Chapter Text
Mike sneezes for the fourth time in the past twenty minutes.
The pressure in his sinuses makes him groan with it after as he hitches forward, an ungraceful glob of snot escaping his frigid nose that he quickly tries to smother with his sleeve. His butt has long gone numb on the metal bench, one leg bouncing restlessly to try and keep his body somewhat warm as he sits there.
He frowns up at the monument erected in the middle of the square, some of the snowfall and ice of mid-December making a few of the names hard to make out. A tacky wreath hangs at the bottom of the pillar, the ribbon frozen in a wrinkled shape from being exposed to the weather.
The streets are busier than usual, traffic driving steadily by, kicking up the wet sound of slush that has turned gray on the piles against the walkways, and some shop is playing Christmas music too loud so that it echos around the bustle of downtown where people are meandering up and down the way with bags digging into their wrists all the way to the creases of their elbows.
The population in Hawkins feels as if it has doubled today alone and Mike knows it’s because everyone who has found a life outside of this town is trickling back in for their obligatory visits during the holidays. Friends, family, girlfriends, boyfriends, everyone reunited for a time that is supposed to be cheerful.
Mike hunches in more on himself, arms tucked into his middle, tugging on the cheap, barely waterproof material of his jacket.
“Lucas and Max will be back any day now.” He says, voice low and drowned out enough from the town chaos to only be heard by him and the plaque looming before him. “Dustin called the other day and said he’ll be coming back soon too. Probably Thursday. Apparently it’s hard to find affordable flights this time of year from Boston.”
He sniffs again, a cold breeze barreling past to make his eyes water and his nose leak against his lip. He wipes again, making a worse mess of his sleeve, the slick material only spreading it instead of absorbing it, causing him to grimace.
“I’m a little nervous.” He sighs. “Is that stupid? I mean, I know we are all still friends but this… this is the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other since, y’know, and, I don’t know, they’ve all moved on so easily and I…”
He makes another frustrated sound, rubbing his gloved hands over his face, the static wool material scratching uncomfortably against the skin of his cheeks and forehead.
“I thought this stupid gap year would help, but I just feel more behind than ever. They all keep talking about how much they love their stupid colleges and all the stupid new people they are meeting and I’ve just been here writing my stupid–”
Another deep breath, his voice a little weaker as he looks back up, the name Jane Hopper in the middle of the brass engraving listening attentively.
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I haven’t gotten very far anyway.”
Some poor employee dressed in a worn down Santa costume rings a hand bell incessantly just across the street, standing beside a charity bucket, the scraggily, fake beard hanging loosely off the man's face. It layers with a plethora of sounds: a honking car, a shrill shriek of a child, and another shop on the corner that decides its own Christmas music suddenly needs to be louder to battle the others.
“I haven’t spoken to Will.” The words begin to transform into something more like a confessional, as if he is sitting in a booth, eleven years old and his tie done up too tight because his father wanted him to look proper for the Sunday morning crowd. “I mean– I have– but like, not since Thanksgiving. He called from New York, says he likes Joyce and Hopper’s new place out there. He… He didn’t mention anything about Christmas so he’s probably going to be with them. There is no reason for him to come back here anymore." He coughs, sniffles. "Which is fine. It makes sense. It’s fine.”
A dog starts to bark at the charity Santa while the woman holding the leash apologizes profusely, trying to tug the terrier away.
“I wonder if we are still best friends. I bet he’s made loads of other friends in New York. I wouldn’t know. We never talk about it. He just asks me about my work and I… I always forget to ask him questions back before it’s too late and he hangs up.”
He shakes his head, moving to stand, officially too cold to stay out much longer than this, planning out his route home in his head so he’ll walk by the new coffee shop just built around the corner.
“I miss him." A deep breath that floats like a cloud from his lips fills his vision. "I miss you.” He reaches up and swipes his fingers over her name, dusting off some old snow and chunks of ice, wetting the wool of his gloves. “I’ll come by to say hi on Christmas, okay?”
He turns back to the road, wobbling down the steps of the memorial to the cross walk, shuddering as he tucks his fists into his jacket pockets. He taps the button with his elbow and waits. The traffic seems more clear than it did a moment ago, and feeling chilled to the bone and impatient, Mike looks both ways before deciding to just jog across the main street.
The terrier breaks free from the leash, just to his left, and he glances over in time to see the comical sight of the Santa making a dash for it, swearing as the little dog nips and yips at his heels. The Christmas music is louder the nearer he trots to the store front on the other side of the road, blaring Brenda Lee’s voice all over the square.
Then a car honks again, closer, making him stumble. His foot catches on a patch of black ice, his shitty converse offering no traction as he reels backwards. His ass hits the pavement first before the back of his skull follows with a nauseating thwack sound that makes his ears ring.
He keens, vision swimming, turning on his side just in time to see a set of wheels barreling right for him.
Fuck.
<>
A second passes. Maybe two.
Mike expects something. Pain, a white light, angels singing on high. He doesn’t know, just something.
But instead he just feels an odd rolling in his stomach and then a strong sense of vertigo as his body orients itself like a puppet being pulled by strings, something in his joints being slotted into place.
And then he is blinking down at an eggplant in his hand.
Brenda Lee’s voice comes back into focus, crackling on speakers above him and the fluorescent lights illuminating everything create a dizzying effect as he blinks further, faster, trying to clear his vision.
He sucks in a harsh breath like he's just come up for air and then looks around, finding himself standing in a produce aisle of a grocery store, horribly confused.
“...”
Wasn’t he just on Main Street? He swears he can remember falling and seeing a car and–
“Excuse me sir, can I scooch past you? Just need some zucchini.” A middle aged woman interjects politely, peeking around the corner of his shoulder and attempting to nudge past with her shopping cart. He moves aside instinctively.
“Oh, yeah, sorry–” His voice comes out deeper than it should and he startles, hand flying up to his throat where he feels the slightest scratch of stubble on his neck he definitely knows he hasn't grown yet. “What the fuck.”
She shoots him a mildly affronted look, pushing her way to the vegetables a little more forcefully now as she gives him a once over.
He pays her no mind, panic swelling quick in his chest.
His eyes snap back over to the produce, frantically looking up towards the mirrors overhead they use to prevent shoplifting, bending his tall frame at an odd angle to get a proper look at–
Himself.
No, that is not quite right.
It is definitely him but the frames of his glasses are different, thinner, and his hair is brushed back to curl behind his ears to reveal– crows feet? Forehead wrinkles? His face is far sharper than it should be, jaw and cheekbones more defined, and whatever was left of his baby fat he was clinging to at eighteen now completely gone.
He sucks in another breath, definitely panicking now, because he looks further and, holy shit, he’s wearing khakis. Khakis and loafers. Khakis, loafers and a cable knit sweater that is, god forbid, tucked into his fucking pants like an old man.
What. The. Fuck.
The hand that is still holding the eggplant drops it unceremoniously, uncaring of where it lands, his fingers lifting to run over his features in bewilderment. He traces the line of his chin, feeling the day-old shave, trailing up to the honed edge of his cheeks and the folds of skin near his eyes as he goggles up at his reflection.
That's when he notices the glint of jewelry in the bleached grocery light, his attention routing to the unfamiliar shine.
Mike slowly brings his hand down to look at the back of it where thin, slightly worn skin greets him. He can see the veins across his pale complexion more than ever, traveling up over the ligaments in blue rivers. His knuckles are knobbier, fingers longer.
And there it is, winking at him. A wedding band.
Mike likes to think that he’s been in enough weird situations in his life that he can realistically be prepared for anything. He had wondered a couple of times if things like time travel could be real after confirming the existence of phenomenons like alternate dimensions and fucking wormholes in his backwater hometown. Surely, it wouldn’t be too crazy.
Turns out it is pretty fucking crazy and Mike definitely isn’t prepared for it.
Because, really, it can only be time travel, right? That is what his comic books have taught him thus far. He’s watched Back to the Future before, even Doctor Who. He gets it. Either that, or he’s actually insane or dead.
Holy fuck, what if he’s dead?
As casually as possible, he walks away from his half full shopping cart towards the grocery store exit. His legs and arms somehow move in tandem, giving him an awkward gait and his vision is blacking out at the edges in fizzles. Each movement is jerky and he is definitely hyperventilating just a little bit, but he doesn’t want anyone to look at him, let alone talk to him because he will freak out more, for sure. He needs to be alone somewhere where he can panic properly.
His numb fingers blindly pat along his body– his old man body, oh god– because surely, future Mike has a car, right?
He finds a key fob in his khaki pocket, some nondescript Honda chunk of plastic, just as he steps out into the brittle winter of wherever the fuck he is. He clicks the button frantically as he wanders around the unfamiliar parking lot, squinting against the harsh wind, trying to follow the sound of a car locking and unlocking over and over until he sees flashing orange lights a few rows down, probably looking senile as he does so.
It’s a goddamn minivan. Some Honda, mutated, bland, tan colored minivan with the word ‘odyssey’ printed on the back.
Mike stares, and then despairs as he climbs in, disappointed.
The silence that washes over him as soon as the car door shuts is nauseating, far too still as he sits in the cold driver's seat and shakily flips down the mirror to get a better look at himself.
Okay, so he’s not old, old, but definitely older. He hasn’t gone grey yet, but he can see a few strands that are threatening him near his temples, and he’s not as wrinkled as he thought at first glance. Maybe forties? Early fifties?
He rummages around his pockets a bit more when he finally gets his breathing somewhat in check and fishes out his wallet. He finds his license when he unzips the leather, trying not to grimace at the ugly mugshot photo staring back at him.
Issued: 09/2010. Expiry: 09/2020.
Great. Okay, so it is sometime between those years. That’s… fine.
He tries to swallow down the information he finds as he continues to ransack his own wallet as calmly as he can, mentally distancing himself from the anxiety sitting heavy in his chest, turning full survival mode like he’s done plenty of times before.
Just gather info, Mike. You're fine. Everything is fine.
He finds three credit cards as he tries to mentally soothe himself, all with his name on them, the printed Micheal Wheeler on each confirming his suspicions even more that, yup, this is totally time travel or something. There is a hefty wad of cash too, which brings Mike some comfort to know he isn’t dirt poor or anything in his future, as well as a mess of library and rewards cards all shoved together.
As he’s cramming each back in, his fingers graze along the edge of something that feels different than a card, tugging it out from the back wallet sheath.
It’s a photo, cropped to fit into the pocket and worn at the edges as if it has been frequently handled, the ink somewhat faded.
It’s Will.
Mike blinks and stares down at the image.
It is definitely Will, smiling bright and dressed in a purple graduation gown, the number 92 shining where it dangles off his cap. His hair is the same as Mike remembers, just a little more mused, and there is an piercing on his ear, a little silver loop, that catches Mike's attention. He looks...
Well, he looks happier than Mike has seen in a long time.
A strange buzzing sensation startles him out of his stupor, jolting him near out of his seat as it radiates through his butt. He yelps, reaching into his back pocket to throw the offending object on the passenger seat.
It looks like some strange, slim miniature screen, framed in blue plastic, its tiny speakers blaring the familiar tune of Starman by Bowie. It displays the name Will across the top, one red and one green icon near the bottom as the object lays against the upholstery, vibrating. The images inside the round symbols look like little telephones and…
Is this supposed to be a phone?
Mike gawks at the puny size of the device, delicately picking it up, feeling like it is going to slip right through his hands. It’s like some strange mixture of television and a walkie that has been run over by a truck, barely bigger than his palm and exceedingly flat. He pokes at it delicately, confused about the lack of buttons besides just the one near the bottom.
Miraculously, he thinks he somehow answers the call. Was it because he touched it, or was it because the thing somehow read his mind? He’s not sure. The last time he saw something like this was in goddamn Star Trek.
“Mike?”
Will’s voice comes through the small speakers and it takes a moment for Mike to register that he needs to hold the object close to his ear like he would with a real phone. He damn near almost expected a holograph to appear or some crap. His heart stutters in his chest, too many thoughts running through his head like, what the fuck am I holding and Will and I still talk this far into the future?
“Will?” He manages to croak after he takes a meditative breath, trying to sound as normal as possible because, oh fuck, what about time-space continuums and all that shit? What if he fucks something up just by talking?
“Hey, is everything alright? You’ve been at the store for a long time. Not going crazy buying more Christmas stuff again, are you?” Will’s voice is warm with a chuckle and more baritone. He feels it spread from where the strange screen is pressed to his ear, radiating down his spine.
It’s teasing. Friendly.
They are friends. Even now, they are friends. Mike doesn’t fuck it up somehow.
Something like relief floods through him and he sags into his car seat, pathetic tears nearly welling up in his eyes because at least this is familiar. At least this is something that he knows in the midst of whatever the hell is happening to him.
“Will.” He says again and it is near reverent, a lifeline. It's his best friend.
Another chuckle.
“Oh, I know that tone. Miss me already?”
“Yes.” Mike says, because he does and he hasn’t spoken to his Will in over a month and he’s been so scared that this friendship was something he’s been on the verge of losing yet again.
“Come home then.”
“Home?” Mike parrots because he is still having trouble processing all this and he definitely still does not know where the fuck he even is. He chances another glance around and sees a slew of yellow license plates throughout the parking lot. New York? Mike lives in New York now?
Will makes a humming sound on the other end of the line that Mike can only interpret as almost coy before he continues. “Save the rest of the shopping for later. I only get you for one more day before everyone arrives.”
“Okay.” Mike replies dumbly, because the idea of Will and him living close enough at this age to just stop by each other's houses fills him with a stupefying joy, and he finds himself grinning, leaning into the weird hyper-mini phone in his hand. Will and him are friends. Even middle-aged and wrinkled, they are friends. He can feel some of his worst fears dissolving with this knowledge alone, a happiness blooming enough to hurt his cheeks.
“Hurry but drive safe. Love you.”
Mike goes still, blinking out at the sight of the grocery lot through his windshield, his grin faltering.
It is starting to snow, the skies dark overhead shaking out thick, gentle flakes that tap softly against the hood of his ugly minivan. His fingers feel like static, a strange electric feeling making its way to his chest where his heart seems to shock and ricochet while his thoughts quiet, hushed by the reverb of Will's words.
A scoff breaks through the small speaker after a minute, disrupting the hole that was drilling into Mike's brain to make space for something.
“You never change, do you?” Will sighs, the end of his breath lifting with exasperated laughter and Mike can almost see him shaking his head, even though– shit, what does Will even look like at this age? “Don’t worry. I’ll make you say it later when I have you where I want you.”
There is a small noise before the line goes silent. Mike pulls the blue, plastic thing away from his ear to see the screen where Will’s name is gone and he’s looking at a photo of a dog he doesn’t recognize, but looks a lot like the one Will had when they were in middle school, along with a time stamp over the top.
Since when did he and Will start saying ‘love you’ to each other?
And more importantly, where the fuck is ‘home’?
He spends some time rummaging through the glove compartment, hoping to find some sort of map with hopefully a big red circle that reads ‘you live here, idiot’, but doesn’t find anything. It isn’t until he notices a screen embedded in the car radio that he endeavors to try turning the car on– which takes forever because why the fuck is there no key hole anymore but just a fucking button that says ‘Push to Start’ hidden behind his goddamn wheel?
By some grace, the screen comes to life when the van does and immediately shows an electronic map with a preinstalled ‘route to Home’ feature. Mike thinks that future him is either really prone to getting lost or the power that sent him here knows some mercy.
The drive makes Mike’s hairs stand on end.
The map takes him through the streets of some very cushy suburban buildings, each at least two floors, if not more, and with driveways big enough to fit more than four cars. Most of them are decorated with twinkling Christmas lights coming through the windows or thrown over the snowy trees and brush lining the properties, creating picture perfect holiday images that you would probably find on postcards at a novelty store. In the distance between the roads he passes, he can make out the foggy shape of a city outline.
The area is full of family houses. Very expensive family houses.
Mike’s attention flickers to the gold ring on his finger as he grips the steering wheel tight, the metal digging into his skin the harder he holds.
Does Mike have a family of his own now? Are they going to be at the house when he meets Will there?
He swallows something thick that builds in the back of his throat and it slides slimy and slow down to his stomach where it sits heavily. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, squirming in his seat, skin growing clammy, left leg bouncing. He feels anxious again.
Is it bad that he doesn’t want to meet them?
It just doesn’t feel right.
He only wants to see Will. Will is the only thing that will make sense to him right now. Will is a safe space. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone else.
Does that make him a bad person? A bad husband? Or shit, a bad father? Is he a father?
He drives slower than necessary, all the blood draining from his face the more the minutes tick down on his screen, showing that he’s getting closer. He’s nearly on the verge of passing out when the car chimes cheerily when he pulls up to some fancy colonial looking home with blue paint and a massive front lawn.
There is a snowman by the front door, a little tilted, wrapped in a scarf and pebble smile too big.
He’s definitely going to puke.
There is only one other car in the driveway he parks next to, some smaller, sporty thing, that has a New York license plate hanging off the back. He hopes it's Will’s, crossing his fingers, before tentatively climbing out of the minivan and shuffling towards the building along the shoveled pathway. Each step feels nauseating.
The front entrance has a wreath on it, the ribbon long and clean, not crinkled and withered like the one on the monument.
His neck starts to sweat under his stuffy collar despite the cold weather as he stands on the welcome mat of the impressive house, the snow beginning to stick to his hair. He feels like he should knock, but knows that would be strange if he actually lives here.
He rocks his weight from one foot to the other, hesitating, because what if his radio screen was wrong? Oh god, what if someone is home who he doesn’t know the name of and he fucks with time and space because he exposes himself and–
The door opens on its own and once again, as if sensing his turmoil, it’s Will to his rescue.
It's undeniably Will, despite his hair being pushed back from his forehead and his shoulders now far broader, attempting to be contained by a muted yellow sweater. It’s Will despite the deeper smile lines around his face and crinkles around his eyes. It’s Will, even as he looks up at Mike with an expression he has never seen before, expectant and starving.
“Welcome home.” Geez, his voice. That is definitely different.
“Will.”
Hazel eyes flicker down, an amused snort leaving pursed lips. “No bags at all? You didn’t manage to buy anything while you were out?”
Mike feels something close to frazzled as he skirts a look to his empty hands, head bowed, remembering the half full shopping cart left abandoned in the grocery store. “Well, I– you said– I just–”
Large hands fill his empty ones instantly, sliding over his palms and calloused fingers skimming against his wrists. Something in him stutters before those hands hold tight and tug him into the house, warm air wrapping around him in a dizzying contrast.
He notices a ring on Will’s hand at that moment and everything else becomes white noise as he stares down at it.
Will has a family too.
Will has a family outside of Joyce and Jonathan and Mike and– Fuck, Will finally found the love that he’s deserved for so long, and it’s great, it really is, of course it is, but–
The door slamming shut behind him paired with his back being shoved against it breaks him from his spiral, a stunned gasp escaping him as he blinks his vision into focus. Will is looking up at him, close, very close, smirking with a confidence that makes Mike vibrate from head to toe.
“I’ll forgive you for now. All that dinner prep can wait." Will murmurs before leaning in, nudging Mike’s jaw with his nose as he tilts his head just enough to skim his mouth across the column of Mike’s throat, planting a wet kiss there.
Wait.
Mike goes rigid, staring straight over Will’s shoulder into the fancy foyer. It’s clean, but colorful, art lining the walls from floor to ceiling and Mike can hear a faint tinkle of a bell a few rooms away, like a pet walking around with a collar.
Then he can feel his stupid cable knit sweater being yanked up out of his khakis as Will’s hands leave his and instead find their way beneath the fabric and against Mike’s stomach, traveling up and up, fingertips skimming against his sides.
Wait. Wait. Wait.
Will’s lips press firmer, mouthing a path to just below Mike’s ear. A thigh is wedging between his legs, their bodies melding together in a manner that is sweltering within seconds. Will’s sudden proximity is damn near molten.
Wait. Wait. “Wait!” Mike wheezes, shoving Will away at the shoulders like he's been burned, gulping for air when he realizes he hasn’t taken a breath since being pulled in. "What are you doing?"
His fists twist into the fabric of Will’s yellow sweater, trying to ground himself. He can feel the wet stain of saliva just below his jaw start to dry, cool against his heated skin.
Mike shakes with alarm, his thoughts buzzing like a hive in his mind, indiscernible and rampageous. His eyes skitter over Will’s face, unable to land on any corner of his own stunned expression, like he's just as confused.
It's Will. It's still his best friend looking right back at him, just older and a little sharper, but Mike hardly recognizes him with his lips a little swollen and eyes wide.
The light from the entry window catches on Mike's hand where it is bunched up and shaking, renewing his nausea with a single wink of gold.
“Will, I’m married.” He chokes, feeling the words fall heavy to the floor between them on their way off of Mike’s tongue.
There is silence.
Then, Will laughs, his startled features puffing out something light and airy as his face stretches into a grin, one brow lifting with interest.
“Yeah, so am I.” He says easily, his fingers, still tucked under Mike’s shirt, starting to rub soothing circles over the divots of his ribs. Mike shivers at the sensation, heart thundering loud amidst the storm in his chest.
No. No, Will isn’t like that. Will would never.
Not unless he was unhappy. So unhappy that he would seek Mike out like this. As if Mike could give him what he wanted– what he needed.
But Mike wouldn’t do this, would he? He’s not–
“This isn’t right. This– This is–” He’s panicking now. He can feel it. He can’t seem to take a deep breath, each drag of air clogging up his lungs, too thick to push in or out.
Any trace of amusement vanishes completely from Will in an instant and his hands lower out of Mike’s sweater to hold him instead above the fabric, touch stable and firm at his waist. “Okay, what? Mike, what is this?”
Mike’s gaze is frantic all over Will’s face and then flickering around to the house that is so big and bright and way too fucking nice. Is this really his house? Does someone else live here? What if someone comes home and sees.
Sees Will. Sees him.
“Mike. Mike!” Will calls him back, using a warm palm to turn his chin to him, hazel eyes searching and melting Mike to the floor as his legs give out. He sinks against the front door and Will follows, kneeling with him. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s just me. I’ve got you. I need you to breathe, Mike.”
Mike sits there and the only thing he can think of is that he really hopes that this is his Will in the future and not some strange alternate dimension version because the only words he can find leave him in a clumsy burst on his next breath.
“Zone of Truth.” Because if there is anyone he would risk ruining the space-time continuum for, it is probably Will.
He doesn't want to be in this alone. He's not the brave paladin of the party anymore and he hasn't been for a long time.
Will blinks, and with no hesitation, nods.
“Yeah, of course. Zone of Truth.”
“I’m eighteen.”
And that is definitely the stupidest first thing Mike can say to try to explain himself because Will’s face twists up in a frown, his left eye twitching in bewilderment.
“What?”
“I mean, I’m, like, eighteen inside.” Will draws back instantly, grimacing, and Mike shakes his head, clinging to Will’s sweater tighter so he doesn't go to far. “I mean! Fuck. I mean I'm from the past. Like, I’m not the Mike you think I am. Last I remember, it was the winter of 89’.”
Will stares and Mike pants like the words took the wind out of him, watching Will’s brows creep up to his hairline.
“Oh boy.” Will finally says after a minute of awkward quiet.
“Yeah.” Mike replies lamely.
“Okay.” Will seems to fidget for a moment, maybe longer, before his gaze falls to his hands and he very carefully extracts his touch from Mike. Mike finds he mourns the loss, but doesn’t say anything, letting himself sway untethered in the chaos. “You, uh, you actually said this could happen."
“What?”
Will is squinting at him and leaning back further as if to get a proper look. "Told me a couple years back. I just didn't think, well, that it would. I mean, don't get me wrong, I believed you. I'll always believe you, no matter what, but wow." Mike thinks he finds what he is searching for in the way Mike is holding himself because the corner of his lip quirks slightly. “So you’re really Mike from the past?"
Mike squirms. “Yeah. I’m still in my gap year. It’s uh, it’s right before Christmas vacation. Or at least it was? I guess? I think something happened to me because I remember falling and then just-” He makes a vague gesture with his arms. "I was just here all the sudden."
Something lights up in Will’s gaze like a revelation, eyes glittering with understanding before a huff of laughter leaves his nose. It starts with one, then two, and then Will is doubling over, snorting his amusement into his hand.
“Oh my god.” He says and he looks amazed and humored all at once. “Oh my god. That actually makes sense. And I just tried to–”
“Hey! This isn’t funny. I am like, actually freaking the fuck out here!” Mike squawks in return.
That only makes Will laugh harder, eyes near teary as he glances back at Mike, expression mirthful yet soft. “I bet you are.”
“And you just tried to jump me! When I am married!” Mike whines, lifting his left hand and pointing at his ring finger in horror. “What kind of man have you become, Byers?!”
Will bites his lip hard as he smiles, like he’s trying his best not to laugh more, shaking his head and moving to stand, uncaring of Mike's dismay.
“Not my name anymore and don’t think about that too hard right now.” He extends an arm to where Mike is still crumpled on the floor. “How about we go talk in the kitchen and I’ll get you some water.”
“Not your name?” Mike takes the hand, but Will lets go as soon as he is on his feet and he’s forced to just trail behind him like a lost duck, waddling on weak knees through the decorative hallway. “Wait, you’re married too! I saw your ring! That makes this all like, ten times worse, Will! How can I not think about it?! What would your– uh, um, husband? Yeah, what would your husband think? Wait, can you even have a husband? How are you married? Don’t tell me you married a woman and you’re unhappy and that is why you are here to get your urges–”
“Jesus Christ, Mike, sit down and shut up before you say something even more stupid.” Will says over his shoulder, sending Mike a baffled, wide-eyed look. “I forgot how dense you were.”
“Dense?” Mike gapes, affronted. “I’ll have you know I figured out this whole time travel shit in like, thirty seconds. I have been handling it very well, if I say so myself, even though I have every right to freak out. I even used that weird phone thing and drove that stupid car that doesn't have a key. You should be impressed.”
“Impressed?” Will shoves his shoulder when they make their way into the kitchen, forcing him down so he sits on a stool at the island, the room painted with vivid greens and the counters topped with expensive looking marble. He perches obediently, eyes still trained on Will.
God, it's Will. He can hardly believe it. He seems a little taller and he's moving with such confidence that Mike can't look anywhere else.
“Totally impressed.”
“Right. Well, to answer your dumb questions-”
“They aren’t dumb.”
Will sets a glass of water down firmly in front of him, expression pointedly unimpressed as he takes a seat beside Mike, crossing his arms over his wide– what the actual hell– chest. “Gay marriage was legalized just about four years ago in New York. I’ve been married to my husband since. It’s 2015.”
The spoken year rings like a gong in Mike’s head, making his skull hum. “Woah.” Mike blinks, but then tries to act like it doesn’t wig him out further, clearing his throat. “Well, congrats, that's, like, awesome.” A beat passes, his brain trying to mold to the information of gay marriage and legalized and my husband, before he’s frowning again. “That doesn’t explain what just happened, though. Does he suck or something?” Mike sits up straighter, brow furrowing. “You know I’ll kill him if–”
“Mike, shut up. Seriously.” Mike’s jaw clicks closed immediately, making his teeth throb, something jittering down his spine at the sight of an older Will’s stern expression. Woah. “You told me not to tell you too much and let you figure it out on your own, since this is apparently your first stop, if I remember correctly.”
“My first stop? What?”
“The only thing I’ll say is that I love my husband more than anything and the only thing he is guilty of is being a little slow sometimes.”
Mike stares, Will’s words plucking at something in his chest that almost hurts.
Will loves his husband. Will gets his happy ending.
Mike does his best to absorb that, shifting on the stool, fingers twitching around the glass he's holding but hasn't taken a sip out of yet. He tries, but finds he can barely swallow more than a few drops.
"So," he ventures, lids lowering as he finds safety in the sight of the hardwood floors. "In this future, you're happy?"
"I am."
Mike attempts to take another sip, but fails, holding the cup awkwardly to his mouth, eyes tracking up from the floor to the art frames on the wall and a few photos he can't see clearly from this distance. He thinks one of them looks like a wedding photo, but he would need to get up and walk closer to tell.
He doesn't, of course, too afraid to be sure. Too afraid to see who could be standing next to him.
"And me? Am I happy?"
Something in Will's posture loosens in Mike's peripheral, a sigh escaping him as he unfolds his arms.
"Mike." His voice draws Mike back like it's second nature, like Mike can't help himself whenever Will calls his name. He watches as Will moves to tug his own wedding band off, taking Mike’s wrist in hand and pressing the jewelry against his palm. It feels heavier than Mike expects. “Read it.”
Mike hesitates, sending the ring wary a glance like it will bite him.
He turns it once in his fingers, watching the light dance off the smooth metal, then sees it: ‘Crazy Together’, carved in fancy cursive along the polished inside.
Something in his vision warps and he drops the ring on the counter as if it actually bit him.
But when it hits the surface, the ring bounces and morphs.
Mike blinks and suddenly he is gazing down at a twenty-sided die, deep blue with gold numbers. The light has dimmed around him and the tabletop flickers till there is suddenly a game mat sitting on top of it.
Mike’s stomach rolls again, his head snapping back up in a bewildered panic, only to be met with the sight of three faces.
Lucas, Dustin and Will, all staring back at him with eager expressions.
Kids. They are kids.
“What’s the roll, Mike?! Did we hit him?!” Will exclaims, voice young and light and achingly nostalgic. Bright eyes twinkle in his direction and Mike’s heart all but stops. He looks away, just for a second, and recognizes his house’s basement in an instant.
Shit.