Chapter Text
Mike has a bad habit he can't break.
(Cheating death, he thinks, is where it probably began.)
Will sips red wine, staring at him hard from his place on the plaid couch, a lock in his jaw. There are things they don't talk about, things they don't say out loud.
"I heard you got a date."
Hazel eyes widen, "I did, yeah."
Mike coughs awkwardly, "how'd it go?"
It wasn't meant to be just them this evening in the basement, but everyone else in the party had to go home. Mike begged Will to stay, and he did, saying he'd float around for a while longer. It feels like a sleepover, but the air is tense for some reason. They haven't exactly been normal. It's like they're strangers pretending to be best friends, retracing old footsteps in different boots.
"Good actually," Will replies, "obviously we couldn't- be too… out there, but we saw a movie."
"Which one?"
"The Abyss."
"Oh. Cool."
"Yeah."
The small talk is suffocating.
Mike clears his throat, "do you like him?"
"We're dating," Will answers shortly - as if shy, or ashamed of the fact. It sends a twist in Mike's stomach, imagining them sitting together at the cinema, leaning into each other.
Taking a cautionary sip of his wine - the bottle had been a gift from Steve, of all people, and the party had already drunken most of it, but now at least a quarter of the bottle remained for just the two of them - he ignores the tightening around his heart. He isn't sure if he even likes wine. It's bitter. It makes him feel too adult-like and weirdly hazy. The taste lingers on his tongue.
"That's awesome," he tries to sound excited, he really does, "I'm happy for you, that you found someone."
Will lets those words float in the air for a bit, before nodding quietly.
Mike just has to keep talking, his big mouth always betraying him.
"It must be- it must be like hard," he taps his fingers against the arm of the couch, avoiding eye contact, "but it's really- I mean, I think you're so normal. Wait that sounds weird, no- wait, sorry. I think you're really amazing. Not like- I just think you're really good. I'm not, you know-"
"I know."
The response is ice cold.
It bothers him more than he thought it would.
"Are you mad at me?" Mike asks bluntly, blurry from the wine, teetering towards familiar warm brown eyes.
Will looks thoroughly caught off guard. His hand tightens on his glass.
"No?"
"You are."
"I'm not," comes the tired response, "I'm just sleepy."
"You can go home."
A beat.
Will crooks an eyebrow, "do you want me to?"
"No," the answer is as easy as breathing to Mike. It's hard to admit but he really fucking misses Will, carnally like it's carved inside his bones to ache for the other when he feels lost, and he's never felt more lost than now. Softly, he adds a "I want you to stay."
"Then I'm staying."
Will takes another sip, leaning back comfortably on the couch. They're a little further apart than they normally are. They always seem to be.
Mike squints his eyes, "I know you, I know when you're mad at me."
"Is that right?"
Frustration bubbles in his chest, "yes, yes. Why are you being so coy-"
"Mike," it's clipped (which is heartbreaking, usually he says his name so soft, so gently), "It's nothing against you, it really isn't. I'm not even angry, I'm just, I guess it's just weighing on me. The reality of it all."
"The reality?"
It's hushed, almost like it's a secret, "it's just exhausting. Hiding. I want to show people who I am. I fought a whole… mega evil monster… but I'm still living in the shadows."
It's not my fault you don't like girls.
Mike has a lump in his throat and he doesn't know why. Maybe it's been there for the last ten years of his life. Maybe he was born with it.
"What does he look like?"
Will makes a perplexed expression, "who?"
Mike looks at the ceiling, "your boyfriend."
A pause.
"He's perfect. He likes me a lot," a breathy laugh, "which, is always good right?"
And Will's voice is sickeningly sweet, like he's smitten, like he just gets to be so happy all on his own with someone who loves him back. Like he's unburdened - by what, Mike doesn't want to think about, because it makes him feel sick - and lighter in a way that he wasn't before. The twist in his stomach gets worse.
His bones, his gut, his skin, his heart - it aches, but he doesn't know why.
"I miss you."
The confession slips without him intending it, and already it's too vulnerable, too raw.
Will's breath hitches, and it's like he's broken out of it - whatever detached armor he had donned before. The person beside him on the plaid couch is now undoubtedly the boy he grew up with. Bled with. Fought with. Lost, briefly, but then got back. Pretty brown eyes flick onto him, low-lidded and glazed over with booze.
"You miss me?" He echoes back, quiet.
Mike shifts closer to him, their thighs graze ever so slightly, the motion is clumsy.
"I miss us," the truth exits out his mouth unnaturally, he isn't used to saying it, "I miss us really badly."
The basement is dead silent, everyone upstairs is asleep already. Will sits like a statue, letting him do all the work of leaning forward, of getting up in the other's space. It's where secrets stick to walls and affairs happen. It's suffocating and Mike wants to find air in someone else.
"Yeah?"
Will speaks inquisitively, like he's merely stringing the other along in this conversation, unwilling to put effort in. Black bangs fall into Mike's eyes as he wobbles forward, making sure the other hears him - he needs to be heard, he wants to be understood, he wants someone to see right through him.
Eyes on me, eyes on me.
"I feel like I did something wrong," he grits out, voice strained, "because everything feels wrong."
Will watches him through his eyelashes.
"Maybe you did."
"I just," his voice drops to a whisper, "I tried to escape it, escape everything they wanted me to be. We all got bullied so much I jumped at the chance to be normal for a change, or as normal as I could get," it's spilling out of him, he's never been good at hiding, "I feel like I'm in the upside down, fighting, I feel like I never left."
"I'm sorry that-"
"Stop," He hisses, harsher than he meant to, "stop… doing that."
Will scrunches his face, "stop apologizing?"
"It's never your fault," Mike's nails dig into his palm, "it's always mine, I seriously don't get how you don't see that."
Will studies him. Properly. It makes him nervous. It makes him feel seen.
The boy next to him loved him and he missed it, and isn't that so tragic? His shirt hangs low on his neck, his face is flushed pretty from the wine, and his eyes have always been so alluring - so gentle and soft and kind in a way Mike had never seen before. Brown scuffed hair brushes his forehead.
"Okay then."
Mike catches the way his bottom lip quivers and he fixes on it, before glancing back at those eyes.
A deep breath, "I'm scared."
"What are you trying to escape?"
Mike's black eyes widen, "what?"
"You said before. You were trying to escape something."
The wine sits heavy in his stomach, turning him dizzy. It's his childhood home, it's the basement, and yet he's never felt further apart from who he is. He's either outgrown the place or strayed too far in another direction. He's either true to himself or he isn't.
"This destiny, this- this place."
Will tilts his head, "Me?"
"Never you," he denies straight away, "no, you're- well, you're special."
Will doesn't respond to that, he just stares, as if not having anything more to add about it. As if it means nothing. In the grand scheme of things it probably does mean nothing.
Especially now that there's a mystery boyfriend. Mike wonders what he looks like. What he wears. How he walks. What he likes to do. What they talk about. How they kiss. Mike wonders and wonders and the itch underneath his skin just gets worse and worse.
"I don't understand myself," Mike continues, heart beating - feeling, maybe for the first time in months, brave, "I want-" he cuts himself off.
"What?" Will prompts, still and unwilling to break.
Mike feels his eyes sting, he isn't sure why.
"I just-" it physically hurts coming out of him, like a narrative that wasn't meant to be, like the world wants him to be miserable beyond anything else (the church calls it sick, his dad calls it sick).
The boy beside him cradles his jaw with a hand and Mike melts into the touch, wanting to choke out a sob at how good it feels, how it reminds him of home - of dnd, of the last time he felt like himself.
Will murmurs, always so patient, always so gentle, "you're brave, remember that."
Mike squeezes his eyelids shut.
"I want to escape so badly."
"Your destiny?"
"My entire life."
Will's expression stays still, calculating.
"Why?"
A sharp inhale. Fingers tap against the side of his face. The itch is all consuming. His best friend - who he's cared about for about as long as he can remember being alive - is all consuming and wonderful and it's not fair, not fair that a random man can just have him like that. Not fair that he in comparison was just a crush - was never more important, more encapsulating. The truth hides beneath his skin.
It's always been harder for him to hide.
"Because I can't stop thinking about you," Mike croaks.
It's quiet.
Will's jaw twitches, hazel eyes flicking up and down his face.
They are either completely ruined or impossibly anew.
"If you want to escape," it's said slow and languidly - as if it's a dare, a provocation, "you can."
"It's hard," Mike whispers, eyebrows knitting together, "It's hard for me."
"Have fun living in regret," Will muses, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm, as if he's not even a little bit affected by this, "because misery doesn't come with company."
The basement is dark, it's perfect for keeping secrets.
"You've always been so inevitable to me, for some reason."
A weak laugh, "I don't believe in inevitability, or destinies, I believe in dumb luck."
Black eyes tear into softer brown ones, unable to look away, maybe ever.
"Is it too late for me?"
Will lets out a ragged breath, swallowing, maybe understanding that there's no going back no - that they've run over a line they once tip-toed, "It's never too late."
Mike leans in.
It's all teeth and desire and bitterness. The wine still on their tongues. A hand makes its way into his black curly hair and he lets it, sliding his own into the small of the other's wrist. Pushing down on his chest until Will's back hits the armchair, he melts into it, skin to skin contact where both their shirts ride up a little. It smells like cheap vanilla shampoo. It smells like home.
Lips littering kisses down sun-tanned skin, he stops at the other's neck, bringing down teeth until he feels a strong hand push him backwards.
Stumbling back on the couch, Mike looks up through his eyebrows at the panting boy across from him. He knows he looks like a mess. He can feel the tousled hair, he can feel his lips bruising, he wants to be able to feel the soreness of his tongue for the rest of the night. His pupils are dilated, and its gnawing at him now - the regret, the shame, the thing that cannot be undone.
Will shuffles forward atop him where he is frozen.
"Not on my neck," he says flatly, and then he's ducking his head again - kissing him with newfound fervor, almost as if he's angry.
Mike lets out a gasp and responds back enthusiastically, despite himself, despite everything he's ever known. It's messy. It's sort of desperate, on his end. Although Will has reservations about marks being on his neck, he has none about leaving them on the other, so crimson covers the length of his neck, his collarbone, chest.
It's a reward the other has decided to give him on a whim, he remembers. It's meaningless in all senses of the word. It's a line that can't be uncrossed, but it's also a favor more than anything. It's a kindness. It's everything he's ever wanted. It's the craving etched into his bones and the desire in his lungs.
Mike can't help but murmur, in between breaths, panting, "am I a better kisser than your boyfriend?"
Will swallows hard and pulls him into another kiss ferociously, irritated but hungry.
Which just about answers his question anyway.
The thing about addiction, is that it dulls eventually, goading you to partake in it more and more to chase that perfect, first, high.
What makes Will Byers so dangerous, is the fact that he never dulls.
Their friends might know, but they don't bring it up, it's too slippery of a subject, a life-long friendship at stake. Their family can't know, not ever. Their significant others - or, Will's, actually, his is off somewhere with at least three waterfalls - won't be able to know, not if they stay careful.
They don't talk about it, not really. Their language is one of half-truths and half-confessions, reliant on physical touch. They don't even have sex, is the funny part. They make jokes and make out and hold each other and kiss and then go to sleep. It feels worse, somehow, more incriminating, more egregious.
Will mutters against his ears one time, breath hot, "we can't keep doing this."
Mike pulls back, face flushed and lips sore.
"What?" He wrings his fingers in his lap, embarrassed but unsure why, "why not?"
Will stares at the ceiling, "I have a boyfriend."
"Break up with him," it comes easily out of his mouth, he's chalk full of bitter wine.
"I can't," he lands a kiss on the other's pale sunken in face, lips twitching upwards, "I like when people like me back."
It stings, unexpectedly.
"You're greedy," Mike says, eyes low-lidded, desire and want burning up and down his body, "you know that right?"
"Well, I'm already going to hell so I might as well sneak in some gluttony too."
When they collide this time, it's a little resentful, restless.
Mike tries to ignore the bitterness in his mouth, in his heart. He doesn't like being reminded that he's some sort of mistress - hilarious, in hindsight, to think about. The price that comes with kissing Will Byers is that each time is better than the last, which means it will just get more addicting as time goes on. The pressure builds, slowly, and eventually a pipe will burst. But as he sways and holds the other tight now, it's hard to care about, to let it linger in his mind when he's experiencing contact he's been craving his whole life.
It's easier to let the addiction build.
Will storms into his bedroom, taking off his jacket, up to where Mike is reading comics on his bed. It's the middle of the day. It's Tuesday. The bedroom is unorganized and messy, with books and trinkets strewn about without much care. They weren't planning to meet up today and Mike was going to prepare their next campaign, but clearly there are bigger issues on his hands now.
"I saw you," the voice is accusatory, strained.
Mike frowns, "what?"
"I saw you with a girl."
"What?" Mike repeats, sitting up, "I wasn't with a girl-"
"Yes you were, you were with Jennifer Hayes at the cinemas."
He shifts uncomfortably on the bed, "maybe we're friends."
"Bullshit."
And here's the thing, Will actually looks pissed off. His hands are twitching like he wants to rip Mike apart, bit by bit. It's, quite frankly, terrifying. Will never gets mad at him, not really, he gets frustrated, annoyed and maybe kind of miffed on occasion. Never actually, genuinely, furious. (Discounting the time he was possessed, because that wasn't him, not really)
"I just- She asked me out and I didn't have a reason to say no?" Mike swings his legs off the bed, staring at him through his eyelashes, "It's not illegal to go on a date."
"Not illegal for you," Will spits.
The color leaves his face at those words, that reminder.
It's not my fault you don't like girls. God, how could Mike have been so cruel? How could he have just gone around saying things like that to his best friend? It's ironic now, in a way. It's like he was yelling at himself, more than anything. Projection is its own disease.
"No, no- Will I didn't mean," he falters and then clears his throat, "you know I didn't mean it like that."
"You don't get to do that."
"What?"
"You don't get to-" he puts his head in his hands, frustrated, "fuck around with me and then go on dates with other people- with girls."
Mike's eyebrows draw together, and his lips tilt further downwards, genuinely a little confused, "you're literally dating someone else?"
A annoyed noise leaves his mouth.
"I get to do it. You can't, you're- fuck it. You know what? I'm done."
Will grabs his jacket and he's halfway out his room but Mike yanks on his wrist, stopping him dead in his tracks. There's a booming silence. It sticks. They don't hang out in his bedroom when they're kissing, they can't. It's too reminiscent of his childhood, there's a risk of his eye catching on a photograph of himself as a kid, of him with his family.
Maybe it's the paranoia speaking, but he feels like the whole world can see him here - through the window, through the door, through the walls.
"I won't date her," Mike breathes out, unwilling to let go.
Sometimes it feels like everyone other than him has moved on with their lives. Sometimes he feels like he'll be stuck between these bedroom walls forever, the same person he was as a child, waiting for someone who's just gone.
"I'm all yours," he stresses it, emphasising it, needing the other to understand him, "I promise."
Sometimes it feels like that, but then Will leans in, capturing him in a swaying kiss, and he knows he's not the only person stuck in the past.