#(post s5)

Looking back, he’s afraid he wasted too much of those last weeks. Scared of giving too much away, the hurt from so many sides and the heartache that’s already taking root, but also: the way he clings, but tries not to make it obvious.

Fuck; but of course it was gonna be obvious, and how much energy did he waste, how many opportunities slipped by, because Steve was trying not to give away that Eddie leaving—to get away from a town that hated him, to try and make a real go with his music, to be anywhere without Steve so he could live out the dreams that predated Steve, that Steve had no place in—to try not to give away that all of it; it’d fucking destroy him.

Steve doesn’t know, to this day, how he stood and let Eddie kiss him breathless out the driver-side window, how he waved until Eddie was out of sight. He doesn’t know.

Kind of like he doesn’t know how he fucking keeps doing it.

Eddie throws tapes to every radio station with Van Halen or other top-played bands written on the insert in sharpie like that gives nothing away, and sneaks a demo in every underpaid delivery boy’s hands to record executives as he drives to the West Coast, sends Steve postcards what seems like has to be every goddamn day, filled up with his rambling until there’s no space left, has to draw lines around Steve’s address to make it clear where the damn thing’s going lest it get confused. Like they’re SteveandEddie still. Like only…only the things that changed after graduation are gone.

Steve sobs after about a month of it all, grateful and resentful, hateful and still so goddamn full of love it’s sickening. Literally, it makes him feel nauseous. He…

He keeps every postcard.

When one of them comes to say some idiot in San Francisco accidentally played Corroded Coffin on what’s apparently an important station, and Eddie got a letter in response from one of the labels, he says he’s coming back for the boys, they need to be ready. Steve knows he’s not one of the boys, but.

Eddie wouldn’t have told Steve he was coming if it wouldn’t matter to Steve. And maybe Eddie wasn’t in love with him anymore, maybe never was in love with him.

But he’d be lying if he said he thought Eddie didn’t love him. In a different way. A…you-don’t-get-to-come-with-me-but-I’d-still-want-to-see-you-when-I-stop-back kind of way.

And Steve…Steve’s not a fucking monk or anything. But even Robin doesn’t try to push him when he finally just tells her what he feels, lovesick and pathetic as it is:

I gave everything I had to someone else, and it’d be different if I wanted to back, to give again, but…I don’t.

I don’t want it back, not from him. Not if any part of him, wants to keep any part of it.

And because she’s Robin, she knows he means something else when he says ‘it’. And because she’s Robin? She’d push if she thought it was worth it.

She just holds him, and that’s really the best thing he could ask for.

But it becomes a thing. The boys go with Eddie, and they record new shit to impress...whoever. And they do. They come back for Halloween, because Eddie loves it. The label’s dragging its feet, but they’re not deterred, they’re energized. They come back for Thanksgiving because Wayne loves it—except he doesn’t, Steve knows that, Wayne actually hates trying to make a bird and Eddie had lamented more than once that they ended up with lunchmeat cut into cubes one year when Wayne was particularly frustrated with the process. They go out East, and try a few studios in New York. They come back for Christmas.

Eddie spends most of his time with Steve. Steve doesn’t fucking fight that; wants it…like…

There’s nothing to compare how he wants it to. Nothing exists that fits.

Eddie spends most of the time that he spends with Steve, though?

In Steve’s bed.

And here’s the thing: Steve had a decent amount of experience to compare to, but once they’d fallen into a rhythm, got past the awkward bits, the learning curve? Sex with Eddie had been a goddamn revelation. Not just because he was a man—after he’d left, Steve had forced himself to try, and dispelled that possibility quick as hell—and now?

Now, it’s like they never stopped. Every fucking time, it’s like they never stopped.

Steve’s not surprised in the slightest that he remembers every give and tell of Eddie’s body—of course he goddamn does—but that Eddie doesn’t miss a beat in touching, sucking, licking, worshippingSteve’s? That’s insane. That’s…

Unexpected. Every time it’s unexpected and every time Steve’s shown he wasn’t forgotten when he probably should have been. Eddie’s building a life that doesn’t include him.

He’ll only get in the way.

But Steve is selfish and stubborn and maybe it’s often, like almost strangely so, but it’s only a week or two at a go so he tells himself he’s allowed. He tells himself that it felt like making love in the beginning because Steve was in love, and that it still feels exactly the same because Steve…Steve never stopped.

Steve is still just as goddamn in love.

So yeah. Steve sleeps with Eddie and it’s like…it’s like rationed air. He gets a regular taste and he gets to keep breathing.

And it’s okay. Probably more then. Because he gets Eddie—even a little bit. Even just in scraps. When he has Eddie?

He has him, even for moments that were never made to last.

It’s Easter, this time. The band put out their first record in January. It’s doing really well. Eddie’s over the moon. Someone called about a magazine cover for a publication in Cleveland that’s apparently kind of a big deal, Alt..something. Steve will buy every copy in a fucking 100-mile radius. 200 miles. 500—

It’s Easter. Eddie didn’t lament not celebrating it after Spring Break in ‘86 but he’s back every year now. And if it’s just…come to mean something, or maybe did then and circumstances won out against it? Steve will be here. Steve will be comfort and a reprieve or a hot as hell romp with a familiar body, Steve will…

Yeah. Steve will do whatever’s needed. Wanted. Anything.

Pathetic.

But so much better than nothing.

Case in point: they’re both naked, sweat mostly dried, sharing a joint and it’s comfortable. It’s quiet and gentle and put up against sitting alone on a weeknight, not with Eddie?

It’s heaven.

“So when’s the dream happening?”

Steve looks cross-eyed toward his lips; he hasn’t smoked this thing long enough to have heard wrong. He squints up at Eddie, whose chest he’s laid out on, confused. Offers him the smoke but he waves it away.

“The dream?” Steve asks finally, when Eddie doesn’t seem to want to answer on his own.

Eddie looks at him weird. Not weird for its own sake but like: like he’s staring into him, and then like he’s disbelieving, but then also like he’s seeing him for the first time.

That kind of weird.

“Getting the fuck out of here,” Eddie answers like it’s obvious. “White picket fence. Little nuggets.” He spreads his hands as wide as possible without tossing Steve from where he lies. “See the sights.”

And Steve’s response is immediate. Doesn’t even require a thought.

He laughs. Like, ugly-laughs.

“Man,” he shakes his head as he catches his breath, and passes the joint off this time with purpose, not an offer or a choice as he snorts a little; “that’s not the dream.”

When Eddie doesn’t grab the smoke, Steve finally looks up. Eddie…

Eddie looks like what Steve’s always struggled to understand the word ‘poleaxed’ to mean. He thinks it might be this.

He looks…like something stuck him through the gut. Slapped him silly across the face.

“What d’ya mean?” And it’s just three words, one that’s a cheat, and he says it slow enough to take an age.

Steve breathes out, and then, if he’s gonna be honest, and if he has to keep holding the damn thing anyway, decides to take another drag before speaking:

“Figured out what the dream was, inside the dream,” Steve says, wondering if he’ll get away with the vagary; knowing he won’t.

“All we see or seem?” Eddie jokes a little, but it falls flat, his tone eerily kinda…strained but hollow.

“I like poetry.” Steve smiles up at him, soft, and offers the joint again straight to Eddie’s lips. He takes it this time.

“It was about family. It was about stability, not,” Steve shakes his head, stops talking half-assed around the lungful he’s holding, and lets it out slow; “not in a place, fuck, not in a house, but,” a person he doesn’t say, but he hears it in his head; “it was about sharing it.”

And that's it. That’s the simplest, most straightforward truth. Steve doesn’t think there’s anything complicated, or offensive in it. Hard to swallow. Even if he’s come to terms with it. Is mostly at peace with it.

Which is why it’s weird, that Eddie feels suddenly rigid beneath him.

So Steve turns, and braces his hand on Eddie's chest for balance, and frowns when he doesn’t even have to push down to feel the way his heart’s a fucking riot.

“What?” Steve asks, gentle; Eddie’s face is a portrait of conflict, of distress and Steve can’t fucking figure out why, they just came like four times between them and are sharing some very nice Cali weed—they’re nestled close, they’re together, it’s…

Eddie’s quiet, his breath disconcertingly steady for how his pulse pounds, and then he breathes out slow before covering his face:

“I don’t think I can fuck this up any worse than I already have, so,” he mutters, dejected for reasons Steve can’t even guess, then he laughs, humorless, shakes his head:

“Let me try, I guess.”

Steve frowns, uncomprehending, until:

“I’ve been in love with you forever.”

Steve thinks the world stops. His heart does, at least. Suspended. Silent so he doesn’t miss a syllable.

“And I told myself,” Eddie bites at his lip, worries at the bottom swell; “end of that summer, from the very first, I said: don’t ask him to come with you, even if it breaks your heart,” and oh god, oh god after all this time: Steve doesn’t think he’s projecting to hear the genuinely broken heart in those words for just remembering.

“Don’t ask him to settle, you’re not even in the same universe of what he wants,” fuck, what lies Eddie’s saying; did he believe them? Has he always—“what he needs.”

But Eddie is everything he needs, always was, will always be—

“You’ll never have the picket fence. You can’t give him his nuggets. You should never be trusted to park a Winnebago.”

They could have had a shitty studio apartment. They could have had the kids in college. They could have run the BMW until it died, or sold it to put toward a better van for equipment. They could have—

“You’re selfish, Munson, you’re a rat fucking bastard but,” Eddie’s still going, heart still hammering under Steve’s touch even as Eddie swallows hard and fails to smile, looks ill with the attempt like it hurts to try: “you love him too much for that.”

Oh. Oh god.

“It didn’t break my heart, though,” Eddie clears his throat and glances away, to the ceiling, eyes too bright: oh fuck; “broke my goddamn soul,” and a tear falls, and Steve can’t help but wipe it away, and kiss the track. Even just once.

So he does.

“When I saw you again that first time back,” Eddie starts again, voice rougher and shakier as he reaches a hand for Steve’s. “I could have asked the boys to fly out, the execs offered, but,” and this time, the attempt to grin is more successful, like a weight’s lifted from it: “and you smiled at me, it felt like,” and when he shakes his head this time it’s for disbelief, but the kind that comes with awe; “and when we slotted back together like we’d never been apart, it was…”

Eddie’s voice trails, but it cracks at the end—Steve doesn’t know which does more to stop his words.

He’s grateful, relieved, when they come back. He’s powerless but to give when Eddie touches his cheek so gentle and breathes:

“And I had to tell myself again, and again,” he murmurs, stroking Steve’s skin like he’s precious: “you love him too much to take his dream away from him.”

“What did it matter?” Steve can’t help but ask, no malice in it, just the need to understand. “You had your dream, you have—“

They have a contract. They have an album climbing the charts. They’re not just on their way—they’re there. The only next step is to get bigger, and bigger, and—

“Dreams within dreams, wasn’t it?” Eddie murmurs close to Steve’s cheek, where maybe he’s pressing to be close, or maybe he’s hiding a little, so Steve strokes his hair because he can either way and relishes how Eddie leans, melts into it like always. “Inside the dream?”

Steve nods, more to encourage more words. More Eddie.

“Break my dream open and there’s you with me, every step,” Eddie whispers, his lips warm on Steve’s skin. “Break my heart open, same damn thing,” and that causes Steve to shudder, and his heart to pick up now, too. “Both just kinda crumble if you take out the center.”

Steve can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Wants to. Doesn’t think they’re lies. It’s just, he…

“Those,” Steve tries to speak but his voice cracks; he clears his throat and kicks his lips while he tucks Eddie into his neck, under his chin: “those would be good lyrics.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head and nuzzles Steve’s throat with the motion and this can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening, can it?

“No, those words were only ever meant just for you.”

And Eddie kisses the pulse point close to his mouth and holds there, like a sentry and a miser, and holy shit.

Holy shit.

“And I don’t know,” Eddie’s saying more, but it’s pitchy, thready, like he’s barely holding the words together at all; “I don’t know if it’s nostalgia, or convenience, or routine,” his voice breaks again and the sob’s in the word when it comes even if it’s not streaming down on his cheeks: “pity,” and no, no, not fucking ever, how—

“I was never your dream then, and I don’t even know if I can be your inside-dream now, and,” Eddie’s rambling, and he does that when he’s desperate, when he’s overwhelmed and overfull with feeling—and Steve knows that. Steve knows that about him.

Steve knows. Better than he knows himself, Steve still knows him.

“I just want the world for you,” Eddie whispers, stroking up and down Steve’s jaw; “my sweetheart. My sunshine,” he smiles so real and soft and Steve melts, like the heart in his chest starts spilling through his ribs, warm and liquid: “you deserve more than the world, more than fuckin’ me and I,” Eddie shakes his head again, more this time like he’s stopping himself, like it’s a defense mechanism and Steve reaches for his cheeks, broad palms on either side to hold him still because…he doesn’t want Eddie to stop.

Ever.

“Did I ruin it?” Eddie breathes, and barely at that, eyes so wide and swimming and oh, god; “did I—"

And Steve can’t help it. He can’t help but kiss him with all he’s got, even if it couldn’t be all Eddie’s worth in all the world. Steve can’t contain all that Eddie’s worth.

But he can give everything, because this is the man who already has it.

“What the hell was I supposed to be to a rockstar?” Steve tries to talk through his own tight throat, his own growing smile, his own threat of tears bubbling close to the surface. “How the fuck was I ever going to measure up, ever do anything but hold you back when you could have—“

“I come back to you, for you,” Eddie answers immediate; it’s not what Steve’s asking but he won’t lie and say he didn’t want to know, at least a little. “The handful of times I’ve tried,” Eddie shakes his head once now, definitive; “I have always left my everything with you.”

The idea that Steve’s spent all this time feeling empty, and hollow, and missing the best of himself where it lived in the man he loved—the idea he was wrong, that they both were so fucking wrong is…insanity.

“I had a bag half packed.”

Steve doesn’t need to explain further. The noise Eddie makes is pure pain.

“Baby,” he nearly croons, falls into Steve somehow closer, wraps him up tighter; “I wanted to kidnap you in the night.”

“I sobbed in my bed after you were out of sight.”

“I pulled over before the town sign, because I couldn’t see the goddamn road.”

And Steve…Steve doesn’t really have a decision to make about what he says next. What dream he wants; always has.

“I never got rid of the luggage.”

And Eddie hears everything he says in those words, because after everything, Eddie Munson knows him, and…yeah.

Steve’s been kissed in a lot of ways before. By this man in particular, even.

But this: if leaving broke Eddie’s soul, if somehow the lack of Steve somehow did that?

This is…this is the body meeting another body, heart to heart and tasting the way a soul slides back in place. It's Eddie’s hands in his hair like hell never let go and he’s happy about the idea; blissful for it, even. It’s—beyond anything Steve’s ever known. So: yeah.

It’s not a decision. It’s just a fucking given.

♥️

🎸also on ao3

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The Byers-Hoppers still didn't have a home once Vecna was truly dead and gone, so Mike took initiative and invited them to stay indefinitely at the Wheeler house as they continued to search. 

It was honest to god one of the easiest decisions Mike had ever made, especially when Will, beaten black and blue but alive, smiled slightly at him and managed a soft, “thanks, Mike,” while Hopper clapped him on the shoulder and Joyce pressed a kiss to his temple. 

It was maybe a bit of a hasty thing since technically Mike's parents owned the place and they hadn't been there to give their approval, but his dad was still in the ICU and his mom was only barely able to keep awake for five minutes most days, so he figured they had more important things to worry about. 

Nancy didn't seem to object, anyway, and she was truly the Wheeler head of family with both their parents out of commission, so she simply gave Will a small side-hug before she leaned down, scooped Holly up, and began to limp towards the station wagon with the others hobbling after her.

“I should get home,” Lucas said next, and he looked more than a little worse for wear, but there was nothing but happiness on his face as he clutched tightly to Max, who was using him as some sort of human crutch. “I have to tell my parents Erica and I aren't actually, you know, dead.” 

“Your parents want to know that their children are alive? Shocking,” Max rasped, and a near two year coma had done nothing to soften her tongue or her attitude, but she gave Mike a half-smile anyway. “Guess I owe you my life again, loser.” 

“I've lost count how many times you do, Mayfield,” Mike said drily, and they laughed because it finally felt like they were allowed to, and there was a small sniffling sound off to the side that made all three of their heads swivel to see what it was. 

Dustin, who was still wearing his torn Hellfire shirt, was sobbing as he clutched at Steve, who hugged him tightly and had his nose buried in his hair. They were both shaking tremendously, and something in Mike's chest softened as Dustin mumbled something and Steve responded just as gently back, and when Dustin gave a final sniff, they both turned and limped towards Steve's car, refusing to separate. 

“Hey,” Max said, and Mike glanced down at her. She still had the scars to prove her battle with Vecna, but also to prove that she had won, and when she smiled, it was bright and wonderful and all those other things that probably made Lucas love her so deeply. “You okay, Wheeler?” 

Mike looked over his shoulder at the station wagon, where Nancy waited patiently by the driver's door. On her hip was a dead asleep Holly, and through the windows, Mike could see El and Will talking quietly in the back, with Hopper and Joyce crammed in the front seat. 

“Yeah,” Mike said, the honesty spreading through him and warming him up. “I think I am.” 

xxx

There was some unwritten rule about keeping away from his parents’ bedroom, if only because it kind of felt disrespectful to take both their home and their bed, so Joyce and Hopper willingly went down to the basement to also be near Jonathan, who they had both missed out on for the past few days. 

That meant that it was too overcrowded for Will, though, and at first he seemed to not even realize, because he ushered his mom down the stairs and kept trying to give her his set of blankets without making the connection that he was essentially kicking himself out. 

“Oh, honey, are you sure?” Joyce, who never knew how to love anyone more than she did her children, had that worried look on her face that said she was torn between swaddling Will into a pillbug or peppering kisses to his face. “Hopper and I can just share.”

“Mom, he's like a foot taller than you,” Will said with all the gentleness of a boy as kind as he was as he pushed his roll of blankets into her arms. This time, she grabbed them and didn't push them back, and it struck Mike how much Will had grown when he had to lean down to press a tender kiss to her head. 

“C'mon, Joyce, he just saved all our asses. If he wants to give you his blankets then let him.” Hopper grunted from where he was slumped on the couch. Despite the gruffness of his words, he shot Will an approving look and said, “you've grown into a good man, kid.” 

Will flushed and Mike bit his lip from saying anything. 

He couldn't tell if it was his innate, instinctive urge to always tell Hopper off, but he wanted to scoff and say of course he has, stupid. He's the best one out of all of us. It's a good thing you're not sheriff anymore because you're just captain obvious by now, idiot. 

But Mike didn't, mostly because he was at least aware of how insane that sounded, and so he tucked away the rabid little beast in his chest that often emerged whenever Will was mentioned, and he perked up when Joyce made a small sound. 

“If you're sure, sweetie,” Joyce said, but she had already given in. The woman was easy to read, or maybe it was just because Mike knew her as much as he knew his own mother, and she settled onto the couch next to Hopper, accepting his hand around her own without a backwards glance. “But where are you going to sleep? Maybe the couch upstai - “ 

“He can sleep with me,” Mike blurted out, and it was kind of like someone had popped a balloon. 

Will whipped his head around to stare at him, and while Joyce and Hopper didn't do anything as obvious as gape, both of them had little furrows in their brows and glanced between the two boys in a pingponging motion. 

“Er, what?” Will said, and he sounded awkward as he shuffled in his spot. He made an aborted motion to rub at his arm, something he always did even when they were kids, but he just let his hand fall limply to his side as he stared at Mike helplessly. “I - Mike, I don't think that's a good idea.” 

Mike swallowed and didn't know what to do when the basement became colder with tension and a thick, cloying sense in the back of his throat, not dissimilar to when he had gotten knocked over by a demogorgon once and nearly bit his own tongue off. 

“Please,” Mike said. He tried not to sound so desperate, but it was hard to choke it down when Will looked like that, all lost and confused and like he was about to cry. “I want you to. It’ll be fine, right? It’s just like when we were kids. I promise.” 

“Oh,” Will said in a small voice. “Like… back then.” 

“Yeah,” Mike said stupidly. “Totally.” 

Joyce squinted. Hopper coughed. 

Like when they were kids. 

… Right. 

xxx

“Wuzzit?” 

There was a softness to Will that lead to a fuzziness in Mike's mouth that had nothing to do with how early it was and how sleepy his eyes still were. 

The sensation of butterflies and caterpillars kissing Mike's lips all had to do with Will's mussy hair and his half-lidded eyes as he blinked slowly at Mike from his place in the bed, and the air was still and heady with the sweet, intimate scent of oranges. 

“Sorry,” Mike managed to mumble, licking his lips once and desperately trying to taste tangerines. He tried to find any trace of Will on himself with a desperation that seemed borderline obsessive, but he couldn't find it in himself to find fault in it, because who could ever look at Will and breathe properly? “I just wanted to go make some coffee. You can go back to sleep.” 

But Will was already shaking his head and propping himself up on one arm, rubbing at his face with his other hand as he gave Mike a small, wonderful half-smile that made Mike want to reach out and touch him even just a little. 

He wondered, with a bit of desperation that scared him, if he could seep himself into Will and never leave. If, somehow, Mike could wrap himself around the boy and become a part of him, to shoulder all the heavy things Will had had to come across all these years, and breathe at the same time as him. 

Mike stared, and he wanted, but he didn't know what it was that he so desperately craved. 

Was it the soft and stretched t-shirt that clung to Will's wide shoulders and was probably now drenched with the smell of oranges? 

Was it the tapered fingers that were rough with both calluses and soft with paint? 

Or was it simply the fact that Mike Wheeler could not live in a world without Will Byers? 

He didn't know. 

But whatever it was, it had Mike reaching out anyway, his palm lit up with the weak sunlight streaming in through his blinds, and he rested his knuckles right up against Will's cheek, which was pink from the dawning sun and was creased slightly from his pillow. 

Will froze, and Mike wanted to crawl into him and never leave. 

“What's wrong?” Will whispered, and he didn't push into the touch, but he didn't pull away either. There was something in his eyes, deep and rattling at the edges of his pupils, and it took Mike a second to realize it was fear. 

Not fear of Mike, but fear of this. Of them being close, and Mike felt like the world's biggest and most selfish asshole as he realized Will didn't know what to do. 

Oh, fuck. 

Plagued with a sudden choking sensation and some prickling at the corners of his eyes, Mike's breath hitched softly as he couldn't help but stroke Will's cheek once, savoring the softness of it before he croaked, “I'm sorry,” as he pulled away. 

Will looked to the side. 

He was frowning, and Mike wanted to die, because in what world was it ever okay for Will to look so lost? And why, after all these years, did Mike still suck so fucking hard at making sure he was okay? Wasn't he supposed to be Will's best friend? Why was Mike always the reason Will was upset? 

Why? 

What was wrong with Mike to keep doing this? 

God. What was wrong with him? 

“Mike,” Will said, and his voice was stronger this time, nearly flat in its intonation as he finally turned back around and fixed Mike with a stare. There was no trace of fear in his gaze anymore, but there was no trace of anything else, either, and his lips were pursed and his brows were furrowed ever so slightly as he said, “we're friends. We're friends, Mike.” 

Mike felt like something was reaching down through his mouth, into his throat, and squeezing his heart into nothing but a lump of sad, grey meat. 

“Yeah,” Mike finally said. He allowed his other hand to clench into a tight, little ball underneath the blanket. His nails dug into himself and he wondered if he was drawing blood with how hard he was pressing into his own skin. “I - I know.” 

“I thought you promised nothing would change between us,” Will said, and he didn't scoot back, exactly, but there was an extra inch of space in between them as he leaned away, and Mike wanted to gasp for air, as if Will had taken all the oxygen in the room with just that single inch. 

How can we be on the same bed and yet still oceans apart? Mike thought to himself hysterically. 

“I wanted to be closer to you,” Mike said honestly, and he chewed on his lip, his whole body shifting like it was barely containing itself from crawling closer and begging for forgiveness. He would do it, he would. He would get on his hands and knees and grovel and beg and scream if it meant Will stopped looking like that, like Mike didn't make any sort of sense. 

Will sighed. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” Will asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Mike said immediately, and Will recoiled like he'd been struck, but Mike scrambled to explain, and he couldn't stop himself as he lurched forward and grabbed Will's wrist, his fingers tight and desperate as he blurted out, “not in the way that you think! Please, Will, don't - don't leave me right now. I can't even bear the thought of it.” 

“I-I don't understand,” Will said quietly, and he stared down at where they were linked, his mouth tight with confusion. He didn't pull his hand away, thank god, something that Mike feared any time they touched, but Will flexed his fingers and Mike knew it wasn't going to be long before Will did. 

Mike hurriedly scooted closer so that their knees pressed together tightly to the point he felt he could bruise. He wanted it, wanted his pale skin to be marred black and blue by the sign of Will's closeness, and he feverishly thought to himself that he would let Will hurt him as much as possible if it meant Mike could keep him close, because Mike knew that without him, he would die. 

Mike would die without Will. 

“I'm not uncomfortable because you don't like girls,” Mike said, and he made sure to keep his voice calm for this, because he never wanted Will to think Mike would condemn him for something so asinine. Nothing mattered more than making sure Will knew how okay it all was, how okay Mike was, because if Will ever cried like how he did when he told everybody his truth, Mike would do something truly horrible. “I promise. I'm also not uncomfortable because - because you - “ 

Mike struggled to say it out loud. 

Some part of him thought about why. 

It was glaringly obvious, wasn't it? Mike wasn't stupid despite all of Hopper's claims otherwise. He knew that the painting hadn't been from El, who had never quite looked at him the same once she realized how he didn't love her. He knew that the beautiful, wonderful words Will had told him in the back of Argyle's stupid van hadn't been from his ex-girlfriend, but rather from Will himself. 

And he knew, with heart-stopping clarity, that the moment Will had said Tammy that it had been Mike all along. 

I'm your Tammy, Mike's heart sang. 

I'm your Tammy, Mike's brain whimpered. 

“Because I used to like you,” Will finished, and Mike made a small noise at that, stuffed deep down his throat but there nonetheless, and he almost bit through his lip because used to was a worse pain than getting eaten by a demo. 

How did Will manage to say it so easily? Like his past feelings for Mike were just that, feelings? 

Didn't he get it? Didn't he - didn't he feel like thunder was running up and down his spine, threatening to shorten every nerve and set him on fire? Didn't he feel like his lungs were trying to escape him while his heart wanted to explode? Didn't he feel… anything? 

For Mike? 

I want you to like me again, Mike's stomach and skin and hair and teeth all screamed at once as he stared dazedly at this boy who used to want to kiss him. Because that was what Will had wanted to do, right? Kiss Mike? I want you to lean in close and breathe me in and feel like the world might implode if we stop touching. I want your stomach to heave and whine because you think that I'm just so wonderful like that, and I want you to feel what I feel for you - 

Oh. 

Mike hiccupped. 

Oh. 

“I'm scared, Will,” Mike said, his voice choked and thick as he tried not to cry. 

I'm scared you'll never look at me like you used to. I'm terrified. The world nearly ended a day ago but what does the world mean to me if you don't like me anymore? Why does any of it matter if you can't even seem to care talking about how I'm your Tammy? I don't want to be your Tammy. I want to be just - yours. Just yours. 

“What're you so afraid of?” Will asked gently, and he seemed concerned now, because he was sweet and gentle and Will and oh, oh, Mike loved him, Mike loved him and he stared and he wanted and wanted and needed because there was no universe where Mike did not love Will more than he loved himself. 

“Of losing you,” Mike whispered. 

Will didn't pull away, but he didn't push closer, either. He just was, sitting there and listening and clueless to the turmoil that threatened to run Mike into the ground, and Mike loved him. 

“You won't lose me,” Will said. 

No, Mike thought dully. 

I already have. 

xxx

Mike had never been in love before. 

It was… strange. 

For the most part, things kept continuing as normal. He visited his parents every other day for a couple of hours and helped his mom stay awake longer every time he was at the hospital. He attended Max's physical therapy sessions and wordlessly offered to be her crutch when she got frustrated. He helped cook dinner on Tuesdays and Thursdays and looked after Holly when all the adults went to their jobs. 

But other things were different. 

For one, he knew that Will knew something was up. The first time they had casually touched since that catastrophic moment in bed, Mike had stiffened up so much that he lost grip on the cup Will had been handing him and the mug promptly shattered into a million pieces on the kitchen floor. 

Will had sputtered and asked him if he was okay while he immediately bent down to try and clean the mess, and Mike had nearly keeled over when Will got a small cut from the broken porcelain and simply wiped the blood away without even a wince. 

Then there had been that incident in the bathroom, where they had both been brushing their teeth side to side, and then Will had reached behind Mike to try and grab at a towel, and because he hadn't been looking, his foot had stepped slightly onto Mike's and their socks rubbed slightly as Will mumbled an apology and then Mike proceeded to inhale at least half of his toothpaste froth. 

Then not even a day later, Mike had been helping El hang up the wet clothes they had just washed up in the backyard because the dryer had busted and no one was handy enough to fix it on their own, and Will had strolled out and sweetly asked if they needed help. 

El, who hated laundry duty with a passion, immediately abandoned the both of them with a kiss to Mike's cheek and Will's head, and floundered inside where she no doubt spent an hour fiddling with her walkie to gossip with Max, and Will walked over to string up some of Holly's overalls. 

Will, who was tall but not quite as tall as Mike, had to stretch up to reach the line that Mike had admittedly put a bit too far up, and it had been hot that day so of course Will only wore a t-shirt, which showed off the tanned line of his arms as the muscles flexed and he frowned in his concentration. 

Mike, who had been staring like an idiot with wide eyes and the faintest hint of drool on his lips, had then yelped in pain as he clipped his own fingers with a clothespin and had to spend the next ten minutes cradling his throbbing hand close to his chest as Will put up the rest on his own. 

Mike had never been in love before, and he didn't know what to do with this thing that he kept so deep in his heart and yet kept slipping out at the most inopportune times. His body loved Will so much that there was no way to hide his reactions, and Mike was constantly torn between a deluge of I love you so much I love you more than anything oh please look at me please see me please please please and he doesn't like me anymore. 

Because that was the truth, wasn't it? 

Will didn't like him anymore.

Will didn't like him anymore and it was, like always, Mike's fault. 

xxx

They continued to sleep in the same bed. 

Will was only inches away every night and yet Mike had never felt so far from him. 

Dream of me, dream of me, dream of me, Mike's mind pathetically begged every single time. 

Will, whose heart didn't listen, never said anything when he woke up the next morning. 

“Did you have any good dreams?” Mike liked to ask. 

“Not especially,” Will liked to respond. 

Mike dreamed of wonderful things. He dreamed of golden butterflies made from leaves that danced around him every time he thought of Will. He dreamed of fat, ripe oranges that made their branches droop with heaviness as he wandered through a garden that had paint smothered on every flower. He dreamed of groves and quarries and swingsets where he could kiss the boy he loved and drown in him. 

He dreamed of Will loving him again. 

Maybe that was fine. 

Maybe Mike was destined to only kiss Will in fantasies and worlds that didn't exist. 

He could almost believe it was worth it. 

xxx

“You're getting stronger,” Mike said without any sweetening of his words or unnecessary praise. He knew Max would never appreciate such fluff, and their method of communication had always been blunt at best, so the only source of comfort he provided was the hand he held at the small of her back. “I'm almost impressed, Mayfield.” 

“Told you, I'm the zoomer,” Max rasped, and though there was a small sheen of sweat that dotted her pale face, she still only clung to Mike with one hand as she determinedly hobbled back to the chair and sat down with a small oof. 

Mike silently handed her a bottle of water before she even asked, and she sucked down at least half of the liquid. 

It was month two of Max's physical therapy and she was making leaps and bounds. While her mother had kept a large part of her leg and back muscles from atrophying over the months of coma via moving Max around while she slept, it would still take months of recovery, and Max was blessedly stubborn enough to try and cut that time in half. 

Mike would have made fun of her for it if she wasn't proving herself right with every session and seemed to increase her stamina and stability every time. 

He felt pride swell in his chest at the thought. 

“Who's coming tomorrow?” Max asked, and she wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, which made him click his tongue in disapproval as he waded out a napkin from his pocket and wiped patiently at her lips instead. She allowed him to do so with a roll of her eyes, and he almost appreciated her indulging him. 

“Dustin and Steve are going to swing by your place at eleven,” Mike said, more concentrated on dabbing away any liquid that had trickled onto Max's chin than anything. “They want to take you to the movies first.” 

“Are they still glued at the hip?” 

“I'm sure they'll announce the pregnancy within a week,” Mike said drily, and Max giggled and he smiled at her, relieved that she was awake to laugh at all. “I'm serious, dude. I think they have some sort of separation anxiety and now Steve won't even let Dustin take a piss in peace.”

“Yeah, because all of us are such a good example of healthy relationships.” Max snorted, and she pointedly glanced at Mike's hand, which was still rubbing small circles onto her upper back, which he shrugged about. 

It was true that none of the party members were exactly normal around each other, but he figured they had a good excuse considering how many times they almost died because of some interdimensional freak who had daddy issues. 

And besides, so what if Mike clung to his friends a little too much? It was a good, physical reminder that somehow, against all odds, they had survived. It was that shit Murray liked to spew out about whenever he had one too many drinks of vodka: shared trauma. 

“But I guess you can't say much,” Max said casually, leaning into his side and absentmindedly stroking his knee as he settled in beside her and patted her shoulder in time with her rubs. “I mean, you've been following Will around like a puppy for months now.”

Mike wondered if he should have been offended. 

But it was hard to feel embarrassed when loving Will was the easiest thing he had ever done, so he just said, “I don't think he's ever going to notice, so it's fine if I'm obvious, right?” 

Max peered up at him. 

In moments like these, she resembled more a doe than anything, a juxtaposition to her silver tongue as she said, “what the fuck does that mean?” 

He laughed and tweaked her nose and she cursed him out. 

“It means what it means, Max,” he said patiently. “I was his Tammy.” 

“But you're still just Mike,” she said in confusion. “Isn't that enough?” 

“You're so stupid,” he said fondly. 

“Fuck you,” she said without any heat. She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, fleeting and barely there, and she mumbled, “for what it's worth, you deserve it, you know. Deserve love and all that crap. It's… okay to want him.” 

“It's more than just want.” He smiled helplessly and shrugged, unable to do anything else, because he couldn't. He couldn't yank Will into his arms and beg him for another chance. He couldn't scream and cry for Will to even consider them being together. He couldn't do any of these things because Mike had already fucked up one too many times. “I need him, Max. I can't breathe without him.” 

Max didn't say anything for a long time. 

“I bet more than anything that he needs you too,” she finally said. 

Mike didn't reply. 

xxx

There was a pile of unsent letters stuffed into a shoebox underneath Mike's bed. 

There were exactly three hundred and seventy-seven letters, all written from the day Will left for Lenora to the day Mike went to visit El at the beginning of that awful week when they were all fifteen. 

Every single one of them started and ended the exact same way:

Dearest, Will.

Love, Mike. 

Dearest, Will.

Love, Mike. 

Dearest, Will. 

Love, Mike. 

Dearest, comma, Will. 

No Dearest Will. 

Mike should have realized back then.

But his friends always did call him stupid for a reason. 

xxx

It was late at night and Mike couldn't sleep. 

It wasn't common these days but he used to have horrible nightmares when the apocalypse first started and he thought everyone he knew would die and leave him alone and heartbroken. 

The relief of surviving had mostly alleviated his worries, but sometimes the air was too still and his heart was too unsettled and he couldn't do anything but stare up at the ceiling. 

Inches, oceans, away, Will lied on his side while facing the wall, and Mike ached, he burned with the inescapable yearning he had to pull the other boy close and kiss his soft-skinned nape, to nip the area there and taste the baby hairs that curled right above his shirt, but Mike couldn't because he had fucked up and god all he wanted to do was sleep - 

“Mike?” 

Mike almost threw his heart up when there was a small, shuffling noise and the bed creaked gently as Will turned over. 

It was too dark to see him or his beautiful face, but Mike could feel him staring, and he had to clear his throat twice before he muttered, “go back to sleep, Will. It's okay.” 

“You don't look so good,” Will said softly, completely ignoring Mike's suggestion. “Nightmare?” 

“Yeah,” Mike finally said after moments of waiting and Will making it clear he wasn't going to turn back around and leave it be. Mike scrubbed at his face with one hand, and he heaved a sigh as he said, “yeah, I - I can't sleep.” 

The blankets shifted as Will moved around, and a soft clicking noise followed. The room waded in a dim, orange light from the small lamp that Will had just turned on, and Mike had to blink several times to get used to it as he turned his head and stared. 

I wish I knew how to draw like you, Mike thought to himself as he settled more into his pillow and unabashedly traced his eyes over Will's romantic features. I would never stop finding all the art within your face. 

Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, but Mike disagreed. 

There was no world where anyone could argue that Will was only beautiful to certain people, because that simply was not true. 

Will had been personally crafted by Aphrodite herself and Mike knew, without question, that if a blind person were to press their fingertips against Will's face and dragged them across his skin, they could tell that the boy poured heart-stoppening, maddening beauty from every single one of his pores. 

“Hey,” Will said, and he smiled. 

“Hey,” Mike said. 

“You know how you ask me if I have nice dreams?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I do,” Will admitted. He was turned onto his side like Mike and his eyes shined impossibly bright in the otherwise dim room. Mike wondered, not for the first time, if Joyce had taken the stars and poured their dust into her youngest son's body when he was born in order to make him glow so beautifully. Mike would bet anything that under a microscope, Will's blood ran gold. 

“What do you dream about?” Mike asked. 

“Sometimes I dream about fish in the ocean,” Will said contemplatively. He looked so cute while doing it, and his fingers were so close to Mike's, where both their hands laid innocently on top of the blankets. “They like to talk to each other.” 

“What do they say?” Mike asked, amused. 

“They want to know what it's like to walk,” Will said. “And what it's like to have fingers. Some want to run and others want to dance.” 

“I also think about that last one.” Mike laughed. 

Will laughed, too, and Mike's chest rattled with it. “What? Dance?” 

“Yeah. I mean, I can outrun a demo just fine, but keeping in time with a song is out of the question,” Mike said. 

Will smiled, slight and soft and astounding just like him, and his voice was gentle as he said, “you seemed like you knew what you were doing at the Snow Ball.” 

Mike smiled helplessly, and he said with all the floundering grace of a fish out of water, “we should have danced together.” 

Will blinked. 

“I'm not much of a dancer, either,” he said, and he looked away. He was clamming up, shutting down this wonderful conversation because Mike had said the wrong thing again, and Mike hated himself for it, blamed the burning inferno within him for not being able to stay put in front of Will. “I doubt you would've had a good time.” 

“Will,” Mike said urgently, desperately, and he wanted to reach out and tangle their fingers together and never let go but Will wouldn't want that. Will would yank away and Mike would break because he's being held together with strips of tape and glue and Will is the only one who can put him back together. “I should have danced with you, instead.”

Will's eyes shined bright. 

Stardust. 

xxx

Mike thought about the letters a lot. It wasn't because he was ashamed or horrified by them, but simply because he was a bit embarrassed with how obvious he was now that he put some actual thought into it. 

In hindsight, being able to write love, Mike to his best friend like it was second nature while not even capable of choking the same words out to his girlfriend at the time was a bit of a glaring flag. 

The last time Mike had looked at them, he had ended up getting dragged halfway across the country while on the run from the government, and he had returned home with an empty declaration of love to El and a painting that meant so much more to him. 

Maybe Mike should reread them. 

Xxx

A long time ago, Mike had wandered up to Jonathan and asked him quite bluntly why in the world he could put up with his sister. 

“She's totally overwhelming and has an issue with staying in control,” Mike had nagged like the irritating thirteen-year-old he had been. “Also she leaves her gross, half-eaten food in the fridge uncovered. I bet her lips are covered in salmonella. Do you like kissing salmonella mouth, dude?” 

And Jonathan had honest to god laughed, rubbing at his eyes like Mike was just some cute kid and not someone who was trying to save him from the terrible fate of dating Nancy, and Jonathan had said, “okay, I'll tell you a secret. Do you like secrets, Mike?” 

“Sure,” Mike had said. “Tell me.” 

“She put a spell on me,” Jonathan had said, his eyes wide and sparkling and looking more like Will than their mother as he clasped an arm around Mike's shoulders and pulled him in for a half-hug. “She said every Byers will love a Wheeler.” 

And Mike hadn't understood, because of course he hadn't, but Jonathan's eyes had slid over to sweet Will, who was still knocked out from the Mind Flayer finally leaving him be and who lied curled up on Mike's couch, where Mike had draped and tucked several blankets around him. 

“Dude.” Mike had wrinkled his nose. “Sounds more like a curse than a spell.” 

“Nah,” Jonathan had said. “Trust me. It's a spell.” 

“Hey,” Mike said, present day, as he watched Nancy walk with purpose into the kitchen and yank open the fridge door, since she didn't know how to do anything without a frightening amount of intensity. 

“We're out of milk,” Nancy said as a reply, only her legs visible as the door blocked the upper half of her body as she shuffled through their shelves of food. “I thought Will said he and El were going to go shopping soon. Didn't Hopper leave some money on the counter for them?” 

“Yeah, they're going right now,” Mike said. His knee bounced like it always did whenever Will was mentioned, and he couldn't help himself as he said, “Will wants meatloaf for dinner.” 

“Hm.” Nancy tapped her foot on the floor. “Fine. That boy never asks for anything, so we have to take advantage when he does. When did Joyce say she'll be back from work?” 

“She has the late shift, so maybe not until ten,” Mike said. 

“I should shoot those fuckers for making her stay so late,” Nancy said calmly, and it was a true testament to their siblinghood that Mike didn't even blink. The apocalypse had all changed them in some fundamental way, and for Nancy, that meant she often thought the best solution was to kill first and ask questions never. He loved her for it. “I guess I'll wait a bit before I start cooking, then.” 

“You mean when I start cooking,” Mike said drily, because for all of Nancy's likeness to their mother, she didn't pick up on Karen Wheeler's talent for cooking, which had somehow ended up in Mike instead. 

“Potato, potahto,” Nancy muttered, and she straightened and smiled slightly at Mike, showing off the two apples she had in her hand. “I can at least cut these up, can't I? Do you want some?” 

“Sure, Nance,” he said, because he knew that she craved to look after him, to smother him and make sure that he was okay. It was a kind of smothering he could live with after everything that had happened. 

For the next few minutes, the kitchen was quiet aside from Nancy peeling and cutting the apples with an efficiency that one could only learn during an apocalyptic crisis. She was precise in everything, from her hands to her words, and when she slid over a plate of evenly cut apple slices, he took one, bit into it, and said, “I think I like boys.” 

To her credit, she didn't even pause in her slicing of the second apple. She finished cutting, arranged the pieces into a flower pattern, and then said, “okay.” 

“Okay,” he repeated, not sure of her reaction. 

“Mike,” she said, and she was smiling, wider this time, as she reached over and squeezed his hand. Their fingers were sticky with juice, but for once she didn't make a fuss as she looked at him fondly, and he realized with a jolt how much his sister loved him as she said, “I was ready to tear my own heart out with my bare hands to make sure Vecna wouldn't lay a finger on you. Do you really think I care about you kissing boys?” 

Mike probably should have been worried over how comforted he felt with such violent imagery, but it was so Nancy and he squeezed her back as he said, “I know. I would have gouged my eye out rather than let him take you or Holly again.” 

Maybe the violence ran in the family. After all, Karen Wheeler had all but stabbed a demogorgon with a broken wine bottle out of sheer, motherly instinct, and Mike also had the thunderstruck realization that he was like his mother more than he realized. 

“A few years ago, when you and Jonathan were still together, he told me something,” Mike said as they grabbed their plates of apples and settled in front of the tv. 

“Really?” Nancy asked curiously. She didn't seem bothered by his not so subtle jab over their breakup, something he had wholeheartedly been against for the past few months. “What did he say?” 

“He said that Byers were cursed to love Wheelers,” Mike said, and he thought about the fleeting looks Nancy still tossed Jonathan's way. He thought of the mixtape he knew Nancy still listened to that Jonathan had made for her, and he thought of the way she could never quite help herself from making Jonathan's cup of coffee first before anyone else's in the morning. “But I think he's wrong.” 

“He's wrong about a lot of things,” Nancy said with a disgusting amount of fondness. 

Mike smiled at her. “I think the Wheelers are cursed to love the Byers.” 

She paused. 

Then she reached over and pulled him in for a hug. Her voice was distinctly wet and soft as she murmured, “I think you're right.” 

Yeah. 

xxx

Mike was reading through the book Holly had been assigned for summer reading when Will suddenly said, “do you think Jonathan and Nancy are going to get back together?” 

It was close to ten in the evening and they were both in Mike’s bed, a sentiment that Mike never got used to, even after the month they had spent doing this now. The blankets were warm and Mike was careful to keep his legs on his side of the bed out of fear of cuddling into Will and never letting go. 

Mike stuck his thumb into the book to keep from losing his place as he put it down into his lap. He looked at Will curiously and said, “I’m not sure. I don’t think Nancy wants to, but she sure as hell isn’t going to get over him any time soon. Why? Did he say something?” 

Will, who had been sketching, also put down his book. He had graphite staining his fingertips and Mike wanted to kiss them, wanted his lips stained with the same shade of silver, but he sat on his hand and stopped himself from doing anything stupid as Will scratched absentmindedly at his chin, rubbing some of the grey onto his tanned skin as he said, “not really. But I can kind of tell, you know?” 

“Tell what?” Mike said distractedly. He couldn’t help but keep staring at the smudge on Will’s jaw, and he wanted to rub it away and kiss that spot. He so desperately wanted to leave a mark of his own, and it was almost too much, really, to share a bed with Will knowing that he wasn’t his. 

“That he still loves her,” Will said. His breath hitched a bit at the words, and he choked on them a little, like he couldn’t believe what he was saying. His eyes flicked around on Mike’s face almost desperately, and Mike wondered what he was looking for, if he found it at all when Will’s voice softened that much more. “Do you think she’d be mad if she knew?” 

Mike thought about it. 

His sister, who had never seemed the type to be gentle, and yet fussed and worried over Jonathan even though he was more than capable of looking after himself. Nancy, who never could quite seem to stop herself whenever she and Mike went out shopping and she kept buying those sweets that Jonathan loved. Nancy, who always, always looked at Jonathan like she was seeing the world for the very first time, and who could never bring herself to say anything more than a gentle hello even though it was so obvious that she had entire poems to sing about that boy. 

“No,” Mike finally said. “I don’t think she’d be mad at all.” 

Will smiled helplessly. “Yeah. She’s just too nice like that.” 

“I don’t think that’s it,” Mike said, a touch of desperation in his voice. “Nancy’s not that nice, you know. She’s stubborn and she’s too controlling and - and she doesn’t know at all what it means to be chill.” 

He paused. 

“But she loves Jonathan,” Mike muttered. “She could never be mad at him.” 

“Huh,” Will said faintly. “If only Jonathan knew that.” 

If only. 

xxx

“I think green is not my color,” El said as she tossed yet another jacket at Mike's head, who was sprawled out on Nancy's bed as El dug through her closet (with explicit permission since no one wanted to be at the end of Nancy's wrath). “Can you tell me your opinion?” 

“I think you look great,” Mike said honestly, sitting up properly and making a face when El just sniffed and flipped him off over her shoulder as she rifled through Nancy's endless rack of skirts. “Hey! You need to stop hanging out with Max, jesus. She taught you that, didn't she?” 

El shrugged in that way whenever the answer was yes but she didn't want to snitch. She was snarkier than ever these days and Mike adored her for it, though he could've done without her recent fondness for flipping the bird at every mild inconvenience. 

“I think I will try more purple,” El said with satisfied conviction as she pulled out some skirt that Mike hadn’t seen Nancy wear since her freshman year of high school. El hopped over to the floor-length mirror and held the skirt to her hips, swaying this way and that to make the fabric swish. “Do you think Dustin likes purple?” 

Mike looked up from where he had been idly picking at the loose threads on Nancy’s blankets to squint. Though he and El had been broken up for the better part of a year by that point, that didn’t mean all the information he had gathered about her over the time they were together suddenly flew out of his head. 

For one, she was doing that thing where she was deliberately avoiding eye contact because she didn’t want him to figure out what her actual thoughts were. She was incredibly open like that, sweet and wonderful and unable to lie to save her fucking life. 

Secondly, it didn’t even matter, because he could literally see the way the back of her neck was going red. She had grown into the habit of tying her hair up ever since it grew unbearably warm in Hawkins, and the color was similar to the one she used to wear around him whenever he got her a spontaneous gift or kiss. 

“Oh my god,” he said, all of it clicking together, and he burst into laughter as she whirled around and threw a nearby shirt at him with her mind. He sputtered as a sleeve got caught in his mouth, but it did nothing to stop his cackles as he gasped, “El! You like Dustin!” 

It was a statement, not a question, and El looked torn between spontaneously combusting herself or Mike. Luckily, she hadn’t picked up on Max’s temper, because her lips twitched with reluctant amusement as she wandered over, sat next to Mike, and said in a small voice, “you are not upset?” 

That immediately tapered off Mike’s amusement, and his voice curbed into something more serious as he scooted closer and grabbed her hand. Like habit, their fingers curled around each other, and he squeezed her palm as he said, “of course not, El. I could never get mad at you for that. All I want is for you to be happy.” 

It wasn't quite within his realm of expertise to be so openly vulnerable with his words, but after everything with Vecna, Mike had learned a hard lesson in expressing his love. So while the words came out a bit clunky, he knew he sounded sincere at least, and he showed his support with another squeeze. 

El, who had loved and cherished him for the better part of four years, smiled at him as she nodded. “Yes. I understand. I want you to be happy, too.” 

“I am happy,” he said, and it was the truth. Everybody was alive and, for the most part, unscathed from Henry. He got to climb into bed with the most beautiful boy in the world every night and pretend that they were more than just friends who were still healing and learning how to be friends again. It was almost perfect. “I promise.” 

El observed him, and he would have worried about her reading his mind if he didn't know that on principle, El was too kind to do something like that without good reason. Unfortunately, she was just good at reading Mike as a person, and so he should have expected it when she tilted her head and said, “when are you going to tell Will you are in love with him?” 

Mike blinked. 

“That's not really something you should say to someone out of nowhere,” he said mildly, if only because the concept of El, who didn't care for most social norms, condemning him for liking another boy was laughable. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack or something?” 

“I could just blow your heart up if I really want to,” El said casually, because unfortunately that was totally possible with her powers. She sighed and said, “I hated that conversation. Will did not have a choice in telling us what he felt. You seemed so - calm about it. For a while, I was sure you did not care.” 

Mike's breath hitched as memories of Will's awful, awful coming out floated around in his head. A moment that should have been private and wonderful had been utterly ruined by that dick, Henry, who used Will's love against him because he was just awful like that. 

Will, who had looked like he'd been shot, had had to tell nearly a dozen people at once that he liked boys, and more than that, that he had once liked Mike. The devastated tears that had run down his face still haunted Mike whenever he thought about it too much. 

“I did care. I do care,” Mike said in a thick voice as he blinked rapidly to try and dispel the tears in his eyes. “But it was such a horrible moment. I couldn't believe Henry would make him say all that shit, and I just - I didn't know what to do. Will was crying and it took all I had not to grab Hopper's stupid glock and split Henry's face in two by myself.” 

“I felt the same,” El said calmly, but the small flicker of anger in her eyes told him just how strongly she felt about her brother's forced confession. She took in a deep, stabilizing breath as she said, “it did not occur to me at the time, but I've realized that he was talking about you. He was, wasn't he?” 

Mike nodded jerkily. 

“Then you know how he felt about you,” El said gently. She reached up and cupped Mike's cheek, a touch so comforting that just on instinct, he leaned into it, rubbing his jaw into her palm and finding a softness there despite her calluses. “I do not think keeping your own feelings a secret would be good. Friends do not lie.” 

“I've spent enough time hurting him, El,” Mike said hoarsely, and though it pained him to know that he had been the source of Will's tears more than once, none of it measured up to what Will must have felt every single time Mike had said or done something so heinously stupid that he hated himself for it. “I can endure all of this as long as it means he's okay. I - I can do it. I can endure. I just… I don't ever want to make him cry again. It'd kill me.” 

“Oh, Mike,” El said simply. 

They hugged. 

“And I'm sorry for all the time I hurt you, too,” Mike whispered into her hair, which smelled like lavender and used to be the scent he daydreamed of. Now, though, he missed oranges more than anything, and he desperately sought it out in her scent, like some of Will had rubbed off on her and he wanted that piece to himself. “For the record, I really did like you.” 

“Yes,” El said quietly into his shoulder. Her voice was steady and strong but he still felt something wet seep through his shirt, and he felt like the worst person in the world. “I liked you, too.” 

xxx

Mike carefully handed Will a cup of tea, making sure not to let any of it spill onto the covers. Even though it was too hot to drink anything warmer than ice cold, Will loved lemon tea, and Mike loved Will, so every night he stuck around in the kitchen a bit longer than anyone else to steep a cup and sneak it upstairs. 

Will’s nails were black with the charcoal he had been using earlier that day to draw with as he took the mug and cupped it, shooting Mike that little half-smile that made him feel like he was both dead and alive all at once. Will took a sip, shuffled deeper into his blankets, and without any sort of warning, said, “are you upset?” 

Mike, who had been feeling close to floating from the pure ecstasy of being able to climb into bed next to Will and bask in his warmth, was taken back by the sudden question and he said, “no, of course not. Why? Did something happen?” 

Will shrugged one shoulder and a look of unease flashed across his face. It presented itself in a little furrow between his brows, and Mike longed to reach out and rub it away, to kiss the small wrinkle that formed there and soothe any discomfort the boy was feeling, because Mike hated to think Will was ever unhappy in any way. 

“El talked to me,” Will said carefully, like he was afraid Mike would set off and explode. It would have been offensive if Mike didn’t know how much of a temper he had (regardless of how much of it had been tapered off during the apocalypse, because Mike seriously doubted he would ever be fully calm in his life), so Mike only tilted his head in curiosity as Will continued to speak. “She said, well. She said she liked someone.” 

Will paused. 

Mike nodded. “Uh-huh.” 

Will glanced up at him through his lashes, and Mike wanted to kiss each and every single one. 

“Mike,” Will said slowly. “Did you hear me? El, she - likes someone. Who isn’t you.” 

Okay, now Mike was confused. “No, yeah, I know, I heard you. I mean, I’m not surprised. She told me about it like two days ago.” 

Will jerked in his spot and some of the tea spilled over the lip of the cup, splashing onto his hand and immediately turning it red. He made a small noise of pain and Mike hissed in sympathy, hurriedly reaching over to his bedside table to yank out a few tissues from the box on top as he asked, “jesus! Are you okay? Here, give me your hand.” 

Will looked helpless as he obeyed and his beautiful, artist’s hand loosely curled itself in Mike’s palm. The skin in between his thumb and pointer finger was red and no doubt sensitive, so Mike was sure to be gentle as he wiped at the tea there, dabbing so he wouldn’t aggravate the area more than he had to. 

“It doesn’t look like it’ll blister,” Mike said, eyeing the spot critically and feeling relieved when he gently ran his thumb over the red and it didn’t seem too inflamed. “Wait here, I’ll go get some burn cream just in case.” 

“No,” Will said, and his fingers curled around Mike’s, and any critical thinking skills dribbled out of his ears as he stared dumbly down at where their hands were intertwined, and before, Mike had been too concerned over the possible burn to really put two and two together, but holy shit, he was holding Will’s hand. He was holding his hand and for once, Will wasn’t pulling away. 

Will took in a small breath. “Mike, what do you mean El already told you?” 

“Huh?” Mike muttered intelligently, ninety percent of his brain preoccupied with the sensation of Will’s soft and simultaneously callused skin wrapped around his to fully comprehend what was going on. He shook his head and forced himself to focus as he said, “oh, well, uh. We talked while she was getting ready to hang out with Max. She likes Dustin, did you know? It’s really cute.” 

Will choked and his face contorted. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his mouth and his eyes were wide and almost frantic as he leaned in closer, frantically surveying Mike’s face for something, and Mike blinked at him, dreamily counting the freckles on Will’s nose as he said, “you know that she likes Dustin?” 

“Yeah,” Mike said, almost going cross-eyed as he tried to figure out if the tiny spot on Will’s cheek counted as a freckle or a mole. Mike had read once that moles were often a mark of where your most precious lover kissed you in your previous life. 

The thought brought him both anxiety and hope. In the past, maybe Mike had been better, maybe he hadn’t been a colossal idiot and had the balls to tell Will how much he loved him, how much he needed him, and maybe Mike had drawn constellations into his precious skin by kissing him all over his beautiful face and leaving behind moles that consolidated his love into marks. 

Or maybe some other douche had beaten Mike to it and kissed those moles onto Will instead. 

Maybe Mike had been too late in his past life, too. 

“Oh,” Will said after a moment of silence. He seemed lost. “I - are you okay?” 

“Of course I am,” Mike said immediately. He was sitting in his bed with Will next to him and their hands loosely joined in between them. The earth could have imploded in that moment and Mike wouldn’t have noticed. “Why? Do you think they’d be bad together? I think it’s cute. Dustin’s been into her since, like, last summer.” 

“What?” Will gaped. “Are you serious?” 

Mike laughed because he couldn’t do anything else in the face of Will’s look of incredulity. He was so cute that it made Mike’s heart physically ache. “Yeah, dude. Haven’t you noticed he gets all clammy around her? It kind of looks like he’s constipated all the time.” 

“I thought it was just because he was scared she would blow him up with her mind,” Will said. 

“Pretty sure he would like that.” Mike smirked, and he laughed again when Will pushed at his shoulder a bit. 

“So you’re okay with it, then?” Will said in a small voice some ten minutes later, after Mike had grabbed the burn cream and finished rubbing it gently into Will’s skin, ignoring the way the other boy had insisted he could do it himself. “I mean… I know you and El… what you had was special, you know?” 

Mike looked up from bandaging Will’s hand. The smell of the burn cream was minty and strong but it still wasn’t enough to completely overwhelm the scent of oranges in the air, sweet and tangy and so Will that Mike wanted to smell it for the rest of his life. 

“You’re right, what we had was special,” Mike agreed. He glanced down at the half-wrapped bandage, rubbing his thumb slightly over the rough cloth and smiling to himself. It felt good to love Will, to be able to wrap his wounds, and Mike’s voice was light and genuine as he said, “but it’s been over for a long time. I was just trying so hard to be there for her that I think we hurt each other more than helped.” 

“Oh,” Will said softly. His lips were stretched in some hard to decipher frown or smile, and he hesitantly ran his own thumb across Mike’s. “You never told me that. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Mike was quick to assure. “Besides, I never loved her. Not the way she wanted me to.” 

Will swallowed. “I bet you could have, with time.” 

Mike shook his head no even before Will finished speaking. 

“No,” he said kindly. “I really wouldn’t have.”

xxx

“I like boys,” Mike blurted out with all the grace of a newborn as he stared with wide eyes at Lucas and Dustin, who were both staring with contemplation at the honeydew melon they had been verbally discussing buying. 

“Dude, why is this thing almost five dollars?” Dustin complained. 

“I don't think Max would like this any more than, like, a cantaloupe,” Lucas said. 

Mike resisted the urge to smack the both of them in the head, though maybe he should follow their lead and ignore what he just said. This wasn't the best place to talk about something so serious, this being the supermarket at eight in the evening since Max had mentioned something about hating the hospital food to Lucas, who had immediately dragged both Mike and Dustin to the store as a result. 

Mike didn't even know why Lucas was pretending like he was the hero or some shit when they all knew Mike would end up cooking, anyway. Dustin could at best make a mediocre spaghetti and Lucas wasn't allowed in the kitchen ever since he set fire to a pot of boiling water. 

“Guys,” Mike said anyway, because he just told them something huge and he didn't care that a nearby older lady shot him an offended look. He flipped her the bird because fuck you, Mike had fought Vecna, he didn't give a shit. “Hello? Reaction, please?” 

“If you're looking for surprise, then you won't find it here, bud,” Dustin said distractedly as he rapped his knuckles on another melon. What the hell was he even listening for? “I mean, congrats on figuring it out and stuff, but I figured it out when you wouldn't stop staring.” 

“Staring?” Mike gaped. 

“Oh, right, the staring.” Lucas nodded like Dustin had said something only mildly interesting. “Yeah, that was pretty obvious. Actually, I was worried Will needed to go see an eye doctor or something because he didn't even seem to notice how many times you'd just look at his mouth.” 

Mike was mortified. Actually, he kind of felt like he needed to sit down and die on the spot, and his voice was raspy from embarrassment as he said, “fuck. Please tell me you're joking.”

Something about the crack in his last word must have captured their attention, because both of his friends finally looked up from the stupid melon to give him worried looks. Well, it was more like Dustin was worried, because Lucas just looked a bit gobsmacked, and Mike loved them and hated them equally at the same time. 

“Wait, you know we’re cool with it though, right?” Lucas rushed out, sounding a bit panicked. “Like, of course we are! It doesn’t matter to me who you like, as long as it isn’t Max.” 

“Can you chill out with your Max obsession for like two seconds?” Dustin snapped, shoving Lucas slightly. His voice softened significantly as he took a step toward Mike and grabbed his shoulder, his grip tight but comforting as he stared up at Mike with concern. “Mike, dude. Come on. You didn’t think we’d be upset, right?” 

“Mike,” Lucas said, rubbing at his arm where Dustin had pushed him. He smiled floppily at Mike, who stared back with a small frown. “I’ve known you since we were in kindergarten, man. I’ve seen you be in love with Will even before you knew what love was. I - I didn’t want to say anything because it wasn’t my place, you know? But I always knew.” 

Mike swallowed and he tried not to gasp his tears out. Though he knew, logically, that there was no way neither Dustin nor Lucas were homophobic pieces of shit, he had still been scared that they would judge him. That they would hate him for all the grief he put Will through, for all the bullshit he pushed onto everybody in his attempts to be with El, for the lies he told both himself and each other. 

“Oh,” Mike said chokingly. “Oh, shit. You knew. You knew this entire time. Dustin - “ 

“Yeah, man,” Dustin said helplessly, shooting looks of concern at Lucas, who made frantic gestures with his hands that said he was equally confused. “I mean, it’s… yeah. I’ve never known you when you didn’t love Will.” 

“All this time?” Mike croaked. 

All this time, his closest friends knew, and they didn’t say anything because they knew Mike wasn’t ready. All this time, they had seen and heard his love for Will, but never hated him for liking another boy, another friend, even though they lived in stupid Hawkins and with their stupid beliefs. All this fucking time, they knew, and they still loved Mike. 

“Always,” Lucas said. 

“Always,” Dustin echoed. 

Mike hugged them. 

They bought the honeydew with tear tracks drying on their cheeks and giant grins. The cashier probably thought they were insane, but Mike didn’t even care.

“So,” Mike said as they left the store, hauling a good number of grocery bags as they shoved dozens of them into the trunk of Nancy’s station wagon, which Mike had borrowed for the day. “When’re you finally going to ask out El, Dustin?” 

Dustin shrieked, Lucas burst into laughter, and Mike beamed. 

He beamed. 

xxx

There wasn’t a mosquito net in the window of Mike’s bedroom anymore since he had taken it out some few years ago when the most important part of his life had been to sneak out and kiss El until they were both breathless. 

It was a bit embarrassing, honestly, and Mike was a bit too grown to be able to wiggle out with ease like he had at fourteen, but he managed it anyway with only a few scrapes to show as he carefully squirmed onto the patio roof as quietly as possible. 

It was close to three in the morning and he didn’t want to wake up Will, who was just a lump on Mike’s bed. A lump who he loved dearly, and therefore didn’t want to keep up with his constant plague of thoughts and questions, which was why Mike didn’t even bother to wear shoes as he balanced himself on the tiles. 

He reached the edge of the ceiling roof with his hands, and with a simple heave, he was scrambling up on top, his knees paying the price as he had to crawl on his hands and knees to reach the flatter portion at the crest. 

He settled himself there, his knees pulled to his chest and feeling distinctly warmer than he had in his room, which abused the AC every night since Hawkins was too hot during the summer to try and tough it out otherwise. The back of his shirt was starting to stick to him and he could feel sweat gathering on the inner parts of his knees, but he didn’t mind. 

By this point, he could reasonably conclude that the most important people in his life not only knew he wanted to kiss boys, but more specifically, he wanted to kiss Will. Actually, the correct term was more on the I want to crawl into his skin and never leave than something as simple as just kiss, but that was fine. 

“Mike?” 

“Shit,” Mike blurted out as a familiar hand gripped the edge of the roof and Will hauled himself up with the same ease as Mike had. Upper body strength had never been Mike’s forte, even with all the physical training he had to do during the literal apocalypse, but Will had always been the stronger of the two and it showed in the way he climbed up with a nonchalance that made Mike’s face burn. “What’re you doing up?” 

“Pot kettle black,” Will said drily, and he carefully sat down next to Mike, wincing slightly as he did. “Geeze. How can you sit there with your shorts? I feel like my skin is going to get scraped off.” 

Mike glanced down, making a small sound as he realized that Will was right. His shorts were riding up from the way he had positioned his legs, and the bottom of his thighs were probably already red from how rough the roof shingles were on his bare skin, but then he realized Will was also wearing shorts, and concern blew out any thought of his own legs as he said, “dude, you’re going to chafe! Hold on, I’ll go grab a blanket.” 

Mike didn’t even get to get up before Will’s hand grabbed his shoulder, and just that single touch alone was enough to light fireworks in Mike’s nervous system and have him sit back down with wide eyes. 

“You don’t have to, I’m fine,” Will said, looking quite fond as he shook his head. “Besides, I don’t want us to go down just yet. Something’s bothering you.” 

“Oh. Uh, what?” Mike laughed nervously. “Crap. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you…” 

“It’s fine,” Will said lightly. “I was only dozing, anyway.” 

“Right,” Mike said, the sweat gathering at the back of his neck and down to his collarbone now having nothing to do with the heat. The smell of oranges was so strong that Mike felt drunk on it, and he almost swayed towards Will before he caught himself in time. “How did you know something was bothering me?” 

Will smiled. “You always come out here when you can’t stop thinking. I know you, Mike.” 

It was such a simple thing to say. 

I know you, Mike. 

Oh, Mike thought fervently. Oh, you really do. You know me inside out, don’t you? You could find pieces of me in the stupidest things. You could probably see me in things like shirts and trees and dirt, because I’m still just the dumb earth and you’re the sun. But there are some things you don’t know, either. You don’t know that I would die without you. You don’t know that I prayed every single night you were gone when we were twelve, even though I didn’t believe in anything but myself by then. You don’t know that I have letters that pour my heart and soul out onto the paper stuffed under my bed. You don’t know, Will, that more than anything, if I could, I would wake up to you every morning for the rest of my life. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike said. 

“What?” Will seemed taken back. “No, Mike, it’s fine. Like I said, I wasn’t really slee - “ 

“Not that,” Mike interrupted. Will fell silent and stared at him, clearly waiting for more. Mike shuffled where he sat, the tiles rough and scratching at him, but he didn’t care, and instead laid his chin on his knees as he hesitated. “I hate Vecna, you know.” 

Will let out a soft huff of air. It sounded like a mix of both amusement and confusion, and his voice was butter soft as he said, “I know. We all hated him.” 

Mike shook his head. “No, not - I hate him. Present tense. I hate all the shit he put you through, the way he took you and made me think you were dead. I hate that you had to shoulder so much crap that adults don’t have to deal with in their lifetime before you’re even eighteen. I hate that he took away your years of being just a kid and growing without having to look over your shoulder every other second.” 

“Mike,” Will whispered. His eyes were shiny and Mike had the sneaking suspicion that his own eyes were the same. 

“I hate that he stole your autonomy,” Mike said, his voice raw and shaky as he squeezed his eyes shut and felt warm tears slip down his cheeks. They felt like they were digging into his skin, scraping out flesh and muscle and stripping him down to his bare bones, and Mike felt a raging, burning hatred steam in his chest at the thought of the man who had tortured them all, especially Will, for so long. “I hate that he made you tell us something about yourself that should have been private and beautiful.” 

“Mike.” Will gasped out. 

“He shouldn’t have made you feel like it was a dirty secret that separated you from everyone else,” Mike whispered. “He - there was - is - nothing wrong with you, Will. You’re all the more amazing for being so brave and telling us, but it should have been on your terms, not anyone else’s. You should have been crying because you were happy to tell us, not because you were so terrified. I’m sorry, Will. I’m sorry that he scared you so much that you felt you had to tell us. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” 

They both sobbed. It was nothing more than quiet hiccups from Will and a constant stream of tears from Mike, but it was sobbing nonetheless, thick and hot from the back of their tongues. The air was still and unmoving, like it was listening to Mike’s choked words and Will’s soft, gut-wrenching gasps. 

“It should have been easy.” Mike cried. “You should have been able to tell us without looking like you were dying, Will. You - you deserved so much more. More than that shitty little room, more than whatever fucked up peace Vecna promised you. It should have been easy. Loving you is easy, Will. That’s why I couldn’t say anything. I just - I couldn’t - stand how much it hurt you to share a part of yourself, when there’s no fucking way we could ever hate any piece of you.” 

“Oh.” Will sobbed. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, and he was so beautiful, even like this. Even with the ruddy red of his cheeks, even with the tears that ran down his face in rivers, even with the wetness of his mouth - he was beautiful, and Mike loved him. “Oh, Mike. Thank you.” 

“No, Will,” Mike said desperately, reaching out and grasping Will’s wrists. Though he tried to be gentle, Will froze, and his eyes were wide and doe-like as they stared at each other, searching for something, and Mike’s heart was leaping into his throat as he croaked out, “don’t - don’t thank me for something like that. It’s just a given. I’m - I - Will, I - “ 

“Mike?” Will mumbled. He blinked slowly, his tears clinging to his long lashes like crystalline drops, and Mike stared and he wanted. “What’s going on?” 

“I’m like you,” Mike said. He curled forward slightly, his forehead resting on Will’s shoulder, and his entire body shuddered on another sob as he tried not to stain Will’s shirt, but he couldn’t stop it. There was a damp spot already and Will didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t - I don’t like girls, Will.” 

Will inhaled sharply. 

“I told you a few years ago that it’s not my fault that you don’t like girls,” Mike mumbled into Will’s stiff shoulder. “I was staring into a mirror, Will. I was screaming because I couldn’t stand to look at myself, so I took it out on you, instead. I - I wanted to love El so much that I didn’t know what to do otherwise. I don’t like girls. I don’t like girls. I don’t - “ 

“Mike,” Will choked. “Mike, Mike.” 

He gathered Mike close. His arms were warm and strong and he smelled like oranges and Mike needed him. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Will whispered against his head. 

“Thank you,” Mike said hoarsely. 

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

xxx

Things changed after that. 

For one, Mike didn’t have to walk on eggshells around everyone. He gossipped with El about things they both thought made Dustin so cute. He talked with Max extensively over how annoying but fit Lucas had become. He even argued with Nancy over whether or not Jonathan’s new haircut made him more handsome than hot. 

But the best change came from Will. 

Will, who looked at Mike like the earth had shifted underneath his feet, and Mike, who looked back, who saw him because he could never see anything else, felt something distinctly, impossibly, like hope prickle at his chest every single time. 

“How does it feel,” Max asked him with sparkling eyes as he helped her walk the length of the hospital hallway. “Knowing that your boy might like you back?” 

“Better than anything I’ve ever felt before,” he told her honestly. 

xxx

The chore wheel had been the result of Nancy putting her foot down when Hopper had let slip that he'd been paying off Mike to clean the bathroom every weekend instead of doing it himself. 

Honestly, Mike preferred the crisp ten he got every week and he rather enjoyed cleaning, but Nancy had been adamant and, short of a nuclear missile, nothing could stop her sister when she made a decision. 

So the chore wheel was made and pinned to the fridge and this week, El was on dishwashing, Hopper on lawnkeeping, Joyce on laundry, Nancy on shopping, Jonathan on babysitting Holly, and Will and Mike on cleaning the bedrooms and bathrooms. 

Spending time with Will was enough to get Mike’s heart thumping dangerously fast, even though ninety percent of the time they were glued at the hip as it was. But nothing could make Mike tired of Will, so he excitedly jabbed the other boy in the ribs and told him about their chores and how they could do them together, and Will had smiled so beautifully that Mike almost threw up. 

“Has Holly been doing her summer reading?” Will asked as they rifled through the closet on the first floor for all their cleaning supplies. “She was behind on the chapters the last time I checked.” 

“It's a good book,” Mike said as he handed Will a spray bottle and some gloves. “I mean it's a bit contrite for a kid her age but not bad. She should be caught up, we were talking about it like two days ago. She thinks Stella's a bitch and I said she kind of is.” 

Will didn't say anything, and Mike paused in his sorting of the various different sponges his mother liked to hoard so that he could glance up and see what was wrong. 

Will was staring hard, his look calculating and confused all at once, and he said, “you take really good care of her, you know.” 

Mike felt the back of his neck burn as he said, “uh, what?” 

Will smiled, and the slightest hint of a dimple showed on his right cheek. Mike wanted to bury himself in it and live in the warmth and kindness of Will Byers for the rest of his life, but said Will Byers was of course endlessly oblivious to Mike's inner struggle as he said, “Holly. You look after her really well. Whenever I take care of her all she can talk about is what you two did together.” 

Mike struggled to say something other than please keep complimenting me so I can finally die happily. “I mean, like. She's my sister.” 

“Sure,” Will agreed easily. “But you do that to everybody. You always looked out for me, too.” 

“You don't need me or anybody else to look out for you,” Mike said with a ferocity that twisted deep into his gut and nestled jealously alongside the beast that squirmed any time Will was near. "You know that, right? You're the most badass out of all of us, Will. You deserve a hell lot more credit than whatever this shitty town will ever give you.” 

“Mike,” Will said with a level of both fondness and exasperation that told Mike he was equally pleased and embarrassed. “Come on, that's not what I meant.” 

“Yeah, but fuck anyone who thinks you can't handle yourself,” Mike mumbled, snagging on a pair of gloves since that was all he felt he could do in the moment. It was either that or lurching forward and kissing Will until neither of them could breathe, a sensation that Mike feared the other boy wasn’t ready for just yet. “I hated your mom for a while because of how much she would underestimate you.” 

“Yeah?” Will's eyes shined with stardust. 

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Well, maybe not hate because I think I'm incapable of hating anyone related to you - “ 

Jesus christ, Mike, could you be any more obvious? 

“But I knew that it was bothering you,” Mike rushed to sputter out, hoping against hope that Will didn't notice how red his ears probably were. His heart beat thunderously in his chest as he took in a deep, rattling breath and tried to keep his affection under control. “I hated what she did is a better way to put it. I know that she was just scared something would happen to you, but I was scared, too. We all were. That didn't mean I didn't think you were incredible.” 

Will fiddled with the nozzle of his spray bottle. “You know you are too, right?” 

“Too?” Mike said intelligently. 

“Incredible. You're so - “ Will took in a breath. “You're so amazing and I don't know what I would do without you, Mike. You know that, don't you?” 

Mike couldn't breathe. 

They were standing there with rubber gloves on and with the smell of cleaning products in the air and Mike could only care about the earnestness of Will's kindness and the gentleness of his voice. For a split second, they weren't simply staring at each other on the first floor of Mike's house, and Mike felt like that poster he often stared at in Mr. Clarke's classroom when he was still in middle school. 

People used to think the sun revolved around the earth, but that's not true, Mr. Clarke had said passionately. The gravitational pull of the sun far exceeds that of the earth, so we're slingshot into an elliptical pattern that we can't escape. 

Mike decided right then and there that it wasn't because the earth couldn't escape, but rather because it didn't want to. The sun tugged and tugged and the earth held on because it loved the sun, got closer even though it meant getting burned, stayed even though there was a chance of getting hurt, because the earth was dead and lifeless without the warmth and goodness the sun provided. 

Mike took a wobbly step closer. 

Will stared, blinking slowly, and he was breathtaking. There were stars in his veins and fire in his hands and wasn't it incredible, really, how a boy like him could make Mike feel so alive? How he filled Mike's heart and brain with worlds of possibilities and comfort and happiness? How he made Mike wonder if he reached out and touched Will's cheek, would stardust smear itself across his fingertips? How Mike hoped and prayed that he would be forever stained by the watercolors that Will loved to use? 

“MICHAEL!” Nancy shouted from somewhere deep in the house. It made Mike fumble and nearly trip over his own feet, his face feeling like it was on fire as Will let slip a giggle and asked him if he was alright. “HAVE YOU STARTED CLEANING YET?” 

“KEEP YOUR PANTS ON, WE’RE DOING IT!” Mike yelled back. 

“IF YOU MESS WITH MY PERFUMES I’LL SHOOT YOU LIKE A LAME HORSE,” Nancy shouted before she, blessedly, fell silent. 

“Come on, the tyrant has spoken,” Mike said in exasperation to Will. 

They set to work. 

Splitting the house was easier than trying to move as a pair, mostly because they always got distracted and chatted with each other rather than concentrating on what they were doing. Of course, Mike refused to be separated from Will for any longer than necessary, so they often did rooms adjacent to each other while they scrubbed and vacuumed and picked up messes. 

“Dude, how can a kid Holly’s size produce this much trash?” Mike said in disgust as he swept yet another clump of his sister’s honey-brown hair. 

“I’m scared of why she threw away so many doll heads,” Will said from Holly’s bathroom. “Is there a reason they’re all bashed in?” 

“Oh, that. Don’t worry, Nancy and I did the same things to our toys,” Mike said. 

Will poked his head out of the doorway and stared at him. “There’s something wrong with all of you. Really.” 

Mike’s parents’ room was nothing more than a quick sweeping and dusting since there was no one currently sleeping there, and Nancy’s room was thankfully significantly neater than Holly’s. Within the hour, Will and Mike had made it to their bedroom, a thought that nearly made Mike turn tomato red because, jesus, why did he keep thinking of it as their room? 

Except it was, because Mike hadn’t even entertained the idea of Will sleeping anywhere else. The thought of Will, with his capable shoulders and smell of oranges, leaving Mike behind in his bed and taking his warmth with him was so unforgivable that Mike completely ignored it and made his way to the bathroom attached to his room. 

“Michael, do you know the mean of organizing, or do you just toss your crap and hope for the best?” Came Will’s disgusted voice as he rifled through what had to be Mike’s closet. “I’m pretty sure this thing qualifies as a time machine by this point.” 

Mike grinned at the usage of his full name, which Will only pulled out when he was annoyed. Mike loved hearing his name in Will’s voice no matter the reason, so he wasn’t even offended as he said, “you should see under my bed.” 

There was a pause, then a soft scrambling noise, followed by, “MICHAEL WHEELER!” which had Mike laughing as he started to rub out the water stains that had accumulated on his shower door. 

Several minutes passed without any more comments from Will, and - well. Mike was stupid when it came to him, something that he probably should’ve been more worried about because he was aware that on most days he was actually pretty smart, but he was too elated over spending time with his favorite person to realize that hey, stupid, your fucking letters that practically scream I’M IN LOVE WITH WILL are under the same bed he’s cleaning right now. 

It wasn’t until Mike finished cleaning the bathroom, tucked his gloves under his armpit, and walked into his room with full intention of both bothering and helping Will with the bed that he stopped and realized with some tilting alarm that his heart was going to give out. 

Will, sweet, handsome Will, was sitting on the very bed that they had been sharing for the past near two months looking like someone had shot him. Surrounding him on the messy blankets were a stream of papers, all in various states of crumbledness, but all written with the same ink and handwriting. 

Love, Mike. 

Love, Mike. 

Love, Mike.

Love fucking Mike, some hysterical part of Mike’s brain screamed as he caught sight of his own penmanship in the sunlight streaming through his window, and he knew he looked like an idiot as his arms went limp and his spray bottle as well as the gloves fell to the ground. 

“Mike,” Will said. 

“I can explain,” Mike said. 

“No,” Will said, and his voice was shaky, his face a roan shade as he sat on the bed, surrounded by Mike’s love. He sat there, his hair ruffled like he had been running his hands through it restlessly, and his hazel eyes were wide and dazed, and he looked so beautiful that Mike’s teeth ached with it, and he said, “no, you don’t - what - Mike - “ 

Mike made a wounded noise, and that seemed to set Will off, whose breathing was harsh and uneven as he let the letter he had been holding flutter down and join the endless mess of papers still littering the sheets. 

“My dearest, Will,” Will said in a slightly hysterical voice as he grabbed another one and read the top. “There’s - there’s a comma. There’s a - comma. It doesn’t say my dearest Will. It says - “ 

“My dearest, comma, Will,” Mike said. His words cut through the air like a knife, and Will jerked his head up, staring at him with an open mouth and a slight motion to his jaw, like he wanted to speak but couldn’t make any noise. Mike could barely even breathe as he stumbled forward, unable to think, unable to do anything. “I - I don’t - “ 

“Love, Mike,” Will whispered as he stared at the end of the page. His hand gripped the paper so tight that his knuckles were white, and it was a wonder the fragile letter didn’t tear right in between his fingers. “All of these end in love, Mike. Every single one. El showed me the letters you wrote her, but all of them said from, Mike. Never love.” 

“Will,” Mike said. “Oh, god, Will.” 

He fell to his knees and it stung, but he couldn't even begin to care as he crawled pathetically towards Will, only stopping when his stomach and chest pressed against the bed and he was clinging to Will's shirt, his fingers practically clawing into the hem of it as he gasped and tried to breathe through the tears that were pricking at the edges of his eyes. 

“I came out to Dustin and Lucas and they said I've been in love with you even before I knew what love was.” Mike gasped out, feeling like he was going to pass out as he kneeled and begged and prayed because Will was the altar and Mike was just a devoted follower. “I - I can't even look at you without feeling like I could die with how happy I am. I look at you and I can't stop seeing because I think I went blind when you left for Lenora. Everything was ugly and grey and then I saw you again and I couldn't handle it because I was living in black and white for a year and you were just there and - “ 

Mike sobbed again. “And I couldn't handle it because I was so stupid, because I - I thought - I thought if I looked at you for too long, you'd blind me again, and I was scared that you were going to take my eyes, then ears, then mouth, and every other part of me even though you've had me since we first met. You told me that I was your Tammy and I think my heart split into two. I was - oh, god. I almost threw up. I wanted to scream. I thought I was going to die. 

“I don't want to be your Tammy, Will. I want to be your heart again. I want to just be your Mike because I wrote over three hundred letters practically screaming how much I love you even though I was too much of a coward to send any of them. I want you to look at me like I look at you and I'm sorry, I know I'm being selfish, but I want you more than I've ever wanted anything else, and it's like I can't breathe without you.”

Mike squeezed his eyes shut as he shuddered. 

“Please don't hate me,” he said in a tiny voice. 

For a second, nothing happened, and Mike was sure he had ruined everything. He was sure that everything would fall apart and his world would explode and he would die, but then there was a hand on his cheek, and Mike's eyes flew open in time to see the tears on Will's lashes as he leaned down and kissed him. 

The sky fell and the earth rumbled, and it was all because of Will. Oranges and tangerines filled the air as he gathered Mike close, his arms going around his waist and hauling him up and onto the bed, and Mike moaned helplessly as he winded his own arms around Will's neck, pushing into him too eagerly and causing them to both fall onto the bed on their sides. 

It didn't break their kiss, something Mike would never let happen, and they feverishly pressed into each other, like they would die if they didn't keep kissing. Will's mouth was slick and hot and tasted like the tomato soup they had for lunch, and his lips were soft but the kiss was not as he tried to devour Mike, and Mike would have let him if he could. 

Mike squirmed closer and whimpered as Will groaned into his mouth, and Mike's fingers twisted themselves into the hairs at Will's nape, tingles running down his arms and to his spine over the idea that Mike could remain wrapped around Will for the rest of their stupid lives. 

Will kissed like the summer storm that he was, warm and electrifying and both greedy and giving at once, and Mike gasped when a hand, warm and stained with the oil paints he had gotten recently shoved itself up Mike's stomach, batting away his ratty t-shirt and skimming the heaving line of his rapid breaths. 

They pulled apart just enough so they could catch their breaths, but it was already too long for Mike, who leaned up and pressed desperate kisses to Will's jaw, licking and nipping and nuzzling his way up to his mouth again, which he pecked several times as Will squeezed his waist. 

“Hi,” Mike whispered, his arms still looped around Will's neck. 

Will swallowed, and Mike ducked to kiss at his throat which had moved with it, and Will choked out a small groan as he said, “hi. I'm, um, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you without asking.” 

“No!” Mike shook his head feverishly as he looked up at Will with wide, probably desperate cow eyes. “No, I - I don't mind. Please. You should kiss me anytime you want. Like, all the time. Everyday. For the rest of our lives, or maybe until I pass out. Whichever comes first.” 

Will laughed nervously, but he was tugging Mike closer anyway, who moaned softly at how close and tight they were up against each other. Will rubbed a thumb against Mike's hipbone, and he tossed his leg over Will's, trying to get him even closer. 

“Sorry,” Will said again, and his face was flushed and his mouth red as he looked sheepishly at Mike. He was so breathtaking that Mike suddenly wondered with a ferocity that almost scared him why the hell nobody else was in love with someone as beautiful as Will. “You, uh. You make me nervous, so I'm acting kind of dumb right now.” 

Mike felt like his heart was melting. “I make you nervous?” 

Will didn't say anything for a second, then he reached up and cupped Mike's jaw. Mike turned his head and kissed Will's palm reverently, wanting to sink into Will's skin and never, ever come up for air, and Will's breath hitched as he swept his thumb sweetly over Mike's bottom lip. 

“When we first met, I swore for a second that we had met each other before,” Will said quietly, his eyes dark and roaming around Mike's face, taking him in hungrily, like he was seeing him again for the first time. “Obviously we hadn't, because I would have remembered someone like you.” 

Mike flushed. “Will…” 

Will shushed him and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead, which made him practically purr at the warm sensation. 

“I read once that deja vu is nothing more than another version of yourself telling you something that happened to them, or something that will eventually happen,” Will murmured into his skin, dragging his lips down to kiss over one of Mike's eye, then down to his nose, and finally, to his lips, which eagerly pressed against Will's. “Maybe that's what it was. It's me, right now, telling myself in the past in all timelines to just hang on. Or maybe it was some other version of me who loves you, because there's not a world where I don't want you.” 

Mike's breath hitched. “Really?” 

“I should have known,” Will said, his voice tender and his kiss even more so. “Vecna showed me a lot of things, you know. Universes where he won, lost, became good, stayed evil, regretted everything, regretting nothing - in every single one, in every single world where we died or stayed alive, I never stopped loving you.” 

Oh, Mike thought. 

Oh. 

Will had seen things that no one, not even El, could understand. He saw things that no person should have been able to endure, but he did it anyway because he was so good like that and he needed to make sure his friends and family stayed alive. He had peered into the abyss and didn’t come out blind like Vecna, but instead, had realized the one, universal truth that somehow stayed honest even after all this time: 

Will loved Mike. 

And in this world, the one that mattered the most, the one where Mike could hold him close and breathe him in and kiss him like nothing else mattered, Mike loved him back. Mike loved him back in their bed, surrounded by the letters of his love, and the sunlight that lit Will like the sun that he was. 

“I would have died for you if I had to,” Mike said into their kiss. “You know that, don’t you?” 

Will smiled.