Work Text:
Will Byers could barely manage to keep his eyes from closing, the heaviness in his limbs only working to sink him further and further into the comfort of the stiff and ironically horrifically uncomfortable sofa that has lived in the Wheeler's basement for as long as he can remember. He revels in the realization that this is the first time he’s been left alone for what feels like weeks, his mom and Johnathan upstairs with everyone else instead of lingering over his shoulder as if he were destined to disappear at any given moment. In fact, he’s been left alone all evening, ever since—well, ever since he panicked and started to talk and talk and talk. “I don’t like girls. I mean I do, just not like the rest of you.”
There’s this feeling, a gnawing sort of sensation that grows more unignorable the longer he sits in the dingy darkness of his makeshift bedroom. It’s a feeling of this intense sort of wrongness that digs deeply and uncomfortably into his gut, something so incredibly visceral and almost touchable that he can’t help but let it consume him entirely. Much to his disappointment, any ideas of sleep vanish with the intuition that what he has done and what he has said today was nothing more than an enormously large and painstakingly irreversible mistake.
There’s an engulfing guilt that always finds a way back into Will's mind, one that is often associated with Mike Wheeler. Glances that last too long, unexpected but sometimes purposeful bumps of the elbow. “There’s this person that I liked and I know, I know they’re not like me,” shared looks.
With a heavy sigh, Will brings his legs up to press up against his chest, his forehead coming down to rest limply against the boniness of his knees. The basement is quiet and yet everything seems to be so loud all at the same time, the persistent humming of the furnace, the murmur of voices muffled by the basement door, his thoughts.
It felt right to tell them about his secret earlier, it really did. The words came out with a wave of adrenaline, and everyone listened. But now, the longer he sits with it and plays the moment over in his head, he feels sick. He feels like another thing has been unfairly ripped from him and stolen away forever. When all is said and done, Will told his friends out of fear of how Henry might use it against him, not out of acceptance. He can’t help but mourn that.
Groaning loudly, he lifts his head and rubs his eyes aggressively with the heels of his palms, thinking over the day, the year, his life. He thinks over everything. Of course, all roads lead back to Mike. They always do.
Mike is there in the guilt, in the shame, in the indulgences. And for a moment, only a moment, Will does let himself indulge. A large, toothy grin. Soft and careful hands. A hushed tone, whispered words, I love you. Mike was just his Tammy. That’s all it ever was. I’ll always love you, Will. He feels terrible.
Jumping out of his own skin, Will looks up with a jolt to see Mike stuck still on the staircase, frozen in place where one of the steps squealed loudly under his sudden weight. “Sorry! Sorry, I really didn’t mean to scare you,” he stresses worriedly, continuing his trek down into the basement. Piled high in his arms is a large blanket and a pillow that hides his face away from Will's viewpoint on the couch. Mike lingers for a moment at the base of the stairs and Will feels the all-consuming guilt swell tightly in his chest again.
“It’s okay, Mike, really. I think I'm just jumpy after today,” he sighs, letting his legs fall back down and against the cushions. Mike smiles in a small sort of way, peeking over his duvet. “I mean, who isn’t right now?” He jokes, finally moving forward. A silence spreads between them as he drops his bedding onto the far end of the couch before he hesitantly takes the spot next to Will. “I hope you don’t mind,” Mike looks over at him with his tired eyes. Will shifts, pushing ever so slightly further away. “Mind what?”
Mike gestures to the stairs with his head. “Uhm, well, my room is looking a little worse for wear right now,” he supplies and right, Will knew that. Of course he did. The night Holly went missing, the night Mike's and Nancy's parents were hospitalized. The night his room was destroyed. “I was going to bring it up on the car ride home but you just seemed like you wanted to be left alone and I really didn’t want to bother you at all and then when we got here you disappeared and I told the others I would be fine on the couch upstairs but Johnathan insisted I came down here with you instead,” Mike rambles. Before Will can think of something to say in response, he’s talking again.
“This is so stupid,” he mumbles before his eyes widen. “Or, no, this isn’t stupid, you’re not stupid. I feel like that came out really wrong. I just meant that I told them you would rather be with your brother and it’s stupid that I’m here instead. I can, I can go and get him and let him know—”
“Mike, you’re fine, really. I’ll get out of your way so you can set up,” Will interrupts and it hurts to do so. A large part of himself wants desperately to let Mike second guess himself and go. But the other part, the indulgent one, lets him stay. Will stands but Mike stays still. “You’re sure?” “I’m sure.” Mike smiles and Will forces himself to turn away.
They move about in complete stillness. They don’t speak when Will slips away and into the bathroom to get changed. They don’t speak when he reemerges and falls onto his mattress on the floor. They don’t speak when Mike rustles around over his blanket with a sigh. They don’t speak. Instead, they both stare up at the ceiling in a silence charged with something Will doesn’t want to think about.
“Will?” Mike asks unexpectedly, his voice cutting sharply through the air despite how soft his words are. “I’m so sorry.”
Will doesn’t respond, not right away. He rolls over quietly and allows himself to glance up to where Mike lays above him. He isn’t looking back at Will, his eyes instead glued firmly to the rusted pipes above. “What are you sorry for?” Will finally asks.
“I’m sorry for not being there,” Mike almost whispers, closing his eyes in a scrunch. “For not being able to see you anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
Mike shifts onto his side now and meets Will's eyes. There’s more silence and then he’s speaking and all Will can do is lay there and listen.
“What you told us today, back at the Squawk. I just—I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. That I, that maybe I made it seem like you couldn’t talk to me. But you can, Will. You always can.”
“Mike—” Will tries to intervene, sitting up. “No, please just, just listen, okay?” Mike asks, pushing himself up as well. Will nods.
“I realized then, when you told us about, about how you—” Mike sighs a heavy sigh. “I realized that somewhere along the way I stopped being able to see you. I just,” he breaths, rubbing at his forehead. “I’m sorry I feel like this isn’t making any sense. I’m not making any sense,” he laughs, more at himself than at the situation. He looks down at Will, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. “I think that what I’m trying to say is we used to understand each other more than anyone else. I used to understand us but these past few years it’s like I lost you and I didn’t even realize it. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize it.”
“You don’t need to be sorry, Mike,” Will manages, that burning pit churning in his gut. Shame, embarrassment, regret. Mike shakes his head. “No, you deserve an apology, Will. You deserve a whole lot more than an apology. I’ve been a complete and total asshole, and we’re supposed to understand each other. I should have been there.”
Will stares, his heart racing. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s not,” Mike responds.
His eyes flicker back and forth between Wills; his expression made of that same confusing and difficult to read quality it had back at the Squawk when Will had sat them all down. “It’s just that—I’m just so sorry,” he whispers so quietly that Will has a hard time telling if it’s still directed at him or not. Mike opens his mouth as if to say more, as if to ask something important when the door swings open. He springs up onto his feet, his blanket falling to the floor. Will spins around to see Nancy at the top of the stairs, a hand placed firmly on her hip. “Will, your mom put together some food for us if you guys are hungry. If you’re not, you should still eat. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow,” she shouts down to them and that’s that. The conversation is over. Mike mumbles something Will doesn’t catch and then he’s gone up the stairs and out of sight.
Dinner is solemn. Not much is said besides a few comments here and there spoken to him by Johnathan or his mom. Will picks at his food distractedly, every once in a while glancing up to see Mike across the room standing with his sister. Later that night, Will returns to the basement only mildly disappointed that Mike never followed him down. Okay, maybe more than mildly disappointed. Will waited for the door to open, he really did. But after an hour or so he turns off the lamp with a sigh and closes his eyes. Maybe it was too awkward. Maybe Mike was too uncomfortable. Maybe he really didn’t understand after all.
Will isn’t sure how much time passes; all he knows is he can't fall asleep with the unwavering nervousness in his lungs and the unrest in his legs. He listens to the sounds of the house settling and prays for rest, but he just needs to move, needs to do something, anything rather than lay here alone. Sitting up with an exasperated huff, he glances at the couch only to be met with empty darkness. Pushing to his feet, he decides it doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t care so much anymore anyway. He just needs fresh air.
Rubbing at his dry eyes, Will shuffles quietly to the garage door. The metallic handle is cold against the warmth of his palm, and the concrete floor is freezing against his socked feet when he steps outside.
“Will?” A voice calls suddenly from the night and of course Will instantly knows that it's Mike. He'll always know. Mike sits on a workbench near the entrance of the carport, fiddling absentmindedly with something in his hands. His black hair is a mess and in some small, hidden sort of way, he looks so utterly defeated.
“I didn’t know you were out here,” Will hurries to explain. “I’ll leave you alone, I’m sorry.” Mike shakes his head, hiding whatever it was in his hands away and out of sight. “No, Will, It’s okay. You can sit with me,” he supplies, scooting over to make room on the bench. Will obliges, taking the spot. More of the awkward silence that seems to be following them everywhere swallows any peace Will was hoping to find out here. “You couldn’t sleep?” Mike asks softly. “No. There’s too much going on,” Will replies.
Their eyes meet and they’re close, so close. Thighs pressed together where they meet in the middle, arm against arm, shoulder to shoulder. Again, Will tries to decipher the unreadable look shrouding Mike's dimly lit face but it’s of no use. They really did lose each other.
Will urges himself to look away but before he can there’s a gentle touch on his forearm, warm fingers brushing against his skin. “You're shaking,” Mike points out very matter of factly. Will shrugs, heat rising to his face. “It’s cold,” he answers, taking hold of his goosebumped elbows, wrapping his arms gently around his body and shaking off Mike's ghost of a touch.
Mike presses his lips together into a thin line like he always used to do when he was thinking hard about something and then he’s moving, pulling his arms out of his jacket and holding it out to Will. “Here,” he says, smiling when Will takes it into his own hands. “It’s not much but it’ll probably help a bit.”
Will keeps it held out between them, eyebrows furrowed in contemplation. “What about you?” He asks. “I’ll be fine, honest. I like to think I’ve got great body heating skills naturally.”
“What, and I don’t?” Will smiles.
“Clearly not,” Mike laughs.
Will hesitates for only a moment before giving in and pulling the jacket on. It’s still warm from when Mike had worn it. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Of course,” Mike nods. The silence that follows doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as it had previously. Will looks out into the front yard, Mike keeps his eyes on Will.
“Will?” Mike asks. “Yes?” He hums.
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“You know what.”
Will sucks in a deep breath, looking back to Mike. I knew the moment I first met you. “I don’t know, Mike. I guess I always sort of knew, you know? It’s always been there, been a part of me. I was always different, even when I didn’t understand exactly what it was.”
Mike nods slowly, his eyes stuck firmly on Will. Evil, persistent butterflies flap violently in his gut. He forces his eyes away and down to his hands. “But that’s not even fair to say because I do think I always understood what it was. It’s just that, for the longest time there was this, this wrongness inside of me and somehow everyone around me figured it out. My dad. The kids at school. For that reason, I think it wasn’t that I didn’t know or didn’t understand, I just couldn’t let them be right. I couldn’t handle it if they were. They saw this wrongness in me that I could feel and so I pushed it away until now because being—” Will takes another deep breath, his hands jittery and numb. “Being queer seemed impossibly horrific. It just felt wrong. It still does, sometimes,” he breathes out gently. Mike doesn’t speak. “I didn't talk to you, or to anyone about it because I was terrified you would finally see that wrongness too and hate me for it,” Will whispers.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, Will,” Mike responds, his expression serious and unnatural on face. Will smiles loosely at the sentiment. “So, we really are okay?” He asks. Mike nods. “Of course we’re okay.”
“Good,” Will breathes. “That’s all I want. For all of us to be okay.”
The conversation lulls and then Mike begins to shift, pulling something out from under his leg. Will watches his hands closely, taking notice of the mixtape and neatly folded paper now held gingerly between his fingers. Mike bites at his cheek, flipping the tape over so it's facing the right side up. Written in black ink on the label is Will's name in Mike's chicken scratch handwriting. “This is for you,” Mike says, holding out his hand. Will takes the tape and paper carefully, looking down at them in confusion. “It was from last year when you moved to California. I meant to send it to you then, way before I came to visit and everything went to shit, but I didn't. I don't know why I didn't.” he explains, running his now empty hands through his wild hair.
“Why are you giving it to me now?” Will asks, placing the letter onto the bench beside him before flipping the tape over. Bowie, The Clash, The Cure, songs and artists he knows, some that he doesn't recognize. “I don't know. I saw it sitting in my room when I went to go get my blanket and I realized that for some reason I've been scared to give it to you. I was scared back then and I was scared when you were finally back in Hawkins. I just, I don't want to be scared anymore. Not of you. So, I want you to have it.”
Will doesn't quite understand but he decides not to push. “Who are the Butthole Surfers?” he smiles, laughing quietly to himself. Mike's eyes light up and finally it's an expression Will can recognize. “Don’t laugh! They’re a great band, I swear. Probably the greatest, actually. I just wanted to share it with you, you know? All of it. But you were so far away, and we hadn't really been talking, and I wussed out big time,” he explains further. Will nods his head, resting the mixtape on his thigh so he can open the letter. Unfolding it, he’s met with small writing that fills the lined paper.
To will
I know I haven't written to you in a long time and I know that we haven’t had the chance to talk for even longer (I promise I’ve been trying but every time I call the line is always busy) but I’ve been thinking about you a lot recently. I really miss you. What is winter like in Lenora? Is it still sunny? It’s horrible here back in Hawkins but you already know that. Cold and wet but never any snow. What's the point if there isn't ever any snow? The tape is for you but you already know that too sense your name is on it. I was listening to some new music with Dustin not that long ago and all I could think about was how much I wish you were here we used to listen to music together, you and me, and how happy you always seemed. Anyway, I think you’ll really like some of the songs I chose and I know you’ll like the ones you already know. I’m sorry I couldn't get it done in time for Christmas, I really did try but I kept putting it off. That makes it sound like I don't care, I'm sorry. I do care. I think I care too much. I was just scared because you mean so much to me and I didn't want to say the wrong thing. It's been a really difficult year so far without you and El and I can never find the right words to write down. I hope this is okay, that these are the right words. And I also hope that you don’t get bored of this tape and that it lasts you until I maybe make another one. Merry late christmas, will.
Love, Mike.
“This is really nice of you,” Will smiles, that shameful feeling that seems to follow every thought of Mike in his head resurfacing. Love, Mike. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything. “I love it.”
Mike smiles nervously, picking at his sweatpants. “I’m glad,” he says, looking away and forwards at nothing in particular. “Do you still have that old tape player in the basement? The one your mom used to let us all use for D&D campaigns?" Will asks, pushing his guilt down so he can try and let himself enjoy the moment, just this once. Mike nods, bringing his attention back over to Will. “Of course I do. It’s in the storage unit under the stairs,” he answers. Will grins. “Do you want to listen to this with me?” He asks, waving the mixtape in the air. Mike nods, huffing out a small, breathy laugh from his nose. “Obviously,” he smiles and it’s that toothy grin Will loves more than anything. Standing up from the workbench, Mike waits for Will to follow before leading the way back inside.
The usually freezing basement feels warm against Will's face in contrast to the garage and when he sits on the couch he can't help but feel so incredibly comfortable. He keeps Mike's jacket on as he watches him search through the closet for the tape player and he keeps it on when he comes back to try and set it up. Shame, guilt, indulgence. Mike Wheeler.
“Here, pass the tape over,” Mike asks, holding out his hand behind his back while he bends down to plug the unit in. Will does, leaning over the side of the couch to place it carefully into his outstretched palm. Mike straightens up, bringing the plastic to his mouth and blowing gently on it to rid it of any dust it might have caught sitting on his desk all this time before he clicks the player open and slides it inside. There's a moment of silence and then the opening synth of The Cure fills the basement. “Oh my god, I haven't heard this one in the longest time,” Will smiles, bringing his legs up and into a crisscrossed position. Mike flops down beside him, resting his arms along the back of the couch.
“It reminds me so much of the summer before we moved out of Hawkins. Or at least the end of the summer after all of the flesh monster stuff was finished and we were just getting ready to move. It had just come out I think, this song, but it rarely played on the radio,” Will remembers, closing his eyes for a moment and listening to the familiar voice of Robert Smith sing Six Different Ways. “That doesn't really sound like a good correlation,” Mike laughs. Will opens his eyes, meeting his gaze. “No, no, it's good. I love this song, really,” he reassures and it's true. He really does love it. But he thinks he’d love anything if it were a gift from Mike, as pathetic as it sounds.
Will lets his head fall back limply against the couch cushions, his eyes closing once again as he listens. The song eventually dies off and then the next one is playing, one he doesn't fully recognize but it’s good, really good, and he feels so incredibly happy.
“Hey, Will?” Mike asks, his voice hesitant and quiet under the music. Will hums in reply but he isn't really listening. Before Mike can continue, Will turns his head over to face him. “What is this? What’s it called?” He asks. Mike shuffles, bringing his hands into his lap. “It’s The Smiths,” he answers, absentmindedly scratching at his cheek. “Well, I knew that but what's this song called?” Will laughs. Mike smiles. “Oh, it's uh, it's called I Wonder or something like that. Well I Wonder,” he answers. Will nods, leaning his head back once more, his eyes falling shut again. “Will, can I ask you something?” Mike speaks up, more assured this time. “Yes,” Will replies softly, waiting. There's only the sound of silence for a long moment.
“Do you remember the painting that you gave to me last year?” He finally asks and Will's heart drops into his stomach instantly. Sitting up straight, he turns to face Mike who stares at him with furrowed eyebrows, his lips pressed into a thin, contemplating line. “The one you gave me in the van when we were looking for El?”
Will nods. “Yes, I remember.” Mike swallows, turning so he’s facing him straight on. “I was just thinking. Thinking about what you said and about, well about everything and I just need to know for sure if, if—” he stops there, biting at his cheek. His eyes don't leave Wills, not once.
“If what?” Will asks and he feels terrified, that day rushing back to him like an uncontrollable wave of burning hot water. Lies, misunderstood words, false confessions. Mike’s lips part ever so slightly and then they close, his eyes flickering back and forth between Wills, searching for something he doesn't fully understand. “If what you told me was the truth,” he finally asks, his words a whisper in the darkness of the basement. The truth.
“Of course it was,” Will lies immediately and it feels horrible to do so. He hates lying. He hates lying to Mike. But the truth is not something simple he can just say. Not with this. Never with this.
Mike shakes his head, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I talked to El, Will. About the painting. I wanted to thank her but she told me she had no idea what I was talking about,” Mike explains. He looks back up at Will. “She had no idea,” he reiterates.
Will can’t breathe. He’s stuck still staring at Mike, his world crashing down around him. “How long have you known?” Will manages, his voice quiet and afraid. “A long time. Since that first week we were all back in Hawkins.”
“Why didn't you say anything to me?” Will asks.
“Why did you lie?” Mike responds, that unbreakable expression faltering for just a moment.
“I was afraid.”
“I was too.”
The music ends suddenly, leaving them in silence for what feels like an eternity. Then, with a quiet click, the intro to Heroes by David Bowie starts to play and all Will can think about is when they were younger and would sit alone in this basement after school and listen to this song over and over again.
“Will, who was the boy that you liked?” Mike asks abruptly and the words ring in Will's ears loudly. “I don't, I don't know what you're talking about,” Will mumbles, staring wide eyed. “Back at the Squawk, you said that you used to like someone. Someone who wasn't like you,” Mike reminds as if Will couldn't remember. Of course he remembers. He remembers every single stupid thing that he said.
“I can’t—” Will cuts himself off, his throat constricting. Mike doesn't say anything. He sits still and he watches, waiting. There's this look in his eyes, a quick flash of something Will knows all too well. Guilt, shame, indulgence. He pleads with himself to turn away, to pry his eyes from Mikes but he just can’t. He’s stuck still, watching disaster hurtle towards him in slow motion.
“El had written to me before I came to visit. She said that you were working on something, on a painting and that she was certain it was for a girl you might have liked,” Mike explains. “But that painting was for me, wasn't it? It was the one you gave to me in the van.” Mike speaks so softly and it hurts. It hurts because Will knows that there's no way this ends well. He nods his head slowly and watches as Mike's dark eyes widen. “Why did you lie to me, Will,” he whispers, his voice unsupported and wobbly. “Why did you say it was from El. Why did you tell me those words were hers?”
Will swallows, fighting back tears. “I didn’t want to risk losing you,” he finally gets out, something barely audible. “I wish you would have told me,” Mike pleads and Will doesn't get it. He doesn't understand. “Because if you had told me maybe, maybe things would have been different and maybe I, maybe things—” Mike stops, his mouth snapping shut.
“I couldn't risk losing you,” Will repeats and now he knows there's no going back. The secrets out. “I knew from the moment I realized what was happening, what I felt, I knew that it would only ruin everything. Because I know you're not like me, I knew that. And I care about you so much Mike, you don’t even understand how much it kills me. You’re my best friend. I just, I couldn't risk that. I won't risk that.” Mike looks back up at him then and Will’s stomach twists into an uncomfortable knot.
“That’s not fair,” he whispers. Will doesn't know how to begin to respond to that. Mike shifts hesitantly, swallowing hard. “Will, I don't know how to say any of this,” he says in an airy breath. There’s this certain kind of energy buzzing off of him, something scared and confused. “I just want us to stay best friends,” Will worries. “I couldn't lose you. I can’t lose you.”
Mike stares, his eyes flickering back and forth between Wills just as they’ve been doing this entire time. Except now, for only a second, they flicker downward before meeting his gaze. Will’s breath hicks involuntarily and before he has time to fully register what’s happening there's a cold hand on his cheek, long delicate fingers pushing gently into his hair as soft lips crash into his own. It’s fast and harsh and it's over before he even fully realizes it's happening. What is happening?
Mike’s breath is heavy, his chest falling up and down rapidly as he stares forward at Will. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.” Something clicks. Will doesn't fully understand what it is exactly, not yet, but before he can think himself out of it he’s pushing forward again and taking Mike’s face into his own hands. Their lips meet in the middle and Will lets his eyes fall closed. This time it’s not over quickly. It’s soft and slow. It’s everything Will could have ever dreamed of. It’s electric.
Mike's hand ghosts up Will’s arm slowly before stopping at the nape of his neck, pulling him in closer while his other hand grips at his side. Will loses track of time in the kiss. Whether it lasts seconds or minutes he doesn't know but it doesn't matter. When they pull apart all he cares about is the fact that he can still feel the lingering pressure of Mike's mouth on his lips, his breath on his face, his nose pressed against his own.
But soon reality crashes down and the gravity of the situation punches him hard in the gut. Will shoves away, panic taking over any other reasonable sense. “Mike, this isn't, you're not—what about El?” Will rambles, his mind blank, the kiss playing over and over again in his mind.
Mike stays so incredibly still, panting lightly, his lips red and puffy. “Will,” He whispers. “I really don't know how to talk about any of this.”
Mike turns away, his eyes downcast, his leg bouncing. He drops his head into his hands for a moment before looking back up and turning to Will with a nervous huff of air. “El and I, we haven't,” he stops for a second, looking away. “We haven't been together for awhile now.” Will is taken aback, the news making absolutely no sense.
“What?” He lets out, watching the side of Mike's face closely, watching how his hair sticks up in the back from where Will let his fingers run through it. Mike closes his eyes in a scrunch, taking a deep breath. “There was always something wrong. Not with her, never with her. With me,” he begins to explain softly. “It’s like you said. There was this wrongness in the back of my head and I didn’t, I didn’t understand. I didn't understand and to be honest with you I still don't. I just know that I tried so hard to make it work with her even though I knew it had been over for a long time.”
“What are you saying?” Will asks quietly. Mike shifts, unsettled. The answer seemed to be stuck in the back of his throat. “Will, I—I couldn't even tell her that I loved her. I never could and even when I did it all just felt so, so shitty. And that sucked, because I do love her. I care about her so much. But I couldn't even write it down. I couldn't even think it without the wrongness like, like taking over, you know? And that's weird, right? That's not normal. And I knew that. I knew it wasn't normal but it’s like I couldn't let myself face it. I wasn't going to ever face it but then I talked to El about the painting and it all just sort of fell apart around me,” he explains, the words flowing out like a flood finally breaking through a dam. Will can see the visible deflate in Mike's shoulders, his breathing slowing. He looks back over to Will, his gaze soft. “We’re not together anymore. We’re just friends.”
Will nods, taking it all in. “Why did you kiss me?” he asks. Mike swallows. “I’m so confused, Will,” he confesses quietly. “I’m so confused.” Will shifts, fidgeting absentmindedly with the hem of his jacket. Mike's jacket. “You need to talk to me, Mike. I don't understand,” he says and maybe it is just another indulgence because he thinks he understands perfectly fine. He just needs to hear it. To prove to himself that he’s not making anything up. That this is real.
“It doesn't feel wrong, Will,” Mike says. “When I think about you. When I write to you. It doesn't feel wrong and I'm just so afraid.”
“Mike—”
“I love you.”
It's like time stops.
“This isn't real,” Will mumbles and a trickling fear begins to seep into his mind. The fear of false confessions. The fear of Vecna warping his perceptions and using this against him, using Mike against him. “This can’t be real.”
Mike blinks, his lips once again pressing into that thin line before they part. “I think It’s always been you, Will. And that's what I'm so sorry for not realizing sooner. It scares me so much. The things I've heard. The things my dad has said,” Mike says, shaking his head. “But when you talked to us at the Squawk I realized I didn't want to be so scared anymore. That's the real reason I gave you the mixtape now and it’s the real reason I hadn't given it to you before. I’m so scared but what I know is that you mean so much more to me than any of the fear and I just couldn’t stand the idea of not saying anything and letting you walk away.”
Will can’t help the tears that fall from his eyes, blurring Mike in a wet haze. “Mike,” he whispers and then he’s being pulled forward into a hug and it’s sweet and it’s warm and it’s perfect. Will pushes away after a long moment, they’re faces close. “I love you so much,” he laughs. “I’ve loved you since I first met you. Since you first asked to be my friend.”
And then they’re kissing and it’s the most beautiful thing Will has ever experienced. When they finally separate, Mike flops down and onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “We should probably go to bed now, huh?” he asks, looking up at Will. “I guess you're right,” Will laughs quietly, pushing to his wobbly feet. He takes the time it takes to turn off the lamp and crawl under his blankets on the floor to compose himself and think over what just happened. He decides to save all the worry and complications for another day. For now, all that matters is the giddiness he feels so strongly in his chest.
The basement goes silent once Mike unplugs the tape player and there's a moment of tension lingering in the darkness as they both listen quietly to each other's breathing. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Will feels his mattress dip under the weight of Mike crawling in beside him. They face each other without saying a single word, their faces mostly hidden by the dark. “Are you ready to save the world tomorrow, Sorcerer?” Mike whispers and Will can hear his smile. “Of course I am. Are you ready?” he asks. Mike chuckles, his hand brushing Will's arm gently. “I’m always ready.”