Archive of Our Own

In his haste to move in with Will the summer before their freshman year, Mike hadn’t considered how inconveniently small a two-bedroom apartment on a college student budget, in Chicago, really was. Which, wouldn’t be an issue, if it weren’t for moments like these, where the world is ending, just a little, and Mike is considering launching himself into the Earth’s core.

The space itself was fine, he’d said so himself on the car ride after their first tour. Their first three weeks in Chicago had consisted of them in a moldy motel off Jackson Boulevard in mid-July, apartment-hunting to avoid the wave of fellow out-of-state college students they’d no doubt have to battle against if they’d started looking for a place in August. They’d argued about whether or not the motel was actually molding on the way back, (“It isn’t mold, Mike.” “Then what is it?”)

Mike had grinned ear to ear as he’d looked to Will for confirmation in regard to the apartment, which might as well be second nature. If Mike thought about it enough, and by that he meant if he framed it in the way his Speculative Fiction professor had said in their February writing workshop, “If you do anything enough times with clear knowledge and intent, and continue it anyway, it might as well be ritualistic.”

Mike hesitates to call what draws him towards Will as ritualistic, and not just because Max would give him shit for it if he told her over the phone. The only person more begrudging than Mike to admit that Max was his most often caller from the party, was Max herself. (“Ritualistic? Jesus, Wheeler, you really are an English major.”) The thought of his comfort within Will’s presence being boiled down to a pattern feels disingenuous, and an oversimplification of what he felt about him.

“I think it’s the one, don’t you?” He’d asked, his taps on the dashboard matching the tempo of the car's radio. Will had simply hummed, contented as he’d backed into the closest diner parking lot, his palm resting on the headrest of Mike’s seat.

The passenger seat, really. It had been an issue even before they left for Chicago, rampant in the party’s final hang-outs. Indignation on Dustin’s part was clear, “Mike gets to be next to Will, literally always, and they’re gonna live together! I should get shotgun, Mike!”

Mike had brushed him off, Will not saying anything on the matter, though, Mike could’ve sworn he saw a small smile on Will's face as he had slid next to him, hand near the gearshift and a smug look on his face as Dustin flipped him off. He hadn’t even bristled too much when Max called him on it later, lightly hitting his knee with her wheelchair as she mouthed, “smooth, Wheeler.”  He’d only smiled. He liked that he had a designated spot In Will’s spaces, even the ones that weren’t shared.

The apartment really was fine, better than fine. It was affordable, for two bedrooms. There was space for Will’s paintings, kept on open oak shelves, smeared in a combination of grays, oranges, and blues. There was room in the living room for the shelf of shared books, stacked high. (Anatomy books from Will taking up the bottom three shelves, Mike’s variety of assigned reading that he’d annotate on the couch while ranting to Will during dinner on the top three. The ranting, in Mike’s opinion, felt incredibly necessary, because, why the hell would Faulkner write so confusingly if he weren’t going to take the foresight to clarify, at least in the end, what he’d meant? It just felt pretentious, if Mike could house an opinion.)

And there was space for alone time too, not that Mike runs into that problem as often as maybe he should, as a roommate with a different class schedule than Will, coupled with his tendency to not wake up 'til 1 pm, at best. A half divider wall between the living room and kitchen, and the bedrooms being across from each other — the infinite space of a used green couch and an assortment of stray shoes between their separate living spaces — they might as well live in separate houses. Well, not really, but if either needed space for a roommate’s dispute, say, Mike forgot to empty the coffee maker of three-day-old coffee, or Will hadn’t watered their shared plant, even though it was clearly his day on the semi-legible schedule Mike had handmade, there was space for cool down time.

A little bit of stewing in the agony of human communication — particularly with a human you can never really be mad at for longer than an hour at a time, and to later go put something on tv and start heating up the leftover fettuccini until the other hears the beeping of the microwave, meeting in the middle on the sofa and bumping knees as they watched A New Hope, again.

This was not that. There was no protocol for what had just happened, no bumping knees on the sofa, and resolving issues. No kissing and making up — well, a bad choice of words maybe, on Mike’s part. Which, he doesn’t want to think about. So he won’t. Think about it. And it’ll be fine. And Mike can’t really bring himself to think about what that was, because that would mean thinking about it. Which he isn’t going to do. Great, fine. Whatever. Mike's not thinking about it, because that would be bad. Which it isn’t. And even if it were, it wouldn’t matter, because Mike’s not thinking about it.

“Fuck.” He groans, dramatically throwing his head back with his palms covering his face. Will says he’s born for theater, Mike can’t exactly disagree. Just the thought of him sends Mike’s brain into an echoing mess of Will, Will, Will. Fuck. This is bad.

“This is really bad.” He croaks out, shaking his head hard enough to induce a headache. Mike can’t help but laugh, the kind of hysterical one where you’re not sure if the tension in your face is from the laughing or an attempt to keep tears from falling. Fear of finding out keeps Mike nervously chuckling, rubbing his face 'til it's ruddy. God, he’s pathetic.

Mike is blaming all their friends for this one. For being caring and missing them and planning a trip to Chicago to celebrate the end of their first-ever college finals week. This is all their stupid faults, and maybe a little bit of college as a concept’s fault too, cause like, what even is a final? Objectively speaking.

The point was, The Party, was in Chicago, staying at a hotel. Three days prior, to this horrible, terribly catastrophic event, that was again, all their fault, they’d met up at a coffee shop near campus. Lucas had run up to the pair, hugging Will and Mike tightly, before Dustin ran up and did the same. Mike watched El hug Will as she reenacted Joyce’s fussiness to pack warm clothes, even as spring was on the cusp of closing. Mike had even hugged Max, who since the last time he’d seen her, had ditched the wheelchair and started using a cane that dueled as a walking stick. Once they sat down, Lucas continued to hound at their lack of gatherings. 

“Like, I get it, we’re all going to college far from one another, and you’re living it up in Chicago-“

“Sure Lucas, my twelve hours a day  hunched over an easel really had me living it up.” Will retorts, taking a sip of coffee. Mike can’t help but smile, fighting the urge to do something stupid, like interlacing their fingers under the table, just to see what Will would say.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lucas brushes him off, “All I’m saying is we only ever hang out when we’re home for the holidays, and that should change!”

El nods eagerly, sending a pointed stare Will’s way, while Dustin slams his hand on the table indignantly.

“Exactly! Thank you!” The sound of Dustin’s passionate exclamation is muffled by the lemon bar he’s shoved in his mouth.

“And, how come none of you visit me at MIT? Absolutely ridiculous.”

“That’s cause no one wants to go to Massachusetts, Dustin.” Mike deadpans and Max laughs from across the table.

“What’s wrong with Massachusetts?” Dustin says, waving the lemon bar around. Mike rolls his eyes.

“Look whatever, we won’t go to Massachusetts,“ Lucas starts up again, holding up his palm as Dustin yells out “Hey!”

"And, I won't even ask that you all visit Max and I in California," Lucas says, tapping on the table to prove a point. 

“But at least, let’s make up for lost time or whatever. You don’t even have to show us around the tourist traps, let’s just have a movie night at your place or something.”

At this Max, grins, “Oh I’m dying to know what a co-owned Will and Mike apartment is like. El, you have to describe it down to the flooring,” El laughs, assuring her she will before Max turns to where she’s heard Mike’s voice, somehow hitting bullseye, a playful sneer now targeted directly at him.

“Do you even go to class Wheeler?”

“I go to class!“

“Bullshit.” Max, adds, rather annoyingly.

“I do! I do go to class! Will, I go to class right? Tell them!” Mike feels his face flush in defense, whipping his head towards Will.

“He’s a very tentative class goer on Mondays and Fridays, respectively.” Will says airily, light-hearted sardonicism dripping through. Mike pulls a face, ignoring the way Will’s mouth upturned slightly makes his breath catch.

“This Friday then?” Lucas says, everyone nods in agreement.

“Do you have popcorn?” El asks, turning to Will like she’s asked for a classified document. Will matches her energy, face pulled into something serious as he responds, “Only caramel.” El’s face pinches into a look of disgust, Will laughs, it’s brassy and piercing.

“We’ll get you buttered popcorn.” Will promises, and El’s face smooths back to contentment.

Mike continues to watch Will, the way he’s smiling looking at all their friends, the casual hand draped over Mike’s chair. Will turns to him, expression warm. His eyes look good right now, the sun capturing hints of gold around his pupil. Mike wishes he had a sliver of the talent Will had. He’d paint Will just like this and a thousand other ways.

“You okay with that?” He finds himself asking, voice soft, poking at the side of Will’s hand.

Will smiles with an easygoing nod, “We’re gonna have to do a lot of clean-up, though.”

Mike groans, Will laughs, “Do we have to though?”

Will shakes his head, smiling, “Unbelievable.” he says, no charge behind it. He looks out at the sun, like he’s studying it, tryna bottle it for later. Mike does the same as he watches the profile of Will's face, brunette hair tucked neatly behind his ear. He’d cause Will disbelief every day if it meant he’d smile at him like that again. Mike tries to bottle that too.

The cleaning was going fine. They’d had a system. Mike would mop, and Will would dust. Mike would dry the dishes and Will would be the one to wash them. Mike would clean his discarded books and English papers, strewn around the living room floor if Will cleaned the paint stains in the bathroom sink. It was going great if Mike had anything to say about it.

It’s a little past six when Will is catching Mike up on all they’d missed in their rush to finish their finals. It was nice. Therapeutic, even. The party would be there in about an hour. 

The catalyst really was the laundry. They’d been folding, piling, folding piling, til they’d reached a generous stack of their clothes that they’d given up on separating after Mike had started taking Will’s Bowie t-shirt, (“I didn’t have a clean shirt, okay?” “We did laundry three days ago Mike!”)  and Will had continued not to remember where he got Mike’s turquoise hoodie. (“I definitely always had this hoodie, it’s probably from high school.” “Will, you bought me that hoodie for Christmas this year!”). Currently, the topic of conversation is alternate careers.

“What would you do? If you weren’t already on track to being a famous painter, I mean.” He’d asked, head turning towards Will, who smiles at him, folding a black t-shirt.

“I don’t know about famous…” he trails.

“I’ll know for you, then,” Mike says, and he’s sure there’s a glint in his eye. He’s long accepted there usually is when he’s talking to Will.

Will tosses the folded shirt into the pile, contemplating. “I think, I’d want to be a veterinarian or something. That’s what I wanted to be when I was younger.”

Mike nods, “I remember.” The summer before sixth grade was Will’s veterinarian phase. The Byers family had just adopted Chester, something that in retrospect, was probably Mrs. Byers’ way of making up for Lonnie leaving the winter before. Will had never been able to have a dog; Lonnie was vehemently against the idea of taking care of an animal. Mike knows he isn’t alone in thinking Chester had been the far superior of the two in the Byers household. 

“You’d be a good vet, Will.” Will turns away from the pants he’s folded neatly, smoothing away the wrinkles.

“You think?”

Mike nods earnestly. “Of course.”

Will doesn’t say anything for a moment, looking at Mike before he ducks his head. Mike can’t help but frown at the loss of eye contact.

“I don’t think I could see you doing anything uncreative.” Will says, startling Mike. 

“I wouldn’t say English as a major is exactly creative. You’ve heard my rants about ‘great’ American literature.” Mike says, shrugging, air-quotes heavy-handed on great. He grabs a wrinkled t-shirt from the unfolded pile, only turning back to Will when he laughs.

“You’re literally a Creative Writing major, Mike.” And at that, Mike grins, knocking his elbow against Will’s.

“Still, it’s different. Not nearly as creative as what you do.”

Will tilts his head, eyes back on Mike. “How? I’ve read what you’ve written, you pour yourself into everything you write. How could it possibly be different?”

Mike is touched at how much Will believes in him, that he reads what he writes, and that he thinks about it. Mike’s not really sure he’s thought much about what he writes, himself. Not unless it’s directed toward criticism. 

“It just…isn’t the same, you know. Your art Will, like, captures everything, sometimes I feel like you have the ability to just scoop emotions up and put them on canvas. I’m not…like that, I don’t make beautiful things like you do.”

Mike realizes how close they are then and what he’s just said all in one, thighs touching and a candid look on Will’s face as he stares at Mike again, his lip bit in thought. Mike’s eyes keep flickering down at them.

“I think everything you write has your heart in it, Mike, even if you think it doesn’t,” Will’s voice is low enough that Mike can hear the buzz of the air conditioner. Ambient noise for this moment, that Mike can't place. Will’s eyes sweep Mike’s face, something Mike can only describe as admiration painting his features, “I mean, every time I read anything you write I can see it clear as day…Your heart is beautiful, Mike.”

Mike feels a little light-headed and a lot like he’s experienced hypnosis. Which he hasn’t ever actually experienced, but he can infer that it’s a lot like this. Neither of them are moving away, a now thin, pile of laundry the only thing keeping them at any sort of distance. They stare for what feels like forever before Mike loses grip of the shirt he’d been holding, dropped in the tiny gap between their feet. They look down at it at the same time, then back at each other. Mike feels incredibly light-headed, actually.

“Sorry-“ Mike mutters, leaning towards the fabric, ducking his head with the movement in an attempt to hide what he’s sure is a very obvious blush on his face.

“I got it,” Will says, at the same time, moving his shoulders for better access to the floor. Mike turns to Will then, which is where, ultimately, it all goes wrong. So maybe actually it’s all Mike’s fault.

See, Mike would argue that, the thing about being flustered by his best friend of fourteen years, who he’s fought the literal apocalypse with, is that often, he doesn’t really realize how close they are. Personal space is kind of null and void for anyone in that level of intimacy. Mike and Will like to exceed expectations.

The double thing, about being flustered by his best friend of fourteen years, who happens to be Will Byers, who is also his roommate, who just called  Mike’s heart beautiful, for fucks sake, is that Mike can’t help but hover closer to him without meaning to. 

So, the chronology of disaster happens like this. Mike turns to Will — as they’re both ducked down, reaching for a t-shirt that will no doubt get lost in one of their closets, never to be seen by their rightful owner until their next laundry day — to look at him, or respond to the extraordinarily intimate thing Will just said about him, or like, gaze into his eyes, a little. Except, Will’s already looking at Mike, and Mike is a lot closer than he realized, only processing this seconds after he feels Will’s equally, unintentionally adjacent, mouth, on his.

It’s more of a brush, than it is a kiss, really. Mike’s bottom lip sweeps up against Will’s; soft and swift. It feels like the pad of someone’s thumb, against Mike’s mouth. Which is a rather gentle feeling, actually. Still, Mike feels like he’s been set on fire. By a couple hundred matches. In a field of hay.

There’s a brief moment after, where neither of them move, both eyes wide, Mike’s stomach tense and trying to regain composure while his brain rapidly, chants, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck-

What feels like two hours is probably more akin to ten seconds before Mike says. “Oh.” Because he’s an idiot. And also a loser and, oh? Who the fuck says oh-

“I-“ Will cuts through Mike’s internal freakout, neither looking away from the other. Will looks less shell-shocked than Mike imagines he looks, but Mike’s always been generally more facially expressive. Will’s blinking eyes are not exactly even, but, far less squirrelly than what Mike feels. He looks a little like an owl, actually.

Mike, who’s an idiot, and who just accidentally brushed his mouth against his best friend’s mouth, finds himself walking backwards into his room before Will has the chance to finish his thought. Will looks up at him, still, on the couch, laundry pile tucked to his side, eyebrows raised almost comically as he looks at Mike, who’s finally had the courage to touch the side of his face and feel how it permeates a concerning level of heat. If Mike hadn’t just done what he did, he would worry he had a fever.

“I’m gonna— room. I have some— I should go, yeah. Yes. I will, um so I don’t, I’ll just—” He slams the door shut as soon as he’s within reach of the doorknob, cutting off his incoherent rambling and shutting his eyes tight, the throb of pain as he hits his foot against his bed frame vastly overpowered by Mike’s want to dive into a sinkhole.

Mike isn’t sure how long he’s been in his room, but it’s long enough that he’s counted every poster on his wall four times (there are a lot). This is, of course, coupled with the intervals of time when he’d dig his face into his pillow and scream until his voice grew hoarse, wondering if there’s a chance he could sell his body to science while he's still alive, and firmly not thinking about anything at all. Not what had happened, or the way Will had looked at him, or the way his lips felt against Mike’s mouth.

So it’s been at least thirty minutes.

A quiet knock on the door interrupts his agonized brooding. “Mike?” Will asks, slightly nervous sounding through the door. 

Mike abruptly sits up in bed, voice still gravely from, well, the pillow-directed screaming. “Yeah?” His voice cracks towards the end of the word and Mike wonders how many facepalms he has left in him.

Will’s voice sounds muffled, like he’s leaning against the door, “Uh…El called, said they’d be here in about ten minutes,” fuck, “Are you…are you good? I mean like— are you coming out or do you want me to cancel, ‘cause we can cancel—”

“No!” Mike shouts, and it obviously startles Will into silence. Jesus, he is so bad at this. “I’ll be out, just—I’ll be out.”

Will doesn’t say anything for a moment, Mike wonders if maybe he was too quiet with that last sentence before he hears weight come off his bedroom door, with an even, “Okay.” From Will.

Mike flops back down on the bed. This is going to be totally fine. He’s not gonna make it awkward, not if he doesn’t think about it. It was, a bump, a brush of the lips, between friends, at best, no biggie. No-big-deal. Everything is going to be fine.

“Okay, what the fuck is wrong?” Max asks about twenty minutes after the party steps foot into their apartment. They settle well, Will shows them around the kitchen with a sense of calm that Mike cannot relate to, even a little bit, El tells Max their apartment is less messy than expected, which Max snorts at. If it weren’t for the cloud-like floatyness of Mike’s current state of mind, he’d find it in himself to argue.

Will, for all intents and purposes, looks fine. He’s laughing with Lucas, he’s teasing El; he’s not looking at Mike, at all, which is a stark contrast from the way Mike’s glanced at Will at every opportunity. Mike doesn’t understand how Will can be acting normal like they hadn’t… brushed mouths, whatever they’d done before Mike basically moonwalked back into his room with a trail of word vomit in his path. Idiot.

Mike’s eyes widen, “What? Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Not everything’s bullshit Max. Nothing is wrong.” Mike sniffs, arms crossed. They’re standing in the kitchen, the only spot with a full view of the apartment. Max makes a comment on the sound being better too, she may not see anything, but she can hear every person in the room. Mike’s in no hurry to move. Max is leaning against the wall to give her legs a break from sitting, Mike propped up next to her, watching the rest of their friends move around Will and his apartment, fidgeting with a black hair tie on his wrist.

Max doesn’t say anything, her face contemplative. The room is spinning, just a little. 

“Bullshit,” She says again, more emphasis on the word, “You and Will haven’t said a word to each other the entire night-“

“It's been twenty minutes!” Mike argues. 

“Twenty minutes too long, for you two.” And that shuts him up, because well, she isn’t wrong. Max may be cocky, but she’s also right a lot. Something Mike would never say to her face, but envies, in private.

“And,” She adds, a smug look on her face, “Lucas and El have both said you two are acting really weird. Skittish.”

Mike does his best to pull a disbelieving face, even if Max can’t see it. Mike knows she’ll hear it in his voice, “Skittish.”

Max shakes her head, “Tell me I’m wrong, all you want, but I know you, Michael.”

“Okay, well don’t call me Michael-”

“And I know Will,” Max continues, ignoring him completely, “Something is wrong.”

“What is wrong?” She emphasizes each word by tapping her cane against their hardwood floor. Which might leave a scratch. Mike makes a mental note to pick up varnish.

Mike wants to deny it some more, they both know he could. Max doesn’t have anything tangible, not really, far as observation and a little bit of superstition. But honestly, Mike kind of wants to talk about what happened. To make sense of it, to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.

“I did something stupid, well-” Mike huffs out, trying to make sense of the last couple of hours, “Not on purpose, but— I just, reacted to what happened by accident, stupidly, and now I don’t know what to say, at all and I’m such an idiot and I don’t know what to do, and fuck, Max, I’m so stupid.”

Max blinks, once. “Okay,” She nods, clearly thinking, “That was a lot.”

Mike laughs, a little teary-eyed. He rubs his eyes against the sleeves of his sweater. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Can I,” she opens her mouth and closes it, contemplative, “Can I ask what you did? By accident, I mean.”

Mike hesitates, before he nods, voice low as a whisper, “I kissed Will.” And look Mike, has seen a lot of shit. The world’s end, government shoot-outs, pizza freezers used as sensory deprivation tanks, the whole thing. But the way Max raises her eyebrows, so high Mike’s a little surprised they haven’t flung off her forehead, he’s never rendered Max so utterly speechless before. He’s trying hard not to think of it as an accomplishment.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah…”

“Whoa!” Max says louder, a little accusatory, which, is not very helpful, actually. 

“Keep your voice down!” Mike says, eying the side of the room to see Will, blissfully unaware of his involvement in their current conversation, talking to Dustin about a painting hung up on their wall. It was a commentary on classism and modern art. Mike remembers because Will had told him over dinner, his eyes lighting up at the mere mention of the project.

“You kissed Will.”

“Okay, that sounds kind of—I mean when you say it that way-”

“I restated what you said exactly, Mike-“

“I know! But just, it was an accident?”

“How does someone kiss another person by accident?”

“We were doing laundry, and we bumped!”

“You…bumped?” Entirely disbelieving and incredibly gleeful are the only words coming to mind when looking at Max’s face.

“And he was, we were talking about, like, art and he— Max, he called my heart beautiful, and then I accidentally kissed him Max! What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” 

“Start planning the honeymoon?” Max is stifling her laughter poorly, hands behind her back, shoulders shaking.

“Funny,” Mike puts his head in his hands, “Just— how do I, fix this?”

“Talk to him.”

“Not a chance.”

“Mike, you live together.”

“I’ll move out, live in the school library. They have pretty good heating, some couches, I’ll get comfortable.”

“Mike.” Max deadpans, unimpressed.

“I just. Will’s great, amazing, wonderful and he won’t, like— He isn’t gonna be upset, I know that. I know that. I just…I don’t wanna ruin everything, because I’m stupid.”

“it was an accident Mike how would this ruin anything, Will is Will, just like you said.”

“But…what if I—“ Jesus, he’s doing this. Right now. Part of Mike thought he’d never say it out loud. God knows he’s never said it to anyone past himself in the bathroom mirror, in the empty apartment, without a soul to witness it, the way Mike liked it. But after the day he had, after what had happened, and, well, Will just, isn’t looking at him. He kind of has to, doesn’t he?

“I don’t want it to be an accident, kissing him. I want it to be on purpose and I’m scared he’ll know that.”And there it is. Mike snaps the hair tie on his wrist once, the acoustic sound, calming him, slightly.  Once he says it, it isn’t nearly as scary as he thinks it’ll be.

He knew the party wouldn’t react, badly, or anything. Mike had told the party he’d liked guys their senior year, something he’d said and hadn’t talked about again. He hadn’t had a reason to, not when the person he wanted to talk about was always in the room. Everyone was supportive, El had hugged him tightly, Will had squeezed his hand. Mike had told him before the others. It wasn’t about them knowing. They’d been through far worse shit for the mental gymnastic it took to be upset about something so tiny as who Mike loved. Mike knew that too. But it was Will. Will was different. To Mike, Will had always been different. Maybe that was the fear, that if he admitted it out loud,  Mike would be easy to read, that Mike would make sense. The last of his built up defenses gone, because the whole world would know his one weakness, the one person he couldn't live without. But for all the world-ending reactions Mike had imagined in his head, the catastrophized worst-case scenarios he’s pictured since he was fifteen, at least, they never come. Max smiles.

“I know.”

Mike blinks. “What?”

“Mike, it pains me to admit this, but when I say I know you, I mean it. We’ve called every week for the entirety of our freshman year of college. I’ve known you since we were thirteen years old!” Max laughs, shaking her head, “And you and Will, you’re exactly the same around each other as you were then. Not once was there a phone call where you wouldn’t talk about Will, with this soft lilt in your voice like he’d hung the stars. Every week.”

“Oh,” Mike says dumbly.

“Oh, is right,” Max says, grinning, “I’m proud of you. I hope you know that, really. For admitting it.” Mike feels like crying, relief flooding through his body.

“Just talk to him, Mike.”

Mike sighs, head thunking lightly against the kitchen wall.

“I appreciate that, but that’s not gonna work, okay? It’ll make everything complicated, so just, drop it?”

Max, hums, turning away from Mike and to the direction of El’s laugh, her hands on Will’s shoulders as they talk about their family. From the pieces Mike can hear, Hopper had asked Jonathan to teach him how to use a film camera for Joyce and his anniversary; it was not going well. 

“Are you gonna drop it, Max?” Mike feels better, having told someone, having told Max. Still, Max may rarely be wrong, but she’s often misguided. They’re similar in that way, Mike can admit. He’s been doing a lot of that, apparently.

Max waves her hand dismissively. “Sure.”

Max, did in fact, not drop it. Mike is sure he looks stricken, eyes wide in utter awe with his legs crossed on the sofa. He adamantly shakes his head, “Sorry, what?”

“Seven minutes in heaven.” She restates, calm and collected.

“Are we twelve?” He snaps, and he wishes he weren’t sitting across the room from her so he could wack her with a pillow, or discreetly ask what the fuck she was doing.

“No, we aren’t twelve, Michael,” she says cooly, Mike hates her sometimes, “It’s for nostalgia factor.”

“We’ve never played seven minutes in heaven before though.” Will points out, sitting on the floor with his legs tucked under him on a pillow. Mike wants to tuck the loose strand of hair under Will’s ear.

“General nostalgia,” she shrugs, “It’s fun. Basically no rules, you do whatever you want in a secluded space for seven minutes. Whatever you want to do. Talk, play a game, gossip about the party, get a little frisky.” Max says, and he swears her head bobs in his direction. Mike is seconds away from buying a one-way plane ticket to a desert island with Max’s name on it.

“We know what seven minutes in heaven is, Max.” Dustin interrupts, sipping on a can of soda he’d found in the fridge, “No offense, but I’d rather run into Chicago traffic than, ‘get frisky’, with any of you.”

Lucas laughs, lifting his soda can in a cheers to that, motion.  El nods solemnly. Max drums her palms against the coffee table. “Come on you guys! It’s just a dumb game, let’s play.”

El is the first to agree, Mike can’t help but feel a little betrayed, even though she knows absolutely nothing about why this would be a terrible idea. “Okay. Why not?” Mike could go over a detailed pros and cons list, right now if she wanted, though the question seemed closer to rhetorical than genuine.

“Who’s first?” Lucas asks, leaning on the floor, plopped up by his elbows.

“Isn’t that not really how it works? There’s ordinarily a spin the bottle component-“ Will starts to say, before he’s cut off by Max, wearing a grin that, coincidentally enough, reminds Mike of the devil.

“I’m so glad you asked, Lucas!” Max says, going for authentic, of some kind. “Will and Mike. You’re up." 

Which is how, after what Mike considers to be the most exhausting non-apocalyptic day he’s ever lived, Mike and Will are sitting on the floor of their winter coat closet (it's really a general storage closet, though that's neither here nor there) next to their kitchen, the party giggling in the living room as they stare at each other, unsure what to say.

“I hope you didn’t think, I like. Planned this, or whatever. This was all Max.” Mike finally says, motioning at the dark closet,  nervously tugging at the sweater he’s wearing. He always forgets how itchy it is until he actually wears it again.

Will smiles, a little weary, “No I know. I live with you Mike,  you don’t plan far ahead enough for something like that.”

“Hey!” Mike smiles though, he can’t help it, not with Will.

“Well, we have five minutes left.” He says, going for casual. Will nods, a little unsure.

“You’re counting? Are you that eager to get away from me?” Will jokes, but something about the question has a hint of genuinity to it, and Mike feels his heart break at even the idea that Will could think he didn’t want to be around him.

“Of course not Will,” Mike says firmly,  “I could never want to not be near you. Ever. With the way I am, I think we’re gonna be buried together, or something.” Well, that was…far from platonic. Great. 

Will lets out a breathy laugh, looking down at his shoes. “Earlier kind of puts that into question a little, I guess.”

Mike puts his head in his hands, “I’m sure it did, and I’m so so sorry, I just— I got, nervous. And felt bad.”

“Felt bad?”

“Yeah, I just. It was kind of awkward, no?” And Mike is sure that was the wrong thing to say, looking up to see a flash of something like hurt on Will’s face. He doesn’t answer, playing with his shoelaces. 

“I’m sorry if I freaked you out.” Will finally says, looking up at Mike. 

“What?”

“With my…my whole: Mike, your heart is beautiful, stuff,” Will wincing at what he’d said, “I’m sure that didn’t help with how startled you got after—"

“Wait no, don’t be sorry. I loved that Will, that wasn’t the problem at all. I wasn’t freaked out by that, you have to believe that.”

“Okay, okay. Well, sorry, for the— for after that, then.”

Mike shakes his head adamantly. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one that should be sorry, I’m the one that…it’s my fault, not yours.” Mike realizes he sounds a little defensive, which, general apology etiquette considered, is maybe not the best approach.

Will’s eyes are downcast, and Mike can’t see well enough, but he swears he sees his eyes water a little.

“I shouldn’t have, I don’t know,” Will huffs in frustration, looking up and blinking rapidly. “Just, sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. It was my fault. I bumped into you, we bumped into each other, it isn’t a big deal. That wasn’t why I felt bad or felt nervous, so just— stop apologizing.” Mike insists.

“Okay,” Will says, unconvinced.

Mike scoots closer, a little urgent. Will doesn’t move away, only looks at him quizzically.

“That, what you said Will— was the most amazing thing anyone’s ever said to me. Please don’t apologize for it. Please.” Mike cringes at the twinge of desperation in his voice, Will parts his lips, a small smile finally tugging at his mouth.

“Okay.” He says, more assured now.

Mike pulls himself closer to Will until they’re sitting legs crossed, knee to knee. “And I know I said it already, but your art Will, it makes me feel things I didn’t even know…I could. I hope you know that. I can see your heart in it too, and it’s more beautiful than you can imagine. I mean it.”

Mike keeps talking before he has the chance to filter his thoughts, “I don’t think you understand how much of my writing is affected by you, Will. You're paintings, you as a person, it’s just—you’re…you’re incredible.” 

Will looks a little awestruck, and Mike would feel more embarrassed about his openness if it weren’t for the fact that they’re literally inside a coat closet, after accidentally kissing in their living room. It's a little on the nose. Mike pokes at Will’s knee, Will pokes back.

“You said,” Will says after a beat, pulling his eyebrows together, a little more confident than he had been to say anything. Mike watches him intently, the way his tongue juts out in concentration, “You said, you felt bad, but it wasn’t, that. Why did you feel bad then?” Will is watching him just as intentionally, studying Mike’s face, or what little of it he can see in the dark. 

And here’s the thing. If you pulled out the American-English dictionary, hidden somewhere under Mike’s bed, and asked Mike to describe himself with one hundred different words, brave, would be the last one on his list.

Mike’s never been the brave one. Not in his family, that was Nancy, with her literal, all-guns blazing tactic of combat, and her quick-witted tongue that made her head of her department at the newspaper she works at; barely twenty-three years old.

He isn’t the brave one of the party, either, no matter what Will had said when they were fifteen and looking at each other similar to how they were staring now, on that car ride back from Utah.

No, the brave one in the party is Will, who survived the Upside Down for a fucking week, and who’s here, making art Mike wants to brand in every corner of his skull.

The brave one is El, who went through years of torment, who can currently be heard singing a song with Dustin in an attempt to annoy Lucas into letting them pick the movie, just outside of the door, clapping cheerfully as he concedes.

Shit, the brave one is Max, who went through irreparable trauma. Who was told that her sight loss and the nerve damage in her legs meant she wouldn’t be able to move, much less travel. Max, who is now walking around Mike and Will’s apartment in Chicago, going to school in California at nineteen-years-old, with nothing but a walking stick and spite, to assist her. They were brave. Mike, well, Mike couldn’t possibly be brave like that. It would be a scoffing matter. A ridiculous line of thought. 

But their knees are touching, and Mike is suddenly lightly grasping Will’s wrists, holding him, and Mike can’t even see Will’s eyes in this stupidly dark coat closet, but Mike's eyes have adjusted well enough to see the twinge of color on his cheeks, the intent anticipation of his jaw. So Mike does something he wouldn’t. He may not be as brave as Will or El, and might not have the determination of Nancy or Max, but he’s sitting across from Will, and that has to be enough.

Will, who he’s known since he was five, swing buddies, and his first sleepover. The first person who taught him how to successfully cook an egg, (Scrambled, Mike kept making the sunny-side-up eggs rubbery). Will, who Mike has loved for longer than he thought possible, was so constant he hadn’t even noticed. Not until they had a shared space and shared plants. Not until they cooked each other dinner and took each other’s clothes without permission.

If anyone asked him when he’d known, that Mike was in love with Will, he wouldn’t be able to pin the moment when he’d realized. Maybe it was on the swing set, where Will had eagerly grinned at the thought of being Mike’s friend. Maybe it was somewhere in the before and after Will had got taken, pillow forts, and staring at the ceilings, (“Are you scared to start eighth grade?” “Of course not Will, you’ll be there.”) Maybe it was that night on the porch that still makes Mike shudder, five years later, when it was raining and Mike had bounced Will’s worst nightmare in his face, in the hopes he’d stop seeing right through him. (“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” But what if it was, he remembers thinking, what if it was Will’s fault Mike couldn’t like girls, couldn’t look at them the same way he looked at Will?)

There are a million different moments Mike can think of if he were to even attempt to pin it to memory. That day in the van with the painting, the disappointment, then shame, when Will had told him it was from El. The day Will had come out to him, their sophomore year in high school, Mike hugged him tighter than he’d hugged anyone before. (“You’re always gonna have me, Will. Always.”)

If someone asked Mike, honestly, asked him, when the moment he knew was, he’d say always, and every day after. So Mike does something uncharacteristic. He’s brave about it.

“If I,” Mike licks his lips, voice low like he doesn’t want to scare Will off. Will doesn’t take his eyes off him, “If I wanted to kiss you on purpose this time, would you let me?”

And really, that’s all it is. The thing Mike’s been thinking about for longer than he’d care to admit is happening, and that’s all there was to it. 

Will is kissing him.

The before happens as followed — Will’s breath hitches at the question, fingers wrapped around Mike’s wrist, as his eyes shuffle between Mike’s eyes and his mouth.

And that’s, great. Fantastic actually, if Mike had to pick one word. Spectacular, maybe, would be another. But as great as that may be, it doesn’t matter, not that, or anything else in the world. Because Will is kissing him.

Similar to the first, accidental kiss, Will’s lips are soft. They lock into place against Mike’s own so perfectly, Mike feels like he should hear a soft click into place. Mike sighs into it as he moves his hands from Will’s wrists to grab at his waist, Will moving his legs so Mike can scoot closer, pressing his hand against the small of Mike’s back. They should’ve done this way sooner.

They're kissing. If Mike had a free hand he'd pinch himself. 

Will pulls away first, pressing his forehead against Mike’s. Mike grumbles. “Why’d you stop?”

Will smiles, and Mike doesn’t even have to see to know how flustered he is, he can hear it in Will’s voice, “There’s this thing called breathing Mike.”

Mike smiles back, letting his hand press against the back of Will’s neck, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. Will preens a little, burrowing his head into Mike’s shoulder.

“I’ve never heard of it, actually,” Mike says, aiming for thoughtful as he presses a kiss on Will’s jawline, the side of his neck, and the exposed skin of his collarbone.

“How have you lived so long? Having never breathed, and all.” Will asks, wrapping his arms around Mike’s waist, pressing them both up against the dozen winter coats in the room, Mike doesn’t mind.

“No idea,” Mike replies easily, moving Will’s hands with his own, smiling wide as Will cups Mike’s face, pointer fingers under his ears and thumb tracing his jawline. “Maybe I need CPR.”

Will snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it, I know you do-“

“Hey losers!” Max’s voice, entirely too close to the closet door, breaks the moment, the pair turning towards the voice, “Seven minutes ended ten minutes ago.”

“Fuck off Max!” Mike shouts and Will laughs against Mike’s chest. Max seems to find that answer satisfying enough, smugly saying, “Told you.” As she walks away, her walking stick is heard against their hardwood.

Mike turns back towards Will, taking him in. “She’s never gonna let us live this down.”

Will laughs again, leaning to press their noses together, brushing his lip against Mike’s as he says, “I could not care less.”

Mike’s cheeks hurt from smiling, tilting his head up slightly to meet Will all the way, “Me either.”

Mike almost stops himself from saying it, fear of being labeled entirely too sappy, but Will brings something out of him, he always has. He cups the side of Will’s face, kissing his cheek as he tucks a piece of hair behind Will’s ear, “I’m gonna write about this.”

Will laughs, piercing and brassy, kissing the side of Mike's jaw, again and again, “It’s gonna be beautiful.”

The party, Max especially, does in fact - give them an outstanding amount of shit for it. If Mike’s adamant brush off of Max keeping time weren’t what tipped the rest of their friends off on what had happened, Mike and Will stepping out of their coat closet, twenty minutes after Max had interrupted them, with their hair messy, their faces flushed and their clothes wrinkled, definitely gave it away.  Which, Max, and really the rest of the party, wouldn’t have known if Lucas hadn’t taken one look at them from his place in the kitchen heating up popcorn, eyes wide.

“No fucking way!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mike tries to brush him off, nudging at Will, who's a mixture of incredibly embarrassed and incredibly endearing.  

“No! What we’re not gonna do, is brush this off!” Lucas exclaims, bracing himself against their kitchen counter. And Mike was the one that should do theater. Ridiculous.

“Brush what off?” Dustin asks from the living room, looking up from the game of Solitaire he was playing against El.

“Mike and Will!” Lucas says matter of fact, with a little bit of glee in his voice. God he and Max really were perfect for each other, Mike thinks.

“What about Mike and Will?” El asks, also looking up from her game. It’s then that Mike notices Max leaning against the wall in the kitchen, having said nothing prior.

“Jesus Max, you scared the shit out of me.” Mike huffs, frowning a little as Will moves from his spot next to him, opting to get a soda from the kitchen.

Will chugs it as Dustin and El stand up, making their way over to them. Great.

“Yeah Mike,” Max grins, head tilted, towards the sound of his voice, “What about you and Will?”

“Okay, Max I swear to god-“

Will puts his soda can on the table with a thud, unable to help an eye-roll, “We made out a little, big deal. What movie are we watching El?”

Mike is in love with him.

The room erupts into a mixture of overlapping voices.

“No fucking way!” Lucas states, again, hands on his head

“In the room over from us, come on you guys!” Dustin says, Mike flips him off.

El nods at him as she puts her arm around Will, “I am proud of you.”

Mike smiles.

Max clears her throat dramatically. “As am I. Very proud of you both. However, no one’s asked the most important question.”

Mike raises an eyebrow elbows leaned-standing against their kitchen counter, turning to Will, who looks equally as confused, though there’s a hint of amusement Mike is sure he doesn't match.

“ What are you talking about.”

“Who kissed who first.” Max punctuates each word with a light tap on the wall.

Mike turns to Will, who’s already looking at him. “Should we tell-’em?” Will shrugs.

“Your call.” He answers, moving to sit down next to him, at the counter, looping his pinky in one of Mike’s belt loops. Dustin fake gags, this time Will flips him off.

Mike starts hitting the end of the counter in a faux drum reveal, “The first person to kiss the other was-“

“It was me.” Will interrupts, a series of cheers from Dustin, El, and Max. Mike turns towards him in disbelief.

“You said it was my call!”

“It was getting too theatrical.”

Mike grumbles, Will interlacing their fingers together. “Sorry,” Will mutters against Mike's hand, pressing a kiss onto the middle.

“It's fine,” Mike mutters, caught up in the messiness of Will’s hair. It looks good. For a moment they're lost in their own bubble, just them.

Lucas indignantly shouts, “That’s not fucking fair!”

Will and Mike startle, confusion and judgment respectively painted on their face. “What?” Mike asks a drop of irritation in his voice.

“He owes us a collective $45 dollars!” Dustin states, “Pay up Lucas.”

“No! When I said $15, I meant $15, in total.” Lucas stresses. 

“That’s total bullshit!”

“Dustin’s right.” Max chimes in and El nods rapidly.

“You guys too? Really?” Lucas, is for all intents and purposes, flabbergasted. Mike and Will are, incredibly perplexed.

“Wait, owe you money for what?” Will interrupts.

Dustin suddenly quiets, rubbing his neck sheepishly.

“Dustin?” Mike asks, suddenly suspicious. 

“We kind of…” Lucas starts, clearing his throat, “Don’t be mad.”

“Don’t be mad. What kind of opener is that?” Mike exclaims his free hand flailing. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

El is the first to admit it, “We placed a bet on you guys.”

“What?” Will and Mike find themselves say, at the same time. Mike can’t help but smile at that, just a little.

“Everyone did!” El defends, the claim mostly directed at Will, who’s glaring at her. 

“El is right,” Max says, walking over to the kitchen counter, feeling the ridge of the granite to better support herself. “And if it makes you feel any better, we didn’t bet that you guys would get together.”

“We all knew you would,” Lucas adds. Oh.

“What did you bet on then?” Will asks, brushing off the comment that Mike, very much wants to stay focused on.

“We bet on who would kiss the other first-“ El says, picking at the pieces of popcorn that have been cooling on the table.

“Hang on,” Mike interrupts, “How did you guys know we would get together, why wouldn’t you even bet on it?”

Dustin rolls his eyes, rather dramatically, if Mike had room to criticize. “Obviously you two would’ve gotten together, look at you!” He motions at them, Mike’s hand locked in Will’s and his chin now resting against Will’s head. Oh. “It wasn’t a matter of when either, because Max said she had that handled.”

Wait, what.

“What does that mean?” Mike asks, head whipping towards her. She only shrugs.

“Every single week, Wheeler.” Is all she says, and Mike’s face flushes.

“Wait,” Will interrupts, “Were you planning this before you even got to Chicago?”

Max lets out a slightly disagreeing noise, “Yes and no. I did say I was going to make Mike see that he's completely in love with you, but that wasn’t a bet. The bet — we just won,” Max says triumphantly, referencing Dustin and El, “had been going on since sophomore year of high school.”

“What?” Mike’s free hand is back to flailing, “That’s-what?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Max waves him off, “Take all the time you need to process or whatever. Really I didn’t think either of you would have the balls to do it. I was really only planting seeds, hoping you’d figure your shit out by the time you had a Masters' degree."

Mike ignores the rude implication with the knowledge that Max thinks he could get a Masters' degree.

“Well, I guess you didn’t get the balls to do it, since Will did it first, just like I thought he would. Stunning job, by the way.”

Max moves to give Will a firm handshake, which he returns. Mike turns to glare at him, and Will just grins. Max pauses, mid-handshaking, her face drooping a little.

“Wait,” Max says frowning, “But that wasn’t your first kiss.”

“That doesn’t count!” Will argues, as Mike puts his head in his hands, face red.

“Ha!” Lucas exclaims, “It was Mike, wasn’t it? Where’s my money? Hm? I want my money!” 

“Wait, wait,” Dustin motions a time out, “What do you mean that wasn’t their first kiss.”

Max indignantly shakes her head, “Wheeler here-“

“Pay up, motherfucker!” Lucas cuts in. 

“Absolutely not, Lucas. No! Until either of them have said it-“

“Okay now- I told you that in confidence Max-“

“El what movie are we watching-” Will ask again, through the shouting.

As with all things Mike has mixed feelings about go, Mike and Will dropping their friends off at Chicago airport is the biggest question mark on Mike's feelings catalogue. Mike slides into the passenger seat of WIll’s car, holding his right hand instinctually. They’ve been doing a lot of that, the past few days. Mike doesn’t ever want it to stop. Dustin clicks his tongue as he sees Mike in the passenger seat, muttering, “Ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous.” As he makes his way to the backseat.

The car ride, for the rest of the party, is probably a little uncomfortable, and Mike will admit, that’s his fault.

Lucas, El, and Max all pile in, a tight squeeze. Max and El have seats for themselves while Lucas and Dustin squish into one another.

“You said bye already Mike! You literally don’t even have to be in the car!” Dustin shouts, Lucas’s knee digging into his side, trying to adjust himself for when they need to get out of the car. Will keeps moving the car forward slightly, the drop-off line never giving them enough time to stop and say their goodbyes.

“Will doesn’t like driving alone!”

“I hate you so much-“

“Hey, lay off him a little,” Max says. “Loverboy is making up for lost time.” She says while she and El snicker.

Mike rolls his eyes. “Loverboy, helped you ungrateful assholes put your suitcases in the car. You’re welcome.”

Dustin flips him off, bickering stopped only by Will parking the car.

“We’ll call when we’re back in California,” Lucas says, squeezing Will’s, then Mike’s hands, before helping Max out of the car, one arm around her for support as they walk to their terminal.

“Call me Wheeler, and you too Will, I’ll keep him in check for you.”  Will laughs, and Mike scowls, flicking the side of her arm, promising he’d call the minute she landed. Dustin gets out next.

“I know I joke, but I’m gonna miss you assholes.”

Mike grins, “I’ll miss you too.” Before they know it, Dustin’s off to his east coast terminal, leaving El, who’s hugging Will as properly as she can with the angle they’re at.

“I’ll miss you, and I’m proud of you, and come visit later in the summer and-“

Will laughs, sniffing a little.

“Slow down, slow down!” He hugs her again, “I’ll miss you too, and I’ll visit, I promise.”

El nods, satisfied with that. She squeezes Mike’s hand. “I’m proud of you too.”

Mike smiles at her, squeezing back “Bye El.”

There’s a little pocket of silence as Will gets out of the airport drop-off lane, Mike rubbing the knuckles of his free hand with his thumb.

“I’m gonna miss them,” Will says quietly. Mike smiles, interlacing his fingers with Will’s just because he can.

“I know. Me too.” Mike looks out the window, and rhythmically taps his hands on the dash, before he speaks again.

“I can’t believe we have Max, of all people to thank for getting us together.” He says, leaning his head back on the passenger seat headrest. His seat.

Will hums, “Honestly? I can. She’s incredibly stubborn,” Will smiles then, “she reminds me of you in that way, I’ve always thought so since we were little.”

Mike puts a hand on his chest, “Don’t wound me, Will. How could you?” Will just shakes his head, laughing.

“I think you’ll be just fine.”

They stop at a red light when Mike turns to look at Will, who is already looking at him. Mike can see every color possible in Will’s eyes, the gold, dusting his pupils, shades of green swimming as the sun hits the side of Will’s face. Mike wants to bottle it, and keep it close to his chest. Instead, he cups the side of Will’s face, thumb brushing his cheek. Will, in response, kisses the edge of Mike’s palm, still looking at him.

The light turns green, and Will turns his attention back to the road. Mike keeps watching the profile of Will’s face. Mike wonders how their relationship could shift so much, and still feel like nothing had changed at all. Mike smiles as Will puts his hand on the back of Mike’s headrest. Mike thinks maybe he shouldn't be surprised. It’s always been second nature, really, when it came to them.