in the window of the all-night gas station - warp and blur through the moisture on the windshield.

Will is in the driver’s seat of his mother’s car, idling by the curb. She lets them use it, when she can, especially when Mike gets off late like this. Neither Will nor his mother is keen on Mike walking home alone in the dark past midnight. Plus, it gets Will more practice behind the wheel, which he needs. He’s scanning over the backlit posters along the wall of the movie theater, searching for anything he might be interested in, when the release date on the poster for Short Circuit 2 catches his eye. It came out a few days ago. Meaning the first week of July has come and gone already.

Meaning, it’s been over a month since Mike moved in with them.

He sits back in his seat, mulling this over with some surprise. It doesn’t seem like it’s been that long - and yet, it almost seems longer.

They’ve been settling in. After a month, it’s finally starting to feel... well... normal. Will is used to Mike’s toothbrush in the fourth slot of the toothbrush holder in the bathroom now. And he’s so used to sharing their bed that he tends to wake up, blearily groping at the empty space beside him, if Mike gets up in the night for even a few minutes.

They’ve started to settle into a routine, the normalcy comforting after all the chaos and upheaval. They have a night or two per week when it’s their turn to cook dinner, and they’re mostly responsible for taking the dog on daily walks. They trade off on washing dishes. Mike doesn’t mind the chores, or even the job; it makes him feel less guilty, as he’s told Will - more like he actually belongs there. Like it’s his home and he’s not just taking up space.

They’re getting better at learning when they need to take breaks from each other. It was a vague blurry line, for a while, especially since they naively figured it couldn’t be that different from before. They used to hang out all the time - is living together so different? Turns out, the answer is yes. They’re only just beginning to get a feel for the right balance. Will tends to use his alone time to train in the shed - either by himself or with El as a teacher - or to paint. It’s become somewhat of a pet project of his, painting, and it’s convenient because his makeshift studio is in the training shed. It gives him a handy excuse for being back there so much. The wooden floor is dotted and drizzled with multicolored threads of pigment, by now, and the shelves are starting to become stuffed full with paint-crusted jars and brushes and sponges. Boards and canvases lean against the walls, and when he wants to train, he pushes everything to one side and turns up the volume on the radio to mask the strident, teeth-grinding buzz and zap of electricity.

Mike used to leave the house when he wanted to be alone, but not so much anymore. He’s a lot more comfortable about being home alone now, whereas he used to be a little awkward about it, often leaving to hang out with the Party if no one else was home because he felt weird being in the Byers’ house by himself.

The Party, meanwhile, is mostly adjusted to D&D in the Byers’ dining room instead of the Wheelers’ basem*nt. Sometimes in the middle of a campaign, they’ll hear Joyce or Jonathan burst into laughter from across the house at a funny part.

More importantly, they’ve learned by heart the little windows in everyone’s overlapping weekly schedules where no one else is home. Just Will and Mike. It’s vital information to have memorized. When you live in a cheaply constructed house with thin walls, an hour or two home alone with your boyfriend can be a godsend.

Livin’ on a Prayer has come on the radio and Will is humming along, wondering if he should just pull around and park, when a flash of movement draws his eye. The side door of the Hawk swings shut behind Mike, who jogs through the drizzle of rain with his head down. Will almost leans over the passenger seat to open the door from the inside until he remembers that this is his mother’s car, not Mike’s, and this car actually has working doors.

“Hey,” Will chirps, tossing his book onto the dashboard behind the wheel as Mike gets in and shuts the door. He’s started bringing books to read while he waits, in case he has to park and wait half an hour or more before Mike can escape his shift.

“Hey, babe.”

They both do a cursory survey of the area, but nobody is around. It’s late. Mike has the closing shift on Fridays, getting out at 11:30 at the earliest. With the coast clear, they lean over the center console in sync for a quick, familiar kiss, the motion so ingrained in Will’s muscle memory that he doesn’t need to think about it or aim. Mike smells like popcorn butter and dusty projector rooms, and the sweet-stale taste of soda lingers in his mouth.

Mike hit the pavement soon after they came out to the Party, and within a week he was walking into the back rooms of the theater for an interview. An hour later, he was handed a cheesy, ill-fitting black-and-maroon uniform and a nametag. He was determined to start bringing in paychecks ASAP - to not be a burden.

“She says, we've got to hold on to what we've got,” Bon Jovi offers from the radio as Will shifts the car into drive and pulls away. “It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. We've got each other and that's a lot for love. We'll give it a shot -”

“Woah, we're half way there!” Mike belts out suddenly, making Will laugh. “Woah, livin' on a prayer! Take my hand, we'll make it I swear.”

He reaches over to poke Will’s shoulder until Will rolls his eyes and, in a dramatic, goofy voice, joins in, “Woah, livin' on a prayer!”

He misjudges a yellow light and stomps on the brakes too hard, throwing Mike towards the dashboard.

“Seatbelt,” Will prompts, as Mike rights himself with barely a grumble. He’s plenty used to Will’s questionable driving skills. Will hears his seatbelt click into place a moment later.

They pass Will’s place of employment a minute later. Just down from the corner of 6th and Clear River Circle. It’s closed - Will himself, in fact, closed up shop just a few hours ago - and yellowing blinds are pulled down over the dark windows.

O’Reilly’s New and Used Books.

Will didn’t exactly plan on working in the bookstore, but he likes it. It’s quiet most of the time, and when he’s done with his duties (sorting through boxes of donated books and labelling them for sale; shelving and organizing the books and other merchandise; cleaning; ringing up any customers; etcetera), he can sit behind the front desk and draw, or read. And quite honestly, a good portion of his time is spent doing that. He’s basically being paid to sit around and doodle and keep half an eye on the shop. When school starts again, he’ll be able to do homework between customers. And it’s not especially stellar pay, but considering he’s used to a paycheck of exactly zero, he doesn’t think it’s half bad.

Mrs. O’Reilly’s last employee moved away for college a few months ago. It was honestly dumb luck that landed Will in O’Reilly’s New and Used Books one Tuesday afternoon, and that she was lonely and bored enough to strike up a conversation, and that he happened to mention that he was keeping an eye out for a job, and, why, what do you know? She needed an assistant, as it turned out! Could he work evenings? Because she liked to be able to turn in early, and it would be just wonderful if she had someone who could work the closing shift now and again. And, that was that.

Mrs. O’Reilly absolutely adores Will. He’s thorough and respectful, and, moreover, the same age as her own faraway grandson. More often than not, she sends him home with plastic pea-green tupperware containers full of baked goods labeled for you and your family . Today they received peanut butter cookies. Mike locates these within moments, twisting around to snag the tupperware from the back seat.

It’s right about then that the engine catches, judders, and dies.

Will summarily panics.

“No, sh*t - sh*t, sh*t, sh*t -”

They drift unsteadily. Losing momentum hand over fist until they’re coasting along at fifteen miles per hour, then ten. Mike, who can’t tell what happened yet, keeps repeating, “What? What? Will -!”

He’s so busy trying to steer them to the side of the road for a soft landing that it doesn’t occur to him that the breaks might still work - until they’ve already crunched up against the curb, the front passenger side tire bouncing up onto the sidewalk with a lurch so sudden it would have sent Mike flying if it weren’t for the seatbelt. Only then, when they’ve already come to a dead stop, does Will remember to jam his foot down on the break.

Face in his hands. Groaning and shaking his head. Everything is quiet, dark. The radio and headlights both cut off abruptly the moment the car died, and now they sit in a dim patch between streetlights at the edge of downtown.

“Whoo,” is Mike’s comment. He sits up, rubs a banged elbow, looking around with wide eyes. “What was that? You okay?”

“The engine died. Or the battery or something. f*ck.” He’s twisting the key in the ignition, stupidly, uselessly. Anxiety flutters in the pit of his throat, thinning out his voice to a panicky rasp. “See, this is why I hate driving, I knew something would happen eventually, I knew I was gonna f*ck it up -”

“Hey, it -”

He knows it’s unfair even as he says it, but panic makes him turn on his partner, snapping, “Damnit, Mike, why couldn’t you have just driven home? Mom’s gonna kill me. She’ll kill me. I crashed her goddamn car -”

Mike is reaching over the center console, trying to catch Will’s wildly gesticulating hands in his own, struggling to get a word in edgewise. “No, hey - Will - look, we hit the curb at like five miles per hour, I doubt we even scratched the paint. Okay? Might need a tire alignment, that’s all.”

“But the battery, Mike, the battery,” Will insists, “The whole f*cking car died -”

“Well that’s not your fault.”

“She’s gonna kill me. f*ck.”

“She’s not. She’s not. Look, love, it’s a Pinto. This kind of stuff happens all the time. It’s the sh*tty car, not you. Let’s just go take a look. Come on. Let’s go look.”

He coaxes Will along, but Will is loathe to leave the driver’s seat. If there was such a thing as a seedier side of Hawkins, this would be it. Southwest downtown, where the shopping district has long since faded away behind them and the streets are lined with old, unkempt houses, vacant lots, grimy businesses. This corner of town is where you’ll find the pawn shop, the cheaper of Hawkins’ two laundromats, a liquor store, a couple bars. That being said, it’s Hawkins. The most dangerous thing you’re likely to find prowling the streets of downtown is a fox or two.

At last, Will shifts the car into park, takes the key out of the - now pointless - ignition, and steps out into the warm, dripping night.

Mike was wrong. There is a scratch in the pea-green paint - a small one, though, near the fender. Apart from the fact that one tire is propped casually up on the curb, like a human resting their elbow on the table, the car appears perfectly fine. That doesn’t solve the problem of whatever went wrong in the inner workings, though. Will props open the hood and peers into the snarl of piping hot, grit-grime metal intestines, for once wishing that he had paid a bit more attention when his dad tried to teach him this stuff when he was eight.

“What’s the problem?” Mike says hopefully, and Will lifts an indicative palm at the car as he squints in the darkness.

“It appears to be some form of machinery.”

“Oh, yeah, that is a problem.” Mike leans over him, drumming his fingers on the propped-up hood. “Well. We can, uh.” He blows out a breath, craning his neck around as if for some sign or inspiration. And apparently he finds it. “Look - isn’t there a payphone just over there? Around the corner from that tree. We used it in freshman year that one time, remember? We can call Joyce, she’ll know what to do. And we can just walk home if we really need to.”

Mike has his arm around Will’s shoulders, tugging him gently away from the beached car and beginning to guide him across the road. Close, comforting, intimate in a way that they’d never display on the streets of Hawkins during the daytime. Not for this long, at least - not with Will winding his arm around Mike’s waist in turn, tucking himself against his boyfriend’s side as their steps fall into sync. He’s still making worried-grumpy noises about the car as they make their way across the wet, deserted street. The pavement shimmers with streaks of reflected light, flecks of rain hitting their hair and faces now and again. Petrichor is as thick in the air as the humidity, washing over Will’s cheeks as they move.

“It’s fine, babe, it wasn’t you,” Mike is saying, speaking directly to the shrill, frenzied part of Will’s mind that won’t shut up. “It’s just the car, it’s a sh*tty -”

They round the corner at the same moment that someone else does, nearly colliding with them. No, not someone - several someones. Tall, broad figures looming out of the mist of rain. Two, four, five of them. At Will’s side, Mike goes stiff as a board, slamming to a halt.

“What’s this?” the apparent leader says. His speech is slurred, like he’s speaking around at least two or three marbles.

Will takes in the scene in one stomach-dropping flash. Expensive yet sloppy clothes; douchey haircuts; cigarettes smoldering, the little points of orange glow acute in the blue-gray night. Behind the gang of men - boys? - sits a moderately snazzy convertible, the top pulled up against the rain. A group of frat guys home for the summer, by the looks of it, killing time by hanging around their own car, smoking, drunk and bored because that’s the only thing to do in Hawkins after 10pm. They have a mean, leering kind of glint in their eye that makes Will’s extremities go cold. It’s the kind of look people get when a fight breaks out at school. A hard, eager gleam that says, now, here’s some entertainment.

“What’s this?” the leader says again, swaggering forward so that Will pitches back, dragging Mike with him. He’s not the tallest guy of the bunch, or the broadest, but he has a nasal loudness about him - a co*cky, rich-boy, football-scholarship strut that’s impossible to miss. He has thin, strawberry-blond hair which he swipes out of his eyes with exaggeration as he looks Mike and Will up and down. “Couple’a queers, huh?”

They break apart, but it’s too late.

“They are,” says a rat-faced guy in the back of the group, “I just heard Bellboy here call the other one babe. Babe, ” he mimics, and out of the corner of his eye Will can see Mike’s hands rise self-consciously to his work uniform.

With the long-sleeved, button-up maroon shirt and the black slacks with tacky gold stripes up the sides, he does look like he could be a bellboy for a snobbish apartment building in an old movie. Usually, Will thinks it’s cute. Now, he wishes Mike hadn’t just come from work. That he wasn’t wearing something so conspicuous. That Will hadn’t panicked and driven the goddamn car halfway onto the sidewalk. That they hadn’t been f*cking stupid enough to be walking around cuddled up to each other out in the open like that.

The drunk frat guys bounce jeers back and forth for a moment or two, but Will barely processes the actual words. Fight or flight has taken hold. Needle-sharp icicles are curling their way into his belly. A sour sweat is prickling up under his arms and in the creases of his palms. Mike is yanking at his arm, trying to pull him back towards the car - but what good will that do? The car’s dead. Even if they could make it inside, they couldn’t go anywhere. They’d be trapped.

There, beyond the huddle of frat guys, their salvation: the blue plastic box of a pay phone, lit from above by a streetlight. They just have to push through. That’s it. That’s all they need to do. Just put their heads down and skirt around the hooting pack. Don’t make a scene out of it, don’t give them a show, and they’ll get bored and leave it alone. That must be the way out of this, because Will can’t see any other. Except that his limbs have gone stiff, because this is it. Isn’t it? The real deal. This, right here, is the real reason nobody ever lives out of the closet in places like Hawkins. This isn’t a group of potentially-judgmental friends, or unsupportive parents, or even snarky high school bullies. This is a real threat. All years older, all six-foot-something, all broad-shouldered - but more than that, all chuckling darkly. Muttering taunts to each other in slurred speech. Drifting closer, slowly but surely. Advancing.

Something is buzzing at the base of Will’s skull. Cold, numbing fear, and a stab of fury like a hot poker, but something else, too.

“The hell are you talking about?” Mike snaps. Trying valiantly to talk them out of the situation they’re caught in. “We’re just going to use the phone. What, people aren’t allowed to walk around on public streets anymore? f*ck outta the way, asshole.”

Wrong choice of words. Strawberry-Blond rears forward, goaded by supportive calls from the others. “What the f*ck did you just say to me?”

His threatening lunge is undermined slightly by the fact that he stumbles halfway through, cursing. A tart, tingling energy has set itself deep in Will’s muscles, like lactic acid, and he darts forward instinctually, trying to elbow Mike back. From here, he can smell the liquor on them. Murky-sharp and raw. Rank enough to take the paint off the hood of a car.

Look, just let us through, we’re not here to make any trouble. We’re just trying to get home. That’s what Will considers saying, for a moment. But somehow, he doubts this crowd would be very sympathetic to that. So what comes out of his mouth when he opens it is, “Are you stupid or just deaf? He said get the f*ck out of the way.”

Somebody gives a few sarcastic whoots. It’s the rat-faced guy, sidling his way to the front of the pack, pinching the butt of his cigarette between two fingers. “Whoo-hoo-hoo,” he sing-songs. “We’ve got ourselves some fighters.”

Mike redoubles his tugging at Will’s arm, but it’s confused and directionless now. More a general expression of panic than an actual message.

They’ve been backing up steadily as Ratface slinks towards them, which is all wrong, because the payphone is that way, they’re supposed to be going forward -

Ratface takes a long drag from the last of his cigarette, eyeing them disdainfully, and then blows a jet of smoke from his nose. “You know what we do with fa*gs where I’m from?”

Someone in the group mutters something about “keeping the streets clean,” to a rumble of laughter, and Mike spits one last defiant attempt at self-preservation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re not even like that, and we were just -”

It happens so fast. Will’s gaze is focused on that blue plastic box not ten yards away, and then a hard burst of force slams into his sternum and he’s stumbling, hissing curses at the guy who pushed him. He regains his balance just as Mike barks, “Hey!”

The deep-bright red shade of Mike’s shirt appears in Will’s peripheral vision as Mike stations himself between Will and Ratface, shouting and gesturing, but Will’s attention is on the two low-ranking lackeys who have quietly circled to the sides. Blocking escape routes. And that’s the last solid, complete moment Will gets before the world disintegrates into a whirlwind of half-formed, rapidfire impressions.

Will is on his feet, then on the wet ground with his ears ringing, then scrambling to his feet again, the flash-imprint of a fist echoing in his vision, the bones of his face aching and his nose and left cheek pulsing hot and numb, and where’s Mike where is he - there, on his feet, that’s good, swarmed by their hollering assailants, curses and slurs in the rain, “We don’t need that sh*t in or town -”

A figure looms in front of him, sudden as a shadow, and Will strikes out. His whole arm jolting and ringing up to the shoulder with an impact. Arms lock around his torso, multiple pairs, crushing him, lifting him, his sneakers skimming and kicking over asphalt, where are they taking him oh god where are they taking him, Mike screaming for him somewhere, the blur of streetlights reflecting on wet pavement, the stink of BO and strong alcohol and smoke and bad breath, the night loud with the echoing hoots and chatter of his captors.

“What should we do with him, Marv?”

“Let’s throw him in the dumpster -”

“Anyone got a light?”

“Whoo!”

“Burn, baby, burn!”

“Aw, don’t worry, we’re not gonna kill ya -”

“Just teach you a little something about infecting our town with that disgusting -”

Wriggling, thrashing like a fish, legs kicking wildly until they drive into something fleshy, something that gives a hollow oof , the salty metallic tang of blood blooming around his teeth as he bites down on something that tastes like greasy skin and sweat-

Hitting the ground with a crack as his skull bounces off the pavement, skittering backwards, spitting blood, shooting to his feet and full-throttle sprinting for Mike, his head ringing and his mouth and chin and throat wet with the nosebleed he hadn’t noticed until it got in the way of his breathing -

Drunken cheers, whoops.

“We got a runner!”

“Get him, Trip!”

Mike is being restrained by the remaining two guys, putting up a good fight, but before Will can discern anything else something catches at his ankle and he’s on his hands and knees, grinding over wet asphalt as he’s yanked backwards. Shoes appear right in front of his face and he covers his head with his arms instinctually, shielding himself for a blow that doesn’t come. There seems to be some hesitance, some small measure of reluctance among the more timid members of the group that rears its head now that they’re staring down at a bloodied-up teenage boy curled up in a puddle on the pavement, and it’s in that heartbeat of hesitation that a heavy, panting shape skids to his knees next to Will, grabbing at him, heaving him up -

“Yeah, go on and save your boyfriend, sweetheart,” Strawberry-Blond says. And with that their moment of reprieve ends as they stagger to their feet, supporting each other, only for Ratface to shove the flame of his lighter in their faces.

Will, half-delirious with adrenaline and sick fear and wordless, screaming anger, jerks away from the flame - slamming straight into the waiting hands of the tallest guy, who shoves him the other direction. He careens, nearly falls on his face, is caught by a pair of arms in a wifebeater and tossed across the circle again. It’s a game of keep-away, Will being the sought-after object. They’re spinning him, laughing riotously, launching him first one way and then the other, and it’s all he can do to stay upright. The world loops and reels around him, faces flashing by as they spin him like he’s about to hit a piñata. Mike makes a grab for him, but somebody jerks him back by the collar of his work shirt, making him choke and cough - and Will is furious. Humiliated, in pain, terrified, dizzy, and seething with rage.

He becomes aware, with a fizzing little sparkle of static in his clothes, of the energy that’s been steadily mounting all this time. Coiled, defensive, ready. He was just too preoccupied to notice it. Now as he ragdolls between the shoving hands, Mike’s voice calling to him over the muffled ringing in his ears, a current runs up and down his body. Soothing, invigorating, the sting of electricity as fresh and bracing as a cold shower. The next time he’s released into the center of the circle, he rolls to the ground, eliciting a distressed yelp from Mike.

Will, having momentarily evaded the reaching hands, shudders as power runs rampant through the endings of his nerves. The world has gone a little hazy around him, the ground whirling and bucking as his balance centers scrabble for equilibrium. He sways as he palms the ground and climbs to his knees. One leg up. Then the other. Standing, slowly, fingers fluttering in preparation.

Mike, meanwhile, has done something incredibly stupid. Will doesn’t register it until several seconds too late, but there was a flash of movement, a grunt, and now Mike is rubbing his knuckles with a grimace and Strawberry-Blond is mad. His alcohol-flush deepening into a shade near purple, a vein ticking in his neck, sputtering thickly.

“I’ll kill you, you little bitch!”

Enough.

Will isn’t sure when exactly he stopped being scared, or when the street steadied underneath him. He’s distantly aware of the streetlights guttering, darkness thickening in the air around them as a charge builds, seeping up his legs and into his spine from the rain-soaked ground.

Strawberry-Blond is the first to go. There’s a nerve-grating jolt through Will’s arm, tingling-numb static buzzing and prickling in his fingers, a white-blue pop of light, and then both their ringleader and Ratface are twitching on the ground.

“He has a taser? ” wifebeater screeches, and the tall one spits, “Man, f*ck this!”

The third remaining lackey latches onto Strawberry-Blond’s shirt and drags him halfway upright. “C’mon, Marv, c’mon, let’s go -”

Footsteps slapping over pavement, retreating to the convertible. None of them seem sober enough to have put together that Will managed to “taze” two of them simultaneously.

“Hey, play fair next time!” one of them calls over their shoulder.

“The car,” Will is saying, shoving himself under Mike’s arm - whether for Mike’s support or his own, he can’t tell. “The car.”

“But the phone...?” Mike protests weakly, but doesn’t make any further complaint as Will steers them back the way they came, shuffling and then jogging and then pelting for the Pinto. The hood is still propped up, a few specks of rain steaming on the hot machinery, and as Will shoves the keys at Mike he scans over the mess of metal with his mind. Feeling out the hot-cold fluctuations of electrons. Finding the empty blip where there should be a spike of power. He shoves his hands into the grime, burning his palms, and gives a hard pulse.

“Try it now,” he calls, and from the driver’s seat, Mike twists the key.

The car starts.

Will slams down the hood, skids around the fender and tumbles into the passenger seat, barely getting the door closed before Mike sends the car careening backwards, the front tire bumping down from the curb with a bang, and they screech off into the night.

Buildings flash by on either side, petering out into trees and the occasional house. Will keeps watching the mirrors, expecting to see a blue convertible appear behind them, but there’s nothing. They blast through the last red light at the edge of town, barreling through the empty intersection, and Will leans back against his seat. The surge of power was so sudden that it drained him, leaving his limbs weak and cold and limp as noodles, his heart pounding slow and hard, his mouth dry and tacky. His whole skull throbs, and he can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion or from when they dropped him and he cracked his head against the ground. His clothes are soaked. Grimy rainwater seeping into the cloth seat of his mother’s car.

“Will.” Mike’s voice is rough, slivers of sound breaking through a harsh exhale. “What the hell.”

He toys with the idea of trying to evade, to brush it off, but he’s too tired. He has no energy left to come up with any explanation or excuse. He scrubs a hand over his face, mildly surprised when it comes away red with crackles of half-dried blood from his nose.

“That wasn’t -” Mike goes on. He’s leadfooting the gas, swerving around the corner to the back roads, slowing only marginally when they skid on gravel. “What was that?”

“Slow -” Will tries, but Mike talks over him.

“Look, I know something happened back there - the lights - not to mention the car -”

Slapping both palms on his knees in frustration, Will breaks in. “I was going to tell you! Okay? I’m sorry. I - I - I was gonna tell you weeks ago, but then the whole thing with your parents, and we were looking for jobs, and it just - I’m sorry.”

“No, Will, I’m - you think I’m not glad it happened? Of course I’m glad you - you did... whatever you did, I just...” He pats the steering wheel with a dip of his head. His driving isn’t so erratic anymore, though he’s soaring down the road at a clip that would get him pulled over if Hop was on duty. “I would just like to know what happened.”

Sniffing as his nosebleed acts up again, mopping at his face with the tail of his shirt, Will shrugs in defeat. “I have powers.”

“You have powers.”

“Yeah.” Another sniff, a wet laugh, and then Mike gives an answering chuckle - maybe in surprise, or maybe just relief that they’re both okay, still coming down from what just happened. “I have powers,” Will repeats, laughing weakly. When he looks over at Mike, Mike’s eyes are on the road. His right cheek is swelling up just under his eye, and both of his forearms are all scraped up, probably from being thrown to the asphalt. He’s shaking his head a little, blinking like he’s absorbing this information.

“Okay,” he exhales.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Will nods. “Okay.”

He tugs at his seatbelt and rests his head on the window, eyes glazing over as he watches the streetlights swing by outside. He knows Mike is waiting for him to say more, but he just doesn’t have the energy to have that conversation right now. Then he remembers something. With a groan as a pulled muscle complains sharply, he reaches into the backseat. He emerges with four peanut butter cookies, one of which he sticks between Mike’s teeth to an answering grunt of thanks.

He stashes the two extra in the cup holder, takes a bite of his own, and leans his seat back as far as it will go, closing his eyes.

Chapter 14: Final Straw

Chapter Text

The wee hours of the morning always have a sort of otherworldly feel to them. Time outside of the normal cycle of the day; exempt from normal rules. Bleary eyes, bleary mind, pitch black beyond the windows. The awareness of people sleeping nearby - everyone else in the house, in the town, on this side of the world, asleep. Except for you.

It’s one of the reasons Mike kind of likes his closing shifts. He doesn’t mind having to stay late to clean up. Usually.

The contents of the first aid kit are scattered between them. On the floor, in a few soggy heaps, are their clothes. It was the first thing they did when they got home - grimy, rain-soaked clothes off, pajamas on. Maybe first aid should have superseded that priority, but Mike can’t exactly say he’s been thinking clearly.

His hands are still shaking.

Will, head down, picks through some band aids. “Do you still... wanna do this?”

“Patch each other up?”

They’re half-whispering to keep from waking Joyce or Jonathan.

Will shakes his head minutely. “This. Us.”

Mike freezes with one hand inside the first aid kit. The hard plastic shell gapes at an odd angle, like a jaw about to snap down on his wrist. Will won’t look at him. “What are you talking about?”

Will flips slowly through bandaids of different sizes - flesh-toned scraps that whisper between his fingers. “Well, look, that kind of stuff...” He points through the wall - a hard, distinct gesture, like he’s pointing to the exact spot where his head hit the pavement downtown. There’s still a smear of grime streaked beside his ear. “What happened there isn’t going to go away. That’s not the last time that’s gonna happen to us.”

His body flexes, like he was about to stand up and then changed his mind, lapsing into silence. Mike watches him from the corner of the bed. Watches those oblong scraps flip past Will’s thumb like shuffling cards.

“It happens to people all the time. But...”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“I’m just saying, you like girls too -”

“Hey. ”

“No, just listen, listen. You like girls too, you have a choice. You don’t have to go through all that -”

“Will, shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up. I’m trying - hey, listen!”

“Shh - ”

“I’m trying to - I dunno. I’m just saying, I would totally understand if -”

“You’re gonna wake up your mom.”

Will falls quiet with a shallow breath and a glance in the direction of the hallway. Then he points again, dead serious, as Mike glares. “That kind of stuff isn’t gonna stop. Okay? It’s the way it is.”

“No. f*ck that.”

“It’s the way the world is -”

“Not forever.” He says it with a tight jaw. He’s trying to convince Will, but he’s also trying to convince himself. He grasps at the first piece of hope he can think of. “Things are better now than they were fifty years ago, aren’t they?”

A head tilt, a flattening of lips. “Okay, fine, but in fifty years we’ll be almost seventy. I’m talking about - about next year, next week, not -” Will pinches the bridge of his nose and then makes a brusque gesture, as if flicking away the tangent. “The point, Michael, is that that’s gonna happen again.” The tears swell up thickly in his voice - like a delayed reaction to everything that’s happened tonight.

Mike takes a breath to say something, his lips clicking as they part, and then he just sweeps aside the mess between them and scoots a foot closer. “I guess I better ask Nancy where she buys her pepper spray, then.”

Will laughs, shakes his head, and lets his forehead thump onto Mike’s shoulder.

“We’ll just be careful,” Mike says, and Will nods against him. He puts an arm around Will - the very thing that got them in trouble - and murmurs, “We’re careful. It’ll be okay.”

Whatever he was expecting in response, it wasn’t a strange, savage grin.

“The hell’s up with you?” Mike says, and Will shakes his head with a quiet laugh.

“You know what? They let a name slip. Two, actually. Marv and Trip. First thing tomorrow I’m paying Hop a visit.”

“You know what? Maybe that’s not a bad idea.”

They clean up and brush their teeth in silence. Mike has been sitting on something for a while, but he sensed it wasn’t the right time to bring it up. Not while they were still shaking and half-numb from their narrow escape. But now...

“So...”

Will glances at him, halfway through sliding under the covers. The lights are off; his eyes glint in the faint glow of the lava lamp. “Hm?”

The hum is forced-casual. He knows what Mike is about to bring up.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Mike considers letting it drop for the night. It’s late, and they’re both tired. But this is big. Maybe it’s something he shouldn’t leave for the morning.

He decides to just rip off the bandaid. “Your powers?”

Will pauses for a brief second, and then continues getting into bed. Movements precise, careful. He slides his legs under the covers and scoots up, propping his back against the wall. Unnecessarily smoothing the blankets around him. He’s taking his time to think through his response, choosing his words. Mike waits.

“I wanted to wait to tell you until I had it under control,” he says eventually, quietly.

“You couldn’t have brought it up a little sooner? I m-” He rubs his eyes. Takes a breath. Okay. Back up. “How long have...?”

“I think maybe since... Everything,” Will says slowly. Mike can tell he means Everything-with-a-capital-E. Everything when they were twelve and thirteen. His mind is reeling. That long? “But I only started to realize a few months ago.”

He looks at the clock, like he, too, is weighing whether he wants to dive into the conversation now. Then he lifts a corner of the sheet.

“Get under here. This is gonna take a few minutes.”

Will toys with the edge of the sheet as he talks. Crumpling the fabric in his hands, running it between his fingers. A nervous, fidgety habit Mike recognizes well from deep conversations of sleepovers past.

The story comes out in uneven, mumbling bursts, stitched together slightly out of order as Will remembers a relevant detail here or there and doubles back to add it in. Mike jumps in a time or two as something clicks - the ever-present static, the gremlin-infested radio, Will’s tendency to zap any unfortunate soul who touches his hand. The pieces start to fall into place.

The lights. The electrical issues. The sparks. Troy. Will’s nightmare, just before Prom. His panic attack. The blackout. The shed. El. And then, tonight.

“I felt so awful,” Will says, for about the fourth time. He’s referring to the blackout at school. Out of everything, it’s this - plus nearly electrocuting Mike after his nightmare - that he seems to be guiltiest about. “There was an electrical truck parked outside for three days -”

“It was not three days. It was a day.”

“The school was closed. Do you know how much damage has to be done to close down a whole -?”

“C’mon, the wiring hasn’t been updated since the place was built, they would have had to replace it soon anyway -”

“Maybe, or maybe I -”

“Actually -” He knocks Will on the chest with the back of his hand as a new thought occurs. “You know what? It’s probably a damn good thing you fried the old system. You know good ol’ Hawkins High, they were never gonna replace it otherwise. They’re so cheap. Shoddy old wires probably would have lit the place on fire before they did anything about it. You may have saved us all from dying of smoke inhalation.”

“I don’t think -” Will cuts off, huffing out a quiet laugh. “Okay, sure. Yeah. Maybe.”

A worrying snap-creak from somewhere in the house. They fall silent, listening to see if they woke anyone, but there’s nothing. No bedroom door opening, no footsteps. No one coming to glare blearily at them and ask what they’re doing awake and why they’re making noise at this hour. Just the house settling on is foundations.

But the silence brings a new worry to Mike’s mind, snapping quietly into existence like a lighter summoning a flame. “Although -” he says lowly, and Will turns at the change in tone. “Maybe you should... cool it a little. With the -” He waves his hands in answer to Will’s look of confusion. “Big electrical discharges.”

“Yeah, I’ll have to work on that,” Will says, dry as chalk. Just a ripple of annoyance in the undertones of his voice.

“No, Will - the lab.”

A beat of confusion, and then he catches on. “Oh, god.”

“Some of the people that did what they did to El are still out there somewhere -”

“I hadn’t even thought about -”

“- and they’re bound to be paying attention to Hawkins in particular.”

“If I keep causing... anomalies like that -”

“Somebody might notice.”

Will curls up, knees to chest. “God.”

“We can ask El to keep an eye out.” Will nods but won’t look at him, absorbed in this new anxiety. Mike lifts an arm and Will tips gracelessly against him, falling more than leaning into the embrace. “She’d know if something was up. Wouldn’t she?”

“She’d know,” Will agrees. He lets his forehead fall onto his knees for a moment, gently knocking his head against them in an I’m so stupid gesture. “I didn’t even think of that. I was just worried about not being able to control it, I didn’t even...”

“But you can,” Mike reminds him. “You figured it out, you said.”

“I’m still practicing.” A head tilt. “Yeah.”

Mike can’t help it. His curiosity has been building this whole time, and now, as a quiet moment stretches on, he scoots up a little on the bed and says it. “Practicing... what? What can you do?”

For the first time since the conversation began, Will smiles.

He makes half a move, then hesitates, seeming to consider something. Then, sliding out from under the covers and climbing over Mike, he pulls Mike to his feet and guides him over to the metal desk lamp.

“Hold this,” he instructs.

Mike picks it up, puzzled. Will snorts.

“No, just - just keep your hand on it. You don’t need to hold it, just touch it. It’s plugged into the wall. If you get zapped it’ll just go through you and down the cord. Probably.”

“Comforting,” Mike mutters, and Will paces a yard away. Shaking out his arm, blowing a breath out past puffed cheeks.

“You say zapped, ” Mike ventures, as Will centers himself. “So does that mean it’s like -”

The lamp on the other side of the room turns on by itself. Then it turns off by itself. Then the lava lamps begin to flicker and pulse, along with the string lights draped along the walls. The string lights which, Mike notes, are not plugged in. Mike tears his eyes away from the soft flash of rainbow lights to stare at Will.

Will’s dominant hand is lifted, and for a moment, Mike sees El superimposed over him, in her preferred right-hand-extended pose. But Will’s hand is palm-up, fingers relaxed and twitching slightly as he concentrates, and his chin is tilted back to watch the progress of the flickering string lights instead of tucked to his chest.

“Whoa,” Mike says, simply, a little dazzled by the pulsing lights.

Will says, “Wait.”

The lights settle to normal. In the usual dim, warm glow of the lava lamp, a toy robot - a keepsake left over from years past - powers up, red eyes glowing, and walks along the bookshelf. The radio turns on, much too loud, and the volume reduces hastily. Insurance jingle buzzing, barely audible, from the speakers. Mike suddenly has a hunch where the burn mark on one corner came from.

Will rolls his neck, rubs his hands together - blue sparks fizzling between his palms and running down his arms, casting a ghostly glow on the lower planes of his face - and then lifts a hand again. Concentrating. Palm-up, like Peter Parker casting a web. His fingers tense, a cord standing out in his wrist.

Blue-white, so thin and bright it leaves a hairline crack of afterimage in Mike’s vision. Over as soon as he registers it. It was a bolt of electricity, buzzing and delicate, leaping from Will’s fingers to a repurposed soup can across the room.

One of the pencils inside catches quietly on fire.

“sh*t,” Will says, and grabs up a cup of dusty water that’s been sitting on the dresser for the past week. He dumps it over the little flame, effectively getting water all over the bookshelf where the can was sitting. “Goddamnit. Every time.”

“Can I -” Mike says, taking half a step, and Will glances over.

“Oh, yeah, you can let go. I’m done.”

He approaches Will, reaching out tentatively to trace a hand over his arm. Static tingles in his palm.

“Do you get nosebleeds?”

“Like El?” Mike nods and Will tilts his head. “Only sometimes. If I overdo it. I think mine works a little differently than hers.”

“Huh.”

“I get tired, though. It doesn’t always make me bleed, but it drains me. Once or twice I’ve almost passed out because I pushed myself too hard.”

“Geez,” Mike mutters, “Be careful with that.”

Will flaps a hand towards him in a yeah, yeah gesture.

They’re mopping up the spilled water with random bits of dirty laundry from the floor when Joyce’s soft knock sounds out against the doorframe. Their eyes meet. Momentary panic. Uh-oh. Busted.

“I got it,” Will mouths, and goes to open the door. Just before he does, he twitches his head at the lava lamp and the last light in the room goes out. “Hey, sorry...”

“What is going on in here?”

They’re both half-whispering, trying not to wake Jonathan, and Mike hovers at the other side of the room in the hopes that he won’t be pulled into the conversation.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to -”

“Do I smell smoke?”

“I think we blew a fuse. We plugged in the radio on the same wall as the TV and it kind of sparked -”

“So that’s what I heard.”

“Well, we unplugged it, it seems fine...”

Joyce is reaching out to the light switch, flicking it up and down. No light.

“Will,” she groans.

“I can go reset the fuse box.”

“Why are you even still up?”

“Mike had his closing shift today, we were just going to bed.”

Mike, meanwhile, tries to position himself so that the scrapes along his forearms aren’t too obvious. And come to think of it, his right cheek probably doesn’t look too pretty, either. Casually, he turns himself sideways, his puffy cheek angled away from her. Will is lucky. The worst of his injuries are hidden under his hair and clothes. There’s no way she won’t notice something amiss tomorrow, in the daylight, but the cover of darkness saves them from that conversation for now.

“You’re gonna electrocute yourself,” Joyce is saying. She sighs. “Listen, no watching TV - or, playing games, or whatever you were doing - after midnight, all right?”

“Mom, it’s summer vacation, we’re not five anymore -”

“You need your sleep.”

“It’s not like we have school -”

“And I would like to sleep, too. You may not have school but I have work tomorrow -”

“Okay, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Joyce shakes her head - a movement only perceptible by the swing of her hair, silhouetted against the barely-there yellow glow of the back porch light which seeps in through the kitchen window and down the hall. She catches sight of Mike and for a moment he thinks she sees his swelling cheek, but - no. It’s too dark. He lifts a hand, nodding contritely.

“Sorry.”

“Fix the fuse box, please,” she says to both of them, “And go to bed.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Sorry, Mom.”

“Good night, boys.”

“Night,” they both say, and then Will shuts the door behind him and leans against it, making a yikes face.

“We’re gonna have to explain this to her, you know,” Mike whispers as he drops the soggy tee shirt in the laundry basket and points to his cheek, then Will’s head. “She’ll notice.”

“Ya think?”

They climb into bed. Mike shoves the window a little further open to let the smell of smoke out, startling a nearby cricket into silence.

“You gonna go fix that fuse box?” he teases, and Will blank-faces at him. The lights turn on.

“Fixed.”

“Show off.”

The lights turn off.

It’s too hot to cuddle. They mainly keep to separate sides of the bed, comfortably apart except for Mike’s knuckles brushing Will’s wrist when they shift.

It’s clear that neither of them is falling asleep. They wait for the muffled vibrations of Joyce’s movements to cease, and then wait a little longer, just to be safe. Mike rolls onto his side, signaling that he’d be okay with talking if Will wants to, and after a moment Will turns to face him.

“So why do you think you can...?” he whispers, and gestures. He’s been turning it over in his head, and a chilling idea has gripped him. “You don’t think the lab did something to you, do you?”

But Will shakes his head against the pillow.

“I don’t think so. No. I don’t think so. It started before that. After that first November, but before...” Before the Mind Flayer. “I think maybe it came from the Upside Down,” he says, quietly. “Somehow. Being there for so long, it must have... changed me, I guess.”

He shrugs like he’s trying to brush it off, and the gesture is so thirteen-year-old-Will that for a split second he almost appears younger. Thin shoulders, mop of hair bluntly cut. Then Mike blinks and it’s his Will again, nearly eighteen, lean and strong and attractive in a quiet, alert way. Something a little unsettling about him, maybe, if you didn’t know him. Like a mountain lion, pacing, prowling. Sizing up the terrain. A touch of wary watchfulness in the wake of his movements. Dark circles under his eyes, hand-me-down clothes just a tad ill-fitting. But then he’ll smile, or laugh, or focus in on a sketch, and all of that melts away, and suddenly all you can see is the light in him. The light in his warm hazel eyes; the skillful gentleness of his hands. A whisper of ancient Greece in the planes of his cheeks, the set of his eyes - Apollo by way of exhausted art student. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Mike knows the bruise is there - a light red splotch of color at the side of Will’s nose and along the line of his cheek. Not as bad as Mike’s own cheek, but there.

Mike stares at him, and Will stares right back. They both know that there’s no good response to that. The Upside Down didn’t change you ? Of course it did. The power is good, though ? Nothing bad is going to come of this ? They don’t know that. Your mom totally isn’t going to freak when she sees our faces in the daylight ? Best of luck with that one.

In the end, Mike just flexes his fingers to brush Will’s wrist again, and Will gives a tiny lopsided smile, and they roll onto their backs to go to sleep.

What the hell am I feeling? Am I feeling? It’s hard to tell. Loneliness has been so constant that she’s starting to get numb to it.

But it is there, she decides. Okay, so that’s one. Lonely. She feels lonely.

Not self-pitying. No, she’s felt self-pitying for about the past month and a half. Self-pity, along with heavy pendulum-swings of self-blame, has made up the greater fraction of her summer thus far. The sun is shining, the bees are buzzing, the local pool is full of screaming kids every afternoon, and Karen Wheeler’s only son ran away from her.

Can she get a G?

U?

I?

L?

T?

Go team!

She even took Holly to the pool the other day and it didn’t make her feel better. She reclined in a pool chair and ignored the way the sweaty plastic pinched at her skin. She painted sunscreen onto Holly’s scrunched face, laughing, “Hold still!” and then sent her to play. She talked with the other moms. It took no effort at all to smile at the young, shirtless lifeguard who looked her up and down as he passed.

That’s the worst thing about pretending: it is so very easy. You do it so often, for so long, that you completely forget that it’s not real. That it isn’t normal. That not everyone is just reading the lines, playing the part, like you are. Muscle memory and inertia keep you locked into social rules, and you don’t even have to try. Like magic. You smile at the lifeguard and you go home and bicker with your husband and you make lasagna, and hey, presto!

Except that there’s always some small, quiet, baleful part of you that that knows. A tiny voice somewhere in your ribcage that knows something isn’t right. That you’re a liar, a faker, a phony. That something is wrong with you.

Most of the time you can forget it’s there. And in the event that you do remember, you can brush it off as ennui. Something silly; an irrational paranoia that can be promptly buried under bills and phone calls and the next episode of The Wonder Years . Some sort of deep and ultimately irrelevant anxiety that everyone must experience now and again. Right?

The thing is, ever since Mike left, Karen can’t forget. She can’t bat it away like a mosquito buzzing in her ear. Bills and phone calls don’t distract her anymore, only annoy her. And she likes The Wonder Years - it reminds her of her own younger days - but when the episode ends she’s back in her troubles. Back in the same room in the same house on the same spot on the couch. Completely and utterly trapped.

So maybe she can blame it on the loneliness. The idea has been niggling at the back of her brain all week, eating away at her, but she never would have seriously considered it if she hadn’t been alone in the house for so long. Pacing around with her thoughts. Briefly considering changing out of her robe and pajamas, then deciding against it. Why bother? She’s not going anywhere. She doesn’t even have to go pick up Holly; the Ramseys were going to drop her off after the play date.

She wanders past the liquor cabinet, pretending she’s just passing by, telling herself she’s not considering opening it and peering inside.

Holly at her play date. Nancy off god-knows-where, she never tells Karen anything anymore. Ted at work. Mike...

She had turned the radio on earlier, hoping she could catch some sort of radio show. Hear some human voices around the house. There are so few radio shows nowadays - now everything is just television.

She couldn’t find a show, so she left it on an FM station for background noise. Now, as she picks up a book and puts it down again, she becomes vaguely aware of the song playing.

“I hear the ticking of the clock; I'm lying here, the room's pitch dark,” the singer croons.

Oh, no, she thinks. She knows this song. She strides across the living room with abrupt purpose.

“I wonder where you are tonight; no answer on the telephone. And the night goes by so very slow , oh, I hope that it won't end though, alone.”

“Shut up,” she growls, slapping at the buttons until the thing turns off.

Yes, she definitely blames the loneliness. She tells herself that as she turns for the stairs, gripped by the compulsion that’s been prodding at her for the last week. She knows she shouldn’t. Isn’t this what got her into this mess in the first place? Going through Mike’s room, finding something she wasn’t supposed to? But she doesn’t see how it could get any worse at this point, and anyway, she needs to understand. It’s been niggling and gnawing at her, and now she can’t stand it anymore. She needs to know her son, to understand who he is now, because he feels like a stranger.

She knocks. It’s absolutely stupid, and she knows it, but her stomach is roiling with nerves and, somehow, knocking before entering makes this whole thing feel less forbidden.

The door eases open with the same quiet click-groan that it always has. She’s holding her breath; this feels like breaking and entering. Like trodding on holy ground.

Light spills quietly into the warm, stale air. Mike never drew the curtains before he left. The sunlight through his half-closed blinds burns stripes onto the carpet. It’s like one of those disaster movies - a space hastily abandoned, closet door hanging open, possessions scattered, bed unmade, one crumb-covered plate still resting atop a pile of old homework assignments.

And yet, at the same time, it’s staggeringly empty. Posters conspicuously absent from the walls. Pillow and quilt missing from the bed. Dresser drawers open and half-barren. Desk and windowsill devoid of keepsakes. Her heart starts to beat harder. Has he been back since that night? Did he creep in when he knew everyone else was gone, peeking around corners to make sure he was alone? Was Will with him? Did they run up the stairs together, whispering - hurry, hurry, they could be back any minute - and fill boxes and backpacks with Mike’s worldly possessions? How long ago was her son here? A month ago? A week? A day? Is she standing in the same spot that he stood?

Ted wanted to take back Mike’s house key, after he left, but Karen shouted and pleaded until he backed down. She will not make it any harder for her son to come back to her than it has to be.

The room still smells like him, and for a long time - so long she starts to lose her sense of time passing - she just sits on his bed.

She expects to cry - wants to cry - but she doesn’t. So instead, sweating under too many layers of pajamas and robe, she goes looking. Unsure, at first, what she’s looking for, but she finds it anyway: evidence. Little bits and pieces of Mike’s relationship. Things she would have overlooked completely if she didn’t already know.

Notes folded into paper footballs, the two sets of familiar handwriting making her heart ache -

Movie Friday? y / n

Home or theater?

Theater, duh.

What do you wanna see?

Rambo 3, for sure.

Hardy har. What about Beetlejuice?

A picture or two - nothing as incriminating as her first discovery, but enough to make her pause.

Flowers. Wilted and dried now, forever hardened into their sad slump. Dandelions, field daisies, a sprig of butterfly weed, a heavy head of garden phlox. A small bouquet, gathered from people’s front yards, or from the edge of the woods. Months ago, Mike must have set them in a Dixie cup as a vase. The water has long since evaporated, leaving only the brittle flowers and a little fuzz of mold around the stems.

Will gathered these flowers. He must have. He gathered them, carefully, snapping off all the stems at the same length, and he tied that rubber band around them to keep them together and he gave them to Karen Wheeler’s son. And Mike took them and put them in a dixie cup on his bedside table, hidden from view behind a picture frame of the Party two Halloweens ago. The flowers are only visible if you lie down on the bed; from the doorway you’d never know they were there. Did Mike lie down, the night after Will gave him those flowers, and stare at them? Did they make him smile before he went to sleep?

Impulsively, Karen reaches down and plucks up the little bouquet, dixie cup and all, and drops it into the trash. It was moldy. No sense keeping it around.

When was the last time Ted got her flowers?

When was the last time she went on a Friday night movie date?

Once that train of thought starts, she can’t stop it. Like a Spaghetti Western she might have seen once as a little girl - runaway train! Brakes failed, there’s no stopping it! Better strap in now, partner.

She thinks of how Mike and Will have always been, ever since they were little. How clearly they trust each other, how much they care about each other, how they can talk about anything and everything. Chatter, chatter, chatter, every time Will was over. Mike was a talkative little kid, but he started to get sullen and reticent as a teen - as most teenagers do. But there never seemed to be any awkward silences between Mike and his... boyfriend.

The universe is mocking her. Her own son has a better relationship with his boyfriend than she does with her god-given, lawfully sanctioned husband.

She’s about to sweep out, angry with herself for ever coming in here, when her little toe strikes something hard and sharp. She hisses out a curse and sinks to the corner of the bed again, reaching down to squeeze the aching digit.

It was Mike’s Walkman. It must have fallen to the floor, half-hidden under the bed all this time. He had been listening to it that night when he came home.

She scoops it up by the headphones and pops it open, driven by a morbid curiosity. What was he listening to on the night she lost him? But it’s blank. The cassette inside is clear plastic, the coiled tape visible within. No labels, no markings, nothing.

Well, she’s come this far.

She loads the tape back into the Walkman, fits the foam discs over her ears, and presses play.

“And if this world runs out of lovers -”

The volume makes her jump and she fumbles for a moment to find the right buttons, blood pressure elevated from the scare. He’s going to make himself deaf, listening to music that loud.

“- we'll still have each other. Nothing's gonna stop us - nothing's gonna stop us now!”

Karen listens to every song on the tape. And as she listens, she chews the skin off her bottom lip until it’s raw, and she thinks.

“Mom? I mean, Joyce?”

“Huh?”

If Joyce is startled by the slip of the tongue, she doesn’t show it.

Will takes his time digging around the corners of the jam jar with his butter knife. He hasn’t had to get up so early in months, and his brain is not thanking him.

He’s also nervous, which is completely ridiculous. He hasn’t been nervous for the first day of school since junior high. It’s just that, they’ve gotten so used to being at home, or with the Party, or out alone. What if they slip up? What if one of them reaches automatically for the other’s hand, or drops a pet name out of habit, and -

What’s this? Couple’a queers, huh?

You know what we do with fa*gs where I’m from?

What should we do with him, Marv?

Let’s throw him in the dumpster -

Anyone got a light?

At the very least, his mom has stopped being quite so militant about letting them out after dark.

Oh, yes, Joyce noticed their injuries. They avoided her while she was at work the next day, but they couldn’t hide any longer than that evening.

Needless to say, it was a long and uncomfortable conversation. Neither of them were particularly keen on reciting the whole episode, but she dragged every painful detail out of them, raging and crying and consoling in turns. And then she called Hop. And the whole mortifying process had to start all over again. Questions, questions, questions. Which necessitated answers, answers, answers. Answers which neither Mike nor Will were at all happy to be telling to the chief of police, burly and intimidating in his uniform, wordlessly taking notes on his mini-spiralbound. Friend and ally though he is, after everything he and the Byers have been through together, that was not exactly a conversation Will ever wanted to have with him. Had he been planning on telling Hop about “Marv” and “Trip”? Yes. But had he wanted to tell him everything?

Not exactly.

Then Jonathan got home. And a third explanation had to be made. The repetition was nearing comical by that point.

Long story short: an official police report was filed. It stated, truthfully, that Michael Wheeler and William Byers, both aged 17, were harassed and attacked by a group of drunk college-age men at approximately midnight of July 9th, 1988 after Will went to drive Mike home from his closing shift at work.

The results: on the one hand, it took full weeks for Joyce to stop trying to convince them not to go out on their own after dark. It was like being twelve again. Will almost got into a shouting match with her about it one night, several days after they talked to the chief of police. On the other hand, Hop gave both of them a brusque and somewhat awkward hug, and told them to call him if they were ever in trouble.

Jonathan bought them both pepper spray. Nancy bought them a knife.

“Holy sh*t, Nance,” had been Will’s comment when they received it, half-laughing through his shock. “Where did you even get this?”

She just shrugged at them. “Hunting supply store guy knows me by name at this point. Gave me a discount. Just keep it in your glove compartment or something.”

“Do we have peanut butter?” Mike says, rooting through the cabinet. His cheeks, Will sees, are a little pink. This is hardly the first time that Mike has called Joyce “Mom,” over the years. But then again, this may have been the first time that it was almost true.

“We should,” she says. She’s washing two oranges at the sink, which Will knows will end up in their lunch boxes in an attempt to make them eat fruit.

It’s the normal bright hustle-and-bustle of the first day of school. The end of summer presses heavily on their shoulders, but hey, at least this brings the promise of novelty. New classes, new teachers, new... well, new trials and tribulations, probably. It’s senior year, after all. Their last year in high school. Here come the standardized tests and special Senior events and college-related assemblies and Prom and college applications and trying to scrape together the money for graduation robes.

One more school year, and then they’re home free.

But first, another landmark must be passed. Mike’s birthday is in less than three weeks. Three weeks from today, he’ll be free - legally, his parents can’t do anything once he’s an adult. So close, and yet, so far. Will is regularly wracked with anxiety that they’ll try something at the last minute. They could still try to call the police on him for being a runaway. They could try to sign him up for something, and wouldn’t necessarily need his consent. Three weeks is a long time. If they got their hands on him, sent him off somewhere...

Will knows all too well what can happen to a person over the course of one week, let alone two or three.

Two days ago he shuddered awake from a nightmare involving the lab, and a strange dream version of Brenner, and Mike hooked up to some of the machines that El described to him only once. Mike had been screaming, in that dream, and Will woke up the real Mike just to make sure he wasn’t in pain.

A lot can happen in three weeks.

But they’re almost there. They’re so close, and in the meantime, they have the new school year to keep them busy.

“Found it!” Mike hollers, climbing down from the counter. “It was way in the back.”

Joyce swats him. “Mike, get off the counter. And hurry up and pack your lunch, it’s almost time. You too, Will.”

Will emerges from his thoughts with an eye roll. “Okay, okay. We have ten whole minutes.”

“If you want to almost be late -”

“We’re fine, Mom -”

“Don’t you want to be on time to your first day?”

Chester gets himself tangled up in Will’s feet, staring up with mournful eyes. He knows they’re about to leave for the day. Will bends down and scratches behind one silvering ear, giving a smile.

Three weeks. It’ll go by in no time.

Typical first day of school. Syllabi, supply lists. Confusion in the hallways - who even knew that science classroom near the stairs existed ? And of course, the loathsome icebreakers. Let’s all go around in a circle and say our names, where we were born, and one fun fact about us, despite the fact that this is a small school in a small town and everyone already knows everyone, and you probably hate at least one third of the people here. Yaaaaaaay. Now join hands! Kill me now.

Max and Mike are both in Will’s homeroom, and Dustin is in his fifth period. Lucas and Dustin have science together, but Will is across the hallway from them - they stared at him through the door as they passed, waiting for him to notice before they made weird faces and pretended to run away. El doesn’t technically have study hall in the same classroom as him, but teachers like them, and it wasn’t too hard to negotiate a slight tweak to their schedules. Now they can hang out in study hall, sharing snacks and plotting murder together.

It went by fast, and before he quite knew it, Will was unlocking his bike from the rack again.

This is the first year that Will has had an after-school job. He likes it. It makes him feel, perhaps, undeservedly important - hurrying off after final bell, sorry, no time to talk, got to go to work! Like he’s really an adult, and not just a kid anymore with nothing in particular to do after school but race bikes and wander around town with friends and watch TV. He has a job. He’s making money, saving up. That, more than anything else, makes him feel like he really can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Seventeen and a half years in this town, and he’s almost there. He’s almost out. They’re almost out. Before long they’ll be looking through college brochures, scanning lists of majors, checking out the pictures of campuses. New York, Chicago, Boston, LA. Real cities. Glittering skylines on the pamphlets that make his heart beat a little harder. Anywhere. Anywhere that isn’t here. They can leave and start fresh somewhere else, and they’ll never have to live in a small town with slurs scratched into bathroom stalls ever again.

Mike and El rode with him to work. Then they went off together to talk to each other in cartoon voices, or point at random objects and say, dinosaur, or get ice cream just to try to steal bites of each other’s, or whatever it is that they do when they’re unsupervised. Will, meanwhile, shelves used paperback copies of Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume books on the designated kids’ shelf. Mrs. O'Reilly mans the front desk, reading - holding down the fort, as she would say. It’s a hot day, but the air conditioning chugs and rattles away from above, doing its best to cool the dusty air inside. The store is quiet. Their only customer paid for her book and left a minute ago. Will hums to himself as he works.

The door opens with a jingle of the bell.

“Hi, welcome in,” Will calls automatically, shoving two more books into place. Then he stands, slapping dust off the knees of his pants, and turns the corner to see who walked in.

And he is suddenly very glad that Mike left the bookstore already.

Karen Wheeler seems just as surprised to see Will as Will is to see her.

She’s the first to speak.

“Will.” Her eyes flicker down to his nametag: This book-lover’s name is ★WILL★. “You work here?”

He considers snapping off something sarcastic - no, I just like to wear the nametag and put away books for fun - but then he remembers his boss is two and a half yards away, absorbed in her book.

“Yup. Can I help you find anything?”

“Is Mike here?”

He bristles. “Afraid not. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

She fixes him with a disapproving I’m a grown up and you’re a teenager and I think you’re being rude and unreasonable look, but he couldn’t care less. If she’s here for books, fine, but she’s not getting to Mike through him. Ted and Karen Wheeler can both be catapulted into the sun, as far as he’s concerned.

“All right, the attitude is not appreciated,” she sniffs haughtily, and Will glances back at Mrs. O'Reilly to see if he’s in trouble for sassing a customer. He’s not. She’s asleep in her chair.

He turns back, trying valiantly not to hate this woman. Trying to feel sorry for the sleep-deprived, haggard droop in her face. Trying to look at her dark eyes and see Mike in them. But all he sees is the person that almost sent his boyfriend to conversion therapy.

“Look.” He’s proud of how level his voice is. “I’m sorry, but I can’t really talk right now. I’m at work.”

“Can I just -” She steps forward, he steps back. She huffs out a sigh, very much like Holly when she gets frustrated. “I just want to talk to him.”

“He’s not here. You’re welcome to call our house and leave a message on our answering machine. You have our number. Now, I’m sorry, but I’m at work right now. Can I help you find anything?”

She lifts her eyes to the ceiling and turns away, muttering, then pinches the bridge of her nose as if he’s a bratty toddler giving her a headache. “No,” she says eventually, “I don’t think so.”

She leaves with another cheery jangle of the bell, and Will watches her go, hoping she doesn’t turn in the same direction that Mike and El went. But no, she turns the other way and heads past Frazier and Bell’s Law Firm Consulting, towards Clear River Circle.

“Oh, my.”

Will turns on a heel, startled by the crackling old voice. Mrs. O’Reilly peeks at the door from one cracked-open eye, sitting up and slotting a bookmark into her book once she’s sure the customer is out of view.

“What got her in such a tizzy?”

Karen was going to look for some sort of self help book. All right?

There, she said it. She’s never sunk to this level of patheticness before. And, honestly, it serves her right for going to look in a used bookstore instead of just paying full price. But no way in hell was she going to peruse, select and buy that under the reproachful gaze of that speckly teenager who clearly hates her. This scornful kid who stole her son away from her and lured him into -

She tells herself to calm down. Cool it, as Nancy would say. He’s just a teenager, and she knows that what she’s thinking isn’t what happened. It isn’t true, and it isn’t fair. And none of this is his fault, really. Indulging in bitterness will only make her feel worse. If anything, she should be grateful to him for his steely glare and protective stance. If he’s protecting Mike from her - and it almost makes her laugh, the idea of someone trying to protect her own son from her - then there’s a good chance he’d try to protect Mike against real dangers, too.

She climbs into her car and bats irritably at the little paper pine tree that dangles from the rearview mirror.

Thankfully, she has a plan.

She's had the papers for several days already, tucked away safely in a locked drawer of her bedside table. Every time she thinks about getting them out, her blood pressure spikes and she starts trembling a little. She could. She really could. She doesn’t have to keep doing this. She has the power; she’s not helpless. She is not helpless. She feels like screaming it from the rooftops, to convince the world and herself - Karen Wheeler is not helpless! And that alone, that quiet, secret knowledge of power, is enough to both sustain and terrify her for several days.

But she can’t dilly-dally forever. If she’s going to do it, she needs to do it soon. Now, so there’s time before Mike’s birthday. She has the papers. All she needs to do is sign them, and get Ted to sign them. It won’t be a big battle, she’s sure. Ted wants this as much as she does - maybe more.

When she gets home, she goes and sits on her bed and takes out the papers - and then shoves them away again with a swoop of thrill and anxiety. She gets up, walks away, then compulsively walks back across the room and gets them out again, flipping through them, skimming them, her heart beating. She can fix this. She can fix everything.

And that’s the moment that her husband arrives at home.

She hears his key in the door, hears Holly’s little voice, and Karen starts towards the bedside table, stops, steps towards the door, stops again. Her fingers are shaking again, and she folds the pile of papers sloppily in half, hiding the text before she starts off towards the stairs on jello-legs. She puts on a smile and descends the stairs, says hello to her baby daughter with her heart trembling in her throat.

Holly tells her about the first day of third grade, and about going to the park with Daddy, and for a moment Karen’s eyes and nose go hot and prickling.

And then she swallows and says, “That sounds fun, baby. Hey, how about you go see if Noelle wants to play? Hm? You can check if you left Cheer Bear over there.”

“Oh yeah!”

Holly hops off towards her friend’s house with barely a backwards glance, ponytails bobbing, and Karen yells, “Look both ways!” after her. She watches her daughter cross the street and knock on the Ramseys’ door, and then she crosses to her desk and picks up a pen with rubber fingers.

“Something goin’ on?” Ted says.

Is she doing this now? Is she really doing it right now, with Holly just next door, and Ted still in his work clothes? Now?

Yes, she decides, as Ted takes off his shoes. The papers in her hand are going damp with sweat. Now.

“I will call the police on you.” Joyce talks over her shoulder as she shepherds Mike back towards the kitchen, not quite yelling - but almost. “I’ll call the police if I have to, and trust me, that’s not going to go well for you. They know me. He asked you to leave, now please leave. Jonathan, could you -?”

Jonathan nods, stationing himself next to the door like a guard, a worried crinkle between his eyes.

Two weeks. They had exactly two weeks left until his birthday, and now, right at the finish line...

Mike is beginning to panic. He can feel his throat closing, despite his struggle to remain stoic. “She had papers, Joyce.” She guides him into the kitchen, out of view of the front door, and his attempt at stoicism crumbles like a sugar cube. His voice cracks. “She had some sort of paperwork -”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What if it’s from a doctor or something, or some sort of legal -?”

“I’ll take care of it. Hey. Hey.” She grips Mike’s shoulders, ducking her head until he holds her gaze. “I am not gonna let anything happen that you’re not okay with. All right? If you don’t want to talk to her you don’t have to talk to her.”

And dumbly, because he can’t get the image out of his head, he just repeats, “She had paperwork.”

“She did?” Will has appeared in the kitchen. Apparently he overheard what happened at the door, because he doesn’t even ask who they’re talking about.

Mike nods and takes a deep breath, pushing the mixing bowl he had been holding onto the counter to press his cold hands against his hot face.

“Paperwork of what?” Will says, a hard, urgent edge to his voice, and Mike just shakes his head.

He tries to say I don’t know but it comes out half-rasping and tangled - more like impressions of words than words themselves. All he can think is, No, no, no, this cannot be happening. Not now. Not when they’re so close. Not when things were just starting to feel normal again, when he was just beginning to think that maybe they were through the storm. He is so very tired of fighting. He doesn’t want to do this.

Will paces to the hallway and makes eye contact with Jonathan - she still there? Yes? - then lets out a breath. “Maybe we should see what she has,” he says. He meets Mike’s miserable grimace and sighs. “I know. But the alternative is... not knowing. And if it is something bad, I’d rather know now and have some warning.”

Mike steadies himself. “I guess. Yeah. Fine, let her in.”

It started with a knock on the door.

Mike thought it was El, or maybe Nancy. Maybe a package from the UPS man, who hates their long driveway and tells them so every time he delivers anything.

He yelled “I’ll get it!” and went across the house barefoot, with a mixing bowl wedged securely in the crook of his elbow and a spoon in the other hand. He had been trying to make a marinade, following a somewhat complicated recipe out of the old cookbook that Joyce almost never uses.

He swung open the door, already smiling in anticipation of greeting his best friend or his sister - and there was his mother, her hair a little flat from the heat, wearing a white blouse and peach-colored knee-length shorts so familiar that he stopped short. Wind knocked out of him. And then the wave of surprise-nostalgia faded and he was hit, bam, with an icy douse of dread.

His parents had never tried finding him here. Not that they didn’t know where he was, they had just never gone as far as invading the Byers house before. And in that one horrible moment he felt cornered, trapped, naked.

“What do you want?” he said, blankly.

“I’d like to talk.” She was white-knuckling a sheath of papers, and in a delayed reaction, the dread redoubled.

“No,” he managed at last, dry-mouthed. “No, I - sorry, no.”

“Half an hour.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, please leave.” He tried to sound professional, like this was just business, nothing personal. But he was starting to get choked up, whole body tense. The last time he had seen his mother face-to-face was that night , and his muscles had started going strained-aching all over, all at once, as he relived that whole night in the space of a few seconds.

“Fifteen minutes,” she insisted.

“Please go.”

“Ten. Ten minutes.” She stopped the door with her hand and her foot, preventing him from shutting it. Pushing it back open.

And that’s when Joyce noticed what was happening.

Mike sits at the kitchen table. Across from him sits his mother, and on the table in front of her, a folded sheath of papers.

It’s all so horribly, sickeningly familiar.

The Byers all hover nearby, exuding various degrees of unhappiness, worry and annoyance.

“I wanted you to know,” Karen starts, her voice low and her syllables smooth and practiced. “That your father and I signed the papers earlier this week.”

Make can physically feel his face pale, cheeks and forehead going a little cold. His esophagus flexes like he’s about to be sick. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Will and Joyce’s heads snap around to look at each other.

“I’m not going.”

“Okay, Mike, just wait and hear me out -”

“I already said I’m not going. I said that when I left.”

Her fingers are interlaced over the papers, and now she lifts and lowers them, pinkies knocking just once against the table as if to get his attention. “Michael. Just listen to me -”

He talks over her, their words getting all muddled up together as his voice rises and drowns out whatever explanation she was trying to get past her lips. “I don’t care what you say, what you do, I told you I’m not going to -”

Her palms slam onto the table, making him jump. “Will you just listen to me!”

“Okay.” Joyce is stepping forward. “That’s enough.”

Minor chaos breaks out around the table as Karen jerks her arm away from Joyce, who was trying to pull her away from Mike, and Chester starts baying from beside the fridge. He picked up on the tension as soon as Karen entered the house, and he’s been slinking around with his tail between his legs ever since. Nobody even bothers telling him to shut up.

It all ends as soon as it began, Karen wrenching her arm away from Joyce with a tight-throated exclamation. “God! Would you all just listen to me?” A half-laugh, half-sob bubbles up her throat as she looks around at their hard expressions. The tip of her nose is turning pink. “God,” she says again, “you all hate me. How am I supposed to explain anything if nobody will let me speak?”

Will has been pacing around somewhere behind Mike, simmering, and now Mike feels his boyfriend’s body heat at his elbow. A little static prickle stings Mike’s arm. “Oh, we all hate you? We all hate you, is that hard for you? That’s hard? Well I’m real f*cking sorry.”

Joyce snaps, “Will. ”

“Okay,” Mike says, loud enough to get everyone’s attention. He lifts his face from his palms, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, say it. If you have something to say, say it. Get it over with.”

Instead of speaking, she slides the papers across to him. Mike can’t tear his eyes away from the corner closest to him, the tiniest details of it. The scarred grain of the table, the pattern of defects and scratches and burn marks as familiar as the back of his own hand. The minuscule filaments in the white paper. He reaches out and bends open the fold with a curiously empty head, not even scared, just moving out of obligation. He needs to open this sheath of paper and see what it says inside, so his hands unfold and his eyes read.

His gaze traces over some legal-sounding gobbledygook, and then catches on the first relevant word he can find.

Divorce.

His emotions seep back into him and he feels his heart wobble a little, carried along on the aftereffects of numb fear and the beginnings of relief. Behind him, he hears Will let out a breath. Mike flips through the pages, scanning for what he expected. He gets a little jolt when his eyes land on the word condition, but it was only part of the phrase, on the condition that...

Joyce is getting antsy. “Mike?”

He gathers the papers into one pile and holds them out to her. His mother makes an aborted gesture, like she was about to grab them back, and then reaches into her purse instead. While Joyce flips through the papers, tilting them for Jonathan to see, Karen pulls out a blocky shape and sets it on the table.

Mike reaches for it, hesitantly. His fingers trace over the plastic contours as if testing that it’s real. “Where was this?” he says at last.

“Under your bed.”

He picks up his Walkman, rubs a thumb over the foam of one earphone. Then he pops it open and - yes, it’s there. He almost smiles. He thought he lost it.

“Mike,” his mother says, softly, and Mike meets her eye. “I know I made a mistake.”

She gives him time to respond, but what is he supposed to say to that? And if he opens his mouth he knows he’s going to start yelling - he can feel his temper fizzling just behind his teeth, molten, acidic, like vomit. So he keeps quiet, and after a moment his mother goes on.

“But I’m trying to fix it. I should have done this years ago.” She looks down, seeming to collect herself, then squares her shoulders. “I want you to come home. You can come back as soon as he moves out. You could come back now -” She reaches for his hand across the table and he pulls it away.

“No.”

“Baby, I’m not gonna force you to do anything. Please know that. Please.”

He glares at her, not trusting her for a second.

She goes on. “If you wanted to, someday, maybe seek out some -”

There it is. He was waiting for that. He goes blank and stands up. Okay, we’re done here.

She stutters and scrambles to finish her sentence before he can walk out - “Some - some - well, that would be your decision. You’re all grown up now and I don’t get to make decisions for you anymore. I know that. And if you’re happy then I -” She’s crying. “Then I’m glad you are. That’s all I want.”

Mike wants off of this ride. He hates seeing his mother cry, he hates that he’s the cause of it, and he hates her and everything she’s saying too. It’s a herculean struggle to keep his voice flat. “You threatened to force me into conversion therapy and kicked me out.”

“That is not fair, I never wanted that. Ted -”

“But you went along with it.”

“I didn’t -”

“Except you did, Mom.”

She snaps, frustrated. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

And that was it: the permission Mike needed. Her shout broke the dam, and now everything can come gushing out. He shouts back with relish, relieved to finally be fighting back, not having to restrain himself anymore. “Not f*cking that! What the hell is so wrong with me that makes that okay? Maybe I’m not the one with a problem, you ever think of that?”

The whole rest of the room is dead silent. His mother, red-faced and red-eyed. Jonathan, hovering by the doorway, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Joyce, glowering, looking like she wants to cut in but knows she shouldn’t. And Will, watching wordlessly, letting the yelling match play out. Mike keeps going, borne on momentum, building to he-doesn’t-know-what.

“Listen, I’m not going to get help, okay? So you can just drop that already! I’m not going to because I don’t need help because nothing’s wrong with me! And I’m not gonna go back to live with someone who treats me like I’m defective.” His voice falls off in the last few words and all at once there’s total silence, except for his own heavy breaths and the whoosh of his heartbeat in his ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he sees Will nodding.

It’s a bizarre and unnamable feeling, realizing that he really does believe what he said. Screaming at the top of his lungs in the kitchen, barefoot, scaring Chester away with all the noise - that may have been the first time in a long time that he has truly and completely believed that he is not broken in some way. That there isn’t anything wrong with the way he is.

There are still tears on his mother’s face, but she’s not crying anymore. She stares at him, bewildered, and then her expression shifts into something else. She laces her fingers together over her knee, presses her lips together, nods, and stands up.

“Okay.” She sounds curiously light, as if they were just discussing groceries or weekend plans instead of screaming at each other. “I’ll -” She looks around the room, head bobbing uncertainly, and then throws in the towel and turns for the door.

Mike drifts after her with crossed arms, chewing on his words until she turns the handle. “Congratulations on the divorce,” he manages finally.

She turns back, and he expects venom in her glance. He’s surprised by her little huff of laughter. “Thank you.” And with that she’s out, door closing behind her.

Lightheaded, Mike goes back to the kitchen and braces his hands on the back of a chair. Will appears at his side and leans in slowly - their unspoken signal for, are you okay with touch right now? He nods and leans against Will’s torso, grounding himself.

The silence stretches. And Mike - exhausted, and embarrassed over causing such a scene - lifts his head and stares at the mixing bowl on the counter. “I am so not cooking after that.”

“Oh my god, no.” Will rubs his eyes, shaking his head. He looks to his mother. “Crisis pizza?”

“Crisis pizza,” she agrees simply, and goes to the fridge to see if they have coupons.

Crisis pizza has become somewhat of a recurring joke in the Byers household this summer - especially now that Mike and Will have their own income, and therefore, the ability to procure their own food. Whenever Joyce gets stuck at work late and doesn’t have time to cook? Crisis pizza. When Jonathan’s car broke down and they all had to pile into Joyce’s car to go rescue him? Crisis pizza. When Mike’s mother turns up at the house unexpectedly to announce that she’s divorcing his father, and oh, by the way, why doesn’t he move back in with her so she can keep trying to convince him to seek “help”? You guessed it.

He pulls away from Will gently, needing some space, and Will headbutts him in return before going to look over pizza options.

Mike is surprised to find Jonathan approaching him. Usually Jonathan stays out of the way of drama like this, except to hover on the sidelines as backup.

“Hey,” he says, jostling Mike by the shoulder as he passes. “That was good, you know. Standing up to her like that.”

“Sure.” He tosses off a shrug. They’re both a little uncomfortable, and they can both tell. Joyce may have done her best to appear casual about adopting an extra son into the house, but Mike doesn’t think Jonathan was quite as thrilled about the disruption to his life. Mike isn’t his brother; Will is. And Jonathan will accept Mike, for Will, but it’s not the same thing. It’s weird for Jonathan to put on this big-brother act for him. “Yeah.”

“I’m serious.”

Mike happens to glance up, and Jonathan catches his eye. And all at once Mike wonders, for a moment, whether it is an act.

“Yeah,” he repeats, and this time he manages a smile, and Jonathan smiles crookedly back and lets him go.

They have pizza and breadsticks for dinner. Mike’s throat is a little sore from all the yelling, and the crying, and he feels dead-tired and unnaturally light at the same time. And all evening, he has the strangest feeling that, maybe, everything really is going to be okay.

Chapter 15: Ride

Chapter Text

“I've been hearing your heartbeat inside of me; I keep your photo right beside my bed,” Whitney Houston declares in Mike’s ears, loud enough that he can’t hear anything else. Not the buzz of his bike tires underneath him, not the crunch of the passing car. “Livin' in a world of fantasies; I can't get you out of my head. I've been waiting for the phone to ring all night; why you want to make me feel so good?”

The funky, energetic beat makes his head bob along as a reflex, but that’s okay. Will is in front of him, coasting along no-hands, until a bump makes his bike wobble and he grabs the handlebars again. If he was behind Mike he might tease him for half-dancing, but as it is Mike can jive along to the melody all he wants. It becomes a game. How silly can he get before Will notices something and turns around?

It’s not his favorite song on the tape, but they’re almost home. No real point stopping to fast-forward through the song now. He’s had his Walkman back for almost a week now, and who’s had it on their person for the majority of those days? Not Mike! Will has stolen it almost every school day. Mike only just managed to steal it back yesterday, and he insists on getting his bang for the buck while he has it. He’s listened through Will’s mixtape three times now, in total. And, as he found out today, Will didn’t just steal the tape - Walkman and all - to be a little sh*t. Well, that too. But he’s been busy: the mixtape is no longer blank. The song list is written on Side A, in painstakingly small writing. Side B is awash with color, full of Will’s art. Tiny renditions of galaxies, skulls and crossbones, inside jokes, their favorite characters wearing headphones.

I promised I’d decorate it sometime, Will said when Mike first opened up the Walkman to flip the tape.

Will glances back as they’re about to turn the corner into the long driveway, making sure Mike is still behind him, and Mike is very nearly caught in the middle of his passionate lip-syncing. He disguises it as a yawn.

They’re partway up the driveway when Will slows, and Mike looks up.

An ugly, slant-nosed taupe Toyota is parked in front of the house.

It’s the only car here. Jonathan is on campus, and won’t be back until after dinner tonight - he has afternoon and evening classes on Thursdays. Joyce took the Pinto to work, and won’t get off until at least seven. So Mike and Will are the only ones here to witness the woman inside the Toyota look up at their approach.

“For f*ck’s sake,” Mike mutters, not even hearing himself over the music.

He abandons his bike on the lawn, thumbing blindly for the pause button and swiping the headphones off his head. His mother opens the door and steps out of the car as he marches up to her.

“Listen,” Mike is saying, “you can’t just be hanging around waiting for us to get home. Okay? That’s weird.”

Will parks his bike and ambles up with forced composure, scanning the landscape for an escape route. Mike’s mother’s eyes flick back and forth between them. Will meets her gaze coolly.

Defensive, she spreads her hands. “I just got here five minutes ago, I figured you’d be back already. School ended half an hour ago.”

“We stopped so Max could show us the new trick she learned on her skateboard and then Lucas tried it and he broke his face,” Mike says, “Now, what do you want?”

Her eyebrows ascend. “He broke his face?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, it was only a little.”

Awkward silence. Will can’t help it; he starts noiselessly laughing. Mike’s phrasing was so absurd, paired with the tension in the air, that it struck Will’s funny bone. He bites down on his chuckle, schooling his face, but at least the laughter seems to have broken the ice a little.

Mike’s mouth twitches with an almost-smile and he shakes his head. “What do you want?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“Thought we did that last week.”

Mike is dry, dismissive. But at least he’s not scared. Last week, when Karen showed up out of the blue, Will thought Mike was about to start hyperventilating. Like Will does, sometimes, when something sets off the blind panic in his neurons and he can’t control his spasming lungs.

“Well, a lot’s happened since last week.”

Will stands there, a few feet from them, not sure what to say or what to do with his hands. Mike’s lips purse to the side, like they do when he’s considering something he's not particularly excited about. Then, with a sigh that’s perhaps a touch more dramatic than the situation calls for, he jerks his head at the porch.

They sit in the rickety lawn chairs Will’s mother rescued from a garage sale at least a decade ago. Will and Mike side-by-side, Karen across from them. The moment they sit down, Mike makes a point of catching Will’s hand and casually slotting their fingers together.

Will doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t have much to say to her that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Mike doesn’t say much, either, leaving Karen to fill in the silence for herself.

She wasn’t lying about it being an eventful week.

Apparently the Wheeler house has been a tense, beehive-busy whirl of activity. Cardboard boxes, paperwork, takeout. Furniture rearranged, cars in and out of the driveway every few hours. No one wanting to cook, not much small talk around the house. Holly crying a lot because she doesn’t understand, and Nancy leaving for college again right in the middle of it all.

Ted put up a short, cursory fight, mostly just so he could say he tried, and then started the process of sorting out the legal loose ends and packing his things. He’ll be paying child support for Holly. Karen wanted the house. He didn’t argue. He’s been staying with a cousin in the city until he can find something more permanent. Karen is renovating the kitchen just because she can - it keeps her hands busy, she says. Apparently she’s the talk of the town - and she’s less than thrilled about it. Endless phone calls. Neighbors watching her surreptitiously and then looking away when they’re caught, whispering about her. Or, so she says. Who knows how much of that is exaggeration.

Still, Will can’t help but feel a little smug at her clear discomfort at being a spectacle. Did you hear? First her son left home and hasn’t been back in months, and now it looks like her husband is moving out. They must be getting a divorce. Do you believe that? Married twenty years, three children, and they’re getting a divorce. What a shame. How did she go so wrong?

Good, he thinks. See how you like it. Feeling eyes on you everywhere you go, even if there are none. Hearing whispers or laughter and being sure they’re laughing at you. The rumors. The dirty looks. I hope that follows you for a long time, after what you did.

“Do you still have your house key?” Karen says, after a few moments of silence as the one-sided conversation slacks off.

Mike shrugs. “Somewhere.”

Will knows exactly where it is, and he knows Mike does too. He can picture it. It’s in the odds-and-ends drawer in the kitchen, identifiable by Mike’s old Kennedy Space Center charm that he got on a family trip.

Karen frowns. “It’s not on your keychain?”

“No.”

Her eyes drop to her shoes - apparently stung by this small rejection. Then she squares her shoulders and rallies. “Well, you have it. And, you know you’re always welcome home. Anytime.”

She’s getting choked up again, her eyes and nose going a little pink and her voice tight and thick, and to Will’s surprise, Mike’s eyes are glassy with moisture too.

His head ducks, trying to hide it, and he gives a small sniff before looking up and saying, “Okay.”

Karen’s face lights up with hope, and Will’s stomach gives a seasick little squeeze.

“Okay?” she echoes. “You mean you will?”

Mike hesitates, mouth half-open, expression oscillating.

“You’ll come home?” Karen presses, and Will watches Mike’s lips press together.

“I’ll think about it,” he says at last, softly.

She doesn’t stick around for long. A few minutes later she’s climbing into her car - Mike’s car - and driving off, around the lawn roundabout and down their long driveway. Mike goes and rescues his abandoned bike, walking it to the porch, and Will unlocks the front door.

His insides are churning.

Once inside, Mike kicks off his shoes, gaze distant, and that’s when Will can’t wait anymore.

“Are you really gonna go back?”

Mike looks up as if surprised. He’s halfway out of one shoe, hand braced on the wall for balance. Will hasn’t even taken off his shoes - he’s standing in the middle of the living room with his backpack still on, trying not to let his defense-mechanism-glare kick in.

It’s harder than he expected. He kept it locked down while they were on the porch, talking to Mike’s mother, but now that they’re inside with the door closed and locked behind them? He can’t dull the vomitous mass of emotion that’s congealing in him. He can’t stop feeling it. Pained, and a little abandoned already, and disbelieving, and anxious and, more than anything, irrationally, deeply disappointed - the gut-heaving, cold, boundless disappointment of a child. It’s simple, and stupid, and as raw as a second degree burn. An important thing is being taken away from him. His favorite person is leaving. The day-to-day life he worked so hard to build, guarded so jealously, is dissolving into nothing with all the ceremony of dandelion seeds to the wind. Poof! Gone.

Mike is about to respond when Chester leaps up from the armchair, startling them both. There’s a squirrel outside, and Chester races between windows, barking up a storm. Will winces. He’s been getting headaches lately, especially now that school has started. A full day of trying to focus on blackboards leaves his eyes tired and aching, as if he’s had very little sleep. Once he acclimates to school again they’ll probably go away.

He huffs and grabs Chester’s collar, guiding him to the back door, wrestling him a bit as the dog tries to wrench himself back towards the window.

“Out,” Will says. “C’mon. Out. If you want the squirrel that badly then go chase it. You want out? You wanna get the squirrel? Chester, where’s the squirrel? Is there a squirrel?” Chester is wriggling in place by now, whining, pawing at the back door and looking at Will with big expectant eyes. Even in his old age, he’s champing at the bit to go to war with his arch nemesis. “Go get it!”

He swings open the door and Chester lunges out, loping along on stiff joints, yapping.

Back in the living room, Will says the words that have circling his brain for the past five minutes. “You’ll think about it? What does that mean?”

Mike’s arms flop at his sides. “It means I’ll think about it.”

“You really want to go back there?”

“You know, I do occasionally miss my house and my family.”

Will blinks, and Mike, apparently realizing how sharp his voice was, breaks eye contact.

I thought that was here, he wants to say, but he can’t get the words out.

Will knows he’s being dumb, and he knows they did just fine before Mike got kicked out and they’d do just fine if he went back, but - what about sleeping together? Sharing the bed, fingers or ankles touching even if they aren’t cuddled up together? Buoyed by the knowledge that if either one of them has a nightmare, the other is there the moment they wake up - a warm, solid, gently breathing presence? What about Chester’s daily walks, the two of them ambling down the side of the street in no real hurry, the ageing dog content to pad along beside them? What about picking each other up from work when they get out late, taking turns driving? Listening to the radio as they drive home through the night, safe and alone in their own little bubble, doors locked? What about their jumbled mess of increasingly-intermixed clothes - are these jeans mine or yours? Hey, that’s my shirt. What about renting a movie every weekend? Their mini-adventures to Melvald’s, visiting his mom if she’s there, smothering laughter over stupid articles in the magazine rack, buying candy for movie night, finding a way to make every little thing funny? What about their room? What about the simple fact that Will would miss his partner, a lot, if he moved out to go live in his parents’ house again?

But he doesn’t know how to put any of that into words. And there’s so much of it, all clamoring to be said, to be known, that he can’t say any of it at all. It all gets balled up in his throat, and he stands there looking like an idiot, tongue-tied and hot-cheeked, and all at once frustration whip-snaps up his chest and he slams a foot into the side of the couch. Which hurts. Cursing, he tears his backpack off and throws it to the ground. He couldn’t stand to have that thing pressing on his shoulders anymore. And he’s being immature and he knows it and his head hurts and his foot hurts and Mike is standing there looking bemused, and it’s not fair. He thought Mike liked it here. With him.

Foot smarting, throat aching, Will sits heavily on the couch.

Mike slings his backpack onto the armchair and comes to sit. Will doesn’t look at him, but then the weight beside him shifts and the couch cushion tips. Mike is leaning in a degree. Testing to see if Will is up for a kiss. Will debates for half a second, then obliges - and he’s immediately glad he did. The simple physical contact winds him down a notch or two, the warmth of the touch reassuring. He sighs and presses into it, and when they lean apart his insides aren’t roiling quite so much.

“What’s up?” Mike says it like a question, but really it’s just several statements stacked on top of each other and wearing a question mark trench coat. Something is up, you’re upset, and it has something to do with my mom. Spill.

Several long moments of fidgeting, thinking. Finally - “I don’t know how to say it. It’s stupid.”

The corner’s of Mike’s mouth pull down with a tilt of his head. “Well, blurt something out and then if it’s not what you meant you can try again.”

Will snorts. If only it was that easy. Maybe it is that easy for Mike, but not for him. He turns the words over in his mouth.

“I don’t want you to go.”

It’s so accidentally, purely truthful that the backs of his eyes go hot and he clenches his jaw to keep from tearing up.

“Why?” Mike sounds genuinely confused. “Once I’m eighteen she can’t do anything. I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself for a few hours.”

Wait.

“A few hours?”

The prickliness melts from Mike’s voice as he frowns back and says, “Yeah?” And then, all at once, realization spreads over his face. “Oh. Oh, god no, I didn’t mean to stay. Are you kidding?”

“Well you said -!” Will lifts his hands in a helpless gesture, and Mike shakes his head with a rueful little huff of laughter.

“I said I’d think about visiting. Like, for dinner.”

“No,” Will counters, “She said you should come home, and you said, okay. What was I supposed to think except -?”

“No, she said you’re welcome home, as in, to visit.”

“That’s not what she said.”

“It is. And anyway, I did not say okay, I said I’d think about it.”

“Ugh, whatever.” Will tosses himself back against the couch cushions. Carried along by the inertia of annoyance from their spat, but overwhelmingly relieved. He rubs his eyes, then peers through his fingers to confirm. “So you weren’t gonna move back?”

Mike laughs, his voice coarse. “No.” He scoots across the couch and Will pulls his boyfriend to him, and they fall together in an awkward, leggy heap. Mike half on top of Will, feet still resting on the floor, spines twisted to recline on the couch. Mike kisses him, draws back to repeat, “No,” and kisses him again. Will struggles to adjust their legs without breaking apart, managing to get them situated fairly comfortably. He kicks off his shoes and they land, thump-thump, on the carpet.

“Promise?” he half-whispers against Mike’s mouth.

Mike fumbles for Will’s hand, and a pinky hooks into Will’s.

“Good,” Will says. He expects that to be it, conversation over, commence the makeout.

He wasn’t expecting Mike to nuzzle into his neck and mumble, “Where you are is home.”

Will suppresses a big, sentimental, involuntary grin, then slides his hands up the back of Mike’s neck and pulls his head up to make eye contact. “You are one corny dork.”

“You love it.”

“Do you have citations for that claim?”

Mike rolls his eyes and goes in for a kiss, but halfway through Will breaks away to set the record straight.

“I do love you, by the way.”

“I know.”

They don’t move from the couch. Why should they? It’s 3:30pm on a muggy Thursday afternoon, they don’t have much homework - at least, not much that they can’t ignore - and no one else will be home for hours. And for the first time since Mike was kicked out, they don’t have to live with a looming threat over their heads. Mike’s birthday is in a week and a day, and his parents are busy with their divorce. No one is coming for them. All is well.

They’re in no rush. Their movements are relaxed, comfortable, familiar. It’s warm and quiet enough in the house to make Will consider just taking a nap with his boyfriend cuddled up on top of him. But then Mike’s hands inch underneath Will’s shirt, and Will nibbles on Mike’s lower lip, and all at once he’s not thinking about a nap anymore. Instead, he’s thinking about the fact that they have the house to themselves, and that they haven’t gotten much time alone since Sunday.

“You know, Mom doesn’t get off until seven.”

“Subtle,” Mike deadpans.

But his hands slide up Will’s sides, rucking up his shirt until he bows his head and drags a hot, slick tongue over one exposed nipple. Will’s abdomen clenches at the jolt of sensation, dick already half hard and getting harder by the second. He sits up so Mike can relieve him of the fabric, already tugging the hem of Mike’s shirt out of his pants before he lies back down. Buttons, buttons. Damn finicky little things. Why didn’t Mike wear a tee shirt today? But, there, he has it. Mike’s shirt joins Will’s on the ground, and Mike hums appreciatively at the brush of skin-on-skin.

Will is leaned back comfortably, his back supported by a throw pillow, his boyfriend a heavy, warm weight bracketed between his legs. Shirtless, they grind together. Soft kisses, steady pulse of motion. Pleasure unfurling deep in his belly, warm and enticing and sweet. Will resists the urge to escalate to dry-humping just yet; it’s a rare luxury, being unhurried. Especially with no necessity of silence. No one is due home in half an hour. No one is across the house, potentially within hearing range if they aren’t careful.

As far as he’s concerned, it’s the perfect afternoon. Bar none.

It’s warm in the house, almost too warm, and as Mike’s heart rate creeps upward his skin grows hot. It’s better without his shirt on, but he’d rather be rid of these jeans, too.

Late afternoon sunlight slants through the dusty air from one window, turning the mundane, messy room golden and hazy. Like an old picture. It smells like the Byers house - a smell that Mike is usually desensitized to. An unnamable muddle of a dozen familiar scents: cereal, paper, citrus soap, dog hair, Joyce’s cigarettes, Will.

It’s not just Will’s mouth that’s making his pulse pick up, not just the familiar rhythm of hips rolling against each other, hard-ons clearly perceptible even through two layers of denim. It’s the house. More specifically, it’s the living room. Mike’s heart rate is picking up at the idea of undressing here, touching each other here. Out in the open, with no bedroom door shielding them from sight. Not that it matters; there’s no one here to see. The artificial danger adds a fizz of adrenaline to his gradually building lust anyway.

Will’s pants come off first. Will is taking his time, seemingly in no hurry, but Mike is horny and impatient and ready to get this party started. He undoes Will’s belt, works the button free, slides down the zipper. Tugging Will’s pants down far enough for access is a small feat, with Will sandwiched between Mike and the couch, but they get it done. Will is plenty hard already, and as soon as the zipper is out of the way his dick pushes through the gap, the thin fabric of his underwear plastered to the head with a drop of precum. The moment Mike has Will’s jeans down to his thighs, he crawls back and bobs down, mouthing at him through the fabric. Will cards his fingers through Mike’s hair with a noise of contentment. He only pauses when Mike peels the underwear away too.

“Right here?” he says, a little breathlessly.

“Right here,” Mike confirms, and dips his head down to suck gently at the head of Will’s dick, letting the sour-intimate taste spread over his tongue.

Because why not? There’s no reason they can’t do this here, and that alone is a small thrill. They’re so used to being hidden away behind a closed and locked and barricaded door. Not to mention there’s a simple novelty and vulnerability to doing this kind of thing in a common area of the house, where they’ve never done it before, even if no one else will be home for hours. It feels more open somehow, a sensation akin to being cold, although the air is warm and close and sunny in the living room with no windows cracked open.

Will succumbs for five seconds, ten, and then taps Mike on the shoulder twice - hold on.

“At least let me close the blinds,” he manages.

Mike pulls off with a smile and a shake of his head. “There’s no one around.”

Will laughs and pries himself away, wriggling out from underneath Mike, kicking away his jeans but pulling his boxers back up. “I’m not having sex in front of open windows.”

“They’re not even open,” Mike rebuffs, but he lets Will slip away and start pulling cords. The slats angle closed, one window at a time, and the light dims.

Then he turns and disappears down the hallway.

“Bye,” Mike calls, watching his almost-naked boyfriend vanish around the corner.

“I’ll be back,” Will calls back, and a moment later Mike hears the bedside table drawer open in their room.

He takes the opportunity to undo his own belt, and by the time Will returns with lube, both their jeans are in a heap on the floor.

He shoves his boxers down his hips as he approaches the couch, then wastes no time in getting Mike’s out of the way too. Limbs knocking together, shifting around until they get settled. Lips seeking lips until they’re kissing, open-mouthed, tongues rubbing. The skin on the back of Mike’s neck feels tight with anticipation. If anyone walked in right now - no one is going to, he reminds his racing heart, but if - what an eyeful they would get. Two completely naked guys tangled up on the couch, co*cks standing at attention between them, tongues in each other’s mouths.

Will reaches blindly for the lube, and a throaty moan of surprise rises up Mike’s throat when Will’s hand wraps around him sooner than he expected. Grip snug and confident - pace relaxed. He strokes Mike up and down, in no hurry, and then takes the time to locate that little ridge just under the mushroom-cap head and massage it with a thumb. Mike’s belly goes rigid, muscles pulling taut as arousal and pleasure curl deep, tight-gripping roots through him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, and when their kiss breaks he huffs out, “God, that’s good.”

Will chuckles - the bastard - and resumes stroking. Mike busies himself sucking bruises into the skin just between Will’s neck and shoulder. Nipping at his skin, tasting warm salt-sweat on him. Pressing rings of teeth-marks into the flesh. They’ll fade within minutes, but for now the indents are clear. Marks of Mike’s presence; evidence that they’re here, they’re doing this, this is real.

It’s a little weird, if Mike really thinks about it, how nonchalantly Will goes from jerking Mike off to slathering more lube over his fingers and seeking out something further back. Starting to rub gently over the twitching opening, brushing the pads of his fingers over it, waiting for Mike to relax with a sigh before dipping a finger in to the first knuckle. Or, maybe it should be weird. Is it weird? Not really. Not anymore. Maybe the strangest part about it is how normal it is.

He slides out, presses back in - all the way this time, agonizingly slowly.

There’s something intoxicating, undefinable about the pressure. The tenderly invading presence. Breaching the tight initial boundary, pushing into the sensitive channel. Silky-smooth with lube. It’s so much easier, now, to break through that deep-seated mental wall - what are you doing? You shouldn’t be doing that. That’s not allowed - that at first seemed so insurmountable. To tap into that current of eager, panting, blood-rich, dark-chocolate pleasure and ride it. Let it carry him along. Mike doesn’t think twice about tilting his hips to give Will better access or allowing his lungs to press out a fraction of a phrase -

“Will - sh*t -”

“Turn around?” Will murmurs, pulling away completely for a moment to let them shift.

Mike turns, kneeling on the couch, hands braced on the back. Will gets up to stand behind him. Once settled, he sinks a finger in again and lets Mike adjust for a moment before starting up a slow, grinding pulse of pressure - not really pulling out or thrusting in much, just rhythmically pushing, his knuckles digging against sensitized flesh. The illusion of a thrust without the friction. And Mike hates that, and Will knows he does, because it’s such a tease. It triggers all his impulses to react, to respond, to thrust back against Will’s hand - without actually yielding enough sensation to satisfy him. Just an echo of pleasure, a preview, a tantalizing ache. Just enough to drive him up the f*cking wall.

Especially when Will starts to speed up, the accelerating rhythm making Mike’s hips judder, hopelessly seeking a friction and fullness that should be there, almost is, so f*cking close and yet so far -

“Will,” he growls, annoyed and growing more desperate by the second. His dick strains up against his belly, wet with slowly drying lube and bobbing a little with Mike’s attempt at motion.

Will, feigning innocence, tucks his nose into Mike’s hair. His breath is damp on the shell of his ear. “Hm?”

“Do not f*cking tease.”

“Me? I would never.”

Mike is trying to create the motion on his own, snapping his hips to try to catch Will off guard, but Will is wise to that trick. He keeps his knuckles pressed firmly to Mike’s flesh, one finger buried in him. And he’s pure goddamn evil, he really is, because then he curls his finger forward - just once, just for a moment, seeking something out - and when Mike’s mouth drops open and his toes curl, he goes back to the gainless pulsing, and Mike grits his teeth and drops his head against the back of the couch in frustration.

“Will,” he groans, his voice cracking right in the middle from tension. “Please. Please.”

That usually does the trick. And it does. Will curls forward, kissing his temple, and finally, finally starts thrusting for real. All the way out and all the way in. Will makes some sort of noise, a low moan that might have contained a vague syllable or two. He withdraws and Mike growls in his throat again, thinking he’s stopping, but Will only gets more lube on his fingers and presses two in. Mike gasps a little at the stretch, but adjusts quickly, and oh thank f*ck Will is moving for real now.

But now he wants to touch Will, too, and facing away from him like this is just not going to do. He turns, breaking them apart temporarily, and coaxes Will up onto the couch with him. Fills his palm with the flame-hot tip of Will’s dick, strokes him with a loose grip because he was too impatient to get lube. Will contorts his wrist a little and succeeds in resuming his efforts, fingers twisting and scissoring inside Mike in a way that makes him groan. Now that Will’s fingers are thrusting into him for real, a pang of need is seeping through the rest of Mike’s body. The muscles of his thighs and calves going aching-tart with tension, the air shoved out of him with every breath as his torso clenches down as if trying to physically grasp onto the throb of pleasure. Will’s body heat rolls over him, sweat just barely beginning to dampen his skin, and Mike leans into the contact. Will bucks into Mike’s hand a time or two.

Mike, in response, reaches down to cup Will’s balls, his middle finger slipping into the cleft beyond to tap the ring of muscle there. Making Will’s muscles go taut, making him shiver. Mike pauses there for a moment, just rubbing gently, his knuckle flexing and flattening. Back and forth. Watching Will’s face - the microexpressions that shift in his eyes. He feels the soft, hot skin flutter under the pad of his middle finger, hears Will let out a shaky breath, but doesn’t press any harder.

For one thing, his fingers are dry. For another thing, he’s never touched Will like that before - inside, at least. This between-the-cheeks business is a recent development; usually Will gets skeeved out by anything coming too near that particular sensitive spot. The idea of anything inside him reminds him too much of darker memories. And sure enough, when Will gives another full-body shudder and bears down against Mike’s hand as if on instinct, he pulls away the beat after. Mike withdraws and goes back to smearing pre-cum over the head of Will’s dick.

“Not yet,” Will whispers, which is what he says every time the topic comes up.

Mike hums, “Mmkay,” kisses under Will’s jaw, and draws his hand down over the shaft, watching how the petal-soft skin moves with him.

Part of him wonders if it might take years for Will to heal from the scars the Mind Flayer left him with - or decades. Or if he’ll ever be comfortable with that kind of touch. But that’s a later-problem; a big, heavy topic that he doesn’t want to think about right now. So he nudges Will’s cheek with his nose until he catches his mouth, and kisses him, and tries to forget everything except Will’s fingers slipping in and out of him.

It takes no effort at all. Five seconds and he’s riding on sensation, the rest of the world ceasing to exist. Will is good at this. No - he’s brilliant at it. He was good to begin with, that first time, but this is hardly the first time. They’ve had practice. Over the summer months, they’ve become more familiar with each other’s bodies than with their own. Every sensitive spot, every favorite angle or rhythm. Or, so Mike thought. It seems there’s always another way to surprise each other, always something new to discover.

Will’s fingers inside him, penetrating him, used to feel foreign - alien, bizarre, just on the shivering edge of dangerous. An intensely guilty pleasure - something, he was sure, he was not supposed to be doing, but oh god was it good . They don’t feel foreign anymore. They feel like the rest of Will, in moments like these: warm, solid, familiar. Right. Mike opens up under Will’s touch, two fingers and then three, with an ease that would have baffled him two months ago.

“Here,” Mike says, releasing his grip on Will and getting a pout in response. “The lube.”

“The lube?”

Mike gestures. He wants to jerk Will off for real, fast and frictionless, not the slow stroke he’s been limited to so far. “Hand me.”

“The lube, hand me. Okay, Yoda.”

Mike opens his mouth and all at once Will’s fingers go still inside of him as he claps his other hand over Mike’s lips. “I swear to god, Michael, if you do the Yoda voice right now -”

“Hmm,” Mike growls, imitating the old Jedi master through Will’s hand, and Will presses harder as he laughs.

“No. No. Red.”

Mike cracks up. He can’t say he’s ever started belly-laughing with Will’s fingers up his ass before, and he must say, it’s one of the weirder sensations he’s encountered.

Will looks at him incredulously. “What?”

Mike tries to staunch his laughter, coughing a little, and gasps out, “You safeworded the Yoda voice.” Saying it aloud makes him break down again.

Will is trying not to smile. “Because it’s weird, dipsh*t. Too weird. Not okay.”

Mike just shakes his head, trying not to think about it again - don’t think about it don’t think about it - damnit, he thought about it, there he goes again -

Will watches his struggle, unimpressed. “Are you done? I kinda thought we were in the middle of something here.”

Mike gains enough control over his diaphragm to get out a calm sentence. “Oh, we were?”

“Mm.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

They kiss, smiling, and Will thrusts two fingers into him once, twice, sliding easily with the lube and with how relaxed Mike’s walls have become - and hooks his fingers abruptly and firmly forward, tugging against that specific spot inside. The message is one hundred percent clear: notice now?

All the air surges out of Mike’s lungs, that deep-bittersweet pleasure reverberating through him, and f*cking hell Will won’t let up - he keeps his fingers crooked directly into the pressure point, digging against it rhythmically until it’s almost unbearable and Mike doesn’t remember when he started squirming and then writhing against Will, trying to shove into the stimulus and get away from it at the same time.

“God, stop,” he groans, overwhelmed - “God, Will, stop -”

But Will doesn’t stop, and Mike doesn’t say red, either.

He’s gonna come, and he gladly lets himself inch towards the crest. His dick twitches against his belly.

Then Will retreats entirely, leaving Mike to fall back from the edge with a stymied gasp. High-strung and sweating.

“Well, I guess if you hadn’t noticed, then...” Will says, casually, and makes as if to get up from the couch. Eyes shining with mischief.

“f*ck you,” Mike pants, yanking him back to kiss him.

His almost-org*sm is still swimming around in his brain, shimmering in his limbs, and he wants Will to go right back to what he was doing until Mike finishes. But it seems Will doesn’t want to be done yet, because when they settle back on the couch cushions together, he’s all gentleness. Switching tacks to pump his hand slowly over Mike’s dick, instead - and speaking of, Mike reflects, it’s no wonder Will doesn’t want to be done with this yet. Mike has barely gotten a chance to touch him.

Time to remedy that.

He locates the bottle of lube - somehow it sank between couch cushions during their exertions - and goes about getting Will caught up to speed. Working him up until they’re at the same wavelength. Mike knows the shape and heat of him, the contours. He knows how to move to make his partner tremble and throw his head back. He knows Will’s favorite methods, how often to rub a thumb over the slit or how hard to squeeze at the base. He knows that Will’s breath catches if he nips at an earlobe, and that he’ll melt in Mike’s arms if he kisses him just so.

A shower of tiny static sparks lights up between their bodies, and Mike grins.

Ever since Mike learned about Will’s powers, Will hasn’t bothered to hold them back as much - especially in moments like this.

Will used to try to wrestle it down, hold it in check - but sometimes that would backfire. A lapse of concentration and he’d release a little jolt of energy all at once, making the lights flicker or the radio glitch or giving Mike a small static shock. Those little hints that Mike had been filing away, subconsciously, that all made so much sense after Will told him. Now, Will doesn’t have to hide it. He’s learned, over the months, that letting the energy flow won’t do any damage - just a ripple of sharp little prickles now and again. Letting it build up is worse. So he lets it go. Mike is used to the occasional waterfall of soft, stinging energy that follows in the wake of Will’s hands on his skin. Keen and bracing and gentle. Like the sparkling fizz of over-carbonated soda. Now, it makes his skin pebble up in goosebumps.

It’s a realization more than an idea. Mike opens his eyes after squeezing them shut, relishing his lover’s touch, and all at once he sees the living room, and the couch, and the wire-thin cracks of sunlight around the closed blinds, and Will. Will’s chestnut hair growing just a tad too long, nearly shaggy, messy and falling out of its brushed-back side part. The two moles just off-center on his neck. The thin trail of hair that leads up towards his belly button. And something in the back of Mike’s mind says, Oh, I didn’t know that today would be the day.

He blurts it out before he can overthink it. “We could just do it.”

Will pulls back from affectionately nuzzling Mike’s cheek, his head co*cked in a question pose. Mike can see the exact second that he understands.

“Yeah?” Will mumbles. His pulse has started tick-tick-ticking along under Mike’s palm.

“Yeah.”

Will’s throat moves in a swallow. Mike’s heart jackhammers in his chest.

“Okay,” Will agrees. And that’s that.

It’s so simple that Mike almost wants to say, Wait, really? It was that easy?

Actual sex has, thus far, been a line they haven’t crossed. Somehow it felt like too much, too far - something foreign and overwhelming, despite how close they’ve gotten. It never quite felt like the right time. When considering it, Mike always figured it would be a sort of special occasion. He didn’t expect rose petals or anything, but maybe... he doesn’t know. A birthday? A holiday? A date night? He thought it would be something nerve-wracking, building up to it the whole day with sweaty palms, hoping he didn’t mess it all up. Either that or he expected they’d abandon restraint and just go for it while they were already in the middle of getting each other off - except that it always seemed too late to go for it on a whim. They were always too close to the edge by that point; too close to finishing, no time to attempt anything as ambitious as actually f*cking. He never expected it to happen like this - on the living room couch, on a Thursday, without fanfare. And he knows all at once that he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Will sinks two fingers into him again, twisting them. Testing. Softly bowling Mike over onto his back, crawling over his legs, pushing one knee back. Two fingers, and then three, and all at once he’s working Mike open, ardent and methodical, and it hits Mike like a bus: this is really happening.

It’s different being touched, knowing he’s going to be f*cked. More intense, somehow, although it almost feels like Will is being abnormally gentle. Anticipation lighting up his skin in waves, coiling in his belly in the form of buzzing pleasure and nerves. Because for the first time, Will isn’t just touching him, he’s preparing him. The knowledge makes Mike hypersensitive, magnifies every little movement and texture.

And on that note, Will is infuriatingly slow. Thorough. Mike is getting antsy. The more time stretches on, the worse his nerves get.

“You know, you did this all already. We can probably speed up.”

Will’s eyes lift to Mike’s, radiant in an errant stripe of sunlight from the window, and then drop to his work again. “Don’t want to finish before we get started.”

Mike can’t tell if he’s being playful or practical. Then Will crawls up the couch to kiss him, bracing one hand next to his head. The other is occupied.

“I just wanna make sure you’re...” For the first time today, a blotched flush of embarrassment fills Will’s face. This is new territory for them, and forging into the unknown is reverting both of them, making them all at once inexperienced and shy. “Ready.”

Mike’s head ducks with a little laugh. “I know.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Mikey.”

“I know.” He lifts his head to bonk foreheads together. “I don’t think you will.”

A frown, a lick of the lips. “What if I do?”

Mike shrugs. “I’ll live.”

“Well, that’s encouraging,” Will grumbles, sitting back again, and Mike smooths his hands across whatever skin he can reach.

“Hey, it’ll be fine. We’ll just go slow, yeah? I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Mike, stop talking. You’re making me nervous.”

He constricts his throat into the growly Yoda voice. “Tough, am I. Fine, it will be.”

A smile cracks over Will’s face and he breaks into laughter. “Shut up.”

They’re both giggling now, and it seems to calm them both. The nerves wriggling around in Mike’s chest ease a little, and when Will resumes preparing him - not so gently now - he hikes his knee further back with one hand and lets his head fall back against the couch cushion. He knows there’s no real need to worry. If there’s a single person on Earth he’d trust with this, it’s Will. And he does trust Will.

When Mike first said it, Will thought he had misunderstood. They never really talked about going all the way - at least, not in so many words. It’s not as if they needed to have a sit-down and talk through the logistics, drawing up a precise diagram of the prerequisites and requirements, cross-referencing schedule conflicts. But on the other hand, if someone had told Will this morning that he’d be losing his virginity today, he would have looked at them like they were crazy.

And yet, it’s happening.

Or, will happen. Soon. So soon he has the jitters, fingers trembling a little in excitement, anxiousness sharp in his stomach. And not nearly soon enough. Want has been coursing through him for the past several minutes, melting his brain into a hazy mush, and all he can see and taste and hear is Mike-Mike-Mike. All he needs - the thing he wants most in the world, more than anything else - is to be inside his boyfriend right f*cking now.

But first he has to make sure Mike is ready. Sure-sure. He would not half-ass this step for all the money in the world.

They’ve been fooling around for long enough that his fingers meet no resistance at all, and still Will works at him. Circling his fingers around the opening, feeling the muscles jump. His dick throbs, painfully hard, in time with his heartbeat.

Mike lets his knee fall, kicking Will on the shoulder. “Will,” he prompts. “I’m good. Really.”

“You sure?” Will breathes. Part of him balks at the idea of moving forward, because moving forward means stepping into uncharted territory. Up until now, everything has been familiar, safe. Everything from this point on is new, nerve-wracking, exhilarating.

“Asshole,” Mike says mildly, “I’ve been ready for like five minutes. Are you ready?”

It’s an airy, teasing challenge, but his eyes betray the hidden weight of the words. Will kisses Mike’s knee - the closest thing he could reach - and nods.

The amount of lube he uses is, quite honestly, ridiculous. Much more than they would ever need. He slathers a palmful onto himself, rubs a generous amount directly into Mike, then starts the whole process over again. Mike starts humming the Jeopardy theme while he waits, idly stroking himself. And then the moment has arrived, just like that, and they fumble for a moment. Laughing at themselves.

Will’s head buzzes a little. He just can’t bring himself to do it like this, looming over Mike, with Mike on his back. Like some bedsheet-draped sex scene in a B-list, R-rated movie. It just doesn’t feel right. So he gives himself a tug or two, as if he could possibly need the encouragement, and collapses down clumsily to crush a kiss against Mike’s mouth.

“How should we...?” he asks breathlessly when they break apart, and Mike shifts a little on the couch.

“Like this, you think?”

Will shakes his head. “I dunno. Maybe not.”

“Well, how do you want to?”

“I don’t know, babe, it’s not like I have much experience with -”

“Okay, here, why don’t -”

“You think sitting up?”

“Move your leg. Okay. If I - no, go back to how you were. Yeah.”

They rearrange themselves in a halting, anticipation-soaked dance, and an idea strikes Will. A memory. One of the first times they ever did something like this, when he leaned against a wall and had Mike perch in his lap.

“Wait, I know,” he says, adjusting slightly. Sitting up, centering himself on the couch cushion, sliding down a little as if he’s slouching. Both feet braced on the floor. “You can just -”

Mike gets the idea and straddles him, kneeling over his lower belly. And it works. Will knows it works, immediately, because the oversensitized, swollen head of his dick is already prodding at Mike’s ass, slipping easily between his cheeks. Mike gives a funny little twitch-shiver, reaches out to brace his hands on the back of the couch on either side of Will’s head. And then he’s looking down at Will, the humidity-wild frizz of his hair backlit by the muffled glow of the window. Pupils blown with lust, lips and cheeks flushed red, everything else flushed pink with exertion and desire. Will’s hands fit themselves to his ribs, sliding down to his hips.

“I think you have to line it up,” Mike says quietly, and Will lets out a nervous burst of laughter.

He arches up, seeking a kiss, and gets one. And while Mike is tracing his tongue over Will’s incisors, neck bent to reach him, Will reaches around with one hand and re-smears his shaft with lube from his palm. He angles himself, lining up the tip with the quivering rim, and he’s pretty sure that’s the moment his soul vacates his body. The compulsion to bury himself in that pulsing, slick-soft, thousand-degree heat is incredible, overpowering. He has to drop his forehead against Mike’s chest to collect himself for a moment.

He can hear the ka-thump-ka-thump-ka-thump of Mike’s heart, kicking along at a rapid pace. Then Mike lets out a breath and lowers himself, just a centimeter, with no word of warning. No, Are you ready? No, Three, two, one, go, just a sudden warmth enveloping the tip of his co*ck. And then another centimeter. Like Mike’s mouth, but infinitely tighter, gripping him. Maybe too tight, he worries abruptly, and lifts his head to say, “You okay?”

The initial breach, that first inch or so, was made possible by adrenaline. A rush of blood-pumping let’s just do it courage. Now Mike can feel himself clenching up a little, second-guessing himself, and he has to pause for a moment to breathe.

Will lifts his face and whispers, “You okay?” His face is sweaty, hair a mess. Mike is sure that his own is, too. His hard-on is flagging a little, with his concentration elsewhere, and it’s a bit of a relief. He had been hard for so long it was starting to get uncomfortable.

He nods with his heart in his throat. A touch at his hips, squeezing. Will trying to steady him a little.

It’s different than Will’s fingers. Smoother, and just... more. More friction, more pressure, more everything. Mike tries to relax. Lifts up a little, which relieves the pressure temporarily, and then sinks back down. He catches ahold of a whisper of pleasure and, unexpectedly, his body flexes. Pushing him down another inch. He winces, unprepared for the relative speed of that inch, and Will notices the expression at once. He pushes up on Mike’s hips, encouraging him to rise, murmuring something. Mike’s eyes are closed. Sweaty hands gripping the back of the couch. He rolls his neck, hears it pop, and dips down again. He wants to be all the way down; he wants to be settled and just sit for a moment, because being halfway up on his knees like this, hovering, is hell on his calves.

It’s easier this time, though the girth still pinches a little, deep in him. It doesn’t hurt, exactly - he thinks it would hurt if they had done this quickly, all at once, but little-by-little it’s just a pinch. A stretch. Uncomfortable, in the same startling-foreign way that Will’s fingers once were. And he can tell that this could feel good. It doesn’t yet, he doesn’t think, but there’s a resonant, warm ache lying in wait. A flicker of desire underneath the pressure. Something in the primordial brainstem of his consciousness that makes him want to move, to shove back against Will’s co*ck, to rock his hips. The urge is so strong that he can’t stop himself from swiveling his hips restlessly, surprising them both with how they can feel Will shifting in him. And actually, it seems to help - Mike pulls up, gratified by how effortless that is, at least, and then lets himself unwind. Settling into Will’s lap. Sheathing himself to the hilt.

He gives a hard, fierce little shudder, feeling himself clench and loosen, feeling his heartbeat - or maybe that’s Will’s heartbeat - deep inside of himself, farther than he previously knew he was capable of feeling anything.

“f*ck,” Will sums up.

“Tah-dah,” Mike mumbles, eliciting a hoarse laugh from his lover. He opens his eyes.

“Does.” Will swallows. “Does it feel okay?”

“Yeah,” Mike breathes, “Just - let’s just wait a second.”

“Sure.” Will’s hands rub up and down his sides. “Course.”

It’s not as immobile as he expected. It’s not a still lifeless presence in him; it shifts and moves every time Will does, hot and pulsing like a heartbeat. The discomfort fades as Mike’s nerves do, because the hard part should be over now, right? He did it, hooray, cue confetti. He fills his lungs all the way up, taking in the smell of Will’s skin, and then blows it slowly out between his lips. In doing so, his body seems to loosen up another degree, and he settles a last centimeter onto his mount, some last shred of inner tension melting away. And it does feel good. It’s not pleasure, not quite, but... good. Like a deep tissue massage or a bath that’s just a little too hot for comfort.

Will is tilting his head back, trying to catch Mike’s eye, and Mike focuses back in enough to hum, “Hm?”

“Okay?”

A nod tilts his face down anyway, so he drops his lips against Will’s in an uncoordinated kiss. “Good,” he decides. “You?”

Will makes a sound like, pffft, which Mike takes to mean, my dick is literally inside of you, do you think I’m doing bad?

“It would be great,” Will adds a moment later, voice strained. “If we could move. If that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, his hips already moving without having to think about it. “On it.”

His hips rock, his own dick bobbing between them. Hard again. It must have perked up sometime in the past minute or so, and he didn’t even notice until now. The rolling motion is familiar, easy, and he wonders why until he realizes it’s nearly the same as dry-humping. This could be any regular afternoon, making out on the couch, grinding together. If it weren’t for... well, certain discrepancies.

Will, as if fighting a losing battle of self-restraint, begins pushing his hips against Mike’s with a rough moan. Meeting him beat for cautious beat. The extra push-and-pull makes Mike suck in his breath. A warm, muted pleasure has been growing in him since he started moving, but now it strengthens, thickening and beginning to spill through his lower belly. He answers Will’s moan with his own - the first real noise of enjoyment he’s made since this started, and Will grins up at him. And that’s the moment that it really, actually registers with him: they’re having sex. Not just building up to it, not just beginning, but actively having sex.

He’s starting to speed up, he realizes, the experimental rocking intensifying gradually to something harder, messier. Will, meanwhile, is doing everything in his power to eke out every bit of sensation he can for Mike: sliding his palms back to squeeze his ass cheeks in the way that makes Mike arch back. Sucking hickeys into just the right spot at the base of Mike’s neck. And maybe Will’s attentions are having their desired effect, because as the foreignness is eclipsed by a raw, gnawing urge to move, move , faster, his whole body is awash with a tangy energy. The sweet suction of Will’s mouth at his neck. The ticklish grip of his hands on Mike’s hips, on his ass. Will’s sparks, fizzing like soda between his fingers now and again. And that rigid heat inside him, filling him, the slick-smooth friction.

The tops of his feet push into the couch cushion, the back-and-forth rocking motion fluctuating into an up-and-down bob. Will falls out of sync for a moment and they both giggle at their unpracticed fumbling, but it doesn’t take long to fall back into the rhythm. And it’s so good, burning straight through the core of him and wiping everything else from his mind, that he wonders why it took them so long to get here.

Will’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s panting like he’s been running. The slick pressure of Mike around him is almost vice-like, squeezing him with a stronger and more all-encompassing grip than a hand or mouth. The delicious wave of motion, up-down, up-down, sends hot liquid pleasure lapping and sloshing through him thighs-to-spine.

It’s overwhelming. Being as physically close to his partner as he can - being with Mike, doing this together. Will never thought he’d have something like this - not within the foreseeable future, and not with Mike. Four months ago - god, was it only four months ago? - he knew, as an irrefutable fact, that his best friend could never want him. Not as a partner, not like that. That Mike was straight, that he’d be grossed out by the idea of simply touching the lips of another boy. Will barely used to let himself imagine making out with someone - backing them up against a wall, pulling hair, kissing. These furtive daydreams used to leave him aching and guilty. Now Will’s best friend, boyfriend, partner, lover is bobbing steadily in his lap, his breath warm and a little stale in Will’s face, his dark hair as disheveled as a Lost Boy’s.

It’s not what everyone says - this thing that the world taught them was so evil. Unnatural, immoral, and - the worst of all - unmanly! A sin right up there with murder, it would seem. And here they are having sex on the couch on a Thursday, as if there’s nothing strange or wrong about it, as if it’s something as casual and ordinary as watching TV or doing homework. It makes emotion billow in his chest, startling in its potency, and Will clutches Mike to him with groan. He can’t pinpoint exactly why relief is making his limbs heavy and his head light. Maybe some small, fearful part of him always wondered if the world was right, after all. As if crossing this boundary would trigger some cosmic penalty - as if it would burn a damning mark into his skin, or the ground would open up and swallow them, or Mike would simply disappear and he would realize he’d dreamed up the past four months over a particularly sleepless and lonely night. But it really is okay, isn’t it? This really is no more shocking or damning than folding laundry or going on a date. There’s no blood, no guilt. None of that. It’s just a part of life, like anything else.

The thought is so quietly staggering that Will has to lean forward and brace his temple against Mike’s cheekbone, for a moment, just breathing through the emotion. In the kitchen, the fridge hums. Wind pushes through the trees outside the house. The old couch is squeaky and a little rough underneath them, the fabric not exactly designed for use in the nude.

Mike sticks his tongue out, licking a playful stripe along Will’s cheek, and Will leans back with a snort.

“Why?” he says, and Mike whispers, “Just because,” darting down to lick his nose for good measure.

That’s about the moment that Mike starts to spur them forward. Tiring, apparently, of their moderate pace. He starts experimenting, feeling out how to move faster, what works best - which muscle groups to use, how much to lift up on his knees versus roll back with his hips. Occasionally he’ll bite back a moan or half a word, which Will answers with nonsensical murmurs of his own.

Will is more than happy to let him. In fact, Will doesn’t quite realize that Mike has taken control until he’s already been at the wheel for at least a minute. The realization takes Will by surprise. Loss of control, especially with something as vulnerable as sex, is usually something that grates against his psyche immediately. For a moment he feels that familiar compulsion to take back the reins, tilt the power back in his direction - but, no. He doesn’t mind this, doesn’t feel uncomfortable with Mike guiding them like this. Riding Will, grinding down on him with swiveling hips and harsh outbreaths. Why would Will want to stop this? He can always flip them if it starts getting to him. And anyway, there’s something almost tempting about letting Mike take the wheel. Something almost exciting. Like standing in line for a roller coaster, not knowing what’s going to happen next. Usually it would make him shy away after a moment or two - all right, that’s enough, I’m in charge now - but not today.

Will lets his head fall back against the couch, watching his partner move through half-lidded eyes, and sinks into the feeling.

Mike is having a little too much fun with this newfound power.

Kissing Will is a little more difficult than usual. With Mike perched high on Will’s lower belly so that Will can penetrate him, Will has to crane his neck back to reach Mike’s lips, the long column of his throat exposed. Mike lets go of the back of the couch to hold Will’s head, and the result is a sudden, irrational feeling of instability, like he’s on a roller coaster with no safety bar - but Will’s hands, pressing into the flesh of his hips in a way that makes him squirm, are solid and steadying. Mike can tell they’re quickly approaching the peak, and he’s less and less cognizant of the world around him. His kiss is fervent, nearly demanding - crushing his mouth to Will’s, jaw working, Will’s tongue stroking his.

It’s weird.

Well, okay, it’s not that weird. It’s not like Mike doesn’t get a little dominant from time to time. It’s just that Will has this thing about losing control - it kicks the anxiety center of his brain into gear, makes him withdraw and shut down. Even if there’s no real danger present, even if it’s just Mike.

He doesn’t mind; it’s just how things are, the same way that Mike sometimes gets extra touchy about Party members not answering their radio, the same way that Will can’t stand being cold for too long and El avoids small, closed spaces. It’s a fact of life. As mundane, by now, as Saturday morning cartoons or that bike-eating pothole on Mirkwood. And that’s that. It’s not bad, it just is. And Mike can’t exactly say he’s opposed when Will starts feeling the compulsion to assert himself, pushing Mike back against the wall or whispering something that makes him go red in the face. It’s less common for Will to enjoy ceding power. Not unheard of, but rare. And when he does, it usually doesn’t take long before he needs to push them back to even footing again to feel comfortable.

But now, Mike senses that something is different. Mike isn’t backing off, and Will isn’t recoiling. He shows no twitch of discomfort, not a shadow of hesitance in his movements as they work themselves up towards the finish line. Something tightening at the base of Mike’s spine, his lungs heaving.

“A little harder,” Will prompts between breaths.

Mike pushes his luck. He slows down instead, teasing, fully expecting Will to pull Mike’s hips down and set the pace himself.

“Mike,” Will complains. His face is flushed, his eyes dark. “Come on.”

“What?” he goads. “Feeling okay?”

Will’s thumbs stroke over his skin - a small, affectionate gesture that makes Mike’s heart swell. “You feel,” he rasps dryly. “So f*cking good.”

The teasing facade goes up in smoke. Mike groans as the next thrust fills him. “So do you.”

But still Will doesn’t take matters into his own hands, and Mike feels himself go a little dizzy with need. Will is trusting him to do this, and that alone is more gratifying than he ever expected.

Also, goddamn is it tiring. As they writhe, something in the back of Mike’s head grumbles, If we’re gonna be doing this all the time I’ll have abs within the month. Not to mention his legs are killing him.

“So you gonna help out or what?” he gasps. “My legs are about to give out.”

Will manages to smirk even while panting. “Does this mean you’ll be joining track with me - sh*t - to train up those noodle-legs of yours?”

“Shut up and thrust into me,” Mike snaps with a rough chuckle, and it’s not until a heartbeat later that he starts going even redder because of what just came out of his mouth.

“Oh,” Will says, realizing what he wants - and then huffs out, “Oh ,” again as he tries it. f*cking up into Mike for the first time, instead of just responding to Mike riding him. He guides Mike with his hands, angling him, pulling his hips down to meet Will’s thrusts.

“f*ck,” Mike sputters. The strength is starting to drain from his limbs, the pleasure a constant and unbearable ache pulling through him. “Yeah, that’s - keep doing that.”

“Better?”

He barely remembers to respond, and can only manage an, “Uh-huh.”

It’s a different angle than before, touching something further back. Will sets a harder, more deliberate rhythm. The force of it, the grind of friction made somehow, impossibly frictionless by the lube. The prod and drag of the head of Will’s dick somewhere deep in him, repeatedly nicking some sensitive little nerve. Will’s eyes close again, the skin between his brows scrunching in concentration as he loses himself to instinct, rutting up into Mike, messy and urgent, the jerk of his hips a hard, rapid, rhythmic spasm.

In the end neither of them is particularly in control. Of the situation or of themselves. They’re just moving together, grunting together, grasping at each other. The napes of their necks damp with sweat, abdomens clenched down with tension. Bouncing. The sounds of harsh breathing and throaty groans and slapping skin.

It’s completely undignified when it comes right down to it, and Will is grateful. He doesn’t think he’d be able to do this seriously. It’s the awkwardness and mistakes and laughter that makes this strange thing manageable. If either of them took this completely seriously - trying to go at it with a straight face, without one slip-up of a misplaced elbow or a goofy sound - they never would have gotten this far. It’s the realness of it that makes it so good. The aggravating squeak of the couch springs. The missed beats and scraped teeth. The haven’t-showered-since-last-night smell of warm skin and sweat and summer wind and just the faintest hint of soap and deodorant. It’s not a movie, not a fantasy.

Will is struggling to last. “Mike, you’d better come soon.”

Mike’s breath is hot and damp as steam in Will’s hair, where his face is buried. “You’re...?”

He doesn’t bother finishing his sentence, but Will nods feverishly anyway.

He takes half a second to shift, gripping Mike’s ass for stability with one hand and using the other to start pumping Mike’s dick. It’s awkward and sloppy, trying to work between their bodies, always losing the beat of their thrusting, but Mike is moaning within seconds and spasming with release not a moment later. Will follows almost instantly, barely hanging on long enough to get his partner off first before finally letting go.

They don’t move for a good long while. Mike, especially, needs a little recovery time. They remain tangled up on the couch, catching their breath, until Chester starts scratching at the back door to be let in.

Mike starts to stand up, intending to get them a cup of water - “That was a workout, I feel like I need some cool-down stretches. Some Gatorade, maybe. Orange slices.” - but the second he gets on his feet and various liquids start following the path of gravity, he aborts mission. “Jesus,” is his comment, wincing. “Tell you what, you get water, I’m gonna clean up.”

They both end up getting water and cleaning up. Showers are a miraculous invention. Mike makes a lot of faces, but assures Will repeatedly that he’s not hurt. “Just weird,” he mutters, scrubbing shampoo into his hair.

Clean, hydrated, and fully dressed, they go about erasing all evidence of their escapades. Throwing open windows, suddenly paranoid that the smell of sex will linger. Making sure no errant splashes of lube - or anything else - marked the couch.

More time has passed than Will would have believed possible, and before he knows it they’re microwaving leftover lasagna, wiping sauce splatters from the inside of the microwave because they forgot to cover it with a paper towel, and eating dinner. On the couch. With the TV on and ignored homework spread out on the coffee table. Using socked feet to try to keep Chester away from their plates.

Mike will be visiting his mother’s house for dinner once a week. That’s the arrangement they made.

The first dinner was last night. Mike gets the feeling that his mother wanted him to come over on his birthday, but that was a firm no. He wasn’t about to spend any part of his birthday in that house. And anyway, he already had birthday plans.

The 19th of August, this year, is a Friday. On the one hand, having school on your birthday sucks. On the other hand, the Party surprised him. Apparently after the past few months he’s had, they thought he deserved birthday brownies at lunch. Dustin baked them, with the help of his mom, and Max and Lucas decorated them with squiggles of colorful frosting that spelled out Happy Retirement Old Geezer! El convinced Hop to deliver them via one-man police escort during their lunch hour, causing a minor stir in the cafeteria.

Hop ruffled El’s hair as he set the tray down on the cafeteria table, muttering something about nuisance, but the smile in his eyes gave him away.

They all stopped at the convenience store to get slushies after school. Now they’re gathered at the Byers’, with leftover brownies mummified in Glad wrap on the counter. They’re playing games, just passing the time until Joyce gets home and it gets dark, when they plan to light the sparklers Max found in her garage. She’s been carrying them around in her backpack all day, apparently, and narrowly avoided having to explain to a teacher just why she had minor pyrotechnics at school with her. There’s a small pile of presents and cards on the dining room table. They plan on having a video game tournament soon, but first El wanted to play Epic Hide and Seek, Spies and Traitors, and Get Down, Mr. President! Max wants to play Truth or Dare, boasting that she has some truly malicious dares in mind. Dustin is in favor of Charades, and Lucas just wants to plug in the NES that Dustin brought over from his house.

Mike is just going with the flow, enjoying the day. El accidentally ninja-kicked him in the ear during Epic Hide and Seek, but it doesn’t hurt much anymore, and he’s in too much of a good mood for it to bother him. Plus, he gets to mess with her, leaning closer and shouting, “Eh?” every time she says something, pretending she made him go deaf.

The sound of a car - no, two cars - makes the Party pause in their helter-skelter, high-stakes game of Truth or Dare. Are Joyce and Jonathan both home already?

But then there’s a knock at the door, and Max is peeking out the window and frowning. Mike goes to answer it.

The second it’s open, an eight-year-old knocks the wind out of him. “MIKE!” Holly shrieks, refusing to let go.

“Holly,” he laughs, making a valiant effort to pry her off. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to give you presents! And there’s a surprise I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Karen is climbing the porch steps with a small pile of gifts and envelopes in her hands. Behind her, two cars sit in the roundabout: the taupe Toyota and a brown car that Mike recognizes from Mrs. York’s driveway. He looks at her in confusion.

Inside, the Party has gone quiet. Will and El, holding hands like siblings, have drifted closer to the door as if by unspoken agreement.

“I won’t bother you long,” Karen says, apparently fully aware of Mike’s silent, really? She waves stiffly to the Party. “Hi, guys.”

“Hey,” Dustin says, a little flatly.

In the resulting beat of awkward silence, Lucas steps forward. “Hey little terror,” he says, and Holly bares her teeth at him with a giggle. “You want a brownie?”

Her head whips around and she stares imploringly at Karen, who nods. Lucas and Max lead Holly back towards the kitchen, and Karen holds out the pile towards Mike.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” he says, and takes it. He thumbs through the envelopes: birthday cards from relatives, mostly, mailed to the Wheeler house. The smallest box, about the size of his hand, has a squashed bow on the top. It rattles when he shakes it.

“Nancy said she’s sending her present through mail,” she says. “It might be late.”

“Okay.” In fact, Mike already knew that. Nancy told him when she called him at 5am, intentionally waking him up to sing happy birthday over the phone.

Holly emerges from the kitchen with a sticky, frosting-covered brownie on a paper plate, her cheek already smudged with chocolate, and Karen holds out a hand to her. “Ready to go?”

Her face falls a little. “Already?”

“You’ll see him next week,” Karen says, glancing at Mike to make sure he gets the message - we better see you next week.

Mike’s mother wisely beats her retreat under the stares of all six Party members.

Their neighbor’s car is still idling in the driveway, and Mike’s confusion only grows when his mother and sister walk up to it and climb in. Leaving the Toyota.

“Who’s that?” Will says at his shoulder, watching the dirt-brown car start to pull away.

“Mrs. York,” Mike says. “She’s our neighbor.”

“Why’s she driving them?”

El sticks her head between Mike and Will’s. “Did they just leave their car behind?”

Wait. No way.

Mike fumbles for the tiny box, popping open the lid. The keys for the Toyota fall out onto his feet.

The Party already took the car for a test drive. The moment Mike told everyone what just happened, they practically begged him to take them all on a joyride down the highway. Of course, the Party has all been in the Toyota before. It was practically Mike’s car anyway, back when he used to share it with his mother last semester. But, as Max declared, it’s the principle of the thing!

Of course, for the broken old Toyota, their joyride was really more of a high-speed putter. A jog. A tortoise in a hurry. Still, they got the car up as fast as it would go, played the radio, stuck their arms out the open windows, laughed like idiots over nothing.

Now it’s just Mike and Will in the car - Test Drive Part Two. Magic hour. Hawkins is golden with sunset light, the sky splashed with pink and orange. It’s hot, and all the windows are open, letting in the summer smells of baking pavement, greenery, and, as they pass a recently-built fast food restaurant, burgers and fries. They meander aimlessly through town, Mike driving, radio on low volume.

Will has his Supercomm in his lap so that the Party can call them back when all the presents are hidden. Mike has never had to hunt for his birthday presents before; that’s more of a Byers thing. Will suspects it originated when Jonathan was little and they were poor. Having to search for each present before you open it stretches out the process, makes it feel like there are more gifts than there really are. Will can’t remember a birthday when he didn’t have to look high and low for his presents, checking in the freezer and under furniture, but Mike has never been on the receiving end of this particular tradition before.

The color in the sky shifts quickly. They cruise around, deep in a conversation that flows from squirrel armor to the scientific possibility of ghosts to why some terrible movies are so bad they come full-circle to being amazing. And as they drive, the gold streaks fade from the clouds, and the pink turns to purple, and then to twilight-blue, and Hawkins goes calm and cool.

The radio is talking too much - too many advertisem*nts and weather reports - and Will starts flipping through channels without touching the dial. He finds a station with music and sits back, satisfied. Coincidentally, it’s a song from the mixtape he made Mike.

“All you got is this moment. The twenty-first century's yesterday.”

They’re ambling along an empty road near Will’s house, now, expecting to be called back soon. They pass a stump that used to serve as a throne, back when they were little kids playing in the woods, and Will clicks his seatbelt off.

“Pull over real quick.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, just real quick.”

“So slide over here and give me a moment. Your moves are so raw, I've got to let you know. I've got to let you know, you're one of my kind.”

Mike pulls the car onto the shoulder of the road, putting on the breaks, and Will leans across the center console to kiss him. Unhurried and muscle-memory-effortless. When they break apart, Will leans back in his seat to wedge something out of his pocket. He hands it over: an envelope, folded in half to fit in his pocket, addressed to Mike. This one is deep blue.

“Open it later,” Will says, as Mike unbends the fold. “When you need it.”

“What is it?”

Will shrugs. “You’ll see. I’m just - I’m bad at saying things. Sometimes. And I wanted you to know some stuff, in case you need cheering up. So.”

Mike gives a small, affectionate laugh, brushing a thumb over the all-caps note: OPEN ON A BAD DAY. Then he re-folds the envelope and tucks it away in his own pocket for safekeeping. “Okay.”

They loiter at the side of the road until Dustin calls them through Will’s radio, and meanwhile, the song plays through to the end.