Chapter Text
When Will wakes, the dull afternoon light filters through a sliver between the curtains and rain gently hits the window in a rhythm that immediately unsettles him.
The first thing he sees is the state of his shirt. Dry blood in pink splotches and deeper red smears with notable fingerprints practically everywhere. It’s not until he props himself up against his pillows that he sees how his bed sheets look, it was his mistake for choosing light blue last time he changed them, it seems: streaks of it are spread all over the fabric, identifiable handprints mapping out the memories from the night before that begin to trickle into his skull like a hazy dream.
Eyes half shut, still adjusting to his surroundings, Will throws out a hand to the space next to him, heart sinking to his stomach when he finds it empty.
To make matters worse, it’s cold.
He sits up completely, bones creaking and back sore, and angles himself towards where Mike is supposed to be. Upon visual inspection, he is most definitely not there.
The feeling that settles in Will’s stomach now is better described as dread.
He should’ve known it was wishful thinking to believe everything would be fine. To assume that, given the intensity of what the fuck unfolded last night, things would be perfectly normal this morning. To think that he might even wake up with Mike at his side, staring at him with that calmly content expression, peering at him through his dark eyelashes. Hair disheveled and lips still slightly swollen, red smudges on his own pale skin, breaking out into a smile upon seeing that Will was finally awake, swooping in to catch him in a kiss in the daylight.
Will pinches at the skin on the inside of his forearm as if to confirm he’s not dreaming, and that he didn’t imagine it all. The pain he feels comforts him, but whilst it’s proof that all of it did happen, it’s also confirmation that Mike has left him alone.
Of course, he could be overthinking it.
It’s a given, though—especially after all the years of relentless yearning and pining for what he thought would always be impossible. He’d written it off so many times, pushed it down and prayed to every higher power that it would go away. Told himself he’d probably never get over it and would just have to live with it. But all Mike had to do was give him that look, the look Will periodically felt all over his skin for years, the look he’d catch only if he was lucky enough to meet his gaze at the right time. The look that settled in his mind as a quiet maybe. Maybe it wasn’t so insane to think it could mean something more.
Will let it be, he needed Mike to come to his conclusion on his own. He’d encourage it when he could, but always kept his distance. At a certain point he’d accepted that it was probably never going to happen, he’d almost completely grieved it— but then they moved in together. Then Mike kept being even more affectionate with him (if that was even possible). Then they went to that stupid party last night. Then he let—suggested, actually—that Mike should cover him in fake blood, which pulled everything to the surface and caused the rest of the night to unfold in a dizzying and inevitable chain reaction.
Will’s breath catches in his throat as the memories continue to seep into his brain. They’re so vivid it feels like he’s reliving them; his skin erupts in goosebumps and hairs stand on end as he traces his bottom lip with the tip of his finger. He’d be able to convince himself he’d dreamt it if the evidence wasn’t so damning, mostly visually with the blood, of course, but more so—even as he sits here alone—the lasting impression of Mike’s embrace, his touch, curling around every inch of his body, leaving him with not a single doubt.
Last night did happen. Well and truly. Will didn’t dream it.
Everything, somehow, is completely real.
He finally pushes himself up to sit on the edge of his bed. When he stands, he’s surprised the floor doesn’t give way under his feet before he makes his way to his closed door. He hovers there for a moment, listening for any signs of life, but he’s met with a deadly silence. Heart in his throat, he pushes it open and walks steadily to the living room, where, to his relief, Mike is sitting on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table.
The first thing Will notices is that he’s showered.
Recently, too: his hair hangs in wet ringlets around his neck, leaving a few wet marks on his loose fitting t-shirt. His gaze is cast downwards at his notebook in his lap, pen sitting idle between his fingers.
Will clears his throat awkwardly, arms across his chest.
Mike glances up, breath hitching in his throat for just a moment as he looks Will up and down. “Oh, hey.”
He doesn’t move, so Will doesn’t either. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” Mike nods slowly, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “Are you— Uh, are you okay?”
Something’s off. Will feels it curl around his lungs.
“Yeah. Yeah— I just—” he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to weigh up if what he’s going to say next is pathetic or not. He decides to say it anyway. “I didn’t know where you were.”
Something uneasy washes over Mike’s features. Guilt, maybe. Will can’t quite decipher it.
“Oh,” he slides the notebook off his lap and rests it beside him, then starts to fiddle with the pen’s cap. “I couldn’t sleep anymore and I didn’t wanna bother you, so...”
“Right.” Will nods, as casually as he can manage, whilst pulling every ounce of strength from inside him to figure out what the tone of this conversation is right now.
Is Mike just tired? Probably. Hungover? Definitely. That checks out. Completely fine emotionally? Doesn’t seem like it. Regretful? Hard to tell.
Will hopes to god he’s not. Imagine it: after years of being in love with your best friend you finally get what you want and everything is perfect until the next morning you find out he didn’t really mean it. Everything he said was bullshit. Just a bunch of fucking-around-with-your-best-friend-at-a-halloween-party (and all of the consequences that came after) nonsense. If Will had to make a list titled worst things to ever happen to me this would surely take the top spot, and the guy’s literally been through hell. Multiple times.
“Hey, listen, are we—” he takes a tentative step forward. “We’re okay, right?”
Mike shrugs. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
“I just—” Will sighs, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “I know it’s a lot. To process. So, um…”
“Yeah.” Mike breathes. His voice has a scratchy, hollow tone to it that drives the uncertainty right into Will’s gut.
Mike Wheeler: best in the world at not giving much to go on.
He was naive to think that had changed.
He doesn’t even want to ask, but the words fall out before he can catch them and tuck them away. “You don’t— you don’t… regret it, do you?”
“What? No. No, I don’t.” Mike rushes out, taking his feet off the coffee table and sitting up. He looks at Will sternly, but he still can’t seem to get an accurate read on him. “Promise.”
“Okay.” Will nods slowly, and the two of them stay where they are as if crossing any physical boundaries is something they suddenly don’t do anymore. As if they didn’t tear them all to shreds with their teeth the night before. Mike continues to stare at him, like he’s seeing Will in the flesh for the first time, like up until now he’s only been a figment of his imagination. It makes his skin burn. “What?”
“Nothing.” Mike says, releasing a breath. “You just look like you don’t believe me.”
Whatever is gripping onto Will’s lungs right now seems to squeeze tighter.
“No, it’s not that, it’s just—” he starts, then looks down to the floor. “I just thought you were gonna be there when I woke up.”
Outside, it rains harder.
“Oh,” Mike frowns, digging his fingers into where they’re resting on the sofa.
“It’s fine,” Will shrugs. “I just… missed you. That's all.”
He’s never felt this pathetic.
He questions why he’s having to stand here right now and explain how all this has made him feel. Yes, he may be overreacting, but the facts are: Mike had immediately got out of bed hungover (something he struggles to do anyway—Will has always been the earlier riser), showered and washed away all the evidence whilst Will still looks like he’s rolled around in a crime scene, stayed in the living room all morning, and is now being distant and cold with him, acting like he’s completely fine even though everything about his demeanor is screaming that something’s wrong.
Will stays there, one arm hugging his own chest, his other thumb between his lips as he bites down on his nail, which helps a little, but it really doesn’t distract from the weight of all this nearly as much as he wants it to. He’d probably have to chew his entire arm off to even get close.
He can’t look Mike in the eye, so he watches quietly as he stands up and turns towards him. “Will.”
“What?”
Will’s heart lurches in his chest, keeping his eyes fixed on his torso as he approaches. Before he can process anything else, Mike is sliding his arms around him and pulling him in for a hug.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into the crook of his neck, lips almost brushing his skin. “I think I’m just super hungover right now.”
“Shit, yeah.” Will huffs out a laugh, relieved that Mike has broken the weird unspoken no contact rule. After a moment's hesitation, he wraps his own arms around him and returns the embrace, the feeling of their bodies pressed against each other relaxing him only slightly. “Me too.”
“And, uh—” Mike shifts to perch his chin on Will’s shoulder. “We’re fine, too. If that’s what you’re worrying about.”
Will resists the urge to dig his fingertips into his back. The urge to hug him so tight that he suffocates him. “Yeah?”
He feels Mike’s heart thump against his own chest. “Yeah. I guess I’m still… processing, you know. It was a lot, but—”
“You don’t have to say anything, Mike. It’s okay.” Will says gently, meaning it with everything in him, but hoping that he’ll disagree.
Silence envelopes them, aside from the sound of their breathing and the refrigerator humming quietly in the background. If Will focuses really hard, he can hear the rustle of Mike’s hair against his own t-shirt, or the rain continuing to tap persistently against the window.
“No, I do.” Mike breathes out, holding Will against him tighter. “I just need a minute, I think. If that’s okay?”
There it is.
Really, he should’ve seen this coming.
Will’s eyes sting. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Mike pulls back, hands firmly on Will’s shoulders, searching his face for something he’s pretty sure he's going to find because he knows it’s written all over him. “Are you sure?”
Will pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, forcing himself to look him in the eye now. “Yeah.”
“You’re positive it’s fine?” Mike says, like forcing the words out of him is causing him physical pain somewhere deep in his chest. Like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation with his childhood best friend right now. “I just wanna— take it slow, I guess.”
Like there was anything slow about what happened last night.
“Mike.” Will says, smiling just a little, only to calm his nerves. “I get it. It’s okay. It’s not like either of us are going anywhere.”
He sees Mike look down to his mouth for a fraction of a second.
“I know.”
“Good.” Will smiles, only just realising he’s been subconsciously holding his breath, so he takes one in involuntarily as he continues to search Mike’s eyes as if it will tell him more clearly what he’s thinking. Spell it out for him in big, bold letters.
The next thing he needs to work out is if they’re going to kiss right now. Like, would this not be the perfect moment for it? Where exactly have they landed after this conversation? Does Mike’s minute involve still being allowed to kiss each other? Does he still want to? It looks like he does, from the way he stares right back at Will with the same intent as the night before, mouth slightly parted, looking him up and down in his still bloodied state.
The suffocation seems to take hold of them both until Mike slowly places a hand at the side of Will’s face, cupping his cheek, his palm cold against his own flushed skin. His thumb hovers dangerously close to the corner of his mouth, so Will leans into the touch.
If it were up to him, he’d be lurching forward and indulging himself without a second thought, but it’s in Mike’s hands now. He’s in Mike’s hands.
Hell, he always has been.
But he knows if they don’t do it now, it’s only going to get harder to cross that boundary all over again.
When Will thinks he might just go for it, he drops his hand back to his side and blinks himself out of it like he was in some sort of trance. Will’s stomach churns uncomfortably—he feels sick.
“Okay,” he sighs, trying to shake off the tension. What feels like a heavy rock settles inside him. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Alright.” Mike’s hand twitches like the contact had sent a shock wave through him, and Will sees him pull at the fabric of his sweatpants. “Just a heads up, it kinda looks like someone got murdered in there.”
“Just how I like it.” Will jokes, even though his eyes are still burning from holding back tears. There’s an ugly sob stuck somewhere in his throat, and he takes a second before he speaks again in fear that it will erupt out of him. “I hope you’re still planning to wash my sheets, by the way.”
“Oh,” Mike nods. “Yep. Totally. I’ll get on that.”
Will turns away from him to leave the room. “You better.”
Tendrils of deep reds and pinks swirl over Will’s feet and down the drain. It’s so dried onto his skin that he has to scrub hard to get it off, and even then he can’t disguise the light stains. He watches the blood disappear as the hot water pelts down on his back, feeling like he’s not really in his own body anymore. Like he’s watching himself from across the room, masked behind a thick cloud of steam as he washes away any evidence that he and Mike had crossed any boundaries at all.
Everything could’ve been normal this morning. In the moments leading up to them finally giving into their exhaustion and letting themselves fall asleep, they were completely fine. They kissed more, even treaded dangerously close to going further but, both feeling overwhelmed as it was, decided against it. The most important thing was that they talked.
Not about everything—Will’s well aware that there’s too much to unpack to do it all in one night—but it was enough to put them in a comfortable place. To confirm to him that it’s just as big to Mike as it is to him. To make it clear that this is what they both really want.
So why the fuck is he doing this? Why delay the inevitable for any longer than they already have been?
An uncomfortable feeling bubbles up inside Will, then. He’s always been the understanding one, the one to screw himself over just to make sure everyone else is happy.
The one who puts his feelings on the sidelines to make things easier for everyone else.
Especially Mike. Jesus, especially Mike.
What pisses Will off the most is that he understands. He understands that he needs time with this, because no matter how long it’s really been there for him, it’s risen to the surface and hit him all at once in less than twenty four hours. He gets it. It’s a lot.
Will has to be selfish for once, though, and he hates to admit it even in his own mind, but it just doesn’t feel fair. It isn’t fair. He can’t just do all of that and then put him on a backburner until—until when? He can’t say all the shit he said, reveal that he wanted him so bad he felt hungry, and has been subconsciously for years, get Will to confess his own very sacredly guarded feelings, and then touch him like that, kiss him like that—
God, he wants to kiss him again so badly. It’s like he’s experienced the taste of heaven, only for it to be ripped from his grasp before he had the chance to get to the bone.
He scrubs harder as he keeps mulling it all over, and he’s sent back to Hawkins.
When he told him he was going to wait so they could go to college together, Will almost forced himself to argue more than he actually did. He wanted to insist that he should go and leave him, allow himself to get over this, mourn it from a distance until it became something quieter, something he could tuck away whilst he distracted himself with building a new life. With new people, new feelings, and new experiences, but the voice in his mind that would point out every suggestive signal from Mike, those silent maybes, forced him to agree.
Mostly, though, he agreed because he needed his best friend, and going through life separately, regardless of anything else, would have felt wrong. He needed him. He always needs him. He admits it to himself bitterly, especially on those sleepless nights where he’s thrown back into the upside down and only his touch can pull him from the darkness. Needs his calm, reassuring voice to steady his breathing, his warm embrace to finally feel like he’s back in his own body, and that it doesn’t belong to somebody, or rather, something else.
He hates how much he needs him, but Mike has always been there, always been ready and willing, and it always works.
Will knows he’s strong enough to survive on his own. He has other coping mechanisms that work just fine. He could get through life without him, it just wouldn’t be as easy, and if he’s really honest, he just doesn’t want to.
Watching him grow into himself had been a special kind of treat, something reserved for Will’s eyes only. He started seeing it towards the end of their quiet years, subtle changes in the way he dressed and presented himself: not bothering to tame his curls in the morning, leaving his shirt buttoned open over a t-shirt instead of having it done all the way up to his neck. He even held himself differently, his usual stiff posture giving way to something more relaxed, shoulders less tense, hands loosely in his pockets instead of crossed over his chest.
Will remembers the first time he saw him wearing a ring—a silver band around his thumb. He’d grabbed his hand to inspect it, and something growled inside him as Mike let him hold on, cheeks flushing pink when their eyes met and Will subtly nodded in approval.
When they moved into the apartment, this had intensified, and Will watched it happen patiently, pride and longing mixing in his chest, cooking up what had been there forever, quickly turning his desire from a quiet burn to an all-consuming flame.
He’d taught himself to live with it. He had little tricks and coping mechanisms to stop his heart from skipping a beat every time he looked at him for too long, or to ease that dizzy feeling whenever their arms brushed up against each other, when they’d dare to press their thighs together every movie night. Another inch, two, maybe.
But Mike kept pushing it. Further and further until it became their new normal. Legs resting across each other’s laps, his head on Will’s shoulder, hair brushing his neck, nuzzling in further until he fell asleep, his hot breath travelling over the skin on Will’s throat in a steady rhythm.
Other times, fiddling with the closest piece of fabric that Will had to offer—the hem of his t-shirt, the cuff of his sweatshirt sleeve, and one time, mindlessly, the drawstring on his sweatpants. Will froze as he rolled it back and forth between his thumb and finger, a fire growing in the base of his stomach, until Mike caught himself doing it and dropped it, instead draping his arm across Will’s waist as he asked him what they should have for dinner.
So, really, Will had no choice but to push back.
He’d stretch an arm across the back of the sofa as a silent invitation, and sure enough, Mike would crawl right into the empty space. In the kitchen, Will would delicately rest his fingers against his hips to shuffle behind him because the space was oh so narrow, and one time, he slid his hand across his lower back, causing Mike’s next words to get stuck in his throat as he busied himself with whatever was on the cutting board. Meanwhile, Will smirked to himself over the sink, tallying up the points in this weird little game they were playing.
It didn’t stop there. He’d rake his fingers through his dark hair every time he fell asleep, and he’d keep going even when he heard his breathing change and it was painfully clear he’d woken up. Mike wouldn’t move as his fingers gently soothed him, tracing the soft skin on his cheek, the curve of his jaw, until he let out a quiet noise that made the hairs on the back of Will’s neck stand on end.
Now, after being with him all the time, seeing him try new things and relax into his skin, the two of them slipping into this simple domesticity, it leaves him only with the thought of yes, this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
As if he wasn’t far gone enough already, halloween rolled around.
In the midst of purposefully not offering Mike his opinion on his piercing, he suggested the makeup and the jewellery, and when he walked into the room to show him his finished costume, Will felt like he could’ve melted into the floor right where he stood.
It suited him well, in a strange kind of way—after years of drawing him, Will had become awfully familiar with every angle of Mike’s face, and more recently, every curve of his body. Seeing him like that drove the final dagger into his heart, one with a blade you can’t pull out no matter how hard you try.
His hair contrasted his pale skin perfectly, his gaze even more intense with the eye makeup. The glitter on his face twinkled under the kitchen lights when he came up closer, cheeks flushing pink when Will couldn’t stop throwing compliments at him, or when he couldn’t help himself and had to brush his hair out of his eyebrow again, letting his finger glide a little slower than before.
There was so much more skin on show than usual, too, and it’s not like Will hadn’t seen it before after all their years of friendship, but the deliberate choice to dress like this, this new confidence, really made him feel like he was face to face with everything Mike had ever been to him.
His best friend. His paladin. His high school crush. His twin flame. His comfort. His warmth. His protector.
Dare he say, his heart.
Then Mike asked Will to corrupt him, in some strange roundabout way, and he looked awfully good with blood all the way up to his wrists.
The touches the two of them shared had always been those of comfort, but Will had spent many sleepless nights wondering what it would be like to have Mike touch him with so much intent. He may have even spent a few indulging those thoughts, despite all the guilt that it came with—always telling himself: This is weird. That’s your best friend. He’d never like you. He doesn’t even like boys. But in those moments just after he’d slip a hand downwards, he didn’t even care.
It was always worth it for the second he tipped himself over the edge quietly, stifling his sighs in the darkness of his room—back in Hawkins, and even in their apartment with him fast asleep in the next room; which, if he’s honest, sometimes made it better. He would revel in all those thoughts that he’d remind himself would never become true, because no one would ever know. There was never any harm in it because it was something just for him.
Yet, in the bathroom on halloween night, Mike touched him in a way that exceeded anything he’d ever imagined, somehow firm and gentle at the same time, making Will look exactly how he wanted him to look. Yes, it took a lot of encouragement on his end, but it was worth it to see him so close, so breathless and hungry, mouth open slightly in concentration. Will had tried to keep his eyes closed for his own sanity, but it got to a point where he couldn’t look away.
Then, for the rest of the night, he just had to play the game. Luckily for him, it worked, and the two of them moulded into each other to such an extent that it was hard to know where one of them ended and the other began.
Now, he’s screwed. Fucked. He’s felt it all, he’s really felt it, and now it’s just there, sitting out in the open for both of them, and he doesn’t want to waste any more time. He’s had this with him for most of his life. He’s loved Mike before he knew what the word even meant, wanted him for long enough that the empty space in his stomach leaves no room for anything else but him.
He just has to wait, knowing exactly what it feels like to be wanted back, which is a different kind of ache, and Will would say he doesn’t know where to put it, but he just feels it everywhere.
As he drags the shampoo through his hair he reminds himself that everything will be fine. They’re Mike and Will. Of course they’ll be fine. They always are. It will work out. Mike just needs time to process, and that’s totally normal.
When he trails back into his room and sees that his bed has been stripped bare, he tells himself that neither of them are going anywhere, and no one’s feelings have changed.
Everything is fine.
There is absolutely nothing to worry about.
Everything crumbles.
Well, everything is okay, so to speak. If okay means even more tense than they were that morning.
Will’s been trying relentlessly to catch Mike in a serious conversation, but he’s remained insistent on changing the subject every single time and has proceeded to act like all they are to each other is best friends, which, obviously, is failing miserably because that’s not what they are anymore.
It’s like forcing two of the same magnet poles together even when you know all they’re going to do is repel. And it’s not like there’s not an easy solution staring them right in the face, just flip one of the magnets. Easy. Problem solved.
In this case, quit ignoring the huge elephant in the room. Talk about it. Establish what they are. Hell, maybe go on a date. But no. Mike has both magnets in his hands, and he’s pushing them together with all his strength, knowing damn well that they won't stick.
This has come in waves of minor, and major, annoyances that are leaving Will this close to breaking the lease and moving out all together (he’s well aware he would never actually do that. Mike could hate his guts and he’d definitely still stay). It’s just quickly becoming, for lack of a better word, unbearable.
He gave Mike the benefit of the doubt for the first few days, but then that stretched into almost a week, and now Will is on the verge of losing his mind even though he’s pretty sure he’s already reached his limit. He’s mostly been avoidant, shying away from Will’s touch, changing the subject those few times he thought fuck it and brought it up. Oh. Yeah. We can talk about it. Sure. Maybe later? I’ve just gotta—
Will’s heard them all.
Every single time, he’s accepted it and given him more space than he could ever dream of, telling himself that everything will be normal soon.
Soon, they’ll talk about it, they’ll go on that date, whatever.
They’ll kiss again, even.
Because, no, they haven’t.
Not once since halloween.
Will would be lying if he said it wasn’t making him want to hurl himself out of the nearest window.
And, look— he’s tough. He’s not that desperate. He’d be able to manage if the tension in the apartment wasn’t thick enough to stab to death. There have been several close calls, moments where he was sure it was going to happen. Moments that left him thinking, this is it! The torture is over! They’re leaning too close in the bathroom, brushing up against each other on the sofa, saying goodnight at Will’s bedroom door, an unspoken invite to step over the threshold hanging unanswered in the air.
Will is convinced it’s going to happen until Mike starts rambling about something else, awkwardly clears his throat, and sticks a nail between his teeth to bite on like it’s some weird coping mechanism to stop him from taking a chunk out of Will right there and then, which he really does not feel normal about.
It’s not like he wouldn’t let him if he wanted to.
He looks at him the same way he did that night, all sickly and starving, and all Will has to do is wait until he allows himself to give in. The exact same way he’s been waiting for years, but now it’s so much worse, because he knows what it all feels like. He knows how much Mike wants it too. But now he just has to wait for him to get his shit together—for some reason—and act like he’s completely fine with it.
The anniversary of his disappearance passes during this time, and it’s never easy regardless of how many years go by, but he always wants it to feel like an ordinary day. Annoyingly, the only person who seems to understand that is Mike—he’s always been the only person who can give him what he needs without him having to ask.
Surprisingly, this year doesn’t go any differently. Mike treats the day normally, the way he had every other year. Will was apprehensive going into it because he’d already been so hot and cold, and the tension had only been getting worse, but he woke to find Mike had cleaned the entire place. Dishes done, laundry folded and put away, kitchen and bathroom cleaned, coffee on the table, he’d even picked up groceries.
So, maybe not like any other day by Mike’s usual standards, but he silently does enough to take any pressure off Will and give him breathing room to exist. That morning, he’s in his room trying to straighten up the mess that had accumulated in the last week, collecting stray clothes and bits of trash from the floor, when he reaches down with a hooked finger and picks up the shirt he was wearing that night. He unfurls it in his hands and slowly holds it up to the light, the rock in his chest gradually making its way down to his empty stomach.
It’s like a painting, in a way. Mike Wheeler’s first work of art. Will had debated back and forth if he should wash it with the rest of his dirty laundry, but something had compelled him to keep it in a bundle in the corner of his room just as it was, even though he’d been avoiding it ever since he threw it there after his post-bloodbath shower. When he looks at it now, handprints all over, the fabric more red than white, he feels like he wants to scream.
Then, like clockwork, Mike knocks lightly on his bedroom door. “Will?”
He shakes himself out of his trance, crushing the shirt between his hands. “Uh— yeah?”
“I’ve gotta go to class, so… I’ll be back later.” Mike says through the door as Will stands in the middle of his room. “You need anything?”
If only he could answer that honestly.
“No, I’m good.”
A puddle of silence follows, just as empty and inviting as the rest of them.
“Okay, well…” Mike says, voice slightly muffled, and for a second Will thinks he might just kick down the door just to be in his presence. Part of him begs the thought to cross his mind, then prays he follows through. “I’ll see you later.”
Will listens to him leave, not having it in him to respond with anything else, then folds up the shirt and tucks it away in his bottom drawer.
He spends the day at home, hunched over the dining table sketching plans for a new piece. By evening, his socked feet are propped up against the other unoccupied chair and there are empty soda cans around him that had periodically been crushed in frustration when he couldn’t get a certain character’s expression to look just right as they charged into battle. Hands covered in graphite, he releases the pent up sigh that had been stuck in his throat all day, shoulders slumping, when he hears the familiar set of keys twisting in the front door lock.
Tension immediately creeping back into his muscles, he absentmindedly rests one of his fingers between his lips so he doesn’t impulsively snap his pencil in half and shuffles to sit up. He doesn’t acknowledge him, just listens to him kick off his shoes, shrug off his jacket, and throw his keys into the ceramic bowl on the kitchen counter.
“Hey,” Mike sniffles. “It’s freezing out there.”
“Mhm,” Will agrees, still refusing to look at him despite the fact that he can already feel his gaze burning into the side of his head.
He runs his pencil repeatedly over the same line to try and distract himself, listening to him open a cupboard. A clink of a glass. Faucet on, the sound of it filling up. His deep inhale that echoes against the sides of the cup before he takes a drink. Will wants to leave the room.
“Good day?” Mike asks.
Will folds and meets his gaze.
He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, glass against his chest and other hand shoved in the front pocket of his jeans. He’s wearing a knit sweater, all warm tones, and his nose and cheeks are flushed a little pink from his walk home. His hair has fallen in front of his eye, and Will glances at his hidden piercing pointedly. Mike narrows his eyes at him in return, but when he finally understands what he’s trying to say, he brushes it out of the way and raises his brow: better?
“Has it healed yet?”
“Think so.”
“You been cleaning it?”
“Twice a day.”
“Nice,” Will nods, gazing at him patiently with the end of his pencil sitting between his teeth. “Looks good.”
“Yeah?” Mike smiles, and it makes Will bite down just a little bit.
He nods slowly, and they cling onto each other’s gaze for a little longer than usual, prying open that coffin full of tension that takes hold of the entire room. “Yeah.”
Will watches him tap the side of the glass with his pointer finger as he studies him back, tracing it gently over the ridges. “I asked you a question.”
“What?” Will asks, distracted, until his brain catches up. “Oh, yeah. My day was fine.”
“Fine?”
“Is that… not the answer you wanted?”
“No, it’s just… you know,” Mike shrugs. “Sorry I couldn’t be here. If you needed me. This assignment is just kicking my ass—”
“Mike,” Will says sternly. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not, though.” Mike sighs, turning to place his glass down.
“It is.” Will rests the pencil on his bottom lip. “Just tell me what you’re working on.”
“Will that help?”
“No,” Will shrugs. “I just wanna know.”
Mike studies his expression for a moment, caught up in something Will can’t see, before he shuts his eyes and puts his face in his hands, elbows digging into his own stomach. His voice is muffled against his palms. “I don’t know yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Mike sighs, pushing his fingers into his hair. “It’s not anything yet. There’s not enough to tell.”
Will doesn’t buy it. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“What?”
“You can’t look at me when you lie.” Will comments, and really, he doesn’t mean it in any way, but it comes out like it’s supposed to hurt.
Mike scoffs, lifting his head up and looking at him once again, only for a second, before he averts his eyes to something across the room. “When did I lie?”
“Funny,” Will says, deadpan. “You just did it again.”
“Jesus, I’m not doing anything, Will.”
Will slouches back in his chair. “Well, at least that’s true.”
Mike glares at him, and even though it’s not exactly the way Will likes to be looked at, a small part of him enjoys it.
“Wow,” Mike scoffs out a laugh. “I guess I deserved that.”
“Yeah.” Will says quietly, and it’s clear that both of them know exactly what they’re alluding to here. It’s almost as though there’s been a dead body slumped in the middle of their apartment this whole time, and they’ve been treading around it, letting it fester and rot because neither of them want to be the one to get their hands dirty and deal with the aftermath.
It’s like Mike is guarding it with his life from a distance, and Will is just waiting for his permission to get on his knees.
“Okay, fine.” Mike says. “What do you want me to do?”
He’s heard that one before, sat waiting in the bathroom, his angel stood in the doorway, wings backlit by the warm hallway lights. The memory trickles in again, so vivid that Will can almost smell the booze, taste that sickly red punch in his mouth, hear Madonna’s guitar riffs kicking in. He can feel the first swipe Mike’s finger made on his bottom lip and how it slid across the skin so easily.
Will puts his elbow on the table and rests his head against his fist. “Would you like me to answer that honestly?”
“No,” Mike sighs. “Lie to me.”
The air in the room is palpable. Will raises an eyebrow, considering his options. All of their conversations since that night have ended in one of these ways: suffocating awkwardness, a stupid argument over nothing, or a ridiculous amount of tension that just leaves him incredibly frustrated. He’s not figured out which is worse yet.
“No.”
“What?”
“I said, no.” Will shrugs. “Are we not being honest with each other now?”
“Well, yeah, I just thought it would be interesting—”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
Will scoffs, ignoring the hands all over him in his mind. “Why are you always trying to make everything a fucking game? Don’t you get tired of it?”
Mike’s eyes widen—caught off guard. “Woah, okay, that’s not what I’m doing at all.”
“It clearly is,” Will sighs, and when he continues to stand there dumbfounded: “What? Is my honesty not enough for you?”
Mike’s breath catches in his throat, his eye twitching in irritation. “I never said that.”
“Didn’t have to.”
The memories make Will angrier. He shouldn’t be thinking about this today of all days. He could’ve called his mom, Jonathan, anyone else. El, even. This being his first year away from Hawkins, he repeatedly told them to not call on November sixth (he’s expecting the phone to ring at some point anyway) but he wouldn’t have anything to say other than: everything is weird between me and Mike right now and he won't be normal with me and it’s pissing me off. Who cares how therapy is going? How college is going? I don’t care about anything. I’m just angry.
His mom would tell him to give it more time because she knows they’ll be okay; they always are. Jonathan, however, would probably have to hold himself back from catching the next plane just so he could throw Mike against the nearest wall and give him a piece of his mind. And El? She would simply call him stupid because she’s been waiting for this to unfold ever since the two of them broke up, and she told Will it would no matter how much he refused to believe it.
So, yes, Will knows he should’ve called them already, but instead he’s spent the entire day sulking because Mike won’t get his shit together and kiss him senseless until he can't remember his own name, and the thought of what comes after that, when Will lets his mind go there, makes him dig his nails into his palms until they bleed.
He looks down at the skin on his hands, slightly scabbed over, and presses his fingers in again, but the pain doesn’t even come close to taking the edge off. The more he thinks, the harder he clenches.
His knuckles begin turning white.
“Alright, look, I get you’re probably not feeling great today but do you have to take it out on me?”
The fucking nerve.
“Okay, first of all, that’s not what I’m doing, and second of all, if that was true, then yes, I would probably want to take it out on you right now.”
“So you’re not upset?” Mike asks hesitantly.
Will shrugs. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, Will, of course it matters.” Mike stresses, pushing himself away from the counter and now standing in the middle of the kitchen. Annoyingly, he softens his voice, just for him. “It matters to me.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“I can’t—” Will’s next breath comes out shaky, and he doesn’t expect it, so it’s loud enough to make Mike frown. “You can’t just do that.”
“Do what?”
Will wants to cry. Scream. Throw something. Hide in his bedroom and never come out again.
“Be all—” he waves his hands around in a vague gesture. “You.”
The air feels heavy. It has hands that are pressing down on his shoulders.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do.”
Mike looks at him long and hard. “Are you asking me to stop being myself?”
“No, Mike, I’m asking you to be all of yourself,” Will says, trying to ground himself by pulling at the fabric of his t-shirt. “Not just… a little bit when you feel like it.”
Mike is about to say something but seems to decide against it, clamping his mouth shut before he lets out a steadying sigh. “I’m trying.”
Will forces himself to turn back to his sketches, or rather, his page full of angry scribbles. He really could leave the room right now. He revels in how easy it would be to just rise out of his chair and stride across the living room to get there.
“Try harder.”
He stays, though. Mostly just in case more opportunities to get under Mike’s skin arise. He hates that he’s turned him into this. Though, the anger makes him feel real, as it’s a feeling he’s never allowed himself to stay acquainted with for very long. Something to do with his father, he thinks—well, that’s what he’s been told by his therapist. He should probably call her, actually. She’d tell him to let himself feel this fury, but he can’t imagine she’d recommend acting on it. He wouldn’t because that’s not who he is, but that doesn’t mean he can’t throw a few punches with his words.
“How?” Mike asks helplessly, and Will sees him step closer in his periphery.
“Figure it out yourself,” he mutters. “I can’t always do it for you.”
Will thinks he might say something else, but the silence that follows is loud enough to swallow them both up. He starts scribbling harder, just so the sound of it takes the edge off.
He bites his tongue, a million words begging to erupt out of him. He waits for Mike to provoke him, he wants him to, just so he doesn’t feel the guilt, but he continues to stand there, lost so deep in thought, looking like he’s trying to figure out the root cause of exactly what’s wrong with him.
Then, suddenly, he crosses the kitchen to his bag and begins digging through it until he pulls out his small black notebook. Will’s hand stops moving across paper, and he looks at him out of the corner of his eye patiently as he flips through the pages, his fingers moving delicately, silver ring glinting under the overhead lights.
Will slouches back in his chair and waits.
Mike finds what he’s looking for, and seems to skim through whatever he’s written over and over until he’s satisfied. He takes a deep breath and looks at Will through his eyelashes, who reaches forward to grab his pack of cigarettes off the table. He sticks one between his lips, his movements slow and careful, taking out his lighter and holding it between his fingers. Mike rounds the kitchen counter and pushes himself up to sit on the island, crossing his ankles.
“Are you listening?” he asks, and in response, Will flicks on the lighter and brings it to the end of his cigarette, holding it steadily until it catches, knowing Mike is watching him the whole time. He throws it onto the table, and as it clatters, he inhales, then exhales the smoke, gesturing towards him as if to say go on.
Will doesn’t have any idea what he should be preparing to hear, so he doesn’t prepare at all.
Mike just starts talking.
“It was—” he starts, then clears his throat. “Shit, sorry. Okay. Uh… It was on halloween night that I— that I realised I would let my best friend eat me, and that I would do the same if I had a stomach generous enough to hold him. I’m not talking in a literal sense. Well, take it however you want, I guess. It’s just the only way I can describe the feeling. I’ve been hungry my whole life, I think, and I’ve only ever come close to feeling satisfied when I’m with him. But it turned into something else at some point. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. It just did, and I am so consumed by it all that I don’t know what to do with myself, and I don’t know how to tell him this without sounding like I’m losing my mind.” A breath, deep enough to force the weight of next words out: “...but if there ever came a time where he was hungrier, I would let him have all of me until there was nothing left but the smudges of my blood on his mouth.”
Silence.
The cigarette stays smouldering between Will’s fingers, smoke clouding the space between the two of them.
He’s suddenly aware of every bone in his body, from his skull, to his ribs, to his pelvis, to the ends of his toes. He feels the organs they protect, his heart screaming in his chest, pumping his blood around a little quicker than usual. He feels his flesh. His skin. The bile in his stomach that wants to crawl its way up his throat.
He scoffs, trying to take a little longer to process what on earth he’s just heard, leaning forward to flick the ash from the cigarette into the tray. He feels Mike watching him, but he doesn’t reward him with his gaze. He just sits with it, taking another drag.
“You know what, Mike,” he offers, finally looking at him. “Fuck you.”
“What?” Mike asks, frowning, notebook still laying open in his hands. “You— you wanted to know what I was working on, this is it.”
“For your fucking assignment?” Will raises his voice, outraged, and sits up in his chair.
“No! Jesus— No. This is just… this is all I have in me right now.” Mike confesses, slamming the notebook shut and placing it down beside him. “I can’t do the stupid assignment. Forget about that. This is just me.”
Will can’t breathe.
“This isn’t fair, you can’t just—” he starts, exasperated, raking his free hand through his hair. “You can’t just dump that on me.”
“Wait— I thought—” Mike pulls a knee up to his chest, resting his foot on the counter. “I thought you wanted to know.”
Will feels dizzy, Mike’s violently gentle words echoing through his mind, bouncing against the walls of his skull with all the other memories that have already made a home there.
I would let my best friend eat me—I’ve been hungry my whole life—I would let him have all of me—until there was nothing left—but the smudges of my blood on his mouth.
It stuns Will to such a level because Mike’s never been much of a poet. He’d always lean more towards epic stories of action and adventure. This is new. It’s jarring. It sounds like something that should be whispered to him quietly, kneeling in front of him like he’s at an altar.
“I do, but—” Will starts, breathless. “You can’t just give me nothing all this time and then throw this on me like it’s supposed to be a gift. It’s too much. I don’t know what you expect me to do with all of it.”
Mike rests his forehead on his own knee like he’s embarrassed to be seen. “Forget it, then.”
“Oh, sure, like it’s that easy.” Will snaps, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, a trail of smoke following him. “You avoid talking about any of this and then you just come out with that? Is it that hard to just… I don’t know, do something normal?”
It’s all coming out wrong. Will feels so filled with rage that he doesn’t have time to make the words make sense before he throws them out into the open. He’s so thrown off that he suddenly feels out of control of his own body, his own voice, the words coming out of him are from a place he doesn’t like to go.
“I’m sorry,” Mike mumbles, and it pisses Will off even more that he’s not making any effort to match his tone. To shout. To hit back. To defend himself. Anything.
He waits for him to say something else, but he seems to crawl right back into the deep, dark cave he’s been hiding in this whole time, and pushes himself off the counter, landing on his feet with a gentle thud.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, Will.” Mike shrugs, now awkwardly hovering by the sofa. “You’re not saying anything so I’ll just see myself out.”
“Jesus, don’t be so dramatic.” Will says, riddled with frustration. “I just don’t know what else I’m supposed to say.”
He’s at a loss, thousands of different thoughts and feelings fighting it out in his brain and his heart, leaving him completely disorientated. He feels like if he stands and reaches for Mike, no matter how gentle or aggressive, his hand would probably pass right through him. The room starts blurring at the edges, and at this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if blood started seeping out of the cracks in the wallpaper, filling the space up until he drowns.
“Well, if it was too much, I’m sorry,” Mike says, inching just one step closer. Will wants to grab onto him to make sure he’s real. “I’m sorry if it disgusts you or if it makes you feel sick. I don’t mean it literally, like I said, I just— I thought you wanted to know.”
That’s not it. That’s not it at all.
“No, Mike, you’re not hearing me—” Will looks up at him. “It’s not what you said, it’s the fact that you think it’s okay to give all of that to me without actually… giving me anything. It’s cruel. I get you have your own way of processing all this but I’ve always had this shit with me, you know that now, and I kept it to myself for your sake. It would be nice if you’d do the same for me in the meantime. Until you actually want to do something or… I don’t know, at least talk to me like an adult.”
He doesn’t know where it comes from, but it’s probably the best thing he could’ve said right now, all things considered.
The weight that lifts off his chest is minimal, but it frees up a little space in his lungs—the annoying thing is, that space is immediately filled with the urge to emotionally ground Mike, to talk him through it and steer him to where they both clearly want him to go, again. Will knows he could do it right now if he wanted to. He’s well trained in the art of it. A few encouraging words, softening his voice, telling him there’s nothing wrong with him and that he’d gladly let him do whatever he really wants and they wouldn’t have to talk about it yet.
But that’s not how Will wants to get there anymore, and it’s times like these where he has to drag his self respect from half way out the window, put his foot firmly down, and make Mike do the work for once.
“Okay,” he sighs, grabbing the notebook off the counter and shoving it in the back pocket of his jeans.
“That’s it?” Will scoffs. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Look— I said I’m sorry, alright?” Mike looks up to the ceiling for a moment, like he’s trying to blink away tears. “I’m always too much or not enough, Will. I can’t figure out how to be just… right.”
“Just be you,” Will shrugs helplessly, stating it as a matter of fact. “That’s always been enough for me.”
It seems to hit Mike in the gut, he even winces a bit, mouth open slightly, swaying like he wants to reach out and hold onto something to stop himself from falling through the floor. Will’s heart hums in his chest, enjoying the fact that even just his words can have this effect on him.
Though, Mike’s own voice keeps repeating those words in his own mind, and if he didn’t know better, he’d be asking him to prove it right now. To let him devour him until there was nothing left.
Mike’s words have always had a greater power over him than he likes to admit. He just does a better job of hiding it. Will, however, can say the most obvious things and make Mike fold like a cheap suit. He can’t deny that he enjoys using it to his advantage.
“What did you think of it?” Mike asks, eyes glassy, desperate.
Hungry.
“What?”
“What I wrote,” he says steadily. “What did you think?”
Will could lie here, just to piss him off, but he doesn’t have it in him.
“I think it’s the most honest you’ve ever been.”
Mike’s eyes travel over every inch of him, and Will thinks he’s going to follow up with more probing questions, but he just takes it, and starts nodding to himself slowly like he’s finally allowing it seep in all the way to his bones. In the silence, Will drinks in the sight of him, seeming small and vulnerable under his watchful eyes. His stomach growls, his heart aches, his palms continuing to scream under the pressure of his fingertips.
Will reminds himself that he’s angry. He begs it to make every other emotion he’s feeling right now feel smaller. More insignificant. But all it does is sit on top of the pile of them, heightening everything, because, when he thinks about it, rage and desire have the very same foundations—an intense craving to act upon your every urge, no matter how insane they sound.
Here, in the middle of their apartment, city traffic screeching below, Will counts Mike’s every breath like each one might be his last, running his tongue over the jagged ends of his teeth in his closed mouth.
“I thought so, too.” Mike says quietly, swallowing thickly like he’s trying to prevent something else from lurching out of his throat. “I should work on it a little more, I guess.”
“Sure,” Will nods, holding back a sigh. “When you’re happy with it, I’ll be here to listen.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Will shrugs, like he’s not got any other choice. “But I can’t wait forever.”
“I know,” Mike reassures him, and something in his gaze is saying trust me, please just trust me. He doesn’t have a choice either. “Neither can I.”
As much as Will wants to tell him that this is all incredibly ridiculous, and the two of them should just cut the bullshit entirely, he understands. He hates how much he understands. He hates that he would actually wait for him forever if he had to, but the only saving grace is that he knows, deep down, Mike doesn’t have it in him. A little longer won't hurt. Will has more skin on his palms that he can tear through in the meantime.
The conversation fizzles to nothing. Mike starts making them dinner in silence, and Will keeps sketching quietly, everything in the air a little louder than it was before.
At least he can find comfort in the fact that it’s there.