Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If anyone is to ask Mike what he thinks about weddings, he would say that he doesn’t completely hate them, but doesn’t entirely like them, either. 

In any normal circumstance, he wouldn’t mind being a wedding guest – and no, it doesn’t completely have to do with the fact that there are usually open bars (alcohol is expensive, and Mike would prefer using his hard-earned money toward something else), or the decent enough food that he wouldn’t be able to make otherwise (he is admittedly terrible at cooking anything beside grilled cheeses’ and is way too embarrassed to ask his mom for help at his age). It also has nothing to do with getting to wear the suit he leaves tucked into the back corner of his closet for special occasions, one that he particularly feels good in.

Weddings can be fun, when they’re not being held for any distant, third cousin that Mike knows he’s only being invited to out of formalities, or because of his mother. Too many times throughout his life, Mike has been a guest at weddings where he can’t even recognize the bride, forced to spend the entire night sitting alongside his sisters, drinking (free) amaretto sours, and having small talk that he would much rather not be having with someone twice his age.  

This wedding, thankfully, is different from all of the others that he’s been forced to attend. Lucas and Max are getting married; two of his best friends whom he’s known for practically his entire life. Mike knows that they’re meant to be, the closest living definition of soulmates that he may ever have a chance to witness. Being together, for them, makes sense. It works. 

Which is why he should feel excited about the celebration. He should be looking forward to watching Max walk down the aisle and watching Lucas put a ring on her finger. Hell, he should be excited to party, even to dance. Instead, there’s a tight, restless energy that spreads under his skin as he sits on the couch in Lucas and Max’s shared apartment. His knee begins to bounce, and he doesn’t have the motivation to stop it. 

“So, Mike, what do you think?” Lucas asks from beside him. Mike nods his head slowly, eyebrows slightly raised in anticipation. “Will you be one of my groomsmen?” Mike’s eyes slightly widen. When he doesn’t immediately answer, Lucas clears his throat. “I think it’ll be nice, you know.” 

“Absolutely.” A warmth spread throughout Mike’s stomach, fighting back a smile, a wave of relief washing over him. Lucas wants him to be a groomsman, wants him to be a part of his wedding party. He wants Mike there. “I… I would love to, Lucas. Thank you, um, for thinking of me.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re my friend, Mike.” Lucas smiles, looking at his childhood friend with a softness that makes Mike want to cry. “It’ll be a pretty busy weekend, though. I don’t want to do anything crazy, or anything, you know? We’ll probably just go out as a group on Friday night, then have the Welcome Dinner on Saturday, and the wedding on Sunday.”

Mike lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “Friday night? Are you seriously willingly deciding to get drunk the night before your Welcome Dinner? Two nights before your wedding?”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “It just makes it easier, you know? People are coming to Hawkins from far, and I think it would be more convenient if everything is close together rather than having people drive or fly down twice.” Shaking his head, he lets out a small laugh. “It doesn’t matter, because I wouldn’t even make it down the aisle if I show up hungover. Max would make sure to kill me, herself. I won’t be getting drunk.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Mike replies, a small pause echoing throughout the living room. The uncomfortable feeling continues to gnaw at the base of his stomach, making a home inside of him. If people are going to be driving down to Hawkins, flying, even – it doesn’t take Mike long to connect the dots about who is likely coming from out of town for the wedding, and it makes his heart sink. “Sounds like her.”

Will will be coming to the wedding. Trying to rationalize with himself, he tells himself that, of course, he will be there. He’s still friends with both Lucas and Max, isn’t he? Why wouldn’t he be invited to their wedding? Being friends for what feels like forever, experiencing what they have – those are not little things for them to go through together. 

Still, the ache in his chest continues to ruminate. Mike knows that he needs to ask, that he wants to ask. “Will, um…” he starts, then stops as quickly as his mouth opens. Shaking his head, he restarts the sentence. “Is everyone going to be there?”

Lucas looks at Mike, brow furrowing just a little enough for him to notice, as if he’s confused by the question. “I mean, yeah?” He shrugs. “I already spoke to Dustin earlier today, and I’m going to call Will later tonight, when he’s off work. It’ll probably be just us four for the whole… bachelor thing, but I really don’t mind it that way, to be honest. I don’t want to do anything too crazy, you know? I think it would just be nice to hang out as a group again. It’s been a while since the Party has been together like this.” 

“Right,” Mike agrees, clearing his throat. That makes sense. It makes total sense, really. Hanging out as a group is a normal thing for friends to do when they haven’t been able to see each other for a while. Nothing special, nothing deeper. “Yeah, of course. Makes sense.” 

Lucas watches him for a second longer than necessary, and Mike wonders if he’s able to see right through him. “Hey,” The smile on his face falters, being replaced with something much more… delicate, and Mike wonders if he looks as pathetic as he feels. Is he that easy to read? Does Lucas think he’s being ridiculous? “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m totally fine.” Mike nods his head in an attempt to convince his friend that he very much isn’t on the verge of spiralling at the thought of seeing Will for the first time in six years, his knee still bouncing. “Why wouldn’t I be? I mean, we’re all friends. Have been for… years. It’ll be nice to hang out as a group again. I miss everyone.”

Lucas pauses, a deep sigh echoing his lips that almost makes Mike wince. “You and Will still haven’t talked, have you?”

Mike swallows, throat tightening. He doesn’t want to go into this, he doesn’t want to have this conversation now, he doesn’t even want to think about Will. Not Now. “It’s been a long time, Lucas. He’s in New York Now.”

“Okay?” Lucas replies, eyebrows raising. “But that doesn’t really answer the question. You guys haven’t spoken? Like… at all? Not even a phone call?”

“Not really,” Mike replies sheepishly, really wishing his friend would change the topic before he starts to cry. It’s been six years since he’s had a conversation with Will, a real, genuine conversation – right before he left Hawkins, when everyone came to his house to play DND for the last time.  

“I don’t get how that even happens.” Lucas shakes his head, trying to piece together the puzzle that Mike doesn’t even know the solution to. “Both of you were so…” 

“Close?” Mike lets out a small laugh, ignoring the rift it causes in his chest. “Yeah, we were.” There’s a small, quiet stretch of air between the old friends, and Mike shrugs, trying his best not to make it obvious how much this conversation stings, eyes dropping to the floor. He doesn’t need reminders about how close he and Will were throughout their childhood, into their teenage years. He knows. He remembers. “We just… drifted apart. Both of us are busy now. We both have jobs and work full-time. It’s not high school anymore, Lucas. We’re adults. People change.” 

Mike knows Lucas enough to tell, just by his facial expression, that he’s not entirely convinced of the words coming out of Mike’s mouth. He isn’t fully convinced of them, himself. People change, he thinks to himself. If Will wants to speak to him, why hasn't he called?

“Well,” Lucas says after a moment, trying to decide which way to take the conversation. Mike doesn't blame him, feeling the awkwardness spread between them. “I’m sure he’s excited to come back for a bit. I mean, maybe excited isn’t the right word, because, you know, it’s Hawkins, but he asks about you sometimes, you know. It’ll be nice for you guys to catch up over the weekend. Like old times, won’t it?”

Mike’s chest gives a painful little twist at the thought of Will asking about him.

“He does?” What could Will possibly care enough to ask out when he doesn't even call himself?

“Yeah,” Lucas shifts in his spot on the couch. “You guys are… or at least, used to be, best friends. The closest in the entire part. It’s normal that he would want to check up on you after all this time.”

“We were,” Mike’s chest continues to ache at the thought of his old best friend, and everything they were supposed to be. “We were.”

*

“Hi,” is the only word able to fall from Mike’s lips, eyes too busy trying to take in every physical detail possible of the boy standing before him, in the doorway.

Much like six years ago, Will Byers is beautiful.

Now, he’s much taller and broader, but with the same delicate features that remind Mike of their shared childhood in Hawkins – the way his eyes glow in the sun peering through the window and the beauty mark above his lip that Mike’s eyes have always been drawn to. He wonders if love at first sight can happen twice, and if it could, with the same person. If he’s lucky enough that it is possible, he’s absolutely and devastatingly experiencing it in this very moment.

He’s really here. Will is really standing in front of him, for the first time in years. He wonders if the room is spinning, or if it’s just him, feeling all the oxygen leave his body. 

Will smiles, though it’s small and unsure. He also seems to be trying to unpack the fact that Mike is standing in front of him after such a long time. It’s been so long since they’ve spoken, so long since Mike has been able to look at him with his own two eyes. He doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry or wish that the ground beneath him would swallow him whole – so instead, he settles for being speechless, remaining in complete and utter awe. 

His hair is longer now, styled in a way that Mike wonders if he curled his hair himself. He doesn’t remember his hair ever being curly, though a lot can change in six years. Does Will think he’s changed? His own hair has grown long enough to graze his shoulders (and long enough for his father to disapprove of). Does Will like it? Does he think it looks… good? Does he think it looks stupid? He likes it, but if Will doesn't, maybe he'd consider a haircut. 

“Hey,” He replies, and the first thing Mike registers is that Will’s voice is lower now, steadier. It lands in his chest with the same familiar ache, like Cupid himself is shooting an arrow directly into Mike’s heart, purposefully targeting him as a cruel joke. 

“You… um,” Mike starts, then stops, because he makes the quick decision that telling Will he looks good feels like an incredible understatement, and saying that he misses him feels like it might rip open the (very) poorly healed wound on his chest that he’s been trying desperately to ignore since Will left Hawkins. Instead, he settles for swallowing every single emotion that is coursing through his body and says, “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Will replies carefully, eyes flickering down toward the ground and back up again, as though he’s actively avoiding eye contact with Mike. He still does that? Even after all this time, he can’t make eye contact with his best friend? “It’s been… what? Five years, now?”

“Six.” Mike instantly corrects Will because he’s been counting. He counts every single day, month, and year that passes since they last spoke, since they last saw each other. If Mike wants to be specific, he can even say that it’s been six years, three months, and twenty-two days since he last saw Will. “It’s been, um, six years, actually.” 

A red tinge of embarrassment claws up the base of his throat and grabs hold of his neck. Doubt trickles throughout his mind, wondering if it’s weird for him to keep track of all the time. Does Will think that it’s odd that Mike is keeping track of the years? Should he just let Will think that it’s only been five years? Should he not have said anything? Anxiety pools in his stomach like a swarm of bees trying his best to escape, stinging his skin. 

“Right, six years.” Will repeats, shifting his weight onto his opposite leg, hands tucked into the pocket of his jacket. “Time goes by so quickly, doesn’t it?” 

Mike tries his best to push down the continuous, annoyingly blooming ache in his chest at the realization that Will hasn’t been keeping track of the time between them, but he knows better than to voice any of that. It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s been six years, Mike. It’s normal to forget details like that. It probably doesn’t have anything to do with you – he’s busy, and life happens. Six years is a long time. 

“Yeah,” Mike nods his head slowly. No, it doesn’t. In fact, these past six years without him have been excruciatingly slow. “It does.”

“So… Lucas and Max.” Will exhales, an evident tension brewing between the best friends who haven’t seen each other in years. “The… um, wedding. Nice, isn’t it?”

“The wedding, right. I, um, can’t believe Lucas is the first original member of the Part who is getting married.” The words rush from Mike’s lips, desperate to say anything to distract himself from the mounting tension in the room. He cringes as the words hit his ears, the word ‘Party’ ringing throughout his head, unable to remember the last time that word has been used to describe their friend group. There’s a part of him that misses it. He misses the familiarity. He misses them. 

“I can,” Will tilts his head, as though he’s thinking about it. “I mean, he and Max are kind of made for each other, aren’t they? They always have been. Anyone with eyes can tell.”

“Soulmates,” Mike adds, unable to look away from Will. The word feels bitter on his lips, but he can’t stop himself from saying it. 

From feeling it.

Soulmates.

“You still believe in that kind of stuff?” Will asks, a small, unreadable smile on his face. “After all these years? After… everything that happened?”

“Yeah, I do.” Mike exhales, shoulders lifting slightly. He does believe in soulmates, and there’s a part of him that thinks, or rather, knows that his own soulmate is standing right in front of him. “I mean… they’ve been through literal hell and back together, haven’t they? I think, um…” He huffs out a quiet laugh, hoping that Will doesn’t notice the similarities of their own experience, “I think it would’ve been impossible for them not to end up getting married after all that, right?” 

“Right,” Will’s eyebrows furrow for a second too long. He swallows. “Like… fate.”

Fate. 

The word rings through Mike’s subconscious like a crashing wave against the shoreline, causing an onslaught of repressed emotions rushing back from the memories he’s tried so hard to forget. Memories that no matter how much he tries to convince himself, don’t matter, he’s been unable to forget. He can never forget Will, no matter how badly he tries. 

Fate, much like when they were both five years old, when Mike approached Will on the swingset of their elementary school yard, asking him if he wanted to be friends. Will, of course, says yes. 

Fate, like when Will brought Mike to ‘Castle Byers’ for the first time, not asking him for the password, letting him in immediately. They spent all afternoon looking at all of the artwork Will stuck to the branches, and Mike’s stomach was flipping at the fact that a lot of the drawings his friend made were of him. 

Fate, like the notebook of drawings Mike kept full of Will’s drawings when he went missing for the first time. How he spent every night flipping through, admiring how Will, even at that age, had such skill, such talent, and how Mike was sick to his stomach at the possibility of never having another drawing to add to his collection. He still has the same folder underneath his mattress, wanting nobody else to have the privilege of looking through it, but him. 

Fate, like when Mike was the only one sleeping over at the Byers’ house, not wanting to leave Will’s side after getting possessed by the Mind Flayer – wearing a sweater because the room was so, so cold. He didn’t mind, though. He would happily sleep in any weather if that meant being beside his friend.

Fate, like the sinking feeling in the base of his stomach when he watched Will dance with a girl during the Snow Ball, the small voice in his head hoping that he would’ve told her no. They still made eye contact while they both slow danced with other people.

Fate, like when Will’s innate powers saved him from getting killed by a demogorgon at the MAC-Z. 

“Do… um, do you believe in that kind of stuff?” Mike isn’t sure why he’s still talking; the familiar feeling of being unable to control himself around Will is stifling, all-consuming. Quickly, he remembers just how nervous the older boy makes him – feeling the need to play with his fingers in a futile attempt to calm the nerves that are brewing inside his stomach. It’s barely working, hands falling back to his side, hopelessly. “You know, like… fate, and all of that. Do you think it’s real?”

“I mean, yeah, I used to.” Will clears his throat, lip getting caught in his bottom teeth. “I don’t know. I think after a while you start believing in timing more than you do fate, or the whole idea of soulmates.”

“Timing?” Mike repeats, throat going dry. He wonders if the pain in his chest will ever go away. “What do you mean by that?”

Will shrugs, hands still stuffed in the pocket of his jacket. “Like, you know, sometimes it’s not about who you’ve known the longest, but who knows you best.”

“Oh,” He says, stupidly. He clears his throat, shoulders slightly hunching like making himself smaller would make the words coming from Will’s mouth hurt less. “Yeah, I mean, that makes sense. Timings kind of a pain in the ass sometimes, isn’t it?” He adds, attempting a half-joke. It comes out a little flat, but Will smiles softly anyway, like he always does. 

Timing. It’s always been about time. Their time, specifically. 

Will looks at him, as though he’s unable to discern what Mike is implying. “It really is.”

*

Holy shit.

Holy shit. 

Mike’s eyes widen as he watches Will walk through the door of the hotel room Lucas booked in preparation for the wedding, with a bottle of champagne in one hand and his suit jacket in the other. 

His hair is slightly wavier than it looked like two days earlier, though Mike thinks that it suits him. Small, tiny curls are spread throughout his hair, one falling directly over his left eye. Mike decides, in that very moment, that this is his favourite hairstyle on Will, easily. He’s wearing a white button-down (with the first three buttons undone), and instantly, Mike finds himself growing flustered. He fills the shirt out perfectly. 

You need to calm down, he thinks, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from the boy standing in the doorway, onto the carpet beneath him in a weak attempt to ground himself. It’s proving to be much more difficult than he anticipated, eyes still lifting to get another look at Will. Relax, Mike, he pokes his tongue against his cheek. It hasn’t even been two full days since he’s back in Hawkins, and you’re already losing all aspects of self-control. How are you going to survive the entire wedding weekend if you can barely be in the same room as him? Friends don't look at each other that way, Mike. Get it together. 

But how can he blame himself? Will is absolutely stunning. He’s always been absolutely stunning.

“Hey, again.” Will’s smile widens as he sets the champagne down on the small table by the window. The glass bottle makes a soft ‘clink’ that seems way too loud in the quietness of the room. 

“Um,” Mike clears his throat, wincing at the awkwardness that settles in his bones. “Hi, Will.”

“Are you okay?” Will asks, genuine now, eyes searching Mike’s face like he still knows exactly how to read him – like he still knows every single tell displayed on his face. Mike knows that he probably does. He really, really does. “Your face is all red.” 

“Yeah,” Mike says immediately as more heat continues to cover his face. Then, quieter, he continues: “Yeah. I’m good. Totally, um, fine, really.”

It’s a lie, a complete lie.

Will hums like he doesn’t entirely believe him, like he knows Mike is lying, but he doesn’t say anything about it, to which he’s more than grateful. Instead, he drapes his suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs. The movement pulls the fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders for just a second, and Mike has to actively remind himself how to breathe. 

It’s fine, he tells himself. He’s still the same Will that he’s known since they were children. The same Will who dresses up as ‘Will the Wise’ for their campaigns in his basement – pretty in his purple gown and its matching hat (at the age of fifteen, Mike realized that purple is his favourite colour on Will, so seeing him in the costume always made Mike’s stomach flip), the same Will whose mother made him get a bowl cut for the longest time, the same Will who always looks so good in denim. Nothing’s changed, really, now that Mike is thinking about it.

Just that he looks so much… older.

Just that it’s been six whole years.

“Lucas said that everyone else is meeting downstairs in ten minutes for the last suit fitting. For alterations and stuff. The suits are still at the tailor, so we don’t really need to bring anything other than ourselves.” Will says, nonchalantly, as though he isn’t just five feet away from him, and as if Mike isn’t two seconds away from having a complete meltdown. “I figured I would keep this bottle up here so that we at least have one good one for tonight.”

Mike tries his best to convince himself that he’s acting totally normal – that the white dress shirt Will is wearing right now is a perfectly normal thing for someone to be wearing for a last-minute suit alteration appointment. Why wouldn’t he wear the shirt he planned to wear to the wedding? That’s the whole point of the appointment, isn’t it? To make sure everything... fits? He’s just doing what he’s supposed to, isn’t he? Hesitantly, he looks down at himself as a wave of self-consciousness washes over him. Does Will think he looks good, too?

“That’s um, a good idea.” Mike forces out a laugh, standing awkwardly in his spot as he shifts his weight onto his opposite leg. Desperate to change the topic, he motions to the bottle Will is holding. “Where did you get the bottle?”

“I brought it with me from New York,” Will says nonchalantly, picking up and tilting the bottle in his hands almost absentmindedly. “It’s one of Lucas and Max’s favourite kinds.”

“It is?” Mike’s voice catches slightly. His eyes trail to the bottle, not recognizing its name or branding. Will’s fingers, spread out against the bottle as he holds it, distract him for half a second. Oh wow. 

“Yeah,” Will nods. “When they visited me a couple of months ago, we went to this one restaurant near my place. It’s a cool place, really – small and cozy, and it has dim lighting with super good music playing all the time. They loved it, so I thought they might enjoy a bottle of it for their wedding. You know, to celebrate.”

Mike blinks, confusion and a deep sting of hurt coiling in his chest. “They… they visited you?” His voice is quiet now, lifting his hand to scratch the back of his head. When did this happen? When did they go to New York? Without him? How come no one told him? His chest feels heavier with every thought that begins to stack on top of each other. “In New York? When?”

Will shrugs, calm and almost casual, like it’s nothing out of the ordinary, like each word that he’s saying doesn’t send a shockwave of pain in a direct line to Mike's heart. “They come down pretty often.”

“They do?” Mike echoes, the words tasting bitter against his tongue. He can’t help but swallow, the same question echoing throughout his subconscious. Why doesn’t Will ask him to come visit in New York? If Lucas and Max can visit him, why can’t Mike?

Will glances at him, eyebrows slightly raised, sensing the shift in Mike’s mood, “I mean, they love going to New York in general, and because I have my place there, it’s easier for them to travel. Cheaper, I mean, because they just stay with me, on my couch.” Mike’s chest tightens further. Why has Will never thought to include me in his life like that? After everything?

Mike swallows, forcing himself to nod. “Right. Makes sense. I… I just didn’t know that they visited you that often.” He doesn’t know what else to say, because what is he supposed to say after his friends have been busy visiting Will, and nobody even considered telling or inviting him along?

Will must know that he’s hurt, taking a quick step toward the taller boy, eyebrows furrowing together. “Mike–”

“Are you guys coming?” Dustin’s head pokes through the doorway, and Mike doesn’t even need to be told a second time, immediately heading for the door, walking past Will. “Lucas has been waiting for you guys in the lobby. If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late to the suit fitting.”

*

The alteration shop smells faintly of a combination of both steam and fabric softener. 

Mike, as usual, feels painfully awkward where he is standing. All of the mirrors surrounding him make him realize just how bad his posture has become over the years. Nancy is right, he thinks to himself, reminded of all the times throughout his childhood in which she consistently pointed it out, scolding him for not prioritizing fixing the way he stands – but he never listened to her (in his defence, this is in typical, younger brother fashion). Does Will notice how bad his posture is, and wishes that he fixed it within the six years? Is he surprised that he didn’t? Did he expect anything less?

Pushing the memory to the furthest depths of his mind, he stands off to the side, alongside both Lucas and Dustin as they await their turn. His own suit jacket is already off, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, and it takes all of his energy (and self-control) to avoid fidgeting in his place. Hastily, he realizes that, unfortunately for him, it’s much easier said than done.

“Alright, William.” The Tailor says kindly, a smile on her face as she begins circling the boy. A measuring tape is wrapped around her neck, and a set of pins is pierced into a handmade tomato cushion in her hand. Mike blinks, slightly caught off guard at the name, not having heard anyone call Will, William, in so long. Years, really, now that he's thinking about it. The Tailor is an older lady, with long brown hair that is turning slightly gray at the roots, and a soft smile – and Mike swallows. She reminds him of Joyce. “You’re up first, honey.”

Mike shifts his gaze from the carpeted floor, moving it up to Will before he’s able to stop himself. 

Will steps onto the little platform, shrugging his suit jacket off his broad shoulders, and hands it to the Tailor, who quickly hangs it up on one of the hooks beside the mirror. He’s just in the dress shirt now, the same one as Mike saw him in earlier, only this time, his sleeves are slightly rolled up, and Mike’s eyes drift to Will’s hands. They’re so much bigger now, he thinks. They’re much bigger than he remembers them to be.

“Arms out for me,” The Tailor lightly taps Will on his arms, and he immediately does as he’s told, a little awkwardly, but with his posture straight nonetheless. As Will moves, the fabric draping over his chest pulls, only slightly, as he lifts his arms, causing Mike’s brain to short-circuit. 

Jesus Christ. 

The Tailor pulls the measuring tape off her neck. She places it around Will’s shoulders first, then his chest, the Tailor murmuring numbers under her breath that Mike doesn’t quite understand. Instead, Mike’s eyes follow the bright strip of yellow tape like he’s under a spell, like he’s hypnotized, watching it slide down, watching it tighten, watching it adjust against Will’s body.

Then, she moves even lower. 

“Just stand straight for me and breathe normally,” The Tailor says gently, stepping closer to Will. “It won’t take long, I just need to measure your waist to make sure the band and button of your dress pants won’t be too snug, alright?”

“Take your time,” Will replies, and Mike feels all the heat that was previously pooling in the base of his stomach travel to his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. “Thank you.” 

Holy shit. 

Mike concludes that he must be insane. That’s the only explanation for the way Will is acting right now. Does Will not realize how perfect his waist is? How… small it is? Does he ever wonder about how Mike’s hands would fit against the dip in his skin? Does he ever take the time to imagine any of that? Because, unashamedly, he does. He’s thinking about it right now. He can’t stop thinking about it, actually. Is it getting hot in the room? It must be from the steam, he tells himself. He isn’t quite sure he believes the words echoing inside his mind, but it’ll do. It’ll have to. 

How long would it take for him to become a Tailor? Would he have to go to… Tailoring School? Is that even a thing? He’s never really been good with a needle, but he can try. If it means tailoring Will, he would absolutely make it happen. At least that way, he would have an excuse to touch Will’s waist. At least, he can selfishly measure every single part of Will’s body; he can run his hands over his skin, making sure everything fits perfectly over every curve, dip and body part. 

He feels a light nudge against his side. “You good, man?” It’s Lucas, looking at him with a mixture of concern and confusion. “Is your suit too tight, or something? You look uncomfortable.”

Clearing his throat, Mike rips his gaze from Will, shaking his head. “I’m… no, I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mike.” Lucas continues, not seeming to notice the heat that makes a home across Mike’s face, continuing to amplify with every second that passes by. “Even if you are, it’s her job to fix it. Don’t be shy, that’s what we’re paying for. I know you said you have a suit at home to wear, but I think the one she’s making will be better for you to bring, anyway. It’ll probably fit you better, too.”

“You think my other suit doesn’t fit me?” Mike replies, furrowing his eyebrows. A wave of embarrassment washes over his body. He knew it was a bit oversized – buying it in a thrift shop makes it difficult to have one for his exact measurements, and it’s hard to find pants that are long enough to cover his legs. 

“It’s not bad, Mike. I just think the suit jacket might be a bit big on you. Or maybe a little small. I don’t know how to explain it, you just have really long limbs–”

“Right.” Mike interrupts, nodding his head slowly in attention despite not listening to a single word Lucas is saying about his suit– eyes inevitably drifting back to Will, who is still standing on the platform. 

*

The bar Lucas chooses is way too crowded for Mike’s liking. 

It’s a Friday night, the first official night of the ‘bachelor’ weekend, and in literally any other circumstance, Mike might be able to find a way to force himself to have fun. If not for his own satisfaction, but for Lucas. Instead, Mike has to remind himself to smile, at the very least, to make it look like he’s not being absolutely miserable. 

But nothing about being here, in Hawkins, with Will, is making him feel excited. It’s actually the opposite: he feels sick. He feels absolutely sick to his stomach at the thought of being around Will again. Not because he doesn’t want to see him, because God, he does – it’s just that everything the older boy does, regardless of how… small, makes Mike want to burst. 

Mike is sitting at his spot in the bar, awkwardly toying with the small shot glass filled with clear alcohol, unsure of which kind Lucas ordered from the bartender. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, because he’ll drink it regardless. 

“Another round of four shots, please.” Lucas motions toward the bartender, who nods his head in understanding, already turning around and pulling the glasses from the shelf behind him, and pouring the clear liquid into them. 

Tonight, they’re not in their suits – opting for more casual clothing. Mike is thankful, itching to only wear the suit when it’s necessary. He feels much more comfortable in his jeans and long-sleeve shirt. 

To nobody’s surprise, Mike is physically unable to take his eyes off of Will, who is wearing a blue sweater (one that he thinks hugs Will’s arms perfectly, showing off his arms). Swallowing, he wonders if, in New York City, Will has been working out. He must be – he’s so broad now. How many times a week does he go to the gym? Which gym does he go to? How many pounds can he lift? Is that even the right terminology? He’s never been to the gym before, so he doesn’t know what Will is doing. He just can’t help but think about how suddenly… strong Will looks.

Will, completely oblivious, is sitting beside him. He’s talking to Dustin animatedly about something Mike doesn’t have the energy or the concentration to follow, eyes trained only on Will. He looks effortless, he looks happy, he looks… real. The familiar feeling settles in his chest for what feels like the twentieth time since Will’s come back to Hawkins, magnified by the three shots he’s already had, and the fact that he never thought he would be lucky enough to see his best friend ever again. 

As soon as the bartender pushes the tray of shot glasses toward them, Mike doesn’t say anything, reaching for his own glass immediately, tilting his head back and downing it before even giving his friends the chance to reach for their own.

“Damn, Mike.” Dustin’s eyebrows raise, nodding his head in approval. “You didn’t even react to the tequila, man. I’ve never seen someone look so… unbothered by it. You didn’t even reach for a lime yet.”

“I wish I could do that,” Lucas groans, wincing as he downs his own shot. “Fuck, this shit is so gross. Max always tells me that my reactions are overdramatic, but I’d like to think that they’re actually perfectly normal.”

“It’s totally normal to react to straight tequila like that, don’t worry.” Dustin nods his head, “Especially when there’s no like, chaser or anything.” 

“Exactly!” Lucas nods his head enthusiastically. “That’s what I was saying.”

Mike can barely hear Dustin or Lucas over the music and the people surrounding them, and despite the burn from the shot sliding and burning down his throat, it barely registers. His mind is everywhere, unable to focus on anything other than considering the tempting possibility of wanting to get shitfaced to stop himself from thinking about the boy sitting next to him. Maybe he should get shitfaced. It would make the night go by quicker, wouldn’t it?

“Yeah,” Mike says, voice both tight and awkward, reaching for one of the slices of lime in the bowl, not caring that Dustin just said that he admires the fact that he hasn’t reached for one. He quickly puts it up to his lips, sucking the juice out of it, wincing at the flavour. Quickly, he notices that Will has a small smile on his face. Is he smiling at him? “I… um, I guess I just like tequila?”

“You’re so annoying,” Lucas rolls his eyes, though the smile doesn’t leave his face. “Nobody actually likes the taste of tequila, Mike. You have to be lying.”

“It’s not the worst kind of alcohol out there,” Will winces, still holding his own (full) shot glass, looking down at the wooden counter of the bar. “I mean, I think vodka is arguably worse. Especially, um, like you just said, Dustin, when there’s no chaser with it.” 

Mike feels the heat rush to the tip of his ears at Will’s attempt to back him up. Mike blinks. That’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? Maybe he’s reading too much into it – maybe he just agrees, and that’s not what he’s trying to do at all. Mike pushes the thought away, despite how it really feels like he’s trying ot at least make him feel a little bit better. But he can acknowledge that it could also be due to the alcohol in his system.

“Vodka is also pretty shitty,” Dustin nods his head in agreement. He turns toward Mike and speaks again: “Mike probably likes that one, too, knowing him. Do you?”

Mike winces. “I mean, it’s not my favourite…”

“Will, you still didn’t even drink your first shot,” Lucas points out, shaking his head. “I literally just ordered us another round.”

Mike feels his head begin to ache as he watches his friend point out the obvious. Will doesn’t drink. He’s never liked alcohol, and that isn’t something new; it’s been the same as long as Mike’s known him. Even when Steve offered to pick up some beers for them to have during their movie nights in his basement, Will refused every single time. How does Lucas not remember that? How are they able to forget such… important information about him? 

Will doesn’t respond, just looking down at the clear liquid, biting the inside of his cheek. Mike knows that look; knows that Will is internally struggling with whether or not to drink it. He also knows that Will likely doesn’t want to, and why should he be pressured into doing that if he doesn’t want to? What kind of friend would Mike be if he watches Will take a shot of alcohol that he doesn’t want to drink? If he just… sits there and watches?

Before Mike can stop himself from changing his mind, he reaches forward and grabs Will’s shot glass and downs it himself. Once again, he barely registers the burn as it slides down his throat, heat flickering through him – he’s used to it, now. He sets the empty glass back on the bar with a little too much force, blinking at Will. 

Will’s eyes look at him, just for a fleeting moment, and Mike swears that he can see a flash of surprise take over his expression. As immediately as it appears, it’s gone as his eyes drift back down at the counter, staring at his now-empty shot glass.

He mumbles a soft, “Thanks,” that Mike knows is meant for him, and him only. 

“Um, it’s really no problem, not at all.” Mike says, his voice coming out tighter than he wants it to. God, why does he sound like such a mess? All Will’s done is smile at him, and he’s already on the verge of combustion. Just from one, single shared look. Calm down, Mike. “Like I just, um, said. I like tequila.”

Will shifts slightly in his seat, and their shoulders brush from the movement. Mike knows it’s accidental – there really isn’t much space on the bar to not be that… close, but it makes Mike’s chest falter anyway. He forces himself to focus on the peel of the lime he’s just sucked dry, playing with the rind between his fingers. Don’t look at him, Mike forces himself to think. All he needs to do is focus on the lime in between his fingers, or the music, or something – just literally anything and anyone other than Will. 

It dawns on Mike very quickly, very painfully, that in six years, things have changed drastically between them. At the very same time, they haven’t. 

Will is still impossible to ignore. He’s still the same person who carved his name into Mike’s memory, his heart, so deeply that it hurts to even think about. 

He's still the boy he loves. 

*

“You smoke?” Mike asks, the question dry on the tip of his tongue. Did he start smoking when he moved to New York? He never smoked when he was in Hawkins. In fact, he was always vocal about how much he hated cigarettes in general. “Since… when?”

“Uh,” Will pulls the cigarette from his lips, a small cloud of smoke disappearing as soon as it touches the air. Trying his best to avoid staring directly at Will’s lips, his efforts fail immediately. Hyperaware of the thought of Will noticing Mike’s line of vision, his eyes fall toward the ground, stopping at Will’s hands. They really look like they got bigger. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to compare hand sizes, but pushes the thought out of his mind as quickly as it appears. “Only when I’m stressed.”

“Oh,” Mike replies, slowly. Biting the inside of his cheek, he shifts onto his opposite leg. Mike can’t help but wonder when he had his first cigarette. Did his friends in New York introduce Will to them? Does he actually like smoking them? The coolness of the summer night makes Mike clear his throat. “So, you’re um, stressed, then? Why?” 

Will shrugs. “These kinds of bars are not really my… scene.” His voice is slow, but deliberate. Mike knows that there’s more that he isn’t telling him. He wants to reach over, grab his best friend by the shoulders, and reassure him that he’s still here. He’s still his best friend, and even though it’s been six years, he can still tell him anything, whenever and about whatever is bothering him. 

The muffled sound of laughter and music that’s a little too loud for his preferences continues to flood into the open street every time the door of the bar opens, but a silence settles between both boys, and Mike continues to have the innate need to fill it. 

Mike’s mind is moving at a hundred miles per second: You haven’t seen Will in six years, Mike. Talk to him, ask him things. You’ve been waiting for this moment since the day he left Hawkins. Take advantage of this opportunity – all you’ve been doing is repeating the potential conversations you both would have when reunited, and yet you can’t even continue a simple enough conversation? How do you expect to get closer to him if you can’t even speak to him?

“They’re not mine, either.” Mike nods his head, allowing himself the comfort of leaning against the brick wall behind him. It’s cool to the touch, and he can feel it through the fabric of his shirt. “Why didn’t you remind Lucas that you don’t drink alcohol? I’m sure he would’ve been totally fine asking the bartender for like, a Coke or something instead of more shots of tequila.”

“And what? Sound like a major buzzkill?” A dry laugh escapes from Will’s throat. “We’re literally at a bar, Mike. What else am I supposed to do?”

“You wouldn’t sound like a buzzkill, Will.” Mike shakes his head, correcting him. “Lucas is one of your friends, one of your best friends, isn’t he? He should’ve known that you don’t drink. You never did. It’s not your fault he didn’t remember. Besides, soda tastes better than the cheap, shitty alcohol they serve here, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Will swallows, bringing the cigarette back up to his lips, taking another slow drag. “He is.”

“You’ve changed, you know.” Mike blurts out before he’s able to stop himself, immediately regretting his choice of words. Smooth, Mike. It should be considered a talent, he thinks, the way he manages to (without fail) make every single conversation he’s in incredibly... awkward.

“Hm,” Will blinks, just slightly, another cloud of smoke puffing from his lips, and Mike’s eyes drift back to Will’s lips. He’s so… Mike subconsciously licks his lips. “What do you mean?” 

Mike rubs the back of his neck, cheeks heating. He didn’t think this far ahead, to be honest – his mind continues to scramble for things to say in the hopes of avoiding sounding dumb. “I, um, I don’t know? I mean, you’re taller, now, obviously, and maybe more… confident? You just look… completely different. You have an earring now, too.” 

Different? That’s the word he decides to settle on? That’s what he’s choosing to run with? Mike swallows, knowing that he is probably making the entire conversation weird, isn’t he? If he isn’t absolutely terrified at the prospect of losing Will for a second time, he would’ve also told him that he looks just as beautiful as he always has. 

Will tilts his head, studying Mike with those familiar, soft eyes. “Different?” He dissects the word slowly. “I mean, I think that’s inevitable in itself, right? I haven’t been back in Hawkins for years. Things are bound to change. People change.” 

Mike tries not to pay attention to the obvious double meaning of the words coming out of Will’s mouth. People change, but is it possible that Will… hasn’t? He’s exactly how he remembers him to be: kind and beautiful. Does Will think that he’s changed? 

“You have better style now, you know.” Mike teases, earning a light shove from the boy standing next to him. Mike welcomes the touch, wholeheartedly. “Especially your hair. When did you finally decide to give up on the bowl cut, again?”

“Shut up,” Will laughs softly, a sound that makes Mike’s chest tighten without warning. “I had that for like, barely half a year. Plus, I literally cut my hair before I even left Hawkins.” He lifts his own hand to the front of his hair, fixing where some of the lightly curled strands stuck out of place due to the wind. Mike forces himself to be very much in public, wanting to reach over and fix Will’s hair himself. Except, he can’t – he knows he can’t. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember, trust me.” Mike nods, the smile still etched on his face from the memory. “Ever consider bringing it back? I think it totally suited you. I think Joyce might’ve been onto something. It was easily your best look yet.”

“I said, shut up, Mike.” This time, a real, genuine laugh escapes Will’s lips, and Mike is once again reminded of how much he misses this. How much he misses him. Will leans back, only slightly, eyes still on Mike. “For what it’s worth, you’ve changed, too.” His voice turns soft – careful, even. “Like… I don’t know, you’ve grown into yourself, or something. It’s nice to see.” 

Grown into himself? Mike lifts his eyebrows, ignoring the flip in his stomach from the words coming from Will’s mouth. “What does that even mean?”

“You have an eyebrow piercing, now.” Will shrugs, a faint and shy smile tugging at the borders of his lips. Mike swallows. He noticed? A warmth spread throughout his chest. “I don’t know, to be honest. It’s hard to explain. I mean, you just seem more… you, you know? Comfortable, I guess? It's the way you carry yourself, I think. Like you know who you are now. But I guess, who really knows themselves in high school?”

It’s Mike’s turn to blink slowly, heat continuously creeping up the back of his neck, watching as Will’s gaze fixates on the silver piercing above his right eye, the cigarette between his lips. As usual, Will can read him much better than anyone else; he’s absolutely right. 

Now, six years later, he is much more certain of himself. Much more accepting, much more willing to acknowledge who is meant to be than he was at seventeen. The societal and parental pressures don’t weigh on him in the same way. They’re there, and he doesn’t think that they’ll ever truly go away, but he knows. 

He knows what he wants now. He knows who he wants. 

“Um, yeah, I… I guess?” He mumbles as he looks down at his hands, twisting them together, unsure what to respond to that. Will makes him so nervous that even tasks as simple as breathing become difficult whenever they're close enough. “I mean, I’m definitely trying. I mainly got this eyebrow piercing to piss my dad off, though. He hates my hair, too.” 

Will blows the smoke out of his mouth. “Well, for what it’s worth, even if you’re just pissing your parents off, I think you’ve… I think this, whatever it is... suits you, Mike. You look good.”

Mike’s chest tightens so suddenly that he almost falters in his stance. “I… thanks, Will.” His voice is too high to sound casual in any form, and he winces. Keep it together, he reminds himself. “I… I appreciate that.”

“You’re still awkward, though.” Will lets out a quiet laugh, like he’s both amused and a little embarrassed at the very same time. If it were possible, Mike would want to bottle Will’s laugh and keep it all to himself. He doesn’t think he will ever hear a sound as beautiful again. “Just like how I remember you. I guess in that sense, you’ve sort of stayed the same.”

For a minute, Mike allows himself the indulgence of imagining, of thinking about the potential of what could have been if Will hadn’t immediately left Hawkins for New York after their high school graduation. If maybe, just maybe, he stayed in Hawkins for just a little bit longer, long enough for Mike to finally gain the courage to tell his best friend everything he’s been bottling up for years, everything that he’s repressed, to tell Will that he’s always been more than just a friend to him. That he loves him. 

His heart begins to race, knowing that he needs to ask. He wants to ask. He needs to know. 

“Are you…” Mike clears his throat, eyes trailing back to the cigarette in Will’s mouth, between his lips. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Will stills, the cigarette between his fingers. It’s subtle, barely a pause at all – but Mike feels it, comparable to a dagger piercing directly through his heart. The more he thinks about it, a knife in his chest would likely be less painful than the thought of Will being with anyone that isn’t him.

“Yeah,” He says, voice slow as his cigarette rests dully in his hands. “I am.” 

The confirmation hits Mike harder than he expects it to. It’s slow and spreading, like something hollowing him out from the inside, like someone took a metal shovel and emptied every single one of his organs onto the street in front of him, letting them get run over by every single car that passes by. 

Will Byers has a boyfriend. 

Will Byers, the same Will Byers who Mike has been in love with since they were twelve years old, is in a relationship with someone. He’s dating someone – someone who’s not him.

“Oh,” Mike says, because that’s all his mouth can manage without sending himself into a self-inflicted spiral that he knows will be really difficult to pull himself out of. He blinks rapidly, knowing that he can’t cry in front of Will. He nods once, trying to make sense of what he’s just been told, trying to be fine, trying to be okay, like none of this matters. But it does – it matters to Mike. “That’s… yeah, um, that’s good, Will. Good for you.”

“Mike?” Will watches him closely, eyebrows furrowed together. His cigarette now hangs loosely by his side. “Are you okay?”

The answer is simple, really, but he can’t say it. Not anymore. He’s not okay, but how is he supposed to be when he finds out the boy he is in love with, who he’s always been in love with, is dating someone else? How is he supposed to be okay with the fact that he’s spent the last six years of his life dreaming, reminiscing, hoping for the moment where they’re reunited again, finally able to be together – like he’s always imagined them to do?

So, no. He’s not okay. Not in the slightest.

The worst part of it all is that he can no longer tell Will how he feels, about what he feels. He’s too late. 

“Yeah, I’m totally fine. I… I mean it, Will.” Mike insists, even though his chest feels tight and the words feel like glass scraping against his tongue. He’s lying through his teeth. He laughs, though it comes off thin and brittle considering the circumstances. “I figured you would, you know. You live in New York now, and it’s a big city. Bigger than here, at least, in Hawkins. And you’re… you’re you, so…” Suddenly self-conscious, he awkwardly stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Stop talking, Mike. You’re rambling again. You probably sound ridiculous. Maybe you should go back inside. “I would be concerned if you weren’t dating anyone, to be honest.”

Mike pulls at the collar of his shirt, eyes trying to land on anyone who isn’t Will. Heat spreads rapidly all over his body, suddenly suffocatingly hot, standing outside the bar, despite the cool air of the night. Will doesn’t smile, doesn’t even answer – stepping a little closer to Mike. Mike wants to scream. Why does he keep doing that? He knows Will enough to tell that he’s a little concerned, which makes everything so much worse. Will drops his cigarette to the floor, using his shoe to put it out. 

“Mike,” Will’s head tilts, eyes hyperfocused on him. Why is he staring? “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay.” Mike says quickly, voice pained as he clears his throat. He backs away from Will, a little suddenly, his centre of gravity shifting slightly. He’s lying, he’s lying again, straight through his teeth. “Do you have, um, an extra cigarette I can use?” He asks, desperate for any form of distraction, despite this one being in the form of nicotine. It doesn’t matter to him that he doesn’t even smoke (and that he’s literally never even picked up a cigarette); there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? There’s a first time for everything, and Mike could really fucking use a cigarette right now. "Maybe a lighter?" He clears his throat. "What am I even asking? Of course, you'd have a lighter, you literally have cigarettes, which would be impossible to light without a lighter-"

“Since when do you smoke? You've always hated the smell.” Will interrupts, and Mike doesn’t miss the way Will is painfully staring at him. Of course, Will knows that he doesn’t smoke. Who is he even trying to fool? “You get an eyebrow piercing, let your hair grow out, and suddenly you want a cigarette?” When Mike doesn’t answer, Will sighs. “Are you sure you don’t need to sit down or something? I’m not going to give you anything if you look like you’re about to pass out. It’s also not a good idea to mix alcohol and cigarettes, Mike.”

“I’m really happy for you,” Mike ignores Will's plea of concern, voice softer now. He knows that all he's trying to do is convince himself that he's happy for his best friend. Why wouldn't he be? Will is happy. Doesn't that count for something? “Really, Will, I am.” Mike can’t stop lying, continuing probably the biggest he’s ever told, but what else is he supposed to say? ‘No, actually, Will, I’m not happy at all that you’re in a relationship. In fact, I’m actually heartbroken, very heartbroken. Heartbroken enough that I can literally feel each beat in my chest, and that every time it beats, it’s accompanied by a sharp pain that continuously forces itself into every inch of my heart?’ “Where did you guys, um, meet?” The words that leave his throat are strained, and he knows that Will can see right through him. 

“We met at school.” Will shifts in his place, as if unsure how to answer the question. “We’re both in the arts department at the New York Academy of Art, so…”

Of course, that’s how they met, Mike thinks. That makes the most sense, doesn’t it? Will got to start fresh, in a new city, where nobody knew about his life in Hawkins. About everything he’s been through. Do they paint together? Does Will draw… him now, in his sketchbooks, rather than Mike? Is his boyfriend an artist? Do they go to... cool exhibits together? Do they go art supply shopping together? Pick out colours for each other to use?

Biting the inside of his cheek, he really hopes that he looks as nonchalant as he’s trying to be. College was three years ago. Have they been dating for all of the six years Will has been in New York? Is that why Will stopped reaching out to him? Stopped calling? Is that why Mike never got an invitation to visit him in New York for all these years? If that’s the case, why didn’t Mike or Lucas tell him about this? Isn’t this something he deserves to know? Something that he should know? He’s Will’s friend, his best friend, and nobody wanted to tell him that he’s dating someone?

Will has a completely different life in New York that doesn’t include Mike, and it hurts. It hurts so, so badly. 

“So…” Mike’s eyes focus on his own shoes, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to avoid any tears from falling down his cheeks. Don’t let Will see you cry, Mike. “Have you guys been dating since you, um, started college, then?”

“No,” Will frowns. “I mean, we were friends throughout college, but we only started dating like three years ago. After we, um, both got our degrees and stuff.”

Degrees. The ones who got together because they went to the same college. The college that Mike didn’t go to. He’s going to be sick. 

“Is he… um,” Mike furrows his eyebrows. Trying to figure out how to word it. “Is he here? For the wedding? I haven’t seen him around.” 

“I wanted him to come,” Will shakes his head, lightly cringing. “I wanted him to come, but he couldn’t get the time off from work.”

“Oh,” Mike’s voice is tighter than he intends it to be, forcing himself to look at the people who have had too much to drink, stumbling around the street. He quickly decides that he needs to get drunk. “That’s, um, unfortunate. I’m sure… I’m sure everyone would’ve loved to meet him.”

Will doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. “Would you?”

“Huh?” Mike’s voice comes out pained, hollow, and he wishes he had another drink in his hand. Maybe another five shots of tequila will numb the feeling of his heart completely breaking into a million pieces outside of the bar. 

Fuck, what is he going to do?

“Would you want to meet him?” Will swallows, looking expectantly at Mike. If his eyes aren’t deceiving him, looking like he’s about to cry, his eyes are becoming glossy. “Evan, I mean.”

Evan? The name makes Mike recoil, wanting to scoff. That’s his name? What kind of a name is that? Their names don’t even sound nice next to each other: Evan and Will. Evan and Will. Evan is a shitty name. Will deserves a better boyfriend, with a better name. Mike and Will sound infinitely better beside each other, he thinks.

“Yeah.” Mike thinks he might throw up on the sidewalk in front of him, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol he’s been drinking all night. “Of course I would, Will.”

Mike is lying. He would much rather die.

*

Mike downs the rest of his drink.

And then another, and then another. 

“Whoa, you good, man?” Dustin leans into Mike, watching as his friend pours yet another glass of wine. “That’s like, what? Your third glass already? We haven’t even gotten the food yet. Maybe you should drink a glass of water, or something. Pace yourself. Max will kill you herself if you get drunk at her Welcome Dinner.”

Mike ignores him, bringing the edge of the glass to his lips. He doesn’t even like wine that much. Especially red wine. He definitely doesn’t like it enough to drink one glass, let alone three — but seeing Will, sitting across the table from him, laughing alongside people Mike doesn’t know, all… happy knowing that he has a boyfriend at home that he’s sure he loves, makes him really want to get drunk off the red wine in front of him. 

It’s in moments like these where he gets the overwhelming reminder that maybe he’s more like his mother than he thinks he is. The power a glass of red wine holds can make everything surrounding him seem more… tolerable. He doesn’t blame her for having one (or, much like he noticed as he grew older, a couple) every night. 

He’s not going to be able to get through this weekend sober, that’s for sure. Not when his entire mind is completely and utterly consumed by the fact that Will has a boyfriend. He has a boyfriend, he’s happy with his boyfriend, he’s happy with someone who isn’t him, and Mike hates it. He hates the fact that he has to be okay with Will liking someone else, or even worse, that he loves someone who isn’t him. 

Mike stands up from his chair, a little roughly, adjusting his suit jacket as he pulls it down slightly. He blinks, the rush of alcohol catching up with him, but he can’t find it in him to care. He excuses himself, mumbling something about ‘needing to go get some air,’ as he passes by Lucas and Max at the head of the table, who don’t notice him in passing. 

Making a quick stop at the bar before leaving the dining room, he asks for another drink – this time, he opts not to get red wine but rather a very strong (and very full) glass of vodka on the rocks. He doesn’t even have the urge to drink it; he just wants to hold the glass to stop his hands from shaking. He needs something to distract him, something that will make it easier to take his mind off of Will, and if that comes in the form of a glass full of alcohol, he won’t deny it, not for a minute. 

He walks down the hallway, pushing open the two glass doors that lead out to a small, private balcony that he noticed on the way to the Welcome Dinner. He takes in a deep breath as he steps outside; the smell of Hawkins in the summer triggers another wave of nostalgia wash over him. He’s instantly reminded of the summers he spent biking around with his friends to the mall, the arcade, and spending almost twelve hours in his basement, running campaigns. He misses it. He misses the closeness; he craves the friendships that have slowly fizzled as the years continue to push forward. 

Sure – they’re still close, close enough that Lucas still wants him to be a part of his wedding party, but Mike can’t help but feel like maybe he’s the odd one out. 

Is that why nobody thought of inviting him to go to New York? Is that why Will didn’t invite him to come see him? They all have… established lives both in and out of Hawkins, but he’s still… here, still trying to get himself together to make up for everything he’s lost throughout his teenage years. Does Will even want to be his friend anymore? Do they all feel bad for him? Is that what it is? Do they all talk about him when they meet up? Are they all… ashamed of him?

Fuck it, he thinks as he lifts the glass cup to his lips, taking a generous sip. He shudders at the bitter liquid burning his throat as it makes its way down, mentally cursing himself for not asking the bartender for a lime to chase the harshness of the drink or grabbing one from his table before leaving. It doesn’t bother him nearly enough to stop him from taking another sip, the taste settling inside his mouth. Maybe vodka isn’t as bad as he remembers it to be. Sighing, he finishes the drink on the third sip, the empty glass heavy in his hands. 

He just wants to go home. 

Deep in thought, he doesn’t even notice the doors to the balcony opening slowly. He only notices it the moment a rush of warmth spreads across his back from the indoor heating, and he doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is that likely followed him out here. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach is more than enough of an indication. It’s a double-edged sword to feel Will as intensely as he does. 

Will doesn’t say anything at first, just walking to the railing at the edge of the balcony, leaning both of his arms against it. Mike tries his best not to look at him right away, to ignore the urge to speak to Will immediately, despite it feeling like second nature. 

He tries, he really tries, but it’s hard not to stare at him – his flushed skin catches Mike’s eyes immediately, and he’s unsure whether it stems from the lighting outside, or a figment of his imagination. Will still doesn’t look at him right away, admiring the rare city view of Hawkins from the tenth floor. 

After what feels like standing forever in agonizing silence, Will is the first to speak. “Is it just me, or does Hawkins look so much… bigger than when I left? I don’t remember it looking this… normal. It doesn’t look like there were, you know, gates everywhere to the Upside Down, or the MAC-Z. This feels like a completely different city.”

“I think maybe it’s always been this big.” Mike purses his lips, eyes still focusing on the Hawkins city line, empty cup still in his hands. The ice begins to melt, and Mike swishes it in the glass, the sound of half-melted ice cubes clinking against the glass, grateful it’s giving him something that isn’t Will to focus on. “I think it all just felt super small when we were kids, you know? A lot of things did. Especially when you consider… everything that happened to us, it’s hard to picture anything beyond our friends and stuff.” Will nods in agreement, licking his lips. 

“I mean, standing here and having this view, Hawkins actually looks kind of nice.” Will continues, eyebrows furrowing together. Mike still doesn’t have enough nerve to look at him. 

“I think Hawkins has always been nice,” Mike answers, licking his lips. “Boring, yeah, obviously, and kind of shitty when we almost died all those times, but… nice.”

Will turns to him. “Is that why you’re still here?”

Mike cringes. The truth is, he doesn’t even fully know why he’s still in Hawkins. Sure, his family and some of his friends are here – but he’s never envisioned staying here for his entire life, and he knows that Will knows that, too. His plan, the same since high school, has always been simple enough: graduate high school, get into a college program for creative writing (regardless of whether or not his parents ever choose to get over their incessant desire to make sure that he majors in business like his father), and get the furthest away from Indiana as humanely possible.

By all accounts, it was a foolproof plan. He applied to many different schools, and by the end of senior year, he was excited to leave. He was ready. The problem, for Mike, stems from never having the guts to actually go anywhere.

There’s always been something in the back of his mind, or rather, someone holding him back from being able to leave everything behind. The question that stops him from going anywhere for more than a week at a time remains the same: what if Will ever comes back to Hawkins, and Mike isn’t even there anymore? What if Will comes back to see him, to find him, and Mike is already gone?

Suddenly, Mike’s throat begins to feel dry.

Is there even a way to properly explain to Will how he’s feeling without sounding completely insane? Is there a way to tell Will what he truly wants without sounding selfish? Is it okay for him to be selfish? Is it selfish of him to want Will to come back to Hawkins? To tell him that, even though he now has a boyfriend, Mike’s been waiting for him to come back home? To come back… to him?

“I… I have everyone here, you know? My whole… the whole writing thing is working out decently well for me. I’m part of a publishing house. It’s not a big one, or one that’s like… super popular or well-known or anything, so I guess I just want to, um, stay here for as long as possible and ride it out. See where it takes me.” Mike doesn’t even recognize the words coming from his own mouth, and he decides to blame it on the glass of vodka he’s just finished. 

“Everyone?” Will asks, voice barely above a whisper. Though not looking directly at the older, Mike can tell that Will is looking at him, really looking at him, as though he’s looking for more. Mike knows that he can’t lie, and he especially can’t lie to Will. Not again – and not anymore. 

“No,” Mike swallows, still avoiding Will’s gaze as the cool wind hits his face. “Not everyone.”

An awkward silence settles over the pair, and Will clears his throat. Mike instantly regrets speaking, feeling like maybe he said the wrong thing once again. He always manages to do that, doesn’t he? Since they were kids, when he was selfish and unaware. Does Will know that he’s speaking about him? He must know, right? God, can he be even more obvious?

“So,” Will begins, shifting his weight slightly onto his other leg, hands tucked into the pockets of his suit jacket. Mike, like he’s been doing all weekend, is way too distracted by how good Will looks in a suit. Is it wrong of him to look at him like this now that he has a boyfriend? A wave of annoyance washes over him. Why does that even matter? He’s his best friend; he’s known so much longer than Evan has. He knows him better. “How are you enjoying the Welcome Dinner?”

“It’s good,” Mike nods slowly, thankful for the change in topic. Still, the words coming out of his mouth are difficult to form. “It’s very… them, this whole thing, isn’t it?”

“You can fully tell Max was in charge of deciding all of the decorations.” Will laughs, the sound echoing through the night sky, and Mike’s smile falters, trying his best to fight back the tears that suddenly threaten to fall down his cheeks. 

Every single time Will speaks, Mike feels emotion overwhelm him. He misses this. He misses this so much. He misses Will – he misses talking to him, laughing with him, spending time with him and above all, being alone with him. 

“Totally,” Mike says, smiling widely, forcing brightness into his voice to match the conversation. Why is it so hard for him to pretend like everything is okay? “Do you think Lucas had like… any say in any of this?”

Will shakes his head, amusement softening his already delicate features. “He loves her way too much to disagree with her, I think.”

“He definitely does,” Mike nods his head slowly, the conversation slowly dulling down. “That’s what love does to people, isn’t it? It’s all about compromise. It’s all about… working together, being there for each other.”

Another silence spreads between them.

“I didn’t realize a Welcome Dinner would have this many guests. It almost feels like the wedding itself.” Will says, absentmindedly, not commenting on what Mike’s just said. Mike bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the lump forming in his throat. “Hard to believe there is going to be an actual ceremony and reception tomorrow. Plus, I think I’ve seen too many people from high school tonight.” Will cringes, and Mike understands his reaction completely. “Hawkins High was… something else, wasn’t it?”

“Me neither,” Mike agrees, letting out a short and breathy laugh. “It’s only been, like, an hour, but I’ve been forced to have way too many derivative conversations with people I don’t care about.” He winces as the words keep coming, tripping over themselves as he continues to ramble. He turns away from Will, trying his best to focus on the cool breeze of the night and the city landscape, instead of the boy standing next to him. Maybe the wind and the fresh air would help him sober up, though he realizes that it’s not doing any of that. “I mean, high school is high school, and people are so… so stupid in high school, you know? Sometimes, they act in a way that they don’t even realize. They’re so… so immature because they’ve never experienced life outside of anything in Hawkins. So… so immature. So stupid, and so immature.”

Beside him, there’s a pause. It’s long enough that Mike very quickly begins to regret opening his mouth at all. He’s said too much again, didn’t he? Will studies him, and Mike can feel it. He can feel the way Will’s eyes trail over him, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Are you… drunk?”

In a perfect world, Mike would say that yes, he’s the littlest bit tipsy. He would even probably make a joke, one that likely won’t land – like usual, then brush everything off before turning around to go back inside the Welcome Dinner before he ruins everything he’s built so hard to protect since he was fourteen years old. 

Instead, the words slip out from his lips, clumsy and unguarded, pushed forward by the many glasses of wine and vodka he’s had so far. He decides that no, he isn’t going to answer the question. Mike thinks that maybe, just maybe, it’s time to ask his own for once.

“Do you, um, do you ever think about… us?”

Will stills, swallowing. “Mike–”

“I personally think about it all the time,” Mike rushes on, heart pounding so loud in his chest, travelling up to his ears, barely able to hear himself speak. Blame it all on the alcohol, Mike. Blame it on the red wine and the vodka in his hand. “You know, I um, really do think about you all the time. I… I always have. Even when I tried so fucking hard not to.” Mike lets out a small laugh, despite there being nothing funny about what he’s saying. “Especially when I tried not to. Isn’t that kind of, um, funny? Or maybe even kind of ironic?”

Will’s eyes widen, the only light source between them coming from the lantern hanging from the stone wall behind them. Mike doesn’t know if the look on his best friend's face is due to shock, disgust, or maybe a little bit of both. He supposes that he deserves it, doesn’t he? How is he able to mess things up this badly and think that he still has a semblance of a chance?

“You’re drunk, Mike. Please… please don’t say anything you’ll regret tomorrow. How many drinks have you had?” It’s Will’s turn to stumble over his words, becoming overwhelmed with the situation unfolding between them. He scratches the back of his neck, a nervous habit reminiscent of his time in Hawkins. “Do you need me to go get you some water or something? I’ll go get you a glass so you can sober up, Mike.”

“I’m not drunk.” Mike shakes his head, desperate for Will to believe him. "Can you just let me... let me say this, please?"

Will shakes his head, not believing a single word coming from Mike’s mouth. It’s almost as though he’s desperate for a reason to leave the balcony, to leave Mike. Does he hate him that much? “Are you sure? Because I can really go get you a glass of water, Mike, I don’t mind.” 

“No, Will, I… I don’t need water,” Mike’s head shakes vehemently. He doesn’t want Will to leave. He doesn’t want Will to go back inside, he doesn’t want Will to go back to New York, and he doesn’t want Will to go back to Evan. “I mean, yes, I’m definitely a little bit tipsy, and yes, I’ve had way too many glasses of stupid red wine and vodka, but I’m still telling you the truth.” Mike laughs weakly, trying to rally all of the nerve that lives inside his body to push forward. "That doesn't change anything I want to say, so please, Will, don't go back inside and leave me out here alone."

"Jesus, Mike." Will shuts his eyes for a couple of seconds, trying his best to level his breathing. “How many glasses have you had?”

“Will, that isn’t important right now.” Mike’s voice breaks, trying to get him to focus on literally everything else other than the alcohol he's had so far. “God, I’m being so stupid, aren’t I? All I’ve been is stupid, so fucking stupid.” He lifts his free hand to his eyes, not surprised to find them burning. He just wants to get this off his chest. He needs to get this off his chest before it consumes him more than it already does. He needs Will to know how he feels before he leaves to go back to New York. “I just… I can’t keep pretending, Will. I can’t keep pretending that everything, everything we’ve been through, together, and I don't mean the party, I mean us, didn’t mean anything. You mean so much to me, and I… I hate myself for making you think that maybe you don’t.”

“Mike…” Will takes a small step towards him, his lower lip trembling. Mike doesn’t have the time to pay attention to any of Will’s reactions to what Mike is confessing. It’s too late to go back now. It’s too late to take anything back. He needs to just… continue, to keep going before he throws up all of the alcohol coursing through his veins.

“I loved you,” Mike says, voice breaking. He shakes his head as the words come out of his mouth, knowing that isn’t the complete truth. “No, wait, Will, I love you. I… I think I always have. I just didn’t know how to deal with it back in Hawkins, and by the time I did, I was too late. You… you were gone. You left for New York so fast, and you didn’t even give me the chance to say goodbye to you properly after graduation. I had a whole…  plan, Will. I just wanted to tell you. I just wanted to talk to you.” He exhales, and the waterfall of emotions and all the pent-up feelings he’s been harbouring for years suddenly flood the space between them. “This… fuck, this is so embarrassing, but I need you to know that I haven’t been with anyone since you left. I tried, I tried so fucking hard to convince myself that it’s possible to ever feel the same way I feel for you, for someone else. But nobody ever…” He pauses, head shaking, tears falling. “Nobody ever compares to you, Will. You’re… you just won’t go away. God, how can I even say this without sounding insane? You’re a part of me, Will. A big… a big fucking part.”

Will's mouth opens, then closes. Mike doesn't even process any of it, continuing to speak.

“I kept thinking that maybe, if I stopped thinking about you so much, it would go away eventually, you know? Like... Like that stupid, small crush I had on Eddie.” Mike continues as the tears become impossible to stop. The glass is still in his hand, ice now melted, leaving nothing more than diluted, watered-down vodka that he no longer has interest in drinking. “That I wouldn’t spend my day anymore thinking about how perfect the paladin and cleric, the sorcerer work together in our campaigns. How perfectly we work together. That every time someone mentions DND, I wouldn’t have this huge, fucking hole in my heart because you’re not here anymore to play it with me. I still look through your binder sometimes. You know, the one you kept in my basement? I took it with me to my apartment when I moved out. I look through it, and I see your… I see the notes you made for campaigns that we didn’t get to follow through with, or campaigns that I was being an asshole and cut short, and that I would do anything to finish, now. But… but when I saw you for the first time in six fucking years, it’s like I’m seventeen again, and… and terrified, Will. You don’t know how sorry I am for the way I acted, Will. I was so scared of being different, scared of my parents, scared of being in love, and… and apparently, I didn’t learn my lesson, because I'm still a fucking idiot. Why the hell am I doing this at Lucas and Max’s wedding? You literally have a boyfriend, in New York, and I’m… I’m here, Will. I’m still stuck here.”

Mike finishes, taking in a deep breath like he’s just run a marathon, putting his hand on the balcony railing, as though he needs to catch his breath. It takes him a couple of seconds to compose himself, to realize everything he’s just said, and a wave of mortification washes over him. Fuck, there’s no turning back now. 

For what feels like forever, Will doesn’t say a single word. Instead, he’s looking at Mike, eyes teary as if he isn’t sure anything he just said is real. Like he’s trying to make sense of everything he’s just said – and Mike is scared. He’s terrified that he’s messed everything up, that Will won’t want to talk to him again.

Did he just mess everything up? Anxiety gnaws at the base of his stomach. What else is he supposed to do? What else is he supposed to say? Is this the part where Will is going to tell him that it’s time to move on, that… that he’s just too late, and no matter what he says, it doesn’t matter because he has a boyfriend, and it isn’t ever going to be him?

Maybe he should walk away, leave the balcony, and go back to the dinner table and pretend like none of this ever happened. Pretend like he didn’t absolutely pour his entire heart out to Will, after six long years. Maybe not getting an answer from Will is better than a rejection. Biting at the inside of his cheek nervously, he begins to think that maybe drinking that much alcohol before confessing to Will wasn’t his smartest decision. He’s made stupid ones before, many stupid ones, but this one has to reach the top of his list. 

“Mike,” Will’s voice is quiet, it’s pained. “I loved you, too.” 

Mike freezes, his mind completely buzzing into overdrive. God, don’t let him be misinterpreting this because he’s drunk. “What?”

“I did,” Will says, voice trembling now. “For so long, Mike. I thought you knew.” He swallows, head shaking in disbelief. “I thought you knew how I felt. This entire time.”

Mike feels like he might throw up. There’s no way this is happening. There’s no way Will is saying this right now. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, not at all. All throughout his childhood, he thought there was no way Will would feel the same way he does. Voice breaking, he manages to get the following words out: 

“You thought I… knew?”

“You didn’t even want to hug me anymore, Mike.” Will’s eyes are glossy. “Did you forget about when you came to visit Lenora? What was I supposed to think? You… You completely ignored me, and then you refused to spend time with anyone who isn’t El, and I just assumed… I just assumed you knew, and you… and you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

Suddenly, everything floods back to Mike like an overflowing wave that hits him very much like a brick wall – when he hesitated to hug him at the airport, when he didn’t pay attention to him at Rink O’ Mania, when he never brought up the fact that he was crying in Argyle’s van, the painting. The fucking painting. More memories wash over him, like when Will came out to everyone in the Squawk, and while doing so, he looked directly at him, and even then, he didn’t connect the dots. 

How can he even put any of that into words? 

“I didn’t know, Will.” Mike shakes his head, tears still falling. “I’m such a fucking idiot. I swear on my life that I didn’t know.”

It’s Will’s turn to cry, head shaking. “What about our conversation on the tower, then? What about when you…you told me that we’re best friends, Mike. Don’t you remember? You… you said you would always support me, that you’re sorry you weren’t there for me. You… you friend-zoned me, Mike. What was I supposed to think?”

Mike can only describe the feeling as his heart shattering into a million different pieces on the floor in front of him. There isn’t a day that passed within those six years in which they didn’t speak that he didn’t regret the words that came from his own mouth. Why on earth did he tell Will they were best friends? Was he insane? 

He wants to fix this; he needs to fix this.

“I know that I was an asshole, Will. I was a coward, scared, piece of shit, and I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for the way I acted toward you. I was stupid, I was scared, and I was an idiot, because now I lost you.” Mike’s voice is sincere; it’s desperate. “That… that was so long ago, Will. Seeing you, here, back in Hawkins…” Mike lets out a broken laugh, though nothing about this situation is funny. “I miss you so much that it’s fucking killing me.”

Will steps closer, close enough that Mike can feel the warmth of him, smelling the achingly familiar cologne emanate off of his body – instantly recognizing it as the one he used to wear in high school. He still wears it. After six years, he still buys the same cologne. Mike cries more, remembering that he bought his own bottle right after Will left Hawkins. 

“Mike–”

“Will, please–”

“Let me speak,” Will shakes his head, and Mike immediately goes silent. “I think it’s really important to know that,” Will says softly, still so close to Mike. “No matter what happened back in Hawkins, and through everything, Mike, I… I loved you for years. Years. Trust me when I say that I didn’t stop loving you because I wanted to. I always loved you. You… you are so important to me, Mike. You always have been.”

“But,” Mike’s voice drops, wiping away the tears that streak down his cheek. He knows what Will is doing; he knows that he’s trying to lessen the blow as much as possible to stop Mike from losing his mind on the balcony when he rejects him. He’s doing what Will always does, prioritizing Mike’s feelings over his own. It makes Mike want to cry even more. Why can’t Will just tell him? “You don’t love me anymore, do you?”

“I never said that,” Will’s voice shakes, shaking his head adamantly. Tears stain his cheeks, as they do Mike’s. “I never said anything close to that, Mike.”

"You have a boyfriend," Mike hiccups. 

Will swallows. "I know."

“See?” Mike’s heart stutters, tucking his hair behind his ears, loose strands sticking to his face due to the tears. His heartbeat begins to run wild, eyes staring directly into Will’s. “Come on, Will. You don’t need to try and make me feel better, I know you have a boyfriend–”

Before Mike can even register what’s happening, Will closes the distance between them, his hands warm and steady, landing directly at Mike’s sides. He doesn’t get the chance to take a step forward, nor does he have the opportunity to process literally anything that’s happening, because Will’s hands travel to the front of Mike’s suit jacket, pulling him closer. There’s desperation like he’s been waiting for him to make the first move, but is giving up and doing it himself. Mike immediately places his glass onto the edge of the railing, uncaring if it falls over onto the ground beneath him and shatters. None of that matters right now. Fuck the diluted vodka. 

None of that matters because he’s been waiting for the opportunity to be this close to Will for years, and it would be a lie to say that he hasn’t been thinking about kissing him for what feels like forever. Their lips move against each other in unison, in a desperate, necessary way to make up for all of the pent-up years and things they never had the chance to say to each other. Finally, there’s an outlet for all of the emotions, there’s a home. They finally have each other to bleed into. 

It knocks all of the air out of Mike’s lungs, Will continuing to kiss him like he’s the one he loves, like they’re meant to be with each other. Mike’s hands are shaking, nervous, not knowing where to put them. His entire body is buzzing, going into overdrive. Is it okay if he lowers his hands on Will’s waist? Is it okay if he leans forward and kisses him harder? Deeper? 

Hesitantly, Mike places his hands on the base of Will’s hips, right at the dip that meets his waist. He must like it, a small noise escaping from his lips. Suddenly, Mike becomes very hot. All of the grogginess and tipsiness from the alcohol consumed immediately leaves his body, no longer taking up any of his headspace. He’s no longer drunk on alcohol, but rather on a beautiful boy named Will Byers. 

Will’s lips fit perfectly against Mike’s, and his hands reach up to cup his cheeks, wiping away the tears that stain his cheeks. Will stands on the tip of his toes to reach Mike, even though he’s bending down so they’re at eye level, like he always does unintentionally. Is this real life? The overwhelming sensation that maybe he's just imagining everything makes him dizzy. Lifting his hands from Will’s face, he threads his fingers into Mike’s shoulder-length hair, slightly tugging.

Did he die and go to heaven? 

“Will–” Mike is barely able to get the sound out, trying his best to separate himself from the kiss for a handful of seconds, breath catching as Will pulls him closer as if worried the space between them is too much. Still, he tries to take every single detail of Will’s face under the dim light of the balcony: his beauty mark right above his lips, the freckles that spread across the bridge of his nose, the slight flush of red on his skin, before Will interrupts him, kissing him again.

He doesn’t complain, though. Why would he? He knows better than to complain about the boy he’s in love with, kissing him. 

His hands slide into Will’s hair, fingers curling tight in the soft, barely there curls that form at the nape of his neck. The realization dawns on him very quickly that this isn’t a figment of his imagination. That this… this has to be real, and this has to be happening to him. Will’s hands, as if they have a mind of their own, are unable to decide where to hold Mike, roaming up toward his collar. Mike doesn’t need to say anything, following Will’s lead and pushing himself closer without thinking as he chases the absolute ache that’s been living in his chest for years – for what feels like forever.

Will makes another quiet sound into the kiss, one that sounds suspiciously like a moan, and it sends a jolt straight through Mike’s spine, breaking apart only long enough for both of them to catch their breath, breathing heavily.  

“Holy shit,” Mike pants, those being the only words he can muster up to say. His eyes widen, looking at the boy standing in front of him. “Will, I–”

Will cuts him off again, using his hand to grab Mike’s chin, gently, pulling it down so that they’re connected again. The kiss is slower, deeper, like he’s savouring every second they get with each other. Mike immediately melts into it, fingers tightening at Will’s waist, grounding himself in the solid warmth of him. This is real – this is really happening.

When they finally part, there’s a smile on Will’s face that brings Mike’s heart to the base of his throat. “Holy shit,” Will repeats.

*

Their table is exactly where they left it.

This time, rather than going back to his seat across from him, like where he was earlier, Will chooses to sit behind him, close. Too close to be accidental. His knees brush Mike's under the table, and Mike feels the touch radiate everywhere. He quickly sends another desperate look at Will, as though making sure the boy sitting next to him is really him.

"Are you okay, Mike?" Dustin asks, narrowing his eyes. If he notices Will is now sitting next to him rather than in his previous seat, directly across the table, he chooses not to comment on it. Mike is grateful. Rationally, it would make sense for them to sit next to each other: they're best friends, they've been best friends throughout their entire lives. It isn't weird for friends to sit next to each other, is it? "You look like you're stressed the fuck out."

"No, uh, I'm totally fine." Mike shakes his head, swallowing. He looks down at his plate of untouched food, too nervous to even take a bite. Guilt seeps through his bones at the thought of his friends paying decent money for a meal this fancy, and he hasn't touched any of it. Would it look more natural if he ate some of his dinner? He uses his fork, awkwardly swirling it through the mashed potatoes. Would it look less suspicious if he actually ate his meal? "Just feeling a little dizzy."

“I told you to slow it down with the drinking, didn’t I?” Dustin groans, leaning back slightly in his chair. The music continues to play in the dining room, and Mike begins to feel sick to his stomach. “The effects of alcohol are like… amplified tenfold when you have it on an empty stomach, and the last thing you want is to have a brutal hangover at the ceremony tomorrow, Mike.”

“I’m not going to be hungover,” Mike mumbles, trying his best not to look over at Will. “I’ll be fine, Dustin. I know my limits.”

Dustin doesn’t answer him, turning toward Will, head shaking. “Maybe you should try knocking some sense into him, Will. I’m sure he’ll listen to you.”

"What's that supposed to mean?" The words rush from Will's mouth, accusatory. Mike winces.

Dustin shakes his head, looking at his friend quizzically, confusion taking over his features. “Uh… that you’re the closest to Mike, so maybe he will value your words more and actually listen to what you have to say?” 

Mike feels his cheeks heat up at the insinuation.

"Right," Will quickly nods his head, like the answer is obvious. Their knees continue to touch under the table. "Of course, yeah, that's why. Makes total sense."

Dustin looks at Will, then back at Mike. Looking down at his plate, he reaches for his fork, piercing some of his baked potato and shoving it in his mouth in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the situation that's unfolding between them. Is it obvious? It feels really obvious. Can Dustin see right through him? Mike cringes. Dustin is incredibly smart, so he wouldn't put it past him to connect the dots as easily as they come. He hopes he's wrong.

"Whatever that means," Dustin rolls his eyes, standing up from his seat. "You guys are acting weird, and if I'm being honest, I don't even want to know what's going on. So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get more bread at the buffet."

*

It’s the day of the wedding, and Mike should really be focusing on both of his best friends.

Instead, he’s consumed by the fact that he and Will have yet to discuss what happened the previous night on the balcony, at the Welcome Dinner. It’s an understatement to say that the memory is eating Mike alive – a more accurate description would be that it’s consuming him, his mind constantly replaying their kiss, the way they kissed each other, and how badly he wants to be able to kiss Will again.

It’s killing Mike that they haven’t said anything to each other since arriving at the ceremony, only briefly brushing shoulders as they stood beside each other by the altar, waiting for both Max and Lucas to walk down the aisle. Mike tries his best not to look over at Will, not to pay attention to the matching white rose boutonniere affixed onto the left lapel of their tailored suit jacket, wondering what colour rose they would choose if they ever had a wedding of their own. He tries not to notice the sound of Will’s sniffling from beside him as he watches Max walk down the aisle, and the small cries as she and Lucas share their first official kiss as a married couple, but he’s unavoidable. Mike sees him everywhere, Mike feels him everywhere.

He tries, he really, really tries to focus on the heartfelt speeches, Lucas making jokes about how Max used to call him ‘Stalker’, and how, without fail, she was always able to beat them in every single video game they played together at the arcade. His heart warms at the memories, the fun memories from their time spent together as kids— just kids, and not when they were thrown into the Upside Down. Everyone continues to laugh at Lucas’ jokes, and in any other normal situation, Mike would even laugh alongside them. Instead, his eyes are drawn to the boy sitting next to him at their assigned ‘groomsmen’ table, laughter echoing throughout his ears. It’s as though his eyes are automatically always drawn to Will. 

He wants to see Will’s reaction to everything he’s witnessing: the way he laughs alongside the others, his smile, the way his eyebrows furrow in admiration as he watches Lucas and Max kiss each other on the dance floor, the way his head slowly nods along to the music playing through the speakers, and the way the colourful lights make his eyes shine beautifully. He longs to know more, to experience more, to see more of Will. Six years is an incredibly long time, and he wants to make up for every minute, hour and day that he’s missed.

Trying his best not to get caught staring, he refocuses himself back toward Lucas and Max, watching them share their first dance. They’re swaying softly to the music, her head on Lucas’ shoulders, both of them crying. Watching his friends get married, watching them be so… in love with each other, should make him happy. Should make him feel grateful, even.

Except, it doesn’t make him feel any of that. Instead, it just makes him… sad. It covers him, it seeps into his bones, and he even feels guilty, because he's jealous.

He longs for a wedding like this – surrounded by family, friends, and accompanied by Will. He wants to slow dance with him on the dance floor while everyone watches, he wants to cut the first piece of the cake with him, and he wants to wear matching rings. He wants to spend the rest of his life with Will; he would do anything for him. The reality haunts him like a spirit stuck in limbo, knowing that he isn’t that lucky. He’s not sure he ever will be, and not sure if he ever has been. 

So, whenever Will brushes against him, despite their skin covered in the cotton material of their button-down dress shirt and their suit jackets, Mike’s chest tightens in a way that makes it increasingly difficult for him to discern whether he’s about to laugh or cry. The wine buzz from the previous night is nothing compared to the adrenaline that pulses through his veins when he clumsily makes eye contact with Will, or when their knees brush underneath the table, hidden by the tablecloth. He longs for his touch; he awaits it.

In the reception hall, it almost becomes too much for him to bear. Why isn’t Will saying anything to him? Does he regret what he’s done? Does Will regret kissing him the night before? Does he think that it's nothing more than a mistake, and he doesn’t want anything to do with Mike anymore? The possibility of Will never wanting to speak to him again creates the overwhelming urge to throw up.

He wonders how much alcohol is too much alcohol for him to consume in one weekend, and if he’s crossed the threshold yet. He considers getting up from the table and going to the bar and getting another drink, maybe even something non-alcoholic, like a Shirley Temple, just to have something to hold, to distract himself from the fact that Will isn’t speaking to him. Should he speak to him first? Is that what Will’s been waiting for? Has he been waiting for Mike to make the first move all night, and again – he’s too late?

As if reading his mind, Will leans close enough that he’s able to whisper in Mike’s ear, getting a whiff of his familiar cologne. “Mike,” Despite the volume of the music surrounding them, he can hear Will perfectly. His voice vibrates against Mike’s ear, causing goosebumps to spread all over his skin. Using the surrounding noise as an excuse, Mike decides to lean in even closer, until Will’s lips graze his ear. The touch makes him feel like he might scream. “I think we need to talk.”

Mike swallows, thankful that the lights are colourful enough, strobes and shades of blue and yellow covering the reception hall so that Will doesn’t see the flush that is beginning to spread all over his face. 

“Talk?” The question leaves his mouth, despite knowing exactly what Will is referringto. “About, um, what?”

“You know exactly what we need to talk about.” Will’s voice is rushed and hurried, eyes quickly looking to his left, as though worried someone can hear them. 

“Do I?” The words slightly stumble from his lips, as though he’s unsure what to respond to Will.

“Mike,” Will’s voice holds a line of warning, and Mike forces down a smile as the older boy continues to glare at him. “Now isn’t the time to pretend like you have no idea what’s going on. We need to talk about this.”

“Here?”

“Obviously not.” Will glances around the table, then gestures toward the door of the reception hall. “We’ll go up to my room. I think we need somewhere private that’s not a balcony with windows this time.”

“Private?” Mike repeats, the knot in his throat growing. Being alone with Will makes his head hurt. “What if someone notices that we’re gone?” Mike asks, quickly sending a glance toward the dance floor, where everyone is dancing amongst themselves – Lucas and Max holding hands as they sing along to a song he isn’t familiar with.

“They won’t notice if we leave while they’re all on the dance floor,” Will whispers hurriedly, and Mike doesn’t need him to say anything else, standing up from his chair and following Will’s lead. “Besides, everyone is drunk. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

They slip out of the reception hall, skillfully (and quickly) weaving past all of the dancing guests and clinking glasses. He avoids making eye contact with any of them, worried they might pull him into a conversation of small talk that he wouldn’t be able to get out of. Mike watches as Will presses the ‘up’ button for the elevator, shifting his weight onto his other foot. He’s nervous, Mike can tell, trying his best to hide it as the doors finally open, with a soft ‘ding!’.

They walk in, the doors sliding shut in front of them. A wave of nervousness washes over him. The elevator is so small. Mike tries his absolute best to look natural, leaning back against the mirrored panel to his right, his heart hammering so loud it almost drowns out the faint music playing from the speakers on the ceiling. He can feel it in his ears, in his chest, in every fibre of him. Who likes elevator music, anyway? 

Despite the distance Mike tries to create between them, their hands brush accidentally as they wait for the elevator to reach the seventh floor, like magnets. It’s just the backs of their fingers, but it sends a shock straight through Mike’s arm – electricity coursing through his veins.

He wants to touch Will. He wants to kiss him again. Right now, if possible. Selfishly, he wants nothing more than to push Will up against the mirror of the elevator and kiss him. Pushing himself up off the morroe, his shoulders graze Will’s, and once again, he feels that familiar, impossible ache that tightens in his chest. Pulling him out of his thoughts, he hears the familiar ‘ding!’ as the doors open. 

Mike follows Will, and he isn’t sure he’s ever been to a hotel where the hallway feels this long. Neither one of them says anything. Mike quickly makes his way to his hotel room, key card in hand. Stopping in front of room ‘7819’, Mike’s eyes focus on the way Will slips the key card into the lock (trying to avoid staring at his hands), watching as the door clicks open with a small, green flash. Will turns the doorknob, opening the door and motioning for Mike to go inside.

They’re in the room to talk, Mike reminds himself. The room is dark, the only light source being the dim moonlight shining through the window. Swallowing, Mike’s breath hitches as he notices just how… good Will looks in this lighting. He’s so beautiful. Blinking rapidly, he reminds himself that they really need to talk. They should, shouldn’t they? 

But, as soon as the door shuts behind them, and they’re alone, it’s as though all of the anxiousness in Mike’s body completely melts away. He’s alone, with Will, and it doesn’t take long before he takes three steps, grabbing him softly by the shoulders and lightly pushing him up against the wall. He knows that Will wants to talk, but that can wait, can’t it? They’re alone, really alone, and the only thing on his mind since seeing him in that suit is that he wants to kiss him. 

They are now chest to chest, in their matching groomsmen suits, and Mike doesn’t need to think. His lips crash into Will’s without hesitation, and he reciprocates without a question. It’s rushed, both boys are desperate for a taste of each other, running on a mixture of adrenaline, limited time and the pit in their stomach that they may never have another opportunity to do this again. 

It’s sloppy, the way their hands cover every inch of each other. The way their palms slide, grip, and hold onto every body part. Will threads his hands through Mike’s hair, lightly pulling, and Mike’s hands are pulling at Will’s collar, uncaring that both of their shirts likely are wrinkled and unbuttoned. It feels urgent. This is urgent, the way they need each other viscerally, the same way they always have.

Will lets out a small breathy gasp – caught off guard as Mike’s hands travel from the collar of his dress shirt, down to his tie, but does not pull away. Instead, his hands go to Mike’s waist, holding onto him like he’s afraid Mike will leave the hotel room, to which Mike would rather die. He never wants to lose him again; he never wants to lose this. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and Mike, for once, allows himself the privilege and the selfishness of threading his hands through Will’s slightly outgrown hair, gripping, tugging, moving his body toward him to get as close as possible. 

He wants this, he wants this so badly. Badly enough, Mike is almost able to forget that Will has a boyfriend waiting for him in New York. 

Breaking the kiss just long enough to catch their breaths, the only sound in the room being their slight pants, Mike bends down slightly, pressing his forehead to Will’s. Guilt courses through his veins, and he knows that he should at least try to do the right thing. 

“God, Will… I don’t think… I shouldn’t…” His voice comes out ragged, heart caught in his throat. He doesn’t want to say the word, he doesn’t want to mention him, but he knows that he has to, at the very least, try. 

“I know,” Will breathes, voice rough, hands not daring to leave Mike’s waist. In fact, they get tighter, and Mike tries not to whine or let out another shaky breath, but it’s proving to be incredibly difficult. The hold Will has on him, even after all of this time, is slightly terrifying, but at the same time, completely and utterly electrifying. Never in his life has anyone else made Mike feel this way. “We shouldn’t, but I shouldn’t be doing any of this either. Just touch me, Mike.”

Mike swallows, hands still threading through Will’s hair, watching as his eyes lightly shut every time he pulls at it. He loves his hair. Will moves forward, reconnecting their lips hungrily, and Mike can’t help but think that, to him, it doesn’t matter if what they’re doing is wrong. In fact, he knows what he’s doing is wrong – but he doesn’t find it in himself to care. Not when he finally has Will alone, in a hotel room, away from everyone. Not when he’s been fantasizing about this moment since he was fourteen years old. 

Not when he finally has Will Byers kissing him. 

“Will,” Mike mumbles, instantly reattaching his lips as though the single second he separates from Will makes him feel insane. “Will, you have a boyfriend–”

Will winces, though continuing to press his lips on Mike’s neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses in an attempt to get him to stop talking, to focus only on him. It almost works, slightly stumbling backward, dizzy from the touch. Will, still holding onto his waist, steadies him as he pushes himself off the wall. Turning them around, the sound of Mike’s back hitting the wall echoes throughout the room. Mike’s eyes widen at the action, not expecting it. He would let Will throw him around as much as he wants, whenever he wants. He would let him do anything to him, really. 

“Please don’t talk about him right now.” 

Mike can’t help himself, the words falling from his lips through messy, laboured breaths, eyes fluttering shut as Will finds his sweet spot. “Do you love him?” Please say no, he thinks to himself, heat ruminating between them. 

“Mike,” The words spill out as Will fumbles with the buttons of Mike’s shirt, the vibration of his voice spreading on his neck. “Shut up,” His voice now sharp. “I just told you that we are not talking about him right now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mike’s eyes widen at the shift in energy between them, fighting back a smile at seeing Will get so… bothered and annoyed with him. It’s a new feeling that brews inside of him, something that is both so difficult to explain, but so… so incredible and eye-opening. Heat travels all over his body, settling in the pit of his stomach. He’s so fucking hot.

Will tilts his head back slightly. “What?”

“Has anyone ever told you just how… fucking hot you are when you’re angry?” Mike’s eyes flicker down to Will’s mouth and back up again. He wants Will; he wants him so viscerally that it hurts. He’s tempted, really tempted to push some more of his buttons to see how angry he would get at him. Maybe he could yell at him some more, yell at him so… prettily that it makes him blush. God, he’s so far gone, isn’t he? “Kiss me, Will. Please, Will, kiss me.”

“You’re such a loser,” Will mumbles, a smile on his face as he surges forward and reconnects their lips. 

*

Mike wakes up to the sound of Will gasping beside him. 

His body reacts before his brain can catch up, immediately and instinctively pushing himself up on the mattress, sitting, heart pounding and rubbing the fatigue from his eyes with his hand. It only takes about five seconds for him to realize that he is still in Will’s hotel room, underneath the covers. He reaches down, pinching the skin on his thigh to make sure he isn’t still dreaming, that this is real. It is, he thinks, wincing at the pain that spreads in his leg. This is really happening. 

“Will?” Mike’s voice comes out thick and rough with sleep. Clearing his throat, he turns his head, looking at the boy beside him. “Will, are you okay?”

Will is also sitting up in the bed, sheets off his body and heaving heavily. He’s gripping the comforter of the bed tightly on his sides, a thin layer of sweat covering his body, the collar of his skirt darkened from it. It doesn’t take Mike very long to adjust to the darkness that consumes the room, curtains still drawn and no sign of the sun behind them. What time is it?

“It’s… It’s nothing, Mike.” Will clears his throat, barely able to get the words out. Mike knows that look, the fear in Will’s eyes. He recognizes it, remembers it, and knows that it’s not nothing, not believing him at all. “It’s just a nightmare. I’m… I’m sorry for waking you up. You can, um, go back to bed. I’ll be fine. It’ll just take me a few minutes to, um, calm down.”

His nightmares.

 “You… You still get those?” Mike finds himself asking, voice slightly caught in his throat. Sure, Mike often deals with his own share of nightmares about everything he’s witnessed, everything he’s experienced both in the Upside Down and the Abyss, everything he’s experienced with Will, but his pale in comparison to Will’s. They are very different. Will's are much… worse. 

“Sometimes?” Will manages, barely above a whisper. “I mean, they’re not always as… bad as they used to be, but they’re still, um, present? They never really went away, I guess.”

“Oh,” Mike swallows, guilt overtaking every part of his body. How many times has he had nightmares since leaving Hawkins? How many times did he wake up in the middle of the night, and Mike wasn’t there for him, like he should’ve been? “Does… does, um, Evan know about your nightmares?” Mike hesitates, shifting slightly closer to Will. As much as he doesn’t like Evan, he hopes that Will, at the very least, has a support system in New York. Someone who… understands what he’s been through. Someone who can help.  

“No,” Will winces, as if realizing how bad that sounds, instantly correcting himself. “I mean, he obviously knows I have nightmares; it’s hard to hide this kind of thing, but he just doesn’t know what they’re about.” Will shrugs, as if what he’s saying isn’t a big deal. Mike begs to differ. “I don’t think I ever plan on telling him, to be honest.”

Mike doesn’t quite know how to process that information. It doens’t make sense that they’ve been dating for three years, and he still hasn’t told him anything about his nightmares.  How could Evan not know about something so… scary, something so traumatic and real that Will dealt with since being taken into the Upside Down when he was twelve? What kind of relationship is that? How is that fair to Will? Is he… is he afraid to explain everything to his boyfriend? Is he not comfortable? Why is he in a relationship with someone who can never even understand him fully, completely? 

Mike swallows, trying his best to push down the hundreds of questions and concerns that are bubbling within him. Relax, Mike. Now isn’t the time to bring that up. “Does he… um, help you get through them?” He clears his throat. “When you have the, um, nightmares? Even if he doesn’t know what they’re about?” 

“Not really,” Will lets out a deep sigh, and the sound breaks Mike’s heart, shattering into the bend they’re sharing. How can he keep all of this to himself? How has he been dealing with it? How is he not able to talk about this with his own boyfriend? How is that fair to Will? “The only thing that ever really helped me calm down was… You know.”

Mike frowns, not following. “Huh?”

Will shuts his eyes, swallowing, as if the words about to come from his mouth pain him. “Do you, um… remember what you used to do when I had nightmares? When we were… younger?”

The memories burn deep into his subconscious, remembering exactly what he used to do to help Will calm down. At first, he would just make sure to sleep in the same room as Will, beside his bed on the floor, in case he woke up in the middle of the night scared, so that he wouldn’t be alone. Eventually, he made sure that he put a sleeping bag underneath Will’s bed so he would be there whenever he needed him. 

As the nightmares continued to worsen, so did the anxiety and the panic attacks. When the Byers’ moved into their house, Mike took the same sleeping bag and kept it under his own bed. They would assume the same position – Mike on the floor, and Will in his bed. He would never let Will sleep on the floor, no matter how bad his back hurts the following morning. 

There was one time, in the middle of the night, Will woke up screaming. Screaming more than he ever has before, and Mike was so fucking terrified that he might lose his best friend for a second time. He didn’t know what else to do other than jump into his own bed, reaching for Will and holding him. Holding him as tightly as possible. He remembers holding onto him through the course of his panic attack, for over thirty minutes, until he was able to steady his breathing and calm down enough to take a shower or go back to sleep. Usually, that ended with Mike falling asleep in his own bed, with Will in his arms. It became a frequent affair – Mike lulling him to sleep, hands wrapped around his torso, waking up with their legs intertwined, Will’s head on his chest. 

How is he supposed to forget about that? How is he supposed to… not want to be there for him, again? How is he supposed to just… sit there and not help him? 

“I would, um…” Mike’s heart reaches his throat. “Hold you.”

“Yeah,” Will speaks, voice breaking, breath still heavy, and his eyes still shutting occasionally. Mike’s eyes drift to Will’s hands, which are still gripping the comforter. “You would.”

“Do you want me to…” Mike’s heartbeat travels upwards, toward his ears. “Can I… Can I, um, hold you for a while? Like how I used to? Would that, um, help?”

“Yes, please.” Will nods immediately, not needing much time to even think about the decision being made, his voice shaking. “Please hold me, Mike.”

Regardless of how many years have passed between them, how much distance separates the pair, it’s second nature. Mike opens his arms, slightly moving back and rests against the plush headboard. Will doesn’t take long, falling into the open space of his chest, naturally, and Mike wonders if the older boy can hear how loudly his heart is beating. Will’s hands anxiously play with the material of Mike’s shirt, and comfort spreads across his body. For a minute, maybe two, neither of them speaks. Mike can’t help but think that they fit so perfectly against each other. 

The silence is gentle, filled with the occasional honk from the cars driving along the busy street. He doesn’t think about the fact that they didn’t go back to the party, wondering whether Lucas or Max would yell at them the next morning, but he pushes those thoughts away as fast as they come, because if he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to think about anything, anyone, other than Will. If it were up to Mike, he would stay in this position forever. 

With Will on his chest and the love Mike feels for him seeping out of his skin, it overflows. 

Unsure of how much time passes, his grip around Will never wavers. Mike doesn’t want to let go, wanting to stay like this all night – or at the very least, until Will can fall asleep. Occasionally looking down, he notices how Will’s eyes begin to flutter shut every handful of seconds, then reopen, as though he’s fighting his sleep. Sleep, Mike wants to tell him. Go to bed, Will. You’re safe here. You’re safe with me. 

“You’re shaking less, now.” Mike murmurs, an observation that relieves him, but makes his heart swell with a small sense of satisfaction. Evan can’t do this for Will. Only he can. Only Mike can calm him down like this. Only Mike understands. “Is it working? Do you, um, feel a little bit better now?”

“Yeah,” Will hums in acknowledgement, his forehead now resting against Mike’s shoulder. “This… this is nice.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mike whispers, making sure he addresses it delicately. He lifts his hand, tucking his long strands of hair behind his ear so he can have a better look at Will. He remembers that even back then, Will rarely spoke to him about the nightmares he’s plagued with, and he doesn’t think his answer would be much different now. Still, he wants to try. He wants to know what’s keeping him up at night; he wants to know how he can help him. “About the, um, nightmare?”

Then Will exhales, long and steady, shifting his weight out of Mike’s grasp, who immediately misses the touch. Swallowing, he watches Will. Did he say something wrong? Did he overstep a boundary? He blinks rapidly, trying to find a way to make sure Will isn’t mad at him.

“No, um, it’s okay, Mike. I actually think that maybe I should… shower.” He saways quietly, pushing himself off of the bed. Mike’s eyes are immediately drawn to the way his hair is slightly messier than it was before, and though it’s dark in the room, he notices that Will’s cheeks are now a light shade of pink. That has to be from the nightmare. It has nothing to do with him. As though composing himself, Will’s voice is calmer now, steadier. “You know how it is, um, the shower usually helps. I get, um, really warm.”

“Right,” Mike nods his head. He remembers, of course, he does. Mike’s arm falls away reluctantly, almost having the nerve to ask if he needs any help in the shower, or if he’ll be okay alone in the bathroom. He nods anyway, because of course he does. Whatever Will needs to be done, he will do. “Yeah,” Mike adds. “Yeah, that’s totally fine.”

Will pauses in front of the bathroom door before turning on the light, glancing back at Mike. “Thanks,” he says softly. “You know, for… helping me calm down and stuff. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Mike smiles faintly, eyes not leaving the boy standing before him. “I’ll be, um, here if you need anything.”

A small, flustered smile finds its way onto Will’s lips as he avoids eye contact while Mike looks at him from the bed. “I’m just showering, Mike. I’ll be fine.” 

“I know,” Mike smiles to himself. “But, still, if you, um, change your mind or anything… let me know.” 

Will nods, smiling faintly as he shuts the bathroom door behind him. 

The swirling feeling that is making a home in his chest is the only confirmation that Mike will ever need to know that he is absolutely, irrevocably, and completely in love with Will Byers.

*

Mike moves, now sitting at the edge of the bed, watching Will walk out of the bathroom with the hotel-branded bathrobe, tied loosely around his waist. Despite this, it accentuates his small waist just enough that Mike feels guilty for staring at him for so long. The fabric hangs off of him comfortably, skin still flushed from the shower he just took. Picking up a towel to dry his hair, he begins to pace back and forth in the room. He must still be stressed about the nightmare, Mike thinks. That has to be the reason why he looks so… worried, isn’t it?

“Hey,” Mike says softly, barely louder than the sound of his own heart. Mike wants to say something, anything that will make him feel better. Is there anything he can say? Will looks at Mike, now standing in place. Shifting over slightly, he pats the space beside him on the bed. “Come here.”

It doesn’t take long for Will to walk over, sitting right next to him. Mike lightly tugs at the towel in Will’s hand, and he lets go without a fight. Bringing the towel up to Will’s hair, lightly and delicately running it through his hair, drying it for him. Will lightly tilts his head back, eyes fluttering shut as Mike’s hands continue to thread through his hair, only covered by the white towel.

It feels intimate in a way that makes Mike’s pulse quicken and heart swell, more than it does kissing, more than all of the wanting. It makes Mike want more. He wants to be with him like this every night, and not while he’s just in Hawkins. He always wants him. 

God, Mike loves him so much.

“Thank you,” Will’s voice is barely above a whisper. “For, um, helping me dry my hair.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Mike swallows. “I’m doing this because I want to, not because I have to.”

“Still,” Will pauses, turning his head so that they’re only a couple of centimetres apart. Involuntarily, Mike’s eyes drift toward Will’s lips. He wants to kiss him again. He wants to kiss him so, so badly. “It’s nice to, you know, be spending more time with you again. Even if it’s for a weekend. I missed you. I missed this.”

Mike thinks he might cry. “I missed you more, Will.”

*

“So… so now what?” Are you just going to go back to New York? To… Evan, then?” Sitting at the foot of Will’s hotel room bed, he really tries to mask the hurt that’s threatening to overwhelm him, the pit in his stomach widening. 

“It’s complicated, Mike.” Will cringes, voice low as if worried anyone can hear from outside, in the hallway. “Evan didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a good guy, Mike.”

“So am I,” Mike shakes his head, using his hand to tuck his hair behind his ears, ignoring the lingering feeling of embarrassment crawling up the base of his neck. He’s begging for Will. He’s begging for Will to want him more than he does Evan.“Just break up with him, Will, please.”

Will shakes his head. “We have a lease together.”

“You guys live together?” Mike isn’t sure why that piece of information in particular makes his heart strain. They have a whole life together, don’t they? Their own apartment, their own bed – Mike is going to be sick. He has a whole life without him. 

“I mean, yeah, we do, Mike. We’ve been dating for three years.” Will replies nonchalantly as he continues to fold his clothes, still avoiding eye contact. “Like I literally just told you, it’s complicated. There… there are a lot of pieces that need to be fixed before I can decide this.”

“You kissed me, Will. More than once. Isn’t that a decision in itself?” Mike is trying his best not to sound pathetic, but he’s never been more sure about something, about someone, his entire life. “I choose you, Will. I don’t want you to go back to him.”

Will sighs, biting his bottom lip. “I know I did, Mike. I… I just need time to think about everything. This, this is a lot for me to deal with right now.” 

“I know it is,” Mike says as he stands up from the bed, taking a step toward Will, heart in his throat. There are a million things in the universe he would rather happen than have Will go back home to Evan. “I know this is… a lot, I know it is, but let me be here for you, Will. For… for longer than this wedding weekend. I can’t just… not see you for another six years, or, or until Dustin gets married, or…” Or until you get married, Mike thinks – though he knows better than to voice that part out loud.

“What am I even supposed to do, Mike?” Will shakes his head, and it’s obvious that he’s fighting between two difficult decisions, and Mike wants him to understand that he’s here, now, and that he doesn’t need to think about it. Not anymore. “I don’t want to hurt him. I care about him. I still do.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Mike lets a short, humourless laugh escape his lips. He knows that he’s being selfish by not caring about Will’s boyfriend, by not caring how Evan might feel about Mike and Will doing all of this behind his back, but he’s perfectly fine with being called selfish if it means he’s finally able to have Will by his side. Is that so bad? Does that really make him a bad person? “It shouldn’t matter.”

“Well, it does matter, Mike.” Will insists, crossing his arms. “It makes everything that much harder. He’s kind and… and he listens to me, and he’s been there for me when…” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “When you weren’t.” 

The words hit Mike’s chest like a punch. He freezes, mouth closing. “Come on, Will. You know…” He swallows hard, trying to process. “You know that I didn’t choose not to be there for you. You know that.”

“Oh yeah?” Will takes a step toward Mike. “Why have you never come to visit me in New York, then?” Will’s words are sharp. “You’ve had six years. Six years to reach out, to come see me. Instead, you didn’t. You… all you did was stay in Hawkins, like you’ve always done. Like you said that you would never do.”  His voice begins to break. “Like you told me you wouldn’t do.” 

“You never invited me,” Mike shakes his head, not understanding. “What was I supposed to think? You… you invited Max, and you invited Lucas, and I bet you even invited Dustin, but you never even called me.” Mike tries really hard to push down the tears that are welling up against his lash line. He feels pathetic, absolutely pathetic. “Why didn’t you? Do you hate me that badly? Did I make you that miserable when you lived here? Did you hate being around me that much?” 

“Mike…” Will sighs, rubbing his forehead. “No, of course not, you didn’t make me miserable–”

“Then why didn’t you ask me to come?” Mike repeats, voice lightly shaking. “I would’ve been there the next day. Same day, if it was even possible. I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.” He shakes his head, pushing down the emotions that threaten to overflow, much like they’ve been doing all weekend. “I called your mom, the day after graduation, you know.”

Will blinks, not understanding. “What?”

“I asked her if you were home, if I could come over, and she told me you were already driving down to New York with Jonathan. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to leave?” Mike swallows. “Why didn’t you let me at least speak to you before you left? We… we were supposed to have an entire summer together before going to college, Will. Why did you leave without telling me? Why did you leave without saying goodbye?” 

Will glances toward the window, then back at Mike, fingers fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. He takes a deep breath, eyes falling to his bag to avoid looking at Mike, “Evan’s going on a business trip all of next week. He’ll… he won’t be in the apartment.” 

“What?” Mike’s heart gives an unpleasant lurch. What does this have to do with their conversation? Is he trying to rub it in his face that he has a super, successful business-like boyfriend and Mike is forced to go back to Hawkins, all alone? “What does that have to do with you leaving me here?”

“And,” Will continues carefully, “I took the time off from work, and I don’t have any important deadlines coming up.” He hesitates, then adds quietly. “You should come visit. While he’s gone.”

The words hang in the air between them, fragile and dangerous all at once. 

Mike stares at him, trying to unpack everything that Will is saying. “You… you want me to come to New York? To… to spend time with you?”

“Yeah,” Will nods his head, and Mike doesn’t miss the tears that are forming in his eyes. “Yeah, Mike, I really do.”