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“How bad is it?” Lucas grimaces.
“I mean,” Mike says, “it’s not…good.”
Will stares at the blood pooling on Lucas’s chest, seeping through the bandages. Not good is an understatement. This – all of this – is catastrophically not good.
“I’m so sorry, Lucas,” he says, the apology forming easily.
It’s his one hundredth one since arriving back at the WSQK. Since finding Lucas, bleeding out, in one of the tunnels. Lying next to a closed rift, a sealed up wound.
“Will, stop,” Lucas says, like he has for all the others. “It’s not your fault a Demogorgon wanted me for lunch.”
“I could’ve been quicker,” he says, fiddling with one of the couch cushions. “I could’ve stopped it sooner.”
“I’m not sure you can really speed up the whole magical powers thing.”
“Not magic,” Will mutters, ignoring the look Mike shoots him. “I’m still sorry.”
“If I accept your apology will it get you to stop?” Lucas asks.
“Probably not.”
The door swings open before Lucas can, no doubt, reply in exasperation. Mike and him turn to look, heads snapping towards the noise. Lucas can do little more than inch upright where he’s spread across the sofa.
His mom and Robin come thundering down the stairs, arms cradling bulging plastic bags.
“Okay,” Joyce says, depositing the bags in a heap beside Lucas. She smiles wearily at them all, running a gentle hand through Will’s hair. “Here’s everything.”
“We got all we could find,” Robin chimes in. “Which was an interesting selection. The Chef really doesn’t have much first aid.”
Joyce worries her bottom lip, glancing at Lucas, the bags, and then Lucas again.
“We’re going to have to disinfect it later, honey,” she says. “I swore Hop had some whiskey but…nevermind. We can make do with this. Don’t you worry.”
How Lucas replies is completely lost on Will. His mom’s words echo in his ears, ringing and bouncing off the walls of his brain in useless waves. A disconnected radio.
When he looks up – unable to help himself, always intrinsically drawn – Mike’s already looking at him. There’s something heavy in his gaze, a guilty sort of acknowledgement. Will swallows away the sudden wave of dread.
There’s blood on his hands, crusted behind his nails. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine it’s paint, or peeling flecks of crayon. Will’s good at that. Pretending.
THREE MONTHS AGO
Yawning, Will stretches his arms above his head, spine popping. Mike’s old pajama bottoms bunch at his ankles as he twists, too short for the both of them. He yanks them back down, tucking them under his fluffy socks for good measure. It was fine in the summer, when the basement was constantly flooded with dozy warmth. Now, with the chill of outside seeping in through the floorboards, exposed ankles are deadly.
Collecting Jonathan’s unused blankets from the couch, Will starts the formulaic process of creating his make-shift bed. One blanket over the springy air mattress, two over himself, and another at the foot of the bed, in case his toes get cold whilst sleeping. Two pillows propped up for his head, another barricading between him and the wall. On one too many mornings, he’s woken up to a pounding in his forehead, courtesy of rolling into the brick in his sleep.
He’s got his bed set up, half-way to crawling inside when there’s a gentle thump. Will pauses, looking up at the basement stairs. He often hears noises in the evening, the reassuring pad of footsteps over the carpet above. People waking up to get water. Nancy giggling as she ushers Jonathan into the hallway.
Another thump, a firm knock of knuckles on wood.
“Yeah?” he calls, voice cracking.
“It’s me.”
Rolling his eyes, Will slides out of bed. He makes his way up the stairs, undoing the loose metal latch on the basement door. It immediately swings open, like Mike was baring all his weight in it.
“Didn’t know you changed your name,” Will says. “Me Wheeler has a good ring to it. You don’t even need to change your initials.”
Mike squeezes past him without invitation, stupid hard-sole slippers hitting the stairs. He ignores Will’s comment, but glances back up at him when he sees the bed.
“Sorry, were you sleeping?” he asks.
His eyebrows scrunch together, casting arched shadows over his eyelids. Will wipes his palms on his checkered pants and follows him.
“Not anymore. What exactly are you doing?”
Collapsing onto the couch, Mike props his feet up on the coffee table, long limbs sprawled in every direction. His backpack – which Will didn’t notice he had on before – is deposited beside him, making a strange clanking sound as it goes down. He’s wearing his pajamas too, almost matching pants and a thin t-shirt as opposed to Will’s hoodie. It must be warmer upstairs.
“Why aren’t you sleeping on here?” Mike asks, dodging the question.
He pats the space next to him, a plume of dust rising on impact. Will’s not sure if the gesture is an invitation or not. He sits anyway, tucking his legs up to his chest. His toes brush the space beside Mike’s thigh.
“It’s Jonathan’s,” Will says.
Mike makes a show of looking around the room.
“Is he here?”
“Okay, well. I’ve seen Lucas spill a whole packet of Doritos down the cushions, and I don’t think it’s been cleaned since, so.”
Making a noncommittal noise, Mike settles further into the couch. His head drops back on the cushion, neck lolling as he looks at Will. There’s an eyelash caught on his cheek, a dark line between a cluster of freckles. If Will were brave, he’d reach out and brush it away.
He wonders what Mike would wish for. He wonders if Mike would tell him.
“Have you ever been drunk before, Will?” Mike asks.
The words are quiet, soft. Appropriate for the cusps of the night. Whispery around the edges. It prickles the back of Will’s neck, and he has to curl his hands into fists to stop himself from tugging at his hair.
“What’s with all the questions?” he says.
Mike's eyes are warm, endlessly dark. He’s always appreciated the way they curve down at the corners, the way they crinkle when Mike smiles – really smiles.
“Call me curious,” Mike says. “Have you?”
“Not drunk,” Will says, because he can’t deny Mike anything, apparently. “A girl at one of my Mom’s work party once gave me champagne but…I don’t know. It just made me feel fuzzy. Lighter.”
Lifting his head, Mike’s gaze burns into his.
“A girl?”
His voice is flat and wobbly all at once. Uncharacteristically indeterminable. Will shrugs.
“Yeah, some co-worker’s daughter or something. She was in mine and El’s English class.” He drops his eyes to have his lap, fingers picking at a cuticle. “Have you?”
Mike takes a moment to respond.
“Have I what?”
“Been drunk?”
“No.” Mikes laughs shortly, an unattractive snorting sound. It’s one of Will’s favorite Mike laughs. “Actually, Steve let me try some of his beer once but it was disgusting.”
“Yeah?”
“Tasted like fermented socks,” Mike says.
Will wrinkles his nose. “You’d know what fermented socks taste like.”
“Shut up,” Mike laughs, swatting his shin lightly.
In retaliation, Will prods his toes into Mike’s side, wiggling under the hem of his shirt. Mike squirms, laughter ascending to the kind forced out by being tickled. Out of all of them, he was always the most ticklish, the most twitchy. It was a victorious day for Lucas when he figured that out.
“Okay, okay,” Mike gasps when Will digs his foot beneath his ribs, “you win. I, Me Wheeler, officially admit defeat. You can talk forever.”
“In that case, what’s with all the questions? You have to answer this time.”
Curling his fingers around Will’s ankle, Mike guides his foot back down onto the couch, hand lingering for a second before sliding away. He’s smiling something small, something secret.
“I went to Hop’s cabin today,” he says.
It’s not exactly an answer to Will’s question, but an understanding swells inside him at the statement. Mike was MIA most of the day; it makes sense that he was spending it with El, now that Will thinks about it.
He draws his knees close again, heels tucking underneath himself. Frustratingly, his pajama pants ride up, escaping the hold of his socks. He doesn’t bother pulling them back down his shins.
“Cool,” Will says, the syllable curving into a gentle click. “Did you have fun?”
Mike pulls a face, eyebrows scrunching, the corners of his lips turning. It’s something else Will can’t quite decipher, another expression that could mean a multitude of Mike Things. Two in one night. He’s losing his touch.
“Fun is a relative term,” Mike says. “But– I did find fun.”
Leaning forward, Mike twists over the couch, bending across the armrest where he tossed his backpack. There’s the sound of the thick zipper scraping over its plastic teeth, glass clinking together, and then Mike’s emerging again. His hair flops over his eyes, cheeks red from half hanging upside-down. In his hands are two bottles of brown liquid.
“Whiskey,” Will says. “You stole whiskey from the chef. From his house.”
“Yessiree. Don’t worry, he didn’t notice.”
Taking one of the bottles, he inspects the peeling, yellow label. When he looks back up, Mike’s grinning with slight hysterical giddiness.
“Are you sure this is safe to drink? Hopper’s probably had this for decades,” he asks.
“Alcohol lasts forever,” Mike says. “That’s why my dad always gets mad at my mom when she drinks our wine. It could sell for a fortune in a few years, apparently.”
Will’s not sure how much he believes that. He’s pretty sure Ted only gets mad because when Karen’s drunk, she’s less likely to put up with his bullshit.
“So,” Mike continues, “you want some?”
Will’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “You want to get drunk? Now?”
It’s a surprise if only because Mike’s never once given the implication that he wants to try the whole drinking thing – properly, that is. Aside from Lucas, it’s not as if any of them are really getting invited to many parties. There’s not much time, space, or energy to think about trivial things like this.
“I don’t want to get drunk,” Mike says, and his grin widens impossibly. “I want to get pissed.”
Five make-shift shots of whiskey later, and Will can truthfully say he’s veering towards being pissed. Mike has long since crossed that line. He’s slumped even further down the couch now, legs hanging off the end, knees bent unnaturally.
“I don't even feel drunk,” he’s saying. Eyes wide and glossy, he looks up at Will. “Do you?”
“No. Wait, yeah,” Will says. He’s never really been able to lie to Mike – intentionally or not. “Yeah, I do. You feel like this normally?”
Pushing his hair away from his forehead, Mike sighs dramatically. The whiskey in his hand titters precariously. One glass has already fallen to tragedy, shattering so dramatically on the floor that Will’s still surprised no one came down to check the house wasn’t being robbed.
“Hmph. No,” Mike mutters. “Usually feel more stressed.”
“You hide it well.”
Mike squints at him. “‘S that a joke?”
“No,” Will says. He rocks his glass, watching the last dregs of whiskey swirl around in a mini whirlpool. “You seem pretty…chilled. About the whole apocalypse thing going on.”
“Chilled,” Mike repeats, dragging out the word. He laughs then, a childish giggle that has Will feeling twelve years old again. “You sound like Jonathan when he–”
He mimics smoking, accidentally jabbing one finger into his mouth. Groaning, Will sinks further down, flopping out his arms.
“Remember when he drove us around Lenora super high?” he says. “That was kind of dangerous.”
“Kind of funny,” Mike says, smiling so wide that Will can see the back of his teeth.
He buries his hands in his hoodie pocket, twisting his fingers together out of view. Really, he doesn’t know why he’s brought Lenora up. That day up. Even through the bleary drunk haze, Will knows it’s probably not a good idea. Nothing about that trip went like anyone planned.
“You didn’t look like you found it funny,” Will finds himself saying.
It’s foolish. Idiotic.
But the drink softens the jab of it, and Mike only juts his bottom lip in a petulant pout. His hair has fallen again, forever a tangled mop. Will imagines gathering it up with one of Holly’s bobble hairbands, tying it in a pineapple spike atop Mike’s head. He hides his smile behind his knees.
“Lenora,” Mike says. “Lenora, Lenora. Stupid Lenora.”
“You’re five years old.”
“Shitty Lenora.”
“That’s more like it.”
Mike laughs again, a throaty noise that has his head tipping back, his neck a long line of pale skin. It’s a proper laugh – a real one. Will’s come to realize that real things are rare these days. He wants to trap this laugh forever. He wants to play it whenever he feels lonely, or scared, or cold.
The whiskey’s making his head spin.
“Will?”
He blinks. Mike’s staring at the opposite wall where Will’s old drawings are pinned up. The paper is curling at the corners and the crayon has faded to muted tones of what they once were, but they’re still there. Still on display.
“Mmh.”
“Hey, Will?” Mike says, unhearing.
“Yeah?”
Mike’s shirt shifts as he exhales, thin fabric sticking to his chest. If Will looks hard enough, he’s sure he’ll be able to see the thumping of Mike’s heart, the pulse blood rushing. He doesn’t let himself look. He’s always tried not to.
“Have you ever, like, drawn me,” Mike says.
He’s still staring at the drawings like he’s waiting for them to come alive. Screaming dragons and flashing swords. Even after everything Will’s seen, he doesn’t know what he’d do if he came across that.
“Sure,” he says, then blanches. Mike is here, sitting next to him. Real and tangible. This isn’t just in his head. He can’t just admit things like this. “I mean, yeah. Of course. You know that.”
“I know it?” Mike echoes.
“Uh huh. I used to draw us as the Paladin and Cleric all the time, y’know? And– And the painting. The one El commissioned. I drew you there.”
Suddenly, Mike seems remarkably sober. He nods, a heavy dip of his chin. From this angle, his eyelashes merge with shadow, spindly lines of darkness stretching over his face.
“The painting. Right.” And maybe it’s Will’s mention of El, or the alcohol loosening his lips, but Mike is suddenly saying: “We broke up today.”
He starts, almost dropping the glass. “What?"
“Me and El,” Mike says. “We broke up. That’s why I was at the cabin.”
For a moment, Will thinks he might be hearing things. That the whiskey has clouded his senses somehow, has clogged his ears with deceiving plugs. But, no. Mike’s blinking at him owlishly, waiting.
He doesn’t quite know what to say. There’s salt in his mouth, suddenly. Salt, and tangy cheese, and the memory of a bathtub pizzeria.
“Oh,” he settles for. “I’m– I’m sorry.”
“It was mutual,” Mike says, a snap of words. Faster than lightning. “It’s okay.”
How that could be true, he can’t tell. Shaking his head, he carefully touches Mike’s shoulder. A gasp of comfort.
“I’m still sorry. You guys are…That can’t have been easy.”
The speed Mike turns to him is almost frightening. He twists his body on the couch, legs coming up criss-crossed over each other. Their knees bump together, jostling their bodies like two magnets. His hand falls from Mike’s shoulder with a ceremonious thump.
“Have you ever drawn me?” Mike asks.
Laughing, Will scratches nervously at his arms. “You’ve already asked me that, Wheeler? Sure you’re not feeling drunk?”
“You didn’t answer me. Not properly,” Mike says.
He pokes Will’s shin, nail scratching the bare skin. Will is two seconds away from bursting into flames.
“I did,” he says, barely above a whisper.
Mike’s finger is scalding where it lingers above his ankle. His cheeks are red and round, the curve of a ripe apple. Will wonders what it’d be like to bite into him, and immediately shakes the thought from his head.
“Didn’t,” Mike argues. “Have you ever drawn me? Just me? Have you?”
There’s a line of three freckles just below Mike’s left eye. Will’s never noticed them before. They glow like stars behind his eyelids every time he blinks.
“Yes,” he says. The word ends up being pretty easy. “I have. Just you.”
It’s like Mike already knew. His lips twitch, his face steeling into something determined. Something sure. There’s a rich scent to his breath when he next speaks, a sweet caramel flavour.
“Me and El broke up.”
He’s so close, Will notices. Has he been this close the whole time?
“You’ve said that already, too.”
“Yeah,” Mike says, and then he’s kissing Will.
It’s a hard, bruising thing. Messy and miscalculated. Mike’s mouth is open, and wet, and he kisses Will’s top lip like it’s something he’s always wanted to do. Like he’s been waiting for it. He smells of fabric softener, and alcohol, and the strawberry sherbets hidden in the top kitchen cupboard.
And he’s pulling away before Will can think.
They stare at each other with equal surprise, hanging jaws and panting breaths.
“Okay,” Mike says eventually. “Okay. Cool.”
“Cool,” Will says, because the word is so miniscule, so redundant. So stupid. “Mike, what–”
Mike stands, knocking into the coffee table. He sways on his feet for a bracing moment, looking a hair-breadth away from toppling over. Will can do nothing but stare at him, stunned.
Is this a dream? He’s pretty sure he didn’t black out.
“I should go– go to bed,” Mike says. “You, too. Um, and the bottles. Gotta hide them from my mom. Teeth.”
He takes a gulping inhale, willing his heart rate to go down. What the fuck is going on.
“Teeth?” he asks lightly.
It comes out on the edge of hysterical, but it doesn’t seem like Mike’s faring much better. Who is he to judge?
“We– I need to brush them. My breath will stink in the morning if I don’t, y’know? Probably.”
It’s skewed logic. Will hums. His palms are sweating.
“Okay,” he says. “Goodnight, Mike.”
It’s the most measured he’s sounded all evening. What a funny time for the skill to rear its head.
A small noise escapes Mike, like that of a wounded animal. A tiny, pitiful whimper. When Will looks at him, Mike’s looking anywhere but.
“Night,” Mike replies.
He’s gone before Will remembers he’s left his backpack crumpled in the corner of the room. It scares Will a little – the damning evidence of Mike’s presence.
But what is there to prove? Mike’s his friend, this is his house. Of course he’d come down here. There’s no reason for him not to, no secret motive behind the fact. A forgotten backpack doesn’t prove anything. It doesn’t mean anything.
There is nothing to show for Mike kissing him. Even Will can’t be sure of the fact. The memory is already fading, already warped.
Mike touched his chin. He was wiping away a crumb, or a drop of whiskey, or lint. He left suddenly because he was too drunk. He was about to throw up.
Yes, that’s it. That’s what happened, Will’s certain.
Mike’s certain too, when he sees him at breakfast the next morning. He’s clutching his head in his hand, wincing at whatever spiel Holly is going on about. When he sees Will, he smiles with thinly-veiled wariness.
“I don’t remember anything about last night, man,” he says, when Holly gets distracted with her piece of toast. “It’s all a blur.”
Something tight winds around Will’s chest. He pours his cereal, watching the Lucky Charms bouncing off the ceramic.
“Me neither,” he says. “All a blur.”
The next time Mike kisses him, they’re kneeling in a heap at the altar of Roane Cemetery Church. There’s blood dripping in a stream between them, wet and hot against Will’s cheek. His eye throbs. He can barely see out the other.
Mike cups his face, lips dry and rough against his. Will’s hands shake with adrenaline, fingers flexing rhythmically. He’s drunk off it. This is better than any whiskey.