Chapter Text
"Hey, dude, imagine if vending machines had orgasms."
Mike chokes on his Coke. "What?"
"I mean, think about it." Dustin jabs a finger at the grungy machine, his expression decidedly too eager for someone pondering the sexual abilities of a drink dispenser. "Look at the shape of the coin slot. Imagine, like, if you put enough coins in and the machine just can't take it and then it just…" Dustin poofs out his fingers. "Woosh. Squirts out Cola."
Mike just drinks. A year ago he'd have laughed at Dustin's bullshit. Now he's just tired.
"That's fucking disgusting, Henderson." Max ducks her head, pulling her cropped curls into a small ponytail at the back of her head. She peeks up at Lucas as he sniggers, rolls her eyes and says, "Get me a Pepsi, Lucas."
Mike leans against the wall, background chatter fading to a dull thrum. He steals a side glance at Will, who's clutching an unopened juice box in his hand, eyes fixated on the movie posters across from him. His hair looks different today, Mike notices. A little shaggier than usual. He hadn't cut it since all the stuff happened.
That's what they call it. Mike takes another fizzy gulp. Stuff.
"Okay, have we decided yet?" Lucas calls out, handing Max her soda. "Ghostbusters or Indiana Jones?"
"Ghostbusters," says Dustin. "Obviously."
"Mike? Will?" Lucas says. "You guys with us?"
Will shrugs. Mike says he didn't care, but a part of him does, because the former movie brought to mind starchy Halloween costumes and biting autumn air and a cold, small Will, shivering, going crazy.
Too close to stuff.
But it's fine, really, because Max opts for Indiana Jones, and Dustin doesn't care enough to argue. So they squish into the theater, Mike squeezed between Will and a guy who chews his popcorn way too obnoxiously, so the entire time the movie plays ll Mike can hear is spit and crunches and pops.
He brings his shoulder up to his ear, trying to block out the sound, and attempts to focus on the movie. But the colors quickly blur into a pixelated orange soup, so he peers ever so slightly to the left, because Will's side profile isn't nearly as overwhelming.
It calms him, actually. Not, like, in a weird way, but just because he's known Will for so long. It's the same side profile as the one he'd seen thirteen years ago on the swings, just filled out and more defined. The same smooth slope of his nose. Same moles, but more now, different patterns. Same slightly pinkish lips and the same defined brow.
He's different, too. Different hair. He's finally lost the loser bowl cut, except Mike never actually thought it was a loser bowl cut because it was on Will, so it was just Will's hair. And his jaw is sharper. You can see exactly when it clenches and relaxes, can see the muscle flexing under the skin.
Mike doesn't realize he's staring until Will's side profile disappears and he's being faced full-on.
"…okay?"
Mike fights through the blasts and crashes coming from the screen. "What?"
"I said, are you okay?" Will's brow is furrowed.
"Oh." Mike redirects his gaze to Will's collar. Yellow, today. A faded cyan shirt underneath. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just the--" He waves towards the movie. "Yeah. I--yeah."
Will hums. "Too loud?"
"No. No, it's fine, I'm just--I'm just tired." On cue, he rubs his eyes. He can practically feel the eyebags.
Mike hasn't been sleeping. His dreams are too full of stuff, so he reads and writes and absentmindedly pushes buttons on his old Walkie, takes the clothes out of his closet and puts them back in, anything to keep his hands busy. He bullshits around until exhaustion creeps in and he's so sleep deprived that his brain can't muster the energy for nightmares. It works, but it isn't… great. He's at the point where he might fall asleep into his bowl of cornflakes any morning.
Will nods, chewing his lip. That was something he did now. The inside of his cheek, his mouth, his fingers. Biting himself down to nubs.
Will straightens, picks up his juice box. "Let's get out of here."
*
They're going to get more popcorn, Will says. They'll be back soon.
Then they're out in the crisp night air on their bikes, and Mike knows they won't.
He's not sure where he's going. He doesn't care. He can't afford to do much caring, after all the stuff. He's been living in a state of static, like an unplugged TV, just… there. Not really working anymore. He wakes up. Forgets to brush his teeth. Downs cereal, mopes around until the party asks him to do something, remembers that he's still wearing his PJs and puts on something from his laundry hamper before heading out and blinking annoyedly at the afternoon sun.
And he thinks about Will a lot, but he figures it's normal. Will's gone through more shit than any of them, and he never talks about it, which worries Mike.
He knows Will's upset. All the time. His posture is always saggy, like a wet washcloth, and some days he looks almost as tired as Mike. His clothes just as rumpled, his breath just as stale, when Mike gets close enough to notice.
But they don't talk. That's the party's one unspoken, wholly agreed-upon rule: they don't talk about stuff.
Mike's not sure if they can't, if they won't, or if they just don't.
But Mike and Will are still Mike and Will. They're still best friends, even if they can't--won't--don't--really talk anymore, because if Mike is even on the brink of trying he gets all choked up and his throat burns, so he and Will just hang out with their friends until they're too tired and then they bail. On their bikes, on their feet, in Jonathan's busted-up car that Will sometimes borrows. They go to the lake, to Mike's basement, to Will's even smaller house. Temporary housing, until he goes to college, and then Joyce and Hopper will move and Mike will move and everyone will be spread out over the States like spilled coffee.
One last summer.
One last time.
Mike swallows. He pedals faster, following Will's lead.
They go to the lake this time. One of the less traumatizing places, because Mike can't really remember if anything bad happened there, and if it did he really can't care to think about it.
They drop their bikes into some shrubbery, panting. The night air is still, buzzing with crickets.
Will points up. "Moon's out," he says, softly smiling, face illuminated by a whitish sheen.
"Yeah." Mike doesn't really care about the moon. He just looks at Will's glowing face.
They flop down on the grass. Mike doesn't register how utterly exhausted his body is until his muscles melt into the ground, flesh molding to each indent in the soil. He's warm, so he shrugs off his jacket and uses it as a pillow, staring up at the star-spangled sky.
It's so quiet. He can hear Will's breath, in and out.
He indulges in the silence for a minute before asking, "Do you think they'll be mad? That we bailed?"
Will hesitates, then says, "Yeah. Probably. This is, like, the fifth time." He closes his eyes. "I feel bad now."
"Maybe they'll understand," says Mike. "You know, that we need it. Everyone--everyone has their stuff."
Max skateboarding until the sun falls and her knees are bloody. Lucas running laps around town, again and again and again. Dustin studying so hard he goes AWOL for five days and shows up with fifteen papercuts and a raging migraine.
"Yeah. You're right." Will turns on his side, facing Mike. The air between them cloys. "Mike?"
Mike tangles a blade of grass between his fingers, tugging it loose from the dirt. "What’s up?"
"I don't--I mean--" Will sighs, long and a little shaky, and it makes Mike's chest ache a little. "There's two months of this left. I can't… it's so much--"
"Stuff," Mike finishes for him. He tears the blade of grass. "Yeah, I know."
"Got any suggestions?" Will asks. The moon makes his eyelashes glow in the dark.
"Suggestions?"
"You know. To make summer less… stuffy." He smiles at himself.
"Mm…" Mike holds up the shard of glass to the moonlight, mentally compares it to Will's eyelashes, the way each of them glow. "We could play more D&D."
Will shakes his head. Mike understands. Then an idea sparks in his head.
He sits up. "Okay, no campaigns--but what if we, like, did a project."
Will props himself up on one elbow. He almost looks like those stereotypical Renaissance paintings, with people laying on their hip, draped with cloth. Not that Will is half-naked or slung seductively over a bed, but he's just laying like the people who are, and--
Mike blinks himself out of it. He really needs more sleep.
"A project?" Will prompts him.
"Yeah. Yeah, like--okay, you know how I have all those old campaign notes, from when we were little? And we both have portfolios to submit?"
Will nods slowly.
Mike grows excited. "What if we make a homage to our old D&D campaigns? Our characters, the stories? They're just gonna collect dust in the basement, so we could, I don't know, make a proper story out of it. I could write it, and you could illustrate, just like your painting--"
Will winces. Mike feels a stab of regret but ignores it, because he's on a roll.
"--and I could submit my writing, and you could use the drawings for your art portfolio. It's a great idea, Will, I promise," Mike says, placing a hand on his friend's arm for emphasis. "Look, I know it might hit a little too close to home, and if it does we don't have to do it, but we can at least try." He remembers to take his hand off Will's arm and does. His palm quickly grows cold. "At the very least, it'll keep us busy. Give us something to do." He shrugs. "Maybe I'll wear something other than my boxers all day."
Will's wearing his thinking face. He looks a little pink. Maybe it's the moonlight
Eventually, he nods. "Alright," he said.
Mike nods with him, and for the first time in fucking forever he feels a tiny little jolt in his chest. He feels excited.
"So, basement tomorrow?" Mike asks. "Or--fuck it, let's go now."
Will's eyes widen. "Right now?"
Mike is already heading for his bike. "Yeah!" he calls back over his shoulder. "You can sleep over. I'll give you my PJs. And my toothbrush," he says slyly, before being shoved by a perturbed Will who he's very sure mutters a near-silent but playful fuck you as he reaches for his bike.
An accidental brush of hands in the leaves, soft skin. Mike jolts back.
He's been very startled by physical contact these days. Mostly Will's. Probably because Will seems so puppy-dog sad that any time he reaches out is just… surprising.
But maybe it'll get better. Maybe they'll write and draw, spread over Mike's bed (oh yeah, he really needs to wash those sheets), and maybe they'll laugh and his mom will bring them snacks and it'll feel normal again. Hell, maybe they'll steal some of his dad's beer tonight, as a celebration. He thinks this is a cool enough time to celebrate.
He grins, and the cold air invigorates him.
They start pedaling. This time Mike's in the lead, and he thinks about the moon all the way home.