Chapter Text
December 3rd, 1995. The Bowery, New York City.
As the crowd cheered, Mike passed his guitar off to his technician and removed his in-ear monitors. Jason followed behind him, whooping and jumping in post-show delight. “Good show, boys!” He called to the band, happily clapping Mike over his right shoulder.
Mike cried out, pushing Jason off as the pain started crawling over his right side, “Fuck, Jason! Jesus—”
“Oh shit,” Jason said, stepping back wide-eyed as the tech took his bass. “Mike, I’m so sorry. I totally forgot. Oh man. I’m so sorry, dude.”
“Fuck, oh my god,” Mike hissed, hands on his knees as he breathed through the agony. Someone from venue staff rushed over to him and started talking to him, checking if he was okay, but Mike brushed them away. “It’s okay,” he said, breathing uneven as he returned to standing posture, “it’s alright. I’m alright.”
With Jason at his side and Ben and Qiang somewhere just behind them, he lumbered towards the stage exit, muttering curses under his breath.
At the venue’s club section downstairs, Mike eased his injured shoulder with a triple whiskey sour. Jason stood on his right side to protect his shoulder from accidental bumps by clumsy strangers, but also, Mike suspected, to keep an eye on him. There were definitely enough people in the club (Jason had guessed close to 500, based on how it compared to the venue size) that Mike could sneak off and not be seen until tomorrow morning, but unless he thought of a really clever plan, there was no way he was going to get his medicine tonight.
“...and dude, the venue had a 585 capacity. And we fucking sold it out,” Jason was saying, club lights flashing purple and green over his cheerful features, “not bad for our first headlining show in The Big Apple, eh dude?”
“Hell yeah,” said Mike, shouting against the loud techno music. Tossing his head back, he finished the rest of his drink and placed the cup back on the bar. His cravings and the pain were getting intense; wringing his stomach and making his eyes buzz. Pointing at the busy dance floor below the lounge, he yelled, “I wanna dance!”
On the floor, he looked past Jason and saw bodies dancing all the way across the club, pressed up against the walls, pushed up towards the front where the DJ was. The music was intense, deep with unrelenting bass and big drums. Mike could feel the percussion in his chest and legs, forcing him to dance, being careful to not knock shoulders with anyone. Around him people thrust and pressed their bodies into one another, swung their hips, let their hair fly, allowed their hands and lips to find freedom in the anonymity of the darkness. Salty sweat, sticky-sweet spilled beer, bitter metal; a scent that made Mike grin as he danced and remembered past nights out. Were he not at the place he’d just played a show, and were Jason not babysitting him, he could’ve had someone’s hands on him by now.
Mike watched a beautiful woman try and fail to pull Jason elsewhere, and his eyes narrowed as he realized he was definitely being monitored. Still dancing, he looked around in the strobing light, trying to find an exit — there was a set of stairs leading back up to the bar, but they were at least thirty feet away.
Just then, a shot girl in a tiny t-shirt and a pair of shiny purple hot pants moved through the crowd, holding a neon green super soaker water gun. “Hey boys!” She shouted, finger on the trigger. Mike opened his mouth, laughing as the sharp liquor hit the back of his throat. Then he watched as she pointed the super soaker at Jason, and when he shut his eyes, Mike made a break for it.
Mike pushed hastily through the crowd, legs charged as he ran up the stairs past the lounge, past the bar, past the bathroom line, and finally into the greenroom where his heart hammered thickly against his teeth. With the adrenaline wearing off, his shoulder was kicking up again. He moved quickly and snatched his leather messenger bag up off the peeling couch, trying to remember where that staff bathroom was. Jason wouldn’t think to look for him there; he probably didn’t even remember it existed. He almost tripped over Qiang’s cymbals as he flew back into the hall, and then he stopped in his tracks. Eyes wide and mouth twitching, he froze.
It was him.
And he looked good. So, so good. His brown hair was tousled, his smile bright. He gave the appearance like he'd been dancing, his skin slightly dewy. Through his white tank top, Mike could see the muscles and skin he lied to himself about missing so much. His walk was strong and confident, stepping in time with the woman at his side. Mike was only vaguely aware of her, though. Couldn’t even tell you what color her hair was.
“Hey, Mike,” he said, his voice calm. Posture relaxed, hazel eyes right on him.
His stomach turned. He wanted to die.
“Hey, Will,” Mike said, all out of breath. He stabilized himself against the wall, looking at his face, his body, his hands, everything.
Visions of the last time they’d seen each other flashed in front of him — hands over flushed skin, his lips wherever Will had wanted them, Will’s hips pressing deep into his back, Mike saying something he shouldn’t have — making his skin hot with both arousal and embarrassment. Almost two and half years since, and he thought about it almost every night, imagined it every time he fucked someone else.
“What, um, what are you doing here? And who’s your friend?”
“Oh. This is Xenia. We do art stuff together. When I’m not in school, I mean,” Will laughed, smiling at her. From the glare she was giving Mike, he guessed she knew. Possibly even everything.
“Hey, nice to meet you,” Mike said, extra sweet and polite. He stuck his arm out, pulling his muscles tight so his hand wouldn’t shake too much.
She chuckled, scowling at his hand. “Yeah right.”
“Hey,” Will squeezed her hip, “be nice.”
“Oh honey,” she said, placing a kiss on his cheek. “You’re totally hopeless.”
“Sorry about her. She’s just protective,” Will smiled, laughing as she walked away.
“Yeah, I have one of those too,” Mike said, looking around. “He might find me any moment now, actually.”
“Oh?” Will questioned, a little surprised.
“No — um, Jesus no, not like that,” Mike laughed, running his hand through his hair. “He’s in my band. My friend Jason. The bassist?”
“Ah. That makes more sense,” Will said, leaning back against the wall directly across from Mike. His chin tilted slightly upwards, the silver chain around his neck rose from the behind his tank top, resting on his collarbones. A thin sheen of sweat covered his chest, accentuating his adam’s apple and the veins running under his warm-looking skin. Mike was trying not to stare, but it was so, so hard.
“So, um, great show, Mike,” Will said, ankles crossed, hips pushed out.
“Oh!” Mike startled, voice pitching up in confusion like he’d forgotten he was a musician at all. “Yeah, thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”
Will was looking at him like he was waiting to hear something, but Mike just looked back, clueless and enamored.
“...No invite, though?”
Shit. “Will —”
“Hey, it’s okay,” he smiled, patting Mike’s arm; the left one, the good one. He was so sweet for remembering. “I’m a little more pissed about you never calling, but…”
“Um, well, y’know. I’ve just been really busy is all,” Mike said, shifting his weight.
Will looked down his nose, eyebrow raised. “For two years straight?”
Mike looked at his feet, biting his nail, saying nothing.
“Hey,” Will said, kicking Mike’s foot. “Look at me.”
Eyes up, he found Will was still smiling, still as kind as always. Mike exhaled, eyes low as he gazed at Will. “Okay. I’m looking.”
It could’ve been the light, but it looked like Will’s pupils were twice as large. “So, um, how long are you here for?”
Without imagining the consequences, Mike said, “I have a free day tomorrow.”
“Awesome,” Will said. “So, do you, uh, wanna catch up or something?”
“Yeah. Totally.”
“Okay,” Will smiled, lifting himself off the wall. He slid up next to Mike, nearly shoulder to shoulder. “Can I see your planner or whatever?”
Mike nodded. He felt a headrush, enjoying Will’s closeness, noticing his smell and the smell of them together. He dug in his bag for his planner and a pen.
“How’s six?” Will asked, looking up at Mike as he held the pen in his hand.
Will’s eyes brought radiance upon him. How could he have gone so long without this? What the hell was his problem?
“Works for me,” he said.
“‘Kay,” Will smiled, writing in Mike’s planner.
Mike watched him write, paying special attention to his hands.
“Cool earring, by the way,” Will said as he wrote, flashing the small hoop in his right ear. “You got it on the wrong side though.”
Mike brought his hand up to his left ear, fidgeting with the silver hoop there. “No I didn’t.”
Closing the planner, Will chuckled. “Sure, Mary.”
At first, Mike thought that was funny — but then he heard the laughter and conversations of people in the club behind him, and suddenly felt very cold and very sober. The hall was empty, and both exits were open and far away. It really was just him and Will standing in a concrete tube together, feeling the cold dash of the air conditioning over their skin, but still, he was scared. Mike turned himself towards Will, forming a sort of sound-barrier against him.
“Don’t do that here,” he pleaded, looking over his shoulder. “And stop telling your friends about me. Please, Will. I’m serious.”
“They’re not going to tell anyone,” Will said, a little taken aback by Mike’s severity. The rise and fall of his chest slowed and his eyes danced back and forth, examining Mike’s worried features. He touched his hand. “They understand. I promise.”
Mike sighed, shoulders dropping as Will’s hand left his. “Sorry,” he exhaled, “I know you wouldn’t, um—”
“What, intentionally threaten your career?”
That was a concern, and Mike had been thinking about it that way. It didn’t matter that they weren’t the most famous band in the world — actually, that probably made the stakes higher. Without the safety net of notoriety, there was much more to lose.
“It’s okay,” Will said, smile somewhat dashed as he handed the little book back to him. “I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.”
That’s different, Mike thought, feeling a charge as their fingertips brushed again. Putting the planner back in his bag, he reclined against the wall. “So, um, see you tomorrow?”
Will smiled, pushing off the wall. “Mhm.”
Mike followed his movements, feeling pulled towards him as he made his exit. “Where at?”
“My place,” Will said, walking back towards the club. “I put the address there. See you then, Wheeler.”
Mike smiled. “Later, Byers.”