Chapter Text
Mike's leg had almost healed by now, but Will had learned throughout this prolonged-end-of-the-world situation that when one injury faded, another one typically came to take its place.
This wasn't exactly why Steve was nursing a bruised jaw, but the pattern fit nonetheless.
"I didn't want him to actually punch you," Will groaned, head in his hands.
"I deserved it," said Steve, shrugging. He pressed an icepack against his nose, now steadily turning purple. Behind him, Jonathan sat on the Wheeler's porch swing, looking not exactly smug but not quite guilty, either; he ran a hand over his knuckles, blooming red from the rush of socking Steve in the jaw.
Will had braced himself for the worst when Steve had knocked on the Wheeler's front door, asking for Jonathan with a crack in his voice and a nervous swallow. He didn't want Steve to get defensive and refuse to apologize, and he didn't want Jonathan to get all cold and walk out on Steve before he could get a chance to speak, but he'd seen that as a best case scenario. Will had prepared himself for anything, from an awkward fist-bump to a front porch bloodbath.
He'd been prepared when he walked out and saw Steve reeling from Jonathan's swing. He had not been prepared when Jonathan told him Steve asked for it.
"There's something seriously wrong with him," said Jonathan, leaning over to talk to Will. "Like, man, I said no— multiple times, seriously— but he just kept asking. It was weird."
Will shrugged, sitting down on the porch swing. "He's making up for being a douche," he said. "In his, uh, own way."
At that, Steve's eared perked up; he walked over to the porch swing, sitting close enough to Jonathan to brush his elbow. "Did it work?"
"Give me another swing, and we'll see," and Steve actually took the ice pack off his face, and Jonathan panicked, backtracking— "shit, man, I'm joking. We're, uh— good. We're good."
"Good," said Steve. They lapsed into silence, not exacly uncomfortable but not quite normal, either. To be fair, this whole morning had felt like a fever dream, so normal wasn't really on Will's mind right now.
He'd woken up late, which already made the day feel unreal when he usually got up at dawn. Afternoon sun streamed through the basement door, shining on a Will covered in blankets (he'd scrounged them up in an attempt at comfort, like the previous night would disappear if he buried it in enought weight) and puffy-eyed from tears he didn't really want to admit to. After remembering that he was, in fact, living in Mike Wheeler's house, Will buried himself further in his blankets until Jonathan had shook him awake— Will? Will, hey, wake up, we can talk over breakfast— and bribed him with pancakes in an attempt at getting him to talk. The house was empty, Wheeler-free (no Mike, surprisingly, when he typically slept in until noon), and filled with the tense, strange silence that came from inhabiting someone else's barren home.
Steve actually doing what Will asked made the morning even stranger. Seeing him and Jonathan together made Will feel weird, like some fundamental law of the universe had been broken. Maybe he felt that way because he'd never lived in a world where two-car-garage rich deigned to hang out with broken-down-Pinto poor, but Steve wasn't the type to flaunt his leather car seats anymore, so maybe there were exceptions to the rule.
They could be friends, he thought. Opposites attract, or whatever.
The silence was broken by the creaking of the porch swing; Jonathan had gotten up, heading for the door. "I made pancakes," he said, turning to Steve. "There's leftovers. Want some?"
He and Steve stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Steve blinked hard, almost stunned. "I— uh," he started, "you— okay. Sure."
"It's just pancakes," said Jonathan. "Chill." His mouth quriked into a small smile as he turned away, slipping into the Wheeler house and shutting the door behind him.
A pancake peace offering. Jonathan had always been the cook of his family— Will was the baby, shuffled away from the stove, and their mom could burn water given a pot and a flame— and he usually resolved arguments over breakfast. It might've worked with Steve, but Will's stomach was churning too hard to eat.
Last night sat in his stomach like a stone. He'd been close to figuring Mike out— close to letting himself want Mike, just for the sake of letting himself feel— and then Mike had trampled over the worst of his emotions like dirt under his feet. Remember Castle Byers? Remember how I told you everything we'd built together was stupid, because we're all grown up and you can't be grown up and happy, too? Remember how you always felt safe there? Remember how I destroyed that safety with nothing more than a word?
Every word made Will feel like he was drowning. He'd been brought right back to that night, its black sky and relentless rain, the way rainwater had pooled in his eyes and snuck its way into his mouth, mixing with the salt of his tears and the blood that came from biting his tongue. He'd choked on rainwater and spit and all those unsaid words, then, holding back that retort of it is your fault by worrying his tongue between his teeth until he'd made a callus on the skin.
For weeks afterward, he'd run his teeth over his tongue to bring back that snap of pain. It was a reminder of the moment Mike's words had slammed into his chest, how it felt to have all the breath knocked from his lungs like Mike had held him underwater.
The wound from this time was fresh, raw, a split open scar. Will was tired of biting his tongue, but at least the hurt was familiar.
"You're chewing on your cheek," said Steve. "Jonathan would cook the whole fridge for you if you're hungry, man."
Will shook himself. "I— sorry. Didn't sleep well," he murmured, turning away. Looking Steve in the eye sounded fine, until he remembered those tentative words of he really cares about you, doesn't he?
"Yeah." Steve's voice was all tentative again, careful and slow. He turned away, glancing out to the sun-warmed lawn, where Will and Mike used to flip through comics until the sky went dark. "I wouldn't, either."
He understood why Mike wanted to bring Castle Byers back. The world was ending, however slowly, and wouldn't anyone want a comfort to cling to before they died? He understood why a drunk Mike would reminisce about it, because back then— before Will had grown up and gained those wild, untameable feelings instead of a brain, before Mike had grown up and gained everything Will hadn't— all the good things were easy with them.
Now, when it came to him and Mike, everything was easy. It was easy for him to get lost in Mike, and it was easy for Mike to get lost in figuring Will out, twisting them back to the way they were before with grit teeth and force, wondering why they couldn't be kids again when he was the one who grew up.
Will understood, but Castle Byers was gone. Nothing could twist them back to the way they were before.
A deep breath from Steve startled Will out of his thoughts. Will looked him over, watching the way Steve's mouth twitched into a frown.
"Mike's a real jerk," he said. Each word came out slow and deliberate, like he'd thought this sentence over many times before. Will had, too, and it usually came out fast and choked, shaky with tears instead of careful consideration.
The statement felt like a hit to the chest. He knew people had thought it before— Jonathan, especially, after all he'd seen Mike put his brother through— but no one had ever said it out loud, not to him. As sudden and breath-taking as it felt, those words were a weight off his shoulders, too; hearing someone acknowledge it made Will feel like he wasn't a horrible person for thinking it, too. "Takes one to know one," said Will. There was no malice in his voice, and Steve knew.
He snorted. "Yeah." They lapsed into silence again. The only noise in the air was the creaking of the porch swing as a humid breeze pushed it back and forth. A storm was coming; Will could feel it in the air.
"I, uh— you know," said Steve, all slow and deliberate again, "there's something I could tell you that might make you feel better. If you want to hear it."
The sky was still blue, but dark clouds were creeping in, dulling the day. Will traced the shapes of the clouds with his eyes, answering Steve as an afterthought. "I— sure, I guess."
One of the clouds looked like a heart. "Well," Steve said, "I, uh— I have this friend, right? Kind of like Mike, actually."
"Who?" Will knew all of Steve's friends, because they were his friends. And at least three years Steve's junior.
"I can't say," said Steve, smiling a little. Whoever this friend was, he looked fond of them, and that already narrowed it down to Robin or Dustin. "They, uh— they really like someone. And, well—"
Oh. Will didn't like where this was going.
"They'd be perfect for her," he continued. Will tensed in his seat. "But they can't get the words out, you know? Every time they try, they mess up, or freeze and stop speaking entirely, or start rambling until they've dug themselves into a hole."
Slowly, Will edged off the porch swing. He wanted to trust Steve, but a part of him would always tense when things like this came up, twitchy like a rabbit at the first sign of danger. Part of him would always want to run. "Like Mike?"
"Like Mike," Steve affirmed. "Mike's dug himself into a deeper hole than Rob—" and he choked, face going scarlet— "my friend ever has, though. He's really fucked himself. Like, ten-foot deep grave sort of fucked." He laughed, drily. Will went along, his own laugh clipped and humorless.
It wouldn't matter how deep Mike dug his grave, because Will would always pull him out. Will was weak, and he was stupid, and he would always be vulnerable enough to forgive Mike until he fell into that hole with him. "Yeah."
"I don't know what Castle Byers is," said Steve. "I don't know what it meant to you, or to him, but I think I know what he means to you. Am I, uh— getting this right?"
Two options laid in front of Will. He could run, or he could stand up and face the fear. He could let his pounding, twisting heart win and flee to the Wheeler's basement, where his drawings were strung up on the walls and traces of Mike existed in every crevice, or he could tell Steve that no one had ever said these things out loud to him before. He could run into an entirely different fear, the one where he forever felt like he was drowning at the mention of Mike, or he could get a bit of air and say—
"Yeah." Will laid his hand on the porch swing, holding the wood in a tight grip. He wasn't going anywhere. "How'd you know?"
"I have a very smart friend," said Steve, smiling. "She taught me the signs. Prolonged, sad looks, the way Mike spoke to you in that soft voice, how you fight like nothing matters but the two of you— it's textbook, man. Not to mention the electricity."
Will tilted his head. "Electricity?"
"Electricity," he confirmed. "Like how it feels before a storm, you know? The air's all charged and— heavy. That's when you know it's time to make your move, except you two have probably had that electricity for years, and you've done nothing."
How it feels before a storm. He and Mike were always on the verge of a deluge, it seemed. "It's different," he said, "with us. Making a move isn't something I can do. I can't—" and he swallowed back a choked noise, hand tightening on the swing, "I can't say anything to anyone. I can't do anything."
"You already are." Steve set a hand on his shoulder, gently. He kept it there as Will turned to look at him, giving him a sturdy pat. It made him feel reassured, strangely. "You, uh— you're really brave, dude. For— telling me. Especially since you thought I was a rich douchebag three days ago."
The first person Will had come out to was Steve Harrington. On the list of things Will had considered possible, this was right below Vecna disappearing and letting their lives all go back to normal.
His heart felt a little lighter, now. He'd always have to live with the weight of being this way, how he could never be himself in front of the world, but at least there was someone to share that weight with him. Even if that person was, again, Steve Harrington.
"Still rich," said Will. He smiled, slowly, and Steve smiled with him.
"For what it's worth," Steve said, giving Will another encouraging pat on the back, "I think that Wheeler kid is head over heels for you. Textbook smitten. I bet that Tears for Fears song plays in his head when he looks at you."
Will raised an eyebrow. "And you know textbook smitten how?"
A storm was encroaching on the horizon, but for now, the air felt light, filled with Steve's affronted spluttering and Will's barely-restrained laugh. "Fuck off," said Steve, shoving him lightly. "I have game, okay? It's just been— put on hold," he finished, trailing off with a weak sigh.
The door swung open, creaking on its hinges. "Steve has game," said Jonathan, drily. "Are we talking about the real world, or some new alternate dimension?"
"What the fuck, man," he said, throwing his hands up in protest. He didn't seem very offended, actually.
"We ran out of syrup." A plate of pancakes balanced in Jonathan's right hand, a radio in his left. Steve took the plate from his eagerly, nearly picking the pancakes up with his hands until he noticed their accompanying fork. "You two are talking? Really?"
At that, Steve shook his fork at Jonathan, talking through a mouthful of pancake. "Hey! We're not completely incompatible, you know. We, uh— we have things in common."
"Fifteen year old friends, yes," said Jonathan, nodding. "Game, well. . ."
Another offended noise squawked from Steve's mouth, still half-full of pancakes. "It's not my fault that Wheelers stick to Byers like magnets," he muttered, muffled around his next bite. Will's face went hot; if he'd looked in a mirror, he would've found himself going red up to his ears.
The magnetic pull that drew Byers to Wheelers was no news to Jonathan. All he did was raise an eyebrow, glancing between Steve and Will as if to incredulously say you told him?
Will shrugged helplessly, glancing away before he could flush any further. Jonathan shook his head in what Will hoped was mock-disappointment— it wasn't like his brother didn't know about his and Mike's, uh, magnetism, but acknowledging it around Steve before his own brother sure was a choice— and set his radio on the porch table, turning the dial to search for a station. Secretly, Will hoped he found The Squawk, so he could hear Mike's voice without actually having to see him.
"Robin was acting weird last night," said Steve, eyeing the radio. "Promised an extra-special broadcast."
"Something makes me think it'll include three hours of Blondie," Jonathan snorted. But his eyes were strangely focused, like he was searching for something specific instead of flicking through static for just any station.
He narrowed his gaze at the little numbers around the dial, flicking a switch on the radio and turning far past 94.5 FM. Will watched him turn up the frequency, edging closer and closer to the number designated for the Party's channel, pushing past that number and ticking to—
"One-o-clock," said a voice, strained and shaky. "You think he's listening?"
Jonathan's mouth twitched into a thin line. To Will, the voice was too distant to recognize— like whoever was speaking was faced away from the mic— but his brother seemed to dislike the person on principle.
"Yeah, I do." That was Robin; Will could recognize her voice from a mile away. "I really do."
"Okay," and the person took a deep, trembling breath, tremors that made their way through the radio, "okay."
Shuffling noises came through the receiver. Will glanced to Steve, and found his face just as confused as Will's own. When he glanced to Jonathan, his mouth was set in a small frown, but his eyes were happy, Will thought. Wide and crinkled, almost like he was smiling.
The radio crackled, sharp static echoing through the receiver. "Sorry," Mike said, because who else could it have been, whose voice would've dipped and trembled on you think he's listening? exactly like Mike's voice went when he talked to Will, "tripped too close to the mic. I've been told I have the limbs of a baby deer."
Will's heart was alreeady racing. He could feel it pounding against his sternum, steady and hard, like his pulse was trying to escape and run through the radio to reach Mike. All he'd heard was Mike's voice, Mike's soft, shaky voice, and that was enough to have Will just as nervous as Mike sounded now. "Mike?"
"It's a radio broadcast, Will," said Jonathan, squeezing his shoulder. "He can't hear you."
Steve whistled. "A whole broadcast just for you," he said. "Man. What a sap."
A thought came to Will's mind unbidden, of teenage rom-com movies and their love interests carrying a boombox over one shoulder, playing music outside their lover's window to confess their love through whatever song was at the top of the charts. He wouldn't put it past Mike to do that, stupid shutter-glasses and all, but this— whatever this was, a plain apology or a sorry, I can't be friends with someone so in love with me or a sorry, I love you— felt much more intimate, much closer to home.
They'd lived through their private radio channel when they were kids, sharing secrets and stories kept between them and the airwaves. Whatever Mike was about to say, it only made sense to circle back to their beginnings, back to what they grew up on.
"This is Mike Wheeler with The Squawk," he asid, and Will's heart warmed at how brave he sounded, how his voice stopped shaking when he slipped into this reporter persona, "94.5 FM. It's, uh, a little past one, Hawkins is expecting a storm, and my best friend's name is Will Byers."
Will sat alone on the porch. With shared looks, Steve and Jonathan had disappeared into the house together, leaving Will alone. But the air was humid, electricity on the airwaves, and that gentle tension transmitted through the receiver made Will feel anything but alone.
"When we were kids," said Mike, "Will and I played games all the time. It was stupid stuff, you know? Pretending to be knights and dragons, or fighting with sticks on the playground. Playing pretend."
A specific moment stuck out to Will, one of the first times he'd looked at Mike and felt something that made his heart stir; playing swords with sticks on the outskirts of the woods, Mike pushing him down and holding his stick to Will's heart until he surrendered, Will's wild thought of I'd let him run me clean through. A part of him had known how willing he was to let Mike do anything to him since the day they'd met, but he'd only fully realized it on the ground, palms scraping the dirt and eyes wide as he looked onto Mike's wild smile.
"I know this isn't really The Squawk," he said. "I know this is our private channel, and I know it's pretty stupid to talk like it isn't, but— I don't know, I think Will's willing to pretend with me."
He laughed, ringing out quiet but clear. Will smiled, tentatively. "It's easier to get the words out when you're not really saying them. Will knows that. We always spoke to each other in glances, in dumb metaphors and references to Dungeons and Dragons, and— well, we don't do that much anymore. I miss that. I think he does, too."
"It's weird," he continued, "but if I'm not really talking to him, these things feel easier to say. And part of me wants everyone to know, wants to scream these insane feelings from the roof of The Squawk with a fucking megaphone, but I know it's not safe. Not for us."
Will was tired of denial. He was done with pushing away the idea of being loved, done with settling for a life where he couldn't believe something good could happen to him because he was good. He was finished with shoving down those hopeful flickers of what if, what if that stirred in his stomach when Mike's fingers ghosted his skin, or when Mike said something as obvious as it's not safe for us.
It wasn't safe for Mike to love Will (let him be presumptuous, just this once) openly, but Will was willing to hope for a world that would make space for them, one day. One day, Will wanted to think the world would welcome them.
"So I'll pretend," Mike said. "I'll pretend there's an audience out there, waiting with bated breath, sitting around the radio and yelling at me to just spit it out already."
A quiet thump echoed through the radio. Will caught the noise of a chair being dragged, and under that, the twang of a poorly plucked guitar string. "They'll be a little disappointed, though. I, uh— I've got something else in mind," he said. Will could only imagine Mike's face, the soft furrow of his brow and the shadow of his smile. Will wanted to smooth the lines in Mike's brow with his thumb. "Robin helped me a lot, with figuring this out. If I don't credit her, she says she'll dock my pay, which doesn't exist, but— whatever."
A few more chords came through the radio, slow and disjointed. The image of Mike holding his guitar flashed in Will's mind, then, how his mouth would tense in concentration and how his eyelids would flutter closed to the music, and Will wondered how he managed to find new parts of Mike to love with every passing day.
"I did something stupid, a few nights ago." The image of Mike's scarred leg flashed in Will's mind. He swallowed thickly. "Ran into the woods and nearly got myself mauled for a mixtape."
A flash of heat passed through Will, and a small, surprised noise came from his throat. Mike really risked that much for him?
Nervously, Mike laughed, taking in a shuddering breath Will could hear through the radio. "It was worth it, though. Maybe it's stupid, but I'd probably get mauled a million times over for him."
All that risk-taking really was for him. Will glanced to the ground, flushed and smiling.
"Robin told me how music can say things we can't," Mike continued. "Maybe that's why this mixtape Will gave me was full of love songs, and— I don't know, maybe he was trying to say something that wouldn't come out. Maybe I didn't get it. I'm really good at not getting things."
He laughed, drily. "I, uh— I get it now, though. I hope so." Another few chords played through the radio, forming the beginning to a song Will had played enough to wear out the tape. "God. I really hope so."
The chords had stopped, now. The air around Will was still, waiting, holding out until the lyrics came and the storm decided to break. All was silent, save for the shaky breaths coming from the radio and the quiet creak of the porch swing.
"This song," he continued, slowly, "is about being safe in who you are. Who you— you love," he breathed, and Will's heart fluttered wildly, frantic at the way Mike's voice went soft on love. "I think so, at least. It's what Robin told me."
The reason Love My Way had come first on Will's mixtape was because he'd been so desperate for Mike to get it, to understand what it was like to not feel safe in his own skin. He'd played the tape over and over again, rewinding the album to that song in the hopes that maybe its message would sink into his veins and make him a little more comfortable in his body.
It hadn't worked then, but with Mike holding the song in his hands, pinned under guitar strings, it might work now.
"Will and I used to feel safe together." Will's throat felt thick, heavy with emotion. He swallowed hard, balling his hands into fists before all that feeling could leak out of him. "We used to have a place where no one could hurt us. No one except for ourselves, and, uh— well, I'm good at that. Hurting him."
When Will heard that, his heart twisted. He'd forgive Mike forever, because Mike was trying, and in the end, Mike always came back to him. He'd disappeared on Will too many times to count, but Will wanted to be hopeful that he might stop leaving, now. "I think I'm good at making it up to him too, though."
The first few chords of Love My Way drifted through the radio again. "I think," said Mike, and Will could almost hear his smile through the radio, "if he wants to see how I'll make it up to him this time, he should come to Castle Byers." And with that, he took a breath and began to play.
Mike's playing was beautiful and slow, careful yet focused all the same. He played guitar as deliberately as he treated Will, and he sang as softly as he spoke to Will. There was a moment where Will froze at Mike's first line, how shakily he started out on there's an army on the dance floor. . . but by the time he got to my love, Mike's voice was deep and velvety, deliberate and assured. A second of possible insanity washed over Will— as in, the urge to keel over and die at the fact that Mike was singing for him, of all people— before he screwed his head on straight and processed the rest of Mike's words.
Will was on his bike before Mike got to the chorus.
Presumably, biking with one hand on a radio was the sort of thing that got a guy killed in his car. It was a good thing, then, that Will had never been behind the wheel.
The storm above him was about to break. It was that sort of weather where the sun was still shining, but the sky hung overcast, a dark and foreboding omen. Warm sunlight streamed down on Will's back as he shot down the backroad he took to the woods, but the clouds were churning, watching, waiting.
Will knew it would rain, but he thought this would be the sort of storm where the world glowed and glistened like sunlight refracting over water. The sort of storm where the world was still warm, the kind that reminded Will of running in the rain with Mike, hands interlocked and wet, laughing when they couldn't see through the bangs plastered to their skin.
He could only hope he'd make it to Castle Byers in time to shelter his radio. Right now, Mike was still singing, his low voice humming the lines and sending the vibrations of his tone straight to Will's heart. Maybe it was sappy, and maybe Will felt like he was in a scene straight out of a movie— the protagonist rushing to their lover's side after an argument, music crescendoing in the background, all that effort to apologize that always meant true love— but sappy was all Will had hoped for.
He wanted sappy. He wanted cheesy romance, love songs and profound confessions, low looks that meant I love you and forehead kisses and dates in sticky diner booths. He didn't want a movie romance, he wanted something real, but he knew Mike's earnestness would always make things feel a little bit like a movie. Mike loved dramatics, playing DM at all times with his fondness for sweeping hand gestures and the way he'd always try to set the scene like a campaign when he and Will were with, bringing them to some secluded corner and saying we're like stowaways on an orc ship, come on, you have to hide with me!
Of course Mike would want to make a statement. He wasn't over-the-top— and he couldn't be, not in the world they lived in— but he always carried a bit of those Dungon Master dramatics with him, that flair for making things purposeful. Of course Mike would play Will's favorite song, and of course he'd sing in that soft voice exactly how Will liked, and of course he'd rebuild Castle Byers, because he really would do anything for Will.
The dirt road ended abruptly, stopping at the edge of a cluster of pines. Two towering branches raised themselves over Will, arching high and making an entrance into Castle Byers' clearing. Those two pines were the reason Jonathan chose this place to build; they'd been wandering through the woods, adrift and aching after their father had driven off and left them nothing more than his spit on the ground, entirely lost until Will had stepped under the branches and murmured about how the trees looked like the gateway to another world. They'd built Castle Byers in a place that felt like an escape, like it belonged to another universe entirely.
Now, walking through those pines, Will expected to see ruin. He expected rotting boards and waterlogged photographs, dirty drawings and ragged blankets. He expected Mike, sitting in the ruins, looking forlorn and guilty as he strummed his guitar.
In no world, in no universe, did he expect Castle Byers to stand tall again.
His radio crackled with the hum of Mike's guitar. At the same time, low music drifted out of the new doorway to Castle Byers, covered by a worn blanket that fluttered in the breeze. Will turned off the radio and dismounted his bike, letting it fall from his hands as he walked to the door. The sight of Castle Byers standing again put him in a trance, turning him slow and slack-jawed as he drifted closer.
The closer he got, the more memories slammed into him in waves of deja vu. Castle Byers looked so similar, almost exactly like it used to, but little bits of Mike peeked through, shining through the gaps in its walls. It was the same shape, boxy and carefully built, if a little bigger, but there were all these touches that screamed Mike; the blue blanket covering the door, the way he'd reinforced the roof with sheet metal so rain could never leak through again, the little quilt with hearts he had haning from the flagpole instead of the American flag that used to fly there. It made sense for Mike's presence to fill Castle Byers like this; in the end, Will's safe space was always with him.
Guitar strings crescendoed at the end of the chorus, calming down as Mike slowed on the second verse. When the doorway fluttered open, Will saw him fully, and found he could do nothing but stand frozen in the doorway.
"Mike," he breathed, and for a moment, it didn't seem like Mike had heard him. He kept singing, humming the soft lyrics of so swallow all your tears, my love, and put on a new face. . . but on my love, Mike glanced up, meeting Will's eyes with a slow glance. His mouth fell open, and his singing ceased, but his hands kept listlessly strumming on his guitar.
"Will," answered Mike. Will liked how their names fit together so easily, how they belonged to each other. "You really came?"
Standing in front of the doorway, Will might've looked like an apparition, an illusion wavering in and out of focus as the blanket flew back and forth. He stepped inside, gingerly, like one wrong move would send the fort tumbling down.
"Robin was right," he said, in lieu of an answer. "You do have a nice voice."
At Will's words, Mike stood up, pushing away the stool he'd been seated on. Will's voice was trembling, but his words made Mike flush all the same. "You, uh— you didn't hate it?" He'd stopped strumming the guitar, now; all Will could hear was his heavy breathing and the distant sound of thunder. "I sounded kind of stupid," he murmured, glancing away.
There went another thing Will was tired of; Mike not seeing himself for who he really was. "You did it for me," he said. "That's not— God," and emotion was crescendoing in him, too, so loud he could hardly hear his own voice. "It was the best thing you could've done."
"I— wow," Mike breathed, glancing away. "You really think so?"
Will nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I really do."
Silence filled the space around them, warm and buzzing. Will could feel electricity thick in the air, their own personal storm.
A soft noise from Mike broke the quiet. "I hate that I couldn't say it," he said, quietly. "I wish I could've done this years ago, or— I don't know, shown up to your house and told you, or something. I hate that I still can't say it." His voice wobbled, and he swallowed thickly, a choked sound coming from the back of his throat like he was about to cry.
"Really?" Will stepped closer, close enough to where Will could step on Mike's shoes and get on his tiptoes to kiss him. They were close enough for Will to see what Mike wanted to say in his eyes, and for Mike to see what Will wanted in his own.
He gave Mike a look, a tender glance that made Mike duck his head and smile. "I think, whatever it is," he said, slowly, "you've already said it. It's all— here, you know?"
Mike blinked, tilting his head. "What?"
How could he not get it? Love was all around them. Maybe Will was a sap, maybe he was an idiot romantic looking for things that weren't there, but he hoped what he saw was true. The way he'd rebuilt Castle Byers with so much care, how he'd tacked Will's drawings to the walls and set his binder of campaign plans on a cushion, how he'd done all this in a night because he wanted to apologize to Will— it was all filled with love, full to bursting. Will could've held the feeling in his hands, with the way it had dispersed itself into the air.
"You rebuilt Castle Byers for me in a night," he said. "You talked to Jonathan so he'd know to set the radio to our private channel. You're here, singing my favorite song, probably with a hangover—" and at that, Mike laughed, ears turning pink— "and— I don't know, I think that says more than anything you could really say."
"I tried to tell you," said Mike. His eyes were shiny, still, but Will couldn't see any tears threatening to fall. "Last night. I wanted you to know that I knew I messed up, and it all came out wrong. I wasn't— God, Will. I'm so sorry." His hands came up from his sides, trembling like they couldn't choose a place to stay. They hovered over Will's face, waiting. "I wasn't trying to hurt you."
Will was hopeful, hopeful enough to do something he'd never dared to. He raised one hand, wrapping his fingers around Mike's wrist, slowly placing Mike's trembling hand under the curve of his jaw. "I know," he said. "It's okay."
"It's not." Mike was still shaking. Up close, Will could see the tremor in his bottom lip clearly, even the shake of his eyelashes. "It's— I keep hurting you, Will. It's not okay."
At that, Will stepped a little closer. Suddenly, he really was standing on the edge of Mike's shoes, nearly bringing them to eye level. "Well," he said, "why don't you do something about it, then?"
He was being teasing. Will was standing on Mike's shoes, looking into his eyes, and letting his voice go deep and fluttery in places he hadn't known it could go, and where had the hopeless, desperately pining Will gone? Who was this boy on his tiptoes on Mike's shoes that had replaced him?
(He was just Will. He was a Will that was comfortable, happy, a Will who could let his guard down. Will was the person he always should have been.)
Mike ducked his head, laughing. "Was the personal love song not enough for you?" And him saying that four-letter word, the one Will had to coax and beg out out of him when someone was dying for it— maybe it wasn't directed right at him, but it made Will's heart swell nonetheless. He reveled a little in the way Mike's face flushed pink when he said love, like he'd done it completely on accident, like he couldn't control the words that came out around Will.
"You could do better," said Will, low, provoking. He batted his eyelashes, looking up at Mike with a smile stretching across his face, slow and languid. All that hope was getting to his head, making Will dizzy enough with want to tease Mike without thinking.
"I could," murmured Mike. His other hand came to cup Will's face, careful and deliberate, no longer shaking. "I really could," and he was leaning in, and Will could feel Mike's breath on his face, warm on his lips before they brushed together. That would've been good enough for Will, just feeling Mike's warmth on his face one last time, but Mike always had to have the last word in every conversation. If nothing else, he had to kiss Will for the satisfaction of one-upping him.
It was perfect, Will thought, kissing Mike for the first time in a place that had always been their own. It wasn't a movie kiss— their noses knocked together, and Will didn't really know what to do with his lips, and his hands kept hovering uselessly in the air because he wasn't sure where to put them— but it was still perfect, because it was Mike. There was nothing better than the way Mike's mouth felt so warm, how it had a solid weight to it that his lips never had in Will's dreams. There was nothing better than knowing this was real, and there was nothing better than the way Mike's nails dug into his jaw like Will would disappear if he let go.
In the movies, this would've been the moment where the music swelled, where the guitar glided into the chorus and the camera did a full-body spin. The way Mike smiled against his lips was music enough for Will, and the way he pulled away and choked out a strangled breath before diving back in with that same grin made Will's heart swell. He was smiling too, now, a tentative thing that quickly turned into a full-bodied grin, the kind that made his whole body shake and sent his chest aching with unbridled joy.
Eventually, he and Mike were smiling too much to push their lips together, and slowly, Will pulled away, finding his eyes blurry with tears when they opened. Mike was blinking hard in comparison, wide-eyed and shocked like he couldn't believe this was real. Will felt the same way.
"You're smiling," said Mike. He looked awed, almost, with his blown pupils and trembling mouth, like Will really was something to be cherished. "You look happy."
"So were you," Will said. "I felt it," and at that they were both laughing, quiet giggles that made their shoulders shake together. Will's hands were still in the air, but he couldn't help himself; he set a palm on Mike's side, letting his laughter trail off into a satisfied sigh when he felt Mike's solid weight under his fingers. He loved feeling Mike's warmth and knowing this was real.
Gently, careful as ever, Mike took one hand from Will's face and brought it down to interlace his fingers with Will's free hand. "I couldn't help it," he admitted, ducking his head with a bashful smile. "You're so— good to me, I guess. And I— shit, I don't know how you still want to be so— so sweet to me, after all the shit I've put you through, but," and he paused, taking in a ragged breath, "it makes me really happy. You make me happy."
At that, Will was sure he flushed down to his collarbones. A soft noise climbed its way up his throat, a little breath of shock at Mike really saying Will made him happy. "You haven't put me through that much," he said. "Just a few hundred sleepless nights, two broken paintbrushes after I got mad at myself for constantly drawing you, having my brother try to drag my feelings for you out of me for at least a year. . ."
"You have feelings—"
Before Mike could finish that insane statement (if Will didn't have feelings for him, he would've stopped talking to Mike three years ago), a burst of thunder shot through the air. He and Will jumped simultaneously, glancing out to the clearing with startled eyes; the sun was still shining, relentlesss and warm, but the sky had darkened to a gray so deep it was almost blue. They stared out for a moment together, watching the clouds churn, until a metallic pattering noise made them glance upwards.
Rain had started to fall in gentle sheets from the sky, pinging off the sheet metal roof like the beat of a drum. The constant drizzle turned the world blurry, setting the scenery in a golden haze of sun and soft rain, and it was perfect, Will thought, to fall in love with Mike again in the rain like he'd fallen the first time.
"Come on," said Mike, squeezing Will's hand and gesturing out to the rain. With an eager laugh, Will followed him, shoving past the doorway and running into the open until they were both laughing again, shoes squelching under the dewy grass and fingers sliding together as they turned slick in the rain.
The last time he'd been here, Will's knees had given out and hit the muddy floor, skidding in the dirt until his skin went raw. This time, Will still felt dizzy enough to fall, but it came with the reassurance that Mike would catch him. "It's pretty," Will murmured, glancing to Mike as they stilled in the middle of the clearing. "I've always liked the clouds."
"I like the rain," Mike said, and then he was grinning again, bright as the sun. "Brings out your eyes," and they were kissing again, and Mike's mouth tasted wet like the grass as he ran his tongue along Will's lip, and Will was sure there was no better apology he could've received, because this kiss said it all. Will used to know what Mike was thinking as well as he knew himself, and though he'd lost that ability a long time ago, it came back on Mike's lips with an unsaid I love you.
Mike didn't have to say it. Will knew.
Rain fell in sheets around them, sticking Will's clothes to his skin and washing down his collarbones in warm rivulets. He reached up, running a hand through Mike's already wet hair; it felt as soft as he'd always dreamed of, even soaking. Will would've been content to stay like this forever, kissing Mike until the storm stopped and a rainbow broke through the clouds, but—
"Oh my God! Wheeler!"
Rustling in the bushes— and, more importantly, the loud, excited screech of Mike's name— broke him and Will apart. They whirled around, searching for the noise, and promptly found the source when Robin barreled into Mike with an enthusiastic yell.
"What the hell," he whined, muffled under Robin's arms. Looking at Robin, Will noticed they were the same height; her head fit snug into Mike's shoulder like Will's did, and seeing that filled his body with a fuzzy warmth. Even if Mike was squirming a little in her arms, face plastered with a confused, almost affronted stare.
"I'm so proud," she said, laughing into his wet sleeve. The rain was starting to slick her uneven bangs, like choppy waves plastered to her forehead. "I mean, maybe I'm a little disappointed in Will for not stringing you along some more—" and she glanced up from Mike's shoulder to throw him a look, to which Will responded with a sheepish smile— "but you did it. Knew you could," she murmured, turning back to Mike to squeeze him tighter.
Slowly, Mike untensed, melting into the hug. "You were right," he said, quietly, "about having to try again, or whatever. Shit. I can't believe I'm saying that."
"I'm always right," she said, grinning. Robin gave him one last squeeze before pulling away, turning to Will. "Look, I know you're, like, pathetically in love with him—" at that, both Mike and Will made an offended noise, but Robin kept on going— "but you couldn't have messed with Wheeler a little? Biked a little slower, left him soaking in the rain?"
"He wouldn't," said a voice, low and raspy. What the hell, was everyone hiding in the bushes? "I mean, I agree, but Will's too good for that."
At the edge of the clearing, Jonathan stood alongside Nancy, with Steve trailing behind them. Jonathan had a face that looked like he'd seen a puppy and bit into a lemon at the same time, like he hated to smile but couldn't really help himself, rapidly twitching between that proud-brother smile when he glanced to Will and a put-off scowl when Mike encroached into his view. Next to him, Nancy surveyed the scene with a face that almost seemed impressed, one eyebrow raised like she couldn't believe her brother had actually done something good for once. Will was inclined to agree.
"Too good," snorted Steve. When he met Will's eye, Steve gave him a small smile, and Will returned it with one of his own. "Should've jerked Wheeler around a little, Will. That's how you make that electricity."
If this were a movie, crickets would've chirped in the air at the awkward silence that followed. Nancy gave him a weird look. Jonathan blinked, presumably wondering why he ever let Steve apologize him, and Robin just sighed, loud. "You ruined it, man."
Steve scoffed, crossing his arms and sulking. Maybe he was still a little immature, but he wasn't a total douchebag anymore. Not to Will.
"How long were you—" okay, if Will says watching us in the woods, it'll make them all out to be stalkers—
"You were watching us," said Mike, going back to scowling as realization dawned on him. "What the hell?"
Jonathan grimaced, glancing away. "Blame Robin."
And, really, Will didn't mind being watched. It gave Mike that audience he talked about, how he said he'd wanted the whole world to know how he felt. If he thought about it, their whole world really did consist of the few people standing in front of them, because nothing else mattered when their world was crumbling down around them.
"You looked happy, though," Jonathan continued, slowly. "Are you?"
He sent Mike a stern stare, looking him up and down as Mike refused to meet his eye. It sent a message better than any shovel talk could've, but Will's mind was somewhere else right now.
Mike had made him happy since the day they'd met. In their worst moments, when Will waited by the phone and called out to static, or when he trailed behind Mike and El and barely got up the nerve to ask well, what about us?— Will could always remember when they'd been good together, and the worst wouldn't hurt quite as much. If he looked onto Mike, all grown-up and tall and avoiding him like a teenager was supposed to, and saw the gap-toothed ten-year-old who played sticks with him in the woods, then none of their fights seemed so bad anymore.
An I love you would come out naturally. They'd be sitting on the swings one day, laying on Mike's bed or walking through the woods, and Mike would say it without thinking, because it really was as simple as breathing.
They already knew what they meant to each other. Will could see that feeling in Mike's eyes, how they shone and crinkled, how that dopey, uncontrolled smile came onto his face every time he looked at Will. Presumably, Mike could see what Will felt in his eyes, too. That feeling had been there for years, and now, they could look at each other and understand what they were feeling.
Will wasn't waiting for that four letter word. He already had it in the way Mike looked at him.
"Yeah," he said, softly. He glanced over to Mike for a silent confirmation before taking his hand, slow and deliberate. "I am." His friends were soaked with rain, but the air around them was golden, hopeful. Maybe he'd gotten one good thing out of the apocalypse, after all.
Every cloud had a silver lining. Will found his in Mike.