Chapter Text
Mike hisses and Will flinches back, grimacing with guilt. He keeps forgetting about Mike’s ribs. They’re still pretty badly bruised from Troy and his henchmen kicking him while he was down. Bastards.
“‘Sokay,” Mike breathes, and leans into Will’s space again. He keeps saying that. It’s okay, I’m fine, it’s nothing. He likes to play tough. Like it doesn’t bother him. But Will sees him wince whenever he moves wrong. It’s better than it was a few days ago at least.
He guides Will’s cupped palms back to his sides, where Will lets them rest - gingerly, this time - on the firm curve of ribs under flesh. His fingers splay, feeling their way over the skin-warmed fabric of Mike’s tee shirt.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. Being allowed to touch. He spent so long wanting, with no expectation of ever actually getting to live out his fantasy, that now he has to remind himself each time. It’s okay. He can do this. He can scoot closer, run his palms from ribs to spine, catch Mike’s lower lip between his teeth.
The old The Knack cassette catches and pops, tape worn thin from years of use. They selected it at random. Neither one has particularly been paying attention. Now, as the music starts to fizzle slightly over the same lyrics that it always does, Will’s socked foot bumps against a warm, fuzzy form. The form huffs and paws at their legs. He breaks the kiss with a laugh and reaches down to scratch behind Chester’s ears.
“Not getting enough attention?” he says, and Chester lolls his tongue out contentedly. Mike leans down to scrub a palm down the dog’s back. Chester flops over and begs for a belly rub with head thrown back, watching them upside-down. He’s starting to get old, Will reflects as their makeout session is put on pause. Silver hairs are spreading through the white of his muzzle and eyebrows. Chester licks his wrist as Will tries to trace the gray hairs with his fingers.
It’s a good day. Fridays almost always are, after all, but this one especially. The morning was gray and damp, prompting Will to show up to school in the brown sweater Mike left behind a few days ago - a fact that did not go unnoticed by Mike, and caused a slew of elbowing and flushed cheeks and sharp whispers. What if they notice? he hissed, but either the Party didn’t make the connection or didn’t pay it much mind.
The clouds cleared up by the early afternoon, but Will kept the sweater on anyway, despite it being just this side of too warm. It smells like Mike. Old Spice bar soap and warm skin and the Wheeler’s basement.
Technically, Mike is grounded.
Well, if you want to be exact about it, they’re both grounded. Despite the fact that the fight was entirely Troy’s fault, Mike didn’t even get one good hit in, and Will -
Well.
They’ve both been grounded since Tuesday.
But Joyce just raised a brow, shook her head, and waved Mike in when he showed up at the door. She did, however, collect a door tax: a handful of the peanut M&Ms Mike brought for the movie later. So they should be in the clear. Karen is visiting some friends tonight, and Mike slipped out of the house yelling, “Be-at-Will’s-back-tomorrow-bye!” to Ted, hoping that either his father didn’t know he was grounded, had forgotten, or didn’t care enough to stop him. And apparently at least one of those was true, because Mike wasn’t chased down or shouted after as he got on his bike and took off.
And now here they are. Kneeling beside Will’s bed, raining attention down on a tail-thumping, panting canine as Joyce hollers, “Boys! Dinner!”
Mike sneaks another kiss before they reach the door. Already far more casually than he would have two weeks ago, or even a week. Will’s skin tingles under the hem of his stolen sweater even after Mike has let go and reached for the door.
Can you believe it’s almost been two weeks? Will wants to say, but they’re already on their way to the dining room. And besides, maybe that’s too sappy to actually say aloud. So instead he squeezes Mike’s hand one last time before they let go and round the corner.
The taste of peanut butter M&Ms coats Will’s tongue. Sticky, colorful marks dot his left palm, barely discernible in the light of the TV screen. Will licks a long stripe up his palm, gaze focused somewhere beyond the movie. He wipes his hand on Mike’s arm and ignores the sound of protest.
Jonathan actually sat down to dinner with them for once. Usually he’s so busy with work shifts and homework and commuting to the college in the city that he’s not even home at dinnertime. Which means that today was a rare opportunity for attending to the little-brotherly duties of teasing, poking, checking in on, and relentlessly questioning the older sibling. Will did not let this opportunity slip through his fingers. And Jonathan, struck by a rare sunny mood, teased and poked right back. Dinner was jovial.
But Will was in a hurry to clear the table afterwards. He slipped Chester a scrap of chicken instead of scolding him for begging, and barely rinsed the plates before stacking them in the sink. Mike laughed at him as Will all but pulled them both into the living room. Maybe it should have faded by now. It’s been almost two weeks. But he can’t help it. It’s like he has to check, he has to make sure. That it all happened, it’s still real, that the last thirteen days weren’t just some elaborate and cruel trick of his imagination. And Mike hasn’t seemed to mind Will checking.
Will tunes back into the present and digs for another palmful of M&Ms.
It’s dark in the living room, the only light coming from the screen and the kitchen light above the sink. That glow is warm yellow but dim, especially from down the hall. They’re curled up in front of the couch, where the blue light of the TV dominates. Sprawled out in a nest of sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows. A bowl of popcorn and the bag of M&Ms sit in front of them, two clearly definable shapes in the softer shadows of the bedding. It’s comfortable. Familiar. The bedding is warm with their body heat, and they’ve watched this movie at least half a dozen times since it came out on VHS: Stand By Me, one of Will’s current favorites.
But the breathless tension that hovers around them - that’s new. Like a fraying rope, seconds from whip-snapping. Because they’re curled up just a little too close. And their hands are joined, fingers shifting and playing absently. And if Will’s mother or brother happens to come out to say goodnight at the wrong moment - game over. Something shrivels up and squirms uncomfortably in the pit of Will’s gut. It’s a thought that keeps coming back, over and over, uninvited. That if they slip up - just once - one wrong word or gesture -
No. They won’t. Can’t. That can’t happen. A long breath spills through his parted lips. It won’t happen because he won’t let it happen. He just got this. They just got this. If someone found out, if their parents found out - jesus, Lonnie would kill them both on sight. Mike’s parents would send him away to some boarding school, they’d never see each other again. And they’d be marked, forever, and -
No. He won’t let it happen. He’ll be careful; they’ll be careful. Bad things happen to people like them, if they aren’t careful. Beatings and black eyes. Couples turned away at business doors on sight. Innocent people killed, attacked on the street, harassed and heckled. Sent away to be cured, or so some people say. Brains shot through with electricity until -
Something moves through Will’s nerves like a roll of thunder on the horizon. The hair on his arms stands up. Power pools like saliva in his spine and the base of his skull. Gut-twisting, instinctual. He closes his eyes for a moment, forcing it down. The energy trembles and lapses back into nothing before it can reach his fingertips.
Not now, he tells himself sternly. It’s okay. It’s not time for that.
It dissipates. Will releases the tension in his shoulders and they drop at least three inches. That was close. He can’t keep letting it get out of hand like that.
But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t let go of Mike’s hand. He holds on a bit tighter, and breathes a little easier when Mike squeezes back. And maybe that’s the part that scares him the most.
Will closes the last inch or two between them and snuggles against Mike with a sigh. Then he deliberately focuses on the movie.
He successfully passes most of an hour with his eyes on the screen and his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder. They pipe up occasionally, pointing something out or commenting on an old-fashioned detail of the 50s setting, but apparently Mike has a lot to think about too. They’re unusually quiet through most of it. That suits Will just fine; he’s content where he is. But then the movie comes to its last half hour and Will’s mind goes wandering off again. It goes from Chris to Mike to River Phoenix to Chris again.
Mike. Mike is like Chris. A best friend. A leader. Honorable, kind. Undeniably good-looking.
God, he hopes he doesn’t fuck this up.
Because if he does, that’s not just his boyfriend he’d lose - his first boyfriend, mind you, and his longtime crush - but his best friend in the world. Mike. Mike’s distinctive, contagious laugh. His somewhat adorable bouts of grumpiness when he’s hungry. His stories and campaigns brewing in his head, jotted down on scraps of paper and the backs of envelopes. Gone in one swift, grim swoop.
He really hopes he doesn’t fuck this up.
But for right now - for right now - nothing is wrong. Will tells himself that over and over as the movie winds down, like a mantra. Nothing is wrong. It’s okay. They’re okay. It’s Friday night. He’s safe at home. They have peanut butter M&Ms and a little popcorn left. They’re finishing up the first movie of the night and already digging around in Mike’s backpack for the second: the Wheeler’s barely-touched VHS of Nightmare on Elm Street . (The original, of course. They agreed long ago that all the sequels have mainly been garbage.) Will’s mother and then brother retired to their respective rooms long ago, so the sound has been turned down, and they whisper together as they rewind Stand By Me.
Will makes it about fifteen minutes into Nightmare on Elm Street before he gives in and pulls Mike’s mouth to his. He needs this. He managed to get himself all strung tight and now -
Mike presses back immediately. He tastes like chocolate and oily popcorn butter and the stale sweetness of the soda he finished an hour and a half ago. He lets out a little puff of breath as they turn, fumbling for a moment for a more comfortable position without breaking contact.
Will’s heart is pounding. Skin prickling with heat that wells up from within him. There’s an energy in the air of the living room, tangible, like static or humidity right before a huge storm. Like if Will raked his fingers through the empty space in front of them he’d feel it brushing through the spaces between his fingers. Secrets dart in the air around them, filling the dim space until it feels crowded, wriggling against Will’s skin. His tongue darts into Mike’s mouth in turn. A soft groan escapes Mike’s throat before he cuts it off, and Will smiles into the kiss.
Onscreen, Johnny Depp and - who’s the actress? Heather something? - are talking back and forth, but Will isn’t even processing the dialogue. It fades to background noise as Mike’s scent washes over him.
This is how it’s been, since that Saturday. During the day, everything is normal. They talk, they hang around the party, they ride their bikes side-by-side like always. Aside from the meaningful glances and the occasional game of footsie under the table, or the briefest of touches on the arm or shoulder, everything is as it’s always been. The Party is relieved to have their Paladin and Cleric on good terms again, after that week of tension, and life goes on as usual. Until they’re alone. And then it’s... well. It’s like this. Impatient, borderline needy. Touching constantly, conversations devolving into kissing. It’s been difficult the past few days, being grounded and all. Maybe that’s why they’re so fervent now - or maybe it can all be chalked up to teenage hormones. Either way, Will has no complaints.
He feels good, in moments like these. In-control. Giddy. When his stomach is abuzz with this is secret, this is forbidden, this isn’t supposed to be happening but it is. Nerves awash with an equally potent mix of don’t let them catch you, don’t let them see you, don’t let them see, don’t let them -
When he can feel his pulse in his temples and fingertips. When Mike is just melting under his touch. When he can make his boyfriend tilt his head or open his mouth or lie back against the rumpled mess of blankets with only the slightest touch, no words necessary. It’s a small power, but it’s dizzying. Addictive. Makes Will want to crawl right on top of Mike’s tall, lanky form and dig his fingers into his flesh, makes him want to bite and claim and take. Will’s fingers twitch into fists. God. Mike trusts him so much - doesn’t he? It’s an odd realization, but undeniable now that it has struck. Mike is trusting him with everything right now. Neck loose as a noodle, throat exposed, letting Will lead the kiss with a palm snugged to his jaw. Hands moving over Will’s torso. And, god, he’s gorgeous. All ivory-pale skin, made almost ghoulishly white in the glow of the screen, and dark-wavy-curly hair, and that dusting of freckles. Faint but everywhere.
Will wants to see just how far those freckles go. He wants to curl his fingers around the knobby bones of Mike’s wrists and drag his hands over his head, pin them there, hold him down and -
His hand lands on Mike’s ribs and Mike twists away with a clipped grunt.
Will falls back.
Fuck.
He’s breathing hard enough that he can feel his stomach caving in with every exhale, muscles aching under his skin. He’s hard. He hops off Mike’s lap and wonders when he got there, face radiating heat. He wonders if Mike could feel it just moments ago, when their faces were pressed together, mouths moving urgently.
Will draws his knees to his chest. Mike sits up, confused.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Forgot about the bruises.”
Mike tosses his head with a glib - and false - smile. “It’s fine, it doesn’t really hurt anymore. Just looks grody.”
Which is why you flinched, right? Will thinks, but just turns to face the screen again. He lets Mike toss an arm around his shoulders, but doesn’t uncurl until he’s calmed down. God, he’s a moron. He has got to stop doing that. Mike isn’t like him - not completely, at least. He said it himself: he likes both. Boys and girls. He doesn’t want the same kind of things Will does - he wouldn’t. If he knew the things that go through Will’s mind when they’re making out, he’d freak.
Which is fine. Just as long as those thoughts stay in Will’s mind. They can’t do any harm there. But he has to keep control. Mike has risked so much already doing this, given him so much more than Will ever dared hope. He knows that. And that’s enough - more than enough. It really is. Just as long as he keeps in control.
It’s approximately 2:30am when they finally turn off Will’s old Atari. They’ve consumed a truly irresponsible amount of peanut M&Ms and soda and ridden the sugar high all the way through its various stages of giggly, slap-happy, hyper, and abrupt crash . Now they’re finally stumbling their way towards bed.
Will stands in the middle of the dark living room, scrubbing the pads of his fingers over his eyes as Mike gathers up the popcorn bowl and other detritus and piles it aside.
“You wanna sleep in my room?” he says. He wasn’t really thinking about the words when they came out of his mouth; he’s just tired, and not really thinking straight, and his bed sounds so much better than the living room floor right now.
“Sure,” Mike agrees, and they drag the sleeping bags past the stripe of yellow light from the kitchen and through the outline of Will’s door. It’s as they’re closing the door behind them that logic catches up to him.
“You know, it’s kind of stupid to use these. I mean, there’s a bed.”
Mike shrugs and clicks on one of Will’s lava lamps for light. They’re talking under their breath, aware of the late hour of the night - er, morning - and the thin walls. “I always sleep on the floor.”
“You don’t... have to.”
Will’s feet rub together where he stands on the nubbly carpet. Nerves have kick-started his heart again and settled a tart ache right at the base of his skull. But he already said it. And Mike’s head is tilted in consideration.
He’s seconds away from taking it back somehow, trying to undo the damage - it’s probably way too soon for that, right? He probably just made things awkward. He definitely just made things awkward. Goddamnit. Alright, this is fine, he can fix this, he’ll just say it was a joke or -
“Okay. I’m gonna brush my teeth.”
And with that Mike drops his sleeping bag in an unceremonious lump, grabs his toothbrush from his backpack, and pads off to the bathroom.
The nerves migrate to Will’s stomach and sink their claws in, sharp and stubborn, as the two boys take turns in the bathroom and arrive back in the pink-hued semi-darkness of Will’s room. The lava lamp gives just enough light to navigate by, and the room is still dark enough that Will can make out the spangling of green-ish glow-in-the-dark stars in the far corners.
He wobbles for a moment on his left foot, the right pressed over his cold toes. Then he realizes he’s waiting for no reason, and clambers into bed. The mattress tilts and squeaks as Mike’s weight sinks into the other side. For a few moments, they shift and fumble with the covers, getting settled. Then it’s still. Quiet.
“Night,” Will blurts, awkwardly.
“Night,” Mike says back.
And then Will spends the next fifteen minutes wide awake, despite the time.
They’re not on opposite ends of the mattress, but they’re not exactly cuddled up together, either. Still, Mike is here. In Will’s bed. He can feel his warmth radiating across the small space between them, filling the bubble under the blankets. One of his feet grazes Will’s calf. Will can make out his scent - his natural scent. It’s been a long day since this morning’s shower, and the manmade scents of soap and shampoo and cologne have been worn away, and now it’s just him. Something warm and organic and as familiar as Will’s own face in the mirror. Like skin and sunlight and the Wheeler’s laundry soap and a hint of musk.
Will doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to disturb this. Somehow, it feels so incredibly fragile. Maybe Mike is asleep already, because his breathing is rhythmic. Soft and steady and reassuring as the waves on the pebble beach that the Byers visit every year or so.
How is he supposed to sleep like this? This is like his most pathetic daydreams come to life. How many times when he was twelve, thirteen, fourteen - hell, always - did he wish so desperately for this exact scenario? That Mike would just climb up from the sleeping bag beside the bed and slip under the covers? It never did happen though. The closest they ever came was that humiliating moment during a Party camping trip. When they had to share a sleeping bag, thanks to Will dropping his in the stream. He woke early the next morning to find himself cuddled up to Mike’s back, forehead pressed to the back of Mike’s neck. It was one of the most mortifying moments of his life to date, and he had never been so grateful to look around and find everyone else still asleep.
Will’s pulse calms gradually. Mike is asleep. He hasn’t moved a muscle in a long time, except for his foot twitching occasionally against Will’s leg. Will turns onto his side - facing away from Mike this time so that the events of the camping trip can’t be repeated - and relaxes into the mattress. A deep breath lifts and releases his ribcage.
Today was a good day.
Of course, the universe can’t let that stand for long.
He’s mid-cry when he comes to, the noise clawing out of his mouth like a rat desperately scrabbling to escape a trap. His throat is dry, gummy, scratched. His voice dies in an ugly waver and he kicks at the - vines? - no, blankets - around his legs. He’s disoriented and it’s dark and oh god something is touching him -
His hand strikes something fleshy -
Energy bolts down his arm, leaving the whole appendage vaguely numb - like it fell asleep and is just getting the feeling back - it zaps through his palm and -
“Ow!”
Will’s wildly flailing legs disentangle themselves from the sheets at the exact moment that he manages to lurch upright and flip over.
And see his boyfriend rubbing his upper arm with a grimace.
“I’m sorry!” Will rasps. Something catches in his throat and he has to swallow hard. He’s already groping over the bed, grabbing at Mike’s arm and moving his hand out of the way, searching for damage. The damage Will did. “I’m - Mike - are you okay? I’m so - god, I’m sorry -”
“What? No - Will - hey, Will. No, I’m fine. It was just a spark, it was nothing. Just surprised me. Pretty strong though.” He catches Will’s hand and massages a thumb into the soft spot in the center of his palm. “Probably got you pretty good too, huh? Staticky sheets.”
But Will can’t say anything. He can’t breathe. He’s breathing too much - can’t get a word in edgewise.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
Slow down, slow down -
Will curls into himself. He’s fighting his own lungs. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, he almost killed him. He could have hurt him. He could have killed him.
Control, something in his whispers, echoing a thought from hours ago. You need to learn control.
And the nightmare -
He remembers it now. He had been running. Sprinting, pushed far beyond his body’s ability, legs flailing and nearly tangling, nearly giving out. It was after him again. You know, just the typical run-of-the-mill nightmare. Old memories, old scars. But it was bad this time. He couldn’t wake up, and something had grabbed him -
Mike. Mike had tried to wake him up. He must have been moving in his sleep, or making noise. So Mike shook him. And Will lashed out. Guilt sours in the back of his throat.
There’s a hand rubbing slow circles into his back, between his shoulder blades. Mike is talking. Quietly. Not really saying anything, just repeating things like, “Hey, slow down, okay?” and “Will,” and “I’ve got you.” The touch is grounding, and as the steel fist around Will’s diaphragm gradually loosens, he presses into Mike’s side. Gasping gives way to sobbing, which he struggles to shut down as fast as he can. Without much success.
Ugh, he inwardly sneers, crying? Really? Could you be any more pathetic? Get a fucking grip, Byers.
So he does. Slowly. With Mike’s arms curled around his shoulders and his head braced in the curve of Mike’s throat.
“Sorry,” he whispers at last. He shifts his head minutely to see the clock. 4:11am. The lava lamp is still on. His mom always nags him about turning it off before he goes to sleep, but nothing’s caught fire yet.
Mike’s own head tilts down, his chin resting on Will’s hair. “It’s okay.” His legs stir, kicking the twisted blankets the rest of the way off. “Can we move, though? My spine is like two seconds from developing a permanent kink.”
Will chuckles and nods, and they slide down. They end up chest-to-chest, Will’s head pillowed on Mike’s shoulder, and he speaks into the collar of Mike’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”
Mike jostles him with the arm that’s curled over Will’s torso. “Nah.”
Will chews on his lower lip, then shrugs. He doesn’t have the energy to argue. Plus, now that he’s gotten his shit mostly back together, he’s actually comfortable enough to fall asleep again. But he doesn’t want to - not quite yet. The nightmare is too fresh in his mind.
Mike surprises him by speaking up again.
“Prom is next week.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Next Saturday, to be exact. The Party is going as a group - mostly to humor Max and Dustin, who actually enjoy those kinds of happenings. They’re going to get ice cream or something afterwards, and probably have a sleepover of some sort. They planned it weeks ago.
Mike breathes in, seems to reconsider, and then takes another breath. Will can’t see his face from this angle, but his voice is halting when he finally speaks. “I mean, hey - we could... yeah?”
It takes a moment for Will to process. Then he twists, half sitting up. The beginnings of a grin are tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You wanna go...”
Mike makes a gesture linking the two of them. “Together?”
“Like...”
“Like together together.”
“Like dates?”
“Yeah? I mean if -”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Totally. That - yeah. I’d - that’d be great.” Will’s head is bobbing, and the grin has fully broken through by now. Mike grins too. A curve of white teeth in the murky light of the lava lamp.
Mike nods back, still smiling. “Cool.”
Agreement reached, Will starts to lie back down on Mike’s chest. He reconsiders last minute, pops up, and presses a kiss to the grin on Mike’s mouth. Because he can. And because his sleep-deprived brain is just now catching up: prom. They’re going to prom together.
Mike’s kiss is sloppy with sleep, and Will has no doubt they’ll both be fully unconscious again in a matter of minutes. It is 4:14am after all.
It’s 4:15am on the dot when Joyce eases her bedroom door closed behind her. Her left hand grips her glass of water so tightly she’s half afraid it might break. Her right hand is pressed hard over her mouth. She thinks she might be smiling, but she can’t quite tell. It could also be a grimace.
Joyce stands, stiff and frozen, in her dark bedroom. Then she tilts the glass of water to her mouth and chugs it in one go.
The door was cracked no more than a centimeter, but there’s no denying what she just saw. No other way to interpret the image. Her son just kissed Mike Wheeler full on the mouth.