Archive of Our Own

APRIL 7, 1977 - 6

Mike wakes up beaming. He smiles the whole way down the stairs, not complaining even when his mom forces a comb through his hair. She won't stop giving him these knowing looks, and she doesn't say a word when he drowns his eggs in syrup. That's extra special. She's been picky about smells lately, but she won't say why. 

She lets him pick the music on the way to school, no matter how much Nancy whines about it, and sends him off to school with a kiss on the cheek and a reassurance that yes, we're still taking Will back with us this afternoon. Mike doesn't even complain about the lipstick mark, that's how happy he is. 

Today is going to be the best day ever, because it's his birthday, and for the very first time he has a friend to celebrate it with.

Will is the first person he sees when he hops out of the car. He's standing by the entrance to the building, squeezing Jonathan's hand while the older boy checks his watch. Both of them look out of place in the crowd – it's nothing specific, it's just… there, a kind of oddness that hovers around them. 

Mike loves it. He can't help the excited "Will!" that bursts from him as he approaches. Will's head whips in his direction. A wide, toothy smile splits his face, and his nose scrunches up in that way that makes him look more like a bunny than a boy.

"Mike!" Will drops Jonathan's hand and runs up to Mike, giving him a hug that feels like a warm mug of hot chocolate on a snowy day. It's comforting and fuzzy in ways that Mike can't describe, but he melts into it all the same. 

Jonathan wishes him a happy birthday and ruffles both of their hair before trudging off towards the middle school, and the bell lets Mike know that they should head inside as well.

"We're the same age now," Will says, following Mike through the crowded halls. "I think it's funny that I'm older."

Mike shrugs. "I'm glad you are," he says. "I wouldn't want to be older while you're still younger. I don't want to be anything without you, even for two weeks."

Will blinks at him, and his eyes grow wide. "Me neither." He sticks a pinkie out. "I promise that we'll be everything together, okay?"

Mike loops his pinkie through Will's and they shake on it. "Okay. I promise."

The morning passes in a blur. He has a card with a star sticker on his desk, and his classmates sing Happy Birthday, enthusiastic but endearingly out-of-sync. Mike gets some half-hearted hugs, and then they move on to doing multiplication tables. It's about as uneventful as a birthday can be.

At recess, Will grabs his hand and drags him to the swingset – their swingset. He runs to the bush behind it, digging around until he pulls back with a faint a-ha!

Will's hair is mussed from the branches, but he doesn't seem to mind. He thrusts out his hand, clutched around a half-squished bunch of flowers.

"I hid them so nobody would see," he explains, some of his enthusiasm fading. Kids are mean, and they’re mean about the weirdest things, like flowers and certain colors and holding hands. "But I know you like flowers."

Mike's heart squeezes, and he takes the flowers like he's holding something precious. "Thank you," he says. "I love them."

Will beams. "And I have more presents for you, but I'm saving them for later."

Mike rushes towards him to scoop him up in a hug, careful not to squish the flowers between them. He ends up lifting Will off the ground with the force of it – not that that's particularly difficult. 

He gets a squeaky laugh for his efforts, and Will buries his face in Mike's neck. Mike just squeezes tighter. He has more energy and joy and love than he knows what to do with, and not hugging Will feels wrong. 

Being with Will always feels right. Mike makes a promise to himself that he’ll keep him as close as possible for as long as he can, because anything else seems impossible.

The second half of the school day is as uneventful as the first, and by the end of the last class, Mike is practically vibrating in his seat. As soon as they're dismissed, he grabs Will by the wrist and yanks him to the parking lot, where his mom is sitting idle in her car. At home, they'll have cake and games and presents, but that's not important. 

Mike slides into the backseat without ever letting go of Will's hand, and he decides that this is the best birthday he's ever had.

APRIL 7, 1986 - 15

They've only been back in Hawkins for a week, but it feels like a lifetime. Sometimes it feels like they never left, but there are four giant rifts in the ground that say otherwise.

The Byers moved in a few days ago, and Will's still refusing to stay in his room. It's rude, honestly – Mike cleaned up and everything, making sure every stray sock and half-written letter was tucked away – but Will won't budge. He stays there during the day, though, so Mike supposes that's a small victory.

April 7th dawns like every other day, and it's not until Will throws a Kit-Kat at him that he realizes there's something amiss. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and stares up at where Will's standing, watching him with something like expectation in his face.

"Happy Birthday," Will says. There's the faintest hint of a smile on his face, barely reaching his eyes. 

Mike blinks. Once, then twice, and when the third time brings no more clarity, he manages to force out a "What?"

There's a confusion on Will's face that hadn't been there before. It's not noticeable to the average observer, but Mike's always been finely attuned to the many expressions of Will Byers.

He thinks he is, at least. Lately, he's not so sure.

"Happy Birthday," Will repeats, but the words don't land. It's not his birthday, but he might as well check before correcting Will on his mistake. Mike raises his wrist to look at his watch, and sure enough, the date 04/07/86 is stamped in the top corner. 

It's his birthday, but it can't be his birthday, because two weeks before his birthday is–

The truth hits him like a punch to the gut, and Mike sucks in a breath as reality sinks in. "Shit. Holy shit. I didn't even…"

Two weeks ago. Mike wracks his brain to remember what he was doing two weeks ago. March 22nd, what the hell was March 22nd? He counts back, and his blood runs even colder when he lands on Rink-O-Mania.

Mike imagines that slugs probably have higher opinions of themselves than he does at this moment, because at least slugs contribute to the ecosystem. He's the actual scum of the earth. It was Will's birthday, and he spent all day ignored and alone, and here he is waking Mike up on his birthday trying to make it special. 

He wants to say a million things, but all that comes out is, "I'm sorry." 

It's not enough. It's not nearly enough, but it's all he has to offer. 

Will shifts in place, his eyes leaving Mike's face. "It's fine."

"It's not!" Mike protests. He lets out a breath, raking a hand through his hair. It snags in the tangles, because of course it does. He can't do anything without causing pain.

Whatever the reason, Will seems determined to let him off. "You were busy. You came to see El, and then everything happened with her. It was all really important, so–"

"You’re important too," Mike says. “I should’ve acted like it.”

Will falls silent. There's surprise on his face that has no business being there, like he doesn't quite believe what he's hearing. This – the idea that Will really, truly doesn't know how important he is – is nauseating.

Mike clears his throat before continuing. "It's not fine, okay? Yeah, I got distracted, but I was there to see both of you. I should've remembered." He shakes his head. There's something just beyond his reach, hovering around the edges of his memory. It's foggy, but it's there, and it vanishes like smoke when he tries to grasp it. "But I didn't. I didn't remember, and that's messed up. Don't argue with me on that."

He's met with a look that's half exasperation, half affection. "Fine. Then I forgive you."

Mike lets out a noise more akin to a squawk than human speech. "You can't just–"

"I just did, actually," Will says, donning the closest thing to a shit-eating grin that Mike's ever seen on him. They lock eyes, and Mike can't help but notice how the sun catches on the hazel in Will's, making them look almost green in the light. They're pretty. He's pretty.

It's not a new observation. The sky is blue, the Earth is round, and Will Byers is and always has been a pretty guy. Those are immutable facts of the universe. It's just that the last one takes up more and more space in Mike's mind as the years crawl by, and it's gotten distracting. 

So distracting, in fact, that he doesn't notice Will approaching the bed, sitting on the side opposite from where Mike lies. "So, birthday boy, what's on the agenda for today?"

On every birthday, they get the Party together. Mike opens his mouth to say as much, excitement bubbling up at the idea of a whole day with his friends, when reality sinks in. He can pretend that life is normal all he wants, but there's a terror lurking in him that comes with a bone-deep ache. 

El's in hiding, not that she'd want to see him right now, anyway. Lucas is glued to Max's side at the hospital, staring at vital signs like they can change if he just wishes hard enough. Dustin hasn't spoken to any of them since Eddie… well, since Eddie. Everything and everyone in Mike's life has fallen apart at the seams, and a birthday seems like child's play in the face of the end of the world.

Will seems to realize this at the same time that Mike does, and a look of guilt passes over his face. Mike wants to smooth it away with his hands, itching to press his fingers to every crease, but he holds it in. There's no sense in pushing the envelope. Not now, not when Will's all he has left.

"What about Brave and Wise?" Will asks. "Do you still have that?"

The title is like a flashbulb, and it makes Mike's eyes widen. Brave and Wise, their first attempt at a comic, hand-written in his messy scrawl and filled with Will's illustrations. Even then, they were amazing, far beyond what other ten-year-olds could do. The adventures of the Paladin and the Cleric, forever intertwined.

"Uh, yeah, it should be around here somewhere," Mike says, more breath than voice. "I can't believe you remember that."

Will's cheeks are flushed. "Of course I do."

There's a pause, something heavy hanging in the air, and Will clears his throat. "When you say around here, do you mean the stack of papers in your closet? I can–"

"No!" Mike yelps. He's out of bed before he can stop himself, his pajamas as messy as his hair must be. He stumbles toward the closet, nearly tripping three separate times in the few feet it takes, but he's running on pure, instinctive panic. 

Will looks at him with something like concern, tilting his head in a way that makes him look like a confused puppy.

Cute, Mike thinks, and shakes himself out of it. "It's a mess in there," he explains, jabbing a thumb in the closet's direction. "I'll sort it out myself." He clears his throat. "Thanks, for, uh. For the Kit-Kat. I'll meet you downstairs, yeah?"

Will nods again, a bit unsure, but he complies. He pulls the door closed on his way out, and it feels like yet another thing unspoken between them. Mike's entire body slumps with relief and embarrassment and something else entirely, something he can't bring himself to look too closely at just yet. 

He moves to the closet, picking out a pair of jeans and one of his less-scratchy sweaters before turning to the papers. Will wasn't wrong; their old comic projects are buried somewhere in here, hidden by old photos and faded letters with Love, Mike scrawled on the edge of the page. Underneath it all, there it sits: Brave and Wise, with its crayon cover and its smudged handwriting. 

It looks terrible. Mike smiles so hard that his cheeks hurt with it.

He tucks it under his arm and bounds down the stairs, accepting his mother's cooing and cheek kisses with much less fuss than he normally would. Bacon sizzles on the stove, and that smell mixed with her sickly floral perfume is enough to make him wince as he pulls away.

"Will's in the basement," she offers. "And breakfast should be done in a few." She gives him a knowing smile, sending him off with one more pat on the cheek before turning back to the stove.

All in all, not their least pleasant interaction. Mike counts it as a win.

The basement stairs are as creaky as they ever were, alerting Will to his presence a full ten seconds before Mike himself would have. A stream of muffled curses follows, but when Mike reaches the bottom of the stairs, he forgets all about it. 

Will's on his tip-toes, trying and failing to hang streamers – not his first attempt, if the pieces of tape on the ceiling are any indicator – but drops the roll when he hears Mike. It bounces across the floor, leaving a trail of blue in its wake, but Will makes no moves to grab it. Instead, he lets it unwind, like there's no point in doing anything else. 

"That was fast," Will says, blinking owlishly up at him. 

Mike leans against the railing. "I was motivated." He pulls the comic out from under his arm, waving it around. "We've got work to do."

He moves to the D&D table, which is mostly cleared of their old campaign notes, and sets the comic down on it. Will follows, but he hovers, like he's not quite sure where his place is.

His place is next to me, Mike thinks. It always has been. 

But he's not Mike the Brave, so he doesn't say it out loud. He just moves closer to Will, and that's enough for now.

"I know this isn't what you were planning on," Will says. When Mike looks over, Will seems… nervous, almost, and he's tugging at his sleeves like they can hide him from the world. "We can try to call the rest of the Party, but–"

Mike cuts him off. "They won't answer," he says, and it's truthful despite the way it stings. It's silly, to be hurt over a birthday, especially given the state of things. His friends are hurting. Max is in a coma. Eddie's dead – he'll never have another birthday. Mike should be grateful for what he gets. 

When what he gets is Will looking at him like that, it's easy to find the good in things. Mike takes a breath before continuing. "And that's fine! I understand, with everything. I mean, I have you, right?"

Will's expression is nothing short of startled, and it breaks Mike's heart. "Yeah. Always."

Always. It's a nice word. It might be Mike's new favorite.

He nudges Will with an elbow, letting them brush for longer than necessary. "Then let's start a new party. You and me. The others are awesome, but we're different." He gestures at the comic on the table, at the Paladin and the Cleric with their hands intertwined. "We can just… hang out here, playing games for the rest of our lives, and I'd be happy."

The silence that follows is deafening, and Mike's beginning to think he did something wrong when he's engulfed in a hug. 

Will presses his face into Mike's neck, his arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. "Happy birthday, Mike," he says, his voice oddly thick. When he pulls back, his eyes are glossy, and Mike can feel his own following suit.

There's something buzzing under his skin, and he can't get it out. With Will's arms around him, it's worse than it's ever been. Mike can't breathe. He can't even think, so he pulls away, but the loss of contact makes it even stronger.

He opens his mouth – to say what, he doesn't know – when the basement door opens, followed by Holly's shrill cry of "Breakfast!"

The two of them jump away as if burned, and if Mike didn't know better, he'd think Will was blushing. He hooks a thumb towards the stairs. "Should we–"

Will clears his throat. "Yup."

And despite the awkward air that surrounds them, it's the happiest Mike's been in a long, long time.

APRIL 7, 2001 - 30

Mike wakes up to the pinch of tiny claws in his arm, yanking him from his dream before he can get his hands on Will. 

It had been such a good dream, too. He couldn't remember the context, only that Will was spread across their bed wearing nothing but a bow, and— 

An impatient yowl reminds him why he was woken up in the first place. Mike groans, letting his head fall back against his pillow. Bronksi butts his little orange head against Mike's hand, and he relents. Mike scratches between the cat's ears until he's content, trotting away with his tail held high. Smug bastard. He does it on purpose, Mike knows he does. Will would say he's being dramatic, but Mike has known that cat since he found him in a cardboard box. He's a little gremlin.

But gremlin or not, Bronksi has woken him up for the day, and Mike sighs. The air is cold in the way spring mornings often are, the kind of chill that melts away as the sun gets higher. It's at odds with the warmth in Mike's chest, but he doesn't mind.

He feels around the nightstand for his glasses, slipping them on his face before he begins the treacherous ordeal of getting ready for the day. It's a thankless task, particularly lonely without Will by his side, and fine, maybe he's being a little dramatic. 

The walk to the kitchen seems impossibly long, and it's not helped by the way the floor is cold under Mike's feet. He frowns. Maybe they should check the thermostat. Will needs it warmer than this. 

Speaking of Will, Mike watches him bustle around the kitchen with his back to the entryway, pulling containers out of brown paper bags and humming as he plates them up. 

He tries to be as quiet as he can, but Will's finely attuned to his every movement. Mike sees the second Will registers his presence; his face is hidden, but the way his shoulders relax is unmistakable. 

"Thought you'd sleep in a bit more," Will says, going back to his work. 

Mike pads over to where he stands, looping his arms around his waist. Will leans into the contact, and Mike takes the opportunity to hook his chin over his shoulder. 

Will reaches up to scratch at Mike's hair, ruffling it fondly before returning to the food. It's a decent spread – pancakes and bacon and hashbrowns, all sealed in takeout containers. Mike hides his smile in Will's shoulder, breathing in the smell of mornings and breakfast and Will.

"Nice meal there, Chef Byers." He nuzzles the side of Will's neck, pressing his lips to the skin. 

He can feel more than see Will's eye roll, but ignores it in favor of mapping each of Will's moles with his tongue.

"I didn't cook anything."

"Wasn't talking about the food." Mike nips at his skin, earning a swat on the arm.

Will snorts. "You should be in bed."

"Yes," Mike says. He bites down at the crook of Will's neck and shoulder, letting his teeth sink in before he soothes the skin with his tongue. "I should, but I woke up and my husband was gone, so I had to find him."

The words have the same effect on Will that they always have: he practically melts, twisting his head around to give Mike a chaste peck on the lips. Mike chases after him, but Will pulls away. "Well, he was trying to do his husbandly duties, but someone's making it difficult."

It makes Mike just as weak in the knees. Their marriage isn't a legal one, but it's just as binding in all the ways that count. One day it might be different, but for now, they have this, and who needs a piece of paper, anyway?

He presses one more kiss to the side of Will's face before pulling back, taking in the rest of the kitchen. He's been distracted, but the food really does look great. Will's arranged it onto plates, and there's a fresh bunch of flowers on their table. They're blue and yellow ones that he can't pretend to know the names of, only that their petals shine in the sun, a pop of color that's quickly hidden by a lump of gray fur.

Bowie swats at the flowers with one paw, not dissimilarly to the way his brother did to Mike not half an hour ago. Mike darts over to the table, scooping the cat up before he can do any lasting damage. He sighs, turning Bowie's little face towards his own. "You're supposed to be the good one."

The cat just bats his wide, innocent eyes and meows in reply, though it’s barely audible over the sound of Will's laughter. 

He helps set out the plates, both piled high with pancakes. 

"No waffles?" he teases, pinching Will's side.

Will squirms at the touch, but doesn't pull away. "Nope," he says, scrunching his nose at the thought. "We've had enough waffles to last us a lifetime."

Mike laughs. He does that a lot, lately.

The food is great – Will's worked some sort of magic to keep it warm, despite his insistence that his powers died when the Mind Flayer did, and the blueberry pancakes practically melt in his mouth. They could sit there all day and do nothing but eat, and he'd be happy, but they have plans.

"So what time do we have to leave?" Mike asks around a mouthful of food.

Will grimaces. "Don't talk with your mouth full, Mike. It's gross. And noon."

Mike swallows, and Will continues. "I think we're mostly packed, we just need to grab the toothbrushes and stuff. And I need to water the plants one more time before we go, but other than that, we're all set."

He looks adorable, with his nose scrunched up as he ticks things off on his fingers, and Mike can't help the affection that rushes through him. Every day, he thinks he can't possibly fall more in love, but every day, he's proven wrong.

They finish their meal in silence, the kind of comfortable quiet that comes with being around someone you love so dearly. There's no pressure to be entertaining; their presence is enough. God, how did he get this lucky? 

"–ike? Mike," Will says, giving him an exasperated look. "Seriously?"

"What?" Mike says, dropping his fork. 

“Were you even listening?”

"Of course!” Mike doesn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears, but Will doesn’t call him out on it, so he continues. “Leaing. Noon. We're pretty much ready, right?"

Will looks skeptical. "Yes," he says, low and drawn-out. "Why?"

"So, we've got a few more hours to kill and nothing to do with them."

"Oh?" Will asks. A smile stretches at his lips, warm and teasing. "What are you suggesting?"

Mike stands, almost sending his plate clattering to the floor. He grabs his dishes and stacks Will's on top of them, pushing through to the kitchen and dumping them unceremoniously in the sink. 

"Be careful with those," Will says, following a few feet behind.

Mike doesn't answer. He doesn't hear much of anything beyond the buzzing in his ears, and the plates are the least of his worries right now. Instead, he whirls around, his arms caging Will against the countertop. "So, I had this dream…" he trails off, lost in hazel eyes and long, dark lashes.

"And? Tell me about it."

He swallows around the lump in his throat, and the air seems hotter than it was a second ago. Mike pulls back, and Will follows. He always does, but he shouldn't have to, and Mike makes the split-second decision to pick him up.

"Mike!" he yelps, scrambling for purchase. He ends up with his arms around Mike's neck and his legs around Mike's waist, and the lightness in Mike's chest threatens to swallow him whole. 

Mike doesn't answer that, either, opting instead to move them towards their bedroom. It's thankfully not far – he's stronger than he used to be, but he doesn't have unlimited stamina – and Will laughs the whole way there, stopping only to nip at Mike's earlobe in the way that drives him crazy. 

Will knows this about him, and does it on purpose, because they can do that now. They know each other inside and out, and it's the best thing Mike's ever done.

He tosses Will on the bed, the mattress squeaking beneath the sudden weight. He looks up, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with wanting, and Mike nearly loses his breath.

Happy birthday to me, he thinks, and kicks the door shut behind him.

– 

The drive to the lakehouse is a relatively peaceful one, especially in the absence of two fluffy menaces.

"Do you think Mrs. Wentworth remembers where the key is?" Will asks, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on his leg. Mike's eyes are torn between him and the road in front of them, but the road's never been quite as captivating. 

"I'm sure she's fine." Their neighbor isn't much older than Joyce and Hopper, but Will frets about her like she's pushing ninety. He's always checking on her and carrying her groceries and all the wonderful gentlemanly things that have most elderly women cooing and saying you'll make some woman very happy one day. Mrs. Wentworth just gives him a pat on the cheek and winks in Mike's direction. He's quite fond of her, all things considered.

So is Will, obviously, but that doesn't stop him from worrying. "Did you tell her where the meds are? Bowie's not used to being without us, he'll be anxious. Plus there's supposed to be storms–"

"Will!" Mike interrupts. He's aiming for seriousness, but he can't help the laugh that bubbles up. "She's fine. The cats will be fine. Hell, even the plants will be fine. It's all good, okay?"

Will relaxes. "Yeah. Yeah, no, you're right. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Mike reaches over to lace their fingers together. He brings their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of Will's knuckles. "Love you."

"Love you too. Even though your music sucks."

"Excuse me?!"

Will shrugs. "Sorry. I promised never to lie to you, remember? Honesty, even when it hurts. It was in the vows and everything."

Mike scoffs, even though the mention of vows and weddings has him going all mushy again. "I want a divorce."

"You want to raise our children in a broken home?"

"We can take one each. I call Bowie."

Will's voice is tinged with the edge of laughter, like he's barely containing himself. "They'll grow up and Parent Trap us."

"Of course they will," Mike says. "And it'll work way faster than the movie did. I'd fall in love as soon as I saw you again."

Mike feels a tap on the back of his hand, then another. A short one, a long one, two more shorts. Long, short, long, long. ILY.

"I love you too," Mike grumbles. "Change the music before I change my mind."

–

The rest of the drive is fairly straightforward – it's just under three hours. Three hours trapped with Will is nothing to complain about; hell, there were times he used to pray for that to happen.

If that Mike could see him now, current Mike thinks he'd be happy for him. Or his head would explode. Or both. Probably both.

Mike sees Max's car before anything else, and he lets out the long-suffering groan that he's sure Will expects from him, and it mirrors the one Max is going to give right back. It's seconds before the door to the lakehouse opens and the she-devil herself pops out, clearly having been waiting for their arrival.

She waves at them with the arm that isn't pushing her wheelchair. Lucas is a few steps behind her, and both of them move far quicker than expected. Will hasn't set a foot out of the car yet when Lucas barrels into him, engulfing him in a hug so tight that it causes Will to make a weird squeaking sound. "Byers!" he shouts, loud enough to make them both wince. "And Wheeler too, I guess."

There's no malice behind his words, just amusement. Still, Mike flips him off, and Max moves around to the other end of the car. "Happy birthday, loser. Get down here."

Mike obliges, leaning down to give her a hug. She squeezes back, and it's comfortable despite the odd angle. "Thanks, Mayfield."

"Sinclair, actually."

"Oh, well if we're doing married names–"

A loud, over-emphasized ahem cuts them off. Will gives the pair of them a knowing look, but Lucas just laughs. "Damn, it's good to have company that isn't a dog, a pair of toddlers, or our parents."

Mike takes their bags, guiding the rest of them towards the door like he's herding cattle. "Are the Terrible Twos not treating you well?"

"Casey's quiet," Lucas says. He holds the door open for Mike, the group of them working in sync to get settled. "She's not that fussy. Alex is… particular."

It's probably the most diplomatic way to say this child is driving me crazy, and Mike can't help but laugh.

Max narrows her eyes at him. "This could be you someday, dipshit." She turns to Will. "You're so lucky you can't get pregnant."

Her deadpan expression makes Mike laugh even harder, until his sides ache with the force of it. "I mean, it's not for lack of trying."

"Ew! Oh my God, gross." Max makes a loud retching sound. "I'm going to the room. I can't do this." 

Mike flops down on the couch, watching as Max and Lucas retreat to their room. The old wooden floor creaks under their weight, and any thoughts of sneaking around are erased from Mike's mind. That's a shame.

They haven't had to sneak around in years – it's amazing, being so open. Sneaking was fun, at times, but he doesn't miss the fear. There was a thrill to almost getting caught, but Mike finds himself missing it less than he expected. The thrill's grown into something steadier, hardening into permanence.

Permanence. It's better than he could have imagined.

Someone from behind him cards a hand through his hair, and Mike leans into Will's touch. The hand moves down to cradle his jaw, and Mike grabs at the wrist. He tilts Will's hand, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm before letting him go. 

"I'm gonna bring the rest of our stuff in," Will explains. "Get unpacked, and all. Why don't you get some rest? You must be tired after all that driving."

He is tired, actually, and not just from the driving. Will's voice is a perfect lullaby, and their single point of contact has Mike melting into the cushions. 

Will pulls his hand away, and Mike whines. The loss of contact aches, but it makes Will laugh, and that's worth it. "I'll wake you up when we're done, okay?"

Mike nods, and it's the last thing he remembers before drifting off.

—

He wakes up to a dull thud, like a blunt object repeatedly hitting a surface. Mike sits up slowly, letting the blanket someone's thrown over him slide down into his lap. The sky's a rich shade of pink, so it's a few hours later, and Mike feels a sting of irritation that nobody thought to wake him. 

Another thud echoes through the quiet. It's not as consistent as the first few, but it's no less loud.

Mike pauses, looking around at the empty room. "Guys?"

Thud.

That one is easier to place – it's coming from the window. Mike frowns, standing from the couch to head towards it. "Will?" He calls out again, but there's no answer. "Max? Lucas?"

Thud.

Well, shit. This turned into a horror movie, and now Mike is going to be the first one to die, because of course he is. He's prime First Victim material. Why did he agree to this? A lakehouse in the middle of nowhere. Jesus, they're stupid.

He opens his mouth to call out for Will again, but stops in his tracks. At some point during his spiral, the thuds had stopped. Maybe he imagined them.

Something bumps against his shoulder, and he screams. 

Mike scrambles back, nearly tripping over his own feet, but the fear quickly dissipates in the face of his friends' laughter.

Max is practically doubled over, and Lucas is not much more coherent. Will and Dustin – because Dustin had arrived somewhere in the chaos, apparently – are doing a better job of hiding their smiles, but a few chuckles escape their general direction. 

In the middle of it all is Jane, wiping blood from her nose. "Surprise!" she says, far too chipper for someone who just took years off of his life.

Mike looks down at the ground, where Chewie's squeaky duck toy lays discarded at his feet, and back up at Jane. "Oh, screw you."

She giggles, stepping over the other discarded toys to give him a hug. "Happy birthday."

"It was, until someone scared me half to death."

Jane pinches his cheek, and he swats her hand away. She looks far more well-rested than either Lucas or Max do, and her cheeks are already sun-kissed, despite it only being early April. Dustin looks just as well, but not as tanned, seeing the sun far less often from his lab. 

"You've gotten soft in your old age," Max says, once she's finally caught her breath. "God, you should've seen your face."

Mike doesn't dignify her with a response. "It's good to see you guys."

Once they start talking, it's impossible to stop, and it's not long before they've migrated to the back porch. 

The fire pit crackles almost as loud as the cicadas, but both of those pale in comparison to the voices ringing through the evening air. 

Mike thinks they'd been reminiscing at some point, but that was a few beers ago. Something about Chance from high school and wedding invitations, because that’s what they do now. They go to each other’s weddings, not their basketball games.

Not that he’d go to Chance’s wedding, though, no matter how cool and trendy his fiancé apparently is, but they’d moved on before Mike could voice that opinion.

He's definitely lost track of the conversation by now, but with Will tucked into his side, he finds it hard to care.

"One of the college parties I got called to was playing nothing but Chumbawamba," Lucas says. "This girl told the dispatcher that she lost her legs, and I guess she sounded hysterical enough that they believed her. We get there with the full ambulance setup, because we're afraid she's bleeding out, and it turns out she was just hopped up on shrooms."

Dustin shrugs. "Did no one think to ask before they sent the entire fire department?"

"I'm an EMT, not an interrogator–"

"I'm just saying, this could've been avoided!"

While they're bickering, Mike feels something move against his side, and he turns to find Will shaking with suppressed laughter. He wraps his arm tighter around Will's shoulders and pulls him as close as he can manage, until they're practically sharing the same air.

Will looks beautiful when he's happy, and he looks even more beautiful bathed in firelight. There's a glow around him that's only partially due to the flames, and there's that peaceful, contented look on his face that Mike wants to keep there forever.

He doesn't know how long he stares, only that a loud, exasperated groan brings him back to the conversation. 

When he looks back at their friends, Max is waving her arms around, almost hitting Lucas in the face. She's half-in his lap, so her gesturing is a bit of a hazard, but Lucas looks like there's no place he'd rather be. Somehow they've gone from high college kids to toddlers, which isn't the craziest leap Mike's ever heard.

"And then Alex decided that I apparently wasn't enough for him, and he wouldn't stop crying until Chewie came over and sat with him. He's obsessed with that dog."

Mike takes a sip of his beer. It tastes like summertime and the contentment that comes with days like these, and it sends a warmth through him that has nothing to do with the alcohol. 

"One of my students tried to bring their dog in for show and tell," Jane says. Her eyes crinkle at the corners the way they always do when she talks about school, and Mike feels a rush of fondness for her. They've all grown into great people, and they're doing amazing things, and okay, maybe the alcohol is getting to him a bit.

"I can't imagine that went over well with the parents," Will says. 

Jane shakes her head. "It did not. He made it all the way to the bus stop before they caught him."

She leaps into another story from her kindergarten class, and Mike's heart squeezes. They all meet up at least once or twice a month, and call even more regularly than that, but having them all together with no deadlines and nowhere else to be is… nostalgic, to say the least. 

Life has changed so much. They've all changed so much, but they're still together. 

"I wish I could just take a picture of us like this and live in it," Mike says, less eloquently than he would like. It doesn't make it any less true.

Next to him, Will shifts in his seat. Jane and Dustin look at him with wide, expectant eyes, while Lucas and Max fail to hide their smiles. 

Mike sits up straight. "What?" 

It wasn't that weird, right?

Will shakes his head. "Should we head inside? We've got cake, somewhere."

That doesn't answer Mike's question, but when Will moves to stand, he follows. He'll always follow Will.

Will tugs him towards the door, letting the others deal with the remains of the fire pit. He keeps pulling until Mike's standing in front of the couch again, and pushes gently on his shoulders to force him down. 

Mike blinks up at him. "Yes?"

"We got something for you."

Of all the possibilities, Mike wasn't expecting that one. We most likely means Will, and Will shouldn't have gotten him anything.

"I thought we said no big presents?" Mike asks. "House hunting isn't cheap."

Will shrugs. "It's not a big present. Plus, it's not from me, it's from everyone." 

Someone clears their throat from behind the couch. When Mike turns to look, he's greeted with one of his favorite sights in the world: all of his friends, all together, with wide smiles and no danger in sight. Jane's got a book clasped in her hands, and she places it in Mike's open arms. 

He looks down. 

The cover says MIKE, in big letters painted on a blue background. There's swirls and stars and hearts, and Mike would recognize Will's brushstrokes anywhere. 

"What is this?" he asks, but gets no answer. Will just nods down at the book again, and Mike opens it.

For Mike, the inside cover reads, short and simple. Celebrating thirty years of you. His breath hitches as realization dawns on him, and he turns the page with trembling hands.

In the scrapbook is every memory he has – or what seems like it, at least. 

It starts with baby pictures. Mike in his mother's arms, Mike learning to walk, toddler Mike with his arms around a preschool-aged Nancy. Mike on his first birthday, and his second, and every birthday after that.

Mike's first birthday after meeting Will, smiling a gap-toothed smile with a paper birthday hat on his head. 

Present-day Mike laughs, thumbing the picture. They were so little. They had no idea what was coming for them. 

His seventh birthday brings Lucas into the pictures, Dustin by his ninth, Max and Jane at his fourteenth. That one's a bit awkward, with the way he's wrapped around Jane like a boa constrictor, but they can laugh about it now. The this is so weird to look at! written in the top corner in her handwriting seems to agree, at least.

Fourteen to sixteen are sparse. There wasn't much time for celebrating during the end of the world, but there are some snapshots of tight smiles and birthday candles nonetheless.

There's Mike on his twenty-first birthday, hunched over a toilet while Will rubs his back, Max putting bunny ears on both of them for the camera. The picture next to it is a closer shot of Mike's face, his eyes half-lidded and smeared with silver glitter. 

Then there's his twenty-fifth, when Will kicked their asses at laser tag. He's sheepishly smiling, Lucas and Dustin clapping him on the shoulder, with Team Yellow Victory! scrawled in marker on the corner. One picture shows a big brown dog with his snout covered in frosting, the 2 candle on the floor while the 7 candle hangs out of his mouth. 

It's not just birthdays, though; it's Mike's entire life. Old school projects. The six of them at their high school graduation. College polaroids and Will's sketches, old receipts from date nights and handwritten notes from everyone he's ever loved. 

We love you! from his mom, Happy Birthday in Nancy's looping cursive, even a Here's to 30! from Steve of all people. It's everyone from every corner of the country, some written directly into the book and some cut out from letters, but they're all there, and they all did this for him.

Mike doesn't realize he's crying until he feels a pair of hands on his cheeks, wiping away the tears that stream down. Will's staring at him with that fond, lovesick smile that seems to live on his face these days, his expression devoid of any worry. 

"You like it?" he asks.

Mike laughs, thick and watery. "Was this your idea?"

Lucas walks over, ruffling Will's hair. He swats at him, but Lucas simply grins. "Of course it was. He's the artist here, after all."

His vision is blurry, but Mike is acutely aware of when Will sits down next to him. He's adapted a sixth sense over the years; it's like his body is fine-tuned to every breath Will takes. 

Will hardly has the time to sit down before Mike is on him, crushing their lips together in a way that's as familiar as breathing. There are a few whoops and wolf whistles from their friends, but Mike pays them no mind: what matters now is Will, pinned to the cushions by Mike's weight, moving against him like it's what he was born to do.

Will's hands snake their way through his hair, giving it a short tug that has Mike whining into his mouth. Mike's eyes roll back, and he nips at Will's lower lip, only coming up for breath when a sharp whistle splits the air.

"All right!" Max calls out, though her tone is playful. She puts her hands on her hips, giving them the same look she did when they were eighteen and got too handsy at a college party. "That's enough of that, thank you very much."

Mike pulls back with no small amount of reluctance, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to lean back in when he sees Will's face. 

Even after all these years of being together, Will still gets this dazed, dopey look on his face after kissing him. He calls it lovestruck. Mike calls it being kissed stupid.

Either way, it's adorable, and if Dustin didn't make a point of clearing his throat, Mike would have gone back for more. Will scoots back under Mike's arm, letting it rest across his shoulders, and the rest of the group goes back to their own conversations.

God, he's happy. There was a time that he never thought he would be. He wishes that he could go back and tell thirteen-year-old Mike that it would turn out okay, that there's nothing wrong with him, and he's not broken. The memories hurt less than they used to, but they'll always sting.

But he's not thirteen anymore, he's thirty, and he survived. Mike looks around the lakehouse, where Lucas and Jane are attempting to get the record player working, and Dustin and Max are bickering over who messed up the cake's frosting. He looks at Will, tucked under his arm, and smiles.

"Good birthday?" Will asks, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction. 

Mike presses a kiss to the side of his head. "The best."

The so far is unspoken, but it's true. There's dozens more birthdays to come, and Mike can't wait to live through them.