Chapter Text
Mike leans against the dusty yellow side of the pizza van, rubbing his burning eyes in the early dawn light. They're stopped at a gas station, and they've been driving since they left the pizza place what seems like forever ago.
He's exhausted.
Mike blinks forcefully, yawning so big his jaw cracks, before turning his head to catch sight of Jonathan, Eleven, and Argyle inside the small shop with fluorescent lights, likely buying snacks or drinks or using the bathroom.
Basically, what he wishes he was doing, with the exception of how grimy and gross he feels, the fact that he isn't certain he wouldn't greet the poor employees with a scowl, and the most important of all–
The side door slides open, and Will pokes his head out looking sleepy and confused and in other words, adorable.
"Hi," Mike smiles at him, the tight knot of annoyance and anger and exhaustion easing and softening.
"Hi. Um.. where's everyone else?" Will yawns, covering it with his hand and stumbling the rest of the way out of the van, crossing his arms and leaning his side on the van near Mike.
"Inside," Mike informs him, keeping his voice gentle in case Will is still tired. "I think they're using the bathroom and getting food and stuff. I know El wanted aspirin for her headache."
Will nods slowly, glancing around and raising his eyebrows. "And.. you're out here, standing by the van, because…?"
His tone isn't accusatory, merely curious, but Mike still gets flustered and feels himself getting defensive. "I- I wanted to stretch my legs! And we've been in this van for like, ever, and I felt really gross. Plus, like, you know.." Will's mouth raises in a confused half smile, otherwise remaining neutral, and Mike exhales. "I mean," he mutters, "You were still asleep. I didn't want you to be out here alone."
Will has a funny look on his face, gradually getting pinker while still remaining carefully blank. "You.. were.. keeping lookout? While I slept?"
Mike feels his own face heat, scuffing his converse on the pavement and trying not to breathe in the smell of gasoline. The sky is gradually getting brighter, a pale grayish blue with bright yellow sun drenching the slab of concrete and dingy building in warm buttery yellow, casting Will in shades of rich gold and amber. He blinks, his eyelashes casting shadows and his eyes so green, and Mike tears his eyes away to stare at the ground and get ahold of himself.
"Um-" he says eloquently, memorizing the heart shaped crack in the pavement. "I guess so. I- yeah, I was. I just wanted you to make sure you were alright. Is that– weird?"
"No," Will says softly, and he's looking at the weird crack too when Mike glances at him again, like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "I don't think it's weird. You're just– protective. It's one of the things I like about you."
Will then leaves Mike eyes wide and face flushed, pushing off the side of the van to go meet El and his brother as they walk across from the gas station carrying slushies and bags of food, Argyle close behind.
"Are those sandwiches?" Mike hears Will ask casually, like he didn't just drop a bomb that made Mike's heart simultaneously glow and almost give out. "I'm starving."
"Yep," El says, passing the bag to Will and ripping open a small package, taking out the two white pills and swallowing them with sips of Coke slushy.
Mike watches them, walking together back to the van and chatting, and he presses his lips together before getting back in the van and crawling to the back, sitting on the knitted blanket and leaning against the window. He's not needed at that moment.
And it's okay– because somewhere along the way, between dating El and being best friends with Will, they connected without him. Somewhere in between letters about the first time they went exploring in Cali, their Friday movies, shopping, the way they would sit together after her nightmares, they became family. A real brother and sister. What Mike had almost been, would have been in an ideal world where he didn't make the wrong turn.
He's not mad. How could he be? What right would he have to be?
He hears Jonathan and Argyle talking as they near the van, and then El says something that makes Will laugh. It's a tired laugh, a bit weak, but gentle and lively and Will.
He should be happy that they're so close now, and he is, it just complicates things so much. Or maybe it doesn't, and Mike needs to stop thinking about Crazy together and not possible, it's one of the things I like about you, and– basically everything Will has ever said to him.
He's just– Melancholy, maybe. Tired, definitely. He slumps against the wall, his eyelids heavy and his eyes burning. His throat feels rough and his chest feels tight, and his mind is so full of thoughts and emotions all he can register is white noise.
And then, nothing.
///
Mike wakes up, feeling an immediate assortment of emotions. Bleary, hungry, stiff, achy, grumpy, tired.
"Oh good," He hears a voice say. "You're awake. You've got a drink and a Quesadilla from the Mexican place we passed, it shouldn't be too cold."
Mike straightens up as Jonathan speaks, stretching and looking around at El and Argyle and Jonathan– but no Will.
"I thought we got sandwiches," he murmurs, registering the blanket that had been previously put on him, still waiting for Will to show up like Mike somehow missed him. Why is nobody worried? Why is nobody telling him where Will is? Where did Will even go?
"Yeah," El snorts, "We got sandwiches at like, five forty in the morning. You've been asleep for almost twelve hours."
Mike blinks, glancing at his watch. 4:30 pm. Oh.
"You'd still have a sandwich," El offers, eyeing him. "Except Argyle and I got hungry and split it. We didn't think you'd mind."
"I don't, It's fine." Mike mutters, sitting up straighter and glancing out the windows. "Um, where is he?"
Argyle passes him a Styrofoam to-go box and a plastic water bottle, and he takes it gratefully while still staring around expectantly for an answer.
"Will?" Jonathan asks, like he's confirming, and Mike raises his eyebrows. Obviously. "He's right there. See?" Jon points out the opposite window, and Mike leans over to confirm.
Will's only a short bit away, leaning to get something out of the bottom slot of a vending machine that's outside the rest stop they're parked at, but when he stands again and glances up, Mike swears they made eye contact for a moment. What he can't explain, is why he leans back like he was shocked with electricity.
"Yep," Mike manages, turning to mess with the zipper on Will's backpack and pretending to be busy. "There um- there he is. Right there. Outside, right by the van– Will! Hi!"
Will looks started, his arms full of sodas and candies, one hand on the van door that he'd slid open. "Hi," he greets, blinking. He passes off the Coke cans and various other things to El before hopping in the van, sliding the door shut.
"How long until our next stop?" Will wonders, glancing at the driver's seat to Jon and Argyle, and Mike watches the way his hands deftly pop open a Coke can.
Jesus h. Christ, he needs to get a hold of himself.
"I don't know," Jonathan shrugs. "Mike has the map."
Mike widens his eyes, darting a glance around the room before quickly abandoning his half eaten food and wiping the grease off on his jeans, picking up the map and doing some quick estimating.
"About five hours to the next town, but there might be a hotel along the road somewhere? If so, it's not on the map." Mike says apologetically, and El sighs.
"I'm going to use the bathroom then," She grumbles, hopping out of the van and walking away. Will watches her go, looking concerned. He bites his lip, pink and plush, and Mike tracks the movement subconsciously before focusing on the billboard right outside, loudly announcing the town they'll pass through.
"I'm gonna go too," Will murmurs, sliding open the door, and Mike shoves the last bite in his mouth and scrambles after him, almost tripping. Will catches him by the arm, his eyes wide and frazzled, helping him stand up before snatching his hands away like he'd been burned.
"Sorry," Mike laughs breathlessly after swallowing, straightening up. "Clumsy," he jokes, referencing himself. Will smiles slightly, before nodding his head at the rest stop.
"Are you coming too, then?" Will confirms, and Mike nods, casually sticking his hands in his pockets.
"Yeah, y'know. Probably a good idea, right?" He prompts, waiting for Will's bright grin grin, or maybe his gentle laugh, or even a nod of agreement, but he just hums and starts walking inside.
Mike deflates slightly, hurrying to get ahead so he can open the heavy and slightly rusted looking door, tugging it open and feeling a glow when Will shoots him a grateful smile.
It's awkward at first, both of them just standing there, fidgeting, until finally Will sighs in agitation and walks to the far wall, so Mike goes to one by the door with his face burning. When they're both done, they meet at the sinks, washing their hands and avoiding eye contact.
Mike yawns, his jaw cracking, and for some reason it's this that makes Will giggle. "I'm sorry," Mike says, starting to grin after he gets the yawn under control. "What exactly about this is funny to you?
"Nothing," Will laughs, his chuckles interrupted by his own yawn, covered by his hand. Mike snickers a bit, leaning his back against the counter.
"Who's laughing now," he teases.
"It's just-" Will shakes his head, grabbing a paper towel. "How are you still tired? You slept like, twelve hours."
"Excuse me," Mike says, mildly offended. "The past twenty four hours– and really, the past week– have been extremely emotionally draining."
"For you," Will mutters, grabbing a second paper towel, "I'm sure."
Mike frowns, glancing at him. "What's that supposed to mean, exactly?" He prompts, fighting to keep his tone neutral. Will turns to blink at him, face passive. Let me in, Mike wants to scream. Just tell me what you're thinking, what you're feeling!
"I don't know," Will sighs, sounding tired and suddenly older, more mature. "I only mean that… That's what you didn't say, isn't it? That thing that would've made El want to bring you with her? You said that you were sorry you didn't say it more." I love you, Mike's brain supplies. Will's facing the mirror but looking down, like maybe the water splashed on the stained countertop could reflect him better. "And- and now you've said it, and.. confessed feelings you've kept pent up, feelings that make you feel like you're choking, drowning. Like you're about to burst." Will exhales forcefully, blinking and finally looking up to Mike's eyes, and Mike feels vomit rise in the back of his throat as Will speaks, sincere and quiet and experienced. Heartbroken, but breathing. "And it can be scary, the idea of saying how you feel. But– you did. You were brave, Mike, really brave. You must feel so free now."
Will offers him a tiny smile, like a flicker of hope in the dingy bathroom, and somehow the cracked window has managed to sneak in enough sun to bathe him in light, like it can't help but shine on him and tease Mike with the wonder of the boy in front of him, keeping him just painfully out of reach.
But I don't, Mike feels like screaming until a mirror shatters like in the horror movies they used to see at the matinee. I don't feel free. I feel trapped in my own words, locked in a situation I built myself. I'm not brave, I'm terrified. None of this feels right– none if this is right!
"Yeah," he whispers, his heart in his throat like he's about to cry. He won't, though. He won't. He's had a million opportunities to practice swallowing it back, imagining the emotion as a hard and smooth stone he can bury in his own self.
And sometimes, if you do it enough, the rocks pile up and make a wall of sorts around your heart, so it hurts a little less every time because you don't feel anymore.
But the issue with rock walls is that they crumble and fall, collapsing and taking Mike down with it. He feels it now, falling and scattering and all of them are loose and he can't control it and–
"I don't, though," he blurts, and Will turns his head from where he was walking to the door, misty eyed and confused. He breathes deeply, swallowing, and Mike wonders if Will has his own rock wall, made of smooth pebbles and buried feelings.
"What?" Will whispers, his voice cracking, then a bit stronger, "What do you mean?"
"I mean-" Mike sighs, blinking rapidly and trying to breathe so the cold gray walls of the bathroom stop trying to close around him, blocking out the sun and swallowing him up. "It didn't work, Will."
"What didn't?" Will murmurs, looking lost. His green eyes dart around, searching every inch of the dim room like the answers are written in the streaky mirror.
"Saying–" Mike exhales, closing his eyes and leaving against the wall, staring at the floor. "That thing. It didn't help. It was supposed to be the right thing, it was supposed to save everyone, it was supposed to fix things. And it didn't. It didn't. El's not talking to me and the phone lines are down and we can't reach anyone, I feel– It failed. I failed."
"That's way too much pressure for one person, Mike," Will says softly, coming a tiny bit closer. "Nobody- not El, not you, not anyone should have the pressure of saving the whole world on their shoulders. You helped El. That's enough, right? It's what you always said," Will continues, his voice gaining strength. "In our- campaigns," his voice falters here, like he's in pain, and Mike looks up sharply. "That- you know, sometimes you have to lose a battle to win the war. And- we don't really know right now, right? He could be dead. It could be over."
Will doesn't sound like he believes himself, about it being over, but for a moment Mike allows his mind to entertain the idea. Going back to Hawkins. Patching everyone up, checking in, exchanging stories. A marathon of Dungeons and Dragons in his basement, and maybe Eddie can join them. Mike has plenty of campaign ideas after everything they've been through, and maybe it would make Will smile.
"And maybe- maybe the reason El's not talking to you is just because we're all tired? You've been asleep all day," Will points out, and Mike nods slowly.
"That's true," he murmurs, his eyes searching Will's, uncertain if he should remind Will of how much time has passed since they rescued her, since she tried to tell him something before the fight and Argyle interrupted and she hasn't tried since. How they haven't gotten each other in ages, how they've grown apart, how something went horribly wrong and he doesn't feel home in his skin anymore, since he noticed the burning desire to kiss his best friend.
"Yeah. Maybe I'm just overthinking it."
"Probably," Will says with a half smile, fond but pained. "That's something you do a lot. And hey, El hasn't said much to me, either. It's not personal."
Mike nods, absorbing this. He also needs to remind himself that Eleven, though she doesn't show it, needs him. Will said. She loves him, the exact way he wants to be loved, burning red hearts and how he makes her feel like she's not a mistake- like she's better for being different.
They've been together since they were thirteen. They went to the snowball, he cares about her, she's pretty, she's his lovely superhero girlfriend. She's his superhero. That's not nothing. She loves him, real and true adult love, which is terrifying, but it also makes him feel worth something. He makes her feel better for being different. She'll always need him. That can't be nothing. It can't be.
You think that I'm a monster. The way you looked at me.
Mike shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. El was just upset then. She'd been scared to lose him, scared he thought about her like everyone else did. She was jumping to conclusions out of the fear it was true. But she loves him, and she needs him, Will said so.
He glances at Will, quietly taking him in for a moment– messy bangs, green eyes, somber expression. Plush lips, perfect dimples, the curve of his jaw, his gentle hands, his perfect mind so visibly full of thoughts, inaccessible to Mike.
His heart surges and glows as it always does when he looks at Will, his Will, his very best friend, the boy he– no. Not going there. Going there will just hurt, and leave him scared and alone and abandoned.
He imagines the glow, the emotion-that-won't-be-named as if it's an ex or a distant cousin with generations of drama behind it, and imagines it hardening. Soft turning stiff, warm chilling to cool, something untouchable and powerful solidifying to be small and manageable. He takes a deep breath, and imagines with the exhale it's sinking low inside him, past his ribs and his heart and past the space he gets that fluttery feeling when Will looks at him, burying itself in the dark and being added to his little wall.
Because it doesn't matter how much he wished those words were from Will, how much he thought they were, how much he hoped it was silent permission for the stain that marks Mike's entire being, the moment Will urged him to speak, reminding him how he's the heart, he's El's heart, everything became gray and dark and still and certain.
"You did the right thing," Will says in a whisper, more to himself than Mike. Mike isn't sure he meant to say it aloud, except for when he gazes at Mike with tenderness and care and distance that Mike's going to have to get used to seeing there now. "I know you did. El– she's hurting. We all are. But she'll talk to you. She always does."
Mike blinks at him, and he's hit with a wave of exhaustion. "You're probably right," he murmurs. But then, with slightly more strength, he nudges Will's arm and cracks a smile. "But even when she does, you're not going to shut me out, right? We're a team. Not just for all this supernatural shit, but like– Life, right?"
Will's eyes soften and he smiles back, and for a tiny flicker of a moment Mike can almost see his wall come down a bit. "Yeah," he agrees. "We're a team."
"Cool," Mike presses his lips together, grinning. Will is on his side. Will is his, even just in a small way, and Mike's going to take it and bury himself in it until he's unrecognizable. The stain can wash over him and consume him for all he cares.
"Cool," Will nudges back, and it's like a cloud uncovered the light and brightened up the room, like he has the sun in his pockets and not just KitKat wrappers.
"Hey little dudes," Argyle bursts in, looking almost sober. "We're all ready to head out, you've been in here kinda a while, Girl Byers seems pretty mad."
Mike and Will straighten up, glancing at each other before nodding at Argyle.
"We got distracted," Mike defends, crossing his arms. "We're coming now. Right, Will?"
Will nods, and Mike leans over to pull open the heavy door, using both arms to keep it ajar while Will slips through before following, while Argyle apparently goes to use the bathroom for its intended purpose.
Will's hand brushes his as they walk back, and Mike almost trips as the ember inside him glows, even buried so far down in the dark. Will sends him a confused face, but pulls open the door and slide in, and Mike takes a deep breath as the ember continues to burns a mark, not a stain but a scalded mark, threatening to send him up in flames.
///
"Alright," Jonathan sighs, looking uneasy as he glances at the trio of teenagers. "We could only get two rooms. Eleven, you shouldn't be alone while those people are still after you, so you and Argyle and I are taking a room with two beds and a couch. Will and Mike, you get the other."
They're all too tired to protest, or at least that's what Mike assumes– it's possible they're all as content with the sleeping arrangements as he is. Unlikely, but possible.
Will accepts the little silver key from Jonathan, and after some mumbled goodnights and promises to meet at eight am the next morning. After that, they should be in Indiana by lunchtime, or more likely just after.
Will unlocks the door to number 7, and the first thing Mike registers as he steps in behind Will and scouts it out is that it's thin– thin walls, thin door, thin glass in the window. It doesn't look very safe, or secure.
But there's a dresser, and a lamp they can leave on all night, and a queen bed with a duvet that can't help but look appealing after sleeping in a van.
"I saw you talking to El," Mike mentions, sitting down on the edge of the bed while Will ditches his backpack, putting it on the chair. "Is she okay?"
"Not really," Will sighs, going to test the strength of the lock. He tugs on it, and it's surprisingly sturdy. "Who would be? She did tell me a bit about Max, though."
"Yeah?" Mike prompts, and Will presses his lips together in contemplation and nods as he comes to sit down next to Mike.
"She can tell you more herself," Will says dismissively, looking down at the carpet. "But apparently Max's heart stopped. El like, restarted it somehow, I guess."
Mike's heart pounds lightly with nerves, and he feels nauseous. "Of course she did," he manages. "She's a superhero. So– Max is okay then, right?"
Will gives him an uncertain look, and he shifts in place before answering. "She didn't say. Just that we need to get back so El can check on her."
"I hope she's alright," Mike says faintly. Max has to be okay. Annoying, funny, caring Max. They don't always get along, and they clash sometimes, but when ehat was left of the party fell apart and nobody could understand why Mike and Max were so tired and angry all the time, Mike likes to think they reached a mutual respect of sorts. They can joke, and they can hang out occasionally. Max has to be okay.
"Yeah," Will murmurs.
Mike exhales loudly, flopping backwards and groaning. "We should've been there. Maybe we could've been useful. If I'd been there for them, instead of ditching them and pulling away to deal with my own shit, maybe I could've seen what was happening sooner and helped. You and me," he says sincerely, abruptly propping himself up on his elbow to face Will who's laid down gently beside him, legs hanging off the edge, "We've always been such a good team. We should've been there for them."
Will looks mildly alarmed, but he calms down quickly, looking away with a worried expression. "I know," he says miserably. "On one hand, it might not have changed the outcome at all, but it could've– and on the other hand, at least we'd be there and not stuck with no way to even talk to them. But you can't beat yourself up about not being there. I mean, it probably doesn't mean anything, but you were there for El and I when we needed you," he finishes, glancing at Mike with a sincere expression.
So yeah, El needs you, Mike. And she always Will.
You were there for El and I when we needed you.
Mike inhales, choosing to look up at the ceiling. Deep breaths, push it down, Will needs you, but El does too. That's not nothing.
"Why do you think the phone lines are down?" Will asks after clearing his throat, "Like.. What even happened there?"
"Nothing good," Mike says glumly, before sighing to the off-white textured ceiling. "But it's probably me. I think my curse is not being able to reach people."
Will's silent, and for a moment Mike thinks that Will might mumble an agreement or noncommittal noise or vague statement like every other time this trip Mike has done all but get down on his knees and beg Will to ask, ask why he didn't call, ask what it was he couldn't say, ask why he couldn't say it, and Mike will simply explode in front of him.
"Did you– have trouble calling El or something?" Will asks carefully, sounding confused but guarded, always guarded.
Thank fucking God.
"No," Mike answers truthfully, turning to look at Will again. They make eye contact, and the warm sense of adoration and affection wiggle back inside his heart, or perhaps it's just more obvious now, because it never truly left, even when he tried so hard to force it. But while Will is one hundred percent correct, that it's scary to open up and say how you really feel, Mike is learning it's much scarier to say nothing at all and feel the person you love slipping through your fingers. "I called for you. I called every day. Sometimes twice every day. But I almost never got through. And you never called back."
Will blinks, a flash of something– awe? Denial? Relief? Confusion?– crosses his face, and then his carefully constructed mask is slipped back on.
"Why didn't you tell me?" He asks softly, breaking the electric eye contact thrumming with energy to look away, up at the ceiling where Mike had been previously staring in avoidance. "I– I didn't know."
"You said it best," Mike murmurs, low and searching, waiting for Will to look at him again. "Sometimes it's scary. To say how you really feel, I mean."
"I did say that," Will admits, laughing softly but not joyously. He sits up, standing and making for the bathroom door.
"You don't have to keep yourself so– hidden, and buried all the time," Mike blurts, and Will turns quickly to stare at him, hazel eyes wide and posture rigid.
"I mean– you could take off a few layers, that's all," Mike lies, pasting a teasing grin on his face. "Dude, you wore a thermal in the desert. That can't be comfortable, right?"
Will visibly relaxes, though his cheeks tint themselves a pretty shade of pink. "Right," Will grins a bit, "Of course. Yeah I mean, maybe."
Will opens the door, slipping inside and closing it quickly, followed by the audible sound of a lock turning. Mike stares at the plain door accusingly, like it personally stole something from him, and maybe it did.
When the shower water turns on and there's nothing else to do, Mike drums a brief riff with his hands on the nightstand before opening his bag and gingerly taking out the painting. His painting. Because if he's going to get through tonight alive, or without kissing his best friend at least, he definitely needs a reminder of the sort-of-girlfriend just a few rooms away.
He unrolls it carefully, letting his eyes take in the burning reds and deep greens all over again, like it's the first time, so he can fall in love all over again. Eleven or no, Will's hand made this. Will spent days on this, putting care and thought and effort into making it perfect, just for Mike. Will's raw friendship and devotion poured into an exquisite thing for him to hold gently and gaze at, all while Will's words echo through his mind about being the heart and always needing him,
El's words, he corrects mentally, even though it still doesn't sit right with him. None of it does. But Will told him, and Will doesn't lie, right?
And Mike– he wasn't talking about thermals, not really. He meant what he said, he wants expressive Will who spoke his mind and told him everything back. He wants the Will who yelled in his face to get his act together, and when asked if he really thought they would get to play D&D and video games in Mike's basement forever, replied with genuine honesty, anguish and pain real enough that Mike felt his heart shatter, chasing after him in the rain. He wants back the Will who didn't tread as though he was walking on eggshells around him, who didn't have a secret Mike didn't know about.
But this Will, this gentle mature Will, who still smiles and teases but at a distance, as though he thinks Mike will burn him, wears a mask half of the time, even when he's confiding in Mike. And apparently he does have a secret Mike doesn't know about, because El was certain there was a girl he liked, and Will hasn't brought her up once. He speaks of pain and heartache and suppressed feelings as though he's experienced it first-hand, and when he says- And now you've said it, and confessed feelings you've kept pent up, feelings that make you feel like you're choking, drowning. Like you're about to burst. And it can be scary, the idea of saying how you feel. But you did. You were brave, Mike, really brave. You must feel so free right now. The way he was blinking back tears and avoiding eye contact, breathing shakily and fidgeting his hands.
Mike abruptly has a very sick feeling.
So sick, he puts the painting down on the bed and sinks to the floor to ground himself, pressing a hand to his mouth, his eyes suddenly very blurry, so blurry he can't see, and when he blinks, something small and wet slithers down his cheek, and– Oh. He's crying.
All those years, all the friendship that toes unspeakable but not unbreakable lines and reconnecting and begging for his attention, telling himself that if he could just be brave enough, if he could just figure out what to do, he could do it– take Will by the hand or the arm or gently cup his cheek, say everything he's buried for ages and maybe finally get to taste Will's lips, pink and soft and occasionally raw like he hasn't broken the habit he had at twelve when he chewed on his lower lip when he was stressed.
And it's not like he assumed that Will liked him back, but– everything they have together? The way it's always been a little bit more than friends? The electric moments that can't be explained away? That's not– That's not nothing! Mike would even argue it was something, or could be something.
But Will's in love?
Will's in love, and it's not with him, it's with some stupid girl from California who probably doesn't know shit about him. All she would know is the side of him that's quiet, that's polite, that's pretty and kind. She would've never held him after a nightmare, or thrown flour at each other over pancake batter, or played in the snow, or witnessed Will's humor and snark that only endeared him to Mike even more.
Maybe she lays in the dark, thinking about Will, too. Maybe instead of replaying every moment they made eye contact or brushed hands during a campaign, she replays the moment their fingers brushed because he passed her a pencil, and maybe he even smiled, because Will is the loveliest boy in the world. Maybe she thinks about kissing Will, too. Maybe she wants to wrap her arms around him, or maybe she wants to feel his arms around her. Maybe she calls him and is annoyed when he can't answer, maybe she tells all her friends about how much she misses him when he isn't around. How maybe the sound of his voice could stop her from going insane, but she'll never know, because he won't answer the damn phone.
Mike leans back, the back of his head bumping into the bedframe, and trying to collect his thoughts and emotions so Will doesn't find him like this. That would be embarrassing.
Mike feels something dark and old twisting around his heart. He wants to shake Will— not hard, obviously– and plead with him to come back, to not slip any further away. It's the same feeling he got whenever girls would flirt with him back in Hawkins, or when it looked like Will had a favorite friend that wasn't Mike. But there's something deeper to it, more ancient and powerful like a curse that's had years to perfect its misery.
Will, his Will best friend Will, is in love. With a girl.
Stupid, he thinks darkly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed again, glaring accusingly at the painting. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He fucked it all up– and he knew it, he watched it crumble apart in his hands, and he didn't do enough. He couldn't save them. Maybe there wasn't anything ever there to save.
That doesn't feel right either, but Mike's not in the mood to reason with himself. After all, he's probably just seeing things that aren't there. He's getting rather tired of feeling crazy.
The shower water shuts off, and Mike sets his jaw. He carefully rolls the painting back up, putting it away and safe in his bag, staring at the floor and trying to get his thoughts straight.
What he truly needs is a game plan, because right now, Mike's in what you might call a predicament. It could certainly be viewed that way.
He has a girlfriend he doesn't love but should, who loves him and will always need him, even though she doesn't act like it and she isn't speaking to him right now.
He has a best friend he's in lo– he likes. A lot. A best friend that seemingly flirts with him and teases him and is beautiful and perfect in every way, and they have something. But this best friend likes someone else, even though she's never been mentioned to him by Will himself.
He'll just pretend everything's normal then. Yeah, that's it. He'll pretend everything's normal, and either fake it til it's real, or be normal enough that El either doesn't love him anymore or Will decides that lame girls in California are lame.
And this way, whatever something they have can stay that way. Not nothing, maybe something.
The door cracks open then, and Will steps out with a small cloud of humidity behind him. Mike turns his head to see him, and is greeted by the sight of Will– Will, with a soft gray oversized shirt and damp hair waving slightly, flushed skin in bright green eyes meeting Mike's with a tired air.
Will clears his throat as he walks to the edge and folds his clothes, nodding his head to the door. "Bathrooms free."
Mike nods quickly as he stands and darts for the bathroom. "Right, right, 'course."
He locks the door, breathing deeply and trying to think of anything but his damp hair and soft hands, steady voice and — this isn't working. You may have to actually not think about someone to not think about them. Mike turns the shower water on and decidedly thinks Not Will relayed thoughts before stepping in, desperately hoping the warm water will be distracting and wash away any and all worries of the day.
It's not working. He sinks his hands in his wet curls, darting his eyes to the barely visible door through the shower curtain at the sound of a door opening, and the brief murmur of Jonathan's voice, saying something about blankets.
That's good, Mike thinks distantly, finding the hotel soap and working up a lather. Will likes lots of blankets.
After his finished showering and drying off as best he can, he dons his white shirt and black jeans again, wishing for his suitcase, messing with his hair for a moment and brushing his teeth with what the hotel offers, and he opens the bathroom door and walks out like it's no big deal, like he's not at all times stressing and overthinking, like he's totally cool. He isn't.
He wishes he had different clothes to wear, mourning the loss of his favorite flannel abandoned at the Byers' house and being silently grateful that he left his hellfire shirt home. Of course, then, it had been out of awkwardness and hesitancy. Now, he's just relieved his third most prized possession is safe at home.
He tosses his jacket to the chair, not much caring where they end up, instead glancing around to where Will isn't immediately visible.
He's making a pallet on the floor with blankets and a pillow, silently working on the opposite side of the bed that Mike was standing by, and Mike feels a tinge of confusion.
"What the hell are you doing?" He prompts, flopping down on the bed and rolling over to see Will over the edge.
"Making up a bed?" He says, flustered, as though it was obvious, which maybe it was, but Mike meant more why.
"I mean," Mike elaborates, "Why the hell aren't you sleeping in the huge bed right here?" Please not because of me, Please not because of me, he choruses silently.
"Because… I don't know, I thought you wouldn't want me to?" Will shrugs, glancing up at Mike. He has an odd air to him, not self conscious, but aware and shy.
Oh god. Mike really hopes Will didn't notice him looking at him before.
Mike shuffles back on the bed, creating a bigger inviting space for Will to crawl up. "Obviously not," Mike grumbles. Stop being weird, his mind hisses. Stop acting like that. You just want him up here!
Will, albeit semi-reluctantly, gives up and joins him on top of the bed, quickly slipping under the covers and leaning back against the pillows. No, Mike argues right back. It's not just because of that. The floor would be super uncomfortable. He'll sleep better up here, with me.
He quickly exits that thought process. Everyone wants to be near Will. Everyone wants to hold him or see if his lips are as soft as they look, Everyone thinks he's pretty and would kill for him and do anything for five seconds of his attention, everyone would rather die then let him sleep on the floor. As evidenced by the stupid girls in California that El told him about.
He's in a bad mood now– now? Again? Or maybe it's just still.– shuffling to get comfortable and laying down– not incriminatingly close, but not awkwardly distant.
"See?" Mike says quietly, cracking a smile in Will's direction. "A sleepover. Just like we used to."
"Hopefully you won't kick as much as you used to," Will quips, smirking slightly as he pulls the blankets up to his chin. "Or I'll shove you off the bed."
"I- I never kicked you," Mike sputters, grinning even as he's teased. "I just-" he falls silent, his smile in place but slowly slipping away, watching Will's smile unpin itself but the soft look stays in his eyes.
"You just held on to me," Will finishes, his voice quiet but affectionate. "You were a sleep-hugger."
Mike clears his throat, his face burning. "Well," he manages, glancing back at him as he settles under the blankets, turning his face to gaze at him. "I mean– I don't really know if I've grown out of that, so.."
Will sighs, an exhaustion to the soft sweetness of his eyes, and his mouth lifts at the corner. "I don't mind," he murmurs, curling in on himself. "I mean- It's fine."
Mike nods, his half-smile echoing Will's. "Cool."
"Cool," Will murmurs back, his eyes falling closed but his smile staying intact, his lips pressed together. "Goodnight."
"Night." Mike exhales, relaxing and closing his eyes, the room dark and quiet with the exception of Will's soft breath next to him, and for a moment he can almost forget. Forget about El, stupid girls Will may-or-may-not-like, the government actively hunting them, Hawkins, the dire situation his town is likely in.
…..
A knock sounds at the door, and while it wakes him up, it doesn't wake him up enough to actually be awake. The warm, soft boy tangled up in his arms and held close to his heart shifts and groans, and Mike finally blinks his eyes open as the knock sounds for the third time.
Mike groans, detaching himself from Will and thankfully at present he's too sleepy to feel embarrassed. Will sits up, significantly more awake then Mike himself, but Mike still drags himself out of bed and glances around for any possible weapons. Being attacked constantly since you were 13 can do that to a person.
There's nothing, which makes him nervous and wakes him up even more, edging to the door and not unlocking it just yet– it's probably Jonathan or his weird friend, Mike tells himself.
"Who is it?" He asks through the thin door, his voice low and scratchy with sleep.
"It's El," Eleven says impatiently, sounding annoyed. "I need Will."
Will shifts behind him, and it sounds like he's sitting at the edge of the bed. Mike frowns at the door, indignant– "Can it wait? We're kinda–"
"No," El says decisively, and the door clicks open. Mike steps back in annoyance, frowning as she darts into the room.
"You can't just– that's a total invasion of privacy," Mike hisses, El ignoring him in favor of walking up to Will with pleading eyes.
"Jonathan won't stop snoring," El says, and for the first time Mike registers how exhausted she sounds. "Please can I sleep here with you? I'm just– so tired. "
Will's face is worried, glancing behind her to Mike, who stands with his arms crossed. Oh, he wants to stay sarcastically. I'm apart of this conversation after all? But he doesn't.
"I can sleep on the floor," El pleads, coming around to the side with the pallet. "I can't sleep in there, and Jonathan didn't get me a room. He said it we couldn't afford a third and it was to keep me safe, but it's just keeping me tired."
"Of course," Will comforts, immediately after the half nod Mike sends his way. "C'mon, get some sleep."
El murmurs a thank you, laying down on the floor, and Mike drops the blanket on the bed and settles under the covers again, closing his eyes. You wouldn't let Will sleep on the floor, his mind announces involuntarily, But you'd let El? Eleven is a superhero who just saved the world. And anyways, you heard how tired she was. You're such a shitty friend. He opens them, groaning silently.
Ten minutes later, he shifts restlessly on the floor, not enthusiastic about the stiff aching he's bound to have tomorrow. The pallet isn't too bad, and this way he can still see Will occasionally as well as hear them sleeping soundly, which comforts him although there's a sense of unease at being so far from the door.
"Doing okay?" Will whispers, leaning up on his elbow and looking down at him.
Mike gazes up, shrugging. "I'm fine," he murmurs. "Promise."
"Even without something to hold on to?" Will cracks a grin, and Mike feels his face heat up. "Your mom was right, you know, calling you her little cuddle bug. You're so sweet–"
"Stop," Mike complains, face burning. "That's not fair. She hasn't called me that since I was six. And I don't do it on purpose, It's just–"
"You want a pillow to hold on to?" Will raises an eyebrow, and Mike exhales with a fake scowl even as his insides warm and flutter a bit, just from Will's quiet undivided attention, teasing and bickering like when they were kids, like whatever God might exist heard his pleas for more relaxed Will back, or more likely his filter is loose because he's tired.
"No," he insists, pinching his lips together and trying not to look at Will's. "I do not. I mean– if you have an extra I might take one for my neck, but I don't need something to hold on to- "
"Could've fooled me," Will shrugs, probably thinking of how a sleepy Mike of twenty minutes ago was wrapped around Will like some kind of touch starved koala. "Here you go," he says, passing a pillow down with a small smile.
Mike takes it, arranging it then glancing up at where Will still watches him, feeling a tiny thrill inside. "What about you?" Mike asks softly, noting Will's expression. "Are you okay?"
Will exhales, glancing away. "Scared," he admits truthfully, sounding small, and Mike's heart squeezes. "I don't know what we'll find. Our friends, Hawkins, my Mom. All of it's a wreck, and I don't know if any of them are safe or not and… I'm just scared."
Mike sits up, leaning against the side of the bed to be closer to Will. "I am too," Mike whispers, his gaze never leaving the boy above him. "Really, I am. But– whatever's there, whatever we see– we'll see it together. We're a team. You don't have to do any of this alone, Will."
Will nods slowly, actually looking a touch comforted. "Yeah," he says finally. "Okay. Goodnight, Mike," he murmurs with a slight smile, and Mike echoes it back for the second time tonight, laying back down and settling under the blankets.
"Goodnight, Will."
Mike doesn't sleep much that night.