Work Text:
Mike has one trait he'd rather die than admit to.
The moment he gets flustered, he turns red.
Not a faint blush that slowly blooms across his cheeks. No, it's more like someone dumps an entire bucket of paint over him. The color races from his neck to the tips of his ears, creeping all the way down to his collarbones. His pale skin doesn't hide anything. Every shade shows up on him like black ink splashed across a blank canvas.
Dustin says it looks like someone lit a fire underneath his skin. Lucas insists it's some kind of supernatural phenomenon. Every time, Mike tries to argue with them, but the fact that he's already bright red only makes him less convincing.
The first time Will really starts paying attention to it, they're ten.
It's an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. They're sprawled across the floor of Mike's basement, working on Dungeons & Dragons character sheets. Mike is chewing on his bottom lip while he erases and rewrites stats, dark curls hanging over his forehead. The old basement lamp catches in his deep brown eyes, making them shine.
"Mike, you got it wrong." Will leans closer and taps the paper. "It's not that number."
"I didn't—" Mike looks up and realizes how close Will is. Less than six inches away.
Will watches Mike's voice catch in his throat. Then, almost in slow motion, red begins creeping up Mike's neck. It spreads across his cheeks. Colors his ears. By the end of it, even the shadows cast by his eyelashes seem tinted pink.
"You—" Will blinks.
"I am not blushing!" Mike immediately jerks backward, smacking the back of his head against the arm of the couch with a dull thud.
"I didn't even say anything." A smile tugs at Will's mouth.
Mike rubs the back of his head, red as the paper mache volcano they made in science class last year. The color of fire.
"Are you hot?" Will offers kindly.
"Yeah." Mike answers far too quickly. "The basement's stuffy. Mom should really replace the ventilation system."
He turns away and pretends to study one of the posters on the wall. But Will can see the back of his neck. It's red too. Like somebody drew a stripe of paint down his spine.
Will lowers his head and returns to his character sheet. His heart is beating a little faster than usual. He decides not to think too hard about why.
The second time happens when they're eleven.
It's Mike's birthday party. Nancy helps blow up balloons. Ted sets up the grill in the backyard. Karen bakes a chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Mike written across the frosting.
When Will hands over his present, Mike is busy arguing with Dustin about the best character in Star Wars.
"This is for you." Will pushes the awkwardly wrapped rectangular package toward him.
Mike takes it and tears off the paper. Inside is a hardcover copy of The Hobbit. The gold lettering on the cover is slightly worn. The corners are scuffed from age. It isn't new—when Will found it at a used bookstore, it already looked well-loved. But he had saved three weeks' worth of lunch money to buy it. He had rubbed the pencil price mark off the spine with an eraser. He had carefully taped one torn corner back together.
"You remembered I wanted this?" Mike asks. His voice comes out softer than usual.
"You mentioned it like five times last month." Will shrugs, trying to sound casual. "Besides, I've already read it." That part isn't true. Will hasn't read it at all. He only flipped through a few pages in the bookstore to make sure Mike would like it before taking it straight to the register.
Mike looks down at the book. His fingers trace the gold lettering. Then Will sees it—the warning sign he's becoming increasingly familiar with.
First, the tips of Mike's ears. Then, his cheekbones. Then, all at once, he looks like he's standing inside a sunset.
"Mike, you're doing it again."
"I'm not!" Mike hugs the book to his chest as though it might function as a shield. "It's because of the sunlight. We're outside."
They are outside. There is absolutely no sunlight. Indiana is covered in gray clouds and freezing wind, and Mike is wearing three layers of clothing. Meanwhile, the redness has already spread from his cheeks all the way to the collar of his turtleneck sweater.
"Right," Will says with a smile. "The sunlight."
Karen walks over carrying the birthday cake. Candlelight flickers across Mike's face. But Will is fairly certain candle flames aren't capable of turning someone's ears that color.
The third time it happens, they're thirteen, playing video games in Mike's room.
Dustin and Lucas have already gone home, leaving just Will and Mike sitting on the floor with their backs against the side of the bed. The television screen flickers with blue 8-bit light. Mike works the controller while Will marks cave locations on the map.
"There," Will says, pointing at the screen. "There should be a cave behind that rock."
Mike moves the character toward it, but his finger slips on the controller. The character falls straight into the river. With a groan of frustration, Mike throws himself backward. The back of his head lands in Will's lap.
He freezes. Will freezes too.
Mike doesn't immediately jerk away. He stays exactly where he is, staring at the ceiling, his breathing suddenly shallow and uneven. Through the denim of his jeans, Will can feel the soft texture of Mike's hair. His black curls feel as soft as a cat's fur.
"Mike." Will says.
"Hm."
"Your face."
Mike reaches up and touches his cheek. Then he yanks his hand back as if he's burned himself. Finally, he sits upright and covers his face with both hands. Red has already spread across him completely. From Will's angle, even the skin behind his ears is pink.
"This isn't fair." Mike mutters through his fingers.
"What isn't?" Will asks innocently.
One eye appears between Mike's fingers. Dark brown. A little wounded. A little puppy-like.
"You know exactly what."
Will does know. Or at least, he thinks he might. But he's not certain. All those calculations about how much space should exist between them during sleepovers in Mike's basement. All those questions about why he notices every single time Mike blushes. All those feelings that are still too vague, too enormous, too difficult to name.
Quietly, he wraps the controller cord around one finger. "You always mash the buttons too fast."
Mike lowers his hands. His face is still red, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
"You're annoying."
"I know."
The fourth time it happens, they're fifteen.
It's a terrible year.
Not because of anything supernatural, of course—things like that only exist in their wildest Dungeons & Dragons campaigns, not in real-life Indiana, not in the weekend adventures they spend so much time dreaming up.
No, fifteen is terrible in a different way. It's the year Mike Wheeler realizes his gaze lingers on Will for too long. Not in the way friends look at each other. In a way that's much more frightening. The kind that makes him wake up in the middle of the night with his heart pounding, staring at the ceiling and demanding to know what the hell is wrong with him.
He starts noticing things he never cared about before. The way Will's smile always tilts slightly to one side. The way his bangs fall into his eyes when he's bent over a sketchbook. The way he says Mike's name—the M softer than everyone else's, as though he's let it linger in his mouth for a moment before letting it go.
Mike starts avoiding touching him. Because he's discovered that if his arm brushes against Will's, the entire limb goes numb. So numb he can barely hold a pencil afterward. If Will sits beside him, he can't focus on the game they're playing because his brain is too busy processing the fact that Will exists to spare any memory for the actual screen. But Mike has no idea what to do with any of it. At fifteen, there's nobody he can ask. No book he can look it up in.
So he does the only thing he can think of: he puts distance between them and hopes these strange feelings will disappear on their own.
Will notices. Of course he notices.
"Are you avoiding me lately?" Will stops him in the hallway one afternoon. His backpack hangs crookedly off one shoulder, and the straps of his lunchbox are tangled together.
Mike's stomach twists. "No," he says too quickly. "I'm just—busy. The science fair project. You know."
Will looks at him. There's confusion in those hazel eyes, the kind Mike can't quite decipher. As if Will is trying to solve an equation but keeps getting stuck on a variable he can't identify.
"If I did something—" Will begins.
"You didn't." The words come out louder than Mike intends. A few students glance over.
Will goes quiet. After a few seconds, he nods once, as if he's made some kind of decision. "Okay," he says. Then he steps around Mike and keeps walking.
Mike stays where he is, feeling as though someone has scooped a hole out of his chest.
That night, he lies awake staring at the residue left behind by the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. The stars themselves fell down years ago. Only the faint adhesive marks remain, glowing weakly green in the darkness.
He imagines Will walking back to class alone. Eating lunch alone. Sitting at the table where the six of them usually sit together. His stomach hurts again.
The next day, Mike skips his last period and waits outside Will's classroom. He stands in the hallway for fifteen minutes. His heart beats like a drum. His palms are soaked with sweat.
When Will finally steps out with his backpack slung over one shoulder, Mike's brain seems to shut down for two full seconds. Then he does something he never planned to do.
He reaches out and grabs Will's wrist.
Will stops. His eyes flick down to Mike's fingers wrapped around him before lifting back up. "Mike?"
"Sorry." The word comes out rough, like he's digging it out of the deepest part of himself. "I wasn't trying to avoid you. I just..." He swallows. "I don't know."
His face starts turning red. Not the faint kind. The hot, painful kind, like all the words he's been holding back for months have clogged his bloodstream and are now showing through his skin. The flush climbs his neck. Crawls over his jaw. Burns across his cheekbones. By the end, even the corners of his eyes are red. He stops knowing what he's saying. His mouth is still moving, but he can't hear his own voice anymore.
The only thing he knows is that Will's expression is changing. The confusion fades. Something softer takes its place. Something that makes Mike's chest ache even more.
"Mike." Will's voice is quiet. Careful. Like he's afraid of startling something. "Stop."
Mike closes his mouth.
Will doesn't pull away. Instead, he turns his wrist over until his palm is facing up. Then, slowly, deliberately, he slides his fingers between Mike's.
Their hands fit together. Finger by finger.
Mike's mind goes completely blank.
"You don't have to explain," Will says. The corner of his mouth lifts in a tiny smile that almost looks like a sigh. "When you're ready to tell me whatever it is, I'll be here."
Mike lowers his eyes. Looks at their joined hands. Looks at the place where the line between them has blurred into something shared. His eyes burn, but he doesn't cry. Will is looking at him, and for some reason, he can't bear the thought of Will seeing that.
"Okay." he hears himself say.
Will squeezes his hand. And they stand there together at the end of the school hallway, sunlight pouring through the windows and stretching their shadows long across the floor.
The two shadows touch. Not a single gap between them.
The fifth time it happens, they're sixteen.
Mike Wheeler's basement. The same couch. The same old lamp.
It's been more than a year since that moment in the hallway. More than a year since Will finally realized that he liked Mike Wheeler enough for it to make his chest ache. Though he never said it out loud.
The three of them—Mike, Dustin, and Lucas—have just finished a four-hour Dungeons & Dragons campaign. Shorter than usual, actually. Will hasn't played because he's feeling sick, but he still came over anyway, curled up in the corner of the couch beneath a blanket Mike's mom practically forced on him. His nose is pink. Max and Jane are at the mall. They'll show up later.
Dustin and Lucas head upstairs arguing over something, talking about finding snacks in the kitchen. Suddenly the basement falls quiet, leaving only the low hum of the heater.
Mike sits at the other end of the couch, still rolling a d20 between his fingers. His eyes are on the die. Will knows he isn't actually looking at it.
"Mike."
"Hm?"
"What are you thinking about?"
Mike's fingers stop moving. He looks up. Dark brown eyes meet Will's. The basement light catches in his black curls, painting a soft halo around them. Suddenly, Will thinks Mike is beautiful. Not that he hasn't always been beautiful. It's just that now it's finally become something he knows how to name. Mike is beautiful in a way that hurts.
"I'm thinking..." Mike sets the die down. It rolls twice across the floorboards before stopping on a natural twenty. "I'm thinking I should've told you last year."
"Told me what?"
Mike starts blushing.
Since the day Will met him, he's seen this happen four times. Well, more than four, technically. But most of the others were too brief to count. This one is different. This one unfolds like a sunrise. Slowly. Gently. Beginning at his collarbone, climbing past his throat, spreading across his jaw before blooming over his cheekbones. As if someone has lit a lamp beneath his skin.
"I like you." Mike's voice trembles. His gaze doesn't leave Will's. "Not in the friend way." He swallows. "I think you know what kind of way."
Will sets the blanket aside. He scoots across the couch until he's sitting beside Mike, then gently turns Mike to face him. Mike has somehow managed to fold his entire gangly six-foot frame into the corner of the couch. Will honestly has no idea how.
"Do you know why I've always counted how many times you've blushed?" Will asks.
Mike blinks. His eyelashes tremble. "...You've counted?"
"Five times." Will reaches up and lightly brushes a finger against Mike's ear. The skin there is alarmingly warm. "The first time was when we were ten and you got the number wrong."
A faint groan escapes Mike.
"The second was when I gave you that copy of The Hobbit."
Mike's face gets redder.
"The third was when you fell into my lap while we were playing video games."
Mike's breathing speeds up. The blush deepens another shade.
"The fourth was when we were fifteen. In the hallway." Will's voice softens, like he's talking about something precious. Something fragile. "You grabbed my wrist and apologized. Your face was so red it looked like you were about to catch fire."
Mike makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
"You didn't say it then," Will continues. "But eventually I figured it out." Mike's eyes stay fixed on him. "You liked me. You'd liked me for a long time."
"The fifth time?" Mike asks. His voice sounds very far away.
Will smiles again. The smile he only ever gives Mike. The one with no shadows in it. "The fifth time is right now." He reaches up and cups Mike's face. "You're confessing to me, and you're blushing from head to toe."
Mike buries his face in both hands. "I hate this stupid thing."
Will gently pulls his hands away. Mike's hands are warm. Larger than Will's. His fingers longer. And right now they're trembling.
"I like this stupid thing." Will strokes his thumb over the back of Mike's hand. "Because if you couldn't blush, I might never have known."
"Known what?"
Will leans closer. Six inches. Like when they were ten. Then four. Then two.
He presses a kiss to Mike's mouth. Right at the center of the blush. The warmest place. Soft enough to make his heart stutter.
"That you liked me." Will speaks so close that his lips brush Mike's skin. "Because I like you too. For a long time."
Mike closes his eyes. He looks like he might illuminate the entire basement. Will can see the lamp reflected in his trembling lashes. Can see his own reflection in those dark brown eyes. Can smell chocolate on his breath.
"How can you do that?" Mike asks. The words break apart between them.
"Do what?"
"Say things like that." Mike opens his eyes again. There's moisture there. And laughter. "And stay so calm."
Will laughs. "Because somebody has to handle the blushing." His grin widens. "And apparently that person isn't me."
Mike lets out one final, weak protest. Then he leans forward and kisses Will again. It's awkward. Clumsy. Too short. Like a puppy licking someone's cheek. He's so nervous that the first attempt lands near the corner of Will's mouth. The second is better. By the third, it starts to feel as natural as breathing.
When they finally pull apart, Mike's face has gone beyond red. Will is fairly certain the English language has not yet invented a word for that particular color.
Footsteps echo from the stairs.
"Mike! Are you even listening? I said, do you want a—" Dustin's voice cuts off halfway down the staircase.
A second later Lucas says, "Why did they both stop talking?"
Their footsteps halt at exactly the same time.
"...Uh."
"...Huh."
Mike immediately buries his face in Will's shoulder. The heat radiating from him is ridiculous. Will can practically feel it through his sweater.
"You are not allowed to say anything." Mike's voice comes out muffled against his shoulder. The threat has absolutely zero impact because his ears are dark red. Seriously. Dark red. Will is fairly certain he's never seen anything like it.
Dustin and Lucas exchange a look.
"I didn't say anything." Dustin raises both hands.
"Neither did I." Lucas says it with a completely straight face. The fact that he's trying not to laugh is another matter entirely.
Dustin turns and starts back up the stairs. At a volume loud enough for the entire house to hear, he announces: "The legend of Mike Wheeler’s blushing finally has an explanation!"
"I'm calling Max!" Lucas shouts as he follows him upstairs. "I won the bet!"
Somewhere above them, Karen gasps. Apparently Dustin has already told her everything. She sounds delighted. Ted says something lazy and indistinct, probably about them being too young for this.
Mike lifts his head. He shoots a look of burning outrage toward the staircase. Quite literally burning. His face is somehow still getting hotter. Then he looks back at Will. Will is laughing. Really laughing. Eyes squeezed shut.
The expression on Mike's face shifts from outrage to resignation. From resignation to embarrassment. From embarrassment to a tiny smile. A very, very small smile.
"See?" Will says, squeezing his fingers gently. "I told you."
Mike arches an eyebrow. "Told me what?"
Will smiles. "When you blush, you can't hide anything."
For once, Mike doesn't argue. He just sits there, red-faced and smiling, holding Will's hand like he never intends to let go.
+1
The sixteenth time. Or maybe the seventeenth. Will stops keeping track after a while.
Because when someone's blush becomes part of the scenery—like sunsets, or springtime, or the way Mike's black curls lift in the wind—you stop counting. You just look, feel something warm bloom in your chest, and go on with your day.
Still, sometimes Will thinks he probably should keep count. Like right now.
They're in Mike's room. The window is cracked open, and the May evening breeze billows the curtains inward like some slow-breathing creature. Mike sits at his desk working on a history assignment. Will lounges on the bed behind him, reading a comic book—or at least pretending to.
"I hate homework," Mike mutters, burying his face in his textbook.
Will reaches out and brushes aside the unruly black curls at the back of Mike's head, exposing the pale stretch of neck beneath. His fingertips graze the skin there, feeling the warmth underneath.
Mike doesn't look up, but Will feels his entire body go rigid before slowly relaxing again, like a cat getting scratched beneath the chin. His pride might be screaming no, but his body betrays him by leaning subtly into the touch.
Will's fingers slide from the back of Mike's neck to the spot behind his ear, tracing the curve of it. Really, he's staring at Mike's neck. It's pink. The strip of skin visible above his collar, the line running up his spine toward his hairline—every bit of it flushed a soft rosy color. Will kind of wants to draw on it.
Even when Mike pretends nothing is happening, his body always tells the truth. It's like his skin has developed a consciousness of its own. Like his capillaries signed some sort of agreement years ago: If Will Byers maintains eye contact within a ten-foot radius for more than five seconds, all units mobilize immediately.
"Mike."
"I'm doing homework." Mike still doesn't turn around, but Will watches the color deepen another shade in his ears.
"You're literally lying face-down."
"Stop staring."
"I'm not staring."
Finally, Mike swivels around in his chair, pencil still in hand. One stubborn curl sticks out over his forehead, and his dark brown eyes practically scream you're such a liar. His cheeks are pink all the way from his cheekbones to the bridge of his nose, like someone dusted him with two generous layers of blush.
"You say you're not staring," Mike says, sounding somewhere between annoyed and resigned, "but you've only turned one page of that comic since you sat down."
Will glances down. Sure enough. One page.
"That's because this page is particularly well-drawn." he says, looking back up with a smile.
Mike visibly forgets how to breathe. Then his face turns an entire shade redder. They really ought to name a Pantone color after the way Mike Wheeler blushes.
"You—" Mike drops his pencil onto the desk with a little too much force. It rolls toward the edge. He lunges to catch it, misses, nearly tips out of his swivel chair, and bangs his knee into a drawer handle.
"Fuck!"
"Are you okay?" Will asks, setting down the comic and trying not to laugh.
"Don't laugh!"
"I'm not laughing."
"Your mouth is twitching!"
Will bites the inside of his cheek and desperately fights to maintain a straight face. Mike crouches on the floor rubbing his knee, glaring up at him. From this angle, Will can see how long his eyelashes are, how his eyes shine with unshed tears, how ridiculously red he is.
Something invisible squeezes around Will's heart. Warmly. Like someone's filling it with sunlight.
"Mike."
"What?" Mike grumbles from the floor.
"Come here."
"I'm rubbing my knee."
"Come here."
Mike looks deeply unwilling, but he obeys anyway, moving over with the loyalty of a particularly well-trained puppy while muttering complaints under his breath. His knee is marked with a red patch that practically matches his face.
Will reaches out, catches Mike's wrist, and gives a gentle tug. Mike doesn't resist. He lets himself be pulled onto the bed, and the next thing he knows, Will has wrapped him in a hug. Will rests his chin on Mike's shoulder, arms circling his back. Through two layers of clothing, he can feel Mike's heartbeat pounding fast and steady.
"What?" Mike asks, voice muffled against Will's neck.
"You hit your knee."
"So?"
"So a hug makes it hurt less. Or would you prefer a kiss?" Will asks, as if that's a perfectly reasonable medical recommendation.
Mike goes completely silent for three seconds. Then he buries his face even deeper and wraps both arms around Will's waist.
"Stop talking," Mike mumbles, barely louder than a mosquito.
"Why?"
"No reason!"
Will laughs softly and tightens his arms. Then he leans close enough that his lips brush Mike's ear. The skin there is burning hot, red as strawberry jam.
"Mike?"
Mike makes a sound that is dangerously close to a whine.
Will could stop. A kind, considerate boyfriend would probably stop. But Will Byers has never claimed to be kind or considerate, and besides, he's discovering that he likes this version of Mike. The one who feels like he's combusting from embarrassment and still refuses to let go. The one who could push him away but instead just buries his face deeper.
"You're really mean," Mike says.
"I know."
"And you keep doing it."
"Yep."
Mike finally lifts his head. His chin rests against Will's chest. His dark brown eyes are impossibly close, reflecting Will right back at him. His face is still red, but the expression there isn't embarrassment anymore. It's something softer. Something quiet. Like he's looking at something precious. Something he still can't quite believe belongs to him.
Suddenly, Will feels heat creep into his own face.
"I love you." Will lowers his head and presses a kiss into Mike's hair.
It smells like lavender shampoo. Recently, he's noticed all of his own clothes have started smelling like it too, thanks to Mike constantly leaning against him.
Mike is warm. Not feverish. Just warm. This is simply how Mike Wheeler loves someone. Not through words. Through the color rising beneath his skin. Through the way he hides in the curve of someone's neck for a few extra seconds. Through the annoyed, helpless expression he gets when he's been completely figured out. Through saying, "You're mean," while pulling someone closer at the exact same time.
Will closes his eyes. Slowly, gradually, Mike's heartbeat falls into rhythm with his own. The curtains continue to drift in the May breeze. The comic book flips to the next page on its own.
"Mike."
"...Yeah."
Will smiles and lowers his voice until only Mike can hear it. "Your heart is beating really loud."
Mike freezes instantly. And then Will feels Mike's lips press gently against his collarbone. Tender. Affectionate.
The tips of Will's ears, hidden beneath his hair, begin to burn.
A beautiful shade of pink.