Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This was wrong. This was wrong, he was wrong, everything he was feeling was wrong and all his feelings could do were hurt Will, and he needed to stop feeling like this, now. He needed to tear his heart out, grind it to pulp under his shoe until it stopped beating and until he stopped feeling, then maybe throw himself into one of the many gates to Hell, because he was probably already going there anyway—

That was what the large, loud majority of his brain was thinking; currently, his mind was racing through thirteen different scenarios in which his emotions would lead to disastrous consequences, from Will's death to the end of the fucking world.

The heart he hadn't garnered the courage to rip from his chest, however, was calm. Still, steadily beating, like nothing had changed. Like this was how he'd felt all along.

And it was, wasn't it?

Mike wasn't sure why he didn't feel terrified— or horrified, or disgusted or revolted or something, anything negative at all— but, despite his racing brain, the feeling was entirely absent. There was this hole in his stomach where the despair should have gone, but how could he feel any despair when thinking of Will?

There was some saying tickling the back of his mind, a certain phrase Mike couldn't really remember in his half asleep daze. Something about hindsight and clear vision. Something along the lines of seeing into the past and watching all the clues line up before you, all in a neat little row labeled Signs and Symptoms, or Causes and Effects.

Signs included; panicked word-vomit, the constant desire to attach himself to Will like velcro, and the inability to really think about Will in anything past superficial, fleeting glances. The symptoms had been glaringly obvious, too; his racing heart, sweaty hands, and burning face weren't from fever. They were symptoms of love.

Oh— hindsight was twenty-twenty, that was how the saying went. Really, how could he have been so blind?

Well. Maybe his mom was right about him needing glasses, since he could only see clearly in hindsight. He had experienced all the symptoms of a crush— no, that was too trivial, he had to call it what it was. Love. It was love, blatant and obvious and blinding in his rearview-mirror view; the sort of love that made his palms sweaty and face flushed and mind dizzy with endless what-ifs and will-he-won't-he's. Mike was in love with Will Byers, and that should have terrified him, but he couldn't find it in him to be afraid. Will had always made him feel brave, anyway.

At least— well, he wasn't afraid of the concept of loving Will Byers.

On paper, his love made complete sense. Putting it in practice, however, was where things got a bit messy.

Take, for example, this exact moment, as Mike stayed anxiously still in the precarious position he had got himself stuck in; wedged between Will's shoulder, arms trapped under his back, chest encircled in Will's sleeping death-grip. Hindsight was fucking twenty-twenty, to the point where Mike could have almost found it funny, if it wasn't happening to him.

He had fallen asleep with no grasp of his feelings, and woken up with the physical manifestation of said feelings in his grasp. Great.

He couldn't just stay like this. Not when he loved Will, and had no idea how Will felt about him. And— well, the whole they-were-both-boys part was a large part of his current dilemma, no denying that— but Mike was more focused on Will himself. How would Will feel, if he knew Mike felt like this? Maybe Will would've let him down easy when they were younger, but now, when they were hardly even friends? No chance.

Especially now that the both of them knew what this sort of love meant. Mike wasn't just suffering through some innocent playground crush— he was harboring something dark, dangerous. Something people died for. Something people died of.

He had to get out of here. He had to get out of Will's grasp, go— somewhere, he wasn't sure. Go outside in the toxic ash, breathe it in and hope the chemicals would change his brain chemistry back to normal, maybe.

Actually getting out was a bit of a struggle, since Will literally had him caught like a fucking bear trap. One wrong move, and Will would be blinking awake, and Mike would hear Will call out for him in that soft, sleepy voice and he'd be done for, because Mike would always be an open book when it came to Will. He had tried so hard not to stay so exposed, especially after their friendship deteriorated, but the looming threat of the apocalypse was pulling him apart like a loose thread. He was coming undone, and as much as he'd like to blame it all on Will, Mike knew this was all his fault.

He was the one who pushed Will away, and he was the one who fell in love. All he could do was try and come to terms with the consequences.

So, ever so slowly, Mike wriggled out of Will's grasp, slinking down the couch and onto the floor. When his head finally popped out from under Will's arms, he fell in a heap, very nearly knocking his arm into the coffee table (which probably would have made him scream like a little girl and wake Will up anyway, making his five-minute-long effort for naught, but that was besides the point.)

After pushing himself up into a wobbly standing position, he slunk up the stairs, dragging sleep-heavy limbs behind him like leaden weights as he crept to the basement door.

He nudged the door open with his foot, hoping to every possible god out there that the hinges wouldn't creak. Obviously, God hated him, because the door swung open under his feather-light touch and whined on its rusty hinges, echoing down the basement stairs. Frantic, Mike whirled around to look back at Will, but thankfully, he stayed fast asleep. He had his face half-buried into his pillow, arms splayed out wide where Mike had once been. He looked cute, asleep like that.

He erased the thought from his mind as quickly as it came, because what would Will think if he knew Mike thought something like that?

Before he could accidentally wake Will up again, Mike slipped through the door and tiptoed into the kitchen. Of course, because God apparently had it out especially for him, Jonathan was standing in the kitchen again, still like a hovering ghost. What was it with the Byers and their tendency to just appear like ghostly apparitions? It freaked Mike out, Jesus.

Okay, he needed to stop invoking the name of God when the guy was clearly not on his side, and hadn't been since Mike was twelve.

Jonathan stared him down for a long moment, sipping his coffee like he had all the time in the world. "Mike. Hey."

"Uh— hi, Jonathan," Mike said, slowly edging closer to the coffee pot. Even with a full four hours of restful sleep, Mike still felt seconds away from snoring on his feet. He needed that coffee, and Jonathan was not going to stop him from getting it, even if he sort of made Mike want to quarantine himself in the one bathroom without a broken lock for the foreseeable future.

"Get some sleep?" said Jonathan, following Mike with his eyes as Mike slowly slid across the kitchen floor. The back of his neck prickled— was this how Will felt when Vecna was near? Did Will feel like this all the time now? God, that must've been miserable.

That— that was okay to think about. He could feel sympathy for Will in a totally platonic and friendly way, not in a I would throw myself into Hell if it'd make Will feel comfortable again sort of way.

Could he mix the feelings? Seventy-five percent platonic, twenty-five percent devotion? Would that make his love more palatable to Will?

"A bit." Mike poured coffee into a chipped mug, trying his hardest to keep his hand from shaking. A touch of coffee spilled onto the counter regardless, dripping a tiny heart-shaped puddle onto the floor.

So his coffee had to mock him, too. He bit back a frustrated sigh and pulled open the fridge, searching for the creamer he would've sworn they still had and coming up empty, because apparently the universe hated him. And, to top it all off, they'd run out of real sugar ages ago, so he had to settle for one-percent bullshit— which shouldn't even count as milk, in Mike's mind— and as many packets of artificial sweetener he could scrounge up. Oh well. At least he still had the luxury of drinking milky coffee in the apocalypse.

Mike ripped open four differently-colored packets of sweetener with careful precision, making sure this time not to spill any because they'd probably land in the shape of a Cupid's bow, or something. He hoped Jonathan would just leave the kitchen and leave their conversation at that, but Jonathan continued talking— though Mike could sympathize, just a bit. There wasn't much better to do while waiting for the world to end. "So," he started, just as Mike was stirring his artificial sweetener abomination with a spoon, "did you think about it?"

"What?" Mike said, staring determinedly into his coffee, watching the whirls he made with his spoon spin and dissolve along the edges of his cup.

"Talking to Will."

The spoon slipped from Mike's grasp, clattering against the ceramic mug. "I— uh. Thought about it, yeah. Definitely."

"Come to any conclusions?" Jonathan took another long sip, staring at Mike above the rim of his own mug.

"Why does it matter to you?" Carefully, Mike removed the spoon from his cup and dropped it into the sink, wincing when it clanged against the metal surface. Jonathan's words had startled him awake more than any amount of coffee could, and now every noise made his heart leap like a frightened rabbit.

Jonathan set his mug down on the counter, not taking his eyes off Mike all the while. "Because," he said, regarding Mike with a knowing look, "you matter to Will, and Will matters to me— and, well. You matter to me." He said that last statement as though each word was dragged from his throat like a rusty nail. "And don't you want to figure things out between you two while you still have the chance?"

Mike stared into his coffee instead of drinking it, worried that anything his mouth touched would only taste like bile. "I don't think we have that long."

"Well," said Jonathan, narrowing his eyes, "you'd better get to it, then."

Before Mike could respond, Will traipsed up the stairs, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes met Mike's for one brief moment, and— why did he look so hurt?

Will turned to Jonathan before Mike could figure anything out, and the flash of pain disappeared with his small, tired smile. "Get to what?"

Mike wanted to snake his hands under that blanket and pull Will close to his chest, wrap the blanket tight around them both, and keep it that way forever. "Finding the cereal, or hunting down Holly because I'm pretty sure she ate it all."

Will raised one blanketed hand to rub at his eye, almost concealing the way his smile stretched further across his face. Mike could see it in the crinkle of Will's eyes, though. Now that he knew why his eyes fell on Will's features so quickly, he wasn't sure whether he wanted to walk up to Will and trace the smile lines with his finger or lock himself in the bathroom until he stopped thinking about anything at all.

"Holly is the only sensible Wheeler in this house," Will responded, slowly ambling towards the coffee pot— which Mike was blocking with his full body, so he scrambled to get out of the way. He wasn't quite fast enough, though, so Will's elbow brushed against his arm, and Mike had to take a deep breath through his nose to keep his hands from slipping off the handle of his mug. "If the cereal's all gone, it's because of you. And Jonathan."

"I am not— do not lump me in with Mike," Jonathan protested, shooting Will a sharp glare.

Will shrugged as he poured a tall mug of coffee— black, to Mike's disgusted fascination— which he handled with careful grace, spilling not one drop, and certainly not one heart-shaped drop. How was he so well kempt just after waking up? Mike wanted to study him under a microscope, maybe— okay, that definitely fell under the weird category of thoughts. No more of that.

"I saw you pouring two different cereals into one giant bowl last night." Will took a small sip of his coffee, and Mike was not staring at the way Will smiled into his mug, why would anyone think that?

Jonathan and Will kept playfully arguing over cereal, but Mike wasn't exactly listening— he had gotten lost in Will. He was doing this little thing with his hands; Will would bring them up to play with the stray strands of hair curling down his neck, twirling each soft strand around his fingers, before bringing his hand back down again to swing at his side. It was a simple motion, but Mike couldn't help but stare. Especially when he sort of— oh, who was he kidding— definitely wished Will's lithe fingers were tangled in his hair, smoothing out tangles and scratching at his scalp like he'd done so gently last night.

Maybe, with Will's hands in his hair, Mike wouldn't get as angry when his too-long bangs brushed his eyes, or when he turned around too quick and nearly swallowed a mouthful of hair. It was no secret that Mike definitely needed a haircut, but who could find time for anything better than a blunt chop with kitchen scissors in the midst of the apocalypse? And Mike wasn't vain— because, again, who could find time to care about that in the apocalypse— but he did like his hair, and he liked having an even amount of it, and he wasn't sure whether he'd trust anyone in this house to keep it that way.

Will could, maybe. He had an artist's hands, steady and smooth. If Mike squinted, hairdressing could be a sort of art, right?

Okay, so he would— ask Will about it, then. He would ask Will to cut his hair, and he wouldn't be weird about it, he'd let Will chop his dead ends off quick and painless and not ask for Will to let his hands linger at the base of Mike's scalp. He wouldn't let his voice shake when he asked, and he'd made careful conversation with Will while he trimmed Mike's bangs and he'd stare past Will's face and not get lost in the doe-brown gleam of his eyes, or the careful sculpture of his jaw, or the soft curve of his lips. He would be normal.

He would be normal, Mike affirmed as he waited for the Byers' conversation to reach a natural lull— which never came, because Will turned to Mike, looked him up and down, and said, quite plainly, "Is your hair bothering you?"

"What?" So he had already thrown acting normal out the window. Great.

"You keep messing with your bangs, and pushing your hair around," said Will. Mike quickly tugged his hand down from where it had previously been, tucking and untucking his hair from behind his ear as he debated whether it looked stupid or practical. "Just, uh— thought you looked uncomfortable."

Jonathan nodded in agreement. "And your bangs are always covering your eyes now. It's creepy, honestly."

Mike huffed, rolling his eyes. "Come chop it off then, if you have such a problem— wait, no—" God, he'd rather let Joyce Bowl Cut Byers trim his hair than allow the combination of Jonathan and scissors within a hundred mile radius of him. "Will. You can— uh. Cut my hair?"

"Why do you sound so scared?" Will said, barely holding back laughter as he hovered a hand over his mouth. "I bet I could cut your hair perfectly fine."

Mike raised his hands defensively. "No, I— you could! Definitely! Just— I don't know, don't cut it too short. If you were actually serious. Which you weren't, obviously, so— I think I'll just go back to bed."

So. He had managed to ask Will to cut his hair. Had he done so normally, or calmly, or obviously platonically? Well. No. But he'd gotten the words out, and that was more than he'd expected, so— that was good. Maybe, as time went on, he'd calm down instead of becoming more insane.

Will shrugged, looking entirely indifferent— but there was a small, rosy blush rising to his cheeks, something Mike wouldn't have normally thought too much about until now. Was Will embarrassed, somehow? Or had he found Mike out just through this one conversation? Was the red flush on his cheeks one of anger?

"No, I— I'll cut your hair," Will said, his voice surprisingly small, "if you're okay with kitchen scissors, and the fact that I've never cut hair before."

"You've got steady hands," Mike said, and he— he stepped forward and took Will's hand in his own, holding it up like he was inspecting it or something, what did he think he was doing, "so I think I'll be fine. Get my fringe out of my face, and I'll be forever in your debt."

For a moment, Will just stared at his hand as Mike covered Will's fingers with his own, mouth slightly agape. Mike was about to point out the way Will's bunny teeth poked out from his lips, because apparently he'd lost any semblance of self-control already, when Will gathered his bearings and looked up to meet Mike's eye. "I'm charging one-hundred percent interest, then."

Jonathan groaned— honestly, Mike had been so focused on Will he'd forgotten that Jonathan had even been in the room. "That's literally not how interest works, you two are going to be terrible adults. Will, give Mike a mullet for me."

Before either of them could respond, he walked out of the kitchen, shaking his head and muttering something along the lines of we're all fucking doomed. Mike tried not to feel too insulted; he'd thought that a lot over the course of this apocalypse, after all.

"I actually wouldn't mind a mullet," Mike said, shrugging— and then he caught the way Will's eyes gleamed and hurried to correct his statement— "but all I want is a trim, please, do not get any 'fun' ideas."

"What, don't trust me?" Will raised an eyebrow. Somehow, without Mike noticing, Will had gotten the kitchen scissors in his hand— oh, fuck, Mike was still holding Will's other hand, shit. As Will leaned forward with the scissors pointed safely down, Mike dropped his other hand, pulling back like he'd been burned.

Will glanced up at him with the ghost of a frown, something Mike couldn't quite parse out. He could, however, understand the blatant irony in Will's statement; he'd trust Will with his life. He'd walk through Hell if Will promised it was safe. Kitchen scissors and clunky haircuts were trivial, in comparison to the way he trusted Will.

"With the way you're holding those scissors?" said Mike, eyeing the way Will was now holding the blade of said scissors directly upright. "Not really, but— whatever. Just make it quick."

Will patted the kitchen counter. "Hurry up and sit down, then."

What was this, the third time he'd suffered through uncomfortable torment in his kitchen? "I think we should ask the kitchen counter how it feels about all this. Do you think it enjoys being used as a chair?" Really, he'd rather be sat on the floor behind Will, leaning into Will's chest as he threaded his hands through Mike's too-long locks, but that might make his current situation even more internally painful, so that was a definite no. And he'd probably freak out and do something stupid, like lean into Will's touch and tell Will he loved him, or something. So. Definitely not.

"It's marble, Mike," said Will, rolling his eyes as Mike begrudgingly jumped on the counter. "I really hope it doesn't have feelings."

"Yeah, me neither," Mike said, leaning on his palms on the cool counter, "that would really suck for the counter. I mean, imagine not being able to move—"

Will brushed his hand through the ends of Mike's hair, and Mike went quiet. Just Will's hands ghosting the nape of his neck stole the words from his mouth— god, he was so screwed. So, so screwed.

Mike felt the cool edge of a scissor blade touch the back of his neck, almost as gently as Will's own hands. "Stay still," said Will, quietly. With the threat of Will's hands in his hair, Mike couldn't really bring himself to move. At least he could do one thing right for once.

Soft snips echoed behind his head as Will began to trim away. He kept one hand hovering over the side of Mike's neck to push aside his hair, fingertips just brushing his skin, while the other snipped away at Mike's dead ends. Every time Will's palm grazed his skin, Mike could physically feel his face heat up. At this rate, he'd burst into flames before Will had even gotten to his bangs.

The fingers resting on Mike's neck trembled, just slightly. Will's hands were cold, but the feeling wasn't unwelcome— it only made Mike want to wrap Will's hands in his own, hold them close until he'd warmed up a bit. Press them against his cheek until Will had absorbed the warmth from Mike's rapidly heating face, and lean into Will's cold cupped hands like an affectionate cat.

Basically, Mike wanted to do something stupid. However, he still had enough wits about him to keep his palms face-down on the kitchen counter, pressing them against the cool marble like it was his only anchor to the living world. "How's, uh— how's it going?" He thanked God that his voice didn't shake, then remembered how God had done nothing but betray him, and took it back.

"Good," Will said, shrugging— with the scissors still in his hand, mind you— but Mike wasn't sure he'd mind a missing chunk in his hair if Will was at fault for it. "Almost done with the dead ends."

So Will would have to trim his bangs next, and Mike would have to stare into space for at least five long, uncomfortable minutes. Mike had one more chance to act normal, and he had to start now, hopefully by somehow making his face turn less fire-hydrant red and more never-seen-the-sun pale. "Hope it's even," said Mike, faintly. His voice squeaked, just a bit, and Mike vaguely thought he was going to die. Keel right over on the kitchen counter, dead from embarrassment.

"It's fine," said Will, finally setting the scissors down and ruffling Mike's hair. Only for a second, because Will pulled his hand away as quickly as it had came, and Mike swore he could hear a slight gasp behind him; a sort of pained inhale, like Will's hand had jerked out to touch Mike's hair of its own volition.

Before Mike could think too hard about that, Will picked up the scissors again and walked over to face Mike. "This'll be quick, since you're so impatient. Just stay still this time, seriously."

Will stared at Mike as he spoke. Not into his eyes, but his face, eyes wandering to glance at Mike's flushed cheeks and the heat traveling down his neck. Mike was wondering whether he could stop his heart if he tried hard enough when Will spoke again, still staring with narrowed eyes at Mike's face. "Are you— hot, or something?"

"It's the sepsis. And I was still." Mike felt insanely lucky to have come up with a quick response for that, or else he probably would have ran out of the room with half-trimmed hair and never come back, so he'd never have had to answer that question.

"For the last time, you don't have sepsis. And you wouldn't stop moving your hands," said Will, crouching slightly to keep his hands level with Mike's hair. Mike had always held a few inches on Will— with more than a bit of teasing— but something about Will having to crouch to meet his sitting height made his stomach do backflips. "It made your head shake."

Mike pinned his hands firmly under his legs, mostly so he couldn't do something stupid like cup Will's face in his hand. "Is that better?"

Will pulled a hand up to move Mike's bangs. "I guess. Could you, uh— tilt your head up a bit?" Mike moved his head without complaint, because he'd probably do anything if Will was the one asking. Maybe that wasn't the best thing, but regardless, Mike wasn't sure if he could bring himself to care.

"No," said Will, frowning a little, "not like that— like, to the left a bit." So Mike tilted his head again, and Will groaned and said, "No, your other left," and Mike moved his head the other way, and Will let out a long suffering sigh as he said, "No, not like— oh my God, just let me—"

Will grabbed Mike's chin in his hand, curling his palm under Mike's jaw. Mike wondered, vaguely, whether the way his heart started to race would put him at risk for a heart attack.

As Will so gently tilted his head upwards— in the exact same direction Mike ahd moved just a second ago, seriously— Mike could do nothing but stare, every thought in his mind washing away except for a steady stream of Will, Will, Will.He was probably gaping like an idiot right now, but how could he not when Will was touching his face, willingly, without complaint, when Mike had agonized over even the concept for the entire day? Will was touching him, which meant he hadn't found Mike out, which meant Mike's secret wasn't, like— absorbable via osmosis, or something. There was no flashing sign above his face that proclaimed his general wrongness, nor a note taped to his back that read Kick me, I'm a queer. He was safe.

Part of him was glad for it. If Will didn't know how he really felt, Mike could enjoy his simple affection and smiles and general presence for a little while longer. But the other part of him, the larger, meaner part with morals, thought Will deserved to know— but did he, really? When Mike wasn't even sure if they were still friends anymore?

No, they were friends. They were friends, and Mike would prove it. Somehow.

Will raised the scissors just below Mike's eyebrows, perilously close to his eyes. With careful precision, Will began to snip away at Mike's bangs, holding them to the side so the hair wouldn't land in Mike's eyes. He was always so considerate, caring in even the smallest of things.

God, Mike didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve Will's care, not when he had done nothing but hurt him for so long, left him despairing and soaked in the rain then high and dry in the Californian sun. All Mike did was leave, and he still wanted Will's company? No, he didn't deserve it at all.

"So," Will started, his tone sharp, like he was trying to cut through the tension in the air with words alone, "what were you and Jonathan talking about?"

"Cereal," Mike said. The words felt fuzzy in his mouth, like the feeling of a slept-on limb. Probably because lying to Will never felt quite right. "I told you."

Will rolled his eyes, still laser-focused on Mike's fringe. "Come on. Is that the best lie you can come up with?"

Mike tried hard not to flinch backwards; Will sounded angry. His voice had gone hard and mean, solid like the sting of a hand against his face, and Mike thought he'd rather be hit than hear Will angry with him. "Jonathan was just— being weird. Ask him, if you care so much."

So now he was just being mean back. Great. Mike bit his tongue and did his best to not frown when Will's eyes hardened, glaring at Mike's forehead as he began to snip away.

Will's hand was still cupping Mike's jaw, the soft touch harshly contrasting his irritated tone. "I'd rather hear it from you."

"Look, your brother was being a total asshole," Mike huffed, crossing his arms. "Said we weren't friends anymore, whatever that meant. Are you happy now?" Well, this was one way for Mike to start the conversation Jonathan had so desperately wanted him to— though, honestly, it was Mike who was so desperate to know.

Were they really still friends? Could they withstand months of silence, years of rainwater erosion?

Slowly, Will's hand fell from Mike's bangs, scissors coming to swing perilously close to Mike's exposed knee. The hand he held to Mike's face stayed still, trembling slightly, sending tingling shivers along Mike's jaw. "I don't think he's wrong."

Mike finally flinched, reeling back like he'd been hit— and with the way Will was looking at him, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a firm line, Mike might as well have been hit straight in the chest with the way his heart shattered on impact. "What— are you serious? We're— we're friends, Will. Best friends. And, well— I know I've been a pretty shit friend for a while, but I never wanted to fuck things up this badly. I never wanted you to think we weren't even friends, I— I never wanted to stop being your friend. I never want that."

Will was backing away now, taking slow, tiny steps away from the counter. Under his notice, Mike had leaned forward, angling himself directly towards Will like he could reel Will back in with some unseen magnetic pull.

Then, before Will could move any further, Mike's hand shot out of its own volition, grabbing Will's shoulder because Mike would be his own magnetic force if he had to, dammit. "I fucked up. Bad. I know. And I— I tried to call, all the time, but the line was always busy and I just— assumed you didn't want to talk to me. And I wrote letters, dozens of letters, probably, but you never sent any and I assumed you didn't want any, so I never sent any of mine. Honestly, I thought you'd made new friends in Lenora and you wouldn't want to talk to me anymore. Thought you'd moved on. I was just— being stupid. This is stupid. Sorry."

As much as Mike wanted to leave, he couldn't seem to uncurl his hand from Will's shoulder. And, as pained as Will looked, he couldn't seem to shake Mike off.

"You called?" The way Will said it was quiet, breathless. Like he couldn't believe Mike's own words— and why would he, after everything Mike had done?

"Yeah," he breathed, taking a fraction of a step closer to Will, "every day, almost. But you only picked up once or twice, so I assumed you just— didn't want to hear from me."

Will frowned, with the smallest shake of his head. "What— of course I did, Mike. That was all I wanted." His eyes were a little shiny, and Mike wanted to thumb at the corners until he'd wiped away all Will's unshed tears.

Mike loosened his grasp just a touch, sliding his hand closer to Will's back. Apparently, his don't-touch-Will-Byers-or-bad-things-will-happen rule had gone out the window this morning. "We can try again," he said, his voice gone soft without even trying, "if you want. I'll talk to you, and go on supply runs with you, and spend shifts at the shelter with you. I mean— we can do whatever you want, really, I— just don't want to lose you again, yeah?"

"Yeah." This time, Will's voice was louder, more sure. "I'd like that."

"Good," Mike said, smiling. He watched with satisfaction as Will's frown faded, turning into a small, bunny-toothed smile that sent butterflies straight through his already-queasy stomach.

Maybe, in a sense, he was taking advantage of Will. Maybe, he was manipulating Will by asking for his friendship and letting it linger as something more in Mike's mind, something he shouldn't want. That want for more, that want for love— it was something he couldn't have, something he'd really only come to understand a few fleeting hours ago, something that made his heart warm and fuzzy and his head dark and dirty. Something wrong, something that shouldn't have felt so right in his chest, something so warm in his sternum like a steady, burning candle.

Was he a horrible person for harboring these feelings? Maybe, but all the guilt in the world wouldn't stop him from pulling Will into a momentary one-armed hug, tugging Will tight against the side of his chest. "Now could you finish my bangs? I need two eyes to see, you know."

Will leaned into his side, and Mike did his very best to keep his knees from buckling. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Get back on the counter," and he disentangled himself from Mike as quick as he'd leaned in, lightly shoving Mike away. For a moment, Mike was disappointed at the loss of contact, until he hopped back on the counter and Will walked right up to his face again, so close Mike could count every individual eyelash.

This time, Will tilted Mike's face without even asking, gently twisting it to face the kitchen window— boarded up with heavy-duty metal sheets, of course. Even if the spores floating around outside weren't inherently toxic, no one could take that sort of chance when every remaining life was already so valuable (and, likely, limited.) As Will leaned close to Mike's face, Mike busied himself with watching the light glint off the sheet metal on the window. If he looked Will in the eye when he was this close, Mike would probably pass away, and his frankly embarrasing emotional speech would be for naught.

Will had his tongue pinned between his teeth, and— it was distracting, okay? It was hard for Mike to focusing on boring metal sheets when Will was right in front of him, so concentrated and cute, and— okay, he couldn't think that when Will was literally inches away from him. Mike worried, momentarily, whether Will could see the longing written on his face, painfully obvious in his wide eyes and hopeful smile he couldn't quite get rid of, no matter how hard he tried. If so, he'd probably have been screwed long before he'd realized his feelings, because his face always turned soft around Will.

God, how had he not realized sooner?

Will ran a hand through Mike's hair one last time, pushing his bangs back into place before stepping back to admire his work. His hand disappeared from Mike's cheek, and Mike used every ounce of self control in his body to not chase after the touch. "Done. Don't blame me if your bangs look diagonal, you asked for this."

Carefully, Mike raised a hand through his hair, feeling the blunt edges of his fringe. If he closed his eyes, his own hand could be a poor imitation for Will's. "Feels pretty straight to me." Well. Generally, he knew little to no 'queer' terminology (was that even the right word?) but using straight as a descriptor for anything related to himself was— ironic, to say the least. And it would have been funny, if not for the cause of his recent self discovery staring him right in the face.

"Look in the mirror and see if you still think that," Will said, wincing. "I— shit, Mike, I might've fucked up—"

Mike slid off the counter, shoving Will's shoulder as he went. "I'm sure it looks fine."

As Mike walked over to the mirror hanging in the hallway, Will followed almost directly on his heels. Mike could practically feel the panicked energy coming off Will, and his nervous silence said it all; Will thought he'd messed up, but Mike knew he'd done perfect. Mike wanted to shake him by the shoulders, thank him loudly and aggressively, and then maybe kiss him.

But he did not need to think about that, not when he was looking himself in the mirror and trying his best to look at himself instead of Will, hovering behind his shoulder in the mirror. He really should be more focused on himself, anyways, since his hair was honestly perfect and Will had done something complicated and pretty at the edges, almost like layers— but focus had never come easy to him when Will was around, and it sure wouldn't come now. "You— wow. It looks great."

Will walked closer to him, almost like a ghost in Mike's reflected view. With the way he was standing, Mike could almost pretend Will's head was nestled in the curve of Mike's neck, that Will was stroking a hand through Mike's hair— oh, he was. Will gently carded his fingers through the ends of Mike's hair, grazing the back of Mike's neck and bringing all the heat in his body to those tiny points of contact between his skin and Will's fingertips. "You think so?"

"Yeah," Mike said, unintentionally leaning into Will's hands, no matter how hard he tried to keep himself still, "yeah, I really do."

He was so focused on Will's hands, Mike almost didn't notice Jonathan walking by— almost, because Jonathan was impossible to miss when he walked up right behind Will and said, so loud Mike practically leapt in the air, "Wow, Will. How'd you make him look so. . . presentable?"

Mike rolled his eyes. "Maybe he should cut your hair next, then."

"I did what I could," said Will, feigning a dramatic sigh. "Can't fix something that's been there since birth."

"Hey!" This double-Byers tag-teaming was new, and Mike did not like it. "I'm perfectly presentable— speaking of, Jonathan. Have you ever looked in a mirror?"

Jonathan just sighed and started walking away— and, just when Jonathan must've thought he was out of earshot, mumbled something along the lines of "Well, one of us is still dating someone."

Mike spun around, turning to face Will with his mouth hung wide open in complete offense. "So do you see what I mean when I say your brother is a total asshole?"

"Hm," said Will, staring off into space with a smile quirking at his lips, "no, I don't think I heard anything."

Before Mike could respond, Jonathan popped back into the hallway. "Mom wants you at the shelter today, by the way."

Before even responding to Jonathan, Will turned to Mike. And, careless of the consequences, Mike's heart fluttered at Will's open stare, wanting and longing in a way Mike wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. "Do you, uh, want to—"

"Yes," Mike said, nodding enthusiastically before Will had even finished his sentence.

Jonathan huffed, but Mike could see the faint smile creasing his eyes, and— well, maybe he'd never be Jonathan's favoriteWheeler, but if Jonathan was happy Mike was with Will, then he must've been doing something right. Hopefully.

"I didn't even— whatever," Jonathan sighed, clearly seeing any attempt to swat Mike away as a lost cause. "Get your shoes on, let's go."

So Mike slipped his shoes on, padded after Will, and sat as close to Will as he could in the car without straight up shoving himself in the middle seat because that would definitely cross the general line of weird. Jonathan put in a cassette tape filled with raspy vocals and heavy guitar that Mike had grown quite fond of recently— mostly because Will had left a mixtape of his own behind when he moved, and Mike just couldn't stop listening to it— and Mike and Will tapped their fingers to the beat on the seat of the car, dancing around each other's hands but never quite touching.

Mike wasn't sure if Will kept barely grazing his hands on purpose, but it was making Mike crazy regardless, so he— did something sort of stupid, honestly. But Mike had done so many stupid things in the past few days that this seemed trivial, almost, so he almost didn't freak out when he snatched Will's and twined their fingers together.

Key word almost, because his heart was this close from beating straight out of his chest. "Are you doing that on purpose?" Mike's voice shook as he spoke. Momentarily, he considered jumping out of the car and taking a nap on the highway.

"Maybe," said Will, smiling— and while his hand was cold, Mike couldn't bring himself to care. He'd warm up under Mike's touch, anyway.

The next few days passed with alarming ease, even in the middle of an apocalypse. To Mike, the past few semi-apocalyptic weeks had dragged like nails on a chalkboard— so while the reprieve of a few calm days was obviously welcomed, having an absence of panic for a whole seventy-two hours felt weird.

It wasn't like everyone else had suddenly become calm and collected— though Mike still wouldn't call himself collected whatsoever. No, this was some strange phenomenon that only he and Will seemed to experience, an odd feeling of time turning still when they were together. Mike had first felt it at the shelter, slinging together peanut butter sandwiches alongside Will; every second passed by like an hour, sweet and slow like a steady drip of syrup.

Then, when Jonathan told them it was time to leave, Mike had glanced up and noted with utter shock how the sky had already gone dark, even behind the ashen clouds covering the sky. He and Will had stared at each other with the same face of confusion, before Will slowly turned to Jonathan and asked exactly how long they'd been here for.

"About seven hours," Jonathan had said, grinning, "but you two were having such a good time. I didn't want to interrupt you."

It seemed to Mike that time turned slow around Will, sticky and sweet like dark molasses; then, when the day would end, Mike would feel as though no time had passed at all. It was like he had his hands on a clock, spinning them forwards and backwards at his own discretion, pulling each hand as far back as possible to spend an infinite amount of time with Will. He wished he could rewind far enough to take him back about a year, far enough to grab Will by the collar of his shirt before he could leave on that rain-soaked day and apologize until he could glue their friendship back together right then and there.

But he had this. He had about four perfect days— as perfect as any day could be when the ground was chock-full of portals to Hell, anyway— with Will, four syrupy-sweet slow days where they did nothing but lounge in the basement and read comics and watch movies and take trips to the shelter and talk and talk and talk, really talk. They were, probably, the best days he'd lived since middle school, before Will had disappeared and Mike's life had been flipped on its fucking head. They were perfect, because he got to spend every second anchored to Will's side and have conversations with him that lingered for hours on end.

Sometimes they'd talk about everything, and sometimes they'd talk about nothing at all. Everything included; how Will spent his time in California; how, to Mike, Hawkins never felt like home without Will; how Will felt about having a sister, and how he tried his hardest to protect her and it still wasn't enough; how Will snuck into Jonathan's stash of weed, once.

And, out of every serious conversation topic they'd discussed, the whole weed situation was the only thing that surprised Mike.

"Seriously?" Mike had said, his mouth hung wide open. "You— oh my god, I never would've expected—"

"I'm full of surprises," said Will, leaning back against the couch with a smug smile. "Look, in my defense, his bedroom door was wide open, and there was a box with rolled joints and everything right on his bed. He was practically asking me to have some."

Mike had just stared, eyes wide in shock. "I— wow, okay. How, uh— how'd it feel?"

Will paused for a moment, frowning slightly as he mulled the question over. "Well, after I stopped coughing my lungs up, it was kind of nice, like— floating in a really big pool, or something. Then El came in my room, because I forgot I told her I'd help her with her math homework, and I had to pretend to act normal for an hour."

"No way El fell for that," Mike had said, laughing.

"Oh, yeah, she saw right through me. Had to practically guard the weed with my body, because she was way too curious and I did not want to know how she acted high. And, I— if it went badly, and she got hurt because of fucking weed, I'd probably never forgive myself."

Then they started to talk about El, and Mike kept skirting around the real reason she'd broken up with him, and the seconds started to drag painfully long instead of pleasantly slow. Mike could tell Will was trying as subtly as he could to ask how he was coping with their breakup, but it sort of came off like Will was trying to pair them back together and Mike just couldn't stand that. He loved El, of course he did, but never like he loved Will. And, now that Mike actually understood his feelings, he'd rather die than shove himself back into that tiny, performative box alongside El.

El hated being held down, anyway. She deserved to be free.

When Will seemed to realize Mike was shutting him out, he switched to lighter topics; comic book villains, new movie releases, what the Party had been up to while Will was gone, weed again— but funnier this time, because they were theorizing about getting high together. Mike wasn't sure if he'd actually want that to happen, however, because weed would loosen all his inhibition and he'd probably lean in to kiss Will after one hit.

Though, sometimes— Mike thought Will wouldn't mind it, being kissed.

He was probably crazy. He was probably seeing things, vivid hallucinations in late night lamplight, but some signs were hard to explain away under the guise of friendship. Mike may be crazy, but he knew for a fact there was nothing platonic about waking up shaking in the dead of night to Will's wide open eyes trained on his face, shiny and remorseful like he'd been caught doing something irredeemably wrong. There was nothing platonic about Will pulling him into the tightest hug without even asking, before Mike had even let his tears fall, like Will had already known what he needed. Nothing platonic about the way Will held him close long after Mike had insisted he didn't want to talk about his dream, nothing platonic about the way they stayed entangled long after Mike had stopped shivering.

He'd tested that idea, long after his nightmare when Will had fallen back asleep. Still wide awake, Mike imagined putting Lucas or Dustin or anyone else in place of Will— and, no matter what, he couldn't imagine any of his friends holding him like that, or pulling back and wiping away his tears with one careful, shaky thumb, or whispering It's going to be okay, Mike, so softly against the curve of his neck. Sure, they would comfort him, but never like this. No one could match Will's gentleness, and though Mike couldn't understand why so much of Will's care was given to him of all people, he'd never complain.

He sure as hell was questioning it, though. As much as he'd like for everything to stay the same and sit in this little bubble of familiar friendship he and Will had grown back into, Mike couldn't help but wonder. What would happen if he toed the line between friendship and something more, just a bit? Would Will really push him away, or would he welcome Mike with open arms?

There was an aching longing, deep in his chest, something that seemed to have sat in his heart long before he'd seen it for what it was. He wanted— no, needed, needed with every bone in his body— to let that longing free and let it lead him straight to Will, because, of course, he could long for nothing else. He wasn't sure he could withstand the way it ate at his heart, tearing it to tiny shreds every time Will was so close but just out of reach, untouchable in the way Mike really wanted to touch.

Mike wasn't always sure if Will needed him, no matter how much Mike wanted him to. But Mike needed him. Mike needed Will, and now that Will had given him an inch of affection, Mike was ready to take a fucking mile.

He was going to do something. Mike wasn't sure exactly what something entailed, because he was thinking about bouquets and grand gestures, but all the flowers in Hawkins were dead and they could hardly leave the house— so that was obviously off the table.

For now, he could satisfy the gnawing longing in his chest by being at Will's side every chance he got. They woke up together, ate breakfast together, spent every hour together attached at the hip— literally, sometimes, because Mike couldn't seem to keep himself from brushing up against Will at every opportunity. He'd lace their hands together while they did dishes, even when Will complained how much harder it was to clean that way, or tangle their legs together under a blanket while they watched The Shining for what was probably the fourth time.

And, at the very least, Will was fine with it. Well, okay— he never explicitly said he was okay with Mike's sudden onslaught of touchiness, but he never told Mike off, either, so it had to have been fine, right?

If anything, Mike thought Will was more than fine with all his affection, with the way he smiled when Mike leaned on his shoulder, or flushed beet-red all the way down to his neck that one time Mike rested his head on Will's lap— sue him, okay, he was really tired, and all the pillows were on the floor and he didn't feel like getting up to grab one. Maybe that was a stupid, impulsive idea, considering that sort of affection was definitely not platonic, but that was besides the point.

The point was, Will was okay with it. Will was, as far as Mike could see, perfectly fine with Mike's somewhat excessive physical affection. Everything was completely and utterly fine, and even if Mike was being eaten up inside with longing, he was still doing fine, and he and Will were fine!

At least, that was what he thought, until he stumbled into one of the worst conversations he'd ever overheard.

It happened in the kitchen, of course, because all the worst things seemed to happen to Mike in his own kitchen. And, obviously, he hadn't meant to overhear Will and Jonathan's conversation, but it was hard not to hear them when everyone else was asleep and their voices were the loudest noises in the house besides the buzzing of the freezer chest. Mike didn't even want to know what they were talking about, but then he heard Will say Mike's own name with such deep frustration, and Mike couldn't help but be a little curious— okay, not curious, worried.

Will sounded so angry, so torn up and confused it made Mike's heart hurt. If Mike was the cause of that, he had to at least know what he was doing wrong so he could fix it, right?

As he lingered just behind the kitchen door, Mike reassured himself; he wasn't eavesdropping, just making sure he was doing all he could to maintain his and Will's friendship. He was just trying to be a good friend, and even if he'd forgotten how to do that long ago, couldn't he try again? Even if this was, probably, a horribly misguided attempt at doing so?

Mike braced himself against the wall, keeping his breathing light and quiet so he could hear exactly what Jonathan and Will were saying.

"—don't know why he's acting like this," Will muttered, leaning one hand against the counter and holding the other against his forehead, where little wrinkles formed in between his furrowed eyebrows. "I don't understand. One day, we were hardly friends, and now—"

Will cut himself off with a frustrated sigh, bringing his other hand up to bury his face in his palms entirely. Jonathan watched his brother with dark, concerned eyes, slowly inching forward to console Will with a comforting hand on his shoulder. Mike wished, momentarily, that he was the one comforting Will— but since this conversation was literally about him, he doubted that would go over well.

Jonathan rubbed light circles into Will's shoulder until Will pulled his hands from his face, glancing up to face Jonathan with a look Mike could only describe as utter dejection. For a moment, Jonathan stayed quiet, watching Will with a deep frown— until he finally spoke, testing the waters with slow sentences. "Look," he said, so quietly Mike had to strain forwards to hear him, "I'm not an expert on this or anything— but have you ever thought, maybe, that he might feel the same way?"

Feel the same way echoed in Mike's head, over and over again like a broken record. Feel the same way. What way did he mean? What could Will be feeling that he thought was bad enough to hide from his best friend? He could understand why Will wanted to hide things from him, even if the idea felt like a knife to the gut— but they were doing good again. They were friends agan, so why would Will still feel the need to hide something from Mike, something so obviously destructive it was tearing him apart?

Will jerked back, mouth set in a firm line of denial. "No. That doesn't happen to— to people like me."

Feel the same way. People like me. Feel the same way, people like me. People like— what? What was Will hiding?

"I've seen the way he looks at you." said Jonathan, somehow soft but firm, holding his hand out like an olive branch to appease Will's harsh scowl. "Always wide-eyed and smiling, like he'd pluck the moon from the sky for you if you asked him to. He looks at you like no one else, talks to you like no one else—" Will raised an eyebrow, and Jonathan shrugged and said, "—all soft and gentle, when he usually yells at the rest of his friends. And you and I both know he doesn't act like that around anyone else. Just— think about it, for a bit. Why do you think you're so different to him?

Will was different to Mike because Mike was in love with him, obviously, but why would Jonathan— oh.

Jonathan was cataloging Mike's every microexpression to Will because he knew, and he wanted Will to know too, because— because Will—

Feel the same way. Oh, it was obvious from the moment Mike heard his name fall off Will's lips, frustrated and tense and so completely heartbroken. Really, it was obvious from the moment Mike had watched Will's face fall that day in the rain, or from the day Will had recognized Mike's face even in his haze of possession, or from the day they met at the damn swingset.

It had been obvious since Mike learned what love was, and yet he still hadn't seen it. How could he have been so blind to think Will wasn't in love with him too?

People like me. Why was Will so determined to believe good things couldn't happen to him? Why couldn't Will just accept that he was loved?

Mike just— he couldn't stand for it, okay? He couldn't let Will go on believing he wasn't loved for one more second, so he gave up on eavesdropping entirely and marched straight into the kitchen just as Will was figuring out a response to Jonathan's question.

When Mike walked into the room, Will's face froze, wide-eyed like the question he'd been chewing on got caught in his throat. "What— I— uh. Hey, Mike."

Jonathan just stared at him, raising one unsurprised eyebrow. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Longer than I should have," Mike admitted, laced with guilt. "I—" he paused before he could say something stupid, turning to look Will in the eye so Will knew he meant what he said, "Will, come on. You know you could've talked to me, right?"

The corner of Will's mouth twitched, twisting the impassive line of his lips into something dark, pooling in the frown lines of his face. "No, I didn't know. It's been a while since you've made that clear."

Even entirely focused on Will, Mike could feel Jonathan's presence like a fucking boulder on his back— and while he had come to reluctantly appreciate Jonathan, Mike needed him to leave, now. He needed to make sure Will understood his feelings, because if Mike was right and Will had been feeling this hopeless for this long, it would be his fault if it lasted any longer. But with Jonathan practically breathing down his neck, Mike could hardly even get a squeak from his throat.

Thankfully, Jonathan seemed to get Mike's message just as Mike started considering bodily shoving Will's brother out of the kitchen and keeping the door shut with his weight. Slowly, Jonathan backed away, eyes on Will all the while like he had to be sure Will was okay with him leaving.

"Talk. Please." Jonathan gave Mike one last pleading look. "We'll all be here for you, no matter what. I promise."

And with that, Jonathan shut the door behind him.

For a long while, everything was quiet. The kitchen doors were always left open, and now that they'd been shut, the room felt tiny. He felt stuck, enclosed in a minuscule airless coffin, and his lungs were closing up and fluttering like caged birds in his chest as he asphyxiated, struggling to breathe just because Will was looking at him like Mike had taken everything good from him and then some. All the air had turned solid around him and he couldn't breathe, his throat was closing up as he choked on nothing and yet—

It was the silence, suffocating him. The silence and Will's wounded-puppy look, how he gnawed on his lip until Mike could see little streaks of red come off on his teeth. And seeing that was fucking killing him, and he was probably delirious because he wasn't sure if he'd taken a single breath in the last minute— so Mike lunged forward, prepared to plead until Will would forgive him for whatever he'd done. He wasn't really sure what he'd done, but regardless, Mike deserved the punishment Will was giving him.

He deserved all the cold looks, all the harsh words and angry glares. Anything Will would lash him with, Mike would take, because he obviously hadn't learned how to stop fucking things up in the span of four days, no matter how perfect those days had seemed.

"Will, I—" His voice caught in his throat before he'd even finished his first sentence. God, if he got emotional just from saying Will's name, how was he going to finish this? "I'm sorry, okay? I don't know what I did wrong, but it doesn't matter, because I— I hurt you, and I don't know how or why but that's not important to me, I'm sorry, seriously—"

Will cut Mike off— which was probably a good thing, since Mike wasn't sure if he would have stopped rambling otherwise. "Why," he started, pausing for a moment to let out a short, frustrated sigh, "are you doing this?"

"Doing— Will, doing what?" said Mike. He couldn't stop himself from slowly edging closer to Will, even when Mike saw him backing away, pushing himself against the counter like a cornered animal. "What am I doing wrong? You have to tell me, or I can't fix it, because I want to fix this, okay? Whatever I did, I'll make it better, I promise."

Will flattened himself against the counter, and Mike finally found the strength to stop himself from moving closer. He forced himself still, trembling on his feet, waiting for Will to deliver the blows.

"You don't—" Will paused, blinking at Mike with hard, narrowed eyes— "you don't even realize you're doing it. How do you not know?"

Mike threw his hands up, like he could channel all his desperation away into the air if he moved quickly enough. "Will. You can't just be vague like that, come on. Tell me what I did wrong. I can handle it."

Will made a noise in the back of his throat, something pained and defeated like an animal caught in a steel trap. Mike wanted to tug Will close, squeeze him tight until every sound of frustration had left him, but he couldn't, no matter how much it hurt not to. Not now, and maybe not ever, if this didn't go well.

"You keep switching up on me." Will gnawed on the inside of his lip, and Mike used every ounce of strength in him to not wipe away the trace of blood that dribbled down his mouth. "I don't understand. You called once— maybe twice— when I lived in Lenora, and when you finally come to visit you spout some bullshit about how you want to be 'best friends again', but you never act like it. You keep making empty promises to El and I, switching back and forth between whoever will make you happier that day, or whatever, and that— that's not fair, Mike. Not to me, and definitely not to El."

Mike couldn't even argue, because Will was practically right. Every promise he had made to El was entirely empty, all fake I-love-you's and dead flowers— but he couldn't let Will believe what Mike had said to him was a lie, too.

"I'm not— they're not empty," he started, wincing at the way his voice broke on empty, "I was serious when I said I wanted to be best friends with you again, it's just— El went missing, and I was so freaked out I could hardly focus on anything except getting her back, and then the end of the world got in the way of everything I wanted to do with you. I just— I didn't know what to do, and I fucked up and basically ignored you the whole time, but I— can't you tell I've been trying to make it right? Will, I— where did I go wrong?"

"I don't know, Mike." Will sighed, long and empty as he stared somewhere far past Mike's face. "Maybe when you promised to call me in Lenora and left me sitting around, waiting for the phone to ring. Maybe when you promised we'd be best friends again, then hardly looked me in the eye for a whole month. You don't see the pattern?"

Mike reached out his hand to grab Will's shoulder, then thought better of it and tugged his hand down. "I messed up, okay? I know. But I'm not gonna let that happen again, I swear." His voice went soft, like it always did around Will. For a moment, Mike could see a flash of a smile on Will's face when his words turned gentle.

The smile left Will's face as quick as it came. "How should I know you're not just lying again?"

His head ran in circles, scrambling for an answer that wouldn't scare Will off. Because who wouldn't be scared, confronted with something so wrong from someone they thought they could trust— not that Will trusted him much, anymore. What reason would Will have not to turn disgusted, sneer and shout and storm off and never look Mike in the eye again? And even if Mike had all the evidence to assume Will was in love with him too, who said his mind couldn't just be playing into the outcome he wanted?

Mike wasn't used to things going well for him, generally. Why should this time go any different?

So he spluttered. Came up with some bullshit excuse. Every word hurt his mouth. "I've been— confused, I guess. Things have been strange for a while, and I just— I don't know what to tell you, okay? I've figured some things out, and I won't act like that anymore. Seriously."

"You've been confused." The way Will said it was quiet, angry in a way that hurt Mike more than the fucking burn wound still gaping on his shoulder. It hurt more because this was his fault. It was his fault Will sounded so dejected, and he wasn't sure whether he could do anything to fix it. "Really? You're the confused one? Are you fucking— oh my God."

Will leaned back against the counter, spitting out a humorless laugh as he went. "You start being all nice to me again, out of nowhere, and you expect me not to be confused? You refuse to leave my side for a week after ignoring me for a month, and you keep trying to— fuck, I don't know, get near me, or whatever, and you don't explain yourself at all and you still think you're the confused one? I don't get it, Mike. I don't get why you've suddenly switched up on me like this, and I don't get why you keep touching me, and hugging me, and using every opportunity to get close to me when you— you're not even—"

"Not even what?" Mike said, stepping forward without thinking, like his limbs were moving of their own accord. Will and his god damned magnetic pull.

Will shook his head, lips pursed in a tight line. "It's not important. You know what? This isn't important at all. Just go to bed."

"But—" Mike paused, swallowing down something that might've been a choked sob, "you're mad at me."

"I'm not mad," said Will, stepping away from the counter as he slowly edged towards the kitchen door, "just tired. We can talk in the morning."

Mike really must not have been thinking straight, because he practically jumped in front of Will before he could leave, blocking the door with his arms held out like a peace offering. It was a peace offering Will didn't seem willing to take, but Mike could still try.

Will just looked him up and down, a little incredulous. "Mike, what—"

"I wanted too much from you." Mike knew he wasn't making sense, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He just had to get the words out; maybe, if he tried hard enough, poured all his longing and love and regret into an apology that was actually true this time, Will would accept him. If he said sorry enough, with enough conviction, maybe Will would believe him. "And I— I wanted you too much, you know?"

Will's eyes widened, like he absolutely did not know. Mike rushed to correct his sentence, adding some semblance of an explanation because he couldn't afford to lose Will's attention without losing Will entirely.

"You know," he started, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm him live-wire nerves, "we've always been different, right? I mean, even as kids, I was always different with you. Compared to how I acted around the rest of our friends, I was crazy around you, honestly, like— remember that day in fourth grade, when you sprained your wrist on the playground?"

"Yeah," said Will, smiling a little, "you wouldn't even let the nurse touch me. They had to drag you kicking and screaming to the principal's office before a teacher could get anywhere near me."

Will looked wistful, almost meeting Mike's eyes as he smiled, and Mike could work with that. Will wasn't much happier, but Mike was getting somewhere, and if he just kept going and made sure he was honest enough, maybe Will would believe him this time. "I wouldn't have done that for anyone else, even then when I was, like— a feral ten year old, or whatever. You were—" he paused, trying to force the words out of his throat before he thought too much about how they'd sound to Will— "special, to me. Still are."

Well— maybe Will would even end up liking him, based on the way his face flushed when Mike's voice went low on Still are, like his confession was for Will's ears alone. And it was; Mike wanted only Will to know his worst-kept secret, this barely-contained truth of how much Will meant to him.

There was still a flicker of doubt in Will's eyes, dark and mistrusting as he stared past Mike's shoulder. "Then why do you keep treating me like this?"

"Because, I— I wanted so much from you," Mike got out, struggling with every word like he had to drag them up all the way from his lungs, "and I didn't know why. I was— I felt like there was something wrong with me, because every time I was around El, all I wanted was to be with you, and I didn't know why for so long. And it was like you two couldn't exist in my mind at once, because I kept trying to shove El into the space I thought she was supposed to fit in, but— that was for you. Everything I thought I felt towards El was what I felt for you."

It took a long, agonizing moment for Will to meet his eyes. He just stared off into the distance for a long while, wide-eyed and blinking and so obviously confused as his gaze burned holes through the kitchen cabinet; then, finally, Will turned his head to stare Mike down instead. "Mike, just—" Will's voice broke, turning high and pained as he worried his bottom lip back into his mouth, "just say what you mean. Don't get my hopes up."

"I— Will, I'm sorry, it's just— it's hard." The words were so close, fiery on the tip of his tongue like electric sparks. Every time he tried to push them out, he got fucking shocked. "I don't— I didn't even know what I was feeling until a few days ago. I just knew that I couldn't even touch you without going crazy, and I could hardly look you in the eye without wanting to stare at you forever, and I— if I even touched you for one second, I knew I'd never want to stop, so I stayed as far away from you as possible. But then you let me get close to you, and I couldn't make myself leave, and obviously it made you uncomfortable or something because we're having this conversation and don't you see, now, why I tried so hard to stay away from you? Don't you understand? Tell me you understand and I'll go, I swear, I'll never talk to you again, I—"

Will surged forward, grabbing Mike by the shoulder, hand so close to Mike's exposed neck he couldn't suppress a shiver. "No, I want a straight answer. That's all I've ever wanted, and I— I don't ever ask anything from you, Mike," he said, pausing to cast Mike a guilty look, "so will you let me be selfish, just this once? Could you just tell me truth?" He was pleading like Mike had done earlier, so earnest and desperate it made Mike's heart twist in his chest.

And who was he to deny Will?

Mike leaned into Will's iron-clad grip, and Will's hand softened under his movement. With Will's soft expression, tired but wanting, he was beginning to hope again. He could hope for Will to love him back, because why else would Will beg Mike to say what he meant? He'd been too scared to realize that no matter what, Will would never hate him, or spit in his face and ask to never see him again, because that wasn't Will. Will was good, and maybe Mike struggled to understand that because he'd never been good, not really, but it was still true.

Will was, if nothing else, a good person. Mike could trust that.

"Maybe I'm going crazy," Mike started, instead of answering Will directly because he was still scared shitless, dammit, "but sometimes I think you feel it too, because I can't think of any other reason you'd still put up with me. I don't understand why you still let me be your friend, why you'd let me touch you, and sleep in the same bed as you and— hug me when I get nightmares and let us fall asleep still tangled together instead of pulling away if you didn't love me, because I'm honestly insufferable otherwise."

Will tilted his head, a smile quirking at his lips— and oh, how Mike had missed that smile. "You think I love you?"

So he actually said that. Unintentionally, perhaps, but still undeniably true; and, even if he could take it back, Mike wouldn't want to. It was hard for him to feel any sort of regret now that Will knew, and instead of running away or shouting disgusted slurs or hitting him or— any sort of reasonable reaction, really— he smiled. Not a derisive, mocking grin; something affectionate, something real. And, if Mike was reading the smile lines on Will's face right, he could even say Will smiled with love.

"Well," Mike said, small and shy because even the thought of Will loving him back made Mike want to bury his head in a pillow and scream, or do something equally stupid, "do you?"

Will stepped forward until it was Mike caged against the kitchen counter, and, as his back dug into the cold marble, Mike was sort of convinced he might die right then and there. "I think I'd like to hear you say it first," and then Mike could see Will's confidence falter as his eyes darted away from Mike and his voice went shaky, unsure. "You know, just to make sure I'm not, uh— reading this wrong, or anything—"

Mike had never needed words to communicate with Will. Their conversations could exist in glances and smiles, silent whispers of raised eyebrows and rolled eyes. That had always been just another special thing they shared, something no one else could replicate. Something Mike had always taken for granted.

So, when he leaned in to kiss Will in lieu of a verbal answer, Mike hoped to every possible deity in the known universe that he could still get his message across without words.

At first, Will was still. A terrifying, statuesque-sort of still; Mike worried, momentarily, that every god he'd prayed to decided to curse him to turn Will to stone under his touch. His mouth was cold, stiff and unmoving to the point where Mike worried he had read this all wrong, and Will didn't want to kiss him at all. So he pulled away, and stared at Will's dazed expression with despair sinking low in his gut, and considered maybe disappearing into the wilderness forever, until—

Will tilted his head, mouth parted and lips downturned in a pout and— okay, it was really hard for Mike to not just lean in and kiss Will again when he looked like that. "You—" He started, then paused, pursing his lips together as words failed him.

Will didn't need words for Mike to understand him, either. So, when Will went quiet, Mike needed no words to see his every thought in Will's wide eyes, pupils blown and confused— and, quite suddenly, Mike saw nothing at all, because Will was kissing him. Will was kissing him, and now Mike could almost hear Will's thoughts, loud as the blood rushing through his ears and coursing straight to his heart, which had gone completely still in his chest because Will was kissing him, and how could he react any differently?

Will's lips warmed under Mike's breath, short huffs of air because it was hard to think about something as trivial as breathing when Will was kissing him. He could repeat the words over and over again in his mind, and it wouldn't feel any less earth-shattering.

Will was so gentle. Mike didn't understand how he could be so careful, so slight and timid when Mike could barely hold himself back from pressing himself entirely against Will and— eating him alive, or something equally insane. To resist the urge, Mike focused on moving his hand blindly forward, and found a trembling hand braced against the countertop next to Mike's own. It took him a moment to realize that was Will's hand, that he was just as scared if not more scared than Mike, and Mike just couldn't stand for that.

So, hoping to God his aim was right, Mike moved his hands to cup Will's face, tenderly pressing his fingers to Will's jaw. Mike could feel the slight tremors in his skin, how Will's lips trembled under his own. Obviously, he couldn't let Will stay scared for one moment more, so he pulled Will flush to his own body and mentally prayed he was doing something right for once.

With the way Will practically melted against him, scrabbling to hook his hands around Mike's shoulders, he must have done something right— and, when Will's face crashed even further into his, pressing their lips together hard, Mike couldn't help but grin. Even with the trickle of blood from Will's bitten lip, he wouldn't back down, not when he and Will were so close they could practically be one body, and not when Will was kissing back with a new sort of fervency that made Mike want to collapse in a heap on the kitchen floor.

Mike smiled even further when he felt Will's mouth quirk up under his, too— and then, suddenly, Will started laughing.They were full-bodied giggles, sent straight into Mike's mouth, something Mike couldn't kiss through no matter how hard he tried, especially not when Will's infectious laughter reached him not moments later.

They stayed pressed together, with Will's hands draped loosely over Mike's shoulders and Mike's fingers pressed into Will's cheeks. For a while, neither of them could get their bearings; Mike would just calm down, and then he'd look into Will's bunny-toothed grin and set himself off again. He wasn't even sure why they were laughing, but he was with Will, and Will was happy, so he couldn't bring himself to care.

Eventually, Mike found a bit of breathing room between their uncontained laughter. Between gasping, grinning breaths, he said, "What— hah— what's so funny?"

"You love me," said Will, looking a little awed as he stared up at Mike, open-mouthed as he breathed the words out, reverent like a hushed prayer. "You really— you do?"

Mike moved a hand to cup Will's cheek, and this time, he didn't even try to contain his grin when Will leaned into his touch. "'Course I do. I always have, I think, I just— wish I realized it sooner."

He thought about it, for a moment. The idea of figuring himself out before shoving himself into a tiny box with El just because that was what he was 'supposed to do'. The idea of spending his last summer with Will, instead of locked up in El's room when neither of them wanted to be there, really.

God, his life would have been so much better if he'd just let himself be. If he'd let himself exist, exactly how he was really meant to be, maybe he and Will would've figured things out months ago— years, even.

"Well," said Will, a teasing lilt to his voice, "how long did it take you?"

"Uhm." He realized, now, that not even waiting a week to confess his feelings was, maybe, a little embarrassing. Just a tad. "I might have figured it out four days ago? But those four days were fucking torture, you have no idea—"

Will cut Mike off before he could finish speaking. "Two years. I waited two years, and you think four days were 'torture'?" Mike almost thought Will was angry again— but Will was still smiling, and his voice held no malice, only that same teasing drawl Mike had heard moments prior.

"I think I've loved you forever, really," said Mike, not even pausing to think as the words rolled off his tongue. It was freeing, honestly, to feel no hesitation around the world love. "I just didn't think about how until recently. Kind of just thought all guys wanted to spend the rest of their lives with their best friends too, but I was wrong. Obviously."

Slowly, Will moved his hand from Mike's shoulder to the base of his neck, gently threading his fingers through Mike's curls. "We'll do that," he said, scratching at Mike's scalp. "However long the rest of our lives are, anyway."

Mike shook his head vehemently, because he wasn't even going to think of that as a possibility. Even with the end of the world raging on outside, Mike was sure of one thing; he was going to live, for Will. He was going to live until his hair turned silver-gray and until the years had gone far into the twenty-first century. He was going to live because he couldn't stand the thought of leaving Will when he had just figured out who he was.

They were going to live, apocalypse be damned. "Don't say that. We'll live. I'll make sure of it."

"Yeah," said Will, like he actually trusted Mike— and while Mike still wasn't sure he deserved it, he could have it, now. He could have Will's trust, because this time, he'd done something to earn it. "Okay."

Mike smiled, letting Will's soft voice wash over him like a wave, warm and calming in a way that made his eyes droop and— oh, he was tired. And maybe sleep was blurring his inhibition, just a little, because he swooped forward to press a kiss to Will's cheek and said, "It's getting late, yeah? We should sleep."

He watched with great satisfaction as Will's face turned flushed, red like a ripe apple. Mike thought— in a half-asleep daze, because that confession took a lot out of him, okay— how he'd like to kiss Will again, to see if his face would blush even brighter. So he pressed a quick peck to Will's lips, smiling all the while as Will just stared, wide-eyed and blinking.

"Jesus, I— yeah. Sleep. Sounds good. Definitely." Will stuttered through every word, still violently flushed as he began to walk towards the basement stairs.

Mike followed, quickly catching up to Will on his long legs and wasting no time to twine their hands together. "I'm going to be so annoying about this, you know."

Will raised an eyebrow. "And you'll be different how?"

"I know your weakness," Mike responded, smirking. "I can just— kiss you, and you get all flustered. It's great."

Will glanced up at Mike as he stepped off the bottom stair, rolling his eyes. "I think I hate you."

In response, Mike just dragged him to the couch— which, as he'd recently discovered, had a fucking pullout bed inside, could you believe it! All this time, Will could've been sleeping with him, instead of on that dirty, half-deflated mattress, and Mike was none the wiser. But whatever.

He hopped on the couch, pulling Will down with him with a sly smile. "Hm, no. I think you love me."

"Yeah," said Will, all soft and sincere, "I think I do."

Will's eyes were sparkling in the dim light, bright and lively in a way Mike hadn't seen in a long time. And maybe it washis fault Will had been so unhappy for so long, and maybe he'd forever hate himself for it— but now, Will was happy. Will was happy, and Mike would make sure they'd have an eternity and a year to stay that way, apocalypse be damned. That was the least he could do, after years of nothing but fucking up, years of pushing Will away and locking himself into that little box of normal he couldn't really fit into, no matter how much he pretended.

For Will, Mike would stop the world from ending. For Will, Mike would do anything. Burn the world to keep him warm, sacrifice every blanket in the goddamn house to stop him from shivering, hold Will tight against his chest until all his warmth leeched into Will. Mike had left Will in the cold for so long, he'd burn himself up like a matchstick to thaw him out if that was what it took.

Thankfully, Will was nothing but good, and all he wanted from Mike was to exchange warmth under a shared blanket.

On the verge of sleep, Mike slung his arms across Will like he was cuddling a teddy bear, tugging him tight against his torso. Will made a slight noise of confusion, a low and sleep-addled tone that sent flutters through Mike's chest like the soft beat of bird wings, sweet and silky against his sternum. "What're you doing?"

"Keeping you warm," Mike murmured, a quiet promise into Will's hair.

Instead of responding, Will just pushed himself closer to Mike, threading an arm through the crook of his elbow. For a while, Mike thought Will had fallen asleep, until he whispered, sleepily, "'Night, Mike. Love you."

Mike could hardly keep his eyes open, and yet he pressed a slight kiss to the back of Will's hair, whispering a soft Love you with it. He fell asleep like that, with his lips flush against Will's hair.

Mike hoped he would spend the rest of his nights keeping Will warm.