Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Mike knows something is wrong before he even opens his eyes.

When the Wheelers moved into the bigger house on Piney Wood Drive, when Ted got a raise at the firm, and Mike’s mom was heavily pregnant and Mike didn’t quite understand what that meant yet, he and Nancy fought for days over who would get which bedroom. 

The two bigger rooms were on opposite sides of the house- Mike wanted the front bedroom because it was furthest from their parent’s room (meaning he could listen to music and play late at night without anyone knowing) and looked out over the backyard. 

Nancy also wanted that same room, because of the extra closet space (meaning she could buy more dumb clothes) and because it had ‘east facing windows’, whatever that meant. “It means it faces the sunrise in the morning you dweeb”, Nancy had exclaimed, “I need sunlight to do my makeup in the morning, I’m in seventh grade now, remember?” After a week of arguing and sibling sabotage (Mike hiding Nancy’s lipgloss and hairbrush before school, Nancy taping over Mike’s VHS tapes) Karen Wheeler finally made them solemnly flip a coin- and Nancy ended up with her beloved east-facing windows. 

Meaning that for the last twelve years of Mike’s life, he’s woken up in a definitively non-sunny bedroom. He’s a weird guy, and always struggled to sleep anywhere but his own bed. 

One of the reasons the Party always played in the Wheeler’s basement, as opposed to Dustin’s or Lucas’ houses (the Byers’ was never an option thanks to the sperm donor that called himself Will’s father) was because Mike couldn’t fall asleep anywhere except his own bed. This was somewhat of an issue in recent years thanks to the world-ending-apocolypse-battle-shitstorm, meaning he never slept on the move when the others did, and ran on copious amounts of shitty coffee and adrenaline. 

So, when he wakes up to blinding sunlight attempting to sear his retinas off, an odd, sickening feeling settles into his stomach. This isn’t right. 

The second thing he notices is that he’s butt ass naked. Again: not a Mike Wheeler habit. Given the constant crises and whatnot, he pretty much always sleeps in the bare minimum of boxers and a shirt. Pulling the sheets over his exposed junk, he shuffles to sit up and gather his bearings. Where the actual fuck is he?

He doesn’t recognise the room at all. It’s small, bathed in early sunlight, with a double bed, music posters tacked to the walls, a messy scattering of clothes on the floor and two nightstands. Both have glasses of water and lamps, the one closest to him has the addition of a comic book he doesn’t recognise, a half eaten packet of gummy worms and a handful of silver rings and hair ties on a little painted dish. The other is tidier, with just a book, a few coins, and a watch. It’s- it’s nice. It reminds him oddly of his own bedroom, or perhaps Johnathan’s old room at the Byers house. 

The niceness doesn’t negate the feeling of unease and distrust at having woken up somewhere he doesn’t remember falling asleep (although if he thinks about it, he can’t really place where he would expect to be, or what he was last doing) and investigation seems to be the only option he has. 

There’s a pair of boxers on the floor where he swings his feet to land, seemingly kicked off hastily along with a dark shirt, and devoid of other options he grimaces and pulls them on. Wandering around in some other dude’s worn underwear isn’t exactly much better than being nude. 

The shirt unfolds in his hands to be a soft, wellworn The Cramps band tee, which is odd because Mike has a shirt just like this, except it’s nowhere near as tired looking. In fact, Robin only just brought it back from a gig for him barely a month ago. Whoever owned this one had to be astonishingly shit with laundry, he thinks, to have the design peeling off at the edges already. There’s no makeshift weapons in sight, so suitably clothed, he tiptoes to the door and peers around the corner. 

It’s an apartment. A sunny, small, but nicely furnished place, with no immediate danger in sight. Feeling more confident, Mike rounds the corner and promptly forgets how to breathe.

Happily bumbling around the tiny kitchen, humming and busying himself with a coffee pot and mugs is none other than Will. The feeling of anxiety in his stomach momentarily washes away as it always does when Mike’s around Will as he recognises the man, before being instantly replaced with the same uneasiness as before but tenfold, because- that isn’t his Will.

Mike knows Will’s body almost as well as he knows his own- knows the freckles, the flecks in his eyes, the tug of his lips when he smiles, the floppy brown hair that hangs in his eyes when it’s too long, the permanent smears of dried paint he misses on his wrists, and the slope of his shoulders. 

The man standing in front of him has all of these things, but he’s- well, a man. The Party was certainly growing up, that much was obvious, but Will Byers did not fucking grow up like that overnight, that’s for sure. 

Not-Will turns around and offers Mike a familiar, lazy smile, and all Mike can do is stare. His hair is shorter on the edges, ruffled and sleep-mussed on top, his chest so broad- not goofily oiled up and muscled like the men on magazine covers or movie posters, but just… strong, solid. Mike can’t tear his eyes away from his thighs though, the way they’re thick and muscular. His best friend isn’t a dorky kid or even an awkward teenager anymore, he’s a whole ass, shockingly attractive man. 

“Hey,” Will says in a sleep-rough voice that’s beautifully familiar, yet with depth in it that is completely foreign, “I thought you were sleeping in?” 

Mike gawps like a fish for a moment as his brain tries to make sense of what the actual fuck is happening right now. 

“Wha- why are you in your underwear?” Mike squints, entirely baffled and apparently unable to form a better thought. Will gives him an odd look, furrowing his brow and putting the mugs down. He walks over to Mike, looking him up and down openly. 

“Are you okay?” Will stops in front of him, reaching out, and Mike’s traitorous body melts into the touch. It’s familiar and so gentle, completely unnoteworthy in many ways. 

And then Will leans in- and the soft, confident press of the lips he’s observed for eleven years against his own is very much not familiar. 

It’s also at this exact moment that Mike, eyes wide open in shock, actually gets a look-in out the windows and notices that the skyline outside is most definitely not Hawkins- not even Indiana, but New York fucking City. 

He passes out. 

If Mike had a nickel for every time he’s woken up in an unfamiliar place this morning, he’d have two nickels. Which is not a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice, and he’s already fucking sick of it. He likes to know things, he likes certainty and predictability and his own god damn bed. 

He supposes the oddly buff arms of his childhood best friend is a pretty damn good competitor to that though, which is where he blinks open his eyes this time. 

“Mike!” Will’s voice sounds far away, or like he’s underwater, “Mike? Can you hear me?”

“Mmm.” He groans out, swallowing down a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Mike!” 

He rubs his eyes blearily, and comes back to a little more. Will eases off a little, and Mike almost wants to chuckle, because the worried look on his face is so reminiscent of Joyce, it’s almost comical. 

“Sorry, sorry. I’m fine. I have no idea what that was.” He mumbles, shuffling away and sitting back against the wall. Will grabs his hand and laces their fingers together. 

“You hit your head so hard on the floor, you scared the shit out of me.” He gives their hands a little squeeze, which annoyingly is comforting. Will uses his other hand to gently stroke the back of Mike’s head, checking for bumps as he narrows his eyes, surveying him for damage. Mike expects him to draw it back after finding nothing of note, but it drifts to rest at the base of his neck, fingers playing with the hair he finds there. It’s a nice weight, he thinks, and then immediately retracts that because this is his best friend, and Mike’s being weird. 

“I’m fine, Will. Really.” Mike swallows, focusing on Will’s eyes, and not- well. The rest of him. 

“I don’t believe you. What day is it?” Will says suspiciously. Mike flounders, because- he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what day it is. 

He wills his heart to stop racing, chest filling with panic, because why doesn’t he know the god damn day of the week? 

“You’re ridiculous.” Mike shakes his head, playing off the question and climbing to his feet. Will frowns and grabs his wrist. 

“Hey,” He says, “Mike, seriously. Answer the question.”

“You think I don’t know what day it is?” Mike flushes, trying to wrangle his arm back, but Will stays steadfast. 

“Michael.” Will says gravely, “Do you seriously think I don’t know when you’re bullshitting me? What day is it?” 

Fuck it, he thinks, he’s got a 1 in 7 chance here. 

“Monday?” He tries, voice coming out far too high pitched. 

Judging from the look of horror in Will’s eyes, it is not in fact Monday. 

“Mike, it’s Sunday.” 

“Right, right. Yeah, that’s what I said. Sunday. Ssssss- Sunday.” Mike jokes, exaggerating the ‘s’ sound with a shy grin, rubbing his hand on the back of his head, tracing over Will’s touch. He pulls his hand back quickly as he realises his hair is… longer? 

This is the tip of the bizzaro iceberg, really. Because Mike just cut his mullet off. His hair was short again, he firmly remembers it, remembers chopping it off in the bathroom mirror at 2am, the kitchen scissors cold against his skin and the satisfying snip-snip sound they made cutting through silky locks. And now? Now, dark curls reach his shoulders. 

“No. No, Mike. You said Monday. You- you’ve hit your head, you’re hurt!” Will exclaims, leaning to pull him in, but panic is in full swing in Mike’s body now, and he wriggles away. 

“I’m fine! I’m- I’m gonna go-” He glances around quickly, eyes landing on the open bathroom door, “I’m just gonna piss. I’ll be- uh. I’ll be right back.” 

And with that, he darts into the bathroom, locks the door, and staggers to the sink. Clutching the porcelain for dear life he braves his reflection. Staring back at him, is himself of course, but just as Will was Not-Will, the man in front of him is Not-Mike. 

His hair is indeed longer, brushing his shoulders and flopping bangs over his forehead- not blunt ones like when he was younger but softer, grown out ones. His jaw seems a little squarer and that final bit of teen softness that had been clinging to his cheeks is finally absent. There’s smudges of black around his eyes that he knows from Nancy and Robin is eyeliner that’s not been washed off properly. He glances down at his hands and notices the chipped black polish on his nails, which is a shock- but the scariest of all is most certainly the purpling bruise on his collarbone, that he notices as his shirt droops a little- he has a fucking hickey? A hickey, and he has no clue how it got there. 

So, time travel. 

He turns around and clutches his face, letting out a pained groan as the pieces fall into place and the situation dawns on him. Mike Wheeler is first and foremost a man of science, of logic, of applying order to the chaos that surrounds him. 

“Come on, Wheeler. Figure it out.” He mutters into his hands, ignoring the timid rap of knuckles against the other side of the door.

The facts: 

1. His appearance has changed overnight. 
2. Will’s appearance has also changed impossibly overnight. 
3. He is not in Indiana. 
4. Will is not freaked out by this set of bizarre facts. 
5. Will is here.
6. Will kissed him.

The two possibilities for this increasingly odd set of facts are firstly, that he does indeed have a brain injury. The second, which given the absolute ridiculousness of his life is almost certainly the true one, is time travel. Somehow, Mike has time travelled and woken up in his body years into the future. 

He splashes cold water on his face and gulps some down as he tries to figure out what the hell he’s going to do about this. 

From all of the time travel movies he’s seen, shouting it from the rooftops is a bad, bad idea. 

From all of the experience he’s had in life, freaking out Will and making him worry is a bad, bad idea.

This leaves one outcome: play along whilst he figures out a plan to fix it.

“This is fine,” Mike whispers to his reflection, taking in the face staring back at him that’s so familiar and yet so subtly different, “This is fine.” 

The only piece of information he doesn’t quite get is Will kissing him. He doesn’t- he and Will don’t- 

Look, it’s not that he hasn’t thought about it before. Sometimes, when he’s had a few of Steve’s beers, or he’s stolen a puff of Johnathan’s blunt, perhaps he maybe thinks about what it would be like to kiss his best friend. But that’s just normal- everyone thinks about that shit sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything, they’re just really good friends, and he’s a horny teenager. 

It’s normal that his hormone-addled brain would occasionally ponder kissing people he knows, people he’s comfortable with. Maybe in the future, it’s normal to be casually, physically intimate with your buddies. Future Mike apparently lives in New York, and he doesn’t exactly know much about city life, but he’s pretty sure they’re more open-minded and forward-thinking than Hawkins. 

Will knocks on the door again, calling his name in that concerned, gentle voice. Mike unlocks the door and schools his features into what he’s hoping is a controlled, chill expression. 

“You’re being really weird right now.” Will says, searching his face. Mike gives him a small smile, and places a hand on Will’s waist. He doesn’t know why he does that, but it just- it feels right. 

“Hey. I’m okay, I promise.” He says earnestly, “I think I just got up too fast and then yeah, maybe did bash my head a little. I’m fine, though.” 

Will obviously doesn’t believe him, but eases off and nods. 

“Come help me with the crossword and I’ll see if I believe you, handsome.” He drawls, but his tone this time is far more sarcastic and usual Will. Handsome?

Mike perches at the little wooden table, flipping through the paper while Will pours him a glass of juice. He slides it across with a stern look, and Mike snorts at the mother-henning, but drinks it nonetheless. 

He’s glad that Will is busy putting bread in the toaster when he glances down at the newspaper and sees it’s dated September 21st 1995. 

“Ninety five?” He mouths wordlessly, heart racing as he realises he’s god damn right. He’s only gone and accidentally fucking travelled in time. 

Will, oblivious to Mike’s freakout, continues to potter around the little kitchen making what appears to be one big plate of toast, and two mugs of steaming coffee. A fat tabby cat winds around Will’s feet, and he bends over to give it a careful little scritch behind the ears with his non-jelly spreading hand. 

“Hey, can you feed Ziggy?” Will glances over his shoulder at Mike, startling him out of his daze. Stop staring at your best friend’s ass, Michael. Not cool.

“Huh? Oh, right. Right.” Mike stands up awkwardly, freezing as he realises he doesn’t actually know where he’s going. 

The cat- Ziggy, apparently- lets out a doleful, starved mew and trots over to sit in front of a cupboard expectantly. Mike stares at the cat, and the cat stares back, and then at the cupboard. He narrows his eyes slightly at the cat, trusting it to help him not fuck this up, and opens the door to find- thank fuck, cat food. 

Fortunately, he seems to have gone about this task with enough confidence that Will’s suspicions seem to settle a bit. He pours the little dude out some kibble and slides back into his seat at the table, where Will pushes the plate of toast towards him, nibbling delicately at his own piece and flicking through the paper. 

It’s a bit weird and codependent to share a plate, Mike thinks, but he takes a slice anyway and chews thoughtfully, eyeing the small apartment a little at a time. There’s the little kitchen and table they’re sitting at now, relatively tidy with a refrigerator covered in polaroids, photobooth strips, sticky notes, and haphazard letter magnets that spell out ‘MAX WUZ HERE’. 

The rest of the room turns into a living space, with an exposed brick wall running the length of it, and two comfy-looking couches draped with crochet blankets that face a sideboard that houses a TV and turntable. There’s a large bookshelf overflowing with books and cassette tapes, an equally messy desk, a crate of records on the floor, a few plants, and what must be Will’s choice of artwork on the walls, given that it’s all too curated for Mike’s uneducated tastes. It’s all very cosy and welcoming, and he can’t help but wonder which one of them’s place it is.

Unless there’s another bedroom he hasn’t clocked yet, it can only belong to one of them. Is it his place? He did wake up in the bed after all. But that doesn’t mean anything really, does it? He easily could have stayed over and had a sleepover with Will, they do that all the time. Well- did. They haven’t really been close enough for bed-sharing lately. And besides, do adult men have sleepovers? It’s hardly something he can imagine Ted Wheeler doing, not that he wants to end up like his father. 

The cat is a little weird, because Will is the one who loves animals. The Byers family dog always loved him the best, and judged Mike with disapproving sniffs, even though he fed it little pieces of cheese and gave it plenty of pets. The Wheelers never had pets, likely because none of the kids ever really bothered to beg for one. This adds a point in the Will column, he supposes.

He could go around in thought spirals for hours debating himself, so he opts to question his breakfast-mate instead. 

“So, uh. What’s the plan for this fine Sunday?” Mike emphasises, swigging his coffee and poking Will’s ankle with his foot. Will returns the gesture comfortably and rolls his eyes. 

“Mike, the calendar is literally two inches behind your head.” 

“So? I like to hear it from you.” He shrugs, and this is clearly an acceptable answer, because Will’s lips twitch into something you could almost call an exasperated smile. 

“I have therapy at ten.” Will replies, taking the last piece of toast- without bothering to offer it to Mike first, the little asshole. 

“Oh right?” Mike plays along, propping his chin on his hand and slouching onto the table in an attempt to seem relaxed. 

“We’re supposed to talk some more about Lonnie again today,” Will sighs, frowning, “So that’ll be a joy. I had to cancel my helpline shift at ACT UP for it, too. You’re volunteering today though, right? At the Gay and Lesbian Community Centre?”

“I am?” Mike splutters, choking on his coffee. Will gives him an odd look, and he quickly coughs, shaking his head and corrects himself, “Uh, yeah. I am. Of course.” 

“You’re acting all kinds of weird today,” Will remarks, but doesn’t push it. “We’ll leave in thirty, then. Do you think you’ll have time to pick up some groceries before dinner? Jonathan said the reservation is at six.” 

“Um. Sure.” 

“Thanks. Just get the usual stuff.” 

Mike internally grimaces at that, because not only has he never grocery shopped before (What? His mom does it.) but he also has no idea what ‘usual stuff’ would be. Whatever, that’s a problem for later. 

Will clears the dishes away, gives Ziggy- who’s now laying belly up in the sunshine- another quick pet, and heads over to the bathroom. He leans on the doorframe and turns to face Mike.

“Quickie in the shower?” He says casually, thumbs resting in the waistband of his boxers, as if he’s about to slip them off any second. 

“What?” Mike whips his head around, confused. “Um, yeah. I’ll be quick? You said we have thirty minutes, right? I’ll go after you.” 

Will blinks at him.

“... Right.” He says, in an uncertain voice, and then shakes his head, “O-kaaay.” 

He shuts the bathroom door behind him, and Mike turns to face the cat. It gives him, not for the first time today, an incredibly judgemental expression.

“What? Don’t look at me like that.” He mumbles, and then sighs, because he’s obviously gone so crazy that he’s talking to a god-damn cat now. 

Whilst Will is busy in the shower, Mike rifles through the closet to try and find some clothes, and ideally also some answers. 

He has no such luck: everything in there could just easily be his as it could be Will’s. There’s plenty of dorky plaid shirts and jeans that seem very Will, and black jeans and darker sweaters that Mike guesses from the nails and eyeliner are more to his liking. 

He’s in the midst of appreciating the selection of band shirts one of them owns- seriously, they must go to a lot of gigs from the looks of it- when Will appears in the doorway, hair dripping wet and with only a towel wrapped around his hips. Mike’s jaw goes slack at the sight.

“I’m, uh-” Mike feels his cheeks heat up, “Shower. Me. Um-” 

He blindly grabs the closest pants and shirt and hurries to the bathroom before he can humiliate himself even further by gawking at his best friend’s body, or make Will feel self conscious. How the hell did Will- little lost lamb Will, bowl-cut and doe eyes Will, get so damn hot? This is so unfair, Mike huffs, as he steps into the shower. His own body seems pretty much like the same lanky collection of limbs he remembers, and- ah. 

Jealousy, that’s it. He’s just jealous of Will, because his friend grew up in all the right places, and Mike looks exactly like the dorky loser he is. 

Settled slightly, by this realisation, they head out into the brisk fall air. Will locks the door to the apartment behind them, which still doesn’t help Mike, because he can’t imagine Will ever not having a key to his place. He lets Will lead the way, bumping their elbows together here and there when they walk, hands firmly in their own pockets. 

He feels oddly envious of his future self, being so close with Will again. Ever since California (and the six months of Mike being a pussy) things had been so fractured and painful. Knowing that they become best friends again in the future- close enough to have sleepovers- and that this sore, awkward moment they’re enduring is just a blip in their friendship should be comforting, but it only twists the knife in Mike’s stomach harder. 

The city is completely different to anything he’s ever seen before- like something out of a movie. He’s lucky to have been out of state before on vacation, and to Indianapolis fairly often to see hockey games with his dad, but this was nothing like that. Will never had the chance to go on vacations- Joyce could never afford it, and Mike wonders what it was like for Will to adjust to city living. Maybe that was the point; moving somewhere so different, a fresh start from life in Hawkins. 

He’d kind of been hoping to sack off the volunteering given that he has no fucking clue where he’s going or what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, but after twenty minutes Will stops abruptly at the end of the block they’re on. Mike glances around and notices the rainbow flag hanging inside a window of the building, and figures this must be his destination. 

Will hesitates, glancing around for a moment before grabbing Mike’s wrist.

“Hey. Can you do me a favour?” He says softly, looking up at Mike with those freakin’ disney princess eyes. 

Anything, Mike thinks.

“Sure.”

“Will you get Zoe to have a look at your head, check you’re okay? You really did hit the floor hard, and you’re acting strange.” 

Mike fights the urge to sigh and roll his eyes, because he’s fine, he’s acting strange because he’s woken up in a god damn bizarro world, in an apartment he doesn’t recognise, with a Will who presses kisses onto him as if it’s normal, and he’s about to go and volunteer for a cause that his sole knowledge of is Ted Wheeler’s angry ramblings about ‘the fags being on the damn news again’. 

“Yeah, okay,” Mike agrees, pretending as if he knows who the hell Zoe is, “Have fun at therapy.”

Will does roll his eyes, and gives him a small smile as he drops Mike’s wrist and continues on down the block. 

Mike waits, watching until he’s out of sight, as he deliberates his options. He could turn tail and go explore the city, figure out how the hell he’s going to get back to his own time, but for some odd reason, he feels compelled just to go inside and do as he’s supposed to. 

He pushes the door open, stepping inside into a sort of office room, with a front desk, tables and chairs in clusters. There’s a tinge of cigarette smoke in the air, and the walls are covered in all sorts of art- posters, banners, flags. It’s oddly welcoming, despite his awkwardness at being there. 

“Wheeler!” 

Startled, Mike turns to face the source of the call, and is met with a pretty African American girl, wearing dungarees and a lopsided grin. 

“Zoe?” He guesses. She doesn’t correct him, so he figures he’s probably right. 

“How’s it going?” She gives him a quick hug,  “I was glad to see your name down for a shift today, you haven’t been by in ages.”

“Yeah,” Mike says weakly, “Sorry. Uh, I've been busy with work. You know how it is.” 

“Oh shut up,” She ruffles his hair, “You’re just sitting at that desk of yours, being all mopey and tortured. You wouldn’t last an hour in the ER.” 

“Hey!” He exclaims indignantly, realising this girl reminds him suspiciously of Max. What is it with snarky women and their proclivity to tease him?

In a flounce of bouncy curls and perfume, she turns on her heel to make her way over to a large desk, where she plonks herself down on a spinny chair. In the absence of any other ideas on what to do with himself, he follows, and drags up a chair to join her. 

Mentioning the ER puts Will’s comment into context- she must be a nurse. He doesn’t even know why he’s following up on Will’s orders given that he’s fine, but it feels like the right thing to do.

“So, I sorta passed out and hit my head earlier. I’m pretty sure I’m fine, it was probably just a low blood sugar thing-” 

“But your old man wants me to give you a look?” Zoe interrupts him, shaking her head in amusement, “Alright.” 

She orders him to do what he’s pretty certain are just field sobriety tests, recite the months of the year backwards, flashes a pen-light in his eyes, and thank god doesn’t ask him any trivia questions he doesn’t know the answer to. 

“My official diagnosis,” Zoe pauses seriously, staring into his eyes with a dead expression, “Is you’re just as much of a loser as the last time I saw you. You’re good to go, but if you get a headache, ringing in your ears, feel sick, or even just if Will thinks you’re being weird, then you get your ass to the ER, okay? You don’t fuck around with head injuries.”

Mike nods, feeling oddly relieved at her words, despite knowing damn well he’s fine.

“Come on,” She tugs him up, dragging him by the elbow through a book room and out a back door, “Patti and Rob are covering the phones, so all we actually need to do this morning is fold all the pamphlets I picked up from the printers earlier. Truly thrilling stuff. You got a light?” 

Mike fumbles in his pockets, more as a polite performance than anything because he doesn’t usually carry a lighter, but is surprised to find one in these jeans. He pulls out a silver zippo, stroking his thumb over an engraving on the lid. ‘My Paladin’ is written in swirling font- he feels a rush of warmth in his belly at the sight, knowing it could only be a gift from Will. 

Out the door is a weird little cuboid, closed-in gap between buildings, almost like an alleyway but not quite. Zoe perches on a step, and he sits down with her, their knees bumping amicably. She lights a cigarette, passes him back his lighter, and then after taking a drag herself, shares the smoke with him too. Mike doesn’t smoke often, only when he can steal one off one of the older kids, and the taste of the menthol she passes him reminds him fiercely of Robin. He preferred Camels personally, or Nancy’s Virginia Slims.

Their fingers brush as he hands it back to her, and a thought strikes him. Holy shit, is Zoe his girlfriend? 

He exhales slowly, trying to work out how he’d feel about that. He tries to imagine them holding hands, kissing, touching her body and her touching him. The picture doesn’t really coax much of anything from him- logically, she’s clearly very attractive and effortlessly cool, but there’s no… desire there. 

He wonders idly if he’s given Will any gifts in return that have Sorcerer engraved onto them. Dustin and Lucas always enjoy ribbing him for how often he calls Will that, but he can’t help himself. Will just is magic like that, strong and intelligent, and he deserves to be reminded just how highly Mike thinks of him. 

They pass the cigarette back and forth in silence for a few minutes before Zoe breaks the silence. 

“You live on West 13th, right?” 

Mike grimaces internally, having no fucking clue if that’s true or not. God, he hates being an imposter in his own life.

“Um, yeah. Yep. That’s…. Me.”

“Do you ever get any problems around there? Julia got mugged again last week, and she wants to get out of Brooklyn. To be honest, I’m pretty sick of my roommates too, so I was thinking maybe we should find a place together. I mean, I know we’ve only been dating since like July, but I just feel like she’s the one, y’know?” 

Mike coughs, taken aback, and then feels really fucking stupid. He’s just turned up to apparently hang out with some girl from the god damn Gay community centre, and he’s shocked that she has a girlfriend? He clears his throat again and shakes his head.

“Problems? What do you mean? Why would I have problems?” He frowns, handing her back the cigarette. 

She raises her eyebrows, giving him an amused look.

“I don’t know, Mike. Perhaps because you’re a dude living openly with his boyfriend? That tends to do it.” Zoe drawls and Mike freezes, because oh. 

Oh.

He suddenly feels very, very sick. Everything starts to spin, and he feels like he needs fresh air even though he’s already outside, panic rising in his chest. Everything slots together and makes sense now, and he feels so god damn stupid. How could it be this obvious and he never figured it out?

It isn’t his or Will’s apartment, it’s their shared home.

Will was walking around in his underwear because it’s his own home.

Will kissed him, because they’re a couple.

Mike woke up in their shared bed, naked.

“I don’t feel so good.” He chokes out, standing up and bracing himself against the wall. Zoe startles, dropping the remains of the cigarette on the floor and grabs him immediately, supporting his weight. 

“Wheeler?” He can see her mouth moving but can’t hear her, feeling suddenly light headed.

She pushes him down to the step again, and moves him so that he’s putting his head between his knees, rubbing his back as he gulps down deep breaths. 

“Oh fuck you, Wheeler,” Zoe groans, “You’re really making me have to take you in on my day off, aren’t you?” 

One head scan, a lot of poking and prodding, and heaps of insurance paperwork later (thank fuck Mike apparently has it through his job. Whatever that is.) Mike finds himself sat in an ER bed, waiting for Will to arrive, and feeling like the world is crashing down on him.

Will, his boyfriend. Apparently.

He’s confused the hell out of the doctors, because his brain apparently looks totally fine, and he can pass basic cognitive tests, but he can’t recall basic knowledge or facts about his own life. No, he doesn’t know who the president is, no he can’t remember what he ate for lunch yesterday, no he doesn’t know what he does for work, or even his own zip code. 

Zoe stays by his side, apparently a good and concerned friend, calling Will from the nurse’s station, and only leaving once he turns up.

“Mike!” Will exclaims, bursting through the doorway, eyes wide and cheeks flushed red, “What’s going on? Are you okay?” He rushes up to the bedside and clutches Mike’s hand, the other brushing through his hair. 

Mike just feels so stupid. Stupid, and angry and frustrated at spending all day in the hospital for no reason, because he truly is fine, it’s just this time travel shit which he can’t tell anyone, not even Will. He squeezes Will’s hand back and tries to put on a reassuring expression.

“I’m fine, Will,” Mike insists, “Really. The doctors said I have probably a concussion and mild temporary amnesia, from hitting my head. Zoe made me come in because I felt kinda sick for a moment, but it’s fine. They’ve said I could leave once someone came to pick me up, the scan didn’t show any bleeding or anything crazy. I’m just… a little disoriented.” 

Tears spill down Will’s cheeks, and after glancing over his shoulder quickly, he leans over and engulfs Mike in a bone-crushing hug. 

“You scared the hell out of me. She called and said you were in the hospital and I just- I thought- even though we’re safe, and we’re both clean, I just- seeing you here-” Will hiccups, sobbing with his face buried into Mike’s neck, his breath hot on his skin. The implications of what he means take a moment to register in Mike’s head, because he’s not- he’s never… identified as someone in that risk group. Those kinds of diseases were something he heard vague horror stories about on the radio and thought thank god that’s not me. 

“Hey,” Mike says softly, rubbing Will’s back, “I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere.” 

It’s getting dark by the time they get home, stumbling into the apartment and switching the lamps on, and Mike just continues to feel dumb, because how didn’t he see this before? The space is just a perfect, beautiful balance of the two of them. Will’s art and music, Mike’s books and papers scattered around. 

He just doesn’t know how he feels about it all. Imagining, briefly, that Zoe was his girlfriend, he’d felt a whole fat load of nothing. But seeing all of this evidence of a life with Will, feeling the other man’s touch on his skin, it was like a tidal wave of emotions was released in him. 

He didn’t even know this was an option. 

And is it, even? Mike doesn’t like boys. Will does, that part isn’t a shock. He remembers all too vividly that spat they’d had in the rain outside the Wheeler’s house years ago, remember snapping at Will that it’s not my fault you don’t like girls, and the look of shame and terror on Will’s tiny face, and the instant agonising guilt the second it spilled out of his lips. 

But Mike does like girls; he dated Eleven for a number of years and he genuinely enjoyed it. Making out with her was the best, even with the added obstacle of trying to sneak around Hopper. 

El’s hair was so soft and pretty, her waist so delicate in his hands. She was always so gentle and pliant, taking his enthusiasm so beautifully and giving back just as good in return. He hadn’t- they’d never gone far together, but he’d certainly thought about it, and probably would have done if they’d got the chance. Mike had always liked being her boyfriend, was proud of it, even if he did feel as if he spent a lot of time trying to figure out what boyfriends do and how he was supposed to behave. 

Knowing that in this weird place he’s woken up in, he’s with Will- he kisses Will, sleeps at night with Will, shares everything with Will- it makes his stomach twist with a feeling he’s never felt before, something he can’t even begin to place. He allows himself to imagine, just for a second, Will in El’s place. Mike’s hands getting to map Will’s body- his broad shoulders, splaying his fingers over the soft tan skin on his belly. Messing up his soft, fluffy hair, kissing his lips until they’re flushed and bitten, inhaling his scent right from the crook of his neck, and hearing him pant softly in Mike’s ear-

Feeling his cheeks darken, he stops himself from continuing that train of thought.

Part of him is oddly victorious, smug even, that out of everyone in the Party, Mike is the one to have claimed Will, but that possessive part of him feels dangerous, so he shoves it down and focuses on what the hell he’s going to do next. 

Will tries to call Nancy and Jonathan’s house, insisting to Mike that they need to cancel, that Mike shouldn’t be going out in this state, but they don’t pick up, and Mike protests fiercely enough that they end up heading out anyway. 

Once again following Will’s lead, they end up at some small Italian restaurant in Midtown. It’s cosy and warm, and smells incredible. Nancy and Jonathan are already seated at a table, but stand to greet the boys and hug their respective brothers tightly. 

Mike has to stifle a laugh at the fact that even years on, Jonathan still mildly dislikes Mike. It’s comforting to see familiar faces that aren’t just Will’s- the pair of them look pretty much the same as he remembers, with only Nancy’s hair and makeup a little different. Instead of her tight permed curls, her hair is left straight and cut short to her jawline. It suits her, he thinks. 

Mike’s relieved to find that his sister had ordered for them already- he presumes that meeting for dinner like this is a regular occurrence- and is grateful for it, saving him from hopelessly trying to guess what his future self usually gets, inevitably guessing wrong and have everyone stare at him like he has tentacles coming out of his forehead, or something. 

He manages to get through most of the meal quietly by scarfing down the admittedly incredible pizza in front of him, but it’s no mean feat. Will keeps being all touchy with him, nudging Mike’s ankle with his foot, resting his hand on Mike’s thigh, holding his hand. And to make matters worse, Nancy has a sharp eye on him. His sister has always been able to read him like a damn book and he hates it. 

That weird, unidentifiable butterfly-like sensation that he’s filled with every time Will touches him grows too much, he feels like his cheeks are burning red, and he’s not ashamed exactly, but self conscious of Nancy and Jonathan seeing him be like this with Will. 

Logically, he knows it’s fine, that clearly they hang out together regularly and have no judgement on Mike and Will being together, or boyfriends or whatever, but he can’t handle Nancy’s scrutiny any longer. Once their waiter clears the entree plates, he jumps up, mumbling ‘bathroom’ and dropping Will’s hand like it burnt him. 

Mike locks himself in the bathroom, covers his face with his hands and lets out a frustrated groan. It’s all just too goddamn much. He just wants to be back in his own time, with his Will, acting normal, and not have to figure out what the hell this all means, or what’s going on inside his fucking brain. He splashes some cold water on his face, lets out a series of short exhales to ready himself to return to the table, and unlocks the door. 

Before he can even take a step out, he’s faced with a frowning, cross-armed Nancy. 

“You’re acting weird.” She states, staring him up and down. He finds himself mirroring her body language and crossing his arms right back.

“No, I’m not.” 

“You dropped Will’s hand,” Nancy shakes her head slowly, “You don’t do that. Ever.” 

“Jesus,” Mike says exasperatedly, “What do you want, for us to be glued together at the hip? I’m allowed to use my hands, Nance.” He does a little jazz-hands style wave at her for emphasis, which only makes her glare at him.

“Mike, you’re the kid that used to kiss Will’s knees better when he fell over and skinned them. When Will broke his arm, you turned up at the Mayor’s house and wouldn’t leave until he agreed to fill the pothole that tripped Will’s bike over. You don’t drop his hand. So, what’s really going on?” 

“Nothing! God, will you just leave it?”

“Is it to do with what Will was saying about your head? You hit it?”

“Oh my god, Nancy. Will you quit it? I’m fine, my head is fine, Will is fine, and I’d be so much happier if everyone would just back the fuck off!” He snaps. 

“You need to be more careful.” Nancy warns, and Mike fights the urge to scream, because sure Nancy, I’ll be more careful and try not to end up accidentally time travelling next time, my bad. 

“Alright, move out the way,” Nancy sighs, “I actually do need to use the restroom.” 

“Again? You only just went,” Mike retorts, “What are you, pregnant?” 

Nancy flushes bright red, eyes going wide. 

“Mike!” She hisses furiously, and he claps his hand over his mouth. 

“Oh my god, are you serious? You’re actually-” 

“Shut up!” His sister smacks him on the arm with her purse, “We were going to tell you together after dessert!” 

“Nancy!” Mike can’t help but grin cheesily, pulling her into a hug. 

“You better fucking act shocked in ten minutes time, you asshole.” She mumbles into his chest, and he just squeezes her extra tight. 

Will babbles on the whole way home about how excited he is for Nancy and Jonathan, and Mike is too- god knows that the pair of them are more than qualified to be official parents after years of watching out for them and their friends- but all he can think about is the fact he’s going home with Will.

To their shared bedroom.

To their shared bed.

Where he woke up naked, this morning.

Will doesn’t try to touch him at all on the subway, he imagines probably out of fear of drunk idiots confronting them, and the lack of affection makes Mike feel odd. He can’t tell whether he’s relieved at the loss or misses it- the way Will’s thumb rubbed circles on his knee during dessert was comforting, even if he was a little overly aware of how close his best friend’s hand was to his dick.

“I’m so glad they’re staying in the city,” Will sighs happily, chatting away oblivious to Mike’s suffering, “I mean, I’d understand if they did move, renting a one-bed is expensive enough, I have no idea how they’ll afford a two-bed. And shit, especially if Nance is off work for a while too. I can’t imagine them moving back to Hawkins though. They’d be so unhappy raising a kid there, I think.”

“Mmm. Yeah.” Mike hums in agreement, knocking his shoulder against Will’s a little, trying to warm himself up the closer they get back to their apartment. 

Is Will going to expect sex? He presumes that’s something they do, given the whole relationship thing, but Mike has absolutely no comprehension of what that looks like- well, for them. He can guess, kinda, at what dudes might do together- not that he’s ever thought about that- 

Well, okay. Maybe once or twice, but only because he’s a scientist. He’s curious- it’s whatever Mr Clarke used to say. A curiosity voyage or something. 

Yeah. 

But how often do they do it? El used to want to make out constantly. Which Mike did indeed enjoy, greatly in fact, but he always kind of felt like the two of them were performing what they thought a boyfriend and girlfriend should act like. Which was obviously a disaster, because El had no concept of society or how the world works, and Mike hadn’t exactly had many examples of healthy relationships in his life. 

“-What do you reckon?” Mike’s startled out of his curiosity whatever-the-fuck by Will looking at him expectantly. He’s smiling, but there’s a note of concern in his eyes. 

“What do I reckon?” Mike repeats, uncertainly. Will slips his hand out of his jacket pocket and wraps it around Mike’s, engulfing it in a warm embrace, and offering a little squeeze. He squeezes back, instinctively. 

“Yeah! Boy or girl?” Will clarifies, because he’s Will, kind, sweet Will, who isn’t going to call Mike out on the fact he wasn’t paying attention to what he’d been saying. 

“Oh, twins, definitely. Yeah, one of each.” Mike says suddenly, grinning back at Will mischievously. The other boy splutters a surprised laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t say that! You do realise we’re the ones who’ll be babysitting all the time, right?” Will giggles, fumbling around in his pockets for his keys as they approach their building. 

Once inside, Will, clearly tired from the day, heads straight into their bedroom with the cat hot on his heels. Mike simply freezes, rooted to the spot, with his stomach churning in a sickening mixture of fear and thrill at what might lay ahead of him. 

“I’m just gonna-” He mumbles dumbly, and then spots a box of cigarettes on the kitchen table, “Smoke.” 

Will grunts back some kind of affirmative sound from the bedroom, clearly unbothered and unsurprised by this, so Mike grabs the box and heads to the fire escape before he can think too hard. 

Flicking out the stupid Paladin lighter, he lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, relishing the burn in his throat before exhaling slowly into the crisp night air. There’s a well-used ash tray out here, so he supposes this is a normal habit for him. 

“You’ve got this,” He mutters under his breath, barely audible, “You’ve got this. You’re just gonna go in there, and you’re gonna- gonna kiss him.” 

He cringes at himself, screwing his face up as he shakes his head and flicks some ash away.

He feels almost giddy- somehow both exhausted and exhilarated by the whole chain of events that’s unfolded today, and the dizzy satisfaction of the nicotine hitting his bloodstream. The whole sudden boyfriend and time travel thing kind of upstaged Nancy’s announcement, and he feels a wave of guilt at the fact Will has been so delighted by it, and Mike’s so fucking thrown for a loop that he can barely find it in himself to be shocked. 

How the fuck is this his life? It all seems so… comfortable. Their cosy little apartment, dinners with his sister, new friends, judging by the photobooth strips stuck to the fridge door plenty of contact with old friends, too. It’s warm, inviting even. Like pulling on a warm sweater or stepping into a hot bath, and such a stark difference to the fear-wrought life he’s led for the last god-knows how long, chasing supernatural evil and trying (and failing, usually) to protect his loved ones. 

And it’s precisely because it’s all so comfortable here, that he realises he needs to make some serious headway into figuring out how the hell he’s going to get back to his time, his real life, in the morning, because he doesn’t belong here.

Mike stubs out his cigarette. For now though, he’s going to get into bed with his best friend. 

When he returns to the bedroom, only a lamp is on and Will is already snuggled up under the comforter, only his face peeking out. With his eyes shut, he looks younger and more like the Will that Mike remembers from- well, yesterday. He blinks his eyes open as Mike enters, nose twitching at the scent of smoke clinging to his clothes. He looks like a cute little rabbit, Mike thinks, and almost smiles at the thought. 

Feigning confidence, Mike strides across the room and starts to undress. He drops his sweater to the floor and finds his heart racing as he notices Will is lazily watching him from the bed. He’s hardly giving Mike bedroom-eyes, or staring at his body with any level of scrutiny, but rather just a casual, appreciative glance. 

Mike twists away to face the door as he removes his shirt, and then feels blood rush to his cheeks as he realises it probably seems like he’s deliberately showing his ass off while he pulls his pants off. It’s the least sexy striptease he could possibly imagine, and once he’s down to just his boxers, he darts under the covers at lightning speed. 

“Hey.” Will mumbles, voice soft with sleep and cheek smushed against the pillow. They face each other like a pair of parentheses. 

Will’s eyes are the same comforting hazel Mike has seen thousands of times, and he drinks them in as if it’s the first. Seeing them go so dark and different, so not Will when he’d been possessed when they were younger, made him search them constantly every time he could, checking for signs of anything like that again. 

Finding them the same green-brown mix he expects emboldens Mike for a second, and in that fleeting blip of confidence he scootches his face up a little to bridge the gap between them and press a nervous kiss onto his lips. 

It’s not as startling this time around, partly because it’s not being flung on Mike out of nowhere. Will’s lips are soft, and he tastes like toothpaste as he kisses Mike back gently, bumping noses slightly at the funny angle. It’s unhurried, almost routine, and as they pull away Mike feels stupid for being so afraid of this. 

It’s just Will. His Will, just a little older, a little wiser, but still the same kind-hearted boy that he’d follow to the ends of the world. 

They break away to catch a breath, and Will nuzzles his face into the crook of Mike’s neck.

“Today’s been so weird.” Will mumbles, breath hot against Mike’s skin. 

“Yeah,” Mike splutters, choking back a laugh, “Tell me about it.”

He almost wants to scream, jump up from the bed and run around like a lunatic because he just kissed his best friend. Will’s total nonchalance at what for him is an entirely ordinary kiss almost makes Mike angry, because this is their first kiss! Mike just- he just gathered the confidence to go in and kiss Will, and there’s zero fanfare at all about it. It feels so…. unfair.

Will draws back, untucking a hand from where he’s tucked in, and runs it across Mike’s jaw softly, and fixes him with a look that is so totally Joyce.

“You promise me your head is really okay? Really?” 

“I promise.” Mike whispers, unable to do anything but lay there frozen and staring into Will’s eyes, stomach full of fireworks and heart doing somersaults, entirely unbeknownst to the other boy. 

It doesn’t escalate further than that. Will nods, wishes him goodnight, flicks the light out, and snuggles up like a big warm lump next to Mike. He has no idea whether he’s relieved or let down or what, but he figures it’s probably for the best because he’s out like a light in about five minutes flat. 

(He chooses not to acknowledge the unusualness of this, or any potential reasons behind it.)

Chapter Text

Waking up the following morning feels like a sick rerun of the day before. Sunlight streams in through the window, and Mike is alone in bed. Thankfully, his underwear still being very much on confirms to him that it is indeed a brand new day, and he slides out of bed with far more confidence than he had yesterday. 

Will isn’t home. There’s always a part of Mike that feels instantly nauseous at not knowing where Will is- a part which he tries to tamp down, ashamed of the guilt he feels at obsessing over the boy like that- but he searches the calendar hanging in the kitchen for answers and tries to remind himself that this isn’t Hawkins. Will is safe here. 

He realises that the overly detailed calendar with all of their plans on is probably exactly for this reason, that even in this time and place, away from danger, Mike is still a little too worried, and Will is a little too willing to humour him. 

“Will, class. Mike, work from home.” He reads aloud, squinting at the page.

Shit. He has a job? 

Well, obviously. The pair of them clearly pay the bills somehow, but still. He hadn’t even thought about that shit at all. 

Will being gone however, does give him the chance to rifle through their apartment for clues without the other boy thinking he’s a total nutjob. He’s so overwhelmed with the sudden realisation of this, he hardly even knows where to start. 

There’s a desk shoved to one corner of the living room that he figures is probably his, so he starts there. Still only in his boxers, Mike strides over and yanks the drawers open, pulling out the contents and examining everything intently. 

Framed on the wall above the desk are two degrees: one for Mike, and one for Will, which is confusing given Will’s supposed to be at some class right now, until he finds a college pamphlet for an art therapy course. So, he guesses, Will got his art degree and now is going back to school to become an art therapist? It fits, and he feels a rush of pride for the boy. It’s exactly the kind of career he’d be perfect at- using his insane talents and endless kindness to help people, people who’ve probably experienced horrors just like him. 

The top drawer of the desk is stuffed full of type-written papers, some neatly stapled together and some scruffy and covered in scribbled handwriting, and he places them all aside in a pile, imagining they’re either his job if he’s that lucky, or a side project. He doesn’t bother to read them, instead fixated on finding out more and more morsels of information about his life. 

Moving down to the second drawer, there’s more personal crap. There’s an address book, which he flicks through and is pleased to find that amongst the sea of names he doesn’t recognise, the Party are all there- Max and Lucas are listed at the same address in San Francisco, and Dustin seems to be in Massachusetts apparently. There’s no fixed address written for El, just half a dozen phone numbers, each with a line through. He frowns, and makes a mental note to find out what the hell that’s all about later, even if he has to unsubtly ask Will. 

“MIT,” Mike whispers, eyes widening in realisation, “Shit.” 

Grabbing the address book, he leaps up and rushes over to the phone, dialling the number as fast as he can, annoyed that he didn’t think of this sooner. Dustin, in all his science nerd glory, probably knows exactly what wormhole he's fallen into.

“Come on, Dustin. Pick up.” He grumbles, twisting the phone cord around his long fingers anxiously as he listens to the rings. 

“Hello?” Dustin chirps, sounding reassuringly exactly the same as ever.

“Dustin! It’s Mike.” He exclaims, before faltering. In his eagerness to reach his friend, he hadn’t actually decided whether he was going to confide in him entirely, or just hint at the problem at hand. 

If any one of his friends would go along with a ridiculous story and help him unquestionably, it would be Dustin- but he has a sinking feeling in his stomach that it would end up getting back to Will if he did, and that’s the last thing he wants. 

“Hey Mike. How’s it going?” Dustin replies, a note of slight amusement in his voice. 

“Yeah- so, um. I need your help.” Mike clears his throat.

“I figured, from the fact you’re calling me at nine on a Monday morning. Y’know, when most people are at work.”

Mike frowns, chewing his lip. 

“Yeah. It’s….” He glances over at the desk, and the pile of scripts, and takes a wild leap of faith, “It’s actually a work related problem.”

There’s a fleeting, sickening pause as Mike thinks he’s got it horribly wrong, and he actually sells insurance for a living or something, but when Dustin replies it's a perfectly normal, conversational tone.

“Oh, a Montauk problem. Cool. Ask away, my dude.” 

Mike blinks.

“A what problem?” He repeats.

“Uh… Montauk? Y’know, the show that you write. For a living. Puts food on that table of yours. Pays for Will to do all his cool hipster dude art stuff. Ring any bells?” Dustin drawls, huffing a laugh at Mike’s apparent idiocy. 

“Ha ha,” Mike rolls his eyes, matching the level of sarcasm, “Yeah, um. Exactly. So, let’s say a character… time travelled.” 

Dustin makes a pained noise on the other end of the line.

“What?” Mike pauses.

“Dude, didn’t they tell you to cool it with the wacky storylines?”

“Uh…no.”

“Mmmm. Yeah. You went on for like ten minutes bitching about it a few weeks ago. They said they wanted it to be more grounded.” 

“Okay, well. I’m writing this anyway- I’m just gonna pitch it and see what happens, okay? Look, that's not even the point. Listen. Listen, okay?”

“Oh my god, fine. I’m listening.” Dustin snorts.

“Okay, so this guy, right? Let’s say he’s woken up like, seven years into the future. Totally somewhere else, but definitely his future. What’s the most realistic explanation for that?”

“Time travel?” Dustin sighs, “Time travel, really?” 

“What? What about it?”

“A little derivative, isn’t it? Dude, that’s like a total ‘Back to the Future’ rip-off. No one wants ‘Back to the Past’. Or would it be ‘Forward to the Past’ given the whole naming irony thing.”

“Dustin!” Mike groans, running a hand over his face in frustration, “Can you just run with it? Please?”

“I’m trying to save you the embarrassment of pitching something shitty!” The other boy laughs.

“Look, just help me out here, okay? What would he do in that scenario? How could he have got there, what would he do to get back? Like, realistically. As realistic as you can imagine.” 

Dustin sighs down the phone, and pauses for a second before responding.

“I’m not getting a realistic vibe from this concept, Mike. I’d say we’re talking more about your basic spirit guide, time travel kind of story. Like, if your dude didn’t fuck with a time machine, or- or- I don’t know, fall into a rip in time or exotic matter or something, why would it be a scientific, realistic fix? I reckon he’d need to find like… a spirit guide or something.” 

“A spirit guide?” Mike repeats slowly, “What’s a spirit guide?” 

“Someone to help him along this path of enlightenment. He’s woken up in this other time for a reason, right? Perhaps to learn a lesson, or get a warning, maybe? A spirit guide would be leading him down the path he needs to go, making sure he pulls on the right threads and does whatever it is he needs to do. Maybe he can’t get back to his own time until he’s completed whatever journey it is he has to go on.” 

“Right,” Mike exhales slowly, feeling absolutely fucking exhausted just at the sound of it all, “What.. form would the guide take? How would he find it?” 

“What am I, a spirit guide? How should I know? It’s your story. I’m just trying to give you ideas.”

“Okay,” Mike pauses, “Okay. Sure, a spirit guide. What the hell, why not. You definitely don’t have like, a time travel equation hidden up your sleeve or something though, right?”

“Do you actually think if I’d figured out time travel I’d give you the equation to put on a Thursday night cable show?” 

“I can’t rule it out!” Mike yelps, “Okay, thanks for your help. I’m gonna go uh- write this now.”

“Good luck.”

Mike hangs the phone back on the wall and groans, leaning forward onto it and bashing his head gently against the brick. Fucking spirit guides?

He slumps down onto the couch and closes his eyes as he tries to formulate a plan out of this, or just at least try and apply some form of logic to the chaos. Dustin does unfortunately have a point- it does seem like he’s here for a reason, rather than through a scientific mishap. Well- he doesn’t think so, at least. Now he thinks about it, he sort of can’t quite recall what he was doing before waking up here. 

Squeezing his eyes shut again and really wracking his brain, he tries to fit the pieces together. He remembers the Byers moving into his house, and the storm of drama and feelings that that had brought with it. Jonathan eyeing him suspiciously, Nancy’s weird knowing looks, hanging out with Will in the basement every night. 

Feeling closer than ever to Will, and yet somehow more distant than ever. 

Mike’s head swims as he pushes further into his brain, trying to extract memories. What was he doing immediately before waking up here? The more he tries, the more his head pounds with agony, tongue feeling too big for his mouth and static fizzling in his ears. Thoughts fall through his grasp like sand, desperately clutching at nothing as he searches for some kind of solid memory.

“Fuck.” He mumbles, opening his eyes again and staring at the ceiling defeated. Maybe he really did fuck his head up a bit hitting it? Why else wouldn’t he be able to recollect memories from only a few days ago? It’s like- there’s something blocking them. Some kind of hazy, sickening wall in his own mind that makes him nauseous to even acknowledge. 

Mike gets up and staggers over to the little kitchen and grabs a glass of water, choking it down rapidly, trying to rinse away the peculiar feeling clinging to his skin. Drips of water spill down his chin and shirt and he wipes them away roughly as if they were tears. 

Something crashes behind him, and he whirls around to find the cat sitting smugly on the bookshelf, some trinket pushed to the wood floor. Mike pauses, squinting at the furry creature.

“Oh my god. Are you… my spirit guide?” He whispers conspiratorially, tiptoeing towards it, and feeling increasingly ridiculous. 

The cat stares back at him as if he’s fucking stupid. 

“What the fuck is my life.” Mike groans, flopping back down on the couch and covering his face with his arms. 

It’s around this point that he realises that he’s actually kind of starving. Rifling through the cupboards, he happens upon a dusty box of mac and cheese, which is wonderful, because that’s about the extent of Mike Wheeler’s cooking abilities. 

(He feels a little guilty about this at times. Whilst Nancy might insist he’s blithely unaware of the different expectations their parents have of them, namely Karen and her insistence on Nancy being competent at all household tasks, and her disinterest with Mike’s utter lack of competence, he actually is perfectly aware. He just hasn’t exactly had the opportunity to do anything about it. People have been dying, okay?) 

(If he was being honest with himself, he would admit that this is in fact, not a very good excuse, because El has been spending a lot of time with Joyce enjoying learning how to sew and bake. But then again, Mike isn’t exactly known for his ability to be honest with himself.)

Feminist crisis aside, he wanders around the warm, sunlit apartment with the pot, picking out cheesy noodles with his fork and observing. 

Like many- okay, most- of Mike’s ideas, this is a questionable one. When he wanders into the bedroom again, his eyes flit down to the haphazardly shut nightstand on his side of the bed, and the tattered notebook sticking out of it. The realisation of what exactly that must be sends him into a fit of choking on the gluey pasta in his mouth, which turns into a spiral of ‘oh shit, how embarrassing would it be to die alone in your apartment on boxed mac and cheese’ which then turns into ‘oh shit, if I die in the future what happens to past me?’

Fortunately for everyone involved, he manages to dislodge the noodle from his throat before any of that shit unfolds, or even worse- he has to move all the clothes off the chair in the corner to heimlich himself. He does not want to think about why they’ve been chucked there so messily, or feel any suspiciously crunchy boxers. He’d actually, probably, rather die. 

Mike dumps the pot and fork on Will’s nightstand, and grabs his journal out the drawer. He slumps to the floor as he tentatively opens the first page, and is greeted by the odd experience of seeing your own handwriting but having absolutely no recollection of writing the words before him. 

He takes a deep breath, and reads. 

It turns out that a lot of his guesses about the future were fairly accurate. A lot of the writing is his usual chaotic mix of pondering thoughts, creative ideas, remarking upon events as they happen, and meandering essays about Will. It turns out that yes, his job is indeed a screenwriter for some studio here in New York, and it seems that he enjoys the job but dislikes his co-workers. 

There’s plenty about Nancy and Jonathan, including cut-outs of Nancy’s articles in some newspaper he doesn’t recognise, and a flyer for a screening of a documentary of Jonathan’s. There’s a few offhand comments about Holly- nothing specifically about what she’s doing, but rather sassy comments she’d made, or amusing anecdotes. He’s relieved to know his siblings are both alive and well, but the total lack of mention of his parents does concern him slightly.

He gets drawn into an in depth gossipy account of some events Nancy had relayed to him, about Robin getting qualified to be a middle school teacher and settling an hour outside of Hawkins to be with a new girlfriend. Said new girlfriend then has a best friend who is? Was? Going on a date with none other than Steve Harrington, and Robin isn’t sure whether to be excited or horrified at this prospect. 

Just as intrigued now as he apparently was when writing this saga, Mike flips through the later pages of the journal, skimming along for Robin or Steve’s names. His fingers halt abruptly however as his eyes catch on a different word. Blowjob.

Mike pauses, tearing his eyes away from the paper, hands trembling a little and trying to look anywhere but in front of him. He shouldn’t read this. He really, really, should put the book down now and not open this can of worms. It isn’t right- he’s violating Will’s privacy- he’s-

He’s run out of excuses, actually.

There’s a deliciously wicked, electric thrill running through his veins as he gingerly glances back at the paper and drinks in the words.

Will’s staying at N&J’s tonight. I don’t know if we’re in a fight or not, but I just feel so shitty about the whole thing and he said we ‘needed space’. We were really drunk after a gig (The Stranglers, really good actually) and started making out when we got home. I sucked Will off-

Mike blushes furiously.

-on the couch and then he decided he wanted to try and return the favour. I asked him if he was sure, ‘cause it’s always been a trigger for him but he told me to quit treating him like he’s made of glass and that he just wants to be normal. He had his mouth on my dick for like two minutes before he started having a panic attack, remembering Vecna shoving shit down his throat and choking him I think. He can’t even really talk about why it’s a trigger so I don’t even know why he was so insistent on trying or why I even let him, I knew it was a bad idea. 

He freaked out and was crying, and I got kind of mad. NOT mad at him, OBVIOUSLY! I was mad at the whole situation, that that piece of shit hurt Will like that, that he still has an impact on Will even now, that I can’t fix the situation. I wish I could just wave a magic wand and take the hurt away from him. But Will misread it and thought I was mad that I didn’t get to finish, and then I was actually mad at Will then, for thinking that of me. I can’t believe he’d actually think I’m some selfish asshole that would care about getting off and not my BOYFRIEND’S TRAUMA. 

He locked himself in the bathroom and I knew he was crying in there, but he wouldn’t let me in. He just totally shuts down when he’s upset and won’t let me in. I wish I could help, it breaks my fucking heart every time. I love him so damn much. He still didn’t want to be touched, and so didn’t want to get in bed with me, so he left to go to Nance’s. I don’t know why he didn’t just fucking sleep on the couch here. Now they’re gonna be asking questions and fucking Jonathan’s gonna be giving me shit tomorrow on why his brother turned up crying at 3am on his doorstep and I’m gonna have to explain it’s over a BLOWJOB. Great!!!!!

Mike slams the book shut and groans, thumping his head against the wall behind him. He’s still a fucking idiot in the future then. It’s actually almost a comfort. It certainly wasn’t the steamy story he’d been expecting, but he kind of appreciates the insight into their relationship and life. It all seems so perfect, so cosy and happy, and knowing that they still apparently have knocks and screwups makes it seem more tangible. 

But, the more tangible it seems, the more he can’t wrap his head around how they got to this point, here, in this relationship. Once again, Mike shuts his eyes and wracks his brain. What the hell was he doing to end up here? Why can’t he even just recall the week leading up to yesterday? 

His head feels like it’s splitting in two, nausea seeping into his stomach, every cell of his body screaming at him in agony. Somewhere in the distance, a clock strikes, and the sound reverberates through his skull. 

“Stop!” 

Mike blinks his eyes open, startled. The shout had wrenched itself out of his throat, but he had zero intention of saying it, let alone put force behind the words. It almost felt like- shit, if he didn’t know better, he’d think someone else had used him like a puppet, barking orders out of his own lips without his consent. 

Bang!

Before he can think about the weirdness of that any further, the front door slams and footsteps tread into the living space. Mike shoves the journal aside and jumps up, skidding around the corner to check out the commotion. 

“Will?” He frowns, furrowing his brow at the soaking wet figure before him. 

“Hey,” Will greets him out of breath, removing a sodden denim jacket, slinging it over the heater, and running a hand through his hair, shaking droplets everywhere like a puppy.

Huh? Mike turns to glance out of the window. He could have sworn it was sunny just a moment ago. But Will looks as if he’d run home in pouring rain for blocks, water dripping off his eyelashes, panting slightly with a rosy glow on his cheeks. 

“I didn’t think you’d be home until later on.” Mike stammers, hand rising to scratch his neck awkwardly as he averts his gaze so as not to blush.

“It’s like six in the evening, Mike.” Will says gently, kicking his soaked shoes off and peeling away his sweatshirt to leave only a shirt that was supposed to be white, but was instead drenched with rain and completely transparent. It clings to his shoulders and chest beautifully, and Mike is struck with a pang of red hot feeling. 

Envy, right? It has to be envy. Mike could never look like a greek fucking god in a wet t-shirt like that, that’s it. His eyes track down his friend’s body, lingering far too long on his torso, shivers running down his spine as if he were the one dunked in cold water. 

He shakes his head, trying not to let the scene unfolding before him distract him from his thoughts.

“No, no. It was like midday a second ago,” He stares out the window at the dark sky and rain beating down onto the bricks, head feeling fuzzier by the second, “I was- I was eating lunch.” 

“Were you writing?” Will says, amused, “You know how distracted you get when you’re on deadline.” 

“No! No, I was reading.” Mike says indignantly, and as he tries to recall how six hours has flown by in the blink of an eye, his head suddenly feels filled with static again, and his throat tightens.

Fear blooms in his chest, flooding through him as the question presents itself. What if he does have a head injury?  Even if he has in fact time travelled, he did hit his head. He knows for definite that that happened. Losing time like this, confusion- it’s not out of the realm of possibility. 

“Hey,” Will says gently, stepping forward and grasping Mike’s sweating, trembling hands in his own cold, rain-soaked ones, “Why don’t you come tell me about it, while I make dinner?” 

Mike nods numbly, and follows Will into the kitchen. The other boy flicks the lamps on, creating a cosy atmosphere inside, a stark contrast from the constant pitter-patter of rain on the windows. The cat- who Mike has determined is not his spirit guide, if he even has such a thing- announces itself with a loud ‘miaow’ and winds around Will’s feet, almost tripping him over, but the boy just grins and scritches its ears. 

Mike moors himself on a kitchen chair, drawing his knees to his chest and watching the scene unfold quietly. Will clatters around with dishes, chattering soft nothingness to both Ziggy and Mike, softly washing away the sickening tinge of anxiety that had been clinging to Mike’s bones. 

There’s some unique magic that the Byers family possesses, in their ability to create little pockets of warmth from nowhere. The Wheelers had double the wealth that the Byers did- Mike never went without anything he wanted, their home was always warm and perfect, kept trendy and spotless by Karen. Ted’s credit card paid for all the home gadgets that were applauded in her magazines, constant new furnishings and clothes that made his mom happy but no one else seemed to particularly care about, but it could never buy the gentle peace and integrity that Joyce managed to concoct from thin air. 

Once Lonnie left for good, the Byers house was a lot calmer, and the anger and vitriol he’d spewed was replaced by Joyce and Jonathan’s softness. They filled the space with kindness and simple but comforting food, handmade halloween costumes, artwork stuck on the fridge, humming along to the radio and snuggles on the worn out old couch with slightly burnt popcorn whilst they rewatched the same few VHS tapes over and over. A familiar, easy way of life- not without its challenges obviously, but simply founded on heart rather than appearances. It was something Will seemingly carried over into this life, a skill he probably had no idea he even had, and he’s standing there in their shared kitchen filling the space with sunshine entirely obliviously. 

It’s so warming, that barely moments later, Mike can’t remember what he was so worried about. Whatever it was just doesn’t seem as important as appreciating the little slice of heaven he’s stumbled into anyway. 

A clock strikes again in the distance, but it barely even registers to him. 

Chapter Text

The rest of the week disappears in much the same way. The simple rhythmic repetition of his new life lulls him into a sleepy complacence. Each day starts with excellent intentions- today he’s going to make progress: he’ll find his spirit guide, he’ll figure out some crucial piece of information that will solve this accident, he’ll manage to pluck some kind of useful memory out of his mush of an injured brain. 

And yet, each day then ends the same way too: goals abandoned, smoke clinging to his clothes, Will’s lips on cheek, and a comforter wrapping them both inside a soft warm sarcophagus. 

“To die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die,” Will’s god awful singing floats through from the shower, and Mike, laying in bed in the morning sunlight, can’t help but giggle at it. 

It’s such a fucking privilege to get to hear Will so carefree like that, some kind of unnamed emotion blossoming in his chest just at the very concept that Will is happy enough, settled and confident enough, to allow himself to do something as silly as singing along to Smiths songs in the shower. 

Apparently Mike doesn’t actually get to act like a bum around the house every single day of the week, and has to actually turn up to some unknown-to-him office on the Upper West side with a stack of new pages every couple weeks. The red ringed deadline on the kitchen calendar looms, and with no new leads making themselves apparent, Mike figures he actually should probably try to help his future self out and do his damn job, and not fuck this whole thing up by missing rent payments. 

He’s pretty sure they rely on his paycheck more than Will’s, given that Will mostly seems to go to classes and do some kind of vague commission based freelance art work that mystifies him. He’s like… seventy percent sure it’s graphic design, but from how little of it he sees, it could actually be porn commissions. (Not that he’d turn his nose up at that, if it paid the bills.)

Friday morning speaks to him differently than the other days had, and instilled in him is an odd urge to just go along with this pace of life. Dustin had said something about learning a lesson, right? How better to do that than to stop fighting against the tide, and accept whatever it is he needs to learn.

Will kisses him on the cheek as he flies out the door carrying a canvas, making him promise to have something more than coffee and a cig for breakfast. Mike can’t say no to Will at the best of times, and so finds himself on the kitchen floor, one hand eating cap’n crunch dry out the box and the other frantically flipping through his own scripts, trying to catch up on his show. It surprises him, for some reason, that he actually likes the story, and it doesn’t take long for him to get entirely wrapped up in this intricate world of characters. When he gets to the episodes written by his fellow show writers, he finds himself swept away and on the edge of his seat as if he were merely a viewer.

Writing has always been an all-or-nothing mindset for him. His mom used to get snippy with him when he was younger and hid away in his bedroom or the basement with the door closed, trapping himself in with his thoughts as he put them to paper and mentally put himself in the character’s shoes for long stretches. The process is still no different now, and with the red ringed end of month deadline looming urgently on the calendar across the room, Mike has no choice but to submerge himself- throwing aside the whole time travel conundrum for the time being, and lending himself completely to the creative process.

It’s almost as if once he’s done this, made this leap of faith, it becomes easier to accept his current reality. Fighting against the tide is exhausting, and some part of him, a part he barely dares to give a voice to, is just as intrigued to see how his own life plays out as he is to read on in the scripts. 

Maybe this is what he’s supposed to do after all. Perhaps giving in, becoming immersed in this life is actually the key. Living in order to learn the lesson he needs to, to go home.

When Will returns home that afternoon, it’s with two concert tickets crumpled in his hand. 

“Look what I got!” He squeals, thrusting them at an amused Mike, “Pixies! You remember that guy in my class, Dean? His girlfriend has the flu so he gave me their tickets for the show tonight.” 

“No way!” Mike grins, warmed at the sight of Will’s happiness and the slightly high pitched tone his voice takes on. It’s something he noticed once the Byers moved into the Wheeler house- when Will was excited or passionate about something, he had a tendency to speak in a higher voice. It was an endearing habit, but once Mike noticed it, he also noticed how frequently Will covered it. 

He’d always noticed that it was a behaviour Will clamped down on when around strangers, but he’d always figured that his friend was relaxed and behaving naturally when around the Party, but after witnessing just how frequently he displayed more effeminate behaviours at home, with only his mom and Jonathan, no-one else to perform for, Mike realised just how much Will watered himself down to be more palatable for strangers. And Mike hated that. Will’s softness, his excited voice, dramatic eye rolls and cheesy grins were like sunshine cutting through the clouds, and deserved to be expressed freely. Seeing this version of Will, totally happy to shine in front of Mike felt like an honour to witness.

Something rises in Mike’s chest at the thought of going out with Will. The quiet warmth of their apartment had become a cocoon he’d leant into throughout the week, and fleeing the safety net felt… nerve wracking. He watches Will rifle through the closet, seemingly for going out clothes, and a thrill jolts through Mike like an electric current.

What if he leans into it? Plays his role? Butterflies dance through his stomach as he contemplates the idea. The future version of him is still him- not some other person that he doesn’t know. Given the amount of breadcrumbs he’s managed to gather on how future Mike acts, it shouldn’t be that hard just to guess at what to do, how to behave. 

Mike shoves the papers he’d been working on in the desk drawer roughly and follows in Will’s footsteps to the bedroom. He flops on the bed on his side, simply observing the other boy as he props his head on his hand and decides his next actions.

“You want me to paint your nails?” Will muses, digging a shirt out from the very back of the closet. Mike glances down at his fingertips. There were hardly any scraps of black paint clinging on now, his hands looking closer to what he’s used to seeing- long and skeletal, with anxiously chewed skin angrily clinging on around his cuticles. 

“Yeah,” He says definitively, surprising even himself with the confidence of his answer, “And maybe, the um. Y’know. The makeup?” 

Will turns to face Mike, tossing the shirt down on the bed next to him and smiling. Reaching out, he cups Mike’s jaw with a soft hand. His fingers are soft, and the gesture is a little ticklish, but Mike leans into it anyway, meeting Will’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” Will says, voice serious but that glint in his eye that he gets when he’s in the mood to be a little shit, “I’m not sure all the makeup in the world could fix your ugly mug.” 

The contrast of the very sweet hand on his face with the terrible attempt at sarcasm makes Mike splutter with unexpected laughter. Every now and then, Will attempts to say something mean, or crack a sarcastic joke, but his sunny demeanour usually just squashes the effort and it comes out like a fluffy little bunny trying to bare its teeth. 

“Shut up.” He snorts, and without thinking, reverts to how he’d act with his Will, and grabs the other boy by his shirt and yanks him down to roughhouse. Compliant as ever, Will lands on the bed next to him, and gives Mike a gentle, playful shove back as he giggles. Grinning, Mike pokes Will in his side, gleefully going for the age-old move that guarantees to weaken him- seriously, the guy is so ticklish- and is delighted when it gets exactly the reaction he remembers. 

“Mike!” He shrieks, laughter bubbling out of him effortlessly, “I hate you.” 

“No you don’t.” Mike teases, and Will dives back at him, pushing him flat on the bed and swinging a leg over his lap so that he’s straddling Mike. He sits back a little, resting his weight on Mike’s thighs, and Mike watches the slightly elevated rise and fall of his chest with satisfaction. 

A pinkish flush dusts his cheeks, spreading to the tips of his ears and peeking out the collar of his shirt. Mike feels his own pulse quicken a little in response, and exhales slowly as he places his hands under his head and looks up at Will. 

“No,” Will says slowly, smiling, “I don’t.” 

The last of the evening sunlight filters through the blinds in dramatic lines of searing amber and pink, drenching Will in colour. The artist, a work of art in and of himself, Mike thinks. Great splashes of sunshine punctuated with school paper lines, a magnificent sight to behold, a vision that even mother nature herself can’t help but lend her splendour to. Sparkling eyes and ruffled hair, lips just barely parted, he can’t tear his eyes away. 

Mike’s t-shirt has ridden up a little, revealing a pale strip of abdomen above his pants. Will’s hands, which had been holding onto the leather of his belt like a handle venture further up, smooth fingertips skating across the plane of his stomach, disappearing underneath the worn hem of his shirt until they skirt his ribcage. His hips jerk upwards slightly, an automatic reaction to the gentle touch. Don’t get a boner from your friend, Mike chants in his head, don’t fuck this up. He’s not even entirely sure what fucking it up would look like, but he’s pretty sure he’ll manage to. He’s good at that. 

And then Will’s leaning down, tucking his face into the crook of Mike’s neck. The heat of his breath of his neck elicits goosebumps and a slight intake of breath from Mike. Will’s lips graze his throat, setting a soft kiss onto the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. 

How far could this go? Electricity courses through his veins as he drinks in the idea of laying back, letting Will decorate him with flashes of purple bruises rather than cheap makeup. 

“We need to get ready.” Mike mumbles breathlessly. Will hums in agreement, but doesn’t move. 

“Will,” Mike groans, tilting his head to the doorway and feeling Will laugh into his neck. 

“Okay, okay.” The other boy huffs, rolling off and grabbing the new shirt he’d cast aside in favour of playing with Mike. 

Swallowing, Mike averts his eyes as Will strips off the old shirt, not allowing himself to look back until the new one is slipped on and he feels the other boy’s weight leave the bed. 

Playing his part means wearing a costume, he reasons. Tearing through the closet, he does his best to figure out what Future Mike would wear to a gig on a Friday night in New York City with his freakin’ boyfriend. He ends up going with the same loose black jeans he’s been wearing all week, a soft worn band shirt, and the oversized contrast collar denim jacket that hangs on the back of the door. Pins adorn the chest pockets- some political, some music related. He vaguely recognises some of the symbols from the community centre, but it’s anybody’s guess what the hell they actually mean. It kind of reminds him a little of Eddie, and the realisation sends a stab of grief through him. Perhaps that was the intention- a way of honouring him still, in this new life he’s created. 

His eyes fall on the dish of silver jewelry that rests on his nightstand. The rings are cool in his hands as he handles them carefully, selecting a couple and sliding the cold metal down to reach his knuckles, flexing his hands a little and examining how they look.

Will has him lay his hands flat on the kitchen table, deftly applying jet-black polish to each fingertip with practiced, artist’s precision. It feels oddly flattering to be the object of his attention, the canvas for his energy to channel through. 

“Stay still.” Will warns him, throwing him a knowing look, as he screws the brush back into the little glass bottle and picks up the eyeliner pencil to complete the look. The polish feels odd on his nails, an unusual and slightly stifling sensation that he’s not used to. 

If he thinks that’s strange however, the eyeliner is much worse. Will coming at his open eyes with a sharp pencil is most certainly a boner-killer, even if the boy’s hands are incredibly soft and grip his face delicately. Will smudges the liner carefully with the pad of his finger, and when Mike is finally cleared to get up without risking smudging the polish, he examines his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

He looks good. Nothing like himself, that’s for sure. Theoretically, wearing eyeliner and nail polish, the rings and the length of his hair, he should look girlish, maybe even a little silly. Instead, he feels unusually confident, self assured in knowing that Will thinks he looks cool, and that he can dress up like this and not be met with judgemental Indiana scrutiny. 

For the first time in a long, long time- in fact, maybe even for the first time, Mike likes himself. His style choices feel like him, not like something his mom selected or he’d chosen in a feeble attempt to mirror his heroes, but truly himself. Authenticity was something that somehow managed to be both integral to his values and yet constantly outside his grasp, and the dichotomy of that never ceases to surprise him.

Will appears over his shoulder, pressing a fleeting kiss onto his temple before gently nudging him out of the way so that he can use the mirror himself. Mike stares as he carefully inserts a small silver earring into his ear, jaw slackening at the sight. How had he never noticed Will had an ear piercing?

“What?” Will says, distracted, but eyes meeting Mike’s in the mirror. 

“Nothing,” Mike shakes his head, averting his eyes to refrain from blushing, “Nothing. You just look cool, that’s all.”

Will beams in response, bumping his hip against Mike’s playfully. He completes his look by slipping on a cream leather jacket- which also on paper shouldn’t look good, but on Will it does. Unlike Mike, Will does hold an air of femininity and softness around him. He always had done ever since they were kids, only now it seemed more confident and intentional, as opposed to the anxious repression of his youth. 

The venue is hot, air thick with smoke and packed with people- a stark contrast to the chill of the evening outside. Nobody gives them a second glance, the other gig attendees being also similarly dressed in alternative styles, or already drinking. 

Eddie’s old band, Corroded Coffin, played regularly at a bar in Hawkins until its lead singer’s untimely death disbanded the group. Dustin and Mike had been frequent flyers of their shows, always showing up to support Eddie whether it was a battle of the bands or solo set. This experience wasn’t quite the adequate primer he’d thought it might be however, as the pulsing bass of the opening act engulfs them, thrumming in his chest and reverberating through his bones. 

There’s a palpable air of excitement among the crowd- it’s a Friday night in New York City and everyone’s hands are either clutching a lukewarm pint of beer or someone else’s, the support band warming people up more than adequately. The good-feeling is contagious, and the evening feels ripe, full of unknown potential that hangs just inches from his reach. 

They sidle through the throngs of people, Will holding his hand in a firm, confident grasp. The anonymity of the crowd allows them to stay entwined, everyone else’s eyes on the stage and not them. Realising this is somewhat emboldening, and by the time the main act comes on, Mike positions them so that he’s pressed up against Will’s back. 

It’s totally a practical move, given that he has a few inches on the other boy, until it's absolutely not. They both begin to move to the music, bouncing on their feet and grooving. It should be innocent, and Mike should really just focus on the music, but it might as well be the national anthem being played for all he knows, because all he can register is the incidentally grinding-like motions of Will’s body in front of him. 

A bolt of excitement sets his nervous system alight as the thought occurs to him- Mike gingerly rests his hands on Will’s ever moving hips. The boy glances back over his shoulder, as if double-checking that it is indeed his boyfriend staking a claim on his ass and not some random freak. Satisfied with the owner of the hands, he flashes a quick smile and turns back to the stage, lips moving around the words of the lyrics, cheap beer sloshing in the sweaty plastic cup he’s holding. 

Sweat beads on the back of Will’s neck, dampening the hair at the base of it, and Mike is suddenly fixated with the urge to kiss it away, taste the salt on his skin and nose at the ticklish skin of the boy’s neck until he’s putty in his hands. Pliant and begging for him, tilting his neck to the side and allowing access, a submissive gesture. Mike exhales slowly, trying to clear his mind and not get a semi in a club full of people from the thought of taking apart his best friend in sweet, filthy ways. 

It can’t be much over halfway through the set when Mike realises what’s actually happening. His jeans, the horrific denim prison that they are, are increasingly tight as his body pulses with tension, blood running hot and desperate for friction. A physiological response to the stimulation he’s being presented with- Will’s ass grinding against his front, moving with the music sure, but performed in such a deliberate way to purposefully elicit a response from Mike. 

He uses the shred of higher brain power he still has to test the hypothesis, shuffling back just an inch to separate their bodies. Hands still bracing Will’s delicate hips, there’s hardly really any difference between the positioning, but barely seconds later, Will very definitely scoots back and resumes his teasing. Mike grits his teeth, hardly able to decipher his feelings about the whole situation. 

Why bother, he thinks suddenly. It doesn’t matter whether it’s weird or wrong to be getting hard over a guy. He’s stuck here in this bizarre reality whether he likes it or not, and in this place, this is the natural order of things. Going against the grain, rejecting Will’s advances is only going to make things harder, and therefore complicating and elongating the process of getting home. Once he’s back in his own time, he can figure out what the hell all of this means. Here and now, in this moment, the right and perhaps only thing to do is relax into the role and let this play out. 

The band announces something about the next song, but Mike’s barely listening. He’s rock fucking hard in his pants, and when Will turns around to say something to him, he grabs the other boy’s wrist and drags him out of the crowd. Acting on instinct rather than actually thinking any of this through, Mike leads a smirking Will into the thankfully empty men’s room. 

Alcohol muddling his judgement, Mike backs Will up into a stall. There’s a split second as he takes a moment to drink in his flushed cheeks, eyes glittering with lust and slightly parted lips, before the surge of desire crashes into an unstoppable wave. Mike dives in and kisses Will roughly, open-mouthed and messy. He’s never kissed anyone like this before. With El, even at its peak, their makeouts were always slow and controlled, nothing like this frantic, filthy display of affection. 

A high-pitched whine escapes Will’s throat as he breaks away to gasp for breath, Mike’s large hands back to gripping Will’s waist tightly. He nuzzles into the boy’s neck, yanking down the neck of his t-shirt to allow him to follow his instincts to lick and suck marks into his skin. 

“Mike,” Will gasps breathily, head rolling back and banging gently against the cold tiled wall, “Someone could.. Someone could come in.” 

Mike should care. He should be absolutely fucking mortified at the idea of getting caught necking in some grimy club bathroom with his male best friend no less, but it’s like now that he’s started he can’t stop even if he tried. The music is still distantly audible from the band, but they’re merely a backing track to the delicious sound of Will panting and letting out little whimpers into Mike’s mouth. 

His hips thrust forward instinctively, shoving up against Will’s, and he can feel the other boy is exactly as hard in his jeans as Mike is. Every cell in his body feels as if it’s set alight with longing, even if his brain is being a little slow on the uptake and isn’t exactly sure how to carry out his primal instincts. Will’s hand curls around his neck, playing with the hair there, tugging ever so slightly as he grasps it. 

Mike’s seconds away from diving back in and kissing the shit out of Will again when the door bangs open and footsteps tread in, loud stomps on the tiled floor. Will’s eyes go wide, and Mike tears himself away in seconds to shut the stall door before anyone can see them. With a horrified glance down at their legs, he realises shutting the door was kind of pointless when both of their feet are very clearly visible. 

Given that most of the blood in his body is nowhere near his brain right now, it should be impressive that he has any thoughts at all- or at least that’s his excuse for the terrible split-second decision he makes, which is to shove Will back up against the wall, grab his thighs, and hoist them around Mike’s waist so that he’s holding the boy. Will claps a hand over his own mouth to avoid bursting out into laughter, but goes with it, wrapping his legs around Mike’s body accordingly. 

The intruder takes a loud, grunting piss, thoroughly killing off the mood. Will keeps his hand firmly covering his grin, muffling any giggles, but Mike is free to make faces at the boy. He might be deceptively strong for his wiry frame, but he still is most definitely not strong enough to hold the weight of another grown man up silently for this long, and he scrunches his face up in an exaggerated grimace. It’s partly out of genuine struggle and partly to push Will to laugh. Will, however, is not impressed and throws Mike one of those exasperated eyerolls he’s so good at. There’s a zipping sound and clinking of a belt buckling, and Mike is so close to being able to set Will down again, but his abominably weak biceps are already beginning to fail him, and to his horror, a small squeak escapes his mouth.

Will yanks his hand away from his own face and slaps it over Mike’s mouth, biting his kiss-swollen lips to keep himself quiet. They both very deliberately stare at anything other than each other, knowing from years of best friendship experience that if they lock eyes now, they will uncontrollably explode into raucous laughter and totally blow their cover. Despite the fact he's well practised in the art of not letting Will cause him to fold- a skill honed from years of jokes and shared looks in the back of classrooms or across dinner tables, hanging on to his composure for that ten seconds feels as if it could be the most agonising, torturous moment of all.

Will’s fingers are soft and hot over Mike’s mouth, and it’s simply far too easy to dart his tongue out and lick them. Once upon a time, Will would have retracted his hand with an exaggerated, teasing sound of disgust, but here he simply shakes his head. The door bangs shut as the intruder finally departs, and Mike drops Will’s legs a little unceremoniously and they stumble out of the cubicle bursting into explosive giggling. 

“That was way too close,” Mike wheezes, clutching the sink as he doubles over, “I do not work out enough for that.” 

“You don’t work out ever!” Will gasps, wiping tears away from his flushed cheeks, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Mike very blissfully doesn’t think for the rest of the evening. He doesn’t think whilst they’re on the subway home, nor as they hold hands and giggle running up the four flights of stairs to their apartment, heart pounding in his chest, Will’s hand a soft weight in his own. It feels so right, like a part of himself that’s been shackled is finally free. Like this is how he and Will are supposed to be, the natural course of their friendship running true. 

He slams their front door shut unceremoniously, toeing off his chucks and stumbling after Will.

“Mike!” Will chastises him, but his tone is far too flirtatious to be taken seriously, “We have neighbours, remember.” 

“Don’t care.” Mike mumbles, crowding up against Will again and feeling the heat ignite his bones again. The other boy drifts back, finding himself pressed against the kitchen table. Holding Will’s legs up in that bathroom had zapped more of the strength from his spaghetti arms than he cares to admit, but he musters enough to scoop Will’s thighs again and perch his boyfriend on the table. 

Despite being built much stronger and stockier than Mike and his willowy limbs, he clearly seems to enjoy being manhandled like this, and that lovely blush dusts his cheeks again as he grins up at him. His slightly bunny-esque teeth peek out, and Mike leans in to taste him again- and there’s something that Mike’s discovered that he likes: Will’s soft moans that seem to pour out of him every time Mike takes the initiative to touch him, or kiss him, or-

If the sounds he makes just from being kissed are this delicious, what would something more prompt? 

Mike almost zones out as increasingly filthy images dance across his mind, teasing him. The worst- or perhaps best part, is that suddenly he can have them. Will is literally sitting in front of him on the table of their shared apartment- no one to walk in and interrupt them, nowhere to be. Nothing but the eager, flushed boy with his legs currently wrapped around Mike’s waist, entirely at his whim.

Will’s eyes are dark and heavily lidded as he takes Mike’s hand. Slowly, he guides two of Mike’s fingers to his lips, without breaking eye contact the whole time. Mike’s practically trembling as the pads of his fingers pass the softness of Will’s lips and are sucked into the hot slickness of his mouth. The confidence in which he acts this astonishingly dirty act out is maddening, especially with the context of the journal entry he'd found mere days ago. Shit, he really needs to read the rest of that book- how has Will, shy, sweet Will, become this goddamn siren? 

“Will.” He gasps, breathing heavily and absolutely fucking rock hard again as the boy swirls his tongue around Mike’s shaking fingers. A twinkle in his eye, Will slides them back out with an audible wet pop, a thread of spit connecting his fingertips with Will’s perfectly pouty mouth. 

“Yes?” He replies, smirking like he knows exactly the effect he’s having. He’s purposefully dialling Mike up, pushing him inch by inch until he snaps and gives into his instincts, and Will gets exactly what he wants. He’s always been such a mischievous little shit like that- everyone thinks he’s so innocent and doe-eyed, but Will has always known exactly how to play Mike, bringing out the parts of him that he didn’t even know were there.

He’s at a crossroads, a stupidly filthy crossroads where he has a million different pornographic images in his head, Will bending and moaning for him in ways Mike had never even considered until now, and suddenly it's all too much.

This becomes the wonderful, perfect time for his brain to kick back in, and in some bizarre out of body experience he sees himself- realises the position he's in, that he’s towering over his best friend with his hand covered in said boy’s spit, and he panics. 

Panics hard. 

His heart races for an entirely different reason now, and he opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish as he searches for something, anything to say. What the hell is he doing? 

Will frowns, face dropping into concern as he interlocks his hand with Mike’s sticky one. Lacing their fingers together, he gives a little squeeze and searches Mike’s face for answers. 

“Hey,” He whispers, “Are you okay?” 

Mike freezes.

“No.” He chokes out, throat tightening as he withdraws, ignoring the gesture and taking his hand back. Will opens his mouth as if to say something else, but Mike doesn’t hang around long enough to hear it, instead bolting to the tiny bathroom and locking the door. 

He falls to the floor, head banging against the wood of the door as fraught breaths wrack through his chest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he bites down on his lip until he can taste copper on his tongue rather than Will. Blood pounds in his ears, drowning out everything but his racing mind.

What the fuck is he doing? This isn’t- Mike isn’t gay. He’d know if he was. Right?

He’s just playing with Will, taking something that isn’t even his to take. This isn’t something he gets to have, this simply cannot be how his story plays out. Mike knows what role he’s supposed to fill, the person he’s supposed to be, the box he’s supposed to fit in. How could he even believe for even a day that he gets to play any other role? How could he dress himself up in this costume, this sickeningly delicious temptation of a life?

Ever since he quietly broke up with El, everyone silently decided for him how things are supposed to go. His mom and Nancy gave him pitiful looks and assured him he’d find someone else. He knows they’re expecting him to go off to college and find some other pretty brunette girl, and fall only halfway in love with her because she’ll never be the superhero that landed in his backyard. Mourn his childhood girlfriend for the rest of his life as ‘the one who got away’ as he raises two and a half kids in some town a few hours away from Hawkins- far enough that he can pretend to himself he ‘got out’, but not so far that he actually does. 

He doesn’t want that. He desperately, frantically doesn’t want that to be how his life goes, but there’s a dangerously attractive safety in it. Following the path that’s been carved and signposted for him is easy, hacking away off the beaten track and examining these vulnerable parts of himself is terrifying. The scrutiny and judgement of his family, of his friends? Defending, owning up to his choices in front of his father? The thought makes his stomach turn. 

Mike feels suddenly crushingly nauseous, and barely makes it to the toilet before he spills his guts, coughing and spluttering as disgustingly yeasty, beer tinged vomit burns his throat and sinuses. Clammy hands slipping on the tiled floor he groans, resting his forehead against the porcelain. A guttural sob rips out of his lungs in between gasps for breath, and Will bangs at the door.

“Mike!” The boy shouts, hammering his knuckles against the wood, “Hey, let me in! Are you okay?” 

He uses the absolute last of his strength to lift his exhausted body off the floor enough to unlock the door with slippy, shaking fingers. Will bursts in the second it gives way, falling to his knees beside Mike, leaning in to cradle him without stopping to think for even a second, entirely uncaring of the grossness of the situation.

“Hey,” He soothes, and Mike lets his head fall against Will’s chest, tears soaking straight into the soft fabric of his shirt before either of them can notice, “Hey, hey. You’re okay.”

“Sorry.” Mike mumbles, only somewhat coherent. He shuts his eyes and tries to take a breath that isn’t punctured with a hiccup. 

“Don’t.” Will says, soft but firm, one hand rubbing Mike’s back and the other smoothing his hair back from his face. God, he must look like a mess. He’d forgotten he’d even put that dumb fucking makeup on, and he feels another sickening turn of his stomach at the idea of anyone other than Will seeing him in it.

How could he be so delusionally brave earlier? It was like the shock of waking up somewhere else had detached him enough from reality to forget to consider the consequences of any of this. Nancy obviously knows about his life now, but what about his parents? Do they know what a ridiculous, girlish disappointment he is? The very idea of dropping his defences, exposing the true, vulnerable side of him that wants this life feels like teetering on the edge of a void. 

Will’s arms are so strong and warm around him, pulling him back to reality and he swallows thickly, allowing himself to be comforted. 

“I didn’t think you’d had that much to drink.” Will says softly, fingers combing through Mike’s hair with gentle, practised ease, thumb running over his cheekbone. 

“Yeah.” Mike replies lamely. He doesn’t even know how to begin to articulate the storm inside of him right now- not when he barely understands it himself. 

It’s when Will is delicately wiping Mike’s mouth with a damp washcloth that the thought strikes him like a shot to the heart. Is this it? Is this the lesson he’s been sent here to learn? Does he need to unpack whatever the fuck this visceral ball of shame and emotion is that sits heavy on his chest, flaring into a burning fire every time Will looks at him, touches him?

He lets Will strip off his sweaty clothes and pull him into bed beside him, marvelling at how they’d gone from a heady cloud of pure lust to completely innocent, kind gestures. It’s with Will’s hand resting firmly on his hip, that he falls into slumber.