Work Text:
Mike doesn’t mean to send the photo.
Not really . Not with that caption, not to that group chat. It’s supposed to be for Will. Private. Like everything else is. Just them, in their little shared pocket of the universe where they can be soft and gross and secret and themselves .
But he’s half-asleep, still hungover on Will’s laugh, on Will’s skin, on the stupid pink lace thing Will had smuggled home in a tote bag from Max’s apartment with a look in his eye that said don’t ask . And now Will’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, and Mike’s shirt is still hiked up around Will’s waist, and—
Snap. Send.
A photo of Will bent over in panties , only visible from the waist down, backed up against Mike’s clothed crotch with one of Mike’s big hands holding him in place by his waist.
The caption, an inside joke between them:
“she said she’s a fan of corny white boys 🤷🏻♂️”
And then: blue bubble. Delivered.
To:
THE boys 🎉🤘
He stares at his screen for two whole seconds before his soul evacuates his body.
“ Oh my fucking god— ”
“Mike?” Will’s voice from the hallway. Toothbrush muffled. “You okay?”
Mike throws his phone across the bed like it bit him.
It bounces once, lands face-up, and immediately starts lighting up with notifications. Blue bubbles exploding across the screen like landmines. He doesn’t even have to look. He knows what he did. Knows what he sent . Knows that the entire goddamn group chat — Dustin, Lucas, Steve — now has a high-resolution shot of Will’s ass in Max Mayfield’s lingerie.
Will Byers. His Will. The one who blushed just from holding pinky fingers in public last week. The one who’s probably humming to himself right now in the bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth like Mike didn’t just detonate their entire secret relationship with one thumb.
Mike is going to die. He’s going to die, and Will’s going to kill him first.
“Mike?” Will’s voice again, suspicious now.
Mike makes a high-pitched noise that sounds like a cross between a whimper and a scream. He launches himself at the bed, scoops up the phone, and fumbles to open Snapchat. Maybe he can delete it. Maybe he can hack the mainframe and burn every backup server in existence. Maybe—
Dustin:
bro
BRO
YOU TAPPED WILL???
Mike’s vision whites out.
Lucas:
that’s will
that’s LITERALLY will
i know those hip like i know my own nightmares
Steve Harrington:
ok what the fuck
i need at least three people to confirm that’s will before i react for legal reasons
Mike buries his face in the comforter and screams.
“Are you dying?” Will asks, from the doorway now.
Mike lifts his head slowly. Will is standing there in one of Mike’s old band tees — the one that says Wheeler & The Weirdoes in cracked white letters — still damp from the shower, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, hair all puffed up and stupid from the towel rub.
Mike doesn’t answer. Just sort of… points to the phone like it’s a cursed object.
Will pads over, glances down at the screen, and freezes mid-chew.
“Oh,” he says. Toothbrush still bobbing between his lips. “Oh.”
He blinks once, then pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth like a mic drop.
“You sent it?”
Mike groans. “It was supposed to go to you .”
Will stares at the phone. Scrolls.
Dustin:
i’m not even mad
i’m not even JOKING
i feel like this is the final stage of evolution. like you earned him.
like he’s a legendary pokémon and you beat the elite four
congrats i guess
Lucas:
not me having to see my ex situationship bent over in lace at 9am
this is the lord’s hour.
y’all need jesus and probably lotion
Steve:
real talk tho
was it always that fat or did it get fatter
be honest
Will chokes on his own laugh. “Tell Steve I do squats.”
Mike grabs the phone back and types furiously.
Mike:
get out of my boyfriend’s ass, steve
Steve:
tell your boyfriend to get out of my brain, mike
i can’t unsee it
Dustin:
anyway
this confirms literally everything we’ve all been suspecting, congrats
i’m going to go drown myself
Mike’s phone buzzes again. The group chat is still erupting.
Will snatches the phone to distract himself from the mess he and Mike just made.
His thumb pauses over a message from Lucas:
Will smirks.
Will remembers the sharp heat of Lucas’s hands, rough and sure, gripping his hips as they stumbled across the basement floor. They were reckless, tangled together in a chaos neither could fully name. The sound of their breathing, the scrape of skin on skin, the sharp catch of teeth and desperate kisses.
Lucas’s jaw was tight, fierce, eyes dark and a little wild, and Will thought maybe that was what passion looked like — messy and urgent and a little dangerous.
Dustin’s hands had been smaller, careful and hesitant at first, learning, exploring like it was a puzzle. But there was laughter too, stolen breaths, whispered promises and nervous jokes. Will remembers the way Dustin looked down at the brunette on his knees, wide-eyed and full of wonder, as if everything was new and terrifying and beautiful all at once.
The softness between them was different but no less real — a tenderness that carved its own kind of space inside Will’s heart.
The phone buzzes again.
Steve.
Steve’s touch had been bold, teasing, cocky in that way he always was — full of swagger and surprise. Will remembers the slick heat of the summer night, Steve’s grin that was half mischief, half something softer, as they tumbled under string lights and music, the world shrinking to just the two of them.
Steve had made him laugh even in the midst of something fierce and hungry, a chaotic melody of skin and teeth and breath.
Will puts the phone down.
He looks over at Mike, who is still buried in the covers, muttering curses to himself.
“Guess we all have histories,” Will says quietly.
Mike groans. “Yeah, and now everyone knows.”
Will smiles and nudges him. “Don’t worry. You’re still my favorite mess.”
Mike lifts his head, blinking.
Will grins. “And I’m definitely yours.”
The phone buzzes again, and Mike throws a pillow at it.