Archive of Our Own ^beta

Will wants to say he hates Hawkins. 

He wants to say he hates this stupid town, with its stupid alternate dimensions and bullies and sketchy parents and spotty best friends and shitty neighbors and demogorgons and government spies and – he hates that, he hates all of those things, but he doesn’t think he could ever, completely hate Hawkins. 

It only has one, real saving grace, anyway. Or, it did. 

It still does. He hates how it still does. 

The saving grace itself stands across the room, wearing a loose t-shirt and freshly showered, occupying the other side of Hopper’s cabin, in the middle of repairs since they had first begun their road trip and arrived back to Hawkins, with a tentacle-y, nightmare-fueled monster at the back of their heels. Will hates how he always seems to be crawling back to this town, back to – him. 

Mike. 

Always Mike. 

Mike, who has been weird ever since he arrived in Lenora, and has been insisting on being best friends, although Will wasn’t sure why, with a lack of an attempt to call or write or remind him that he actually cares about Will in any facet, but – whatever. Whatever. 

Mike. 

Mike, who’s across the room, away from where Will sits on the couch next to Dustin, who rambles on about something or another to Max, who bites back something snarky, and Will is sure he’d be laughing, if not for the uncomfortable, drowning feeling that’s been haunting him, following his every move, and – he hates it, he hates this place, except he doesn’t, and he hates how this stupid, cold feeling keeps overtaking him every time he steps foot in this town, stripping back everything he’s built for himself in Lenora, and it comes tumbling down and it bleeds worse than before. 

At least, now, he knows what it is. Who it is. 

Will doesn’t get why One keeps haunting him. Will is more than ninety percent sure he has nothing to offer. 

There’s a spark of laughter from across the room again, and Dustin’s elbow knocks into his when he gestures about something, and Will looks up from his hands in his lap to look up across the front room of Hopper’s cabin, where Mike offers a small smile while El grins at Lucas. 

And – Will isn't even sure what he did wrong, or if it's just obvious that he's wrong, but he doesn't know what to do, what to apologize for, and Mike lingers next to Lucas and El like Will has never mattered to him, which is – fine, it's fine, Will just misses him like home, misses him like half his rib cage has been torn off, and he's fine, is the thing, he's fine, he just wishes it was back to the way it used to be, or that he had Mike again, but again is unfair, because Mike has never been Will's, will never be Will's, and it's stupid to even – 

Will looks away.

He hates how he is.

Max snorts in her seat across from them, and Dustin bounces around where he is, right next to Will, and Will can feel the rub of his own t-shirt against his back, against his neck, where the tag is strangely itchy, how the longer strands of hair brush against his face irritatingly, and everything feels too much all at once. 

He’s a little abrupt when he gets up from his seat, enough so that Dustin and Max both pause to look up at him, and he flushes. He forgets he exists, sometimes, that he takes up space, that other people can see him. 

“I’m just going to,” Will half-heartedly gestures to the front door. “Um. Fresh air.” 

They both nod in understanding, and maybe it’s out of pity for the fact that he has barely spoken since he’d gotten here, pity for when Mike had explained that One is not, in fact, dead, and is, in fact, still haunting the back of Will’s neck, and is, in fact, planning something big for them. Pity has never done anyone any good, but it’ll grant him some fresh air. He’s grateful for it. 

He’s quick when he passes the trio of his friends and his sister, the brush of Lucas’ warm laughter when he hurries out. His body feels too big for his body, and he curls his fingers into his sleeve, pokes into the cotton of his shirt, hates the tide of chill that always washes over him. 

The door squeaks on its hinges when he steps outside, and the air is still warm, still hanging in spring, but the sky is gloomy, and it feels utterly depressing. He spares no indulgence, no pretending that anyone is chasing after him, as he hurries off the porch, off the steps, into the woods. 

He knows it's not safe; he’s not an idiot, contrary to popular belief, but – well. Maybe he’d die for some alone time. God knows he’s deserved it. 

Remnants of ash still fall from the gray sky, and this patch of the woods hasn’t yet begun to rot just yet, and a twig snaps under his step when he walks. He’s a little precarious when he strolls, half-heartedly keeping track of where he’s going. He feels a little lonely. 

Will can’t complain, though, and especially not when he did it to himself, when he is the one seeking out solitude, always the outlier, the outsider in every sense of the word. He’s the one inhibiting a monster on his neck, the one with something ugly hiding in his heart, the one always too quiet, too weak, too – everything. He’s everything. He hates everything. 

Something bitter crawls up his throat, because he’s always been good at feeling sorry for himself. It only makes sense for it to finally come bubbling up, after no alone time and the mess of the past spring break. The week after allows little solace in settling into a town merging with another dimension, but at least now, Will has the ability to take a walk and maybe cry about himself. 

It’s strange, how hard the loneliness had hit him, once he’d come back. Lenora hadn’t made him feel any less lonely, because, even then, he hadn’t made many friends when he had stuck next to El, next to the target they’d stuck on her back, but, back in Hawkins, he still can’t help the loneliness that takes over him. He doesn’t know what it is. 

He knows, partially. He knows it has to do with Mike. It always does. 

Mike, who’s been – not ignoring him, but something adjacent. Mike, who’s been a better friend to El, his ex-girlfriend, than to Will, who he had claimed to be his best friend, as of two weeks ago. Mike, who controls Will like the rise and fall of the ocean. Mike, who’s been talking to him, but not quite saying anything. Mike, who keeps tracking mud all over Will’s mind, unapologetic when he steps into dirt and into Will. 

Mike. Mike. Mike.

He keeps walking. Will doesn’t know where he’s going. 

Always Mike. 

“Will?”

He stills. 

“Where are you?” 

The voice sounds nearby, not too far away, echoing in the expanse of the woods, and there’s a muttered curse as the sound of rustling leaves follow, and Will doesn’t move where he’s stood, rooted to the spot, and he watches as a bush close by jostles, and then Mike comes stumbling out. 

He takes a second to spin in his spot, stray leaves in his hair, and Will raises an eyebrow as he gains footing, and finally spots Will. 

Mike brightens at the sight of him. “Hey! I was wondering where you went.” 

Will, no matter how hard he tries, still flushes. Something in him blooms under the words, under the idea that Mike still cares.

Of course, he would care. It’s bitter to think otherwise. They still care for each other, best friends or not, because, after everything, it would be a little impossible not to care when the end of the world is upon them. 

Still, it’s not the same as before. Will knows it’ll never be like before. He’s trying to believe it, too. 

“I – yeah,” he lamely replies, unsure what to do with his own body. “I just – wanted some fresh air, I guess.”

Alone time, he almost says, except he doesn’t know if Mike would get the clue, would stop talking to him and stop trying to mend back what he tore. He’s still chasing after Will, maybe out of genuine care, maybe out of a self-imposed obligation, maybe like he still feels like he needs to care about Will. 

Will wants to tell him to stop, but it’s difficult to get out when he doesn’t want Mike to stop. Maybe he wants to say stop just to have said it. Maybe he wants to tell Mike to stop, please, you don’t have to, and he wants Mike to say that he wants to, that I want to, don’t be ridiculous, I want to, and he wants Mike to mean it, to burn it deep under his skin, enough for him to have some proof. I want to. I want to. I want you. 

Maybe Will is sick for wanting Mike to chase after him, but he’s settled with his sins a long time ago. He bites his tongue, and watches Mike tug out a leaf from his hair. 

“Cool,” Mike nods. “Um. Want company?” 

Will can’t escape him. He’s so stupid for even trying. “Sure.” 

Mike smiles, stepping closer when Will begins to walk again. It feels like a warning. “Sweet,” he says. Will would argue otherwise. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling awkward to his very bones, and Mike stands close next to him, close enough for their shoulders to brush, the swipe of his bare arm against the pushed-up sleeves of Will’s flannel. They head in no particular direction, and Will is more than sure Mike is taking his lead. 

Mike’s company defeats the entire purpose of coming out here, Will’s attention dragging back to him every second. His presence could have been considered comforting if Will wasn’t beating himself up over it, overthinking the intention of accompanying him, and they’re both all alone out here, and they could say anything, do anything, and Will wonders if they’re about to have another heart-to-heart that falls flat on its face. 

Not that he’s bitter about it. 

He’s not. 

Mike is doing a swell job of being a friend, being there with a hand on Will’s shoulder and his eyes on him all the time, just like it all used to be so many Halloweens ago. Something, still, comes a little short, just a little different. Will knows they’ve grown up. He’s come to terms with that. He doesn’t know why it still hurts. 

“So,” Mike begins, and Will forces himself to stay staring ahead, “what’s your favorite song?” 

Will frowns, a confused crease between his brows when he involuntarily turns to look at Mike. He looks a little pink on the cheeks, dark hair curling around his neck, and the ache to paint comes back like it always does. “What?” 

“Your favorite song?” Mike tries again, and he seems a little sheepish. “It’s – I was talking to El and Lucas earlier, and they said – well. You know, with him still,” he gestures half-heartedly, but there’s a teetering carefulness in his words, “out there, I thought, you know. We should all have one person that knows our favorite song. And stuff.” 

Will stares at him, before slowly nodding, looking away. 

Silence follows, and there’s only the creak and snap of twigs and dried leaves under their steps, and the lack of words is not in the sake of unspoken conversation. It’s stifling, this time around, and it’s strange, because these kinds of silences have always been far and in-between. 

Mike clears his throat. “Um. So, what is it?” 

Will offers a shrug. “I don’t know,” he replies, and he doesn’t. 

He does, in all honesty, have a few songs here and there, ones that have stuck with him over the past year. His favorite songs used to sprout from the specifically curated mixtapes Jonathan used to make him, but those stopped. Still, Will finds himself liking The Cure and David Bowie, but all of them pale in theory, because he doesn’t know what song could possibly have him run for his life all over again. The fourth time can’t possibly be the charm. 

He catches, in his peripheral vision, the slight movement of Mike’s arm raising as he runs a hand through his hair, and Will wonders if he’s uncomfortable. He’d offer an escape in conversation, but he had just tried to cut their talk short, and Mike is still here. He had chased after him. Mike’s been given plenty of room. He’s still walking next to Will. 

“Seriously?” Mike questions, like it’s some big surprise. Maybe it is. Will had always been the music geek in their group. “Like, no idea?” 

Will bites his tongue, feels his teeth poke in. “Not really.” 

Mike’s hands twitch again, and he doesn’t say anything else. 

They keep walking. 

They must be a good distance away from the cabin, now, and Will would bring about the concept of turning around and maybe start heading back, but his mouth stays shut. Mike makes no mention of it either, and Will almost wants to turn and ask, Why, why, why?, beg for an explanation and watch when Mike recoils, stumbles back in the consequence of accusation, faced with the desperation that always seems to haunt Will, even during troubled times. 

He doesn’t do any of that. The sky keeps looming over them, and there is a slight breeze that skitters by. His hands stay to himself. Mike keeps walking. They keep walking. 

There is the subtle rustle of trees around them, the farthest call of a bird, and, no matter how hard he tries, Will’s mind keeps skirting to Mike, thinking too hard about the little space between them, the puff of breath Mike lets out when he steps over a rock, the stutter of his hand, before he shoves it into his pocket. His other hand taps on his thigh, until he pockets that one as well. Will looks away when he catches himself staring. 

He feels a little stupid, still stuck on everything Mike gives away when they’re strolling through the woods together like this, the willingness to take anything Mike lets him have during times like these. He can’t help it. He can never help it. He’s never been able to help it. That’s always been his problem. 

The hopelessness feels a little all-encompassing, suddenly, with the stupid mix of the gray-red sky, the silence that sinks into them involuntarily, the fact that Mike feels far away, just a step next to him, with the rest of their friends a while away. Even now, he’s clawing at life, because the universe has pinned a permanent target on his chest. It feels entirely endless. 

Will abruptly stops. 

Mike barely takes a step ahead before he stops as well, dark eyes on him when Will trails under the large, towering tree over them, his legs giving out when he shuffles back to sit against it, rough bark against his back. The grass is cool from the shade. His fingers brush against the dirt. 

Mike peers down at him from where he stands, blinking once, twice, before he steps over to Will’s side, and sits beside him. 

Some part of him had, embarrassingly, hoped for Mike to join him, but now that he has it, his entire body seems to flush at the closeness, their shoulders close to pressing together, and he hear when Mike lets out the smallest of sighs, fleeting when he lands on the ground. Still, no matter how unlike him it would be for Mike to walk away and leave him alone, another part of Will had expected him to leave. 

It feels all the more dizzying when Mike sits next to him, near enough to feel his body heat through his shirt, his absence of questions when Will sits on the ground, his lack of hesitance to join him. It’s dangerous to think about it, the implications. It’s perverted to think anything of it. 

He presses his tongue against his teeth, and lets his eyes burn into the tree across from them. 

The sun glimpses through cloudy skies, and Mike asks, “Are you – okay?” 

Will almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, because he hasn’t been anything near fine since Mike had landed in Lenora.

“Yeah,” he says, because lying has gotten a lot easier recently. “I’m just – stressed.” 

Mike’s hands are held at his knees, holding onto his jean-clad legs, and Will spares a glance at the nervous tic of his fingers, before he looks away. It feels like Will never knows when to stop talking, always so ready to spill his problems onto Mike. 

“Of – of him?” 

Will stares at the tree. “I guess. It’s,” his body feels too big for him again, “nothing.” He shifts his legs up, and it sounds nice, curling up into a ball and letting the world wash over him. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t – don’t apologize,” Mike easily protests, something unchanging. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” 

He’d flinch away if he knew. Will shrugs. 

Mike frowns. “Seriously,” he says, and it’s in that tone that Will knows means he’s going to reassure him about being best friends again, about being there for him, always, and Will knows it’s true, he knows that Mike probably just isn’t thinking about one of the few single exceptions to the rule, because he’d never lie to Will – not on purpose, at least, and Will wishes he could confess the crime he’s been committing, ever since he found out what’s wrong with him. 

It’d be so nice to blurt it out, not care if it comes out clumsy or awkward or wrong or in that croaky, lopsided way his voice sounds when he’s about to cry. It wouldn’t matter how he says it, anyway. It wouldn’t change a thing. 

“I just thought since,” he gestures vaguely, and Will watches where his hand lands on his lap, “you’ve been – acting – different, a little. Not that – that it’s bad, but I mean you – I just want to know if you’re okay. Like, actually.” He chews on his lip, and Will quickly looks away. “You can tell me anything,” Mike tells him, like he means it, like he believes it. “You know that.” 

He says it with the same – thing he’s been carrying between them for the past ten years, and, like the fool Will is, it fuels the same conversation he’s been tossing and turning about. 

He's envisioned it thousands of times. His part always changes. 

I'm sorry, but – 

I know it's kind of messed up, but I like – 

It’s okay if we don’t ever – 

I hope we can still be friends, but if –

Mike, I like – 

I love – 

I – 

"Will?"

He drags his eyes away, and turns to Mike. “Yeah?” 

His mouth is slightly turned into a frown, and his eyes are dark and concerned when they look at Will. “Okay?” He asks, voice soft like he gets, and Will gives a nod, a jerky movement of his head. 

“‘Course,” he mumbles, and looks away again. 

It’s on the tip of his tongue, now, like it’s about to jump out of his mouth and land between them as a messy clot of blood, watching it squirm and wriggle away until one of them picks it up and chucks it into the woods ahead, or until it crawls into the dirt to die, bury itself into a messy grave. Something horrid, something startling, something revolting, something that always begins with I like –

He never knows how that sentence ends. He swallows the bloodless knot down. 

The confidence of it all, Will thinks, is from the surge of – rightness that comes when he’s around Mike, around his sincerity, how right he feels, like he’s a person worth looking at, like the parts that make him up aren’t just the absent-minded move of the universe. Mike makes him feel – right. Human. Like he fits, like he’s seen.

He wishes he could know in entire certainty, though, the reaction that would come with his confessions, how Mike would react, if he’d give him a tight smile and reassure them that nothing’s changed, except the next time they meet will be a beat off, and then a rift will grow and grow and grow, and Mike won’t come back asking to be best friends again.

Sometimes, the fear of it all feels all-consuming, larger than anything he’s faced, like no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be brave enough to shout, Go away!, just to hope for the best. 

Sometimes, though, it all falls away, and Mike looks at him how he’s always looked at Will – like he knows him, through and through, like nothing could ever change that, like he means it when he says Will can tell him anything. 

He stares at the tree across from him. Maybe someday. 

“You know,” Mike begins, breaking Will out of his thoughts, “the past year – sucked.” 

Will blinks in surprise, unable to help it when he glances over. “Yeah?” 

Mike nods, like it’s something obvious. “Yeah. I mean, there were some good things, I guess, like – we joined this D&D club, but it wasn’t even – it was great, I mean, it was, but,” he shrugs, “it wasn’t the same without you.” 

He had known of them joining another party from calls between Lucas and Dustin, and it hadn’t bothered him too much, aside from the split-second, invasive question of, Why’d they wait until I left?. Still, he can’t find him to be angry, because his insistence on playing D&D hadn’t been about D&D at all, not really. 

Most of him had been hoping to return to familiarity, to go back to something he was interested in, something that didn’t include chasing after girls and forgoing friendship for romance and awkward PDA. He’d just wanted to go back to normal, to stop this play-pretend of being older than they were, to go back to something safe. 

“And,” Mike continues, “I was bored. Like, all the time.” 

Will frowns. “What? Why?” 

“Everyone had their own stuff going on,” Mike answers, too compliant with the idea, and it’s almost baffling, because, back then, Mike would’ve wrangled all of them into his basement no matter what. “We all kind of drifted, I guess, kind of. Everyone’s busy with their own things, and I,” he tugs at the grass under him, “don’t know.” It comes out sheepish when he quietly adds, “I missed you.” 

It makes Will’s mouth run dry, makes his palms itchy. He tries to swallow discreetly, tries to act like everything Mike says doesn’t shake his world out of the narrative he’d built himself into. 

He still doesn’t know what Mike, really, truly, means by it all. It’s not Hawkins without you. It wasn’t the same without you. I missed you. Mike can’t know what it does to Will to hear that, to look into his earnest eyes and believe it. Mike can’t know how greedy it makes him. 

There’s a lot of things he wants to say. It hurt when you didn’t call. It hurt when you looked at me like a stranger in the airport. I wish it wasn’t so complicated. 

“I missed you too,” he says instead. It doesn’t cover half of it. And then, “I joined an art club.” 

Mike shifts in surprise. “Really?” 

Will gives a small nod. “Yeah. The, uh, teacher’s really nice. He critiques our stuff sometimes.” He’s embarrassed, suddenly, and it’s an odd thing, because Mike has never been anything other than supportive. Still, it’s like placing a blade in someone else’s hand and pressing it against his own throat. It’s the most vulnerable vein of blood against metal. He fiddles with a strand of grass. “He says I could probably take one of his advanced art classes if I keep it up.” 

“I called it,” Mike says, smile audible, and Will tries not to curl over himself. “I always knew you’d be famous.” 

Will can’t help the slight laugh that leaves his mouth. “I don’t know about that.” 

“No, I’m calling it,” Mike shakes his head, ever so stubborn in this idea. “You’re going to be famous and rich and everyone’s going to brag about the fact they went to the same town as you.” Will rolls his eyes, but his mouth is lifted upward, and Mike beams. “You better not forget about me when it happens.” 

He should probably joke about it, probably play it off like he’s cool, but it comes out too genuine when he says, “I could never forget about you.” 

Despite himself, he doesn’t turn away when he says it, and he watches as Mike’s smile grows, eyes shining, and he looks away, screwing his mouth to one side, like it’d do any job of hiding his grin. Will feels a bit of pride grow in him, and it’s uncalled for, but – when Mike acts like that, like Will’s words have an effect on him, then he can’t help it.

Mike shoves a hand in his hair, staring down at the ground, before he clears his throat. “You, um,” he starts again, “you should show me what else you made. In Lenora.” 

Will chews on his lip. He shrugs. “Maybe.” 

“Come on,” Mike insists, leaning over to push their shoulders together. “You’d deprive your number one fan like that?” 

“Number one fan?” Will questions, eyebrows raised, and Mike nods dutifully. 

“Absolutely,” he replies. “Who else?” 

Will pretends to think, even if there’s not much competition. “My mom?”

Mike scoffs. “No way. I bet I have more of your drawings than she does.” 

Will, in spite of it all, laughs. “She’s my mom.” 

“And I’m your best friend,” Mike replies petulantly, and Will presses his lips together. It doesn’t help the smile on his face. 

“You’re crazy,” he says, because Mike is, sometimes. He acts like it. He surely drives Will crazy. 

Mike grins like it’s a compliment. “Maybe I am.” 

Will exhales, a murmur of a laugh between them. It twists his heart painfully, how easy it is to fall into who they were like this. It makes him wonder if they’ll ever change, when he’ll finally break the floor underneath them, and they’ll never stand on the same ground again. 

When he looks up to the sky, it’s still that same shade of grayish-blue that it’s been for the past few weeks. His lungs feel a little less heavy in his chest, though, and he feels like he fits in his body, like he’s meant to be picking at the grass like this next to Mike, like there’s nowhere else he’s supposed to be. It’s rarely otherwise with Mike. 

When a moment of silence passes, Mike says, “El mentioned something in her letter, actually.” Will stares at him, and he takes it as a beckoning to continue as he elaborates, voice even, “She said you were – making art. For – um. For a girl.”

Will raises his eyebrows, trying to hide his own surprise, because – he had been acting protective over the painting, too embarrassed to show it to anyone else, because his admiration and care had bled into every brushstroke on that painting, as red and obvious as the heart on Mike’s shield.

It’s what he usually is. Obvious. It’s nothing he can help. 

“No,” Will answers belatedly, and it’s involuntary, how he stiffens. “No, there’s – there’s no girl.” 

“Oh,” Mike says, blinking. “Okay.” 

That strange feeling comes back again, the doubt, the temptation, and he squeezes his hands into a fist, feels his fingers digging into his palms, before he clears his throat and makes to get up. “We should head back,” he mumbles, and it’s probably a little sudden, because Mike looks up in surprise as Will gets up from the ground. 

“I – okay,” he replies, hurrying to get on his feet. “Did –”

Will begins walking, and he hears the crunch of Mike’s steps as he catches up, the snap of twigs and the crush of rotting leaves. The woods suddenly feel too quiet, and he wishes the birds were louder, for something to overtake the sound of Mike next to him, huffing as he matches Will’s pace, the swish of his jeans, the pounding of Will’s heart because of it all. 

The silence lasts only a second, until Mike asks, “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Will responds, trying to sound as normal as possible. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I don’t know.” Mike’s eyes are on him, he can feel it. “Is – you just seem a little – I – I don’t know. Did I do something?” 

“No,” Will says evenly, and keeps walking. 

There’s a pause, and then, “Okay.” Will is careful not to look at him as they walk. “Because if I did, then you can tell me. Or if it’s just – anything at all.” His hands fidget with themselves, and he continues, “You can tell me anything.”

Will tries not to let the words get the better of him. Still, it’s a mistake when he mutters, “You keep saying that.” 

He hears more than sees the pause in Mike, where he halts, completely stops walking, and it’s enough to make Will stop, too, turn around and look at him, where Mike stares at him, an indiscernible look on his face. 

He’s frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Will’s heart shudders in place. He tries not to freeze up. "What?” 

“What did you mean, I keep saying that?” Mike says, and he sounds – not quite defensive, not quite inquisitive. Something in between. “Did – you don’t believe me?”

“I do,” Will says. “I do believe you.” It’s only conventionally true. 

Mike’s frown hasn’t let up. “I don’t think you do.” 

Will can’t help the movement of his arms, the look-away he does when he scoffs. “How am I supposed to fix that?” 

“Will,” he says, and Will sticks his tongue against his teeth, tries to calm himself down. It’s flight-or-fight, and he doesn’t know how he’d reason himself turning and bolting back to Hopper’s cabin. “Come on.” 

Will resists the urge to run anyway. “What?” 

Mike huffs in slight frustration, raising a hand to brush at his cheek, pushing a strand of hair away. “Look,” he begins, “I – know something’s bothering you. You can try to hide it, but I know you, and if – if I can help, if you want to tell me, you can.” His mouth is a twist of pink, downturned and visibly upset. “I’m here, you know. For you.” 

“I know,” Will replies immediately, a little quiet, and, despite himself, it’s true. There’s no other explanation for Mike’s persistence, him poking and prodding to get through Will, like he’s always done, in his eager and overly caring fashion that’s always charmed Will. 

Even now, it’s the same, when Mike looks at him with eyes that promise more than he probably should, with the lean of his body and fix of his shoulders that says it’d take the end of the world to make him budge, and even then, he’d still be standing here, looking at Will like the mere idea of him not believing Mike about this is just about the worst thing he could think of. 

Will looks down to the woodsy ground, and can’t help it when his hands curl, uncurl, before he makes himself take a deep breath. 

Even now, it’s the same. It’s always the same. It’s always Mike. 

He doesn’t know what possesses himself to say, “There’s no girl.” 

Mike stares at him, eyebrows furrowed. He looks more confused than anything. “Okay?” 

“There’s no girl,” Will repeats, and now is when it hits, the tidal wave of discomfort, the panic, because there’s no going back now, the seed of implication has been set, and Mike’s looking at him like a puzzle he’s trying to unscramble. His palms are sweating. He’s sweating. He’d been so cold earlier. His voice betrays him when it wavers. “There’s – there’ll never be a girl.” 

Facing the Mind Flayer had been so much easier than this, it feels like, because then, it had been evil he had been facing. Now, it’s just his best friend, the one that has his heart in his palms, the one that insists on clawing his way through any sense of barrier Will places between them. 

He hates having to stand here, gauge in Mike’s reaction as they stand in front of each other. Will sucks in a breath, and it catches in his throat, and it feels like he might choke on it. 

He’s trying not to panic. Mike’s still staring at him, and Will isn’t sure if he’s been clear enough, if he’s been too clear, if this is the final step to break the glass floor underneath them, if he’s finally breached the containment of anything. His eyes are itching. 

He can’t reach up and rub at them, he knows he’ll cry. He can’t clear his voice, either, because then it’ll break, it’ll be so obvious, how he’s on the brink of falling apart, how much this matters to him, how bare he is, and Mike still hasn’t said anything.

Will’s always been too see-through, though, too readable, and most of all to Mike, because he tries to clear his throat, tries to look down at the ground, maybe so his tears aren’t so visible when they slip down his cheeks, and then Mike’s – 

– right beside him, suddenly, cutting through the distance so quickly, like something had shoved him out of a trance, and then he’s right there, right in front of him, arms sweeping him up in a hug like he’s done before, like he had stopped doing, like he’s doing right now, pressing him into his body. 

Will lets out a startled sob, and Mike’s hand finds itself splayed against his back, before moving up to his nape, against the back of his head, pushing him against the slope of shoulder and neck. “It’s okay,” Mike says, all soft, like he means it, like he believes it. “It’s okay, Will, don’t – you don’t have to worry.” 

Will shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, because this is all so embarrassing, and it feels like too much. He tries to breathe. “Sorry,” he forces out, because this is worth all the apologies, “sorry, sorry –” 

“No, no,” Mike cuts him off immediately, steady when it feels like he’s trying to pull Will even closer, swaying just a little. “No, don’t – don’t apologize. Don’t ever apologize.” Will shakes his head again, and he continues, “I mean, I should be the one apologizing – you trusted me and I just stood there like an idiot. Honestly, I think I swallowed a fly.” 

His fingers are cool to the touch when they brush against Will’s scalp, running through his hair. Will keeps his eyes closed, goes pliant when Mike tugs him so close, body against body, as if he’s trying to bring Will into him, tucking Will’s face into the side of his neck like it’s somewhere safe to hide.

His chin is atop Will’s head, and Will can feel the rumble of his voice when he talks. “Don’t ever apologize, okay? Not – not for this.” He hears it when he swallows. “You don’t – I mean, you’ll always be my best friend. Nothing – nothing’s going to change that. Ever.” He tightens his hold onto Will. He’s quiet, but Will hears him loud and clear when he murmurs, “I love you.” 

Will’s ribcage squeezes and squeezes in his body. He feels aflame. Mike is so warm, and he won’t let go. Will never wants to leave. He wants to run. He wants Mike all over him. He doesn’t know what he wants. 

He opens his mouth to respond, but Mike beats him to the chase. 

“Is it bad I’m glad there’s no girl?” Will sucks in a breath, and he can’t help it when his fingers curl into Mike’s shirt. “I – not like that, I guess, I just mean – I was – I got kind of – sad, I guess, when I thought you were leaving me behind for someone else in Lenora.” A beat of silence, before he hurries to say, “Not that – I mean, it would be – fine,” Will can hear his grimace, “if – if you did, that’d be – I’m just –” 

The rushed clarification is enough to make Will choke out a laugh, and Mike squeezes him one last time, before he lets go, the warmth of Mike’s embrace dissipating, but the fresh air of the woods feels nice against his cheeks, where his tears are drying, and Mike keeps him close, just inches away, with his hands on his arms. 

Will stares down at the woodsy ground. He tries to discreetly sniffle. It doesn’t work. 

“Hey,” Mike says, quiet, like anything louder would break the both of them, and when Will doesn’t look at him, he ducks down, catching Will’s eyes. He’s close enough for their noses to brush, and Mike doesn’t move away. “This doesn’t change anything, okay? Nothing bad, at least. Now, I know you better than anyone.” 

He says it with enough grandiosity that it’s a little ridiculous, like how a child might claim superiority, and it’s enough to have Will offer a small smile. 

Mike matches his own at the sight of it. He still hasn’t moved away. “I’m just glad I have you,” he whispers, like it’s true, like he doesn’t mind that it makes Will’s insides do some acrobatic move. “And – you have me. You know that, right?” 

Will swallows. He offers a nod. 

Mike’s smile grows. “Good,” he decides, and his hands move up to cup Will’s face, fingers swiping away his drying tears. Will lets it happen, lets himself store it away for stormy nights, revels in the calloused touch of Mike’s, and he forces his eyes to stay open. 

Mike’s eyes flicker in his gaze on Will’s face, a small, absent-minded smile while he stares at Will. He looks so close, so warm, and Will wants to fall into his stare for the rest of his life. His hands are still on his face, and he tilts Will’s head up, just a little. 

He moves even closer, entirely too close, until he brings up a hand to brush Will’s hair away from his forehead, and he waits, for just a second, and when Will doesn’t move back, he presses his mouth against his forehead, leaving a sweet kiss right above Will’s eyes. 

Will’s breath comes in as a stutter, body embroidered in electricity, in something lively, at the warm feel of Mike’s lips on his skin, and he wants to treasure it, dedicate half his heart to swooning over it. He’s going to overthink it for the rest of his life, he knows. 

When Mike looks back, his face is pink. “Sorry,” he mumbles, after a moment. 

“‘S okay,” Will replies, voice gone. 

Mike stares at him some more, in that way when, on those rare occasions that Will is Dungeon Master, Mike’s trying to figure out if Will’s leading their party in for a loop. He seems to find what he’s looking for when he nods, and his hands fall away, only for one of them to slot into Will’s.

He doesn’t seem to care for Will’s own sweaty palm, the slight shake of it, and he squeezes it, just once. 

“Okay,” he says. “We should head back, now.” His thumb swipes over the back of Will’s hand. “They’ll start to get worried.” 

Will nods, and then they begin to walk, much slower than they had been before. He feels exhausted, suddenly, like he’d run the longest marathon, bones weighing him down as he trudges along. Mike’s hand in his is a little rejuvenating, though, both comforting and confusing. Will wants to ask about it. He almost wants to stop them both and ask if Mike’s sure he wants to hold hands with someone like him. 

But – he’d been insistent, had brought Will against his chest and wiped away his tears. Boys afraid of other boys liking them wouldn’t do such a thing. Mike’s been unrelenting. 

The woods are still quiet, but it’s relieving, now, when his thoughts don’t feel so loud. He didn’t think he’d feel so – light. Not quite free, but as though it’s easier to breathe, his shoulders slouching from the slip of stress falling off of them. 

“So,” Mike says, after a while, and Will lifts his head to glance at him. “I’m definitely your number one, biggest fan, now, right?” 

And Will – he’s in love with him. He doesn’t know how, but it feels like he’s only falling harder, after confessing a secret weighing more than the world. When Mike’s still looking at him like that, he’s doomed. 

He resolves to shake his head. “Crazy,” Will mumbles, despite his smile, and his voice is a little raspy. 

Mike returns it, eyes gleaming. “Yeah,” he says, all gentle and low. 

Will looks away, blushing at the ground. He can feel Mike’s eyes on him. 

Mike doesn’t let go of his hand the entire way back.