Chapter Text
Sign 1
Hand on Will’s back, just between his shoulder blades. The touch is light, pads of Mike’s fingertips. His hand must be curled. But the meat of his palm presses hard into Will as they stomp up the stairs, running, rushing.
Sign 2
The fingertips find the same spot between his back whenever he leaves a room. It seems like Mike has to go whenever Will does. He says, “Oh, I forgot my backpack,” or “Wait, the batteries in the walkies need changing” (the batteries always need changing), or “Just do it in my room. I can make space on my desk. And, hey, we can just work on the bed. It’s more comfortable anyway. I used to do it with El all the time.”
You used to do it with El all the time?
What is he saying? What do you mean, Wheeler? What do you mean?
Sign 3
Running up the stairs to Mike’s room. It’s become a bit of a challenge. A race. But Mike hesitates on the second-to-last step and just stops, and tries to elbow Will in order to ‘win’ the ‘race.’ His butt hitting Will’s abdomen with the sudden halt.
They never used to do this as kids. Mike had competed with Lucas; punching, and hitting, occasionally head-butting (until Lucas had head-butted him so hard they had pinky-promised to stop and “remember this day”). Sometimes Dustin. But not Will. They had a, softer, kind of friendship. The roughhousing less rough.
Will can feel his heart in his temples, his throat, he must be blushing. On the stairs, Mike’s play-fighting includes a little pushing, his hands finding Will’s chest. But it’s fast, and skimming, and fleeting. Boys. Being. Boys.
Sign 4
Will is sketching. It’s stupid. He shouldn’t be drawing when they have so much to do, and plan for. And somehow they’re still going to school, although it’s like background noise. As if the teachers are all underwater, and the lessons are coming out of their mouths like bubbles; and Will, he is not paying attention.
There are Crawls to plan.
But instead he’s drawing their old D&D characters. Trying to get the shine right on Tayr’s armour. Smudging with his finger, then using his eraser to add a highlight on the pauldrons. The face doesn’t look right, and he’s already pushed the pencil too hard into the paper. If he tries to change it, you’ll still see the ghost underneath. The only option is to make all the shading darker to compensate. He considers.
Mike is looking at him. Will has been drawing on top of a textbook, sitting on Mike’s bed. Back against the wall, ankles crossed. Feeling like he’s taking up too much room, though he’s not, he’s stick straight. Mike sprawling on his stomach, scowling.
Will plays with his shirt collar. “What?” Laughs.
“You’re making a face,” says Mike, still frowning.
“No,” he hesitates. “You’re making a face.”
“Me? I’m copying you.”
He uses his socked foot to push Mike’s shoulder, below his shoulder, more like his armpit. “Well, stop.”
Crawling over, “What are you drawing?”
He hugs paper and textbook to his breast. “Nothing,” grinning. He can’t help smiling, it’s spilling out of him, like heat, or actually more like something just warm: gentle, like drinking a hot chocolate. Exactly. Like drinking a nice, safe, hot chocolate. A nice, safe smile (leaking out of him).
Mike puts a finger on the textbook, a little pressure, tipping it down. Not enough pressure that Will can’t stop him. “I want to see.”
“It’s not great. I mean, it’s fine.”
“It’s fine?” Mike explodes, gesturing. “It’s amazing. Is that Tayr?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t sure what kind of armour he had. I know in the game it was medium plate so he wouldn’t have disadvantage on stealth checks. But I was thinking a paladin looks better in full plate mail.” He slows down the last few words, unsure. “But he’s your character.”
“Dude, I can’t believe you’re still drawing stuff from our games. I’m so lucky.” Mike’s voice dips, softening, more air, or breath on the last sentence. Then shrugs, exaggerated, his skinny shoulders bouncing. “We’re all so lucky. Lucas, and Dustin, and El. And El! And Max.” He stops. “And Max.” His finger makes a circle in the blankets. “Sorry.”
“No! No.” Will doesn’t want Mike to be sad. That’s why he says, “I can’t get Tayr’s face right. I need more practice, with faces.”
He squints. “I think his face looks good. I mean, it’s small, and kind of hard to see. But, what I can see, is really, really good.”
“Could I draw from a picture of you?” He points his toes nervously. Realizes he’s pointing his toes, and stretches his feet straight up and down. It looks insane. He tries to relax. “Like a reference?”
“Yeah,” Mike saves him from babbling. “But, I’m also, like, not really doing anything right now.”
Will has no idea what he means. “Neither am I?”
“I mean, I could, if it’s easier to draw from a person?” He smiles big. His face is so angular; its a sharp smile, with slightly bent front teeth, and red lips. He puts his hands up to frame his expression. “I’m awesome at staying perfectly still.”
Will really wants to draw him.
Mike’s smile twitches, because it’s huge.
“Is that face,” he gestures at Mike with his pencil, making a circle in the air. “The face you’re going with?”
“Yesssss,” through the smile. He pumps his eyebrows.
“No,” Will laughs. “No, be normal. And stop doing that with your eyebrows. It reminds me of Steve.”
“Ew.”
They both exhale. Kind of a shaky laugh. It’s always safe to make fun of Harrington. “Ok, can I pose you?” What was he doing?
Mike nodding, small but quick, repetitive. Will puts a finger under his chin. The nodding stops. Mike’s eyes are so dark they look black. They match the ink of his hair. It falls over his shoulders in soft curls. It looks fluffy. Will wonders if it’s soft. Of course it’s soft, who’s he kidding.
Quickly, blinking, he uses his finger; the smallest touch, leading Mike, with his hand, his eyes, to tilt his chin down. Then to the side. “There,” he says. “Can you stay there?”
Mike swallows, the bob of his throat. His neck is long and white. Adam’s apple visible.
Will clasps his hand over his own mouth, and stares at the paper. Shuffles to a new page of his sketchbook, leaving a few sheets between this and the old drawing. The pencil’s pressure has left marks on the paper for several sheets. More ghosts.
He starts with shapes. Oval, then lines squaring the chin. A ’T’ to keep the features aligned. Soft lines planning the cheekbones, the hollow curve of his cheeks, eyes with long brows. The outline of hair. The details would come later. He gets lost in it. Forgets that it’s Mike. That he’s in Mike’s bedroom, that he smells like Mike’s house. Even when he’s at school, and gets a whiff of his clothes; they smell like Mike. Same detergent or something. But also. Also. Also.
Is Mike being weird, or is it him? Is it just him?
He adds shadows under the eyes. The outer edges of Mike’s eyes turn down slightly, making him look sleepy. Cozy. His nose: needing to get this right. Otherwise it will go quickly into not looking like him at all. Noses are important. The sweep, curve, downturned nostrils.
There are so many sharp angles, it’s a relief to draw his lips. Plump bottom lip. Plump? He can’t think that. He isn’t allowed. “Sorry,” Will says. “I’m taking so long.”
“It feels nice,” Mike whispers.
He doesn’t know if he can do this anymore. “It’s done.”
Mike shimmies, like a dog getting out of bath. “Can I see?”
He shows him. Will expects excitable Mike. He knows excitable Mike. He isn’t sure if he knows this Mike. Is this what El sees? Is this what she gets? Wheeler eases the sketchbook out of his fingers. Will’s hands have graphite on them. Mike’s do too now. His friend holds the book, stares, and stares. “It’s me,” he says.
Will forces a laugh, “Yeah, who else would it be?”
“Have you drawn anyone else?”
“Not really?”
“Oh.”
What was that ‘oh?’ “Should I?”
“If you do, can I see?” Mike’s black eyes look at him, for all the world begging. Worried.
Sign 5
The first night. Up the steps. Running. Mike says he’s put an extra cot in his room. They sprint in, giggling. Mike slamming the door behind him, back against it, breathing too hard. Will’s laugh slowly drags out of him, and ends, spent. He’s been here so many times, but it also feels like he’s in Mike Wheeler’s bedroom for the first time.
“Hi,” Will says.
“Hi.” He jerks away from the door. “It’ll be like a sleepover. It’ll be fun. We can stay up late, and there’s, uh, snacks in the kitchen if we’re really quiet. And, I don’t know, is this ok? Are you ok? You look like, uh, lost?”
“Have I been here recently?” he jokes. He thinks it’s a joke.
“Well, to remind you, this is my bed.” He flops onto it backwards, the springs clapping. “And this is my dresser.” Peeling out a drawer with a squeal, “I cleared out a drawer, if you want, to, clothes? And this is the closet, would you rather, is the closet better?” He’s losing steam, arms gesturing more and more loosely.
“I don’t have a lot. I’m sure a drawer would be, it’s really nice. Thanks.”
“And you can take the bed. I’ll use the cot.” His hands tuck into his pockets, shoulders shrinking.
“Oh, no. No. I can’t do that.”
Mike shrugs, a restricted movement with his knuckles still buried. “We can decide later. I have homework. Do you, have any?”
Will nods. Afraid there’s something brittle between them. But as he cheer-leads Mike through calculus, it’s familiar. It’s close to midnight before they realize. Sneaking downstairs, feet in the middle of each board, wary for creaks. Wheeler snags a pack of Starburst, ripping it open in the kitchen, popping a square in his mouth. Holds it out.
Will digs for red.
“So picky,” Mike flicks his eyes to the side.
“I’m not that picky,” he mumbles, sucking. “I just like the red ones.”
“They make your tongue red.”
Will sticks out his tongue, the square still on it.
“And your lips red,” Mike says.
Mike is looking at his lips. Will imagines kissing his friend.
Sign 6
Later that night. He protests, but Mike insists he take the bed. Wheeler spends a long time getting the bed ‘ready.’ Fluffing the pillow. It smells like him.
When Byers wakes, the first thing he sees is sunlight on the cot, Mike’s hair a black stain on the pillow. Mike Wheeler is curled, long fingers tucked into his chest. He looks delicate.
Will doesn’t want to hurt him.
Sign 11
The haircut. Mike asks him to do it. He thinks he’s joking, because look at his hair. He promises not to use a bowl.
Sign 16
Working on D&D again. Just their own personal campaign.
Sign 19
Roleplaying, just the two of them, mostly after homework; or after Crawls, exhausted, whispering at the dark ceiling until they fall asleep.
Sign 22
Mike never talks about El when they’re together. But he talks about her a lot in front of their friends.
Sign 25
Byers brings up El, and Wheeler changes the subject.
Sign 28
Mike keeps saying how much he likes his new haircut, twisting the ends.
Sign 31
Mike says he misses going to the movies with Lucas and Max. Apologizes for mentioning Max. But calls the movies they used to go to a double date.
Sign 36
Mike says he can’t hear him. He's on the bed, and Mike’s in the cot. They are murmuring about their campaign. Their two-person campaign. Wheeler is the DM, and narrates, while Will makes choices. There are no dice. It’s too dark to see, and they do this before bed. There isn’t much combat, it’s mostly talking.
“I am Will the Wise, and I demand you let me pass,” he snorts a bit as he says it, louder.
Mike’s a guard. “By what right do you go here?” in a silly baritone.
Will needs to get into the mansion. An evil vampire has kidnapped a lady of the court. “Please,” he says. He’s so tired, words beginning to tumble into a slurry. “Your boss is bad.”
“He’s bad?” Mike says, somehow still in character.
“Yeah, he’s, like really bad.”
Blanket around his shoulders, Wheeler scuttles across the room. “You keep getting quiet,” he says. Sits on the edge of the bed. His bed. It’s his own bed. It’s fine if sits there. “Did you just say the Dread Lord Strahd von Zarovich is really bad? To his guard?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Do you think that’s going to convince him?” Mike is silhouetted by the window. Blue-y, purple moonlight carving his hair. Maybe if Will spilled a bottle of ink on his sketchbook, and the ink stayed wet: that would capture Mike’s curls.
“Yeah. Am I wrong?”
Mike licks his lips. “But the guard, uh, doesn’t care. I mean, he’s worked for Strahd von Zarovich for years, and he likes that. He likes that he’s bad.”
“Then I won’t leave. Also, I’m sure he’s mean.”
“He’s mean?”
“The vampire lord.” Will waves his hand in the air, twirling his wrist. “Strahd. I’m sure he’s mean.”
“Well,” Mike leans back on the bed, his cot-blanket cocooning him. “That’s an assumption. I’d ask you to roll Insight if we had dice.” Mike’s voice is drifting. Or Will is drifting.
“No dice,” Will says.
“No dice,” Mike repeats. “If I can stay here, you don’t have to roll. The guard believes you.”
He must mean here: the bed. Will suddenly feels awake, the base of his skull tingling as if someone is stroking it. “Ok.” Does he say it too quickly?
“The guard lets you in. What do you do?”
“I look for the vampire.”
Mike’s face is turned towards him. Will was looking at the ceiling, but he shifts, just enough, his nose points at Mike’s nose. His lips in a line from Mike’s lips. His mouth is slightly open on the pillow. “Do I find him?” Will prompts.
“Yeah,” Mike breathes. “He’s beautiful.”
Sign 37
Mike sleeps in the bed. Will wakes at intervals throughout the night. Mike at the far edge, almost falling off. Mike’s blankets gone, must be on the floor. Mike’s wearing a white t-shirt and flannels. The t-shirt is bright in the dark, and it’s the first thing Will can clock. Mike beside him, shoulder touching his shoulder. Mike’s thigh against his.
Morning. Will wakes buzzy, and trembling, and awake, awake, awake. Smiling. Leaking smiles. He’s doomed.
Mike’s arm is over his chest. He sighs and Mike’s arm rises and falls.
There’s a creak from the hallway. The door is open just an inch. There is a face on the other side. Not close, not peeping, but in the hall, indecisive, watching. She’s seen. Will has assumed that anyone would be angry. His brain fills in anger and disgust, and fear, and something sharp, like a slap. But Nancy doesn’t look angry.
Her eyes are glassy. She jerks her head at Will, motioning for him to come out. Carefully, he lifts Mike’s arm, slides his hips off the bed, then places the arm back down. Padding towards the door, closing it behind him, click.
Nance puts a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to sleep in the basement?”
Croaking, he opens his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. Is she telling him to hide? Is this wrong? Is she scared? Does she think they’re not safe? Does she think something happened? Because nothing happened. Will she tell El? Because nothing, nothing happened.
She smiles, the lines near her mouth are like Mike’s. Will’s never noticed, not until he drew him, never knew exactly what those lines looked like. “It’s ok, I don’t know what to say either.”
And she hugs him. Will lets himself go loose; he’s crying, silent, nose dripping. He doesn’t want the hug to stop, because then Nancy will see. He doesn’t want her to see he needs this. He shakes in his abdomen, in his core, trying to keep it all in.
(Will writes all the signs in his sketchbook, because he’s going crazy).