Chapter Text
Boys like Will are meant to be alone. He knows that.
Knows it like he knows the roads from his house to the Byers'. Like he knows to skip the squeaky last step on their basement stairs to avoid waking Mr. Byers. Like he knows the outline of Mike's profile, traced by his pencil in every sketch book he's ever owned.
Mike sits next to him, hair falling in front of his eyes. He flicks a pencil back and forth, leg under the table, almost brushing Will's where they sit together at the kitchen table. Will would only have to move the few inches separating them and their knees would touch. Mike's mouth is moving, saying words that Will knows he should be paying attention to, but he's too distracted by the shape of his cupid's bow, the way the corner of his mouth is curling up slightly, like Mike knows something Will doesn't. He hears Mike say something that might be his name.
"Will?"
Will tears his gaze up to Mike's eyes. "I— Sorry. What were you saying?"
"Are you okay?" Mike frowns, the upward tilt of his mouth pinching down. "You seem— lost in thought, I guess."
Is he okay? Will hasn't felt okay in long time. Boys who are okay don't look in the mirror and flinch at their reflection. They don't sweat under a pile of blankets in the middle of summer heat, scared that the cold will sneak into their bodies and steal their minds. They don't stare at their best friend's eye lashes curling across his cheek.
No. Will isn't okay. Maybe he never has been.
"Sorry," Will says. "I'm just tired. Haven't been sleeping too well in the basement."
This isn't entirely a lie. Will hasn't been sleeping well.
Lines etch themselves between Mike's brows. "Have you been having bad dreams? I know that the basement isn't, you know, the best place to sleep."
Will considers telling Mike something closer to the truth. That yes, he has been having dreams. Has since that night he was taken. That almost every night since then, he's still running through the forest, away from something that he knows will kill him. That he's still terrified and little, shotgun lodged into his shoulder, watching helplessly as the lock slides open from the inside of the door.
But here's the whole truth: Mike is the only boy Will has ever loved. And on nights when he isn't remembering a nightmare, he's plagued by dreams of Mike. Of his hands on Will, trailing up and down his arms, cupping his face. His mouth, whispering sweetly in Will's ear, then turning to press against Will's lips.
In his dreams, Mike holds him like he matters.
Will shrugs. "Not really. Kind of. Maybe. It's hard to remember what I dream of. I think it might be the mattress or Jonathan sneaking up the stairs every night to go to Nancy's room."
Mike looks at him for a moment and then looks away. When he turns back, the look on his face holds a feeling that Will doesn't have a name for.
"You could always sleep in my room," Mike says, "If- If you think that sleeping somewhere else might help."
Mike bites his lip, white teeth sharp against the redness there and Will looks down at his lap.
"I don't know," Will's hands fist into the fabric of his pants. "I don't want to bother you or take up your space or anything."
Mike's eyes flicker across Will's face. "You wouldn't be bothering me. I like you in my space."
That look from earlier is still on Mike's face. He looks like he's waiting for something, but Will isn't sure what for.
"Okay," Will says. "Okay."
That night, they eat dinner sitting next to each other. Mr. Wheeler discusses something to do with Reagan's administration, and Mrs. Wheeler hums noncommittally. Jonathan and Nancy sit across from one another, trading knowing glances, while Will's mom makes a disgruntled face after a tactless comment. Will isn't paying attention. He's busy trying not to notice the lines of Mike's throat, the way it bobs as he swallows his drink. He focuses on something safer instead, staring at his fork as it pushes his food back and forth on his plate. But like the tide pulled inevitably to the shore, Will finds his gaze drawn back to Mike. This time, he watches his hand, lying on the table then reaching forward, long fingers gripping his cup. Mike imagines those hands holding something else. In his dreams, they do, circling Will's waist and pulling him closer, closer until Mike's warmth is pressed to Will's body.
Will's vision is broken by a hand on his elbow. He turns and Mike is leaning towards him, his fingers not pressing but almost brushing, lightly enough that Will thinks he might be imagining the touch.
"Hey, I'm done listening to this conversation. Do you want to go up now?" Mike says in a low tone.
That look is there again, searching for something. Whatever you're looking for, it's not here.
Will swallows around the sudden emotion in his throat. "Yeah. I'm starting to feel a little tired."
Mike excuses them and grabs their plates, placing them in the sink. Will follows Mike up the stairs and into his room, closing the door with a click that sounds louder than it should be. Mike sits on the bed and looks up at him, face open, not speaking. The quiet fills the room, but it's not uncomfortable. It covers him, like a blanket keeping him warm. Will stands in front of the door, hands fiddling with the edge of his shirt and feels Mike's eyes on him. The moment suddenly feels very real.
"I just realized that I should have gone downstairs first to get my pajamas." Will laughs nervously.
"Well, I have some— I mean you could always borrow from me if you want."
"Are you sure? I'd just have to go back to the basement."
"Yeah. I mean— it's not the first time we've shared something."
Mike's always doing this. Always sharing the things that are meant to be only his.
He pushes down the apprehension he feels and lets Mike hand him a small stack of clothes that he pulls from his dresser.
They get dressed with their backs turned to each other. Will keeps feeling watched even though he knows Mike is facing the other way. He fights the urge to turn around. Mike gets into the bed, comic book in hand and Will stalls. He should probably sleep on the floor. The floor is safer. The floor doesn't fill him with longing for something that will never be. The floor doesn't hold the body of a boy that Will has loved for as long as he's understood the word.
"Do you have another blanket that I could use?," Will asks.
"Huh? Oh, sorry. I forgot that you don't like the cold."
He grabs an extra blanket from the corner, places it on the other side of the bed next to Will, and lies back under the covers. Will moves to lay it on the floor.
"What are you doing?" Mike asks, eyebrows scrunched together.
"Uh— I'm just going to— on the floor."
"What do you mean?" Mike's hand waves to the side opposite of where he's lying. "The bed's big enough for both of us."
"Yeah, but I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable. I'm already sleeping in your room and— and wearing your clothes. I don't wanna take up your bed too."
"You're not taking up anything. And it's not the first time we've shared a bed."
"Yeah, but not since before— since we were kids." Will's face feels warm. "Wouldn't that be— I don't know… Weird?"
Mike sits up."You'd feel weird sleeping in the same bed?"
Will feels a stab of guilt. "N-No! I just don't want you to feel… inconvenienced. I guess."
Mike says nothing for a moment, shoulders pulled forward and twisting a thread on the blanket.
"I don't feel inconvenienced, Will. I just want to help. You've been off the past few days. You keep staring off into space, and your face gets this look like— like something sad has crawled its way into you. And I just— whatever it is that's making you sad, I wanna take it away." Mike stands and walks to Will. "It's not inconvenient. Being your friend will never be inconvenient. Never, okay?."
Mike's eyes are brimming with an emotion that Will doesn't understand. His hand reaches for Will, hesitates, then settles gently on his arm just below his shoulder.
"Please," Mike says, "Please, let me help."
Will nods his heads once. He doesn't trust his voice to speak.
Mike clears his throat and removes his hand. The loss of it's warmth is immediate. Will shuffles over and carefully pulls back the blankets of the bed, placing the extra one on top. He slides beneath the covers and lays stiffly on his back. They used to do this all the time. Before Mike stopped calling and Will wrote letters he never sent. They would climb into the same bed and read comics, not caring that their shoulders pressed together.
But that was a long time ago and before Will realized what Mike meant to him.
Now, Will is terrified that if he moves at all, he'll forget who he's supposed to be and try to fit his body against Mike's. Will stares at the ceiling, following the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. They put those up together the summer before Will was taken.
Beside him, Mike releases a sigh and turns to Will. "Is it okay if I turn the light off?"
"Yeah" Will's voice is rough when he speaks.
When the lights are off, it becomes easier to imagine he's someone else. Someone who could cross the space between them and lay his hand on Mike's arm. A boy who is more than just a jagged hole, carved by the knife of his wanting. He imagines for a second what it would be like if he could have Mike. The way that Mike would look at him, would touch him. He aches with the thought of it.
Being your friend will never be incovenient.
If Mike knew the truth, that what Will wanted was more than friendship, would he still feel that way? Would he still want Mike in his clothes, in his bed?
Will hears Mike breathing slow and steady but not the rhythm of true sleep. He closes his eyes and lets the sound pull him into sleep.
When Will wakes the next morning, he's lying on his side, arms pressed against something warm. He inches closer to the warmth, and his nose touches something soft. Slowly, his eyes blink open to see pale skin and the collar of a shirt.
Oh, God. Will has been nuzzling his face into Mike's neck.
He shouldn't be here, in this bed, mouth almost touching the flutter of Mike's pulse. He tries to pull away, but Mike's arm comes around, holding him in place. Will freezes, afraid that any moment Mike will open his eyes, see the position they're in, and push Will away. He imagines Mike's face, lip curling with disgust. Breathing shallowly to avoid waking Mike, Will slowly inches backwards. Then, Mike's arm tightens its hold on him, and he hears Mike hum, his voice low and scratchy with sleep.
"Stop moving," Mike murmurs and moves impossibly closer, pressing his leg against Will's shin.
Will's heart is a storm in his chest, skin burning at every point they touch. Soon, he will turn to ash.
"S-sorry. I didn't mean to— to wake you up," Will manages to stutter out.
"S'okay. It's comfy." Mike hooks one of his feet between Will's, their ankles pressed together, and notches his chin on top of Will's head.
This is it. This is when I die.
Will wants to relax. He does. He wants nothing more than to sink into Mike's embrace, let himself feel safe. Loved.
You cannot have this. The thought comes from a place inside of him that holds the memory of the Demogorgon, the one shaped by the sound of Lonnie's voice, disgusted by his son's gentleness.
"I have to use the bathroom." Will manages to pull away from Mike's arm and slip out of the bed.
When he walks into the bathroom, he feels cold and hollow. Boys like Will are meant to be alone.