Archive of Our Own ^beta

The house was noisy and dark: handkerchiefs thrown over side lamps, the home stereo playing Like a Prayer so loud that it hummed in his heart. Will was on his third beer, or maybe his fourth, which he thought tasted kinda like shit, but it was either that or a mysterious punch that he was sure he saw Andy spit in. People danced and shouted. At a beer pong table, Max hollered as Lucas drained another cup, “C’mon, babe, you can throw better than that! Aren’t you a fucking athlete?!” 

He was plastered.

After finishing their last campaign, Dustin and him had somehow convinced everyone to go to Stacy’s party. It took a little extra coaxing for Mike, who was now cheering on Jonah from algebra, mostly so he could see Lucas lose. But they got there eventually, after some bickering, and Steve was kind enough to drive them all over in the back of his pick-up. Will stood against the wall, watching his friends laugh and shriek. High school was finally over. He finally did it. Will made it out—not just out of school, out of Hawkins, but out of the horrors of his childhood. He could barely believe it. 

He had to admit that despite how rough the last year had been… this was really nice. It was nice, to be eighteen and dumb and pretty drunk and hanging out with his friends. It was nice that he had become confident enough even to attend a party at all—because frankly, Will had been dying to know what a high school party was like, and if they had blown off the invite entirely? He would’ve sulked for days. 

And maybe it was the liquor, but Mike was looking pretty nice too. 

Which was a terrible, terrible thought. A thought he hadn’t had in nearly two full years at this point, but it slipped through the cracks of his weakening heart. He’d done such a good job: Mike and Will were back to being friends, real friends. They’d bike to the creek behind the cabin, or play Double Dragon on Mike’s new NES. They’d drive Holly to get ice cream and sing along to Pixies or Depeche Mode or even Donna Summer if Will begged enough. Sometimes, Lucas would convince them to play a game of pick-up basketball in his driveway, which usually ended in Mike raging at Lucas until Will had to break them up. They could spend time together and it didn’t weigh so heavily on his heart, which felt like the biggest relief. He’d done such a good job. Things were normal. 

Normal-ish.

…It wasn’t exactly the same as it used to be, he’d have to admit. El’s sacrifice took a pretty heavy toll on all of them, but Mike the most. He was so quiet, some days. It was strange to have swapped places with him: when they hung out, Will did most of the talking. It was never like that before. Will felt like he was fighting for every smile out of him, sometimes. Mike would have horrific nightmares now too. He’d wake up hysterical in the basement, and Will, just as Mike had done so many times, would jolt awake to the sound of a scream. He’d scramble out of his sleeping bag to sit by Mike’s side, get a glass of water, rub his back while he cried. Then the next time, it would be Will’s turn to sob. They traded off taking care of each other, silently, never speaking of it the next morning. Sometimes, Mike would stare off into space for so long that Will would get frightened that Vecna was back, or his hell was about to start again. Then, he would sniff, bump his shoulder against Will’s with a weak smile, and he’d take it as his sign that it was time to go back to bed. 

There was a lot less spoken between them than there used to be. But it didn’t feel like anguish to Will now. It just felt like grief. Grief was something Will could manage.

Sometimes, the little kid in him wanted to kick and scream and cry, and demand that things be different—go back to the way they were when Mike and Will slept in the same bed at sleepovers. When Mike and Will used to hold hands when they crossed the street. On occasion, the hold that Mike Wheeler used to have on him would rear its ugly head and stare him dead in the face, a sulking, ugly truth that made him feel so dirty, once upon a time. Now, it just made him sad. It made Will remember all the years he wasted begging Mike to look at him.

He’d just force it down, quietly, and remind the poor thing in his heart that they were better off as friends. Which was true—because Will hadn’t entirely let go of that hellish mall-addled summer when they were kids, or only getting once-a-month letters in California if he was lucky, when El had gotten them every single week. They had talked about it one day. Sitting around at Lover’s Lake. Mike had apologized in that stilted, awkward way of his. And Will knew what he was saying, understood, to some extent. It was long enough ago that it didn’t quite sting as it used to, but… forgive, don’t forget. He had to remember all of that stuff, the bad, so he couldn’t end up in love with Mike again. He didn’t want to hurt anymore.

So… they were back to being friends, not quite best friends, but it was close enough. It kept Mike around—far more than Will was hoping for when he spilled his guts in that stupid radio station.

“Will! Will, I need your help with something!” Dustin burst into his field of view breathless, red cup in hand. “Where’d you put our jackets, I need mine. There’s something in the pocket, and some asshole moved all our shit. Where’d all our shit go! Who moved our shit!—”

“How would I know? I know the same people here that you do, Dustin—”

“Son of a bitch, you’re no help at all. Go look around, please, I’m serious.” And just as quickly as he appeared, he was gone. There was no way whatever Dustin was planning was… good, but Will was too curious, and a little too drunk to care. 

Laughing to himself, he ducked away from the table as Jonah downed his last cup, Mike chanting gleefully beside him, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”, as Lucas flexed and Max whooped with delight. She slung an arm around his neck and kissed him, hard. 

One day, I want to be able to do that, he thought, as he moved through the throng of bodies. Will pushed past classmates, old friends, strangers. He ducked past Jennifer Hayes and Troy, who were now making out on what he could only assume was Stacy’s dad’s recliner. I want that. I want to be able to kiss someone wherever I want.

…Note to self. Alcohol makes me a little sentimental.

Being gay was hard as shit, and harder in Hawkins, and by God, was Will excited to see the rest of the world.

He still hadn’t figured out where their stuff was, but Will figured it was probably worth it to just poke around a bit. He opened up a door or two, careful to knock first, knowing enough from the pre-party pep talk they all got from Steve that it was never a good idea to open a door without knocking. As he was about to move toward the garage, Mike crashed into him.

“Will! I was looking for you!” His eyes were crinkled at the corners, just like they used to right before he revealed a particularly exciting plot twist in a campaign. It was a level of joy that Will wasn’t used to seeing on Mike anymore, and it made his drunken heart squeeze. There he is. His pulse started racing on instinct. 

They’d all changed into more “party appropriate” outfits at Max’s behest, because she thought it was lame as hell that they all wanted to go in their regular clothes. It’s just not what you do!, she’d said, and no one else knew enough about a party of all things to really fight her on it. Mike was in a loose striped button-down, tucked into his jeans, sleeves cuffed at the elbow. It wasn’t anything particularly interesting or different—in fact, Will had seen him wear it a hundred times—but tonight, the collar was loose down to the third button. Which Mike never did. And it was leaving a lot more skin available for Will to stare at—the column of Mike’s neck, pale and shining with sweat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he spoke. Between that, and his forearms? Which were strong and lean, more muscular than Mike had ever been when they were kids? Because after the final battle, Mike decided he’d never be left vulnerable again, and started working out with Max? Those forearms? Will was a bit dizzy.

Second note to self. Do not ever drink with him. Ever.

“Well, here I am.” He was grinning despite his incredibly homosexual train of thought. “How many drinks have you had?”

“Dunno. I helped Lucas with some of his cups in beer pong even though I wanted him to lose, and then we had those Fireball shooters from Robin, and I stole Max’s when we were in the car.”

“Oh my God, you’re the worst. She’s gonna be so mad when she realizes that. And doesn’t helping Lucas defeat the whole purpose of rooting against him?”

“Probably,” Mike shrugged. “But if we’re here, go big or go home right?” He grabbed Will by the shoulders and shook him gently, smiling. “Argh! Will! I’m so glad you made us come to this. I never would’ve gone to this without you. You are the best in the world, Will, thank you. Thank you so, so much. I’m so happy I’m having fun tonight.”

The spontaneous touch made Will’s face burn. He was backsliding at an alarming rate, and it made him want to fling the beer in his hand halfway across the room so he’d never drink again, and also shove his hands up Mike’s shirt, an idea he hadn’t considered in months. The two feelings were still battling it out when he managed, “Aw, ‘course, Mike,” And, of course, because Will can’t win, it came out much gentler than he meant it to. Jesus Christ. He cleared his throat. “Um, why were you looking for me?”

“I couldn’t find you, so I wanted to find you.” 

Wow. “I’m just looking for our stuff. Dustin said he has something in his jacket pocket.”

“Oh, like a joint?” He seemed a little too excited at the idea of getting crossed.

“What? No, Jesus, Mike, calm down. I mean, maybe. He just said he needed it.”

“Weird.”

“I… think he has something planned, which is—”

“Frightening.”

“Frightening, yeah,” Will laughed.

“Well, can I help you look?” Mike slid his hands down Will’s bare arms, before pulling away. It took everything in him not to shudder. Forearms. Throat. Shiny eyes. Kill me. 

“Yeah, totally.” They turned as a unit and pushed further into the house. Will led, Mike trailing behind him like a dog. He could feel Mike watching him move as he brushed past the captain of the football team, squeezing himself in the space between the guy and the wall. He could feel Mike watching him as he poked his head into the kitchen, tapping Stacy’s best friend on the shoulder, asking about jackets, coming up empty. It was like having the Eye of Sauron blazing on his back. It was a miracle he hadn’t sweated through his brand-new Cure t-shirt. He wasn’t used to this attention—this was the thing the little petulant version of him craved. The one who, even after everything, had a tough time getting over his best friend.

Usually, it was very easy to control. But clearly, when Will was drunk? It was fucking impossible.

“Stop staring at me, Mike.”

“What?” When Will turned to face him, Mike looked like a little boy who had been caught stealing an extra cookie: eyes blown wide and red creeping up his neck.

Neck. Throat. Collar. STOP.

“I can feel you staring.”

“I’m not,” He insisted, still staring. 

“You’re seriously the worst.” 

“I just don’t wanna lose you.”

“So you are staring?”

“No! I mean, well, I’m just— The, y’know—”

“If you’re that worried, just take my hand.” Will regretted it the minute he said it. Somehow, Mike managed to make it worse. 

“No, I— um, here.” He took Will by the shoulders again and gently turned him around. Then, he looped two fingers through the center belt loop right above Will’s ass. “Okay, let’s go.”

Nevermind. I think I want the alternate dimension horrors again.

Will, whose brain was so scrambled by the situation at hand, didn’t even respond. He just kept staring straight ahead, trying to process Mike’s fingers on the smallest part of his back, twisting the belt loop absentmindedly. 

He was way too fucking drunk for this.

…Fuck it. 

Any amount of self-control he had was entirely gone. Fuck the internal battle. Whatever he said in the next twenty-five minutes was not him. It was Drunk Will. He was not taking responsibility for it. It was over. God forbid I be eighteen and stupid. Just let me be eighteen and stupid. That’s fine. I can be stupid for one night, right? Sure. That’s what Steve told us. Be stupid but be safe. This is fine. Everything is fine. This is safe! It’s just... self-indulgent. It’s what little Will would want. Sure. Whatever. Whatever.

“C…” When he opened his mouth, nothing but breath came out. This was the most humiliating moment of his life. Maybe he’d never drink again. Get it together. “Can we get another drink first?” Not that another drink would make any of this much better, but it would probably make Will feel a little less like he was going to pass out. 

“Yes! Yes, more alcohol, yes, let’s go,” Mike chirped, and Will guided them back towards the kitchen. The noise grew as they wandered closer to the heart of the party, laughter carrying throughout the house. Unfortunately, Mike was probably sort of… smart for this plan, because at least once they had to squeeze through a hallway so tightly packed with teenagers that all they could do was shuffle their feet ‘til the end of it. There were so many people in Stacy’s house. Will realized somewhere in the back of his mind that finding the rest of the Party later was going to be a shitshow.

Surprisingly, no one really stared at them, which was a little bit insane. Apparently Dustin’s valedictorian speech had some kind of impact on everyone—or maybe his classmates were just too drunk to notice Mike practically with his hands down the back of his pants. He tried not to think about the implications of any of it and grabbed the first two bottles he saw once they reached their destination. “Do you have your Swiss army knife?” Will spoke without turning around. 

“Shit, no. It’s with my jacket.” 

“Well, we'd better keep looking then.”

“Can’t we just take a shot or something instead?” The request was so out of character that Will suddenly had to turn around. Which was a terrible fucking idea, because the minute he did, Mike was so close to his face that Will nearly dropped both bottles on the ground. They were inches away. Will could see the scar over his right eyebrow, the darkest freckle on his cheekbone, the peach fuzz Mike was starting to have to shave every other day. He could smell the liquor on his breath. Will blinked, hard and fast, and licked his lips. He desperately tried to ground himself.

They were crammed against the kitchen island: Will, twisted halfway around, still attached at the ass to Michael Wheeler, who towered over him, arm slightly bent, pulling Will just a micrometer closer, waiting for a response. All around them, other kids swirled and chatted, a mill of bodies. Voices, figures, all of it, becoming one big blur in the background. All there was was Mike. He felt frozen to the spot. While half of him really, really wanted the shot—the other half wanted nothing more than to be completely sober right now. 

“Does that seem… like a great idea?” Great job, Will. Let Mike fucking decide. 

Mike shrugged, a cheeky, close-mouthed smile slowly growing on his face. Will was a sucker. He folded. 

“Fine. Shit, find a cup. Or something,” He sighed, voice weakening the minute Mike leaned over his shoulder to grab a handle of vodka off the counter, and two red Solo cups. For a millisecond, all Will could smell was beer and WhiteOut and Old Spice Original and that dumb peppery cologne Karen bought and Mike’s hair was brushing Will’s neck and he had the shivers and holy shit he was drunk and then it was gone. 

He nearly fainted. 

Mike was completely oblivious. Will didn’t know whether to be thankful or scream. After this, he was never drinking again. For real this time. He meant it.

…But not until after this shot.

Will pulled himself together for a moment as Mike poured a generous amount into each cup and passed one over to him. “Aren’t you supposed to, like, chase a shot with something?”

Will looked around the counter, taking the excuse to put a bit of space between their bodies. All he saw was booze, booze, and more booze. Beers in the cooler, beers on the counter. Andy’s spit punch. Empty, dirty, cups. “I think we might be out of luck.”

Mike sucked his teeth. “Fuck. Welp,” He held up the cup, over Will’s shoulder again, tugging on the belt loop, reeling Will back in, always fucking reeling Will back in— “To high school.”

Will looked up at Mike, allowing himself this moment to really take him in. He knew he was being dramatic, and it was definitely the beers talking, but it felt like one of the last times he’d ever really be able to. Tall, handsome Mike, collar open, eyes glossy and bright, mischief all over his face— KNOCK it off. “To high school. Good riddance.”

“Good riddance!” Mike laughed, and tapped their cups together. He knocked the cup back, and Will hesitated for a split second, watching his throat dip with the swallow. Then, he went for it.

The vodka burned hot and acrid in his throat, spreading all over his tongue and creeping underneath it. He felt like his teeth were going soft. It felt like a match was struck all the way down, from his mouth straight down his throat and into his belly. “Holy shit, that’s bad,” Will managed to croak before sputtering out a cough. 

Mike wasn’t faring much better. He was hacking up a lung, mouth wet, front of his shirt speckled with droplets of vodka. “Oh fuck, I’m an idiot, that—, oh, God, that was the worst that was the worst that was the worst—”

Will’s stomach started churning immediately. He took a few harsh, short breaths to soothe it. Mike tried to do the same and failed. He was getting redder by the minute. “Um, are you—”

“Bathroom. Will, bathroom, now.” The panic was so palpable in Mike’s voice that, if he wasn’t worried that he was about to vomit all over his Reeboks, he would’ve laughed. He grabbed Mike by the hand, not caring anymore, and dragged him through the house, throwing apologies back over his shoulders and shoving anyone who stood in one place for a little bit too long.

Once he got to what he was pretty sure was the bathroom—drunk in an unfamiliar house was never a great thing to be during a time-sensitive crisis—he knocked once, twice, and heard nothing, so he took the great risk of swinging the door wide open. Thankfully, no one was inside. Will chucked Mike through the threshold and threw the door closed. The bathroom was eerily silent compared to the buzz outside, and there was an active drop in temperature as they escaped the sticky humidity of too many humans. In the bathroom, the fan hummed quietly.

Mike’s eyes were screwed shut. He was deep breathing like his life depended on it. “Hoooooo… w… water. Please, water, Will—”

Will, who had thrown the toilet seat up, turned and grabbed the cup from Mike’s hand. He rinsed it out in the bathroom sink, tossing the last drops of vodka down the drain, and filled it up. “Drink. Take slow sips. That’s what—”

“Yeah, I know, what Steve said. Oh, fuck Steve Harrington. Fuck that dumbass.” Mike looked like he was going to go into labor. “Fuck that stupid idiot with perfect hair, stupid fucking baseball coach. Oh, fuck this.”

Now that they were in a barf-safe zone, Will had enough space to properly assess the moment, which was unfortunately hilarious. Whether it was because of the very, very large shot he had just taken, or Mike’s constant stream of curses, he had to stifle a laugh. “Now how is this Steve’s fault?”

“I don’t know. It’s always Steve’s fault. Fuck.” The last cuss was swallowed up by his cup, which he repeatedly lapped out of. Oh my God. He’s literally a dog. The vision was so visceral, that the laughter Will was desperately trying to suffocate bubbled out of him all at once.

“Will! What the hell, man!”

“I’m sorry! I’m— I’m sorry, this is just so ridiculous.” Will, breathless, doubled over. “You look like you’re gonna die.”

“I am going to die! My body is failing me!” 

“No, you aren’t. Just sit down. You’re the most dramatic person I know.” Will took a few steps forward, feeling like he was in molasses or operating his body from the next room. He moved toward Mike, the whole time letting his little pathetic gay brain run through a chant of MikeMikeMikeMikeMike as he filled up more and more of his point of view. Then he gently took him by the biceps—MikeMikeBICEPSWOWMikeMikeMike—and set him down on the bathroom counter. He stayed there, close, grinning, so happy to be there, so happy to be with his best friend. No matter how blurry the line was tonight, Mike was his best friend. He knew things were complicated. He’d been so hurt by him. But he’d also been so loved by him, too.

Mike pouted at him. He was already starting to lean towards the wall, tipping ever so slightly to rest his head against the cool tile backsplash. “Nope,” Will said, and tipped him back upright. “You should stay right here.”

“Why? Another Steve Harrington nugget of advice? Don’t tip over when you’re dying and nauseous and dying and so nauseous or else you’ll die for real?”

“Do you have any idea how many times you said dying in that sentence?” Will dodged the question. He didn’t wanna admit the truth: he felt like if Mike was less than a foot away from him, he’d shrivel into dust.

“I can say it again. Dying. Die. Diediediediedie. Twenty-sided die.”

“Jesus, Mike!” And Will was laughing again, but Mike was too, and it all felt so easy. Everything felt right where it should be, a low hum dancing through Will’s entire being. The world was in motion, but not in a scary, uncontrolled way. He was laughing and Mike was laughing and he felt so bright everywhere, shining all over. Mike was in front of him on the bathroom counter, grinning into his cup, his knees bumping Will’s thighs, his shirt rumpled with the initial nausea panic. He was slouched over, hunched to stay on Will’s level, always keeping their gazes aligned. Mike’s nose crinkled, folding his freckles over on themselves, his cheeks still drunkenly flushed. They laughed until they couldn’t anymore—then, their giggles faded out, and it was quiet. Will kept staring at him. Mike stared back. His eyes were glassy, but warm. Still light. Will thought he could live in this bathroom if Mike just kept looking like this forever. He had been so heavy, for so long. Even if it was just the alcohol, even if it was just for a second, Will felt his heart unfurl seeing him like this. Whatever promises he had made to himself about keeping himself controlled, or letting himself be stupid, or anything he thought would happen tonight? All of it was mush. He had nothing to hold onto. All he knew was Mike. “Well, how are you feeling now?”

Mike knocked a knee against him. “Better. Better, thanks to you.”

“Well, I’m glad to be of service. …Think you wanna apologize to Steve?”

“Nope. No. I maintain my stance.”

“Aw, that’s not nice. I’m gonna tell him. I’ll make him leave you here and the rest of us’ll get to crawl into the truck and go home.” Will felt his laughter start to build again, something hysterical and unruly, as he teased. He couldn’t help it—he wanted to push every one of Mike’s buttons. 

“What?! Will, c’mon!” 

“No, I’m serious—”

“Wiiiiilllllllll!”

“I’m serious! I think you’re just jealous of his hair.”

“Ugh!” Mike rolled his eyes. He pouted again, tipping his chin down, sulking up at Will from under upturned brows. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, Michael.” If he wasn’t so drunk, Will would’ve thought that Mike’s face heated at the use of his full name. As it was, he barely caught the way Mike inched closer, caught the breath that seeped out of his parted lips. What he did catch, for certain, was the shift in his eyes: something about the way his pupils expanded, primal. It was so slight that he was sure no one else in the world would have seen it, but years of wanting had trained Will towards the smallest of Mike’s movements. The tiniest ones were the ones he noticed the most. 

Will wanted it to happen over and over and over again. 

“Well, boo.” Mike’s voice was light and breathy. 

“Well, boo indeed.”

“That’s lame.”

“You’re lame.”

“No, Steve’s hair is lame.”

“Oh, stop. I don’t even know why you’re being so jealous. You have good hair,” Will was speaking before he could think about it, still stuck on the swell of the black in Mike’s eyes, the hypothetical blush, the air that was getting sucked out of the room. Don’t say jealous, God— He pushed a little bit closer, pushing himself between Mike’s knees just the slightest bit, making room for himself in Mike’s space. Made himself comfortable. He was moving entirely without thinking. Maybe drinking was a little bit fun. “You just have no idea how to style it.” 

“Wow. You’re just a ray of sunshine tonight, aren’t you.” He pressed his lips together, faking hurt.

“I am, actually. Max tells me that every day.” Will grinned, cheeky. “No, I mean it. Just—God, no offense, Mike. I really hate your hair like this—” The alcohol ripped all hesitation from his consciousness, and he reached up and ran his hands through Mike’s hair. He carded his fingers through the softness, shaking off the weak pomade’s hold. “You—I don’t know why you even started doing this.” He flitted his over Mike’s forehead, brushing dark strands back and forth, tousling them. He didn’t look down. He wouldn’t dare. He just kept focusing on the ocean of black. It didn’t matter how intoxicated he got—he knew this was crossing a little bit of a line. He just chose to do it anyway. Be stupid but be safe, he remembered, like a mantra. Well, this was stupid, alright. “It looks so silly. Your bangs were nice.” He kept his hands busy, zhuzhing and fluffing. Only when he was satisfied did he lean back and look at his handiwork. 

Mike had been silent the whole time. When Will saw him, the full picture of him, his heart forced him to take a shaking breath. For the first time in nearly two years, he recognized Mike. Mike his friend, his very best friend. The Mike that saved him from another world. Brought him back to life. The Mike from the swings. Mike Wheeler, Mike. Ah.

He was staring at him from under his brows still, but now? His eyes were entirely black. Mike’s pupils had practically blown out all the way to the edges of his irises. He was rosy-red, burning all the way down his neck, straight to the triangle of chest that peak-a-booed from his open shirt. The blue of the button-down created a night sky against his glowing skin. The look in his eyes was so intense that Will was pinned right to the spot, but he didn’t feel scared—Will could never be scared of Mike. That was impossible. He just felt his pulse slamming against his ribs, his neck, his hands—which now sat on Mike’s shoulders, palms against the curve. He was hot to the touch. Will almost thought he could feel Mike’s heart racing too. Will had no idea what Mike was thinking. His face was so blank, despite the fire that was clearly burning somewhere in his mind. They were pulling closer, unconsciously. Will was firmly between Mike’s knees now, so little space between them. Like it used to be. But different. So different.

“There you are.” Will whispered it like a prayer. He didn’t even mean to say it. It was supposed to stay inside, like everything else Will felt about Mike. Like every other thought every other little gay kid in Hawkins had ever had. He hoped Mike didn’t hear.

Mike’s nostrils flared. It was the ghost of a thought that Will nearly recognized, and his only warning. And then Mike was kissing him. 

It was short: just hard, hot pressure. Soft chapped lips on his, hands on his waist. Mike, everywhere, but especially here, with his mouth against his, something he dreamed about every day from ages ten to sixteen. It was just a moment in his life, truly, probably three full seconds—but it was going to change him forever. It lasted just long enough for Will to breathe it in.

As soon as it started, it was over. Where there was once warmth, cold air rushed between them. Will stumbled back, burned. Everything was real, suddenly: this wasn’t his fantasy. This wasn’t a dream. This was Mike, Michael Theodore Wheeler, in front of him, drunk, scrambled, and bright fucking red. His eyes were the size of dinner plates. Mike, who wasn’t supposed to kiss boys. Mike, who wasn’t supposed to kiss boys and was supposed to be in mourning and just kissed him. Mike who just kissed him. Mike, who looked as if he was a big mouth bass pulled out of a river: mouth gaping open, then shut, then open, then shut—jaw shaking, whole body shaking. Will was the opposite: paralyzed. He was completely made of stone. The silence was deafeningly loud. It stretched on for what felt like an eternity. Will thought he could’ve wrung the tension from the air like dishwater from a rag.

“What?” It was a bomb going off. Will ripped the silence clean in half.

“I—”

“Mike, what the fuck?” Will hardly ever used words harsher than shit out loud, because it made his mom so upset. He was reeling now, though. It was all he could say. “What the fuck?”

“No, please, Will, just let me explain—”

“Did you just fucking kiss me?”

The din of the party trickled through the door. Mike didn’t say anything. He was trembling, hunched over. Mike had leaned back too, hands drawn up to his chest. He was trying to pull the last thirty seconds back into himself. 

“Did you just fucking kiss me?”

“I... I think so.”

“Why the fuck did you just kiss me?” Will felt the last two years of progress both light up in flames, and any love he ever had for Mike get flushed into a toilet immediately. It was like everything in his body had gone completely and totally numb. There is no way this is happening right now. He was in disbelief. This is a vision. He didn’t even know what to say. This isn’t real. He couldn’t process anything. His heart was pounding so incredibly hard. And he was still so, so fucking drunk.

Mike didn’t answer. He just sat there, dumb. 

“Mike. Fucking answer me.”

All at once, it came spilling out of him. Mike unlocked, like a flood, or an avalanche, and every word he’d locked up for the last eighteen months splatted against the bathroom walls: “I— Yes, I kissed you, and I know—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“—which I know sounds insane, please, Will, just listen to me, I can explain it—”

“Oh fuck, Mike—”

“—I just— Hop talked to me earlier, and he said something about how I should start living my life, I can’t just wait around for forever—”

“No shit. I’ve been—we’ve all been saying that to you, that she would’ve wanted you happy—”

“I know that, but it didn’t register until today, I realized it’s all going to change, and I’m—we’ll never be the Party again, I’m going to lose you all after today, and—, that—,” Mike gulped, and Will knew whatever he had to say next was about to do irreparable damage. 

He prepared himself for the worst, and tried to catch it before it hit him. “Look, just because we are—”

“No, stop, I mean that sucks, I love our friends, I do, but—, fuck, I can’t ever lose you, Will. The first time it almost killed me.” 

Oh.

“I was staring at our binders after the campaign, and—, that—, that’s why it was so easy to get me out here tonight. I knew that if we didn’t go, you would be so upset, and I realized I can’t stand having you upset at me, ever. It all hit me, like, all at once, I saw you, and then the binders, and then Holly and her friends just like we were, and it was like my entire life hit me, and—, I want you happy forever. And I want to be there for that.”

“I’m right here, Mike, what do you—”

“No, please, Will, I’m not done, you—, you have to understand, I’m not like you. I— I’m not brave, I’ve never been brave—that's always been total bull. I mean, come on, the—, the meanest girl in our grade invited us to a party and all you wanted to do was be there, but I wanted to just stay at home in my fucking basement like a coward. So of course when you told us that stuff—, that you’re—, fuck, this is so hard,” Mike was near tears now, words slurring with spit. “That you’re gay—,” He choked on the word a bit, not like it was poison, but like it was something hard to pronounce. Something he had to get right. “Of course I just—, I remember just staring at you and I couldn’t believe how much you’d grown and changed, and all I could think was I’m still that kid. I’m still that fucking guy who can’t do anything, and today, I—, God. Look, I tried to say sorry, on the tower. I hoped you’d get that I meant for—, shit, I don’t even know what for, but I just wanted to be in your life forever, and the idea that you thought that however you felt could change that terrified me. I know I’ve said that, I know I said sorry, but—, I don’t think you know how sorry I really am. I couldn’t believe I’d done that.”

Why’s he bringing up—

“Today? That was our last campaign, Will. I don’t have anything written and I don’t know if I ever will again, because I saw your fucking D&d binder next to mine and I realized how much of an idiot I am, which is so corny, I—, I know that. I can’t do it without you. I’ll never be able to do it without you. I realized too late, because I’m always just fucking late, and I know that too.” 

Wait. Realized… wait. Oh my God. 

He was talking so fast and so much that Will could barely hear the spaces between words. Mike was lucky that they were who they were—he was lucky Will had the training to know Mike well enough to hear every syllable. “I fucked this all up. I’m so sorry. Please, Goddamnit. Just don’t hate me. I just—”

“Mike.” The gears in Will’s head were turning so fast that he didn’t have time to watch them spin. This was so much. And Will was increasingly aware of the need to do something about it. He had an idea. He hoped it was the right one. Future, sober me, please forgive me for the very stupid choice I am about to make. He should’ve never taken that shot—but it was going to make what he was about to do so much easier. Sorry you’re going to be picking up the pieces.

This was stupid, and it certainly wasn’t safe. But Mike had said it best—fuck Steve.

“Please, Will, just promise me I didn’t—”

I hope this is worth it. 

“Mike.”

“I know I shouldn’t do this, I’m sorry—, we’re both drunk, and—“

“Mike! Just stop fucking talking.” And then, Will grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him. 

One last Mike Wheeler apology was swallowed up in a crash of teeth and lips. It came out in a muffled gasp, and Will devoured it, squeezing fabric in his fists, pulling Mike closer and closer to his chest. He was back between his knees, crowded flush against the counter and Mike. His very best friend. Will felt electricity run down his spine, zip towards the root of his body, as, after a brief moment of surprise—Mike began to kiss him back. 

He threw his arm around Mike’s neck, pulling him closer still, wanting to fuse their forms together, wanting to feel him on every inch of himself. It was long and drawn out, everything rhythmic and deep and open-mouthed. It was totally different than Mike’s first ambush: Will cracked his jaw and Mike snuck his tongue along his bottom lip. Will returned the favor. Mike smelled like home, like his cologne and like old paper, and he was letting his hands run everywhere. He wove his hands up to Will’s neck, put his hands in his hair, scratched his nails into the base of his skull. He dragged them back down, back to his waistband. He shoved them underneath Will’s shirt, letting his fingers splay along his back and his thumbs firmly on his hips, smushing circles into the skin, and Will stuttered, something that only seemed to make Mike hungrier. Mike surged forward, almost letting his feet hit the bathroom floor.

Hell no. Will didn’t want that. He wanted Mike exactly how he had him. He pushed back, throwing his grasp to the bottom of Mike’s shirt and ripping it out of his waistband, untucking it. Mike’s gasped something that sounded suspiciously like Will’s name. Will pushed his hands up Mike’s shirt, flat, running his hands over his ribcage, pushing him against the bathroom wall. He hummed into Mike’s mouth, lips moving and head tilting and world spinning. Instinctively, he rolled Mike’s lip between his teeth. Mike shivered. Will wanted more. He picked up the pace.

He finally did what he’d been wanting to all night: he kissed from Mike’s lips, over his cheek, along his jawline. He kissed hard and fast and frantic, before dragging his mouth down his waiting neck. Pressing firm, bitey kisses into his skin. He pulled Mike’s collar open, grazing his collarbones with his teeth, tasting sweat, tasting Mike. 

“Jesus, Will, Jesus,” Mike choked out, grabbing him by the hair and yanking him back up to his level. Will whined at the sting. “Don’t leave a mark, fucking hell.” Everything was suddenly so hot and fast and needy. 

“Just one?”

“What the—, no—” And Will dove back in with both hands on Mike’s face, kissing him again, feeling him go limp again under his touch. He was melting in Will’s hands and Will was twice as bad, desperate down to his marrow. He’d wanted this for so long, thought he could never have it, and now, under far too much “liquid courage”, as Robin might’ve called it, was getting more than he could’ve ever asked for. He tangled himself back into Mike’s hair, thankful that he had messed with it. So thankful. Will felt like everything might explode soon. Little chirps bled through his lips between sloppy kisses, and he thought there was no way anything in this life could be better than this. Mike tilted his head and swapped their positions, pulling Will’s bottom lip into his own mouth, letting himself get mouthy too. This was the craziest first kiss ever. Will it always feel like this?

“Don’t ever unbutton your shirt like this again,” Will puffed, straight into the next kiss. Then, before another, “Or maybe do, I don’t know.” 

“I’m never wearing anything else.” 

“Thank God—,” It was hard to get the words out because all they wanted was each other. If the bathroom was once cold compared to the rest of the busy house, Will had no idea. He was burning up. Mike was searing through him like a fever. He tugged on Will’s belt loops again. Will nearly laughed, delirious. He didn’t know what else to do but keep kissing, kissing, giving all of himself to Mike and taking all of him back in return. “Thank fucking God.” He had half a mind to climb onto the bathroom counter right into Mike’s lap. 

They were both winded, and finally, when Will pulled away, chest heaving, Mike was completely taken apart: breathless, eyes glossy, blinking rapidly. He slouched backward against the mirror behind him, boneless. His lips were swollen. Did I do that? He could see the ghost of little, flushed circles down Mike’s neck, but nothing that looked like it would last for long. Just enough for Will to see now and relish in, feeling possessive and proud. His hair was twice as messy as it had been. “Mike.”

“Will.” He was sure, by Mike’s expression, that he must look the same. His eyes were darting all over Will’s face, searching for something, some kind of answer that Will didn’t know. Or maybe, he just wanted to kiss him again. 

Will was pretty sure that he just wanted to kiss Mike again. So he did. He cupped Mike’s face, thumbs over his cheeks, and leaned back in. Mike let him. 

He pressed a slow, measured kiss to Mike’s lips, and he watched just long enough to see Mike’s eyes flutter shut, lashes grazing his freckled cheeks. He thought distantly that this must be heaven and surely he was either dead or dying soon. Will tried to push every thought, every feeling, every day he spent begging for this moment into Mike’s mouth. When they broke apart, Will kept Mike cradled in his hands.

“Am I dying?” Well. That was not meant to be said out loud.

“Twenty-sided die.”

“You are an idiot, Mike.”

“Okay,” He grinned. “Does it matter?”

“What, if I’m dying?”

“No, if I’m an idiot.”

“Probably a little bit.” Will was smiling now too. “How long do I get to pretend that I’m not?”

“What, not dying? Christ, I told you. Forever. I want you happy forever.” Mike frowned, like he couldn’t believe he’d even ask. Will couldn’t believe how quickly Mike was understanding what he was saying. It was almost their little, unspoken language again. It made him feel so insane.

“...You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

“It’s different.”

“It’s not.” Mike shook his head, eyes soft, and pressed another kiss to Will’s lips. He was gentle this time. He shook his head again. “It’s not.”

Will had no idea whether to believe him or not. Truthfully, Mike had been so wishy-washy that the saddest part of their post-battle friendship was that Will never knew whether he could trust him. He didn’t know what was real all the time. But right now, his heart ached to think otherwise. He let it go. In the moment, he allowed himself that small grace. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

“Can… can I ask you something?” Will couldn’t stop staring at him. 

“Anything. Anything, always, Will.” Mike reached up and brushed his bangs away from his brow. Will’s heart stammered at the touch.

“You mean this?”

“I mean it. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it. Okay?” Mike said it like an oath. Will saw a flash of the little boy who wore armor out of cardboard and yelled at rocks that scraped Will’s knees. He gave back a small nod, awed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“It’s kind of intrusive, so—“

“Mike, just ask.”

“Was… was that your first kiss?”

Will was suddenly self-conscious. He nodded shyly, his face somehow flushing redder. He realized that Jonathan was gonna have a field day with this story, hearing that his first kiss was drunk as shit in Stacey’s downstairs guest bathroom. I am never living this down.

“Oh. Wow. Okay.” Mike’s eyes widened in wonder, just when Will thought they couldn’t get any bigger.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just—“

“Was I bad?” Insecurity flooded Will’s stomach. 

“No, no, shit, no. You…” Mike grinned, and it was laced with something Will recognized as the face Mike always made before he said something really stupid. “You really are a sorcerer… ‘cus you sure cast a spell on me.”

“Oh… my God.” Will hung his head, ears burning, trying to smother his laughter behind a gasp. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” The fact that I’m in love with him should get me institutionalized. “I think I hate you.” 

“I think you loved it, though.” 

Will could only shake his head, hiding how much it was affecting him. Mike is flirting with me. He’s flirting with me and we are drunk right now. He’s flirting with me.

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Is it as stupid as that?” Mike stared blankly at him, waiting, not admitting to his silliness. Will held out for as long as he could—which was only about three seconds, too excited by the moment to care. Then he caved. “Fine. What?”

“…Did you really think my hair was that bad?”

Will barked out a laugh, surprised. “Yes, Mike. Don’t ever do that shit again. The side part was so bad.” He squished Mike’s cheeks, smushing his grin between his palms. “This suits you. Your curls are your charm. Trust me.” It was shocking how easily the compliments came from Will, like they had been locked away, waiting to spring forth and rain on Mike as a summer storm of affection. Will let it happen. He let himself have this. 

“Aye aye, captain.”

“The belt-loop thing was crazy, by the way. You are crazy.”

“I didn’t want to lose you! The party was so busy!”

"There's a hundred other ways to keep track of me! If you hadn't just stuck your tongue down my throat, that would've kept me up at night for the rest of my life."

"...So I'm on your mind at night?"

“Eugh, Mike! Come on!”

"Okay, fine, I just wanted to be close to you!"

They laughed easily, holding each other and teasing. This was so right. And when the silence between them finally came, it was comfortable. The bathroom fan didn’t seem so loud anymore.

Will held Mike’s face, studying him, swiping a thumb across the high apple of his cheek, down the hollows of his cheekbones. He took both hands and trailed them down his neck. Mike trembled under his touch. He felt like he was making a sculpture out of soft, low-fire clay: taking his time, working slowly, letting the figure come to life with no guidance. Will watched his hands move over Mike’s skin. Mike never looked away from Will’s face. He reached the crux of his neck and shoulders, and spread Mike’s collar out again, sliding his hands under the fabric. Reaching around to the back of his neck. Mike squirmed, pleased. Will was fascinated. “You’re sure this is real?”

“Yes, Will. Are you seriously going to keep asking—?”

“Don’t blame me for making sure.” A hint of venom. Reminders of their past.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know. I just have to say it.”

“…I take it… you feel the same?”

“Michael. Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you need me to remind you?” Will, cheeky, was already leaning back in.

“Maybe.”

Their reverie was shattered by a blaring guitar riff. Whoever was controlling the music just had a very sudden change of heart. Mike and Will looked at each other, startled. It was one of those looks that said everything, like they’d always shared. Everything sunk in at once: bathroom, Stacy’s house, party, making out. Then, they burst out laughing. 

“What the hell was that?” Will’s cheeks hurt. Inside of him, a burning sun flared and dazzled. He couldn’t believe how giddy he felt.

“You wanna go find out?” Mike was already hopping off the bathroom counter, pushing Will toward the door, hands on his hips.

“Wait—“ Mike stopped, expectantly, always waiting for Will, making space for him. “Are we going to talk about this later?”

“Of course.”

“Sober?” The music was getting louder in the rest of the house.

“Yes, of course, I—, I have so much more to say.” Mike was so insistent, that for the first time in a long time, Will’s walls came totally and completely crashing down. He believed him, with everything in his heart.

There he is again. He’s here. He’s right here. And I think he’s staying this time.

“Okay. Let’s go.” And Will, joy bursting through his teeth, tugged Mike down by the collar and kissed him hard one last time, warm and happy. He stopped himself short, feeling the neediness creep into his body, not letting it go further than two breaths. 

When he pulled back, Mike looked dazed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I think you’ll be fine,” he laughed, and swung the door open. 

There was no one in the hallway, which seemed odd. Mike looked at him, confused, before, at the same time, they realized what song was playing: Pour Some Sugar On Me.

At the same time, their faces twisted into grins. 

“Dustin,” they said, in perfect unison. 

Will grabbed Mike’s hand, laughing, throwing C’mon, c’mon! back at him. They ran through the house, a mess of thrown limbs in a clumsy jog. Will tugged him closer to the sound, and Mike squeezed his hand, and Will felt the dam inside him continue to break, and they were laughing and shouting as the noise got louder, until they reached the kitchen, where—

Where— Oh my God.

…The entire party was circled around Stacy’s dining room table. Every person that possibly could had crammed into the space, shouting and cheering as Def Leppard ricocheted off the walls. People were punching the air, sloshing their drinks over the edges of their cups, hollering and laughing and dancing and, most importantly, watching one very, very drunk Dustin Henderson. Who was dancing on the table. 

“Yeah baby, c’mon! Fuck the man! Everyone say FUCK PRINCIPAL HIGGENS!” 

And the crowd screamed back, “FUCK PRINICPAL HIGGENS!”

“No fucking way!” Mike whooped. He shoved past Will, taking him with him, diving into the throng. Will was laughing so hard that tears sprung up in his eyes, and he nearly rammed himself straight into Mike, who came to a screeching stop.

“Lucas! What the fuck!” Mike let go of Will to grab Lucas by the shoulders. Max was beside them, red-faced and cackling. “What the hell is this, man?! This is epic!”

“He brought the CD himself! He had this planned the whole time,” Lucas shouted over the noise. Mike turned back to Will, and with one glance, they spoke without speaking. The jackets. It was in his stupid jacket.

“You’re kidding.” Will was happier than he’d been in months. The crowd started to chant, Henderson, Henderson, Henderson!

“Dude, you look like a mess!” Max shoved Will playfully. “Your hair is totally jacked!”

Will just grinned. “Yeah. And?”

“I’m onto you, Byers. Some shit went down!” 

“Guys! Guys, get up here!” Dustin was frantically waving them onto the table, and the rest of the Party shared one disbelieving, totally incredulous look—before Lucas hopped up, and everyone else followed suit. 

Cackling and cheering, they clambered up beside Dustin, hanging on to one another. They were sweaty and intoxicated and being far too rowdy but at the end of the day, Will thought they deserved it. After everything they’d been through, they deserved one good night. And he couldn’t help but feel El with them, too: she would’ve been up there dancing with Dustin before anyone else. 

Will let the feeling wash over him, relief and comfort and bittersweet grief, missing his almost-sister, longing for the future. A drunken laugh bubbled out of him, surprising him, as Will Byers realized again how lucky he’d gotten. I did it. I survived. It didn’t look exactly how he’d wanted to—it was still hard to believe, and hard to process the losses. Some days would tear him up. But tonight was perfect—everything was perfect. 

Mike turned to him, grabbed his wrists, and sang in his face: “Pour some sugar on me! Ooh, in the name of love! Pour some sugar on me!” 

And Will sang back—“C’mon, fire me up!” His heart was so full. He wanted to bottle tonight—Mike in the bathroom, their last campaign, Dustin on the table, one last Karen Wheeler dinner, Lucas and Max bickering during pong, their caps flying in the air—graduation, finally. Hope for El, after so long being hopeless. He wanted to savor all of it.

The table creaked under their weight. Max shrieked with delight, grabbing onto his arm. They were all dancing in front of a school that, for most of their childhoods, wanted them to disappear into thin air. And they weren’t going anywhere.

Later, in the bed of Steve’s pick-up truck, Mike would take Will’s hand, under one of the blankets Jonathan had thrown in the back for them. He’d look at him, eyes dark and restless, but bright. Bright again, for the first time in a long time. Dustin sprawled over Lucas’s lap, Max with her head on his shoulder. Mike with his legs tangled with hers. And Will, attached at the hip to the boy he’d loved for so long. It was a very small gesture, to take his hand—they had so much more to discuss. He didn’t know where this would all land. But he knew he didn’t have to be afraid of it anymore—he never had to be afraid again.