Chapter Text
1.
spring 1990
The first time it happens is not Mike's fault. He swears.
He didn't exactly plan on hiding in some random frat house's bathroom on a random Tuesday, keeping the door closed with his foot because he doesn't trust the shitty-looking lock.
Head tilted forward and pressing a wad of tissues to his nose he tries to listen to the shouting that's happening just beyond the flimsy barrier of the toilet door. He runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes the blood that coated them when he sliced the inside of his cheek on them. When Carlton threw a fist at his face and nearly broke his wrist with how hard he gripped it.
Kinda funny, Mike thinks hysterically, how I can fight inter-dimensional monsters but a guy my age beats my ass.
The only reason he doesn't start laughing right then and there is the threat of blood sliding down his throat. He'd rather avoid adding throwing up to the list of his failures today.
The yelling grows audible, as if moving closer to the door and Mike tenses reflexively.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? What is wrong with you?!"
Will.
Mike closes his eyes and leans his head forward until it rests on his knees.
Great. Fantastic. Spectacular.
Of course the one time he gets to visit his best friend and go out with him to a party he ends up needing to be taken care of. Carlton yelling his head off probably drew him to the second story. Fuck.
"With me? Wrong with me? Are you serious right now?!"
And that would be Carlton. Mike squeezes his eyes even harder and starts contemplating jumping out of the window.
I could make it, right?
He thinks about it for a solid second and nearly busts out laughing again. With how often he nearly trips on his own feet there's a near hundred percent chance that he'd somehow break his neck.
Besides, he can't leave now that Will was here. Fighting with his boyfriend. His stupid boyfriend, with a stupidly good right hook, stupidly perceptive eyes and a stupidly loud voice that drew the attention of everyone in the house. Including Will.
"Yes! Why the fuck would you do that?! What could possibly—"
"Oh! I don't know Will, you tell me what could possibly—"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"
The shouting gets steadily drowned out by a high-pitched ringing in his ears and Mike has to open his eyes to make sure he's not blacking out. Unable to take a proper breath and with fingers slowly growing numb he really thinks he might pass out, locked in this, weed-stinking, bathroom.
He sets his palm on the wall to get some leverage and heave himself up off the toilet seat only to immediately hiss and drop it back into his lap. Fuck. Carlton might've actually sprained his wrist.
Again, Mike somehow thinks over the shrill ringing, injured me more than the Demogorgon ever managed to.
Once he finally stands on unsure feet he turns toward the door. He needs to open it, to get to Will, to explain to him, to apologize, and maybe to beg him to take them to his apartment so that he can stop feeling like a trapped animal.
Then he catches the sight of himself in the mirror. Blood-soaked tissues sticking to his face, the already-forming shadows underneath his eyes, the slice across his cheek from one of Carlton's rings, the ring of red around his wrist, eyes that have filled with tears that have stubbornly not fallen. He freezes. He can't let Will see him like this.
He turns around and stumbles to the sink. With trembling fingers he drops the tissues into am overflowing waste bin. Then he gets a wad of toilet paper and wets it to try and get rid of all the red on his face. The blood still dropping steadily makes it a somewhat difficult task.
He's reminded of El suddenly, young and overwhelmed and covered in red. For a second his throat tightens and he can't get any air into his lungs. El and tissues stained with red, and bright yellow shirts, and even brighter smiles.
He pinches his aching wrist to snap himself out of whatever that was, and forces himself not to have a breakdown in addition to everything else.
With a bitten off curse he rips off more paper and stuffs it up his nose like he'd seen Lucas do after a particularly unlucky basketball practice. He breathes heavily through his mouth and continues mopping up the mess off of his upper-lip.
He tugs the sleeves of his sweater over his hands and thanks whatever god is out there that Max convinced him to grow his hair out a bit as now he can at least attempt to hide the cut.
Then, and only then, does Mike walk over to the door again. He remembers the worry in Will's eyes all those years ago when being beat up in some way was more of the norm than being whole. He doesn't want him to look like that ever again. Even if it proved that he cared. It's not worth it.
With numb fingers he turns the flimsy lock and pushes the door open. Immediately the noise and lights overwhelm flood his senses, but his eyes have already found the one person here that matters.
Will.
Will with his hands raised up, eyes shining with fervent anger and teeth bared in a snarl.
And maybe that hit knocked something loose in his head earlier, because Mike is suddenly sixteen again, standing star-struck in the middle of a battlefield, convinced, for just one moment ripped out of time, that Will Byers is the single, most radiant being there is.
And even though his nose is stuffed, and blood coats his throat, he feels like he just took in a gulp of fresh air after being stuck in a window-less basement for years.
He directs his steps toward Will on instinct more than anything else, and tries to ignore the still seething Carlton. Other party-goers have already dispersed, a fistfight something that apparently loses it's appeal after one of the parties hides themselves in a bathroom.
With each consecutive breath he forces himself to get it together. Forces his shoulders back and straightens his spine, holds the sleeve firmly over the wrist, keeps his face impassive. He isn't afraid of Carlton but he doesn't know what to expect from Will. And he doesn't want his face to give Carlton any more ammunition.
Will's eyes lock onto him and within the span of a breath he's next to Mike and hovering a hand over his face.
"Mike," Will rasps out, gaze jumping all over his face.
Carlton scoffs behind him, but Will doesn't budge and Mike can't find it in himself to care about the guy in this moment. His resolve to not show what he's feeling vanishes in seconds and he knows that his eyebrows dip down, and eyes are probably doing what Nancy calls his lost puppy expression. He leans his head into the waiting palm ever so slightly. Just to let himself feel it's radiating warmth. God, but he's a selfish asshole.
"Hey, yeah," he manages to get out before he has to swallow another mouthful of blood, "I'm okay, don't worry. Looks worse than it is, really." He tries for a smile and prays that it doesn't come out as a grimace.
Judging by the furrow of Will's eyebrows, he doesn't quite manage. His eyes flicker down to his fingers and Mike could swear that he hears his teeth grind. Without taking the hand off of his face Will snaps his head to the side to glare at Carlton. And Mike has a front-row seat as the realization dawns on Carlton.
Sweet and kind Will Byers is quite terrifying when angry.
"We're done," he grinds out, eyes glinting, fingers curling into Mike's hair, his other hand reaching out to gesture toward Carlton, "don't call, don't talk to me, don't even think about coming close to us again."
And for the first time this night Carlton seems to sober up, the weight of what's happening hitting him. Mike, honestly, feels a little bad for him. He knows how horrible it feels to be at the opposite side of Will's anger and disappointment. How scary the idea of not being able to come back from something like this is.
Lucky for him, Will's always been indulgent of his mistakes.
"Will, hold on—" Carlton reaches out a hand, tries to catch Will's stretched out one. Mike watches it dispassionately. Once Will makes a decision he doesn't really back down.
And sure enough he snatches it back toward them, lips curling down again, eyes flashing with anger and unshed tears. Mike stands there quiet and still, lets Will handle this on his own. His gaze darts toward Carlton, his trembling fingers, clenched jaw, wet eyelashes. And suddenly fatigue smashes into him like a wrecking-ball. That's Will's boyfriend. Someone that Will liked enough to make his, despite being afraid and unsure. Someone that was worth it for him to try.
But at the same time, the ugly feeling of vicious satisfaction bubbles up in him. Because despite all that Will still chooses to stand in front of him. Maybe he can never be with Will, has lost his chance, never even realized it was there before it was too late, but he can still be his favorite person. He can still be the guy that Will decided to be best friends with. He still has that.
So he just stands there and does nothing. A passive observer and a catalyst all in one. He nearly snorts at such a nice oxymoron. God, maybe he really did knock something loose in his head if he's starting to find literary devices in his pathetic composition.
With a violent blink Mike forces himself out of his thoughts to focus back on the argument in front of him. A tear is slipping down Will's cheek and in a moment of brief insanity he nearly reaches up to wipe it off. The sight of Carlton's balled up fists stops him from doing anything but twitching his fingers. Said fists are shaking in what might be anger or fear and again Mike feels compelled to say something. He did after all provoke him.
He's never been able to be subtle about his feelings. Always over-correcting with either cold indifference that made him want to vomit, or letting himself indulge in vile desires of closeness that ended with Vecna targeting him, or a fist in his face.
But, before he can try to say anything, Will speaks with that patented Byers steel and heat in his voice.
"No," he spits out, "I don't care. I don't care what he did, or— or whatever he said. I don't care. And I won't. Because there is such a thing as limits Carl, and this is a pretty fucking big one," he heaves in a breath and slips his hand off of Mike's face to fully turn in his boyfriend's direction. Mike immediately feels bereft and curses himself for it. "You don't touch my fucking family. I thought that'd be common sense, but apparently it needs to be spelled out," he sneers and throwing a hand up takes a step toward Carlton. The light from the room at the end of the corridor starts pulsating and he can hear drunken cheers.
"You don't— Will listen, you don't understand—" tears are now falling down Carlton's face too. Mike's insides turn in guilt alongside a twisted sort of glee.
"No, I actually don't think there's anything to understand. And I'm not going to be with someone who thinks they can just— just hurt others, and especially my fucking best friend," Will bites out and slowly lowers his hand to straighten and stare into Carlton's eyes. He looks dangerous like this, Mike thinks deliriously for a moment, like he could throw a punch and not regret it.
"No, Will listen, listen to me—" Carlton begs and his fingers twitch like he wanted to reach out but thought better of it, "He's trying to— he's like a leech, can't you see?"
"Excuse me?"
Will's tone is suddenly frigid, eyes hard and bereft of the sadness that shined in them before. But Carlton trudges on, gaze darting in a panicked manner over Will's face.
"He shows up, and, and just tries to get you, can't you see? Can't you see how he tries to fucking— seduce you or some shit?! No one even knows he's going to be here, out of fucking nowhere, and barges into your home and—"
"You're right," Will says, voice cutting through the babble coming out of Carlton's mouth. The words shock Carlton enough that he stops talking. They shock Mike enough that he instinctively wraps an arm around himself in a pathetic mimicry of a hug.
"You're right," repeats Will taking a step toward the other man, shoulders up by his ears and tension clear across every line of his body, "my home, my family, my best friend. So I really can't wrap my head around how you could've thought that you could hurt something that's mine. Shows how much you respect me, don't you think?" he scoffs and doesn't wait for an answer. He just reaches back to grasp Mike's hand and tugs him toward the staircase.
"Wait—"
"No."
And without a backwards glance he flies down the stairs and drags Mike through crowds of people to the back of the house. With a hard push to a door in the kitchen, that Mike had never even noticed, he bursts onto the lawn behind the house. Will strides forward with a single-minded intensity and Mike decides to simply relish in the comfort of the hand still curled around his own. Finally, Will slows down a couple streets away, an area that Mike distantly recognizes as near a park, that's near a coffee shop, that's near Will and Jonathan's apartment.
Under the glow of streetlights Mike can see how Will's eyes are still glistening and how hard he's gritting his teeth. And for a moment all Mike can think of is how beautiful he is.
But then the reality of the situation crashes into him and makes his hand go slack enough to slip out of Will's grip. His fingers twitch as he looks up at Mike. Mike reaches up to get rid of the now, hopefully, unnecessary packing and screws up his face when he feels how tender his nose is. Then he tucks his hands underneath his armpits, just to make sure he doesn't accidentally reach out, and takes a breath to say… something. He doesn't however, get a chance to make a fool of himself, because whatever he was going to do is stopped by cold fingers slipping under his chin and tilting his face so that the light of the lamps blinds him briefly.
"Ow," he manages to get out before Will releases him and switches his attention toward his still yet-to-be-uncovered wrist. Will barely spares him a look, and yet communicates such exasperation with it that it shouldn't be possible.
"Don't be a baby," he murmurs and slips his sweater up his arm, "you've had worse and were alright," despite saying that, Mike can't help but notice how his brows furrow at the sight of the angry, red brand on his wrist. With a sigh, and a congested sounding sniff that would gross him out if it were anyone else, Will reaches up and apparently decides he wants him dead.
"Okay, ow, ow, seriously— Ow!" he yelps as Will decides to press two fingers next to his nose where it hurts, "I'm sorry, ow! I'm sorry that you broke up with your boyfriend because of me— Ow!"
"Stop acting dumb Mike," Will breathes out, eyes narrowed at his nose like it personally wronged him. He tilts his head back again and stares with a scary intensity at his nostrils. "it wasn't because of you. He punched my best friend, I mean—" and then he stops, voice going tight like it does whenever he's about to lose it. Mike slowly frees his hands and reaches up to hover his palms over the probing digits that still haven't left the apples of his cheeks. Will takes a shaky breath and slips his eyes closed, "I mean just how little do you have to respect someone to do that?" a hysterical giggle escapes past his lips, "Fucking hell, that's not even all. Do you know how often we see each other while sober?"
Mike feels his throat tighten, like he's also about to cry, and drops his palms to cover Will's chilly hands. Will's fingers curl inward and so does his spine as it slowly becomes more of a curve pointed toward Mike with his eyes locked onto the sidewalk.
"Fuck," he gasps out and proceeds to fully fold onto himself and sink downwards, "fuck, what the hell was that? Am I just that fucking stupid?" and finally Mike snaps out of whatever daze he got caught up in. He crouches down, so quickly he nearly bangs his knees on the ground, and switches his hands so that one of them holds both of Will's while the other lands on his nape. He squeezes gently and speaks as gently as he can.
"Hey, hey, Will look at me c'mon," he breathes out, "you're not stupid okay? You're not, you know you're not. You couldn't have known that he'd do that, yeah? Also, I mean, well, it's not like he was—" before he registers what he's about to admit, Will cuts him off with a snort.
"I mean fuck. You're here to seduce me? To get me? Christ, he's laughable." Will brings up their intertwined hands to press his forehead down. Mike feels like he's ten again, sitting curled up with Will in a hidden corner of the playground, grasping at each other and trying to control their breathing after Troy chased them around again. And just like back then he brings his face close to Will's and tries to catch his gaze.
"Will, buddy, hey," Mike whispers, and waits until he can see the green of Will's irises, "I'm sorry. I'm really— you deserved better than that. I'm sorry."
And with the hand still clasped around Will's neck, Mike brings him forward to curl around him in an awkward half-hug. He stays perfectly still besides his fingers, which slide into Will's hair and drag across his scalp. The shaky breathing slowly goes back to normal, and he feels Will squeeze the hand in his grasp. After a few more minutes Will slowly straightens and blinks away the last of his tears.
"Yeah," he rasps out, "let's go home."
"I think it's broken."
"Oh my god, it's not broken, you big baby—"
"How would you know? No, how would you know, are you a doctor—"
"Christ, it's not broken—"
"You don't know that!"
Will stops next to the entrance of his building to let out a laugh and Mike feels as if his chest was filled with a hundred miniature suns. He sways toward him and lets out the giggle that has been building in him for the last twenty minutes. He slumps against the wall and watches through lidded eyes as Will wrestles keys out of his pocket. His smile slips and gets replaced by a bittersweet twist to them, and Mike stands up straight at the sudden change.
"I've seen enough broken noses to know what they look like Mike," he's focused on shifting the keys along the ring, even as Mike watches the one with the yellow cover slip through his fingers. And, again, he's reminded of being eight and listening to an impossibly young Jonathan tell Joyce that he tripped during one of Lonnie's hunting trips, of being nine and shaking in indescribable anger as Will handed his older brother tissues, of being six and peeking through a crack of the Byers' kitchen door and being so, so afraid.
Mike swallows harshly and reaches out to hook his fingers through one of Will's belt-loops. He leans forward and rests his chin on Will's shoulder with a small sigh. This night really turned out to be an emotional nightmare.
"Still doesn't mean you're a doctor," he murmurs, and relaxes once Will's mouth twitches up into something less acerbic and more genuine. He keeps his eyes on it even as Will finally unlocks the door, and has to be pushed forward by the hand on the small of his back.
"C'mon," whispers Will, as if he's suddenly aware of the hour and the quiet around them, "let's get you some ice on that."
The Byers brothers' apartment is more mess than not and Mike, not so secretly, loves it.
Two little bedrooms, a small living room, an even tinier kitchen and a bathroom with shit water pressure have unfortunately bewitched him body and soul. Some might argue that that's the fault of one of the occupants, but Mike remains steadfast in his claims that his true love here is the well worn couch, that was bought in some sleazy second-hand shop, and smells faintly of wet dog.
Will proceeds to dump him onto said couch and trudge into the kitchen trying not to knock over any of the numerous stacks that take up space on the floor. Mike watches over the back of it and can't help but melt into the cushions. Sometimes he wishes he could live here full time, not just when he's on a rare visit.
Or when he drops in unannounced with just the clothes on his back.
He's been having a bit of a rough week.
Will is fighting with the freezer's door to open it quietly and Mike is flooded with an overwhelming urge to curl up at his feet like a dog. However, before he can act on any of his impulses, Will stands back up and walks over to him with a bag of frozen vegetables.
"Come here," he whispers, and prods at Mike with his foot so that he makes him some space. Mike slides over obediently and turns his face toward him expectantly. Will scoffs around what Mike can tell was a suppressed smile, and focuses on covering the bag with a dishtowel. Mike lets his eyes slip half-closed and directs his attention at Will's fingers, which are covered in smudges of brown paint and crowned with cuticles that have been mercilessly bitten down. He's seen the painting that Will's been working on and can't understand why he's been stressing about it. It's beautiful.
He's broken out of his reverie by a sudden attack.
"Shit—"
"I literally just said—"
"It's cold—"
"Shh, fucking hell Mike—"
"Don't shh me! I'm the injured one!"
Will rolls his eyes and forgoes a response in favor of gripping his cheek and pressing the covered bag more firmly against his nose. After a few seconds Mike relaxes into it and sweeps his gaze over the living room until it lands on the stack of postcards that stands on the edge of a bookshelf.
"I think I'm going to catch the train in the morning," he whispers and watches as Will's eyes snap up to catch his.
"Oh," is all that Will breathes out before he blinks violently and focuses back on holding the bag. Mike can hear how the vegetables creak under the force that Will grips them now with. He clears his throat and Mike watches as his Adam's apple bobs with a harsh swallow.
"Yeah," he lets his fingers curl over Will's wrist as he leans into the warm palm, "I'm going to NYU in the fall." He feels his eyes well up with tears. God, he's wanted to say that out loud for months.
Then he feels a sudden pain and jerks back startled.
"Fucking—"
"Shit, sorry, sorry, come back here," Will lets out a surprised laugh and curls closer toward him, "I mean what? I thought you didn't want to—"
"I mean," he sighs out and rests his face back in Will's waiting hand, "I thought so too. But then that whole nightmare thing happened and I realized that I don't want to stay in fucking Hawkins," he spits out and Will's expression morphs into delighted understanding, "I don't wanna become my dad, or some— some sad asshole who can only write about his glory days. I mean—"
"Yeah," Will breathes out, "yeah."
"I want to create things that mean something to someone."
Will's gaze darts between his eyes — he decides to close them and try to burrow into Will's palm. He can be normal in the morning. For now, he exists in this moment, where the moon is gone but the sun won't be out for hours, and lets himself indulge. Will lets out a happy hum and goes back to gently pressing the vegetables against his nose.
"I'm glad," he murmurs, "that why you showed up here with literally nothing?"
"Mhm… My dad said something about a business degree, then mom said something about it being nice that I'm staying home and I just… I just left. It just— It reminded me too much of— of there, y'know?"
"You're out Mike," Will says while brushing some hair off his forehead, "you got out."
"Yeah, I know," a shaky breath leaves his mouth and he opens his eyes to catch Will's. They're so gentle it nearly leaves him breathless, "I'm sorry about Carlton."
"I'm sorry about your nose," he says with a lopsided smile and a barely visible tightness around his eyes. Mike furrows his brows and just so stops himself from lurching toward Will to grab him.
"It wasn't your fault—"
"Yeah, and Carlton being a jerk wasn't yours."
Mike bites his lip and thinks about trying to explain it, but. Well. What could he even say?
Actually, I'm pretty sure he just noticed that I'm hopelessly besotted with you.
Honestly, I don't blame him because if I ever had the chance again—
Would you give me a chance?
He doesn't say any of that. He knows he doesn't have a chance and will never have one again. He figured out that he wanted to be with Will for the rest of his life just as Will realized that he was better off without Mike. Never let it be said that Mike Wheeler has good timing.
"Besides," Will whispers and casts his gaze toward the kitchen, "I mean, I wasn't joking earlier. More often than not we were drunk together. Guess that's what I get for getting with a guy I met in a bar, right?" he snorts and Mike rubs a thumb over his pulse point.
"You deserved better," he murmurs and slides closer, lays his head on Will's shoulder and dislodges the barely-cold bag from his face.
"Yeah," Will lays his head on Mike's and drapes his arm over him, "we all did."
In the morning Mike wakes up aching and stiff and enveloped in warmth. He also remembers that his train is at 8am, and that last he spoke to his mom on the payphone she was ready to send out missing person posters. And with the way the sun is shining it can't exactly be far from his deadline.
With that thought he gives himself just two minutes to mourn the soon-to-be loss of Will's arms around him, and proceeds to disentangle himself, from multiple limbs and a blanket, in practiced movements that bear the mark of countless sleepovers that ended up on the basement's couch. Or of eighteen months spent scared and paradoxically alone, with the only consolation being the occasional knock on his door in the middle of the night.
He stumbles over a pile of CDs he didn't notice earlier and tries to stop them from clattering too loudly. When Will doesn't even budge he breathes out relieved and brushes his hair back. Then pauses when he feels a bandage on his face. Huh.
Catching the sight of their weird, squirrel-imitating, clock he starts to tiptoe toward the Byers' front door. He stops by the exit and tries to look for a piece of paper to steal and write a note, when he notices something new. A small key with a blue cover, and a page underneath it.
Picked up Mike's key. We do NOT need more 4am wake ups.
Mike's throat is tight all over again as he ghosts his fingers over the metal and has to breathe out shakily so that he doesn't burst into tears. He fishes a pen out of his pocket, leans over to write his goodbyes, grabs the key with a shaking hand, and slips out, as quietly as he can, to run across the city to the train station.
Took the key. Thanks for everything. I'll call.
Mike x