Chapter Text
I took a little journey to the unknown
And I’ve come back changed, I can feel it in my bones
I fucked with forces that our eyes can’t see
Now the darkness got a hold on me
(Meet Me In The Woods by Lord Huron)
Will recalls the visions Vecna forced into his mind with a visceral, haunting clarity – each one just as intrusive as the memory of an oozing tendril being forced down his throat.
A group of familiar faces crowd around him as he sits on an isolated chair in the middle, as if he were on a raft lost out at sea, a hundred sharks circling around him and waiting for a drop of blood, just one sliver of weakness. His knuckles turn white, nails sinking into his knees, palms slick on his thighs.
His eyes dart up through his lashes, quick, to survey the room. He knows these people, he loves these people. He knows they love him back. But he can’t read their faces, can’t read their expressions. Each face is obscured, swirling like mist, intangible and dream-like.
He licks his bottom lip, swallows against the dry scraping that builds in his throat. Gears himself up to say what he’d brought them all here for, to utter the words he’s been keeping secret for an eternity, a lifetime.
“I’m—” he begins. Clears his throat again, hates the way his voice cracks when he tries again: “I’m— I’m not like you. I am, in all the ways that matter, maybe. But not in— not in the one way that-” He cuts himself off. The faces in front of him blur, mixing, as if buffering on what the reaction will be, depending on what he has to say next. “I don’t know,” he agonises. “I don’t know how to say this.”
God, Will feels like he’s dying. He knows he has to just say it. Say it, or he will never move on.
Just say it.
“I don’t like girls.”
The words are a huge rush out of him, all at once. It feels like a relief. Like all the weight has shed from him.
But the swirling faces of those staring at him – they pause in their rotations. Considering.
“I’m not— I’m gay,” he amends, he clarifies, because he feels the distinction is important. So that they can all understand him, at last. So that he can bare his truth.
And the expressions of all of those he loves and cares for, finally, they appear. His mother, he looks towards her, expecting her familiar warm smile, to see tears in her kind brown eyes, and all he sees when the swirling stops, when her face molds into something real, is a true, devastating horror. Her eyes are wide in fear, directed at him. Her mouth hangs open, a horrified grimace that Will will never be unable to see.
“Mom.” His breath shreds out of him, like his insides have been grated apart. His eyes dart to her right, finding his brother. “Jonathan,” he whispers, pleading.
Jonathan’s face is a horrible twist of anger. A violent betrayal. Eyebrows scrunched, mouth set into a snarl in a way he’s never, ever seen on Jonathan’s face before, and certainly not directed at him. His brother’s face makes him afraid now, in a way he’s only ever been scared of his father.
Will shrinks in his seat, away from those accusing eyes. He feels his nails cut into his palms, feels the blood well and smear and burn. Tears prick in the corners of his eyes, and he wonders if it’s from the pain in his palms or the pain in his heart that brings them forth.
His eyes sweep over them all – Lucas, Dustin, Max, El – they look at him all in the same way, mirror images of his mother and his brother. Anger and confusion and fear and horror.
A tension builds in the air, suffocating and pressing on him hard; he fears his bones will crack and break at the immense pressure settling over him.
Desperately, he searches the room for the one he seeks comfort from most of all; the one who could break him in the most hurtful of ways, when he needs his approval more than he needs air in his lungs.
“Mike?” The name physically hurts to say. He yanks the name from his throbbing heart, rips it out of his chest and forces it out of his throat. His eyes flit to meet the tall, lanky figure standing somewhat distant from the rest of the group, as if he has his own spotlight in Will’s personal hell.
Mike Wheeler doesn’t look at him with anger or fear.
His nose, dusted with freckles that Will has spent too long trying to count, is now scrunched up in a way that indicates the smell of something rotten. Lips curled back, as if they have something barbaric they want to spit out. His deep, dark eyes, like a black hole Will has always wanted to fall into, are now blazing with something unrecognisable. Something hateful and ugly, words he could never associate with Mike in all his years of knowing him.
There is no way Will can read his expression to be anything other than pure, visceral disgust.
“Mike, please,” he begs. “Please, don’t— don’t look at me like that.”
“You thought I’d want this?” Mike speaks up, tone cold and somehow alien, each syllable drawn out in a way that is so distinctly un-Mike-like. “You thought I’d want— you?”
It’s the first time someone speaks, yet Will wishes he’d been left in the overbearing silence.
“You thought I’d be flattered to know all of the friendship that I extended to you, every smile, every touch, every moment, would be returned with this?” Mike spreads his arms, and they are aimed towards Will like an arrow to his heart. “I thought I was being kind. And you return my kindness with filth.”
Will hears himself sob. He shrinks in his seat, claps his hands over his ears, pulls his knees up to his chest.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to feel this way. Just stop.”
“You’ve tainted it,” Mike says. “Every memory of us is tainted by you.”
“Stop!” Will screams.
The setting becomes a gaping void. Everything falls into it, sucked and consumed into an endless nothing. Every face in the room fades, leaving only Will as he rocks, back and forth, and Mike, suddenly inches away, hovers over Will, black tendrils leaking from his eye sockets.
“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls.”
The vision ends as suddenly as it starts, like a film reel at the end of its run.
And then it resets. And then it plays again.
Always the same, except for a few changes here and there. Sometimes they are at the Squawk, other times at the old Byers residence, before it had been sold. Sometimes the faces are silent, watching, judging, and sometimes they utter the most horrible of words, slurs that Will has heard all of his life. Sometimes his mother is the one who is angry, and Jonathan who is fearful. But Mike – Mike is always the embodiment of disgust, of revulsion and loathing.
He is the target of all of Will’s overwhelming love and desire, and so he is also the epicentre of all his fears and shame.
The vision plays on a loop, endlessly and ongoing, until El saves him from it. When El pulls him from those twisting, black-weeping vines, and wraps her warm arms arounds him and holds him tight, grounding him to reality once more.
“It’s me,” she breathes against him, relief thick in her throat. “It’s okay, it’s me. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
So he trembles against her, clutches her tight, and he pushes the visions away. He pushes them deep down, shoves them under the surface where they can’t breathe, where he can’t find them or think about them – and he tells her about Max.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
He doesn’t push them down far enough or for long enough, because they bubble back up to the surface, gasping for air, within a day.
Max is saved, he’s back in his own mind and freshly showered after all they’ve been through, in a fresh hooded jumper and vest that his mother brought back from the destroyed Wheeler residence. He’s dry, clean, mildly (severely) traumatised but still here – still alive – and the people he loves aren’t directing hatred towards him – but they will, he thinks. That’s what the visions Vecna taunted him with, for hours on end, would have him believe.
Each one weighs him down, making him sluggish, hurt, and distracted. He knows he can’t afford it, not this late in the game.
They need to leave in a few hours, to enact Steve’s ridiculous – and brilliant – plan. It’s the 6th of November, after all. The day it all started, and the day it has to end.
It all started with him. He knows, deep in his gut, that it has to end with him, too.
But not until he’s rid himself of the burden of the visions. He has to know whether they are real before he can devote himself and finish this, once and for all.
He knows he has to start small. He thinks of what Robin told him, about finding just one person to tell. To have just one person in your corner. He needs the Steve to his Robin.
Against his better judgment, he thinks of Mike, first.
He swallows and shakes his head to himself. No. Because to Will, Mike is – not his Steve, that’s for sure. He’s— he doesn’t know what Mike is, not really. His heart answers for him.
He’s your Vickie.
But it’s not true. He just wants it to be true.
He’s my Tammy.
That sounds more likely. That sounds right. So why does it hurt so much?
He decides, as he hovers on the front steps to the Squawk, watching everyone doing their part, filling up Murray’s delivery truck with weapons, traps and equipment and all that they need, that he can maybe forgo the platitudes just this once. Stop comparing his experience to Robin’s, just this once.
He feels rather than sees when his mother comes to a stop beside him, aiming a pinched smile his way. It’s a little concerned, in the way she seems to always be when she looks at him. But it’s so gentle, too.
If he’s going to tell someone, then he wants it to be the people he trusts won’t let him down. Those he wants to tell most.
“Um, Mom?” He starts, sending her a quick glance, scraping his shoe against a loose rock on the step.
“Yeah, baby?” She answers immediately, her hand coming up to rub his arm, which sends a wave of relief through him.
“I— before we head out there, I need to tell you something. You- you and Jonathan, I think. Yeah.” He nods to himself, because it feels right. “Both of you. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” she says, nodding without any hesitation. “Anything, honey.” She looks like she wants to ask more but bites her lip instead and smiles. “Let me get your brother.”
She calls out to Jonathan, who is currently talking with Nancy a few feet away from the truck, and waves him over. He nods at them, turns back to Nancy with a little smile. He whispers something in her ear, his hand grazing her waist, and plants a gentle kiss to her cheek. Will watches her lips turn up, the way her whole face lights up, before Jonathan lets her go with obvious difficulty and begins to jog their way.
Will doesn’t know what happened between them in the upside down, but whatever happened, it seems to have worked. They’d been struggling since Jonathan had come back from California – maybe longer than that, even – but maybe all they’d needed was to be honest with each other. Something in Will yearns for what they have – something so strong that the harder things are, the stronger they become. He yearns for a love so profound and real that it conquers the hardest of battles, and the darkest of days.
He wonders if that is so wrong, for someone like him.
His eyes dart out over to the truck as Mike hops out of it, landing a little unsteadily on his feet, and Will can’t help but smile at the slightly awkward way he adjusts himself, like sometimes his legs are too long for the rest of him and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Mike pulls off the beanie partially slipping off his head, running long fingers through the dark twist of slightly flattened curls. Will stands, feeling loose and weightless, enraptured, as he watches the subtle movement.
Then, Mike looks up, his dark eyes catching Will’s.
Will flushes, all at once. He twists away to look at Jonathan as he finally reaches them.
“What’s going on?” He asks, looking between Will and their mother with a soft curiosity.
“Your brother wants to talk to us for a bit, if you’re done making googly eyes at Nancy,” she teases, and Jonathan snorts and playfully nudges her back.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be done,” he admits, and Will watches his mom’s face as she looks at Jonathan with – pride, maybe? Something heartwarming and gooey. He can’t quite pinpoint it, but he yearns for that, too. He hopes he’ll get that look, one day.
“C’mon, before it gets too late.” His mom puts an arm on both of their backs and leads them inside.
Will looks over his shoulder, and sees Mike still in the same position, beanie in his hands, watching them recede back into the Squawk with a curious, contemplative look on his face.
Guided by his mother’s hand, Will pushes down the flutter in his chest, pushing it as far down as it will go, until Mike is out of his line of sight.
He didn’t notice your feelings. He tries to convince himself. He doesn’t know.
Remember: He’s your Tammy.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
They sit in the lounge of the Squawk, Jonathan and his mom on the couch, while Will paces in front of them. The room is silent; everyone else remains outside sorting everything for their final Crawl, so Will knows he has time to do this, unhurried, without fear of being interrupted. He knows he doesn’t want to share this moment with anyone else. It has to be intimate. Personal. This is about him, after all.
The secret he keeps is too big and too heavy to share yet with anyone but his mother, with Jonathan. Sharing with the others, his party – that can come later. It has to. But not now.
There is no Steve and Robin bickering in the broadcasting booth, no Murray harassing anyone he can come across, no Lucas and Dustin or Mike to distract him away from what needs to be said. Just the faint buzz of electronics around him, a charged weight in the air like something is about to drop. There is a relief in the silence and peace, but also an anticipation that has caught him by the throat, made him start to sweat.
He chews at the nail on his thumb as he walks back and forth, back and forth across them, like a pendulum of a clock, running out of time.
“Will.” His mom breaks through his racing thoughts. “Honey, why don’t you sit? It might… help. Calm you down.”
Will shakes his head, a bit roughly. “No. No, I think I need to stand, for this. If that’s okay.”
“Of course it is. You know that. I just… I just want to help, with whatever… whatever that’s going on, okay?”
Will nods, crossing in front of them again. Turns on his heel and walks back the other way.
He feels Jonathan’s eyes on him, following him, back and forth.
He’s bitten through his nail now, his teeth puncturing skin.
“Hey, hey, bud.” Jonathan stands, crossing to Will in two big steps, hands clasping Will’s shaking shoulders. He bends down slightly so they’re eye level, and Will fights back the tears prickling behind his vision. “Whatever it is, we’re not going to judge you. Okay? No matter what.”
“Yeah?” Will asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” Jonathan echoes. “Remember what I said in California?”
Will does. He remembers the feeling of Jonathan’s arms around him, hugging him tight as he broke. He’d never felt so seen, so heard, even despite the pain he was in.
He realises, all of a sudden, that Jonathan knows. He’s known for a long time. Surely, he must.
He takes a deep breath and nods.
“Okay, it’s okay. I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
Will nods again, more confidently, and Jonathan squeezes his shoulder again before sitting back down.
His mom’s hand finds Jonathan’s immediately, squeezing. She shoots Jonathan a small smile, then looks back at Will with gentle, urging eyes.
Will wrings his hands. Looks at Jonathan’s patient look – not quite smiling, but still gentle, just like his mother’s own expression. Expectant. Loving.
Will closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. He loosens his hands from their wringing grip, placing them at his sides. He thinks of the rainbow ship, he thinks of Castle Byers. He thinks of birthdays celebrated with his mom, he thinks of listening to music in Jonathan’s room.
He thinks of his mother, who fought tooth and nail to get him back when he’d gone missing, who put everything on the line for him. Time and time again.
He thinks of his brother who saw all his pain in California when no one else did, who gave him a safe space to be himself, even before he’d known the full extent of it.
He opens his eyes again, looking down at two of the most important people in his life. And somehow, he knows. He knows. He knows they would never, could never, react the way they did in Vecna’s vision.
“I wanted to say this all, initially, out of fear,” Will starts, voice scratching. He clears his throat, licking his dry lips. “Fear from something Vecna showed me. But I think that saying it out of fear, telling everyone the truth on his terms, is just letting him win. So I’m not… I’m not going to do that. I want to do this my way. On my terms. And I only want to tell you both. I want you both to know me. The real me.” Will feels the tears starting to gather, blinks them furiously. “God, I want you both to know the real me, so, so much. I want to stop hiding. I want to stop being scared.”
He watches them both, and his mom’s eyes are wet as she stares up at Will. Her mouth is slightly slack, but he sees her breathing heavily, her hand clutched over her heart. Jonathan is serious, but the patient, gentle look does not leave. He nods at Will, encouragingly. Go on. You can do this.
Will sucks in a shuddering, trembling breath.
He thinks of a boy, coming to sit with him on the swing set. He blinks against the sun and smiles at Will, tentatively. “Do you want to be friends?” He asks.
Will releases the breath.
“I’m… I’m gay,” he utters into the silent room, like a vow, like a current burst free, like a long overdue eruption. “I always have been.”
The room is so silent, Will thinks he could hear a pin drop. He realises, too late, that he’s crying. Slow tears trail down his hot cheeks. He hadn’t realised how much weight he had felt, bottling it up for so long. He hadn’t realised how freeing it could feel to just let it all out.
He hears a sob, but it’s not his own.
Will looks at his mother. Her own tears have fallen, quicker and heavier than his own, but she’s smiling. It’s a trembling, big smile, as she locks eyes with him.
“Oh, baby,” she breaks, pushing herself off the couch and striding to him quickly. She wraps her arms around him like a cocoon, holding him tight, clutching him with everything she has. “My baby. I love you so much, and I’m so, so proud of you.”
Will feels as if he could collapse and probably would’ve, had she not been holding him up. He winds his arms around her and cries into her hair, and she kisses his temple and cheek, murmuring her love into his skin as if he could keep and wear the words forever.
Will feels warmth on his side, and he lifts his head out of his mom’s hair to see Jonathan join the embrace, his own face wet and a small, tender smile on it. “You’re my brother, Will. My baby brother, and you always will be. No matter what. But I also see you for who you really are. You’re an intelligent, brave, resourceful young man now, okay? And I support you. No matter what. You should be so, so proud of who you are. Because we both are – and I want you to know you are never going to lose me. You’re never going to lose us.”
Will can’t stop the tears, even if he wants to. He lets it out, letting Jonathan’s arms come around him tightly, and leans into his brother’s warmth. He feels Jonathan kiss his cheek and cradle his head.
He lets himself be held by the two people he loves most; he lets himself be loved. He feels some deep ache in him heal, just a little. Just a bit. But it’s enough.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
They stay like this for a while, the three of them wrapped in a hug that means everything. It goes on for maybe too long, but too long doesn’t feel long enough. Will wants to stay here, safe, warm, loved, for as long as he can.
Finally, Jonathan disentangles himself first, then his mom follows slowly after. Will straightens, rubbing his wet cheeks with the back of his hand, and for the first time in a long time, he lets a real smile form onto his face.
“Thank you for telling us,” his mom croons, and she cups his cheek, brushing the final tear from his skin. “For trusting us with this.”
Jonathan nods, watching Will with an understanding he’s clearly had for a while. “I know it can’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t,” Will says with his small, timid smile. “It was worth it though. So worth it.” He feels the smile break into something fuller, feels his eyes crinkle and his cheeks start to hurt. He doesn’t remember the last time he smiled like this. “I’m really glad I did.”
Jonathan ruffles his hair and laughs, sniffling, and his mom watches them fondly.
“You know, I remember you told me you weren’t going to fall in love,” his mom pipes up, crossing her arms suspiciously. “Was that just so I’d get off your back?”
“What?” Will squeaks. “You’re bringing that up now?”
“I just remember you were so adamant about it. Now that makes me think that maybe you were just lying, to keep me off the trail. So, is there anyone?”
“Mom, I’ve just come out,” Will groans. “Do you really have to tease me about…” he trails off, biting his lip, embarrassed, “About boys already?”
There’s something about admitting it out loud, that leaves Will flustered. But it’s a good feeling, being prodded gently about a crush, or a love. He’s never had that before – not without feeling like he was being attacked, like he was at risk of being outed.
“It’s her job,” Jonathan chimes in with a soft laugh.
“He’s right, you know. It is my job.”
“Mom,” Will groans again, pressing his fingers into his eyes, trying to stop the flush from spreading over his cheeks, up to his ears. “I— well. I might… I might have a… I maybe have… someone I—” he swallows, thickly, opening his eyes to peek between his fingers. “Someone that I…“ love “have a… crush on.” Another pause, before Will scrambles to say, “But he doesn’t— it’s not like that. He doesn’t feel the same way.”
His Mom smiles at him with a knowing look, and Jonathan has an arch to his brow like he wants to ask more – but before either can, there’s the sound of a thud.
Will’s smile falls into his stomach. It wrenches with fear, with horror.
All three look to the entrance of the lounge, the direction of the thud.
“Shit,” says someone out of sight, just beyond the entrance, almost too soft to catch.
Will’s blood runs cold, because he knows that voice, knows the specific lilt of it.
“Mike?”
There’s a pause. A long, pregnant pause, that goes on forever. Will hears roaring in his ears as Mike steps reluctantly into the entrance, his normally pale face somehow even whiter. There’s a blotching of red on his cheeks, and his eyes dart between Jonathan, his mom, and finally on Will – and then they widen and look away, frantically.
Mike rubs the back of his neck, awkwardly. And Will knows. He knows that he’s heard. Because now, suddenly, Mike can’t look him in the eye.
“Sorry, I, uh – I was told to pass some energy bars around.” He lifts up a small box in one of his hands, coloured plastic wrappers sticking out of it. “Get everyone’s strength up. Here.” He strides over, places the box quickly on the coffee table. He rubs his neck again, glances back up, meets Will’s eyes for half a second before looking away again. “Go nuts. I gotta head back out there.”
He heads out much faster than he came in. Will’s eyes linger on one of the dented corners of the box. If he were a betting man, he’d wager that’s what made the thud. What Mike had dropped.
Panic rushes up Will’s throat like a clawed hand clutching at his windpipe. “I’ll—” He glances at the confused twin expressions on his mother’s and brother’s faces, and he steps towards the door. “I— I’m gonna go help him. Thanks, thanks again. Really,” he rushes it all out, knows it’s not enough to express how thankful he really is, how loved he feels, but all he can think of is Mike. How much did Mike hear? Does he know? Does he know?
He races out after him.
“Mike!”
His sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor, harsh against the otherwise silent building. Will looks down the hall to the exit of the Squawk, seeing no trace of Mike rushing out the doors. Had he made it outside already - so quickly?
He hears the sound of feet, now, rapidly thudding somewhere above him. The stairs.
Will runs to the stairwell, ascending them as fast as he can, his breath huffing out of him in deep gasps. Mike, with his legs, can probably take the steps two or three at time. Will struggles with just one foot in front of the other.
He hears the slam of a door, somewhere ahead of him.
He keeps going, going, going, winding until he feels sick - until he finally staggers up to the roof access. Breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath, Will hesitates before the door, pressing a clammy hand to the cold metal. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. Doesn’t know what he’s going to say.
All he knows is his heart is beating painfully in his chest, aching with a longing he’s not sure he can keep hidden anymore.
Don’t hate me. He begs, internally.
He’s sick with the desire to stay away, to go back down the stairs, pretend he doesn’t know that Mike knows; yet he’s a wreck with the need to go through, regardless, and face what’s on the other side. Because he knows the truth, in his heart: He’d follow Mike anywhere. Even if he hates him.
Heart slamming against his chest, Will pushes the door open.
It swings open, heavily, and a thousand different beams of light prick onto Will as he steps out into the sun. He feels burned, scorched, all at once, each beam on his skin feeling like prying eyes.
He sees Mike’s silhouette, standing at the edge of the roof. His dark hair looks almost golden tinged in the sun, but the broad stretch of his back is all shadow. At this angle he reminds Will of Icarus, the boy who flew close to the sun.
“Mike,” Will calls out, voice cracking. He hears the desperate plea to his own ears. Don’t fly off into that sun where I can’t follow – don’t leave me behind.
Mike turns, startled. He’s standing close to the edge – too close, Will thinks – and nearly trips over his own feet. Will lurches forward a step in horror, but Mike manages to steady himself, raking his fingers through his hair.
“Sorry, I’m— it’s fine. Nearly got caught on the edge, there,” Mike says, a dry laugh escaping his lips. It rings hollow, and his eyes don’t meet Will’s still. He turns back over his shoulder, to look at the high position of the sun. “What’s up?” The way he says it is too casual, too fake.
“What— what are you doing up here?”
Will’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. The distance between them feels monumental. Inside, part of him screams, Look at me. Look at me! I’m right here!
Still, Mike doesn’t look at him. He shrugs a shoulder. “I just needed some air, you know? There’s… there’s a lot going on. Might not have much downtime before this—” he waves a dramatic, flourishing hand around, like he can’t describe in words the true gravity of what they’re doing, “—all this starts.”
“Do you… do you want some company?”
Will knows Mike. The Mike before fifteen minutes ago would let out a snort and say, yeah man, pull up a chair. You don’t need to ask.
But this is current Mike. And he doesn’t know current Mike, who overheard something he shouldn’t have.
“I think I just need a breather, yeah? Just a bit of me time. I’ll be back down in five.”
Will’s heart sinks low in his chest. He presses his lips together and tries to hold in the tears. The rejection stings and blisters. It’s just another weight on his shoulders again.
He’s thrust back in time to California, where Mike didn’t want to hug him, didn’t want to look at him, treated him like an annoyance. We’re friends. We’re friends!
He doesn’t want to go back to that. Not after everything they’ve been through. Not after he poured his heart out in the van in Cali, even if it killed a part of him to do it.
Infuriatingly, Mike still doesn’t look at him. He’s turned back fully to look out again at the expanse of green fields surrounding the Squawk now, sun burning down upon him like a weighted blanket. Will notices that the camo gear has been stripped off, along with his jacket, discarded in a pile on the roof. He’s just in his sweater now, the dark blue one with the patterns that Will likes. There’s a breeze in his hair, gently lifting the dark locks from the nape of his neck.
He’s too bright, Will thinks. He’s so bright he can barely see him.
Will resolves in his mind, that no matter what, he’ll make Mike look his way. He’ll make Mike see him.
“Why don’t you just say what you want to say, Mike?” It comes out sharper than intended, but it’s what he wants to say. What he needs to say.
Mike’s shoulders tense at Will’s tone, at the question poised at him. “What do you mean?” he murmurs back.
Will lets out a distressed cry. “You can’t even look at me, Mike. Why don’t you just admit that you heard what I said? Just tell me that you know. Then we can move on from this stupid— this stupid elephant in the room— On the roof. I don’t know.”
Mike does look at him, then. He turns slowly, staring at Will with dark eyes that are so deep and thoughtful. They’re hard to read – he doesn’t see hatred or disgust in them, but they watch Will like they can see through him, to the very depths and core of his soul.
In one quick movement, as if he can no longer bare to hold himself up, Mike sags to sit on the edge of the roof, long legs splayed out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He scrapes a hand down his face, wearily – and when he moves his hand, there’s a small little smile left behind - quirking at the corner of his mouth.
“Elephant on the roof?” he asks, a laugh in his voice.
Will feels his face warm. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”
“Mhm,” he grins. He plants his hands on the edge beside him, leaning back slightly to peer at Will. His face goes contemplative again, and he bites his lip. “Come here. Sit.” He gestures with his head to the free spot next to him.
Will rubs at his arms, awkwardly.
“That’s a long drop behind you,” he hesitates. “Like, really long.”
Mike cocks his head to the side, eyes flashing in interest. “Sounds like something our Sorcerer shouldn’t even be worried about.” He smiles, faintly. “I know if I fall, you’ll save me.”
“That’s not how that works, and you know it,” Will hisses back, ignoring Mike’s laugh, ignoring the way his chest burns warmly at the sound. Will walks over, slowly, peering over the edge. He swallows, and Mike looks at him with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He almost wishes he’d stop looking at him now. “Jesus, you’re actually just— impossible.”
“I’ll take the compliment.”
Cautiously, he sinks down next to Mike, gripping the edge tightly. He’s scared at the drop behind him; there’s no doubt about that. Still, the sun is nice and warm against his back. Mike is somewhat looking at him now. If he shifts slightly to the right, he can just brush his shoulder against Mike’s. It’s progress.
He clears his throat again. They grow quiet.
The wind touches them both, like gentle fingers caressing their heads. Will closes his eyes, feeling the air push the strands of his hair back, and it feels nice. It cools his flushed cheeks, calms his racing heart. When he opens his eyes again, he’s immediately captured by the intensity of Mike watching him with those dark brown eyes, so rich and shadowed from the sun they look almost black.
He blinks when he notices Will looking back and turns his head again. The red blotches return to his pale cheeks, and Will can’t tell if they’re wind kissed or if it’s from something else.
“So,” Will presses. “The elephant.”
“On the roof,” Mike clarifies.
Will rolls his eyes. “Yes.”
There’s another lull in conversation.
Finally, after days, months, years – Mike speaks. “Shit, okay. I’ll admit it. I heard. I heard all of it,” he confesses.
All of Will’s blood goes cold. He stops breathing.
He knew – he knew Mike had heard. Of course he had. He opens his mouth, quickly, desperately, to explain, but Mike beats him to the punch.
“Let me finish, okay?” Mike tugs at a strand of inky hair, so hard it looks like it hurts, eyes briefly glancing to look at Will before becoming laser focused on a spot between where their shoes align. “I didn’t realise you were having such a… serious talk. I came in not long after you started, figured I could hang around until it was done to hand out those stupid energy bars. And then it didn’t stop. And then it got serious. Really serious. And then it felt like I couldn’t leave, like if I made a single sound, it would interrupt everything going on and I didn’t want to ruin it, because it was so important to you, to Jonathan and your mom, and- I don’t know. You know?”
He chews his lip, rolling it back and forth slowly against his teeth, and looks at Will. Looks at him, fully, a thousand different emotions warring in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Will shakes his head, tense. “So, why’d you—” he pauses, caught on the words, like they’re too big, too scary to say. His throat feels scraped raw. “Why’d you run? Do you… hate me now?”
Mike looks at him, alarmed at the thought. “Dude, no. No!” He braces forward, grabbing onto Will’s arms. He squeezes them, gently, firmly, and his touch burns Will, like heavenly fire. Searing, but addicting. He wants to feel those hands more, feel where else they could burn. On his neck, his jaw, singeing and sweet as they cup the back of his neck. He wants to feel his fingertips leave trails of fire on his skin. He wants their touch imprinted on his waist, his hips, his-
He cuts the thought off, roughly, as Mike continues. He blinks, almost dazed, against the feeling. “I just— it was a lot. I could never hate you, okay? You’re my best friend. I’m happy for you. It was beautiful to hear, honestly. I just— I just didn’t know.”
Will laughs at that. A choked sort of laugh, but still one nonetheless. “You didn’t know? At all?”
Mike furrows his brows. “No, why would I?”
“Jeez, I wonder, Mike.” He looks him dead in the face. “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls?”
Mike short circuits at this. His face goes ashen white. Then his cheeks go deep red. His bottom lip trembles. “Fuck, Will. I didn’t— I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, mortified. “I really— It just came out wrong. I just thought you didn’t care about that stuff at that point. I really didn’t know. I really didn’t mean to say that. I just— fuck. I’m sorry. I really am, Will.”
Will watches him and feels something in his chest ease. Another weight lifted. He sighs. “It messed me up at the time. It hurt to hear. It was like looking at something sickly and insidious inside of myself, and it felt like you could see it too.” He looks down at his lap, rubbing his hands nervously against his jeans.
Will sees Mike’s hand reach out, tentatively. In a slow, almost nervous movement, his hand covers Will’s own. His fingers lace against Will’s, palms shifting to slot together, and he squeezes. Once. Twice. His thumb brushes, ever so gently, against Will’s burning skin.
Will looks up to meet Mike’s eyes. He can see moisture in them now, and something heart-wrenchingly devastating.
“I’m sorry,” he says, weakly. “I’m so sorry.”
“I forgive you, Mike,” Will answers, softly. “I forgave you years ago. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“We both know that’s not true. But thank you. For forgiving me anyway.”
Will lets out a huffing sort of laugh. “You’re my friend. You’ll always be my friend. No matter what.”
They sit on the roof in quiet companionship, hands entwined, for a length of time that feels unreal and disproportionate, somehow. There is only the slow passage of clouds in the sky, the sun shifting ever so slightly to lower behind them, the slow brush of Mike’s thumb against his knuckle.
“We’re really okay?” Will asks after a while, because he’s happy, but there’s still a small ache somewhere inside of him, like he’s still not convinced that everything is… resolved. If Mike was so accepting about his coming out, then did he really have to run, did he have to try and push Will away? Was he just shocked, like he said?
“Yeah. Really.”
“You have no issue that I’m…?”
“That you’re gay?” Mike finishes, calmly, like he’d said the sky was blue. “No, Will. I don’t. I think coming out like that… I think you’re so…” he trails off, and watches Will with something like wonder in his eyes. “You’re so fucking strong, you know that? Stronger than me. I don’t know why you call me the Heart, Will. Because you— I think you have the most heart. Out of anyone. I love that you’ve found yourself, and that you’re taking steps to be who you want to be. Unabashed and unashamed. It’s amazing. I think you’re amazing.”
Will’s throat closes up. He stares at Mike, at his adoring eyes, and he can’t breathe. How can he breathe, when Mike Wheeler just said something so lovely, so seriously?
“And—” Mike stutters on this. He pauses, opens his mouth, closes it. He appears to have some sort of internal war inside of himself, jaw clenching as his hand slips from Will’s. Will feels the loss like a phantom limb, the warm remnants of his touch dissolving into a cold ache.
Mike darts his eyes away from Will again, like he had before. He looks down at his shoes, kicking up the gravel. “And this guy you like,” Mike’s breath hitches, ever so slightly. “He’s—he’s got to be an idiot, not liking you back.”
All the air fizzes out of Will’s lungs.
Oh.
This is why he ran.
Will doesn’t know exactly why, still. But he knows this is the heart of it, the crux of the issue. The way his body language changed, the way his eyes averted – this is exactly what Will wanted to avoid, to move on from. But now it feels different, like this new bit of context puts all this weird, standoffish behaviour into a new light.
“He is,” Will agrees, even as true, greedy hope blooms in his chest. “A real idiot.”