Chapter Text
The house settles into evening the way it always does — too warm, too bright, too loud in the wrong places.
Will sits on his bed with his headphones on, pencil tapping against his sketchbook instead of drawing anything. He’s not listening to music, not really. He just likes the weight of the headphones, the way they turn the world into something distant and underwater.
Through the muffled hum, he catches voices drifting down the hallway — sharp edges, familiar rhythms. El’s. Mike’s.
Not unusual.
They’ve been tense since Mike got here, bumping into each other verbally, fumbling through all the things they never actually say. It always starts the same way: El reaching for something she can’t quite name, Mike scrambling to hand it to her, both of them missing the mark.
Will presses the headphones harder against his ears.
He doesn’t want to hear it.
He doesn’t want to think about it.
They always make up anyway — usually with awkward smiles and a kiss in the hallway he pretends not to see.
He flips the page in his sketchbook even though there’s nothing on the last one. No line, no shape, just the faint indent of where his hand rested.
The voices rise for a moment — El’s frustration, Mike’s voice cracking around something like panic — and Will twists the dial on his Walkman until the argument dissolves into static and some half-tuned Californian pop station.
It’s fine, he tells himself.
They’re fine.
They always are.
Eventually the voices stop altogether, and the house folds into a heavy, unfamiliar quiet.
Will doesn’t take the headphones off.
He lies back and stares up at the stucco ceiling, letting time blur. His body feels restless, buzzing like a lightbulb about to burn out. The air in his room is stale. Too still. Too full of thoughts he doesn’t want to look at directly.
He sits up and pulls on his hoodie.
His hand brushes something on his bedside table — Jonathan’s lighter. He must’ve left it there after rummaging around for batteries. Next to it sits the small joint Will pocketed from Jonathan’s backpack two days ago. Jonathan won’t notice. Or he will, and he won’t say anything.
Will’s fingers close around both.
He needs air.
He needs quiet.
He needs something to sand down the edge of the way Mike’s been acting — distant, off, looking at him like he wants to say something, then swallowing it back down.
The hallway is dark. Jonathan’s door is shut. El’s is too — no light seeping out, no movement, no voices.
He keeps walking.
In the kitchen, the microwave clock blinks 12:48. The house hums: refrigerator, pipes, the soft whoosh of the air conditioner. No one stirs.
Will unlocks the sliding door and eases it open.
It creaks, like always.
He freezes, waiting for someone to call out — Jonathan complaining, El asking where he’s going, Mike yelling, "What are you doing?" from down the hall.
Nothing.
He steps outside.
The backyard is washed in pale blue moonlight, the kind that makes everything look softer than it really is. Two plastic chairs sit unevenly on the cracked concrete. He takes the left one, the one with the crooked leg that rocks if you shift too much.
The air smells like chlorine from the neighbor’s pool and dry grass with a hint of sweetness.
He lights the joint with unsteady hands.
The ember glows. Smoke curls upward, slow and lazy.
He inhales, lets it burn a little, then exhales toward the yard. The night blurs at the edges, just enough.
For a few minutes, it’s quiet. Not the suffocating kind, not the sad kind. Just night-time quiet — a warm, humming sort of nothing.
The house shifts behind him — a faint groan in the boards, the subtle creak of weight somewhere inside. Houses move. They breathe. It doesn’t mean anything.
He takes another drag.
Then he hears it again — the softer sound of someone trying not to make noise. A door. A pause. Footsteps down the hallway, careful instead of casual. Thinking steps.
Will doesn’t turn around.
The sliding door clicks.
Opens.
He exhales smoke without looking.
“Will?”
Mike’s voice is soft and uneven, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say his name.
Will closes his eyes for half a second.
Of course.
Of course it’s him.
When he finally looks, Mike is standing half in, half out of the doorway, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross the threshold. The porch light behind him flickers once, then dies, leaving him outlined in shadow and the thin band of moonlight slipping past the curtain. His hair is damp from whatever he’d been doing in the bathroom, curling at the ends. His eyes are tired. More tired than someone who just spent the last couple of hours arguing with his girlfriend should look.
Will turns away again, brings the joint to his lips, and inhales steady this time, like he’s done this for longer than he has.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” Mike says. His voice tries for firm and lands somewhere closer to worried.
Will exhales toward the fence. “Didn’t know there were rules now.”
“I just meant—” Mike steps fully onto the patio, letting the door fall shut behind him. He’s hovering, like he wants to come closer but doesn’t trust himself to. “I heard the door.”
“And that’s a crime now?” Will says, sharper than he intends.
Mike goes quiet.
Will feels the snap of it, and it annoys him more that he cares. Everything with Mike lately seems to land wrong — the way he looks at Will, or avoids looking at him at all. The way he sits too far away on purpose, like he’s afraid of something he won’t name.
“I thought it might be… someone else,” Mike says finally.
“Who? Vecna?” Will flicks ash off the joint. “Pretty sure he’s not using our sliding door.”
That pulls out a tiny huff of air from Mike — not quite a laugh, but close enough that Will hears the ghost of one.
“So…” Mike steps closer, sneakers scuffing the concrete. “You’re smoking?”
“Good observation.”
“I just— I didn’t know you… did that.”
Will shrugs, eyes still on the yard. “You don’t know everything about me.”
The words land heavier than he meant them to. He feels the way they hit Mike — the air goes quieter between them.
“Oh,” Mike says. Small. “Okay.”
There’s something cracked around the edges of that okay, and Will hates that he notices. Hates that it matters.
He reaches out, sudden, and holds the joint toward Mike.
Mike stares at it like it’s a cursed object.
“Take it,” Will says, voice calm. “Unless you’re too scared.”
Mike’s head snaps up, offended on instinct. “I’m not scared.”
“Sure,” Will says. “You just look terrified.”
Mike steps closer, jaw tightening in quiet defiance. Fingers brush Will’s for a moment as he takes the joint.
The touch sends a bright little shock up Will’s arm. He ignores it.
“Okay,” Mike mutters. “How hard can this be?”
“Famous last words,” Will says under his breath.
Mike raises the joint to his mouth.
Will opens his mouth to warn him — a second too late.
Mike inhales like he’s trying to vacuum the entire night sky into his lungs. His eyes widen immediately.
“Mike—”
It hits.
He explodes into coughing, folding over himself, wheezing like he’s being strangled by the air.
The force of it knocks him off balance — he staggers and practically collapses into the chair beside Will, the legs scraping loudly against the concrete. For a second it looks like he might tip the whole thing over.
Will lunges instinctively, grabbing the armrest to steady him.
Mike keeps coughing, gasping between heaves, eyes streaming, one hand clutching his chest like he’s moments from writing his final will and testament.
Will stares for half a heartbeat — and then cracks.
He laughs.
Not a small, polite laugh. A real one, sharp and surprised, ripped out of him like something that’s been stuck in his ribs for months.
“Oh my god,” Will says, nearly doubled over, “I didn’t tell you to inhale like that!”
Mike flails one hand in his direction, the other braced on his knee. “Why does it feel like my lungs are— are on fire— this is— awful—”
“Because you did it wrong!” Will says, covering his mouth with his sleeve as another laugh escapes. “You don’t— you’re not supposed to— oh my god, Mike—”
Mike coughs so violently his whole body jolts with it, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezed shut. He folds over himself, wheezing, then panics and thrusts the joint out in front of him like it’s radioactive.
“Take it—” he gasps, blindly shoving it toward Will. “Will—take it take it take it—”
Will grabs it before Mike can drop it, snatching the burning end away from Mike’s fingers as he dissolves into another round of hacking coughs. He’s laughing again, helplessly, because Mike looks like he’s fighting for his life.
“Oh my god,” Will manages between breaths, “you’re such a drama queen—”
Mike wheezes, folding over himself, choking out, “I’m—dying—”
“You’re not dying,” Will says, even though he’s still laughing. “You just hit it like a vacuum cleaner—”
Mike swats weakly in his general direction, still coughing. “Why does it feel like my lungs are—” he repeats again but breaks off with another violent cough, “—are on fire— this is— this is wrong— Will, I think I’m dying—”
“You’re not dying,” Will says, already laughing, covering his mouth with his sleeve as another giggle escapes. “You just did it wrong.”
Mike wheezes, dragging in a breath that sounds like it physically hurts. “This is a bio-weapon. You handed me a bio-weapon. Tell my mom I—”
He hacks again, clutching his chest like he’s in a soap opera.
“Oh my god,” Will chokes out, half-concerned, half-amused. “You don’t— you’re not supposed to inhale like that, you maniac—”
Mike finally manages one real breath, eyes streaming. He blinks blearily at the sky, dazed.
“I think I’m seeing colors.”
“Don’t we always see in colors?” Will asks, still laughing, the sound soft and helpless.
Mike coughs again — a weak, pitiful little choke — and then the panic finally breaks. The coughing dissolves into a shaky laugh, shoulders loosening as if his whole body is admitting defeat. He slumps back in the chair, breath hitching, wiping at his wet eyes with the heel of his hand.
For a moment, he just sits there, chest rising and falling in uneven, post-disaster waves.
Embarrassed.
Relieved.
A little stunned.
Then something shifts — the tension he’s been carrying all day slipping out through a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His face softens. His mouth curves, small and real, like he’s surprised by the feeling warming him from the inside out.
He drags a hand down his face, still half-coughing, half-laughing.
“God,” he breathes, voice rough but honest, “I needed that.”
Will looks over at him then.
Really looks.
Not the way he’s looked at him all day — hurt and bracing for impact — but with a softness Mike hasn’t earned tonight and probably doesn’t deserve, but Will gives it anyway.
“You’re… not okay,” Will says quietly.
Not accusing. Just true.
Mike drops his gaze to his hands. “El broke up with me.”
Will’s breath catches. “She did?”
“Yeah.” Mike lets out a humorless little laugh. “She said I couldn’t say the words she needed to hear. That I didn’t… feel them.”
Will swallows. “And do you?”
Mike doesn’t answer right away. The quiet stretches.
“I care about her,” he says finally. “I really do. But love? The way she wanted me to say?” His shoulders sag. “I couldn’t. Not without lying.”
Will’s throat tightens. “That doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“It makes me confused,” Mike whispers. “And scared.”
Will hesitates. “Scared of what?”
Mike looks up at him, eyelids weighted and slow, eyes red from coughing and glossy with the weed. The combination makes him look wrecked in a way that isn’t ugly at all — it’s disarming, brutally honest. Will feels his heart stutter in his chest, helpless against it.
“Of figuring out what I really feel,” he says. “Of hurting someone.” His voice drops. “Of hurting you.”
Will’s breath leaves him all at once. “Me?”
Mike nods, the high loosening his walls but not his sincerity. “You’ve been… off. Distant. And it’s my fault. I know I’ve been weird with you. I just—” He exhales, frustrated with himself. “I don’t know how to act around you anymore.”
Will’s heart bangs against his ribs. “Why?”
Mike looks at him like the answer is a cliff. “Because when I think about losing you,” he whispers, “I feel something I don’t know how to name.”
Will stares at him, stunned, hands shaking just a little. “Mike…”
Mike groans, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “And now I’m high and emotional and you’re gonna make fun of me—”
“I’m not,” Will says quickly. “I wouldn’t.”
Mike swallows. “Then tell me why you’ve been angry with me.”
Will looks toward the streetlights beyond the fence, breathing slowly to keep his voice steady. “Because you keep choosing to see everything except me,” he says. “And every time you pull away, it feels like I’m losing you too. And I don’t know how to pretend that doesn’t hurt.”
The words land between them, heavy and warm and undeniable.
“I’m sorry,” Mike says. It comes out rough. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”
Will’s eyes soften. “Then don’t.”
They sit in it — the apology, the almost-confession, the way the night holds its breath.
Mike shifts closer without seeming to realize he’s doing it. Their knees brush.
Will doesn’t move away.
“Can I… stay out here with you?” Mike asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Will says. “Of course.”
Mike exhales, like something unclenches in his chest. He leans back in the chair so their shoulders press together, warm and solid.
For the first time all day, the anger in Will lets go.
Because Mike isn’t running tonight.
He isn’t hiding.
He’s here.
And Will lets him be.
Mike tilts his head back, eyes half-lidded, a faint flush warming his cheeks. The high has settled into him fully now, smoothing out the sharp edges he carried all day and leaving something softer underneath.
Will nudges his shoulder. “You okay?”
Mike blinks at him. “Your hair looks… really soft right now.”
Will freezes. “What?”
“And your face is… like… close.” Mike squints, confused. “Why is your face so close?”
“Because you scooted toward me, Mike.”
“Oh.” He thinks about that. “Yeah. That tracks.”
He leans even closer.
Their shoulders stay pressed together.
Will’s pulse stutters. “Okay, you’re definitely high.”
“Maybe,” Mike says, grinning a little.
The night breeze cools the sweat on his forehead. Will watches him — the way his eyes keep fluttering, the way his hand on the armrest keeps inching toward Will’s like there’s a magnet between them.
“…Can I try it again?” Mike asks suddenly, eyeing the joint.
Will snorts. “After you almost died?”
“I did not almost die,” Mike says, offended. His voice is still a little wrecked. “I just didn’t know how to do it right.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Mike nudges his knee, pouting. “Come on. Teach me.”
Will pretends that word doesn’t do weird things to his insides.
He brings the joint to his own mouth first, sheltering the end with his hand as he flicks Jonathan’s lighter. The paper catches, ember flaring back to life. He takes a small, steady pull — just enough to get it burning again — then exhales slowly toward the yard.
Only then does he turn toward Mike and hold it out, their shoulders brushing as he shifts.
“Okay,” he says. “Slow inhale. Like you’re sipping, not trying to breathe through a vacuum. Don’t hold it forever unless you want to meet God.”
Mike nods solemnly. “Sip, not death.”
He brings it to his lips, and Will has to look away, because Mike’s mouth is unfair.
This time, Mike inhales slow.
Controlled.
His eyes flicker in surprise as the smoke settles.
“Now exhale,” Will says.
Mike does. He tips his head all the way back as he exhales, throat stretching in a long, pale line toward the sky. The smoke leaves him in a slow, curling ribbon, drifting upward into the moonlight.
Will watches the movement of his neck — too graceful, too unguarded — longer than he means to. Heat rushes to his cheeks before he forces himself to look away.
“Oh,” Mike breathes, softer this time — almost surprised. The high is clearly settling in now, smoothing over his features, loosening something behind his eyes.
“There it is,” Will says quietly.
Mike keeps staring up. “Why does the sky look… sparkly?”
“It’s stars, Mike.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, frowning. “Because they’re moving.”
“You’re moving.”
Will gives his shoulder a little shove. Mike breaks into full-on giggles — real, ridiculous ones that shake his whole body.
It’s stupid, but something in Will aches at how much he missed that sound.
They pass the joint until it burns low — slow, easy, laughing whenever Mike tries to say something profound like, “I think gravity is emotional,” or, “I’m pretty sure your porch chair is flirting with me.”
By the time the ember dies out, they’re both warm and loose, leaning into each other like the space between them forgot how to exist.
A quiet settles. Not awkward. Just full.
The porch light flickers on, then off — the timer kicking in, reminding them the night is only going to get thinner.
Will sighs, the sound barely more than a breath. “We should go in,” he murmurs. “It’s late, and if Jonathan wakes up and finds us like this…” He trails off, the implication hanging warm and fragile in the space between them.
Mike nods slowly. “Okay… but don’t walk too far ahead.”
“Why not?” Will asks.
“Because my legs are noodles,” Mike says seriously, “and if I fall, I need something to hold onto.”
He pinches the edge of Will’s sleeve between his fingers. Will goes bright red. “You’re impossible.”
But he stands, and Mike gets up after him, fingers catching Will’s hoodie sleeve like it’s a railing.
Will slides the door open as quietly as he can. They slip inside.
The living room is dim, lit only by a lamp. Jonathan is half sideways on the couch, one shoe still on, mouth open. Argyle is on the floor, limbs sprawled, a blanket thrown over half of him.
“They’re completely out,” Will whispers.
“No way in hell Argyle is awake,” Mike whisper-yells. “He looks like roadkill.”
Will bites his knuckles to keep from laughing.
They creep past the couch. Mike stumbles, and Will grabs his elbow.
“Don’t let go of me,” Mike breathes. “I’m like a newborn deer.”
“Shh,” Will hisses, still shaking with silent laughter. “You’re gonna wake them.”
“I’m not,” Mike says, immediately bumping his hip into the coffee table.
It clunks loudly.
They both freeze.
Jonathan snores.
Will exhales. “Go,” he whispers. “Go, go, go.”
They scurry toward the stairs, whispering and giggling like they’re twelve again.
On the floor, Argyle’s eyes crack open just enough to see them wobbling away.
He grins into his blanket. “Little Byler dudes baked outta their minds,” he mumbles, amused. “Righteous.”
Then he closes his eyes again.
At the base of the stairs, Mike clings to the railing and to Will’s sleeve like both are equally necessary.
“Will?” he whispers.
“Yeah?”
“I’m having fun.”
Will swallows past the weird lump in his throat. “Me too.”
Mike smiles — crooked, soft, dangerous. “Good. ’Cause I wanna keep talking with you. Upstairs.”
Will’s pulse kicks. He nods.
They climb — slow, clumsy, trying not to laugh at every creak. They pass El’s door, cracked an inch. Mike looks at it too long, something sad passing over his face.
Will nudges him gently. “Come on.”
They slip into Will’s room. He closes the door carefully.
The lamp on his dresser throws a warm amber glow over the space. It makes the room feel smaller, cozier, like they’re in a bubble away from the rest of the house. The familiar mix of acrylic paint and Joyce’s ocean detergent hangs in the air.
“You can, um… sit,” Will says, even though there’s really only one place to sit at all.
Mike doesn’t just sit.
He flops backward onto the bed, limbs loose, sprawling like he’s known this mattress his whole life. His curls fan out against the pillow, eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, looking up at Will like he’s the only steady thing in the room. His shirt rides up a little at the hem. Not that Will noticed. Absolutely not.
Will’s pulse stutters anyway. “…Okay.”
He clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Are you… okay?”
Mike nods.
Then shakes his head.
Then nods again. “I’m… something,” he decides. “Feels floaty.”
Will huffs out a small laugh and sits on the edge of the bed beside him — not touching, but close enough that if Mike shifted even a little, he would be.
Mike tips his head back and closes his eyes for a moment.
“You know,” he says, voice quieter, “I didn’t come to California just for El.”
Will goes still.
Mike turns his head, blinking slowly at him. “I mean, I did. But… not only her.”
“Mike,” Will says, “you’re high. Maybe you shouldn’t—”
“No.” Mike’s gaze sharpens, as much as it can. “Just… listen. Please?”
Will nods.
“I was scared she didn’t need me anymore,” Mike says. “Like she was… growing past me. Turns out she kind of was.” He smiles, tired and fond. “She’s amazing. She doesn’t need me to be her hero.”
“You don’t have to be a hero to matter,” Will says before he can stop himself.
Mike stares at him.
The words seem to land somewhere deep.
“I think,” Mike says slowly, “I was more scared that you didn’t need me anymore.”
Will forgets how to breathe.
“You’ve been different,” Mike continues. “And the more you pulled back, the more I got… weird. And I didn’t wanna ask why, because what if the answer was you didn’t care about me anymore?”
“Mike,” Will says, his voice barely there, “I never stopped caring about you.”
Mike smiles — a small, real smile that lights his face from the inside.
“I know that now,” he murmurs. “Tonight… helped.”
He tilts closer, still half-sprawled, until his arm rests lightly against Will’s spine.
It’s barely a touch, but there’s intent in it.
“Mike?” Will whispers.
“Hm?”
“You’re saying too much.”
Mike laughs softly, eyes fluttering. “Yeah. Probably.” His eyelids droop more. “But it’s true.”
Will watches him — red eyes, relaxed face, fingers twitching like he’s reaching for something in a dream.
“I like being near you,” Mike whispers, barely audible. “And I think I…”
His voice trails.
Mike shifts again, clumsy and loose-limbed from the high, and looks up at Will with heavy-lidded, glassy eyes.
“Why’re you sitting way over there?” he mumbles. “I'm cold. Come here.”
Will blinks. “I’m fine. I can get you a blanket—”
Mike shakes his head, slow and stubborn. “No blanket. You.”
Before Will can protest, Mike reaches out — fingers hooking in the edge of Will’s sleeve — and gives the softest, most determined tug imaginable. It’s barely any force at all, but it’s enough. Will’s balance tips forward, and Mike immediately scoots back on the bed to make space, patting the spot beside him like it’s obvious.
“Just… lay down,” Mike whispers. “Please?”
Will hesitates, heart hammering so loud he’s sure Mike can hear it. But Mike’s hand stays curled in his sleeve, gentle but insistent. So Will exhales and slowly lowers himself onto the mattress, lying on his side, facing Mike. Not touching. Careful.
And that’s when he notices it — the faint, warm trace of weed on Mike’s breath, drifting between them in the small space they’ve left. It’s new on him, unfamiliar, but somehow… it fits. Gentle. Sweet in a way Will shouldn’t like as much as he does.
He forces himself to stay still, to breathe normally, but the scent unsettles something inside him — in a way that feels almost embarrassingly pleasant.
Mike doesn’t like the distance.
He shifts closer — a small, sleepy scoot — and Will feels the warmth of him along his arm, then his ribs. Mike exhales, relieved.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “There you are.”
Will swallows hard. “Mike…”
But Mike’s body softens all at once, tension draining like he’s been holding it in for years.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice slurring as his eyes flutter shut. “’Kay?”
Will’s breath catches.
If he were standing, he thinks his knees might buckle.
“I won’t,” he whispers.
Mike doesn’t respond.
He’s already drifting — head tipping forward until it settles against Will’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He stays there.
Heavy. Warm. Completely defenseless.
Will goes perfectly still, afraid to break the moment. Mike’s breath ghosts against his collarbone. His hair smells like sun and shampoo and the faint sweetness of lingering weed. One of his hands lands near Will’s sternum, fingers curling loosely in the blanket like he fell asleep reaching for him.
Will doesn’t move.
He just lets it happen — lets Mike rest against him, lets himself feel the quiet, impossible closeness that doesn’t hurt for once.
It doesn’t feel like losing him.
It feels like something beginning.
☾
Sunlight creeps under the door.
Footsteps pass down the hallway, then stop.
Will’s door opens a few inches.
“Will, have you seen—?”
Jonathan stops dead.
He takes in:
Mike Wheeler is dead asleep, draped over Will’s chest like gravity forgot how to work. His face is buried against Will’s shoulder, mouth slightly open, breathing slow and warm.
Will, meanwhile, is—
Asleep.
At least until the shift of light across the room — and maybe the faint scrape of the doorknob — has him stirring. His eyes flutter open, unfocused, just barely awake.
He blinks once. Twice.
Then he registers two things at the same time:
Jonathan is standing in the doorway. Mike is wrapped around him. Will freezes. Completely.
His breath catches mid-inhale. His whole body goes rigid beneath Mike’s sleeping weight. His face flushes so fast and so hot he feels dizzy.
Jonathan stares at them for a beat, eyes going wide as he takes in the scene — Mike curled into Will like he spent the whole night seeking him out, Will blinking blearily like he’s been caught doing something far worse than simply existing.
“Oh my god,” Jonathan mutters. “You’re awake.”
Will swallows hard. “…Hi.”
Then, immediately: “I can explain,” he whispers, horrified — even though he absolutely cannot.
Jonathan lifts a hand. “Nope.”
“But—”
“Nope,” Jonathan says immediately, already backing out of the doorway. “I didn’t see anything. I’m erasing this whole moment from my brain.”
“Jonathan—”
He points at them, whisper-hissing, “Just—don’t let Mom see him up here, alright? She’ll literally combust. You know how she is about the whole ‘no boys in the bed’ thing.”
The door clicks shut.
Will slumps back against the wall, face on fire.
Mike makes a little noise and shifts, burrowing closer like he’s trying to fuse with Will’s shoulder.
“Morning…” he mumbles, barely awake.
Will swallows, heart thudding.
“…Morning,” he says back.
And for once, it doesn’t feel like something ending.
It feels like something they might finally be brave enough to name.