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Will swallows down the last of his motion sickness, nursing a flute of champaign as the jazz band's contrabass sends a calming thrum through the venue. There's not much to do in Montauk, New York, so he's glad he's not here alone; it was Nancy, actually, who had driven him and Jonathan down for Joyce and Hopper's wedding. The other two were now milling about, kissing cheeks and trading graces, having left Will to wrangle his nausea, which was only mostly the result of taking the back seat of Nancy's admittedly beautiful new Buick Century.
He does a fairly decent job of it, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, reminding himself that there wouldn't be any unfamiliar faces at this event. It only works momentarily, and the relief of knowing he doesn't have to hide quickly falls prey to the fear of being known, which doesn't hesitate to sink its sharp canines into the tender flesh of comfort. And just like that, he's right back at square one—it's a rather vicious cycle, if it can even be classified as such. Perhaps it's more of a raging tide that keeps crashing further and further up the sandy shore on which Will is building protective forts out of white-hot sand, either rendering his palms scorched or leaving him completely defenseless. Lose-lose.
A firm hand lands on Will's shoulder just as he starts to lose himself in the rather pleasant Miles Davis cover medley the band is approximately two tracks into, startling him out of his daze. Calming himself (and loosening his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bar), Will swivels around on his stool, finding himself face-to-face with Lucas Sinclair and Max Mayfield, both dressed to the absolute nines.
"Wow," Will breathes out. "Cleaned up real nice, Sinclair," he smiles, standing up to hug Lucas. "Hi, Max."
"Do I not look nice as well, Byers?" Max quips at Will half-heartedly as he hugs Lucas, and Will doesn't miss the way her lips part into a familiar toothy grin.
"The nicest," Will shakes his head, moving to hug her as well. "It's good to see you guys again," he leans back against the bar, heart rate gradually returning to its resting beats-per-minute. "I really missed you."
"We missed you too," Lucas says, just as Max replies with "it's only been eleven months." Lucas shoots her a sideways glance and a lopsided smile the likes of which Will has come to understand convey affectionate exasperation. "We missed you, Will," Max concedes, though she doesn't seem particularly upset about it. "How's the Big Apple?"
"It's—it's great," Will nods. "It's really… It's big," he admits, and Lucas laughs.
"Yeah, man, I bet," he says, raising a brow at Will, who's already shaking his head apologetically.
"No, I mean, of course it is, but it's, like—it's almost overwhelming. It definitely is sometimes, actually. But it's beautiful, and it's so alive. You guys would seriously love it." Will finds this to be a more adequate response, and he's relieved to see that Lucas seems to agree. It's hard for him to talk about a life he's still getting used to; it was Lucas, actually, who had written to Will about how as far away as he got from Hawkins, he never could shake the feeling of being watched and the fear that came with it. "How's UConn?"
"It's great," Lucas affirms again what Will has read in the sparse letters they've exchanged over the months as Max waves over the bartender. "It's really… It's like a dream, man," he confesses, as if there's something wrong with what he's saying. "Too good to be true." Will doesn't miss Lucas's gaze trail to Max, who surely already knows what to ask for to satisfy the both of them.
"And Max?" Will asks quietly, hoping Lucas picks up what he's putting down.
"She's… She's thriving, man," Lucas nods, ever sensitive and in-tune, correctly interpreting Will's question as how's her health? and not how's your relationship? "She, uh, started therapy a couple months ago," he whispers. "We haven't told anyone, but we talked about it, she said if it came up, uh, she'd be fine with you knowing." Lucas meets Will's eyes, and they both smile. Lucas is good at making Will feel like a safe space even after he spent so much of their youth putting him (and consequently Max) in danger.
"I'm glad," Will whispers back. "Is it helping?"
Lucas's face softens, and he only has the time to nod as Max turns back to them with a matching flute of champagne and what appears to be a pint of orange juice. Handing Lucas the champagne, Max leans against the bar next to Will. "So, when can we expect invites to your first exhibition?" She elbows him playfully, taking a sip of her drink.
"W—what?" Will sputters out, feeling his face go warm.
"C'mon, Will, we've seen your art, now it's the rest of the world's turn. It's not fair to keep skill like that a secret." Max's tone is mocking, but Will knows her words are sincere. She's tough to talk to sometimes, in that sense; her softest confessions are always grated against sandpaper, delivered as a pile of dust that leaves you scared it might blow away if you breathe too close to it.
"Sure, sure," Will makes an earnest attempt at laughing her off awkwardly. "And next time I dial 9-1-1, you'll be in the back of the ambulance they send?"
Max turns to Will suddenly. "Didn't you hear?" She sets her drink on the bar, "I'm changing my major!"
Will shoots Lucas a quizzical look, to which Lucas only shrugs. "What're you changing it to?" He asks.
"Music production," Max says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. The weight of her answer takes a moment to hit Will.
"Oh my god—Max, that's awesome! You—you're going to save lives," he stammers excitedly, voice going soft at the end as understanding courses through his veins. "I'm so happy for you."
Max smiles at Will, an earnest, content smile. "Thanks," she says, picking her drink back up. Before any of them can continue the conversation, a familiar silhouette emerges animatedly from the crowd of mingling bodies.
"Henderson!" Lucas exclaims, opening his arms for a hug that Dustin unwaveringly obliges to give. "How's it going, man? You look great!" And he's right—Dustin does. There's a permanent fatigue in his eyes, a medal they all wear as a pathetic reward for conquering the Abyss, but his demeanor betrays no lingering trauma. Dustin walks with his spine straight and hat off, exuding a confidence that Will can only aspire to.
Dustin pulls Will into a hug as well and high-fives Max. "It's goin', alright," he says, but there's no weariness in the aged turn of phrase. "Astrophysics major is no damn joke."
"I bet," Will sighs. "MIT's, like, the best school you could go to for that stuff, though," he adds, as if that fact alone makes Dustin's workload any lighter.
"It is," Dustin nods. "It's awesome. How're you guys? I mean, I know we wrote each other like we promised to, but, y'know," he gestures to the three of them. "Nice earring, by the way," he turns to Will, effectively having proven his own point. Letters are nice, but some things are better kept to yourself until they can be said out loud.
Conversation comes easy, like it always has for the four of them. Lucas is on the basketball team, and Max insists no one else ever deserves MVP. Her music taste has gotten better, as per Will, and when Jonathan floats by, he promises to crash-course Max on the most elite goth and indie-rock records he owns once she and Lucas finally come visit. Dustin rolls up his sleeve in a dramatic reveal of a beautiful tattoo that Will totally already knew about, because he had hand-drawn the flock of bats after Dustin had sent him a polaroid of the Hellfire Club from when he was away in California.
Will doesn't look at that photo often. He used to, though.
Just as she (thankfully) finishes her drink, a wiry and too-tall strawberry blonde figure crashes into Max, who lets out a grunt before returning the embrace she's found herself enveloped by.
Holly Wheeler has grown rather tall over the last eleven months.
"Holly!" Max exclaims once her lungs are done being crushed, placing a hand on each of Holly's shoulders. "Love the new hair," she grins, and she's right—Holly's haircut suits her. It reminds Will of Robin's old one a bit, but on Holly, it's mature. Adds character. The thought of her begging Karen Wheeler to let her go for the big chop makes Will smile softly to himself.
"Thank you! You look so pretty," Holly chirps as Lucas and Dustin take their turns offering her high-fives and fist-bumps. Will does the same, but takes the momentary contact as an opportunity to yank her into a hug. He can feel Holly laugh against his chest as he ruffles her hair.
"Missed you, Hols," he says softly. It's true, he really has; after Lenora, living with the Wheelers had offered Will an opportunity to grow unexpectedly close to Holly. He'd helped her with plenty of homework, and they'd spent long afternoons drawing together at the dining room table while Mike (and then Nancy and Jonathan, too) went out on Crawls.
"I missed you too, Will," Holly smiles, pushing a strand of cropped blonde hair out of her face. She doesn't look as much like Alice in Wonderland as she used to, but her light blue dress still affords her an air of youthful mischief, and Will finds himself hoping that in spite of all she has lost for good, Holly Wheeler never loses herself again.
"Where's your brother, Holly?" Lucas asks, and Will feels his heart skip several beats. Shit. It was so easy to lose himself in the comfort of being seen that he had indeed let the dangers of being known wrap their wiry, cold fingers around his neck and begin to squeeze.
Holly looks around momentarily. "I don't know," she admits, sounding slightly defeated. "He's somewhere, for sure, but he seemed really nervous on the way here, so maybe he just went to the bathroom," she bites at her lip, brows furrowing; when Will exchanges furtive glances with Max, he knows they're both thinking the same thing. She looks just like him. In reluctant defense of Michael T. Wheeler, he was always the type to get motion sick even easier than Will; tire swings on playgrounds were a no-go when he was around (which was always).
"How's your campaign going, Holly?" Dustin asks, a thinly-veiled effort to cut through the sudden tension. Holly, ever aware but now with the early maturity of deep-rooted trauma to boot, jumps at the opportunity. "Oh, it's freaking awesome," she emphasizes, eyes ablaze. "Mike wrote me a campaign guide, we made it up together, and—oh, Lucas, you know Erica joined our Party, right?" Lucas affirms his awareness with a nod and warm smile. "It's seriously the best," she turns to look at Will, "we even use the figures you and Mike painted for us when you lived in our house!"
Of course, that's when Will sees him. Hopper's got a thick arm wrapped around his shoulders, making him look small, despite the fact that he'd shot up three inches in their last summer together and now stood a whopping five feet and eleven inches tall. His limbs stick out at awkward angles and his trousers are slightly too short, nipping at his ankles and showing off mismatched socks. He looks away from Hopper, and—
Mike's eyes lock with Will's.
Before Will can process, Mike pushes Hopper off of him and dissolves into the crowd again in a way that tells Will he's been practicing his disappearing act for a long time. No matter, Will thinks. I'm done chasing. At least the walls won't glow red and swallow him whole this time, so he'll be around. I hope.
Will's hope only wavers slightly as he continues to indulge in the sweet presence of the people he loves most; the ceremony isn't on until quite a bit later, so he's got plenty of time to fill in the blanks of nearly a year's worth of lived Mad-Libs. He listens eagerly to his mother talk about her new job, feeling his heart melt at how proud Hopper looks. He laughs at Dustin and Lucas's incessant squabbling, even in front of the adults, and chimes in with details on the progress of Jonathan's first major film project, which he wastes no time to let people know he is so proud to be able to help with in any small way that he can. What Will does not, though, is see Michael Wheeler. He strains his ears when conversation lulls in hopes of hearing Mike's laugh cut through the beautiful solos the guitarist riffs on his jet-black Kramer Focus—but no such sound graces Will's ears, and he is once again forced to settle for the numbing warmth of jazz.
Will is two flutes of champagne and an Amaretto Sour ordered for him by Max into the afternoon when he decides he needs to go to the bathroom. Everyone's pleasantly tipsy, an unspoken agreement hanging in the air holds celebrants hostage to sobriety at least until the sun sets and the darkness blankets itself over this small town, too. The stars are brighter here (at least according to his mother), small and glittery, comforting reminders that the sky would never try to touch them again.
Even if he was sober, Will has to admit, the layout of this venue is stupid. He's asked Jonathan and then one of Hopper's brothers where the gents' room is, and it still takes him two lefts and a right down some back hallways before the golden emblazoned letter M appears in his periphery. The air is colder here, wind rushes through the narrow hall just enough to make an audible echo, and Will presses a palm to the back of his neck where the hairs start to stand, footsteps hastening.
What happens in the men's room stays in the men's room—that's usually the rule. So it stands within reason that when a voice comes from Will's right as soon as he steps out, shaking the remaining water off of his freshly washed hands, his heart stops and the pit in his stomach gapes so wide he thinks his intestines might find a way to slink right out of his torso and fall onto the floor with a grotesque wet squelch. It'd be a good excuse to get going, at least.
"Did you mean what you said?"
When he turns, Will doesn't see nineteen-year-old Michael Wheeler with his neatly-combed hair and cleanly knotted tie, all gangly limbs in his blue wedding suit. No, in that moment, Will sees twelve-year-old Mike, doe-eyed and scared, standing in front of the hospital bed Will himself is laying on, hands twitching as if he's fighting against a prayer to a God he knows won't answer.
"Mean what?" Will asks, though he knows the answer well.
"That I—That I look like my dad," Mike spits out, venom to rival that with which Will had said the same thing all those months ago. Alcohol and rage course through Will's veins; this was supposed to be a happy day, he was celebrating not only his mother's well-earned and long-awaited happy ending, but his own, too. The wounds left open and bleeding from one father would finally be healed by a pair of calloused but gentle hands, warm arms waiting at the end of each day, not to choke, but to gently hold and lull to sleep, and hell, if Will deserves anything after all this time, he deserves this. A family. As much of it as he can get.
And here is Mike Wheeler, being a pathetic, insecure piece of shit on one of the few days where Will allows himself to engage in romance in the same way his peers do, in a way that does not implicate him or the people kind enough to accept him. To hug him and pet his hair through nightmares and share silverware and lend him clothes and buy him art supplies for his birthday; the people who look in his eyes every day (or month, or few months, whenever they can) and see specks of brown in the olive and still choose to look again.
Will doesnt know why he's entertaining this. He should have gotten over Mike ages ago, that was part of why he'd moved so far out of Hawkins, starry-eyed and reaching for the skies. It had worked at first, art school in New York City is no joke, and Will was determined to prove himself a fit flatmate for Jonathan, who had graciously allowed him the second room in his apartment just a twenty-minute subway ride from the heart of campus (Will isn't stupid, he knows Jonathan had planned it this way, and had strained his finances doing so). Through it all, though, every time Will casts glances at dark-haired boys in bars and muscle memory guides him to sketch the slope of a familiar nose, he's reminded that ten years and the end of the world isn't exactly nothing.
So maybe that's why he's entertaining this on a day like today.
"Yes." Will crosses his arms; there's not much more he can say but the truth (friends don't lie, after all). There's something about being in a cramped dead-end hallway of a small church in Bumfuck Nowhere, New York State, mere inches from Mike Wheeler that makes him feel like he's stepped in wet concrete—and it's dried quickly on the soles of his nice dress shoes, rooting him to the ground. "Yes, I meant it," he repeats, feeling a flush creep onto his face when he realizes where he's picked up the habit of repetition from. Or rather, why he hasn't been able to break free of it.
Mike doesn't move. He doesn't gasp. His lip doesn't quiver, his fingers don't twitch. The light in his eyes, if there is one, might have snuffed out. Will doesn't particularly care to look. He's starting to regret leaving his drink on the bar, itching to go back to laughing at Erica's quips with Max or hearing about Dustin's school-funded independent study.
"Right," is the only response Will gets , as Mike casts his gaze to the floor. The air is so thick with tension that Will thinks he could reach out and touch it, and if he were just a bit drunker, he might have tried—but he knows to hold himself back, because it isn't the tension in the air that he would be reaching for. There's something else in front of him. "Right."
Will scoffs, running a hand through his hair. "Is that what you cornered me to ask?" He poses impatiently, raising a brow. "What, were you expecting platitudes? Advice? I've been trying to talk to you all day, but you keep running away, slipping through my fingers like—like—"
"Like what?" Mike steps forward timidly, as if the gesture itself was supposed to mean anything to Will.
"Like you did when you refused to hug me after I saved your sorry ass during the apocalypse . Like eleven months ago, when you let me move away without so much as a fucking goodbye. Like you did when you went to visit Nancy without saying a word. Don't think I don't know, Michael." Will's voice is earthy and full and deep and lacking any warmth. These are not accusations, they are confessions of Will's unending dedication, his ability and consequent refusal to sever the bond between himself and Mike for reasons that neither of them can quite comprehend. They both know Mike deserves it, if nothing else.
Mike purses his lips in a familiar display of thoughtful discontent and takes another step forward, putting a hand on Will's bicep. It occurs to Will, suddenly, that Mike is probably at least somewhat intoxicated as well. Mike takes a deep breath, lifting his gaze to meet Will's (who is pointedly avoiding this—right now, the only thing he knows is that if he dares lock eyes with Mike, he doesn't know if he'll be able to control himself). "Will, I—"
Will uncrosses his arms and tears Mike's hand from where it rests on his bicep in one swift motion. "Mike," he warns through clenched teeth as Mike steps closer still.
"No, Will, seriously, I—I'm sorry." The apology comes not unlike the exhale of someone who's been under water for far too long; the relief in Mike's voice is tangible, and Will's heart squeezes with anger. If he sounds so assuaged just to get it out, does he even really care if Will accepts it? Will feels his eyes narrow into a combative squint, pinned to the part of Mike's hair, uncanny in the way it ages him. He's only nineteen. Like me, Will reminds himself. He's always been like me. So how—how did we end up like this?
"I'm sorry I didn't—I'm sorry I didn't reach out. Again." Again. Will remembers. He remembers Lenora. He doesn't think Mike did, though. "I'm sorry I didn't reach out, even though I knew about your exhibitions and Jonathan's film premiers and Nancy visiting you. I'm sorry I didn't reach out even though Holly told me that Nancy told her that Jonathan told her that you were seeing someone. I'm sorry I didn't—I'm sorry I couldn't—I'm sorry I didn't let myself touch you for the last few months we spent together," he takes another deep breath, and Will realizes that Mike is crying. Mike is crying, and he's also wearing glasses, ugly black-rimmed specs that are so totally not him.
"I'm sorry for treating you like you were contagious when I was born with what you have."
"What?"
Will watches and does nothing as Mike steps closer still and places a hand on each of his shoulders. He watches (and does nothing) as Mike's gaze dips lower than his nose then back up to his eyes. It's as though all of the alcohol has been drained from his system at once, the pleasant buzz of angry confidence punched out by the weight of Mike's words, leaving behind only hollowness and increasing dread. Will watches Mike's Adam's apple bob with anxiety and does not miss the slight leftward shift of his jaw, setting in either fear or resolution—he will find out which it is momentarily, he is certain.
"You left," Mike starts again, his voice quieter this time, as though his confidence, too, has taken a blow. He deserves it, Will thinks. "And it became impossible to lie. It became impossible to lie to myself anymore, at least." He's starting to sob, but Will can't bring himself to feel any pity.
"You could keep lying to me, though?" He counters, poking an easy hole in Mike's groveling. It makes him sad—he used to be so in tune with Mike. He still is, he supposes, given it's so easy to see right through him.
"No," Mike rasps, the thread stitching him together pulling taut. "No, I just couldn't figure out the words to tell you the truth. But I think," He manages to catch Will's line of sight and their eyes lock properly, "I think you knew them far before I did." Another shaky breath, another gulp of saliva, another grotesque pull of Mike's snotty nose.
"I'm gay, Will."
And Will knows this. Will has known this for a long time, and over that time, his patience has transformed into resentment, laying its vile eggs in his psyche and letting them hatch, creatures of hate traipsing all over what once was love. What is still love, albeit marred and mangled. But Will has been hurt deeper than this, by crueler hearts than his own. It's not this that he's mad at Mike over. No, for Mike Wheeler, Will Byers would wait lifetimes. He's mad that Mike used him, used his love to build up a sad excuse for relationship that they both knew was doomed from the start. He's mad that Mike never questioned the fact that Will had been the first to lie to him (hiding the truth was a technicality Mike had gotten on him for many times in the past). He's mad that Mike had chosen to bury his head in the sand, stay in Hawkins and take the terrifying leap of self-acceptance on his own.
If he were to ask, though, he knows Mike would simply tell him that it had to happen this way.
"I know." Is all Will offers back. He doesn't dare meet Mike's eyes, not again, not after what he's seen in them. It should have been pain. It should have been grief. Hatred, even, would have been nice. But when Mike had locked eyes with him just moments ago, all Will saw was love.
And so he knows what's coming next, and he knows there's nothing he can do to stop it. Nothing he wants to do to stop it.
"I'm sorry," Mike says again, and a flare of hope suddenly ignites within Will. Perhaps, today, he may see a happy ending, too. One wherein he is spared from hearing the words that he has ached to hear for nearly a decade; words that he has convinced himself he no longer yearns for. "I'm sorry, Will," Mike gasps, as if trying and failing to reign in his unruly tongue, rushing to fix a snapped high E string on a rickety old acoustic guitar.
"I love you. I love you, Will, I always knew but I didn't understand, I mean, what kind of a writer can't find the right use for a measly four letter word?" A bitter, wet laugh comes from Mike, so cold and regretful and distant that it almost scares Will. "I knew it from—from the day we promised to go crazy together. I knew it when I had to cover my ears in the hospital because your screams made me feel like I'd throw my guts up if you didn't stop—didn't stop hurting. And you didn't. You didn't stop hurting, and I didn't stop loving you, and now you—and now you don't hurt anymore, and I still love you, so what the fuck," he trails off, clearly having veered off the course of his original plan; that in itself is enough to leave Will stunned. He's heard Mike monologue plenty in their time together, but never has he been able to tell when Mike goes off-script, because Mike's heart is always on-script, loyal and true and immovable.
Except when it comes to him, Will supposes.
"Right," is all he manages to respond with at first, because maybe he's not as sober as he thought, or maybe it's Mike's words and the familiar whine that sneaks into his voice and the way his brows come together when he's lost in thought and the depth of love his brown eyes still hold that make Will's knees feel a little wobbly. Steeling himself, reminding himself that Mike hasn't earned this, that Mike has no right to hijack this day from Will and his family, Will closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Mike," he whispers cautiously, "you're too late."
Will doesn't know what he's expecting, but it certainly isn't what Mike says next. "As always."
The easy admission, unapologetic in its simplicity, sets something off in Will. "So you know? You've always known? That I'd wait outside your door in the rain, when we'd meet at the same time every day? When you'd leave me standing in the courtyard while everyone else went home? Even Holly, God, you're unbelievable, that poor girl, Michael, seriously, what is wrong with you? I understand, I know sometimes it takes stakes to come to terms with harsh truths, but the bare fucking minimum, you were the Heart, the best of us all—" Will hears the breath Mike takes and feels his grip tighten before it happens, but nothing can prepare him for how it feels when he does.
Mike's lips crash into Will's with a force that pushes him back against the wall, windowsill cutting into his lower back. He takes a moment to recalibrate (and fails); there's nowhere for him to run, which is bad, because his desire to do so lessens with each passing moment. So many nights Will has cried himself to sleep imagining this: Mike's lips on his, bodies pressed together, sweet and gentle and right. And this is almost nothing like that. There's an awkward distance between them caused by Mike's hands still on Will's shoulders and the tears that stain Mike's face leave salt on Will's lips; the kiss is anything but gentle, it almost hurts, but that's where the differences end—it hurts because it's right, because Will has wanted this for so long, and it's nothing like he has ever imagined, but it is so much more than anything he did.
Impossibly, Will finds it in himself to pull away. Mike doesn't stop him (Will knows he wouldn't, even after all this time, but it's a reassurance nonetheless), and when Mike's eyes finally lift to meet Will's, a silent realization descends simultaneously upon the two of them. Will's eyes flutter shut, and after a moment, he feels Mike shift against him as his lips find Will's once more. Mike's trying to be gentle. He's trying to figure this out, too, but he can't, because he's Mike, and he's stubborn and stupid and late, and Will knows how to do this not because he's done it before but because he knows Mike Wheeler like he knows the back of his hand and he'd be lying if he said he didn't spend a hell of a lot of time staring at the back of his hand during his most boring classes.
Will's hand snakes into Mike's hair and tugs him away, breaking the kiss again. He can feel the weak hold of gel or hairspray or something gross crack in his grip; the thought of Will Byers being the undoing of Michael Wheeler suddenly renders him ravenous. Unfortunately, dinner's not until much later. Mike looks at him angrily—he knows he's got Will cornered. He's giving Will what they both want, and Will is rejecting the gift. Curiously, though, Mike turns red only once Will pulls him back, and a whole new kind of dread pools in Will's stomach when he realizes why that is. He's trying to stay angry. He really is. But there's nothing he can throw at Mike now that wouldn't be a betrayal of his own self.
It's not my fault you don't like girls.
It kind of is, though, he'd wanted to say all those years ago.
Will doesn't say anything, keeping his grip on Mike's hair, snaking his other hand to take off the ridiculous glasses he's wearing and setting them on the windowsill. Once they're off, Will lets himself look into Mike's eyes again, big and brown and sad and in love, the Mike he's known for so long, the Mike he was sure he'd lost forever until just ten or so minutes ago. The Mike he might still be able to take for himself.
"I kind of need those to see," Mike quips, a frantic edge to his voice.
"They're hideous," Will snaps back, pushing Mike's face towards his before Mike can make him regret it. Part of him fears he might do so later anyways.
This kiss, too, is rough, gritty and uncomfortable; Mike's leg slots itself between Will's as Will hoists himself further up against the windowsill. Mike's hands snake down to Will's waist, groping awkwardly, twitching with uncertain desire until Mike finds the spot for them and they slot into place not unlike jigsaw puzzle pieces: this is the big picture. All ten of Will's fingers in Mike's hair, Mike's teeth desperately clinging onto Will's bottom lip, Will's abdomen twitching as he puts up a pathetic final fight against better judgement.
The white flag hoists itself up to full mast when Will accidentally tugs too hard at Mike's hair and Mike lets out an unholy noise, something primal and earthy, his chapped lips warm like summer soil relentlessly soaking up the wetness of Will's spit. The groan reverberates throughout Will's mouth, bouncing off the walls of his cheeks like the echoes of a lost cave diver crying at the first sliver of sunlight.
When his fingers dip under Mike's tie, slipping it out from where it sits snug within the folds of his blazer, Will is determined to make this the last round of tug-of-war he ever plays. He pulls lightly at first, throwing his dog a bone, relishing in the way Mike's breath hitches and his hands tighten their grip on Will's waist; he imagines the purple satin straining the collar of Mike's shirt against his pretty pale neck, leaving a red leash mark where Will would not let his mouth travel. Then, he pulls harder. Just enough to be painful (he hopes). It must have worked, because Mike's teeth clamp down on Will's bottom lip with a suddenness that breaks his weak resolve to remain silent, and the sound that escapes from him is unseemly at best and lewd at worst; high-pitched and meek as though Will still has something to hide.
If his eyes were open, Will is certain he'd be able to see the cogs in Mike's brain turning in real time. He'd be able to watch Mike fumble with the cassette tape, bony fingers shaking as he tries and fails to slot it back into the open mouth of its player in vain effort just to hear that noise again, over and over and over and over. But Will's eyes are closed, so all he can do is swallow down any more sounds that might clue Mike in to how badly Will has wanted this. Still wants it. Won't ever stop wanting it, no matter how far away he runs, no matter how many empty brown eyes he tries to light a fire in, no matter how many torn-out sketchbook pages he uncrumples from where he's tossed them just to lay eyes on the fading memory of a familiar face.
Mike kisses with the fervor of an animal starved for so long that it has forgotten how to eat. He bites and bites and bites, slides his tongue across Will's teeth, shifts his body against Will's as if to remind Will that that's where he belongs, slotted between his legs with his arms thrown territorially across Will's shoulders. Will kisses back (when Mike lets him), fighting the urge to ruin Michael until he gives me back my Mike. Damned be whole host of people two left turns and a right away. Damned be subtlety. Damned be the prospect of saying goodbye again later. Will had spent eleven months pretending to be amicable with Michael Wheeler, who still had Will's painting hung up in his room and had refused to pick up his calls despite this. Will had spent eleven months trying to jam square pegs into the Mike-shaped hole in his heart, and now, here he was, somehow both a coward behind a mask of his own face and a present waiting for Will to tear the wrapping paper clean off of it.
The last thing Will does after pulling away to breathe is let his hands fall from the mess he's made of Mike's hair. He wrings them out gently, watching the way dark waves descend upon Mike's browbone and fall into his eyes, with their blown-wide pupils and look of amazement that Will worries might etch itself permanently into Mike's face. His hair curls up under his ears and kisses the nape of his neck, territory yet unmarred by Will himself, but if the warmth in his stomach is anything to go by, that wouldn't be the case for long. Glasses long forgotten and eyebrows knotted in silent plea, Will watches Mike reach up with a trembling hand to wipe at his nose and lips. He looks right, unruly and free, smattering of freckles like stars against the most beautiful midnight sky. A smile blossoms on Mike's lips as he takes in Will's certain dishevelment as well, admiring his work; Will remembers how Mike—this Mike—had told him once that when he looked upon a piece of art he was particularly content with, Will got this look on his face. If he had to guess, he'd say Mike was wearing a pretty similar one right now.
Yeah. Mike. Mike, who knew Will's favorite color before ever having chosen his own. Mike, who took Will by the hand and whisked them both off to Melvald's on humid summer evenings even though their curfew was in thirty minutes. Mike, who wrote stories and acted them out with a dramatic flair to rival that of De Niro himself. Mike, who whispered in silly accents and robbed his big sister of her allowance money and skipped third-period algebra. The most lawful troublemaker in Hawkins, Indiana; the guardian of the ribcage jail cell in which sat Will's heart.
Will looks at him. Really looks, for the first time in almost a year. It had been easy to avoid even the thought of him earlier, with his neatly-parted hair, shirt buttoned all the way up and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose; he wasn't Mike, not Will's Mike, hell, not even Lucas or Dustin or Max's. He looked like a shell of the Paladin they had once unanimously appointed as their Party leader.
Now that Will is through with him, though, he doesn't think he can ever look away.
"There you are," Will manages between heavy breaths. Mike gives him a confused look (as much as he can, through pouting swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes), and Will manages a smile. "I knew you were in there," he sighs, leaning forward and taking Mike's face in his hands, swiping his thumb across Mike's tender lips.
"Mike," Will whispers the nickname he's known to spell before he knew how to spell his own for the first time that day. His voice is thick with want, but still quiet enough to make Mike doubt that he had said anything at all—one last revenge before Will succumbs to a decade of head-over-heels agony finally reciprocated.