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By 1995, Mike Wheeler had learned how to live inside small spaces.
Not in any way you could measure, though Hawkins and his childhood bedroom helped. But it wasn’t about literal spaces.
Mike Wheeler learned which parts of himself could be shown without consequence, and which had to be kept quiet, packed away, His life stayed narrow because he kept it that way. If he stayed within the lines – didn’t linger on what was missing, didn’t name what tugged at him when he was alone – then life stayed orderly.
That was the theory, anyway.
The wedding invitation sat on his kitchen table, cream cardstock already soft at the edges from being picked up and set down too many times. Lucas Sinclair and Max Mayfield, embossed neatly at the top. Chicago. Late summer. A different life, announced politely.
Mike stood in front of the mirror, tie draped uselessly around his neck, shirt still unbuttoned. He looked older than he felt – twenty-four on paper, but somehow suspended, as if staying in Hawkins had locked him up at an earlier version of himself. Same reflection. Same house.
He tilted his head, studying the faint line between his brows, the one that hadn’t been there when he left high school. Nancy used to joke it was from staring too hard at words, back when she still came home in the summers. He suspected it was from holding things in.
“Get a grip,” he muttered.
The suit jacket hung on the back of the door, borrowed from a coworker at the town’s only electronics store. It didn’t fit – too tight where he felt boxed in, too loose where he already felt hollow – but he hadn’t bothered fixing it. It wasn’t worth the money. It wasn’t worth the effort. He’d learned to accept things that didn’t quite fit.
He told himself that a lot.
Six years.
Six years since graduation, since Hawkins High’s folding chairs and cheap orange caps and the promise that everyone was going somewhere better. Somehow, everyone else had actually done it. Max and Lucas to Chicago. Dustin to Princeton. Nancy to Boston. Even Steve had eventually gotten out.
And Will.
Mike’s hands stilled as he reached for the cufflinks. He hadn’t meant to think that name yet. He’d been skirting around it all morning, avoiding it like it might open something he didn’t have the energy to hold shut.
He hadn’t asked if Will would be at the wedding.
He could have. Lucas had scribbled his number in the corner of the invitation – Call me, man. It’s been too long. Mike had folded the card neatly and slid it into a drawer, where unanswered things went.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
People drifted. That was how adulthood worked. He stayed, they left – of course the connections thinned. Life got busy. Of course the calls stopped. Of course birthdays went unacknowledged.
There had been a stretch, right after high school, when they still called each other. Conversations that stretched late, neither of them quite willing to be the one who ended it. Mike would lie on his childhood bed, staring at glow-in-the-dark stars he hadn’t bothered to scrape off the ceiling, listening to his friends on the other end of the line. Then someone missed a call. Then another. Silence crept in, polite at first, then permanent.
Mike buttoned his shirt, fingers clumsy. The mirror caught the way his jaw ticked, the way his shoulders folded inward.
What was he so nervous about?
It was just a wedding. Just old friends. Just a drive to the suburbs of Chicago, a borrowed suit, a few hours of pretending his life hadn’t stalled out somewhere around eighteen and calcified there.
He looped the tie again, settling for a knot that passed. The man in the mirror looked fine. Forgettable. The kind of guy who ended up on the edge of group photos, visible but not essential.
“Well, good luck,” he thought, huffing out a thin breath, even though luck had never really been on his side.
He locked the door and didn’t look back.
The car merged onto the highway and Hawkins shrinked in the rearview mirror. It felt like leaving a ghost town, even if the town had once came back to life. The radio caught a signal. Songs about love and escape scraped at something raw. He shut it off near the state line.
He tried not to think about Will.
Tried not to picture him older, different. Tried not to replay the last time he’d seen him, before Will left. He stood there on the Byers’ porch, arms crossed tight like he was holding himself together, eyes still searching Mike’s face for something Mike hadn’t known how to give. Their goodbye hug had been brief, Mike had left too fast.
Chicago’s suburbs announced themselves with order and neat lawns. Mike followed the directions scribbled on the invitation, heart ticking faster with every turn. Social anxiety, he told himself. He’d always been bad at crowds.
The venue came into view – a renovated community hall with white lights strung across the entrance, cars already lining the parking lot. He pulled into an empty space near the edge and cut the engine.
For a moment, he just sat there, hands on the steering wheel, breathing shallow. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something, though he couldn’t have said what. His palms were damp. He wiped them on his slacks, annoyed.
He opened the door.
And then he saw him.
Will Byers stood near the entrance, half-turned as he spoke to someone Mike couldn’t see. His hair was a little longer now, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He wore a dark suit that fit him like it had been chosen with care; shoulders straight, sure of himself in a way that made something in Mike’s chest ache sharply.
The world narrowed to a pinpoint, sound rushing in his ears. His hand tightened painfully around the car door, knuckles whitening.
So Will was here.
The thought fractured, splintering into a dozen smaller sensations – relief, dread, something dangerously close to longing – all colliding at once. Mike stayed rooted, half in and half out of the car. He watched Will gesture animatedly, the same hands, the same earnestness shaped by time but unmistakable. Six years collapsed in an instant.
Mike swallowed hard.
He had no idea why this felt like like being eleven again, standing at the edge of a cliff.
He only knew his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He forced himself to inhale, then exhale, the way his therapist in Indianapolis had once suggested back when he still pretended he might leave Hawkins someday. That he might be normal someday.
His legs felt heavy as he stepped fully out of the car, gravel crunching too loudly beneath his shoes.
Don’t stare, he told himself, immediately failing.
Will looked good. Not just older, or healthier, but settled, like someone who knew where they belonged. There was a softness to him that hadn’t been there at eighteen, a confidence that made Mike feel suddenly underdressed, undersized, under-everything.
The guy next to him – the man – stood close enough that their arms nearly brushed.
“Holy shit.”
He turned to find Dustin grinning at him, hair still unruly but face broader, adult in a way that didn’t quite erase the kid Mike remembered. He wore a navy suit and bright tie, glasses fogged slightly from humidity.
“Mike Wheeler,” Dustin said, like Mike was a rare sighting. “I thought you were gonna bail.”
“Yeah,” Mike said faintly. “Me too.”
They hovered for a second until Dustin pulled Mike into a quick, tight hug that knocked the air from his lungs.
“Jesus,” Dustin said, pulling back and then gestured behind him. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”
He didn’t wait, steering Mike toward a woman smoothing her dress. Dark hair pinned neatly back. A smile that looked both kind and smart.
“This is Sophia,” Dustin said proudly. “My fiancée.”
Mike blinked. “Fiancée?”
Sophia beamed. “You must be Mike. I’ve heard everything about you.”
“That’s… unfortunate,” Mike said automatically, then winced. “I mean– sorry… Hi.”
She laughed. “Dustin talks about Hawkins all the time. And he always makes it seem like it was a war zone.”
Mike swallowed. “It kind of was.”
Dustin nodded. “See? He gets it.”
Mike tried to focus. He asked how they met, where they lived, how long they’d been engaged. He smiled at the right moments, nodded along, played the part of an old friend slotted neatly back into place.
But his eyes kept drifting.
Over Dustin’s shoulder, he could see Will again, closer now. The man beside him had a hand resting casually but not obnoxiously at the small of Will’s back, fingers splayed in a way that made something in Mike’s chest tighten.
Don’t be weird, he told himself, even as his posture straightened unconsciously.
The man was taller. Broader. Less lanky-looking than Mike had ever been. He leaned in to murmur something to Will, who smiled in response.
Mike missed the next thing Dustin said entirely.
“– so we should probably head in,” Dustin finished. “Ceremony’s starting.”
“Oh yeah,” Mike said quickly. “Yeah, of course.”
Sophia linked her arm through Dustin’s, and Mike followed half a step behind, feeling oddly like a ghost trailing the living.
Inside, the space buzzed with low conversation, a living hum that pressed in on him from all sides. Mike scanned the room the way he always did in crowded places – half looking for exits, half looking for something solid enough to latch onto. An anchor. A reminder he hadn’t slipped entirely out of sync with the world.
Max stood near the entrance, looking beautiful in her white dress, like she still couldn’t quite believe this was happening to them. The sight loosened something tight and knotted in Mike’s chest.
They’d made it. Somehow. After everything – the monsters, the fear, the losses – they were here. Alive. Happy. In love.
Mike took a seat toward the back, alone, the empty chair beside him glaring. As the music swelled and Max and Lucas walked down the aisle, his mind betrayed him, sliding backward without asking permission.
The tunnels beneath Hawkins. The wet earth and flickering flashlights. The way the Upside Down had bled through reality like a bruise that never quite healed. El.
That memory hit hardest.
El standing alone, eyes fierce and resolved, making a choice none of them had been able to stop. The world saved at the cost of someone who had loved him without reservation, who had given everything and then disappeared into somewhere unreachable.
Would they be together if she was still here?
Would he be normal?
His throat tightened, the emotion pressing up fast and unwelcome.
But when the rings were being exchanged, he glanced instinctively toward Will.
Will watched them with open joy and eyes shining. He looked like love wasn’t abstract or dangerous, but real and attainable and standing right in front of him. Like it was allowed to exist without punishment.
The man beside him leaned closer.
Mike couldn’t look away.
He noticed things he hadn’t meant to – the way Will angled his body, how their knees nearly touched, how Will’s hand curled as if inviting contact. The man’s thumb brushed Will’s knuckles, absentminded and intimate.
Heat crept up Mike’s neck, slow and humiliating. Something ugly twisted in his gut.
It felt irrational. Unfair. Like he was reacting to a loss he’d never been brave enough to claim. His jaw clenched as he forced his gaze back to the altar, to the vows he could barely hear over the rush in his ears.
Get over it, he told himself. You don’t get to feel this.
The applause startled him. He stood and clapped mechanically as Max and Lucas kissed, the anger simmering beneath his skin.
They spilled outside afterward, laughter ringing bright in the open air. Sunlight caught on Max’s dress, on Lucas’s grin, on the easy closeness of people who’d chosen each other without hesitation. Mike followed, but his head buzzed, too full, like the day was happening a beat out of time.
Inside the reception hall, music thumped softly. Candles flickered on round tables. The bar was already open.
“Champagne?” the bartender asked.
“Yes,” Mike said too quickly, like the word might evaporate if he hesitated.
He downed the glass in one go. The bubbles burned all the way down, sharp and cleansing and insufficient. He barely had time to wince before he turned and nearly collided with Lucas.
“Mike!” Lucas pulled him into a solid hug, grounding in a way Mike hadn’t realized he missed. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Mike said, and he meant it. He really did.
Max joined them, glowing and flushed. “You look good,” she said warmly. “Hawkins suits you.”
Mike snorted. “Well… that makes one of us.”
They laughed, and for a moment – just a moment – it felt almost like the old times. Like before everything got complicated. Like they were kids again, sitting in a basement, certain they could survive anything as long as they were together.
“Have you met everyone yet?” Lucas asked.
“Dustin,” Mike said. “And his fiancée. Saw Steve on my way here.”
Lucas tilted his head, studying him. “You haven’t talked to Will yet? He came up from New York.”
“Not yet,” he said lightly, the words barely passing his lips. “I saw him though.”
Max’s eyes lingered on him, sharper than her smile. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Mike said immediately, reflexively. “Just tired.”
She didn’t look convinced, but Lucas was already being tugged away by a relative, and the moment slipped past without resolution.
Mike drifted toward a table near the edge of the room and sank into a chair. Around him, couples clustered instinctively together, knees touching, hands finding each other under the table. He stared into his glass, acutely aware of the space around him. Of the absence.
Six years of staying put. Of choosing safety over truth. Of convincing himself that this hollow feeling was just what adulthood felt like – and not the cost of everything he’d never let himself want.
Across the room, Will laughed again, head tipped toward the man at his side as the music swelled and the night stretched on.
The party unfolded in waves. Mike moved through it all slightly out of sync. At first, he stuck close to what he knew. Dustin dragged him into loud, overlapping conversations, talking with his hands, talking over everyone, the same as always. Nancy arrived fashionably late, radiant and unapologetic, scolding Mike for never calling. He exchanged a few words with Robin, who – louder than necessary – declared Mike was “exactly the same,” like that was either a comfort or a disapproval.
Mike laughed when he was supposed to. He gave them the short version of his life in Hawkins. The job. The routine. The way nothing ever really changed. He left out the embarrassing parts. The nights when his room felt too big and the silence pressed in so hard he drank just to hear some buzz.
Every so often, his eyes betrayed him.
Will was always somewhere else.
Always across the room. Always turned slightly away. Always with him.
Mike told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself Will probably hadn’t even noticed him, hadn’t clocked his arrival or his absence. Or maybe he had and just hadn’t cared enough to come over.
That thought stung worse than he expected.
If he’s seen me, Mike thought, would he even come over?
He drank more. Champagne turned into whiskey. The alcohol dulled the constant anxiety. One drink to quiet his thoughts. Two to feel like he belonged. Three to forget what he kept remembering.
He knew it wasn’t healthy. He also didn’t know another way to survive the night.
As the hours wore on, people loosened. They danced. Jackets vanished. Shoes were abandoned under tables. Someone spilled a drink and laughed it off. Mike drifted between clusters of people, even laughed – once or twice it was real.
And still – Will didn’t come over.
The anger fermented slowly, turning sour and heavy. Every time Mike caught sight of that man’s hand resting at the small of Will’s back, something flared hot in his chest.
Abandon him, a small, vicious voice whispered. Come over here. Choose me.
The thought shocked him so badly he nearly laughed out loud.
“What the hell is wrong with you,” he muttered, lifting the bottle again.
Eventually – buoyed by liquor and resentment and something dangerously close to courage – Mike noticed Will standing alone at the bar. The man – the douche, his mind supplied uncharitably – had stepped away, pulled into another conversation.
Mike’s heart slammed so hard he felt it in his throat.
It was now or never.
He set the bottle down carefully. The room tilted, but he steadied himself, smoothed his jacket, and started toward the bar like he wasn’t rehearsing every step, every word, every possible outcome.
“Another champagne,” he said to the bartender, voice too casual, eyes fixed ahead.
He timed it carefully. As the bartender turned away, he shifted just enough to bump elbows with Will.
“Oh– sorry,” Mike said, forcing lightness into his tone. “Didn’t see you there.”
A blatant lie. But Will turned anyway. For half a second, his face went blank with surprise.
Then it lit up.
“Mike?” Will said, bright and disbelieving. “Oh my god.”
The smile that spread across Will’s face was wide and unguarded and devastating. His eyes crinkled at the corners, familiar and different all at once. Mike felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.
“Hey,” Mike managed.
They stood there, too close and not close enough, neither of them moving. Mike was painfully aware of the distance between them. Of the fact that they weren’t hugging.
They used to hug.
Will stepped forward slightly, then stopped, like he was waiting for Mike to meet him halfway, but Mike didn’t.
Something inside him seized up, old instincts snapping into place.
An old memory surfaced without warning – the Abyss, cold and wrong, Will trapped in someone else’s mind, eyes unfocused, breath shallow. Mike remembered standing there, heart pounding, wanting – needing – to reach out, to grab Will’s arm but he hadn’t. Something unseen had held him back then, the same thing holding him now.
Touch meant acknowledgment. Touch meant opening a door he’d spent years barricading.
Will didn’t seem offended. If anything, his smile softened, gentler now, but still honest.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said. “I mean – Max mentioned it, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Last-minute decision.”
“I’m really glad you’re here.”
And the worst part? He looked like he really meant it.
He thought he might actually die from it – from the warmth in Will’s voice, from the way his eyes searched Mike’s face like they used to, like they still expected some affection.
Will looked… happy. Truly, unmistakably happy. It was disorienting. Mike wasn’t used to seeing him like this. Not frightened. Not guarded.
Will looked so free.
“So… New York treating you okay?” Mike asked, clinging to small talk.
Will nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s good. Busy. Loud. Kinda overwhelming sometimes, but good. I– I like it.”
“I figured you would,” Mike said, meaning more than he could explain.
They fell into an easy rhythm after that, talking about Will’s art school, Mike’s work, mutual friends, inconsequential things. Will filled the silences the way he always had, like it came naturally, and Mike found himself responding without thinking, muscle memory guiding him through a conversation he’d missed for years.
Then Will tilted his head, studying him.
“So,” he said softly. “Did you come here alone?”
Mike’s stomach dropped. He felt exposed, stripped down. “Yeah,” he said, forcing a shrug. “It’s just me.”
Will nodded, unsurprised, though something flickered in his eyes – sympathy, maybe. Maybe pity.
“And you?” Mike asked quickly, even though he already knew.
“I came with someone.” Will smiled and gestured subtly across the room. “You should meet him.”
There it was.
Mike’s throat closed. The champagne glass felt slick in his hand.
“Oh,” he said. “Uh– Maybe later.”
Will’s smile faltered just a fraction. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, too fast. “I– I should probably go check on Dustin anyway.”
He took a step back, forcing a polite smile. “It was really good seeing you, Will.”
“You too,” Will said, still warm, still open.
Mike turned before he could do something stupid –like reach out, like stay, like follow Will across the room and meet the man he’d apparently started banging in a city big enough to swallow shame and danger.
He walked away on instinct, pulse roaring in his ears, nausea cresting sharp and sudden. He took another swallow of champagne that did nothing to settle him and drifted back toward the familiar cluster of Dustin and Lucas, clinging to them like a life raft as the music swelled behind him. His body was present. His mind wasn’t. It was tethered – stubbornly, treacherously – to one person he was exhausting himself trying not to watch.
The thing about yearning, Mike learned, was that it didn’t arrive all at once.
It seeped.
It crept in through the cracks you stopped watching, pooled quietly behind the ribs, beneath the tongue, in the softest parts of you that you’d trained yourself not to acknowledge. By the time you realized what it was, it had already made itself at home. Renamed itself something safer. Loneliness. Nostalgia. Regret.
Will moved through the party like he belonged to it. Like he belonged anywhere. He danced, pulled into it by Max, stiff at first and then loosening, laughing openly, hair falling into his eyes carelessly. The lights caught on him and Mike had the absurd, intrusive thought that Will looked unreal. Like a memory polished smoother than it had ever been in real life.
He’s always been pretty, Mike thought – and recoiled instantly.
Pretty wasn’t a word he allowed himself to use about men. About Will. It was a dangerous word.
But the thought wouldn’t leave him alone.
And the word wasn’t even nearly enough to do Will justice. Will wasn’t pretty. He was beautiful, had always been like that.
Even as a kid – soft lines, expressive big eyes, a gentleness in his voice and movements. Mike remembered noticing it once, fleetingly, years ago, and then forcing it down so hard it felt like slamming a door and bracing his full weight against it.
Across the room, Will leaned in close to the man he’d come with, murmured something into his ear. Will smiled in that small, private, intimate way that wasn’t meant for anyone else. His hand came up, resting lightly against the man’s chest.
Mike’s vision tunneled.
It was too much. Watching Will look like that – touched like that – felt like having salt rubbed into a wound Mike had never admitted existed. He turned away sharply, anger flaring hot and useless, with nowhere to land.
You don’t get to want this. You don’t get to be upset.
And yet – here he was.
He lifted his glass and drained it, immediately signaling for another. The alcohol spread warm and numbing through him but it didn’t dull the ache. If anything, it stripped it bare, dragged it closer to the surface where he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there.
He tried not to look but he looked anyway.
This time, Will wasn’t laughing at the douche. The eye contact barely lasted a second – so quick Mike almost dismissed it as a trick of the light. But his chest seized anyway, as he looked away immediately, heart racing like he’d been caught doing something shameful. He counted his breaths, waited for the moment to pass. One beat. Two.
When he risked another glance, Will’s eyes flicked toward him again – quick, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look. This time, when Mike met his gaze, Will didn’t turn away right away.
Mike’s hands started to shake.
It had to be the booze. Or the dimmed lighst. Or the fact that he’d spent years training himself to want nothing and was suddenly failing spectacularly. His brain had always been good at this – at inventing meaning, at romanticizing ghosts, at digging up old feelings to later kill them in his mind.
Don’t do this, he told himself. Don’t be delusional.
But Will glanced at him again. Not obvious. Not lingering. Just enough to make Mike’s chest ache with the possibility of being seen – really seen – in a way he’d spent most of his adult life trying to avoid.
The longing crept in anyway. It made his skin feel too tight, his suit suddenly unbearable. For a short moment, he was fourteen again, sitting on the basement floor with Will’s knee brushing his, heart hammering for reasons he didn’t have words for yet.
He thought of that boy. The one who had looked at him like Mike was a constant in his life, an anchor. Like something you could build a life around. The one who had reached for him without hesitation, in the dark, in the worst moments, trusting Mike completely.
They had always been there for each other.
Until Mike had withdrawn.
Until fear had taught him distance. Until the world had made certain things feel dangerous, unspeakable, wrong. Until Mike had learned how to survive by shrinking, by flattening himself into something normal and acceptable.
He remembered the way Will used to look at him when things got bad – quiet, searching, sometimes wounded. The weight of that attention. The responsibility of it. Mike had felt it then too, deep in his chest, and had shoved it down so hard it felt like burying something alive.
He hadn’t known what to do with it. How to deal with it.
Suddenly it all felt unbreathable. Too much. Too close. Mike needed air. Distance. Somewhere the past couldn’t reach him so easily.
He slipped out a side door, following the faint smell of smoke.
The night was cool, biting against his flushed skin. A few guests lingered along the brick wall, cigarettes glowing in the dark. Mike leaned back, fumbling for his pack with clumsy fingers.
He lit up and inhaled deeply. The nicotine hit fast but it wasn’t enough. He tipped the bottle back again, throat burning, eyes lifting to the sky. The stars were dim, washed out by city light, but they were still there – distant, unreachable. That felt right.
He thought of Will in New York. Of Will building a life that didn’t revolve around Hawkins, or fear, or Mike. A life where wanting things didn’t come with consequences. Where love didn’t feel like something you had to shut down to survive.
He told himself he should be glad Will got out. That this was the best possible outcome. That this was how it was supposed to go.
So why did it feel like grieving?
He closed his eyes and exhaled smoke into the dark.
Then– The cigarette was yanked from his fingers. He startled violently, heart slamming into his throat, eyes snapping open.
“Hey,” Will said quietly. “I think you’ve probably had enough.”
He looked disappointed – quietly, devastatingly so, like he’d expected better and somehow still hoped for it. That was worse than anything Mike had braced himself for.
He stood in the thin wash of yellow light spilling from the side door, arms crossed loosely, his posture careful – as if Mike were something fragile and unpredictable.
Mike scoffed, lifting the bottle on instinct, then stopping when he realized Will was watching him. “Wow,” he said, the word slurring just enough to irritate him. “Did you come all the way out here to parent me? I’m a little old for that.”
Will’s jaw tightened. “I came out here because you disappeared. And because–” He hesitated, eyes tracing Mike’s face, lingering on the dark circles, the sweat at his hairline, the way he leaned like the wall was the only thing holding him up. “Because I’m worried about you.”
Mike laughed, sharp and defensive. “Oh, don’t be.”
“But I am,” Will said quietly. “Someone has to be.”
The words slipped under Mike’s skin and lodged there. He shifted, pressing his back harder to the brick, forcing a grin.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m fine. Everyone keeps saying that.”
Will didn’t buy it.
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk about,” he said.
Mike blinked. “What?”
“The ‘you look good’ thing. It’s bullshit.”
Mike’s smile faltered.
Will uncrossed his arms, hands flexing at his sides. “Everyone keeps saying it, like it’s a script. And I don’t think anyone’s actually looking at you when they do.”
“I mean,” Will continued carefully, “you don’t look good, Mike. You look tired. You look–” He stopped, exhaled. “You look like you hollowed yourself out.”
Mike swallowed, then laughed again, louder, harsher. “Jesus, Will. Long time no see and you’re already trashing my looks and psychoanalyzing me?”
“I’m not,” Will said. “I’m just– being honest.”
“That’s rich,” Mike muttered.
He took another swig, the bottle less and less heavy in his hand. “You want honesty? I’m doing great. Living the dream. Same town, same job, same routine. I’ve basically turned into my dad.” He grinned, wide and self-deprecating at the same time. “Emotionally constipated, job-obsessed, boring prick.”
Will didn’t react.
“And hey,” Mike kept going, the words tumbling faster now, “at least I inherited something from my mom too, right? The drinking problem really completes the whole picture.”
Still nothing.
The silence pressed in. Mike’s grin wavered. He finally dropped the fake nonchalant attitude and looked at Will properly – and his stomach dropped.
Will wasn’t amused. He wasn’t even irritated. He looked hurt.
“Mike,” Will said softly. “That’s not funny.”
The words landed heavier than any insult. Mike felt suddenly exposed, aware of how loud he’d been, how desperate his jokes sounded echoing back at him.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Guess my material’s rusty.”
Will hesitated, then lifted a hand, fingers brushing absently at the chain around his neck. The metal caught the light – simple, silver, worn smooth from use.
Mike’s gaze snagged on it.
“I bet your boyfriend's funny, huh?” he said, before he could stop himself. His eyes flicked back to the piece of jewellery on Will’s neck. “Nice necklace by the way.”
Will froze.
Mike wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t just a necklace. It was a signal. A claim.
“From him, I’m guessing?”
Will’s eyes flashed. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” Mike snapped. Too fast. Too sharp. “Just seems a little–”
“–what?” Will cut in. “What are you trying to say, Mike?”
Mike leaned back slightly, a smirk plastered over the heat in his chest, though his hands trembled just a little. “Just seems… cute, I guess. The way you parade that thing around. I bet he loves it. Loves making you wear that. Owning you.”
Will’s eyes darkened. “Owning? Seriously? You’re–” Will’s voice cracked, low and dangerous. “You’re a real jerk, Mike, you know that?”
“Maybe,” Mike paused, realizing he’d gone too far, but continued anyway. “I bet he fucks good, huh? Makes you feel special, doesn’t he? Does he tug on it when you’re at it?”
Something in Will broke then. His eyes went glassy, his mouth flattening and teeth clenching.
“Say one more thing,” he warned quietly.
Mike scoffed. “Or what?”
Will didn’t answer.
The punch came fast – clumsy, emotional, fueled by years of shutting everything down. Mike barely had time to register the movement before pain bloomed across his eye and he stumbled back, shock ringing louder than the impact.
For a moment, there was only heavy breathing between them.
Will’s hand shook at his side, hurt bleeding plainly into his expression. “You don’t get to tear me apart because you’re miserable,” he said, voice cracking at last. “You don’t get to punish me for moving on. Not anymore.”
Mike opened his mouth. Closed it. He hadn’t meant to say any of it. It had slipped out the way things always did – fear curdled into cruelty, want disguised as hatred. His stomach twisted.
“I didn’t mean–”
“I know,” Will said. “You never do.”
He took a step back, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have come out here. I thought–” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.
Mike stared back, stunned, cheek burning, anger warring with something that looked dangerously close to regret.
“Will–”
But he still didn’t say what he meant.
And Will, finally done waiting for him to, turned and walked away.
Mike’s cheek throbbed. The punch had left him seeing stars, his teeth buzzing with impact, but the sting of humiliation burned hotter than the physical pain. He wanted nothing more than to disappear.
He bolted toward his car, the asphalt uneven beneath his shoes, keys slipping from his grasp once, twice, clattering between his fingers.
“Fuck,” he hissed, crouching, heart hammering, ears ringing.
You’re a prick, he thought viciously. You’ve always been.
The car door slammed behind him, and he sank into the seat. His head throbbed with pain, with shame, with the echo of Will’s fist.
Before he knew it - he was screaming.
It tore out of him raw. Tears blurred his vision, and his chest heaved so hard he thought he might choke on it. He slammed his hands against the wheel again and again, the dull thud reverberating through the car. He sagged forward, chest heaving, as the weight of years – of silence, of fear, of everything he’d never allowed himself to want of every word he shouldn’t have said – came crashing down on him all at once.
Then the knock came – loud, sharp enough to rattle the glass.
He jerked upright, heart hammering, eyes wide. Reflexively, he reached for the door handle but before he could even think, the door flew open and a hand – Will’s hand – gripped his jacket and yanked him outside.
Mike’s stomach dropped. The car slammed into his back as Will’s pushed him against it. He swallowed, throat dry, legs trembling, and for the first time, he felt small. Really small. Not because of the punch, not because of the fear, but because he’d underestimated Will. He had underestimated his strength and the boundaries Will had been building all these years.
Will’s hands didn’t let go, not yet. Mike could only stare, pulse hammering, shame, fear, and something else swirling in a his chest.
“I… I didn’t–” he tried.
“You didn’t what?” Will shot back. “You didn’t think I’d stand up for myself? You didn’t think I’d fight back?”
Mike’s jaw tightened. He didn’t. Not ever.
“I’ve never been this tired of being pushed around. I’m done letting you run me over with your fear, your sarcasm, your–” He inhaled sharply, tight with rage. “Your bullshit.”
Will leaned in just slightly, so close that the heat radiating off him made Mike shiver despite himself. “I’m not a kid anymore, Mike. I’m not the boy you can push around. You don’t get to do that,” Will went on, voice shaking now. “You don’t get to show up after years and act like– like that.”
Mike swallowed hard. “Will, I– ”
“No,” Will snapped. “Shut up and let me finally talk for once. You don’t get to joke your way out of this.”
He pushed him, crowding into Mike’s space, hands fisting in the front of Mike’s shirt. His eyes were bright, tears gathering but not falling yet.
“I was miserable,” Will said, words spilling out fast now, years of restraint cracking open. “Do you have any idea how miserable I was?”
“Of course you don’t,” Will laughed bitterly. “You never saw. You never wanted to see.”
Will’s grip tightened. “You spent years pretending you didn’t know what was happening between us. Like I was imagining it. Like it was all in my head. Like I was a crazy person.”
Mike’s throat closed painfully.
“And don’t you dare act like the Upside Down was the only thing that messed me up,” Will continued, voice breaking. “As if being possessed, hunted, trapped wasn’t already too much.”
Tears finally spilled over, streaking down his face unchecked.
“You were supposed to be my safe place,” Will said hoarsely. “You were the one person I thought wouldn’t make me feel wrong for being the way I am.”
Mike’s vision blurred. “Will– ”
“But you made me feel invisible,” Will shouted. “Like I was something you were embarrassed by. Something you could only deal with when it was convenient.”
“And then you left. You stayed in Hawkins. You stopped calling. You stopped answering. Even though you were apparently okay with me. You made the choice for both of us.”
Mike’s chest hurt so badly he thought it might actually crack open.
“I had nightmares for years, you know?” Will said, voice raw now and tinted with regret. “I’d wake up screaming in the middle of the night, shaking so hard I couldn’t breathe. I tried to find comfort in other people, Mike. I tried.” His little laugh was hollow. “They never understood. They didn’t know what it felt like to survive something no one else could possibly experience. They didn’t know what it felt like.”
Mike squeezed his eyes shut, a tear tearing loose from his eye.
“And now,” Will said, yanking once more at Mike’s jacket, “now I finally have something good. I’m finally in a place where I don’t hate myself every time I wake up. And you come back and– what? Decide you get to judge me?”
“I wasn’t–” Mike whispered, voice breaking completely. “I wasn’t judging you.”
“Then what the hell were you doing?” Will demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you think you get a say.”
Mike opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was no lie left that would fit.
Will laughed through his tears, shaking his head. “You really are just like your father,” he said sharply. “Hiding behind routine and bitterness because it’s easier than expressing your emotions. You’re pathetic,” his voice was cracking. “A younger version of him. And you need to move on.”
Mike flinched.
“Even if there had been anything between us, you don’t have power over me anymore,” Will continued, forcing the words out like they tasted bitter. “You don’t get to tell me who’s right for me and who’s not. You lost that right the moment you walked away.”
He released Mike abruptly, stepping back, chest heaving. “I’m done letting you hurt me.”
Something in Mike finally snapped.
“Will, wait,” he said.
Will froze.
Mike lifted his face, eyes red, tears streaking freely down his cheeks, hands trembling at his sides. “You’re wrong.”
Will’s laugh was bitter, a dry, sharp sound. “About what?”
“About everything,” Mike said hoarsely, voice cracking under the weight of years and suppressed longing. “I thought… if I stayed still long enough, if I kept pretending I didn’t care, it would go away.” His lips trembled. “It never did.”
Will’s eyes were full of conflict.
“Don’t,” he said, voice low, strained. “Don’t say this now.”
“I should hate you right now,” Will hissed, teeth clenched. “I should–”
But he didn’t finish. He didn’t get a chance.
Mike’s hands clenched at Will’s chest, pulling him closer. His lips collided with Will’s, heat engulfing them completely.
It was pure desperation, angry kiss that carried all the years of suppressed frustration, longing, and resentment. Teeth bared, jaws pressing together, both of them trembling. Will made a sound – half protest, half gasp – before his hands tangled in Mike’s hair, the other gripping his waist, pulling him impossibly close.
Mike’s hands burned against Will’s shoulders, as if letting go meant losing him forever. He clutched Will’s jacket, pulling him roughly. “The car,” he gasped, “Inside.”
He didn’t care who might see them, didn’t care about anything except Will, who stumbled slightly but didn’t resist.
The moment the car door slammed shut behind them, the world outside disappeared. Mike pulled Will into his lap, fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him down so their mouths collided again. Will moaned, a rough, low sound, and pressed back against Mike, matching his aggression with his own, hands roaming over Mike’s shoulders, chest, anything he could reach. Mike’s knee hit the center console, hard, and he groaned but pressed Will back closer. He kissed him like he was afraid the world might end again if he stopped, like this was the only language left that made sense.
Will kissed him back just as fiercely, hands trembling, breath uneven.
They broke apart only when they had to breathe, foreheads pressed together, both of them shaking.
And then it hit Mike.
You’re kissing a man. You’re kissing a man. This is wrong. This is dangerous. This is–
Holy shit. This is Will.
“Don’t stop,” Will breathed, voice rough, almost feral. “Don’t even think about stopping.”
Will’s plea collided with the memory of every time he had longed for this moment, every time he had held back in the dark because the fear was bigger than the want. Every time he had watched Will suffer, haunted, alone, and thought, If I could, I would save him. I would give him the world.
The thought of how long he’d waited, how long he’d denied himself, burned worse than shame.
Mike pulled back just slightly, searching Will’s face in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. Will’s chest rose and fell fast, pupils dilated, hair damp from sweat and heat. He had always been beautiful, Mike knew it – always. And seeing him here, trembling beneath Mike’s hands, made his chest ache with something far deeper than desire.
Regret.
I should have been the first. I should have been the first one to kiss you. I should have been there.
The weight almost made him pull away entirely– but instead, his hands drifted down, sliding against Will’s neck. And then, his fingers brushed the chain around Will’s neck.
Without thinking, without hesitation, with a reckless urgency he couldn’t explain, he tugged sharply, breaking it off.
Mike’s heart hammered in his chest.
What have I done? Have I ruined it all?
Will only shook his head, lips parted, chest heaving. “It’s fine. I don’t care,” he gasped. “Just… kiss me again.”
Mike’s lips returned to Will’s, hungrier now, more demanding, and his mind screamed at him for the audacity of it.
“Do you– do you love him?” Mike whispered against Will’s mouth, fingers brushing against his jawline, heart hammering.
Will’s quiet whine was caught between kisses, between breaths. “Love is a big word.”
Mike pressed his forehead to Will’s, shaking. “But I need to know. Do you love him?”
Will’s hands tightened on Mike’s shoulders, pulling him impossibly close, almost painfully so. “I… don’t think I’ll ever find love,” he admitted, voice trembling. “Because love… means understanding. And no one will ever understand.”
Mike swallowed hard, tears pricking his eyes. “I do,” he whispered. “I understand. I always have.”
Will’s fingers threaded through Mike’s hair, tugging him closer, leaning fully into the touch. The vulnerability in his voice, in his body, tore something open in Mike that he hadn’t realized had been locked up for years. All the emotions collided now into one raw, burning feeling.
Mike kissed him again, slower now. His hands shook as he fumbled with Will’s shirt, unbuttoning it slowly, trembling with desire, with guilt and longing. Every nerve screamed. Every thought collided with fear.
This is a man. This is Will. And I– God…
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he admitted between kisses.
“Then why… why make me wait so long?” Will whispered.
“I thought I’d gone crazy for wanting this.”
Will’s hands tightened in his hair, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, over the bruise he put on his face.
“Weren’t we always supposed to go crazy together?”
Mike’s chest heaved.
“I… I need to think this through. I’ve been so scared, so confused… for so long. And now…” His voice broke, swallowed by the weight pressing down on him. “…now that you’re here, it’s like everything I’ve denied myself is pressing in at once.”
Will pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Mike’s temple. “Then think,” he murmured. “Take your time. But promise me… you won’t be such a jerk anymore.”
Mike closed his eyes, letting the words settle.
“I can’t promise anything, you know. After all…” His eyes flicked up at Will, a small, crooked grin tugging at his lips. “…I am my father’s son.”
Will laughed softly, shaking his head, still flushed.
“But… I’ll try,” Mike added, voice quieter now, vulnerable, honest.
“That’s all I’m asking,” Will murmured, pressing one last gentle kiss to Mike’s temple and hiding his face in the crook of his neck.
“And you know… that necklace?” he started quietly, not looking into Mike’s eyes.
Mike blinked, not sure where this was heading. “What about it?”
“It’s not from anyone. It’s mine. I picked it out, bought it for myself. It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing.” He leaned closer. “But I have to admit… it was pretty interesting, watching you react the way you did. You nearly lost your mind over a piece of metal.” He let his grin fade, voice teasing now. “It was more than telling.”
Mike’s eyes opened, wide, and he felt the heat flooding his cheeks so fast it made his ears burn. He couldn’t meet Will’s gaze. “…I– fuck, Will, I’m sorry.”
Without another word, he buried his face in Will’s chest, taking the warmth and the smell of him in, trying to hide the flush of embarrassment and desire that had overtaken him. His hands clutched at Will’s shirt, trembling slightly, caught between wanting to vanish and wanting to stay pressed against him forever.
Will let out a soft, amused laugh, the sound vibrating through Mike’s hair and making his heart pound even harder, as he looked up and their eyes locked.
"You should be."
"I know. And I truly am."
Will reached up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear, and for a moment, the world narrowed to that single, delicate gesture.
And for the first time, Mike didn’t feel the old fear, the shame, the weight of everyone else’s expectations. He didn’t feel the years of pretending, of pushing down what he wanted.
He only felt Will. Only felt the warmth of him, the steady weight against his chest, the heat of his skin, the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The impossibly, painfully beautiful reality of him – the living, breathing Will, here, alive, trembling under his hands – was enough to make everything else vanish. Mike could feel the pull of it, and for the first time in years, he didn’t want to escape.
If he had to choose, if this were the last thing he ever got to experience, he could. He could die right here, pressed against Will’s warmth, lips and skin and heartbeat and everything. And somehow, miraculously, he wouldn’t want to.
Because for the first time in years, after the darkness and the fear and the quiet despair that had settled in his bones, he didn’t want to die anymore.
Not with Will here. Not like this. Not ever again.
He only wanted this. Only wanted him. Only wanted Will.