Chapter Text
The music became a muffled heartbeat through the wall.
Will stood a few feet away, breathing hard, eyes wide with something that wasn’t fear but wasn’t calm either.
Mike realized, with sudden clarity, that he was still holding Will’s wrist. His fingers loosened slightly but didn’t let go.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
In the quiet, Mike could hear his own pulse, loud and traitorous.
He swallowed, throat burning, and finally met Will’s eyes like he wasn’t allowed to look away anymore.
“Okay,” Mike said, voice rough. “I--”
Whatever he meant to say didn’t make it out.
It just… collapsed.
His face crumpled like it had been waiting for permission. The sound he made wasn’t even a sob at first-- it was a strangled inhale, a sharp, ugly breath like his body had been holding something poisonous for years and it finally slipped past the seal.
Will blinked at him, frozen. “Mike…?”
Mike let go of Will’s wrist like it burned him, but the absence of contact didn’t help. Nothing helped.
“I’m sorry,” Mike blurted, and then again, like repetition could turn it into something clean. “I’m sorry.”
Tears spilled fast, humiliatingly fast. Hot tracks down his cheeks, fogging up his lenses. He wiped at his eye with the heel of his hand and let his glasses tumble off, making them fall to the ground with the softest clatter.
Then, he laughed once, but it came out shattered.
“This is-- this is so stupid,” He said, shaking his head hard like he could fling the feeling off. “I’m ruining-- Lucas’s wedding, I’m--” His voice broke. “I’m doing the thing again.”
“What thing?” Will asked, still looking bewildered, but his eyes were already glassy. Like he didn’t want to cry, like crying was something he’d trained himself not to do in front of other people anymore, and Mike was dragging it out of him anyway.
Mike pressed his palm to his own chest like he could keep his heart from climbing up his throat.
“I messed up,” He said. “I messed up everything.”
Will’s brow furrowed. “Mike, what are you talking about?”
“You,” Mike said immediately, like there was never any other answer. The word hit the room like a thrown object. “You. I-- I just--”
He choked again, eyes squeezed shut. The tears kept coming, relentless.
“I waited,” Mike said, and there was something almost furious in the confession, fury towards himself. “I waited and I watched and I thought-- I thought I was being… good, or respectful, or whatever bullshit I tell myself so I can keep--” He made a helpless gesture between them, fingers shaking. “So I can keep not doing anything.”
Will stared at him like Mike had started speaking another language. “Mike--”
“I keep going to your shows,” Mike rushed on, words tumbling over each other now that the gate had snapped. “And I stand in the back like a coward and I pretend I’m just-- being supportive-- and then I go home and I write you into every story like I’m allowed to have you there because it’s paper, because it’s not real--”
Will’s lips parted. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
Mike kept talking because stopping felt impossible.
“And the whole time I’m thinking, you missed it. You missed your chance. You had it and you let it go and now you don’t get to--” He dragged in a breath that sounded like pain. “I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just-- I can’t stand it tonight. Seeing you with him--”
Will flinched, not away, but like the words struck someplace tender.
“Mike,” He said, more sharply now. “Stop. Just-- stop.”
Mike shut his mouth, panting, eyes red and wet. He tried to swallow the rest of it down, but it was too late. It was out.
Will stared at him for a long second. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, strained.
“You’re-- you’re upset because I’m with Carlton?”
Mike opened his mouth, then closed it. He nodded once, miserable.
Will’s expression shifted, confusion folding into something sharper-- hurt, maybe, and disbelief.
“You can’t,” Will said, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You can’t-- Mike, you kept your distance. You did that. You decided that.”
“I know,” Mike said immediately. “I know, I know, I know.”
Will ran a hand through his hair, the motion jerky. His eyes shone now; a tear clung to his lower lashes, stubborn and bright. Mike wanted to kiss it away. Wanted to lick it, just to get a taste of Will, just once.
“Carlton is my boyfriend,” Will said, as if stating it might snap Mike back into reality. “Like-- my actual boyfriend.”
“I know,” Mike whispered. “I know.”
Will’s breath hitched. He blinked hard, and that tear finally fell, sliding down his cheek in a slow line that made Mike’s stomach twist.
“Then why are you--” Will’s voice broke, and he looked angry at himself for it. He wiped at his cheek quickly, like it was an accident. “Why are you doing this right now?”
Mike shook his head, helpless, words failing him for the first time since he’d started unraveling.
Because if he tried to explain, he’d have to say it plainly.
‘I have loved you in every moment except the ones that mattered.’
Will took a step closer, cautious, like Mike was a skittish animal. His eyes searched Mike’s face with that familiar intensity-- as if he could find the truth if he looked long enough.
“Mike,” Will said, softer now, almost pleading. “What do you want from me?”
Mike’s throat worked. He couldn’t breathe right.
“I don’t know,” He admitted, voice shredded. “I don’t-- I just-- I want to stop feeling like-- like I’m standing outside of my own life letting everything happen. Never-- never acting on what I feel.”
Will stared at him, tearful and stunned, like he couldn’t decide whether to be furious or gentle.
“You don’t get to--” Will started, then stopped. His jaw trembled once, like he was biting back something huge. “You don’t get to show up in the corners of my life and then--”
Mike winced. “I’m sorry.”
Will’s eyes flicked down to Mike’s mouth and back up again so fast Mike almost thought he imagined it.
And that tiny, involuntary movement--so human, so honest-- cracked something open inside of Mike that had been sealed for years.
Mike stepped forward before his fear could catch him.
Will’s breath hitched. “Mike--”
Mike’s hands came up, not grabbing this time-- hovering, giving Will a second, a choice-- fingers trembling near Will’s shoulders.
Will didn’t move away.
So Mike leaned in and kissed him.
It was soft at first, almost questioning, the kind of kiss that felt like an apology and a confession tangled together. Mike’s lips were warm and shaking and Will’s were too real. His eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t bear to see what he was doing.
For a heartbeat, Will went still-- surprised, stunned--
And then Will’s hand lifted, catching at Mike’s lapel, gripping the fabric like he needed something to hold on to.
Mike made a broken sound into the kiss-- something between a sob and a laugh-- and it ruined any chance of pretending this was clean. He tasted salt. His own tears, maybe Will’s. It didn’t matter. Everything in him was a raw nerve.
“I’m--” Mike breathed against Will’s mouth, voice shaking so hard it barely held shape. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”
Will pulled back a fraction, just enough to look at him. His eyes were wide and shining, his mouth parted, his face flushed like he’d been struck by heat.
“Mike,” Will whispered, and it wasn’t a warning so much as a question he didn’t know how to ask.
Mike stared at him like he couldn’t believe he was real. Like he’d been dreaming a version of this for years and now the dream had turned into a person.
“I can’t--” Mike tried, and his voice cracked again. His hands came up, bracketing Will’s shoulders, not gripping, just there-- hovering in that careful space between want and restraint. “I can’t do this like it doesn’t matter.”
Will’s breath hitched. “It--” He swallowed. “It does matter. It matters too much.”
Mike nodded too fast, helpless. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the problem.”
His chest was heaving, every inhale catching on something sharp. He kissed Will again, sloppier this time, desperate in a way Mike hated about himself and couldn’t stop anyway. Will met him-- hesitant at first, then with a softness that made Mike’s knees go weak.
Mike’s body moved on instinct, seeking something solid because he felt like he was falling through the floor. The small room blurred around the edges. He guided Will backward, hands still trembling, until Will’s hip bumped into the edge of a desk in the corner-- some leftover piece of furniture from the venue, cluttered with stacked programs and an abandoned clipboard.
Will startled slightly at the contact, fingers tightening in Mike’s jacket, and Mike froze immediately, breath stuttering.
“Hey,” Mike whispered, forehead nearly touching Will’s. His voice was wrecked. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
Will’s eyes flicked over Mike’s face like he was trying to read every fracture line. His mouth trembled.
“You’re crying,” Will said, almost disbelieving, like he couldn’t process it.
Mike huffed a pathetic laugh that turned into another wet inhale. “I know.”
Will lifted a hand-- slow, careful-- and wiped a tear from Mike’s cheek with his thumb. The gentleness of it made Mike’s throat tighten so hard he thought he might choke.
“You’re--” Will started, then swallowed, eyes shining harder. “Mike, what are you doing?”
Mike’s hands slid to Will’s waist, anchoring there as if he could keep himself from drifting apart. He stared at Will like there was only one truth left in the world.
“I’m doing the thing I didn’t do,” Mike whispered. His voice broke on the last word. “I’m being-- I’m being selfish and stupid and late, and I hate myself for it, but I can’t-- I can’t keep watching you like you’re-- like you’re not--”
He couldn’t finish. He leaned in again, pressing his mouth to Will’s, as if kissing could substitute for sentences.
Will made a small sound-- half a gasp, half a quiet, involuntary yes-- and his hands came up, one fisting in Mike’s jacket again, the other curling into Mike’s hair at the nape of his neck. Mike shuddered at the contact like he’d been starved for it.
The kiss deepened, still not neat, still not practiced. It was all messy edges and emotion, Mike’s mouth shaking against Will’s like he couldn’t hold himself together long enough to do this calmly. Will’s lips parted, and Mike followed the permission with a desperate kind of reverence.
He angled Will back against the desk-- not slamming, not forcing, just crowding close, closing the distance between them until Will was warm and solid under Mike’s hands. Will’s legs lifted, his thighs meeting the desk, papers shifting with a soft whisper.
Mike broke from the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed to Will’s temple. His voice was rough and wet.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered again, because he didn’t have any other prayer. “I’m sorry I didn’t-- I’m sorry I didn’t see you when I should have. I’m sorry I--”
Will’s fingers tightened in his hair. His own breath was unsteady now. “Mike.”
Mike pulled back just enough to look at him.
Will’s eyes were glassy, face flushed, lips swollen from the kiss. He looked like he was fighting for air and fighting for sense at the same time.
“You know I have a boyfriend.” Will said again, but softer, like saying it out loud hurt him too. Like it wasn’t a shield so much as a fact he didn’t know what to do with.
Mike nodded, tears still sliding. “I know.”
Will’s throat worked. He looked down for a second, then back up, and there was a tremor in his expression-- something fierce and aching and confused.
“Then why--” Will whispered, and his voice cracked. “Why now?”
Mike’s laugh came out broken. “Because I’m an idiot.”
Will’s mouth twitched, almost a sob, almost a laugh. “Yeah.”
Mike stared at him, ruined by the way Will still sounded like Will. By the way Will’s hand was still in his hair.
“I can stop,” Mike said, and he meant it and didn’t mean it, all at once. “Just-- tell me. Tell me to stop.”
Will didn’t say it.
Instead, Will grabbed Mike’s tie-- crooked, the knot loosened from earlier-- and yanked him back down into the space between them.
Mike kissed him like he was breaking apart and trying to stitch himself back together with Will’s mouth. Like seven years of regret could be swallowed if he pressed close enough, if he held on hard enough, if he could just feel Will choosing him for even a second.
The desk creaked softly under the shift of Will’s body. Papers slid to the floor.
Mike’s hands framed Will’s face, thumbs brushing under Will’s cheekbones, wiping tears without even thinking. His own tears kept coming anyway, relentless, humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered between kisses, the words spilling out like a compulsion. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Will’s breath shuddered against his lips. “Stop saying that.”
Mike blinked, pulled back half an inch. “What?”
Will swallowed, eyes wet, voice shaking. “Stop apologizing like you’re the only one who--” He stopped, jaw tight, like the rest of the sentence was too dangerous to say.
Mike stared at him, heart banging against his ribs. “Will…”
Will looked at him for a long second, as if deciding whether to let Mike see something he’d kept locked away.
Then he kissed Mike again-- harder this time, less careful-- and Mike made a sound that was pure, stunned grief because it felt like permission and punishment and longing all wrapped together.
Mike’s fingers twitched as he reached up, fumbling with the buttons of Will’s shirt. His tie was already long gone, hung over some chair back at the reception. Will made a noise, some sort of whine, yet didn’t stop him. He just dropped Mike’s tie, shrugging off his own jacket before his hands returned-- warm, grounding-- against Mike’s arms.
Mike finished unbuttoning Will’s shirt in record time, considering how shaky his hands were, and pulled back to just look. To gaze at everything he could’ve had for years, everything he wished he had let himself have. Everything he was too cowardly to have. Tears pricked again and he buried his face in Will’s neck, inhaling deeply, nose brushing cool metal.
“What’s this?” Mike murmured, hand raising to thumb at the chain. He pulled back to get a better look. Two little charms. For a moment, just a moment, Mike convinced himself the colours were different. Then, when the light caught and he saw green, his stomach lurched.
“Carlton got it for me.” Will offered up. Mike met his eyes, taking in the sight of a freshly kissed Will Byers. His lips were somehow pinker, eyes wide and glazed, cheeks flushed, and Mike fell in love all over again.
A spark of agitation rose in his chest at the words, but he just pressed his face back into Will’s neck, hand reaching around to unclasp the necklace and let it slip to the ground.
“Mike!” Will patted at his shoulders, sharp panic in his voice, but Mike didn’t stop-- couldn’t stop-- because if he let Will belong to anyone else in his head for one more second he thought he might split open.
He kissed Will’s neck, slower now, and the sound Will made-- small, involuntary, betrayed by his own throat-- hit Mike like a confession.
“Don’t you dare leave a mark.” Will warned, breath shaking.
Mike almost laughed. Almost sobbed again.
Because Will had already marked him. Years ago. Quietly. Permanently. Not with teeth or bruises or anything anyone could point at and say there, that’s proof, but with the kind of imprint that lived behind his ribs and never stopped throbbing.
And Carlton had his mark too-- a green charm glinting against Will’s skin like a claim the world was allowed to see.
Mike wasn’t allowed that.
Mike had never been allowed that.
Or worse; Mike had been allowed, and he’d refused to take it, over and over, like it was something dangerous instead of something holy.
His throat tightened until breathing felt like swallowing glass.
He slid down without thinking, knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud-- humiliation blooming hot and immediate, but drowned out by everything else. He didn’t even register the pain; the only thing he could feel was the ache that had been living in him for seven years finally finding a direction.
His hands shook as they found Will’s hips-- just holding, just anchoring, like if he didn’t touch something real he’d drift right out of his body.
‘This is pathetic,’ He thought, and the thought didn’t stop him. It only sharpened into something crueler; ‘This is who you are. Look at you. Look at what you become when it’s him.’
Mike pressed his face to Will’s stomach, breathing him in like air. Like forgiveness. Like the last thing left. He kissed the skin he could reach-- reverent, frantic-- his tears hot against Will’s body.
“I’m so pathetic for you,” He rasped, and it came out like a prayer and a punishment at the same time. “So-- so fucking pathetic, Will.”
“Mike…” Will’s voice cracked. Uncertain. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just… there, trembling in the space above him.
Mike looked up through the blur of tears, and it felt like lifting his head into a spotlight.
Will was flushed, shirt open, hair a little wrecked, mouth swollen from Mike’s kisses-- eyes wide with the same fucking look Mike remembered every day of his life.
Will looked like somebody who had already survived the worst things in the world, and still didn’t know what to do with that survival.
Mike’s chest clenched so hard it almost folded him in half.
“Please,” He whispered, and he hated the word because it was needy and small and it sounded like a child begging not to be left behind. “Please, Will, I-- I need… I need--”
He didn’t know what he needed. That was the sickest part. He needed everything. He needed Will to say yes and to say I wanted you then and to say you didn’t miss it and to say I can still choose you now--
He needed to go back in time and grab his own stupid fucking face and shake it until honesty fell out.
Will's hand came to rest in Mike's hair. Present. Real. More than Mike deserved.
That touch almost killed him.
Mike let out a sound that wasn’t dignified in any universe.
“I’ve thought about you,” Mike confessed, raw with it, because if he didn’t say it he’d hold it inside until the day he died. “For years. Not-- not like…” He laughed, jagged. “Not like how you’re supposed to think about someone you used to know. I mean-- I mean constantly. Like it’s a sickness. Like it’s the only thing my brain knows how to do when I’m alone. Like-- like all I can fucking do is--”
He couldn't finish. The words dissolved into a choked sob as he finally got Will's belt undone, hands shaking so badly he could barely manage the zipper. This was humiliating. He was humiliating. On his knees, falling apart, and he hadn't even touched Will yet.
Mike hadn’t lied. He had thought about it so many times. Thought about the things he could do. Let tears stream down his cheeks as he touched himself late at night, hidden under the safety of his blanket.
There had been other nights, too. The ones where he came home with a film from the video rental down the road, where he had swapped the covers on the tapes to hide what he was truly buying. The ones where he would sit in front of the TV and watch, wondering if Will would make similar noises, what Will looked like beneath his layers of clothes, what he would plead and beg for.
“Mike, you don't have to--”
“I do.” Mike's voice came out fierce despite the tears. “I do have to. I need you to know-- I need you to feel--”
What? That Mike had been memorizing him for years? That he knew the exact shade of Will's eyes in sunlight, the way his breath caught when he was nervous, the constellation of freckles on his shoulders? That he'd catalogued every detail like a desperate man hoarding treasures?
Or that he just needed Will to feel fucking good for once, given to him by Mike. Not anyone else. Mike.
Mike's hands finally freed Will from his jeans, and the sight of him-- hard, wanting-- sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing through Mike's chest. He'd imagined this. Dreamed of it. Ached for it in the dark hours of too many lonely nights.
Mike remembered the videos he watched. Remembered wondering if Will’s cock matched the ones on the screen. It didn’t. Will’s was so much prettier. Pink at the tip and fucking beautiful. Every vein was a stroke of paint from God himself. It was a little smaller than Mike’s, but it was fucking intimidating, considering Mike had never been face-to-face with one in his life.
He wanted to stare. He wanted to kneel until his knees went numb and the hardwood molded to the shape of him. He wanted to turn William Byers into a religion the way people did when they were desperate-- when they’d run out of reasons to live and needed to give their entire being to something.
He wanted to worship. Not politely. Not safely. He wanted to make a cathedral out of this room and his own shame.
He wanted to confess every sin he’d ever committed-- every year he’d swallowed his truth, every time he’d chosen silence because it was easier than risk, every moment he’d watched Will from a distance and called it kindness-- until his throat was raw and bleeding and his voice finally matched the damage he’d done.
He wanted so much it felt like drowning.
“I've waited so long,” Mike breathed, and then he was leaning forward, pressing his tear-stained face against Will's hip, his thigh, anywhere he could reach. “So long, Will. And I fucked it up. I fucked everything up.”
“Mike--”
But Mike wasn't listening anymore. He was too far gone, drowning in years of want and regret and desperate, clawing need. His mouth found Will's cock, and the taste of him-- salt and skin and something uniquely Will-- made Mike's eyes squeeze shut as more tears spilled over.
He took Will deeper, messy and graceless, choking slightly and refusing to let up. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t care to know. Nothing mattered except this-- proving himself, showing Will what he meant to him, erasing every memory of Carlton's hands on Will's body.
Carlton. The name was acid in Mike's mind. Carlton, who'd gotten to touch Will, taste him, have him in all the ways Mike had been too afraid to claim. The thought made Mike's technique falter, made him pull back gasping and sobbing.
“I should have--” Mike's voice broke completely. “It should have been me. Always. From the beginning. Not him. Never him.”
Will's hand tightened in Mike's hair, and Mike looked up to find Will watching him with an expression so complex it made Mike's heart stutter. Conflict. Desire. Something that might have been pain or might have been tenderness or might have been both.
“Mike, you're-- you're still crying.”
“I know.” Mike's laugh was bitter and wet. “I know. I'm a fucking mess. I'm--” He pressed his forehead against Will's thigh, shoulders shaking. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For everything. For being too late. For not-- for never--”
“Stop,” Will said softly, and his hand moved from Mike's hair to his face, thumb brushing away tears that just kept coming. “Stop apologizing and--”
Mike didn't let him finish. He took Will back into his mouth with renewed desperation, working him with hands and lips and tongue like he could somehow communicate everything he'd never said. Every “I love you” he'd swallowed. Every moment he'd chosen silence over truth.
His technique was sloppy, made worse by the tears that wouldn't stop, by the way his breath kept hitching with suppressed sobs. But he didn't care about grace or skill. He cared about worship. About devotion. About showing Will that he was willing to fall apart completely if it meant having even this-- even just this moment of being allowed to touch him, taste him, prove his worth.
Will's breathing was getting ragged above him, and Mike felt a surge of something fierce and possessive. He wanted to ruin Will for anyone else. Wanted to make him forget Carlton's name, forget every touch that wasn't Mike's. Wanted to brand himself into Will's memory so deeply that even if Will walked away after this, he'd carry Mike with him.
“Mike--” Will's voice was strained now, warning. “Mike, I'm--”
Mike's response was to take him deeper, to hollow his cheeks and moan around him, the sound muffled and desperate. His own arousal was a distant, secondary thing. This wasn't about his pleasure. This was about Will. About making Will feel good. About proving that Mike could be what he needed.
About begging without words.
Will's hips jerked forward, and Mike's hands came up to grip his thighs, holding on like Will was the only solid thing in a world that had been tilting sideways for years. Tears continued to stream down Mike's face, mixing with spit and precome in a mess that should have been humiliating but somehow felt right. Felt honest.
This was who Mike was; desperate, broken, willing to debase himself completely for even a scrap of Will's attention.
“God, Mike--” Will's voice cracked, and then he was coming, and Mike was swallowing him down like salvation, like everything he'd ever wanted and never thought he'd have.
When it was over, Mike didn't pull away. He stayed there, forehead pressed against Will's hip, hands still gripping his thighs, crying harder now that the distraction of purpose was gone. His shoulders shook with the force of his sobs, years of repressed emotion finally breaking free.
Mike buried his face deeper there, nosing at his groin, and pressed a palm to the tent in his slacks. He came almost immediately with a broken cry, pent-up desire finally releasing. He was so fucking easy for Will Byers. Too fucking easy.
“I love you,” He choked out between gasps. “I love you, I love you, I've always loved you. Since we were kids. Since before I knew what it meant. And I was too scared to say it, too scared to risk it, and now-- now you're with him and I--”
Will's hands were in his hair again, gentle this time, almost tender. “Mike. Mike, look at me.”
Mike couldn't. He couldn't bear to see rejection in Will's eyes, couldn't survive watching Will pull away and tell him this changed nothing, that it was too late, that Carlton was--
“Mike.” Firmer now. “Look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Mike raised his head. His face was a wreck-- he knew it without seeing it. Tear-stained, flushed, lips swollen and wet. He probably looked insane. He definitely felt insane.
Will's expression was unreadable, but his thumb was still brushing away Mike's tears with a gentleness that made Mike want to sob all over again.
“I don't know what to do with you,” Will said quietly. “I don't know how to-- you broke my heart, Mike. You broke it and then you left it broken for years, and now you show up and--” He stopped, swallowed hard. “And I still--”
He didn't finish, but Mike heard it anyway in the space between words. The possibility. The maybe. The not-quite-no that was more than Mike had any right to hope for.
"I'll wait," Mike said immediately, desperately. “However long it takes. I'll wait. I'll prove it to you. I'll--”
“You're really still crying,” Will observed once again, and there was something almost fond in his voice that made Mike's breath catch.
“I can't stop,” Mike admitted. “I can't-- Will, I can't lose you again. I can't. Even if you hate me, even if you never forgive me, I just-- I need you to know. I need you to understand what you mean to me.”
Will was quiet for a long moment, his hand still cradling Mike's face. Then, so softly Mike almost missed it; “I don't hate you, Mike. I wish I did. It would be easier.”
And that-- that small admission-- was enough to make Mike crumble all over again, pressing his face against Will's thigh and crying like the broken, desperate thing he was.
“Will,” He whispered, and it sounded like surrender. “I’m sorry.”
Will’s jaw trembled. “Stop saying that.”
Mike blinked at him, lost. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“Say the truth,” Will said, voice shaking. “Say it without making yourself the martyr. Say it without making me--” He swallowed, eyes shining. “Without making me the consolation prize you only reach for when you’re lonely.”
That hit so deep Mike went cold for a second.
“I’m not,” He choked. “I’m not-- Will, I’m not lonely. I mean, I am, but I’m--” He laughed again, wrecked. “I’m empty. And you’re the only person I can’t… I can’t replace. I’ve tried. I have.”
He looked up at Will, desperate, and the confession clawed out of him like something alive.
“But it’s always you,” Mike whispered. “It’s been you for so long I don’t even know where it started. I just know I’m here now and I can’t stand it anymore, I can’t stand pretending I’m fine when I’m-- I’m watching you be loved by someone else and I’m--”
His voice snapped.
“I’m dying in the corner of the room.” He finished, small and vicious and honest.
Will stared down at him like he didn’t know whether to pull him up or push him away. Like he was caught between every old wound and every old want.
And then Will said it again, quieter this time, like it hurt him too;
“You know I have a boyfriend.”
Mike’s entire body flinched.
“I know,” He whispered. “I know. I know. And I hate myself for-- for doing this. For-- for doing this to you.”
Will’s eyes held on Mike for a beat too long.
Not soft. Not cruel. Just… tired, in a way that felt older than either of them had any right to be.
Mike stayed kneeling because he didn’t know how to stand. Because if he stood, he might start saying things again-- might start trying to bargain with words the way he always did, as if language could undo damage. As if a confession could be repaired in syllables.
Will swallowed, throat working like he was forcing something back down.
“Okay,” He said finally. Not agreement. Not forgiveness. A simple line drawn in the dust. “Okay.”
Mike winced anyway, hopeful for half a second because he hated himself and he was wired wrong.
Will looked down at him-- really looked, like he was taking inventory of the wreck Mike had made on the floor between them, like he was seeing the shape of it clearly for the first time.
Then Will stood and turned away.
The shift was small, but it changed the entire room.
Will started buttoning up his shirt first. His hands were steady. That was the worst part. That Will could move like a person who still understood how to be contained, while Mike was shaking like something pretending to be a person.
One. Two. Three.
Each slip of plastic through fabric felt like a door shutting.
Mike’s throat made a sound-- some useless, broken noise-- like his body was trying to protest without giving his brain permission to form words.
“Will,” He breathed.
Will didn’t look back. He kept buttoning.
“You can’t--” Mike started, and the sentence died immediately because he didn’t know what he meant. You can’t leave. You can’t be done. You can’t go back to him like I didn’t just--
Like I didn’t just ruin you.
Will’s shoulders rose with a single breath.
“I can,” Will said, voice low, precise. “I have to.”
Mike’s eyes blurred again.
Will tugged his jacket from the desk where it had been dropped and shrugged into it with a practiced motion, smoothing the lapels like he was putting himself back together in front of Mike on purpose. Like he wanted Mike to watch him become presentable again.
Will adjusted his cuffs. Straightened his collar. Smoothed out every last wrinkle.
He did not look at Mike.
Mike’s hands were still trembling, empty now, like they didn’t know what to hold onto if it wasn’t Will.
“I’m sorry,” Mike whispered automatically, because sorry was the only language he had left.
Will’s hands paused.
For the first time since he’d turned away, he stilled completely-- like Mike had hit a bruise again and again until Will finally had to acknowledge it.
“Don’t,” Will said, barely above a breath. “Don’t do that.”
Mike’s mouth opened. Closed.
He turned, eyes landing on Mike like a weight.
“You said it,” Will continued, voice shaking in a way he tried to hide. “You said the truth. That’s… that’s all you get right now.”
Mike nodded too hard, desperate. “Okay. Okay. I--”
Will held up a hand.
Not angry.
Not gentle.
A stop sign.
Mike choked on his own inhale and shut up.
Will’s gaze dropped to the floor.
Mike followed it, stupidly, and saw it; the thin chain in the dim light, pooled like a discarded thought. The little green charm catching a weak gleam.
Will’s jaw tightened.
He crossed the room and crouched, careful, and picked it up with two fingers like it was something delicate and dangerous. Like it was evidence. Like it was a reminder that Carlton existed whether Mike liked it or not.
Mike’s stomach turned.
Will stood and fastened it back around his neck, the clasp clicking shut with finality, and then tucked it into his shirt.
When he looked at Mike again, his eyes were wet-- just enough that Mike could see it, not enough that anyone else would.
“I’m going back,” Will said.
Mike’s heart lurched.
“To the reception.” Will added, as if Mike was too stupid to know where “back” meant.
Mike’s throat worked. “Will--”
Will’s expression flickered, pain flashing so quickly it almost didn’t exist. Then it smoothed into something harder.
“You don’t get to do this and then ask me to carry you,” Will said quietly. “You don’t get to fall apart in my hands and call it love.”
Mike’s face crumpled. “I’m not-- I didn’t--”
Will’s voice sharpened, just a little. “Yes, you did.”
Mike went very still.
Will inhaled, unsteady, and his tone softened again-- not forgiving, but human.
“I can’t be your secret anymore,” Will said. “Not in your head, not in your fantasies. Not in the way you show up for me when it’s safe and disappear when it isn’t.”
Mike’s eyes burned so badly he could barely see.
Will looked away for half a second, like even saying it cost him.
Then he looked back.
“If you want me,” Will said, and the words hit like a bruise, “You’re going to have to be someone I can actually have.”
Mike made a sound-- small, wrecked.
Will’s mouth trembled once, like the echo of something that used to be softer between them.
“This doesn’t get to be easy,” Will finished. “Not for you.”
Mike nodded, tears sliding again, silent because he didn’t deserve to argue.
Will watched him for a long moment.
Then, with one last glance, Will turned and opened the door.
The muffled music spilled in immediately, the reception’s laughter and clinking glasses rushing back like the world had never paused for Mike’s collapse.
Will stepped through.
He paused in the doorway-- not looking back, but still enough that Mike felt it. Like Will was bracing himself. Like he was choosing something.
Then he left.
The door clicked shut. The sound wasn’t loud. It was devastating.
Mike stayed on his knees. For a second, he didn’t breathe. He couldn’t.
The room tilted. The air felt wrong. The silence came in hot and thick, and the second Will was gone, everything Mike had been holding in with desperate purpose came rushing back in.
It hit him like a wave.
Mike covered his face with his hands and made a sound that didn’t belong to a grown man in a suit at his best friend’s wedding. His shoulders shook. His chest hurt. The sobs came ugly, uncontained, like his body had been waiting for the moment it was alone to finally punish him properly.
Seven years of restraint and guilt, condensed into a single room and a single slammed door.
He bent forward until his forehead nearly hit the floor, breath jagged.
Somewhere near the chair, his glasses lay sideways on the hardwood.
Mike’s hands fumbled for them blindly, fingers shaking so badly he knocked them farther with the side of his palm. He sucked in a harsh breath, wiped his face with his sleeve, and reached again-- clumsy, desperate.
He found them by the edge of the desk, lenses smeared, and then held them in his hands like they were a lifeline.
Eventually, he pressed them to his face with a shaking exhale and the room snapped back into focus, cruelly clear.
Mike stared at the closed door until his eyes burned, and then dropped his glasses again.
He wanted to run after him.
He wanted to throw himself in front of Will like a blockade, like a plea, like a child with scraped knees and no words except don’t leave me and it hurts.
But Will had said it.
Not easy.
Not for you.
He swallowed hard enough to hurt.
Because the worst part-- worse than the humiliation, worse than the ache, worse than the way his own body still felt like it was buzzing with consequence-- was that Will was right.
Mike had done the thing again.
He’d turned his feelings into a fire and expected Will to stand close enough to be warmed without getting burned.
He’d taken a moment of Will’s softness like it could absolve him.
He’d asked for comfort when what he deserved was distance.
Mike dragged in a breath. Then another.
He wiped his face again, slower this time, forcing his hands to steady.
He looked down at himself-- his rumpled suit, his crooked boutonnière, his hands that wouldn’t stop shaking-- and the thought came, simple and brutal, cutting through the noise;
You don’t get him for free.
Not anymore.
Maybe not ever.
But if there was any world left where Mike Wheeler could still be someone Will Byers could choose-- someone Will could trust-- then Mike was going to have to earn it the way he’d never earned anything in his life.
Not with words.
Not with longing.
With showing up.
With staying.
With taking the punishment.
Mike stared at the door one last time, throat raw.
Then, slowly-- like it was the first real decision he’d made in years-- he planted his palm against the floor and pushed himself up.
His knees ached. His suit was probably ruined. His face felt swollen and wrecked.
He put his glasses on properly. Straightened his jacket with hands that still shook. Picked up the papers he could reach, because he didn’t know what else to do with himself except try, pointlessly, to make a mess smaller.
He untucked his shirt, letting it fall to cover the wet imprint on the front of his pants. He had to get his shit together. Had to get to a bathroom and make himself less of a destroyed being.
Then he opened the door.
The music rushed in again. The world resumed.
Mike swallowed the ache down until it sat heavy behind his sternum. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay here in his sanctuary of sin. Wanted to sink into the floor and pray that Will would come save him, that he'd fix this. That he'd fix Mike.
He stepped out anyway, because he was going to work for this.
Because if Will’s punishment was distance, then Mike’s penance was to close it the right way this time-- slowly, honestly, with no shortcuts.
And he didn’t get to stop just because it hurt.
Somewhere out there, in the light and noise and laughter, Will was standing back with Carlton. All smiles with a sheen to his eye.
The boy always smiled anyway.