Archive of Our Own

If someone had told Will ten years ago where he'd be in life at the age of twenty-eight, he'd probably laugh in their face. 

He had been living in a daydream, then, a wistful fantasy. Getting a scholarship to NYU had been a desire made reality, but he hadn't really expected anything meaningful to come out of it. Maybe he'd figure himself out, meet a cute boy who could see past the trauma and the shell that Will had himself hidden inside and love him anyways, maybe he'd just get his art degree and work a handful of customer-facing service jobs to make ends meet, maybe he'd get to travel the world. Instead, he had gotten his degree, and then he moved back in with his parents, in Montauk. 

Montauk is a nice town, even minding the never-ending tourism. His parents are happy, because being chief of police in a town like Montauk really just means stopping the tourists from doing anything stupid and the occasional drug bust; no more kidnapped children, or supernatural murders, or anything else of the sort. His mother, after nearly two decades of working tirelessly to support her family, now gets to enjoy life again, working as a teacher at the tiny pre-kindergartnen school. Nobody knows them here as being the strange, eccentric family whose reputation preceded them back in Hawkins; here, they can just live. 

Maybe that's why he decided to move there after college. New York is wonderful, New York remains wonderful, but the city life never really suited Will in the way he once dreamed it might. It was too loud, too bright, moving constantly even when Will wasn't in the state to keep up with it. He still visits, of course, takes the train to Manhattan every other weekend to hang out with his college friends, goes to Broadway shows with his mom, but he had never felt fully settled there. It wasn't until he arrived at his parents' new place on the coast where he felt like he could finally breathe. 

That was when the first letter had come. There was no return address on this one, not like there would be in the future, but Will hadn't minded that. 

The first letter had preceded a steady flow of them, arriving neatly every first Monday on the dot. How she had known their address, Will hadn't known at the time; hadn't really cared, either. He spent the months between them painting, selling his artwork at the local events, flitting between the bars, trying to speed up the process of discovering who he is, who he wants to be. Then, he lucked out; Mr. Morrisey who owned a cozy gift shop off Main Street was retiring, and he didn't want to sell the shop, and he absolutely adored Joyce Hopper. 

Will writes this in a letter. He's gotten a return address by now, one that he only uses to send letters to. In this letter, he documents the entire process; Mr. Morrisey wants Mom to take over his business, but she's too committed to her new life as a four-year-old teacher. She thinks I could do something with it, but I don't want to run a shop by myself. There's such a lack of arts and crafts in a tourist-full town. Montauk is quiet, sleepy, and nobody really comes to visit except for Jonathan, and occasionally Steve and Robin. 

What he means, in the intention behind each word; there's a place for you if you want it. 

That had been three years ago. 

Now, Will is sure that if he told his eighteen year old self that one day, he'd be running a silly, tourist trap of a ceramics shop in the sleepy town of Montauk, New York, he wouldn't have believed it. He had never been good at pottery, had only attempted it in his art classes when it was required by the curriculum, and he certainly would not have made a career out of it if he had the freedom to choose. 

Except that he did have the freedom to choose, and given the circumstances, he doesn't think he would choose any differently. 

Color Me Yours is a masterclass of taking what you are given and running with it. Will had hand-painted the sign, and he had enough left of his government handout hush money to purchase the kilns, the glaze, the tables. Mr. Morrisey had been ecstatic about the idea of an arts-and-crafts shop opening up on Main Street, so he had signed the lease over to Will almost immediately; both to the shop and to the cozy, two-bedroom apartment that rested above it. 

Now, it is his shop. Well, his and El's. 

El arrives back in his life with the same brazen energy she had left it in. She had been the one to suggest pottery initially, when Will was still musing over what to do with an arts-and-crafts shop in a tourist town; she had learned the basics in her travels, and she loved it, loved crafting mugs and plates and bowls with her own hands. 

Officially, she is Jacqueline Byers, a cousin of Will's come to stay with him after the passing of his great aunt. Unofficially, the entire town knows that she is Will's sister Jackie, with strips of bright pink dyed in her hair and an entire wardrobe full of colorful skirts and an entire bathroom cabinet's supply of eyeshadow and lip gloss. Even more unofficially, she is El, Hopper's daughter come back to life. 

She had made Will promise not to tell any of their shared friends of her existence. It was an easy promise to make, because Will hardly talks to their shared friends nowadays. Dustin is off solving all the world's problems with his mechanical engineering degree, Lucas and Max had settled in Los Angeles last time Will had heard from them, and Mike… 

…well, Will tries not to think so hard about Mike. He's pretty sure Mike is still living in Chicago though. 

It's a nice life, a peaceful one. Will teaches painting classes on the weekends, when tourism is at its peak and half of New York City is raging at the beach. El spends much of her time in the back spinning new batches of ceramic goods to be painted and glazed and fired. They close on Mondays, because Mondays have always been their day, ever since she wrote him that first letter, and they go out together; El, spinning in her dresses, introducing herself giggly as Jackie and flirting openly with the girls at the bar while Will dances in the strobing lights pretending to be more drunk than he actually is. It's a life he never thought he'd get to have, not even just because his sister is back in it like she had never left in the first place. 

Will doesn't think much about his past, about the way his teen years were swallowed by the weight of the supernatural horrors that tormented his family and friends. Will doesn't think about how he hasn't really spoken to his old friends in ages, knowing that when he left for Montauk, he was most definitely never going to see any of them again. Will doesn't think about how he is still one of the very few to know that El is here, alive and happy and well, sharing an apartment with him. It is almost easier to pretend that it hadn't happened at all. 

Which is why, of course, it all comes shattering to pieces like a clay plate eventually. 

~~ 

It happens on a random Saturday in October.

Will is in a lull, caught between his landscape painting class and his more child-friendly basic drawing class that he usually hosts on Saturdays. El is minding the counter, humming along to the radio as she packages an order. Will himself is still cleaning up the tables, exchanging the worn out protective tablecloth for a set of clean tablecloth and replacing the cups of water and palettes of paint for his next class. 

They don't have many customers at the moment. There's a small family of four in the corner who are still working on their ceramic painting; Will makes a mental note to check on them soon, El has been itching to use the kiln today and they hadn't had as many tourists interested in actually painting clay pots, the only downside of the tourism off-season they find themselves in. 

When the bell above the door rings, Will is faced away from it, hunched over as he smooths out the tablecloth with a steady hand. He glances up only to make eye contact with El, raising a brow; are you busy, should I make the approach? 

El smiles politely at the newcomer, but something in her expression shifts from the genuine delight she has for new customers into a rare panic. She adjusts her nametag, and when she meets Will's questioning gaze, the answer in her eyes is clear; help. 

Help? 

Will finishes adjusting the tablecloth. He stands up straight, pursing his lips in El's direction, and then turns on his heel, his usual welcome speech right on the tip of his tongue. "Hi, welcome to–" 

It all dies immediately as he locks gazes with none other than Mike Fucking Wheeler, who gawks from the entryway with a look of wonder in his eyes. 

Fuck my life. 

He hasn't seen Mike in years. Not since their last party reunion five years ago, right around the time Will received his very first letter from El and couldn't bear to spend any time around his friends with the weight of that letter hanging over his head. Mike had only just moved to Chicago, Lucas and Max were visiting from California, and even Dustin had swooped in for a quick day trip despite him still finishing up his master degree. 

Time has only done him better, even from an objective standpoint. Mike's hair is longer, curling around his shoulders with the frizziness of humidity. He looks good, dressed in a light blue sweater that accentuates the brown of his eyes, and–oh god, Will has never fully gotten over this man, has he? 

Mike, who is staring with wonder. His eyes light up, and he waves almost eagerly. "Will!" he steps forwards, into the shop–closer to El, and Will knows, he knows she looks different now but Mike still doesn't know that she's even alive. 

So, naturally, Will takes a step sideways, into the walkway leading to the front counter between tables, blocking his sister from Mike's view. "Mike?" he questions, trying for an easy, casual smile; he has no idea what his expression actually reflects. "What are you doing here?" 

Mike grins, shrugging as he walks right up to Will, a mere two feet of distance between them. "Needed a change of scenery," he says, equally casual. "Nancy reminded me that you guys live in Montauk now, and I realized I never really visited. Didn't expect to run into you so fast though; is this place… yours?" 

And isn't that a loaded question. Will forces a smile on his face, tries to ignore the elephant in the room standing behind him. "Something like that," he says. 

"It's so lovely," Mike breathes, and finally, his gaze slips away from Will; he turns to stare at the paintings Will's hung on the walls, then over at the wall of blank, white ceramics. "Did you make those?" 

Ah. Will swallows thickly. He tries to cast a subtle glance behind him, but El is no longer manning the counter; she must have disappeared into the backroom the moment Will got Mike's attention. "I just do the painting," he admits, and it is the truth but it feels like a lie regardless. "My, um, roommate, she makes all the, uh, ceramics." 

Mike has always been too nosy for his own good. Will braces for impact, prepares himself for the inevitable onslaught of questions; you have a roommate, a roommate that's a girl? What is she like? Can I meet her? 

Instead, though, Mike just hums thoughtfully, stepping closer to the wall and trailing fingers over one of the mugs; it's a frog-shaped mug, because El adores making silly, animal-themed mugs and bowls for the kids to paint. "She's pretty good," he comments, and then he glances up at Will with a question in his brow. "So, what are you supposed to do with these?" 

Will snorts. "Paint them?" he answers dryly. "Um, you paint them. We have all sorts of glazes over here," and he gestures to the next wall over, "and you can sit down and paint whichever piece you want, and then Jackie will fire them and you can come back and pick it up. Or, or we can ship it to you, if you aren't staying long." 

"Good thing I'm staying, then," Mike says, and he gives Will a bright grin, his eyes sparkling. "Think you could show me the ropes?" 

Oh god. Will is not the Lord's strongest soldier. 

"I have a painting class in half an hour," he says thickly, swallowing around each word. "What–what do you mean, you're staying?" 

Mike takes the frog mug, holding it gingerly. "We should catch up," he decides, with a firm assuredness that Will recognizes from their childhood. "I'm staying at Montauk Manor right now, and my room is kind of small because it was the cheapest one available, but maybe we could go to your place?" 

"No!" Will blurts before he can think better of it. 

Mike blinks. Some of the light in his eyes dims a little. "No?" 

Fuck. "I mean, my place is kind of a mess right now." This also isn't much of a lie, it is a mess; namely because El had recently convinced Will that they needed a pet, and now Will has to sweep the floor every other day because Mr. Cattigan is a menace who insists on tracking litter across the entire apartment. But Mr. Cattigan isn't the reason Will cannot have Mike Wheeler in his home; no, there's just no way that he can hide El's presence when she's made her mark all over, in every framed photograph, every painting, every piece of decor. "But I know a few places here on Main." 

"Well, it's not like I have any plans, really," Mike hums thoughtfully again, and he's still turning that damned frog mug over in his hands. "Okay, yeah, yeah, that works." 

"Great." Will smiles thinly. His heart is beating so fast he can hear it rushing in his ears. "Um. Meet me back here at eight tonight?" 

"Sounds like a date," Mike nods, and Will's breath hitches. 

Code red! His brain is screaming at him. Code red, code red! 

"Cool," he lies, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. "Anyways, um. Did you want to paint that still? I can get you set up, I just can't–stay. Painting class." 

"Right! Right." Mike laughs, brittle and anxious, and he gives the mug a wistful look. "Maybe you can hold onto this for me? I want it, but I want your full attention. Do you teach painting classes every day?" 

"Not every day," Will shakes his head. Calm down, calm down. "Just on the weekends. And we're closed Mondays, so Tuesday would be the next day I don't have a class." 

"Guess I'll be back Tuesday then," Mike grins, and he offers the mug in Will's direction. "Don't let any snot-mouthed kid steal this away, it's my mug." 

Unfortunately, this does make Will laugh. He rolls his eyes fondly, taking the mug from Mike carefully. "I'll do my best," he says. "No promises, though." 

Mike laughs too, and god, when was the last time Will heard Mike laugh? "Well, I'm gonna swing by the beaches," he says. "I'll pick you up at eight?"

"Yeah," Will says, like an idiot. "I mean–I'll see you then." 

Mike smiles, cheeky and fond, and then he's swinging out of the door as fast as he had entered. The bell rings behind him. 

For a moment, Will stands there in the aisle, his breath still lodged in his throat and his stomach somewhere near his knees. Did that really just happen? It feels like a fever dream, like a scene right out of his best fantasies, not something that would ever happen in real life. Mike had been–well, he'd been sour last time they had met up, nervously talking about his new life in Chicago, and Will had been too focused on his newfound secret to pay complete attention, but the last time he ever saw Mike that happy and radiant…

…he can't remember. God, he's such a shit friend, isn't he? 

He probably would've stood there like an absolute fool until the start of his class, except that a hand taps on his shoulder and sends him jumping nearly five feet into the air with a startled wheeze. "El," he scolds, when he can breathe again. "Don't do that, oh my god." 

El smiles at him, sweet and innocent. "You were not blinking," she says. "I was worried you were going to pass out." 

"I'm fine," Will says, like a liar. "Did you… did you hear all of that?" 

El's smile turns mischievous. "You mean about your date?" she teases. "Yes, I heard." She hums, tilting her head. "Mike has grown up nice." 

"He has," Will agrees without thinking, and then his cheeks heat up. "Wait, what?" 

El, the horrible awful sister that she is, just giggles at his suffering – which is rude – and pats his head. "I think it is sweet that he wants to reconnect," she says, sounding wistful. "I know that you have missed him."

Will swallows thickly, and his shoulders slump. "There's one problem though," he says miserably. "El, I can't lie." 

It is almost cruel, the way everything he's ever wanted is now dangling in front of his face if only he were brave enough, strong enough to reach out and take it. He breathes a frustrated sigh, biting at his lip. 

"What?" El tilts her head. 

"I'm a horrible liar," Will reminds her. "Mike might not–it's been so long he might not see through it the way he could when we were younger, but he still knows me, and my tells. If he asks about you…" 

"...oh." El's own shoulders slump here, and she frowns at the floor, her eyes going sad and downturned and guilty. It's an expression she's worn before, every single time she's contemplated the effects of her faking her own death and disappearing off to see the world, and Will has always reassured her, affirmed that her decision, while hurtful, was one she needed to make for herself, that sometimes being selfish is fine. If only he could take his own advice, he thinks with a grimace. 

"It's okay!" he says quickly anyways, because he hates seeing El looking so sad and miserable, he hates it. "I'll… come up with something. I mean, half our neighbors think you're my cousin, I can play into that." Nevermind that Mike most definitely will find it suspicious that I live with a random cousin he's never heard of before. "He just… can't see you." 

He wants to ask her if she's thought about telling him, but he already knows the answer. El had told him, early on into her newfound life here in Montauk, that she had thought about reaching out to former friends and loved ones before; Mike, but also Max. I'm afraid, she had confessed, sitting on Will's bed, that if I try to reinsert myself into their lives, I will ruin them again. I'm afraid that I will forget what it has been like to just be me. What if they can only see Eleven when I have already moved on as Jacqueline? 

Will understands that sentiment, probably understands it better than anyone else left alive. He, too, had been so afraid of being known only as Zombie Boy, the boy who disappeared into another dimension and came out of it permanently stained, that when he had the opportunity to flee Hawkins, he had taken it, never once looking back. He, too, is afraid of re-entering the lives of the people he cares about; his parents are one thing, because his mom could never look at him differently and Hopper is just happy to have at least a kid to parent, but his friends? Will can barely feel normal around Robin, and she had barely known him in the end! 

Mike is different though. Even at his worst, Mike has always made Will feel safe, like he could actually fit into the world instead of forever being outside of it. However, Mike hadn't been that way for El, and he knows it, and she knows it too; knows it especially well now that she's accepted that she doesn't even like boys, and that she had only clung so hard to Mike because she hadn't really known any better. That had been a discussion they had once too; Will admitting to the crush he harbored on Mike for the entirety of El's relationship with him, El calling them both hopeless lovesick fools and holding him tightly when he thought she might push him away. 

But Mike had loved El, genuinely loved her. He had been distraught for years after her supposed death, barely recovering in time for them to graduate, stuck drifting aimlessly in Indianapolis while Will had fled like a coward to New York City. Sure, he seems happy now, had been teasing Will and smiling like nothing had gone wrong in their childhood, but if he knew that El was still alive? Worse, if he knew that Will has known about El's reappearance for years and had never said anything? 

Would it be worse, letting Mike back into his life only to watch him leave it the moment he finds out the truth? 

"You should not hold yourself back because of me," El says, like she could read his mind; and maybe she can, with her powers, though she tries not to use them as often nowadays. "It was my choice not to tell him. If he finds out… I will handle it. You deserve to be happy." 

Will nods, some of the fear in his chest dissipating. "Okay," he says shakily. "Okay. I'll… I'll try to keep him away from you the best I can while he's in town." Which means he can't have Mike over, which is probably for the better anyways because if Will stops and thinks about how often he's daydreamed about having Mike Wheeler in his own apartment, he might actually explode. "I love you, El." 

"I love you too, Will," El pats his head again, a habit she had unfortunately picked up from Jonathan in the rare occasion he visited them. "Now, I believe you have a class. And a date." 

Will just groans. 

~~ 

8pm comes too quickly. 

Will speeds through his painting class, checking his watch infrequently. They close shop at seven, with El disappearing into the back to work on a new set of ceramics for children to paint and Will slinking back upstairs. 

He almost asks her for help, staring at the mess of his closet with immense trepidation. He's usually fairly organized, but he's been so busy with Color Me Yours recently that he's let his room become a cluttered disaster, one that he now navigates with a wince on his face as he thumbs through one of his maybe ten shirts. 

He almost asks for her help, but the thought of asking his beloved sister Jacqueline Byers for advice on what to wear on what might be a date with her ex, Michael Wheeler, makes him want to vomit. It's not like this is his first time going on a date with a boy, but… well, this isn't just any boy. It's Mike. 

Will had tried to get over his stupid crush on Mike. Really, he tried. He had watched Mike spiral into darkness after losing El, promised him to remain best friends up on that tower even though his heart was screaming at him, and then when he got the acceptance letter to NYU, he had bolted. He had thought… well, he had thought that distance would solve what rejection could not. 

In a sense, it had, too. Mike no longer haunted Will's thoughts the way he had when they were stupid teenagers navigating a living nightmare of a world. Sometimes, when he and El went out to bars, Will would buy a drink for a cute boy sitting at the countertop, and it never felt like a betrayal the way it once might have. In NYU, even, he had a boyfriend, a real honest to god boyfriend, and yeah, they had broken up in the end, but it had nothing to do with Mike. 

Maybe he doesn't realize what he's doing, Will thinks to himself as he fumbles with the buttons on the plaid shirt he's thrown on over his white undershirt. Mike's always been kind of a dumbass when it comes to this sort of thing, maybe he didn't think about the implications of a date. It wouldn't be the first time Mike had said something stupid and insensitive and led Will on, and undoubtedly it would not be the last; that is, if they could manage to reconnect and rebuild their friendship after years upon years of tense silence and separation. 

Relax, Will, he tells himself, the voice in his head sounding more like El than his own. You are just meeting up somewhere to reconnect and talk about your new life. It'll be good to have him as a friend again. Mike is a straight man who is going to actually strangle you with his bare hands when he inevitably finds out that you've been hiding his ex-girlfriend from him for five years now. You can do this. 

At 7:50pm, Will finally gathers what little remains of his courage and walks back downstairs. El is waiting for him at the base, and she tilts her head over his outfit, giving a little hum of approval. "That shirt looks nice," she says, a little cheeky; she loves stealing his clothes, even now when she has her own wardrobe and style and can afford to buy more than his mother and brother's hand-me-downs. "Have fun?"

Will groans. "This is going to be the most awkward night of my entire life," he complains. 

El snorts, and she reaches up, patting down loose strands of his hair. "You think too hard," she says. "Relax. Mike is stupid, but I am sure he has missed you as much as you miss him." 

Will takes a deep breath. "Are you sure this is the right thing to do?" he asks, a little wearily; one last attempt at giving the negative pessimistic part of his brain an out. "I feel like brothers should not want to go out with their sister's ex boyfriend." He had been so torn up about that, once, when the weight of his feelings had threatened to bury him. 

"Will," El reprimands, sounding serious. "Mike is… someone that I care about, very much. He taught me so much about the world, and helped me find my place in it even when I was so sure I would never belong. But that was years ago. I do not need him–and I do not even want him." She smiles wistfully. "I do not think I ever did. You know this already."

He does know it, she had already told him as much the last time they talked about Mike, and the rest of their friends. Still, Will sighs, giving his sister an apologetic smile. "Sorry," he murmurs. 

El only shakes her head. "I won't lie to you and say that I do not miss him," she admits, "but I miss him like I miss Max and Lucas, and Dustin. Leaving him behind was hard, but no harder than leaving them too. I needed it, to find my place here in the world without the weight of being their superhero, just as you needed to find out who you were when you were not entangled in Henry's plans." The words punch into his gut; she's right, but she's never stated it so openly before. "Now, we have both found it, and I still do not need him."

"I don't need him either," Will protests weakly. "I don't, El. I'm perfectly happy here, and I would still be perfectly happy here if he hadn't shown up." 

"But you want him," El says, and she says it gently, delicately. "In a way that I do not." 

And, well, what can Will really say to that? All his arguments fall flat, and he only pinches his brow, another weary groan dragging out of him. "Okay, okay," he gives in. "As always, you're right. I'll… try to enjoy myself and not think too hard. Happy?" 

"I want all the details tonight," El nods, and she grins, taking one of his hands and squeezing it. "I will be waiting in your room." 

"I hate you," Will grumbles, but he doesn't mean it, and she only laughs. 

Two minutes tick by. El disappears up the stairs into their shared apartment, and Will fidgets nervously with his keys, only slipping out the side door when he can't stand to wait inside for much longer. The chill of the September air is unwelcome, but it helps combat the heat in his gut as he taps his foot against the pavement and leans against the wall and he waits. 

At 8:05, Mike comes sprinting into view. Will should've known he'd be late; somehow, in the years of separation, he still hasn't managed to learn the meaning of the word punctuality. "Sorry," he gasps for breath, dropping to his knees with a winded wheeze right as he reaches the front of Color Me Yours. "Underestimated how long it'd take to get back here. Fuck." 

Despite himself, Will snickers, and the wind chill does little to hide the flush in his cheeks when Mike tilts his head upwards at the sound, his eyes big and sparkling and fond. "Good thing we're not going very far," he says teasingly. "Come on." 

Mike straightens up, his gaze lingering on Will for an awkward stretch of silence. He doesn't make any moves, just stares at Will with something foreign in his gaze, and Will shifts uncomfortably under the weight of it. I'm over him, he reminds himself, but god is Mike not making it any easier to remember. 

The awkward silence stretches for a minute, two minutes. Will watches Mike's expression shift two or three times, each one equally impossible to read. Is this what tonight is going to be? "Hey," he says, waving his hand in Mike's face. "You… good?" 

"Huh?" Mike blinks, and his cheeks redden. "Yeah! Yeah, I'm good, I'm so good. Where are we going?" 

Will huffs, rolling his eyes a little. Some things, he think, could never change. "Montauket," he answers. "It's just down the road." 

"Sounds good," Mike says, and he reaches forwards, brushing Will's shoulder with his own. "Lead the way?" 

Will swallows thickly at the contact. It's gonna be a long night. 

~~ 

A ten minute walk later, Will's sliding into a booth with Mike across from him. 

Montauket is usually fairly busy at 8pm on a Saturday night, but the offseason has provided a gentle lull. The booth is the only available seating, and Will tries not to feel so nervous about it; after all, he's sharing a piece of his new life with someone from the old one, and the anxiety of it is only hitting him now that he's actually here, gazing at a menu he's already familiar with, watching as Mike thumbs through it out of the corner of his eye.

Their server comes quick. Mike orders a local IPA. Will just gets a water; he's not risking losing his inhibition around Mike, not now. 

"So," Mike says, when the server has come back with their drinks and has taken their food orders. "How are you? God, this feels so stupid." 

Will tries to relax into the seat. He takes a sip of water. "It's not stupid," he says immediately. "It's… been awhile. I didn't even know you had left Chicago." It's an invitation, because Will does not want to start things off in their discussion on how much their lives have changed. 

Thankfully, Mike's eyes light up, and he stems his hands on the table, leaning forward. "To be fair, it was pretty recent," he admits. "I don't know, I guess I realized; well, Lucas and Max are off being happy or whatever in Cali, Dustin is fucking everywhere, you're, well, here, in New York, and I barely left. Like, Chicago was better than Indianapolis, but it was still like, a four hour drive to Hawkins, you know?" 

Will knows. He nods slowly, keeping his hand closed around his water glass. "That makes sense," he murmurs. 

Mike smiles, and he takes a deep breath. "I needed out," he says, and he says it like a confession. "So when my lease was up, I called Nancy and asked if I could stay with her for a bit. You know, just to see if I liked Boston. And I did like Boston, but it wasn't enough. And, and I think Nancy could tell, she always could, you know? So I saved up enough money to afford a month long trip, and she told me that your mom, and Hopper, and, and you had moved to Montauk, and I thought… maybe that would help."

Will swallows thickly. Mike hadn't taken his gaze off of him, not once. "And?" he prompts. "What do you think?" 

"It's quieter than I was expecting," Mike admits. "But not in a bad way. I can see why you like it here; it's peaceful. Pretty, too." He pauses, and he still hasn't taken his gaze off of Will, his eyes half-lidded and full of stars and god, they're beautiful. "Really, really pretty." 

What the actual fuck. 

Will can't even breathe. He takes another sip of water, trying to formulate a response. "I think that's why I like it here too," he says, almost shyly. "Mom wrote about how nice it was, when I was still in New York City, and… I don't know. It sounded good." 

"Mhm," Mike nods. "I wasn't lying, about needing a change of scenery, too," he adds. "I've been, uh, working on my first novel, and it's been slow going. I just couldn't find the inspiration." 

"That's so exciting though!" Will leans forwards, forcing himself through the anxiety still bubbling in his stomach. "I always knew you'd make a good novelist." 

Mike's cheeks flush, and for the first time, he glances away from Will, staring down at the table. The blush in his cheeks brings out the freckles in a nice way, which is unfortunate for Will's unfortunate gay ass. "Well, you've always believed in me," he says quietly. "Sometimes even when I didn't believe in myself. Nice to see that some things haven't changed." 

Will's heart squeezes. "I'm sorry," he says impulsively, speaking without thinking too hard once again.

Mike looks up from the table, blinking at him owlishly. "What?" he questions. 

Will swallows. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I should've kept in touch better, or visited occasionally. I don't know why I didn't." 

"No, no, Will," Mike shakes his head, and he reaches across the table, hesitates, and then commits, curling fingers around Will's wrist despite the awkward angle. "I get it. I mean, I missed you, I think I'll always miss you, but I get it. I was… kind of lost, back then, you know? I don't think I was in the right headspace to be a good friend, or anything else. It's not your fault." 

Not in a good headspace. Right. Because Mike had been grieving the loss of El, and like a coward, Will had ran from it, ran from that grief, and now he's hiding her away and Mike doesn't even know. The reality of the situation crashes back into him all over again. "I feel like we've had this conversation before," is what he says instead of voicing that guilt. 

"It wasn't your fault then, either, remember?" Mike's voice goes all gentle, soft and fond in the way he only ever sounds when he's talking to Will, and Will shivers; he hadn't known that he was missing Mike's voice so badly until now. "It doesn't even matter." 

That isn't true. Will opens his mouth to protest. 

"It doesn't matter," Mike repeats, more insistently, before Will can even say a word. "What matters is that we're here now, right?" He smiles again, slow and sickly sweet. "And your shop… it's so cute. How did that happen?" 

Here's the part that Will was fearing, the time in the conversation where he has to lie through his teeth and pray to God that it's been long enough that Mike can't see straight through him like he could when they were younger. "It's kind of a funny story," he says, carefully thinking through the story he had crafted in his head hours ago. "I was living with my parents, trying to decide how I wanted to use my degree, right."

"Uh huh," Mike nods, and he's still holding Will's wrist. Will hesitates, and then slides his hand down, off of his glass of water, meeting Mike halfway. Mike's fingers slip through his own, and it is warm, soft, reassuring. 

"My mom, she made friends so easy here," Will continues, his breath hitching when Mike starts actually stroking his fingers, rubbing into the pulse point of his wrist. "She made friends with this older guy, Mr. Morrisey, he ran a tourist gift shop on Main with an apartment above it, she was always there keeping him company. Then, one day, like… three years ago? He decided to permanently retire, move back into the city. He didn't want to sell the shop because he wanted it to go to someone "authentic", someone who would keep the island spirit alive." 

Mike's gaze has gone all half-lidded again. It's nerve-wracking, especially because Will is approaching the part of the story he cannot actually talk about. 

"He offered it to Mom, first," Will says, taking a deep breath to steady himself. You have lied to Mike before and he believed you, you can do it again. "But Mom's pretty happy in her new life–she teaches at the local Pre-K, did I mention that before? So she offered it to me instead, and… I don't know, it sounded appealing. I would've just done a painting studio, but," and here, he swallows. Here goes nothing. "Jackie, my roommate, she's the one who suggested ceramics." 

Mike hums thoughtfully. There's a question in his eyes, and Will braces himself as best he can. "Jackie," he repeats, lingering on the syllables of her name. "Is she nice?" 

That was… not the question Will thought it would be. He blinks. "Yeah, she's a sweetheart," he answers, and it's honest. 

Mike nods. His fingers drum against Will's wrist. "Good, that's good," he breathes. "Sorry, I don't want to sound, like, invasive when we're catching up." 

Will snorts a laugh. Once again, he thinks, some things just never change. "It's not invasive, Mike, oh my god," he snickers. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Jackie's my cousin." 

There's a pause, another stretch of silence. Mike tilts his head, like he's filing the information away, and his nose scrunches up. "Cousin?" He questions. 

Will nods, slowly. "You remember my great aunt Darlene?" he asks. "I didn't think she even had kids, it's not like we ever, like, saw her or anything. But turns out, she did have kids, and one of them is my age, which is crazy, it's crazy, right?" He's rambling now. "It worked out pretty well though. Jackie – Jacqueline – she's super into art too, and we got in touch around that time, so I reached out to her and asked if she wanted to run a shop with me, and… well. Here we are?" 

"Wow," Mike breathes. "That's… that's so cool, honestly." 

Will can't help it; he relaxes, breathes a little easier knowing that Mike hadn't seen right through his blatant lie, and he smiles, fluttering his lashes. "You think so?" 

Mike's breath hitches. His cheeks are still flushed a pretty red. "Yeah," he says, still a little breathless. "Yeah, I really do." 

~~ 

The rest of the night passes quickly. 

Mike does not stop staring at him, even when their food is brought out. He asks questions about Color Me Yours, about college and New York City, about life in general. Will answers, finding it easier and easier to talk about himself now that the hard part – talking about El, even in a roundabout way – is out of the way. 

The only time the conversation stalls is when Mike, ever earnest, finishes telling a story about his dumb ex girlfriend from university and immediately looks at Will almost expectantly. "What about you?" he questions, a sparkle in his eyes. "Any weird boyfriends I should know about?" 

And… well. Will knows, logistically, that he came out to Mike all those years ago, alongside the rest of his friends and loved ones. He knows that Mike had, on that tower, promised to be supportive. However, he hadn't quite been prepared for the thought of actually talking about his sexuality with Mike, even as mild gossip. 

For a moment, he pauses, his breath caught in his throat. The fear must be written in his face, because Mike, too, pauses, fork hovering in midair, eyes widening slightly. "I mean," he tries to backtrack, "if you're comfortable, you don't have to answer that if you're not–" 

"-no, it's okay, I was just caught off guard," Will says quickly. "Um, not currently. I dated a guy in college, but it was, uh, mid." 

Mike's eyes sparkle again. "Mid?" He's leaning in, looking invested, and if he was off-put by Will's sexuality, he doesn't look it, looking just as interested as if Will was talking about a random college girlfriend instead. 

"I mean," Will gestures vaguely into the air. "He was cute, but he wanted like, so much of my time and energy, and he didn't understand any of it; our past, I mean. Plus…" he hesitates, steeling himself. "He was kind of a bad kisser." 

Mike snorts, and then he full on laughs, tilting his head back. "Oh my god," he wheezes, in between cackles. "Please tell me you dumped his ass." 

The laughter is contagious. Will can't help the giggle that escapes him, fingers clutching onto Mike's hand; it hasn't left his wrist, even once their food came in. "I did!" he confirms. "I told him that I was possessed as a teenager and then dipped and the look on his face–" 

"-I would pay to see that, honestly–"

"-it was priceless," Will laughs, shaking his head fondly. Then, he sobers up. "After that… I don't know. It's kind of rough, knowing that there's nobody out there who's going to fully understand who I am. Sometimes Jackie and I go out and I flirt around a little, but that's it." 

Mike stops laughing. He hums in thought, leaning forward again; he hasn't even resumed his meal, so intensely focused on Will. "I get it," he says softly. "I think I'm in the same boat, honestly." 

"Look at us," Will shakes his head again. "Two whole messes." 

Mike snorts, nodding along. "Two whole messes," he echoes. "But hey. Maybe I can be your mess." 

Will's brain short-circuits. What? 

"I mean, while I'm visiting," Mike continues, like he hadn't just implied something nefarious and wrong. "I mean, we have a month together, might as well make it interesting, huh?" 

"Right," Will chokes out. 

And then, Mike says something absolutely crazy. He looks hesitant, fingers interlocking with Will's, and he takes a deep breath. "Hey," he says, "can I… tell you something?" 

"Of course," Will says immediately. "You can tell me anything, Mike." And he means it, because despite the distance, despite the years of no contact, Mike is his best friend, Mike will always be his best friend. 

Mike takes another deep breath. His gaze shifts down to the table, suddenly unable to meet Will's eyes. "During college," he starts, "I did some, uh, soul searching. I was a little lost, before, and I wanted to find myself, you know?" 

Will only nods, trying to give his friend his entire, wholehearted attention.

"So I explored a little," Mike inhales shakily, squeezing Will's hand. "I told you about Alex, my ex girlfriend. But I also had Samuel. My, um, ex boyfriend."

What. 

Will's brain, for the millionth time this day alone, short circuits. 

"And I realized something, with them," Mike continues, like he hadn't just rocked Will's entire world. "Alex was… she was great, really. But I never really felt like myself in our relationship. Not like I did with Sam. Sam was… he was wonderful. I only–I mean, things only went wrong between us when I realized he just didn't know me. Like you, with your ex, I just couldn't be my full self around him. I wasn't comfortable enough then, but I think I could be comfortable enough now, if I met the right guy, you know?" 

Slowly, Will nods. His heart is beating rapidly in his ears. What? 

Mike smiles, tentative and slow, as he raises his gaze back to meet Will's. Will tries, he tries to school his expression into something neutral and supportive, tries to convey that this isn't a total shattering of his world. 

"What I'm trying to say," Mike says, and he squeezes Will's hand again. "Is that I… understand you a bit better, now. God, you're not even the first person I told – I told Nancy, I couldn't avoid it – but it's still a little terrifying to admit out loud, but. Well. I'm gay. I think." He sighs, trembling a little; Will can feel the quivering through their joined hands. "That part I haven't said out loud before. I told Nancy that I just liked boys, which is true, but the actual word is so much scarier." 

Finally, the chokehold on Will's heart breaks, and Will squeezes back, rubbing his thumb over Mike's wrist. "It is scary," he admits, "but freeing at the same time. That's… I'm proud of you, Mike." 

Mike smiles again, shy and soft. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah," Will inhales, exhales. You need to break the tension, he thinks. You need to make Mike feel better about this. "So I'm the first person you told?" he raises a brow, smiling as teasingly as he can muster. "I'm so flattered." 

Mike flushes even harder, shifting in his seat. "Of course you are," he says honestly. "It's kind of your fault, you know that?" 

Will freezes. "What?" 

"Not like that!" Mike leans forwards, panic in his eyes. "I meant–I don't think I ever would've thought about it if you hadn't come out to us. I mean like, yeah, obviously I knew gay people existed, but with my parents–it was so out of mind. I don't think I would've even tried to understand that part of myself if I hadn't known how easy it would be. You make it look so easy." He swallows, thick and visible. "It's admirable, you know? You're admirable. I don't think I could ever be as strong as you." 

He says it so reverently, like he truly, genuinely believes it, and Will's breath catches in his throat once again because god, oh god, how is he supposed to move on from this? How is he supposed to handle his past crush – his past love, because no matter how much he downplayed it in his head, he's always loved Mike and probably, honestly, always will – coming out to him, trusting him so wholeheartedly like they hadn't just spent years apart, like he hadn't known that Will was in love with him once upon a time when they were teenagers? 

Surely, Mike knew I was talking about him that day, right? Suddenly, Will isn't so sure; it's not like Mike ever directly addressed Will's supposed "Tammy", or that Will had pointedly made eye contact with him because it was the only way he felt brave enough to admit the crush out loud. Surely, surely, he knew? 

But if he knew, why is he coming out to me right now? 

"I don't think I'm as strong as you think I am," he says instead, his mind racing, full of a whirlwind of emotions he thinks he'll only truly unpack once he's back in his own bedroom. "But I'm–I'm happy for you, Mike. And–and I'm glad you're here. Even if it's only for a month." 

Mike swallows again, and he's still smiling so softly, looking up at Will with those stars in his eyes and cheeks painted pink and for the first time in a long time, Will itches to draw him, to commit his expression to memory and memorialize it on canvas the way he might have when he was younger. "I'm glad I ran into you too," he breathes. "And, and I know you're like, busy with your own life and everything, but I was hoping maybe we could… do this again sometime? You know Montauk better than I do, and I don't really want to look like a dumb tourist while I'm here." 

Will should say no. He should run away and never look back, tell El that it was a mistake to come here tonight, tell her that his stupid ass feelings are resurfacing as easily as if they never left in the first place, which is stupid, everything is stupid, he's too old to be having a giggly, school-girl crush on his best friend like he did when they were teenagers, he should leave. 

Instead, he nods, letting himself smile slowly. "I'd be happy to," he says before he can think better of it. "You still have a frog mug to paint, after all." 

Mike blinks, and then he laughs. "I almost forgot!" he exclaims. "You're so right, I do still have a frog mug to paint." He hesitates, and then squeezes Will's hand. "Tuesday then? I can come to the shop, and you can show me the ropes?" 

"It's not that hard, you know," Will teases. "Kids paint all the time." 

Mike's lips quirk. "I'm terrible at painting and you know it," he says, equally teasing. "I'll need you, Will the Wise." 

And god, Will hasn't heard that name in forever, not since the last time they had played D&D; which was probably the summer after graduation, the last time the party had been together for more than a handful of hours at a time. He hates how weak it makes him feel, his heart fluttering dangerously, his head spinning. "You'll have me," he promises, without truly thinking of the consequences.

Mike grins. He squeezes Will's hand one more time. "I better."

~~ 

Mike pays for the check, before Will can protest. 

He walks Will back to Color Me Yours. Their hands are still linked together, Mike only releasing his grip to fumble for his wallet. The air is chilly, and that's the only reason Will doesn't protest how close Mike stays to him, doesn't protest the tight, warm grasp of Mike's hand in his own. 

They reach the shop quickly. Mike brings Will's hand, still intertwined with his own, and brushes his lips against Will's knuckles, slow and methodical. "Goodnight, Will," he murmurs, and Will blushes something furious. "See you Tuesday." 

Will thinks he manages to say goodnight too. A quick, Night Mike, in between the gasps of breath he takes as he struggles to keep his own footing, heart hammering in his ears, chest pounding furiously. 

Mike finally releases his hand, stares at Will for a second longer, strangely fixated on his face, and then he sets off into the night, trudging towards the bus station, leaving Will standing there like an idiot in front of his own store. 

For a moment, Will watches him go, letting the cold bite into his skin; he hadn't worn enough layers, next time he goes out he'll need a jacket, but he doesn't even notice it. Then, with a resigned sigh, he unlocks the door, slipping into the building. Tuesday, he tells himself. Oh god. I think I might actually kill myself. 

He walks up the stairs like he's in a trance, moving methodically. Slips through the front door of his apartment. The light is still on though, and that's when he remembers El's words to him before the date – because it was, in fact, a date, wasn't it? – and he groans. 

Surely enough, El is waiting for him in his bedroom. She's all bundled up in his blankets, a book open in her lap, and she grins at him immediately as he enters, the sleepiness in her gaze disappearing immediately. "How was it?" she asks, before Will has fully processed… well, anything. "Where did you go? What did he say?" 

"El, slow down, please." Will groans again, and he carefully unbuttons his shirt, letting it drop to the floor in a rare showcase of thoughtlessness. "Can we talk about this in the morning?" 

"Was it… bad?" El slides out of the bed, and she catches Will as he stumbles towards her, her hands gentle and steady against his arms. 

"No, no." Will bites at his lip, letting the night replay in his mind. Mike came to Montauk to find me, Mike is gay, possibly, but definitely likes boys, Mike wants me in his life again, Mike, Mike, Mike. "It was… good. It was good. I'm just tired." 

"Okay." For a moment, Will thinks El might push back, might demand to hear details after she all but shoved him towards that date earlier, but she only clicks her teeth together. "You will tell me in the morning?" 

"Everything," Will promises, before he can think better of it. "I just–I want to sleep now." 

"Okay," El repeats, and she smiles at him, pulling away. Her eyes shine in the light, and Will feels a little guilty, not keeping his promise of spilling the entire conversation to her immediately, but he's not lying; he usually goes to bed early, and he didn't even realize how late he and Mike had stayed up until he was left standing there in the cold. "Goodnight, Will." 

Will tries to smile at her, tries to convey just how good things are through his expression alone. By the way El's shoulders slump and the ease in her expression, he thinks she believes him. "Night, El," he breathes, and, in a rare moment of physical affection, he leans in, presses a kiss to her forehead. "Love you." 

El beams, curling arms around him for a split second. "Love you too," she whispers. 

~~ 

The next morning, Will wakes up to the scratchiness of a plate sliding onto his nightstand, the smell of waffles and eggs wafting through the air, and the dip of his mattress sinking as his overeager, morning person of a sister perches on the edge of his bed, kicking her feet enthusiastically. 

"Good morning," El sings, beaming in Will's direction as he blinks the dredges of sleep out of his eyes and fixes her with a half-annoyed glare. "I made breakfast." 

It's a step up from Eggos, at the very least. El had learned how to make her own waffles while she was off traveling the world, the only one of their family aside from Jonathan who actually has some talent in the kitchen. Will drags himself upright, muttering a quiet thanks under his breath as El offers him the plate. 

She only brings him breakfast in bed when she wants something. Will already knows what she wants, so he takes the offered plate, shoveling eggs into his mouth as El stares at him with wide eyes, her shoulders hunched in anticipation. 

"Okay, out with it," Will says, once he's mostly finished the breakfast and he can't bear having El watch him in silence anymore. "What do you want to know." 

El's eyes sparkle in the light. "How was the date?" she's leaning forwards now, halfheartedly slung over the side of Will's bed. "How is Mike?" 

"It wasn't a date," Will says automatically, but he's not even sure if he believes that, not with the way Mike had held his hand the entire way home. "But he's… good. Happy, I think." 

"Good, that's good," El breathes. She fiddles with her hands, glancing down at the bedspread with something sour in her eyes; it looks a little like guilt. "I was worried for him," she admits. "It is good to know that he has moved on." 

Will winces. "Yeah," he says dumbly. "Um. He's staying for a month, by the way. And, and he really liked that frog mug you made, said he's gonna drop by on Tuesday to paint it." 

A little of the guilt in El's eyes dissipates, and her lips quirk up in a fond smile. "That's a good choice for him." The smile turns sly, teasing. "Does he want your help?" 

Will flushes. How did she know? It shouldn't surprise him; El has always been surprisingly intuitive, an expert at reading between the lines and understanding the emotions and thoughts of others, sometimes even before the person knows them themselves. "It's probably not like that," he dismisses. "I mean, like… we are still catching up, figuring out what it means to be best friends when it's been so long. Nothing crazy." 

"Hmm." El hums thoughtfully, and she pats at Will's arm, taking the nearly empty plate from his lap carefully. "I suppose." She stands, balancing the plate carefully. "What did you tell him about me?" 

Will swallows thickly. "The cover story," he admits, anxiety sinking back into his stomach. "You're my cousin, just like what we told the neighbors. I honestly can't believe it even worked; he didn't ask me any questions about it after."

El nods with another hum and a little tilt of her head. "That's good," she says softly. That guilt is back, and for a moment, she just looks so sad. 

And… well, Will remembers what Mike had told him in confidence, the earth-shattering secret that Will never in a million years would have predicted. Admittedly, though he'd never say so to El, his biggest fear about keeping her secret was about the inevitable fallout of it getting out. He had imagined, in the worst moments of his worst nightmares, Mike coming to Montauk not to see Will but to reunite with El, to hold her and spin her around and kiss her like he had when they were teenagers. El coming to terms with being gay herself had helped ease some of those fears, but then the narrative in his nightmares had shifted; Mike coming to Montauk, finding out that El was unavailable as an option, and confronting Will about it, accusing him of poisoning El, of stealing her away from him. 

It was pathetic. Mike had proven, even when they had stopped speaking as frequently, that he was not angry at Will for his sexuality, would never hate him for it. Will had only come out in the first place because of his fear that he would be abandoned by the people he cared about, and yet that hadn't stopped the fear from settling into his skin like he never overcame it in the first place. 

He hadn't had those thoughts in awhile. What Will had told El yesterday was true; he was happy here, more confident, more settled in his own skin. His sexuality no longer hangs over him like a dark cloud, and yet still, even with the newfound confidence, seeing Mike again… well, it had brought all of those fears right back. 

Now, though? With the knowledge that Mike has given him? Will doesn't know what he's supposed to do anymore. 

"I'm sure he still misses you," he ends up saying, reaching out to gently brush his hand against El's arm. "But maybe it's in the same way you miss him. He doesn't know that he doesn't have to mourn you anymore, but he also isn't letting that grief define him like he had when we were younger." 

He isn't sure if his words help, not with the way El still looks so conflicted. But she nods, slow and unsure, and when Will tries to give her a sympathetic smile, she smiles back. 

~~ 

Tuesday comes far too quickly. 

Usually, on his day off, Will lets himself wander. He takes the train into Manhattan, or strolls along the beaches, or settles into some park bench with his sketchbook. He always makes it back to the apartment in time for a quick dinner, picking El up and helping her with her makeup and taking her to one of the many bars along Main, but his routine, otherwise, varies. 

This time, with the anxiety looming over him about his potential date with Mike, Mike coming to the shop to paint, seeing Mike again after the way they had ended things on Saturday, Will stays home. He waves goodbye to El as she shrugs on a jacket and disappears out the front door, and then he pulls out his sketchbook, curls up in his bed, and starts to draw. 

He hasn't drawn Mike in years. The distance had helped in that regard, making Will draw from fading memory. Now, though, Will can't help it; what starts as a simple practice sketch turns into Mike's entire face, defined features and freckles and shining eyes and all. Will loses time this way, devoting the next several pages of his sketchbook to immortalize the way Mike had looked at him at dinner, the beauty of him under the streetlights on the walk home, the image that has not once stopped haunting him of Mike pulling Will's hand to his mouth and kissing his knuckles so softly, so tenderly. 

Was that a platonic thing? Honestly, Will doesn't know. He doesn't know, and it's starting to drive him a little insane. 

The day passes. He doesn't take El out that night, but he does smile at her when she pokes her head into his bedroom in the late evening and tells him that she was going to spend the night with the girl she'd met last week, the one that El had danced with on their last day off. Then, he tells her that she can stay; Will can run the shop on his own tomorrow, if only to avoid the even slightest possibility that Mike will, upon second glance, recognize her. 

He struggles falling asleep, the bathing of his night lamp a bane when usually it is the only way he manages to close his eyes at all. His sketchbook, left on the nightstand, haunts him just as much as the memories do. 

Tuesday comes nonetheless. Will dresses mechanically, tugging his work apron on over a soft, navy blue sweater, combs through his hair in the bathroom mirror. He hesitates, and then digs through El's jewelry box, finding a set of dangly frog earrings she had bought as a gag and never wears. He doesn't wear earrings often, because he found out belatedly that his ears are oversensitive to metal, but he ducks under the counter to El's stash of nail polish, sifting through them for the polish remover, and he gingerly applies it to the hook of the earrings, a trick that his mom had taught him to help lessen the sting of metal allergies. 

The earrings are cute. Will flicks them, watching the frogs bounce around in the air, and he can't help the grin that forms on his face. 

Then, with a deep breath, he grabs his keys and heads downstairs. 

~~ 

Mike ends up coming around noon. 

Business is slow today, as it typically is on the weekdays. The bigger rushes usually come in the afternoon, when kids are out of school and swarming to Montauk in droves, so now, around lunch time, it's quiet, quiet enough that Will doesn't even feel bad letting El off. He fiddles with the radio a few times, switches to his favorite rock station, and busies himself with methodically cleaning brushes and resorting the glazes. 

Around noon, the bell chimes. Will glances up, and his heart stutters in his chest as once again, Mike stands there, clutching a shoulder bag and beaming so enthusiastically. Mike looks… he looks good, wearing a jean jacket with a handful of sewn-on patches and glasses, which Will knows Mike wears for reading but has yet to see him in before now. 

"Hey," Mike greets, so simply, and he's still beaming, absolute sunshine incarnate, and Will can't help the giddiness that builds in his chest; god, he missed this. "Got my mug?" 

"It's all yours," Will says, and surely enough, he's already placed the frog mug on one of the tables. "Pick out the glazes you want, I'll get your brushes set up." 

Mike peruses the options. Will turns his back to gather the standard set of brushes, swallowing thickly. You can do this, he tells himself. You can teach Mike how to paint. You've tried before. 

When he turns back around, Mike has found his mug, sliding into the seat with a childlike enthusiasm. He's got an array of glazes on the table; mostly greens and yellows, with some additional blues and whites. "Okay, I'm ready," he grins, eyes sparkling. "Instruct away." 

Will snorts. He takes the seat across from Mike, grateful that the shop is slow enough that he can devote all of his attention here. "Do you remember… anything from the time I tried teaching you how to paint?" he questions. 

"Some!" Mike says quickly, too quickly. "I mean, Holly still paints pretty well, and you taught her too." 

Will remembers that. It was a bonding activity for them, in the first few months after the end of the world had been averted. Holly would wake up screaming from nightmares, shaking and sobbing and so, so afraid of being taken again, and even though he and his mom and his brother had already moved out of the Wheeler's home, had already tried to move on with their lives, Karen Wheeler would phone each and every time. She wants to talk to Will, she would explain, and like clockwork, Will would saddle onto his bike and make the familiar route across town with a courage once unfamiliar to him. 

Holly liked him, she always had, even before she had been taken by Henry. Will understands her fear better than anyone else, understands why she still has nightmares, still wakes up in a shaky panic. Holly might've grown close enough to Max that she spends most of her free time visiting the hospital until Max was well enough to leave, might've loved her siblings enough to let them fret and worry over her and not allow her out of their sight, but in the dark of the night, only Will could soothe her fears, because only Will actually, well and truly, understood. 

On one of those nights, with Mike hovering in supervision despite the dark circles under his eyes, Will had a bag full of brushes and tubes of oil paint and a couple of tiny canvasses. I'm going to teach you how to paint, he had declared, and Holly had leaned into it enthusiastically, beaming as Will steadied her hand and showed her how to make careful brushstrokes, how to blend two colors together and layer them for lighting and composition. 

Will misses hanging out with her. He hopes that she's doing better now, having graduated high school.

"Well, this is pretty similar," he says, once he can drag himself out of his own memories. "Glaze is pretty thin though; if you want bold colors, you'll need to layer it a couple of times. It'll come out darker than you'd expect, too, color wise, so choose carefully." 

Mike nods, popping open one of the bottles of green glaze. "Where do I… put it?" he questions, wrinkling his nose. 

Will can't help the giggle that escapes him. "Well, we usually cater to children," he says teasingly, "that's what the tablecloth is for. Easier to clean up that way." 

"Will Byers," Mike says, fake scandalized, "are you implying that I am a child?" 

Will only shrugs. "If the shoe fits…" he trails off, giggling again at the way Mike's brows raise dramatically, the look of shock in his eyes that matches the mocking scowl. 

"I suppose I'll have to prove my worth to you," Mike says, declaratively. He drizzles some of the green glaze onto the tablecloth, wrinkling his nose as he delicately selects a random brush and dips it in. "I'm gonna paint this frog so good, it's totally going to blow your mind." 

"I'm sure," Will says dryly. 

It is a little amusing, watching Mike paint. It brings him back to their childhood, when Mike would insist on crowding into Will's space, head tucked against Will's shoulder, mesmerized by the gentle scritch of pencil on paper as Will sketched away and Mike was simply content to watch. Will hadn't really understood it back then, but now, he watches the way Mike's nose scrunches in concentration, his tongue flicking against his upper lip in a way that's very, very distracting, and he gets it. 

"Fuck!" The brush slips, dragging a light spread of green across the handle of the mug, and Mike stares almost despondently at it. "Fuck," he repeats, with a little shake of his head and a pout curling on his lips. 

It's cute. Will takes a deep breath. "It's not that bad," he tries to console. 

"I'm supposed to be impressing you," Mike's pout only deepens. "You make painting look so easy." 

"Well, you should see me try to write," Will says, light and easy; he can tell that Mike is only messing around. "It's a whole mess. And you're not doing bad! Just… your hands are shaking." 

"I would like to see your writing," Mike says, completely missing the point. "If it's anything like your campaigns, I bet it's great." 

"Mike," Will sighs, fondly exasperated. 

"I'm serious!" Mike leans forwards, and the tables are fairly large but his gaze keeps slipping to where Will's kept his hands planted on the edge of the table, like he wants to take his hand the way he had on Saturday night. "And… can you really blame me for my hands shaking? I'm nervous. I don't even know what I'm doing, really." 

Will rolls his eyes. "What, do you need me to steady your hands?" he means it to be teasing, but something else slips through his tone. 

"Yes," Mike answers immediately. "Please. Do that." 

Will huffs, rolling his eyes again. Nonetheless, he stands, crossing around the table to instead sit directly next to Mike. It's a little overwhelming, being this close. Will has always felt safe in Mike's presence, has always relished in their closeness, but it's been long enough since the last time they were like this, sitting next to each other, shoulders brushing as Will leans over to gently correct Mike's hands, that he's almost forgotten what it felt like. 

"You're already doing pretty good," he murmurs, shyly, suddenly painfully aware of the way Mike's hair is brushing against his face, so close that he can feel the warmth of Mike's breath. "Hold the brush like this, you'll have more control." 

"Uh huh." Mike makes a vaguely non-committal sound in the back of his throat. 

"Pay attention, Mike," Will chides. Deep breaths, Will. Deep breaths. "Walk me through what you were thinking." 

"I was thinking." Mike falters, and he swallows so audibly Will can hear it even without looking. God. "I was thinking. Frogs are green. And then maybe. Yellow belly? And blue eyes. Very important."

"Got it," and really, Will is the one painting this stupid frog mug now, with Mike's hands still underneath his own, the weight of Mike's gaze burning holes in the back of Will's head. "Why don't you start pouring the colors you want, and I will paint this for you." 

"My hero," Mike breathes. 

They work in silence for a little while. Mike drizzles glaze on the tablecloth diligently, his hands falling away as Will leans into his space. At this point, Will really is doing all the work, but he doesn't mind so much; he layers several different greens over each other, switches brushes when it comes time to start on the belly. 

"The earrings are cute, by the way," Mike says casually, after the silence has stretched for what has felt like ages. "I didn't know your ears were pierced." A finger runs over one of the little dangling frogs, so close to Will's ear it makes him shiver subconsciously. 

"I don't wear earrings often," Will admits, and he shivers again when Mike's hand does draw closer, almost curling around him. "Turns out I'm mildly allergic, can you believe it?" 

"How rude," Mike actually sounds offended on his behalf. "Nancy offered to pierce my ears once. I didn't think I'd pull them off." 

Will tries to imagine that, Mike with gold studs in his ears. His cheeks flush at the thought. "You should do it anyways," he says, as casually as he can muster. "It'd look good on you, I think." 

"You think so?" Mike's breath ghosts over Will's ears. When Will turns his head a little just to look, he finds that Mike has inched even closer into their shared space, lips hovering near the dangling earrings, gaze half-lidded and a light dusting of pink across his cheeks. "Well, maybe if you think I should…" 

Oh god. Oh god! Will swallows, his entire body freezing. He doesn't know if he wants to lean into the touch or pull away entirely. 

"I do," he says, because he means it and he already has to lie too much to Mike. "Um. Anyways. I think your mug is ready to be fired now, if it looks good to you." 

Mike finally pulls back, though his arm remains hovering over Will's shoulder. He studies the mug, humming in thought. "It's perfect," he decides. "I already knew it'd be perfect." 

"Great," Will swallows again. "I'll just. Move this into the back? Jackie will fire it when she does her next batch, it should be ready next week." 

"Cool," Mike grins, and he pulls away a little further, allowing Will to stand up. "How much do I owe you?" 

Will gathers the frog mug carefully. He doesn't mind the way the glaze stains his fingers, far too used to his skin getting covered in paint. "You don't," he says simply; he had already decided this. "This one's on the house." 

Mike pouts at him again, standing up to follow Will as he takes the mug towards the back room. "Will," he protests, "let me pay for my mug!" 

"Nah," Will can't help the fond smile on his face, one that Mike can't even see. "Least I can do. Besides, I'm the one who painted it in the end." 

"Okay, fine, you win this time." Mike stops moving when Will crosses the counter, simply leaning against it to watch Will carefully add the mug to the "to be fired" shelf. "But I'm getting you back." 

Will turns here, raising a brow simply. Mike leaning against the counter places him right at eye level, and he's batting his eyes, cheeks still dusted pink. "Oh yeah?" he questions. 

Mike grins. "Yeah," he nods. "When I take you out. You guys close at seven, so tomorrow night, 8pm?" 

Take you out? Will chokes on his next breath. "Mike," he says slowly, "are you asking me on a date?" 

"We're still catching up, aren't we?" Mike's grin softens into something fond, heartfelt, loving, matched by the stars shining in his eyes, the way he stares at Will almost adoringly. It's a look that Will's familiar with, but rarely has he ever seen it directed at him. "I saw a diner on my way here today. Milkshakes, my treat?" 

He's ridiculous. He's so ridiculous Will can't help but relax into the easy affection. It's astonishing, how easily he's able to breathe around Mike, even now. Aside from the strangely romantic coded language, it's so familiar it takes Will right back to how easy it was to be Mike's friend when they were younger. 

I missed this. Why, oh why had Will ever let his friendship with Mike deteriorate so badly over the years? 

"Okay, fine," he caves, shaking his head fondly as Mike's grin goes wide again, his entire face lighting up. "Tomorrow, milkshakes." 

"Great!" Mike stands upright, hesitates, and then extends his arms, peering at Will invitingly. "I should probably go now," he says, and he sounds reluctant. "I told myself I'd write five pages a day and I'm already behind." 

"That's what you get for imposing such harsh restrictions on yourself," Will teases. His heart leaps into his throat, though, as Mike's arms remain open, beckoning Will to step right into them. "It was good to see you, though." 

Mike wiggles his arms. Will sighs, rolls his eyes, and then steps around the counter to sink into Mike's arms. 

Immediately, he regrets it. Mike pulls Will in close, drops his head onto Will's shoulder just like he would when they were younger, inhales deeply like he's breathing Will in. Mike is warm, stable, and he only sighs softly when Will raises his own arms, stiffly, from his side to carefully press flat against Mike's back. 

"It was good to see you, too," Mike whispers, once again so close that his breath tickles Will's ears. "But I'll–I'll see you tomorrow?" 

"See you tomorrow," Will repeats. 

The hug drags, lasting an eternity before Mike finally drops his hands and pulls away. Mike's cheeks are flushed a deeper crimson now, and he reaches between them as Will steps back, tracing a finger along Will's jaw. What the fuck is he doing? "8pm sharp," he reminds, like he isn't the one who always runs late. "You should wear more blue. It looks good on you." 

Before Will can even try to muster a response to that, Mike is spinning on his heels, marching right out of the shop with a frantic pace. The bell rings as the door slams behind him, and once again, Will is left standing alone in the aftermath. 

He reaches up, pressing two fingers against the spot that Mike's hand was just touching. "What the fuck," he says aloud, to nobody. 

~~ 

El calls right after close. 

"I probably won't be home tonight," she says as a greeting, her voice tinny over the receiver. "Steph and I were going to grab drinks. If that is alright with you?" 

"You don't need to ask my permission, Jackie," Will snorts. It's an adjustment sometimes, calling her Jackie over phone and El in private, but he doesn't ever want to risk accidentally outing El to the government, even if the nickname is fairly common. "So Steph, huh?" 

"She is nice," El says mildly. "She has a tattoo parlor in Brooklyn. She has invited me to come over some time and get started on my next piece." 

"That's great!" Will leans against the wall, twirling the phone cord with two fingers. "I know you were pretty stressed about finding an artist as cool as the first one." 

The first one, of course, being a tattoo artist in some far away country, who had turned El's lab-stamped brand into a wreath of flowers, forget-me-nots and freesias and carnations. El had been thinking about getting another sleeve, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to her arm; she even had Will sketch out a few different options, she just hadn't found the "right artist". Honestly, Will was just flattered that she wanted to get his art stamped onto her skin. 

"It was quite lucky," El agrees. "But yes, I will probably stay at her rental tonight." Her tone turns something sly. "How was frog mug painting with Mike?" 

"Sorry, what was that?" Will blows into the phone microphone dramatically. "Jackie, I think you're breaking up." 

"If you think I am going to fall for this–" 

"Jackie? Oh no, the reception is cutting out, Jackie?" Will fakes a gasp, shaking the phone. 

"William Byers–" 

"Sorry Jacks, gotta go now, good luck with Steph!" Before El can continue calling him out, Will hangs up, snickering to himself at the disgruntled squawking sound El makes just before the phone clicks. 

It isn't even that Will doesn't want to talk about whatever the fuck happened with Mike and how they are maybe quite possibly going on an actual date tomorrow. He just doesn't want to talk about it with El, who will look at him with that knowing, insightful gaze of hers and tell him that he's being a pussy. 

Okay, well maybe not those exact words, that was always Lucas's catchphrase. But the sentiment would be the same. 

There is someone Will wants to talk to about this entire situation though, and it also requires the phone. Will inhales, leans against the wall again, and he dials the familiar number with shaking hands. 

"You've reached the Wheel-Buck-By residence," a familiar voice, though not the one that Will had wanted to hear, greets. "State your purpose." 

"You sound like a government agent, Robin," Will says, rolling his eyes even though he knows she can't see him. "Do you not have my number memorized?" 

"Little Byers!" Where Robin had picked that unfortunate nickname up from, Will has no clue. He thinks he might blame Steve. "Gosh, it's been a minute since I've heard your lovely voice, what's up?" 

Will bites his lip. "I actually wanted to talk to my brother," he admits. "Is Jonathan home?" 

"Oof. Sorry, my guy, Jonathan's out right now," Robin does sound genuinely apologetic, which only makes Will feel worse; he does miss talking to Robin. "I can leave a message?" 

"No, no, it's okay." Will hesitates. Robin's always been a big help in the past, helping him come to terms with his feelings and guiding him when he moved to New York City and had to navigate a big city as an openly gay man. She doesn't know about El – and Will cannot imagine being Jonathan and having to keep that a secret around two people all the time – but she does know about Mike; at least, about the version of Mike that she had seen, all those years ago. "Actually, I could use your advice too." 

"Ah, the youth has come for my wisdom once more," Robin says, dramatically. Will can picture her sly smile so clearly in his mind. "Hit me, Baby Byers." 

"You've gotta stop calling me that," Will grumbles, mostly under his breath. He's stalling, a little bit. "But, um. You remember Mike?" 

"How could I forget?" Robin drawls, almost sarcastic. "Tall, big eyes, my girlfriend's brother who still has not forgiven me for the absolute audacity I had to steal your attention for, at max, three days, twelve years ago?" 

Will blinks once, twice. "He doesn't like you?" Somehow, despite the rather good point she made of her literally dating Nancy, this is the only piece of information that has stuck in his mind; he didn't know Mike even had opinions of Robin, let alone bad ones. "Why would he not like you?" 

"Your guess is as good as mine, my friend," Robin sighs. "But I am assuming – and forgive me if this is the wrong assumption – that after spending two weeks complaining on my lovely thrifted couch about how badly he missed the "simpler times" and pestering Jonathan, Nancy, and I endlessly about your whereabouts until Nancy finally caved, he magically appeared at your doorstep and is now refusing to leave you alone?" 

What? 

Now that he thinks about it, Mike had mentioned crashing with Nancy when he was telling Will all about his life when they were at Montauket. Somehow, in all of his anxious worrying, it had completely slipped Will's mind that crashing with Nancy also meant crashing with Robin and Jonathan. Why didn't Jonathan warn me? 

"...I am guessing, by your silence, that I'm right?" Robin's voice sounds teasing now, and fuck no, Will is trying to avoid being teased, thank you very much! 

"Well, he's not refusing to leave me alone," Will mutters, a little petulantly. "He's just… I don't know. He's being weird." Will's told Robin about his feelings, even after she had already guessed them. She probably knows the most about the extent of how badly Will had been in love with Mike, once upon a time, over ten years ago, and how much he had downplayed those feelings so they wouldn't be used against him. "Like, I'm over him. I'm over him. But suddenly he's here and he's being so weird and I don't know what to do about it." 

"Ah, the wonders of young love," Robin sighs dramatically again. 

"Robin, I'm serious." Will closes his eyes, breathing in a deep inhale, the wall behind him the only thing keeping himself on his feet. "I know we've–talked, about this, before, but… you weren't there when we were teens, not until the very end, and Mike used to do this kind of thing… a lot. Like, there was a reason I got my hopes up, you know? Every time I tried to get over him, there he was swooping in, reassuring me that I was the most important piece of his life, telling me how special I was, staring at my lips, and every time, I believed it! Until the next day came and he was running back to her and I didn't exist to him anymore." Unbiddenly, tears spring into his eyes. 

He doesn't blame El for this, not anymore. There was a time when he was jealous of her, unfathomably so, and he hated it in equal measure, hated the way he couldn't stop the loathing in his gut every single time he watched Mike choose her, again and again and again. It wasn't her fault, he doesn't hate her for it, he doesn't even really hate Mike for it because hadn't El deserved happiness? Mike always loved with every fiber of his being, and at the time, that love was something El had, in her own words, needed. 

"I'm over him now," he continues, even if that sentiment no longer rings true in his own ears. "I've been over him, and, and yet here he is, pulling the exact same tricks. I want to believe it, I want to believe that somehow, this time will be the time Mike chooses me and chooses me for good." He takes another deep breath. "But if I'm wrong, again, I don't know if I could come back from it. It'd destroy me, Robin. I've worked so hard to find my own happiness, I can't let him ruin it." 

Robin is quiet for a long few moments as Will finishes talking, his lungs aching from how hard he's breathing. Will squeezes the phone in his hand, rakes his other hand through his hair with a groan. 

"I understand more than you think I do," she finally says, quiet, sounding serious for the first time in their entire conversation. "It's not an easy thing, being who we are and loving who we love. But I do think you're wrong. Will, you've survived so much, more than nearly any other person in the world has survived. You'd survive this too–and that's even if you're right. What if you're not? What if he stays?" 

Will purses his lips. "I just don't know if I can take that chance," he admits. 

"Perhaps you need to test him," Robin muses. "Flirt with him a little. Showcase your newfound confidence. Prove to him that you are okay without him, that you don't need him–but that you could want him, if he wants you in return." 

"It's not that easy," Will says. 

"It could be!" Robin's tone lightens up a bit. Will can feel her grinning through the phone. "Be the one to make plans while he's there, I know he plans on staying for awhile. Dress up a little. Own your confidence. You always shied away when you were young; I might not have known you, really known you, for that long, but I could see that much. The only way to tell if he's changed is to show him how much you have changed." 

"What if he doesn't like who I am now?" It's a thought that Will's had, fleetingly, over the course of the past few days, one that haunts him, even as he shoves it down and pretends to think otherwise. "What if he only likes the old me, and I scare him away?" 

"Then he was never worth keeping, and the finality of it will only help you heal and grow in the long run," Robin says, stern but not unkind. "But speaking honestly, Will? From what scarce interactions I had with him when he was living in my home? I don't think he'll be so easily scared off. He was so committed to finding you, knowing you. The only time he acknowledged my existence was to ask me questions about you." 

Will doesn't know how to respond to that. He hums thoughtfully, manages a breathy uh-huh. 

"I think that he might be in a similar state to you," Robin adds. "Or at least, he was, before he left. So worried that you'd look at him and only see his past self that you'd miss the guy he grew up to be. Maybe he's showing you that he's changed too." She pauses. "I can't tell you what to do. But I don't want you living in fear. I care about you, my weird not-brother."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Will wrinkles his nose. "Okay. Thanks, Robin. I'm glad you answered the phone and not Nancy." 

"Oh, how awkward that conversation would have been!" Robin cackles loud enough it turns to static against Will's ear; he nearly drops the phone with a wince. "Happy to help, as always, my liege. You better call me and update me on how it goes, though. I want to live vicariously through you." 

"Why would you want that when you literally have a girlfriend?" Will retorts.

"Because I understand the whims and woes of dating a Wheeler better than anyone!" Robin says cheerfully. "Except maybe your brother. Speaking of, I have to ask again; anything you want me to tell him?" 

"Uh…" Suddenly, all Will can think about is how Jonathan knew that Mike wanted to find him, knew that Mike had full intentions of tracking him down when he made plans to visit Montauk, knew that Mike was coming, and did not once call to tell him, warn him about what was to come; if not for his own sake, than El's, at the very least. "No, that's okay. I like your advice better." 

"Ha! I am so rubbing that in his face whenever I get the chance," Robin gloats. "The Will endorsement truly is the highest honor, I am flattered!" 

"Don't let it get to your head," Will rolls his eyes. "Thanks again, Robin. I'll… I'll call you soon, when I have an update."

"I will be expecting it," Robin promises. 

~~ 

Surprisingly, when Wednesday night comes, Will isn't so nervous. 

Robin's advice lingers like one of El's favorite perfumes. Will closes Color Me Yours a little early, once the last family has dropped off their plates and cups to be fired once El remembers she's employed, and unlike before, he isn't anxious to be getting ready for what could possibly be an actual, romantic date. 

She had been right, after all; Will has found some semblance of self-confidence, once he had moved to New York City alone and could finally explore who he would've been if it hadn't been for the Upside Down in his teen years. Will has gone on dates before, he's initiated dates before, and that the person he's going out with is Mike… 

…well, Will wants to test Robin's theory. He needs to know, once and for all, if this newfound relationship he's found with Mike since he came abruptly crashing back into Will's life is something real, or if he needs to nip it in the bud before he can get his heart broken for the millionth time. He wants… well, he'd like to make Mike squirm, but he still doesn't know if that'll happen. 

He might as well try his absolute best though. Will hums to himself as he picks out an outfit; it's still chilly outside, so he picks out one of his favorite grey cardigans first. You look good in blue, he remembers, Mike's voice ringing in his head, and despite himself, Will grins. Oh yeah? 

There's an entire section of his wardrobe dedicated to the days he used to go out clubbing more regularly. Will dips into it now, breath hitching as he finds exactly what he was looking for; a plain blue belly top, one that exposes most of his midriff. Is it a little warm for the weather? Probably. But what better way to see if Mike actually had eyes for him? 

Will slides into a pair of dark blue, almost black jeans, adorned with a studded black belt. He slips on the belly top, shivering, and then adds the grey cardigan. Thankfully, this is one of few cardigans he owns that actually buttons in the front, so he's able to button it up entirely, hiding his top from view. 

He doesn't have time to do anything crazy, like pull out some of El's eyeliner or dig through her earring collection again. But Will stares at himself in the mirror, combing through his hair until it looks a little purposefully messy; the barest hint of curls near his ears, the remnants of his childhood haircut long gone. He looks the furthest from his teenaged self as he possibly could be; a new style, new haircut, new everything. He looks good. 

This will be it, he thinks, fumbling for his sneakers, the clock ticking ever closer to eight. If Mike really does suddenly like me, this is going to be the test. If he doesn't… I'll manage it. Better than being led on for an entire month. 

Finally, Will heads downstairs. He almost regrets the outfit when the wind hits him, but then Mike is already there waiting, and his breath catches in his throat. 

Mike is wearing that jean jacket from before, but this time it's over a fluffy, blue-white-brown sweater. Combined with the way his curls fall loosely over his shoulders, it makes him look softer, like he couldn't get more handsome. 

"Hey," Mike greets casually, and his eyes roam over Will's frame. Will swallows, and tries not to lose his nerve. "I thought I told you to wear blue?" 

"Who said I had to listen to you?" Will snorts, shaking his head at the way Mike frowns at him, very nearly a pout. 

"Mean to me," Mike huffs, completely unseriously. He offers his hand though, and his lips are twitching, eyes sparkling. "Now, shall we?"

What a dork. Will can't help the way he's grinning as he takes Mike's hand. Mike slips their arms together, intertwines their hands, and he squeezes it carefully. 

It could still be platonic. It could mean nothing. But Will feels warmth building in his chest anyways, his cheeks flushing as he lets himself sink into Mike's side and follows as Mike leads the way. 

~~ 

Mike takes him to John's Drive In. 

It's fairly busy this time of night, even on Wednesday. They order their milkshakes, with Mike once again sliding out his wallet before the server is even finished taking their order. Mike gets chocolate, Will gets vanilla; it's a common routine, something that has not changed over the years. 

At first, Will had assumed they would sit down inside, enjoy the warmth of the diner, maybe even order burgers and fries to split. Instead, as they get their milkshakes, Mike grins cheekily, and he's striding outside fast, Will struggling to keep up with him and his gigantic legs. 

"Where are we going?" Will asks. 

"Actually, I was going to ask you that," Mike says, with a big, goofy grin. He already has milkshake sauce on his upper lip. Will has to clench his fists to avoid his first, instinctual reaction. "You know the town so much better than I do. Where's the best place to hang out?" 

Will rolls his eyes. "I thought you were taking me out," he teases, but he gestures with his neck. "Come on, then. I know a spot we can hang out." 

Mike follows after him, bounding like a puppy with too much energy. They can't hold hands while drinking milkshakes, but it almost doesn't matter when Mike is "accidentally" bumping into his side every two seconds, a cheeky grin on his face making his intentions clear. 

Shagwong is his favorite bar on Main Street. The rustic interior makes the space feel cozy, more authentic than the flashy dive bars in New York City. Will doesn't drink often, always remembering the acrid stench of whiskey on Lonnie's breath haunting him from childhood, but they do have a killer rum punch he enjoys partaking in on occasion. 

Even better, the bar is warm, warm enough that as soon as they enter, Will tosses the remains of his milkshake in the trash, stretches out his arms, and then slowly, nervously, unbuttons his jacket, letting the cardigan hang loose off of his shoulders. "Much better," he sighs, and it's only after he has the last button undone and the cardigan half-slipping off on the top that he dares to take a glance at Mike. 

Mike, who is staring at him, cheeks flushed so red it brings out freckles Will's never even seen before. The flush extends all the way to his ears, and then he's swallowing so thickly Will can see the motion protruding from his throat. His gaze slips down to the vast expanse of exposed skin, and he swallows again. 

"Turns out, I did listen to you," Will says as cheekily as he can muster. Internally, he's screaming. Say something! he begs. Tell me I'm not misreading this! 

"Uh huh," Mike breathes. He's still staring at Will's midriff. It'd be funny if they weren't still lounging in the entrance way of the bar; a couple brush past Will on their way out, and Mike barely flinches when they neatly slam into his side too. If there's one thing New Yorkers have that the citizens of Hawkins could never, it was a lack of respect for personal space. 

Own your confidence, Robin's voice echoes in his head. Will summons all of it, ignoring the way his nerves come alight under his skin, to snort, clicking his tongue as he reaches to take Mike by the hand. "Mike, we're standing in the entrance," he chides. "Have some dignity." 

"What?" Mike blinks rapidly. "Oh. Yeah. Um. Drinks? My treat?" He's stuttering and stammering over his words in a way that Will has never seen before. It's endearing. 

"Didn't we already have one?" Will taps the side of Mike's still unfinished milkshake. "Besides, I don't really drink socially much." 

"Will," Mike whines, high pitched and breathy. He shoves the straw of the milkshake into his mouth, sucks down the last third of it over the span of five seconds, and then tosses it into the trash. "There. Milkshake's gone. Just one drink?" 

"Oh my god," Will snorts again, shaking his head. "You're such a bad influence now." 

"Excuse you," Mike sniffs, "I've always been a bad influence." He interlocks their fingers, tugging lightly. "One drink. Let me be a proper gentleman." 

"Fine, fine." Will inhales, and then smiles as flirtatiously as he can muster. Own your confidence, own your confidence. "But you'll owe me a dance." 

Mike's breath hitches. He nods eagerly, once, and then glances away from Will, his cheeks still flushed that bright red. "It's a deal," he mumbles, clearing his throat.  

Then, he does something crazy. As Will steps a little closer to him in an attempt to shepherd him towards the bar counter, Mike releases Will's hand to, instead, curl his arm around Will's waist. Fingers brush against exposed skin, and Will shivers almost violently. Those fingers dig into his skin, and Will nearly falls against Mike's side as Mike finally starts walking towards the bar, pulling Will along with a possessive grip. 

The bartender glances at them curiously when they approach. Will recognizes her from previous trips to Shagwong, and he grins at her almost shyly, painfully aware of the way Mike's fingers are still digging into his side. "Hey, Judy," he greets. "How's Martha doing?" 

"Long time no see, Will!" Judy grins at him, but her gaze keeps shifting between him and Mike. "She's fine, of course, enjoying her new classes." She grabs for her shaker, her grin slipping into something teasing. "Your usual?" 

"You know me too well," Will sighs.

Judy nods quickly. "Coming right up." She gives Mike another sly side-eye, and then turns her back, starting on Will's drink. 

"I thought you said you don't drink often?" Mike questions. His voice is a low murmur, spoken very nearly into Will's hair with how pressed close the two of them are. 

"I don't," Will confirms. "But when I do, I usually come here." With El, he can't say; yeah, Mike had seemingly bought his story about his cousin Jackie, but he doesn't want to test his luck bringing her up unprompted. "Judy's nice. Her sister's in art school right now." 

Mike hums attentively. "What do you usually order?" his thumb traces small circles in the divot of Will's hip. "I gotta be able to order it for you in the future." 

That's an insane thing to say platonically. Now, regrettably, the voice in his head just sounds like Robin. "So bold," he says instead, turning his chin to stare at Mike. They're close, close enough that when Will tilts his chin upwards, he can feel Mike's breath hitting his face. It probably shouldn't be as pleasant as he finds it. "Planning on doing this again?" 

Mike swipes his tongue across his lips. "If you'll allow me," he says, almost teasingly. "Like the old days at the arcade, right?" 

Oh gosh, Will hasn't thought about Palace Arcade in ages. Mike's not even wrong, really; when they were kids, Mike spent two weekends nagging Will about his tastes in everything, from the generic counter snacks to the sodas in the vending machine to the milkshakes. Then, on the third weekend, everything Will had answered was pressed gently into his hands; the package of Reese's Pieces from the counter, the can of Sprite from the vending machine, the vanilla milkshake when the rest of the party wanted a sugar break. Will had wanted to pay him back, but he never could, and Mike had insisted on his apparent right as Will's best friend to buy him snacks and drinks. 

"You were always the gentleman, weren't you?" Will muses. He can't help the fond smile that creeps up on him as he reminisces. "Anyways. I always get their rum punch." 

"Noted." Mike mimes writing with a pen, and then presses the finger into his head. It is stupidly dorky. 

Judy finally turns back around. She slides the drink across the counter, winking at Will, and then glancing at Mike. "And for you, sweetheart?" 

"Oh." Mike flushes again. His grip tightens on Will's hip. "I'll take what he's having. Must be pretty good if Will likes it." 

Judy's eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and she grins again, sly and devious. "Of course," she says ominously. "He's cute, Will. Hope I see him around again."

"Judy!" Will gasps, mortified. 

"One more punch, coming up!" Judy turns back around, saving Will from the embarrassment of having to look his favorite bartender in the eye and pretend that he's not on a date. 

For a moment, they stand in silence. Mike's thumb is still rubbing into Will's hip, even though he's fishing out his wallet with the other. Will sips on his drink, and he'd almost be embarrassed at how quickly he feels the warmth of the alcohol if he weren't already flustered by the entire situation he's found himself in. 

"So," Mike finally breaks the silence. When Will glances back up at him, he's gazing down at Will with something thoughtful in his eyes, a light smile on his lips. "You bring any other guys here, or just me?" 

"What, are you jealous?" Will rolls his eyes, but his cheeks warm against his own will. "I told you already, I don't really… date much. So, no." 

"It's kind of a shame," Mike's voice drops into something husky and low. "Any guy would be lucky to have you. I think I'd know better than anyone." 

"Mike." Will huffs, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again. 

"I'm serious!" Mike blinks down at him slow and lethargic, and his grip on Will's hip tightens yet again. "I mean, obviously, I'm flattered to be here, but… god." His voice cracks. He swallows thickly again. "It's kind of unreal to me, being here with you. I know–I know I said it before, but I missed you. I really, really missed you." 

Oh. Will gulps. "I really missed you too," he says softly. "More than you know." 

"Yeah?" Mike smiles at him. It's the blinding smile he has, the one of pure adoration, the one that Will has, probably, missed the most in the years gone by. 

Predictably, it makes Will feel a little weak. He musters up a tiny nod, and then turns back to his drink, downing half of it quickly. 

Thankfully, Judy saves him. She slides Mike's drink to him, and her smile only increases when Mike slides her his credit card. "Should I open a tab?" she questions. 

"No thanks," Mike shakes his head. "We'll be headed out soon. Thanks, Judy!" 

Judy waves at them as Mike takes his drink, nudges Will's hip with his own, and then saunters away from the bar, Will following helplessly in tow. 

Mike leads him out onto the main floor. There's a handful of college students already here dancing, but none of them bat an eye as Mike sets his own drink down on a nearby table, finally releasing his vice grip on Will's side. "So," he says, questioning and sly all at once. "I promised you a dance, didn't I?" 

Will's lips quirk into a smile. "That you did," he says lightly. 

Mike takes a step back, and then offers his hand, bending over just enough so that he's nearly looking up at Will. "So? May I dance with you, Will Byers?" 

"Such a gentleman," Will teases; but his heart is fluttering as he takes Mike's hand. He barely has the time to set his own half-empty drink down before Mike is whisking him away. 

The song changes as they step into sync with each other. Mike's hand slides back down onto Will's hip, the other closing around his shoulders. It reminds Will, briefly, of slow dancing with his mom across his living room, back when his biggest worry was whether or not he'd be able to keep the attention of his friends while not clueing them into his, at the time, biggest secret. 

He remembers how it had felt, getting pulled away by the random girl from his class, stiffly matching her posture, sneaking glances at Mike from across his shoulder all the while. He had wanted it so badly then, wanted to know what it would feel like to have Mike be the one guiding him, Mike's hands wrapped around him. 

Now, over a decade later, he's finally experiencing it, and god, it's everything he could ever want. 

"Relax," Mike murmurs, when Will is a little too lost in his own memories to properly enjoy the way Mike's guiding him, the warmth of his hands. "I've got you, I've got you." 

Will inhales, exhales. He relaxes; he's never been very good at saying no to Mike. "You do this often?" he says, and his voice comes out a strangled whisper. 

"Not really," Mike whispers right back, sounding a little amused, a little fond. "Not with anyone I cared as much about." 

"How can I be strong, I've asked myself, time and time I've said, that I'll never fall in love with you again." Janet Jackson croons in the background. 

"Mike," Will breathes. He almost crumples at the way Mike is looking at him, the way he's been looking at him. Suddenly, he's not sure if he's strong enough for this, but he has to know; he has to ask. "Is this… what are we doing?" 

Mike blinks at him. "Dancing?" 

"I know that," Will sighs, and then groans. "I mean, like. This." He swallows, chokes on the word. "I just–I don't want to assume anything, I don't want to read too much into it, but…" he trails off. Suddenly, the meager distance between them isn't enough, and he's forced to tear his gaze away from Mike's fond, caring eyes, staring mutely at the ground instead. 

"I don't know," Mike confesses. Will cannot look at him, he can't. "I… I meant it, when I said how much I fucking missed you, and how I needed to get away from Chicago. It was nice there, real nice, but it wasn't home. And, and the more I thought about that, the more I realized that my definition of home has always, always included you. I know… Will, look at me, please?" 

Reluctantly, Will drags his gaze back upwards. Mike is staring at him so desperately now, and they're still slowly swaying to the beat, but they're not really dancing. Not anymore. 

"I know I've hurt you before," Mike murmurs. His hand, the one on Will's shoulder, drifts upwards, brushing lightly against Will's jawline. "So many times, in so many different ways. I know I don't deserve you, because you are… you've always been one of the best things to ever happen to me, and I'll never forgive myself for letting you believe otherwise for so long." 

"Mike…" Unbiddenly, tears spring into Will's eyes. 

"And I know, I know it's been years, and you've probably moved on, and the last thing you wanted was for me to come crashing back into your life, but I just…" Mike sniffs. His hand brushes against Will's cheek, and despite himself, Will leans into the touch. "I want this. I want you. I think I've wanted you for longer than I can even imagine. But I wanted to do this the right way, the way you deserved. I needed to prove myself." 

"Don't you stand there and then tell me you love me and then leave again," Janet Jackson wails. "Cause I'm falling in love with you again." 

"You don't have to prove anything to me," Will finally says, his voice thick. Internally, he's screaming. "Not when you're here. That's enough." 

Mike only smiles humorlessly. He stretches his fingers, gently combing underneath Will's eyes; catching tears that Will hadn't even realized had fallen and smoothly wiping them away. "I want to," he says, a little insistingly. Then, "you are ruining my master plan, you know." 

"Oh yeah?" Will tries to come off teasing, but his voice is still thick, brimming with every single emotion he's felt inside of his chest since the day Mike came crashing back into his life. 

"Yeah," Mike leans into their enclosed space. "I had it all mapped out. I was going to come in and sweep you off your feet, take you out on dates. Make sure," and here, his breath ghosts across Will's face, making him shiver, "that you knew just how wonderful you are. That this time, I wasn't being a self-pitying idiot. I wanted to prove," he pauses, pointedly, his gaze dropping down to Will's lips, "how much I wanted this." 

Will swallows. Mike's other hand has encircled his waist, pulling him in; he couldn't escape even if he wanted to. "So prove it," he whispers, trying to own his fucking confidence. 

Mike inhales a sharp breath. He digs his fingers into Will's chin, tilting it upwards. "God, you're beautiful," he breathes, and then he's leaning in and Will's leaning up and their lips, finally, meet. 

And… well, Will's kissed boys before, several of them in this very bar, on this very dance floor. He knows what it feels like now, being wanted, being found attractive, in a way that he hadn't been able to fathom as a teenager in Hawkins Indiana. He doesn't need Mike to make him feel wanted, not anymore. 

But god does it feel good anyways. 

Mike kisses him with passion, full of something longing and desperate all at once. Will reaches up to wrap his arms around Mike's neck, gasping when Mike slides his hand into the space between his cardigan and his top, thumbing lightly at Will's lower back. It's hungry, messy, passionate. 

The song changes. Will is hardly listening anymore. He's barely even breathing; especially when Mike pulls back, takes another sharp breath, and then kisses him again, possessive and hungry and consuming. Mike kisses him like he's staking a claim, and it's a little pathetic how quickly Will has caved but he's wanted this for so long, so fucking long. 

Finally, Will has to take a break, pulling away to wheeze for air. "Wow," he says stupidly. 

"Wow," Mike agrees. He has a dazed look on his face; a little smugly satisfied, a little pleased, a lot hungry. Will thought he might regret the very, very public space they were currently occupying, but Mike hasn't taken his gaze off of Will once. 

It makes him shiver again, squirming under the weight of Mike's attention. It feels good. 

"I would kiss you again," Mike says, in that dark, husky tone of his, "but instead, I am going to be a gentleman and walk you home." 

"Right," Will says faintly. "Kind of you." 

Mike only grins.

~~ 

Surely enough, after finishing their drinks, Mike walks him back to Color Me Yours. 

It's almost like they hadn't kissed in the bar at all. Mike chatters about some of the ideas he's tossing around for his novel, waving his hands around while Will slips right back into the familiar routine of listening to Mike talk, nodding affirmatively at all the right times. He thinks he could listen to Mike talk forever; something he, apparently, has never managed to get over, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise. 

When they arrive at the shop though, Mike pauses. He steps away from Will only to rake his gaze over him one final time; Will's slipped the cardigan back on fully now that they're in the chilly evening air, but he left some of the buttons undone, just to make Mike squirm. 

"Tonight was fun," Mike says. "I mean, I'd have fun anywhere as long as it's with you, but it was really fun." He shuffles awkwardly in place. "I know, I kind of put a lot on you, earlier, but I did mean what I said; I want to do this properly. Very properly." 

"I appreciate it," Will says breathily. "Really, I do." 

"Great." Mike grins at him, shy and adoring. Then, he leans in, quickly pressing a feather light kiss to Will's lips. "Goodnight, Will." 

"Good–goodnight, Mike," Will stammers. 

Mike smiles at him again, his gaze lingering on his frame for a second longer, and then he turns towards the bus station and Will, once again, watches him go, pressing two fingers to his lips and sighing wistfully all the while.

~~ 

The next week passes in an absolute whirlwind. 

El finally comes home. She doesn't press Will for the details of his newfound courtship with Mike, just chatters excitedly about Stephanie and how cool her tattoo parlor was. Guess I am finally achieving a new sleeve, she had beamed, and Will had smiled along with her; her smile, as always, is contagious. 

Mike swings by Color Me Yours a few more times; he brings Will a bouquet of flowers on Thursday, winking and brushing their hands together when Will had stammered his appreciation. Then, on Friday, he comes by with a box from John's Drive In, sliding the burger and fries and the accompanying vanilla milkshake onto the table Will's working at with a grin. Gotta keep your strength up for painting, right? 

Each time he comes, El ducks into the back, only letting Mike catch a fleeting glimpse of her nametag and the bright streaks of pink in her hair. It is probably more suspicious than anything else they've done to obscure her identity, but, as El gleefully points out to Will later Friday night, it's not like Mike has eyes for anyone but him anyways. 

On Saturday, Mike stops by while Will's in the middle of one of his classes. He's gently correcting one of the kids when the door bell rings, and then Mike is giving him that goofy, endearing smile of his, leaning against one of the chairs and simply watching as Will explains how to paint flowers to a handful of seven year olds like it's the most engaging subject in the entire world. 

After the class has finished though, he saunters over to where Will is cleaning up, eyes hooded. "Hey," he greets. "Nice class." 

"Come on, it wasn't that interesting," Will huffs a laugh. 

"Nah, of course it was," Mike leans casually against the table, and then chokes on a swear when he very neatly hits one of the used water cups with his hand, causing it to fly half off the table. "Shit! Sorry!" 

Will laughs again, more genuinely, and he can't help the fond smile that grows on his face. "Did you only come to make my job harder?" he quips. 

"Maybe," Mike drops to his knees, dragging a handful of paper towels down with him. "I've got it, I've got it." 

It's hopelessly endearing, watching as Mike does his best to mop up dirty paint-stained water. Will continues his own cleaning up, carefully setting canvases aside to dry and putting up the bottles of paint. 

"Okay, all cleaned up!" Mike jumps back up to his feet, dropping the paper towels into the little trash bin next to the table. "Anyways. Um. Come here often?" 

"Oh my god, Mike." Will laughs again, crossing his arms as he leans against the front counter. 

Mike's cheeks are flushed red, but he's still grinning stupidly. "I was wondering," he continues, "if you'd like to go out with me on Monday? You mentioned that was your day off."

"Hmm." Will pretends to think, tapping his finger against his chin. "Well, I was going to third wheel Jackie and her new girlfriend on their trip to the Montauk Playhouse to watch a movie I've probably already seen, and that's a pretty exciting way to spend a day off." 

"That's so funny!" Mike lights up, his grin widening. "I was thinking we could go there too. The Matrix is still showing there even though it's been out for months, and I know you've probably already seen it but I was thinking it could be fun to go together?" 

The awful thing is that Will almost agrees. Opens his mouth, thinking about how nice it had always been to go to the movies with Mike even when they were technically thirdwheeling Lucas and Max together, missing it like a phantom limb, and… yeah, Mike is right that he's already watched The Matrix, but he would never turn down the opportunity to watch Keanu Reeves on screen again. 

Then, though, he remembers. The brief thoughts he had, of going on a technical double date with his sister and her girlfriend and Mike, fall apart as quickly as he had them. There is no way, absolutely no way, that Mike and El could be in the same room for longer than two seconds without Mike recognizing her. 

"I don't know," he settles on saying, with a little shrug that he hopes is more convincing than it feels. "If we're going out, I think I want it to just be us." 

"Right, right, of course." Mike nods along, and Will almost feels bad at how quickly he had agreed. Suddenly, the guilt that he's felt being around Mike, the guilt that had dissolved during their last date together, comes back in full force, like a tidal wave threatening to pull him under. I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this! "Well, I had other ideas. We could go out for dinner again, maybe take a walk on the beach… maybe you could come over to my hotel room and read over the first draft of my novel?" 

For some reason, Mike sounds unfathomably nervous offering this, shifting in place and glancing down at the floor when Will looks at him curiously. 

"Okay," he finally agrees, worn down. "Dinner." 

Mike breathes a little sigh of relief. He steps into Will's space, tangles a hand in Will's hair, studies his face for a moment like he's asking permission. Will plasters a smile on his face, tilts his head in acknowledgement, bats his eyelashes; and then Mike's leaning in further, kissing him softly. 

"I'll see you Monday," he murmurs against Will's lips, low and wanting. Will shivers at the intensity, and he squeaks a little in affirmation. 

~~ 

The guilt rising in him only gets worse and worse. 

Monday morning, Will finds himself buttoning up El's vest for her, his hands shaking as he carefully adjusts the neckline. "So," he says, struggling for the right words. "Are you excited for your date with Steph?" 

"Mm-hmm," El hums. 

Her outfit today is cute, one of Will's favorites. She's wearing a pair of flowy blue bell-bottoms with little embroidered flowers along the hips, a plain white sweater, and one of her favorite jean vests, also embroidered in flowers. With her hair carefully plaited in two long braids and her bangs clipped back with a handful of her favorite butterfly barrettes, she looks good, perfectly ready for a date. Will, on the other hand, hasn't even started the process of getting ready. 

"Good, that's good." Will takes a step back, admiring his handiwork. "Want me to help with your makeup?" 

"I wasn't going to wear much," El admits. She turns to look at him, shyly tucking her hands into her pockets. "You seem upset about something." 

"Can you stop doing that thing where you see right through me?" Will sighs in faux frustration, groaning into his own hands. There's no point in arguing with El or trying to convince her she's wrong about what she's reading on him, he knows it's pointless. 

"Will," El says softly. She takes one of the hands he's hiding his face in, coaxing him gently to her own bed. Will slumps into it, and El sits next to him, still holding his hand. "Talk to me. What's wrong?" 

"It's just…" Will purses his lips together, and then groans again. "Mike is taking me out again tonight," he admits. "And I should be happy about it. I am happy about it, this entire situation is… a little dream come true, you know that." 

"It is exciting, yes," El agrees. "I am happy to see that he has finally gotten his shit together." 

Will snorts. "Yeah, except he originally wanted us to go to the theater with you and Steph." He pauses, lets the words sink in. "And I know we talked about this, before, but now that it's become more real, I just… I can't do it El. I can't keep lying to him." 

"Oh, Will…" El rubs their hands together. When Will glances over at her, he sees his own guilt reflected in her eyes, the way she stares almost miserably into her lap. "I am sorry," she says quietly. "I never meant to put you in this position." 

It's a little ironic, considering their strained, tentative relationship from their teenaged years. Will just shakes his head. "It isn't your fault, El," he assures. "I mean, god knows how awkward I made your and Mike's relationship when we were younger. You're only repaying the favor." 

"That is not a favor I wish to repay," El shakes her head. "Perhaps… perhaps we should tell him the truth. Let him meet me, the new me." 

Will swallows thickly. "What if I lose him?" the thought is a selfish one, but Will has finally come to terms with the fact that he's allowed to be a little selfish sometimes. "What if this secret isn't something we can come back from?" 

"I do not believe there is anything you could do or say that would make Mike dislike you," El murmurs. Her voice is thick here, and suddenly, Will remembers their fight from that awful spring break, so long ago; the way that El had been convinced that Mike hadn't loved her at her worst, when she needed it the most. Will had known she was wrong, but he can hear how much it still stings in her voice, even as much as she's denied it. "It does not have to be tonight. It should not be tonight. Tonight, we are going to have fun on our respective dates, and we are not going to think about how terrifying the future is together, okay?" 

Will inhales, exhales. "Okay," he agrees. "God, when did you get so wise?" 

"I have always been wise," El says bluntly, but there's a hint of a smile on her face now. 

~~ 

A few hours after El leaves for her own date, Mike shows up at Color Me Yours. 

Will had done his best to get ready in the meantime. He threw on his favorite pair of jeans, the ones that are very nearly too tight on him now, and one of his favorite flannels over a plain white t-shirt. It's a bit simple compared to his outfit from the night before, but he doesn't have as much to prove now; he knows Mike wants him, he's comfortable in it. 

The conversation from El is still spinning in his brain. Will tries to tuck it into a far corner of his mind as he slips out of the front door, grinning fondly when he finds that Mike is, to his own mild surprise, already waiting for him. 

"Hey," Mike dips his head, gaze wandering across Will's frame in a way that's become oddly familiar over the past two weeks. "Wanna start with a walk? It's a nice day out." 

"Well, if you insist," Will offers his arm, and Mike takes it eagerly, intertwining their hands together. He's wearing his jean jacket again, his hair a little messier from the coastal winds, and he is so, so unbelievably gorgeous in a way that makes Will's heart hurt. 

He promised El he would try to be happy today, try to enjoy the date, and he is going to try. But the guilt, familiar now in the way it sinks claws into his heart and lungs, remains persistent nonetheless. 

~~ 

Will tries to enjoy himself. 

He really, really tries. 

Mike takes him strolling along the beach. Surely enough, it's a beautiful day outside; the sun is gently hidden behind the smallest handful of clouds, a pleasant warmth chasing away the lingering chill from the wind. The ocean, as always, is lovely too, waves lapping over the shore, a shade of blue that haunts Will's dreams. 

Usually, the beach is one of Will's favorite places to come when he wants to sketch, especially when he wants to sketch Mike. It's a safe place for him, because there's nothing here that could ever even possibly remind him of Hawkins; it helps him anchor himself to the present, especially on days he wakes up gasping from nightmares of a time long passed. 

Today though, he can't focus on the gentle lapping of waves hitting the shore. Mike is holding his hand, which would normally make him feel… well, something, but it only brings him a sense of trepidation as they weave through the quickly forming crowds, settling down on a park bench together. 

"Okay, so," Mike says, and he's pulling his hand free of Will's to instead curl it around Will's shoulders, leaning back into the bench with a carefree sigh. "I couldn't decide where to go for dinner, but there's a seafood grill near my hotel that I thought would be okay? Um, if you still like seafood, that is. I can't remember if that was something you cut off." 

"I do like seafood," Will nods reassuringly. It's still mildly chilly outside, but he's sweating in his flannel, resisting the urge to take it off. "I guess I'm not really vegetarian, but it's kind of hard to avoid eating seafood here. Not like it was in New York City." 

"Right. Right!" Mike relaxes into the seat. His arm around Will's shoulders brushes down his arm, and Will finds himself subconsciously leaning into the touch, curling into Mike's side. This is nice, he thinks, followed by I can't believe I'm about to lose this forever. 

He's being pessimistic. If El were around, or listening into his brain, she'd probably make him do affirmations or some shit in front of a mirror, or gently chide him for his own pessimism in a desperate attempt to change his mind. Will doesn't think it'd work though. Mike hates it, hates it when he's lied to, especially by Will. Their last fight had been explosive for that very reason, and it wasn't long after that fight that Will had stopped trying so hard to keep contact, made easier once his first letter from El had arrived. 

"Anyways, um, I know you have work in the morning, but I do still want to take you to my room," Mike is saying, that strange nervousness back in his voice as he talks. "I mean, if you want to come. I've been really stuck on the ending of my novel and I think… I think having fresh eyes could be nice." 

It reminds Will of when they were younger, sharing comic books under the covers with a flashlight, before they were swallowed by the weight of the world. Mike had proclaimed so eagerly that he could totally write comic books when he was older, but only if he had Will around to draw them. Will had agreed then, a nine year old kid already ensnared in the tangled web that was Mike Wheeler. Back then, he thought, so truly, that Mike was the best writer in the entire world. 

He still does. Even if he hasn't been around to read anything Mike's written in the years since they graduated high school. 

"I'd love to read your writing," Will says honestly. But then he remembers what that would entail; going to Mike's hotel room, alone, with Mike, and they haven't done anything less chaste than kissing but Will wants to go further, would actually combust if he could feel Mike's hands underneath his shirt, and the only place that could happen is at Mike's hotel room, and he wants it. 

The problem, of course, is that going to Mike's hotel room when he knows that Mike is going to absolutely crash out once he knows Will is lying to him is only going to make that fallout worse. Will should've never entertained this possibility, should've never believed that dating Mike is something he'd ever be allowed to have, he should've– 

"-hey, hey." Mike's free hand is caressing Will's cheek, and Will snaps out of his spiraling thoughts, swallowing thickly at the pure adoration seeping off of Mike, his eyes big and fond and loving. "Think I lost you for a second. What's wrong?" 

Will swallows again. It's even harder to lie to Mike when he's staring Mike right in the face, close enough to count every single freckle on his flushed cheeks. "Nothing," he says immediately, but Mike's brow only raises, showcasing how very unconvinced he is. "I mean–I guess I"m just a little overwhelmed, that's all." 

Mike frowns. His thumb is rubbing into Will's jawline again. "Did I do something wrong?" he questions, so wholly earnest it makes everything inside of Will ache. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything." 

"No, no, Mike, you're…" Will shudders. "You're perfect." It comes out strangled. "Overwhelmed probably wasn't the right word. It is a little chilly out though." 

Mike clicks his tongue. Then, he's pulling away from Will, just far enough that he can slide his jean jacket off of his shoulders. "Here," he says simply, tucking the jacket around Will before Will can protest. 

Will should protest. But the jacket is warm, and it smells faintly of paper and something that must be Mike's cologne, and it's just big enough that the sleeves slide over Will's wrists and swallow him whole. "Oh," he says stupidly. "Um. Thanks." 

Mike grins at him. "It looks good on you," he says, and then he's standing up, offering his hand to Will. "Wanna go eat now? I want to show you off." 

And… how can Will possibly say no to that? 

~~ 

Dinner goes nicely. 

Mike holds his hand across the table the entire time, just like before. Will tries to relax into the touch, relax into the casual, easy way Mike compliments him, tries to enjoy it. The trepidation from before, though, is still eating him alive, and as Mike pays the check, he thinks that Mike can tell. 

They walk towards Montauk Manor afterwards, still holding hands. Will is still wearing Mike's jacket, tucked awkwardly over his flannel. Mike chatters about everything and nothing, but he slowly stops talking as they approach the hotel. 

"Will," he says, and he pulls his hand away from Will's too, which is when Will knows that Mike had caught onto his weird mood. "I–I don't want to push you, but… I don't know. Last time went so well, but tonight I just feel weird about it." 

"Mike," Will tries to intervene. "It's not you–" 

"-then what is it?" Mike groans, shoving his hands into his face. "Sorry. That came out wrong. I just mean–I really, really like you, and I thought…" 

"...thought, what?" Will crosses his arms. "Mike, I like you. I've always liked you, and I think, despite every single attempt I've made over the years, I always will. But things are different now, okay? I'm not the same teenager who foolishly thought that when you promised we could be a team, it was a guarantee. You pushed me away, you kept pushing me away, and then I finally got the memo and I made my own life and now here you are, coming right back like nothing I did even mattered." 

"It's not my fault you lied about that painting!" Mike's voice finally raises, defensive and snappy, and Will can't help the way he shrinks away from it; no, this is good, he tries to tell himself, when he finds out about El, it won't hurt as bad this way, this is good. 

This is good, except he still feels so, so awful about it. 

"You're still mad at me for that?" Will scowls, trying to ignore the way he feels like he's been torn to shreds on the inside. "That was so long ago, Mike! I was a stupid teenager! We both were!" 

"I'm not mad about it," Mike denies, with a deep exhale. "It's just–I thought I would never move on, you know? I know, I know it wasn't fair to you, but you can't sit here and blame me for pushing you away when I was fucking grieving. It wasn't like it was on purpose, I never want to hurt you on purpose, haven't I proved that by now?" 

"I don't know, Mike!" Will feels like he might start crying. This is what he wanted, he reminds himself. "I just… this has been nice. You did a good job sweeping me off my feet, okay? If you were any other guy, I'd happily continue going on dates with you. But I can't…" he swallows thickly. "I don't know how to keep pretending that there wasn't something between us before, that this isn't everything I ever wanted when I was younger, that if you walked away again, I wouldn't be absolutely fucking devastated. It'd ruin me, Mike. You ruin me." 

"I don't want to ruin you," Mike whispers, choked and hollowed out. Around them, the sky has darkened, rain like tears falling around them. "I don't, Will. I don't want to hurt you, I'm sorry." 

Will can't take it anymore. If he stares at Mike's tearfully apologetic face, the way Mike is still, somehow, looking at him like he's something worth desiring, he might just cave, run back into those arms the way he's always wanted. But he can't. This way, it hurts less, he reminds himself. This way, I've already gotten the worst of the rejection over with. 

"I'm sorry too," he murmurs. "I just… I can't do this today. I'm sorry Mike." 

"Will, wait." Will's already turning around. Tears spill freely down his cheeks, but amidst the rain, he doesn't think anyone would be able to tell. "Will, don't leave, it's raining. Will!" 

But for the second time in their lives, Will walks away from Mike in the rain, feeling like his entire world has shattered into pieces. 

~~ 

He finds himself at Shagwong before his brain fully catches up. 

Oh god. Will barely waves at Judy, who grimaces at him and slides him a drink with a mouthed on the house. He slumps over at the bar counter, lifelessly downing the punch with a shudder. Oh god, I'm such a fucking stupid idiot. 

Why did he do that? He promised El he would try to be happy today. He was happy, up until he went and ran his mouth and made Mike upset and made himself upset and ruined everything. Why, oh why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut? 

It was nice while it lasted. Will can feel the ghost of Mike's lips on his own, the ghost of his hands caressing Will's cheek, holding his hands, crossing over his shoulders. Hell, he's still wearing Mike's stupid fucking jacket, and now he doesn't know how on Earth he's going to ever return it when he's pretty fucking sure Mike's never going to want to see him again. 

Stupid fucking idiot! Mike wanted him. Mike actually, truly and genuinely, wanted him, in the way that Will has always wanted him too, and it had been nice. It had felt good, being loved and wanted by Mike. Will has dreamt of it for so long, for almost his entire life, and for the two weeks he had it, he felt like he was on top of the world. 

And now it's all gone. Two weeks down the drain, the happiest that Will has ever been, all fucking gone. 

Will slides his empty glass across the bar. Judy takes it with a wince, giving him a sad, knowing smile as she immediately starts pouring him another. It's a bad idea, because Will never drinks and he knows that his tolerance for alcohol is absolute shit, but he can't be alone in his head any longer, he can't. 

So he takes the drink offered to him. He drinks, and drinks, and drinks, and mourns what could have been until he isn't coherent enough to mourn anything. 

The last thing he remembers is the sound of Janet Jackson wailing in the background once again, the crash of the door slamming open, and the frantic yell of his own name before the world goes dark. 

~~ 

Will wakes up to dim light, and he's already regretting it. 

Everything hurts. There's pressure behind his eyes pounding so fiercely he wonders if he's concussed. His limbs ache, and he groans as he tries to open his eyes, only to wince at the sudden assault of light. 

For one, blissful moment, he doesn't know where he is and he doesn't remember how he got into this position. It lasts just long enough for him to brave opening his eyes again, blinking rapidly as the other side of his bed dips in pressure. 

He doesn't remember getting home. He doesn't even remember leaving the bar. 

The bar. 

Everything floods back in, and Will groans again, flopping back into his pillow. "Oh god," he mutters, wincing again at how terribly hoarse his own voice is. "Am I dead? Did I die?" 

"You did not die," El's voice answers, a little softer than her usual timbre. Her hand pats over his face, and Will blinks his eyes open again to glare at her. "I have Tylenol. And water." 

"Bless you," Will rasps. He struggles upright, leaning heavily against his own pillows as he takes the glass of water and the offered pills, downing them quickly with a grimace. "Ugh. What happened?" 

El smiles at him sadly, and suddenly, Will knows for certainty that he does not want to hear the answer. "You got very drunk," she says anyways, a little sympathetically. "Mike brought you home." 

Mike brought you home. It makes sense. Vaguely, Will remembers someone calling his name; it definitely could have been Mike. Except that Will had left Mike standing outside of his hotel room in the rain. Because Will had fought with him, had tried to cut Mike off before he was inevitably cut off himself. Mike should've been blissfully at home in his hotel room, making a new plan because his plan to charm Will had ultimately failed. 

Instead, Mike had, apparently, followed him. Mike had apparently followed him to his favorite bar, had seen Will drunk, which could not have been a good thing, and then had done the responsible, gentlemanly thing; he had taken Will home. 

…oh god, he had taken Will home. 

El is still giving him that sad, sympathetic smile. "He knows," she says, and Will's blood turns to ice in his veins. "I was home when he came by with you in tow. I let him in. We talked."

"Oh god," Will whispers. 

"He was sweet," El says, a little wistfully. "He wanted to make sure you were going to be okay. I told him that you only kept my secret because I asked you to do so." She pauses, and then takes Will's hand, squeezing it gently. "He is not angry with you. I think he is mostly angry with himself." 

"That's not better," Will swallows. "El, I said such awful things to him yesterday. I got in my head. I hurt him." 

"I know," El squeezes his hand again. "He left something for you. A letter, I think." She pauses again. "But I think you should clean up before you read it. Neither of us wanted to change your clothes." 

Will glances down at himself, underneath the blankets, and winces; he had fallen asleep still wearing Mike's jacket, mildly soaked by the rain and still a little damp. How embarrassing. "Did you have a good time on your date, at least?" he asks weakly. 

El smiles brightly. "I did!" She stands, smoothing down the wrinkles in her sleep shirt. "Perhaps when you have come to your senses, we can finally go on double dates. Mike has earned my approval as your boyfriend." 

"El!" 

His sister is giggling and sauntering away before Will can muster the energy to swat at her from his very hungover state on his bed. 

~~ 

Will takes his time before he finds the letter. 

He changes his clothes, but after a reluctant pause, he keeps Mike's jacket, sighing into the mirror. Unfortunately, Mike was right; it does look good on him. He might steal it, if he manages to smooth things over with the man in question. 

He does not want to think about that right now. He does not. 

There are heavy bags under his eyes, and Will only splashes some water in his face. He still feels awful, the lingering effects of the hangover sinking into his bones, but at least he's not completely incoherent. 

Once he's changed, and properly freshened up, he heads into the living room. El is humming in the kitchen, and she smiles at him from the island counter, nodding her head at the slip of paper left so precisely on the countertop. "I can open shop myself," she says. "I need to work on getting the past week's projects fired anyways." 

"Thanks, El," Will gives her a tentative smile back, sliding into the bar stool and fidgeting with the slip of paper. He can recognize Mike's handwriting, but the thought of reading it makes his stomach turn. 

This is it. This is how Will learns if he was right to cut Mike out first, or if he's made the worst mistake of his entire life. Knowing his luck, it'll somehow be both options at the very same time. 

"Just read it," El huffs. She's moved closer to him in the time he's spent staring at just the header of the letter, close enough that she can press a light kiss to his forehead, beaming at him when she slides back onto her feet. "Take the day off. I love you." 

"Love you too." Will watches her go. The door slams behind her, leaving Will alone with the letter and his own thoughts. 

He takes a deep breath. Turns his attention back to the letter. Takes another breath. Here goes nothing. 

Will: 

As I am writing this, you are passed out in your bed after having maybe four drinks. It'd be a little funny, your lack of alcohol tolerance, if I weren't so concerned for you, and us. 

I understand why you lied. About the painting, which I know I've said before but never to your face, and also about El. At first, when she opened the door to your apartment and I saw her face, I thought maybe I was the one sleeping; it was only in my worst nightmares that I'd faced you rejecting me for the final time and El coming back in the same fell swoop. Then, she gave me that gentle smile and told me I should come in and we should talk, and I knew it was real, and somehow, that was even worse. 

At first, I was so angry at you. I couldn't believe you had kept this a secret for so long. Then, I was concerned for you, because I could not imagine keeping that big of a secret from people you care about–and then I remembered how long you kept your sexuality a secret, and part of it made sense to me. You've always been that way; selfless in all the ways that mattered, willing to prioritize the feelings of the people around you before yourself. You hid inside of your shell for so long because you didn't want any of us to feel differently about you, even though you had to have known that everybody in that room, your family and our friends and myself, would never, ever look at you differently. 

Except that's somewhat of a lie, isn't it? I did look at you differently. I didn't realize why, at the time. I didn't even fully put the pieces together that I was the guy you were talking about until Lucas and Dustin sat me down sometime after graduation for "boy talk"; even then, I wondered why you hadn't been invited to that conversation. I was so upset on your behalf, Will! And even then, when I knew about your feelings, I still didn't fully understand why it affected me so differently. Not until I was living by myself in Chicago and you were miles upon miles away, and still, even then, I could feel the weight of your absence. 

I know you, Will. I think I know you better than anyone else alive. I know what thoughts you must have had, keeping El's secret, believing it to be a matter of life or death. I think it might have been a safety net, because you had the freedom to hide yourself away under the guise of her safety. I'm not saying that was the wrong thing to do, just that I understand. I get it. 

And I know that my appearance in your life must have been sudden and overwhelming. I wasn't lying before though; I have never, ever wanted to hurt you on purpose. If my presence here is hurting you, then I will leave, even if it feels like the worst thing I could ever do. You were happy here, before I came in and ruined things. I don't want to leave you, because I finally realized that you were always something I was looking for, a part of my home I didn't realize was missing until it was gone. 

You called me the heart, once. I tried to embody that for you, for the party, but now I realize what I should've known all along; if I am the heart of the party, you are my heart. You always have been, and always will be, even if we live in different cities and lead different lives. 

I don't care that you lied about El. I'm happy that you were here taking care of her. I missed her, not because I want to be with her, but because she was my friend, someone that I cared about. I understand that now, even if I didn't before. I don't care, because I came here to Montauk with a singular purpose; I wanted to win you back. Perhaps that was foolish of me, still treating you like a prize to be won and not a person that I care about, possibly more than anyone else in the entire world. But I will stand by it.

I love you, Will Byers. I have always loved you, even if I could never fully understand the depths of it. I love you, and I always will love you. 

I don't know what will happen next. But I will be in my hotel room finishing my novel; I think I understand the climax better now. You'll understand when you read it. If you read this and still want to, at the very least, be my friend, that's more than I'll deserve. 

I won't come by anymore. I don't want to ruin your life any more than I already have. I can only hope that you'll forgive me for finally understanding what it is like to want something you cannot have. 

Your Paladin; 

Mike 

By the end of the letter, there are tears in Will's eyes. He wipes them away roughly, folding the letter in half, and then sinking his head into his hands. "Fuck my life," he mutters. "What do I do now?" 

Go to him. The voice in his head, once again, sounds like Robin. Will groans. 

~~ 

It's a stupid plan. 

"This is so stupid," Will tells himself as he stands in front of Montauk Manor. He's never actually been in here before, never had a reason to come before now. He's still wearing Mike's jacket; he's not sure if Mike will ask for it back, not sure if that would make him feel better or worse. 

His head is still pounding. He's never really had a hangover before, never let himself drink to that point in years past. Now that he has experienced it though, he knows he's for sure never drinking this much ever again. Why do people like drinking so much? 

Stupid. This is all stupid. Will steps into the hotel, taking a deep breath. 

On the back of the letter, Mike had written his room number, circled twice. It was an invitation, an opening. Will doesn't know if Mike expected him to take that invitation today, but he knew, he knew he couldn't put this off. 

They need to have a conversation. A real one, now that Mike knows everything Will's spent five years hiding. 

So Will takes the stairs to the second floor, stops in front of room 204. He hesitates, stares at the plain door for awhile, and then commits, rapping his knuckles against the wood. 

It's quiet for a minute, two minutes. Then, the door creaks open, and Mike stares at him from the entryway. 

"Hi," Will says dumbly. "Um. We need to talk." 

Mike stares at him blankly for a moment. He's wearing his reading glasses, his hair messy and unkempt. It's an unfairly good look on him. 

"Right," he finally says, clearing his throat. "Right! Yeah, uh, come on in." He steps out of the way, gesturing towards the room, and with a swallowed gulp, Will takes the invitation and steps in. 

Mike's room is nice, if a little small. The bed is unmade, the desk lit with a small reading lamp. There's a typewriter there that Mike must have brought from home, a suitcase half unpacked on the floor, and his window overlooks the lake in a way that must be inspiring as a writer; Will knows he would feel inspired as an artist with that nice of a view. 

Mike closes the door behind him, and he crosses the room to sit down on his bed. He pats at the space next to him, and Will, ever the follower, sinks down beside him, crossing his legs and fidgeting with his hands in his own lap. 

"I'm sorry I lied to you," he blurts, when it's clear that Mike is waiting for him to start the conversation. "About El, but also about… everything else. Including last night; I didn't mean much of it, not really." 

"I'm not mad, Will," Mike says, and he sounds tired. "I get it, I really do. I mean, I'm a little upset, but not–not at you, not really."

"You're allowed to be," Will offers. "I'd be mad at me if the situation was reversed." 

"Yeah, well." Mike is staring down at his own lap. His own hands are fidgeting too, and Will resists the urge to reach over and take one with his own. "I've spent too much of my life being mad at you for situations outside of your control. I don't want to be that dick anymore." 

"Mike…" Will's heart hurts. He swallows, summons all of the confidence he had on dates before. "I don't think you're a dick. I think you were a teenager struggling under the weight of everybody's expectations of you, my own included. That kind of pressure would break anyone, and yet you've come out of it so… confident, in a way that I think I'll always admire." 

Mike's head lifts. He's staring at Will now, something wet and wanting in his eyes. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah." Will purses his lips, tries for a shaky smile. "You flew across the country because you missed me. You realized what you wanted and went after it. I never had that courage. Not even for the guy who has always, always held my heart with his hands. And yeah, I tried to move on, tried dating in college and flirting around as an adult, but… it was never the same. I always just wanted you." 

Now, he stops resisting the urge, reaching over into Mike's lap to take his hand. Mike allows it, intertwining their fingers like they had before, squeezing Will's hand softly. 

"I didn't tell you about El mostly because she didn't want me to tell anyone," Will says, as honest as he can muster. "But also because a part of me was just… still so afraid. I was so afraid that if I finally got you back in my life only to lose you, again, I would break. That part of my, um, argument was real; I wouldn't be strong enough to handle rejection from you, not again." 

"Will…" Mike sniffs. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't talk to me, I never wanted that. And I never wanted to reject you! I just… I didn't…" 

"You didn't know," Will finishes. "You mentioned, in the letter." 

"Yeah." Mike smiles wryly. "I didn't know. But I know now, and there's nothing, not anything you could do that would make my feelings change." His smile turns into something shy, almost playful. "I don't want to screw things up again. I don't want to have any more regrets." 

"I don't either," Will says honestly. "And I'm tired of being afraid of this. I'd rather have you in my life." 

"Then…" Mike stares at their enjoined hands. "If that's cleared up… can I kiss you again?" 

A giggle escapes Will, and he nods, shy. "I've wanted you to kiss me for the past fourteen years," he admits. 

"Then allow me to make up for lost time." Mike leans in, gentle and slow, and Will leans forward, and this time, when their lips meet, it feels like coming home. 

~~ 

Nothing changes drastically, but things do change nonetheless. 

Will finally reads Mike's manuscript. It's a wonderful story, a fantasy telling of a knight who left his home to find himself and the cleric he fell in love with along the way. The ending, in which the knight proposed to the cleric and the cleric agreed with a kiss, made Will tear up; it's beautiful, he tells Mike once he's finished reading, and Mike had beamed at him so enthusiastically. 

The first time Mike comes over to his place, it's a little awkward. El dances around them, answering Mike's questions in short phrases, but slowly, they fit back together, and then Mike becomes a fixture of their home, sleeping in Will's room and moving all of his things from his hotel room over to the apartment gradually. 

Will finally calls Robin back. This, too, is awkward, because Nancy is the one who answers the phone this time around, and Will stumbles through the questions she asks him before she finally passes the phone to Robin. In the background though, he can hear Jonathan laughing, and Will makes a mental note to fly to Boston sometime and physically strangle his brother with his bare hands. 

Mike continues taking him on dates. Together, they explore the rest of Montauk, holding hands all the while. Eventually, Will convinces Mike to take the train with him into Manhattan, and they walk around the city, venturing into comic book stores and trading milkshakes and sharing giant slices of pizza. 

By the end of the month, Mike's all but moved into their apartment. Still, as Will passes the frog mug, newly fired, and slides into Mike's lap, he has to ask. "You want to stay here?" 

And Mike answers, curling arms around Will's waist, lips trailing across his neck, "there's nowhere else I'd rather be." 

FIN