Chapter Text
I
Will Byers being caught between what he has and what he wants
Grief is a circle and a wave. Will knows this well—he has always known it well, but he is learning it better. There are days when he goes to class, his bag full of sketches, paints, and brushes, when he laughs at Charlie and Julia's jokes in the cafeteria, and his life seems... normal. There are days when he vacuums and yells at Mike that it's his turn to do the laundry, and Mike yells back that Will hasn't washed the dishes from the last three days—and in the end, they put on a vinyl record (The Clash and the Butthole Surfers, The Cure and Bronski Beat) and sing along as they tidy up their apartment.
There are days when everything is a little more difficult, and Will drags himself from room to room without really knowing what to do.
There are days when Mike comes home from a busy day—classes at university, his shift at the bar—and he curls up next to Will as they watch Return of the Jedi for the fiftieth time. On other days, the Party goes to NY and gathers around the low table in front of the sofa to play DnD. Max and Mike bicker, Lucas teases Dustin, Will brings everyone's attention back to the adventure, and El... (El isn't there with them, she will never be).
There are days when Mike doesn't leave his room. When Will doesn't feel like doing anything—or rather, it's not that he doesn't feel like it; it's that he doesn't understand the point.
There are days when Will gets such a good grade on his latest assignment that Mike laughs, hugs him, cups his face in his hands. There are days when Carlton—Carlton, his boyfriend—takes him out to dinner, gives him a bouquet of yellow cyclamen, and kisses him gently outside the front door: sometimes he's invited in, other times he isn't—it's not a good day for Mike, you know how it is, I'm sorry Carl, I'll make it up to you, I promise.
And then there are nights when Will can do nothing but scream.
The tentacles hold him still. When he opens his eyes wide, his eyelids bared and his head motionless, the feeling is that they are still everywhere—everywhere around his arms, his chest, his neck, inside his mouth, inside his throat, inside, inside, inside...
Will screams, a wounded animal. He sits up frantically, his hands clenching the sheets, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. He feels very cold. He feels that if Mike doesn't come through that damn door within three seconds, he might vomit.
Mike throws open the door.
"Will," he murmurs, his hand on the doorknob. He quickly assesses the situation. Hair tousled and eyes swollen with sleep—but alert. It takes him a few seconds to be at Will’s side, kneeling next to him on the mattress, his hands on his neck. They both know it's just a nightmare—another nightmare. Will is short of breath, and Mike's fingertips on his neck are the only thing keeping him grounded.
“El?” Mike asks softly. His breathing is slow and steady. Will tries to follow it. In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out. He shakes his head. Not El.
“Vecna,” he replies. “I can feel him... I can feel him everywhere.”
"Wait a minute," Mike says. He takes his fingers off Will's neck and turns on the small lamp on the nightstand—the one his mother gave him before they moved. "I'm going to get something, wait," Mike adds. Will doesn't panic when Mike gets up and leaves the room. He knows very well that he'll be back—he always comes back. And it's cold, he can feel those slimy, disgusting things pressing against him everywhere, but he knows Mike always comes back.
After a minute, Mike comes back into the room, a bottle of water in one hand and a wet cloth in the other. Mike sits down next to him again, face to face, and hands him the bottle of water to drink. As Will drinks, Mike begins gently wiping his face with the cloth, tucking his hair back.
“Where do you feel it, Will?”
“On my arms.”
The cloth slides over his arms, Mike's delicate fingers following it, light caresses. He murmurs that it's him, that it's only him. You're safe, Will, I'm here, it's only me—and it's a whisper in the night so light that Will isn't even sure it's real. But his hands taking care of him, those are real.
“On my neck,” he murmurs, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. He doesn't feel so cold anymore. His skin is damp with sweat.
Mike passes the cloth over his neck and moves closer. His knees touch Will's thigh. His face is lit by the lamp on the bedside table. He looks tired but focused. He's watching Will. Will wants to say he's fine, but he's not. The feeling inside is more like despair than the anguish of the nightmare, because Mike is watching him, and Will wants to hide and cling to him, retreat and touch him with open palms—ask him to stay and scream for him to go away at the same time. Like every time this happens. Like every time Will screams, cries, or shouts, and the only person who can calm him down is Mike. Not any of their best friends, not his mother, not Jonathan, not his boyfriend. Just Mike. Mike's hands. Mike's gaze. Mike's low voice. Mike. Mike. Mike.
“I can feel it in my mouth, Mike,” he tells him, because he's never been able to lie to him. “I can feel it in my throat.”
Mike makes a disgusted face, but Will knows it's not because of him; it's because of what was done to him. He knows because he's been told so many times, and he knows because Mike gently wipes his mouth with the cloth and moves closer, and he feels like he wants to give him his heart on a plate when Mike rests his head on his shoulder, his lips a breath away from his neck.
“I'm so sorry, Will,” he murmurs, in that voice he reserves only for him. “You're with me.” He takes his thumb in his hand and squeezes it a little. Will realizes it's passing because he no longer feels cold; in fact, he feels warm. He feels warm, and he feels that if Mike leaned in even an inch, he could rest his lips on his neck. (But he doesn't. He doesn't because Mike is his best friend, he's straight, Will hasn't had that stupid crush on him for years, and, above all, Will already has a boyfriend.)
He tilts his head and rests it against Mike's. He inhales and exhales. The air is warm and humid; the lamp’s light creates a play of shadows on the sheet covering his legs.
There are nights when Will screams, and there isn't a single one of those nights when Mike doesn't come to him. Not one.
On the other hand, Carlton isn't with him every morning. The first reason is that—despite how many times Carlton has suggested it—they don't live together. The second is that the situation between Carlton and his actual roommate is... tense.
They live in a delicate balance. Will's time is divided roughly equally between Mike and Carlton. If it weren't the strangest thing he could imagine—and we're talking about someone who has been kidnapped, possessed, and persecuted by a child-killing alien entity—Will would almost think they'd agreed on it. Afternoons after class belong to Carlton. Evenings after his shift at the bar go to Mike. Saturday mornings are for walks in Central Park with Carlton. Saturday nights are for parties with Mike. Sundays are alternated—sometimes the Party is back together, sometimes Carlton's mother invites them for lunch. The only conflict is when none of the three has class or work. The apartment becomes overcrowded, though two or three people isn't such a difference.
Will suspects that Mike and Carlton don't like each other. Neither has said it openly. Still, there's something about the way Carlton kisses him when Mike is around that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. It's as if he wants to prove something, as if Will isn't literally his boyfriend. There's also something about the way Mike looks at him when he's with Carlton that makes Will uncomfortable.
On top of that, the way Mike and Carlton talk to each other makes Will feel like they're walking on a minefield. It feels like one wrong step would blow them all up.
This is not a lucky morning.
They're sitting around the table. Will has made breakfast for everyone. He stands by the sink, hand on the coffee maker, waiting for it to finish brewing. He just wants to drink an excessive amount of coffee, and he's talking, stumbling over his words, over and over again, just because he's dead tired and needs to distract himself from last night's nightmare from Mike's lips a breath away from his skin.
“...and so, in the end I actually had the painting on time, because it seemed like a wasted opportunity not to be able to participate in the selection, but I'm not that happy with how it turned out,” he hears himself babbling. His voice doesn't sound like his. Carlton glances quickly at Mike, who is slowly chewing his eggs, before focusing on Will again. "So today I have to take the essay on the painting to the department head if I want to participate," he adds. He's thinking out loud. Indeed, what a great night to have that awful nightmare, three and a half hours of sleep in total, and these damn thoughts...
“Didn't we have the concert?” Carlton asks him. The coffee machine has finished, the smell filling the kitchen. Holy shit, the concert.
“Yeah, but in the evening, right?” Will asks. “And I have until 4 p.m. to hand in the essay. Which I have to finish.”
“Okay, sure, but we were supposed to see Charlie and Julia in the afternoon.”
“I don't know if I can go out both afternoon and evening, Carl, it's kind of a shitty day.”
“Okay, but—”
“Do you need anything?” Mike interrupts them, looking at Will.
Carlton clenches his fork. He looks at him as if he doesn't understand what he's asking. Will focuses on the cup he's pouring coffee into because he doesn't know who to look at.
“What do you mean?” Carlton asks, and Will could sink into the floor right now. Hell, it would be better to be taken over by Vecna than to witness this interaction. And the worst part is, he doesn't even know why it's so terrible for him.
“I mean what I said,” Mike replies, politely but curtly. Then he looks at Will again. “Is there anything you need for today? I can take care of it.”
And it's nothing, really. It's a normal thing to say to your roommate and best friend of fifteen years, it is. It is. The problem is the way he says it. The way he looks at him.
“Why would he need anything from you?” Carlton asks.
“Because we slept a total of three hours last night, your boyfriend seems to have a pretty busy day, and I'm offering to make it less complicated for him,” Mike replies, without taking his eyes off Will, and the allusion is so veiled that Will is sure Mike didn't say it on purpose... but Carlton picks up on it anyway.
“What do you mean by we slept three hours last night?”
“Ask your boyfriend.”
“Will?”
“It's nothing,” he replies automatically.
He hates talking about his nightmares. He hates talking about them in general, but especially with Carlton, and he's pretty sure that if he could explain what they really mean, everything would be easier, but the truth is, he can't. The truth is, Will has never slept away from home because sleeping away from home would mean sleeping away from Mike, and he can't afford that. Because the two times Carlton spent the night with him and Will had a nightmare, the only things that managed to calm him down, despite his boyfriend's presence, were Mike's hands and his calm breathing. Will hates not being able to talk about this with Carlton, hates that he's not enough, and above all hates the way his boyfriend gets irritated every time the subject comes up. Because for Carlton, these nightmares have only one meaning: Mike, not him, is the only one who can be there for Will when they come back to haunt him. It's Mike who can touch him, Mike who can talk to him.
“I had a nightmare, that's why we didn't sleep much,” he says at last, because if nothing else, his boyfriend deserves some truth. Mike gives him an indecipherable look as he chews his eggs. “Everything's okay, but I'm... a little tired today.” Then he turns to Mike. “And I don't need anything. Thank you, though.”
Mike shrugs. Carlton inhales sharply, trying to hide a flash of disappointment that crosses his face, but Will knows him. He wants to tell him that it's no one's fault, that that's just the way things are but maybe that's not true. Maybe it is his fault. Maybe he wants, has always wanted, and will always want Mike to be the only one who can truly be there for him. So, because Carlton deserves at least a little truth, he says nothing.
The conversation moves on to less dangerous territory. They talk about groceries, tonight's concert, who has to pick up the laundry, the week's lectures they all have. Will drinks three cups of coffee. Carlton relaxes slightly. Mike continues to eat his eggs on his plate.
Carlton knows about El.
Or rather, he knows about Jane. He knows that Will had a sister, and that this sister was Mike's girlfriend, who died a few years ago in tragic circumstances, leaving a black hole in the knot that binds Will's family together. He knows it's better not to ask about Jane. He knows that when they return to Hawkins to visit family, he is not included.
Carlton knows nothing about the rest. Partly because Will is legally bound to silence, partly because he wouldn't tell him anything even if he could: Carlton wouldn't understand.
One day, the subject comes up. Carlton is... worried, for some reason. Will has been trying to figure out why ever since he got home. They are sitting on the sofa, hugging each other. Carlton is stroking his hair.
Will doesn't mind. Mike isn't home. If he were, he and Carl would probably move to Will's room to avoid occupying the living room. Mike should be back... around 11 p.m., after his shift at the bar. They could play a game when he gets back. Or they could spend the evening on the couch, each with their own comic book and sketchbook in hand, their legs intertwined under the same blanket.
“Will?”
“Mm.”
“Can we talk about something?” Carlton asks, and it's clear from his tone of voice that the time has finally come for him to tell Will what's been bothering him.
“Sure.”
Carlton remains silent for a few moments. He runs his fingers through his hair. He's sweet and kind, and Will likes that.
“I wanted to ask you what your plans are for Christmas,” he finally blurts out.
It's not an easy question to ask, and Will understands why.
“I think Mike and I are going back to Hawkins,” he replies calmly. "We've already bought our tickets. We leave on the 23rd and come back... on the 3rd in the evening, I think.“
“Sure.”
He's not finished. The air is slightly tense, as it always is when Will talks about anything involving Mike. Which is interesting, because most of the things Will does in his daily life involve Mike. Will understands, really, he understands why. He just wishes it weren't so difficult.
“Can I ask why we haven't talked about this together before?”
If Carlton weren't talking to Will, he wouldn’t be met with such empathy. He's not irritated, that's obvious. He's drumming his fingers against his body; he's just anxious. He's just anxious, Will has to remind himself.
“Carl, it's... the holidays are a bit of a sensitive time,” he explains. “My mom and dad, they... it's not an easy time. It's been four years since... and usually there’s just us and Jonathan. And Mike always goes back to his family when he can.”
Carlton nods slowly.
“Yeah, I understand. But the rest of the days? Will you spend them together?”
Will doesn't understand the question.
"As usual, I think. Lucas, Max, and Dustin will be there too. I guess... I guess we'll see each other.“ He keeps it vague. ”I told you about Robin and the others, right? I think we'll see them too. Since we're scattered all over the country, we don't get to spend much time together.“
“Sure, that makes sense.”
The air is still tense. Will honestly doesn't understand the problem. Carlton usually seems to accept quite well that there are parts of Will that he can't access. Going home for Christmas with your best friend seems like such a common and normal thing compared to the many things Carlton has to accept about Will and Mike's relationship that Will really, really doesn't understand why his boyfriend has this anguished expression on his face.
He pulls himself up on his elbows to get a better look at him. Carlton is... cute. He has blond hair, warm dark eyes, and a smooth face. He's lean and smells good. Will caresses his cheek.
“What's wrong?” he asks.
“It's something stupid.”
“Please tell me.”
“I think... you and Mike spend a lot of time together.”
Hmm. Okay. That's new. Carlton is staring at the ceiling with a pained expression on his face, and Will understands how hard it is for him to bring this up. He feels a twinge of irritation, but suppresses it. Don't be an asshole. Let him talk.
“I think so too,” he says slowly, weighing his words. He remains silent for a few seconds. “Mike is my best friend, Carl.”
“I know, I know,” Carlton hastens to say. "I know, I'm sorry. I know you've known each other for fifteen years, I know he's been there your whole life, I know everything. I know he was your sister's boyfriend, and that going through grief together creates that kind of relationship. But you guys are... I'm sorry, Will, but it worries me sometimes.“
”What?" he asks, even though Will is starting to think he doesn't really want to have this conversation.
“Your relationship, baby. I know that's what happens when certain things happen to you,” certain things, “but I think Mike is too dependent on you.”
“Carl,” Will interrupts him. The irritation he felt before suddenly bursts out of him. Dependent on you. He sits up abruptly, moving away from him just enough so he doesn't have to touch him.
Carlton looks at him, confused by his reaction, and sits down too.
“What did I say?” he asks. “I don't understand.”
“You don't get a say in things that don't concern you,” Will says curtly, speaking without thinking.
“You think the relationship you have with your best friend,” and Will notices the inflection in the sentence, “doesn't concern me?”
“It's none of your business.”
“Ah, I see.”
They stare at each other in silence for a few seconds. Will's heart is pounding in his chest. He wishes he could take it back, calm down, reassure Carlton... but he's just angry. Carlton realizes this. He raises his hands, a cautious, apologetic half-smile on his lips.
“I'm sorry,” he says, after a few seconds of tense silence. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you.”
“I'm not upset.”
They both know he's lying, but Carlton is kind enough not to call him out on it.
“Can we... can we continue the evening? There's no need to fight.”
“I... yeah, okay.”
Will sits there for a while longer before lying down next to him again. They hug in silence, and slowly he feels the anger fade and a subtle but uncomfortable sense of guilt emerge. Carlton isn't a bad guy. He has every reason in the world to doubt Will's relationship with Mike. Will reaches out and strokes his arm. He leans over a little and kisses him on the cheek. Carlton smiles, accepts his apology, and responds with a light kiss on Will's head. Maybe... maybe Will snapped for no reason. The worst thing is that he has no idea what triggered it. He's dependent on you. Certain things. Mike isn't dependent on him; he never has been. They just... they have a close relationship, that's all. Maybe it makes him angry that Carlton can't recognize that.
Slowly, he feels Carlton slip into sleep, his breathing deepening and becoming regular. He has an arm stuck under him, but he has no intention of moving it: he doesn't want to wake him up. He feels time beginning to slip away from his ability to perceive it, his thoughts becoming confused...
He doesn't know how much time passes: he's half asleep. The key turns into the lock. The door opens. Will opens his eyes, and Mike is standing in front of him, his nose red and his eyes shiny from the cold, his backpack on one shoulder and his hands in his jacket.
He's looking at him silently. Will realizes with embarrassment that he's still lying on the couch with his boyfriend, their legs and arms entwined. He wants to get up and put as much distance as possible between himself and Carlton—which makes no sense, because Carlton is his fucking boyfriend. Maybe it's being half asleep that makes him so stupid. Mike smiles at him, a half-smile, then turns and heads for his room.
“Mike,” he murmurs to get his attention. He's afraid Mike won't hear him, he spoke so softly. Mike turns around immediately. “Wait, come here.”
Mike comes. He looks at him with his hands in his jacket pockets. He doesn't even glance at Carlton—it's almost as if he doesn't exist to him.
“Do you... do you want to hang out for a bit? I have to finish the drawing for mom,” he whispers.
“You should kick your boyfriend out first, I think,” Mike replies.
When he turns back to go to his room, Will knows exactly what's going to happen. It's a routine that's been established since they started living together. Mike will go and put on his pajamas. Will will wake Carlton up and tell him he must get up early tomorrow for whatever reason comes to mind at the moment. Carlton will tell him not to worry, that it's no problem, and when Mike returns to the living room with a comic book in his hand, Carlton will make that face, the one he reserves only for Mike. He will kiss Will goodbye with a deep kiss, mouth open and tongue in his throat—Mike will look away. Then he'll leave, and Mike will take his place on the sofa, rest his head on Will's legs, and start reading the latest issue of the comic book series he's following, while Will wriggles around until he finds a comfortable position to draw.
It will be midnight, one o'clock, two o'clock, and they will glance at each other from time to time in silence. Mike will tell a few anecdotes about his shift at the bar, or maybe not, if nothing interesting happened. Will will tell him about his day and show him what he is drawing. They will eat some leftovers from the fridge, or maybe not if there is nothing left. They'll stay together until three in the morning, gently brushing legs and shoulders against each other, until one of them says it's time to go to sleep, and they'll retire each to their own room, where Will will spend at least another hour listening to his heart beating fast in his chest.
And Will is fine with that.
Or maybe not.
Sometimes it's not enough.
At first, it was rare; now it happens almost weekly. Sometimes, when Mike gets up from the sofa to go to sleep in his room, Will reaches out and gently grabs his wrist. Sometimes Mike does it.
There's no need to talk. They understand each other with a touch.
Will has given up trying to understand what's wrong with him. He just knows he must have some masochistic tendencies, because Mike is his best friend, has always been his best friend, but he was also his first crush, and really, Will has moved on; he had to. But Mike has grown taller over the years, with his shoulders a little broader, his hair a little longer, and his face a little more angular. During the day, it's hard to take your eyes off him sometimes (Will always thinks this, but at least he has the decency to be ashamed of it). At night, he's art, the lines of his face in the dim light, his hands, his protruding collarbones, his neck... they seem made to be drawn. And it's torture for Will to follow him to his bed, slip under the covers, brush against his hands or back or knees. It’s an electric wave through his body. It’s a warm feeling in his stomach. His skin, prickling.
Tonight, Mike grabs him with a subtle urgency. Dependent on you. Carlton's words echo in his ears as he and Mike walk down the hallway together.
Will sits on the bed while Mike takes off his T-shirt and puts on his pajamas. When his hands go down to pull down the zipper, to take off his jeans, Will doesn't look away—Mike is literally in front of him; if he didn't want to be looked at, he could move, turn around, anything, but sometimes Will thinks he's going crazy because Mike seems to like being looked at.
When he's ready, Mike lies down next to him with a thud. He keeps his hands behind his head, elbows open, looking at the ceiling. But as soon as Will leans back on the mattress, he turns on his side and stretches out his arms: one hand goes on Will's back, one in his hair. He pulls him close with a quick movement, rubs his nose against his neck, and sighs, as if he's been waiting for this since the beginning of the day, as if this is the highlight of his existence. Mike sighs, and Will feels his body press against Mike’s and melt at the same time.
Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe this is what Carlton means when he says their relationship worries him.
Or maybe it's okay for two best friends who survived the end of the world to allow themselves this. Carlton doesn't know what he's talking about. He and Mike... are Will and Mike. Sometimes Will thinks that no one on earth could ever talk about their relationship and know what they're talking about.
So, even with a twinge of guilt in his stomach, Will returns Mike's touch as he always does. He slides his fingers up Mike's shirt, strokes his back a little absentmindedly, and keeps his other arm bent between them, his hand on Mike's chest (on his heart). Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The beat is steady, and it takes Mike a few minutes to fall asleep—Will can tell by the way Mike's breathing against his neck becomes steady and deep.
Will thinks—and it's because it's three in the morning, he's tired, he's tense from the little argument with Carlton—that he could die like this and he'd be satisfied.
“Yes, of course, very mature, Nancy! I already told you, I think it's a bad idea, I'm not going to—continue to—discuss it,” Mike exclaims on the phone.
This phone call has been going on for twenty minutes. Will is sitting at the kitchen table, his sketchpad in front of him, crayons scattered everywhere. He must finish this by tomorrow, and Mike has been doing nothing but distracting him since this morning. We have to go grocery shopping, Will. No, I can't go alone. I don't know what detergents to buy, and it's easier for you to come with me than to explain it to me. Come on, Will, shall we order pizza for lunch? Let's eat together, watch a movie? Will, please talk to my sister, I can't stand her anymore...
Will should have said just one word to him this morning: no. No, I have schoolwork to do. No, I have to finish this drawing by tomorrow. No, I can't hang out with you. Will has never been good at saying no to Mike.
"Yeah, right. Why? Do you think he would like the career I've chosen for myself? He wouldn't even consider it a career!"
It's nice to have problems like this. Parental disapproval, bills, money, shopping lists. He doesn't know if he'll ever get used to all this, and the feeling is warm in his stomach and on his face: it makes him appreciate everything much more than he would have if he hadn't had the life he had.
It's a nice thought. It's also rare. Will doesn't usually like to think about the life they had. Life here in New York seems almost fake, sometimes. When he compares them, he feels like he's escaped from a nightmare.
The drawing is almost finished; he just needs to blend a few spots and add some shadows. It's a study on hands.
“Nancy, listen, I'm busy. We'll talk about it later, okay? Say hi to Jonathan for me,” he says. He glances at Will, who waves his hand in greeting. “From Will, too. Yes, he says hi to you too. Bye.” Then, short and sweet, “Bye, Nance. Talk to you soon.”
Mike ends the call and slams the phone against the wall. He sits down next to him, rolling his eyes and letting out a guttural sound of annoyance, resting his head on the table.
“Don't say anything,” he tells Will.
“Maybe there's a reason your sister is asking you to talk to your parents?” Will presses him, instantly. He can't say no to him, but that doesn't mean he's accommodating. Quite the contrary.
“Yes, of course, the reason is that since she discovered the power of her own truth, she's been trying to get me kicked out of the house,” Mike replies, irritated. “She wants to get rid of me. She wants the inheritance for herself.”
“I don't think Nancy wants to get rid of you.”
“Sure, right. She just wants to erase me from the Wheeler family tree.”
“I think you're overreacting.”
“She wants me to be completely invisible to that mouth-breather of a father of mine. Which is okay, we're all used to it, but why gamble away what little attention I get?”
“...or have you considered that Nancy just wants you to live well?”
Mike glares at him.
“I live well,” he says, his voice softening. His features soften, too. “Here, with you. I don't need my father's approval to live my life the way I want to.”
Will, who is still drawing, tightens his fingers around the crayon. He doesn't know why his heart is beating a little faster.
“Doesn't it bother you?” he asks Mike.
“What?”
“Lying to him.”
Mike shrugs. He's wearing an oversized sweater that hangs a little too low on one side, leaving half his shoulder exposed. His hair is messy because they have been at home all morning to wait and answer Nancy's call, punctual as every Sunday.
“Actually,” Mike begins, then stops. He looks at him with his eyes wider than usual, the beaten puppy expression he gets every time they go a little deeper, every time they find themselves talking about more vulnerable topics with each other. “Actually, I don't know. If... if it bothers me.”
“How can you not know?” Will asks.
Mike shrugs again.
“I don't feel it. I don't feel the feeling,” he replies.
“Oh, Mike,” he murmurs his name. “Maybe you really should listen to your sister sometimes.”
Mike is... a little repressed. Will began to realize this during the year he spent with his family in California. Waiting for letters that never arrive, short and concise phone calls, the feeling of emptiness, his sister crying, from Mike, from Mike, from Mike, the distant tension between what they were and what Will wants them to continue to be. From there, Will began to think that Mike must have some kind of problem: with expressing his feelings, with understanding them, with feeling them? He still doesn't fully understand. He knows that for Mike, it's something unpleasant and complex, holding his heart in his hands. Every time he tries to pull it out of his chest, he looks at it as if there's something wrong with it, as if it's not normal for it to bleed.
Will wants to tell Mike that there's nothing wrong with his heart. He tries to make him understand this in every way possible, every day of their life together, and sometimes Mike accepts it, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he looks at him tenderly, his eyes say thank you, thank you, thank you for being there and reminding me that it's worth it, trying to be brave. Sometimes he rolls his eyes, teases him, tells him to stop it—Will understands, he doesn't take it personally.
Today is one of those days when Mike feels like his heart sucks probably, because in addition to rolling his eyes he snorts irritably.
“Ah, this is how I die. Betrayed by my best friend.”
“I'm not—”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Mike smiles at him, and the message is clear: he's joking, but he wants to change the subject. Will welcomes it with open arms because he can't deny him anything. He smiles at him and then turns his attention back to the drawing.
Mike leans in, as if he's only now realized that Will is drawing.
“What is it?” he asks, his eyes curious. He gently rests his fingers on the edge of the drawing to straighten it and get a better look. “Hands?”
“Yes, I have to turn it in tomorrow.”
“Whose hands are they?”
Will should probably lie to him. The thing is, it would be ridiculous, because Mike already understands that these are his hands; it's obvious from the way he looks from the drawing to his own fingers resting on it. Mike is asking him not because he doesn't know, but because he wants to hear it.
“Yours.”
The satisfied expression on his face makes him want to grab his chin and wipe it off. Mike makes a smug sound.
“Cool. Definitely better than Carlton's.”
Will rolls his eyes, pretends to snort, but he can't say much because, unfortunately, it's true. Mike has something that has always made him want to observe every detail of his skin, the way he moves, the lines of his body. Will has always felt this urge to try to put him on paper, to trap him on the page. Part of him knows it's because Mike is beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with the way his boyfriend's good-looking. Carlton is a handsome guy, elegant, neat, with a clean-cut face. Mike is... sometimes, when Will looks at him, he forgets to breathe.
Drawing him is part of how he loves him. Maybe Will wants to try to understand him as much as possible, to study him in the way Will expresses himself best—shapes, colors, light and shadow, the lines of things. Maybe he needs to stop overthinking things and accept the fact that he loves having an excuse to look at him for hours.
Mike smiles smugly, and they slip into a silence in which they are both comfortable. Mike waits for him while Will finishes his work, placing both hands on the table in front of him to be observed: here, he says with his eyes, look at me. You can do it for as long as you need.
It starts one evening. It’s a snowball turning into an avalanche. Even though Will, in retrospect, knows that it actually started way earlier than that -when they were sixteen fighting monsters, or when they were thirteen arguing in the rain, or when they were twelve holding each other in front of the evil that took Will away, or when they were nine playing DnD in the Wheelers’ basement. Or when they were six, and Mike asked him to be his friend on that damn swing.
One evening, Will understands why Mike has problems with Carlton.
He didn't mean to eavesdrop. He never thought Mike and Carlton talked when he wasn't with them. But apparently, they do. Will is returning to the living room after waking up from an afternoon nap. Tonight he has a date with Carlton, who was supposed to arrive at 6 p.m., but arrived earlier. Mike must have let him in, because Will hears voices in the living room. They are both keeping their voices low, and Will has to get almost to the door to hear what they are saying.
For some reason, though, he stops before either of them sees him. He stands behind the door, leaning his back against the wall. Maybe it's the tension he senses in the air. Maybe it's that he's never seen them interact without holding back because of his presence.
“I don't understand why you care so much about this,” he hears Mike say. Even though he can't see him, he knows from his tone of voice that he's shrugging his shoulders, a bored expression on his face. “It's Will's business. He can decide by himself, can't he?”
“Sure, yeah. It's just that he draws you. He always draws you,” Carlton replies.
(This isn't true, but neither of them can know that.)
“I'll repeat myself, since you don’t understand English apparently,” Mike says through clenched teeth. “I don't see what the problem is.”
There is a moment of silence in which Will's breathing is louder than any other sound in the house. He fears they have heard him. Maybe he should come out into the open. He is about to do so when Carlton speaks, and the tone of his words petrifies him behind the door.
“I understand that you don't like it,” Carl replies coldly. "But Will is my boyfriend. Not yours. And it was easy when you were two 13-year-olds in a small town in Indiana, playing DnD in a basement and riding bikes with nothing else to do all day, but things are different here, and you need to start accepting that. You can't act like his whole world revolves around you. You don’t have the first place anymore."
He's never heard him speak so coldly. Will knows it's a mask, a facade (because Carlton feels... insecure? threatened?), but it's as if someone has thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over him.
Mike has never been a particularly thoughtful guy. Will isn't surprised when he hears him chuckle.
“You'd like that, huh? For me not to have first place.”
More seconds of silence. Will's head is spinning a little. He wishes he could take a step forward, interrupt this absurd conversation—Carlton is his boyfriend, Mike is his best friend, why can't there be room for both of them?—but he's stuck.
“No, you don't understand,” Carlton says calmly. "You're the one who puts himself first; he doesn't do that. You're the one who seeks him out, you're the one who invites him everywhere you go, you're the one who arranges every possible moment to spend time with him. You're the one who waits up for him at night when we go out to dinner. You're the one who touches him, and hugs him, and imposes himself on him. The only reason why Will keeps following you around is that you have this codependent relationship with each other based on Will's past, his sister's death, and the fact that Will is a good person. Maybe he doesn't realize it now... but he will soon. There won't be much room in his life for you, Michael, when he does."
Will isn't breathing.
“So,” his boyfriend continues. “So maybe you should remember that when at night you crawl into his bed like a dog, the sheets you sleep in are the ones I fuck him in. And you'd better start accepting that I'm the one who fucks Will, not you. When he comes, he moans my name, not yours.”
“You are fucking weird, dude,” Mike replies. Will isn't sure if it's real, but his words are light and amused, as if everything Carlton just said doesn't affect him in the slightest. “Oh, and keep repeating that to yourself, maybe one day you'll believe it.”
The anger—and the fucking way his boyfriend is talking about him—makes his cheeks, ears, and neck burn. Will feels like he's about to throw up. Carl isn't... like that with him. He's never been openly cruel. The fact that he is with Mike makes him want to punch him in the face, yell at him that he has no right to say all that shit to Mike—he barely lets him touch him when they're in this house, he can barely kiss him without thinking about...
Will enters the living room.
He's more than willing to kick him out of the house.
Mike and Carlton turn to him at the same time. Carlton tries to look relaxed, but he has that vein sticking out on his forehead that he gets when he's anxious. He puts his hands in his pockets and tries to smile, as if he thinks Will didn't hear anything, as if he can pretend nothing happened.
Mike, on the other hand, knows that Will heard. Will is sure of it. He knows, because he's smiling with a slightly bitter smile, his eyes sad, his eyebrows slightly furrowed.
Will is about to yell at his boyfriend when Mike looks at him and mouths, “mouth-breather.”
Mouth-breather. As if, in the end, no words coming out of his mouth could have any weight for Mike. As if he were saying, it's no big deal, he's freaking out. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're okay. If you want to kick him out of the house, I'm here for you, but there's no need, because it doesn't matter; it's not important. You, you're important.
Will doesn't know why, but his anger suddenly subsides. Carlton has been horrible, but as he looks at him, he realizes how tense he is, how distressed and worried, as if he were reaching out to grab him, and Will were slipping away every time. Will understands how much it can hurt. And Mike isn't hurt, it seems. He smiles and says nothing, and Will knows him; he knows that if Mike felt he had to defend himself (to defend him), he would.
And so Will calms down. He takes a couple of deep breaths as Carlton's gaze becomes a little more aware—he, too, has realized that Will has heard. Will will pretend nothing happened, though. They'll go to dinner and have a pleasant evening; talking about psychology, and Carlton's friends, and Julia, Charlie, and the others, and Carlton's Christmas plans, and the latest essay Will had to write for the academy; avoiding talking about his home, Mike, his drawings, Max, Lucas, Dustin, Robin and the others, Hawkins, his sister, his family, the last vinyl record he bought with Mike, or anything else he enjoys and loves.
For the first time since his relationship with Carlton began two and a half years ago, Will feels like a condemned man.
“Baby,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. Mike is staring at him. “Shall we go? I’ll be ready in 5 minutes.”
That same night, when Will comes home, it's raining outside, and he's probably got a fever.
The rain taps on the apartment windows. Will feels ... empty. His two lives really can't coexist, no matter how hard he tries to make it work. On the one hand, there is the comfort of a normal life, a boyfriend who loves him, friends to hang out with, dinner at a restaurant, and a necklace with a small key as a gift, as a silent I’m sorry, I know I fucked up; on the other hand, there are Mike, Hawkins, blood in his eyes, Jane-El, Vecna, tentacles in his mouth, around his body, the Demogorgons, the Party, his mother, a body that is no longer his, eyes that are no longer his, hands that do things he doesn't want to do, thoughts that don't belong to him and that make their way into his head with bites and kicks.... Will feels his head bursting. He thinks he has a fever.
But on the other hand, there is also Mike's warm body under his blankets.
He's not sleeping, Will can tell by the way he's breathing. He's just curled up, his head turned toward the wall, his hair spread out on his pillow. Will moves like a robot: he undresses, puts on his pajama —the necklace with the key under his T-shirt, in contact with the bare skin of his chest—and slips under the covers behind him. He presses himself against him, his chest on his back touching bare ski —Mike is only wearing a pair of boxers.
so maybe you should remember that when at night you crawl into his bed like a dog, the sheets you sleep in are the ones where I fuck him
Will feels himself shiver against him, breathing slowly. Mike takes one of his hands resting on his chest and intertwines his fingers with Will’s.
“Why didn't you let me say anything?” Will says, soft and undone.
“Because it wasn't worth it.”
“Was that the first time he spoke to you like that?”
Mike seems to weigh his response. The silence is so pervasive that Will almost feels like he can hear his own heart beating.
“Yeah, it was. At least so openly. He saw your drawings and snapped. I think he just feels a little intimidated. Because I'm so much more handsome and intelligent than he is.”
“Ah, sure. Now it makes sense.”
For the first time in years, Will feels that there is something they are not talking about. Mike's body is warm, and Will feels such painful shivers; he presses himself against him as much as possible, but as he does so, Mike moves away, turns toward him, and now they are a hand's breadth apart, their bodies no longer touching. But Will can still feel his warmth: he wants to drown in it. He wants to slip a leg between Mike's, his arms behind his neck, and he wants to bury his face in the crook between his head and neck. He's about to do it he doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything other than getting some warmth from him—when Mike stops him.
“Can I... can I ask you something?” he says. Their noses are almost touching. Will doesn't know where to put his hands: he just wants to touch him.
“Mm-hmm,” he whispers.
“Do... do you want me to be with you? In your life, I mean.”
Will can't see him clearly, but he can feel how difficult it is for him to ask this question. And if he weren't so terribly tired, he would be irritated with Carlton, because it's obvious that the problem is what he said to Mike earlier. All that bullshit about him putting himself at first place and Will not really wanting him.
But Will wants him. Will, and he can admit it because he's tired, feverish, a little desperate, wants him so much more than he is succeeding in wanting Carl. Much more than he could ever want anyone else on the face of planet Earth (or the Abyss, for all that matters).
“Mike,” he says, after a few seconds of silence. “Yeah. Yeah. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I started with you, and I'll end with you.”
“Are you sure that's what you want?”
“I've never been so sure of anything. You're my friend, Mike.” He pauses. “My best friend.”
“Best friend.”
Will wants to reach out and touch his face, his hair. His lips. It's not a weird thought at all.
“Will,” Mike continues. “Do you want me to touch you?”
For a second, his brain short-circuits. He's about to say yes, please touch me, when he realizes what he's actually referring to. What Carl told him earlier.
you're the one who touches him, and hugs him, and imposes yourself on him
Will must have a really high fever. He feels like he's burning up; the air he breathes is hot, he has chills, and he's thinking things he shouldn't.
The answer is always, “Yeah, of course.” A pause. “Why shouldn't I, Mike? Because of what Carl said?”
Mike inhales sharply.
“That's bullshit, okay? That's bullshit,” he mutters, his head pounding. “Please don't believe any of that stuff.”
“Okay,” Mike says. “Do you want me to touch you now?”
Will stiffens. Touch me. Touch me, touch me, touch me. Touch me. He feels himself nodding against his will.
And Mike is on top of him in a second.
He's on top of him, and every part of his body is touching his: their shoulders, their chests, their hips, their legs. Will suddenly feels hot. Mike slips one hand into his hair, his fingers squeezing without hurting him, and his other hand holds Will's chin. Mike's face is an inch from his, Will feels his breath on his lips.
Will is going crazy. He's slowly starting to go crazy.
He thinks this especially when Mike presses himself even closer, his face coming down and his nose running along Will's neck, and he rubs his hips against Will's, and Mike is practically naked. Mike is naked, Will is about to die, and Mike's fingers in his hair are making him forget his own name. Only this exists: the smell of Mike's skin, the warmth of his body. The way he wraps himself around him, as if they could merge into one person and never separate again.
More, says a voice inside him. More, more, more! It's when Will sighs softly that Mike pulls his head back slightly to get more access to his neck, his hand still in his hair. The tension is... Will thinks he's just discovered something fundamental about himself. Mike's fingers, the slight pain... he feels a series of small jolts of pleasure. He has to remove himself from the situation. He has to move out from under him, because it's infinitely embarrassing, but he's getting turned on, and they're pressed too tightly together for Mike not to notice.
“You're pulling my hair,” he says, and waits with parted lips for Mike to let go. But Mike... Mike doesn't let go.
“Mh,” he murmurs instead, his face against his neck. He continues to hold him like this, his fingers pulling at his hair, his head tilted back and his neck exposed. The hand holding his chin moves, sliding down, and now rests gently on his neck in a slow caress. Will can't breathe.
He's not the only one who's gone crazy. Mike must have followed him into the same fate, because that's the only way the words that come out of his mouth afterwards make sense.
“Do you like it? When I pull your hair.”
It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make any fucking sense. It's true that the kind of physical contact they have is far beyond what's expected between two best friends, and his friendship with Mike has always been confusing, intimate, and vulnerable... but it has never had any sexual undertones, he thinks. But now, the way Mike is all over him, pulling his hair, touching his neck—it's... obscene. It's obscene.
Will doesn't answer him, because he doesn't trust his mouth when it comes to Mike, and he can't tell him the truth—he can't—but he can't lie to him either.
“Can you tell me you like it, Will? Please,” he asks, almost pleading.
“I like it,” he replies, because it's the truth, and he knows he's saying it like a confession; he needs to be absolved from this.
“I want to... can I do something, Will?”
“What?”
“Can I...? Please?” he repeats, and Will feels his fingers gently caressing his neck, and “You can,” he replies softly, even though he doesn't know exactly what he's agreeing to. He just knows he could go crazy. He feels... he feels everything, he feels too much, he wants more, more than this.
And Mike gives it to him. He leaves a light kiss at the base of his neck, (there’s a shiver of pleasure running down his spine), then Will feels him part his lips against his skin, and Mike licks him. It's all too much at once: Mike's body pressed against his, his fingers in his hair, his tongue running up his neck, stopping just below his ear, and it's all too much because Mike bites him. He bites and sucks and rolls his hips against Will’s in such a nice way that Will can't take it anymore; he lets out a moan, and that's what brings him to his senses.
No, he thinks. No, no, no, no, no.
He places his hands on Mike’s shoulders and pulls him back with a movement that is perhaps a little too abrupt, because Mike's eyes are wide open and he leans forward toward him again. Will takes his face in his hands.
“Mike, I think I have a fever,” he says. “I think it's been a bad day. For both of us. Mike.”
“I'm sorry,” Mike replies. Then he looks at the spot on Will's neck where he had been biting and sucking a couple of seconds ago. “I may have left a mark on you.”
He doesn't care right now. He can avoid seeing Carlton for a couple of days, he can tell him he fell down the stairs, he can make up any excuse. Right now, the only thing he cares about is sleeping and ending this shitty day. -He wants Mike to leave another mark on him. He wants him to stick his finger in his mouth so Will can suck on it. He wants to leave hot kisses on his chest. He wants to take off his clothes, pull down his boxers, he wants to feel Mike’s skin against his... No. He doesn't want anything. He doesn't want anything, he won't even let himself imagine it, because it's not right, it's not possible, and they've just had a horrible day.
“I'm so sorry,” Mike adds again.
“You didn't do it on purpose.”
“No, no, Will... I did it on purpose,” he murmurs. Even though it's dark, Will can tell he's looking right at him. “I wanted to do it.”
Will doesn't understand. It doesn't make sense. Carlton's words must have hurt him more than expected. They are very close, and neither of them seems willing to pull away from the other, even though they should.
“I don't understand.”
“I wanted to leave a mark on you,” says Mike, reaching out to touch that patch of skin. " I want... I want Carlton to see it and know it was me.“
”Mike.“
”I want him to wonder why you let me do it,“ he adds, as if he can't help himself. ”Every time he touches you, I want him to think about the fact that I can touch you too."
Will shakes his head. This is insane. This is insane. The only good explanation for this is that they are both having one of those days. And it's pretty clear that's the case from the way Mike looks at him, from the weight Will feels in his heart, and from the fact that he just wants to cry. Grief is a circle, a wave. It’s a wounded animal. Will feels it today, awake and clinging to his chest with its claws.
“Let's sleep,” he says, because this conversation has to end now. “It's okay, everything's okay. But... I think I have a high fever.” Mike looks like he's about to say something, to press further, but Will reaches out and strokes his cheek with his thumb. “Please, just hold me. Let's sleep.”
After that, Mike lets himself be taken by the wrist and moved like a puppet: he lies down next to Will, touching him gently, holding him close in a warm and comfortable embrace they have shared so many other nights. Will feels him relaxing right away, even though for the first time in forever he doesn’t really know what he’s thinking. Maybe for now it’s for the best. Maybe tomorrow the memories of the night will be hazy, confused. Maybe tomorrow he will have already forgotten what it feels like to have Mike’s body on top of him. Maybe he'll be able to look in the mirror and tell himself that what he wants is his boyfriend: not Mike's tongue and teeth on his neck, not Mike's fingers in his hair. Not his hungry touch, not his short breath when he heard him moan.
Maybe tomorrow. Today, he simply can't think about anything other than Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike.