Chapter Text
It’s pouring rain, and there’s nothing Mike can do to keep his clothes from quickly becoming soaked.
The thin material of his white t-shirt sticks stubbornly to his skin as he holds an old hand-me-down flannel from his father above his head. His feet kick-up mud and grass as he runs through his yard towards the front door. He can hear the wet sloshing sounds of Will behind him, the coat he hangs above his own head doing nothing to keep his chestnut brown hair from becoming drenched.
They make it to the door, quietly hushing one another as they enter the house, unable to contain their soft giggles. Will trails at Mike's feet as he walks to the kitchen, immediately swinging open the fridge. “Get me some mugs?” He asks as he grabs a carton of milk out of one of the side shelves. Will is already on it, opening a far-right cabinet and grabbing them each a plainly colored mug, straining on his tippy-toes to reach.
He sets them both down on the counter top with a small little clink as the ceramic meets the tile. Mike fills them both with milk, and pops them in the microwave as Will swings himself up onto the counter-top with practiced ease. Mike grabs the chocolate powder from a cabinet that swings dangerously close to Will's head. As he throws the door closed, he finds Will staring at him through his thick lashes, a look that was indecipherable yet made Mike’s pulse tick up all the same. They hold eye contact for a few seconds, bright green eyes boring into thick, brown molasses. Mike’s eyes flit down for a second, and through the corner of his eye, he swears he can see Will’s throat bob in a heavy swallow.
It only takes them a few seconds to look away in quick succession after locking eyes again. The microwave beeps loudly, pulling them out of the moment. Mike shoves himself away from the counter, and he can feel the way Will’s eyes move with him across the room, boring into his back. He grabs the mugs off of the counter, focusing intently on dumping each singley packaged pouch of hot-cocoa powder into the two cups. The powder dissolves into a gooey, chocolate coating on top and Mike uses a metal spoon to stir the substances together, melding like the rain in the dirt.
“It’s hot.” He warns as he hands Will the mug, who takes it gently into his chilled hands, using the ceramic to warm his fingertips. Mike slides himself up onto the counter just next to Will, sides nearly flushed together as he begins blowing on his own drink.
“Thank you.” Will speaks up softly before finally lifting the edge of the mug to his lips and taking a small sip. He swallows faintly, and immediately makes a noise of discontentment, scrunching his face up in mild pain. “It’s hot.”
“I told you, dumbass.” Mike teases, shoving at his shoulder with his own. Will rolls his eyes, but then a minute later, shrugs in agreement.
Senior year is approaching. It was the middle of March, in the midst of Spring Break, which meant nothing other than nights spent at each other's houses, and rain spilling over into the damp, late evenings. Mike’s parents were out of town for a week-long getaway at a nearby ski-lodge, although Mike doubts they were actually having much fun. It doesn’t matter to him either way, because this meant that Holly was staying with Nana, and Mike had the house all to himself. Which thereby meant sweet, glorious freedom.
Mike wasn’t sure what the rest of the Party was up to tonight, nor did he seem to care all that much. He didn’t mind being alone with Will, he actually quite liked it. They have been best friends since they were five, afterall. Over time, they’ve developed a comfortable closeness with one another that was unbreakable and unique to themselves. Dustin and Lucas were close, but incomparable. Mike had tried to find that in Eleven, but found it was more of a closely-tethered, sibling-like bond. Special, but still not the same. Max and Mike only really tolerated each other on most days, although they did enjoy the playful bickering and banter, though neither one would ever say as much out loud.
Will was different. He was quiet; a silent observer. He kept to himself, but was never closed off. For most people, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. Not for Mike. He could read his face like the cover of a book, and with one small glance, they could easily be on the same page. Mike, on the other hand, wore his heart on his sleeve, and his temper could easily boil to a melting point. Will was the only person who knew how to ride out his waves of anger with practiced patience and ease.
That’s just how they were. Achilles and Patroclus. Bowie and Mick Jagger. Will and Mike. Companions. Partners.
That was, for the most part, anyways.
There were little moments here and there, where the air shifted, and their little game of telepathy faded out into blistering confusion. Their comfortable silence would swell into a thick, budding tension that Mike could feel from the top of his scalp to the tips of his toes. Sometimes it was the brushing of a hand, or an accidental kick of the feet underneath the lunch table, or lingering eye contact in moments shared alone. Silent conversations exchanged between quiet glances, questions floating through the air around them, energy thrumming between them, hot like a live-wire to the touch. It was almost like a game. Tether the edge close enough, and eventually one of them will snap.
“Happy birthday,” Mike whispers into the swelling, thick silence that was beginning to engulf them.
A smile tugs itself to the corner of Will’s mouth, and Mike doesn’t truly register how close they’re sitting until he turns his head, giving him a soft, exasperated look. Mike wonders how easy it would be to just lean a little closer. Dip his head down, and with a gentle brush, let his lips find–
“My birthday isn’t until tomorrow.” Will cuts through his train of thought.
“Still.” Mike insists. “Close enough.”
Will rolls his eyes with a scoff, but that small smile was still trapped behind his flushed cheeks and pinched mouth. “I don’t understand the big deal about birthdays anyways,” he shrugs, “I mean, I’m not gonna be any different in two hours than I am right now.”
“No,” Mike admits. “You won’t. But, it’s a milestone.”
“Seventeen isn’t even a good age,” Will points out, setting his mug down on the counter next to him. Mike see’s a playful glint shine in the corner of his green eyes, and before he can process what’s happening, Will is already ranting full force. “I mean, think about it. When you turn sixteen it’s all cool because you can finally get your license and actually drive a car, and it’s exciting because like - every coming of age movie is about turning sixteen. Like, it’s your sweet sixteen or whatever bullshit, y’know?”
“I mean, I guess.” Mike shrugs. “Aren’t sweet sixteens more of a girl thing though?”
“That’s not the point.” Will continues. “And then, after seventeen, there’s eighteen, which is so much better than sixteen and seventeen combined, because now I’m like an adult, and I can vote and shit.”
“Will, you don’t even know the first thing about politics.”
“Also not the point.” Will shoves a finger in his face, in which Mike playfully smacks away. “Besides, I know some stuff about politics.”
“Like what?” Mike raises an eyebrow in disbelief.
“Well, Reagan has been cutting taxes, and increasing our country's military funding. Which, y’know, I don’t necessarily think is a bad thing, but like, there’s better places I think that money could be spent I guess. Like the AIDS crisis for example, which don’t even get me started on that, but like–” Will cuts himself off with a short huff, hand pushing his loose hair off of his forehead, only for it to fall right back in place. “I don’t know, I guess you’re right. I’m not educated enough on politics.” He concludes with a bitter chuckle.
“Damn, Byers.” Mike cocks an eyebrow at him, and then, with a nudge to the shoulder, he continues. “You seem to know more than me.”
“And I don’t get to use that knowledge until I’m eighteen.” He huffs with a small, conclusive smirk.
“Yeah, but–” Mike begins, sliding his mug onto the counter-top as he slides himself off gracefully, walking over to the cabinets in the far corner. “You know what you can do when you’re seventeen?”
Will hums an interrogative, eyes following the trail that Mike's hands take from far inside the cabinet to the bottom of the countertop, golden glass bottle resting beneath his fingertips. “Get a little drunk with your best friend.” Mike concludes, throwing him a questioning tilt of the head, to which Will huffs a small chuckle with a disapproving shake of his own.
“Is that really a good idea?”
“It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”
“Right, but that was…” Will trails off.
He doesn’t really need to finish, Mike can piece the rest of what he was gonna say together in his own head. That was with the rest of the party. When we weren’t alone.
“I just don’t wanna do anything we’ll regret.” Will admits in a stomach-swooping moment of bravery.
Their eyes lock, and Mike can’t help but narrow his slightly, as Will holds firm in his stare with pursed lips and a bitten cheek. His eyes shine with question, burning a bright green that flushes in a colorful contrast against the whispers of a tan peaking through his skin, and the chestnut brown eyelashes that flutter against his cheeks.
He’s beautiful.
“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to.” Mike says simply, as their eyes still dance around each other, searching for answers.
I wouldn’t regret it. Mike says through his gaze, intense and lingering, as Will chews on his bottom lip in contemplation. He’s sitting on the countertop still, all the way across the kitchen, and yet the tension is taut like a livewire, begging them to be closer, to stop dancing around whatever this thing is lingering between them.
He’s staring. Mike realizes in a sudden wave of affection. And not just at my eyes.
Mike lets his own gaze flicker down quickly. Once. Then twice. And when he meets Will's eyes again, both their gazes have become red-hot with challenge.
Will releases his bottom lip from between his teeth, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he says, “No.” Then with another flicker of his eyes, so quick Mike would’ve missed it if he wasn’t staring as well. “I want to.”
Mike’s breath catches in his throat, and he can see the tiniest of smirks grace Will's lips as he tilts his head in question. Oh. Mike thinks, and with his own narrowed gaze, he tilts his own head back in question. So this is a game?
Yeah. Will says back in his own abiding stare. Wanna play?
And goddamnit, Mike’s had just about enough. He pulls his eyes away forcefully, and snags the bottle off the counter top as he begins heading towards the basement without another thought. He’s reached his threshold with this one. Neither of them had ever gotten so close to explicitly acknowledging this - this - this thing they have, and Mike can feel them beginning to teeter alarmingly close to the edge. And now, it’s becoming dangerous, because Mike can’t even find it within himself to try and stop it anymore.
He trudges down the stairs, feet clunking against the old hardwood, and calls out behind him. “Grab the shot glasses!”
Mike can feel the way Will's eyes burn into his ivory pale skin. It sets his nerves on fire, but he keeps his mind focused on pouring their first shots. He manages not to spill anything, which is a miracle considering just how on edge he is right now.
They clink glasses and down the shots without a second thought. It burns in Mike's throat, and he can only assume it does the same for Will as they both scrunch up their faces trying to choke the taste down.
They let the alcohol sit for a minute, letting it reach their bloodstream, soaking in the buzz. The string of lights that surround the room twinkle in Wills eyes, reflecting the bright hazel color that glints in them. He was beautiful.
Mike needed another shot.
He pours them each another, and they’re gone just as fast as the first ones. His face is starting to feel lighter, and his body heavier. The alcohol hits them slowly, fleetingly, and then all at once. Somewhere between the twinkling lights, and the drawings strewn around Mike's wall, and the flush burning at both their cheeks, Will has started talking. Mike can’t really concentrate properly on what the hell he’s even saying, but he lets out a little giggle when Will turns to him with wide eyes and expressive faces.
Will always becomes almost vivid when he’s drunk. The world surrounding him that generally seems to fill him with more anxiety than anything, melts away slowly and his mouth moves ahead of his brain. He articulates every little thought, idea, or emotion on his mind, and his dramatic antics reflect that of Mike’s on a normal day.
Mike doesn’t know how long he sits there letting Will ramble on, jumping from topic to topic like a kid bouncing through hopscotch on the playground, but somewhere between the general babbling and their next round of shots, they begin playing Defender on Mike's Atari. Their gameplay is messy and scattered, neither one able to make it past the next level. Their giggles carry throughout the basement, and Will starts teasing Mike when his attacker falls and the screen glitches out before reading Game Over.
“You dumbass.” Will giggles, tugging the remote out of his hands, to which Mike swats at him playfully, snatching it back quickly. He’s giggling now, too, as Will nearly jumps onto him fighting him for the controller.
“Let go!” Mike yelps through a chuckle, turning into himself on the floor as Will crawls over him in a weak attempt to pry his arms away from his chest, where he guards the joystick with his life.
“Fine.” Will huffs, pulling himself off of Mike and flopping back down onto the floor dramatically, head falling to a lull back against the couch cushions.
Mike sits up, too, throwing the game controller haphazardly next to him on the carpet. “You know, your birthday isn’t for another,” Mike flips his wrist, checking his watch. “Twenty minutes. There’s no reason for you to be attacking me.” He huffs dramatically.
Will tries to bite back a grin, but it breaks through his flushed cheeks and slightly bloodshot eyes, that each burn a bright green, something like jade stones, around his irises. Mike has taken note of the way Will's eyes change, flickering between a deep, stony brown when he’s agitated, to a sweet, sage-like green when he’s happy, and something in between the two when - well, in moments like this. When he’s giddy and excited and something dangerously like lust burns through his pupils. Which makes Mike's stomach swoop breathlessly near his abdomen, because Will's staring at him. And his eyes have that look.
Mike’s own eyes flit down for a moment, and Will’s lips are flushed red, same as his cheeks. His eyes don’t trail back to Will’s immediately, but they rather make their way across the rest of his face, from the mole resting just below his right nostril, to the one lingering just above his jaw bone on the left side of his face, to the slope of his nose, curved down from the smooth skin of his temple. His skin looks soft to the touch, and it holds a bit of a tan from the warmer months, and it’s made even more beautiful in contrast to the thin threads of chestnut brown hair that steep through his brows, and surround the greens of his eyes in thick lines of lashes. And just like that, they’ve locked eyes again.
Will’s flit back up to Mike’s, black coffee meeting ivory jade, and something in his gaze lingers tauntingly. His brows have furrowed in on themselves just slightly, questions deep-rooted in his fixed stare. Mike’s too drunk for this. So drunk, in fact, that he doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten until he can feel the hot breath from Will’s lips falling onto his own. He’d only have to lean forward a few inches, part his lips and–
The moment is broken abruptly. Will is halfway across the room before Mike even registers what's happening, and it gives him whiplash.
“Do you still have your cassette tapes?” He asks from across the room, words slightly slurred together. He’s already digging through boxes at the shelf in the corner, searching for the familiar old shoe box that Mike had taken to using as a storage box over the years.
“Y-yeah.” He stutters out in a head-rush, still trying to fully process what just happened.
“Ah-ha!” He exclaims, pulling a used, bright-red shoe box off of the lower shelf. Mike listens to the sounds of Will shuffling and digging through the pile of cassettes, before he finally finds the one he’s looking for, pulling it out and bouncing back over to Mike excitedly. He stumbles over himself slightly as he reaches the cassette player, popping the tape in before adjusting the knobs for the volume.
Mike recognizes the chords of the song immediately, and he can’t help the smile that overtakes his cherry red cheeks. Will is stumbling around, probably trying to do some kind of cheesy dance move that makes him look even more drunk than he already does. The music is loud, and thumps through Mike’s ears and into his slightly throbbing head, but Will walks - or, more accurately, dances over to him - and holds his hands out in offering. Mike lets out a snort, throwing his head back in glee before placing both of his hands in Will’s own and letting Will pull him up off the ground.
Mike expects Will to let go as they sway and bounce to the song, but he keeps a firm grip on Mike’s hands, using the leverage to swing them back and forth in tandem, moving from one side of the room to the other. Will releases one of his hands, using his own to place on his chest, singing along dramatically. “Don’t have to tell you.”
“I love your,” Mike sings back, clutching Will’s hands on his own and bending on his knees slightly for dramatic effect. “Precious heart.”
Will pulls away quickly, licking the tip of his thumb before using his hands to air-riff an imaginary guitar, to which Mike laughs loudly. He then uses his own hands to air-bang an imaginary set of drums, and just like that, they’ve found a rhythm. Dancing, laughing, singing. They come together again, and their fingertips gravitate towards each other, gently intertwining as they sway each other back and forth.
“Two worlds collided.” Will sings again, still smiling widely, but this time, his voice comes out softer. Mike takes the opportunity to lift a hand above his head, spinning Will around in a circle. He comes back, face-to-face with Mike again, who has already begun singing the next lyrics back to him.
“They could never tear us apart.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so delicately, but Will is lost in the music, and the alcohol, and the dancing, and the colorful string lights that trail across the ceiling of the basement, and Mike doesn’t think he’s ever looked more beautiful.
They’re dancing slower now, and Mike doesn’t remember when he pulled Will closer, or when one of his hands had trailed to his waist, but it’s there now, and he’s too far gone to stop this. Will is staring at him with that look again - the doe eyes, and blown pupils, and messy hair from jumping around the basement. Will’s fingers have found the back of his neck somehow, and Mike’s left hand has now joined his right around Will’s waist. Will grips Mike's upper arm, and the only thing Mike can focus on is how the music suddenly feels quiet.
Mike’s not sure either one of them register that they’re doing it, but they keep getting closer. So close that they’re almost touching foreheads, noses brushing so lightly that it could’ve been a feather and Mike’s not sure he would notice a difference.
He does notice, though. Cause this is Will. His best friend since he was five years old, his partner, the one person he would do absolutely anything for because all Mike has ever wanted was to put a smile on his face.
“Mike?” He whispers, a question and statement all in one.
Mike’s eyes flicker into Will’s, and as scared as he is, something about those familiar green irises give’s him all the confidence he needs.
To hell with it. He thinks, before finally swooping down one final inch and closing the space between them. Mike can hear the way Will’s breath catches in the back of his throat as their lips meet softly. The kiss is gentle, lingering. Hesitation teeters between them both, and the moment is short lived.
Mike pulls back gently, grip on Will’s hips still firm and steady as he squeezes his fingers gently, nerves beginning to crawl their way back up his spine. Will looks slightly confused, but something like relief is seeping into his features. Mike is in a slight daze, equal parts shock and elation that Will is reciprocating this, that he seems to feel the same way, that this is even happening.
“Will, I–” He manages to choke out, before Will cuts him off with a short shush.
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, standing on his toes, leaning back in. His fingers card through the dark locks of hair at the nape of Mike’s neck, using it for leverage to pull his face down, meeting their lips once again. The kiss is harder this time, more urgent. Mike tightens his own grip on Will’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, head swimming, heart pounding. They’re moving, now, but Mike can’t concentrate on anything but the taste of Will's lips on his.
He lands against the back of the couch with a dull thud, and Will lands on top of him, only ever breaking their kiss to chuckle slightly as he holds the back of Mike’s head. “Are you okay?” He grimaces through his giggles.
“Who cares?” Mike scoffs, catching Will’s lips on his own once again, parting his mouth without question when he feels the warm slick of Will’s tongue.
Between Will’s thighs parting around his own as he found a seat in Mike's lap, to the set of fingers that were cascading through his hair, pulling, tugging until a breathless sound rose from the back of Mike’s throat, and the opposite set of fingers that were trailing down Mike's chest, and fisting into the fabric of his shirt, Mike was completely and utterly gone. Will’s scent surrounded him. Pine and oak - something earthy and fresh, yet musky and dark, that sent Mike’s head spinning.
Will’s lips fall past his in the next kiss, and begin to trail their way across his cheek, down to his jaw, and towards the length of his neck. Mike throws his head to the side, huffing out a breath as Will sinks his teeth into the hollow right below his ear. He can feel how tight his pants have become, and it sends a swoop of bubbling hot jitters coiling in his stomach. He’s too far gone to make it stop now, though. Will makes his way across the column of Mike’s throat, sinking more than a few dark souvenirs into his skin before trailing his wet kisses back up to Mike’s mouth.
Mike accepts the kiss greedily, still running off of pure alcohol and adrenaline. As much as he’d like to think that Will wants this as badly as he does, a small, intrusive part of him is still saying that Will is just drunk. So Mike’s determined to take as much of this good thing as he can get. His own mouth is beginning to trail now, from the underside of Will’s jaw, down the length of his neck, stopping to leave a mark of his own just between the junction of his neck and his shoulder. Will throws his own head back, and Mike hears the ladder part of a clipped moan slip past the column of his parted lips. This only encourages him to leave more, trailing from his adams apple to just below his earlobe, and back to a sweet spot just underneath his jaw, where his scent is more concentrated.
Mike pulls back, and their eyes meet again. Will’s pupils are blown wider than Mike’s ever seen them, and it leaves him breathless knowing that he’s the reason for it. Will’s eyes flicker back and forth, lingering on his lips before meeting his dark eyes again. His hands come up to cup his cheeks, pink at the tips and hot from the alcohol and kissing. Will uses his thumbs to trace the apples, right where a smattering of freckles is dotted across the bridge of his nose and running a trail across the rest of the skin. Mike uses his own thumbs to rub tiny circles into his hip bones, dragging them closer until Will’s abdomen is flush against his own. Mike's fingers wander, finding their way to the skin just below Will's yellow flannel and thin t-shirt. He uses the leeway to push the fabric up just slightly, until his fingers are only touching skin, warm and smooth under his caress. Mike’s gaze trails from the smattering of hair on his lower stomach, and back up to his face, where Will is flushed and slightly sheepish under his gaze.
“You’re beautiful.” Mike whispers before thinking any better of it. Will flushes even more, dipping his head, before jutting forward and letting his forehead fall against Mikes. His thumbs haven't stopped their dance on his cheeks, and his breath falls short on Mike’s lips.
“So are you.” He breathes, eyes closed.
Mike leans forward and traps his lips again as he registers the beginning chords of Girl Can’t Help It by Journey playing softly in the background. The heavy pattering sounds of rain still beat down against the side of the house, and Mike’s atari has been long forgotten in the corner of the room, the only evidence left being the Game Over screen that’s still flashing on the TV.
It’s pouring rain, and Mike is quietly drowning.