Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

mike the brave

picklepunk

Summary:

So far, six months at college has given Mike Wheeler a shitty roommate and a smoking addiction. The only things keeping him sane are letters and late night calls from Will Byers, miles away in New York and slowly moving on. When they reunite over spring break, Mike finally has to face what he’s always known.

Purdue University, Indiana

February 28th, 1990

Mike wishes one of the demogorgons had killed him three years ago. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to listen to the sloppy sounds of his roommate making out with yet another girl at 3am. He turns to face the wall and slams his pillow over his ears, trying to push back the bile crawling up his throat. Mike hasn’t slept a full night since he was twelve years old. It's always been scattered hours of rest, and now his roommate doesn’t let him have that luxury either.

“Shhh, quiet.” the girl giggles. Mike hears something unzip. He presses the pillow harder and begs for either sleep or death to take him.

—

He wakes with a start, heart thudding against his ribcage—the aftermath of yet another nightmare. Something's off.

It's too bright outside.

He turns to look at the clock.

7:46am.

It's a Wednesday which means he has Shakespeare: Tragedy and Romance, in—

Fourteen minutes. Shit, shit, shit. Mike throws on yesterday's navy sweater and trousers as quick as he can, wasting a good thirty seconds after putting the sweater on backwards. Grabbing his coat and bag, he sprints across campus and somehow makes it through the door with a minute to spare. New record. He sinks into the seat farthest back and tries to act like he isn't struggling to breathe. God, he hates running.

They’ve been discussing the Twelfth Night for the past week now—well, the class has been. Mike has slept through approximately 75% of the discourse. After the tragedy of his own love life, Shakespeare doesn't faze him anymore. Thirty minutes into the lecture, he’s scribbling in his notebook, mind elsewhere, when someone raises their hand.

“Viola didn’t even know what she was feeling before she fell in love. So how do we know it was real?”

Mike's eyes dart up. His pen stills on the page.

The professor paces across the room. “Why does certainty have to come first?” she says. “We often feel long before we understand. The play isn’t asking whether Viola’s love is legitimate—it’s asking why we insist on clarity before we allow feeling to count.”

A few students nod. Someone yawns.

Mike writes, his pen pressing too hard into the paper, ink bleeding slightly through the page. He stares at the the words. F eel long before we understand. A second later he strikes a line through them—not sure why he wrote them down in the first place.

On the way back to his dorm, Mike stops by the mailroom. It's way too early to get mail. He knows that.

But maybe.

The room is cold and the fluorescent lights above him hum louder than usual. The latch to his slot sticks like it always does and Mike swears at it—like he always does. He nudges it with his thumb until it gives, metal clacking softly against metal and opens the door impatiently. When he reaches his hand inside, in the place of cold metal, he feels-

Paper.

There's a familiar twist in his chest as he pulls it out. The envelope is thicker than usual. Smudges of charcoal here and there. His eyes go to the bottom right corner and catch on the words written in the same neat handwriting he’s known since kindergarten. As his heart does an entire gymnastic routine inside his chest, Mike tries not to smile.

From Will.

The February chill has nothing on him now. He tucks the envelope carefully into his coat and runs to his dorm.

Once inside, he shrugs off his coat, letting it fall to the floor as he lies back on his bed, feet propped up, heart racing. He opens the envelope. There's four photographs and a letter: the Statue of Liberty; a group of students huddled together on a lawn; an old bookstore— “Betty’s Books”, and finally a photo of Will, wearing a winter jacket and beanie, smiling wide in the snow. Mike bites back a smile as he unfolds the letter.

Dear Mike,

I’m writing this between classes, so if my handwriting looks worse than usual that’s my excuse. I got lost again today even though I’ve been here long enough that I really shouldn’t be. Classes are… nice. Exhausting, but I like it. There’s something kind of comforting about having too much to do. It gives me less time to think. I’ve been drawing a lot more and I think I’m getting better. My roommate listens to music constantly and never uses headphones. I don’t hate it, but I miss quiet

sometimes

. I walked past a used bookstore yesterday and almost went in, but I had to get to class. I’ll go back. I think you’d like it. It smelled like old paper and coffee. I’m putting some of the pictures I took in here. Since you said you were wondering what New York is like.

Anyway, I hope your Shakespeare class is less boring. Write back when you can.

Love, Will.

Mike smiles as he picks up the picture of Will. He looks absolutely ridiculous, the jacket almost swallowing him whole. The door opens. Mike grabs at the pictures, scrambling to put them away, feeling caught.

His roommate chuckles as Mike panics. “Chill out, man.” His expression turns suggestive. “Letter from your girlfriend?”

“No, shut up.” Mike mutters. He adjusts his position on the bed, back to the wall so his roommate can’t see, and rereads the letter.

Love, Will.

Mike rubs his face. He knows how red it probably is—his stupid roommate teases him about it every other week. He snaps out of his trance when the door opens again and a girl walks in. It's the same girl from last night. Mike looks at his roommate.

“Sorry, man, Could you— y’know?" he says, eyebrows raised. "Just for a bit.”

Mike groans as he climbs off the bed. He tucks the envelope safely into in his desk, grabs his coat from the floor, and walks out as fast as he can, leaving the door open on purpose.

He's halfway down the corridor when his roommate calls out, “Thanks Mikey!”

Mike sticks out his middle finger and doesn’t turn back.

He walks toward the back of the building, the cold air lashing at him, hair getting in his eyes every few seconds. He palms at the old pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket. He used to smoke almost a pack a day. The first two months of college, it was constant. Between classes, behind the dorm, outside the library with his collar turned up, breath fogging white while the cigarette burned down between his fingers. It gave him something to do with his hands. He’d stand there until the nicotine wore off and the noise in his head returned, then light another without really thinking about it.

He hasn’t bought a new pack in weeks.

He stops walking and pulls the pack out. It’s light—almost empty. He flips it open with his thumb. Two cigarettes left. Maybe three if one’s broken. He thinks of the stack of Will’s letters folded in his desk drawer. Waiting for the mail. Calling at night. Holding the receiver as close as he can, listening to Will breathe on the other end when neither of them have said anything for a while.

Mike snaps the pack shut. He slides it back into his pocket and keeps walking, hands retreating back into his coat sleeves. The urge lingers—faint and irritating—but it doesn’t own him the way it did before.

Not when he has something else to reach for now.

—

It's five past midnight. Mike lies on his back, staring at the white ceiling above him, a hairline crack running through the paint. He traces it with his eyes, over and over. It reminds him of the old crack in the table in the basement at home. He hasn’t thought about that table in years. Still, the memory slides into place easily. Like it’s been waiting.

It’s summer. The basement is stuffy and smells like cardboard and everyone else is gone. It’s just him and Will, sat on opposite sides of the table with dice scattered between them. Their hands brush when Will leans over the table to move a figurine. It’s nothing. Just a fleeting touch. And yet Mike goes still, acutely aware of the point of contact. How it turns something in his chest. Mike says something—something dumb, probably—and Will laughs. Giggles, really. Soft and breathy. Mike keeps chasing the sound without realizing, a bubbling swell of pride in his chest every time he manages to pull it out of him. He tries to focus on the board but his eyes keep drifting back. To Will’s mouth when he talks. To the mole just above his lip, dark against his skin. Mike stares at it too long, always does. He looks away quickly, heart kicking against his ribs.

At the time, he tells himself it’s nothing. Just boredom. Just closeness. Just how it is when you’re kids and you spend almost every day together. Now, years later, staring at the crack in the paint above his head, the memory settles differently.

Inevitably, his mind drifts to El.

He tries to line it up the same way. Tries to remember it feeling like this. He remembers holding her hand. Wanting to protect her and keep her safe. But it was different. It had always been different. What he felt with El was fierce, loyal, real. But he never lost himself in it. He never laid awake at night replaying the sound of her voice in his head. Never checked the mail twice a day like a fucking madman.

Never felt this kind of warmth in his chest.

What he felt for her was the same thing he felt for Lucas. For Dustin. For Max. A bone-deep care. A devotion. Love, yes—but the regular kind. Mike swallows, throat tight. He doesn’t finish the thought. Doesn’t say the name that’s already there, sat comfortably in the depths of his chest, dangerously close to his heart. He lifts his head and looks toward the foot of his bed. The painting is taped to the wall there, edges curling slightly where the adhesive is starting to give. He’s moved it twice already since the semester started, but it always ends up there in the end. Mike knows El didn’t commission it like Will had said. He’s known for a while now. Because she would’ve said something. And she never mentioned it. Not once.

He studies the figure in the painting. Sword raised. Red heart on his shield. Standing tall, fearless in the face of the beast coming for him. Mike the Brave.

It almost makes him laugh.

There couldn’t be two people more different. The real version of him is nothing but scared. Scared of what he already knows. Scared of what happens if he lets himself say it out loud. Scared of how much it would change things. His eyes burn, sudden and sharp. He blinks hard and stares at the ceiling until the sting fades. Once again, he pushes it all down.

The room is silent except for his roommate’s muffled breathing. Mike turns onto his side, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. Today he’ll sleep. He has to.

March 7th, 1990

Mike’s roommate is finally gone for the spring. It’s the first time in a month there's no loud chewing or music blasting this time at night.

The phone is warm against Mike’s ear. Will's been going on about one of his stupid homophobic professors.

"Kinda wish I still had superpowers." Will says.

Mike speaks through a mouthful of chips. "You don't need superpowers to kill him Will. Just some paint thinner."

"In his morning coffee." Will adds.

"Mhm."

"A little violent don't you think?"

Mike shakes his head. "Nope, he deserves it."

Will goes quiet on the other end. Mike knows he's smiling.

“Anyway,” Will says, “are you surviving your classes or should I start writing your eulogy now?”

Mike snorts before he can stop himself. “Real supportive aren't you?”

“Hey, I’m just being realistic.”

Mike shifts on the bed, dragging the cord tighter around his fingers. “New York City hasn’t eaten you alive yet?”

“Not yet,” Will says. “Give it time.”

Mike closes his eyes. He can picture him too easily, cross-legged on his bed, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, that little smile he gets when he’s teasing. He feels his chest twist.

“I got your letter,” Mike says. Too casually. “The pictures were— cool. I mean—” Mike rushes, heat creeping up his neck. “The one of you—in the jacket. It’s—” He stops himself, heart kicking hard. “It’s a dumb jacket.”

Will laughs. “It’s not mine.”

Mike’s stomach drops. “What?”

“The jacket,” Will repeats. “It’s a—friend’s. That’s why it’s too big on me.”

A friend's.

Mike swallows. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Will says easily. “He lent it to me cause it was freezing.”

He.

Mike’s grip tightens around the receiver. It feels like something’s lodged inside his chest.

“You guys—” He clears his throat. Tries again. “You guys close?”

There’s a smile in Will’s voice now. Mike hates that he can hear it.

“Yeah I guess,” Will says. “We’ve actually gone out a couple times. Nothing serious, yet. But he’s nice.”

We’ve gone out a couple times.

Mike stares at the ceiling. At the crack in the paint. His vision swims.

“Oh,” he says again, trying to ignore what feels like an impending heart attack. “Cool. That’s—yeah. That’s cool.”

Will keeps talking, oblivious. “He took that picture, actually. Kept trying to make me laugh.”

Mike considers jumping out the window.

“Guess it worked,” he says. “You looked happy.”

“Yeah,” Will says softly. “I was.”

Mike’s thoughts spin, fast and mean and out of control. He imagines Will laughing like that with someone else. Wearing someone else’s jacket.

It isn’t right. This isn’t right. His mouth opens. He has to say something. Anything.

“Oh,” Will cuts in, cheerful, “I was thinking when we’re back in Hawkins for spring break, maybe we could hang out? If you’re not too busy.”

Mike’s heart is pounding. Loud. Deafening.

“Yeah,” he says, forcing it out. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Great.” Will chirps. “Ok I’ve gotta go now. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Mike hangs up and stares at the phone.

Who the fuck is this guy anyway? Who does he think he is, giving Will his jacket and taking him out and making him laugh. Mike breathes hard. It shouldn’t matter. Will can do whatever he wants. Will should be happy. Mike knows that. He wants him to be happy. He deserves it after everything that’s happened. But that doesn’t stop the noise clawing at the inside of his skull. His breath starts coming faster now, shallow and uneven. The room feels too small. He presses his palms against his thighs, fingernails digging into his skin through the fabric of his pants, but it doesn’t work. His leg bounces, relentless.

He needs a cigarette.

The thought hits him hard, immediate. He needs smoke in his lungs. Something burning between his fingers. Something to focus on besides the way his chest feels like it’s caving in.

He stands too fast, vision blurring. He grabs his coat off the ground, puts it on with clumsy hands, and bolts out the building.

Cold air slams into him as he stumbles outside, sucking in a deep breath, sharp and painful. He fumbles in his pocket, fingers frantic, already reaching for the pack. The first drag burns. His lungs protest. He coughs, shoulders hunching, eyes watering. The taste is bitter and familiar and for a second—just a second—the knot in his chest comes a little loose.

Mike feels tears fill his eyes to the brim. It's just the cold, he tells himself. He tries to blink them away but there's no point. They stream down his cheeks, hot against his skin. They don’t stop.

I t’s just the cold.

It's just really cold.

He lights another cigarette.

March 19th, 1990

The second he arrives at Hawkins, Mike feels like the sky is closing in on him. It smells like damp pavement and gasoline and he can feel the scent clinging onto him after he’s spent six months trying to get it off.

His bedroom door sticks when he pushes it open. The same posters stuck to the wall. The same comics stacked crooked on his desk, corners worn down. He drops his bags on the floor and sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips the same way it always did and for a second, it feels like no time has passed at all. He starts going through his old stuff without really meaning to. A notebook full of half-finished campaigns. A box of dice, edges worn smooth. Old Polaroids shoved into a drawer—him and Lucas and Dustin squinting into the sun, Will standing a little closer to him than the others. Mike shuts the drawer.

Dinner is exactly as eventful as Mike expects it to be.

His mom fusses over him the second he sits down, eyes flicking to his plate. “You look thinner,” she says, already reaching for the serving spoon. “Are you not eating enough at college?”

“I eat,” Mike says. “It’s fine.”

She doesn’t look convinced. She never does. She piles more food onto his plate anyway, the way she always has. She asks about his classes next. What he’s taking, whether he likes his professors, if the workload is manageable. Mike answers automatically, listing course names and times, careful to keep it boring. Next to him, Nancy’s chair is empty. His mom sighs, glancing at it. “I still can’t believe she dropped out of Emerson,” she says, shaking her head. “I just don’t understand it.”

Mike stabs at his food. “She’s figuring things out.”

“Well,” his mom says tightly, “I just hope she figures them out soon.”

Holly doesn’t look up from her book. She’s already somewhere else, unreachable.

His dad eats in silence. No fucking surprise there. He doesn’t ask Mike anything—not about college, not about the drive, not about why he came home quieter than he left. He never has and Mike doesn’t expect him to start now. The clink of silverware fills the space between them. Mike finishes his food, excuses himself early, and heads back upstairs. It isn’t until he’s lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, that it hits him.

He’s going to see Will tomorrow. In person. Not through letters or phone calls. Will Byers, standing in front of him again, after six months of torture.

Mike rolls onto his side, then onto his back, then back onto his side again. His heart won’t slow and his mind won’t either. Every version of tomorrow plays out at once—what Will will say, what he’ll wear, whether he’ll smile like he did in that picture. He pulls the blanket up to his chin and exhales, restless. Sleep won’t come easy. Not when something he’s been waiting so long for is just on the other side of the night.

So he lies there in the dark, wide-eyed and buzzing, counting down the minutes until morning.

March 20th, 1990

Mike ends up waking up way later than he planned—which was expected, considering he could only fall asleep at 2am. He spits out toothpaste, rinses, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The mirror is fogged, his reflection blurry and half-formed. Mike assesses.

He looks like he's been run over. Multiple times. Shit. Will's going to be here in about an hour, which isn't a lot of time to try and make himself look decent.

He spends five minutes running his hand through his hair before giving up, his curls somehow even more tangled than before. Back in his room, he digs through his drawers, frantic. And after covering the floor in everything he owns, he finally settles on jeans and a striped blue sweater.

He’s tugging it down when he turns.

“There you are.”

Mike lets out an extremely undignified shriek. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words dissolve on his tongue.

Standing in his doorway is Will Byers, in the flesh, with his green eyes and boyish smile— and Mike feels like he's going to melt into the floor and die.

He's a little broader than he was before, shoulders filled out, arms thicker beneath the sleeves of his jacket. He still has the same bowl cut, just messier, like he’s been cutting it himself. Mike's gaze drifts, traitorous, to the mole above Will’s lip. He looks at it too long. Long enough that his chest tightens. Long enough that Will’s eyebrows shift up, just slightly, curious.

"Earth to Mike." Will says, dragging out the words.

Mike doesn't think. His body moves with a mind of its own. He closes the distance and crashes into Will, arms wrapping around him. Will lets out a surprised noise before hugging him back just as tight. The warmth of Will's body seeps into Mike, setting something ablaze beneath every inch of his skin. Six agonizing months he's waited for this. He buries his face into Will’s shoulder, breathing him in.

Mike pulls away and steps back—reluctant.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands now. He stares at Will. At the flush in his cheeks, the way his hair curls a bit at the edges, the pink of his lips.

He has a few ideas.

Mike blinks hard and shoves the thought down as deep as he can. He fidgets with the hem of his sweater. “How'd you even get in?”

“Broke in through a window,” Will says teasing. “Scaled the side of the house. Very Die Hard.”

Mike drops onto the bed, plays along. “My mom would’ve heard you.”

“Well, she let me in,” Will admits. “But that ruins the story.”

Mike can't hold back his smile. “You suck.”

“Hmm,” Will hums. "Did you miss me?"

Mike looks up to meet Will’s eyes. Yes, yes, yes-

“No.” he says, rolling his eyes.

Will just smiles at him, soft and fond and a blanket of warmth settles in Mike's chest. Why did he ever think nicotine could compare to Will Byers?

“So,” Will says, rocking back on his heels. “What do you wanna do?”

Mike shrugs and leans back, like he hasn't been planning this since the moment Will told him was coming. “We could go up to Weathertop.”

Will tilts his head. “Weathertop?”

“Yeah. It’s quiet. You said- you said you miss quiet.”

"I did." Will says, soft. Almost surprised. Surprised that Mike remembered. He shouldn't be.

Mike's eyes go back to tracing Will's face. He quickly adds, “We could bring some beer.”

Will’s mouth curves upward, slow. “You’re suggesting we drink?”

“I’m suggesting we hang out.” His eyes drift down.

“Uh-huh. You do realize my mom would kill you.” Will says pointedly.

There’s a mole on his chin. Why has he never noticed the mole on his chin?

Mike shrugs, distracted. “Worth it.”

Will laughs. “You’ve changed.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Mike asks, gaze snapping back up to meet Will’s eyes.

Will smiles. “Didn’t say that.”

They stay like that a second longer than necessary.

“So,” Will says, nudging Mike’s knee with his. “Beer on a hill. Very romantic.”

Mike freezes. “It’s not romantic.”

Will’s grin widens. “Sure.”

Mike stands and turns away, grabbing his jacket to hide the heat crawling up his neck. “Come on. Before I change my mind.”

Will lingers behind him, voice light. “Lead the way, paladin.”

Paladin.

Will is going to kill him, and Mike is going to die.

He reminds himself to breathe, feeling heat flare across his cheeks.

“Follow me, sorcerer,” he says, attempting to sound casual. He walks out the door and smiles when he hears Will giggle close behind him.

—

They hike up the hill in silence, Will a bit ahead of Mike. His shoes leave imprints in the soft damp grass and Mike makes an effort to step in them as he follows behind. The air is sharp, biting at Mike’s lungs every time he breathes in too deep. He’s got the six-pack of beer tucked under one arm, the bottom of paper bag wet with condensation, the dry parts crinkling softly with every step. In his other arm is a bag full of snacks —pretzels, a half-crushed bag of chips, whatever he could grab without his mom noticing.

Will walks with his hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched. His breath fogs in front of his face. “Give me something to carry, Mike,” he says for the third time.

“It’s alright, Will I got it.” Mike's arms burn from the weight of the bags. Doesn’t matter though. He misses one of the imprints.

Will continues climbing. “Should’ve brought gloves,” he mutters.

“You’re the one who said it wasn’t that cold,” Mike says. He adjusts his grip on the beer and picks up the pace.

They reach the top after what feels like hours, the town spread out below them. The sky feels enormous up here, low and heavy with clouds. Mike sets the bags down and lies back, propped up on his elbows, the ground cold even through his thick jacket.

Will flops down beside him. He’s quiet for a moment, breathing hard. Then he shivers.

“Okay,” he says. “I take it back. It’s fucking freezing.”

Mike turns his head. Will’s knees are drawn up and he's tucking his hands under his arms. Without thinking, Mike shrugs off his jacket and holds it out.

“Here.”

Will blinks at it. “What about you?”

“It’s fine. I’m not even that cold,” Mike says.

Liar.

The cold has already started to creep in, seeping through his sweater, but he ignores it. He hopes Will can't hear his teeth chattering.

Will hesitates, then takes the jacket, pulling it around himself. It’s too big on him, the zip curving under his neck. He exhales, relaxing a little.

“Thanks,” Will says quietly.

Mike nods, eyes fixed on the sky. “Yeah.” A feeling of petty satisfaction ripples through him.

Now he's even with Will's so called friend.

They crack open a beer and pass it back and forth. It tastes incredibly cheap but it's good for its warmth. Mike takes a longer sip than he needs to, bracing himself.

“So,” he says, aiming for casual. “Your— friend.” The word feels bitter on his tongue. He hopes Will doesn't notice.

Will hums. “Mhm?”

“You said you went out a couple times.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he like?”

Will’s quiet long enough that Mike almost regrets asking. Almost. Then Will shrugs inside the jacket.

“I don’t know,” he says. “He’s…nice. Easy to be around.”

Mike grips the bottle harder. “That’s it?”

Will huffs a small laugh. “You want a whole character sheet or something?”

Mike forces a smile. “Just tryna picture him.”

“Okay,” Will says, thinking. “If this were a campaign, he’d be, like, a level three fighter. No crazy stats. No cursed items. Sort of…regular.”

Mike snorts. “How thrilling.”

Will sits up, tone defensive. “He’s not bad. I mean—he’s not great either but it’s— simple. With him.” He picks at the grass with one hand. “I kinda want to see where it goes.”

The words sink straight into Mike’s chest.

“What’s his name?” Mike asks, like he doesn’t already know he’s going to hate it.

“Carlton.”

Mike grimaces. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not!” Will laughs.

“That’s the stupidest name I have ever heard.”

Will laughs, louder this time, shoving Mike’s arm. “It’s not stupid.”

“It sounds like a country club,” Mike says.

“Mike.”

“I’m serious. Can’t believe you’re into a guy named— what was it?”

“Carlton.” Will says smiling.

“Right. Carlton,” Mike repeats, flat, already refusing to give it any weight. He takes another sip, the cold biting at his fingers. “Whatever.”

Will watches him for a second, eyes narrowed just a little, but he doesn’t push. He just leans back, zipping the jacket up higher, settling into it.

They lie there, six months worth of stories spilling out easy, the way they always have. Will talks with his hands, voice animated, laughter breaking through often, and every time it does Mike feels it bloom warm in his chest, filling in all the places the cold can’t reach. The wind bites and the grass dampens the back of his shirt. He can feel his fingers going numb around the bottle, but none of it matters. Time stretches, the sky slowly dimming without either of them noticing, until the light turns amber and then blue and the first hint of night creeps in. Mike realizes hours have passed and he hasn’t wanted to be anywhere else for a single second.

They walk down the hill slow, neither of them in a hurry. Will keeps coasting ahead, then circling back, like he doesn’t want the distance between them to grow too wide. They reach the road and face each other awkwardly.

“Well,” Will says, hands resting on the handlebars of his bike. “I should probably head back.”

Mike knew this was coming. Still, it feels abrupt, like something being pulled out from underneath him.

“I mean—” Mike starts, then stops. His fingers curl into the sleeves of his sweater. If he lets Will leave now, he knows exactly how the night will go; lying awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything, hating himself for not saying anything. His heart kicks. “You could… stay over.” He swallows. “You could stay. If you want. Y’know—like old times.”

Will is silent for a second and Mike is suddenly afraid he’s overplayed it.

“I mean, only if you want to. You don’t have to. I just thought—”

Will smiles. “Okay.” he says. His gaze drops down to Mike's mouth for a fraction of a second, so quick Mike thinks he imagined it.

Will swings his leg over his bike and begins to pedal. “Let’s go, paladin.”

Mike lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. Will really needs to stop calling him that. He can’t keep hiding when his face goes red.

They ride to the Wheeler house together, side by side, the road quiet, their bike tires humming in sync. The porch light is on, warm and yellow against the dark. Karen Wheeler opens the door with a surprised smile.

“Will!” she says, pulling him into a hug before he can even set his bike down. “My goodness, you’re freezing.”

Will laughs, hugging her back. “Hi, Mrs. Wheeler.”

“You staying for dinner?” she asks.

“Actually,” Will says, glancing back at Mike, “I’m… I think I’m staying over, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, darling,” she says immediately. “Come on in.”

They hang their damp jackets by the door and race up the stairs, taking two at a time, pushing and shoving. Will beats Mike to the top,—well, Mike lets him. They dig through Mike's drawers until Will finds something to sleep in and when he comes back from the bathroom, Mike can't help but laugh. Will's wearing one of Mike’s old T-shirts and flannel pants that hang too loose on his hips, sleeves swallowing his hands.

“You look ridiculous,” Mike says weakly.

Will beams. “They’re comfortable.”

“They look like they’re gonna fall off any second now.”

“Hmm.” He turns to the door. “Don't get your hopes up Michael.” Will jokes.

Mike swallows hard. Tries to think of a clever reply. Can't. He turns and flips through a comic on the table. Anything to hide the blood rushing to his face.

Will is halfway out the door when he says. “I’m gonna go call my mom. Let her know I’m here.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, voice unnaturally high-pitched. “Yeah, of course.”

Will leaves and Mike stands there for a second, listening to the muted sounds of the house, the murmurs from the TV, a cupboard opening, Will’s voice drifting faintly upward—and then he crosses the room and drops onto the bed.

He opens his suitcase and pulls out the mixtape.

It’s heavier than it should be. Or maybe it just feels that way. He turns it over in his hands, thumb rubbing along the worn edge of the plastic case, heart kicking hard against his ribs. For Will, written in his own handwriting, a little uneven where he’d gone over it twice to make it look right. He remembers sitting on his dorm room floor late at night, rewinding songs over and over, trying to decide which ones fit.

Maybe this was stupid.

He imagines Will taking it from him, tilting his head, that familiar crease forming between his eyebrows. A mixtape? he’d say, puzzled. Maybe he’d laugh a little, unsure. Thank Mike because that’s what you do, because Will is kind like that—but Mike can see it so clearly, the moment stretching thin, the awkwardness sitting between them. The way Will might find it weird.

Mike exhales, rubbing his face with his free hand. He’s been doing this all afternoon. Second guessing every smile, every brush of their shoulders. The way Will was teasing him, what if it didn’t mean anything? What if Mike’s just reading into it because he wants to? Wants Will to tease him. Wants what? He doesn’t even know what he fucking wants. Not really. He can’t give it a name without panic flaring hot and sharp, cutting him up inside. His mind chants. C oward, coward, coward. Mike shuts his eyes hard, squeezing tight until it stops. He stares at the tape again, fingers tightening around it. He’s about to put it back inside when the floorboard creaks. Mike startles. Will is by his side in seconds.

“What’s that?” he asks, casual.

Mike freezes. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit-

“Nothing.” he spits out.

Will’s eyes flick down to it anyway. “Has my name on it.”

Mike’s mouth goes dry. His fingers tap against the mixtape. His heart feels like its going to burst open.

Fuck it.

“I—yeah. I mean. It’s for you.” He swallows. “I made it for you. It's not your birthday yet, obviously, but I made it already and I didn’t know when I’d—” He exhales sharply. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Will says immediately.

Mike rushes on, words tumbling. “I just thought maybe— you don’t have to listen to it or anything by the way—”

Mike is cut off when Will takes it gently from his hands. He reads the label, then flips it over to read the tracklist. His eyes shine.

“You made this for me,” he says quietly.

Mike nods, staring at him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. “Yeah.”

Will steps forward and hugs him, sudden and tight. Mike stiffens for half a second, then wraps his arms around him.

“Thank you,” Will says, voice thick.

Mike’s chest aches. “You’re welcome,” he breathes out.

Will pulls away and Mike watches as he crosses the room to tuck the mixtape into his jacket pocket. Like how Mike tucks Will’s letters into his. So so careful.

Hours pass and Will eventually drifts into sleep on the bed, snoring softly, a comic still open against his chest. Mike watches the slow rise and fall of his body, pages fluttering each time Will breathes out. Goosebumps dot Will’s arms, pale against his skin, and something in Mike tugs tight. He slips off the bed and crosses to Will’s side, before carefully easing the comic from Will’s hands and setting it on the table. Will doesn’t move. Mike drapes the blanket over him, then, moving as quietly as he can, he climbs back into the bed and settles in beside him.

He studies Will’s face in the dark. The way his eyelashes rest against his face. The pink of his cheeks, flushed from the cold. His lips almost the same shade.

The dark spot above them.

A thought creeps in from the depths of his chest. The idea of leaning closer. Of pressing his mouth against it, just once, just to see what it would feel like. To the one on his chin, the one above his lip. That same warmth from before returns. Fills his chest to the brim. His mind spirals and spirals until it finally arrives at the thing he’s been circling for years.

Mike wants to kiss Will.

It forms in his mind, fully, crystal clear. For a moment, he's lost in the thought, the warmth in his chest almost steadying him, when he hears it begin.

Its low at first. Distant. Far away enough that Mike thinks he can keep it at bay.

But he never can.

He braces himself as the noise slams into him, violent. Just like that, the warmth is gone, replaced by bitter cold, cutting deep in his chest. The voices flood through, overlapping, echoing off each other, sharp and loud. Hawkins, his dad, his roommate at college, the elderly couple at church, the commercial on TV, the flyers at the supermarket, the sermon on the cable. The one that says wrong. The one that says don’t. The one that says this is something you bury and starve until it goes quiet.

His skull throbs, pressure building behind his eyes. The tears come with force, hot, silent, humiliating. He grinds his teeth together, breath shaking, and lets them soak into the fabric of the pillow. Shame coils tight in his chest. He thinks of how hard he’s tried. Of how he’s learned to look away and push away. For days, months, years. Whole stretches of his life spent lying, burying everything deeper and deeper.

They said everyone had thoughts they weren’t proud of. Everyone had urges they ignored. He told himself this was just his burden. All he had to do was push it down and he could be normal.

But now everything he's buried is tearing back up through him and he doesn’t know what to do.

Mike's breathing shakes, uneven and shallow. His hands tremble. He feels painfully small. Trapped in his own body with the thoughts he's been taught not to have. He wants to disappear. Wants to go back to when the wanting didn't have a name. When it stayed buried, when it stayed dead.

But even through the hurricane of chagrin and shame, Mike can feel it. Sitting in the eye of the storm, at the center of his chest, stubborn and unmoving.

He wants to kiss Will.

He wants to hold him.

And he wants to love him.

It's all he's ever wanted to do.

His shoulders tremble as he sobs. The knot in his chest tightens. He can't take it anymore. So he does what he always does.

He decides, right there in the dark, that he’ll dig.

Dig another hole in his chest, bleeding and aching.

And he'll bury.

He can feel Will breathe deep beside him.

This is enough, he thinks.

This has to be enough.

There can’t be more.

March 21st, 1990

Mike wakes up first and for a split second, forgets where he is before he feels it. Warmth at his side. He turns his head.

Will is still asleep.

He’s slightly nearer now, sprawled on his stomach, close enough that their shoulders are touching. His hair sticks up at the nape of his neck, unruly and his face is slack with sleep, younger somehow. Mike watches his back rise and fall. He counts three breaths, then five. He doesn’t move. Keeps counting.

He’s at seventeen when Will stirs, blinking awake.

“Morning,” Will murmurs, voice rough.

“Morning,” Mike says softly.

Will stretches, arms reaching overhead, knocking his leg into Mike’s. He laughs sleepily when Mike groans and the sound melts away a good fraction of the pain from last night.

They go downstairs together. His mom is already in the kitchen, humming to herself. She smiles when she sees them. “You boys hungry?”

They eat pancakes and eggs, shoulders bumping. Will steals the last of the orange juice and Mike complains half-heartedly.

They spend the morning on the couch. A movie plays—some dumb action movie they’ve both seen a dozen times. They share popcorn, fingers brushing in the bowl, again and again, Mike's skin buzzing each time. He wonders what it'd be like to touch him for just a second longer. Blinks the thought away.

Every laugh, every touch, every shared look—Mike stores it away carefully, like he’s rationing warmth for later.

He knows he’ll be cold again soon.

At one point Will nudges him with his elbow. “You’re quiet today.”

Mike shrugs. “Just tired.”

Liar.

Each hour, Will says "A little longer," and eventually its too late to leave. Mike doesn't complain. He imagines how Mrs. Byers' protests will sound later, exasperated. Thinks about how he's been stealing her son away since they were kids. He's stolen him for two days now. A flicker of warmth sparks in his chest again. Will wants to stay. He wants to stay with Mike.

When Mike's dad comes home, they retreat to the basement. Mike’s stretched out on the couch with a comic balanced loosely in one hand and a bowl of ice cream melting in the other, spoon clinking softly.

Will’s been quiet for a while.

Mike hears him move—muffled footsteps on the stairs—and looks up just as Will disappears from view. He frowns, distracted, flips the page without really reading it. The rain gets heavier outside, drumming steady and insistent. A minute later, Will comes back down.

He’s holding the mixtape.

Mike looks around. There are no windows for him to jump out of.

"What're you doing?" he asks breathless.

Will turns back, entirely too calm. "It's technically my birthday so—I'm opening my present."

Mike checks the time. Five past midnight.

He smiles. "Happy Birthday Will." he says.

Will smiles back. "Thank you, Michael."

He slides the tape into the player and presses play. The click is loud in the quiet room. Too loud.

The first song starts.

Just Like Heaven.

Mike’s wants to dig a hole in the floor, crawl into it and die.

Will raises his eyebrows at Mike, smirking.

“Oh, shut up—” Mike starts, but Will cuts him off by grinning and shoving his shoulder.

“You put this on here,” Will says. “You don’t get to be shy about it now.”

“I’m not shy.”

Liar.

Will hums, unconvinced. “You absolutely are.”

He crosses the room and gently takes the bowl and comic from Mike’s hands, setting them carefully on the table. Mike’s eyebrows knit in confusion as Will grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him up.

He looks up at Mike through his eyelashes, eyes already soft, already asking. Mike doesn’t even know what the question is yet. He already knows the answer will be yes.

“Dance with me?” Will asks, voice soft.

Mike’s breath catches. Feels his face go red again.

Will doesn't wait for a response. He slips his hands into Mike's and Mike's heart begins to race. Will's hands are soft and warm and the way they fit into Mike's is too natural. Mike tightens his grip without meaning to. Will smiles.

“I don’t know how to.” Mike blurts out.

Will smiles. “I’ll help you.”

It's awkward at first. Mike steps in too fast, nearly knocking his knee into Will's. Will tries to guide him, but his feet don’t cooperate and they end up swaying in the wrong directions, tangled and off-balance. Mike almost feels bad about it but he's overcome with happiness every time he makes Will giggle.

They’re not even dancing now —just shuffling around, figuring out where to put themselves. Will’s hands tug Mike this way and that, correcting him, teasing him every time he messes up. They stumble around for a while, hands still joined, lost in each other's presence, giggling and out of breath.

The next song plays. A slow song.

They stop laughing. Just look at each other for a moment, in silence. The air is charged now, thick with something Mike can't name. He's scared to move.

Will parts his lips like he's about to speak, but doesn't. Instead, slow and tentative, he draws Mike's hands toward him and places them on his waist.

The world tilts slightly off its axis.

Mike settles his hands into the soft curve of Will's body and thinks to himself that he never wants to move them again. Will slides his arms up, looping them around Mike's neck to hold him. Their faces are close now as they sway. Close enough that Mike can feel Will’s breath on his neck.

For a minute its only the sound of their breathing and the rain.

“You ever done this with Carlton?” Mike asks quietly.

The question hangs between them. The song keeps playing.

Will doesn't answer right away. His eyes flicker to Mike's, then drop. When he speaks his voice is barely there.

“No.”

Mike’s gaze falls, helplessly, to Will’s lips. He should let it go. He really should. But he can’t.

“He’s simple.” he says, dragging. Will’s words from earlier. They come out bitter.

Will nods once. “Yeah.” he breathes, almost a whisper.

The silence stretches thin.

“And what am I?” he asks.

Will inhales. Color rushes to his cheeks as his breath grows heavy. His hands tighten where they're resting, bunching up Mike's T-shirt as he tilts his head up to meet Mike’s eyes.

“Too much.” he says, soft.

Mike can't think. All he knows right now is that Will isn't close enough.

He tugs him forward by the waist and Will gasps softly in response. Their bodies are pressed together completely now, no space in between.

He thinks of the phone call from two weeks ago. The way he'd called Carlton a friend. The way he didn’t look Mike in the eye when he spoke about him.

Like Mike hasn't always been able to see right through him.

Mike moves his head to the side and leans down, letting his mouth brush against Will’s ear.

Will inhales sharply. Mike can feel his pulse quicken under his lips. He lingers there before whispering—

“Tell me the truth.”

Will doesn’t answer. His breathing is louder now, unsteady, uneven. Mike leans in again, then drifts lower, grazing his lips against the rapid flutter of his pulse. The touch is light, barely there. But its enough to earn him another gasp.

Will's eyes slip shut, eyelashes resting against his flushed cheeks, his lips parted open, as he exhales in shaky breaths. Every time Mike's lips graze his skin, Will's breath catches again, like his body is answering before his mind can.

Mike pulls away slightly and Will understands. He wants an answer.

Will swallows.

“I don’t want him.” he breathes out. He gasps after the words leave him, eyes going wide.

Mike’s chest burns. Fiery and uncontrollable. He pulls himself back just enough to see Will's face. Their foreheads nearly touch now, Mike's mouth hovering over Will's. Their breaths mingle, the small space between them humming.

“Then who do you want?” Mike asks.

Will's breath shakes. Mike grips his waist tighter. Will whimpers, involuntary.

“You.” he whispers.

Mike’s heart thuds louder than ever. He doesn't move. “Say it again.”

“Mike.” Will pleads.

“Say it again.”

“I want you-”

Will barely finishes the sentence before Mike kisses him with desperate force. It’s sudden and messy and full of everything they’ve never said, the collision of years of wanting. Mike's hands move up to roam Will's back, as he brushes his tongue across Will's lips, asking for permission. Begging for permission. Will surrenders easy, opening his mouth and when Mike feels his tongue tangle with his own, everything goes white, the heat between them dizzying. Will melts into Mike just as desperate, hands tangling in his hair, tugging. Mike groans into the kiss and Will pulls him closer still, despite there not being an inch left between them. Right now, the only coherent thought in Mike’s head is that Will somehow tastes even sweeter than the ice cream.

He stumbles them backward until they hit the shelf, Will’s back slamming against it with a thud. Mike's hands slip under Will's T-shirt, palms skimming his stomach all the way up to his chest—warm and soft. So devastatingly soft. He brings his hands down to Will's hips, gripping, and presses his own against them. Will whimpers into Mike's mouth and all Mike can think of, is all the ways he wants to bring that sound out of Will, over and over again.

He kisses the mole above Will’s lip. Once. Twice. Then the one on his chin. There are three on his neck. Mike kisses them all. Will can do nothing but let out small, broken noises each time, and Mike drowns in all of them.

When Mike finally pulls back, it’s only to look at him.

Will’s hair is messed up, cheeks flushed bright pink, lips red and swollen, wet with Mike’s saliva. He looks wrecked. Beautiful. Mike wants to kiss him again. He wants to kiss him crazy. Wants to stay right there and listen to the cacophony of sounds Will makes when his mouth finds his neck again. Wants to feel his hands tug his hair. And for one breathless moment, nothing else exists.

But in a second it's all gone. The roar starts and the voices seize him again. His mind chants. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

He pulls away.

Will's face drops, eyes glistening. “Mike.”

“I—I’m sorry,” he hears himself say. The words tumble out of him, panicked and breathless. “I shouldn’t have—I don’t know why I did that. That was stupid. It was a mistake.”

Will grimaces. “A mistake?”

Mike runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice. “Yeah. Yeah, it was— I crossed a line. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to—”

Will's face crumples in real time, confusion giving way to hurt so sharp it makes Mike’s chest twist in pain.

“Oh,” Will says, voice breaking. “I— I’m sorry. I thought—” He shakes his head, tears spilling over. “I shouldn’t have played the tape. I shouldn’t have— God, I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not,” Mike says desperately. “Will—”

Will wipes at his face with the back of his hands, shaking. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to make things weird.” He backs away toward the door.

“Will,” Mike says, voice cracking now. He steps toward him. “Please don’t go. We can— we can just forget it happened.”

Will doesn’t look at him. “I need to go,” Will says, barely audible. “I can’t— I’m sorry.”

He turns and climbs up the stairs, shoulders hunched, breath hitching.

The door slams shut.

Mike stands there, frozen, the music still playing softly behind him, rain pouring outside. He wants to go after him, but his feet are stuck to the ground. He falls back onto the couch, head in his hands as tears come out of him ugly and wrecked, fists twisted into the fabric of his sleeves.

He made Will cry. Again.

He hurt him. Again.

This is what he is. This is what he does. He ruins everything he's ever touched. He takes the things he loves most and turns them broken and brittle with his own hands.

Sobs tear through him, violent.

He tries to remember. Tries to remember who he is when he isn't afraid.

At first, nothing comes. Only guilt. Shame.

Then—something small.

A memory.

A flashlight beam cutting through the woods. Mud on his sneakers. His voice hoarse from yelling Will’s name into the dark, over and over, even when no one answered back.

Then another.

Bright hospital lights. Machines humming. Will lying still and fragile, wires clinging to this chest, his fingers. Mike planted at his side, refusing to leave, waiting for Will to wake.

Mike thinks about the little boy he used to be, with a heart full of courage. The boy who used to stand up for his friends and push bullies back. The boy who didn't care what people thought. The boy who never let anyone or anything scare him off. The boy who was ready to die for the people he loved.

The leader of the party.

The heart.

Mike the Brave.

Mike shuts his eyes tight. He knows that little boy is still somewhere inside him. He knows he can hear him.

He asks him to fight. To fight fear one more time. To fight for the boy he loves.

He sprints up the stairs, out of the house and into the rain. He grabs his bike and pedals with all the strength he has, legs burning, lungs screaming. The rain is brutal now, cold and sharp, soaking through his clothes in seconds. His feet slip on the pedals, his breath tears out of his chest in ragged pulls, but he pushes harder anyway. Streetlights blur past. Rain floods his eyes. Somewhere ahead, he sees a familiar shape, hunched against the storm, pedalling slow.

“WILL!” Mike yells, voice shredding. “WILL—WAIT!”

Will startles, swerving as he brakes and climbs off his bike to face him.

Mike skids to a stop in front of him, nearly toppling over, dropping his bike to the ground.

“Wait,” he gasps, breathless, soaked through, words tumbling over each other. “ Just—just listen. Please.”

Will’s wraps his arms tight around himself, already shaking his head.

“No,” he says, weak.

“Please,” Mike says, tears falling, the rain hiding nothing.

Will starts to back away.

Mike’s hand catches in his jacket, fingers curling tight, and he pulls him back close before he can get any farther.

“Listen to me.”

He lowers himself until they’re eye to eye, rain dripping from his hair, his lashes, his nose.

“There isn’t one second of the day you don’t cross my mind,” Mike says, voice shaking, barely audible over the rain. “Not one. Ok? You’re who I write about, who I dream about. Every single day.”

His grip tightens on Will’s jacket.

“I’ve always felt so—cold, Will. My whole life I’ve been so cold.” His shoulders tremble. “But you.” Mike chokes out a laugh through his tears. “You’re like the fucking sun."

Mike's chest heaves. "When I touch you—when I kissed you. For the first time in my entire life I felt—alive.” His voice fractures. “The only reason I haven’t been honest with you this whole time—is because I’ve been so scared."

Mike holds Will's face in his hands, trying to brush away his tears. "But I’m not afraid anymore." He gasps. "I'm not afraid.” His voice drops, reverent and desperate all at once.

“I want you, Will,” he says. “I want to be— I want to be your paladin, I want to be whatever you want me to be. I just want to be yours.”

He gasps for air, chest stuttering, breath barely keeping up with his heart.

“This—this is the only thing I’ve ever been right about,” he says, chest hitching violently now, the words barely making it out. “So don’t leave. Please. I won’t let you. Not again. I won’t hurt you—I swear. I won't. Ever again.”

The sobs break free. They shake his whole body, raw and uncontrollable.

“I love you, Will. Please don’t go. Please.”

Will crashes into Mike, hands fisting in his jacket as he kisses him, bruising. Mike makes a broken sound and kisses him back, tears slipping free as he holds him. When Will pulls away, it’s only far enough to fold forward, pressing his face into Mike’s chest.

"I love you too." He chokes out. "Always have."

His shoulders shake as he sobs, breath hitching, the sound muffled against Mike's chest.

For a long time, fear tried to convince Mike that loving Will made him wrong. That it made him weak. But standing here now, soaked and shaking, with Will Byers, the love of his life, in his arms, Mike finally understands.

It was love that sent him into the woods that night when Will went missing. Love that kept him by his Will's side through sleepless nights. Love that made him run to protect him each and every time.

It was his love for Will that made him Mike the Brave.

Loving Will Byers was never his weakness. No.

It was the bravest thing Mike has ever done.