Archive of Our Own ^beta

December 31, 1993

Mike Wheeler is miserable.

It’s not new information to anyone in his life and, hell, not even to himself. It’s a fact he has already filed into his brain and learned to live with. Although there are moments, such as this one, when said fact becomes unbearably obvious.

He’s leaving the beige and significantly depressing motel room he has rented for the next two days, in his slightly wrinkled light-blue button-up and kind of ugly sweater that maybe has too many stray threads coming out of its sleeves on top of it. And to seal the package, a pair of dark pants he now notices didn’t matter how much time he spent considering if they were good enough in front of the motel’s room mirror, because Mike realizes the second he steps outside on the way to his car, that he is cold. The pants do nothing to protect him from the December weather.

His thin-framed glasses that are tightly glued to the bridge of his nose get foggy. He fears his hair, that is perfectly brushed to the side, will be messed up by the light wind of the night — another ten minutes that were wasted in front of the mirror.

He guesses he doesn’t look festive. Whatever. Mike is not in the mood to celebrate another stupid turn of the Earth around the Sun, anyway.

He checks his wrist watch the second he closes the door of his car. 9:40 pm. He is a bit late. He thinks it shouldn’t be a big deal to arrive at a New Year’s Eve party at ten o’clock, but Max and Lucas’ invite did say 8 pm. He sighs; it should be alright. Right? It’s not like Mike wants to stay for too long at the party, either way. Even if he’s being the shitty friend he never thought he would be — the one who doesn’t have the effort to leave town to visit, and only calls three times a year, and forgets to answer letters. Or misses them in the mess of his room. Although it only happened twice.

He checks the address on the invite just one more time, looks over the open map on the passenger seat and prays to some God that he doesn’t get lost this late and in this weather — even if he won’t be surprised if he does, he’s never been to Durham.

He sighs one more time before leaving the dark parking lot, promising himself to try to have a good time, and leave right after midnight. It shouldn’t be hard. Right?

The way to Max and Lucas’ isn’t as bad as Mike expected, but it’s long enough to make him lose himself in thought as he drives through unknown neighborhoods.

He’s happy for his friends — truly! — for the paths they chose in life and how successful they have been. Although Mike could already predict all the pitiful looks he would receive (which he preferred to just ignore) from his friends.

Sure, he dropped out of college right after his first semester because studying law is stupid and went back to his parents’ house, just to face the worried looks of his mom and disappointment of his dad. Sure, his dad calls him useless without actually using that word every day when Mike shows just a bit of interest in his actual dream career — being a writer — or in the current book he’s working on. Sure, he jumps from shitty job to shitty job downtown, and his life is just as depressing and lonely as he is; he just doesn’t want to spend hours hearing about his friends' incredible new lives and smile fake smiles at them all night. (Oh, and the pitiful looks for how sad his own life is now, also that.)

That’s partly why he has been avoiding letters. Or calls. Or their yearly meetings somewhere around the country.

And it’s also partly because of Will Byers.

Mike believes ninety-nine of his current one hundred problems are caused by Will Byers — or the absence of him.

He thinks about the stack of unanswered letters from Will, sitting in his drawer back at home; letters he cherishes but is too much of a fucking coward to ever send his replies. 

He wishes he weren’t such a pussy. He wishes he could write to Will every day without feeling like this. He spends frantic hours secretly composing his replies every time he finishes reading Will’s, but always finds himself stuck when actually sending them.

Mike thinks about all the times he picked up the phone over the last three and a half years and heard Will’s voice calling for him, but froze, and could do nothing but hang up on his face. All Will ever received from him over the last years was silence. No calls. No letters. Just silence.

Even so, the letters never stopped coming. Will never stopped calling. Because Will is so pure and nice and a good friend and Mike is none of those things.

And he hasn’t seen Will since that last summer after graduation, when everyone was together one last time.

However, he has gotten his act together now (and a few good angry calls from Nancy), and that’s why he’s currently driving to Max and Lucas’. Finally facing his fear of seeing Will again, and with a strange twist in his stomach that feels too close to hope and courage he hasn’t felt in a while. And guilt. Because he’s such a bad friend.

He wonders. Is Will even going? Does Mike ever cross Will’s mind nowadays? Is Will happy without Mike in his life? Has Will gotten over him? What will he say if he does see Will?

Maybe, for starters; thank you. I’m sorry. Leaving you was harder than I could have imagined and I regretted so much more than you can think. I remember more of you than I’d like. I wish we hadn’t stopped talking. I wish I had understood myself sooner. I miss you. I love you.

Seriously, how miserable can someone be?

After all the terrors and traumas from different dimensions and bloody monsters and so much loss in his life, you would think Mike was deserving of a fucking break.

He finally arrives at his friends’ apartment building.

It’s a simple, but nice seven-floor building that doesn’t seem too old, but probably a place where old people would live. As far as Mike knows, it’s not so far from Lucas and Max’s campus, which is probably why they chose that place. Mike knows they decided not to live in dorms due to the fact they wouldn’t actually be able to share one, so the place definitely seemed appropriate enough for two students to live in.

He parks his car. He gets into the building, hands in pockets — it’s cold, and he is stupid — and walks up the stairs to the fifth floor, stopping in front of the door with the written address. He doesn’t even need to ask himself if he’s on the right door; by the loud music playing inside, and the stupid and specific song choice, Mike is sure he is in Lucas’ place.

He decides on trying to open the door without knocking and, to not much of his surprise, the door swings open in a swift motion, revealing the inside of a not-too-small loft-style apartment filled with people Mike doesn’t know. He gets in either way.

Mike swims around small groups of people that are definitely around his age and definitely mostly already under the influence of alcohol, by how loud and careless they are when he walks by, lost limbs and too much hair touching his back and shoulders. It’s not even fifty people, but it feels like too much. The air is way hotter inside than the chill of the outside winter, and the smell of beer and sweat makes his throat slightly close. The low, yellow lights of the ceiling and lamps and the throbbing music invading his ears are quick ways to overstimulate him and quick reminders of why Mike hates these types of parties. Because, somehow, the world shifted without him and now his friends that were considered ‘freaks’ throw house (or apartment) parties.

Still, in all the mess, Mike ignores the river of strangers and can spot little details on the place that are definitely from Lucas and Max. Family, friend, and couple photos spread on the walls and shelves, along with books and comics Mike can recognize. Two skates with cool designs displayed on a high wall, close to a basketball hoop. Posters. Colors. Christmas lights and silver decorations. It’s all simple, but it feels, somehow, close to home, and Mike finds himself smiling at a photo of their graduation. He probably looks stupid, admiring a small photo on a shelf, alone, when there are four (no, five) drunk girls laughing about something he doesn’t know about on his left and a couple eating each other on his right.

Where are his friends?

“Hey! Mike!” He hears the familiar voice over the other thousand ones and the music, and turns around.

Mike spots Lucas and Max, arms intertwined, and Dustin right at their side, the three of them in a corner next to a red couch not so far from Mike. They all look great, smiling smiles that are almost of disbelief for seeing him there, waving energetically and Mike automatically knows Lucas is the most drunk out of the three. He smiles back as he walks their way. But something tugs at his legs, and he almost can feel something cold, like a snowball, hitting his chest:

There’s no sign of Will. He’s nowhere to be seen next to the rest of the group.

So, he didn’t come. Confusion and disappointment flood his brain. Just as a little bit of relief, because maybe Mike is still a bit scared of what his reaction will be after seeing Will again. But just a tiny little bit — the disappointment is stronger.

“Woooo! You fucking made it!” Dustin, who looks the same but is just a few inches taller (or maybe it’s his new styled, even higher hair), basically screams and throws an arm around Mike’s back when he’s within arm’s reach, a cup with something brown-looking in his other hand.

“Couldn’t miss it,” Mike returns the half-hug briefly, dumb smile still on his face. It’s kind of true, but kind of a lie and maybe all of them know it, because he’s been missing it for years now. Mike also hugs Lucas, who laughs excitedly and basically lifts him in the air for one second while still holding onto his beer, and proves to Mike, once again, how strong he is.

“You’re late, Wheeler,” he hears Max saying in a definitely-not-pissed-off voice when he’s still getting out of Lucas’ hug. He smiles at her, a real smile, and bows down just a bit to hug her too. Her tiny, freckled hands maybe hold him tight for a second too long, — and he knows why — but Mike doesn’t leave the hug before she’s the one to break it. He can only imagine how hard it’s been for her without El, too, and the sparkle in her blue eyes he sees when they break apart is kind, but holds something sad.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he puts a hand on her shoulder, then adds, looking around: “I can’t believe this is where you two live! It’s so nice.”

“Oh, stop with the flattering, you’re shit at it,” the girl raises her eyebrows, smirking, and the brief glimpse of sadness is gone.

“And I can’t believe we’re all together again! It’s been too long,” Dustin hits his shoulder lightly and drags the word ‘too’ when he speaks, dramatically.

Mike feels a sting of guilt rush through him.

“Yeah, sorry for last year, guys,” he scratches the back of his neck.

“And the year before,” Max crosses her arms.

“And the year before,” Lucas obviously has to add, and he slips a hand around Max’s waist.

Mike stops them before Dustin can join their moral lesson.

“Yeah, shit, okay,” he throws his hands in the air, feeling small. “I’ve been busy. But hey, I called.”

“Yeah, once in like, four months.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Because, truly, Mike isn’t in the mood to spend his last hours of the year with his friends playing his parents — or worse, Nancy. And then, he adds, eyes quickly and involuntarily looking around, searching for someone missing, because “and we’re not even all here, anyway.”

He is obviously trying to slip unnoticed as he brings up the subject of Where is Will?, mostly because he wants to ask his friends but doesn’t know how. Only he isn’t that slick, and he knows it because of the tone of I know something and I’m smart for it Max uses to answer:

“Oh, Will is here.” And her arms are still crossed.

“Somewhere,” Lucas adds again.

The information causes a little panic to rise in Mike’s heart. He blinks, feeling his blood run faster inside his skin. He tries, again, to pass that unnoticed.

And before Mike can ask more about Will — before he can spend a few more milliseconds looking around the darkish room of dancing strangers, searching for Will, or calm his tight, unquiet chest — Dustin does talk about something else. God bless him.

“So, how’s our beloved Hawkins?”

Oh, so now is the time he’ll have to talk about how miserable his life is. Mike was expecting to have a few more minutes free from the questions.

“The same,” he shrugs. “Just without evil wizards and monsters and Russians.” He almost has to shout over the music.

Dustin gives him a half-smile. “So, not the same at all.”

Mike scoffs. “You’re right. But it’s… Okay, though.” He tries to be as brief as possible, because if he starts ranting about his monotonous mornings and depressing nights, the pity looks will come. “Boring during winter, and I miss you guys.”

“We miss you, too,” Lucas smiles foolishly, and pulls him by the shoulder to a side hug that’s maybe too tight and pulls Mike’s legs off their balance for a second. He can smell the beer on Lucas’ mouth. “Don’t vanish again, alright?”

Mike rolls his eyes, and maybe his nose is wrinkled. “I’ll try.” He hates the smell of beer coming from someone else’s mouth.

“Oh, there’s Will!” Dustin exclaims.

Lucas and Max follow his pointing finger.

Mike’s heart stops.

Because his eyes follow the others’ and end up staring into the opposite corner of the room — they look past people, and colorful lights, and silver stripes — and there he is.

And, not only his heart, but the whole world comes to a halt.

Will is leaning on the wall, head slightly tilted back, revealing his neck and Mike is mesmerized. His hair looks different, brushed back, with only a few strands falling down on his forehead. Light-green leather jacket on, cup in his hands, tipsy smile on his face and stars in his eyes. He looks so grown, so different. So beautiful and free.

Mike doesn’t move.

Because everything hits him at once, his mind sort of explodes and he can picture a cupid’s final arrow hitting his chest and working as the last punctuation, as a confirmation of everything Mike already knows. He remembers every afternoon and evening spent in his basement, every night spent in his bedroom upstairs. Every shared look and innocent brush of fingers and warm sensations down in his gut, whispering, asking him what if’s and maybe’s. He remembers the last time he saw Will before he left to New York — to live his new, perfect life — and left nothing but bittersweet longing behind. Mike remembers all the letters, all the unanswered calls, all the drawings, all the poems. His book. The painting.

The room is warm and he is suddenly burning. His ears hurt — they must be all red. He no longer feels his fingers and no longer listens to anything around him as he only focuses on Will.

It’s been so long. So long since he last saw those eyes he almost forgot them. Mike dreamed about forgetting Will; but to dream of him was remembering and the cycle restarted. And he looks at Will now, from afar, and he’s finding out if that ounce of bravery and hope is still in him.

Will looks so good — sunlight wouldn’t do his glow any justice. He looks happy, he is laughing. With someone.

Who is that guy?

Why is he so close to Will?

Why is he touching Will’s shoulder?

Something ugly blossoms in his gut, finds place behind his ribs. Mike’s hands close into themselves at his sides, his lips are set in a hard line. He thinks it’s an illusion, maybe he’s imagining things. He blinks and tights his eyes behind his glasses but, no, that moron is still there, still standing too close to Will for Mike’s liking, still talking to Will and making him giggle.

Mike sees red.

“Uhm… Who’s that? With him,” he asks his friends under his set teeth, trying to sound casual enough, but he doesn’t care if he fails.

Max looks from Will to Mike, then back to Will. “His boyfriend, Carlton.”

Boyfriend?

Boyfriend?

Since when does Will have a boyfriend? And since when is being called Carlton acceptable? What a stupid name.

Mike feels his whole face wrinkle in annoyance now, and his fists are tighter, short nails staining his palm. He doesn’t understand, Will never mentioned having a boyfriend in his letters. Not that Mike ever answered, or asked about his new life. But still.

“Since when?” He can hear the disgusted tone in his own voice.

Lucas shoots a raised eyebrow his way. “Since last year? You haven’t met him?”

“Or talked to Will?” Max asks, incredulous.

Mike feels the most stupid he has felt in a few good days. “No.”

The girl sighs in disbelief, not hiding her desire to punch him with her eyes. “Holy shit, Mike.”

Mike wants to roll his own eyes, but decides he’s not in the right position to complain — this is entirely his fault. His sharp eyes continue to stare into the opposite corner — at Will and Carlton (a stupid high-pitch voice in his head thinks) — and his chest hurts not only with the disappointment of knowing Will has a boyfriend or that Will never mentioned him to Mike, but with the fact Will hasn’t looked his way yet. Not only once.

Maybe he doesn’t know Mike is here, maybe he doesn’t care about Mike at all. Maybe he’s seen Mike and just decided not to come say hi. Mike doesn’t know which option is worse.

“Well, he’s alright,” Lucas says, tone clearly giving away how he noticed Mike is planning Carlton’s murder in his mind. He takes a sip of his beer.

“And Will seems happy with him,” Dustin adds. Mike asks himself why the hell are they even saying that, it clearly doesn’t help. As if he cares.

“Yeah, happy.”

There’s a long, awkward silence that follows. Mike can feel his friends looking at him, probably judging him or asking themselves if he’s finally gone mental. He doesn’t care, he keeps staring at Will and his boyfriend — at their playful hands and lips too close to ears and tiny eyes above smiles — and he’s suddenly nauseous.

Maybe cold alcohol could help him. Maybe he just needs to stop fucking staring.

He sighs, looking away.

“I think I need a drink. Dude, where’s the beer?”

*

Mike comes back from the kitchen not even two minutes later with an open beer in his hand and a spare already waiting in his other, no shame. He doesn’t care if he bumps into people on his way back, he doesn’t care if he looks pissed off or unfriendly. He takes extra care in not accidentally heading towards the corner where Will still stands with that douche, because, truthfully, disappointment and confusion had turned into disbelief and anger pretty quickly. He doesn’t want to face Will — or better, have to be introduced to his boyfriend — now, not before he has at least three bottles of alcohol down his throat.

And that’s what he does. He chugs the first open bottle in his hands until it’s empty just on his way back to his friends, and he’s already opening his spare when he gets close enough to the wall besides Dustin to lean onto. The bitter and cold liquid touches his lips and runs down his body like a mistake he knows he’s making. Mike can feel his head spinning, a river of hot blood rushing through his veins, a spiky hand clenching at his heart every time he makes the mistake of letting his eyes wander too far. His friends clearly decide not to mention how quickly he suddenly is drinking — they know Mike is not a drinker, they know there’s something wrong — and he honestly appreciates that. He isn’t in the mood to explain how really shitty of a friend and miserable of a person he is.

So, he mostly stays quiet and only briefly pays attention to the conversation of the other three members of the party. They talk about their lives; new places they’ve been to, new friends, college and stupid teachers, temporary jobs as waiters or tutors. Mike takes another long sip of his beer every time he hears Dustin complain about something he would die to have or to experience, or when Max jokes about how boring it is to sit on the campus garden to study when a class is canceled — she doesn’t know what boring means, apparently, — or when Lucas talks about all his new friends, or kisses Max’s cheek.

He’s finishing his third bottle rather quickly.

They talk, the songs change, Mike drinks. Lucas introduces them to some friends and colleagues who walk by. Max complains about the mess her house will be tomorrow. Mike drinks. Mike looks over at Will. Will is still talking to that guy.

Seriously, how interesting can someone be? Do they ever stop talking? At least Mike is grateful he hasn’t seen them kissing — he thinks he would die at the sight.

But then Will is rolling his eyes and he’s looking around the living room and! Their eyes meet.

They’re looking at each other. There are fifty, maybe sixty people in the room now, there are lights and so much movement and the song is still so loud, but Mike and Will stay still. And looking at each other.

Mike feels his heart stop.

Will's eyes are surprised for a second, then they’re softening. There is a small smile on his lips, but it vanishes instantly. Mike swallows hard, his lips on fire — he doesn’t know how he manages it, he’s pretty sure he’s lost control of his body.

Seconds stretch and feel like minutes. Everything is still. There are only Will’s eyes staring at him. Green and familiar and oh, Mike misses them more than he thought. So much it physically hurts.

But then, Carlton’s hand is on Will’s elbow and Will is brought back to reality by the touch, breaking their eye contact, and Mike is left freezing.

How does this shithead dare? Who does he think he is? He hasn’t even noticed Will was looking at someone else — at Mike — but still, how does he dare to pull Will’s attention away from Mike?

Will’s eyes linger on Mike once, twice. They shift from Mike to his boyfriend, confused, almost lost and unsure where to look. Mike sees from afar the new confident look Will had minutes ago crumble to the ground, but Will tries to mask it to his boyfriend, the fakest of all smiles Mike has ever seen on his lips.

Then, Will is back at his usual ‘I don’t know Mike is here, or I know, but I won’t say hi’ act, pretending nothing happened, pretending he doesn’t know Mike is still helplessly staring.

Mike grips his bottle hard.

He finishes it. He heads to the kitchen without a word to his friends to grab a new one.

Three bottles of beer turn into five.

He continues to stare at Will. Who stares back, briefly, every now and then.

Beer turns into Max’s vodka and whatever-that-red-thing-is drink.

Mike feels his head spinning with all the Christmas lights. He feels his arms accidentally brush against strangers. He feels Will looking at him.

Max’s drink turns into neat whiskey. Which, to be fair, Mike despises.

It reminds him of his dad, it’s the promise of a terrible hangover the next morning, it burns his throat and gets him drunk fast, especially when he mixes it with more alcohol.

But it’s his best bet to be able to deal with everything until midnight.

Fuck, he’s driving.

He totally forgot about that important detail.

He looks at Will again, who’s still in the same spot. He observes him, because now, after too much alcohol and almost an hour of just staring, his yearning, desperate eyes have grown addicted to Will once again and Mike can’t look away.

He also can’t ignore the fact that there’s something about Will that suddenly feels… Odd. Too much eye rolling, that definitely doesn’t seem entirely playful anymore. Will’s arms are slightly shoving Clinton’s, or Clayton’s or is it Clark’s? — he can’t remember that stupid fucking name, he’s too drunk already — hands away every time the douche touches his elbow or shoulder again. And Will’s eyes keep flickering around the room and accidentally falling on Mike every time, and he swallows hard once when it happens; so hard Mike can see the up-and-down movement of his Adam’s Apple from afar, under the yellow lights.

Or maybe Mike is just seeing things. Maybe he’s just too drunk — more than he feels like. Still, it all only feeds to the unquiet stirring in his stomach; heat, anger, longing, hope. All of it.

And all of it is threatening to come out of Mike’s mouth the second he sees that Will decided to approach him and the rest, dragging the douche along. They cross the small room filled with people and Will is smiling when he’s close enough to be noticed by the group. Mike was already watching, of course, and has something burning behind his eyes as he notices Will is now avoiding his gaze.

“Hi, guys,” Will greets. Mike is still mad and confused. But the sound of Will’s voice is enough to tug at his ribs.

Now, close enough, he can actually see how much Will has changed. His hair, his clothes, his features, more mature. He has one ear pierced, Mike gladly notices, deciding Will has never been this hot.

Will briefly hugs Max, his pet on his right. The pet is smiling. Mike wants to rip that smile off his ugly face.

Will’s eyes find Mike again. He pretends he hasn’t seen him yet. Mike wants to scoff. “Hey, Mike.” It doesn’t come out so excited, but there’s a hidden meaning behind his eyes. Mike doesn’t blame Will, he knows he hasn’t answered one single letter or call and Will probably hates him, he now thinks.

“Hey.”

How have you been? How’s your life? You look great. You look amazing. You look beautiful. I’ve missed you. Who is this mouth-breather? Why is he with you? Why didn’t you tell me you got a boyfriend? Why aren’t you with me? Why don’t you hug me, too? Are you angry at me? Do you hate me? Will you ask about the letters? It all runs behind Mike’s lips.

Will speaks before he can say something stupid. Alcohol is Mike’s enemy. “Have you met Carlton?” And he’s pointing to the pet — Carlton, yeah, that’s his stupid-ass name — who smiles like an idiot. Mike doesn’t look at him, he’s still staring at Will. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember if I told you about him.”

“No, you haven’t,” Mike spits, tongue sharp and running through his teeth and eyes narrow.

There’s something bitter in his throat that isn’t just the whiskey. He can’t believe this is his first conversation with Will after not seeing him for four fucking years. He can’t believe this is his life now. Maybe he just has to accept what he already feared — that one day Will really did move on and it was too late for Mike. That Will is now happy with someone else that isn’t him and never will be, and it’s all his fault.

“The famous Mike, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Carlton greets, extending his hand to Mike, with a friendly smile.

Mike wants to laugh. — Famous? So Will has talked about him to Carlton but not about Carlton to him? Oh, he wonders why. — But he doesn’t and, after inspecting the extended hand for a few seconds, enough to make it awkward while they all stare, he takes the hand shake; a little too tightly.

“Yeah, so nice.”

Mike looks up from their clasped hands, but regrets it immediately when he sees the sparkle of a silver chain around Carlton’s neck. He follows the glimpse of a similar sparkle in the corner of his eyes and oh, God, Will and that douche have matching necklaces. Mike doesn’t know if he cries or laughs — because, seriously, what is more tacky than a locker and key around necks? Please. He bites down his lip, choosing to stay quiet. Even if he’s sure his eyes are red from blood.

He lets go of Carlton’s stupid, sweaty hand and clenches his fists until his nails dig into his pale skin. Maybe if he had had one more cup, he would have choked that asshole to death with that same necklace, right there.

“So, what’re you guys talking about?” Will asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence that has set upon the group. Mike’s sharp gaze changes to soft the second his eyes fall onto him.

“About how Mike should send us copies of his new story before publishing,” Dustin answers.

Were they talking about that? Mike doesn’t quite remember what was the last thing he said, he only remembers staring at Will into the distance seconds ago.

“You’re writing a book?” The douche asks. Mike doesn’t know who invited him into the conversation.

“Oh, Mike, that’s awesome!” Will exclaims before taking a sip of his drink. Mike smiles.

“It’s nothing. It’s just a stupid fantasy book, I’m not even sure I’ll publish it.” He tugs at the short hair of  his nape. He completely forgets he is mad that Will never mentioned a boyfriend, because suddenly everything in front of him are Will’s shiny green eyes under yellow light; a sparkle in them that is too close to the one Mike used to see when they were young and could only dream about writing and painting together forever.

“I’d love to read it, too. Even if you don’t publish it,” Will smiles. Mike melts.

Of course, the idiot has to open his mouth again. “What’s the story about?”

Right. That. Mike feels heat crawl up his collarbones and neck, but he mentally blames it on the sip of whiskey he takes. He tries to find the words, not to sound completely miserable but also to hit like a spike, and he looks at Will’s green, bright eyes when he answers, air missing from his lungs:

“A cleric, told from a paladin’s point of view.” He swallows the whiskey-flavored saliva in his mouth. Will’s gaze on his is so intense Mike is sure there’s no one else in the room. “It’s, uhm… It’s inspired by Dungeons and Dragons.”

Mike tries to ignore the shocked stares from his friends as he reveals this last detail he had held secret. He tries to ignore Will’s semblance as something clicks in his mind. He probably thinks Mike is pathetic now. Mike is definitely pathetic — for dreaming about asking Will to draw the cover for his book when he hasn’t even answered a fucking letter in years. For writing about them, about Will. After everything he’s done — or didn’t do.

“That sounds cool.” Right, he is still speaking. “I don’t know anything about it though, sorry.”

“Will does,” Mike spits, eyes never leaving Will’s. He wishes he could read his eyes, his mind. What is he thinking? How does knowing about Mike’s book make him feel?

“I bet he does, he can’t stop talking and drawing stuff about you guys’ campaigns.”

“Oh, makes sense. My campaigns were the best.” Mike crosses his arms, tone obviously annoyed to even have that conversation. Even so, he is still curious, and he asks Will: “So, you two met each other at NYU?”

“Yeah, we share some classes.” Again! That shithead is answering for Will! Can’t he see Mike hates him? Can’t he see his boyfriend is trying to fucking talk, opening his mouth just to be interrupted? And why is there a hand on Will’s waist now? “Will’s drawings caught my eyes and I couldn’t not say hi and then, boom, here we are.”

Will looks at the shithead with the most uncomfortable smile Mike has ever seen.

And Mike unashamedly, loudly scoffs.

“Ah, cool. Cool, cool.”

“You okay, Mike?” Max asks.

“Yeah! Totally! It’s just, uh… New. Seeing you with someone else,” he plays sarcastically, biting the inside of his cheek and looking directly at Will. Because, really, his eyes haven't left Will in a while. “That isn’t us, I mean.”

“I get that, but don’t worry, I’m not gonna replace anyone.” The fucker smirks, and Mike is sure he hears a challenge in his voice.

And Mike’s eyes finally leave Will’s, but only to look at that guy with all the disgust and sarcasm and superiority he finds in himself, and says:

“Yeah, I know. You couldn’t.”

Will’s lips twist and his eyes fall to the floor.

The way the douche’s smile falters is gold.

And Mike is enjoying the scene so much he doesn’t even notice how quiet the group is for a good amount of seconds. He sees, though, Lucas and Max exchange shocked looks. Maybe Dustin is holding his chin shut next to him.

He doesn’t know what came to him to say that, but he doesn’t feel guilty when his chest definitely feels lighter.

But the brief feeling of victory crumbles to the ground when Mike catches the way Will’s jaw is tight and he’s subtly shaking his head in annoyance. And Will blinks, and clicks his tongue, and breaks the silence — and Mike has been known for being good at reading Will all his life and it’s clear as day that he’s angry now, just by his tone: “I think I’m gonna go grab another cup. Come with me?” Will tugs at his boyfriend’s arm, who nods.

“Sure. See you later, guys,” Carlton waves emphatically at all his friends, except Mike. He doesn’t exchange a look with Mike.

But Will does.

He stares at Mike one last time, his eyes confused and sharp and subtly asking Mike what’s gotten to you?, and Mike feels so small he’s disappeared. Then, Will follows the other to the kitchen without looking back.

There are five whole seconds of silence where the group, covering the empty space the two left, and staring at Mike as if he just threw shit into that idiot’s face, don’t say anything.

“Mike?” Max asks slowly, carefully.

“What was that about?” Lucas bursts into a drunken laughter.

Mike turns his face from the spot where Will stood just now and looks at them, confused. “What?”

“Your tone,” Dustin points.

“And the way you were looking at them?”

“Are you okay, dude?”

Mike sighs, he’s tired of this bullshit. It’s enough humiliation for one night. “Yeah, I’m more than okay. I’m great, just— drop it, okay? Where’s the bathroom?”

Lucas, who was just recovering from his good laugh at his friend’s miserable life, leaning onto Max’s shoulder, points. “That way, left door.”

“Thanks.” He mutters, leaving his empty glass of whiskey on the nearest table, not caring about being polite in leaving quickly.

There are too many people touching him when he leaves. There are too many lights that swirl into a big, colorful mess in his hazy mind. There is the vivid memory of warm green eyes turning cold right in front of him, and Mike knows he’s lost him. And, for God’s sake, can someone fucking turn the volume down?

Mike is still pacing towards the door of the bathroom when he hears Max’s shout from behind his shoulder: “Be quick, it’s less than an hour ‘till midnight!”

*

He shuts the bathroom door behind him without care and locks it. He leans against the sink, stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is, somehow, still in place. His once-pale skin is burning hot, glowing with sweat, red in his ears and neck, because words got stuck there and are choking him. The distant song from behind the door disappears. His eyes, dark and hollow and drunk. He loses his balance once, maybe he’s had enough drinks.

The already fermented anger stuck in his chest slowly dissipated, escaping his dry lips in broken breaths, opening space for something else — hopelessness.

And, in the quiet-enough small space between the four tiled walls, in the solitude of his own sorrow, Mike lets himself break when a single tear slips past his eyes and glasses.

All the distant memories he wishes he could relive just to fix run through his head; Will, leaving his house in the pouring rain, the tip tap of raindrops and his bike’s wheels against wet pavement echoing inside Mike’s stupid thirteen-year-old heart, the hurtful words he had said lingering in the cold air. Will, handing him a painting and holding his heart out for Mike with camouflaged words — which Mike was dumb enough not to understand at first, which Mike took two whole years to understand, but it was too late. If he had known Will was talking about himself, and not El, in that boiling van in the middle of the desert, years ago, would it have been different?

Will, tears in his beautiful green eyes and anxious hands in his lap, spitting out his most intimate and deep secret to a room full of people who didn’t belong, making Mike’s heart twist with how brave he was being.

Because Mike couldn’t even dream of being brave like that. Because Mike, for years, wasn’t brave enough to admit it even to himself.

(There’s a knock on the door. Mike ignores it.)

And now that had cost him everything. Because his worst nightmares are true and Will did move on and Will is with a stupid random and he would never have Will back. His Will.

Dried paint under nails Will. Splattered half-read comic books before bed Will. Hiding in Castle Byers until sunset Will. Plaid shirts and dirty shoes Will. Will the Wise. Will with a fresh bowl cut done by his mom. Will with bunny teeth and crooked nose and long, brown eyelashes and cute mole close to his lips. Strong, brave Will, who had gone through so much but never stopped being sweet and caring. The Will who needed Mike, just as Mike needed him. Still needs him.

(Another knock, louder this time.)

It’s too much. Watching Will be happy with someone else, in someone else’s arms — it feels like having salt rubbed into an open wound. Mike leans against the cold wall behind him, anger returning and flaring hot and useless behind his glossy eyes.

You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to be upset. This is all your fault.

Someone tries to frantically open the door by the locked knob. Mike huffs.

“It’s busy, damn it!”

“Mike?”

Mike’s heart stops. His eyes grow at the muffled, familiar voice.

“Yeah?” He answers, quieter this time.

There’s a brief pause. Then, Will is talking again. Mike can feel the hesitation in his tone.

“Can we talk?”

What does he want? What in God's name does Will want to say now? Maybe he’s planning on finishing breaking Mike’s heart for good, Mike mentally laughs. Well, maybe he deserves it.

He sighs, and slides the back of his hand against his wet cheek, swiping away the shameful tear. Then, getting upright and putting the most fake and unbothered look on his face, Mike unlocks the door and swings it open a bit.

And Will is standing there, looking at him. Pretty brown hair, soft face and green jacket glowing against colorful flashes of light. Eyes foggy with alcohol and a mystery to Mike, who can’t read them even if he tries. And Will is alone.

Something tugs at Mike’s ribs, and he honestly doesn’t know how much more of it he can handle. He steps to the side, signaling Will to get in the bathroom. Will does. And Will shuts and locks the door behind him, gaze traveling from Mike’s face to Mike’s clothes to the floor beneath Mike’s feet. And Mike, helpless and stupid, asks, feeling his fingers tingle with anxiety:

“How’d you know I was here?” There’s still a knot in his throat, there’s still anger in his eyes and voice. There’s still tears being held back behind his eyelids that will definitely turn into a headache. God, he is a mess.

“Our friends told me,” Will admits, looking down. Then goes silent.

“So?”

Their eyes meet.

“Are you really okay, Mike?”

Mike almost laughs bitterly.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He crosses his arms on his chest, eyes shamelessly and unconsciously drifting to Will’s mouth — one beautiful and pink and inviting, one Mike could draw from memory with his eyes closed, if only he knew how to draw like Will.

Will swallows. “You’re— You’re weird. We haven’t seen each other in years and you barely talked to me tonight,” his voice gives out how annoyed he is, but there’s no anger in there. Maybe worry. “You were being passive-aggressive to Carlton, you’re distant. And you’re drunk, Mike? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink.”

Oh, right. All Will wants to talk about is how a shit friend and miserable person he is. And about Carlton. Of course. That stupid lock around Will’s neck shines at Mike’s face like a provocation, a joke.

“Yeah, but it’s been a long time, huh? Maybe you just don’t know me anymore,” he doesn’t mean to sound so mad, but it’s true. And the alcohol streaming through his veins and fogging his thoughts doesn’t help. It’s the only reasonable explanation.

Will sighs, impatient. “I called. I sent letters and photos. You never answered, but that’s not out of the ordinary for you,” then, he crosses his arms too, and those last words are heavy with a sarcasm that hits Mike wrong.

Because, Will still doesn’t know, but all Mike wanted to do was answer. The replies are there, sitting on his drawer, waiting to be read someday, maybe. Envelopes getting worn out and yellow on the edges due to time, because words hurt, and Mike can hold onto them for how long he wants to and prevent the pain.

“I’ve been busy,” he mutters. A lie.

Will rolls his eyes, fingers unquiet, gripping the sleeves of the jacket. “With what? Moping around your basement? Writing all day? About a cleric and a paladin? But I guess it’s too fucking hard to write a letter to the real me, right? I thought we were best friends.”

Mike’s heart clenches and his head burns. He wants to say it, he wants to scream how hard it’s been without Will. How all he wants is Will.

He’s close, it’s just them in that small bathroom. He’s right there, in front of Mike, getting angrier by the second, his scent — cedarwood, something sweet and something uniquely Will — and everything about him intoxicating Mike; and Mike can’t stop being an idiot.

“You didn’t mention having a boyfriend in any of your letters.”

“Oh, so you did read them.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Mike furrows his brows. He wants to softly press his index finger into Will’s forehead and make the anger disappear from his features. He wants to scream how much he loves him. He wants to grab him and have him, right there.

“I mean, you never answered with a question about my classes, or about new friends, or a partner. I guess you wouldn’t be interested in knowing about him.” Interested, Mike scoffs as his stomach does something weird. Will tilts his head, his doe eyes sharp.

“So you lied.”

“What? No, that’s not fair—”

“And it isn’t the first time, hm?” Mike bites his tongue, finding some form of courage inside him to finally admit what he’s been holding in for so long when he sees the confused look Will gives him, not knowing what he’s talking about. “The painting. It was you all along, right?”

Silence.

Will doesn’t say anything.

But the way his eyes definitely grow wide and his lips are set in a hard line work as a confirmation for Mike.

“I knew it,” Mike gives one step closer. All he can hear is the fast beat of his heart in his ears, the distant music, and Will’s uneven breathing, so close. “Why didn’t you tell me, Will? Why would you lie? Why would you tell me all of that and say it was from El?” His voice fails, he doesn’t care. He's desperate and the words keep slipping out and God, he’s waited for this moment for five years and he can finally ask Will everything he ever wanted.

“You really don’t have a clue?” Will rolls his eyes. Mike sees tears starting to grow under his long eyelashes. “Please, Michael, you just want to hear me say it.”

“Well, yes!—”

“I was miserable!” Will shouts, eyes glowing, hands in his head, and the first tears roll down his face, glitter against yellow light. Mike takes a step back, startled. “Totally, completely in love but miserable for you! And you paid no attention to me and I knew you would never reciprocate my feelings. I did that to save your crumbling relationship with my sister, to preserve our stupid friendship!”

And those words slip under Mike’s skin and stain him. He feels something stir in his chest and try to come out, but his throat is still blocked. His head hurts, because of the beer and vodka and whiskey, because of the lights, because Will is crying and it’s his fault.

“I still have it, on my wall. I look at it every day, it’s what inspired my book.” He whispers, and he doesn’t even know why he’s saying that. Will laughs, wiping away tears and looking away. Mike wants to hold him, to clean those tears himself and kiss them.

“Oh, congrats. Happy to have helped, then.” Will uncrosses his arms, bitter. “So, when did you finally connect the dots?”

Mike swallows. “I think… On the day you came out to us. At the Squawk. I remember being proud of you, of how brave you were.”

“Why didn’t you say anything then?” Will questions, ignoring the last thing Mike said. Mike feels so small he could disappear.

“What did you want me to say? The world was ending, we didn’t have any time.”

“You could’ve said it later— Whatever it doesn’t matter now, it never did.”

The anger blossoms hot once again in Mike’s throat, around his heart. He swallows, and he snaps. Too fast and sharp. “Right, because you moved on, right? You have Mr. Perfect now. The perfect life.”

“Why do you care—”

“How is it in New York with him? D’you go on cute little dates together?” Mike stares from Will to that necklace, fire in his tongue. He wants to rip that necklace out, he wants to hold Will’s neck with his own hands and show everybody he’s the one who truly loves and knows Will. ”Study together? Does he understand you? Does he know you, the real you—?”

Will starts to turn around, aiming for the door. “I shouldn’t have come here, it’s a waste of time—”

“Does he fuck you good—”

Will slaps him.

It lands before Mike can finish saying something he would deeply regret later — a sharp, dry sound that feels louder in his head than in the cramped bathroom.

And, for a split second, there’s only white heat, a clean line of fire drawn across his cheek and spreading through his face as Will’s hand falls back. Mike’s ears ring, and he stops, shocked.

His hand rises on instinct and touches the red, swelling skin. Mostly, he’s bewildered — hurt not just by the blow, but by the fact that it had come from Will.

And Will’s wide eyes, surprised at his own action, watery with new tears that aren’t held back, are still red in anger.

He steps inches closer, their faces apart by a few breaths and throws a finger into Mike’s chest, accusing, warning.

“You don’t get to talk about me like this,” Will sobs, drunk, voice low. “I won’t allow it.”

The world stops.

The only real things in the universe are them, the inches between them, their tangled breaths of vodka and whiskey, their eyes.

Because Mike looks deep into Will’s warm green irises and something in them gives him the courage he needed, and — 

He knows it’s wrong. He knows it’s useless. He doesn’t care.

All he cares about is Will.

Say it before you run out of time. Say it before it’s too late. Waiting is a mistake.

“I love you, Will,” Mike cries. An open wound.

Will stares, a silent tear rolls down.

His mouth subtly falls open. He shakes his head, unbelieving.

“No.”

“I’ve loved you forever,” just a whisper drowned in his own tears. He swallows, he’s burning.

Will finds the door, leans against it. Mike sees worlds falling apart behind his green eyes. “Stop.”

“It took me a long time to understand it and when I finally did, I tried to push it away and tell myself it was useless because you said you moved on but I just can’t, Will. I’m miserable without you. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t think. I can’t breathe knowing you’re out there living your life and I’m not in it.”

Mike sobs. He’s miserable, and pathetic. He wants to rip open his chest, pull out his heart, and hand it to Will.

“Mike—”

“And now you have him.” His arms are useless limbs at his sides, reaching forward, searching for Will — who stands, motionless, just shaking his head in disbelief at the words. “And he’s a total prick but you’re happy and I wanted to scream the moment I saw him touching you like that because I hate him. He can’t have you.”

At that, Will’s eyes look up from the floor and stare sharply at Mike, angry, yearning. He walks the few steps left towards Mike again. “You don’t get to do this,” he cries, he shoves a finger into Mike's chest with no actual strength, just to hit something. “You don’t have the right to break me apart all over again when… When I spent years glueing myself back together, all alone, after everything.”

The most raw and ugly shape of shame and regret is shot right at Mike’s temple. Because he’s done this. He’s the guilty one, and Will is right.

But he’s pleading for forgiveness like a fool. A desperate fool who still believes in second chances.

“I was stupid and selfish and I didn’t understand myself, Will! I wasn’t ready!”

“But I was ready!” Will sobs.

Mike can’t breathe.

“Back when I gave you that stupid painting, when you arrived at the airport but didn’t even give me a hug, when I spent eighteen months living with you and you gave me all those confusing signals and made me believe we maybe could've been something! I was ready to forget about everything and be happy with you! But you weren’t there! You… You made me believe we—”

“Ten..!” Voices from outside shout together.

Mike can’t think.

Will is sobbing in front of him, eyes red and lips glossy and this is all wrong and it’s all his fault but there’s a glint of pleading in Will’s eyes just as there is on his and—

God, Mike wants to kiss Will more than ever. So badly he feels his hot blood stain his skin. He can feel his muscles around his bones, the way his lungs inflate and deflate. He can feel his entire being screaming for it.

“Will, please—” He begs between tears.

“Eight..!”

Something snaps inside of Will, Mike sees it — the breaking of chains, a decision. As if he’s finally run out of places to hide from the truth. He blinks, a broken sob, and he gives in.

And he’s throwing himself into Mike’s arms, crying, lost. Mike holds him, in a way that’s so familiar it hurts, and everything is warm and right and the world is still spinning and it’s almost a complete turn around the Sun except time is frozen because Will Byers is finally in Mike Wheeler’s arms.

“Mike, why couldn’t you be ready back then, too?” Will lays his head in Mike’s chest, desperate fingers grasping Mike’s sweater.

“Five..!”

“Why did you leave me believing, for so long, that we wouldn’t—”

“Three..! Two..!”

“I’m ready,” Mike cries, holding him, fingers holding onto Will’s waist and the other hand running through Will’s soft hair. “I’m ready now.”

“Happy New Year!”

Mike looks down at the same time Will looks up and their eyes meet in between.

The bathroom is too small and too hot and the fluorescent yellow light of the ceiling is cruel, showing the red in Will’s beautiful eyes, the tracks of tears on his soft, flushed cheeks.

The people outside erupt in celebration and Mike looks into Will’s half-closed eyes and — his heart stops, again — he knows. He knows what this is. He knows what Will is thinking. Will’s standing on the edge of even another decision, another barrier to break.

Because there’s one solution in between them. And it’s — it should be — easy.

But Mike doesn’t move. He can’t breathe. He tells himself that he won’t be the one to cross the line — even if his brain is begging Will, please please please please—

Will inhales. His hand curls into the collar of Mike’s sweater to yank him down and the other is crawling up to Mike’s nuke to anchor him. And their lips meet.

Something inside Mike explodes like the distant fireworks outside — years of longing and waiting and hoping and loving. He’s kissing someone. He’s kissing a guy — no, he’s kissing Will Byers. Will Byers is kissing him. It feels like the world finally tilts back into alignment, like Mike has been waiting his entire life for this exact moment.

He lets out a gasp that’s maybe too close to a moan the second their mouths crash, in shock — they instantly move together in sync like it was meant to be — and it’s nothing less than a pathetic, and needy, and desperate sound, but he doesn’t care. He melts. All Mike cares about is Will.

Will, Will, Will, Will, Will.

Will is sweet, warm, intoxicating. Will tastes like scorching vodka and tears and messy sighs. Will is pulling the short hair of Mike’s neck with no restraints. Will is crying and stumbling and leaning into Mike, who holds him.

Mike’s hands pull Will closer by the waist with want, and Will whines into his open mouth. Will gently sucks into his bottom lip, the kiss deep and salty, and Mike groans; he’s pretty sure he can hear the harps of heaven.

“Please—” Mike cries, begs, noses and foreheads glued — he doesn’t know what he’s begging for. His hand at Will’s waist grips and presses against his hipbone, a lost finger curling around the belt loop of his jeans.

Will whines, “Mike,” and something hungry awakens inside Mike. He kisses Will like he’s a starved, mad man — presses him against the door with little to no care, a thud echoing inside the bathroom. Mike’s hands cup Will’s damp face and he pulls him closer, chest to chest, breaths and heartbeats one. And Will retributes with the same want, same fire burning inside him; his hands pull Mike’s hair like it’s a life or death situation — it probably is — with his back against hard wood.

They’re all sighs and little whines. When Will is letting out a particular long cry, his lips slightly more open than before, Mike seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside Will’s mouth — his heart itches and his brain melts inside his skull at the immediate hot, wet contact. Their tongues slide together and everything feels right, and Mike regrets his whole life right there and then, knowing he, they could’ve been doing this for years now if he just wasn’t so stupid. The sound of saliva clicking reverberates inside him and he is a weak, weak man.

Because Will is right here, body arching towards him and gasping when Mike’s tongue starts sliding down to suck at his neck while he has a fucking boyfriend waiting for him just outside the door. And somehow Mike doesn’t find an ounce of guilt or regret in his heart, much of the contrary.

It all feels electrifying, dangerous. Perfect.

Mike wants to laugh at the fact he was moping all night when his future was this.

He moves away Will’s jacket and bites into the soft spot of his neck where it meets the collarbone, earning a broken moan that reverberates inside the bathroom. His hands slide down Will’s body, finding once again his waist and pulling it closer by the belt loops. Their hips move together, chasing each other and the addictive feeling. Will digs his fingers from Mike’s nuke to his broad shoulders and back, pulling him down, scratching.

“Mike—”

“I’m sorry, for every second I wasted being afraid,” Mike mutters into the skin, lost tears still watering his drunk eyes. His lips trace a path of wet kisses along Will’s neck upwards, finding his mouth once again, kissing it passionately. He continues, staring into Will’s starry eyes: “I answered all your letters, Will, I just never had the courage to send them. I’m an idiot and a coward, but I’m here now.”

Will briefly smiles at the confession about the letters, much ignoring the rest. “Really?” And he’s leaning forward again, chasing Mike’s lips, needy. But Mike can’t seem to shut his mouth.

“Do you love him?”

Will stares for a second too long, then smirks and rolls his eyes, like Mike is stupid. Mike is sure Will does feel bad, to some level of it, to be cheating on Carlton — but the vodka on his lips and the glint in his eyes are telling Mike that’s not the first thing on Will’s mind right now. He doesn’t know exactly when Will stopped crying, but the tears are gone. And Will kisses Mike, slow and sloppy, biting into his bottom lip and sucking his tongue with want.

“I tried to, I really did, but I couldn’t.” He whispers into Mike’s mouth.

Mike is definitely short-circuiting. “Why?”

“Because he’s not you, Mike. I never stopped loving you, you’ll always be my heart.”

Mike’s heart stops just as his lips grow wide into a stupid, childish grin like he’s just won the best Christmas gift ever. And he’s not proud of the way he growls like a feral dog when he pulls Will into another hungry kiss and hugs him like Will is his whole world. Really, he is. Mike has never been this happy.

“Oh, Will,” he kisses the tip of Will’s bright pink nose — from the vodka, the heat, maybe so much more, “I love you, I love you so fucking much.” He plants a long kiss on Will’s forehead with the most foolish smile on his lips, and Will giggles with the praise. “Loving you is the second best thing I’ve ever done.”

Will kisses him back, smiling at the acknowledgement of the history behind those words — at how now they’re so much more meaningful and sweet (and used in definitely better circumstances). And he finally captures Mike’s lips back on his and he’s so hot when he provokes Mike with a low “oh, yeah?” right next to his ear.

His hands crawl back to where they belong on the back of Mike’s neck as they kiss. Mike’s, on the other hand, ends up with fingers slightly brushing against something that feels too much like a chain. Mike huffs.

“Take this off,” he says, not ordering but also not asking, and he’s pulling hard at Will’s locker necklace without a second thought. It gives in easily, it’s around Mike’s fingers and free of Will’s neck in seconds, and Will doesn’t seem to mind. Cheap motherfucker, Mike thinks to himself, that same ugly jealousy he felt when he first saw Will with that loser earlier growing again. And then, there’s not one single coherent thought in his brain; he’s selfish and greedy. How could there have ever been another person to kiss Will, to hold and touch him like this, to know Will like Mike knows him? 

Mike’s hand goes up to his face, aiming to take off his glasses because they’re starting to piss him off, but Will stops him mid-action.

“No, keep them on,” Will breaks the kiss enough to whisper, putting the glasses back in their place up on the bridge of Mike’s nose. Mike stares at him in confusion, so he adds: “You look sexy with them on,” he smirks, biting down his bottom lip, and Mike really likes this new version of drunk, flirty Will he’s seeing for the first time. Will’s eyes look slightly further up. “But I hate your hair.”

And Mike stands, startled, as Will’s fingers mess his whole neatly-organized hairstyle in seconds. He looks at himself in the mirror next to them, seeing the dark curls on the top of his head all spiked into different directions, his bangs falling down his forehead; it reminds him of the Mike from a few years ago, when he still had Will in his life and everything, somehow, was simpler — taking away all the inter-dimensional monsters shit, sure. And he smiles, looking with heart-eyes at Will from the present, who also has a new, more free hairstyle, who’s giggling in his arms, and fixing his bangs just a bit — and that’s exactly where Mike wants to be, who Mike wants to be.

“And I love yours,” Mike steals a short kiss from him. “What’re we gonna do now?”

“We’ll figure it out later.”

But Mike doesn’t want to wait. He’s waited enough.

“I can move to New York, I’ll find a small place close to your campus and we can see each other every day after your classes. I’ll find a job, and I’ll try to publish my book and you can draw the cover, if you want, and—” He knows he’s thinking ahead of himself, and they should most definitely be thinking about what they will do after leaving this bathroom and stepping outside into the real world, where there’s people probably asking where they are, and an angry boyfriend to deal with, well, now probably ex-boyfriend. (And even — Mike thinks ahead of himself again — if Will is spending the night with him because of this last detail; the idea of going back to that motel room with Will, laying awake pressed against Will in that stupidly small bed until the Sun rises stirs something warm and excited under his stomach.)

“Mike, just—” Will interrupts him with a quick smooch. “You talk too much. We can think about the details later, I still can’t believe this is real.”

Oh, Mike definitely feels the same — God, he finally is with Will Byers! He’s still floating among the clouds. Cotton candy, white fluffy clouds that never end. 

“Shit, yeah, me too,” he smiles, foreheads pressed together and breaths intertwined. Mike holds Will close, who sighs into his shoulder, gets comfortable in the warm embrace; this feels new, yet familiar. And just right. And Mike can definitely, gladly get tired of this, he thinks. Maybe he doesn’t need to be so miserable anymore. “I think we lost the party.”

“I’m right where I want to be,” Will mutters into his sweater. Mike can feel him smiling.

“Happy New Year, Will.”

“Happy New Year.”