Chapter Text
“Just don’t tell Mike we watched Nightmare on Elm Street 2 without him, okay? It would really upset him, Will,” Lucas hissed through the static of the walkie, his voice low and urgent, as though the secret itself might leak through the speaker if spoken too loudly.
Will lay stretched across his bed, staring up at the faint cracks in the ceiling, feeling an immediate and disproportionate weight settle over his chest at the request. The guilt arrived swiftly, almost predictably. The night they had watched it lingered vividly in his mind. Mike had been sick then, flushed and miserable, confined to his room with a fever that made his voice sound thinner over the phone. He had wanted to watch it more than any of them. That had been the worst part. Dustin and Lucas had grown restless, impatient in that way they always did, their excitement eclipsing any sense of fairness. Will had protested, softly at first, then with more insistence, but eventually he had relented, worn down by their persistence and the easy promise that they would simply watch it again later.
Now that small decision seemed to loom much larger than it had any right to. It pressed at him, insistent and uncomfortable, like a stone lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.
“Tell him we rewatched Conan the Barbarian for the millionth time,” Lucas added, more firmly now, as if finalising a plan that required no further discussion.
Will exhaled, long and quiet, his breath stirring the fringe that had fallen into his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured, though the word felt unconvincing even to himself.
There was a brief pause, filled only with the soft crackle of the line.
“You’re coming to the arcade tomorrow, right?” Lucas asked, his tone shifting easily back into something lighter, as though secrets were simple things that could be set aside without consequence.
“Wouldn’t miss it, dude,” Will replied, managing a small trace of enthusiasm.
“Rad!” Lucas exclaimed, the word bursting brightly through the speaker. “I’ll see you tomorrow, man. Catch you on the flip side.”
“Later,” Will said, quieter now.
The line clicked dead. Will lowered the walkie talkie and placed it carefully on his bedside table, his fingers lingering on it for a moment before withdrawing. He turned his head toward the alarm clock beside it. The red digits glowed steadily in the dimness of the room, reading 7:48 p.m.
He would be here soon.
Mike was always precise about it, arriving at nearly the same time every Friday night, as though governed by some unspoken agreement neither of them had ever formally acknowledged. There was a comfort in that predictability, something steady and reassuring in the knowledge that, no matter what the week had held, Mike would appear at his window.
Will folded his hands behind his head and sank further into the mattress, attempting to settle, though his thoughts refused to quiet. His sketchbook rested on his desk across the room, its cover slightly ajar, a pencil tucked loosely between its pages. He considered getting up, considered crossing the room and losing himself in drawing for a while, but the idea felt like too much effort. Instead, he remained where he was, suspended in a kind of restless waiting. After a moment, he reached for his Walkman, slipping the headphones over his ears. A soft, melodic hum filled the space around him as This Night Has Opened My Eyes by The Smiths began to play, the sound low enough that it blurred gently into the background rather than overtaking it. He kept the volume deliberately quiet. He did not want to miss it.
The signal.
The familiar pattern of tapping against the glass. Five rhythmic knocks, always the same, always unmistakable.
Will closed his eyes, letting the music settle over him, its melancholy strangely soothing. Time seemed to stretch, each minute elongating in that peculiar way it did when one was waiting for something specific, something anticipated. Yet beneath the slow passage of it, there was a steady undercurrent of calm. The music helped. The certainty helped more.
Mike would come.
He always did.
That was when he heard it.
Tap, tap, ta-ta, tap.
The sound cut cleanly through the low hum of music, instantly recognisable, impossibly familiar. Will’s eyes flew open and a grin spread across his face before he could contain it. In one swift motion he tugged the headphones from his ears and let them fall loosely around his neck as he pushed himself upright, the anticipation already warming something bright and immediate in his chest.
He crossed the room quickly, the wooden floor cool beneath his feet, and pulled the curtain aside. Pale moonlight spilled in through the glass, and there, framed in silvered blue, was Mike, leaning toward the window with an expression so open and expectant it almost felt like something out of a dream.
Will smiled back without hesitation, something soft and instinctive lighting his features as he reached forward and slid the window open.
“Hey, Will. Long time no see,” Mike whispered, though the theatrical exaggeration of it was unmistakable even in his hushed tone, his grin widening as though he had been waiting all evening to say it.
“Shh,” Will murmured quickly, glancing over his shoulder toward the door before looking back at him. “Keep it down. Everyone should be asleep by now.”
Mike’s expression shifted at once into exaggerated contrition. “Sorry,” he mouthed, the word barely formed, before he began the familiar, somewhat inelegant process of hauling himself through the window.
He moved with all the graceless determination of someone who had done this many times and still refused to improve at it. His long limbs caught awkwardly against the frame, his sneaker slipping for a moment before Will instinctively reached forward, gripping his arm and guiding him through with quiet efficiency. There was a brief, unsteady shuffle, and then Mike landed inside with a soft thud, regaining his balance with a small, breathless laugh.
Will lingered a second longer than necessary before letting go. Mike straightened immediately, as though nothing about the entrance had been even slightly clumsy, and shrugged his backpack from his shoulders. It hit the floor with a dull weight, and he crouched down without ceremony, already unzipping it with an air of quiet excitement.
Every Friday, he brought something.
It had become as much a part of the ritual as the tapping on the glass.
“Okay,” Mike began, his voice low but animated, glancing up briefly at Will with a conspiratorial brightness before turning back to the bag. “So, Chief, I’ve got Doritos, Tab, your favourite Reese’s Pieces, and,” he paused for effect, drawing the moment out just enough to make it deliberate, “something very special.”
He reached in and produced a comic, holding it up with a flourish that was only slightly restrained by the need for quiet.
“X-Men number one-forty-one.”
He presented it like a prize, like something rare and carefully chosen, his expression alight with satisfaction.
Will stood just above him, looking down, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides as though he had forgotten, briefly, what to do with them. There was something faintly surreal about the moment, something so familiar and yet, occasionally, strangely unreal. Sometimes, when Mike showed up like this, all sudden energy and careless enthusiasm, it struck Will with a quiet force that he could have been anywhere else. That he chose to be here.
It made everything feel sharper.
Mike, in those moments, reminded him of something uncomplicated and loyal. There was a certain eager devotion in the way he arrived, always bearing offerings, always expecting nothing more than to be let in. It was almost impossible to refuse him, even if Will had ever truly wanted to. There was something disarming in his expression, in those wide, earnest eyes that seemed to carry both confidence and a strange, unspoken hopefulness.
Will found himself smiling again, softer this time. And then, just as quickly, the feeling faltered.
The memory returned, unwelcome and immediate.
The movie. That night. The secret.
A small, sharp pang of guilt threaded through the warmth, tightening something in his chest.
Mike noticed it immediately.
The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who did not know Will as intimately as he did, but Mike always seemed to notice. It was as though something in him were tuned specifically to Will’s emotional frequency, picking up even the smallest distortions in mood or expression.
“What’s wrong, Will?” Mike asked at once, pushing himself upright with sudden alertness, still clutching the bag of Doritos as though it were an extension of his own agitation.
He looked briefly absurd, standing there with wide, searching eyes and a posture that was half defensive, half concerned.
“Nothing,” Will replied too quickly, his voice tightening as he lowered himself back onto the edge of the bed.
Mike did not hesitate. He moved toward him with familiar ease and, without asking, flopped down beside him on the mattress as though it were the most natural place in the world for him to be. The bed shifted under his weight, and he settled into what had effectively become his designated spot over time, a place that neither of them ever acknowledged but both unconsciously preserved.
“You look concerned,” Mike said more softly now, his earlier exuberance tempered into something quieter, more attentive.
“No, I’m not,” Will insisted, though the stiffness in his posture betrayed him almost immediately. The lie landed awkwardly between them, fragile and transparent.
Mike tilted his head slightly, studying him with an intensity that always seemed unfairly perceptive. “Yes, you are,” he said with gentle certainty. “Your eyebrows are giving you away. They curve up like that when you are worried.”
Will turned toward him, caught off guard. He had always hated that. The way Mike noticed everything. The way nothing ever seemed to go unnoticed, not even the smallest tremor in his expression.
“What’s worrying you, Will?” Mike asked again, his tone softening further, almost coaxing, his eyes wide and earnest in a way that felt almost disarming.
Those eyes. That voice. That impossible gentleness. He never raised his voice. Not ever. Not with Will.
It was something Will had always noticed, even when he tried not to. Mike Wheeler, for all his loudness in other contexts, for all his impulsive confidence and restless energy, became something entirely different around him. Quiet. Safe. Patient in a way the world had never been with Will before. Not when he knew what Lonnie had been like. Not when he understood, even without being told, how loud cruelty could sound inside a house.
Mike had never once added to that noise.
“I don’t want to lie to you, Mike,” Will said at last, the words emerging slowly, as though they had to pass through something heavy before reaching the surface.
Mike did not even blink. “So don’t.”
Will drew in a long, steadying breath, one that felt disproportionately large for something so small, as though he were bracing himself for consequences that might not even exist yet. His chest tightened in anticipation, guilt already forming before he had even finished speaking.
“We watched Nightmare on Elm Street 2 without you,” he confessed quietly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Even though you told us to wait. I am sorry.”
For a moment, there was only silence.
Mike stared at him.
Then, unexpectedly, his expression shifted into something almost disbelieving, as though Will had just delivered a confession far more dramatic than anything he could have anticipated. A breath escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and the tension in his shoulders loosened.
“That’s all?” Mike asked.
Will nodded once.
“They made me swear not to tell you,” Will added quickly, the shame still lingering in his voice. “It was supposed to be a secret.”
Mike shook his head, and his dark fluffy curls fell loosely with the motion, soft and unrestrained, like they never quite obeyed him. “It’s fine, Will,” he said simply. “They do not have to know. We can just watch it again another time.”
The ease of it, the lack of judgment, landed in Will’s chest with quiet relief. He looked at Mike for a long moment, almost disbelieving how small the problem suddenly felt in comparison to the weight he had assigned it.
Then he smiled, soft and grateful, a silent acknowledgement of forgiveness he had not been sure he would receive.
Mike smiled back without hesitation, as if nothing in the world had ever been broken between them in the first place.
See, Will thought, something easing inside him despite everything.
Honesty always wins in the end.
Or almost always.
Not, of course, when it came to the inconvenient, bewildering, and entirely unmanageable fact of his rather enormous and completely unspoken crush on Michael Wheeler, who, at that very moment, was dating his step sister Jane and sleeping just down the hallway, blissfully unaware of any of it.
“Was it good, at least?” Mike asked, his voice lighter now, curiosity threading through it as he began arranging the snacks and comic between them with casual precision, as though the act itself were part of a well rehearsed routine.
Will hesitated.
He turned the question over in his mind, though the answer did not come easily. The film had lingered with him in a way he had not expected. Not because it had been frightening in the conventional sense, but because something about it had unsettled him on a deeper, more elusive level. Certain scenes had carried a strange intensity, something charged and difficult to articulate, particularly in moments that did not involve girls at all. There had been an undercurrent he could not quite name, something that felt both unfamiliar and uncomfortably recognisable. The main character, in particular, had struck a chord in him, though he could not fully explain why.
“It was fine,” Will said at last, though the word lacked conviction, shaped more by uncertainty than certainty.
“Well, that doesn’t sound promising,” Mike scoffed lightly, though there was no real criticism in it.
He shifted his weight and began tugging off his shoes, one after the other, before settling cross legged in front of Will with easy familiarity. Without asking, he reached for the blanket and pulled it over both of them, the fabric falling loosely across their legs and pooling between them as though it had always belonged there, as though he did too.
Mike glanced at him then, his expression softening into something faintly amused, as if he had just remembered something that existed only in his own thoughts. He shook his head once, a small, private gesture.
“What?” Will asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. “What is it?”
“You are terrible at keeping secrets, you know,” Mike said, the words delivered with a quiet grin that suggested certainty rather than accusation.
Will’s eyes widened almost immediately, the reaction instinctive. It was, unfortunately, not untrue. He had never been particularly skilled at concealment, at least not where Mike was concerned. There was something about him that made dishonesty feel not only difficult but almost impossible. And yet, there was one thing, one singular, immovable truth, that Will had managed to keep hidden, though not without effort.
“If you say so,” Will replied, attempting nonchalance, though the faint warmth rising in his cheeks betrayed him.
“Okay,” Mike continued, leaning forward slightly, interest sharpening his tone. “Name one secret you have actually managed to keep.”
The question landed harder than it should have. Will felt the heat spread fully now, colouring his face before he could stop it.
“You’re blushing,” Mike pointed out immediately, his grin widening as he lifted a finger and aimed it toward Will’s face as though presenting indisputable evidence.
“I am not,” Will protested, wincing as he swatted Mike’s hand away with a quick, defensive motion.
“It has to be something really embarrassing,” Mike went on, his voice brightening with curiosity, the idea clearly delighting him. “Now I want to know.”
“Shut up, Mike,” Will said, though there was no real force behind it.
“Tell me what it is,” Mike insisted, the words stretching into a playful whine that made him sound younger than he was, all impatience and poorly concealed eagerness.
“Don’t make me,” Will replied, trying and failing to maintain composure.
Mike leaned back onto his hands, his posture relaxing as he regarded Will with narrowed eyes, the faintest hint of calculation slipping into his expression. He paused there, deliberately, as though considering his next move with exaggerated seriousness.
Will watched him warily, a small knot of anticipation forming despite himself.
“If you don’t tell me,” Mike said at last, slowly, “I’ll tell Lucas and Dustin that you told me about the movie.”
He grinned then, triumphant, as though he had just uncovered an irrefutable strategy.
Will stared at him, genuinely startled. “Are you blackmailing me?” he asked, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and indignation.
Mike’s expression collapsed almost instantly, the bravado dissolving as quickly as it had appeared.
“No,” he said at once, shaking his head, his voice softening again. “No, I wouldn’t do that to you.”
He sat upright again and bumped his shoulder lightly against Will’s in a gesture so casual it almost seemed unconscious.
Will felt the contact immediately, a small, fleeting warmth that lingered longer than it should have. He looked down for a moment, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
“I hate you,” he muttered, though the words carried no real weight.
“Oh, come on,” Mike said, leaning closer again, his tone coaxing now. “Just tell me. We tell each other everything.”
He said it so simply, so easily, as though it were a fact that had always existed, unquestioned and unchangeable.
Will’s smile faded, just slightly.
“Not everything,” he said quietly.
“Look,” Mike announced suddenly, shifting where he sat as though preparing himself for something of great importance. He straightened his posture with exaggerated seriousness, lifting his right hand into the air while pressing his left firmly against his chest in a theatrical display of sincerity. “I solemnly swear, from the bottom of my heart, that I will not tell a single soul. I will take it to my grave.”
When he finished, he looked at Will with a wide, expectant grin, his expression practically asking for approval, as though this declaration were a performance he hoped had landed exactly right.
Will let out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and reluctant amusement. “You promise?” he asked, though the question carried more weight than it should have for something so small.
“Pinky promise,” Mike replied immediately, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate, as he extended his hand toward him.
Will’s breath caught.
There was something almost startling in the familiarity of it. Mike had not changed, not in the ways that mattered. For all the shifts that had come with growing older, with high school and expectations and everything that pressed in from the outside world, there were still these moments where he seemed exactly as he had been when they were children. Simple. Certain. Uncomplicated in his loyalty.
Maybe Will could not tell him the truth. Not the real one. Not the thing that had grown too large and too dangerous to name aloud. But perhaps he could offer something else. Something small enough to satisfy the promise, something harmless enough to carry no consequence.
“Okay,” Will said quietly.
“Okay,” Mike echoed, his grin returning in full force. “So what’s your big secret, goober?”
He leaned in closer, one hand cupped dramatically around his ear as though preparing to receive something of immense importance.
Will hesitated only a moment before leaning in as well, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I still sleep with Leo.”
Mike blinked. “You do?”
He leaned back slightly, surprise written plainly across his face. Leo was not just any toy. He was a relic of childhood, a small, worn lion that had followed Will through years of quiet nights and uncertain days, his once bright fur now dulled and uneven with age.
Will nodded, already feeling the warmth creep into his face. “I keep him under my bed,” he admitted.
He leaned down then, reaching beneath the frame, his fingers searching briefly before emerging with the lion itself. He held it up with a small, sheepish gesture, as though revealing something far more incriminating than it truly was.
“There he is,” Will said, attempting lightness.
Mike’s expression softened almost instantly, the surprise giving way to something far gentler. He reached forward without hesitation, taking Leo carefully into his hands as though the object held more value than its worn appearance suggested.
“That’s your big secret?” Mike exclaimed, though there was no mockery in his tone, only a kind of amused disbelief. “You made it sound like you’d done something terrible.”
“Well, it’s embarrassing,” Will insisted, his voice rising slightly as he flushed more deeply. “We’re seventeen, Michael. Only losers and crybabies still sleep with their stuffed animals.”
“Who said that?” Mike asked at once, his brows drawing together in genuine confusion. “I don’t think that.”
Will glanced at him, scepticism flickering across his features. “You don’t think I’m a total and horrible excuse for a young man?” he asked, though the question carried a trace of something more vulnerable beneath it.
Mike did not hesitate.
“I think you’re precious,” he said simply.
For a moment, the word hung there.
It should have made Will laugh, or at least smile. It should have felt light. Instead, something about it landed differently, the softness of it brushing too close to something unspoken, something that made his chest tighten in a way he could not quite explain.
“You mean innocent,” Will corrected quickly, rolling his eyes in an attempt to deflect.
“Yeah?” Mike said with a small shrug, entirely unbothered by the distinction. “So what’s wrong with that?”
Will did not answer immediately.
A quiet heaviness settled over him instead, subtle but undeniable, as though the conversation had shifted without either of them intending it to. He looked down at his hands, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the blanket.
“I just feel… behind,” he said at last, his voice softer now, edged with something more fragile. “Everyone else is so normal, and I am…”
He trailed off, the words resisting completion.
“I haven’t even kissed anyone before,” he finished, the confession slipping out more quietly than he had intended.
Mike fell silent.
For a moment, he simply looked at Will, taking in the weight of what had been said, his expression thoughtful rather than surprised.
“You will,” Mike said after a beat, his voice gentle, certain in a way that felt almost grounding. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen.”
He reached out then, almost absentmindedly, brushing his hand lightly over Will’s knee in a small gesture of comfort that felt both natural and deliberate.
“It doesn’t make you naïve or anything,” he continued. “You’re one of the most clued in people I know. You are Will the Wise, for God’s sake.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
“There’s nothing to be insecure about.”
“Really?” Will asked, lifting his gaze to meet Mike’s, searching his expression for any trace of insincerity.
Mike did not look away. There was nothing teasing in his eyes this time, no flicker of mockery or exaggeration, only a quiet steadiness that felt unexpectedly grounding.
“Pinky promise,” he said again, a faint smirk touching his lips as he extended his hand once more.
But this time it was different. The gesture was not playful in the same careless way it had been before. There was something deliberate in it, something earnest beneath the familiar ritual, and Will felt the warmth of it settle somewhere deep within him before he could stop it.
He let out a small laugh, softer than before, and reached out to hook his finger with Mike’s.
“Okay,” he said.
Mike’s grin widened, pleased in a way that seemed entirely genuine. “Now, if you have any other secrets,” he continued, leaning back slightly but keeping their hands loosely connected for a moment longer than necessary, “you can tell them to me too. And I mean anything.”
He paused, as though considering the full extent of what he was about to say, before his expression brightened with sudden enthusiasm.
“Even if you killed someone,” he added. “Seriously. I would help you hide the body if you asked me to.”
“What?” Will exclaimed at once, pulling back slightly, his brows knitting together in disbelief. “I wouldn’t do that.”
Mike tilted his head, seemingly unfazed by the denial of murder itself. “So you would hide it on your own?”
“Yes,” Will replied emphatically, as though the answer were self-evident. “I wouldn’t drag you into my problems. You wouldn’t be afraid of getting caught?”
Mike made a face at that, one of exaggerated dismissal, as though the very idea were beneath consideration.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he declared, folding his arms across his chest in a posture that was unmistakably performative.
Will narrowed his eyes, studying him with quiet scepticism. “Not even heights?”
“No.”
“Not even spiders?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Not even the police?” Will pressed, a hint of challenge slipping into his voice now. “Not even…Hopper?”
The name lingered between them for a moment. Jim Hopper was, at that very moment, asleep somewhere down the hall, entirely unaware of the quiet conspiracies unfolding beneath his roof. The thought struck Will suddenly, almost absently, how many things existed in this house that were not spoken aloud. How many truths remained hidden, layered quietly beneath the surface.
Perhaps he was better at keeping secrets than he gave himself credit for.
And perhaps, in some strange way, Mike had already become part of that secret world, not by accident but by trust.
“Nope,” Mike said firmly, shaking his head with stubborn conviction. “Nothing.”
Will squinted at him, unconvinced. Mike was brave, undeniably so, and fiercely protective in a way that bordered on reckless when it came to the people he cared about. He would do anything for his friends, that much was certain. But surely there was something, somewhere beneath all that confidence, that unsettled him.
Will had always suspected, though he had never said it aloud, that what Mike feared most was not spiders or heights or authority, but something far less tangible. Letting people down. Failing the ones he cared about.
Mike, however, seemed entirely uninterested in entertaining such introspection.
“Verily,” he began suddenly, his voice shifting into an exaggerated, theatrical cadence that Will recognised immediately, “it would be mine heroic devoir to serve and protect thee, Will the Wise, whilst I, Mike the Brave, descend into the deepest pit to inter our misdeeds, trespasses, and adversaries, and to conceal our guile from the wicked watchmen.”
He delivered the speech with dramatic Dungeon Master flourish, his posture straightening as though he were addressing an unseen court, his expression alight with ridiculous sincerity.
Will could not help it. He laughed.
“You’re such an idiot,” he said, the words softened by affection as he reached out to shove Mike lightly in the shoulder.
Mike grinned in response, the expression bright and unguarded, his freckles catching the faint light from the window in a way that made them seem almost luminous.
“I know,” he replied, his voice low and satisfied.
For a moment, he simply looked at Will, something quieter settling beneath the humour, something that lingered just long enough to be felt before it passed.
Then, without warning, he laughed again and shoved Will back with equal force, the motion playful and familiar, the balance between them restored as though nothing had shifted at all.
“And shh,” Will added quickly, his voice dropping as he leaned slightly closer, attempting to rein in the situation before it escalated any further. “He could hear you. He doesn’t know you sneak in here every Friday night, and I’d very much like to keep it that way.”
Mike exhaled sharply through his nose, an expression of mild indignation crossing his features as he leaned back, clearly unimpressed by the warning.
“Oh, please,” he muttered. “I’m not afraid of him. He’s just got a massive stick up his ass.”
“Mike,” Will said at once, his tone sharper now, though still hushed. There were moments, like this, when Mike’s complete disregard for consequence bordered on astonishing. “You should be afraid of him. You know he’s not very fond of you.”
It was not an exaggeration. Every encounter between Mike and Jim Hopper carried a certain tension, a barely restrained hostility that manifested in long, scrutinising looks and firm, unspoken judgments. Hopper did not need to voice his disapproval; it radiated from him in ways that were impossible to ignore. He assigned Mike chores when he visited, small tasks that felt less like requests and more like tests. And when Mike came to take Jane out, Hopper’s handshake was always just a little too firm, his grip lingering a moment longer than necessary, as though asserting dominance through sheer physicality.
Mike, however, seemed either oblivious to it or entirely uninterested in taking it seriously.
“He’s just jealous,” Mike said lightly, dismissing the matter with a careless flick of his hand.
“Of what?” Will scoffed, though a quiet laugh slipped out despite himself.
Mike did not hesitate. “Of my enchantingly good looks, obviously.”
He lifted his hands beneath his chin in an exaggerated pose, his grin widening into something unapologetically ridiculous.
“Come off it,” Will said, flushing faintly as he shoved him again, the contact brief but familiar.
For a moment, Mike’s bravado flickered, the performative confidence softening at the edges. Something quieter settled into his expression, something more sincere.
“I am kidding, Will,” he said, his voice lowering slightly, pointing to his face once more. “Frogface, remember.”
The word lingered.
It was an old nickname, one that had been thrown at him often enough to lose any sense of humour it might once have had. Mike said it lightly, but there was something in the way he did so that suggested he had not entirely discarded its meaning. That, perhaps, he believed it, at least in some small, persistent way.
Will frowned faintly.
Mike could be impossibly self assured one moment and quietly self deprecating the next, the contradiction never quite resolving itself.
“He must think you’re a bad influence,” Will said after a moment, his tone gentler now as he looked up at him.
“For Jane,” Mike replied, nodding once, the logic of it clear enough.
“Yeah,” Will said, the word simple, though it carried more weight than he intended.
Mike shifted slightly closer then, the movement subtle enough that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else.
“Then it shouldn’t matter if I am in your room, right?” he asked, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his mouth.
Will hesitated, then shook his head.
“He’s not really a fan of that either,” he admitted, his tone more blunt now.
Mike blinked. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” Will said, shrugging lightly. “I asked him once. He just said, ‘You will understand someday.’”
He mimicked Hopper’s voice as best he could, lowering his tone into a rough approximation of the man’s gruff cadence.
Mike stared at him, his expression shifting into incredulity. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Will shook his head again. He did not know. He had turned the words over more than once, trying to find some hidden implication, but they remained frustratingly vague.
Maybe Hopper was simply being overprotective. Maybe he was reading too much into something that meant very little.
“He’s not exactly great with words,” Will muttered after a moment.
“Or diets,” Mike added immediately.
Will let out a quiet laugh, the tension dissolving just as quickly as it had formed. Mike’s grin returned in full, bright and infectious, and for a moment everything felt easy again, uncomplicated.
Their conversation, after drifting through humour and quiet confessions, gradually returned to the matter that had first occupied Mike’s attention. X Men 141 lay between them, its pages slightly worn, its cover already creased at the edges from being handled with too much enthusiasm and not quite enough care.
They settled against the wall with an ease born of repetition, the blanket drawn over their laps as though by instinct rather than decision. Their shoulders pressed together without hesitation, legs overlapping in that unconscious way neither of them ever seemed to question. It was close, undeniably so, yet entirely natural within the small, contained world they shared in these moments.
Will held the comic between them, his fingers careful along the edges of the page. He lingered over each panel, his gaze tracing the lines of the illustrations with quiet concentration. He always took longer. The art pulled him in, demanded his attention in a way that words alone never quite did.
Mike knew this.
He had learned it without ever being told.
By the time Will was halfway through a page, Mike had already finished reading, his eyes having moved quickly across the dialogue and narration. Yet he never rushed him. Instead, he waited, patient in a way he rarely was elsewhere, his attention drifting between the page and Will’s expression as he absorbed the details.
When he finally did speak, it was always the same.
“Can I turn it?” he would ask, his voice low, almost careful.
And Will would nod, still half inside the world of the story.
Now, as they sat together, the quiet stretched comfortably between them, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of paper and the soft crackle of snack wrappers. Time moved differently here, slower, softened at the edges.
At some point, without either of them quite noticing when, the rhythm shifted.
Mike grew quieter.
The energy that usually seemed to radiate from him dulled, settling into something more subdued. His movements slowed, his posture softening as though the weight of the evening had finally begun to settle over him.
Will felt it before he saw it.
A slight shift in pressure against his shoulder. A gradual leaning, hesitant at first, then more certain.
He glanced down.
Mike’s head had tipped sideways, coming to rest lightly against him, his dark hair brushing against the fabric of Will’s shirt. His lashes, long and unexpectedly delicate, cast faint shadows against his cheeks. His breathing had evened, slow and steady in a way that suggested he had drifted further than he had intended.
Will stilled.
There was a warmth to it, immediate and disarming, something that settled beneath his skin and spread outward in quiet waves. He did not move at first, did not even consider it. The moment felt fragile, something that might break if disturbed too quickly.
For a few seconds, he simply allowed it.
Then, reluctantly, reality pressed back in.
It was getting late. And Mike’s parents, like Hopper and Joyce, had no awareness of these Friday night visits, no tolerance for them if they did.
“Mike,” Will whispered softly.
There was no response at first, only a faint shift as Mike stirred slightly, his brow creasing in sleep.
“Mike,” Will tried again, a little firmer this time. “You fell asleep.”
Mike hummed in response, the sound low and indistinct, somewhere between acknowledgement and refusal. He shifted again, letting out a quiet yawn, the movement unguarded in a way that made something in Will’s chest tighten unexpectedly.
“Are you kicking me out?” Mike murmured, his voice thick with sleep, though the faint edge of teasing remained. “You hate me.”
Will huffed a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh. “You can’t stay over tonight,” he said gently. “Mom and Hop are leaving very early, and you can’t exactly hide in my closet. It’s too small.”
A small smile touched his mouth despite himself.
“You should try mine,” Mike muttered, still only half awake.
Will rolled his eyes faintly, though the gesture was softened by affection. “Yeah,” he said under his breath. “I am sure it is enormous.”
The difference between their homes, their lives, flickered briefly through his mind. Mike’s house, with its space and ease and quiet abundance. His own, more crowded, more complicated, filled with hectic loudness and bills piled up.
And yet, somehow, none of that had ever seemed to matter between them.
Mike had never made it matter.
He stretched slowly then, pulling himself upright with visible reluctance, his limbs heavy with sleep. For a moment, he remained sitting there, as though gathering the will to move.
Then, instead of getting up immediately, he turned.
Deliberately.
A sudden seriousness came over Mike, quiet but unmistakable, as though something within him had shifted without warning.
He looked at Will differently then.
Not casually, not with the easy familiarity that usually defined him, but with a kind of unguarded intensity that made Will feel, for a fleeting and disorienting moment, as though he had been seen too clearly. There was nothing overt in it, nothing that could be named outright, yet it carried a weight that settled between them all the same.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” Mike asked.
His gaze dropped briefly, tracing some indistinct point between them before lifting again, returning to Will’s eyes with quiet insistence.
Will swallowed.
The question lingered longer than it should have, stretching into something more complicated than its simple phrasing suggested. He felt the answer before he could articulate it, felt it press against the confines of what he was willing to say.
He lowered his gaze instead, retreating for a moment into something safer, something less revealing.
When he looked back up, he forced a small breath out through his nose, steadying himself.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at the arcade,” he said, his voice softening as he reached out and placed a hand lightly against Mike’s arm.
It was not quite an answer.
Mike understood anyway.
A faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips, subtle enough that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. He nodded once, then shook his head slightly and puffed an exhale, as though attempting to dispel the lingering heaviness of sleep or something less tangible that clung to him.
“Oh God,” he muttered under his breath, bracing himself as he shifted forward. “I am getting too old for this.”
Will let his hand fall back to his side as he stood as well, trailing a step behind as Mike gathered his bag and moved toward the window.
The ritual resumed, though something about it felt quieter now, more subdued.
Mike climbed out with the same familiar lack of grace, lowering himself carefully before dropping the last few inches onto the gravel below with a soft, uneven thud. He exhaled sharply as he landed, adjusting his footing before straightening.
For a moment, he remained there, one hand braced lightly against the wall, as though orienting himself.
Then he looked up.
Will leaned slightly out of the open window, the cool night air catching in his hair and shifting it across his forehead. The faint light from inside framed him softly, casting him in a muted glow against the darkness beyond.
“Thank you for bringing the comic,” Will said, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful as he glanced down at him. “It was really cool.”
He hesitated, then added, almost absently, “I wish we could time travel.”
Mike’s expression softened into something warmer, something quietly certain.
“Someday,” he said.
Will smiled faintly at that, the idea settling somewhere gentle in his chest.
“And thanks for the snacks,” he continued, his tone brightening just slightly. “And the Reese’s Pieces.”
“Of course,” Mike replied easily, as though the gesture required no acknowledgement at all.
Will hesitated again, his fingers curling slightly around the edge of the window frame.
“And thanks for…” he began, then faltered, the words catching briefly before he forced them forward. “You know. Always being there.”
The admission was small, almost understated, yet it carried more weight than anything else he had said.
Mike’s gaze shifted, drawn momentarily to Will’s hand where it gripped the ledge, his fingers tightening slightly against the wood. There was something in his expression then, something fleeting and difficult to name, as though he had almost said something in return and chosen, at the last moment, not to.
His eyes lifted again.
“Always,” he said quietly.
The word lingered in the space between them, soft but resolute.
“Sleep sweet, Will,” he added, his voice lowering further, nearly swallowed by the night.
Then he stepped back, the shadows folding around him as he turned away, his figure dissolving gradually into the darkness beyond the house until he was no longer visible at all.
“Goodnight,” Will called softly after him.
There was no response.
Only the quiet, and the faint echo of something that remained long after Mike had gone.
Will lingered at the window for a moment after Mike had gone, his gaze fixed on the empty stretch of darkness where he had last been visible, as though he might somehow reappear if he looked long enough.
He did not.
The night settled back into itself, quiet and undisturbed, offering no trace of where Mike had disappeared to.
With a soft exhale, Will drew back and closed the window, the faint click of the latch sounding louder than it should have in the stillness of the room. He pulled the curtain across, shutting out the pale wash of moonlight, though its presence seemed to linger faintly in the corners all the same.
The room felt different without him.
Quieter, certainly, but not in the same comforting way. It was a hollow kind of quiet now, one that seemed to echo rather than settle.
Will turned away and climbed back into bed, pulling the blankets around himself, tucking them close as though attempting to preserve some remnant of warmth that had not entirely dissipated. The space beside him still held the faint impression of where Mike had been, the mattress slightly dipped, the fabric faintly creased.
He shifted into it without thinking.
Sleep came slowly, not with the usual ease of exhaustion, but with the gradual surrender of a mind that refused to quiet itself all at once. His thoughts circled, returning again and again to the same point, the same presence that had only just left.
Mike.
There was something about the way he arrived, the way he departed, that felt almost inseparable from the night itself. He came with it, slipping in through shadows and silence, and left in much the same way, dissolving back into the dark as though he belonged to it.
Will found himself tracing the comparison without effort.
Mike was like the night.
Not in any singular sense, but in the way he seemed to contain contradictions that somehow coexisted without conflict. There was a quietness to him, at times, something thoughtful and inward that surfaced unexpectedly beneath his usual energy. There were moments of mood, of restlessness, of something deeper that Will could sense but never quite name.
And yet, he was never dim.
There was always a brightness to him, something steady and unmistakable, like the pale, unwavering glow of the moon suspended against darkness. It was not harsh, not overwhelming, but constant in a way that felt quietly reassuring.
He illuminated things without trying to.
He made the dark feel less uncertain.
Will shifted slightly beneath the blankets, his eyes half closed now, his thoughts drifting further into abstraction.
Mike was the constellations, scattered points of light that formed patterns only if one looked closely enough. Familiar, even when they shifted. Always there, even when unseen.
He was warmth, too, in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. The kind of warmth that settled into the body slowly, like being wrapped in blankets on a cold night, like the quiet comfort of something known and trusted.
And perhaps most dangerously, he was something else entirely.
A dream.
Not the fleeting kind that dissolved upon waking, but something more persistent, something that lingered just beyond the reach of reality. Beautiful in its impossibility. Fragile in its distance.
The kind of dream one knew better than to believe in, and yet could not quite let go of.
Will’s breathing slowed, evening out as sleep finally began to take hold.
In that quiet, liminal space between waking and dreaming, where the rules of the world softened and loosened their grip, it felt, for a moment, as though anything might be possible.
As though, in that place alone, he might be allowed to have him.
Mike, the night itself.