Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler had gotten really good at not feeling things. He'd been an emotionally volatile kid, wearing his heart on his sleeve, quick to outbursts and easy to provoke, and he'd learned to push these impulses down as he got older. To not say the first thing that came to mind. It was practically a Wheeler family tradition. His father buried himself in work and spent his nights in the recliner before the television set. His mother drowned her sorrows in cheap bottles of wine and trashy romance novels on clearance at the grocery store. They swallowed everything and moved on, suppressed it with a tight grimace and maintained their perfect, functional nuclear family facade.
Ever since the Byers moved into the Wheeler's moderately sized suburban home, it suddenly felt significantly smaller. Despite the addition being a mere three more people, with Joyce taking the guest bedroom and Will and Jonathan in the basement, Mike's father began frequently complaining about the cramped living conditions. Mike also noticed how much smaller the space suddenly felt, but he didn't mind. He loved coming downstairs in the morning to find Joyce in the kitchen chatting with his mother and sipping a mug of coffee. He loved hanging out with Jonathan and listening to music on his cassette player. Most of all, he loved living with Will. Staying up late watching movies or playing board games, biking to and from school, eating breakfast together in the morning when their eyes were still a little puffy from sleep.
It had been Mike's idea that the Byers family stayed at the Wheeler house. While Joyce graciously declined the offer at first, Karen had refused to let them stay in a shitty motel, especially seeing as no one knew when the Byers would be able to shop for a new home. For some reason, Ted was adamant that Will sleep in the basement, despite Mike's insistence that he wouldn't mind sharing his room. It hardly mattered, though. Not when they could spend basically every other second together.
At first, Mike had worried it would be awkward to be around Will so much. It hadn't been the time or distance between them when Will moved away that had contributed to Mike's discomfort when he'd gone to visit them in California. It wasn't anything wrong with Will, either—he was his same, quiet, usual self. It was some inexplicable change within Mike himself that he couldn't quite pinpoint. But they'd fallen back into their usual comfortable routine soon enough, of easy conversation and laughs, quiet comfort in a time of uncertainty.
"Nancy, come on!" Mike, groaned, banging on the door of the bathroom. "I have to shower too, you know!"
He heard the shower shut off and let out a huff of relief. Truthfully, there was no rush—it was a Saturday night, and Mike had nothing to do—but he hadn't been able to shower that morning with Jonathan and Joyce both needing to within the same thirty minute period. This was the true kicker of the new arrangement—the bathroom.
The door swung open to reveal not Nancy, but Will, wearing only a worn towel wrapped around his midriff and an amused look on his face, in contrast to a cloud of steam. The skin of his bare chest was still slightly pink, and water dripped from his wet hair onto his shoulder's which had broadened considerably over the last eight or nine months.
"Oh shit—sorry." Mike mentally clapped a hand over his forehead.
"All yours," Will grinned, gently brushing past Mike to leave the bathroom free for Mike's use.
That was the other thing—Will's constant close proximity was making a lot of things very difficult to ignore. Like the small flutter that would occur in his stomach or chest when their elbows would bump at meals, the feeling it gave him to watch Will draw with all of his quiet steadiness, or his new broadened shoulders, curving jawline, and dexterous, careful hands.
But it was fine. It wasn't a whole thing.
At least, that's what he told himself as he turned on the shower. The smell of Will's shampoo and soap still lingered.
The truth was, Will was becoming increasingly distracting. Mike pondered this as he showered. Will had always been attractive, at least, Mike thought so, but in the last couple of months, Will had begun to look more and more like a man, inconveniently so. Dustin, Lucas, everyone, they all looked older, Mike supposed, because they were. But there was something different about the subtle shift in Will's appearance that Mike couldn't quite place. Feeling impulsive, Mike's hands went to his hair, which fell just long enough to brush his shoulders. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten it cut.
Turning off the shower, Mike made his way to his room across the hall and threw on a sweater and pants, messily toweling off his hair and grabbing a pair of scissors from the pencil cup on his desk.
Will was stretched out on the couch in the basement when Mike clambered down the stairs. Music was drifting from Jonathan's cassette player, which was propped on the table. Mike vaguely recognized the song—Losing My Religion, by R.E.M. Will looked up from his sketchbook when Mike entered, eyes flicking between Mike's face and what he held in his hand.
Mike held up the scissors. "Will you cut my hair?"
Will blinked. "Uh, sure."
A few minutes later, Mike was sitting nervously with his back against the couch while Will sat cross legged on it behind him, scissors at the ready.
"How short do you want it?"
"Uh," Mike considered, "Not too short, but like, shorter?"
"Wow," Will snickered, "Real specific."
Mike was glad that he was facing away from Will so he couldn't see the blush creeping up his cheeks at the feeling of his hands gently combing through Mike's hair. "I've never cut hair before, so don't get mad if it turns out badly."
"I won't," Mike promised, twisting his hands in his lap.
Gently, Will raised a lock of Mike's dark hair. There was a snip sound, and the hair fell past Mike's shoulder. He sucked in a breath.
"You okay?" Will asked, pausing with the second lock in his hand. Always so perceptive.
"Yeah," Mike assured him, "Yeah. Don't stop."
Thirty minutes later, Mike's hair lay in a ring around him on the carpet. It wasn't too short—Mike had never liked it to be too short—but it was long in the way now that it curled around his ears and the nape of his neck, not touching his shoulders. Looking in the mirror, it was a little bit choppy and clearly done at home, but Mike grinned, running a hand through it. "Perfect."
"Yeah?" Will asked from behind.
"Yeah."
They turned on a movie and sat back down on the sofa, tucked up in a blanket. Mike tried to focus on the movie, but found this challenging with Will's shoulder and arms pressed against him, unmistakably warm and solid. It reminded Mike of when they would watch movies in this same position as kids, completely unconcerned with personal space. Except now, Mike justified it to himself that the blanket was small and the basement was cold, and it was nothing. Nothing.
At some point, Will nodded off, his head drooping to rest gently on the curve of Mike's shoulder.
Mike froze, unsure what to do.
He remained completely still until the credits rolled, trying to ignore Will's soft, rhythmic breaths and the warmth spreading from the points of contact throughout the rest of his body. He could feel Will's soft hair tickling his neck. The gentle pressure of Will leaning on him in his sleep was comforting, in a way.
A few minutes later, however, Will stilled, his breath catching, frozen.
Mike's brow furrowed. He'd grown up having enough sleepovers with Will to know what he looked like when he was having a nightmare. He didn't scream, didn't thrash around, but instead would go impossibly, unnaturally still, stiff as a board, like if he didn't move, whatever monster was taunting him in his sleep couldn't get him.
"Will," Mike murmured, gently shaking Will's shoulder, "Will."
Will sat up straight, gasping as his eyes opened. His breathing was heavy, rapid, and panicked, and he looked around as if he was trying to discern where he was through his confusion.
"Will, hey," Mike reassured, his hand not leaving Will's shoulder, "You okay?"
Will's breathing slowed as he fully came to. "Sorry. Nightmare."
"Hey, it's okay," Mike said, his voice softening. "It's okay."
Will sat back against the couch, sighing. "They've been getting worse."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think it's because of the Crawls?"
Will shrugged. "I don't know."
"What are they about?"
Will drew a shaky breath. "My mom. Jonathan." He paused for an almost fraction of a second. "You. Always something bad happening to you guys."
Gently, Mike wrapped his arm around the other boy's shoulders. Will softened at the touch, leaning almost imperceptibly into it. "We're all okay," he reassured, even though he knew it was a stupid thing to promise. Mike probably knew less about the future than Will did.
"Yeah," Will murmured, but he didn't sound too convinced.
"Hey," Mike muttered, "Why don't you sleep in my room tonight?"
Will's brow furrowed. "Won't your dad get pissed?"
"Not if he doesn't notice."
Mike was careful to keep a sizable distance between the two of them when they got to his room. It wasn't like Will had never slept in his bed before, but that was when they were kids. This felt different.
Still, Will was close enough under the blanket that he could smell his soap, feel the warmth emanating from the other boy. If Mike stretched his fingers out right now, he could touch Will's skin. He had to resist the urge to do so.
God, what was happening to him? Mike rolled over to face away as Will's breathing lapsed into the rhythm of sleep once again. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and tried to push out the thoughts consuming him, of what would happen if he were to roll back over, wrap his arms around Will and press his forehead to the space where Will's neck met his shoulders. Because boys didn't have thoughts like this about their friends, he knew that. He couldn't imagine being in this position with Lucas or Dustin. The very thought was laughable. But there had always been something different about his relationship with Will, something sweeter and gentler that he'd never found with anyone else.
Mike was faced with that realization now—he couldn't run from it. It had always been a part of the both of them. They had always been a part of each other, in a way.
Mike rolled back over, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape, his eyes landing on Will's profile, which was traced delicately by the silvery light. His face was bathed in the moonlight that drifted in from the gap in the curtains, illuminating his familiar features.
Mike wondered what would happen if he gave in to the feeling. Would Will laugh at him? Be disgusted by him? He pictured Will's face, sneering and revolted by Mike and his bundle of abnormal, unnatural feelings. Mike's blood turned to ice.
For a second, he allowed himself to consider the ulterior. If Will had these same thoughts about Mike. There had been a few times when he'd considered it. He imagined what it would be like to hold one of Will's marvelously dexterous hands, what Will might do with them if Mike let him. How it would feel to cup the curve of his jaw, to leave marks with his mouth on his broad shoulders. This thought sent his head reeling, and he pushed it from his mind before he did something stupid, like reaching out to touch the boy lying next to him.
He knew one thing for sure—these were not normal thoughts to be having about your best friend.
Vaguely, he pictured asking Dustin or Lucas if they'd ever had thoughts like that, but dismissed the thought as soon as it arose. Images of their faces flashed through his minds. Brows furrowing. Eyes squinting. Noses turning up. No, Mike, we don't fantasize about Will's lips. We're normal.
He cast around for someone else he could talk to about this, someone to help him make sense of it. Max, maybe. He knew people in California were probably a little more open minded than people in Hawkins. Still, he couldn't imagine bringing that up to her. Hey, Max, when you lived in California, did you know any queers? He suppressed a groan.
Who, then?
Definitely not his mother. Definitely not his father.
Mike knew what his dad thought about homosexuals. He'd grown up hearing his passing comments at the dinner table about the gay disease, about the deviants in New York and Chicago and all those big, faraway cities that corrupted good, moral people into their lifestyle.
A hard boulder of dread settled itself on Mike's chest as he lay there, imagining his fathers reaction if he knew what Mike was thinking. Maybe, the thought struck him with horror, his father already knew. Maybe he could sense that there was something different about how Mike felt towards Will than any of his other friends. The realization was like an icy finger tracing itself down Mike's spine. He shivered, rolling over again to try and escape the feeling.
Mike couldn't tell anyone about this. Anyone. Least of all Will.