Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Growing up, Will had never really been much of a swimmer. 

He had the survival skills to keep himself above water, sure, but not much beyond just aimlessly flailing his arms. If a friend brought him along to the Hawkins pool, Will had preferred to sit on the ledge, letting the sun bake his shoulders and idly swirling his legs through the water until the chlorine wrinkled his skin. 

The first time he went underwater, though, Will remembers. 

He had been up to his waist in Lover’s Lake, watching the green lake water swirl and ripple while his feet met the lake’s uneven, rocky bottom. Will was thirteen, and it had been one of those quiet summer afternoons, right after Will was found, back when Mike was still clingy. Always buzzing around Will like a fly. Maybe not a fly, since Will never found it in himself to be annoyed by Mike’s overbearing presence. Maybe more like a butterfly or a hummingbird, always over his shoulder. 

“You’ve really never?”

Mike wasn’t trying to be mean; this was long before Will realized he even had the capacity to be cruel. It was the summer of 1984, and Mike still spoke in that gentle, slow voice he reserved only for Will. 

Will shook his head, and Mike looked surprised, his eyebrows subtly skewed upward. While Will definitely can’t do much besides keep his head above water, the Wheelers took their routine beach vacations and held memberships at the pool, so Mike had always been a decent swimmer. 

“It’s really not that scary,” Mike said. “It’s actually—it’s kinda easy. I can show you, if you want.” 

He’d clumsily stomped through the lake, drawing a foamy current behind him. Mike gently grabbed Will’s wrist—he still remembers it vividly. It was long before that summer when Mike had inexplicably stopped touching him, and back before they were taught boys shouldn’t touch hands that way. 

“Okay, it’ll be kind of weird, though. You’ll just have to trust me.” 

That’s how Will ended up flat on his back, with the lake’s unsteady current lapping at the sides of his face. Next came the world-tilting, life-altering sensation of feeling truly weightless, defying gravity itself on the surface of the lake. He’d flinched and screwed his eyes shut at the uncomfortable sensation of the cold water soaking his hair, and Mike had giggled. 

“You’re gonna sink if you get all tense,” Mike told him. His palm was supporting Will’s back, and he’d told him to lay flat with his arms spread on the lake’s surface. “Just ease up. I’ve got you.”

The water ebbed and began to flow across Will’s stomach, and he panicked. Everything Mike said next became distorted background noise as Will’s face dipped beneath the surface, water flooding his ears and sinuses. His vision went dark. 

It’s cold. It’s too cold. 

The choppy lake water seeped through Will’s skin, coating his bones. 

Mike adjusted his hand on Will’s back, then took his other to cradle his neck, and brought him back above water again. 

“It’s—cold,” Will coughed. “It’s too cold, I can’t—” 

“Hey, hey,” Mike said quickly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just gotta tilt your head back.” 

Will angled his neck back and became weightless all over again, drawing a sharp breath to steady the hammering of his heart. He wouldn’t sink. When he anxiously pried his eyes open, he found Mike still beaming down over him—probably feeling rather accomplished with himself. With the way the bright June sun glinted behind Mike’s head, forming a halo around his bird’s nest of dark curls, Will had already equated Mike to his guardian angel. 

“See?” Mike said, and maybe it was his words, or the permanent, reassuring hand on his back, but the tension left Will’s spine, and floating became easier. “Told you. It’s easy.” 

In the summer of 1989, Will sinks all the way to the bottom of the lake on his own. 

Doesn’t stop him from revisiting the memory, though. 

Submerged in the shallow section of the lake, where the sun’s rays still manage to reach, the water is warm. Will exhales bubbles that float towards the surface, tickling his nose. The rocks filling the bottom of the lake are slick with algae, but not slimy. The only sound is that of water roaring through his ears, and Will had already grown to enjoy the quiet down here. 

Will’d live at the lake if he could, honestly. He’s still not a great swimmer, but likes how quiet it is underwater, and likes how the sun beats down on his skin every afternoon they come here. He’d sit on the dock like a lizard and bask in the heat forever if he didn’t just burn up each time. 

Unfortunately, though, his lungs begin to strain, and Will straightens his legs to propel himself above the surface. 

As he runs a hand across his face and pushes a sopping layer of bangs out of his eyes, Will tunes back into the argument he’d excused himself from a moment ago. 

“That’s such bullshit.” 

“That’s not bullshit!”

“No, cause, in what world do they hire you and not me?” 

“Cause you tanked the interview!” 

Dustin frantically gestures around the lake. “And yet you still took it! I thought the entire plan was that we’d get jobs together, Lucas! Now what am I supposed to do?”

“Scoops hires anyone with a pulse, Dustin,” Mike offers. “If you want in on that.” He’s laying on his back, clad in a black t-shirt that’ll likely mark him with a viscous farmers’ tan by the afternoon’s out. His hair is dangling off the dock. It’s been getting longer. 

Will’s really trying to stop noticing these things. 

Dustin scoffs. “Hell, no. I’m not spending my summer listening to you and Max go at each other’s throats all day.” 

Mike doesn’t argue that point, just shrugs and returns his attention to the comic book splayed out on his thighs. 

“You’re seriously gonna work at the pool without me?” Dustin shoots a glare at Lucas. “Just—find a different job! Try Family Video with me. Steve probably still has an in.” 

“No way.” Lucas hoists himself onto the dock. He drips water onto Mike, who extends a half-hearted grumble and rolls onto his side, unwilling to part with the comic. “Lifeguarding’s gonna be like, perfect on my resume. Not my fault they didn’t want your bum ass.” 

“Oh, your resume,” Dustin echoes. He shoves his hands through the water, and the splash laps against the dock legs. “How could we ever forget about your precious resume? Man, everyone knows lifeguards don’t do shit but tan and yell at kids to walk. It’s a joke of a job.” 

“Yeah, a joke of a job you were still desperate to get,” Lucas says. He scrubs a wrinkled towel over his hair. “Guys, Dustin wanted us to interview together—” 

“Yeah, cause I thought if we interviewed as a pair, they’d be more interested! They’d see what we’d bring to the workplace dynamic!” 

“Workplace dynamic?” Will snorts. 

“The culture,” Dustin clarifies with a spin of his hand. “Our chemistry, Lucas.” 

Lucas’ eyebrows scrunch. “Don’t say chemistry.” 

Dustin turns towards Will, pleading. His curly hair dribbles water down his temples. “Well, where are you working? Can I go with you, or what?” 

“Still figuring it out,” Will says. “If I find something, though, I’ll let you know.” 

“Let who know?” The dock creaks under Max’s footsteps, El in tow. 

“Where Will’s working,” Lucas answers. “Since Dustin’s chronically unemployed. Pool hired me, didn’t want him.” 

“They wanted me well enough.” 

El settles on the edge of the dock, nearly losing a flip flop to the water. “Why didn’t they want you to work there?” 

Dustin sighs. “They just couldn’t handle me, my dear Jane.” 

“They could handle you at Scoops Ahoy, you know.” Max wedges herself between El and Lucas. “Offer still stands.” 

“Yeah, shoot me before I ever wear a sailor costume. You guys have fun in that literal freezer.” 

“It’s really not that bad,” Mike says, flicking the comic. The pages are spotted with lakewater, beginning to cling together. 

“Yeah, cause you don’t do your fucking job.” 

“I do my job.” 

Max’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, really? Cause I opened this morning, and someone didn’t take the trash out last night, so I had to goddamn do it, and the bag literally exploded.” 

“There was hardly anything in it,” Mike scoffs. “Don’t be dramatic.” 

“It was overflowing, you’re just a lazy piece of shit who never—” 

“You’re a lazy piece of shit—” 

El cringes from the bickering. “I would like it very much if you two got along.” 

“Yeah, both of you, shut up.” 

Mike lifts his head expectantly at Dustin. “See? You could get paid to listen to this.” 

Lucas chuckles. “Where’re you gonna work, Will?” 

Will kicks up gravel beneath the water. “Gonna try and interview at the diner. If that doesn’t pan out, no idea.” 

Well. Some idea. Will’s nothing if not a planner, and he’s already mapped out his last summer in Hawkins to a T. He’ll plead his way into an apron at that greasy spoon a few blocks from the cabin, scrape enough in tips to survive in New York, and get the hell out of Hawkins by August. 

In the summer of 1989, Will has two goals. Technically three. 

1. Find a job. 
2. Save up for college. See aforementioned goal #1. 
3. Get over Mike Wheeler. 

That last one—bold it, italicize it, highlight it yellow, underline it in a scribble of blue ink. Dot it with an exclamation point or three. 

So far, Will hasn’t landed a summer job, so he’ll likely be starving on the streets of New York or crashing at Jonathan’s for the rest of time, and his heart still flips in a miserable way when Mike sits up and shirt rides up, revealing a thin strip of skin on the small of his back. 

Will clocks the feeling with an internal sigh. 

That’s still there, huh? 

That being the way Will has eloquently decided to label his feelings for Mike. His stupid, stupid heart had built up hope for That too many times to count. He nearly died from That. Henry had played Will’s heartstrings like a violin over That. He’d almost ruined the most important friendship in his life over That.

Will wouldn’t last another round in That ring. 

Mike turns. The slope of his nose is brushed pink with the start of a sunburn. 

Will’s running behind. 

“Nice. Free pancakes.” Lucas nods, and Will wrenches his eyes towards the ripples in the water instead. 

“Does it have to be food service?” Dustin prods. “No offense or anything, but I don’t really wanna spend the summer slinging diner crap.” 

“I mean, yeah, if you want to interview as a pair,” Will teases. It earns him a splash to the shoulder. 

“Are we still on for tonight?” Lucas asks. 

“Better be. I switched my shift.” Max peels her stained work t-shirt down into a swimsuit top and trunks. “And nobody’s parents ever leave town, I swear to god.” 

“Yeah, we should be good,” Will says, picking at the wrinkled skin beside his thumb. 

Hopper and Joyce had made it down to Montauk yesterday, scouting cottages near the ocean on their shoestring budget. In turn, Will’d bought himself a solid three days out of the watchful presence of his mom—and yeah, he loves her, deeply and permanently, but having the space just scratched an itch. Felt like the first tiny bit of independence he’d been promised outside the county lines of Bumfuck Nowhere, Indiana. 

Will’s stomach turns a bit sour at the thought. This time next year, his parents’ll have moved into a brand new town. New jobs, new house. Close enough to New York City for a day trip.

This time next year, he’ll have no reason to come back. Holidays will be spent in Montauk. He’ll have traded the lake for the ocean, the ghosts of Hawkins left in the rearview mirror. 

Will doesn’t know if he likes that or not. 

He also doesn’t know why his eyes instinctually flit over to Mike each time he thinks about leaving. 

“Sweet.” Max slips beneath the surface, darkening her hair in the green lake. “Think we can get drinks?” 

“Hop counted already,” El reports glumly. “Steve?”

“Yeah, probably,” Dustin says.  

“Fine, just don’t get Stags again,” Max says, wringing out one of her braids. 

“What’s wrong with Stag? It’s good!”

What’s wrong with Dustin’s bottom-shelf beer of choice is that the only people who put them down are Dustin himself and Mike, because they claim to like it. And while Will doesn’t drink—much—he cringes at the thought of nursing lukewarm beers in his stepdad’s cramped, ramshackle cabin. Again. 

“Barely,” Will says. “Get something better.” 

“Christ, you guys are picky. Okay, like what?” 

“Those lemonades were good,” El says. 

“Those lemonades were expensive.” 

 Max wags her eyebrows. “Mad Dog?” 

“God, no.”

“Let’s all just split vodka or something. Less bottles to hide.” 

“Get Rumpleminze,” is all Mike supplies to the conversation. 

“Diabolical.”

Lucas blanches. “Dude, you’re a freak.”

“What about Boone’s Farm?”

“Gross.”

“Jesus. I’ll just—” Dustin waves a hand. “I’ll figure it out. Like I always do.” 

Will sinks back underwater. 

The rest of the afternoon passes in a warm, resplendent haze. 

They stay in the water until their fingertips prune and nearly everyone’s shoulders redden. Mike’s the only one who doesn’t get in—still lost in whatever spins through his head as he peels through the book.

The sun has ducked behind the forest by the time Will pulls himself up on the dock. His t-shirt sticks to the wet spots on his chest and back, and his shorts drip dots across the wood. Raindrops slowly join the pattern on the dock, and the air grows thick with the telltale humidity of an oncoming thunderstorm. Bikes are stowed into the trunk of Mike’s dented car, parked crookedly in the gravel. 

In the backseat, Will’s thighs clings to the leather. His shoulder is pressed to the door as they attempt to cram four people into the backseat of a sedan that’s really not equipped for that. An elbow lands to his ribcage at some point. An empty styrofoam cup crunches beneath his sneaker. 

Mike really needs to clean his goddamn car. 

Dustin throws the door open and balks, greeted with the clusterfuck mess that is the passenger seat. A few crumpled sweatshirts, Mike’s backpack, scattered papers, and a mountain of cups take up the entire front seat, spilling onto the floor. 

“You can just throw that in the back,” Mike says absently, turning his keys in the ignition. 

“Throw what?” Dustin gestures wildly to the pile overtaking the seat. “Are you a hoarder?” 

Max squirms. Her knees knock against the door. “Mike, I think something’s alive back here.” 

Mike’s eyes widen just slightly, as if he has to physically resist rolling them. The engine starts up with a rumble. “Skate home in the rain, then, I dunno.” 

“Clean your car, then,” Max mimics him, voice low and moody. “I dunno.”

Lucas glances out his window. “You think this’ll clear up by tonight?” 

“Maybe,” Will says. Rain gently patters against the windshield, still drenched in sunlight. “Might have to stay inside.” 

“Damn. Can we bonfire a different night, then?” 

“Probably.” 

“Oh, good.” Dustin twists around in the front seat, speaking over the staticky melody on the radio and the gentle hiss of the air conditioner. “Cause I built this thing—” 

Max’s head thuds against the headrest. “Oh, here we go.” 

Dustin scowls. “Shut up, it’s cool. It’s gonna make the fire change colors. Green, purple, blue, all that. And I spent like, three days on it, so everyone has to—” 

“Wait, how?” El tilts her head onto Will’s shoulder, skeptical. 

“Oh, it’s super simple.” Dustin starts counting on his fingers. “Copper chloride, copper sulfate, a little potassium chloride, potassium carbonate. You wind everything up into this little stick and set it on fire. I can show you.” 

Lucas frowns. “Man, you’re gonna end up on a list somewhere one of these days.”

“We’re already all on a list somewhere,” Mike says. He flicks the turn signal, approaching where the gravel partitions onto the main road. “Alright, everybody going home?” 

“Take me to Max’s?” El’s wet hair is cold on Will’s cheek. 

“Shit, and run us through McDonald’s or something,” Dustin adds as the car picks up speed, headed towards Forest Hills at the edge of town. “Starving.” 

“Not your chauffeur.” 

“You kinda are.” 

“When literally anyone else bothers to get their license, they can take you to all the fast food you want.” 

Max scoffs. “I have a license, I’m just literally poor.” 

“Seconded,” Will says. 

“You know what, actually? Lucas’ll take you. He’s gonna do all the driving from here on out. I’m over it. I’m done.” 

“Thank god,” Dustin mutters. The car eventually shifts into park outside Max’s mom’s trailer. “It’d be nice to get somewhere alive for once.” 

“Did I not just get everyone here in one piece?” 

“After you blew three stop signs, yeah.” 

El undoes her seatbelt as Max shuffles out of the car, and gives a quick squeeze to Will’s arm. “See you at home?” 

“Yeah, see you,” Will replies, stretching his legs a bit further with the added room. His knees pop. 

The suburbs of Hawkins pass by in a smear of green lawns and red brick. The silence that settled over the car had been brief. 

Lucas adjusts in his seat. “Why are you going this way?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re going a weird way.” 

“Literally how?” 

“You’re like, darting all over,” Lucas says. “Would’ve made way more sense if you went to the cabin first, then Max’s, then Dustin’s, cause now you’re just gonna be backtracking after you drop me off.” 

Mike’s fingers flex over the steering wheel. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize I had Magellan in the backseat.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You drive, then.” 

“I literally will. Least my car’s not a biohazard.” 

They crawl to a stop in front of the Sinclairs’ blue house, and Dustin perks up in the front seat. “Hey.” 

“Hey what?” 

“You think your dad’s still grilling, even though it’s raining?” 

Lucas runs a tired hand down his face. “Probably. Why?” 

“Does he still make those smashburgers? The really flat ones I like.” 

“Dude.”

Dustin unbuckles and gathers his bag from the floor. “Cool. I’m coming over.” 

Lucas frowns. “Okay, so, it’s not exactly an open invite—” 

“Yeah, it is,” Dustin replies automatically. His eyes meet Will’s. “You guys coming?” 

Will laughs. “No, I’m okay. You have fun taking all the Sinclairs’ food.” 

“Fine, but you’re not using my shower,” Lucas resigns. He piles his backpack and towel into his arms. “If you wanna be all lake-y tonight, that’s on you.” 

“Whatever. Drive me to Steve’s after dinner?” 

Lucas sighs. “Yeah, alright. Later, guys.” 

Will follows Lucas out, ducking beneath the rain, and replaces the role of passenger in the front seat of Mike’s car. It’s a routine. Mike drives the party around. They shuffle. The same songs loop on the stereo. And if they’re still following routine: 

“Sorry it’s such a wreck in here,” Mike says. His voice has already mellowed into something softer. He winces. “I’m working on it.” 

There it is. 

Will’s sneakers shift the pile on the floor—noting the vibrant blue fabric of a wrinkled Scoops shirt peeking beneath a mountain of notebooks and receipts. He smiles. “Said that last time.” 

“Was actually going to clean it today. Like, genuinely.”

“I believe it.” Rain drums the hood of the car. The rattle of the air conditioner draws the hairs on Will’s arms on end.

There are simple, carefully-constructed steps to getting over Mike. Will’s trying his best to follow them. 

Step 1: Stop looking at him. 

Fails that. Like, immediately. 

“You got kinda burnt today,” Will says. 

Mike tilts his head towards the rearview mirror and examines the patches of pink saturating his cheekbones and nose, dotted with freckles darkening in color. “Shit.” He glances towards Will as they turn out of the Sinclairs’ neighborhood. “Saw your shoulders were sorta burnt, too, though.”

Will shrugs. The skin near his arms already stretches a bit taut and warm. “Yeah, probably.” 

“Least yours always turns into a tan,” Mike adds. He spins the steering wheel, and the black cap sleeve of his shirt nudges upward, revealing the start of a rather harsh tanline. Over the past handful of afternoons they’d spent at the lake since graduation, Mike hadn’t gotten in once—just sits on the dock and picks arguments with whoever’s in reach or flips through a book. “Not fair. I just get red as hell.” 

Step 2: Don’t read into anything. 

Aces that one with flying colors. 

“Cause you never wear sunscreen,” Will points out. They should make SPF like, nine thousand for Mike. Max, too.  

“Yeah, I know.” The car halts at a stop sign. Mike taps the steering wheel. “You wanna come over? Could get food or something, if you want.” 

And here’s the worst part of it all. 

Mike and Will’s friendship has genuinely never been better than it is right now. 

They’ve had their—rough patches. Fights. Periods of hardly speaking. Awkward, quiet tension. This is likely the closest their friendship has been to how it was when they were kids. They depart from their group, just the two of then. Mike drives Will home. Will's always the last one dropped off. Mike tells him, in long-winded detail, what comics and books he’s obsessing over, and Will lets him ramble. Long gone are the days of Will feeling like he’s being forced to carry the conversation, begging for Mike to look his way, to capture his attention. 

He has Mike’s attention again, and that makes it all even worse. Couldn’t get over him when they weren’t speaking, couldn’t get over him when they were fighting, and now Mike’s being just about as great of a best friend as Will’s ever wanted him to be, and it’s all fucked. 

Their friendship is just—different from everyone else. The rest of the party sees it, too. No one really bats an eye when Will gets special treatment from Mike. 

Is it really that different, though, their stuff from everyone else’s? 

Does Will want it to be different?

Yeah. Doesn’t matter, though. He’s just grateful to still be friends with the guy, isn’t he? 

“No, I should probably head back,” Will says. Good. A little distance. Keep it up. “Cabin’s kinda a wreck. Gonna clean before everyone comes over.”

“You want help?” 

Will shifts his sneaker, disrupting the mountain on the floor. “Maybe focus on your car first.”  

That earns a laugh. The pink lines by Mike’s eyes crinkle. “Fine. What time’s everybody coming over, though?” 

“Think eight.” 

“Can I come over early?” Mike asks. “Need out of my fucking house.” 

“Sure,” Will says. “Nancy coming back for the summer?” 

Mike clicks his tongue. “Nope. Boston.”  

“Jonathan’s not really coming back, either.” 

“That sucks.” 

“Yeah,” Will says. “Really miss him. No idea where he’d even stay, though.” The months before Jonathan left for the city—with three Byers, El and Hop all under one tiny, leaky roof—was cramped chaos. Made him miss living at the Wheelers’ more than he already did. “Hey, you think they got back together?” 

Mike’s eyebrows skew. “Who?” 

“Nancy and Jonathan.” 

“Did they break up?” 

Fair enough. Will’s seen them together more than he’s seen them apart. He’s called Jonathan’s apartment and been greeted by Nancy’s voice on multiple Saturdays. He blinks at Mike. “Dude, yeah.” 

“What? When?” 

Will laughs. “Mike. This was like, two years ago.” 

Mike turns the steering wheel, bewildered. “Really? She never brought that up to me.” 

“Well, you should probably talk to her more.” 

“Probably,” Mike says. “Do some investigating when you’re up there, then. Report back.” 

“Roger.” Will leans forward and angles one of the air vents shut, cutting off the flow of air conditioning that’d been drawing goosebumps up his damp skin. Starts to say, “Have you thought—”

At the same time, Mike prods, “Are you—” 

Will looks at him. 

“Sorry,” Mike says, smiling.

“S'okay,” Will says. “You can go first.”

“No, you go. Go ahead.” 

“Was gonna ask if you’ve thought more about school,” Will finishes. “Like, for next year.” 

Mike shrugs. “Kinda? Been busy. Still working it out.” 

Right.

Mike’s been ‘working out’ college for so long that Will has no idea if he’s even going. If he even has a plan. “It’s almost June.” 

“Yep.” Mike winces. “I don’t know, got a letter from Iowa last week. Said there’s still spots.” 

“That’s the good writing program, right?” 

“Yeah, the really good one.” 

“Well, that’s good,” Will says. Tries to decipher Mike’s expression—he’s just staring blankly at the road. “You should’ve told me you got a letter. That’s awesome. That’s really good, Mike.” 

“But I didn’t like, sign it or anything,” Mike says. “Still waiting on a couple more, I’m just—late. My mom wants me to go, it just feels like a lot right now.” 

“I get it,” Will says. 

Not really. 

Mike’s too ambitious to be acting like this. He loves to write, loves to read. Kept his grades up well enough. Also doesn’t hurt that the Wheelers have more money than they know what to do with. For Will, getting to college—tuition wise—was a goddamn Hail Mary. He remembers the day his own letter came back in April. Full ride scholarship for art, all paid. Remembers how happy Jonathan and El were, remembers his mom cried. Remembers that Mike hugged him. 

He clears his throat. “But what were you gonna say, though?” 

“Right, yeah.” Mike blinks to attention. “Was asking if you were cold. Cause you were like, messing with the air vent.” 

“Oh, I’m fine,” Will says. “Just like, hair’s wet, air conditioner. You know.” 

“I can turn the heat on, if you want.”

“In May?” 

“Or I have like, a sweatshirt somewhere in there, probably,” Mike says, motioning towards the floor. “If you’re still cold, you can wear it.” 

Step 3 of Getting Over Mike: Don’t do whatever the fuck that is. 

Will laughs. “Oh, somewhere in your pile?” 

“Won’t be a pile for long,” Mike promises, raising an index finger. “This car’ll be spotless soon, I swear. Whenever I… get around to it.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“Actually, I think there’s a hoodie in the back,” he adds. “If you want.” 

“It’s okay, we’re almost there,” Will says. He watches raindrops race down the passenger window. Tries to banish the thought from his head of how badly he wants to wear Mike’s stupid hoodie. Stupid hoodie that sucks, probably. “Thanks, though.” 

“Yeah, for sure.” Mike signals off towards the cabin. “Hey, when’s your diner interview?” 

“Tomorrow,” Will says. “Ideally.” 

“What if you’re hungover?” 

“Hope I’m not.” 

“Maybe that’ll help your case,” Mike teases. “Feel like everyone at Humphrey’s always looks like they’re half-dead anyway.” 

Will glowers. “Be nice to my potential future coworkers.” 

“I will if I get free food.” 

“You’ll get free diner food when I get free ice cream.” 

“I literally give you free shit all the time,” Mike complains, and Will grins. He’s gone to see Max and Mike behind the counter at Scoops a handful of times since they got their jobs this summer—it’s kind of a sight, really. Both of them looking absolutely miserable in their blue uniforms. Not Will’s fault Mike is still cute in that ridiculous fucking sailor costume, though. God, he needs this summer to wrap up like, yesterday. Needs to be over it already. “When you get that job, I’m coming in for free breakfast like, everyday.”

“I’ll get fired,” Will mentions. “From the job I don’t have yet.”

“Yeah, and Brennan said I’d be walking the plank if I keep giving away ice cream.” 

“Walking the plank?” 

“Nautical term,” Mike says. “He means fired. Wouldn’t expect a layman such as yourself to understand.” 

“Geez, sorry, sailor.” Will rolls his eyes as they park outside the cabin. He gets a snicker out of Mike. Savors it a little bit. “Thanks for the ride.” 

“Yeah, course,” Mike says, drumming his fingertips against the steering wheel. “Hey, is everyone sleeping over tonight?” 

“I mean, yeah,” Will says. He gathers his towel and bag—digging through Mike’s stupid pile of stuff that sucks on the car floor. “I’d assume so.” 

“So, can I spend the night?” 

Will blinks at him. “Yeah?” 

“Cool.” Mike nods. “Cool. See you in a bit, then.” 

“Yeah, see you,” Will says, and hops out of Mike’s car. Warm rain dusts his hair, and he watches Mike depart onto the road. 

Okay. He’s—fine. That was normal. Full marks across the board for Will, straight A’s. 

“You’re going to scratch the floor all up.” 

“No—offense,” Dustin grits out, dragging a hefty tabletop in the kitchenette across the cabin, “but this place really can’t be saved. Not exactly the Taj Mahal.” He glances at El, who sits crosslegged on the table. “Be a lot easier if you weren’t sitting on it,” he sighs. “You know.” 

El swirls the solo cup in her hand. “It’s a lot funnier this way.” 

“Are we playing?” Max pokes her head around the corner. “Everyone’s waiting.” 

“Yeah, and nobody’s helping,” Dustin complains. “Is this table like, made of steel?” 

Will, half-listening, scans the sparse contents of their small white fridge. Dustin had managed a case of beer, a suspiciously bright bottle of vodka, and an already half-finished bottle of wine out of Steve. The bottles are all dotted with condensation. 

He said he wasn’t really going to drink. Doesn’t really do it that much anyway, outside of being social. Figures someone should probably be responsible. But Mike had shown up to the cabin two fucking hours early, his hair still wet from a shower sticking and curling around his face, new freckles already spackled all across his nose. Brought Will dinner. Followed him around the house, helped him tidy up. Was sweet and kind and Mike for two hours that flew by like two minutes. So Will takes the vodka out of the fridge, and looks for something not entirely horrible to mix it with. 

Lucas can be the responsible one. He always is, anyway. 

“Whatcha drinking?” Max is over Will’s shoulder immediately. 

“No idea,” Will says. “What’d you make?” 

Max glances at her cup. Shrugs. “I mixed all three.” 

“You—what?” 

“It’s not good.” 

“Yeah, I could’ve told you that.” Will takes a few red cans from the shelf and shuts the fridge. “We have Coke?” 

Max considers it. “Expired?” 

“Immensely.” The can hisses when Will cracks it open. He makes a—something. Pours the vodka about a third of the way up the cup, and washes the soda over it. 

“Do more,” Max says, grinning. 

Will squints at her. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” 

“Trying to get you to have fun,” Max says, poking his ribs. Will and El are just about the only two in the party that regularly elicit any sweetness from Max, which isn’t saying much, but Will takes it with pride. “You seem all like, worried.” 

Will frowns. “I’m not worried.” 

Max hums, unconvinced, and sips off the top of the cup. The plastic crinkles in her grip. “You still have any smokes?” 

Will strains. “Max.” 

“Okay, fine.” Eyebrow lift. “Later?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Will laughs. “Let’s watch Dustin drag this table.” 

Several son-of-a-bitches later, with no help from anyone else, the long wooden table makes it a few yards into the living room, positioned beneath a looming deer’s head on the wall. As the rain patters against the window, Lucas arranges cups on the table, forming a clump in the middle. 

“Who wants to make the King’s Cup?” 

Mike squints. Opens a beer bottle with his teeth. “What’s that?” 

“Don’t use your teeth on that, man.” 

Mike shrugs. “Didn’t have a bottle opener.” 

“I’m sure Jim Hopper has a bottle opener.” Lucas drums his hands on the table. “Guys, who’s making the cup?” 

“Well, what is it?” 

“Cup in the middle with a bunch of nasty shit in it.” 

El’s head shoots up. “Please let me.” 

“Okay, just don’t make it that bad,” Lucas calls as El heads towards the kitchen. “She’s gonna make it bad.” 

The couch cushion next to Will wheezes when Mike plops down. Will’s heart jumps. He ignores it. 

Will shifts aside, and Mike just—crowds. He always does this. Manages to take up so much space with his legs when he sits. His knee bumps against Will’s. “What’d you make?” 

Will crosses his ankles. “Coke and vodka.” Mike’s nose scrunches, and Will angles his cup towards the bottle in Mike’s hand. “Better than that.” 

“Probably,” Mike says. He tilts the beer. “Kinda tastes like bread, actually.” 

“Why do you drink them, then?” 

“Cause I like bread.” It’s not funny, but Will laughs anyway. “Are you gonna play?” 

“Wasn’t really listening to the rules,” Will admits. 

“Yeah, me neither,” Mike says. “We’ll figure it out.” 

Will is actually quite good at figuring it out. 

They circle around the table, bouncing ping-pong balls into cups and sliding them, stacking them on top of the other. Wherever El put in the center cup hisses like it’s alive. There’s not really a winner in this game, just one loser, whoever gets stranded with the last cup. Worth noting, however, that Will’s not—bad at it, at least compared to Mike and Dustin. El is remarkably good at this game, sinking the ping pong ball easily, but Lucas is the best at it. Probably why he picked it. 

Eventually, the center cup is assigned to Mike. He frowns. “What’s—in it?” 

“Drink it and find out,” Dustin says, smug. Probably just relieved it isn’t him. 

Mike looks at El. “What exactly did you put in this? Why’s it blue?” 

“Drink it and find out,” El repeats, eyebrows up. “And I knew you would get it, so I made it extra special.” 

“That literally doesn’t make me feel better at all,” Mike mutters, swirling the cup. It bubbles. 

“I know,” El says. “That is the point.” 

Mike grimaces. Gives the cup another glare, then eventually tosses it back. His eyes wrinkle shut, and Will watches his throat. A rivulet of blue escapes and runs down his neck. Coughs and sputters once it’s out. 

Will leans into El. “What did you put in that?” 

El just sips her own cup, shrugging. Her brown eyes gleam. 

“You picked the cabinet, didn’t you?” Will asks, grinning. “You totally did. You’re gonna get us both killed.” 

“It will be worth it,” El replies, lacing her arm around Will’s elbow. “I put everything in there.”

“Play again?” Lucas asks, eager.

“No.” Mike scrubs his fist over his mouth. “I hate this game. Pick a different one.” 

“Rerack,” Max says, and Mike rolls his eyes. “What? I wanna play again. Not my problem that you have to open tomorrow.” 

Mike blinks. “I’m opening? Since when?” 

“Read the schedule, dumbass.” 

“I did read the schedule.” 

“Clearly you didn’t—” 

“I’ll get the hose,” Dustin warns. “So shut it.” 

“You are empty.” El peers over Will’s cup. “Wanna pick Hop’s cabinet again?” 

Probably shouldn’t. Not Will’s fault El still has this pull to her, though. She’s convincing that way, powers or not. 

They wind up on the floor of the kitchen, and El unfastens the lock with one of her purple barrettes. For a moment, it’s so reminiscent of California that Will’s heart pangs. 

El fishes a white bottle from the back of the cabinet, dust clinging to its ceramic coating. “This is better.” 

“What is it?” 

“I don’t know.” El whispers, giddy like it’s a secret. She unscrews the cap—whatever’s inside is sharp. Coconut-like. She tilts it over their cups. “Will, are you okay?” 

Will frowns. Maybe he hasn’t been acting as normal as he’d thought. Wonderful. “Yeah. Why?” 

“You seem worried,” El says simply. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong. Stop listening to Max.” 

“Never,” El says, taking a sip. No mixer. Will’s eyebrows raise, vaguely impressed. “You know you can tell me stuff, right, Will?” 

Will nods. Almost says, I’m still painfully in love with my best friend, who is conveniently also your ex-boyfriend and it’s still kind of tense there! Are you going to hate me for it? Don’t answer that. Please. But hey, at least we’re moving very, very far away and will never have to deal with it again!

Instead asks, “Well, are you okay? With the move and everything?” 

“I think so,” El supposes. She runs her fingers through her hair. “Yeah, I think it’ll be okay. I just hope it’s not like Lenora was.” 

“No, I think it’ll be really good for us, this time. Plus, I know Mom’s like, literally thrilled that she gets you all to herself.”  

El beams. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. It’s only for a short time, too. You can go anywhere once you’re caught up on school.” 

“I think I’d want to move again,” El says. “Go somewhere else. Maybe by you?” 

Will smiles. “You can always be by me.” 

El tilts their cups together. “Cheer.” 

“It’s cheers,” Will tells her. “With an s.” 

El rolls her eyes fondly. “Oh, you are so annoying.” 

It’s interesting, how people’s personalities flower and shift when they’re drunk. 

Max gets loud. Dustin gets louder. Lucas gets affectionate, sappy. El finds everything funny when she drinks, and so does Will. 

When Mike drinks, he gets—clingy. 

They’re scattered around the living room floor, the game of flip cup having fallen by the wayside after another handful of rounds. Something skitters on the old record player. Will is leaning against the leg of the couch, holding his knees to his chest. He picks at a loose thread on the hem of his jean shorts, trying to think of literally anything other than how Mike is practically sewn to him right now. His side is pressed to Will’s, his arm across the couch cushions above them, behind Will’s head. It’s just how Mike is when he drinks. Very attached. Touchy. 

Max proposes playing another game. But the cabin’s air conditioning is pretty shit, and the humidity from the storm is seeping inside, so no one can be bothered to do more than sit on the floor and talk. 

Yeah, blame it on the circulation in the cabin. That’s why Will’s t-shirt is practically clinging to his back, not because Mike’s decided to drop his arm and run it limply around Will’s back. 

He’s not even looking. Mike’s head is angled at Lucas, knee-deep in bickering. The rims of his eyes are red, pupils huge. Arm around Will, practically leaning on him. 

Will takes a breath, and a swig of whatever science experiment El concocted in his plastic cup. It’s not that bad. He’s had four so far. Maybe five. 

“No, no, you guys have to come to San Fransisco first,” Max is saying. El’s head is in her lap; Max plays with her hair. See? Not weird when they do it. People get—touchy when they drink. It’s fine. “I’m not going to the East Coast until you all come see us.” 

Will sputters. “What? Why not? You have to come see me.” 

“I totally will, just after you guys come to California first,” Max drawls, spinning a hand. “I’ve been dying to go back, and I want you guys to see it. And since all of you assholes are going to the other side of the country, you need to come see us—” 

“If there’s more of us on the East Coast, wouldn’t it make more sense for you guys to come our way?” Dustin argues. “I hereby—” 

Lucas barks a laugh. “Don’t say hereby, you douche.” 

“I hereby vote Boston.” 

“Lazy ass. Course you’d want us to go to you.” 

“Boston’s objectively the coolest,” Dustin says. “Need I remind you whose college is the most prestigious?” 

“Hey, Dustin?” 

“Yes, Maxine?” 

“No one gives a shit about MIT.” 

“Fine, then don’t come crying to me when I make literal millions in robotics,” he huffs. “Be all like, oh, my god, Dustin, I’m sooo sorry I was mean to you when we were eighteen, oh my god—” 

El laughs. “Max does not talk like that.” 

“I feel like New York makes the most sense though, right?” Mike says. His cheek drops against Will’s scalp. Will thinks about dying. “Like, to go there.” 

“Course you’d say that,” Max murmurs. 

Mike’s eyebrows furrow. “So?” 

“We can do Montauk and the city,” El says, redirecting the conversation. “I told them to get a giant house on the beach. I don’t think the house will be giant, but the beach will be there.” 

“Yeah.” Will nods. That feels a bit better. They’ll still see each other, just in a different setting. “Let’s do Montauk. We can do like, summer at the beach or something.” 

“Summer?” Mike’s hold on Will’s back shifts to his waist. Steps and planning and signals that don’t exist run out of his head, and he lets himself pretend. Lets himself imagine this is one of those so-called signals, and that Mike really did want to put his arm around him, just then. 

Sheer, sheer delusion. Not a bad place to live in, for the night.  

“That’s like, a year away, isn’t it?” 

“Summer is a year away from now, yes,” Max deadpans. “Boygenius.” 

“Fuck you, you know what I meant.” 

“Wait, where are you going?” Dustin pipes up, looking at Mike. “Like, after this.” 

“To work tomorrow,” Mike says. 

“Ha, ha. Meant if you’re going to college or not, dick.” 

“Don’t know.” 

“Well, did you figure it out?” 

Will sits up a bit straighter, listening. Mike just shrugs. Takes a long, slow swig with his left hand, and keeps his right planted around Will’s side. 

“Well, either way, everyone’s coming to us, and that’s that,” Lucas decides, filling the silence. “I’ll drive us all around California in the ambulance.” 

El glances up, hopeful. “Is that allowed?” 

“I don’t think so,” Max assures her. “Could be, though.” 

Will chuckles. Starts to say, quietly, “Do you remember—” and a tiny, sober piece of himself hits the brakes, shuts it off. 

Mike leans down a bit so Will can speak into his ear. “What’d you say?”

“Was thinking about the van,” Will says. That spring break isn’t a memory his sober brain has ever once wanted to revisit. And god knows he’s never wanted to bring any part of that horrible, miserable trip up to Mike. Four days in the desert woven with memories and lies he’d rather never think of ever again. 

Will’s drunk brain, however: “When we were in California. Remember that?” 

“Oh, my god,” Mike whispers. Will can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Wait, do you ever think about that guy who literally got shot and died? Like, what the fuck—” 

“The hell are you two whispering about?” Dustin angles his beer accusingly at them. 

Mike looks up. “When me and Will buried a corpse in California.” 

Lucas’ jaw falls slack. “You what?” 

“Did we not tell you about that?” 

“Uh. No. Definitely didn’t mention that.” 

“There was a lot going on,” Will says, and finishes off the rest of his drink. “At the time. S’a really long story.” 

Max blinks, owlish. “Okay. Putting all your guys’ shit aside for later. Let’s do San Francisco in the fall. We could do October…” 

Mike drops lower once again, and the surrounding conversation falls into white noise. When he whispers, his mouth brushes Will’s ear, like it’s some sort of secret. His fingertips graze the divots of Will’s ribcage. “They can all go to California. I wanna go see you.” 

Will counts the dots of brown liquid beading on the bottom of his cup. Nods. Exchanges his solo cup for the half-full bottle dripping a ring around the hardwood floor. Tries to think of steps. Downs Mike’s stupid beer that sucks. 

It’s around three in the morning when things start to dwindle. 

The storm beats on outside. The lights have been shut off. Most of the party have gone quiet, laying across the floor, transfixed by a horror movie of Will’s selection. One by one, they fight off sleep, blinking in and out of weary states of inebriation. By this point, Will’s vision is distorting and spinning like he’s facedown in a whirlpool. 

The movie blares on, and Will doesn’t watch. 

He is frozen, glued to the floor. 

Half slumped against the couch and half leaning on Will’s arm, Mike sleeps with his cheek on Will’s shoulder. In the blue light of the movie, Will can make out his frown, can count the creases in Mike’s forehead. One black piece of hair has fallen out of place, landing between his eyebrows. Will fights the urge to reach over and fix it. 

Not sure when Mike fell asleep. They’d made it through all the alcohol Steve gave them and then some, talked visiting, gossiped, blared music. At one point, Lucas once again pressed if Mike’s going to school in the fall after all, and Mike shrugged it off. Changed the subject. Then somehow pressed against Will and passed out. 

Lucas eyes them. “You stuck?” 

Will shrugs. The movement shifts Mike upright. He grumbles, then resets, nuzzling his cheek right back into place. 

It’s sweet. Will can’t feel his fucking arm, though. 

Lucas laughs. “Want me to move him?”  

That’d probably be smart. 

“I feel bad,” Will whispers. “He’s tired.” 

From the recliner, Max snorts. “Think I’ve only felt bad for Mike Wheeler maybe twice in my life. Wake his ass up.” 

Will shuffles against the couch. Thinks about patting Mike’s cheek to wake him up, but that feels insane. Settles for a tap to his arm. Sure. 

Mike’s eyelids flutter without opening. Mumbles, “What?” 

“Stop holding Will hostage and go to sleep,” Lucas instructs. “Up on the couch, buddy.” 

Mike lifts his head, and Will’s shoulder feels the absence immediately. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. Mike’s low voice when he wakes up always makes Will want to drown himself. “What time’s it?” 

Will smiles at him. “Late.” 

“M’kay.” Mike throws an arm out to the couch cushion, and clumsily climbs on top of it, burying his face into the cushions. “Night.” 

“He’s gonna be hungover as shit tomorrow,” Dustin slurs. 

“Says you,” Max points out, snickering. 

“Oh, my god,” El runs a hand through her hair, like she’s just come across a revelation. “We have to go to Scoops tomorrow.” 

“There is literally no way he’s gonna open the store on time.” 

The lump on the couch objects, “M’gonna open the store.” 

Lucas laughs. “Night, night, Michael.” 

Dustin stretches his arms. Knocks over an empty bottle. “Hop still have anything left?” 

“You’re gonna get us grounded for the rest of the summer,” Will mutters. He shuts his eyes, which makes the spinning worse. But the alternative is continuing to watch Mike sleep, so he keeps it dark for a while longer. He should sober up. Probably. Whatever. “We’re screwed.” 

“We will replace it,” El assures him. Giggles. 

“Uh huh.” 

Somewhere down the line, everything finally fades into quiet. The movie’s credits roll, and only Will catches the ending. Dustin snores like a chainsaw. 

Will’s not tired. His hands fidget. A warm, wonderful buzz is still searing through his brain, though, and directs him towards a flannel hanging on his bedroom door. Well. Everyone’s asleep. Could always apologize to Max later. 

He tiptoes over the sleeping bodies on the floor, takes the flannel off the doorknob, and shrugs it on. A carton rattles in the front pocket. 

Horrible habit. Goal #4: Quit before college. 

Will winces when the screen door creaks open. He scans his friends, fearful to disturb them. No such movement. Will dips outside. 

The rain’s gotten worse. It’s drowning the gravel, creating tiny lakes in the tire treads. The trees whip against each other. It’s so dark, over here on the edge of town. 

Will eyes the forest. 

No, no. Decides not to let that eat at him, at least not right now. 

He sits on the steps, fishing that white carton out of his pocket. Don’t worry, he already knows.

Will pinches a slim white stick from the box. It’s so much harder drunk. His fingers are clumsy, slippery against the lighter. Finally succeeds in getting an orange spark, and touches it to the end of the cigarette. Takes a slow drag. 

Okay, so, if cigarettes are so horrible for you, explain why they feel so good. 

Scratch that. Will’s not an idiot. But he’ll probably die at like, forty from whatever fumes and slimes he’d ingested in the Upside Down anyways, so. And he’ll quit this before college. 

Smoke clouds Will’s vision. He watches the storm rifle through the trees. Can still feel the phantom warmth of Mike’s cheek pressed to his arm. 

There’s a lot of things Will needs to quit before college, actually. 

Someone rustles inside. Will smokes again, and flicks ash at the steps. 

The screen door rattles open, and Will knows it’s Mike. Doesn’t have to turn around. It’s something about the sound of his footsteps. 

“Look who died and came back to life,” Will says. 

The quietest huff of a laugh. “Yeah, kinda stole your whole thing.” 

Will glances behind him. Mike sways in the doorway, the post supporting his shoulder. Slouched and fidgeting with his hands under the sleeves of a sweatshirt he hadn’t been wearing earlier. Will recognizes it, though, it’s an old favorite of Mike’s that he’s latched to since he was twelve, when the blue hem used to hang past his knees. 

“Wanna sit?” Will scoots aside. 

“It’s raining,” Mike says. “Woke up and was—so confused where you went. Come back inside?” 

Will shuts one eye, trying to focus his blurry vision. He lifts the cigarette again. “Yeah, lemme finish this first.” 

Mike joins him on the edge of the porch anyway, and the old, rotting wood wheezes in protest under his added weight. His elbow clumsily knocks against Will’s. 

“Can I try that?” Mike asks, staring at the cigarette. Sleep and the humidity have run his hair wild, curls sticking up every which way. 

“You want to?” Will blows smoke at his shoes, somewhat surprised. 

He’s tried to keep the—he’s hesitant to call it a habit, since it’d be an expensive one, but he’s been slowly chipping away at a half-full pack Joyce trusted Will to hide or throw away on her road to quitting, so, sure—this habit out of sight for the better half of the past month. 

El knows, she tried it herself and hated it. Max knows, she smokes like a chimney. Lucas refuses to fry up his lungs, and Will knows Dustin’s tried it a couple of times. Mike had smelled it on Will, once, and just sort of blinked, confused. Will hadn’t offered him one, or brought it up again. 

Mike shrugs. “Already kinda drunk. Never tried it before.”

Will laughs. “Oh, kinda?” 

“Well, can I?”

“Yeah, you want your own?” Will cards his hand over the flimsy pack in his shirt pocket. 

“No,” comes Mike’s belated answer. “Can I just try yours?” 

But not yes, because your mouth has been on it, which is such a ridiculously fucking trivial thing to note, but Will’s mind goes there anyway. Blame it on alcohol, blame it on nicotine, or blame it on Will’s stupid, stupid heart that swirls with much more potent chemicals than whatever he’d just inhaled. 

“Yeah.” Will dangles his hand out. “Here.” 

Mike plucks the cigarette up from where it’s nestled between Will’s middle and index finger, and examines it through narrow eyes. He’s holding it wrong. Pinching it too tightly with his thumb rather than slotting it between his fingers. 

Nearly everything he does endears Will. 

It’s fucking exhausting. 

“You bought these?” 

Will doesn’t mention that the cigarette’ll just burn away if he keeps talking, and watches its white end wither away with ashes, some flitting in the wind. He shakes his head. “From my mom.” 

A slight eyebrow raise. “Wait, your mom gives you these?” 

“No,” Will chuckles. Oh god, Joyce would kill him. Legitimately. “Meant they’re hers, but I took them from her so she’d quit.” 

“But you haven’t quit?”

“I barely started.” 

“I see.” Eventually, Mike brings the lit cigarette to his mouth, inhaling sharply. A blush forms on his cheeks. 

Mike coughs immediately. Hacks, really. It’s violent. Will tries not to laugh. A cloud of gray smoke curls out of Mike’s mouth and nose. 

“Oh my god, that’s—that’s disgusting.” Mike runs his tongue against his teeth, and jerks the cigarette back towards Will. “Take that away from me. Dude, that’s awful.”

Will plucks it from his hand. “Yeah, I know.” 

Mike grimaces. “Why do people even do that?”

“Don’t know.” Will takes another drag. The lit end glows a brighter shade of orange. “Guessing you don’t want more?”

“God, no. You—you like those?”

Will shrugs. Then, voice thick with smoke, “M’gonna quit before college, though.” 

“What, do they not smoke in New York?” 

“They probably do, I just don’t wanna make it a—” Will hiccups, “a habit.” 

“Gotcha,” Mike says. A tiny smile flickers over his mouth. “I’m sure all those artsy kids in the city totally chainsmoke, though.” 

Will chuckles. “Maybe.” He sticks the cigarette back between his teeth as memories from the night flip through his muddled thoughts like a book. “Hey, you never said if you figured it out yet.” 

“Figured what out?” 

“Where you’re going to college.” 

“Oh.” 

“Well, did you?” 

Mike’s tongue touches his upper lip as he thinks. Eventually lands on: “Nope.” 

“S’okay,” Will says through another smoke. “You still have time, even if you don’t wanna go to Iowa. I know you don’t wanna stay here.” 

“Kinda wish we’d all just stay here,” Mike mumbles. “To be honest.” 

Will blinks. Mike’s been insane before, but that’s likely the craziest sentence he’d ever uttered. “What? Why?” 

Mike’s sentimental side bleeds when he drinks. 

“Dunno. Don’t want us all to be gone. Like, everyone moves away, and everyone gets busy, and then we never see each other again. And it’s like, we all just grow apart. Makes me—sad.” 

“Don’t be sad,” Will says. He studies Mike’s expression. Quiet and vulnerable, eyes shiny. He’s seen a thousand different Mikes in the thirteen years they’ve known each other: he’s seen happy and dorky, mean and biting, tired, sick, hopeful, tender, annoyed, gentle. This one is always the worst face Mike wears, though. It’s the most honest. “We’ll always see each other.” 

“Doubtful.” 

The cigarette runs hot in Will’s fingers. He frowns. “Well, why wouldn’t we?” 

“Cause seeing people is hard, ’specially when everyone’s—all across the country and stuff. It sucks.” 

“That’s not true,” Will says. “Jonathan sees Robin and them literally all the time. We also literally just planned a whole bunch of trips to go see everybody. Remember? And like, you guys have to come back here for the holidays and stuff, anyway.” 

“But you don’t,” Mike says. He angles his head, dropping his cheek to his knees. “You’re gonna be in New York all the time, and I’ll only see you like, once a year, at best.” 

Will hesitates. “I could still come back, though.”

Mike knows him too well. “Yeah, but you don’t want to.”

In lieu of an answer, Will smokes the last of the cigarette as it dwindles down into a stub. He dashes it against the wood, hoping it’ll blend in with the rest of the butts Hopper’s scattered across the porch. 

“But that’s like, that’s totally fair, though,” Mike continues. “Like, I don’t blame you, really, for wanting to leave. Cause like, it was fucked up.”

“What was fucked up?”

“Everything. It was fucked up for you.” 

“Wow,” Will chuckles. “Eloquent.” 

“Sorry.” Mike’s eyelashes bat to attention, flicking rapidly. “No idea why I just brought it up.” 

“Don’t be sorry. S’okay.” Will nudges his shoulder against Mike’s. “I think it was fucked up for everybody, though.” 

Mike sways a bit as their arms brush again. “I guess. But is it—is it weird that I don’t know what to do anymore? Like, now that everything’s un-fucked up. I feel like I have no idea what to do anymore.” 

Will’s eyebrows furrow. “Do you want things to be fucked up?” 

“No.” A slow shake of Mike’s head follows. “God, no. Never. Sorry, that was like—probably a shitty thing for me to say.” 

“No, I get it. Kind of feel like I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop, sometimes.” 

“Same.” A quiet sigh. “I still get so—worried. Sometimes.”

Welcome to the club. “Yeah.”

“Sorry,” Mike says. “I’m being weird.” 

“You’re always weird.” 

That earns a smile. Will mirrors it. 

“True.” Mike leans back on his palms. His arm runs diagonal against Will’s back, and his hand lands on the space of porch just next to where Will sits. “I am like, genuinely glad, though. That you’re going.” 

“You are?”  

“Totally.” Mike’s looking at the ceiling, studying each rivet of the wooden planks above them. The rain beats against it like a snare drum. “Think you’ll have fun.”

Will smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mike nods. “Also think I’d literally kill you if you stayed here forever.” 

Huh. Will squints. “Oh, so you want everyone to stay here except me?” 

“Not what I meant,” Mike slurs. He’s still smiling, although it doesn’t quite match his eyes. “Like, yeah, I’d literally love it if you stayed with me, but I know you don’t want to. Plus, like, you can’t do all your shit here.” 

“My shit?” 

“Yeah. They just wouldn’t get it. All the people here. They wouldn’t get you.” 

Will laughs, bewildered. “Get what? Being gay?” 

Mike drops his chin down. “Was talking about art, Will.” 

“Oh.” Will shudders a laugh, face warming. “To be fair, I can’t really do either of those here, so I wasn’t that far off.” 

“But you can do both in New York?” 

“Think I’ll be just as gay in New York as I am in Hawkins, Mike.” Will hopes to get a reaction and success: he can just make out the tips of Mike’s ears running pink even in the moonlight. He grins. “But yeah, that’s the goal. With the art, I mean.” 

“Will you still draw me stuff, even when you’re gone?” 

A pit forms in his stomach—lingering, phantom humiliation from a painting he knows is hung on Mike’s bedroom wall as they speak. Can’t bring up that California spring break twice in one night, despite it always sticking to the recesses of his mind like chewed up gum beneath a table. Will’s throat runs dry. “Yeah. Course.” 

“Good.” Mike seems to take it to heart. “I miss when you’d make me stuff.” 

Distantly, thunder grumbles. Will’s vision spins. 

Mike adds, “Miss you a lot, actually.”  

“I see you literally every day,” Will points out. 

“I know, but it’s not the same.”

“It’s not?”

“Not really. Did you know I—” Mike pauses. “Did you know I got so used to you living in my house that I looked for you a couple times? Like, after you’d already moved over here.” 

“You looked for me?” 

“Yeah. Kinda stupid. Went down to the basement one morning, after everything, to see if you were up yet. And like, all your stuff was gone. Don’t know how I forgot. Guess I made a habit out of it, or something.”

Will aches. 

“I just liked having you there,” Mike adds. “Got used to it.” 

“And I liked living there,” Will says. “Even though that time kinda sucked. With everything else going on.” 

“You made it good, though.” 

Will dashes white flecks of ash onto the ground. “Did I?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. A lazy smile melts across his face. “It’s what you do. You make things good.” 

Will doesn’t know if that’s true. “Glad you think that.” 

“I do.”

“I’m excited for you to come visit me,” Will says after a moment, still relishing in that tiny, tiny promise spoken in the cabin, hours ago. “And also, like, if you still haven’t figured it out by fall, you could see if you’d like the city. Lots of schools there.” 

“Yeah,” Mike supposes. “Yeah, I’d like that. But only—only if you’re not busy, though. Cause like, you’ll probably have a whole different group of friends by then, and be busy like, hosting art galleries and shit.” 

Will snorts. “No, I won’t. I told you I wouldn’t join another party.” 

“You could, though. And by then, you could have a new best friend, who’s all like, artsy and cool, and you won’t even need me anymore. A new best friend who smokes.” 

Will pretends to consider it. “What, without throwing up?” 

Mike’s eyebrows crease, offended. “I didn’t throw up.” 

“Kinda looked like you were going to,” Will teases. He hugs his knees to his chest, watching the rain. “And you’re always gonna be my best friend, Mike,” he adds, voice soft. “So don’t say that.” 

Mike says nothing, but draws a bit closer. Will knows it can’t be his imagination, because the front of Mike’s shoulder nudges the blades of Will’s back.

He’s a touchy kind of drunk. Clingy. Will’s heart slams, regardless. 

“Should we go back in?” Will asks. 

“In a bit,” Mike replies. “Kinda like it out here. Storm’s cool.” 

“M’kay.” Will blinks with intention, hoisting his heavy eyelids upright. “You should go, though.” 

Mike glances down at him. “What, back inside?” 

“No.” Will frowns. “To college. If you wanna go to Iowa, you should go. You could go literally anywhere you want, too, if you don't wanna go there.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mike says. “Guess I just don’t want everything to change.” 

“Nothing’s gonna change,” Will insists. “If anything, things’ll just get better, I feel like. You could get some freedom, move to a town with more than four people. Could write your book. Could meet someone.” 

“Meet someone?” 

Will shrugs. The movement is nothing but a painful reminder of how close Mike is to him. “Yeah.” 

Mike jerks his chin upward in a nod, expression unreadable. “Are you gonna meet someone in New York, then?” 

“That’s part of the goal, yeah.” 

“See?” Mike says. “You won’t need me at all.” 

Will’s molars grind against the skin of his cheek, hard enough to bleed. “That’s—different. Told you, you’re always gonna be my best friend. I’m always gonna need you.” 

“You will?” Mike’s voice is thick, sleepy. Reminds Will of a younger, blustering boy who’d incessantly sleeptalk. Mike’s mumblings of gibberish used to be an endless giggle button when they were kids—tell me, tell me again what I was saying, he would ask through fits of bubbling laughter in the mornings, and Will would go into his best impression of Mike’s squeaky voice, rehashing his middle-of-the-night word salads. 

Nostalgia might genuinely kill Will, one of these days. 

Isn’t being drunk kind of like sleeptalking, anyway? Saying anything under the veil of being half-lucid? Wouldn’t this sort of be the same situation, tomorrow, where neither of them remember what they’d said, and they have to puzzle it together the way they used to? 

Maybe it’s for the best if they don’t remember this conversation at all. But Will’s already dissecting, picking everything apart in his head in a way that warns him all of this will be seared to memory, alongside a rotten headache in the morning. 

“Yeah,” he answers, taking a glance at Mike. “Always.” 

“So, even if you have like, a cool artsy boyfriend in New York, you’ll still have time for me?” 

Will goes quiet. He could mention how he felt when he was thirteen and Mike’s entire world revolved around his girlfriend. Could mention the last time they were under the rain, the same way they are now. Could mention a lot of things about Mike and his time. His attention. 

Something bitter rises in Will’s chest.  

He pushes it down. 

That wouldn’t be fair. 

“Not sure if I’ll get a cool artsy boyfriend, Mike,” Will says dryly. “At least not right away. Probably gonna focus on school and like, being able to afford to live out there. So expensive.” 

“No, you’re gonna be great,” Mike says. “And I’ll like, beat him up.” 

Will furrows his eyebrows. God, they’re drunk. 

“Who?”

“The artsy New York guy.” 

“You’re gonna beat up my hypothetical college boyfriend who doesn’t exist?” 

“Beat him up when he ends up existing, yeah.” 

Will laughs. “Why are you beating people up?” He’s uncertain if he’s ever seen Mike in a fistfight, or seen him win one, either way. 

Mike’s eyebrows raise. “Don’t know, why are you dating people I have to beat up?” 

“I’m not dating people. You’re just insane. I’d never beat up your hypothetical college girlfriend.” 

“She doesn’t exist,” Mike says. 

Christ. 

“But I’m sure she’s very nice,” Will says. Lying through his teeth just for the hell of it. “So leave my hypothetical college boyfriend alone.” 

“I will,” Mike says. “For now.” 

Will rolls his eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.” 

“Why not?” 

“Cause I have no idea how to do any of that,” Will says. Drinking makes Mike sentimental. It makes Will far too honest. “It’s, like, scary.” 

“It’s scary?” 

“Yeah,” Will answers. His palms grow sweaty against his knees. “Makes me scared, kinda. Never done any of that stuff.” 

Mike’s voice is still soft when he goes in for the killshot. Kisses his knuckles before he punches Will in the face. Doesn’t even know how brutal it is when he asks, voice gentle, “You’ve never kissed anyone before?” 

Will’s stomach drops like a broken elevator, nauseous. 

“No.” The word passes through his mouth involuntarily.

Mike frowns, surprised. “You’ve really never?” 

“No,” Will mumbles. He can feel Mike’s expectant stare hone in on him like a sniper rifle. “You already knew that, Mike. Come on.”

“Well, I dunno. Thought maybe you had before, in California, or something.” 

Will attempts a laugh, but a hollow sound takes its place, desperately trying to portray itself as amused. “No, nothing happened in Lenora. I barely—I didn’t even talk to anyone there.” 

“Is that why you’re scared, then?” Mike prods. Casual, as if they’re discussing the weather. As if Will’s heart hasn’t leaped to his throat. 

Why even lie? 

Mike always finds a way to make Will weak. That’s what Henry used to say, anyway. 

“Yeah,” Will tells him. “That’s probably why.” 

“It’s really not that scary,” Mike says. “It’s actually—it’s kinda easy.” 

Will’s stomach turns sour. “Yeah, for you.” 

“Why’s it easy for me?”

“I mean, you can go out and kiss a girl, or make a move or whatever, and it’s like, it’s normal. But if I even look at a guy wrong, I could end up getting like, I dunno. Shot or something. It’s just—” 

“Different?” Mike finishes Will’s trailed off thought, voice small. 

“Yeah.” Will runs his palms down his shins. “Different. Guess that’s why I’m scared. Don’t exactly have the opportunity not to be.” 

A heavy silence drapes over them like a blanket. 

Will thinks about lighting another cigarette, but decides against it. Somewhere, there’s a silent crack of lightning that stripes white across the dark blue sky. 

“Wouldn’t be scary with me, though.” 

Will lifts his head, blinking through his blurred line of sight. “What?” 

Mike stares back. Another streak of lightning is reflected in his dark, blown-out eyes, and his expression is the most earnest and open Will’s ever seen on him. It’s terrifying. 

“I just meant, I could show you. Kissing. Like, if you wanted to try it before you go to college.” 

Will runs a hand through his hair. Hopes the next lightning strike burns this cabin to the ground. Manages a weak laugh as his reply. 

“Sorry,” Mike flusters, blinking. “You don’t—you don’t have to. I’m just saying, you know, it wouldn’t be scary, cause it’s just me. Like, I wouldn’t do anything, or get mad at you for it. It’d just be like, practice.” 

This isn’t happening. Simply can’t be. Will’s going to wake up in a few minutes, tucked in bed with a stomach full of shame, he’s sure of it. 

He echoes, “Practice?” 

“Yeah, practice. That way, you won’t be scared when you kiss a guy you actually like. In college. In New York. You’d see that it’s not really that scary, and then you can go off to college and meet someone, or whatever.” 

Each word is an effort as Will pushes them out, like he needs to prove to himself that he’s really here, that this isn’t all made up inside of his broken head. 

“What, you want to kiss me?” 

Mike just—shrugs. Like it’s nothing. What the fuck. “I mean, yeah. I would. It’s really not that big a deal. Wouldn’t count, or be weird or anything, it’s just practice.” 

Absolutely not. Massive, bright red X. Nope, no thank you. 

That’d be backsliding. 

Completely backsliding on all the progress Will’s tried to carve out for himself since—ever. Since that horrible afternoon in the rain when he’d realized he loves Mike more than anything, since pressing his forehead to the glass of a van window, and since looking at Mike, in the afternoon light of that awful fucking radio station, waving the white flag and surrendering at last. 

This would be clawing his way to the water’s surface just to swan dive to the bottom of the lake again, strapping an anvil to his chest for good measure. 

There’s no way Will could learn that Mike’s lips taste like and just—go on about the rest of his life. Not a chance. Not when their friendship has finally been rebuilt to everything Will’s wanted it to be. 

It’d ruin him. Ruin them. Annihilate Will. 

Mike said it himself. Said it wouldn’t even count. It’d mean nothing to Mike, and everything to Will. 

Well. 

Within the buzzing of Will’s vodka-soaked, sedated brain, he thinks about it. And said vodka-soaked, sedated brain relinquishes all control to his stupid, stupid heart. 

Why not? 

The thought nudges. Don’t die wondering. 

Will’s wondered almost his entire life. 

Will used to delude himself, when he was younger, with thoughts of how it would feel to hold Mike’s jaw in his palm, to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. He’d imagine all sorts of silly things, like how he would play with Mike’s hair if his hands ever found themselves close enough, or how he’d cradle Mike’s beautiful face between his hands. 

When he got a bit older, Will thought about what it might be like to kiss Mike’s neck. To touch his tongue to his.

Most pressingly, Will wants to date Mike more than anything, but has long since given up on that ever happening. 

Will’s wanted this for so long that it doesn’t even feel real anymore. 

Isn’t that all the more reason to just do it? 

In his brain, there’s one rational, sober Will left, currently defenseless in a coup-d’etat thrown by only the most lovesick, idiotic, reasonless, and hopeful versions of himself. 

Well. Listen, actually. What if this is like, the key to getting over it? What if he kisses Mike, and ticks it off his checklist, doesn't die wondering, and then is able to fully, one-hundred percent, completely move on? Find someone in college who picks up on the signals Will puts out, find someone who is easier to understand, someone who he doesn’t have thirteen years of extremely complicated history with? 

That’s, like, reverse psychology, Will’s pretty sure. Or exposure therapy. One of those things. 

So, why shouldn’t he just—?

Mike breaks the silence first, with a nervous tiff of a laugh. Small and breathy. “Can you—can you just say something? My feelings aren’t gonna be hurt if you don’t want that. Like, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. Just, uh. Say something?”

There’s no universe where Will doesn’t want. 

“We’re drunk,” Will says, pensive. Testing the waters. 

Mike doesn’t debate that fact. “Heard that makes it better.” 

There’s a very good reason why the brain controls the body, not the heart. 

Will ignores it. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Yeah.” Will’s voice cracks. He prays Mike doesn’t notice. “Okay as in, I’d do it. For practice.” 

Stars crowd in Mike’s eyes. “Practice, yeah.” 

For a beat, neither of them move. The rain keeps singing, running in rivulets down the porch awning. 

Mike asks, “So, like, right now?” 

Will flushes. “I mean, yeah?” 

“Right, yeah.” Mike nods, blinking. “Okay, yeah. It’s, uh. It’s really easy. So, you want to—get closer.” 

Mike’s arm curls around the small of his back, finding the same spot it rested against in the living room just hours ago. Will’s heartrate grinds to a halt, and his spine shoots up, rigid. 

He must’ve shown it on his face, because a tiny laugh escapes Mike. It’s painfully familiar. “You can get closer. I’m not like—I’m not gonna bite you, Will.” 

Will exhales a chuckle of his own in return. “Promise?” 

“Maybe.” Mike’s fingertips tap against his ribcage, Will drops his knees from his chest, stretching them onto the steps. Rain patters the tips of his converse. He lets Mike draw him in until their outer thighs touch. 

Will’s hands are balled under his sleeves, shaking. He fidgets with an old hangnail on his thumb. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

Is he supposed to do something with them? 

Don’t think about that. 

Will’s nail digs into the skin of his thumb until it stings. Blood dots his fingertip, and his heart hammers so loudly and desperately that Mike must be able to hear it. 

“Stop picking at your skin,” Mike mumbles. He clumsily grasps Will’s wrist, separating his hands. “You don’t have to like, freak out. It’s just me.” 

Yeah, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? 

Will wants to scream. 

“Sorry,” Will says, voice thick. “Didn’t know where to put my hands.” 

“Oh,” Mike says. A beat passes. “You can put them anywhere you want, really.” 

Another roll of thunder grumbles closer, briefly besting Will’s own frantic heartbeat in volume. 

“You can like, touch my face or my hair, if you want,” Mike says. “Hold my neck. Stuff like that. Or you can punch me in the stomach, if it’s bad.” 

“Can I do this?” Will curls his hand around Mike’s, lacing their fingers together. That seems like the safest option. The most normal. The least intimate. 

It’s not like they’ve never held hands before. 

Push it aside. Don’t think about it. 

“Yeah.” Mike gives his hand a squeeze. “Yeah, that’s good.”

For a moment, they just sit on the porch, hands intertwined. 

Will watches the rain. Mike watches Will. 

“And, um. You’d look at me.”

Will’s eyes flit to Mike’s mouth, chapped and thin. He doesn’t need light to know where the cracks in his lips lie. Mike has his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, though, worrying it back and forth. Old anxious tick of his. 

Is he supposed to look Mike in the eyes for this?

Oddly enough, that’s what makes Will want to bolt the most.  

“Like, look up,” Mike says. “At me.” 

Will wrenches his gaze upward, and Mike’s expression shifts into a focus Will’s never seen before, like he’s studying. Like Will’s one of those books Mike loses himself in, dog-eared pages, hastily scribbled annotations and all. 

For a moment, Will sees that same Mike from that afternoon at the lake, all those years ago. That same Mike who kept him safe, held him, helped him swim, wouldn’t let him drown. 

He’s tempted to compare the two. They’re strikingly similar in their expressions, right now. 

Will’s also tempted to suspect that this Mike is going to fucking waterboard him rather than hold him above water. 

It’s impossible not to trust Mike, though, even when Will knows his heart can’t take it. 

“Yeah, so, when you’re actually doing it, you wanna, like—” Mike slowly lifts his free hand, and cups it around Will’s jaw. His palm is cold on Will’s warm cheek, and he has to imagine the color of his own complexion matches the temperature in hue. “You’re supposed to hold the other person. Like this.” 

Will allows his face to slump a fraction of an inch further into Mike’s open hand. Plenty of time to be mortified tomorrow. 

Fuck it. He’s always wanted to be held like that. 

Doesn’t matter if it’s real or not. 

“Yeah.” Mike clears his throat. “So, um, when I’m going in, do you want me to like, do a countdown, or—?” 

Will blinks. “You’re gonna do a countdown?” 

“Well, I don’t know. Should I?” 

Will giggles. It’s surprisingly easy, despite being riddled with nerves. “What is this, New Years?” 

Mike splits into a hesitant smile. “Shut up. I’m trying to make it good.” 

Will makes a futile attempt at confidence. He can do that. He can still be brave, can’t he? 

He swallows. “Make it good, then.” 

“Okay.” It’s hardly a whisper, yet Will’s heartrate slams into a higher gear, louder and faster. 

Can Mike hear it, too? Can he hear the obvious and blatant thrumming of Will’s heart, tapping in tune with the rain?

He has to, right? 

He has to already know. Has to already know much he means to Will. 

Mike’s voice is soft. “Close your eyes.” 

Will obliges. The porch goes dark. 

Mike’s lips press to Will’s, and his mind fizzles into a happy nothingness. 

It’s a weird feeling. Very—wet. But definitely not a sensation Will couldn’t get used to, certainly not, as much as he knows he shouldn’t. God, he tastes like that terrible beer, and the smoke is still lingering in the skin of Mike’s lips, but under all the fog, it’s still irrevocably him. Mike tastes like how he smells. Clean and homey and familiar. Will doesn’t know how he’s going to just go on with his life now that he knows that. He can feel Mike’s eyelashes sweep against his cheek. 

Will melts. 

This is going to ruin him forever. 

It’s kind of like talking, kissing. It’s like a one-sided conversation without words. Mike’s lips are moving, parting and shutting against Will’s petrified mouth. His teeth meet Will’s upper lip. Smiling. 

So, Will talks back. Tries to imitate the motions of Mike’s lips with his own, and as a reply, Mike’s thumb brushes the hollow spot beneath Will’s cheekbone. 

Mike kisses him, and Will lets him. More than lets him. Tilts his head to the side to deepen it, paying close attention to the way Mike’s hand grasps onto his while the other cradles his face. Pays attention to the small, pleased sound Mike hums out, and pushes his own down before it can escape.

Mike breaks it first, breathing unevenly. Their foreheads meet, and while his left hand drops from Will’s face, the one between them clings firmly to Will’s hand. 

The rain picks up speed, falling sideways and dusting their arms. 

Will’s eyes peel open. They land on Mike, still wearing that smile Will felt against his mouth just a second ago, the one that makes his stomach run somersaults. 

Will swallows the lump that immediately greets his throat. Manages through a breath, “So, that’s it?” 

Mike’s laughter is warm against Will’s cheek. “You lied.”

“I—” Will frowns, taken aback. “About what?”

“You’ve definitely done that before.” 

Will tries to figure out whether to be offended or not. His face heats. “Wha—no. Why would I lie about that?” 

“Don’t know,” Mike murmurs. “You’re just… really good at it.”

Will has no fucking clue how to even respond to that. 

Step 2? Don’t read into anything? 

Will has to wonder if the steps are still in place, or if they accounted for the fact that he’d just allowed Mike to kiss him on the mouth in the middle of the night, drunk. 

Not accounted for. No steps in place. 

Mike leans back on a palm, putting a bit of distance between their faces. His chest is slightly heaving beneath his sweatshirt. 

Their hands still hang onto each other. 

“So?” 

Will glances at him. His vision slants. “So?” 

Mike shrugs. “Like, what’d you think?” 

“What, you want me to tell you how you did?”  

A grin. Mike’s thumb draws circles around Will’s wrist. “Definitely wouldn’t mind feedback. But I meant more like, if you still thought it was scary.” 

Lying to Mike has almost always been impossible for Will. 

This is an exception to the rule. 

“No,” Will says. “Wasn’t scary.” 

“See?” The storm’s rumbling nearly drowns out the sound of Mike’s voice. “Told you. It’s easy.” 

Will feels like vomiting. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Easy.”

“Pretty much all there is to it, for the most part.” 

“Most part,” Will echoes, unthinking. 

“I mean. People do more than that.” 

Will’s eyes roll. “I know that, Mike. I’m not oblivious.” 

“Could show you more, if you wanted to.” 

“Would that—” Will wets his lips. Swipes the last traces of Mike on his mouth away with his tongue. “Would that make things weird? With us?” 

Mike shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed. “What? No. Why would it?” 

“Don’t know.” Will’s voice wavers. “Just checking.” 

“You wanna do more?” 

Wherever that sober version of Will is, he’s long dead and buried. Rest in peace. 

Will nods. A slight headrush follows. “Yeah, I would.” 

“Okay,” Mike breathes. Their hands break contact, and Will becomes suddenly all too aware of just how sweaty his palms are. Resisting the urge to fidget, he watches Mike move—with the grace of a fawn learning to walk, he hoists himself up to his knees, wobbling a little. “Scoot back.” 

Will blinks. “Scoot?”

“Yeah, scoot.”

Will shuffles backward, his palms sliding against the splintery porch until his back meets one of the posts near the cabin’s door. The wood rattles. He allows himself no room to think, operating on auto pilot. Mike approaches him, knees bent and sitting on his shoes. 

Through multiple leaks in the roof, rain continues to mist Mike’s hair. One drop swells and runs down his temple. He crowds Will against the post, and Mike’s stare cuts patterns across his face. 

“Basically the same thing, just a little bit more.” Mike’s hand snakes up his shoulder, returning to its former place on his jaw. “So, um, do you want me to—?” 

“Don’t do a countdown.” 

Mike breathes out a laugh. The air brushes Will’s chin. “Don’t make fun of me when I’m about to put my tongue in your mouth.” 

Will blinks. Wordsmith over here. Isn’t Mike supposed to be a writer? “Is that what you’re doing?” 

“Gonna try,” Mike says with a shrug. “Unless you wanna save that for your college guys.” 

Will’s heart flips. 

Maybe, if he’d had two more drinks tonight, Will would mention that he’d save everything for Mike.

“I’d try it.” 

“You’re sure? You can say no.” 

Please don’t make me actually think this through, Will almost says. 

“Yeah.” A dry swallow. A nod. An attempt to decide whether it’ll hurt more or less in the morning if he pretends this is real. “I’m sure.” 

Mike’s hand burns where it rests against Will’s face. “Just, uh, follow my lead?” 

Will lets his eyes flutter shut. Mouths, “Yeah, course,” until Mike’s lips are on his. 

It’s different this time. More open-mouthed. Mike’s tongue partitions Will’s lips, and he lets his mouth hang further ajar. If kissing’s a conversation, they’d been talking last time, and it’s now escalated to shouting. Feels more—urgent, that way. 

Mike continues to give, and Will continues to take, and take, and take. 

Back and forth. Talking. 

Will’s hands have been idle in his lap, so he takes his left one and runs it against the sleeve of Mike’s sweatshirt, drawing a stripe from elbow to shoulder. 

A vague memory comes to him. Hospital, almost three years ago. 

Will really hopes it looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

The hold on his jaw shifts, and Mike cradles the back of his head. Pulls him closer. Mike’s fingers get acquainted with Will’s hair. Will takes it as an invitation to do the same, and cards his hand through a longer row of curls near Mike’s neck. 

His hair is tangled, coarse. Not exactly soft, but close to it. Will’s always wanted to know if it would be. 

Mike puts a gap between their mouths, breathing heavily. Lightning crackles across the sky. 

“It’s—like that,” Mike says, breathless. “Uh, kissing with tongue.” 

Will feels like he’s bleeding out. “Noted.” 

“Scary?” 

“Not really.” 

“You wanna try this time?” 

Will’s fingers grip tighter around the fabric of Mike’s sleeve. “Try?” 

“Yeah.” Mike’s voice splinters. “You lead. Like, you kiss me, this time.” 

Will’s lips part. 

“You don’t have to,” Mike says. 

“No, I want to.” 

It’s too quick. Sounds desperate, probably. 

“Okay,” Mike whispers. He takes a swallow, and Will watches his throat work. “Kiss me.”

Will cranes forward, and hesitantly reattaches their mouths. Starts talking, and Mike answers.

Mike opens his mouth, and Will slips his tongue against his first, clutching Mike’s hair like a lifeline. Mike waits for each movement of Will’s mouth, then reciprocates them like he wants to, like he means it, like he wants Will. 

Push that down. It’s not real. 

Their mouths slide against each other, wet. Will thinks for a second that Mike’s trying to drown him, but won’t complain. The water’s fine. Will bites Mike’s lip, hard. Why not? 

Mike’s hand bunches up the collar of Will’s flannel before he departs.

A thin strand of saliva stretches in the gap between their lips. 

Okay. Maybe Will’s actually bad at this. “Was it—?”

“Really good,” Mike interrupts, breathing heavily. Oh. “Do you want to—?”

“Want to what?”

Mike’s grip tightens on Will’s shirt. “Do you wanna keep leading? I definitely like it when you do, but I can show you other stuff. If you want.”

Will drowns. “You can show me.”

“Okay.” Rattly breath. “Tell me if you don’t want to? Or if it’s bad. Or if I’m being weird.”

“You’re always weird.” Will smiles, hesitant. “But, yeah, I’ll tell you.”

All subsequent words are deleted when Mike pushes back in. Seems like he misses, landing a kiss to Will’s cheek that draws shivers across his entire body. 

Another kiss. Another. Another. With each one, Will dies a thousand times over. Mike’s mouth trails a dotted line down the side of Will’s jaw, reaching the sensitive skin on his neck—making the back of his head recoil against the wall in surprise. 

Beneath the roar of the thunderstorm, the thud of the wood echoes like a gunshot. 

Will hazards a glance towards the door. 

Suddenly, it all feels a bit too real. The existence of their friends, sleeping a wall away, while Mike had suddenly decided he felt like kissing Will on the fucking neck like it’s nothing. 

Is it nothing, though?

Yeah. It is. 

Mike recenters his attention with a kiss. “No one’s gonna come out here,” he says, muffled. “Don’t worry.” 

“And what if they do?” 

Mike’s breath puffs, warm against Will’s cheek. “Dunno.” Another kiss to the patch of skin beside Will’s ear. His hand slides downward, running along Will’s waist. “Just tell them we’re practicing.”

Will allows himself to lace his fingers back through Mike’s hair, ignoring the low throb at the back of his head. Tests something, curling around a longer patch of Mike’s hair. He gives it a hesitant pull, and Mike makes a sound Will’s never heard before. Knew it. 

Around them, the rain keeps falling, steady. 

Mike reaches back up, and grasps Will’s face in both hands. Mike’s palms warm his cheeks. 

Quick pause. Will’s breathing catches. 

“How am I doing?” Mike asks, breathy. “Is it bad?”

Will manages a combination of a laugh and a sigh. “Thought this was my practice.” 

“Well, yeah.” Mike clutches Will’s face like it’s the most precious thing in the world. His thumb grazes Will’s cheekbone. “But I still wanna know.” 

Will thinks it over. There’s enough adrenaline running through his veins to kill a horse, probably. 

“You’re good.” 

Mike’s eyebrows raise. “Like, I’m a good kisser?” 

Play it down.

“I mean,” Will says. “I don’t have anything to compare it to.” 

“Right, yeah.” Mike steals another kiss, a peck on Will’s mouth. “Wanna keep going?” 

Will closes the gap and starts it for him. 

He can lead. He’ll figure it out. 

Will kisses Mike more greedily this time, like he’s inhaling him. Their noses bump. Will drowns, and drags Mike under with him. 

Mike murmurs something against his mouth, punctuating it with another slide of his tongue. Will can’t make out the words. 

“Wha’sup?” The simple phrase tangles on Will’s tongue. Gets caught somewhere in his teeth. 

“Said,” Mike breathes, stealing kisses in between, “I said I still don’t believe you. That you don’t know what you’re doing.” 

“Believe what you want,” Will mumbles. His hand slides down Mike’s chest, collecting his hoodie strings. Is that even allowed, in this? No idea. “Still my first kiss.” 

“Well, ’til you go to college,” Mike says into his mouth. “When it’s real.” 

If Will didn’t love Mike more than anything else in the world, he probably would’ve taken him up on his earlier offer, and punch him in the stomach. 

Right. When it’s real. 

Can Will even be mad at that? He signed up for practice. Not the real thing. 

Not Mike’s fault that Will pretends it’s real. 

Mike breathes into him. He can read Will too well. “Well, I meant like—” 

“Stop talking,” Will mumbles, and kisses him again. Let Will be inevitably hurt tomorrow. Don’t drag it out tonight. “Don’t talk.” 

“M’kay,” Mike hums, happy. Obliges and shuts the hell up. Mike runs his hands all across Will’s neck, hair, face, arms, until goosebumps paint every expanse of skin hidden by Will’s flannel. 

Will’s not sure how long they stayed there, making out and shoving their tongues down each other’s throats like they’re starving. 

He does know the exact moment someone’s footsteps thud inside the cabin, though. 

“Mike? You still out there?” 

Will’s shoulders shoot up like he’s been electrocuted. Instinctually nudges Mike by the arms, scrambling to get some distance between them. 

Mike shifts to the other side of the steps, panting. Both of their eyes land on the darkened screen door. 

“Dude.” Dustin staggers through the cabin door, scrubbing his fist under his eyes. “This storm is insane. Oh, shit! Hey, Will. Didn’t know you were out here.” 

Will blinks at him. Croaks, “Hi, Dustin.” 

“What’re you guys up to?” 

Will swallows hard. Dustin scans his face, and he wonders if there’s a giant, neon flashing sign on his forehead that tells him everything that’s just been destroyed. Dustin doesn’t seem to find any such sign plastered on Will, just smiles at him.

“Was just smoking,” Will eventually says. “Talking. You know.” 

“Sweet.” Dustin settles into the space left between Mike and Will. His bare feet tap against the steps. “Got any left?”

“Think so,” Will squeaks. His hand shakes as he reaches for the carton. Tries not to remember the way Mike had grabbed him by the shirt collar just moments ago and counted the pulses in his throat with his tongue. 

Will passes him the carton. Dustin peers at it, and groans, lighthearted. “Camels? Killing me, Byers. You can keep that nasty shit to yourself.” 

“They’re my mom’s,” Will forces out a chuckle. 

“As if that’s not insane.” Dustin glances at Mike, and barks a laugh. “Am I right?” 

Mike blinks, stunned. “Right, yeah. Totally.”

Dustin sighs, pleased. He hooks his arms around both of their necks, drawing both Will and Mike in close, more of a dual chokehold than a hug.

“I fucking love you guys.” Dustin pulls them both closer. Will stares at the ground. Ignores that his forehead is about to slam into Mike’s. Again. “You know that? Love this shit. Just all of us, together, hanging out. The best.” 

“Yeah, love you, too,” Will says. 

“Yep.” Mike once again regains the ability to speak. He sounds like he’s had the wind knocked out of him when he laughs. “We love you, man.” 

Dustin’s arms fall, and he smacks them both across the backs. “Gonna be such a good summer. Matter of fact, get those Camels back out, Byers. I’m not a picky man. Not like I’m driving.” 

Will stalls. His eyes trace over Mike’s side profile. Will can’t read him at all. 

Dustin tilts his head. “Hello? Earth to William. You good?” 

“Yeah.” Will hands him the carton. Sighs. “I’m good.” 

“I’m gonna go in,” Mike says abruptly, getting to his feet. His voice strains. “Really tired. Night.” 

Will looks up at Mike. Mike doesn’t look back. 

The screen door opens and shuts. 

It’s that exact moment when Will feels the liferaft of their friendship splinter away, and drowns.