Chapter Text
“Jesus said ‘Enter through the narrow gate, for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who enter through it. For the gate is small and the way is narrow which leads to life, and there are few who find it.’”
Matthew 7:13 The New King James Bible
Will Byers was only meant to exist to Mike on Sundays.
He was supposed to remain a concept, a theory at times and a fantasy at others. A full head of silky auburn brown hair that Mike fixated on during father Lonnie’s endless sermons so he wouldn’t go crazy from boredom.
Mike was only five when he first saw Will Byers. He had been terribly antsy that day, his legs twitchy and scratched up underneath the starched jeans his mother always made him wear to Sunday mass because they made him look presentable. He remembers trying to distract himself in the scenery to prevent from rubbing his fingers raw against the itchy material, yet finding none of it in father Lonnie’s passionate lectures on mortal sin or the peeling fake wood wallpaper of the church’s inner walls.
Instead, his interest settled, as did his spastic hands, when his gaze landed on the boy sat far too many pews ahead of Mike and his family. For the remaining two hours of that sermon, that’s where Mike’s focus remained, eyes trained on the delicate frame of a boy whose face he hadn’t yet been able to make out, mesmerized solely by the way the boy’s hair seemed to glitter against the drabby fluorescent lights overlooking them.
That day had sparked the ever growing fire in Mike’s mind that danced endlessly for Will Byers alone. The distance only made it easier for the desire to fester.
Mike grew and matured and his fantasies of Will Byers followed suit. Where when he was younger he envisioned trading toys and running across long grassy fields with the boy, Mike now imagines what it’d be like to have Will Byers sat in the passenger seat of his beat up blue pickup truck, just within enough reach for Mike to place a firm hand on his leg or a wet kiss on his cheek. When he had dinner with his family, Mike imagined Will Byers in the empty chair next to his, a hand reached over to trace gentle but unintelligible patterns along the fabric of Mike’s jeans with the tip of his fingernail. The frequency of Mike’s ‘Will Byers-related’ reveries should have been concerning to him; it would’ve been to anyone who knew of them. It surely would’ve been concerning to Will Byers himself.
Yet it was that exact reason that Mike never put too much thought on the ethical nature of his delusional immersions; The real Will Byers was practically non-existent on every other day besides Sunday.
Mike expertly convinced himself that as long as he doesn’t have to be face to face with Will Byers himself, the guilt of using his face to fulfill his desires could be negligible. And for a good chunk of his life, the universe did a good job of proving that theory.
Things can only be maintained for so long, however, and the universe seems to find itself tired of complying with Mike’s selfish and pathetic behavior. Just across the very small grocery store that Mike was sent off to by his mother, accompanied by a long list of groceries and a fistful of cash, is Will Byers struggling to open the store’s door outwards with both his arms burdened by heavy brown paper bags. The cashier, a gruff old man with one-too-many stains on his t-shirt, makes no effort to move from where he rests against the counter to help the laboring boy. Mike himself is too busy trying not to drop his basket full of listed items and end up making a bigger mess than the one that’s probably being done in his brain.
Will Byers, who Mike had been so comfortable observing a good several seats away on Sundays, was now more than a few feet away from him. On a Tuesday afternoon.
It was almost surreal watching Will finally get the door open by pressing his back against the glass and walking backward. Mike was a mess of conflicting emotions: guilt, confusion, excitement. Yes, his childish justification for using Will Byers to assist in him appreciating the mundanity of his life was just foiled before him, but also before him was the boy himself.
Mike continued to watch Will through the large glass of the store. He took note of the way his nose scrunched up as he tried adjusting the paper bags that were now slipping down his trembling arms. Instead of continuing down the sidewalk, Will carefully made his way to the conveniently placed bench at the end of the curb, and set down the bags with as much gentleness as he could muster.
Mike’s body suddenly moves faster than his mind being able to process the meaning of the word, “Stop.” The metal grocery basket full of things his mother will definitely grill him for not bringing home is quickly dropped to the floor and his palms take a second to absorb the feeling of the cool glass door before he pushes forward.
Mike doesn’t register the faint jingle sound of the door opening or the mild obscenities thrown at him by the old man behind the counter for not putting his stuff back on their respective shelves. Will Byers does however, and he responds with an immediate over the shoulder glance, right at Mike.
He feels himself stop abruptly, his brain finally sending out those frantic signals to the rest of his body to quit moving lest he make an even bigger fool of himself. Will’s big, hazel eyes consume him immediately and he realizes in the short yet awkward amount of time he’s spending just boring holes into the other’s irises, that he hasn’t a single idea for what he came out here to say.
Will, as Mike had imagined him to be several times ahead, is thankfully patient, his expression unchanging as he graces Mike with the liberty of time to put thoughts to speech. And Mike has never considered himself an opportunist until today, yet he feels drunk on the overwhelming amount of openings he’s being given.
Mike clears his throat and takes a tentative step forward, suddenly aware of the fact that he’s subconsciously placed a large space of distance between them. He notices the way Will Byers’ fingers twitch the moment he gets closer.
“You, uh” – a cough – “You need any help with those?” Mike makes a flimsy gesture towards the paper grocery bags that are now sagging against each other on the bench before sliding both hands down the front pockets of his jeans.
Will blinks. He looks surprised that he’s even being addressed right now and quickly whips his head to the side to look around at the empty street next to him, as if to make absolute sure that someone is actually talking to him.
“Oh, no,” Will says, his voice low and careful. “I’m alright, just – yeah, ’m fine.”
Mike nods and lets his head hang for a moment. He’s trying to figure out the next best words to say to keep this conversation going but the realization that he’s finally able to put a voice to the face he’s been staring at for over a decade now is making him spiral. Just a few near whispered words are enough to make Mike gnaw at his bottom lip. The honeyed southern drawl of Will Byers wasn’t spoken, it was oozed. It seeped out through the corners of his mouth, pooled in between the tiny gap at the bottom of his two front rabbit-esque teeth, ran slowly down the golden skin of his chin and Mike wanted so desperately to reach over and lick it all right back into Will Byers’ mouth.
It was a sudden, hasty thought that made Mike shiver despite the merciless Tennessee heat. It wasn’t Sunday and he wasn’t protected by the usual distance of multiple church seats or several acres of land. His thoughts weren’t justified here, not anymore. Not with Will Byers, flesh and voice, right in front of him. Mike gulped.
“Waitin’ for someone then? Those bags look awful heavy, s’all.”
Will purses his lips and shrugs his shoulders. He looks down at the bench and the metal cans threatening to spill out from over top the brown bags they’re in. “Nope. Just me.”
The rational, or perhaps the insecure part of Mike is screaming at him to stop talking, to nod politely, turn back, and go back to checking off the things on his mother’s grocery list. He’s probably being an eyesore with his fidgety demeanor and prying questions. Despite this, Mike remains planted outside, selfishly pulling as much out of Will Byers as he can. This is his Olive branch, his narrow path, the key to unlocking the mystery that is Preacher’s son Will Byers and one he’s been depriving himself of for reasons Mike can’t quite justify. He’ll be damned if he lets this chance slip away, even if he has to make a fool of himself in the process.
“Reckon it won’t be easy carrying those all the way home then.” Mike’s lips twitch just a smidge upwards and it’s enough to get Will Byers’ shoulders to settle from their formerly tense positioning.
He huffs out a small laugh and shakes his head. “No, surely not.”
The awkward tension that spanned between the two was now mostly gone, filled instead by half-smiles and squinted eyes. It’s not enough for Mike though. It barely scratches the surface of his desires. He doesn’t want easily forgettable chuckles or tucked away conversations; Mike craves Will’s familiarity like a man deprived.
“Well, if you wanted,” Mike starts, “I wouldn’t mind carrying you down in my truck.” He then turns around to shoot a thumb back at the faded blue Ford 150 parked just a couple steps away from the grocery store. “It only looks all beat up. Other than that, I promise it’s reliable.”
“Oh, that – that’s really not necessary.” Will goes bashful immediately and if Mike weren’t trying so hard to get him in his car, his thoughts would be full of how nice modesty looks on Will Byers. “Couldn’t take up your time like that.”
Mike shrugs, “Wouldn’t be botherin’ me.”
Will scoffs, low and pretty, which seems to be a recurring theme with him. “Don’t have anything to repay you with though.”
It’s Mike’s turn to scoff. If he hadn’t been following Will Byers with his eyes for nearly his whole life, Mike would’ve assumed he just moved here. Nobody in Hawkins really did anything expecting some sort of grand repayment. Folks fixed busted engines and cooked hot meals in return for a good conversation. Sure, it was shallow hospitality here, but it had its perks.
Mike doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t want to expand on why courteousness is a foreign concept to Will Byers, so he packs it away tightly in the back of his mind.
“Don’t need anything,” Mike grins. He’s ready to leave it at that and start fishing for the car keys in his back pocket, but he can’t help the mumbled, “Company’d be enough payment,” that slips out.
The red splotches on Will’s face spread like wild fire. “Right, well, If it’s really not too much…”
Mike doesn’t waste anymore time and strides over to the bench to pick up a grocery bag, keeping it cradled under one arm while the other one reaches for the keys in his back pocket.
“It aint.”
Will just purses his lips and hums, following suit and picking up the remaining paper bag before Mike leads him to the rear of the truck. In one swift motion, Mike uses his key-bearing hand to push open the tailgate and lower his handful of groceries onto the bed of the pickup. He turns around to collect the remaining bag from Will’s grasp and the slight brush of cold, soft skin nearly makes him drop it.
“They won’t, like, fly off or somethin’?” Will asks, pointing at the items peeking outside the bags after Mike pops the tailgate back up with a loud slam.
“Naw,” he reassures. “I’ll drive slow, ‘kay?”
After making sure Will was comfortable and fastened in his seat, Mike jams his key into the ignition slot with a little more force than necessary, flicks his wrist, and waits for the familiar roar of his pickup coming to life.
“You folks are just down the main road, right?” Mike asks before pulling out of the parking space, He’s got his arm draped around the back of the passenger seat and his fingers twitch for what must be the umpteenth time that day. It’s taking just about everything in Mike to not run them across Will Byers’ nape and feel those soft little hairs tickle the pads of his finger tips.
Will turns to him, maybe to nod or give a verbal confirmation, but Mike immediately worries about how weird it must be for him to know where Will Byers lives. It’s not like they know each other, not properly anyways. Certainly not on Will’s side.
“Just cuz – Y’know, that's where the church is, right? The Byers home is the small one next to it, right?” Mike wants to punch himself in the mouth. Not only is he sounding like a major stalker, but he’s insulting Will Byers home in the process. “Not – It’s not a bad house or nothin’! I’m only – It’s just that I go with my folks. To church. I go with them on Sundays. That’s why I know. Yeah."
It’s suddenly worth it to Mike to make an ass of himself because it gets a genuine fit of giggles out of the boy next to him.
“I know,” Will manages to say between his titters. “ ‘Course I know you. You’re the Wheeler’s middle son.”
If it were anyone else, Mike might’ve scowled and thrown a fit over being called a “Middle son.” It made him seem young, stuck, and strangely pretentious. The title makes him sound like he should have his hair gelled back and his shirt buttoned to the top, not sporting a worn blue cap over his short, wild curls and a sweated through white tee.
But this isn’t just ‘anyone else.’ This is Will Byers. He barely even registered the “Middle son” title because all he could focus on was the fact that Will Byers knows who he is, as if knowing Mike is the most obvious thing in the world.
It’s a real blessing that Mike hasn’t pulled out of the driveway yet, or else he would’ve completely lost his hold on the vehicle and swerved them off the path.
“You know me?” is all he can respond with. It comes out way softer and breathier than he’d like and he’s hoping Will didn’t notice the relief and fondness swirling together in his tone.
Will’s laughter finally subsides and he’s left with a pleased expression on his face. “Just about.”
Mike eventually gets the pickup out of the parking space and starts making his way out of town. It isn’t a terribly long ride from there to the Byers home, Mike’s family lives much further in comparison, but it’s enough time to make decent conversation. Mike pries nonstop about Will’s hobbies, interests. Any favorite dishes or places to go shopping. He feels his greed intensify with each answer Will provides and it almost makes him want to stop. Yet every time Mike considers letting the garbled tunes on the radio take his place, he watches how enthusiastically Will responds. With each question asked, his eyes seem to shine a bit brighter. His body no longer looks rigid and tense, and responds with him in flowy and, albeit restrained, theatrical gestures. Mike feels like he’s watching a play.
“So, wait–” Mike cuts in suddenly. “I don’t understand. You barely head up town?” When inquired about his favorite places to go, Will gave a curt shrug and mumbled that he didn’t ‘really go out all that often.’ “What do you stay all cooped up with your folks for?”
“Dunno.” Will gives another shrug. “My daddy’s barely home and I like keeping my momma company, ‘suppose.”
It’s less enthusiastic compared to all the other responses he gave and it makes Mike itchy with both curiosity and knowing. He wants to go all out here and ask Will Byers about his family, if he likes them, if he spends quality time with them regularly, if father Lonnie’s as much of a hardass as Mike thinks he is. If he’s the reason Jonathan Byers hightailed it that one night in ‘84 and never came back.
Mike’s already made enough moves to keep him up at night, though, so he refrains from asking any Byers-family related questions.
“Yeah, well, don’t go telling my Ma any of that. She’ll start expectin’ that of me too,” Mike jokes.
Thankfully, it pulls a breathy laugh out of Will. He hadn’t totally killed the mood yet.
“What, don’t like your mom?”
Mike playfully rolls his eyes. “I like her just fine. She’s just prone to throwin’ fits over nothin’ s’all.”
“So I'm supposed to believe she’s never gotten upset at you with good reason?” Will bites back. It makes a pleasant buzz course through Mike’s veins. He’s joking around with the Will Byers like they’ve been friends all their lives. God, Mike wonders what good he’s done in the past for this to be going so well.
“C’mon now, I didn’t say all that,” he scoffs. “I’m just sayin’ that that woman could start up an argument in an empty house. Adding me into the equation alone would only make it worse.”
Mike takes several glances away from the road to stare at Will’s reddening cheeks as he laughs at the, really, mediocre idioms Mike uses.
“She’d like you, though,” Mike adds, suddenly too soft. “My ma.”
It stops Will’s laughter immediately. The color on his cheeks spreads to the tip of his ears as he stares wide eyed at Mike. Mike being the coward he is, has already turned back to face the road, his grip making the leather on the steering wheel squeak.
“You seem like a real nice guy, polite. Modest, y’know?” Mike chuckles to himself. “She’d replace me for you any day. Hell, I’m sure even my old man wouldn’t be so bothered.”
“Now you’re just singing my praises,” Will sighs. “And you don’t even know me.”
Mike feels immediately how ready he gets to retort. His back straightens and his shoulders square up like he’s about to fight a battle for Will Byers’ honor against Will Byers himself. Mike wants to spill out how he’s been taking notes of Will since he was just five years old, how he knows that Will curls all the way into himself when he sneezes as to not make any noise, or how, after church, he’ll shake hands with some of the people exiting the building even if they wipe his touch away when they think he’s not looking.
Mike may not know Will Byers down to a t, but he’s at least aware of it. And his hunger for knowledge never seems to subside.
He doesn’t get the chance to keep praising Will unfortunately, because the familiar Baptist church comes into view, and with it, the small wooden house that stands beside it. Mike parks against the sidewalk space between both buildings and lets the rumbling of his pickup stop before unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for the handle next to him. “I’ll help you bring your things inside.”
“Wait-!” Before Mike can get the door open, Will reaches over and places a frantic hand on his shoulder. It leaves as quickly as it came though, and Mike whips his head around to see how Will’s eyebrows twitch upwards. “Wait, um, I got ‘em. ‘S fine.”
Mike frowns. “It’s really no big deal. ‘Be easier if it’s a two person job.”
Will starts unbuckling his seatbelt with a sigh.
“It's just – my daddy’s inside so, It’s just best if I do it myself.” Will opens the door on his side and braces himself to jump out of his seat before pausing and turning to look back at Mike. “I really can’t thank you enough, though.”
For the most part of their short drive out of town, Mike was sure he was living in a dream. Some idealistic fantasy of his where Will Byers was the love of his life who he could joke and laugh with as openly as he’d loved him.
The mention of father Lonnie felt like a punch to the gut; Will Byers wasn’t his and there wasn’t any way in hell that they’d be able to love on each other like his folks did even if he was. If by some miracle, Will Byers became his, Mike’s not sure how well he’d be able to restrain himself from being loud and proud about it. How couldn’t he be? He would’ve managed to capture the heart of the kindest, most alluring boy in all of Tennessee.
Mike would have to restrain himself from holding Will’s hand in public, kissing him against the hood of his dirty pickup, stripping him down to his draws so they can get soaked down at the old creek together. Would he have the strength to keep his hands to himself amidst the condemnatory eyes of the townsfolk, the same ones who take advantage of the Byers’ church every Sunday but refuse to see their son as anything but a sinner? Sometimes Mike doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but the truth of the matter is that whether or not he initiated all these things with Will on his part, It’d be Will taking the fall for them.
Mike’s been hearing it since he was twelve, the way his father unnecessarily filled the silence on Sunday evening about how “Lonnie’s boy” seemed “way too soft around the edges.” He remembers the sound of his forks clattering against his plate, dropping them in disbelief, and his Ma’s exasperated, “Ted…” as she rubbed on her temples. Mike remembers the words, “What? Whole buncha folks think so. No one’s put it as nice as I did, I can tell you that much.” That night, Mike threw a mean fit before forgoing the rest of dinner and vowing to never speak to his father again. He lasted three weeks on that declaration.
Despite it making his stomach twist and coil uncomfortably, the truth of the matter is that Mike isn’t the first in Hawkins to have been watching Will. The whole town’s been scrutinizing him with their readiness to deplore, waiting and stalking out for when he finally slips up and makes it known that what everyone’s already thinking about him is true: That Will Byers is a dirty queer.
If father Lonnie catches his son being assisted by an all too eager young man, joking and chatting while said young man carries in the groceries that Lonnie had commanded his son to carry from all the way up town to down their little spot of land on the outskirts, the floodgates would surely open. It’d be shattering the “toughening up” that father Lonnie is trying to enforce on his son.
Immediately, Mike wants to scowl and shout at Will to screw father Lonnie, tell him that his old man’s a thick-headed sonuvabitch who thinks that the sun comes up just to hear him crow.
Mike doesn’t manage to get a word out though, because Will’s already on the ground and the door’s been gently pushed back into the pickup. Regretfully, he concludes that it might be for the best anyways and resigns himself to watching as Will struggles to hold both paper bags without falling over from his rearview mirror. Mike’s fingers twitch against the car door handle.
Will makes his way to the driver’s side of the truck to give Mike another shred of gratitude before he quickly shoots over the now rolled down window and cuts the other boy off.
“Hey, listen um,” Mike starts. Will gets, perhaps instinctively, closer to the car and Mike’s face and he feels silly for how nervous the action makes him. “Don’t be a stranger, alright? It’d be nice to see you around more.” A pause. “Y’know, I’d – I’d like to see you around. Uhm, more often.”
Will seems to struggle taking in Mike’s words if the way he worries his bottom lip with his teeth is any indication. “Oh, I dunno…” Will mumbles with a noncommittal shrug.
“No, I’m serious!” Mike exclaims suddenly, worried that Will might think he’s just trying to be nice. “You’re good company. And, look, I’m sure your Ma’s great ‘n all, but bein’ at home all day can’t be that fun.”
Will shrugs again with a little more enthusiasm. It makes the grocery bags against his chest crinkle. “Bein’ at home can be plenty fun.”
“C’mon…” Modest as Will is, it’s starting to take the form of extreme stubbornness. Thankfully, Mike is nothing if not determined. Especially when Will Byers is the prize. “Tell you what: You let me be your guide ‘n i’ll show you all the best places around town. You ever had a hot meal at the Sinclair’s Diner? They make a mean Chess Pie.”
Will shakes his head. Mike can see the way his arms tremble under the weight of the bags. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” Mike affirms with a frown. “Seriously, I want to. I’ll pick you up and everything. Right back here. When’re you free? Tomorrow? Thursday?”
Mike is aware of how desperate he must sound but he reasons with himself that it can’t be helped. He finally knows what it feels like to have a cool body next to his in his blue Ford 150. He’s been bewitched by the melody that is Will’s laughter, the sight of his crinkled eyes and blooming red cheeks. If Mike were to let all this go now, he’s not sure he’d be able to recover. Mike briefly imagines himself hot and cold all at the same time, shivering against the cold tiles of his bathroom floor as the Will withdrawal sends several painful tremors across his body.
Will looks like he's about ready to tear through his lip with the nervous force his teeth are pressing on it. He then makes a swift look back at his home, a shoddy little thing with crackling white paint on its exterior. The awning over its too small porch is bowing in the middle and Mike thinks it's a wonder it hasn’t fallen yet.
Reluctantly, Will turns back to Mike and mumbles out, “‘morrow’s fine.”
Mike doesn’t try to stop the toothy grin that spreads across his face. “Hell yeah it is. ‘Pick you up at noon, cool? You just wait outside for me.”
Will’s already turned around and started on his remaining walk to his front door. Mike can’t see his face from where he is, but he’s positive that the tips of Will’s ears are burning. Either due to the sun or his words, Mike can’t be sure, but he has his hopes.
Will shoots another jerky nod back at Mike anyways before picking up the pace and finally making it through the house’s rusting metal fence and up the porch steps to the main door. Mike doesn’t move to turn the ignition key back on, not sure he'd feel satisfied with himself if he took his eyes off of Will before he went inside his house.
Mike watches him struggle, for what must be the millionth time today, to get ahold of his house keys. At some point, Will lowers one of the paper bags to make the endeavor easier and Mike is quick to turn away the moment he feels himself being too immersed in the way the fabric of Will’s pants stretch over his ass.
When Will does manage to get his front door open, he sends one more wave back Mike’s way before trudging inside and kicking the door shut behind him. Mike almost forgets to respond with a stiff wave back.
The emptiness he feels after seeing that door close is almost immediate. Mike’s ride home is a lot more reckless than when he had Will with him and he thanks the streets for being so empty and devoid of any lurking cops. He was now saddled with the greatest deprivation and hunger that he’s ever experienced, yet his adrenaline is shooting through the roof.
He may have had to let Will go for the rest of the day, but the knowledge that he’ll get back that sweet company is enough to keep his heart racing and his belly roaring.
The promise of Will Byers; Mike sure likes the sound of that.
It turned into a routine of sorts.
Mike would follow through his day as he usually did: waking up between 5 and 6am to tend to the corn sprouts growing in the field behind his home, either by sprinkling the soil around them in sawdust, quenching their thirst with enough water, or manually pulling out the pesky weeds that threaten their development.
Then, Mike would check in on the rickety chicken coop he had helped build with his father a while ago. His old man likes to call it an “old piece of junk.” Mike scoffs in his face each time he does.
He makes a quick trip of it anyways, collecting any freshly laid eggs to bring back inside the house and adjusting the bedding that the feisty things kicked up in their wake.
After making his way back inside the house, Mike would take a brisk shower, change his clothes, and make his way to his parked pickup truck after kissing his Ma goodbye.
Before, Mike would keep driving straight up town and take himself right to the Sinclair’s family diner for a few cups of coffee and a couple slices of smoked ham.
Nowadays, Mike makes sure that his first stop is right in front of the Byers home, where he’ll find Will sitting pretty and patient on his porch, face in his hands and elbows on his knees. Mike will make note of how quickly Will’s posture shifts when he hears of the sound of wheels on pavement and the distorted tunes of “Dolly Parton” screeching from the truck’s busted up radio.
The first time Mike had picked him up, Will had scoffed sweetly and joked that he hadn’t taken Mike for a Dolly fan.
“What, a guy can’t like a little Dolly?” Mike had responded. It only made Will laugh harder.
The spontaneity of their days together starts the moment Mike hears the click of Will’s seatbelt being buckled. He always turns to face Will, giving him an intense amount of undivided attention, and asks him where specifically he wants to go. At first, Will persisted on following Mike’s lead, often responding with little, “I dunno"s and “We can go wherever"s. As days continued to pass, though, and those days turned into weeks, weeks that are just about ready to turn themselves into one whole month of Mike and Will doing the most mundane yet simultaneously exciting ventures around their small town, Will grew just a little bolder with his demands. On some days, he’d tell Mike that he wanted to go eat something, sometimes a very specific thing, and on others, he’d ask if they could catch a film together.
In their own special way, cinema days were one of Mike’s favorites, even if he never paid any sufficient amount of attention to the actual movie that was playing. Being in a small, dark space within close proximity to Will, whose fingers sometimes brushed against his whenever they both reached for the popcorn bowl at the same time, satiated his hunger just enough to last him the rest of the day.
Some days, however, like today, when Will doesn’t hop up to sit in Mike’s pickup like he usually does and instead sort of, slithers upwards to lay flat against the plush cushion, Mike will immediately understand that today isn’t a venturing day; It’s just a ‘getting out of the house’ day.
He’d picked up on this mood rather quickly into their budding routine, noticing how Will’s eyes would sometimes sag with a mixture of weariness and strain while they walked along cracked sidewalks. Or how he’d use his fork to push at the uneaten biscuits on his plate. Mike, with his mouth full of country ham, had carelessly asked if Will had wanted him to take him home. Will immediately denied this with enough furiousness to take Mike aback. Cautiously, he’d followed up by asking Will if he’d wanted to spread the rest of the day at his house, adding a little extra pressure by mentioning how insistent his Ma had been about Mike bringing Will over. Will had reluctantly agreed.
The reluctance didn’t stand for long; Will became positively obsessed with the Wheeler’s family farm. Even if he has yet to confirm it verbally, Mike can tell by the way Will’s body immediately loosens when they step through the front door, scuffing his brown boots against their faded “Welcome Home” mat. Will welcomes Karen’s deep hugs, cheek kisses, and the nervous smiles that she shoots his way when only Mike is looking. Will doesn’t get annoyed by Holly latching onto his leg and even gives his father a kind nod. Ted, to Mike’s relief, only ever responds with a sharp nod of his own.
The Wheeler home became some sort of sanctuary for Will, a place he could turn to for comfort and to recharge from whatever disorder in the Byers home had left him all distressed the day prior. And of course, Mike had no issue using his house as a battery for will, not when it got them this close together.
After hearing the familiar ‘click’ of Will finally buckling in, Mike wastes no time turning the ignition on and turning them back around to his house.
Mike takes one last glance back at the Byers home before driving off, squinting hard to try and see what’s happening behind those rotting wooden walls. What happens in that home that leaves Will all wound up and miserable the day after? Why doesn’t he just barge in there and try to figure it out for himself? Why can’t he bring himself to disturb the peace and ask Will himself?
Will is bombarded by hugs and kisses the moment he steps inside the Wheeler residence, as he usually is. Karen releases him from her vice grip just to hold his face in both hands and comment on how he keeps looking brighter every time he comes over.
Mike grumbles about wanting to go up to his room with Will when his mom gives him a stern look.
“Michael,” she bemused. “I told you to harvest the corn this morning before you left and then you didn’t. I swear, what’s a woman gotta do to get her son to listen nowadays?”
Bullshit! is what Mike wants to say. “When’d you ask me to do that?” he mutters instead.
Karen looks at him, bewildered, and brings her arms over her chest. “Are you serious?”
Mike rolls his eyes and feels his cheeks burning intensely by the second. If Will wasn’t right next to him, he’d keep the argument going just to get the last word. He’d feel good about it if he was alone, with Will here, he’d just look like a petulant child yelling at his mother.
“Jesus – Take it easy, Ma,” Mike resigns. “I’ll go get them now, ‘kay? S’no big deal.”
Karen’s frown only deepens. “No big deal? Really Michael, it’s ‘no big deal?’ I promised your sister a pan of Corn pudding for dinner tonight; How do you suggest I go about doing that without any corn? Lord almighty…”
Mike shrugs. “Just don’t make her corn pudding then.”
“Don’t you start with me, Michael.” Karen scowls. “Don’t you start.” She’s already started heading back to the kitchen before Mike can come up with something clever to say back.
“That old hissy fittin’ bat…” he settles on muttering under his breath. Will smack him on the arm because of course he’d heard that.
“Don’t be like that,” Will reprimands. His frown upturns quickly. “Never seen you working anyways, could be fun.”
Mike scoffs with no real malice. “Yeah, for you maybe.”
If he’s being completely honest with himself, field work has never irritated him as much as it irritated his father. Mike liked working; he liked the feeling of sweat rolling down his face and the soreness he’d inevitably develop after straining his arms and back. It made him feel useful and worthy. Keeping himself busy was an added bonus.
“Who says I can’t help?” Will shrugs.
The thought suddenly makes a nasty feeling crawl up Mike’s throat. The image of Will building up that same amount of sweat and whimpering over aching biceps just looks…wrong. This is the same Will that asks Mike to sit down every time they walk for longer than twenty minutes. The same Will who reluctantly asks Mike to carry his bag when his shoulder gets too stiff. Mike has never not enthusiastically obliged.
To force Will under the hot sun to twist, pull, and yank and corn husks felt like a sin himself. Mike never thought about sinning and repenting much before, but if he let Will do this, He’s not sure he'd be able to stop himself from driving over to the small Baptist church and kneeling before the altar with heavy tears trailing down his face.
“Uh, nah, no need.” It’s the only thing that Mike finds appropriate to say, lest he offends Will by somehow implying he’s not cut out for farm work.
Will, surprisingly, seems to let out a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good then. It’s way too hot out today. I dunno how you do it, honestly.”
Mike burns bright under the underlying praise Will is giving him. “S’no big deal.”
Will responds with a chuckle. “Well, I wouldn’t do it.” He pauses. Squints. “Mmm, not regularly.”
Mike laughs and starts leading them to the side door that leads outside.
It’s fairly sunny out today, enough to make Mike readjust the cap on his head so that the brim blocks out any offending rays of light from blinding him.
Will carries an empty wooden basket after insisting he should “at least do something.” Mike had been reluctant to let him hold it, even if the basket on its own held no notable weight.
To the right of the Wheeler residence exists a large spot of land sprouting maybe hundreds of cobs. It’s not a large enough patch to be called a ‘maze’ but it’s big enough for Mike to still find himself getting lost in.
He maneuvers Will with one hand on each shoulder to sit against the plush flower patterned couch that the wheelers kept on their porch.
“You just stay here, alright?” Mike says and starts taking the basket from Will’s grasp. “Sun won’t hit you here, ‘n my Ma’ll probably come by and bring you some sweet tea.”
Will begins to worry his lip again and Mike tries not to focus on the way Will is looking up at him with his big round eyes and his hands trapped between his plush thighs.
“Are you sure you don’t want my help? We’ll be done fast if it’s the two of us.” Will looks up at Mike with remorse, as if he’s somehow to blame for putting Mike to work on their semi-planned day together.
“I told you I’m sure about a hundred times now,” Mike says with no real bite in his words. “Just sit there–” and look pretty. “– and wait for me.”
Will crosses his arms and huffs. “And what exactly am I supposed to do here while I sit and wait, Mike? Watch you?”
Mike doesn’t try stopping the nasty grin that spreads on his face. “Yessir,” he drawls. “I’m told I look real good when I’m getting put to work.”
The blush that blooms on Will’s face is a vibrant one. He looks away from Mike in an instant, biting his lip either out of nervousness or to prevent him from feeding into his subtly filthy talk. Or both. Will instead shakes his head and shoos Mike away with the hand that isn’t pressed against his warm cheek.
And despite Will having complained about being unable to do anything but watch Mike harvest, Mike can tell from his peripheral that he’s staring from where he’s sat perched up on the porch couch. Their distance isn’t so great, but they’re far enough away from each other that Mike wasn’t able to hear what his Ma had said to Will when she brought over a pitcher and an ice glass of sweet tea that made him giggle with that oh, so sweet smile on his face. That had left Mike hot all over for reasons unrelated to the sun and the strain on his muscles.
Usually, harvesting and doing the most mundane on the fields was consuming enough, for both mind and body. But now, Mike feels no connection to either. His thoughts circle all the way back to Will, Will, Will, oh god, Will, and his body can’t help but react to the lack of access to his soft body. The rough husks of the corn and the heavy thud sound they make when Mike throws them in the basket next to him unfortunately does nothing to satisfy his craving for the sound and feeling of Will Byers.
Alongside their newfound routine of spending practically every day besides the weekends and Thursdays together, their closeness had been startlingly instantaneous. It was a wonderful revelation for Mike, who could now bump, softly shove, ruffle, tease, poke, and caress (within the reasonable and platonic regulations) Will to his hearts content. And even better was how Will had allowed it to happen. Sure, Will was startled the first time Mike had held and traced his upper arm with his thumb, the feeling of a flinch under his fingertips still haunting Mike, but it was well understood by Mike that it was not an issue with Mike himself.
Will showing any physical contact with any boy would erase all benefit of doubt that the larger Hawkins society had granted him, even if he didn’t initiate it. Mike knew this well, and selfishly, he took advantage of it.
It was cruel to do, to insinuatingly flirt with Will through his words and his touch for nearly a month, to have Will believe that this is what male friendships were like and possibly punish himself for thinking Mike was giving him an opening. It puts Will at the disadvantage of already being so visibly “something else,” While Mike gets the pass for, for the most part, fitting in.
It’s a brutality that Mike is willing to enforce because even if it hurts Will now, it’ll benefit him in the future. Mike needs to make absolute sure that he’s ready to claim Will as his and until then, he’ll continue to soften Will up like butter under the placating guise of “male friendships.”
It’s textbook manipulation. It’s filthy. It’s cruel and mean and hurtful and Will would surely hate to hear how Mike thinks about him in his head. Yet none of it stops Mike from feeding into it.
It doesn’t stop Mike from teasing Will and rolling up the already short sleeves of his white t-shirt to accentuate the flexing of his shoulders and subtle biceps. From the corner of his eye, Mike can see the way Will toys with the straw in his perspiration and dripping glass of iced tea. In the same way that Will’s eyes drag down to follow the path of sweat beading down Mike’s face, neck, or arms, Mike is carefully staring back to peep at the way Will chews on his straw with, surely, unintended eroticism, or the dark drops of water on his lap made by the dripping coldness of his cup, or the way those same legs tighten and squeeze in suspicious tandem with whenever Mike snaps a corn cob downwards from its stalk.
The whole ordeal is far more intimate than natural for two people who aren’t even face to face with one another. Mike almost wants to drag it out, weaponize a false incompetence and tug instead of snap at the ripe corn. He wants to take off his chunky gloves and drag the nail of his thumb over the individual kernels on a cob or corn, push it down on one poor kernel with not nearly enough force to make it pop, but just the right amount to make it marked. Mike wants to do all of this while making sure that Will’s eyes are glued and fixed on the whole thing. The thought makes him shudder and ultimately pick up the pace of his work. As much as he’d like to see how far he could possibly push Will from several feet of distance, his selfish desire to be closer trumps that infatuation.
Mike and Will later reemerge inside the Wheeler residence with several pieces of freshly picked corn overflowing in the formerly empty wooden basket. Mike was pushed away by his mother to take a shower, which he did reluctantly, and left Will and his harvested corn downstairs.
Brisk as the shower was to avoid spending more time away from Will, it gave Mike time to recall the rush the events of earlier had given him. When he went back downstairs, freshly washed and changed, and noticed how unchanged Will’s behavior was toward him, the feeling had only intensified, running courses from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Mike felt like he’d just gotten away with the biggest crime in the world and Will’s naivety only made him want to commit it more.
Dinner passed by like a blur. Will, as he did occasionally, stayed at the insistence of both Mike and his mom. Mike doesn’t remember the usually delightful process of shoveling food into his mouth and distinguishing each flavor with his tongue. He let conversations pass by him and allowed himself to be consumed by all thoughts Will.
How much longer would Mike have to wait before he made Will his? God, what the hell was he even waiting for, some divine intervention to crash through the walls of his bedroom during his sleep, granting him permission to proceed with courting Will as it would, actually, be the pure and righteous thing to do? These questions plagued Mike like a bad fever as he got ready to take Will home.
It’s much darker now, later than whenever Mike usually took Will home and he apologies for such the moment Will shuts the car door next to him and fastens his seatbelt.
“It’s ok, Mike, relax,” Will reassures. In his lap rests a couple of plastic containers, respectively filled with leftover corn pudding and pulled pork. They're stacked and wrapped up in a lace rimmed, floral patterned cloth with a neat bow tying them all up together, a courtesy of his mother. Mike wants desperately to see that cloth draped in the space between Will’s naked thighs.
The ride over to the Byers’ is relatively quiet save for the muffled radio show host preaching against greed and lust. It’s uncomfortably fitting and Mike wants nothing more than to roughly turn it off.
“I know we didn’t get to do much,” Will starts. His voice effectively saves the car radio from Mike’s misplaced wrath. “But I had a nice time.”
Mike hums. “Yeah? S’good then.”
“Yeah,” Will continues. “I mean, I always have a nice time with you. You and your folks, really. Gosh, I thought I knew all about you guys from just those Sundays’ alone, y'know? I dunno, maybe I just thought that…”
Mike’s trying really hard to pay attention to what Will is saying, he is! But his mind plays dirty and won’t let him stray too far from the flashing images of Will’s round lips and tight jeans. The, whatever it was that happened earlier replays in his mind like a mantra. If he felt that electrified by side glances and peripheral vision alone, god he’d definitely explode if the space between them shrank. That doesn’t stop Mike from craving it though, no it makes him want it more. He’s not even sure what the “It” even is at this point. Does ‘it’ refer to Will’s love or his touch? Is it both? Could Mike be satisfied with having anything less than both?
The road becomes familiar and Mike can tell by the sudden bumps and dips that they’re getting closer to Will’s home. It makes Mike feel desperate and he makes the steering wheel groan under the vice grip he has on it. The last thing Mike wants to do right now is let Will go, especially when he’s yet to figure out what exactly he wants from the other boy. Part of him knows and is just too afraid to admit it to his mind.
“ – And I just – wait, hey, you okay?” Will asks suddenly and Mike can no longer keep his thoughts from bursting. He skids the car to a halt and kills the engine immediately. Mike can be thankful for the generally empty roads later because now he’s unbuckling his own seatbelt and leaning over Will’s space with an arm resting behind his side of the seat cushion. The other one is pressed against the side window that Will is now leaning on, trapping him completely.
Mike is close enough to Will to feel the way his breath stutters against his face, the short uneven puffs tickling his nose. From up here, Mike can probably count all the eyelashes on Will’s right eye and still have enough desire to count all the ones on the left. In this short span of time, Mike thinks about their future; a future where Will does the right thing and tells Mike he loves him back. It’s a beautiful place and he can even see a much older Will rocking back and forth on an old rocking chair that Mike himself had built.
There are no clever words or phrases that come at Mike at this moment. He’s transfixed by widening eyes and an opened, downturned mouth and all it lets him understand is that he’s hungry.
“Tell me that you want me too,” is all Mike manages to get out. It's desperate, soft, whiny, and probably as pathetic as he looks right now. “God, Will, I’m begging you to tell me.”
Will remains frozen. His eyes begin to gloss over, and Mike’s worried he’s going to start crying, yet the tears never fall.
Mike suddenly can't take it anymore and brings the hand pressed against the cold window down to Will’s cheek just to see him shiver. He gives Will a few seconds and a good couple of looks and after exhibiting no resistance, allows Mike to lean in closer and press their lips together.
The kiss itself is virginal. It doesn’t go past lips or go over thirty seconds. It’s chaste, immature, and yet, it has to be one of the best things Mike’s ever done.
There’s a heavy silence when Mike officially drops Will off. Neither of them can look each other in the eye. The only time Mike looks Will’s way tonight is when he makes sure he’s already inside his home before driving off.
This time, however, before driving off, Mike traces his lips with his thumb first, then his teeth and his tongue following afterwards. He’s licking at himself desperately, trying to coin the last bits of Will from tonight because if he truly messed up, this’ll be all he has.
The notion makes a lightbulb go off in Mike’s head and he’s got the engine turned on before he can even think about doing it. Mike hightails it down the roads and back to his home. He yanks and slams the front door of his house like a man possessed, ignoring the shouts and concerned questions coming from his mother. Once up the stairs, Mike raids his room looking for a big black typewriter like his life depends on it. After staking his claim on the device found dusty and old under his bed, Mike brings it up to his wooden desk and starts brushing off the excess dust collecting on certain keys. He then pulls up his chair to sit directly in front of the writer and adjusts a piece of paper against the support of the typewriter.
Lastly, Mike cracks his knuckles and recalls the feeling of Will’s soft, plush lips against his. He recalls how magical those maybe ten seconds had felt, like they weren’t Will and Mike from Hawkins, Tennessee, but two completely different people whose lives were created solely to be together.
And so, after finally breaching containment and doing the impossible, or to some, the unholy, Mike began to write.