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Mike hadn’t meant to hold Will’s hand. It was an accident. Honest.
A stupid one. A completely innocent, absolutely-not-premeditated accident. At least… mostly.
Because sure, Mike thought about it. A lot. More than a normal person should probably think about their best friend’s hands. He was fully aware it was weird. Mildly concerning. Possibly diagnosable.
But he couldn’t help it.
Will’s hands were… well, they were something. Something that Mike couldn’t explain. But something about Will… about Will’s hands, left Mike’s brain scrambling to function. Made Mike’s heart pound frantically in his chest. So frantic that Mike sometimes worried it might break his ribs.
Mike had never bothered to put a proper word to it. Beautiful felt too dramatic. Pretty felt too embarrassing. Soft felt too much like a feeling he wasn’t ready to interrogate.
But he thought about them anyway. Constantly. It was impossible not to think about Will Byers and his hands.
The way Will held his pencil. Not tight, not rigid, just gentle, steady, like anything Will touched might be fragile and important.
The way his fingers danced across sketchbook pages, approaching charcoal and graphite like they were extensions of his own thoughts.
The way he smudged shadows with the side of his thumb, leaving faded greys on his skin.
Mike would pretend he wasn’t staring, even though he always was.
Will’s hands didn’t match the rest of the world. They were soft despite all the chaos they’d lived through. Soft despite drawing every day until his knuckles darkened with dust. Soft despite monsters and memories and the weight of the world he’d helped save.
Mike dreamt about those hands.
Not that he’d ever admit it. He barely admitted it to himself.
Sometimes the dream was nothing but warmth. Will’s fingers brushing his wrist, tracing constellations there. Sometimes it was Will reaching for him through fog or smoke or something else symbolic that would probably make a therapist clap with excitement. And sometimes it was just Will sitting beside him at the table, sketching, sunlight catching on his curls while his fingers moved in soft, sure lines.
Mike would wake up flustered every time.
Mike knew it wasn’t normal.
It wasn’t normal to dream about your best friend’s hands - not in a vague, abstract way, but in vivid detail, like his brain had zoomed in on Will’s fingers and decided this was the new obsession. It wasn’t normal to wake up with flushed cheeks, heartbeat tripping over itself, a tight, aching sort of longing curling in his chest like something alive.
Normal people didn’t spend whole algebra classes staring at the way their best friend held a pen, rolling it thoughtfully between slender fingers while he listened. They didn’t forget how to do basic equations because Will brushed a smudge of charcoal across his knuckle. They didn’t lose entire minutes watching the gentle slope of his wrist as he wrote neat, careful notes that Mike absolutely was not reading but also absolutely was.
It was pathetic. Pathetic and humiliating and… concerning. Deeply concerning. Go-and-see-a-therapist levels of concerning.
How could Mike explain that he could focus on school and pass his classes with A’s while battling a fucking psycho monster but that the sight of Will’s hands left him flunking maths?
Because Mike Wheeler could face monsters, dive through open gates into other dimensions, even shout at government agents without blinking, but apparently he couldn’t handle the sight of Will Byers hands without falling apart like a badly constructed Jenga tower.
And if that wasn’t concerning, he didn’t know what was.
So when it happened - when Mike actually, physically held Will’s hand - it shouldn’t have been surprising that his brain shut down.
It was supposed to be a normal walk to Mike’s house. Supposed to be. Just the four of them heading down the familiar path, arguing about campaign rules and movie rankings like they always did.
But normal was a fragile thing for this group. It took only one stupid moment for it to crack.
They were in Mike’s driveway. Dustin and Lucas had been bickering and, in a burst of chaotic energy that only Dustin Henderson possessed, lobbed an empty soda can at Lucas. “Heads up!”
Lucas - basketball star, human reflex machine, self-proclaimed future NBA legend - somehow missed it completely. The can bounced off his fingertips, spiraled wide, and clattered hard across the pavement…
…straight toward Will.
And Will… Will, who had spent years convincing everyone he was fine. Will, who laughed easily now and talked more and drew constantly, but who still stiffened at slamming doors and sudden shouts. Will, whose nervous system had been rewired by too many nights hiding from monsters and too many days hiding from people who were supposed to love him.
He flinched before the can could even reach him.
The sound, sharp metal on concrete, made him jerk like someone had snapped a rubber band against his spine. His whole body recoiled, breath stuttering out of him. One hand flew up reflexively, the other curling close to his chest like he was trying to protect something fragile inside himself.
Mike saw it first. Mike always saw it first.
Even before Will could force a shaky smile and laugh it off. Before Dustin could scramble to apologise or Lucas could look horrified at his own terrible catch. Mike was already moving, already closing the space between them like his body didn’t need permission.
Because Will didn’t do well with things thrown at him unexpectedly. Or with loud, metallic noises that echoed too much like memories. Between Lonnie’s temper, years of middle school cruelty, and a literal dimension of nightmare-shadow-beasts stalking him, Will had earned every flinch, every instinctive recoil.
And Mike, for reasons he tried very hard not to think about, always wanted to make it better. Always wanted to step between Will and anything that made him shrink.
Even a damn soda can.
Mike reacted on instinct. Reaching out, grabbing Will’s hand, pulling him towards him. Just a normal protective reflex.
Except he didn’t let go.
Not immediately. Not after Will had realised there was no danger. Not after Lucas shouted “MY BAD!” down the driveway.
Mike’s hand stayed around Will’s. Warm. Firm. Too comfortable.
And Will… Will didn’t pull away.
He just looked at Mike - curious, wide-eyed, a little pink in the cheeks - and Mike forgot how oxygen worked.
His heart beat so loudly he was certain Will could hear it. His fingers felt like they were plugged into an electrical socket. His face was hot enough to power the entire Hawkins grid.
He let go too quickly. Way too quickly.
“Sorry, I, uh..sorry,” Mike blurted, stringing a sentence together like a malfunctioning typewriter.
Will blinked at him. “Are… you okay?” he asked, which only made Mike’s face go hotter.
No. No, he absolutely was not okay. Will Byers’ hand had been in his.
His favourite hands. The hands he thought about far too often. The hands that looked like they were made to hold something precious.
Mike was doomed. Completely, irrevocably doomed.
*******
Mike couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He’d replayed that stupid moment, the accidental hand-holding, so many times he was starting to worry he’d burned it into his brain. But the way it had felt, warm and soft and perfect, kept sneaking up on him at the worst possible times.
When he was brushing his teeth. When he was supposed to be doing homework. When he was lying awake at night staring at his ceiling, heart beating too fast for no logical reason, with the knowledge that Will was downstairs asleep in the basement.
He couldn’t forget how Will’s hand had settled into his like it belonged there.
And the thing that really killed him?
Will hadn’t pulled away. He could have. Should have. Would have, if it had been weird or uncomfortable.
But he didn’t.
So maybe…
Maybe Mike wasn’t imagining the way Will leaned into him sometimes. Maybe he wasn’t misreading the soft, lingering looks. Maybe his chest wasn’t tight and aching for no reason every time Will smiled at him.
So Mike came up with a plan. A stupid, small, cowardly plan - but still a plan.
Movie night.
He didn’t announce anything or make a big deal of it. He just asked Will if he wanted to have a movie night like normal. Popcorn, blankets, the old sagging couch in the Wheeler basement. Dustin and Lucas were supposed to come too, but Dustin ended up looking after his sick turtle and Lucas had a late practice. It ended up just the two of them.
Part of Mike was relieved. Part of him was terrified.
Will sat down beside him on the floor, leaning against the couch, legs stretched out, the soft glow of the TV lighting up his face. Mike pretended to watch the opening credits, but his pulse was loud enough to drown out the sound.
Okay. Okay, he could do this. Casual. Normal. Best-friend behavior. Right?
He let his hand drop between them, close enough that his pinky brushed Will’s. Just barely. A whisper of contact.
Will didn’t move.
Mike’s heart did some sort of uneven backflip in his chest.
Slowly, painfully slowly, Mike shifted, letting more of his hand rest against Will’s. Every inch felt like moving through fire, every second screaming abort mission in his head.
He waited for Will to pull away, laugh, make a face, call him weird.
He didn’t.
Instead, Will’s fingers twitched. Once. Then again.
And then - like he was testing the water, like he was afraid to hope - Will turned his palm up and slid his fingers between Mike’s.
Mike forgot how breathing worked.
Their hands fit together just like before. Maybe better. Their palms warm, fingers lightly intertwined, resting between them like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Neither of them looked at the other. Neither of them said a word.
But Mike felt it, the smallest squeeze from Will’s hand. Gentle, deliberate, unmistakably real.
And Mike knew he was in trouble. The best possible, most terrifying kind of trouble.
*****
They didn’t talk about it.
Not once. Not after the movie night, not the next morning, not in the days that followed. It just… became a thing.
One moment Mike Wheeler was accidentally holding his best friend’s hand, and the next he was doing it on purpose. Constantly. Compulsively. Like his hand had been waiting years for this exact job and now refused to be unemployed.
Whenever they were alone - sprawled on Mike’s bedroom floor with comic books, or in the basement playing an endless campaign - their hands simply found each other.
Sometimes Mike reached out first, heart in his throat. Sometimes Will did, shy but sure, fingers brushing Mike’s as if asking a question he wasn’t ready to say out loud.
And every single time, they laced their fingers together like it was inevitable.
It didn’t stop there.
Under the cafeteria table, hidden behind backpacks and textbooks, their hands would brush, then settle together. Mike pretended to focus on whatever mush they were serving for lunch, but really he was painfully aware of every tiny movement of Will’s thumb.
In a quiet corner where the teachers couldn’t see, they’d sit shoulder-to-shoulder, fingers linked, talking about nothing and everything. Will’s thumb would trace little circles against Mike’s knuckle and Mike would forget what words were.
At Hop’s cabin, while Max and El bickered cheerfully over a card game, Will sat beside Mike on the floor. Their arms touched. Their knees touched. Their hands… well. Mike’s lay palm-up between them, casual but inviting. Will’s found it like it had a homing beacon.
And of course their friends noticed, because their friends were the worst.
It started with Lucas narrowing his eyes and asking, “Why are you guys, uh,” He gestured vaguely beneath the table, “holding hands?”
Max didn’t even wait for an answer. She looked at Mike, then Will, then Mike again. “Is this, like… a thing now? Because if it is, I knew it.”
Dustin’s eyes went round. “Are you guys dating?” He whispered, conscious that they were in public. “Because I swear if you’ve been secretly dating and didn’t tell me-”
Will had shrugged, cheeks warm but calm, as if it truly wasn’t a big deal. “We just… do.”
Mike had nearly died on the spot. Actually died. His face burned so hot it could’ve powered a small town. He mumbled something that was supposed to be a denial, or an explanation, or possibly a distraction about new D&D characters. He changed the topic by sheer force of panic.
And their friends, being friends, backed off, mostly. With smirks. With raised eyebrows. With whispered theories.
But Mike didn’t let go of Will’s hand.
And Will didn’t let go of his.
No matter where they were, no matter if their friends saw, no matter how many times Mike’s heart tried to leap out of his own chest.
It was quiet. It was unspoken. It was terrifying. It was perfect.
And neither of them dared to say what it really meant.
Not yet.
******
A few weeks into the great-hand-holding-debacle-of-1987, Mike slipped up.
He didn’t mean to. Honestly. Every time he and Will walked somewhere together, sat somewhere together, existed in the same vicinity, it was like his hand had one mission: find Will Byers. And it had gotten very good at its job.
Too good.
And he knew he had to be careful. Even if he and Will hadn’t actually… even if they weren’t… This was Hawkins. Small town Hawkins. And if people saw. If they… well, Mike knew that two boys going around holding hands could end badly. But it was getting harder and harder to remember that. To remember that he could hold Will’s hand, only if they were careful, alone or with their friends.
They were at WSQK, the new-and-improved community radio station. Robin and Steve were arguing over music queues, Nancy and Jonathan were bent over a stack of schedules, and the whole place buzzed with the low hum of static and chatter. It was a safe place, a normal place, and the Party drifted in and out freely. Even after everything that happened, the older four refused to quit running the station. Maybe it made them feel anchored. Maybe they just liked yelling at each other over microphones.
Will and Mike were sitting on one of the battered couches, waiting for their siblings to finish whatever end-of-shift chaos they were dealing with. Will was sketching something - Mike didn’t even know what anymore, he just knew it was beautiful - and Mike was pretending to read a comic but mostly watching Will’s hands move. Those hands he thought about far too much.
Will laughed at something he’d said. Mike didn’t remember the joke. All he remembered was the warm, fluttering feeling in his stomach, the kind that seemed to take over whenever Will was too close.
And without thinking - genuinely, without a single conscious thought passing through his brainl - Mike reached over and took Will’s hand. The one that wasn’t holding a pencil.
Just… took it. Like it was the most normal thing in the universe. Because it was becoming more and more normal between them. And Mike didn’t think.
Will startled, eyes flicking down, then up at Mike with this quiet, pleased softness. His fingers curled instinctively between Mike’s.
Mike relaxed, smiling.
And then… silence.
Dead silence.
Every voice in the station cut out like someone had slammed a giant mute button. Steve froze mid-rant. Robin froze mid-retort. Nancy froze mid-packing up. Jonathan froze mid-radio adjustment.
Their eyes locked onto the couch.
Mike blinked. Will blinked.
Mike realised. Mike panicked.
Robin was the first to react.
“Oh my gosh,” she stage-whispered, hands flying dramatically to her mouth. “Did that just, did he just, am I hallucinating?”
Steve’s eyebrows shot so far up they practically merged with his hairline. “Whoa. Mini Wheeler. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Nancy blinked twice, calmly, like she was processing a puzzle. “So… is this new? Or ongoing?”
Jonathan, gentle soul that he was, gave the smallest, most encouraging smile. “Good for you guys.”
Will squeaked. Actually squeaked. His hand twitched like he wasn’t sure if he should pull away or hold on tighter.
Mike did the only logical thing.
He keeled over and died inside.
“I, uh, it’s not… I just, we, ” He gestured vaguely at nothing. At everything. At the universe. “This isn’t, we’re not, I mean…”
Robin practically burst into flames from excitement. “Look at them! They’re so awkward, it’s adorable.”
Steve leaned on the counter. “We’ve all been waiting for this, you know.”
Will made a sound like a strangled whimper. Mike considered launching himself into the nearest open vent. He should let go. He absolutely should let go.
But Will’s fingers, uncertain but warm, shifted in his, not pulling away. Almost… asking.
So Mike didn’t.
He held Will’s hand. Even as his face went crimson. Even as Robin whispered rapid-fire commentary. Even as Nancy made supportive big-sister noises and told Mike she loved him no matter what. Even as Steve wiggled his eyebrows like an absolute menace.
Will looked at him, cheeks pink, eyes wide and shining.
Mike swallowed.
Oh. Oh no.
He was so far gone it was pathetic.
*****
Mike knew they would have to talk about it eventually.
They couldn’t just keep… doing this. Holding hands everywhere like it was nothing. Acting like something. Being something.
Especially now that their friends and their siblings thought they were dating.
And the worst part? The part that kept Mike awake at night, heart racing and face buried in his pillow?
He wished they were dating.
He wished it so badly it felt like a physical ache, something behind his ribs that pulsed every time Will smiled at him or brushed against him or touched his hand like it was precious.
Which, apparently, was all the time now.
They were in Mike’s bedroom, sat on the bed. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, painting Will in soft gold, making him look impossible, like Mike’s brain couldn’t decide if he was a boy or a miracle.
Their fingers were loosely entwined, resting on Mike’s thigh. Casual. Intimate. Terrifying.
Will was reading through a stack of notes for an upcoming assessment, brows furrowed in concentration, pencil tapping lightly against the paper. His fringe kept falling into his eyes, and every time he huffed it away Mike felt something in him melt.
Mike wasn’t reading. Mike wasn’t doing anything remotely productive.
Mike was staring.
He tried not to, really, he did, but Will looked so… beautiful. So soft. So entirely unaware of what he did to Mike’s insides. His lips pursed slightly as he reread a paragraph, the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration. His shoulders sloped gently, relaxed, comfortable in Mike’s space. His thumb occasionally brushed Mike’s knuckles in absent-minded patterns, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.
Mike felt like he might combust.
He needed to stop staring. He needed to look away. He needed to think about literally anything else.
But Will turned a page, head tilting, and the sunlight caught on a faint scar near his collarbone - one of the small reminders of everything he’d survived - and Mike’s chest went soft and warm and unbearably tender.
He loved him.
He loved him so stupidly, so deeply, so pathetically that the idea of not talking about it suddenly felt impossible. It was sitting between them, growing larger every day, filling the space like a secret only he couldn’t ignore.
He swallowed, something tight and nervous catching in his throat.
“Will?”
Will hummed without looking up. “Mm?”
Mike’s heart hammered so hard he was genuinely concerned Will might hear it.
He squeezed Will’s hand gently, nervously.
Will’s eyes lifted, soft and open, pencil going still.
“Yes?” he asked, and there was something gentle in it, something patient, something that made Mike’s breath catch.
Mike opened his mouth. And nothing came out.
Because Will was looking at him, really looking at him, and Mike’s brain short-circuited in the worst, most predictable way.
Will frowned, concerned. “Mike? Are you okay?”
Mike forced a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I just… um… needed to…”
Will waited. Mike panicked. Mike stared.
And somehow, impossibly, Will smiled. A small, almost shy smile, as if he knew exactly what was twisting up inside Mike’s chest but was waiting for him to find the words himself.
Their hands stayed linked. Their knees touched. The room was quiet. And the conversation Mike knew they had to have hovered in the air, delicate and terrifying and ready to fall into place.
Mike took a deep breath, lungs tight, heart climbing into his throat. His hand was shaking, just slightly, where it was wrapped in Will’s.
“I love you,” he said softly.
The words seemed to float between them for a moment, fragile and enormous and terrifying. Will’s eyes widened, not in fear but in quiet shock, like he’d been waiting for this, hoping for it, but still couldn’t believe it was real.
And that smile - that shy, blooming smile - tugged at the corners of his mouth until his whole face was glowing, eyes crinkling with a brightness that made Mike feel like his bones were dissolving.
Will let out a small, startled, disbelieving giggle. “Yeah?”
Mike swallowed hard and nodded, the movement jerky and desperate. “Yeah. I… Will. I love you.”
Will’s hand tightened its grip on Mike’s, thumb brushing over his skin with something like reverence. Without breaking eye contact for even a second, he shoved his notebook aside and shifted on the bed until he was facing Mike fully, knees brushing Mike’s.
The hand not tangled in Mike’s reached up slowly - cautiously, like Will was giving Mike every chance to pull away - and settled warm and gentle against Mike’s cheek.
Mike shivered, eyes fluttering closed as he exhaled shakily. Will’s thumb stroked across his cheekbone, the touch soft enough to undo Mike completely.
“I love you, too,” Will said. Not a whisper. Not hesitant. Soft, but solid. Confident.
Like it was the truest thing he’d ever said.
A giddy, dizzy, unstoppable happiness burst in Mike’s chest. A warm rush that made him smile, really smile, and laugh under his breath, breathless with relief and wonder.
Will loved him. He loved Will. And somehow, impossibly, the world hadn’t exploded.
Mike opened his eyes, meeting Will’s bright, joyous gaze. Will looked… radiant. The happiest Mike had ever seen him. Peaceful in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. Hopeful in a way Mike only saw in moments when Will forgot to be afraid.
Mike leaned in, forehead pressing gently to Will’s, their noses brushing. Will inhaled sharply, a tiny sound caught between a laugh and a sigh.
“Hi,” Mike whispered, absurdly.
Will laughed softly. “Hi.”
Their hands were still tangled between them, anchoring them together. Will’s other hand slipped from Mike’s cheek to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the curls there. Mike made a small, involuntary sound. Surprised, pleased, a bit overwhelmed.
Then Will’s breath hitched. Then Mike’s lips parted. Then they were closing the distance.
The kiss was soft at first. Tentative, delicate, like both of them were afraid to break whatever magic had wrapped around them. Will’s lips were warm, gentle, the slightest bit unsure, and Mike felt like he might float off the bed entirely.
Then Will tilted his head just a little, his thumb stroking behind Mike’s ear. Mike let out a tiny gasp he couldn’t hold back.
Will deepened the kiss, only a fraction, enough to let Mike know he wanted more, enough to make Mike’s stomach swoop.
Mike kissed him back with all the tangled emotion he didn’t know how to say. His free hand slid to Will’s waist, fingers curling in the soft cotton of Will’s jumper. Will shifted closer, knees knocking against Mike’s, hand sliding from Mike’s neck into his hair, tugging gently.
Mike melted.
Will made a small, breathy noise against Mike’s mouth - surprised, pleased - and Mike felt that sound everywhere, warm and electric.
They broke apart only when breathing stopped being optional. Their foreheads pressed together again, breaths shaky and mingling, both of them smiling like idiots.
Will brushed his nose against Mike’s. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “Mike. Mike, I love you.”
Mike laughed, soft and stunned. “I love you, too.”
Will squeezed his hand. Mike squeezed back.
And then Will kissed him again, smiling into it this time, and Mike thought, quite sincerely, that this was the best moment of his entire life.