Archive of Our Own

Back when he was still alive, Mike had honestly planned to take this to his grave.

What was his other option, really? To actually tell his best friend that he’s in love with him? No way. That’s far too scary, and far too likely to ruin what the two of them already have – which is something that Mike really doesn’t want to ruin, because it’s one of the only four things in his life that are actually, dependably good.

Except, of course, when it’s not.

Because even before the night when he actually died, Will’s presence often made Mike feel like his time to “take this to his grave” might come sooner rather than later. Which is, to be clear, just a convoluted way of saying that being around Will often made him feel like he was about to be staked through the heart. And, also, that Mike has always felt a terrible urge to sink his teeth into everything he loves.

He did his best to push it down, of course. But sometimes, it felt like the longer he kept this thing inside his chest, the more it ate at him from the inside. Until he was just… somebody else. Or trying to be, anyways.

And then it didn’t even seem to matter, because it just kept growing anyway.

But dying does tend to change a person’s perspective of things. Dying and coming back to life, as so happens, even more so.

At least, Mike assumes that’s what did the trick. It’s not exactly like he can check with someone and confirm this suspicion.

Obviously, he has met other vampires since being turned – and there is, in fact, such a thing as a vampire forum to which he hypothetically could anonymously forward all his embarrassing questions. Still, he has good reasons to believe that they wouldn’t respond to these particular inquires, except maybe with a lifelong ban.

Not that he can blame them. Questions like “could my close brush with permanent death be why I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to confess my feelings for my best friend?” aren’t something that he would want to deal with, either, if he had any choice in the matter.

Point is: Mike has already taken his feelings for Will to the grave once, and it wasn’t any fun. 

And sure, maybe there weren’t any actual graves involved, but he did very much still die, so you’ll forgive him for not getting stuck on the details. Because dying, as just sort of a general rule, isn’t very pleasant. It hurts, it’s miserable, and in Mike’s personal experience, it leaves a really foul taste in your mouth. Dying when you still have so many things left to do and say, though, is even worse.

Or, it probably is. Mike only died once (and it didn’t even stick), so it’s not as though he’s exactly an expert.

But there is at least one thing he actually knows for certain: while he was lying there, bleeding out at the edge of the woods, he couldn’t stop thinking about how he never got around to asking Nancy to teach him how to drive. 

And it’s not as though he was particularly concerned about the transport in afterlife, or anything, but – well. It was this whole thing, really: about their family, and about how they so rarely talk to each other about the things that matter, and how at this point, Mike isn’t even sure he’d know how do to that. But also about how he thought that maybe, if they sat in a confined space for long enough, at least he and Nancy might eventually start talking again. Like, really talking. 

Besides, there were still so many stories to share with Holly, and movies to introduce to El, and stupid comic book debates to get into with Max. There was also no way he was letting Lucas, Dustin and Will finish that campaign without him, and shit, he really needed to return his books to the library. His mom would kill him for the second time if he didn’t. 

Also, the night he died was a Wednesday, and Wednesdays were lasagna nights. Everything else, he could probably live (or die) without, but he couldn’t miss that.

And he needed to tell Will that he’s in love with him. That was a pretty big thing, too. 

The bottom line is: Mike didn’t want to die, and then he simply… didn’t. Or at least, he didn't die entirely. He has fangs now, which is cool. He has to use them to drink blood, which is slightly less cool, and actually kind of gross, sometimes. Or, if you're a horror fan like Will, that part is pretty cool too. Allegedly.

(He's being factitious, by the way. There was nothing actually simple about the way that he did not die. There were a lot of coincidences, a lot of gore, and a disappointing lack of turning into a bat. But, you know. He digresses.)

It's not all that bad, though, at the end of the day. He at least no longer has to worry about being the slowest person when running a mile in PE.

He does still have to worry about school, though. Apparently, being an undead, bloodsucking creature still doesn’t excuse you from missing gym class, or writing your homework. This is, naturally, a reoccurring complaint of his, which he voices repeatedly – even if the patient sympathy of his friends has started growing thin.

He’s complaining about it now, in fact, head in hands while sitting in the history classroom.

The weather is gloomy, but Mike prefers that to anything else, these days. Although sunlight won’t exactly turn him to ash (something that he had not been very thrilled to fact-check), it does make him feel like a steaming pile of shit. He spent most of spring and summer feeling tired and irritable (or more irritable than usual), but he fares considerably better during the colder months. Especially now that the sun has started to set at four in the afternoon.

Or at least he would fare better, if his teachers would stop giving out such stupid assignments. He really hates high school.

The teacher still hasn’t walked in. Mike had been using the extra time to work on an essay, but then decided that he would much rather use it to sulk about having to work on the essay, instead. He and Will sit in the second row, while Lucas and Dustin sit in the first, chairs fully turned away from the blackboard. 

“Drained already?” Dustin asks, once he notices Mike’s sullen behaviour. When nobody responds, he looks around expectantly. Will offers him a smile, because he unfortunately actually likes puns. Lucas, however, keeps his eyes firmly and pointedly glued to his history book, as though that is somehow affecting his hearing. Dustin is undeterred by the prevalent lack of enthusiasm. “Get it? Drained.”

“Yeah, Dustin,” says Mike, voice muffled against his hands. “We get it.”

“It’s funny because you’re a vampire,” Dustin explains, unnecessarily.

Lucas lifts his pencil case, and hits him in the arm. 

“Dude,” he warns, in a low but harsh whisper. “What's actually wrong with you?”

Mike says nothing. He is, in fact, feeling very drained at the moment. 

Dustin waves off the question. “It’s not like anyone will think it’s true," he says, and it takes a moment for Mike to realise that he's talking about him again. "He had to start levitating before you even considered believing him.” He gives Mike a once over, and adds: “You know, it probably helps that you already looked like that before you were turned."

He glances around the group, waiting for agreement. He gestures at Mike's face, and Mike moves his hand away with his pencil. "Right? He has the whole dark, grumpy thing going on."

Mike furrows his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“What?” he protests. “I don't have a grumpy thing.”

Both Lucas and Will pointedly refuse to meet his eyes. Dustin raises an eyebrow, stupidly smug.

"...Whatever,” Mike says, grumpily. “It’s not like I would know, anyway.”

And of course, now they do look at him. For some reason, they all seem really confused.

"Elaborate,” Dustin prompts. 

Mike isn't sure that there's anything to elaborate. “I can’t see my reflection,” he says, like this should be common knowledge of vampire lore. Or, more accurately, Mike's personal vampire lore. Mike lore.

Whatever.

Although, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t think he ever actually mentioned it. Truth be told, it’s probably because he doesn’t think about it much. After all, there are parts of being a vampire that suck a whole lot more, and very literally, at that. On the scale of things that annoy him about being a vampire, not being able to see his reflection ranks significantly lower than not being able to eat Enzo’s garlic knots. 

But it does bother him a little, sometimes. Not out of vanity, or anything – but because of what an obvious reminder it is that no matter how hard he tries to keep a hold of his normal life, a part of him did die that night. And he can never go back to it. 

Which is, for obvious reasons, a real downer to bring up so early in the morning.

Lucas must notice that this isn’t a conversation he’s particularly enjoying, because he kicks at his leg under the table, and sends him a teasing smile. “Explains your look right now,” he says.

Mike frowns. Will and Dustin both grin, because they’re awful. Sure, let's all make fun of the dead guy.

“What’s wrong with my look?” Mike demands. 

When he gets no response, he instead turns specifically to Will – because he is the most likely to tell the truth, but still deliver it in a way that is  comparably nice. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks again.

Will shakes his head, like he’s about to assure him that everything’s fine, but then helplessly breaks into another grin. 

“Hold still,” he says instead of answering, and schools his expression as he leans in closer in order to fix the collar of his shirt. Which is fine with Mike, and definitely doesn’t make every drop of blood he had for breakfast rush to his face. His eyes quickly fall down to Will’s lips, and when he meets his eyes again, Will is already looking back, worried. His head is tilted to the side like he’s figuring something out. 

Finally, he asks: “You really can’t see yourself at all?”

Mike shrugs, like: what can you do about it.

“It’s fine,” he says, with a toothy grin that reveals his fangs. He’s so focused on making the crease between Will’s eyebrows disappear that he doesn’t even stop to consider the words that are leaving his mouth.  “As long as I can still see your face,” he says. “I'll be alright.”

Will's worried expression suddenly morphs into one of surprise, eyes widening.

There is a faint blush on his cheeks, and as his words catch up to him, Mike can feel his own face heat up even more. He wishes he skipped the meal he had before coming to class. A diet that consists entirely of liquid courage isn't always very beneficial.

"Wait," Mike backtracks quickly, "That came out wrong. I mean, not wrong, just, what I meant was that… Um." Shit. That's all he has. He drops his head back into his hands. Will turns to Lucas and Dustin, but they both only shrug.

“He’s speaking in tongues again,” Dustin guesses.

Face still burning, Mike throws a crumpled-up notebook page in his direction. He misses. His night vision and speed have increased significantly since he became a vampire, but there are some things that just can’t be improved upon, supernatural forces be damned. 

Obviously, that last part is also applicable to his flirting skills.

“Okay,” says Will, voice somewhere between amused and puzzled. “Well… you look good now?”

“Thank you,” Mike mumbles, still not looking up. 

Thankfully, the teacher chooses this moment to walk in, and the four of them are all lame enough to be genuinely interested in what they’re learning, and therefore unwilling to continue the conversation during class. Mike especially has recently decided he needs to pay even closer attention in history, in case he ever wants to play into this whole vampire thing. 

As in, really lean into it. Pretend that he was turned back in the eighteenth century, and met a bunch of historical figures along the way. Maybe even buy a black cloak with a high collar, stand in dimly lit street corners, and say darkly ominous phrases that he usually only gets to say during DnD sessions. He might even learn how to play the organ, if he feels like it.

Just to pass the time, or whatever. He's going to be around for a while, after all.

Still, as ambitious as his plans for the future are, he’s currently a seventeen year old with a full-time crush. Twenty minutes into the lesson, Mike sneaks a glance in Will's direction (for no other reason than because he’s nice to look at), only to find that he’s busy doodling in the margins of his notebook. Mike, ever the supporter or art and culture, decides that he'll have to ask him about it later.

But by the time the bell rings, he has already forgotten this decision – and afterlife simply carries on.

Near the end of last semester, Will started working at a small diner at the edge of the woods.

So did Steve and Robin, really, but since Mike definitely doesn’t drive there every weekday just to look at Steve Harrington’s stupid hair, he considers this detail to be more or less irrelevant. He doesn’t do it for the food either, obviously, but that’s not a fact that he’s quite as eager to share. Mike might not be dead set on taking his feelings to the grave anymore, but there are certain things that really don’t need to be said out loud.

Unfortunately, nobody told this last part to his friends.

“This is getting kind of sad,” Max announces, almost immediately after the four of them all settle at their window table.

“Don’t,” Mike warns; because although he likes all of his friends equally (and honestly, he does), Will has just pushed his sleeves up his forearms while making someones coffee, and so… Well. It's already hard enough for him as it is.

“Dude,” Lucas says. “I get that you're still processing, but I think we kind of have to talk about it.”

“About what?” Mike asks, sounding far more annoyed than he has the right to.

“About your crush,” El informs him, as she dips one of her fries into her and Max’s shared vanilla fudge sprinkle delight. “On Will.”

Right. As if that needed to be clarified. 

“Keep it down,” Mike whispers furiously, as though Will can somehow hear them over all the diner chatter, or the music coming though the speakers. Lucas looks at him like he’s the one acting crazy here.

“So you can talk about being a vampire at full volume, in the middle of history class,” he says, establishing the facts of the situation. “But talking about a crush is where you draw the line?”

“It’s different,” Mike insists. 

Then, after reassessing his priorities, he adds: “And I don’t have a crush.”

This is, of course, a lie. All of his friends know that it’s a lie. Even Steve and Robin probably know by now, with how often he hangs around, occupying space with nothing but his single cup of black coffee. The guy sitting a few feet away, eating his cheeseburger, probably knows it too. The only way it could be the truth is if you chose to get stuck on the details, and clarified that what Mike feels towards Will is far more than just a crush.

He’ll still deny it, though. Just... out of a principle.

“Right, sorry,” Max pipes in, sarcastically. “Because you obviously come here for the drinks.”

“I can still eat normal food,” Mike protests. This is true. He doesn’t need to, and it makes him feel sick, but he can eat it.

“You hated these milkshakes way before you became a vampire.”

Mike opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns. 

“Death changes people.”

Max raises an eyebrow.  

“Go on then,” she dares him, and pushes the glass towards him. “Drink it.”

Mike frowns. He’s distantly aware of the fact that, as a creature of the night, he should be above peer pressure, or whatever. But, well, he isn’t. Especially not when the peer in question is Max, who Mike likes proving wrong even more than he does most people. Besides, it’s just a milkshake. A three tier milkshake that would either kill or immortalise a Victorian child, but still. How terrible can it possibly be? Maintaining eye contact, he brings the straw to his lips.

And immediately regrets it.

His entire face is completely contorted. Max grins, a little too amused by his agonies.

“Want me to pass your compliments to the chef?”

Mike ignores her, and instead reaches for El’s glass of water. Lucas, however, immediately catches on to the joke that she’s making.

“Oh Will,” he croons, in a voice that is presumably supposed to be an imitation of Mike’s, but sounds more like a character in a borderline offensive vampire movie “You’re so cool.”

“And you look so good in your apron,” Max adds, leaning against Lucas with a hand pressed to her forehead.

Mike looks at them blankly, thoroughly unimpressed. 

“You two are really not as funny as you think.”

They, predictably, do not care for his criticism. 

In fact, they seem to take it as as challenge to get even more annoying.

“Your eyes are such a nice shade of green."

“I love you so much, Will. Would you marry me?”

“I wish we could sleep in the same coffin forever and ever.”

“His eyes are hazel,” Mike argues, before he can remember that this is a very stupid hill to die on. As an afterthought, he adds:  “And I don’t sleep in a coffin.” 

Lucas and Max meet each other’s eyes, and then burst out laughing. El giggles along, too.

Very much done with this conversation, and now without any dignity left to lose, Mike chances another glance in Will’s direction. There currently aren’t any costumers to serve, so he’s leaning against the counter and drawing something onto a napkin. The cap of his marker is held between his teeth, because nobody here ever stops to think about Mike's well-being. And although Max and Lucas are just teasing, the truth is the truth, and Will does in fact look dangerously good in his apron. 

Then he suddenly looks up from his drawing, and right at Mike.

A smile spreads across his face when he realises that Mike is already looking right at him, and raises his hand up in a confused little wave. Mike responds with a wave of his own, and pointedly ignores the snickering idiots at his table. Sure, it’s easy for them to laugh. It wouldn’t be so funny if Mike brought up how Lucas once made him pretend to be Max so that he could practice asking her out on a date. Or how even after all that practice, he still sucked so bad that Max had to be the one to ask. 

But he doesn’t get to mention any of that, because Will suddenly abandons his place at the counter, and starts to make his way towards them. Mike sits up straighter. El and Max exchange a look, which he ignores, because they’re clearly conspiring against him. 

“Hi guys,” Will says, once he’s standing in front of their table. “Everything alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Mike asks, mildly worried. Will looks down at him, raising an eyebrow, and gives him a confused little smile.

“I mean the order,” he elaborates. “Is it okay?”

...Right. That does make more sense.

“It’s great,” Lucas jumps in. “Mike was just telling us that he sends his compliments to the chef.”

Under the table, Mike sharply kicks his ankle. Lucas returns the kick with precision, and Mike leans down to grab his leg in pain, dramatically. “It was the other leg,” El helpfully informs him, and Mike accordingly moves his dramatics a little to the right. 

Will observes all of this.

“Well, that’s good,” he says, slowly. “The chef  has only nice things to say about you.”

At this, Mike’s leg suddenly stops hurting. 

He looks up. Immediately and on instinct, his voice soften itself into a lower tone, reserved for Will only. “Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Will assures him, “You know that Robin thinks you’re adorable.”

The smile falls right off Mike’s face. “Yes,” he says, trying his best not to sulk. “That’s why she’s my favourite.”

“Sure,” Will teases, “In that case I’ll catch a ride with Lucas after my shift, since he’s my favourite.”

Mike pauses, thinking this over. 

“Well,” he concludes. “I guess you aren’t that bad, either.”

Will nods, satisfied.

“Don't pout," he says, even though Mike definitely isn't doing anything of the sort. "Robin isn’t the only one who thinks you’re adorable.”

Mike’s heart skips naively, but his brain is too smart to fall for the sweet front Will puts up. He squints, instantly suspicious.

“You’re about to be funny, aren’t you?”

Will grins. It’d be annoying if it wasn’t so stupidly cute.

“There’s also Steve.”

“I’m not leaving you a tip,” Mike informs him.

“And what will I do without those fifty cents?”

Mike shrugs, like he honestly isn't sure.

“That art thing better work out for you, I guess,” he says. “What were you drawing earlier, by the way? On the napkin?”

This doesn’t seem like an out of place thing to ask, because Mike has always asked to see Will’s drawings. He has been his number on fan since, like, kindergarten. 

“Lucas,” Will replies easily. “So I can frame his portrait as our regular of the month.” Turning to the rest of the group, who have busied themselves with their own conversations (or at least pretended to), he asks: “Do you guys want me to bring you free doughnuts? They’ll have us throw them away at the end of the day, anyway.”

Everyone shares a look in perfect synchrony, as though practised.

“... Isn't that against the rules?" El asks.

“Yes,” says Will. “So do you want to?”

The answer is, of course, an unanimous yes.

The napkin remains safely tucked into the pocket of Will’s apron, and out of Mike’s sight.

The next Saturday morning, Mike wakes up to his mom shouting his name, and loudly informing him of the fact that someone has come to see him. Because apparently the forces of the universe have all unified in their goal of never letting him rest in peace, or whatever.

Mike, having just woken up at his desk, is in no state to be seen by anyone. He doesn’t need a mirror to know as much, because the trail of drool he left on his textbook is enough for anyone to make an educated guess about his appearance. “Tell them I died,” he shouts back, as hospitable as ever, and not really caring who hears. It’s not like it’s a lie, anyway. 

He looks out through the window, but the rain clouds make it difficult to guess what hour of the morning it might be. There’s a light rainfall, which is strange – the weather forecast said it wouldn’t rain until the afternoon.

“Hi,” someone says from the doorway. “I’m here to offer my condolences.”

Mike jumps out of his seat. 

“Shit,” he curses, having bumped his elbow against the desk. He momentarily relaxes once he realises that it’s just Will – but then he goes tense again, because it’s Will, and he’s still in yesterday’s clothes, and his hair is a mess, and –  “Shit. Hi. Uh.” Will raises an eyebrow. Mike quickly smooths his hair down, and pulls his shirt from where it had ridden up his stomach. “What are you doing here?”

Will frowns. Even this displeased, he still looks so nice. He’s wearing an old band T-shirt that he got from Jonathan, and a slightly too-big flannel. His hair curls a little where it got wet from the rain, cheeks flushed from the cold, and Mike wants to… well, never mind what he wants. It’s best not to think about that.

“You said to come over at two,” Will reminds him. Then, tilting his head to the side: “You look like shit.”

Right. Well. That’s exactly what a guy wants to hear from the person he's in love with.

“Be still, my beating heart,” Mike says sarcastically, and places a hand over his chest for emphasis. But then he notices that his heart isn’t actually doing a lot of beating right now, which is mildly worrying. Fuck. 

He looks at Will. 

“Uh,” he begins, sheepishly. “Two, you said?” 

Will’s frown deepens. 

He closes the door behind him, and walks further into the room. With a worried look in his eyes, he doesn’t stop until they’re face to face, and close enough to be doing some very face to face activities. But instead of finally recognising Mike’s horrible flirting for what it is, Will takes both of Mike’s hands into his own. He doesn’t seem very happy with them.

“You’re cold,” he states, and looks up to meet Mike’s eyes. “You didn’t eat today?”

So. Funny story, actually.

“I got caught up with the essay,” Mike says. “...And then I fell asleep.” The worried look on Will’s face grows deeper. “I’m okay though! I’m totally okay. I mean, I'll need to wait a while before I can get my next meal, but I’m not going to, like,” Oh God. He clears his throat. “Um. Bite you, or anything.”

Will’s hands are warm, and he’s very, very handsome. Did Mike say how handsome he is already? “I wasn’t worried about that,” Will says – and Mike realises, with sudden alarm, that he was the one worried about it. 

“Right,” he says. He sort of wants to take a step back, but he doesn’t have anywhere to go. “Right right right. Well. Good.”

Not good. Bad. Terrible. Mike is a horrible, awful person, and despite knowing this, he suddenly wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into Will’s neck. And it’s not as if he can’t control it, either! But this… this isn’t a matter of that kind of hunger at all.

He doesn’t need to bite Will to survive. He can skip a meal or two and still get away with nothing much more serious than fatigue, crankiness and a severe headache. Which, when you really think about it, isn’t even that drastically different than his regular state of miserable existence.

And yet, he wants to.

Which is all kinds of fucked up, probably. Although, obviously, he doesn’t want to hurt Will. It’s not like that at all. He just wants him, in any and every way possible. There’s no other, roundabout way of saying it that hits as heavily as the word itself. Which is the whole problem, really. Want is so much more terrifying when there's no excuse of need to hide behind.

Will is looking at him; eyes curious and searching. Mike wonders if they see right through him.

“You could, though,” he says, eventually.

Mike’s breath catches. 

“What?” he asks. He doesn’t dare to make the question more specific. 

Instead of answering, Will looks down at the floor. Which is, somehow, and answer in on itself. He looks back up, and asks: “You can control it, right?”

Mike nods, silently. He doesn’t really trust himself around words at this point. He’s not sure if he should trust himself at all.

“So I don’t see the problem,” Will says, as if it’s simple. “You won’t be half-way dead anymore, and I’ll be fine.”

If Will wasn’t holding them, Mike is pretty sure that his hands would be shaking. Will is asking him to. What is he supposed to do with that?

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Will says, with a small smile. “I trust you.”

Mike takes a breath. Okay. It’s totally okay. They're just two guys, helping each other out. He nearly cringes at his own thoughts. For some reason, that phrasing makes it even worse.

“It… it shouldn’t hurt,” he hears himself say. “But you’ll get drowsy later. I mean, like you would if you got your blood taken, I guess? But more because of the venom. It makes you… loopy.”

Will nods. Mike nods too. And then they just sort of stand there, looking at each other.

“Oh, right,” Mike says, as he realises that he is probably the one who should be making the first move. He considers this for a second, and then points his thumb over his shoulder, and to the desk behind them. “Do you want to…” There really is no way to ask this without being weird. “I think it might be easier, because of the angle, and –”

“Sure,” says Will, interrupting this stream of barely cohesive thought. He lets go of Mike’s hands to sit up on the desk. “Like this?” he asks, and Mike confirms it. He wipes his palms against the black fabric of his jeans, because although they’re still cold, they're also all sweaty from the nerves. Which is gross, and not at all ideal. 

He comes to stand in between Will’s knees, and ignores pretty much every image that immediately pops into his head. Like this, Mike’s face is almost exactly at the height of Will’s neck. He uses one of his hands to tilt his chin and better expose his throat, and then moves one of them towards Will’s waist for balance.

Then he hesitates, and steps away again. 

“You know,” he says. “Just to make sure. You don’t have to –”

Will reaches up, and brushes a strand of hair behind Mike’s ear. Then he allows that same hand to trail to the back of his head. “Mike,” he whispers. “It’s fine.”

Mike gets the message, and follows the instruction. His lips must be cold too, because Will shivers when they touch the pale skin of his throat.

And then he bites down.

Blood spills past his lips, but he doesn’t think that’s the only thing making him feel like his nervous system is on fire. All of his previous reservations suddenly entirely meaningless, he places his free hand back on Will’s waist. Closer and closer and closer, until he's no longer sure that there is a line between them at all.

Until Will’s heartbeat becomes his own.

When he steps away, Will’s pupils are wide and dark, watching attentively as Mike wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then, he wordlessly falls forward.

Mike lets out a little oof sound, and quickly brings his arms around him.

“Will, hey,” he says, alarmed. “Are you okay?”

Will mumbles a confirmation into the fabric of his shirt. “You weren’t kidding about the drowsiness, though.”

Mike straightens up instantly, thinking through everything he knows about blood loss.

“I can get you a–”  

He means to suggest bringing him some orange juice from the kitchen, like he has seen doctors do after taking someone’s on TV. But then, Will says: “You’re heart’s beating really fast.” and successfully stops him in his tracks. 

“...Yeah,” Mike agrees, eventually. He clears his throat. “Yeah, um. I mean. That’s just what it does, I guess? Like, after I drink.”

That sounded super convincing.

“Don’t worry about it,” he adds, for good measure.

“Hm,” says Will. 

Hm. That’s all.

And then he just falls asleep, leaving to Mike drive himself into a nervousness-induced insanity all on his own. After a few minutes, once Will repeatedly fails to respond to being sharply poked in the shoulder, he carefully manoeuvres him over to the bed – which is thankfully neatly made, due to Mike falling asleep at the desk the night prior. 

Small victories.

After cleaning up the small puncture wound on Will's neck, he lies down as well. He only intends to shut his eyes for a few moments, but the bed is so much softer than the desk was, and although he makes sure to leave a decent amount of space between them, Will’s nearness is still warm and comforting, drawing him in like a cat to a ray of sun.

The next time he wakes up, Will is no longer there. The clock next to his bed reads 3:15PM.

Mike presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, allowing himself exactly two minutes of unmoderated panic. Then he gets up, stretches, changes into a clean shirt, and heads downstairs for another normal day.

He can hear voices and laughter in the kitchen, belonging to Will and Holly. They’re surrounded by her art supplies, and sporting matching watercolour moustaches. Mike leans against the door frame, watching them undetected.

Will is the first to spot him, over the top of Holly’s head. He grins. 

“Back from the dead?”

Mike rolls his eyes, but smiles as he comes to sit beside them.

“Yeah, yeah. Very funny, Mr. Clarke.”

Holly giggles. “You have to draw Mike’s too,” she says, in a tone that leaves no room for arguments. Will raises an eyebrow, and looks over at Mike, who wrinkles up his nose. 

“I’m fine, thanks,” he says. "Unlike some, I can grow my own moustache."

"Not one this fashionable."

"And that's a tragedy that I will just have to live with."

"Come on," Will taunts. "Don't be a baby." 

Mike goes perfectly still. It takes someone truly hopeless to get flustered over being called baby as an insult, but there he sits.

He wishes he were brave enough to return it. He wishes he were brave enough to do a lot of things. 

Of course, in the end, refusal is futile. Mike spends the rest of the evening with a watercolour moustache on his face, and something warm and tame inside his chest.

Out of all the horrible things that have happened in Mike’s life (and beyond it), being invited to a high school party might just be the worst.

And then, as though sweaty teenagers dancing to terrible music in an enclosed space weren’t already enough of a reason for complete and utter despair, one of them decides to lean into Will's personal space.

Mike doesn’t know this guy's name, and he doesn’t care to learn. He doesn’t even want to know what he already does: which is that he is in Will’s art class, and that he is currently standing much closer than talking about an art project might possibly require. He looks at something Will has drawn on the back of his cup, and touches his arm as he laughs. He’s doing far too much, really.

Mike kind of hopes that he drops dead. He has been informed that this is not a very emotionally intelligent wish to have, but whatever. He's just speaking from the heart.

Then he feels his fangs threaten to come out, and decides to take his jealousy out for a walk. 

Unfortunately, the only thing he manages to accomplish is just to redirect all of his bad mood inwards. And once he starts down that particular path, it's very hard to turn back.

Because actually, what right does he have to be angry, anyway? That guy was obnoxious, sure, but at least he was making some kind of a move. Meanwhile Mike is doing… what, exactly? Biting hard enough to draw blood one second, and then hiding away the next.

He considers going back in, but quickly decides against it. Will is perfectly capable of refusing unwanted advances himself, if that's what they are in the first place. It'd understandable if he'd rather have something easy and fun, rather than whatever the hell it is that Mike has to offer. The entire house pulses with life, and he can't even see his face in the window. 

It’s such bullshit. And to really fucking top it off, the DJ is really terrible. Mike can't even sulk as intended, because he just keeps getting annoyed at the song choices.

The phone rings a few times before Nancy picks up. There’s noise on her side of the line too, and he imagines her busily running around her college campus, with a huge bag on her shoulder, her hands full of books and papers, and her phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear. He listens as she tells him about her day, and pets a house cat that also decided to get away from the crowd.

“It’s mostly fine,” she’s telling him, in the voice of someone who intends to take an active role in making it better. “Some of the guys can be real jerks, as usual. But I can be an even bigger jerk, so I manage.”

“You definitely can,” Mike confirms, with a good amount of authority of someone who used to see her every morning. He absently kicks at an empty beer can. Then he feels bad about it, and goes over to pick it up and throw it into the trash. “But still, I’m sorry. And obviously let me know if you want me to kill them for you, or whatever.”

“Thank you,” she says, without any irony. “That’s really considerate of you to offer.”

“Yeah, well. Anytime.”

Silence. Mike hesitates.

“Holly says she misses you, by the way.”

Several people inside start shouting out for shots. Someone else runs outside to throw up.

“Tell her I miss her too,” Nancy responds. “And that she can call me whenever she likes. And that I love you both.”

What a thoroughly distressing thing to say.

Mike isn’t in the mood to start crying while there are teenagers potentially dying of alcohol poisoning a few steps to his right, so he scoffs instead. “You're getting soft in your old age,” he tells her, and then promptly hangs up the call.

Not long after that, Will joins him on the porch steps. He knocks their knees together in greeting as he takes a seat.

He looks nice, although he’s not wearing anything that different than his regular clothes. His shirt is a little tighter, maybe. It makes him looks solid. Like a real person, fit for a real life.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks.

“Sulking in the shadows,” Mike admits. “Lingering on past regrets. Looking at the crowd with a troubled, faraway expression. Et cetera. And waiting for you, obviously.”

Will raises an eyebrow, smiling at his melodramatics. “Is this the part of the vampire movie where you emerge from the shadows and pin me up against the wall?”

“Depends. What kind of vampire movies do you usually watch?”

“Only the worst ones.”

“In that case, maybe. I’m pretty good at being the worst.”

He says it as a joke, but Will’s expression is suddenly different: that strange mix of earnest and serious than nobody but him can achieve so well. “I think you’re fine,” he says. “And if I think so, it must be true.”

High praise. Mike grins.

“Is this the part of the movie where you ask me if I want to ditch this place, and unknowingly invite a vampire to your home?”

Will shakes his head.

“I know exactly who I’m inviting."

He gives him a nudge. “Come on. There’s a late night screening of The Lost Boys at the cinema. We can still make it if we try.”

Mike’s smile reveals teeth as sharp as the cold air, and intentions as uncertain as the night.

The streetlights flicker overhead, as if they, too, are trying to disguise what he really is, and what he really wants. Something hungry for blood, and as wretched as death itself! A ravenous, foreboding presence; an unsettling figure in the dim twilight. The most fearsome boy this town has ever seen.

Funny how that works. The most fearful one, it would seem, is also himself.

He’s sick and tired of being afraid, of not trusting himself, and of not even being able to face what scares him. Of being constantly stuck between wanting to rebel, and not daring do it in a way that would actually reveal anything important.

And that reluctance is scary too, in its own right. Because what if by the time he finally decides who he is, and how much of it he’s willing to share, it’s just… too late, and the world decides for him? If he waits braced for an avalanche for so long that the snow begins to melt, and he’s left burning alone in the sun? 

After imagining this grim fate for a moment, he once again firmly decides that it sucks. He didn’t die and make his way out of hell just to settle for such a bland eternity, or such self-pitying slowburn of an ending. He can come up with something better.

Besides: who even wants to be on the inside? After-parties are much more fun, anyways. 

Sometimes, when they all have plans after school and need to wait for Lucas to be done with basketball practice, or Dustin with the robotics club, Will and Mike kill their time in the library, or in the empty art classroom.

Mike had generously offered to use his new conviction skills to help them gain access to the aforementioned classroom after hours – but although Will had no objections to the morally dubious part of that suggestion (much like he has no objections to theft, fraud, or a lot of other criminal activities, really; Will Byers is much more of a menace than people give him credit for) it turned out that there would be no need. 

As it happens, Mike’s vampire hypnosis pales in comparison to the power of Will simply asking people for something while looking at them with those wide eyes of his. One polite question directed towards their art teacher, and the classroom is officially all theirs:  “for as long as you need it, sweetheart”. Will's dreams about a life of crime, however, remain tragically squashed.

Honestly, Mike can’t really blame their art teacher for that. He, too, finds saying no to Will to be a very challenging task.

While Will makes use of the charcoal, Mike finishes the teen vampire book that he borrowed the other day. Mostly, though, he spends his time staring at Will. He’s been doing that a lot lately, he knows – to the point where it could almost count as an extracurricular activity of its own. Or maybe not, since he often does it during class, as well.

The conclusion he comes to through all of that gazing and glancing is, of course: I want to kiss him.

This is not a new conclusion, obviously. But it’s been tested and proven in theory on so many occasions now, it’s probably high time to test it in praxis, as well. If Will wants to, of course, which is still sort-of undetermined data, and needs to be further analysed. But from what Mike can tell so far, he thinks that, maybe, the results might turn out to be positive.

Because most of the time, while Mike is staring, Will looks over at him too. Not as if he can sense Mike’s eyes on the back of his head and is unnerved by it, but as if that’s just something he does. 

He does it now, too, and catches the sight of Mike like this: chin in the palm of his hand, and head deep in thought. “What are you thinking about?” he asks. They’re sitting on two chairs, facing one another. One of Mike’s legs folded on his own seat, while the other is outstretched and resting at the edge of Will’s. Will nudges it to get his attention.

Mike doesn’t feel like coming up with a cover up.

“I was thinking about the book,” he admits. “...And then I was thinking about if – well, if kissing would feel any different with fangs, you know? Like, Dustin said Suzie said that it’s different without teeth, so –”

Will laughs. He looks pretty when he laughs. Mike can’t think of a good enough reason why he hasn’t done something about that yet.

“Really?” One of Will’s eyebrows is quirked disbelievingly, but the tilt of his lips is teasing, and almost fondly amused. “That's your question about vampirism?” 

"It’s not my main question," Mike reasons. "It’s just… a sub-question."

Will hums, still outlining a figure on the paper. 

"Well,” he says, offhandedly. “It's not one that I can help you with.” Mike raises both of his eyebrows. Once his own words catch up to him, Will looks up from the sketchbook. "Not that you’d ask me to help,” he clarifies, quickly. “I just meant that I wouldn’t know if the fangs make any difference. But it's not like you would want to kiss me, anyways, so –"

This is news to Mike.

“I wouldn't?” he asks.

Will pauses with his drawing. He doesn't say anything. 

And Mike could still backtrack, at this point. He could play it off as a joke, as he has so many times before, and never mention it again. Or he could finally just do something right.

“I would,” he says, answering his own question. “I would want to kiss you.”

Will’s eyes widen. He looks far too stunned, considering the back and forth they’ve had for the past year. His grip on the sketchbook loosens in his surprise, and it falls to the ground. “I’ll get it,” Will says, slight panic in his voice – but Mike doesn’t notice that in time. His reflexes are much faster, and he gets to it first.

He doesn’t mean to look, honestly. Really, he doesn’t. But then it just… it just sort of happens, and –

Neither of them speaks as Mike takes in the figure on the page. 

“This is –” the words get caught in his throat. He looks up at Will, asking for a permission to turn the page. Eventually, Will nods, and Mike takes the silent approval eagerly, taking his time with each of the drawings, and tracing the lines on the paper with his finger. 

Finally, he looks up. 

“This is amazing,” he says. Even though, really, that doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Will shrugs.

“It’s you,” he says simply, as if that’s entirely what accounts for the amazing part.

And it is Mike. On every page, it’s him. One drawing for every day, the dates scribbled at the top in Will’s handwriting. Some are drawn on the actual paper of the sketchbook, while others have been added in retroactively: history notebook pages, napkins from the diner, and water colour drawings assisted by Holly. 

He’s a little different than he remembers, and different from the boy on the photos he has from before. Part of it has to do with the fact that his face has apparently gotten a little sharper, and his cheekbones a little more pronounced. Part of it has to do with the fact that he no longer allows his mom creative control over his clothes and his haircut. But another part, he thinks, comes simply from the fact that this is how Will sees him. 

In these drawings, Mike doesn’t look like a thing of nightmares. And although he has been made immortal once already, and by something other than art, it somehow doesn't quite compare.

“Yeah,” he allows. “But it’s also you.”

Will does not acknowledge this.

“I started working on it last month, after you told us that you can’t see your reflection,” he explains instead, and gives him a halfhearted glare. “I was going to give it to you once all of the pages are filled, but –” 

Mike can’t wait for him to finish. He crushes him into a hug, as tight as he can make it without hurting.

“Thank you,” he says. “I love it.”

That is an understatement, really. It’s one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for him.

“I’m glad,” Will says, though his tone still seems a little on the edge. Quietly, he asks: “It’s not… I don't know. Too much?”

He’s says it so carefully. Almost as if it's something that he has worried about before. 

It’s the same thing, Mike realises, that he was asking that afternoon in his bedroom. The same thing that Mike himself had been so worried about. And the answer is the same now as it had been then. The answer is that if Mike laid his eyes on Will’s face every single day, for the rest of their lives, he’d still wake up every morning starving for the sight of him.

Or, you know, whatever. Maybe he needs to ease up on the vampire romance novels.

“No,” Mike says. “No way. It’s–” he breaks the hug to be able to look at Will’s face, but still holds him by the shoulders as he shakes his head. “Sorry. I don’t even know what to say.”

Will smiles. “You don’t have to say anything,” he assures him. Which is true, probably.

But he could do something about it, instead.

Several minutes later, Mike is happy to report: kissing with fangs is a huge success.

As soon as they meet of up with their friends afterwards, Dustin lets out a whistle. 

Will immediately covers his neck with his hand, but it's a little too late for damage control. Mike hadn’t bitten hard enough to break surface this time, but he still did more than enough to leave a mark. Or two.

Or Four.

“Vampire attack,” he says, unhelpfully, as he throws an arm over Will's shoulders. Will elbows him sharply in the side.

But Mike just can’t help it. He feels the smile on his entire face, uncontrollably happy in a way he once thought he could never allow himself to be. It’s the kind of happiness that slips through the cracks of the door, no matter how small.

Like sunlight, he thinks.

He turns his face towards it, and presses a kiss to Will's temple.