Chapter Text
“I- I’m sorry, Will. I can’t.”
That’s how this all started— the psychosis that’s been plaguing Mike for a year now— with a rejection in the basement of the stupid WSQK.
“It’s okay,” Will assures him, mournful smile pulling tightly at the corners of his mouth, “I didn’t think... I knew what you would say. I wasn’t expecting anything. I just needed you to know. If you know, it’s not a secret anymore, if it’s not a secret, he can’t hold it over my head.”
Mike feels drowned in guilt. He knows that it’s showing on his face when Will raises a hand to cut him off the moment he opens his mouth— presumably to stutter out some awkward apology and explanation that would only leave this situation feeling worse.
“Don’t say anything. Please. I only told you because we need to kill him, because I needed to be free of it to do that. I don’t want you to say anything. I really don’t want anything from you," Will reiterates, "I just don’t want it to change anything.”
An inexplicable, but slightly nauseating, feeling is suddenly churning hard in the bottom of Mike’s gut.
“It won’t,” He says without even thinking, “I won’t let it.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” He nods vigorously, “I swear.”
Mike and Will don’t lie to each other. Not since the day they met at five years old. It’s just not a thing they ever felt the need to do. So, he thinks this could be the first time he does lie to Will— like for real, about something serious, not just about his childhood bowl-cut being a nice look for him or the first drawing he ever gave Mike being good— because the second the words leave Will’s mouth everything is already shifting. That nauseous feeling is lingering uncomfortably in Mike’s stomach, but he swears it’s coming from somewhere else inside of him— it’s starting to remind him of vertigo.
A single confession, a simple truth, and his world is tilting on its axis— spinning a million miles a minute, orbiting closer and closer to the Sun, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
“Alright, good. I guess I’ll…” Will gestures vaguely over his shoulder at the basement stairs, “…see you, then. Hopefully.”
The first concrete change happens right then, when Will turns around and starts walking over to the staircase. He’s about halfway up and Mike’s watching him go when that newfound gravitational force starts pulling him in, and his legs start moving of their own accord.
He doesn’t normally run— not a big fan of it— but for some reason he is right now. He’s running after Will, taking the steps two at a time, until he’s right behind him. Then he’s grabbing the wrist that hangs at Will’s side and tugging. Will spins around and falls forward, right into Mike, who’s waiting with open arms to catch him against his chest. Mike clings to him, one arm locked around his waist, one splayed across his back, hand clutching at his shoulder. It’s weird like this, with Will two steps above him. It makes him the tiniest bit taller, and changes the familiar angle of their hug. It makes Mike feel like a kid again, set somewhere in those two years at the beginning where Will was taller than him— when Mike followed him around obnoxiously, tugging at his sleeve, begging him to come over and play.
Mike presses his face into Will’s shoulder, and tries to quiet everything outside of these four walls. The uncomfortable things, the scary things— the monsters waiting for them and the brand-new feelings that have been ripping around inside of him for the past three minutes. He breathes in the familiar scent clinging to Will's jacket. Things are always quieter with Will, more steady.
“Just be careful,” He says into the fabric, “Okay?”
He knows this is weird. He’s being weird, he can tell by the hesitant, almost confused, way Will’s arms slide around his shoulders. But he can’t help it. It’s Will’s fault anyway. He’s the one who had to go confessing feelings that Mike didn’t even know were an option.
He’s not a total idiot, though. Like, he’s always known Will felt different than everyone else in his life. Different than Lucas and Dustin, because he and Will were more gentle, more open. Deeper.
Different than Max, because he and Will had chosen each other, they weren’t in each other’s lives because of anyone else. They weren’t an accident.
Different than El in a way he didn’t really know how to articulate. Longer. Stronger. Similar in some ways, but just… more.
They’ve known each other their entire lives, they know every single thing about each other— the ways to make the other light up, the sore spots not to press, the strange way Will folds his underwear because it weirds him out when it gets wrinkled, and the fact that Mike likes coco puffs with milk but every other cereal without it for some reason— that’s why Will feels so special, why he takes up such a massive part of Mike’s being. That’s what he's always told himself, anyway. But what if that's not actually true?
Mike feels too big for his body, too small for his clothes. He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes his forehead harder into Will’s shoulder, willing the arms around him to take the thoughts spiraling inside of him away, like they always can. Instead, he just starts thinking about the arms themselves. They feel different, bigger, safer. He doesn’t think they’ve hugged like this since the day Will moved away. But it doesn’t matter, it doesn't change them. It doesn't change things. Not with Will.
Never with Will.
His hand slides up from Mike’s shoulder and grips the back of his neck. It feels desperate. It feels like goodbye, or like letting go, or something equally as awful.
“Okay,” Will speaks so softly, so close to his ear, “You too. Be safe.”
Then he’s pulling back, pushing Mike gently by his shoulders until they’re arms length apart. He smiles, reassuring and thoughtful. There’s this peaceful look behind his eyes that Mike’s not used to. Will has come to terms with something. He doesn’t know if it’s about Vecna, or maybe, about him.
In a moment of purely intrusive selfishness, Mike finds himself thinking he doesn’t want it to be the latter. He likes the feeling of occupying a spot in Will’s brain, and he’s only just found out that he does. It can’t possibly be gone that quickly.
“Everything’s gonna be okay, now,” Will says with finality, and for once his words aren’t steadying. They jar Mike— make the upside down feeling in his stomach ten times worse.
Then he’s turning around and walking right out of Mike’s grip on his waist and out of the basement altogether. Mike’s hands hover in the air until the door closes behind Will. They drop and so does he, right onto his ass on the rusty, metal staircase. He brings his hands out in front of him, and stares at them until his girlfriend comes looking for him.
Everything spirals from there.
They defeat Vecna, because of course they do, and somehow, despite the creepy telepathic link, Will’s fine— totally traumatized from the last five years of his life, but both he and Hawkins are finally severed from any horrible creatures from alternate-dimensions, so mostly fine.
Mike can hardly look at him after the final battle, exhausted and a little banged up but so happy. For some fucking reason, it makes him want to go into the upstairs bathroom in his house, just him and Will, and wipe the blood from under his nose— the thought alone makes his vertigo flare violently. It only calms when he claps a congratulatory hand to Will’s shoulder.
Mike gets touchier after that, maybe because Will’s still here and alive despite being kidnapped and possessed and having a telepathic connection with the monster they destroyed, or maybe because he just wants to. It doesn’t really matter either way, he just knows touching Will grounds him. He doesn’t think Will notices, either, so it’s a win-win.
Sometimes, the need to touch him shows up in the form of the party hanging out in his basement and Mike squeezing his way into the much too small “spot” next to Will on the couch, letting his arm rest on the back of the couch behind Will’s shoulders, brushing it over the skin every once in a while, and pretending it means something.
Sometimes, it’s guiding him down the halls at school, hand hovering at his back, maneuvering him away from anyone who gets close enough to bump him, or down Main Street when it’s a particularly busy weekend and Mike puts himself between Will and the passersby or Will and the street.
Sometimes, it gets dumb, and Mike just pretends there’s something on Will’s shirt or cheek or in his hair, and he very faux-causally brings his hand up to gently wipe it away.
Once, it’s running from the school to the parking lot in the pouring rain under the same umbrella. Mike’s hand holding the metal handle over Will’s. Will slips and crashes to the ground, pulling Mike down with him, because Mike refuses to take his hand off of Will’s— and subsequently the umbrella they’re both holding.
Mike falls on top of him, hands catching himself on the pavement next to Will’s head. Will’s in the middle of a puddle, his back is soaked, and the rain’s falling heavy on both their heads now, but all he can do is watch the way Will laughs wildly— watch the way his head tilts back and the way the amusement and April rain paint his cheeks ruddy in the crisp air. He doesn’t even realize how close he is to Will’s face, until the other boy stops laughing altogether. He meets Mike’s eyes. The only thing Mike is capable of noticing is how green his irises really are this close up, and how inviting his lips look from this angle hovering over him. His stomach lurches violently.
He pushes himself up off of Will before he can even entertain the embarrassment of getting sick in front of him, but he can’t resist reaching his hand down for Will to grab onto. Their grips lock and he pulls Will up into his space. Unfortunately, Mike finds his lips are just as inviting upright. Mike gets miserably nauseous all over again.
He pays more attention, too— to Will, and pretty much no one else. He does dumbass things like notice how Will always shows up to school with his Chuck Taylors untied because they're too hard to lace-up when he's rushing out the door in the morning, and then he ties Will’s shoes for him because he keeps tripping and seriously he could get hurt.
Or, he brings Will's lunch to the art room on Wednesdays because he has that class right before their lunch-period and he always gets too engrossed in his paintings, or drawings, or sculptures to come eat like a normal person.
Or, he gives Will his jacket when its bitterly cold out and his own just isn't cutting it, because he knows Will hates the cold, and he knows why, so he'd gladly spend the rest of the school day freezing if it means Will's not. Will's scent lingering on the collar when he returns it always makes up for the potential frostbite, anyways.
Once, he completely blows off a date with El— accidentally— to go see some new horror movie about a creepy, murderous doll that Will has been talking about for weeks. It goes how it always does, Mike pays $10 for two tickets, and Will hides his face behind a greasy bucket of popcorn, squealing in delight for an hour and a half. El is pissed, but she doesn’t yell, she scolds him in this tired way, telling him he never makes time for her anymore. Then she goes quiet for days, and he deserves it. He knows that he does, but it still can’t make him regret it. Because getting iced out by her is apparently the price he’s willing to pay now for ninety minutes of Will pressed into his shoulder, half-giggling, half-terrified, breathing warm and familiar against his collarbone.
It’s damning but it’s a fact: sitting in the dark next to Will feels more right than anything else has in weeks. It’s like he physically can’t stop himself from orbiting Will anymore, can’t stop caring about what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, measuring every situation he’s in against how much better it would be if Will were there beside him.
He channels the obsession into using his walkie as a kind of mobile-phone, forcing Will to keep his tuned to a frequency no one else in the party uses, so he can harass him into conversation from the comfort of his own bed at all hours of the day.
Most of the time they talk about nothing— the comics they’re reading, what they’re going to do on the upcoming weekend, Mike’s new campaign, the way Lucas shot a pea out of his nose at lunch that day— but sometimes, when it’s late at night, and the only sounds either boy can hear are the creaking of their sleeping houses around them and the whispers of the other’s voice, they talk about the future. It feels more real now that they’re seniors— real life adults— than it ever has before.
First, it makes Mike think about them as little kids sitting in his basement playing make believe and wishing to never grow up. Then, it makes him picture what lies ahead.
Sometimes, he sees himself in New York as a famous author in an upper east-side penthouse. Sometimes, in Boston as a college professor teaching English and creative writing. Sometimes, he’s closer, in Chicago as a screenwriter, an uncle, a husband, a father. It’s always different— the profession, the place, the life— but one thing always remains the same: Will. Will is always there with him.
“You’d make a great author,” Will murmurs from across town, his voice drifting sleepily through the receiver, “A great father, too. Probably much better than you’d be as a husband.”
He’s laughing softly through the static, and Mike feels like dying. The word husband rings through his head, through all his fake planned-out futures, and still all he can think of is Will. It rattles something deep inside of him. He can’t even make up some stupid, self-deprecating quip about probably being better suited for unclehood than anything else. In fact, he can’t make his mouth move at all.
“Mike?” Will asks after a beat, confusion bleeding into his voice, “Hey, I was just joking around, okay? You’re going to be a great husband. You’re going to make some girl so happy someday.”
Mike slams the antenna down before he can even consider doing the polite thing and saying goodnight to Will.
He shoves the walkie off his bed like it’s infected, like it’s what’s given him this persistent nausea all throughout his body that’s twisting into the shape of Will Byers— listens to it smack against the hardwood floor, thinks about how much nicer the sound of Will’s whispers coming out of it are instead of worrying about the sound of it's falling waking up his parents.
Mike rolls over, away from it, away from Will, and stares at the wall. The Cure poster that he helped Mike pin next to his bed last year stares right back.
Kiss me.
That’s the album. That’s the poster. That’s the desire staring straight through him.
Kiss me, Kiss me, Kiss me.
If Will said it again— told him how he felt— would Mike’s answer be different?
The question stalks him for days. When the answer finally hits, it’s violent. He dry heaves over the toilet until he throws up his mom’s terrible meatloaf, hands braced against the porcelain, body shaking. When it’s over, the world steadies. His stomach settles. The vertigo disappears like it was never there at all.
Yes. It would be different.
The realization strikes up a newfound method of self-flagellation. Mike finds the thing he hates most in the entire world— running voluntarily— and forces himself to do it anytime a thought about Will even toes the line of non-platonic. It’s supposed to work like snapping a rubber band against your wrist, a quick shock to the system to break a bad habit. Instead, Mike just goes on a fucking obscene number of runs and still ends up thinking about Will the entire time.
Nancy teases him mercilessly about it— claims he’s trying to reinvent himself before college— but Mrs. Wheeler thinks it’s the best thing since wonder bread, or some shit. She thinks Mike is making healthy choices, trying to improve his lifestyle.
If only she knew it was actually a way to punish himself for thinking queer shit about the way Will’s mouth moves when he talks, or the way his green eyes sparkle when he goes on some weird artistic tangent, or the way a blush blooms across the top of his cheeks when Mike brushes the backs of their hands together when it's a particularly nice day out and they walk home from school instead of driving.
Actually, he should probably go on a run, right now.
Things come to a head their senior year, when it's officially spring but winter is still stubbornly clinging to the air.
Mike is pulling up to the Byers-Hopper residence, dropping Will off after the boys finish hanging around his basement— like they do on those random after-school nights, where everyone’s too bored to be by themselves or Dustin’s brutal homework load has finally let up for once— because even five years post inter-dimensional kidnapping, the thought of Will walking home alone from his house this late at night still makes Mike feel faint, even though the Byers live much closer to town now.
Mike’s mom says she understands, so she always lets him take her station wagon the ten blocks Will would have to trek. He knows she loves Will, but realistically, she probably just lets him because she doesn’t want to deal with Mike's nagging.
He's well aware of how irritating he can be when he wants. But the why is not important as long as Will’s not walking back home alone in the dark.
Mike stops the car parallel to Will’s front yard.
Normally, Will reaches for his backpack, tells Mike he really doesn't need to go to the trouble of driving him around all the time, grabs the car door handle, shoots him a wide smile over his shoulder, and slips out of the car. Then, Mike watches him walk across the manicured lawn, unlock his front door, and Will sends him one more wave. Mike doesn't pull away until the door shuts behind Will and the front porch light flickers off.
Tonight is different, though. Will's lingering— fidgeting nervously with the passenger side window crank that only ever wants to work for him, instead of gathering his things.
“I have something I need to tell you,” Will says quietly, eyes darting around the car's interior, but never grazing Mike.
He shifts the car into park.
“What’s up?” The end of the question cracks a little. Mike clears his throat.
He tries to keep his voice casual, instead of immediately going soft and concerned in the way it always does when something’s going on with Will— Will says it makes him feel like a baby, and recently, it makes Mike feel like he’s doing something intimate, something wrong, so he tries to avoid it.
Will’s eyes shoot towards him, and then away the second they find Mike’s already waiting to meet them.
“It’s not a big deal," He says, "Really. But I- I told the others already, so I felt like I should tell you, too.”
Mike’s scowling before he can stop himself, “You told the others before you told me?”
It comes with that familiar spike of jealousy, the one that always tightens around his diaphragm like a band whenever Will talks about interacting with pretty much anyone else. He knows it’s bad— knows he’s gotten too comfortable with his monopoly over Will’s life— but he can’t really help it. It just happens. And it’s only gotten worse, sharper and more breath-taking, since that night November of their junior year, when Will told him the truth.
The smile Will gives him, paired with an exaggerated eye roll, almost makes the ache in Mike’s chest worth it. Then it really becomes worth it when the eye roll ends and those green eyes finally settle on him.
“You don’t even know what it is yet, and you’re already jealous?”
“I’m not jealous. I just respect the party's friendship hierarchy,” Mike says, kind of joking but mostly serious. He leans his head back against the headrest, narrowing his eyes playfully at Will, “Lucas and Dustin are each other’s number ones, El and Max are each other's number ones, and I’m your number one, William. Which means I get first dibs on your news.”
Will’s eyebrows knit together, “Am I your number one?”
“Obviously— so I should’ve been your first stop.”
Mike can see the confusion in the crease of his brow, but relationships don’t count in the friendship hierarchy. If they did, Max and Lucas would obviously be each other’s number ones... but if he's being totally honest, Will would probably still be his.
“Well, you would’ve been. Normally,” Will assures him, forever desperate to not hurt anyone’s feelings, “But, I— it’s about— well, um, it's about…”
Mike studies every micro-expression that crosses his face, eyes flicking over all his features, “About what?”
“About what I told you. Last year.”
The air leaves his lungs in one stuttered breath. They don’t do this, they don’t talk about that, or what it means. They never have actually, not since the moment Will admitted to it hurried and anxious in the dingy quiet of the WSQK basement, like having feelings for Mike was the worst thing he ever could have done. He’s sure the absolute horror of how awkward he’s about to make this crosses his face, because suddenly Will looks horrified too.
Will turns his whole body toward him now, hands moving around frantically like he can physically wipe the fear from Mike’s face, “I’m not talking about that— liking you, or anything. I swear. It’s sort of the opposite, actually.”
“Oh,” Mike says. He hopes it doesn’t sound as disappointed as it tastes.
He doesn’t even want to know what he’d say or do right now, if Will said it again. Nothing good probably.
“I just— I thought you should know, I’m kind of seeing someone.”
The rubber band around Mike’s chest is drawn back in one quick motion, and snapped very hard and very painfully against the skin of his ribs. Irrationally, he thinks he must be bleeding. It must have broken skin, reached the bone, bruised his marrow. That’s how it feels, anyway. That’s how fucking awful this feels.
“What?” Mike asks, voice thick with dread, even though he’s never had a string of words ring out so clearly through his brain.
“I’m seeing someone.”
An awkward silence permeates the three feet between them. Mike has no idea what to say. The only thing he can focus on is the humming of the heat blasting through the vents. He thinks it might be working too well— wishes he'd set it a little lower, but it doesn't seem like the right time to reach out and fiddle with it, right now.
Is it hot in here?
It's freezing outside, but it's definitely hot in here. Yeah, it's hot— too hot. Fuck. Mike is starting to sweat through his Barbour jacket. His mom's going to kill him— she’s always ranting about how impossible they are to wash, but Princess Diana wears them, so Mrs. Wheeler keeps fucking buying them for the entire family, consequences be damned.
“You’re seeing someone?”
“Yeah. A guy.”
“A guy?”
“Yes,” Will laughs a little, face scrunching up in confusion in that wholesome, bunny-like way.
Mike has to look away from him. He turns to stare down at the steering wheel instead, gripping the leather like he wants to tear it apart with his bare hands. He nods, once, twice, not really sure if it’s directed at Will, or at this leather to let it know it is in fact reaching the end of its days.
“Mike?” Will asks so vulnerably that Mike has to look back at him, no matter how much it makes him feel like he can’t take a breath, “Is that okay?”
He looks nervous. Mike should just die.
“What?” He’s reaching out for Will immediately, fingers squeezing around his elbow that rests on the center console, “Why are you even asking me that? It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“It does to me.”
“Will, of course it’s okay. It’s more than okay— it’s great. I’m really happy for you.”
Will tilts his head, disbelief coloring his features, “Really, because you looked like you were—”
“I wasn’t! I promise. I just— it caught me off guard that’s all.”
“Alright,” Will smiles, “Good. I was sort of… scared to tell you.”
“Why?” Mike asks, even though he sort of already knows.
Will just shrugs, looking slightly sheepish, but also calm for the first time in the entire 10 minute drive to his house.
“So,” Mike is finding new ways to punish himself— who needs recreational running, “Who’s the lucky guy?
“I shouldn’t really tell you,” The sheepishness lingers, “No one else knows about him.”
“Did you tell the others?”
“Well, no…” Will trails off.
Mike can’t help the smug smile that splits his lips. He tilts his head back farther on the headrest, “But you want to tell me?”
“Yeah,” He admits.
“What if I swear I won’t tell a soul?”
Will worries his bottom lip between his teeth, looking at Mike thoughtfully, “You swear?”
“On my life. You know me,” His grin goes soft, “Could I ever lie to you?”
Will smiles shyly, and shakes his head.
“It’ll be our little secret.”
Will nods. The two of them, they're good at that— keeping secrets.
“Okay. It’s—” Will hesitates, looking so nervous he's practically green, “It’s Chance.”
Mike’s smile drops. So does his stomach.
“Chance?”
“Yeah.”
Mike sits up straight, turning his body towards Will, “Like Chance Chance? Andy’s Chance? Basketball Chance?”
He’s gotta be missing something. Will can’t mean that Chance.
“Do you know anyone else named Chance?” He jokes, but it comes out too anxious to fall anything but flat.
Alright, so Will does mean that Chance.
“Will," Mike lowers himself trying to match Will's eye level, trying to figure out what the punchline to this awful joke is, "Tell me you’re kidding?”
“I’m not."
“Come on," Mike searches Will's face, genuine confusion splashed all over his own, "Is this a prank?”
“Why would it be a prank?” The nervousness in his voice is tinged with annoyance now.
“Because, it’s Chance.”
Will scoffs, clearly offended and clearly projecting, “Because, you think someone like Chance would never like someone like me?”
“What? No,” Mike protests immediately, and he means it, “Because he’s a psycho! He beat the shit out of Dustin! He’s fucked with Lucas since the day he joined the team. He’s called you more names than I can even think of. I mean, he’s been tormenting us since we were like thirteen! You can’t seriously be dating him.”
“Look, I know it sounds bad," Will protests, "But he’s different now.”
“Are you crazy?” Mike's lost all ability to even try to be understanding.
“Mike—”
“No, seriously. Have you gone crazy? Are you feeling okay?” Mike raises a hand, pressing the back of it to Will’s forehead, “Do I need to take you to the nuthouse?
Will slaps it away, “Fuck you!”
“Fuck me?! Do you even realize how you sound? He’s different, my ass!”
Will shoves his shoulder hard, “Why are you being such a douche?!”
“I’m not being a douche. I’m trying to look out for you!”
“Well, I don’t need you to look out for me!”
“Then why even bother telling me?”
“What?” Will spits out.
“If you don’t care what I have to say about him, why did you want to tell me who it is?”
“Because," Will reaches blindly for his backpack, not letting his glare leave Mike for even a second, "Something good is happening to me, for once. God forbid I want to tell my best friend about it.”
Will pulls the door handle and yanks his backpack up, throwing the car door open. The hinges creak violently as the door hits its stop and bounces back a little from the force.
“See you at school,” Will snaps, in a way he never does with Mike.
He shoves himself up from the passenger seat.
“Will!” Mike calls, bending across the center console, but Will’s feet are already hitting the pavement, “Will, come on. Wait!”
He slams the door so hard it rattles the car.
“Shit,” Mike mutters under his breath, reaching frantically for his seat belt release.
He’s shoving his own car door open, and standing seconds later, but Will’s already stomped halfway across the front lawn.
Mike rests one elbow on top of his opened door, and the other on the roof of the car.
“Will!” He yells, “Come back! Can't we have an actual conversation about this?”
Will looks over his shoulder only for a moment to throw a cold, “Go to hell, Mike!” his way, then the front door of the house is slamming, too.
Mike’s hands slam flat on the top of the car.
“Dammit,” He lets out as he climbs back into the driver's seat.
Mike slams his own door.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They clamp around the steering wheel— knuckles white, grip tightening until it hurts. He slams his fist into the stupid fucking leather, once, twice, three times.
“Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.”
The words tear out of him, so do the punches. Mike doesn't think he’s really punched anything, since he was an angsty thirteen year old. It feels just as shitty now as it did then. He’s still just as angry, just as upset, just as regretful, now he just has a throbbing in his knuckles to make it all worse.
He’s painfully aware that this is his fault. If he’d figured it out sooner— what Will meant to him, what Will has always meant to him— if he’d said something earlier, if he’d stopped caring what it meant about who he is, this wouldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t feel this way. He wouldn’t be sitting here. He wouldn’t be watching Will walk away from him— Will wouldn't be walking away at all.
It only takes Mike the ten minute drive back home to resign himself to apologizing. He’d rather Will just be dating someone else, even if the guy is a fucking jackass, than have him dating someone else while also being furious and unreachable. Mike can take that loss, but he can’t take Will’s anger, his silence.
He knows the only way to stop it would be to confess— to buck up some fucking confidence and abandon, and just tell Will the truth— but he isn’t about to do that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
The second Mike’s through his front door he’s picking up the landline and dialing Will’s house phone from memory. It rings for much longer than it usually does— he crosses his fingers that that’s just because it’s late and not because Will’s pissed enough to have told the whole house to let it go dead, because it’s probably Mike calling to grovel.
Someone picks up on the fifth ring.
“Will?” He asks immediately, hopefully.
“No,” El’s voice rings out through the receiver, “It is me.”
“Oh. Hey. Do you mind if I talk to Will?”
He tries not to be the world’s biggest dick and feel disappointed that his girlfriend's picked up the phone instead of his best friend, but that's hard to do when you have virtually nothing to say to each other.
He bears the brunt of the blame for this— obviously— but if he’s being completely honest it's a little her fault, too. For every day he spends with Will, she spends two with Max at the mall, three with Hopper learning how to interact with the world like a normal adult, and five with Dustin?? doing tutoring, or God knows what.
And, that’s not a bad thing at all, in fact, it makes him incredibly happy for her. El is beyond deserving of living her life whatever way she wants and spending time with whoever she pleases.
It just goes to show that Mike’s not the only one letting the relationship fizzle to an awkward end— he’s not the only one holding on for the sake of familiarity, or lack of really knowing how to break it off, or the comfort that comes from having someone to thrust in the world’s face to prove that you’ve been chosen. Someone picked you, a girl picked you. So, there can't be anything wrong with you. You can't want the wrong things, the wrong people.
Unfortunately, that logic leaves them both wondering how much longer dragging this relationship out kicking and screaming, can really be worth it.
“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” She says, terse and protective.
Yeah… so, Will definitely told her they’re fighting.
“Please, El,” He begs, “I really need to talk to him. It’s important.”
“I’ll ask, but he will say no.”
“Alright, thanks.”
The phone clatters, presumably against the accent table in the entrance of the Byers’ house, and Mike waits.
It takes a considerably shorter amount of time than he expected for the phone to rustle again— probably not a good sign— and El’s voice to come through, “He says no. Bye.”
“Wait, please! Don’t hang up. Just,” Mike sighs, “Will you tell him I want to apologize?”
He can practically hear El’s frown, “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing!” He denies, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or something, “I just- I was worried about him, so I said some things I shouldn't've, and it hurt his feelings. It was an accident. I just want to say I’m sorry.”
Mike knows it's not fair to be treating El of all people as their messenger bird, but he really needs Will to talk to him.
“Fine,” She says reluctantly, and the phone clatters against wood once again.
This time it takes a few minutes. Mike hangs his head, and bumps it against the wall, trying to convince himself that’s a good sign— El must be getting through to him.
Or, maybe Will’s telling her that he never wants to speak to Mike again, and she’s trying to figure out how to break the news to him.
“Hello?”
Mike’s head shoots up. Will.
“Will?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” He says. It comes out painfully soft in that way that pisses Will off, which is probably not the best foot to be starting off on, but Mike can’t help it— he missed him.
“Hi,” He says, sounding very much unimpressed.
An awkward silence falls between them for the second time that night, which is like record breaking for them. It’s not often that Will and Mike have nothing to say to each other. It’s just, Mike doesn’t know how to start this off. He knows he should be a lot better at apologizing to Will by now— Lord knows he’s done it enough times over the years— but somehow, he seems to only get worse with experience.
“El said you had something to say to me,” Will supplies, either deciding to take pity on him, or wanting to put an end to this conversation as quickly as humanly possible.
“Right, yeah. I— I just—” Mike takes a deep breath, aware he’s about to face more of Will’s wrath, “Will, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, okay? I swear. You know I want good things for you. I want great things for you. I want you to be able to tell me when good things happen, but— from what I know— he’s not a good guy.”
He can definitely hear the furrow in Will’s brow, the vein popping in his neck, “That’s because you don’t actually know him, Michael."
“I just don’t want him to hurt you.”
“Mike—”
“Don’t act like that’s me being crazy, okay?” Mike cuts him off, “He and his friends have hurt you before.”
Will sighs, “Okay, fine. You’re right,” He cedes, “But anyone can hurt anyone, Mike— it doesn’t matter if they’ve done it in the past, if they’re good or bad, or if they’re trying to or they’re not. It’s a risk no matter the situation.”
“But—”
“You’ve hurt me before. That didn’t make me stop being your friend, did it?”
Mike’s stomach bottoms out, “Will—”
“I’m not saying that to chastise you, or make you feel guilty, or whatever,” Will explains, “I’ve hurt you, too, but you’re still here.”
“Will—”
He cuts Mike off again, “Dustin’s hurt Lucas, Lucas has hurt Max, Max has hurt El, El has hurt you, and so on and so on, but we’re all still best friends. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I do. I do, okay?” Mike placates, “But, it's like, hard for me to sit by and let it happen, when I know it’s coming. You’ve never been in a relationship before. I know I’m not the love expert either, but they normally end in someone getting hurt, and with certain people,” Will scoffs but Mike carries on, “the risk is higher. The thought of something hurting you like that— something that I can’t protect you from— it’s weird is all. It makes me feel… I don’t know. Weird.”
“Mike…” Will trails off, his voice is thick with an emotion Mike can’t quite place, “I don’t need you to protect me.”
“I know you don’t," Mike says quietly, "But I want to. I always have.”
““Yeah, but I’m not a little kid anymore.” Will exhales, sharp and shaky, “You can’t keep treating me like one. You have to let me date a guy who might turn out to be shitty. You have to let me put myself in a position where I could get hurt. That’s life, Mike. You can’t protect me from living it.”
The longing in his voice is unmistakable. It hurts like a son of a bitch.
“I want to start living,” Will continues, “Like everyone else has always got to. And I finally have the chance. Maybe he’s not my future husband, but he’s a guy— a guy in Hawkins— who actually likes me.” His voice steadies, resolute, “That’s not something I’m willing to pass up. Not right now. I want to love someone who loves me back, Mike.”
He'd be stupid not to, Mike wants to say.
Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut, and thumps his forehead against the wall. It feels like there’s a knife being driven between his ribs, and Will is holding the handle artfully twisting it— then his own hand is grabbing it and twisting in a much sloppier way.
He thumps his forehead against the wall again— harder this time, and grits his jaw until he’s able to get the words that he hates so much out.
“Okay. Okay,” Mike chokes out, “I’m sorry, you’re right. You deserve that— I mean you deserve better, obviously— but, I won’t— I won’t question your choice. I won’t try to interfere.”
“Thanks,” Will says softly, and it sounds like he means it.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be nice to him, or whatever.”
He has to throw it in as an honest to God warning, because Mike knows his limits. Being nice to Will’s stupid fucking boyfriend would probably give him a stroke, so he is not doing it.
“Mike,” Will says, and that sounds like a warning too.
“Unless he earns it,” He adds, even though it is not true, because there’s absolutely nothing he could do to get on Mike’s good side.
“You’re an idiot,” The words come out fond, through a gentle laugh.
“How’d it happen, anyway?” Mike asks.
“Do you really want to know?”
He can hear Will’s grimace. He’s sure it's evident just how little he wants to talk about this, but he needs it to make sense in his head— how this thing with Chance even started.
Mike shrugs before he remembers Will can’t see it, “Yeah. I just can't see it. I mean, he’s kind of the last person I’d expect to be... y’know.”
I know,” Will says, sounding faintly amused, “It wasn’t anything dramatic. He got put in my art class at the beginning of this semester and just started talking to me— started hanging back when I did, even when he didn’t have anything to work on. I think he just wanted someone he could flirt with without worrying they weren’t… like that.”
Mike swallows.
“I was probably an easy option,” Will goes on, “But I don't know we kind of actually got along, so when he asked for my number, I gave it to him. We talked on the phone. He asked me out a few times, I went. It was nice," Will pauses awkwardly, "He’s cute, funny enough. Then he asked me to be his boyfriend, and I said yes. That’s… pretty much it.”
Mike nods to himself, oddly grateful that Will doesn’t sound head-over-heels— just factual. A little detached, even, like this was something that happened to him, not something he went looking for.
“And he’s nice to you, right? He treats you well?”
“Yeah, Mike," There's another unnatural pause, "He does.”
Mike knows that's a good thing— well, sort of. Obviously, Will deserves better than just nice and cute and funny enough— but it still shouldn't hurt to hear someone else is treating him well. It does, though. It really does.
“Good. I’m glad.”
“Alright,” Will doesn’t say anything for a beat too long, “I’m giving the phone back to El, now.”
“Okay. We’re good though?” Mike checks, “I didn’t piss you off and ruin everything?
“You definitely pissed me off, but no, you didn’t ruin everything. We’re good.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Will seems sure, honest, so he guesses there’s nothing left to say.
Mike tightens and releases his jaw again, “Alright. Thanks for not, you know, hanging up and never talking to me again.”
He hears Will huff in amusement, “Goodnight, Mike.”
“Night.”
He waits for El to get back on the line to say goodnight to her, before he goes upstairs, stares at his bedroom ceiling, and thinks about the fact that Will is moving on from his feelings for him until he falls asleep.
“Hello?” Her voice comes through the speaker.
“Hey,” Mike answers, fighting a yawn.
“I live here too.”
He pauses, suddenly more awake, “What?”
“You can call our house to talk to me, too. Not just Will.”
A prickling heat that feels suspiciously similar to shame floods his face. He feels caught. The worst part is that all he and Will had been doing was talking, but it still feels like being caught doing something wrong. Like he is wrong.
“I- uh, yeah I know that,” His throat feels tight, “I’m sorry, Eleven. It’s just that we were in a fight, so I wanted to apologize. Get it over with as quick as possible, you know?”
“When we fight you don’t do that.”
His face burns even hotter.
“What?”
He can’t tell if he’s gone bright red or dead pale, but he’s suddenly grateful this is happening over the phone. He doesn’t need her seeing his face— seeing how guilty he feels over something that’s supposed to be nothing.
It’s nothing, right?
“When we fight you wait to call.”
“El, I—”
“Days.”
“I don’t mean to—”
“It doesn’t bother you?” She asks, sounding more apathetic than upset, “When we are not talking?”
She doesn't have to say it's the contrary with Will, that's implied.
“No, it does!” The second it comes out it feels like a lie, and he really feels like the world’s biggest piece of shit now, “Of course it does.”
“But you still wait to call.”
Mike doesn’t know what to do except apologize.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll- I’ll call more.”
He doesn’t know which one of them believes that less.
“It is fine. Bye, Mike,” He can hear the plastic of the phone rustling against her shirt as she pulls it away from her shoulder.
“Eleven, wait—” There’s a pause, “Are— are we in a fight, now?”
She inhales tightly, “What would we have to fight about?”
The line goes dead.
“Shit.” He mutters, before hanging the phone back up.
He can’t help wondering why he’s doing all this— why he’s putting himself in this position, why he’s letting this guilt fester in his stomach and eat him alive, why he’s screwing everything up with both of them— when he could just end his misery once and for all with one simple truth: Mike Wheeler is in love with a boy.
He’s in love with Will Byers.
—
Unfortunately—and unsurprisingly— it only takes until the next day at school for Chance to publicly approach Will. He comes up to them during lunch at their table in the middle of the cafeteria, the whole party— minus El, who is still stuck being homeschooled for her understandable lack of the majority of academic knowledge needed to graduate by the end of the semester.
Mike doesn’t notice him until he speaks, too consumed with the conversation he’d been having with Will about their next campaign— what the Paladin's arc should be, if he should go off on his own or bring the Cleric with him— but then there’s a voice and an arm on the table cutting between him and Will. Mike frowns.
“Byers.”
He’s said one word, and Mike could honest to God punch him in his face. He bites his tongue hard.
Will looks up to see Chance hovering over their table, clad in his stupid green letterman jacket. He smiles.
“Hey,” He says shyly.
Mike wants to tear the skin off of his own face.
“What are you doing?” Chance asks. Mike decides very quickly this guy has to go. His voice is fucking grating, “You said we’d work on our project during lunch.”
“Oh, yeah. Right,” Will looks genuinely apologetic, like he really forgot all about this plan to see Chance, and Mike can’t help but find that vindicating, “I just got caught up. I’m coming.”
Then Will starts gathering his things. And, no.
No, no, no.
He’s leaving? With Chance? He can’t. Oh, Mike can’t take this. Oh, God. He overestimated his ability to watch Will interact with another guy by like 100%.
Will stands, only getting one leg over the lunch-table bench before Mike is grabbing his wrist without thinking. He feels Lucas' gaze flick over to his face.
“Where are you going?” He asks, trying not to sound as panicky and desperate as he feels.
Will throws a casual thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cafeteria doors, “Just the art room. We've got to finish this abstraction before class tomorrow."
“Will…” Mike’s mouth stays open, but nothing else is coming out. He's aware that he is now coming off as panicky and desperate.
“It’s okay,” Will smiles reassuringly, probably thinking Mike’s just worried about him, and not having an internal freak-out-breakdown over Will having a boyfriend that’s actually a real, corporeal human being that Mike is being forced to surrender him to right now, “We really do have a project.”
For some reason, Mike is still not letting go. He can’t, like it's just not working. He’s falling apart in front of the entire table. Will doesn’t walk away from him— except for that one time last night, but that really was a fluke— and Will doesn’t leave with other boys. He doesn’t choose them over Mike.
Lucas’ intrusive ass stare boring into the side of his face is also not helping the panic ebb. He doesn’t need judgement, alright? He needs Will to sit back down.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he says, “Promise.”
Which means it isn’t up for argument, he’s telling the truth, and Mike has to let go. So he does. He lets go of Will’s wrist, and Will lifts his other leg over the bench.
He gives Mike one last look, and a nonchalant, “See you later,” before he’s facing Chance.
Mike very pointedly ignores the funny look the boy sends his way. He doesn’t really give a shit what Chance thinks of him, or him and Will’s relationship. He’d much rather just ignore him altogether, but that’s kind of hard when Will starts leaving with the guy.
Mike watches them walk side by side towards the doors. Chance throws one more pointed glance Mike’s direction over his shoulder. He’s not sure if it’s supposed to be a warning or some other macho shit, but it doesn’t threaten Mike. It just makes him feel like he’s going to be sick, because he knows that look— it screams mine, Will’s mine, so stop looking at him.
Mike’s used to being the one dishing out that look.
“So we all agree,” Dustin’s voice breaks through his melancholy, and he turns back towards the table to look at him, “It’s definitely him, right?”
“The boyfriend?” Lucas asks, “Definitely.”
“100%,” Max chimes in.
“What?!” Mike’s jaw drops, “How did you all figure it out?”
“It was obvious,” Max’s tone calls him an idiot without her even having to say it.
Lucas clasps his hands under his chin like some sort of lovesick fool, and lets out in a dreamy voice, “Oh, we have a project we just have to go work on— all alone, in an empty classroom— because we’re boyfriends, and we’re obsessed with each other,” He returns his voice to its normal cadence, “Pretty obvious if you ask me.
“Well, great. Now, he’s going to think I told you guys,” Mike huffs.
“You already knew?” Max scoffs.
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“He told me,” Mike snarks back at her like that should be obvious.
“I don’t even know why I asked,” Max drops her baby carrot back onto her tray in defeat, which is a little dramatic if you ask him, “Of course he did.
They drop the conversation after that, not wanting to pry, since technically, Will hasn’t told the rest of them yet. But Mike can’t stop thinking about it, the image won’t leave him be— the two of them, alone. It’s making him want to crawl out of his skin, it won’t let him sit still. He gives it a few minutes, tells himself to breathe, but he’s not used to sharing Will— and underneath the mountain of jealousy at Will being alone with Chance, is something worse, a knot of worry he can’t shake.
Mike breaks.
He gets up suddenly, Dustin, Lucas, and Max all stare up at him like they know what’s coming.
“I’m just gonna—” Mike gestures vaguely behind him, “I forgot a book. In my locker. I’m gonna... go get it.”
“Alright,” Dustin pipes up, picking uninterestedly at the weird cucumber and cream cheese sandwich his mom always packs him, “See you in physics.”
Max rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything. Lucas does nothing at all, just stares at him— which is infinitely worse, because Lucas has this all-knowing way of looking at Mike that’s made him want to hide since he was ten years old.
“See you,” He says, throwing his backpack over one shoulder before he rushes out.
He goes looking for Will.
Mike peeks through the little window in the door of the art room, and finds them how he knew they’d be— smiley, too close, voices too low to hear through the door, flirting. The sight of it turns his stomach, sharp and sick with jealousy. He’s going to throw up.
He needs to go— not away, but home. Like for the rest of the day and possibly all of tomorrow, too. First, though, he needs to tell Will. Mike wants nothing more than to flee, to turn his back on this scene and pretend he never saw Will giving someone else that doe-eyed look he used to have ownership of, but he’s Will’s ride— drives him to and from school everyday— so he’s not just going to ditch him. He’s going to walk into this room with his head held high, and try not to fantasize about suicide.
Mike swings the door open, and only succeeds at one of those things.
Will jolts back from Chance at the sound of the hinges, like he’s doing something wrong— and he is, at least Mike thinks so, but it's not the obvious thing. Chance looks up and frowns immediately when he spots him. Will turns around to face him then, too.
“Mike?” His head tilts and his brows pull together. So confused. So adorable.
“Hey. Sorry to interrupt,” He starts, reaching up to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck, “I, uh, I don’t feel well. I’m going to go home— just wanted to let you know. Lucas can drive you later, though, if that works?”
Will looks so genuinely concerned, it makes Mike feel bad for lying.
“Don’t worry about me,” Will assures, “I’ll find a ride. Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Mike looks between him and Chance, “Just sick to my stomach all of the sudden.”
“I’m sorry. Do you think it was something you ate?”
He’s so earnest and open. Mike is finding it hard to look him in the eye— instead, his eyes keep drifting to the place where the back of him and Chance’s hands brush each other’s. He can’t stop looking. It’s like a gory movie, or a car crash, or something else painful and addicting.
Mike has to shake his head to knock some sense back into himself, “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m sure it will be better once I’m out of here, though.”
“Alright,” Will nods, looking sympathetic, “Feel better. Call me if you need anything?”
“Yeah. Sure,” Mike agrees, smiling tightly before turning to leave.
He’s beyond ready to hightail it the fuck out of here. His hand reaches for the door, ready to push it open, when Chance’s voice sounds out behind him and brings him to an immediate halt.
“I could give you a ride home, if you want?”
Yup. Still grating.
Actually, more grating, because Mike just knows— somewhere deep in his bones— that this stupid fuck purposefully asked while he was still in the room. Like, he wanted Mike to hear it, to know Will was going with him. He's evil. Mike hates him.
“Oh,” Mike is sure Will is waving him off now, never wanting to be a burden, “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
Mike hates him.
“Well, then sure,” His back goes rigid, “That’d be nice. Thanks.”
“It’s no big deal.”
He can’t listen to this anymore— shouldn’t even be listening in the first place— one more second and he’ll actually be sick all over the green and white tiled floor. He shoves the door open with too much force, and leaves.
“Did he look pale to you?”
“Who, Wheeler?” Chance huffs, “Isn’t he always pale?”
Will pauses for too long for it to not mean something. Then he laughs weakly— not amused.
“He was paler, though, than he usually is.”
“It’s probably just a bug or something. I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Chance shrugs, “No big deal.”
“Yeah,” Will says, voice tight, “No big deal.”