Archive of Our Own

With great effort, Mike shoulders open the apartment door, shuts it behind him, and drops his duffel bag. He takes a deep, satisfying breath, relishing the comforts of being home again, finally, after two weeks of visiting his parents in Hawkins.

“Cherry-Coloured Funk” plays loudly. The TV’s on: MTV News. There’s the distinct, warm, noodly smell of macaroni recently boiled on the stovetop.

And most importantly, there’s Will, a huge grin on his face, leaning back against the kitchen counter holding a glass of water.

Maybe Mike’s a little insane from the hectic plane ride, maybe it’s been two weeks and he’s horny as hell, or maybe he’s so in love he can’t stand it, but Will is just about the best thing he’s ever seen. He’s in his giant Nirvana smiley T-shirt and boxers, and his hair is rumpled like he hasn’t brushed it today. There’s the faintest stubble shadow along his jaw and an old, yellowish, mostly-faded dime-sized hickey along the column of his neck.

Beautiful. Mike moves toward him.

“Will the Wise!” he calls dramatically, a smile stretching up his cheeks and eyes crinkling with it.

Will sets down his water glass and meets him half-way. “Mike the Brave!”

It’s stupid shit like this that Mike eats up with a spoon.

He gathers Will in his arms and grins down at him. “Sorcerer.”

“How was the battle, Paladin?”

“Hard fought but ultimately won.”

“You came away unscathed? No curses? Lingering poison?”

“Just emotional devastation.”

“That bad?”

“The distance was too great. Alas, I couldn’t feel your magic.”

Will’s cheeks flush up in a way that’s just so, so...

Mike squeezes him.

“And the tower?” he asks, gesturing around him.

Will slides his hands up Mike’s back, gripping him at the shoulder-blades. “Still standing. No intruders or suspicious rogues. Besides Jonathan.”

“Ah, and he is suspicious.”

“Quite.”

Mike presses their foreheads together. “So you didn’t miss me?”

Will’s hands drag up to the back of Mike’s neck before sliding into his hair. He skritches at his scalp. “Not at all.”

Mike lays a kiss on him that he’s been saving up for fifteen days. It’s all warmth and smiles and Will exhaling in little puffs that make Mike feel like the two of them might float up into the air to the lush, dreamy sounds of the Cocteau Twins.

He pulls back. Presses in again. Frames Will’s jaw with his palms and tastes the macaroni on his tongue and the ChapStick on his lips.

Together, they kiss their way up against the kitchen counter. Mike huffs a laugh and helps Will hop up on it, then settles himself between his legs.

It’s been barely a month and a half since they’ve officially been together -- no pretense, no guise -- and Mike is still in awe of how incredible it is, how wonderful it feels to just kiss Will like this without worrying he’s being too much, that he’s taking advantage, that he’s ruining his own life by catapulting himself directly into the light reflected off Will’s smile.

There’s still stuff to worry about. Namely: he’s so far in the closet he’ll hand you your coat and thank you for stopping by. He’s just spent two weeks in his childhood home and has declared himself single, no girlfriend yet no less than five times to various family members, including Nana, who told him to get a move on before she’s too old to hold his future babies.

And, well, as much as he loves her, he’d sort of wanted to tell her that unless Will has something interesting up his sleeve, it’s Science she needs to speak to about that, not her queer grandson.

So yes, there’s still all that stuff he’ll have to deal with at some point. That worry still rests on his back, an unignorable weight snug up against his spine.

But this? Making out with the love of his life in the kitchen, “Iceblink Luck” on the stereo and the bedroom just down the hallway?

No worries. No worries at all.

Will wraps his arms around Mike’s neck and tilts his head to the side, deepening the kiss until it’s all tangling tongues and damp breath. In response, Mike slides his hands up and down Will’s thighs, pushing up the legs of his boxers, thumbs running across all the warm, soft, private skin.

Will pulls back. Mike uses the opportunity to kiss his forehead. He removes his hands from Will’s shorts and slips them up under his shirt instead, stroking his palms over his stomach and along his sides.

“Do you wanna…?” Will pants. “Y’know?”

“Um. Yes. Totally. Did you…?”

“Yeah.”

Mike smiles, soft, and places a finger under Will’s chin. He tilts his face up and kisses him sweetly.

“I am…extremely prepared for this quest.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Been preparing for two weeks. I’m totally like, full health, no damage taken. Constitution’ll probably take a hit pretty quick, but–”

“Oh my God, Mike.” Will laughs and kisses him.

“Got your spells ready?”

“You’re a giant nerd.”

“Well? Do you?”

“So ready. Less talk, Paladin.”

Mike wraps his arms around Will and buries his mouth in his neck.

“I missed you,” he says, serious now, between wet, sucking kisses.

Will strokes his hair. “I missed you, too.”

–

Over the past month and a half, Will’s slowly migrated into Mike’s bedroom.

They started off going back and forth, their sleeping spot dependent on where they had sex that night or, if they didn’t, who went to bed first. But then it was decided that Mike has less stuff, his major requiring a typewriter, notebooks, and not much else, and Will, while neater than Mike, has an easel and canvases and paint and a whole slew of miscellaneous art supplies that could really do with their own room.

So now, Mike’s Room and Will’s Room have become Mike and Will’s Room and Will’s Art Space. Which is really fucking amazing, actually, because with it comes the security of knowing. There’s no wondering, no questioning, no nervous deliberation that takes place in the period after sex in which one or both parties has to decide whether it’s presumptuous to stay or awkward to go.

They do their thing during the day, together or apart. They have sex or they don’t. At the end of the day, however, they meet under the covers of Mike’s bed, always.

It’s nice.

And, well, it’s also nice to know what bed to walk Will to as they make out and strip each other down the hallway.

“I wasn’t joking,” Mike says, crawling onto the bed after Will, the two of them down to just their boxers. “Constitution’s gonna end me.”

Will laughs and pulls him on top of him. He holds the sides of Mike’s head and kisses him for a minute, lips upturned at the corners. “That’s okay. It’ll be like old times.”

“Shut up, Will.”

“Did you not…touch yourself?”

Mike huffs and pushes up on his hands. “I did. Did you?”

“Yeah.” Will blushes, which is cute as hell because come on: Mike’s been inside him. They can talk about a little masturbation.

Mike bounces his brows in a tease. Pushes:

“What’d you think about?”

“Mike.”

“You thought about Mike? I’m honored.”

Will laughs. “Shut up.” Contrary to the tone of his words, he pulls Mike down again and kisses him on the mouth, then the jaw. “I thought about art and flowers.” Kiss. “Waterfalls.”

“Well, I thought about you riding me.”

“Mike!”

Mike cackles, rolling off of Will and stretching out on his back. “What?”

In lieu of an answer, Will leans over and licks his chest, which is just, like, something else amazing entirely.

Mike allows it for a minute, breathing deeply as Will puts his hot, wet mouth all over him, sucking his nipples, sliding down and kissing his navel, gently biting at his hip as he tugs down his boxers.

“Oh, you’re gonna do that now?” Mike asks, grinning. Air quotes, “‘Waterfalls,’ my ass.”

Will chuckles breathily against Mike’s skin, and Mike sighs and watches as Will plants one more loud, squeaking kiss just below his navel before getting his hand on him.

“Remember,” Mike murmurs. “Constitution.”

“Constitution check: questionable.”

“But the enthusiasm’s totally there.”

Will smiles and drags his fist up and down, slow. “I believe you.”

“Will you ride me?”

“Duh.” Will presses Mike’s dick flush to his belly and rubs his thumb along the underside.

After a minute, Mike makes grabby hands toward him. “Come here.”

Will goes. They kiss and laugh. Mike wrestles him gently onto his back and spends good, honest time sucking at his neck before tugging his boxers down and getting him in his mouth.

“Holy…” Will blows out a breath. Mike presses his hands flat against Will’s stomach and rubs them up and down, lower belly to chest, as he sucks his dick.

He’s getting better at it. There’s no deep throating happening here, but after quite a bit of practice, Mike is now easily able to take him in over halfway without gagging, the head of him pressing snug against the back of his throat.

His rhythm’s better, too, fist working along with the bobbing of his head, and Will puts both hands in his hair and breathes hard up at the ceiling, his eyes squeezed shut.

Mike pulls off. “Good?”

“Amazing.”

Hell yeah. Mike goes back in, drags his tongue over him, sucks on the head and tastes the salty bit of fluid beginning to well up at the tip.

“Oh, fuck.” Will arches his back, then straightens. He chuckles, then:

“Okay, okay, okay.”

Mike lifts his head. Smiles. “Constitution?”

“Sure.”

He makes grabby hands again. “Lube? Can I finger you?”

“Mike.”

“What am I supposed to say instead?”

“I dunno.” Will reaches for the nightstand drawer. He rummages around blindly, takes out the tube of lube, and tosses it gently at Mike, narrowly missing his head.

“May I please put my fingers up your butt?”

“Oh my God.”

Grinning, Mike climbs up Will’s body and pushes his hair back off his forehead, enjoying his flush. “What?”

“Why are you like this?”

Mike kisses him. “I love you.”

“Dork.” Will smiles and wraps his arms around him. “I love you, too.”

–

He does finger him. Mike goes to the bathroom, washes his hands, and grabs a towel. Then, ten minutes later finds Will with his arms straight up behind his head, knuckles to the headboard, and Mike kissing his belly while thrusting three fingers in and out.

It’s unbelievable how sexy it is, Will’s stomach quivering beneath Mike’s mouth and the internal stimulation causing him to leak a little puddle of precum just beneath his navel.

Mike gently hooks his fingers and, in a come-hither motion, strokes at his prostate. Will arches his back again and moans.

Mike can’t help it: he puts his mouth over his dick -- just for a second -- and Will pats his head, frantic.

“Stop, stop, stop.”

Mike pulls off and freezes his fingers. “Okay?”

“Constitution.”

“Ah.” Mike waits, studying Will’s red face and open, panting mouth. When it seems he’s cooled off a bit, he puts his mouth on Will’s stomach and blows a raspberry.

Will laughs. “You’ve lost your mind.”

Mike thrusts his fingers again and licks a stripe from Will’s navel up to his chest. He sucks on his nipples, one and then the other, grinning when Will starts blowing out a series of heavy breaths, his arousal ramping back up and up.

“I’m gonna come soon if you don’t stop.”

It’s tempting as hell, but Mike’s hand is cramping. He kisses back down Will’s chest, ending with a peck right over his navel, then withdraws his fingers. He wipes them on the towel and flops down on the bed.

Will sits up and grabs the condom box from the nightstand drawer. He removes one, opens it for Mike, and then goes a step further and rolls it down his dick.

“Whoa.”

“What?” Will smiles.

“Sexy.”

And, well, there is absolutely nothing sexier than Will stroking lube onto Mike, tossing a leg over his waist, and lowering himself on him.

“Holy fucking shit,” Mike breathes, squeezing his eyes shut while Will gets himself comfortable.

“Okay?”

“Totally. Fantastic. Perfect. Amazing.”

Will moves, a slow, grinding rock. Mike groans:

“Jesus.”

“Constitution?”

“A problem.”

Will places his hands on Mike’s chest for leverage and, knees digging into the mattress, rides him.

It’s so incredibly good. Angels. Harps. Choirs. A spotlight shines on them from the heavens.

“Holy fuck,” Mike breathes, chin tilted up toward the ceiling.

When he has even just the tiniest bit of wits about him, Mike takes Will by the hips and helps him move, pushing and pulling.

He watches him, then, biting his lip. Will’s perfect, all red face and splotchy neck and chest. His hair is sweaty at the edges, temples dark, and his stomach muscles tighten and relax over and over again as he moves.

After a moment of thought, Mike reaches out and takes his hands. He laces their fingers together.

It makes it harder on Will, Mike knows, the leverage gone and his thighs having to do all the work, but in the moment, Mike doesn’t care if Will stops and merely sits on him.

His hands are hot and sweaty. Mike squeezes his fingers and smiles up at him. He tugs. Will leans forward and kisses him, outstretching their arms until their joined hands are pressed against the pillows above Mike’s head.

“You look really good,” Will says, and Mike feels his face and ears go hot.

“As good as a waterfall?”

“Almost.”

Mike laughs. “Come on.”

Will sits back up and rocks on him again, thighs clearly straining with the effort. “There are some really nice waterfalls, Mike.”

Mike sticks his tongue out at him. He unlinks their hands and places his back on Will’s hips.

“You look good, too,” he says, bending his knees and planting his feet against the mattress. “Way better than a waterfall.”

Will scrunches up his face, cute as hell, and, well, fuck, Mike thrusts up into him.

“Okay, okay, okay. I lied.” Will moans. “You’re a thousand times better than a waterfall.”

Mike snorts with laughter, closes his eyes, and does his best to make Will feel so good he won’t be able to think of a waterfall without remembering how loved he is.

It’s hard work. Literal gym-level cardio. Mike grips Will’s hips and pushes up and up.

“Fuck, Mike,” Will pants, taking himself in hand and stroking rapidly. Mike watches the movement of his hand on himself, watches Will’s eyes squeeze shut, and that, combined with his own heavy breathing, makes him lightheaded.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “You’re amazing. So beautiful.”

Will collapses against his chest and buries his face in Mike’s neck, hand still furiously working himself between them.

Mike wraps his arms around Will and hugs him to him, slowing the speed of his upward thrusts until he’s grinding more than anything.

Will moans, full-voiced and loud, and Mike takes a deep breath and rolls them.

It would’ve been cool as hell if he’d have stayed inside, but alas, he slips out. It’s fine. Now on top, he takes himself in hand, slides back in, and begins a series of quick thrusts that feel easy after the previous position.

It doesn’t take long, now. Will murmurs, “Oh fuck,” and “Mike,” and “I love you so much,” and Mike kisses him and presses their foreheads together and whispers, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” and “Oh my God,” and “I love you, too.”

Will arches his back. Mike feels a squeeze around him, the beginnings of a rhythmic, fluttering pulse, and he pants and says:

“I feel you starting to come.”

Will moans and tells Mike to shut up, and it’s so endearing that Mike kisses all over his face and grinds into him, pulling back and angling upward in attempts to really work at his prostate in his final moments.

He must be successful, as Will goes, “Fuck, Mike, that’s so fucking good,” and the swearing is just about the hottest thing Mike’s ever heard.

Mike groans loudly and, to the feeling of Will orgasming around him and his short nails digging into his back, he comes so hard he sees spots.

“Ah, fuck. Oh fuck.” He feels himself pulse out into the condom, the most intense pleasure flooding his body. Will wraps his arms around him and holds on, lips pressed to his jaw.

When it’s over, Mike’s exhausted. Will rubs his sweaty back and skritches through his hair.

“Holy shit.” Mike blows out a breath. He gives Will another kiss, sweet and sound, before rolling off him. “I love when you say ‘fuck.’”

Will snorts and tosses an arm over, lightly smacking Mike’s stomach. “You’re weird.”

“Thanks.”

“But that was so awesome.”

“Another successful campaign.”

Mike holds up his hand, and Will gives him a high five.

“The Paladin did perform exceptionally well.”

“As did the Sorcerer. Charmed the pants off the Paladin. Sex Sorcerer, indeed.”

Will grins, all sunshine. “Constitution didn’t prove to be a problem after all.”

“Guess I passed the check.”

“By the skin of your teeth.”

Mike turns on his side and props his head up on his hand, elbow to the pillow. “You’re one to talk. You like being fingered, huh?”

“Mike.”

“What?” Mike wiggles his brows at him.

“Shut up.”

“You’re cute as hell. You know that, right?”

What an admission. Mike looks down after he says it, embarrassed with himself for being such a sap. He feels his ears and cheeks growing hot.

Will doesn’t immediately respond, and after a moment of humiliated avoidance, Mike is forced to meet his eyes again.

“You’re so nice to me,” Will says, a small smile on his lips.

Mike leans in and kisses him right between the eyes. “Just telling the truth.”

Turns out: saying what he feels is sometimes pretty fucking worth it.

They huff twin laughs and then relax into the moment. Mike tugs off the condom and drops it into the trash can by the side of the bed. He turns back on his side and scoots in close enough to kiss Will’s chest, which he does -- three soft, gentle kisses along his sternum.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Will runs a hand through Mike’s sweaty hair. He yawns. “Yeah.”

“Condoms. Do we need them? I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna get you pregnant.”

He’s good either way. Honestly. And condoms, needed or not, help with some of the mess. But he’s been thinking about it -- primarily over the past two weeks with his hand down his boxers -- and, well: wouldn’t it be great to go without? Bare skin. Nothing between the union of their bodies. Will’s face when Mike…

Okay, look: the truth is that he’s basically jerked himself raw to the thought of coming inside Will.

He’s a virile, curious, besotted 21-year-old with A Boyfriend. He can be a bit pervy if he wants. Sue him.

Will smiles up at the ceiling. A flush works its way up from his neck. “Yeah? I mean– Condoms make things safe.”

“We don’t have AIDS.”

“HIV. And you don’t know that. I’ve been with other guys.”

“Without condoms?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Mike nods. He bites his lip. “Do you wanna do that with me? I wanna do that with you.” He chuckles. “Like, a lot.”

“Really?”

“Totally. It sounds…sexy.”

“Yeah.” Will smiles shyly. “It does.”

“So…”

“I need to get tested first, but– Yeah. That would be…good. I wanna do that with you.”

Mike leans over and kisses him. “I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. Plus, I’m pretty sure my boyfriend license would get revoked if I didn’t.”

Will grins. “Can’t let that happen. I need you licensed.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not giving it up. I worked my ass off for that license.”

Mike slides his arm under Will’s head and pulls him close. They’re gross. Slimy. Sticky. Quickly getting crusty. Oh well. He kisses his forehead, right at the sweaty edge of his hair.

“Am I doing a good job?” he asks quietly, nuzzling Will’s temple.

“At being a boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re doing an amazing job. Am I?”

“The best.”

“No regrets?”

Mike squeezes him. “Lots. None having to do with this, though.”

Will goes all teary-eyed. Mike brushes back his hair and rubs their noses together. They lie there for several minutes, touching and breathing. Hands framing faces. Fingers through hair. A palm skimming up and down Will’s chest.

Finally, Mike runs his thumb along Will’s bottom lip and asks:

“Shower? Or do it again?”

Will grins. “What do you think?”

“Mm.” Mike kisses him. “Sex Sorcerer. Like I said.”

“Maybe.”

“Will the Wise After Dark: A Cinemax Exclusive."

Will loses it with sweet, breathy laughter, flopping onto his back and putting his hands over his face. “Ugh.”

Mike joins in with the laughter and reaches for the condom box. He takes one out and tears it open. “Stud.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Will scrunches up his face in exaggerated distaste, but when Mike crawls over him, condom on, he wastes no time in wrapping his legs around him.

Mike slips inside with ease, everything still lubed up and relaxed.

“Ahh. Sex is so good, Will,” he says, thrusting.

With a chuckle, Will gets his arms around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss.

–

Monday through Friday, Will works a summer job at the Waverly Fine Arts Gallery in the West Village. His official title is Gallery Assistant, but his actual job consists of dressing in crisp button-downs and slacks and doing basically everything no one else wants to do. Namely: sitting at the front desk, greeting and monitoring visitors, packing and repacking crates, carrying canvases, and running errands for the curator.

He hates it, as it’s completely outside the area of the art world he hopes to be a part of one day -- Will much more interested in illustration and comics -- but he’d been ultimately grateful that his professor advocated for him and had personally helped get him the job.

Mike, on the other hand, gets to show up to the Writing Lab in jeans and a T-shirt and spend six hours a day sitting in a rolling chair, drinking coffee, and catching up on his reading between half-hour tutoring sessions.

On Tuesday at four, he leaves straight from work and meets Will outside the gallery. He’s had an eventful day, Mike can tell, his shirt rumpled and partially untucked and his hair a mess from fingers being raked through it.

“Okay?” he asks in lieu of greeting, walking unnecessarily close so they can bump elbows.

“Fine.” Will sighs. “Been running around like a very overwhelmed chicken with its head cut off. Allison lost an incoming shipment, and I’ve been racing around the Village and Chelsea all day looking for it.” Sunshine returns to his face. “It was like a sitcom episode. I’m serious.”

Mike chuckles. “Did you find it?”

“Yeah. Guess where?”

“Where?”

“The storage room. It was mislabeled and got mixed in with the outgoing shipments.”

“Marco?”

“Marco.”

Marco is Allison’s fifteen-year-old son who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground and who seemingly doesn’t care to learn. Will’s been good-naturedly complaining about him since Day 1, as the kid is a constant source of trouble he always ends up having to correct.

Mike scrunches up his face. “No chance in him getting fired, I guess?”

“None at all.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” Will huffs. “But he’s just a kid. Everybody’s stupid at fifteen.”

Mike thinks about himself at fifteen, being a complete dickhead to Will in California. Not writing. Yeah. Everybody’s really fucking stupid at fifteen -- especially him.

Still, he sighs:

“You’re way too nice about him.”

“He’ll grow up one day.”

Mike bumps him again. Will’s basically the best person he knows, his heart bigger than Mike sometimes knows how to hold.

He watches him, unashamed -- takes in his hair tucked behind his ears, the slight sweat sheen on his upper lip, his mole, the little hairs forming the arch of his brows. The pink of his naturally rosy cheeks, heightened by the stress of his day.

He’s beautiful.

They walk together to the free clinic three blocks away, chatting casually about their days. The closer they get, however, the more Will starts to fidget with the buttons on his shirt.

He hasn’t mentioned any nervousness since the two of them had made the plan days before. He’s been totally normal about it, in fact, and even that morning, kissed Mike in bed before leaving and said, “See you at four-thirty?” like it was nothing.

Mike knows he must be nervous, though. Not because he hasn’t been relatively safe. They’ve talked about it: Will’s never been fucked without a condom. The riskiest thing he’s done is give five total guys unprotected blowjobs, only one of which actually finished in his mouth.

Goddamned Carlton, by the way. Will’s first time. Mike still wants to steamroll him and mail him to Mars in an envelope.

No, despite being mostly low-risk in his activities, Mike knows Will’s probably scared shitless due to how completely terrifying and potentially life-ending testing positive would be. You don’t spend your formative years under a Reagan presidency, watching television news reports about the AIDS Crisis and hearing graphic stories about gay men suffering and dying without the teeniest, tiniest possibility making your guts feel like they’re being ripped out with a fishhook.

Mike looks down at Will’s hand, wishing he could hold it.

Instead, he walks close again. Lets their arms brush.

“You’re fine, you know,” he says. He gives him a reassuring smile.

Will nods. “I know. Well, like, ninety-nine percent of me knows. It’s still scary.”

“Yeah.”

Mike crosses his arms over his chest, not sure how to help.

“Will they let me go in with you?”

“Probably not.” A beat. “I can ask?”

Mike nods.

They travel in silence down the last block. Mike sees the clinic in the distance, a little rainbow flag sticker on the door announcing its safety.

He walks close again. Brushes Will’s arm again. Thinks about how it really sucks that being gay has to be like this -- secrets and whispers and stickers in the window letting you know it’s okay for you to exist inside. It sucks that, even in the Village, he doesn’t feel comfortable enough to publicly touch his boyfriend in any way that looks intentional.

When they arrive at the door, they head inside. Due to the time, the waiting room is nearly full, just a pair of seats available in the corner. After Will checks in, they sit together in silence.

Despite the location of the clinic and the sticker on the door, there are people from all walks of life inside: straight couples, kids, pregnant women. In fact, Mike and Will are seemingly the only same-sex pair, a fact that makes Mike feel a bit nauseous and afraid.

There’s a guy with an earring in the gay ear. There’s another wearing a choker necklace. Mike knows they aren’t alone. Still, he feels exposed, unmoored, which is stupid considering the room is probably as safe as you can get outside of Christopher Street, nobody appearing particularly interested or threatening. It’s coughing, snotty children. Tired, struggling, too-young parents. Women rubbing their bellies.

Mike swallows and picks up a magazine. The Advocate. Headline: “MTV and the New Visibility of Queer Youth.” Jesus. He puts it back down. Will elbows him, and he glances over. He’s giving him an amused look.

Mike huffs. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Shut up.”

Will shifts in his seat, his arm positioned in such a way that it presses against Mike’s. They remain like that until an exhausted-looking nurse comes out ten minutes later.

“William?”

With one more arm-press, Will stands. He gestures to Mike. “Can he come with me?”

“Relation?” She looks to Mike for the answer.

Mike swallows. Opens his mouth. He hesitates just long enough to make things awkward, and Will has to say for him:

“Boyfriend.”

The nurse nods in acknowledgement. “Sorry. Immediate family only.”

Will sighs. Before leaving with the nurse, he turns to Mike, who gives him a thumbs up.

And Mike hates being a self-absorbed asshole. He despises that it’s seemingly his default. He’s sitting in a clinic waiting room while Will does something scary, and all he’s thinking is that he’s a fucking coward for not being able to say it:

Boyfriend.

Nobody’s going to attack him. Nobody’s going to tell his mom. Nobody’s listening to begin with, and they probably couldn’t even if they wanted to, the nurse speaking with them as discreetly as possible in the corner of a room filled with coughing and chattering and Oprah on the tiny TV mounted on the wall.

What the hell is he even afraid of?

All he can think about while he waits on Will to be asked a million invasive questions and have his blood drawn is that he’s probably disappointed in Mike. He’s probably answering those invasive questions and contemplating what a selfish dickhead he has for a boyfriend -- a guy who wants to fuck him without a condom but who doesn’t even have the guts to say a simple word.

He’s reminded of that stuff with El when he was a teenager -- how he couldn’t say I love you, even in the end, when she kissed him before literally killing herself in front of him.

It’s different. He knows that. He loves Will Byers in a way he simply couldn’t love El, as much as he tried.

Even still, his cowardice makes him feel sick.

He sighs. Runs his hands over his face. He picks up the copy of The Advocate because it feels like something small he can do -- something brave. Flips through it.

In the end, it’s boring. He puts it back down for that reason alone and picks up Popular Mechanics, instead.

–

Will comes out half an hour later, the sleeve of his shirt rolled up and a bandaid holding down a cotton ball in the crook of his arm. The receptionist at the front desk gives him a salmon piece of paper with What to Expect After Your HIV Test printed across the top. Will hands it over to Mike, who reads it on their way out:

You have had a blood test for HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus). This test looks for antibodies to HIV in your blood.

Your Results:
Your test results will be available in approximately 7-14 days. You must return to the clinic in person to receive your results. Results are not given over the phone. If you are unable to return, please contact the clinic to discuss arrangements.

It can take up to three months after a possible exposure for HIV antibodies to appear in the blood. If you may have been exposed to HIV within the past three months, your test result may not be conclusive. You may be advised to return for repeat testing.

Once they’re back on the street, Mike looks up. “How long has it been since–”

“Over three months.”

“Oh. Okay. Good.”

Will nods and takes the paper back from him. “So once I get the results, we should be fine to…y’know.”

“Seven to fourteen days?”

“I know. Sucks.” Will sighs. “But at least we have Montauk in between to take my mind off it.”

Joyce’s fiftieth birthday is Saturday, and Mike and Will are driving over with Jonathan Friday afternoon and staying until Sunday.

“Fun in the sun.” Mike bumps him with his arm. “So. How’d it go?”

“Good, actually.” Will outstretches his arm and peels off the bandage, exposing a tiny red dot, the surrounding skin already beginning to purple with a bruise. “I feel…better now?”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. The nurse was reassuring.” He huffs. “I mean, I know that’s her job, but– I think I’m okay. Transmission due to…what I’ve done…is apparently very unlikely.” A beat. “Not impossible, but, y’know.”

“And all that’s only if any of the guys you’ve been with were positive, which they probably weren’t.”

“As far as I know.”

Mike nods. He bites his lip.

“Ice cream?” he asks a moment later as they approach a spot they frequent. “A reward for being a brave boy?”

Will laughs. “I am disappointed they didn’t give me a lollipop.”

They go inside, get double-scoops in cups, and then walk down to the river while they eat.

It’s a gorgeous day. Mid-seventies. Sunny. They sit on a bench and watch the sun slowly sink toward the horizon.

“So, hey,” Mike says once his ice cream is done. He drops the cup and spoon into the fly-infested, overflowing trashcan to his right.

Will licks his spoon and looks at him. “Hm?”

“I’m your boyfriend, okay?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

Mike smiles down at his lap, feeling terribly shy and embarrassed. “I just– I didn’t say it earlier. At the clinic. So.”

Will bumps him with his arm. “It’s fine, Mike. I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I told you when we first started doing…this.” He leans his head back and speaks to the sky. “Everybody’s different. You don’t have to rush anything. It’s important that you’re…comfortable, y’know?”

Mike thinks back on Will’s coming out experience, sharing that part of himself with a veritable crowd of people at the Squawk, Vecna holding his sexuality over his head like a guillotine blade ready to lower.

“Were you comfortable?” he asks, turning sideways on the bench.

Will scrapes up the last bit of his ice cream, eats it, and then drops the cup in the garbage.

“No,” he says. “I wasn’t.” A beat. “I mean– It wasn’t the worst. In retrospect, it’s kinda nice I only had to do it once, but–” He shrugs. “I would’ve liked to have done it differently. Told fewer people first. I would’ve wanted to have done it on my terms.”

“Yeah.” Mike positions his hand in such a way that his pinky touches Will’s leg. “I’m sorry you had to do it like that.”

“It’s okay. It was five years ago.” Will smiles. “I have so many good things in my life now. If doing that led here, it was all worth it.”

Mike wants to kiss him. His skin tingles with it, his fingers twitch. Instead, he says:

“I’m glad it led here, too. And maybe one day I can be brave like you, y’know? Because I want to be.”

“You already are. You’re Mike the Brave. You’re not our Paladin for nothing.”

Mike huffs. “Thanks.”

Will stands, stretches, and repeats Mike’s words from days earlier:

“Just telling the truth.”

They smile at each other, Mike’s heart thumping with an incredible amount of love. And then, after a long, held moment, Will says quietly:

“So, Paladin. Do you wanna go home and…”

“Do it? Totally.”

Will laughs, this beautiful, perfect thing, his face going red. “Awesome.” He kicks Mike’s foot. “Let’s go.”

–

They make it as far as the couch and get as undressed as unbuttoning Will’s shirt all the way and undoing their flies. Will straddles Mike, and they kiss feverishly through moans while stroking themselves together, Mike’s hand covering Will’s.

To tell the truth, this is one of Mike’s favorite parts about the evolution of their relationship -- this ability to just have sex without worrying so much about it. There’s no schedule. No negotiation beforehand. There’s casual kisses that turn to something more. There’s flirting that they let get out of hand. And there’s this: pure, horny desperation.

They push their foreheads together and watch each other’s half-lidded eyes as their hands move faster and faster.

Will’s breath smells like chocolate ice cream. His mouth is still sweet.

“Two weeks,” Mike whispers, nearing the edge, sweat breaking out at his temples and his belly starting to clench. “I’m gonna come in you.”

It feels…bold. His strokes falter a little, lips upturning in an embarrassed smile.

Will groans at it, though, his grip on Mike’s shoulder going almost painfully tight. He rocks in his lap and pants hot breath in his face. “Maybe it’ll,” gasp, “only be a week.”

“I could do it now.”

“We have to wait.”

Mike leans his head back and puts on an exaggeratedly whiny face, bottom lip poking out. “I don’t wanna.”

Will kisses his pouty lip, wet and messy, and Mike speeds back up his strokes.

“Fine,” Mike says, unoccupied hand pushing the two sides of Will’s unbuttoned shirt partially down his arms, freeing it from the splash zone. “Guess we’ll be patient.”

Will shivers, mouth dropping open and expelling a great burst of air. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Will we?”

“Guess we gotta.”

“Oh, fuck. Yeah. We gotta.”

“You gonna come?”

Will gasps again. “Yeah.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

Mike pulls him close and kisses the life out of him -- until Will’s panting so hard he can’t kiss back, until it’s nothing but hot, chocolatey breath, until Will’s whispering against his mouth,

“Holy… Okay, I’m– Oh fuck, I’m–”

and coming all over their joined fists and up his own stomach.

Mike keeps kissing his face through it, then leans back, eyes skimming the length of him. Will’s breathing hard, his face is tomato red, and there’s a sheen of sweat in the hollow of his neck below his Adam’s apple.

What’s more, there are three streaks of milky-white cum just above his navel, gleaming in the sunlight streaming from the windows.

“Whoa,” Mike breathes. He lets go of them and reaches out, running his fingers through it.

Will chuckles, shy and sweet. His eyes go wide when Mike then proceeds to use the cum as lube and finishes jerking himself off, gasping and giving soft, barely-voiced grunts as he aims himself at Will’s stomach and pulses out his own splatter to join the smear of Will’s.

He laughs, then, happy, and Will leans in and kisses the tip of his nose.

“Thanks for that,” Will jokes wryly.

Mike draws him back in by the chin and kisses him. “What? I preserved your precious shirt.”

“I’m grateful. Truly.”

After a minute of resting together, letting their breaths and hearts settle, Mike grabs a small stack of Chinese take-out napkins from the coffee table and uses them to carefully mop up Will’s stomach and chest. Will watches, a gentle smile on his lips.

“Wow,” he says. “And he’s thorough.”

“Full-service treatment, all for you.”

“Lucky me.”

Mike balls up the napkins and tosses them back onto the coffee table.

Will studies him for a moment and then kisses him, this one softer, slower, more serious.

After, he leans back and gives his embarrassed smile to the ceiling.

Mike strokes his waist. “What is it?”

“Just– I dunno. Doing it without condoms feels kinda…sweet? To me, at least. Romantic.”

“Totally.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s obviously sexy but– The idea of being in you like that is…nice.”

“Yeah. It is.” Will huffs. “Having you in me like that. Letting you…y’know…inside me.”

Mike grins. “I can’t wait to ‘y’know’ inside you.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Will scrunches up his face, and then his eyes drift away from Mike’s in shy embarrassment. Fucking adorable. He shifts around. Mike lets him up.

He doesn’t let him get far, though, pulling him in between his legs. Mike leans over and kisses his stomach, the skin still a bit sticky and salty.

Will laughs and steps away, tucking himself back into his pants and doing up his flies. He grabs the crumpled ball of napkins off the coffee table and heads to the kitchen to throw them away.

Mike bites his lip and can’t believe how happy he has become.

Will Byers loves him. It’s the most extraordinary thing in the entire world.

–

Friday afternoon, Jonathan picks them up from the apartment in his gold ‘85 Tercel with bumper stickers all over the back, the interior smelling faintly of weed. He’s had a haircut since the last time Mike saw him, his short mullet gone in favor of something a bit more clean-cut, showing off the hoop he has in his left ear from his last trip to LA.

He’s working in filmmaking full-time now, barely scraping by financially but enjoying himself with his crew of quirky, eccentric friends with quirky, eccentric hairstyles.

“Boys,” he greets as soon as Mike and Will are crammed with their duffel bags into the back seat. He immediately passes back the tape box he keeps under his front seat. “Ready?”

They sort through the tapes. Will hands his brother The Replacements’ Pleased to Meet Me, and they begin their four-hour journey to Montauk to the sound of the opening notes of “I.O.U.”

Jonathan may or may not know about them. Mike’s a little afraid to acknowledge it too much, if he’s honest, his heart pounding when he contemplates the way Jonathan’s eyes occasionally bounce up to the rearview mirror whenever Mike and Will do something in the backseat: poke one another, shout “Punch buggy!” and sock each other in the upper arm, scoot close in the middle of the bench seat and giggle over the exaggerated, caricature-style doodles Will makes of their loved ones in his sketchbook. Headbang and sing along to Fugazi.

But these are just quick flashes. Checks with a smirk.

Jonathan’s eyes linger, however, around hour three, when Will konks out, head back, mouth open, and shoulder-to-thigh flush to Mike’s in a way you just wouldn’t allow when you’re a grown man in the back seat with a platonic friend.

He’s so close that Mike can smell peanut butter on his breath from the Reese’s Pieces he’d gotten at their last service station stop.

The worst part of the whole thing is that Mike’s eyes meet Jonathan’s, and instead of looking away awkwardly, as it’s only natural to do, Jonathan holds the gaze. What’s more, his face softens, and he gives a little nod. Mike huffs a nervous breath, ears and cheeks flaming up.

It feels painfully embarrassing.

Not because of Will. Never because of Will. It isn’t even the gay thing, Jonathan probably the least of Mike’s worries on that front.

It’s because the thought that someone knows -- that someone sees tenderness in him, sees this affection that he’s carried for Will Byers since he was a child who didn’t even understand what it was -- feels like exposure of his soft, white underbelly. Feels like his vulnerability on display.

They’d been listening to My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless, and when the tape plays out, Jonathan rewinds it, ejects it, and then switches over to NPR on the radio as if to create a quieter environment for his sleeping brother. Mike tries not to think about it too hard. He leans his head back beside Will’s, their hair brushing each other’s cheeks, and closes his eyes.

–

They pull into the Byers-Hopper driveway at just after five. Joyce meets them outside the car and dotes on both of her boys for so long that Mike feels awkward.

That is, until she turns to him and basically squeezes the life out of him.

“Mike,” she says, patting his cheek before pulling away. “Thanks for taking such good care of my boy. I’m glad you came!”

He smiles shyly and nods. He wonders what she would think if he knew that his care has extended to dating him, loving him beyond what she knows.

Mike’s known her since he was five years old. She cuddled him and gave him bandaids when he got hurt on Jonathan’s skateboard. She oooh’d and aaah’d over his coloring pages. She gave him and Will shampoo mohawks while they played in the bath and then rinsed out their hair with cups of water, making a shield with her hand on their foreheads so they didn’t get soap in their eyes.

Would she be happy that Mike is in love with her son? That he doesn’t want to ever let him go?

“Jim’s picking up pizza on his way in,” she says, leading the boys into the house. “There’s enough for everyone to eat several slices. All three of you are getting scrawny.”

“Scrawny?” Jonathan laughs. “Come on, Mom.”

“You heard what I said.”

“Mom, I’m pretty sure I’ve gained weight since I last saw you,” Will says, already playfully exasperated. “Mike keeps feeding me take-out.”

Mike chuffs. “Why’re you bringing me into it?”

“Because.” Will pats his own stomach. “You know.”

He does know. Mike may or may not have a bit of an affinity for Will’s stomach. It’s overall still lean as ever, but there’s just the teeniest bit of softness to it -- just enough that he has a scrunchy little roll when he sits -- and it’s basically Mike’s favorite thing. Sue him.

He bumps Will now, though, because he really shouldn’t bring that up in front of Joyce. Jonathan clocks it immediately, brows raising, and well, fuck. Great.

Mike sighs and goes with Will back to his bedroom to set down his bag.

Once that’s done, Mike sits on the edge of the bed and twiddles his thumbs.

“Your brother,” he says, voice low. “Does he…know?”

Will shrugs. “Probably?”

“Huh?”

“He’s known since like California that I’ve had a thing for you. Then I show up at his apartment a couple months ago after blowing off Wes, crying about being in love with someone who doesn’t love me back?”

Mike rolls his lips into his mouth, watching Will’s guilty face. “You told him about us?”

“I never said your name. Never said what we were doing.” Will scrunches up his face. “But, y’know. The math’s pretty easy.”

“So does he think I’m an asshole now?”

“He’s thought you were an asshole for years.”

“Will.”

Will laughs. “Come on. It’s not that serious.” He walks over and sits down on the bed beside Mike. “No. He knows I’m happy now. I’m sure he’s figured it out.”

Mike flutters his lips. “Cool.”

“Sorry. Is that not fine?”

“No, it is. It just– I dunno. Kinda freaks me out. Not in a totally bad way.”

Will studies Mike’s face for a moment before placing a hand on his shoulder. “I understand.” A beat. “I do.”

“I know you do.”

“It’s like you’ve been holding on to this thing inside you for so long that the thought of someone else knowing about it feels terrifying. And not even because you’re afraid they’re gonna hate you for it.”

“Yeah.”

“But the good news?”

Mike raises his brows at him. “Hm?”

“Once it’s out there and you can just be unapologetically yourself around the people you love and trust the most? You feel so free.”

“Really?”

“Definitely.” Will smiles, soft and sweet. “It’s amazing how much you don’t realize you’ve been holding in until you don’t have to.”

“Like what?”

“Liiiiike… Even just thinking boys in movies are cute and letting yourself get all…” He waves his hand around. “Y’know, stupid and stuff when you’re watching. And letting your friends see it.”

“Oh, so like when we were all watching Running on Empty senior year and you kept giggling over River Phoenix?”

Will grins: absolute sunshine. “Yeah!”

“Which, I mean, no judgment here.”

“Really?” Will taps his arm, excited and delighted. “Who else?”

“Ummm. I dunno. Westley in The Princess Bride. Neil in Dead Poets Society. Keanu?”

“Keanu? Bet My Own Private Idaho really did it for ya, huh?”

“Shut up.” Mike puts his hands over his face, blushing furiously. “Okay, okay. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Come on! It did it for me. Also: Neil? Ouch. So tragic. And I’ve always thought he and Todd should’ve kissed.”

Mike snorts. “‘Oh Captain, My Captain.’”

Will leans over and kisses him -- a hard, sweet smooch to the cheek. “See?” He chuckles. “Being gay can be fun.”

“I guess.”

“Who was the first male celebrity you ever…touched yourself to?”

Mike playfully shoves him and stands. “Enough of that. Think Hopper would be pissed if I drank his beer?”

Will laughs and wraps his arms around Mike’s waist. “Remember what I said,” he murmurs once the mood has softened, the teasing squeeze changed to a gentle, affectionate hug.

Mike looks down. “About what?”

“When you’re comfortable.”

“Yeah.” Mike swallows. Runs his hands through Will’s hair. “Thanks, Will.”

“You’re welcome.”

–

Hopper arrives home after six with a stack of pizza boxes and a big smile on his face. After dropping them off on the counter, he gives Will and Jonathan hugs and then leaves his hand on Will’s shoulder when he asks about the city. Jonathan’s love life. Will’s summer job.

“Alright, Wheeler?” he suddenly asks, jerking his chin Mike’s way. He eyes the can in Mike’s hand. “You drinking my beer?”

“Mrs. Byers said I could.”

“Mrs. Hopper.”

“And you can’t even say anything.” Mike smirks. “I’m twenty-one.”

“You come into my goddamn house and tell me what I can and can’t say?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re on thin ice, kid.”

Mike flinches. He can’t help it. Ten years of knowing this guy has put just a slight fear of God in him despite how their relationship has evolved over the past several years.

Hopper smiles, though, this quirk of his mouth. “Still chasing wild women?”

Mike releases a held breath. “Uh. Yeah,” he says. “Totally.”

Will snorts so loudly Mike can’t help but outstretch his leg and kick his shin.

Greetings done, they all grab three slices of pizza each and eat in the living room in front of Wheel of Fortune, the whole family circled around the coffee table -- Jonathan, Joyce, and Hopper on the couch and recliner and Mike and Will on the floor.

After, Jonathan grabs his camera, loads it up with more film, and nods their way.

“Think I’m gonna go get some sunset shots on the beach. Will? Mike? Wanna come with?”

They grab light jackets out of Will’s room and head out together.

Being in Montauk feels a bit like being at the edge of the world -- surrounded by ocean, the breeze near-constant, the air salty and warm. So different from the city. Sand gets in the shells of your ears even when you haven’t been on the beach. Everything smells fishy, sort of. Marine-life. Algae. Dank like caves and thick mud but in a good, comforting way.

Mike loves it. He loves how it feels bright, like the sun is closer, how it’s all sand-washed, little white piles of it everywhere -- in driveways, on sidewalks. Locals are in shorts and flip-flops. It makes him think of coconutty sunscreen and the rubbery smell of blow-up pool floats.

He breathes deeply as they leave the house and make their way down the neighborhood sidewalk toward the beach path.

Jonathan smokes, keeping two steps behind and taking long, slow drags he blows out into the air above him.

Will turns around and walks backward, making a displeased face. “Smoking’s gross,” he says brattily.

Jonathan taps off a sprinkle of ash and nods. “Yeah. It is. Don’t ever do it.”

He sounds so sincere, too, like his brother’s health is more important than his own hypocrisy.

“I’ve already done it,” Will says, turning back around to walk normally. “A buncha times, actually.”

Mike eyes him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Parties and stuff freshman year of college.” He chuckles. “I tried so hard to be cool.”

“But alas and alack…”

“Shut up, Mike. Have you tried it?”

“Nope.”

“Actually?”

“Actually.” Mike shrugs. “You were far cooler than me freshman year, apparently.”

Will looks thoughtful. “So you just drank a lot and didn’t smoke?”

“Basically.”

Mostly all alone in his dorm room like a complete loser. But in his defense, he was horribly depressed.

Will clearly picks up on that, and Mike can identify the exact moment he decides it’s one of the saddest things he’s ever heard. A wrinkle appears between his brows, and his lips press tightly together.

Suddenly, he turns back to his brother. “Give Mike a cigarette.”

Mike laughs in surprise. “I feel like there’s an after school special about this kinda thing.”

Jonathan places his hand over the pack tucked into the front pocket of his shirt as if afraid Will is going to snatch them from him. “No way.”

“Come on, Jonathan. Just one.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Mike makes a face and holds up his hands.

Will huffs. “Yes. Sorry. Do you wanna try it?”

“I think you’re a very bad influence, Will Byers. Yes.” Mike turns to Jonathan. “Can I have a cigarette?”

“Will.”

“What, Jonathan? Mike just asked you nicely for a cigarette.”

Jonathan sighs, exasperated, and takes out the pack. “Don’t tell Nancy. She’ll kill me.”

“Nance would totally let me try a cigarette.”

“Whatever. Smoking’s bad, kids.” Jonathan taps a cigarette into his palm and hands it over along with a blue plastic lighter.

The three of them pause at the turn-off where the road becomes covered with an inch of white, powdery sand. With shaking fingers, Mike places the cigarette between his lips, the dry, papery filter slightly bitter, and after struggling for an embarrassingly long time with the BIC, he lights up.

He lets it burn for a few seconds before taking a stupidly hard drag, trying his best to be cool. What comes next is horribly fucking embarrassing and makes him want to drown himself in the ocean:

The smoke hits the back of his throat like the lick of flames, hot, chemical, and painful. His chest tightens, lungs rejecting the intrusion, and he jerks back, coughing loud and asthmatic -- big, woofing coughs that echo.

“Jesus Christ.” He bends over, gasping and spitting.

To make matters worse, Will and Jonathan both laugh at him, the assholes, and Mike is forced to straighten, wiping drool off his chin, and flip them off.

Still giggling, Will steals the cigarette from him and puts it between his lips. He takes a cute, light puff of a drag and only coughs politely after, smoke clouding from his mouth and a little out his nose.

It’s stupidly hot. Mike wants him to blow smoke into his mouth.

They start walking again. Will passes the cigarette back, and Mike has another go. It still makes him cough, but it’s fine. Better. He mostly loves the spitty wetness of the filter, knowing it’s at least partially from Will’s mouth.

Jonathan is clearly unhappy with his decision to forfeit a cigarette, as he eyes Will every time Mike hands it back over. To his credit, he doesn’t say anything -- just smokes his own second cigarette and fidgets with his camera.

When they arrive at the beach, the sun’s starting to set, turning the sky a beautiful pink and gold.

It’s summer break, so there are plenty of people milling about, in bathing suits and fully dressed, some having clearly been out most of the day, some stopping by for pictures or an evening stroll with loved ones.

Someone down the beach has a boombox, “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover” playing loudly. Someone closer by is playing Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road.” Two college-age guys toss a frisbee. A teenage girl and her boyfriend splash each other in the surf, the girl giving a high-pitched scream whenever she’s pelted with water.

Jonathan, Will, and Mike walk for ten minutes down the beach, the crowd thinning out the further they go until they’re mostly alone by a large dune covered in seagrass and brush. The surf is rougher here, the high cliff above them making it shady and cool and wholly unappealing to beachgoers interested in end-of-day warmth.

Mike and Will roll up their jeans, take off their shoes, and wade at the water’s edge while Jonathan snaps his photos.

The water’s cold but not unbearable as it was when they were last here in March. It’s the kind of cold you’d get used to if you went in slowly, the kind of cold that would feel good on a particularly hot day.

As it stands, it’s just chilly enough to make being splashed annoying, which is why Mike sends a little spray at Will, who screeches and runs away, laughing.

He returns seconds later, wrapping his arms around Mike from behind and kicking him gently at the backs of his knees to try to get his legs to buckle. It’s a maneuver Nancy used to perform on him when they were younger, and Mike knows just how to extricate himself. He pushes at Will’s legs with the flat of his foot and twists his upper body.

Will squeezes him harder and walks with him further into the water.

“Will, I swear to God,” Mike laughs, cringing when a cold, foamy wave rushes past his shins.

Will tickles at his sides. “What’s wrong?”

“Let me go?”

“Why?”

Mike kicks his foot backward through the water, splashing Will up to his thighs and causing him to screech again and let go.

Mike ha ha!’s triumphantly and runs away, Will immediately on his heels.

And, okay, shut up: he totally lets himself be captured again. Will jumps on his back and pulls him down in the sand, and they lie there wrestling and laughing while Jonathan looks at them like they’re lunatics.

They give up eventually, the next logical step being making out, probably, and it’s not like they can do that. Instead, the two of them flop down beside each other in the hard-packed sand, their clothes damp and covered in sand that won’t come off with a simple brush-down.

“Are you two done?” Jonathan asks, approaching with his camera.

Mike pants, lolling out his tongue like a dog. “Totally.”

“You sure?”

Will looks up at his brother, a little smile on his face, and Mike realizes that Jonathan’s making eyes at Will in this completely knowing way that reveals everything:

He knows. Absolutely. One hundred percent.

Will chuckles. “For now.”

Mike elbows him.

Jonathan rolls his eyes and snaps a picture of them.

“Okay,” he says, gesturing toward the ocean, the sunset just behind. “You two clean off and go stand over there.”

Mike groans. “I don’t wanna.”

Will sits up obediently and starts brushing off his clothes with little effect.

“I was gonna get some shots for Mom’s birthday gift,” Jonathan says solemnly, looking his brother up and down. “You’re a mess.”

“Thank you. It doesn’t matter. She won’t care.”

“I know she won’t.” Jonathan takes his brother by the shoulders and walks him to a particular spot. “Okay. Smile. Big smile.”

Mike grins from the ground as he watches Will absolutely cheese. He looks like the little boy in the childhood photos lining the mantel, all big eyes and shining teeth, his cheeks pink in the golden sunlight.

Jonathan takes several pictures of him from various angles, then hands Will the camera to get some of him.

When they’re done, Mike stands and dusts off. “Want me to get some of the two of you?”

Jonathan hands him the camera, shows him how to work it, and tells him not to break it, which: uncalled for. He isn’t a child. The Byers brothers stand together with the ocean and sunset at their backs, and Mike takes several pictures, doing his level best to get all their good angles.

“Okay, okay,” Jonathan says after, rushing over and taking the camera from Mike. “Will. Wheeler. Go stand together.”

Mike huffs. “I’m flattered, but I’m pretty sure Mrs. Byers doesn’t want pictures of me in her birthday gift.”

Jonathan looks him in the eye for a long moment, his brows drawing in and a softness falling over his face. “Not for the birthday gift. You two just might want some pictures, yeah?”

Mike feels like he’s been injected with adrenaline. His breath picks up. He looks away, but when he glances back, Jonathan’s still eyeing him.

“Um. Yeah,” Mike says softly. “Okay.”

He’s shaking when he crosses over to meet Will by the water.

The first picture is stiff; Mike stands just close enough for it to look like they’re purposely posing together.

Jonathan motions for them to get closer for the second. They do, arms brushing now.

After, he lowers the camera and presses his lips together, giving them a gentle, sincere look. He takes a deep breath.

“I know, okay? So you don’t have to–” He looks down at the sand, awkward. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Will exhales, a slow, breezy stream out pursed lips. “You do?” he asks, glancing over to Mike beside him.

Jonathan closes his eyes for a moment and nods. Opens them. “Yeah.” He smiles. “And it’s a really good thing, okay?”

Will leaves Mike’s side and goes over to hug his brother. Over Will’s shoulder, Jonathan nods at Mike, and Mike, belly full of fear and worry and excitement, sort of, smiles and nods back.

For the third picture, Will returns to Mike and puts his arm around his waist. Mike stands there breathing for a moment -- big, slow breaths that are loud even over the crashing of the waves -- before wrapping his arm around Will’s shoulders, pulling him close.

They smile. Jonathan takes pictures: one from further back, one from closer, one from below.

It isn’t that gay, really. If people were to stand on the cliff above and look over, they’d see three brothers, maybe. They’d see particularly close friends.

It feels gay to Mike, though, and it makes him a little afraid and a little nauseous and honestly? A lot relieved. He’s okay. Jonathan knows. He’s posing for a sunset picture with his boyfriend. Nothing horrible has happened. Nothing horrible will happen, Jonathan doing nothing but smiling at them and, when he’s done with pictures, clapping Mike on the shoulder.

The three of them loiter on the beach for a while. Mike and Will sit together, arms touching, and watch the rest of the sunset. Jonathan photographs the waves and the seabirds and the red-orange of the sun as it droops below the ocean sightline.

“Is this okay? Jonathan knowing?” Will asks, gazing into Mike’s eyes.

Mike links his arm with Will’s for just a moment, just to touch him, just to ground himself. He nods. “Yeah. Surprisingly…yeah.”

“Okay. Good.”

Mike takes a deep breath and smiles to himself.

–

When they get back to the house, they take turns in the shower. After, they set up Mike a place to sleep on the floor that they know from the get-go may or may not actually be used and then settle on Will’s bed with a bag of chips to watch a Dateline episode about high-skill scams.

“Have you ever done drugs?” Will asks randomly. He shoves no less than five full chips in his mouth and chomps on them inelegantly.

“Nope. Why?”

“You’d never smoked a cigarette. Just checking.”

Mike smirks. “Is this where you pressure me into doing a line of coke?”

“Funny you should mention it…” Will leans over, pretending to grab something from the nightstand. His shirt comes up, exposing his side, and Mike places his cold fingers to the warm skin, causing Will to shriek and kick out with his foot.

He straightens, pulls his shirt down, and eats another chip. “I haven’t done drugs, either.”

“Not even weed?”

“No. I don’t think drugs are for me.” Will huffs an embarrassed, breathy laugh. “Is that lame?”

“Yeah.”

Will hits him.

Mike grins. “No. It isn’t. It’s fine.”

“Also, I mean– Anything that’s gonna mess with my perception and faculties? Scares me a little, I think.” Will shrugs. “I like being in control of myself.”

“Makes sense.”

And it does. Mike hadn’t thought about Will not liking loss of control due to all the shit he’s gone through.

“Sorry if it makes me boring,” Will adds, looking down at his lap.

Mike pokes him. “Boring’s what we all want after the last ten years. You deserve to have it.”

“Probably.”

“And, hey. Boring’s good. Boring can be kind of…amazing, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Totally.” Mike grabs a chip. Eats it. “Also: you were apparently much cooler than me freshman year, so I’m definitely more boring than you.”

“I don’t know about that. I tried. It didn’t work.” Will chuckles. “Sophomore year, too.”

“What’d you get up to?”

“Sophomore year was when I started having sex.”

“Oh.”

“First kiss, first handjob, first blowjob, all in one night.”

“Fuck that guy.”

Goddamn Carlton.

Will elbows him. “Come on. He was okay.”

“He took your virginity.”

“Oh no, my precious virginity.”

Mike places his chip-greasy fingers under Will’s chin and brings him close to kiss. “Unfair.” He presses a sweet, squeaking peck to his mouth.

“I wanted it to be you.

“Did you?”

“Obviously.” Will does his ceiling-smile. “When we started hearing about people losing their virginity in high school, I used to think about doing it with you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Like– I dunno. I remember imagining me and you, like, deciding to do it in your basement one night just to see what sex was all about.” He laughs. “It’s embarrassing. I literally didn’t even know how two guys did it until I was shockingly old.”

That’s really fucking cute, actually. Mike wraps his arm around Will and pulls him close.

It makes him sad, too.

It isn’t even the missed firsts. While sweet, and while he’d want for him and Will to have been each other’s first everything, he understands that a lot of that is just his own sentimentality and romanticized notion of love.

No, what makes him sad is that he thinks that at twelve, he wasn’t ready to understand himself. If little Will Byers had given him his first kiss -- a sweet, childish peck -- he wouldn’t have reciprocated as he does in his sentimental what if? He was a kid who lived in a family of Reagan supporters. Will was his best friend in the whole world. While he wouldn’t have been cruel, he would’ve laughed and asked why in the world Will did that, and it probably would’ve broken Will’s heart and shattered some aspect of their friendship. That’s the truth of it.

It wasn’t until he was fourteen that he started to feel things -- that he started to wonder. As much as he tried to be a normal teenager with El, there were things that weren’t there. Desire. The weird, scary, teenage horniness that’s probably supposed to come with making out with your girlfriend. It was completely absent.

Fifteen, though, was when he understood. And it scared him to death. It made him sick. He masturbated to thoughts of boys for the first time and wanted to throw up after. His hands shook.

If Will had kissed him when they were in California, he would’ve pulled away in terror. He would’ve cried, probably. He would’ve raged for days on end. And then he would’ve taken him by the face and kissed him back.

Would he have? He wants to think so.

Maybe, instead, he would’ve pushed him away. Maybe he would’ve done whatever it took to keep himself from being wrong. Capital-A Abnormal.

Then came loss and depression. Doctor’s visits. Prozac. Mike was barely holding it together leading up to college, and then he crashed a little bit. Stopped his meds. Distance from home gave him a new perspective on life. He saw Will at Christmas and wanted to breathe the air from his lungs. He began to want.

Will always says things like, It had to happen that way and It happened exactly how it was supposed to.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it all did.

It’s a sweet thought to be Will’s first kiss, to lose their virginity to each other as giggly teenagers with no idea what they’re doing. But maybe it all had to start with an embarrassing, humble offer of services when they were twenty years old, and maybe that has to be okay.

Will bumps his shoulder. He hands out a chip. “Potato for your thoughts?”

Mike leans over and eats the chip out of his hand like a petting zoo animal, using an admittedly unnecessary amount of tongue.

“Blech.” Will wipes his palm on his pajama shorts. “Daydreaming about taking my virginity?”

Mike chews and swallows. “Something like that.”

“Really?”

“I dunno. Thinking about being a dumb kid.” He grabs another chip and munches it thoughtfully. Says:

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Would you have ever kissed me? When we were teenagers? Like– I dunno. ‘Fuck it all, I’m gonna do it’ and just…y’know?”

Will slides his arm behind Mike’s back and squeezes him. “Honestly?” A beat. “When we were sixteen. Right before it all went down…” He huffs. “I was fully looking for signals.”

“Signals?”

“Little things. Touches. Smiles. Stuff Robin told me about.” He leans his head back and says to the ceiling: “And I don’t know about just, like, spontaneously kissing you, but if we’d been totally alone at any point, and it felt right, I would’ve confessed my feelings.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Will swallows heavily. “I almost did that a hundred times over the years.”

“Like when?”

“California.”

“When I was being an asshole to you?”

“Yeah.” Will shrugs. “Do you remember the back of the van that day? When I gave you the–”

“Painting.”

“Yeah.”

It sort of feels like someone has just blasted Mike through the stomach with a laser gun. Chopped off a limb with a katana. Flattened him with a steamroller. And, hell, why not: mowed him down with a fucking city bus.

“Will,” he says. Gutted. “You–”

“It was mine. I mean, like, obviously, but–”

“El didn’t commission it.”

“No. It was totally from…me to you.”

Mike breathes out his mouth, gaspy. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t the right time.”

“Will. I would’ve– I dunno.”

Would he have? Would he have done a fucking thing other than continue to hate himself? Would it have changed his life?

Maybe.

“That makes me–” Mike scratches his jaw. He hesitates before admitting: “That makes me sad, Will.”

“Don’t let it. I’m totally good now.”

“It probably broke your heart.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Will shrugs. “But it was an impossible situation. You were gonna reject me whether I told you the truth or not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But listen: it doesn’t even matter anymore.” He smiles, and his hand creeps up Mike’s back and squeezes at his shoulder. “Water under the bridge.”

“I was a dickhead back then. I hope you know that.”

“Oh, I do.”

“I loved you. How I could.” Mike swallows. “I was afraid, and I wasn’t thinking, and I was so caught up in trying to be a normal teenager that I did and said a lot of stupid shit.”

“Yeah.” Will sets the chip bag aside and climbs onto Mike’s lap, straddling him. He takes his face between his palms and kisses him, sweet. “But guess what?”

“What?”

“That was six years ago. You were a child. I was a child. There were like, a thousand things in life that were scary as hell back then, and that’s not even counting the monsters and men with guns.”

Mike smiles at him. Will presses their foreheads together. Says:

“We’re adults now. We figured it out. I forgive you for being an asshole when you were a literal kid. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Also: I’m really happy.”

Mike frames Will’s face with his hands. “Me too.”

“Really?”

“Totally.”

“Good.”

They kiss, and it’s transcendant. Mike loves him so much he could just die from it. He could float away on a little cloud, his affection for Will Byers enough to elevate him to the heavens.

How does he even deserve this?

Will kisses his neck, and it’s sweet, not pushing for more. He sits up straight and stretches, arms over his head, shirt riding up. Mike touches his bare waist and laughs when Will shrieks again at his cold fingers.

They separate. Will slides off the bed and grabs the chip bag, rolling it down and clipping it shut.

They take turns in the bathroom. Pee. Brush their teeth. They say goodnight to Joyce, Hopper, and Jonathan, who are watching the same Dateline episode.

“What do you think the chances are that Jonathan tells your mom?” Mike asks once they’re back in Will’s room. He shuts the door, locks it, and cuts off the lights.

“He won’t. Mom will, with one hundred percent certainty, ask him for information about me, though.”

Mike huffs and walks right past the blankets and pillow on the floor, pulling back the covers on the bed, instead, and climbing under. Will doesn’t comment, just climbs in on the other side.

They lie on their backs for a while, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.

Mike clears his throat. “Do you think your mom will be okay with me and you?”

“I think my mom will be so happy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, first… I think she’s been worried I’ll be alone forever. That my life will be really hard, y’know, and I won't get to experience stuff like normal people.” A breathy laugh. “And second… It’s you, Mike. She’s known you forever. She loves you. She knows your family. This whole thing is, like…best case scenario.”

“Oh.”

Will bumps him under the covers. Their hands nudge. Hold.

He doesn’t ask about Mike’s parents, and it’s obvious why. It’s touchy. Unknown, really. Mike’s pretty sure his mom will come around quickly, her main issues being the fact that Mike’s maybe setting himself up for an unconventional life. His dad, though? He won’t be good about it. That can be taken right off the table. How bad, however, is sort of up in the air.

Mike sighs. Will squeezes his hand. Psychic. Nobody has to say a damn thing.

He rolls onto his side and settles in. Will scoots back against him. Draws Mike’s arm over his waist. Mike slides his hand up the front of Will’s shirt where he likes to keep it, warm and safe against his boyfriend’s chest.

He kisses the back of his neck. “Night, Will,” he whispers, giving him a squeeze.

Will rubs their feet together under the covers. “Night, Mike.”

–

Everybody sleeps in the next morning. Then, after dragging themselves out of bed, they eat cinnamon toast at the dining room table bleary-eyed, chugging black coffee and orange juice.

It’s Joyce’s fiftieth birthday. Will presents her with a handmade card not dissimilar in aim to the one he’d given Mike -- big drawing on the front, doodles and sweet note on the inside -- and gives her a squeezing hug.

“Happy birthday, Mom.”

She kisses his cheek and strokes his hair. Tears leak out her eyes. “My beautiful boy! Thank you. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Mike hugs her after. She smells like cinnamon and soap with just the faintest hint of cigarettes. Her to a T. He tells her happy birthday. She pats his cheek and thanks him.

After breakfast, they all put on their beach clothes, load up Hopper’s Jeep Cherokee with chairs and towels, and drive as a group to the biggest beach on the island.

Once parked, they take the time to slather themselves in sunblock -- especially Mike, who burns easily, Will with slightly more tendency to tan -- and then head down to the beach.

They find an empty spot between two families, unfold the chairs and lay out the towels. Mike takes off his yellow button-down, leaving him awkward and pale in tropical-print swimtrunks, a pair of sunglasses pushed up on his head.

It isn’t remotely true, but he always feels like people are looking at him. He casually crosses his arms over his chest and waits while Will gets water-ready.

In contrast, he’s legitimately sexy. It isn’t even the whole love thing. Mike’s pretty sure that if he were straight, he’d still think Will was good looking, would still be jealous of his appearance, with his lean-softness that makes him look healthy, his navy trunks, the faint little patch of brown hair in the center of his chest and just beneath his navel. His moles, spaced perfectly like constellations.

Mike realizes he’s staring. He looks away quickly and stupidly clears his throat. Jonathan smirks at him from where he sits on a beach towel, fidgeting with his camera.

Fuck off, Jonathan.

Hopper unbuttons his pink Hawaiian shirt and sits down in one of the beach chairs beside Joyce, legs outstretched. He leans back and closes his eyes as if settling in to sleep. Joyce pulls out a mystery novel and folds back the front cover.

It’s funny to Mike how, even though he and Will are grown-ass adults, they still feel like the kids, the real adults relaxing in the sun while the boys play.

Oh well.

Mike turns to Will. “Wanna swim?”

They go together to the ocean and slowly wade in.

They haven’t been swimming together since the summer after high school, the whole Party spending a day at the lake for a last hurrah in mid-July.

It had been depressing as hell, all of them watching the timer tick down and down, closer and closer to the inevitable alarm that would signal their separation from each other and the official end of childhood.

Now, though? Mike grins as he and Will adjust to the water and swim out beyond the break of waves, stopping once the water is neck-deep and the waves bump past them, making them temporarily weightless as they pass.

Someone on the shore is playing hip-hop music. The bass of it thumps rhythmically, though the tune itself is muffled by the sound of the ocean.

Will swims close and touches Mike’s torso with his knuckles -- a quick, up-down stroke from sternum to navel.

It doesn’t look like anything above the water. They’re apart, still. Talking. Mike flushes and grabs Will’s waist for just long enough to tickle him a little, then lets him go.

They float on their backs for a while, wet hair fanning out around them. It’s a beautiful day, perfectly hot enough for a swim, and the sky is true blue with just the faintest wisps of cotton clouds.

When his chest starts feeling hot from the sun, Mike dips under and treads normally. He watches the shore -- sees Jonathan standing and pulling off his band T-shirt, then grabbing his camera. Joyce and Hopper are talking. There are kids nearby, screaming and laughing, yellow arm floaties nearly half their size.

There’s–

Bubbles.

Will has jumped on him, dunking him, and all Mike feels are fuzzy knees in his back and hands pressing against the top of his head.

He wiggles free and pops back up out of the water, and well, at that point, things are, as they say, on.

Water-wrestling. Dunking. Chasing each other through the water, Will swimming as fast as he can to get away from Mike’s righteous, playful fury. Screeching, cute and high-pitched, Will’s face scrunched up in a way that makes Mike want to wrap all his limbs around him like a koala and kiss him until they’re both breathless.

They play until they’re tired, then float around together for a while, hopping waves, before finally exiting the ocean. Will walks in front, and Mike can’t help but stare at his ass in his wet trunks.

They flop down together on beach towels and stretch out to dry. Jonathan has a little portable radio with him, and he puts on the alternative rock station to drown out fucking “Baby Got Back,” the so-called “Song of the Summer,” which they’ve all heard no less than five times on the beach so far that day.

“Hey,” he says after a minute. “Will. Mike.”

The two of them look over, and Jonathan has his camera raised. Will props himself up on his elbow and sticks out his tongue. Mike holds up a peace sign. Jonathan smiles as he snaps a photo and then taps his little brother’s foot with his own.

–

The five of them stay at the beach until the sun makes them dehydrated and crispy, then pack up their things and leave. Mike and Will, shirts pulled over their pink shoulders and flip-flops on their feet, ask to be dropped off in town, and Hopper cranks up his Steely Dan and rolls down all the windows for their humiliating send-off.

They get Hawaiian ices from a street vendor and eat them while watching boats come in at the dock, then go to a couple of shops for Joyce’s birthday gifts:

First, an art-adjacent shop for a 16x24 frame. Second, the florist for daisies from Mike. And finally, the drug store for a gift bag and aloe for Mike’s sunburn.

Will puts it on him later in the privacy of his bedroom, the two of them showered and shirtless in a way that feels totally normal due to the heat of the day.

“Ouch,” Mike whines, peering down at his red shoulders, the freckles already darker and more prominent.

“Hush, big baby.” Will squirts a dollop of aloe into his palm and rubs it on skin that feels like it’s approximately the temperature of the sun.

When he’s done with Mike’s shoulders and back, he smooths just a bit over his nose and cheeks and then smiles at him.

Mike bites his lip. “What?”

“Your freckles. I like them.” As if to prove it, Will presses a kiss to the bridge of his nose.

Mike scrunches up his face, embarrassed, a flush rivaling the pink of his sunburn.

“Can I put some aloe on you?” he asks, looking Will over and sighing when he just looks nice and golden instead of splotchy like Mike. “Did your butt get burned?”

Will laughs and kicks him, capping the aloe bottle. “Maybe later.”

They get dressed, pulling on polos and clean sneakers, then head to the living room to wait until it’s time to leave.

–

They have dinner at a nice, moderately-expensive restaurant at the tip of the island -- all low lighting, dark mahogany wood, and white tablecloths. Classy, string-heavy music. It’s a small, circular table, just enough for the five of them, and Mike and Will sit beside each other, their shoes touching under the table.

They eat steak and chicken and some fancy, vinegary salad with raisins Joyce passes around, singing its praises between sips of wine. She’s happy tonight, her eyes alight, earrings from Hopper sparkling as she tilts her head back and laughs at Jonathan’s wry jokes and Will’s boyish, sometimes-bratty, sometimes-sweet remarks.

Mike mostly just speaks when spoken to. He loves the family, but at the end of the day, it isn’t his. He takes in their Byers Dynamic -- the way they relate to each other, the way Will gets all animated and comfortable like he always does when he’s feeling loved, the way they have weird little inside jokes and relatives Mike’s never heard of. He cuts his eyes to Hopper, who gives him an air-toast. It’s a shared moment of solidarity. He smiles.

Joyce asks him about his sisters and his major. Mike tells her they’re good, that Nancy’s happy in Boston and Holly’s in high school, now. His major’s fun, just a lot of writing. Obviously.

In the middle of it, Will unashamedly steals a bite of mashed potatoes off Mike’s plate, just digging in with his fork and shoving it in his mouth.

Mike pauses mid-speech and shoots him a playful death-stare. “Excuse you.”

Will laughs, light and sweet, and Mike flicks his shoulder. He picks up his own fork, stabs a honey-glazed carrot off Will’s plate, and eats it.

“Hey!”

Mike opens his mouth at him, showing off the chewed, orange mush, and swallows.

“Wait,” he says immediately after. “That’s really good. Trade?”

“Yeeeeah.” Will gives him a high-five.

With pleased smiles on their faces, they slide their plates together and use forks to drag their side-dishes onto each other’s plates.

“Anyway,” Mike says, carrying on with his previous conversation about school, only to falter just a tick when he sees the look on Joyce’s face.

Her head is tilted, and she watches Will and Mike with something on her face that can only be described as sentimental fondness verging on…knowing?

Mike’s heart palpitates at first, this little skipped beat that makes him cough.

It’s all over quickly enough. After the cough, he clears his throat and picks back up where he left off. Joyce’s small, secret smile straightens, her eye-contact becomes more focused, she nods as she listens to Mike and asks him follow-up questions. Will taps his foot under the table.

It doesn’t help the situation when, fifteen minutes later, after the goddamn orchestra plays Joyce “Happy Birthday” and a waiter brings out a chocolate ganache cake, Jonathan stands with his camera and makes a point of documenting the occasion.

There’s group shots. Individual ones of Joyce. Joyce and Hopper. Will. And then, Jesus Christ, Jonathan just has to go and say:

“Mike. Will. Squeeze together.”

It’s normal. It’s something you say. Jonathan wants a close-up shot of the two of them, and a bit of scooting is necessary to prevent one or both from being cut off. No big deal.

But because Jonathan knows, it all feels different. Mike exhales slowly, his hands shaking, as he moves in close. Will leans against him, easy as anything, his upper arm warm and solid against Mike’s, and the two of them smile for the photo. Then again.

Joyce smiles, too, watching the whole thing, and Mike’s face goes red when they scoot back apart, the tips of his ears burning.

–

At home after, Joyce opens gifts in the kitchen. From Jonathan, she receives a beautiful photo mat display with childhood photos of Jonathan and Will juxtaposed with the developed beach photos from the night before. From Mike, the daisies. And from Will, a framed painting of her in a chair, a toddler-aged Will and a young Jonathan in her lap, her arms around them.

It’s incredible. He’d painted it based on some pictures in an old photo album, combining a photo of Joyce with Will in her lap with one from a different year of her with Jonathan.

It isn’t his usual style, Will’s paintings typically either storybook fantastical or dark and heavy, but it’d turned out perfectly, the warm, rich colors exuding comfort and love.

There are hugs all-around. Mike puts the daisies in a vase for her while Hopper helps Jonathan and Will hang their gifts on the walls.

Joyce stands in the kitchen with tears in her eyes, watching her family like she doesn’t know how she’s gotten so lucky.

After the pictures are up and the daisies are trimmed, watered, and arranged, Mike steals a beer from the fridge, Will grabs a Pepsi, and they go outside to sit on the picnic table in the yard to watch the sunset.

“You nailed it,” Mike says, cracking open the beer and taking a slurping sip.

Will holds up his Pepsi can, and they toast.

They sit side-by-side on top of the picnic table, legs criss-crossed and knees touching. It’s a nice night: warm and comfortable with a faint breeze that’s just enough to ruffle their hair. The air smells of ocean spray and salt, and when Mike takes a sip of his beer, he gets a whiff of the floraly scent of the aloe gel on his face.

It’s one of those times when he and Will don’t need to talk. They drink their drinks, listen to each other swallow and breathe, and watch the beauty of the changing sky.

Joyce comes out at the peak of the sunset, when everything is rosy and gold. She has on a gold necklace, Hopper’s gift, and she’s pulled a gray cardigan over her sleeveless black dress.

“Whatcha doing?” she asks, leaning casually against the picnic table.

Mike gestures toward the sunset with his beer can just as Will says, “Taking it all in.”

“I see.” Joyce smiles in a way that makes Mike flash back to the dinner look -- that makes him feel a little unmoored, like he’s slowly losing gravity. “Hey. You boys wanna walk down to the beach with me?”

She nods in the direction of the small, private beach just behind the neighborhood -- the one with too little sand for a proper beach day but that’s just fine for sitting. Mike and Will climb off the table, and the three of them quietly make the five-minute trip, exiting the neighborhood through a gated, sandy trail and then slipping down a four-foot bank onto the shore.

They have a seat in a flat, dry spot of sand and continue to watch the sunset. Mike and Will finish their drinks. Joyce says, “Do you boys mind?” and sheepishly taps out a cigarette in a way that reminds Mike of Jonathan.

“Are you doing okay, Mom?” Will asks, casual but clearly a little worried. He has that wrinkle between his brows, and his front teeth chew at his bottom lip.

Joyce smiles out at the ocean, gold and pink lighting up her features and turning her eyes to fire.

“I’m good,” she says. “It’s been a really nice day.”

Will scoots in and puts his arm around her. “I’m glad. You deserve it.”

“Actually,” she says, taking a slow, thorough drag off her cigarette, “I just– I wanted to talk to you two for a second.”

Mike’s gut drops to his knees. He swallows hard. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to say…” A long, terrifying beat. “Well. I wanted to say how proud I am of you both. You’re doing so well. School, everything. And you just– You seem…happy.”

Will smiles. “We are.”

“I’m so glad.”

Mike holds his breath and waits for a But. It never comes.

Instead, her demeanor changes. It goes from sweetly restrained to silly, almost, like she’s nervous, falling back on the teasing young mom she used to be when they were little.

She playfully narrows her eyes at them. “Is there anything going on I should know about?”

“Mom.”

“Now, I’m just being a mom, okay? You can tell me to mind my own business, and I will. I won’t say another word. But I love you, and–”

“Jonathan told you.”

“Jonathan didn’t tell me anything. What would he have told me?”

“Nothing.”

“Hm.” Joyce flicks ash into the sand. Her glance goes to Mike, but he remains frozen, eyes wide and mouth parted.

“Look,” she says, smiling. “I notice things. That’s all.”

Will sighs.

“You two have always been close. But this is…different.”

Mike stares out at the water, wondering what would happen if he just walked into it fully clothed and swam out into the great beyond.

Will, for his part, keeps up the back and forth like a pro:

“We’re older, Mom.”

“I know you are. I know things…evolve. Sometimes in very good ways?”

“Mom.”

Joyce holds up her hands. “Like I said. Maybe it’s none of my business. I just– You just look so happy, and I’m so–”

“We are happy.”

"It’s nice to see.”

“Thanks.”

“And you’re spending so much time together, and you’re–”

“Okay, Jesus,” Mike says, putting an end to it. Lowering the guillotine. “Mrs. Byers, we’re dating. We’re together. That’s what’s happening.”

It comes out all in a rush, so fast Mike couldn’t stop himself if he tried. And once it’s out, it’s like a whole lifetime’s worth of pent-up breath and stress and worry comes out with it. Mike exhales in one long, slow breath and fucking…

Smiles.

Will bumps him with his arm and smiles back. Joyce presses her lips together as if holding in some of that sunshine she passed on to Will. Her eyes go teary.

“Okay,” she says, gentle. “Okay.”

She reaches over and squeezes Will’s knee. Then, after a second, she squeezes Mike’s.

They watch the sunset while Mike’s breathing slows. With her answer secured, Joyce is softer than Mike ever imagined her being. She’s careful, as if understanding what it all means.

“Mike, have you told your mom and dad?”

Mike doesn’t look at her. “No,” he says. “I don’t know if I wanna…do that yet.”

In lieu of a response, Joyce puts her arm around him and gives him a quick side-hug. It’s good. Meaningful. Reassuring, like no matter what, things will be okay.

–

“So how long?” Joyce asks in a silly stage-whisper once darkness has begun to settle in and the three of them are standing and dusting away the sand on their clothes.

Will smiles shyly. “A month and a half?”

“Wow.” She smiles. “So not even when you were last here in March?”

Mike bites back a laugh at that. He quickly cuts his eyes to Will, who’s doing the same, pointedly avoiding his mom’s face as he takes her hand and helps her climb the sand bank.

“No, we weren’t together, but we were, uh–” Will starts, distracted. “We were just…”

“Oh! Well.”

“No, Mom, not–”

“It’s fine. I was young, I–”

“Mom!” Will bursts into laughter. “I just meant–”

“We weren’t together yet,” Mike supplies. “We were–”

“We were just getting closer.” Will huffs. “That’s all.”

Joyce nods, a bit of a scrunch to her face like she knows exactly what they were getting up to, and, well, that’s embarrassing as hell. Mike rubs both hands over his face and kind of wants to bury his head in the sand like a fucking ostrich.

They awkwardly make the trek back to the house.

Once they’ve reached the driveway, Joyce stops them.

“One more thing.”

Mike is immediately terrified.

“You’re both adults,” Joyce says. “I know you’re…doing all kinds of…adult things.”

“Mom!”

“And you two know each other so well. Things might already feel pretty serious.” She smiles, soft. “But just– Do me a favor, okay?”

Mike’s expecting her to say something painfully mortifying about sex. He’s poised for it, cringe locked and loaded.

Instead, she says:

“Don’t forget to enjoy yourselves? You’ve been through hell. We all have. And there’s just– There’s time later for all the boring, grown up parts of relationships. You don’t have to rush that. Have fun together.”

Mike exhales. That was…not so bad.

“We do,” Will says, giving his mom another hug. “We will.”

She smooths back his hair and kisses his forehead. “I love you, my sweet boy.”

“I love you, too.”

“And Will?”

Will pulls back and raises his brows at his mother, who reaches out and touches a spot on his neck.

“I knew that was an old hickey.”

“Oh my God. Mom!”

Mike groans and walks away.

–

Mike and Will crawl in bed together that night without a second thought. They’ve put away the blankets and pillow that have been on the floor. They’ve closed and locked the bedroom door.

“So, Mom knows,” Will says as they lie on their backs, watching the ceiling.

Mike hums. “Yeah.”

“How do we feel about that?”

“We feel…okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mike takes a deep breath and blows it out pursed lips. “Fine, actually.”

“That’s good.”

A beat. “She won’t tell my mom, will she?”

“No way. But she’s probably telling Hopper in bed right now.”

“Jesus.” Mike cringes, imagining that conversation.

Hopper did reasonably well with Will’s news. It’s obvious he thinks it’s strange and would never engage with it if he didn’t have to, but at the end of the day, he accepts it as a fact of life. He loves Will, he doesn’t try to change him, and he does his best with all the rest of it.

Will huffs. “He’s okay, you know.”

“I know.”

“He asked me earlier if I had a type.”

“What?”

“He and Jonathan were talking about a woman Jonathan likes, and he turned to me and was like,” deep, booming voice, “‘So, Will. What kinda…gentlemen...do you chase?’”

“What’s up with him and chasing?”

“Straight men chase, apparently. Like dogs.”

They laugh. Mike nudges him.

“So what’d you say?”

“Short. Blond. Total jock.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Obviously. Didn’t you know?”

With a grumble, Mike rolls over and kisses him. He pushes his hair back off his forehead, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, drags his hands down and cups Will’s jaw.

Will snorts, the puff of air warm against Mike’s face, and kisses back.

And, well, this is kind of amazing. Doing this in Montauk, in bed, the whole damn house knowing they’re together. No more keeping it quiet. No more pretending. No more having sex on the floor out of legitimate, heart-pounding fear that someone would hear the bed creak and walk in on them.

Mike pulls back and peers down at Will in the faint glow filtering in through the window curtains. He’s all shiny eyes and teeth, mouth pulled upward in a grin. Mike kisses him again, a peck on his upper lip.

“Thoughts on letting a tall, dark-haired nerd suck your dick?”

Will laughs. “Sure. Why not?”

Mike drags the covers up over his head and slides down Will’s body until he’s lying between his legs, his own legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

With little preamble, he pulls Will’s shorts and underwear down to his thighs and takes him in his mouth.

“Oh! Whoa. Okay,” Will murmurs, exhaling heavily. He sticks his arms down under the covers and slides his fingers into Mike’s hair. “Did I say short, blond jocks? I obviously meant Mike Wheelers.”

“Any Mike Wheeler?”

“I’ve only ever met the one.”

Mike takes him in so far that he gags, his stomach lurching embarrassingly, but he manages to hold himself together despite the tears pricking his eyes. He pulls back slightly. Sucks. Slips his hands up under Will’s T-shirt and holds on to his torso as he bobs his head.

“You’re so much better at this than you were last time we were here.”

Mike moves off and laughs breathily. He kisses up and down the length of him and then pulls a hand back to wrap around the lower half. “Practice makes perfect.”

“That’s what I always say.”

And then, well, neither of them can say much else. Mike takes him back into his mouth and starts up his stroke-suck rhythm, and Will runs his hands through his hair and does his best to keep from moaning.

He lets one slip near the end, but it’s doubtful it’s loud enough to be heard through the closed door. Mike chuckles in little puffs of breath out his nose and tries to make him do it again, stroking his tongue over him and making it sloppy and wet.

It’s hot as hell under the covers, the heat of his breaths and Will’s body making him sweaty in just five minutes, his face and the back of his neck damp.

“Mike,” Will whispers in place of a moan, and that makes Mike even hotter. He thrusts against the mattress a bit until it makes that god-awful creaking sound and Will pulls his hair in warning. And, okay, yeah, that’s sexy, too.

Mike sucks him with renewed fervor, and Will goes, “Oh, fuck,” and arches his back.

He’s salty in Mike’s mouth, then saltier. Mike bobs his head and then takes him in as far as he can manage, and Will pulls his hair and digs his feet into the mattress and comes against the back of his tongue.

Mike swallows. Wipes his mouth with the neck of his shirt. Crawls up Will’s body and kisses him silly, giving a breathy giggle when Will makes a blech sound at the taste of his own cum.

He then flops onto his back beside him and pants, relishing the blessedly cool air against his face.

“You’re so good at that now,” Will says, scooting in close and pushing down the covers and then the front of Mike’s tented shorts.

“Ten out of ten?”

“Nine point nine-nine-nine.”

Mike groans. “Shut up.”

“Practice makes perfect. I want you to keep practicing.”

“Will, I will literally still wanna practice sucking your dick when we’re in our Skypad Apartment in Orbit City.”

“2042?”

“Totally.”

Will grins and wraps his hand around Mike.

It doesn’t take long at all. Mike relaxes back against the pillows and closes his eyes, and Will kisses him and strokes him and whispers, “Do you feel good?”

It’s so sweet, soft and smiley. Mike sighs loud enough to fill the room and says:

“Amazing. Fuck,” and comes all over his own stomach.

Will scrunches up his face at him and kisses him on the cheek. And if it were physically possible, Mike knows he’d come again right then and there, as Will proceeds to slide down, hold Mike by the hips, and lick the cum off his stomach.

He’s never done that before. Mike moans. He doesn’t give a fuck if the whole house hears.

Will admonishes him with a pinch. Licks his stomach again. Then again. Mike tilts his head back on the pillow and pants.

“Holy shit, Will.”

Will smooths his hand over the last little bit of it, swiping it off, and joins him up by the pillows. “What?” He smiles, knowing exactly what he’s done.

“I’m dead. You killed me. I love you.”

Will giggles. “R.I.P.”

“Does my cum taste bad?”

“Mike!”

“What?”

“Shut up. Let’s go to sleep.”

“Yours tastes like–”

Will puts his hand over his mouth to shut him up. Mike licks his palm but, when released, doesn’t finish his sentence.

They laugh breathily, straighten their clothing, and lie together on their sides.

Mike wraps his arms around Will from behind, pulls him close, and kisses his jaw. “Are you having fun with me? Y’know. Like your mom said?”

Will laces his fingers through Mike’s, which rest against his stomach. “Definitely.” A beat. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” He rests his lips against the back of Will’s neck. “Totally.” Kisses him.

“Night, Mike the Brave.”

“Night, Will the Wise.”

–

There’s pancakes and bacon for breakfast. Mike and Will are up relatively early, and Joyce puts them to work mixing batter and cutting up bananas while she fries the bacon. Fleetwood Mac is on the portable boom box in the window, and through the archway, the local news plays on the TV, Jonathan not watching and instead, sleepily drinking coffee on the couch while wrapped up in a blanket.

When the food is done, they all eat together at the dining room table.

“Did you boys…sleep good?” Hopper asks in a scripted tone of voice that’s so obvious Mike wants to roll his eyes. Instead, he covers his pancakes in an ungodly amount of syrup and gives a simple:

“Great, thanks.”

“My old mattress okay?”

Holy fuck. Mike gulps down half his mug of blazing hot coffee and stares longingly at the knife on the table, considering hara-kiri.

Everybody’s dead silent. Will looks around awkwardly, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

After several unbearable seconds of this, Jonathan clears his throat dramatically.

“Well, I for one slept like shit,” he says in an exaggeratedly cheery voice. “The couch is lumpy.”

Will smiles down at his plate and picks up a strip of bacon. “Should’ve used the air mattress.”

It’s a solid segue. The conversation turns to the slow leak in the air mattress due to Will jumping on it over Thanksgiving and Joyce having to throw it out.

Mike thinks that might be the end of Hopper’s momentary, awkward attempt to indirectly address the elephant at the table, but, well, he’s never been that lucky.

After breakfast, teeth-brushing, and re-packing duffel bags, he and Will go on a walk outside, circling the neighborhood and talking through their upcoming week. Will has to work a private lunch party for art dealers at the gallery on Wednesday. Mike is booked and busy in the Writing Lab all week.

When they make it back to the house, lightly sweating and thirsty, Hopper steps outside the door of his workshop and holds up a hand.

“Hey, Wheeler. I need your help with something.”

Mike looks pleadingly at Will, who smirks at him and taps his stomach.

“Good luck,” he says, heading inside.

Goddammit. Mike sighs.

Turns out, Hopper does actually need help. He’s making what looks like a cabinet, and he needs Mike to hold steady two pieces of wood that he drills together.

Mike does the best he can, holding his breath and listening to Eagles’ “Take It Easy,” which plays on the battery-operated radio.

It only takes a few minutes, and there’s a minimal amount of complaining from Hopper. After, Hopper thanks him and nods toward the deck chairs Mike and Will had sanded last time.

“Think you boys can stain ‘em today?”

“Yeah.” Mike nods. “I’ll go get Will.”

He idly swipes his palms over the front of his shirt and turns to go. And that’s when Hopper decides to do the thing he was absolutely planning to do the entire time and stops him:

“Hey. Wheeler.”

Of course. Mike closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He turns back.

“Yeah?”

Hopper busies himself with the electric drill, pulling the trigger rhythmically for a moment and making a series of zzzz noises like he’s threatening Mike with a hole in the head.

As if catching what he’s doing, however, he sets it down and leans back against the worktable. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“You and Will.”

He leaves it at that. Mike waits for a long, awkward moment before nodding.

“Yeah.”

“Kid, you got a thing for my family?”

“What?”

“First El. Now Will. Are you collecting my children?”

Mike exhales in a huff, lips quirking.

El. It’s a sore spot, still, for both of them. A bruise that most of the time is hidden beneath the clothes but still hurts when poked.

The lightheartedness is good, though. Healing in its own way. Mike lets himself smile a bit, closed-mouthed.

He makes a noncommittal sound, and Hopper nods his head at him like he thinks he’s figured him out and says:

“You got Jonathan on stand-by?”

Okay. Mike laughs. It’s nice to do around Hopper. Cuts the tension. He rubs his hands over his face.

“No,” he says with a huff. “I think this is–”

It. This is it.

That’s too sentimental. Too corny and vulnerable of him. He looks away and feels his cheeks flame up.

“Look,” Hopper says, serious now. “I don’t really get it. I don’t really understand the whole…” He gestures as if to say The Queer Thing using only vague hand movements.

Mike sighs. “Okay?”

“But I guess I don’t have to.” A beat. The moment settles. “It is what it is. Whatever it is…is whatever it is. I’m not making sense.”

“No.”

“Just– Whatever it is…however you swing, or–” He makes a face at himself, exasperated, and, after a minute to gather his thoughts, gets to the point:

“Listen. I know I don’t gotta tell you this.” Hopper points a finger at Mike. “But that kid has gone through more than most fifty-year-old men I know.”

“Is this where you threaten to kill me if I hurt him and bury my body where nobody will ever find it?”

“This is where I tell you to be good to him.”

He leaves it at that. Mike waits for longer than probably socially appropriate, expecting there to be a follow-up threat. It never comes.

“I will,” he says, earnest. “I promise.”

Hopper gives a quick nod and uncrosses his arms. He gestures toward the door.

“Go get him. These chairs ain’t gonna stain themselves.”

Mike presses his lips together and gives a small nod in return. And he’s just turning to go when Hopper calls his name again.

“Wheeler.”

Mike swallows. “Yeah?”

Hopper seemingly refuses to make eye contact, focused instead on his work boots when he says:

“The two of you make sense. Will’s happy. You look it, too.”

“Yeah. I am. I hope he is.”

“So as much as I don’t get it... It looks like it’s a good thing.”

It’s support in the only way Hopper knows how to give it: awkward, slightly distant. But it’s sincere. Mike smiles.

“I think so.”

They stand in the quiet for a minute, resting in understanding. Steely Dan comes on the radio: “Reelin’ In The Years.”

“Okay, okay,” Hopper finally says, shooing Mike. “Go get your…loverboy.”

Mike blushes and escapes before the man can say even one more word.

–

Will, Jonathan, and Joyce are all waiting suspiciously in the kitchen, and it’s obvious by the looks on their faces that they’ve been talking about him.

Joyce gives Mike a hopeful look. “Soooo...?”

“It was fine. Will, he wants us to stain the deck chairs.”

“Was he…calm, kind, and encouraging?”

Will looks to his mom, eyebrow raised. “Is that what you practiced?”

“Maybe a little.” Joyce winces. “He was good about it when I told him. He just needed a little…help figuring out what to say.”

Mike flutters his lips. “He was calm, kind, and encouraging. If we talk about this any more, I’m gonna go feed myself to the sharks. Will?”

Will laughs, rolls his eyes, and goes with Mike.

Jonathan follows them out. In the yard, he touches Mike’s arm.

“Was he actually okay?”

He says it in the tone of voice that implies he doesn’t necessarily doubt it but is willing to confront him if needed.

Mike nods. “He was actually okay. It was weird. He didn’t make a lot of sense at first, but he called Will my loverboy, so–”

“What?” Will looks flabbergasted, and, well, it’s fucking cute. His face goes all red.

“That's what he said.”

“Really?”

Jonathan steps back, apparently satisfied and maybe equally amused. He takes out his pack of cigarettes and taps one into his palm. “Jesus. He said that?”

Mike huffs. “Word for word.”

Will rubs both hands over his face. “I kind of hate that?”

“Could’ve been worse.”

“I’m well aware.”

“He could’ve called you my special friend.”

“Oh, barf.”

“Or got, like, really sincere and said something like,” deep, booming voice, “‘I’m glad you boys found each other.’”

“You would’ve died.”

“I would’ve walked into the ocean, never to return.”

Will laughs. “Or he could’ve said,” his own version of deep, booming voice, “‘Love is love, Wheeler.’”

“Immediate suicide.”

“‘You’re made for each other.’”

“Oh my God, I forgot he said,” deep, booming voice, “‘You two make sense.’”

Will scrunches up his face. “I mean– That’s kinda nice.”

Mike shrugs. And, yeah, whatever. Maybe.

He sighs. Jonathan is smoking off to the side, clearly feeling like a giant, awkward third wheel.

“Sorry, Jonathan,” Mike says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Jonathan takes a hard drag and blows out a stream of smoke. “You two are made for each other,” he says, a wry smirk working its way onto his mouth.

“Gross.” Will gives him a playful shove.

Mike laughs. “Okay, okay, loverboy. Let’s go stain some chairs.”

Jonathan snorts at Will’s annoyed look. “You two have fun with the unpaid labor.”

They do, honestly.

Aside from greeting them with a grunt, repeatedly calling them Boys as if they’re a complete unit, and showing them the correct technique for staining wood, Hopper leaves them alone. He cranks up the radio, Steve Miller Band’s “The Joker” playing, and sings along slightly dramatically to the chorus but low enough that he may or may not be doing it for show.

Mike and Will exchange a look and then begin staining the chairs, smiling to themselves.

It’s relaxing work, actually. They don’t talk much, instead settling into the staticky beat of the music and the rhythm of their brushes as they follow the lines in the wood, painting on a rich, soaking brown before dabbing off the excess with rags.

All in all, the process takes about half an hour. When they’re done, Hopper comes over to examine their work.

Will is happy with the finished products, smiling at Hopper with his teeth shining, and it occurs to Mike in that moment that maybe Will would have cringed if Hopper had said some of the cheesy things they joked about, but maybe he would have liked it a little bit too, care, kindness, and support clearly important to him -- someone who never received an ounce of it from his dad as a child.

“Good work, boys,” Hopper says. He gives them each a complimentary bump to the shoulder with his fist, then rubs his hand over Will’s head, mussing his hair in a way that’s meant to be playfully irritating but that just makes Will laugh. “Next time, you two can help me build some planter boxes for Joyce.”

You two. Mike has to admit that it feels kind of nice. He likes being a pair.

Glancing over at Will, he nods and rubs at some of the brown staining on his fingers. “Sounds good.”

–

After lunch, there are hugs and goodbyes. Joyce gets teary, her eyes bouncing from her boys to Will’s painting on the wall.

She squeezes Will especially hard, kisses his cheek, and then smiles over at Mike. “Keep taking care of him?”

“I will, Mrs. Byers.” Mike goes over to hug her. He rests his chin briefly on her shoulder, and she murmurs, low enough that only he can hear:

“You’re really good for him. I hope you know that.”

Mike closes his eyes and hugs her tighter. Before pulling away, he whispers back:

“He’s really good for me.”

Joyce’s eyes shine. She reaches up and pats his cheek.

When they leave the house five minutes later, walking with their bags to Jonathan’s car, Will brushes up against him.

“What’d Mom say to you?”

Mike shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Come on.”

“Just being…sentimental.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Shut up.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me.” Will scrunches up his face, showing he’s only teasing. He sets down his duffel and peers around him, waiting for Jonathan to come out and unlock the doors.

Mike swallows hard and steps up to him, pressing his hips gently back against the car and kissing him. Just a soft thing, slow and easy, though his heart pounds.

There’s no one around. Everybody’s inside. The positioning of the car relative to the side of the house makes it unlikely any neighbors can see, even if they happen to be looking.

It’s safe. It still feels risky. Mike digs his fingers into Will’s waist and presses in just a tick closer, their noses pressing together. He breathes heavily with the tingling fear and audacity of it all, dragging one more sweet, gentle kiss over Will’s lips, then pulls back.

“I love you.”

“Oh.” Will looks pleasantly dazed, his cheeks flushing up.

Mike huffs a laugh. “Oh?”

“Just…” Will smiles up at the sky, nervous, like what he’s about to admit is horribly embarrassing. “I’m…really happy.” He pokes Mike’s shoulder. “And I love you, too. Obviously.”

“Oh.”

“Mike.”

Mike smirks. He touches Will’s stomach, fingertips brushing the soft cotton of his blue and orange colorblock T-shirt. “I’m really happy, too.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

Mike smacks one more kiss to Will’s jaw and jerks back at the sound of Jonathan exiting the house, the door shutting behind him.

He makes an oops face at Will and picks back up his duffel.

“Sorry, Jonathan.”

Jonathan ignores the comment. “Ready to go?”

They shove their duffels into the back seat and climb in after.

“Just so you’re aware: Mom was watching you through the window.”

Will makes a barfing sound.

Jonathan laughs and cranks the car, the radio blaring to life and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” blasting through the speakers.

“Gross!” Will keeps saying, seemingly to himself. “My mom’s seen me kiss. Blech.”

Jonathan eyes him amusedly in the rearview mirror. “Hey, she was happy about it.”

“Jonathan.”

“At least me and Hopper minded our own business.”

“Yeah, and listened while Mom gave the play-by-play.”

Jonathan’s eyes go all crinkly with his smile, and Mike watches him, biting his lip to hold back his own grin.

And, see, the thing is, he’d thought this shit would be horrible. He’d thought his world would come crumbling down around him the moment people knew, like admitting to loving a boy would be like a fucking dropped bomb. Tick, tick, boom.

He’d never thought it could feel light. Happy. Funny, even, something bubbling in his belly akin to laughter over Joyce seeing them, over Hopper probably groaning when she mentioned what they were doing, over Jonathan trying his best to embarrass his little brother while Nirvana plays loud on the radio.

There’s his family still, the task only half done. But as he scoots in close to Will, their thighs touching and shoes knocking together, the half that is completed feels like enough to allow him to breathe. It’s like opening a window in a stuffy room. He sticks his head out. Inhales deeply.

Will touches his hand. Holds it. Shakes it to the beat of the song while joking around with Jonathan.

Oh.

This is what life is for, right? It’s why it’s worth sticking around. He leans his head against the back of the seat and squeezes Will’s hand, his palm warm, soft, and sure.

Jonathan makes eye contact with him in the mirror. Gives him a nod.

This time, Mike nods back.

–

They’re soon returned to their regularly-scheduled lives.

They’ve left the apartment a mess, so they spend two hours Sunday night cleaning, dividing and conquering the tasks, the radio cranked up loud enough the neighbors can probably hear. It’s a Top Hits station -- The best of yesterday and today -- and Tears for Fears plays “Everybody Wants to Rule the World,” sending Mike directly back to being fourteen, with too-long legs, a bad attitude, and the angst of puberty creeping up on him.

Will wipes down the kitchen counter, and Mike does a running slide over to him on his socked feet, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind and biting his neck playfully. Will tips his head back on Mike’s shoulder and laughs.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Mike takes Will’s arms and holds them out to the side, making him do a series of dramatic movements to the bridge while he sings loudly and off key in his ear:

“There’s a room where the light – won’t – find – you…!”

He swings Will around –

“Holding hands while the walls – come – tum - bling down…!”

– wraps his arms around his waist and tries to pick him up, managing to lift him just six inches –

“When they do, I’ll be right – be – hind you…!”

– spins him in a circle and nearly drops him –

Will screeches and dies laughing, getting his own arms around Mike after being set down and wrestling him up against the counter. He kisses him, shutting up the awful singing, and Mike laughs and jumps up on it, Will coming to stand between his thighs.

Will squeezes Mike’s thighs in a playful little tickle. “You’re an idiot.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Rude?”

“I said what I said.”

“So that’s how it is, huh?” Mike bends and drapes his arms over Will’s shoulders.

Will holds back a smile. “Yep.”

“I get it. That’s fine. My boyfriend doesn’t love me anymore.”

“Sorry you had to find out this way.”

“I’m heartbroken.”

“I can tell.”

“And I was just thinking how sexy you are… Shit.”

Will grins, this big, beaming thing like he can’t help it. He schools his face quickly, though, and the switch-up is so cute Mike wants to munch on him. Instead, he says:

“Well. It was nice while it lasted.”

“Eh.” Will makes a so-so motion with his hand. “It was okay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Damn. That’s kinda cold.”

Will wraps his arms around Mike’s waist and rests his head on his chest. “Cold as ice. That’s me.”

Mike kisses his head. INXS’s “Never Tear Us Apart” comes on. It’s another one he likes to sing loudly and terribly, and his skin itches with the need to pester.

Will sighs dramatically. “Oh no.”

Mike closes his eyes and holds Will by the shoulders, rocking him back and forth to the beat.

“Don’t ask me…! What you know is true…! Don’t have to tell you…! I love your–”

Will grabs his face and presses a hard kiss to his lips to shut him up again.

And, yeah, that’s kind of awesome. More than. Mike laughs against his lips and holds on to him.

“I know you love it,” he murmurs, muffled, and Will sure as hell doesn’t deny it and instead, slides his tongue into his mouth.

It goes like that. They kiss until the saxophone solo and Mike starts being annoying again, obviously, because what the fuck else is he going to do, pulling back and picking up an empty paper towel roll to blow into.

Will walks away from him, done with his shit.

“Sorcerer!” Mike shouts in his Strahd voice. “Return to me! I must feast on your supple neck.”

Will keeps walking for a moment, heading toward the couch, but Mike knows he has him when he stops suddenly and spins around, eyes narrowing.

It’s the nerdiest, hottest, best fucking thing in the world. Will stalks toward him, hands outstretched like he’s conjuring something. His voice is loud and dramatic when he says:

“You forget, my lord, that Will the Wise doesn’t get feasted on without casting something first.”

Mike’s hard. Full-on boner alert.

“And what would that be, Sorcerer?” He bounces his brows, delighted when Will comes closer, then closer, before finally settling between his legs again.

He almost comes in his pants when Will does what he does next:

He pulls Mike down by the front of his T-shirt, licks his neck, and whispers, “Charm person.”

“Whoa.” Mike clears his throat. Puts on his Strahd voice again. “I mean– Hooooly fuck!”

“The great words of Strahd von Zarovich.”

“Strahd von Zarovich if he’s about to get it on with Will the Wise in the kitchen of a Barovian tavern.”

“Is he about to get it on with Will the Wise?” Will grins.

“Good question.” Mike clears his throat again and returns to his Strahd persona. “Will the Wise… Are you to yield to me tonight, or am I doomed to suffer in torment and…” He peers around, grasping for an archaic way to phrase it. “...attend to myself?”

Will laughs outright.

They love it, but there’s a limit to the nerdy shit. Mike’s pretty sure he’s found it. He laughs, too, and Will hugs him.

“Will the Wise desires to spend time with you in the bedchamber, not the tavern kitchen he has so diligently tidied.”

Mike hugs him back. “As you wish.”

“Westley.” Will snickers.

“Shut up, Buttercup.”

Will tilts his head back, and Mike leans down and kisses him. “Bedchamber?”

“Definitely.”

In the bedchamber, they make out for ten minutes and then get naked. Mike climbs onto Will, lubes them up, and then grasps both of them in hand. He thrusts and strokes and kisses Will’s face, the two of them smiling and laughing and breathing hard through it.

When they’re about to come several minutes later, Mike bites Will’s neck and murmurs in his Strahd voice, “I crave being fully welcomed inside you.”

Will moans and shakes, his back arching and cum pulsing out of him. “Oh, fuck, please don’t ever say that again.”

Mike thrusts twice more and comes laughing, the double pleasure of it all insanely amazing. He kisses Will’s smiling mouth. “Sorry.” Clears his throat. Strahd voice: “Forgive me, Sorcerer.”

“Oh my God, Mike.”

“What?”

Will laughs now, light and sweet, his belly jumping with it, and Mike loves him so much he could just die. He runs his thumb along his jaw, then leans in and kisses him.

“I have so much fun with you,” he says.

Will runs his hands up his sweaty back and into his hair. He pulls him in for another kiss, then sighs, pleased. In a slightly silly, sex-stupid voice, he says, “You’re my best friend forever and ever, Mike Wheeler.”

Mike could melt into a puddle of goo. He considers it, in fact -- is totally prepared to go all amorphous and seep into the bedsheets. Instead, he brushes their noses together once, then twice, and kisses him all soft and slow and with a world’s worth of love in it.

They lie there together for another fifteen minutes, whispering about random things. Flirting, both D&D-style and not. Planning their week. They do get up, eventually, and then stand around in the bathroom together, wiping off with a wet washcloth and figuring out dinner.

They decide on the boxed pizza in the freezer, and an hour later finds them eating it in front of The Simpsons, a sleeve of Chips Ahoy for dessert on the coffee table by their sodas.

They go to bed not long after, the two of them needing to get up early the next morning. Before going to sleep, they kiss for a while -- just warm comfort with eventual sex a possibility but not a requirement -- until Will’s eyes start to droop, his kisses slowing.

Suddenly, the stroking of Mike’s hand over his butt turns to soothing rubs at his back, Will konking out on Mike’s chest with a partial boner.

He’s sweet, and his purple T-shirt is laundry-fresh. Mike rubs his hand up and down his spine, then drags it up into his hair, fingers playing gently in the strands.

He kisses his temple, then reaches over and turns out the lamp on the nightstand.

–

Mike takes Will out for a date on Wednesday. Will’s all dressed up, anyway, in his extra-nice button down and slacks for the art dealers’ party at the gallery, so Mike decides to take advantage.

He gets gussied up himself, pulling on his best shirt -- navy blue with simple stripes -- and brown pants. He wears cologne. He picks Will up from the gallery at five and grins at the soft look on his face when he sees what he’s wearing.

“You look amazing,” Will says, deliberately brushing their arms together. “And I look exhausted.”

“You’re perfect. Shut up.” Mike brushes arms right back.

They talk about the party. It was fine, Will says, looking like he wishes he smoked so he could light up. The art dealers were nice, Will says. Marco spilled an entire bottle of wine on the carpet, Will says.

“What if you knock Marco out, put him in a box, and mail him across town?”

“Mike.”

“What?”

“He’s a kid.”

“Which is precisely why I didn’t suggest killing him.”

Will snorts. “That’s big of you.”

“I think so.”

They laugh together and walk to an Italian restaurant nearby they’ve been to once before. Like the clinic, there’s a rainbow flag displayed -- this time in the window just beneath the Open sign -- and if Mike’s honest, he finds it all a little scary.

Jonathan, Joyce, and Hopper knowing about them is one thing. It’s one thing to kiss Will up against the back side of a car, basically hidden from the view of strangers and on an island that feels a bit like being on another planet.

It’s another thing entirely to get all dressed up and sit across from another man in a restaurant. With the flag in the window, it can’t even be construed as mere friendship, Mike’s usual avenue to comfort on their dates and Sanity Outings basically off the table.

No, this is a Gay Establishment. The waiter has a Mars symbol tattoo on his wrist. Mike breathes deep and slow as he and Will settle into their seats at the small table near the back.

It frankly pisses him off how it seems like the more comparatively, quote-unquote, “safe” he is, the more unsafe he feels. The more exposed.

Existence is scary.

He wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling this way. Do you just get used to it? Or are you always a little afraid, no matter how many people know about you, no matter how long you’ve been with your boyfriend, no matter how long you’ve gone to an arts college and lived near a neighborhood known for its queer population?

Maybe the fear will subside when he and Will have their Skypad Apartment in 2042. They’ll ride their hoverboards down the sidewalks of Orbit City and kiss on street corners while they wait on flying cars to pass.

Maybe they’ll have a dog. Maybe they’ll be able to get legally married. Maybe they’ll adopt or Science a kid.

Maybe the future won’t be scary, life opening up just a little bit more year after year until one day, Mike can feel comfortable enough to hold Will’s hand in public.

Across the table, Will digs in his pocket and pulls out a dime. He slides it across to Mike.

“A dime for your thoughts. I don’t have a penny.”

Mike smiles. “Expensive thoughts.”

“Worth it. You okay?”

“Yeah. Totally. Just–” Mike shrugs. “Do you like dogs?”

Will laughs. “What?”

“I know you had Chester. I dunno.”

“Do you like dogs?”

“Yeah.”

“Good to know.” A beat. “I don’t think we’re allowed to have dogs in the apartment.”

Mike huffs. “We’re not. I wasn’t really– I was just thinking about later.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

Will captures Mike’s ankle between both of his feet and looks deliriously happy. It’s incredible how that can take Mike from a ball of nerves to calm in a matter of moments.

His heart slows. His breathing calms. He eyes the rainbow flag in the window and feels the warm, pressing weight of Will’s shoes through the fabric of his pants, and he thinks:

This is how people do it, right? They exist with others.

“I like dogs,” Will says. “Just FYI.” He smiles and tightens his hold on Mike’s ankle.

A few minutes later, the waiter brings their drinks and takes their orders. Will talks about work while they wait, and Mike fills Will in on random Writing Lab gossip.

When their food comes, they dig into their giant portions of spaghetti and shared basket of garlic knots.

Will eats happily, chatting away about the two of them getting tickets to see Batman Begins on opening night next week. They talk about comics and music and their upcoming senior year. Then Will says:

“I’d like to visit Hawkins before the new school year starts. I know everybody’s gone, but...” He shrugs. “It’s been a couple years. It still feels like home.”

“My dad told me he missed you.”

“Sure he did.”

Mike smirks. “Actually, Mom totally did. And Holly.”

“I’m done with the gallery on July 31st. August?”

“Sure.”

It gives him a deadline, at least.

Mike imagines it: Sitting down with his mom. Using his words. Watching her face fall before schooling itself, her eyes growing shiny with tears. Crawling upstairs to Will and lying with him on the bed, crying.

His stomach turns. He twirls his fork in his spaghetti over and over again, the spaghetti mound on his fork growing so large he couldn’t possibly put it in his mouth.

Will places his hand on his arm. “Hey.”

He pauses. “Hey.”

“Remember what I said? Only when you’re comfortable. Don’t worry about all that.”

He’s pretty sure Will’s a mindreader. Sorcerer, indeed. Detect thoughts.

“What if I’m never comfortable?”

“You will be one day.” Will squeezes Mike’s arm under his hand. “It doesn’t have to be today or this year. There’s not a set way to do these things.”

Mike nods, clearing off his fork and re-twirling a more reasonable amount of spaghetti noodles.

“How’d you get so smart about all that stuff?”

Will smiles up at the ceiling. “I dunno. Being around…gay people, y’know? In college.” A beat. “I mean, I barely even used the word until a few years ago.”

Mike thinks about Archie and how it took that conversation with him at the campus cafe to give him that last little push to get his Big Gay Head out of his ass.

Will takes a bite of the spaghetti on his fork and leans over his plate, slurping up the noodles. He chews. Swallows. Says, “You know how I told you the other day that it can be fun to be gay?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s true. I didn’t know that until college. I thought it was something scary. Shameful.” He smiles softly. “Actually, hey. Can I show you something after dinner?”

They finish up and pay the bill. Will takes the lead, then, walking slightly ahead as they exit the restaurant and hang a right.

Now, Mike’s been around the Village some. He’s visited most of the major spots. He’s been to the good, reasonably-priced restaurants. He’s been to art galleries and theaters and crowded little bookstores. He’s seen it as a hub of culture and creativity and therefore as a place that means a great deal to Will. And sure, he’s been by the street they end up on. He’s seen it a time or two in the early morning when he and Will were looking for a place to eat breakfast.

He hasn’t seen it at nearing seven at night, more people off work and out and about -- shopping, talking on benches, smoking cigarettes while leaning against brick buildings.

Rainbow flags are everywhere: hanging from street corners, taped up on shop windows, stuck to signs, and painted on the sidewalk. On phone and light poles there are stapled flyers. Band performances. AIDS benefit nights. Handwritten notes saying things like Love is not a crime and Know your status and Be proud. Be careful. Be you.

There are shops and cafes with signs in the windows: All are welcome here and Come out, come in! We’re open! and Closets are overrated.

A clothing store with its door open plays New Order’s “Blue Monday,” the beat of it filtering out into the street.

And most notably: there are obviously, visibly gay men existing, with and without partners and friends, buying food from street vendors, talking on payphones, carrying home groceries, laughing uproariously in a small group outside a bar. They’re mostly a decade or so older than Will and Mike, but there are some younger ones, too, smoking and shopping and hanging out with female friends. A twenty-something man with pink, spiky hair sells jewelry outside a store.

They stop on the street corner. Mike feels like people are taking pictures of him. He feels like some random guy across the street is going to get on the payphone and call his mom.

Will bumps his arm. “So? What do you think?”

Mike blows out a slow, shaky breath. “I think this is…” He chuckles, embarrassed. “It’s weird for me.”

“Yeah.” Will isn’t at all surprised or deterred. “Fun fact: I went to a club here sophomore year.”

“Really?”

“That one.” Will points to a seedy looking club down the street, not yet open, the neon sign above the entrance reading, The Underground. “I went with some guys from class, and it totally wasn’t for me. I don’t think clubs and all that fit with my lifestyle. But it was the first time I kinda got this sense that a lot of gay people are actually…happy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like– I dunno. There were people…y’know…like–” He huffs a breathy little chuckle. “They were making out and stuff. Dancing. Drinking. It scared little virgin, Hoosier me to death, and I basically drank tonic with lime and stood around watching the guys I was with get drunk and dance. But it opened my eyes, if I wanna be cliche about it.”

Mike quirks his mouth. “Are you suggesting I go to a club?”

“Absolutely not. You would hate it. It’s loud and smoky and somebody might…lick you on the dancefloor or something.”

“What?”

“But– My point is, being around gay people helped me…” He chuckles up at the sky. “It’s cliche again, but it helped me accept myself. As more than an outsider kid, y’know?”

“Going to a seedy club with a buncha Guys did that?”

Okay. Mike’s a little hung up on the whole Will Hanging Out With A Bunch of Dudes thing. He also has a sneaking suspicion Will got licked by one of them. Shut up.

“Did one of them lick you?”

He probably needs to shut up.

Will laughs. “Nobody licked me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

And, well, Will smirks, and that tells Mike all he needs to know.

He must make a face of some sort because Will gives him a tap on the stomach and grins deviously. “Your jealousy is really funny to me. I need you to know that.”

Mike sticks his tongue out at him. “I was getting drunk in my dorm room and you were getting licked by A Guy in a club.”

“I didn’t get licked in the club.”

“Is that better?”

Will cackles, and Mike can’t tell if he’s fucking with him or not.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“I dunno. Am I?”

“Probably.”

Will taps him again and crosses his arms over his chest. “Anyway... What I’m trying to say, if we can put your jealousy aside–”

“Shut up.”

“–is that I promise things are gonna be awesome. We’re all different, and there’s no right way to be gay, and you’re allowed to just, like, have your own eye-opening experiences whenever and however they happen and take it all in stride.” Will smiles up at him, and he looks beautiful in the early evening sunlight. “Did I ever tell you about my first eye-opening experience?”

They start walking again. Mike shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

“Me and Lucas were at the hospital, visiting Max. I stepped away to get a Coke from the drink machine and saw Robin and Vickie kissing in an empty room.” He smiles shyly. “It was the first time I’d ever seen that in real life. And they were so…happy. It was sweet and, y’know, nice. It wasn’t dirty or weird or any of those things the news always said. It was normal. It was what I wanted.”

Mike makes an eye-opening gesture, holding his fists by his eyes and opening them at once, fingers splayed out.

Will laughs. “Yeah. Have you ever had anything like that?”

“I dunno.” Mike thinks back on his life. Not really? It’s mostly all been fear and AIDS and disapproving grunts from his father, who’d shake his newspaper when a protest would be shown on the evening news report on TV.

But there’s been, well, he hates to say it: Archie. The photo strip. The description of his and Frank’s Poconos vacation. I saw the best boys of my generation undone by fluorescent bedrooms, barefoot / beautiful bodies shaking with want.

It’s embarrassing to talk about, though, that jealousy he’d felt over how confident Archie was in himself. Mike shrugs and presses his lips together.

He hasn’t talked to him since the Beat Writing final submission day, the two of them nodding at each other awkwardly while dropping off their portfolios in Dr. Singer’s office.

He’ll have class with him again in the fall, probably. Dr. Singer’s teaching Writing the Body: Physicality and Desire, and Mike’s registered for it because the physicality aspect of it is helpful for his action scenes. He imagines Archie is, too, with his penchant for writing about sex.

“Archie, I guess,” Mike murmurs belatedly as he and Will approach the pink-haired man’s jewelry stand. He doesn’t elaborate.

Will turns to him and smiles. “Cool. We should be friends with him and… What was his name?”

“Frank.”

“Frank.”

“What do you mean by,” air quotes, “‘be friends’?”

“Friendship? Go to movies together sometimes?”

Mike scrunches up his face in distaste. “Gross. I have enough friends.”

“And I have enough necklaces, but…” Will gestures at the selection of cool, leather cord pendant necklaces splayed out on the table.

Mike watches him talk casually to the pink-haired man, picking up and examining a few pieces. He ends up selecting one with a tiny, silver lock pendant. He looks to Mike:

“There’s a matching key.” It’s incredibly small -- so small it can be hidden easily and unobtrusively under a shirt.

“They’re seven each or twelve for the pair,” Pink-Haired Guy says, nodding at Mike.

Mike swallows, stomach twisting, and watches Will pick up the key necklace, holding the matching set together in his hands.

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, reaching for his wallet. “Let’s do it.”

–

They put them on while walking home, stopping at a corner outside another rainbow-flag-touting shop to do it. And Mike had expected it to feel corny and embarrassing -- scary, too, wearing this literal symbol of a relationship, his key opening another man’s lock. But instead, it feels…

Good.

They get ice cream again from their usual spot, cones this time, and Mike watches as Will licks the dripping chocolate, his tiny, silver lock gleaming in the fading light of day.

Maybe instead of being constantly afraid, exposed, terrified of his own existence as anything other than a Heterosexual Man, Mike will keep finding more and more things to be pleasantly surprised by.

It’s a nice thought. He licks his own ice cream cone and bumps his arm against Will, who bumps him right back.

–

When they arrive back at the apartment, they find that the answering machine is blinking.

They make immediate eye contact. Will hurries over to it and taps the play button.

Good evening. This is Sandra calling from Village Medical for William Byers. This is to let you know that your test results are in, and you can come by at your convenience to go over them. Our hours are nine to five, Monday through Friday. Please bring a photo ID. Thank you, and have a good evening.

Mike comes up behind him, touches his waist, and kisses the back of his neck. “So, nine AM tomorrow? We quit our jobs and then fuck for the rest of the summer?”

Will laughs and leans his head back against Mike’s shoulder. Mike wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. Kisses his temple.

“Lunch break?” Will proposes instead, not falling in line with Mike’s teasing.

“Yeah. I’ll pick you up at eleven-thirty.”

“I’m kinda scared. Am I stupid?”

“Of course not.”

“I just– I mean, I’m almost sure I’m all good. I haven’t heard about any of the guys I’ve been with being…positive…and I’ve been safe-ish.”

Mike holds him and, though he’s heard it all multiple times before, lets him talk through it all again, reassuring himself. When he’s done, Mike says:

“It’s you and me, Will. Always.”

Will turns around and hugs him properly.

They shower, then finish the night watching Unsolved Mysteries. Mike sits with Will on the couch, one leg stretched out along the back and Will between his legs, leaned against his chest.

They don’t do this very often. They’re affectionate. Loving. But Will likes stretching out on the coach with his head pillowed on the armrest. Mike likes the recliner. It’s their thing.

It’s a night for a couch cuddle, though. They watch a show about two boys found burned to death in an old powder magazine and share a lemon-lime Slice. Mike kisses Will’s clean, damp hair and holds him tight around the middle.

–

Once again, Mike picks Will up from the gallery, meeting him on the street outside the front door. He fidgets with the key pendant on his necklace, running his thumb along the bumpy ridges on its side as he waits on him to escape the front desk. When that finally happens, he smiles and walks up close to him, bumping their arms together.

“Ready?”

Will sighs and nods.

He’s visibly nervous, fidgeting with the sleeves of his button-down, pulling them down over his hands and then pushing them back up again, ultimately rolling them to his elbows and worrying together his fingers, instead.

“Everything’s gonna be good, Will,” Mike says, giving him a reassuring smile. “You’ll see.”

“I hope.”

“You’ll know in like, twenty minutes probably.”

Will nods and scratches the back of his neck.

In the waiting room, Mike has a seat while Will talks to the receptionist. It’s less crowded this time, just a handful of individual people: two pregnant ladies, a man wearing a denim vest with pins all over it, a nervous-looking young woman reading a magazine.

Will comes to sit beside him, and they flip through the kids’ Highlights magazine, doing the Spot the Difference together quietly, pointing them out when they see them but otherwise saying nothing.

The same nurse comes to get Will. She’s less tired this time, with a smile on her face and a clipboard in her hand.

Mike takes it as a good sign. He gives Will a thumbs up and a nod, and then tries to control his breathing as he flips through the rest of the magazine and puts it away.

He’s nervous as hell for him. If it were anything else, he wouldn’t be worried; ultimately, the risky behavior vs likelihood of transmission is far too low to be that concerned. But HIV is the fucking Grim Reaper. It’s the killer everybody warns you about. Mike leans his head back against the wall behind him and closes his eyes.

Thankfully, the wait is short. A mere ten minutes later, Will is out, face red with relief and a big smile on his face.

Mike wants to cry at how much he’d like to hug him.

“So you’re good?” he asks the second they’re out on the sidewalk, touching him briefly on both shoulders as if to maintain balance.

Will grins. “I’m good!”

Mike huffs, so happy. And, well, he doesn’t quite know what else to do in public, so he holds up his hand for a high five.

Will touches their palms together but, for the briefest of moments, slips his fingers between Mike’s, giving him a shake and a squeeze.

“That’s…so good, Will,” Mike says, walking so close their arms are basically overlapping. “I’m really glad.”

“Me too. I’m…relieved. I didn’t even know how scared I actually was until I was sitting there just now.”

“And now you have to go back to work?”

Will laughs. “Unfortunately. So do you.”

“You mean we can’t go back to the apartment and fuck like bunnies?”

“Alas…”

“Alas and alack.”

They grab hotdogs from a street vendor they pass and eat them outside the gallery.

“I do wanna give you fair warning,” Mike says before they part, wiping mustard off his mouth with a napkin. “I can’t guarantee it’ll be good or long, but I will be more enthusiastic than I’ve ever been about anything in my entire life.”

Will laughs. “Cool.” He grabs the lock pendant around his neck, brings it up to his lips, and kisses it.

Mike kisses his key. “See you at home?”

“Expeditiously.”

–

Mike is basically hard all afternoon. Just a little. He isn’t a giant pervert, and it isn’t enough to get him fired or arrested. It’s just that he finds it insanely difficult to think of anything except coming inside Will, and that gives him tingles and makes him want to squeeze his legs together a lot.

He doesn’t have any scheduled tutoring appointments, so he doesn’t need the cops called on him, thank you. He sits behind his desk, works on scheduling for next week, listens to Teenage Fanclub on his Walkman, and tries his best not to lose his mind.

When he gets home at four, he immediately takes a shower and jerks off. It takes approximately thirty seconds for him to come, which is just humiliating considering he’s alone and that the terrible stamina is a result of his brain and hand and not the onslaught of external stimuli he’ll have once Will’s in the mix.

He takes a break. Washes his hair. Rubs his nipples and stuff, trying to brute-force his refractory period. He sticks his finger an inch up his butt because, well, why not, but then settles on closing his eyes, rubbing the underside of his dick, and thinking the most ridiculously filthy things he’s ever thought of in his life, and that helps a lot.

The second orgasm is weak due to his refusal to let himself naturally work up to it, but by the time he washes off and exits the shower, he feels like he’s done the best he can to keep himself from blowing his load point-five seconds into the proceedings.

Will doesn’t usually get home until a little after five, so he has some time. He lays out a towel on the bed. Sets the lube on the nightstand. Considers throwing away the condoms but figures there’s probably some logistical reason why they might want them on hand.

He takes the roll of paper towels out of the kitchen, sets it by the bed, and places beside it a package of baby wipes Will uses to get the lube off when they don’t shower after.

And, okay, maybe he’s being a giant weirdo, but he then gets Will’s little squeeze-bulb out of the bathroom drawer and sets it on the shelf for him.

After, he puts on the five o’clock local news and sits on the couch, waiting.

–

Will is perfect and beautiful when he comes in twenty minutes later, his sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone due to the heat.

Mike sighs dreamily. “Can we fuck right now?”

“I have to poop and then shower,” Will says. “Give me like, forty-five minutes and I’m yours.”

“I put your…squeezy thing out.”

Will sets down his bag and scrunches up his face at him. “Thank you?”

He laughs, though, when he walks into the bathroom and sees it.

He’s embarrassed about that stuff, still. Mike gets it: it’s incredibly human and unsexy and a bit like peeking behind the curtain to see the Wizard of Oz is really an old man pulling levers. But Mike doesn’t mind.

Will shuts himself in the bathroom for the foreseeable future, and Mike does his best to be patient. There’s a lot of thumb-twiddling. Leg-bouncing. He considers whistling.

Why the hell can’t he be normal about anything?

Finally, finally the wait is over. Will emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam like a goddamn angel. He smells like soap and citrus and his skin is blotchy from the hot water.

Without a second thought, Mike crosses over to him, takes him by the face, and lays a kiss on him he’s been saving up all day. It’s warm and sweet. Mike presses on Will’s cheeks, his lips puckering, and kisses him hard, then soft, then tilts his head and opens his mouth, their tongues sliding together.

Will chuckles against his lips, and Mike pulls back, breath heavy, and presses their foreheads together.

“Bedchamber?”

“Bedchamber.”

They kiss their way to the bedroom. Mike has no idea why in the world Will would’ve put on pajamas, but he enjoys taking them off, shoving his shorts and boxers down his legs and pulling up his shirt, only breaking the kiss so he can get it over his head.

Will’s arms creep up under Mike’s shirt, hands rubbing along his sides and then slipping down under the waistband of his pants and underwear. In a minute, they’re at his ankles and being kicked away, and his shirt is being worked up his chest, Will going slow with it as if he loves the warm feeling of Mike’s back and torso under fabric.

Mike walks Will to the bed, kissing him all the while, and grins when Will almost trips over clothes on the floor. Mike gives a little chuckle, making sure he’s fine, then uses the moment of separation to pull off his own shirt, tossing it somewhere behind him, and climbing onto the bed.

Will joins, and then it’s all soft touches and hot, damp breaths. Mike gets Will on his back, his arms over his head, knuckles to the headboard, and kisses him with all he has.

He pulls back after a minute. Sucks on his neck, then drags his mouth up his jaw, across his cheek, and back to his mouth, which he licks, ice cream cone style, making Will laugh.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

Mike outstretches his tongue, and Will sticks his out, too, touching them together in a way that feels more silly and fun than sexual. Mike turns it into a deep, wet, sloppy kiss, then drags his mouth back downward, sliding along the bed and spending some time on his chest, then his stomach, before taking him by the hips and going down on him.

“Whoa.” Will’s hands go to Mike’s hair. “Okay.”

Mike doesn’t try to do too much. They don’t need it. Will’s already rock hard, and Mike’s little grinds against the mattress while he sucks on him are probably more than advisable for this particular situation.

He tastes him just a little, though, hand stroking at the base of him then sliding down to touch his balls, then lower, fingers rubbing and pressing in a way that causes Will to make huffy, breathy laughter noises like he’s equal parts embarrassed and aroused.

Mike pulls off and wipes his mouth. He peers up at Will, who smiles at him kindly and asks:

“What can I do for you?”

“Absolutely nothing. If you touch my dick I’ll go off like a firecracker.”

“Seriously?”

“Totally. Constitution is at an all-time low. Damage has been taken. Mike the Brave may not survive this encounter.”

Will laughs. “Okay, then.” He reaches to the nightstand for the lube and hands it to Mike, who says:

“May I please put my fingers up your butt?”

“Eew.” Will cringes. “Sexy as ever.”

“Can I touch your prostate with a digit?”

“Barf. Shut up.”

Mike squeezes lube onto his fingers, rubs them together to warm them up, and snickers when Will, hands covering his face, spreads his legs and angles himself just so.

“This is really hot to me,” Mike says, slowly slipping in two fingers, which they’ve previously established is an okay starting point as long as he’s easy with it. “I love inserting my digits into your anal cavity.”

“I’m actually gonna kill you.”

“I’m proving a point.”

“Which is?”

“‘Fingering’ is a perfectly fine term for it.”

Will groans, partly from the tease and partly with arousal, Mike finding his prostate quickly and wasting absolutely no time in stroking at it.

“I didn’t say it was a bad term,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. “It’s just embarrassing.”

In response, Mike leans in and kisses his stomach, right above his navel. He loves Will’s little quirks -- how he’ll do all sorts of fun, sexy things in bed and then get red-faced and squirmy when discussing it.

He rubs at his prostate, enjoying how it makes precum well up and drool off the end of him in thin little stringy drips against his stomach. Will clinches around him and gasps.

“Okay,” he says, touching Mike’s head and grinning, his teeth shining. “Take a break from that.”

“Take a break from what?”

Will laughs. “I don’t wanna come yet.”

Mike kisses his stomach one more time and relents, sliding his fingers out and then entering with three. This time, it’s for the stretch. He does his best to avoid Will’s prostate, and instead, slowly thrusts his hand, moving his fingers into different formations to get him nice and ready.

It only takes a minute. Will leaks more precum onto his stomach and whispers, “Come here.”

Mike pulls out, grabs a baby wipe from the floor, and cleans off his fingers. After, he climbs over Will and kisses him.

Will combs back his hair off his face and smiles up at him.

“I love you, Mike Wheeler,” he says, soft.

Mike presses their mouths together and breathes against him. Turns it into a kiss. He strokes his thumb across his eyebrows and says:

“I love you. So damn much.” He kisses him again. “I’m gonna be brave for you one day.”

“When you’re comfortable.”

“When I’m comfortable.”

“And in the meantime, I’m gonna love you no matter what.”

Mike’s eyes go blurry for a minute, tears coming in without warning. It’s embarrassing. He turns his head and sniffs. Scrubs over his eyes just once with his forearm.

Will just smiles at it, though, not making fun, and pulls him down into another kiss. He pets his hair. Keeps combing it back, over and over.

“Ready?” he asks after a minute when Mike’s good again, eyes dried and clear.

“Ready.”

Mike grabs the tube of lube. Squirts it into his palm and strokes it over himself -- bare. And, well, here goes nothing.

“If I come in ten seconds, mind your business,” he jokes, lining himself up and pressing in slow, slow, slow.

Will laughs. “I believe in you.”

“Don’t talk.”

He clinches when he does it -- especially when he laughs -- and Mike is barely two inches in and already struggling to hold on.

It’s wildly different from doing it with a condom. Each sensation that’s normally dulled by latex is amplified by a thousand. Mike can feel every single texture, can feel all ninety-eight point six degrees of him against his dick, can feel the way he shifts and ripples and squeezes with his breaths.

“Holy fuck, Will.”

“Okay?”

“No.”

Will laughs, and Jesus. Come on. That’s uncalled for.

“I feel like a literal virgin.” Mike groans.

“Wanna go in deeper?”

“Want me to come right now?”

“If you want.” Will grins, and he looks naughty and sweet at the same time. “You’re young. You can get it up again.”

“Shut up, Will.”

Mike holds his breath and waits. “Okay,” he says after a minute. “Actually, yeah. Is that fine?”

“You coming in me?”

“Yeah. Sorry. This is gonna be a disaster if I don’t get one out of the way.”

“Go for it.”

It’s their first time experiencing this, and it doesn’t feel very romantic at all the way it’s going down. Mike’s cheeks and the tips of his ears burn with embarrassment. But the bottom line is that if he spends the next ten minutes fighting, it isn’t going to be very good for either of them.

He looks down at Will, who seems to be having exactly zero issues with the situation. In fact, he looks giddy, his face pink and eyes bright. His lips are upturned in a smile.

And that? Well, that’s really fucking…nice. Mike relaxes. Doesn’t try to hold back. He leans down, and he kisses Will, and he presses all the way in, feeling the breath punched out of him against his own lips.

To his credit, he doesn’t come immediately. He thrusts a total of nine times before shaking apart, coming so hard he sees black spots, the most incredible amount of heat and pleasure flooding his system.

“Oh, whoa,” Will says, rubbing Mike’s lower back.

It takes Mike a minute to understand, but when he does, lifting his head and chuckling, he says:

“Do you feel it?”

“Um. Yes.”

Mike can tell Will wants to put his hands over his face, but he doesn’t let him. He kisses him instead, breathing hard in the come-down from his orgasm, and keeps pestering him:

“What’s it feel like?”

“Mike.”

“Is it just, like, suddenly wet or did you feel it like, shoot out?”

“Ugh.”

“Come on, Will. It’s my cum. I’m the one who did the embarrassing thing.”

Will laughs, shy and sweet, and takes Mike’s face in his hands. He smooshes his cheeks together, just playing, and Mike lowers his head and presses his forcibly-puckered lips to Will’s.

“The first thing,” Will says eventually. He’s clearly mortified when he adds, “It felt like how it normally does when you…y’know…but then it got kinda warm inside when your stuff came out. Okay?”

“Will, that’s so hot.”

“And it’s dripping out right now. So.”

“Holy fuck.”

Mike’s still inside him. It’s all a bit messy down there with lube and whatnot, but if he concentrates, he can feel it, too, as it cools with the air temperature.

In fact, what the hell:

He reaches down and touches at the joining of their bodies, fingers rubbing through the wet, slippery bit of cum dripping out.

It makes him laugh with embarrassment and want to cover his face. He buries it in Will’s neck, and Will chuckles and rubs at his back.

“Sorry,” Mike says.

“About what?”

“I pre-blew my load in you before you could even enjoy it.”

“Well, I’m loving this a lot, so I don’t see what the problem is.”

Mike kisses Will’s neck. “Really?”

“Definitely.”

They rest for a few minutes. In the interim, Mike reaches down between them and strokes Will, keeping him hard, and kisses gently at his neck.

It doesn’t take long for things to get going again. And eventually, it becomes sort of amazing that Mike already came in him, as the sounds are obscene in the best way.

“I saw a porno movie before,” Mike grunts, starting up a series of grinding thrusts, “and it sounded just like this.”

Wet is the only way to describe it. Every inward thrust makes a squelching sound that’s different from the effect of mere lube, and it’s ridiculously sexy.

Will gasps, obviously thinking so too, but he still breathes out his little admonishing, “Mike.”

“Sexy, huh?”

“Sure.”

Mike bends and kisses him hard, taking his hands and lacing them with his. He’s elbows to the bed, fingers locked with Will’s, and fucking him slow but deep.

“Feels so good,” he says, speeding up for several thrusts before slowing once more.

Will nods, panting too hard to speak. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he keeps digging his nails into the back of Mike’s hand.

Mike moans. “We should do this all day, every day. Why do we ever do anything but fuck?”

It sounds like a reasonable question. Mike lets go of Will’s hands so he can push up and change the angle a bit. When their chests are no longer flush, he looks down Will’s body, seeing the precum leaking out of him.

“Shit,” he breathes, heart pounding. “You’re so sexy.”

Will puts his hands on his shoulders and sort of pushes, helping himself rock in counterpoint to Mike’s thrusts, and, well: hell fucking yes. That’s amazing. That’s too amazing. Mike shuts his eyes and tries his best to maintain his rhythm.

“Mike.” Will opens his eyes for a moment -- just long enough to look down their bodies -- then groans and drops his head back against the pillows. “Fuck me.”

Mike is point-two seconds away from spontaneously combusting. Fuck me? Will said fuck me. There is nothing sexier than that, full stop, goodnight, goodbye, God bless.

He considers bursting into flames, but instead, he says:

“I’m trying my best.”

And that’s so fucking stupid that Mike would drown himself in the bathtub if there was one single ounce of blood in his brain. Fortunately for him, it’s all in his dick, and Will thinks he’s funny, bursting into laughter that’s breathy and gaspy and moany and better than anything in the whole wide world.

“I’m gonna come in a second,” Will says, this little thread of laughter still beneath his words. He sounds so happy.

Mike is ready to name himself the Number One Lover On Earth because how in the absolute hell could anyone even come close to loving a person more than he loves Will Byers?

He chuckles. “Untouched? Yes!”

“Shut up.”

Mike speeds up his thrusts, a huge smile on his face. “I’m gonna come in you again.”

“Yes!”

He’s playfully mocking Mike, but it’s literally exactly what he needs.

He slows his thrusts to a grind as he feels it happening, this incredible, tingling pulsing starting up inside him, and Will squeezes his shoulders at the same time and arches his back.

“Holy fucking shit. Jesus,” Mike groans, bowing his head and dropping down onto his elbows, coming somehow even harder than the first time, his hips pushing in and in and in and everything getting suddenly so, so wet and slick and messy-loud.

Will laughs again. Mike sucks on his neck hard enough to leave a hickey -- just over and over again on the same spot without even thinking -- and moans at the rhythmic squeezes around him and the wet warmth between their bellies as Will comes, too.

Untouched. Yes!

–

“Oh my God,” Mike groans several minutes after, once their brains have reset from the short circuit.

Will takes him by the head and kisses him. “Mm.” Kiss. “Whoa.” Again. “Best thing ever.” Kisskisskiss.

“Literally ever. Nothing comes close.”

“That felt so good.”

Mike thrusts again, three times, just being stupid, and Will lightly smacks his arm. “Down, boy.”

Mike pants like a dog. Will smacks him again.

They laugh and kiss and get all sticky and stuck together. Will drags his hands up and down Mike’s back. Mike slides his fingers into Will’s hair and kisses his cheeks and his nose and the space between his eyes.

Eventually, they get a little uncomfortable. Mike’s started to slip free from Will’s body, and there’s an enormous amount of various wet substances pretty much everywhere.

“Good news, medium news, or bad news?” Mike asks after pulling out.

Will looks mortified. “What is it?”

“Good news? It is abundantly clear that we enjoyed ourselves.”

“Mike.”

“Medium news? I accidentally gave you a massive hickey.”

“I figured.”

“Bad news? We missed the towel.”

–

They shower again because baby wipes simply aren't going to cut it, then switch comforters with the one on Will’s old bed.

Finally, they end their night with take-out Chinese and The Princess Bride.

“He is hot,” Will comments, gesturing with his chopsticks at Westley. “Especially as Dread Pirate Roberts.”

“The mustache?”

“The mustache.”

Mike smiles down at his carton of beef and broccoli. This feels good. It feels…normal. Right. Talking about attractive guys.

He looks back up. Will’s watching him, a fond look on his face.

Mike quirks his lips. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

He says it simply, like he’s giving voice to a mere casual thought.

Mike blushes and looks back down at his food. He stabs a chopstick into a hunk of beef. “I love you, too.”

Will digs into his own carton of pork fried rice. “I wanna hear about all the things you like,” he says, deftly scooping up a perfect mouthful.

“Like what?”

“Cute celebrities. Preferences.” A beat, somewhat awkward. “Sex stuff.”

Mike blows out a breath. “Really?”

“Of course.”

“Can I know about you, too?”

“Anything you want.”

Mike reaches across the coffee table, pinky extended. They shake on it.

Little steps: Talking about attraction. What he likes. What feels good.

It’s a little scary. It’s a bit like that moment at the edge of the diving board, when you know you’ll be fine -- you’re safe, you can swim -- but the water’s cold, and the sudden flood of it is a brief shock to the system. Thrilling, in the end. Good enough to do again. But before? There’s the tiniest edge of fear there.

Will’s safe. Mike can swim with him -- does it well, even, loves it, thrives. Leaps, though, are scary.

But the thing is, they’re also fucking necessary. Not a goddamn good thing in his entire life has ever come from standing there at the edge of the diving board, at a constant teeter. Should I stay or should I go? He has to go. He has to jump. He has to cannonball into the water.

The Big Gay Water of Life, apparently. Mike criss-crosses his legs in the recliner and takes a deep breath.

He digs around in his beef and broccoli for a minute. Will offers him the pork-fried rice he’s already eaten all the pork out of. They trade.

And while Dread Pirate Roberts rolls down the hill after Buttercup, Mike tells Will about the first male celebrity he ever had a crush on. Atreyu. The NeverEnding Story. Shut up.

Will smiles at him, and he listens, and ultimately, when it comes down to it, Mike thinks love’s kind of the best thing in the world.