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Will stares at himself in the mirror, and for a split second, he doesn’t recognize the man looking back.
The suit fits him well—an impeccable cut that follows the lines of his shoulders—but the sensation is deceptive. He feels the fabric tightening around his chest from the inside, as if the seams were made of an invisible anxiety preventing him from fully filling his lungs. It’s not the fit of the clothes; it’s the weight of what they represent.
He turns his gaze away, unable to keep track of his own reflection. On the table, the invitation rests with an elegance he finds insulting. It is white, made of thick, cold paper, with black lettering and gold edges that shimmer under the lamp’s light.
"We’re getting married
Lucas & Max"
He swallows hard, feeling a rough knot in his throat. Six years. Six years are supposed to be an ocean deep enough to drown any fire, to learn how to live with ghosts and settle into a new life, far from the woods of Hawkins and basements lit by yellowing bulbs. At twenty-four, you’re not supposed to be a hostage to what you felt at sixteen. Or at least, that’s what the psychology books he’s tried to read say.
He has kept in touch with everyone. Dustin’s calls, Lucas’s visits, the occasional letters from Max. It isn’t the social gathering that makes his pulse race.
It’s Max’s call from the night before. She had become his silent confidante; she knew about Mike... or at least, she sensed the outline of the wound. She knew they were distant, that there was an unbridgeable chasm between them, though Will never confessed its true depth. He kept it under lock and key, mostly out of a sacred respect for Mike.
"Mike called Lucas a few minutes ago," Max had told him, with a hesitation that made his skin crawl. "He said he’s coming to the wedding. He managed to clear some space in his work schedule."
Six years should be enough, Will repeats to himself like a mantra as he adjusts his tie with clumsy fingers. But his memory is a traitor with a cruel clarity.
He closes his eyes, and the modern room vanishes. The scent of paint and wood in his apartment is replaced by the smell of cheap detergent and the chill of the Wheeler house.
He remembers the shift. That subtle sliding of the tectonic plates of their friendship after Mike and Jane broke up. At first, Will tried to convince himself nothing was different: the brushing of knees under the D&D table, the bumping of elbows while walking too close, the shared looks in a room full of people. Mike and Will had always had their own language—something that only the two of them understood.
But when Will moved into the Wheeler house, that closeness escalated in a way he still couldn't quite grasp. Mike had insisted they share a room.
It was easy at first. Will would settle into the sleeping bag on the hard floor, pretending to be perfectly comfortable. But the floor is unforgiving. As the days passed, it became impossible to ignore reality: Will would wake up with a stiff neck and his back turned into a knot of pain. He moved clumsily in the mornings, trying to hide his winces of discomfort, but Mike was always watching.
"We could always share the bed," Mike said one night.
He dropped it as if he were offering more syrup for scrambled eggs. Casual. Sleepy. Silence filled the room.
"It’s not like we haven't done it our whole lives," Mike added.
He was right, and yet, he was wrong about everything. They weren't twelve-year-olds sheltered in a blanket fort anymore. Will’s heart hammered against his ribcage so hard he feared the sound would betray his secret.
"Come on, Will. It’s cold and I’m dying of sleep." Mike lifted the duvet, making a warm space—an invitation to disaster. "I won't bite."
Will laughed, a brittle, nervous sound.
"I never said you would."
"Well, you have an expression that screams 'danger, danger,'" Mike joked in a robotic voice. Then, his tone dropped, becoming softer, almost a caress. "I know you don’t sleep well down there, Will. Let me be a good host."
Will huffed, feeling his defenses crumble. He got up from the floor, feeling like every step toward the bed brought him closer to a precipice. He ignored the thought and slid under the sheets, clutching the edge of the blanket Mike offered.
He left a few inches of safety between them. Just enough not to make him uncomfortable. Just enough to try and convince his own head that this meant nothing.
But Mike had other plans.
"You’re going to fall off," he whispered.
Without warning, he wrapped a firm arm around Will's waist and pulled him against his chest, eliminating every trace of distance. Will startled, feeling the heat of Mike's body seeping through his clothes, and hid his face in the crook of Mike’s neck so he couldn't see his expression.
"Goodnight, Will."
"Goodnight, Mike," he replied, knowing in that instant that he wouldn't sleep for a single second.
Moments like those repeated for a long time—so often that Will’s body stopped sending alarm signals every time the lights went out. The initial panic was replaced by a dangerous comfort. It became normal for Mike to seek him out between the sheets to wrap his arms around him, to absentmindedly kiss the crown of his head before falling into a deep sleep, or for Will to wake up some mornings with his head resting on Mike’s chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart as if it were his own ambient music.
They never spoke about it. They never sat down to decide with words what those hugs were or why the air grew thicker when they were alone. It simply happened, the way seasons change or ivy grows: slow and unstoppable.
By day, the world regained its sharp edges. They acted as if the intimacy of the night hadn't existed, but the traces remained there, just beneath the surface.
It wasn’t awkward, or strange; it was, quite simply, their way of surviving. The outside world was already chaotic enough—with Vecna’s shadow looming and demogorgons tearing through reality—for Will to allow himself to question the meaning of sleeping tangled up with his best friend, whom he was completely in love with.
It wasn't on his list of priorities. Or so he tried to believe.
Because, bit by bit, Mike began to carry pieces of the night into the glare of day.
They were small gestures, almost imperceptible to others, but devastating to Will. Mike started smiling at him when saying goodmorning with a tone of voice that seemed to exist only for him. In public, his hands grew bolder; he would tuck Will's hair behind his ear with a gentleness that made his legs go weak, or rest a hand on his waist as they passed through a narrow hallway, whispering an unnecessary "excuse me" as if there were no other path in the whole world but the one that led through Will’s side.
They always sat together. It didn't matter if it was in the basement or the living room; the seat next to one belonged to the other by unwritten right.
Will remembered the strategy meetings, where the map of the Upside Down was spread across the table and the fate of the world hung by a thread. While they talked about attack plans and parallel dimensions, Mike’s hand would usually rest on Will’s thigh. Sometimes Mike would drum his fingers distractedly, or simply let the weight of his palm fall there, as if he needed that physical contact to stay anchored to reality, as if Will were his only center of gravity in the middle of the disaster.
And when Will grew dizzy—those moments where the connection to the Other Side made him stumble—Mike was always the first to reach him. He wouldn't let anyone else help. He brushed Dustin or Lucas aside with an urgency that bordered on possessiveness, even when Will insisted, in a weak voice, that he was fine.
During those days of malaise, Mike became his shadow. He stayed close, watching him with an attention so fierce it made it hard for Will to breathe. He studied him, alert to any erratic blink or sign of fatigue. Their hands almost always ended up interlaced; Mike would squeeze his fingers tightly, stroking his knuckles with his thumb in a slow, constant pattern that said much more than any promise.
One afternoon, Will mentioned to Lucas that he felt Mike was overdoing the overprotectiveness. Lucas, however, only shrugged with a naturalness that left Will speechless.
"He's always been like that with you, man. Always."
And then he went on talking about Max, about her recovery, about whether Will wanted to go with him to the hospital. Will said yes, as always, but the echo of Lucas’s words stayed vibrating in his head: He’s always been like that with you.
"What are you thinking about?"
Hands wrapped around his waist, jolting him out of 1986 and back into the present. Will startled; the contact felt strange, almost intrusive. Carlton rested his chin on his shoulder as they both looked at each other in the mirror.
Through the reflection, Will tried to find something in Carlton that would make him feel that spark he had just remembered, but there was nothing. There was only a handsome man, dressed formally, looking at him with a mix of impatience and contained desire.
"The wedding is in, like..." Carlton let go of one hand to check the invitation still on the table, "two hours. We could do something in the meantime."
He kissed his jaw, just below the ear. Will closed his eyes, but not out of pleasure—it was the guilt running down his spine. He stepped away carefully, pretending he needed to finish adjusting his shirt collar.
Carlton watched him through the mirror and let out a sigh of exasperation, letting his arms drop to his sides.
"So it's still a 'no'."
Will tried to answer, searched for an excuse that sounded convincing, but the words got stuck in his throat. It wasn't that he didn't care for Carlton; it was that Carlton wasn't Mike, and on days like today, that difference became an abyss.
Carlton held up his hands in surrender, though his jaw was tight.
"Fine. I’m not going to press. I’ll go start the car; I don’t think Lucas will mind if we get there an hour early if it means you’ll stop staring into space."
He left the room without waiting for a reply, leaving behind a silence that suddenly felt too heavy for Will.
"Shit," he whispered, running his hands over his face.
Carlton was someone he was dating. It wasn't a relationship that was going to change his life, but he was someone real, someone who was there. And Will hated making people feel bad, especially when he knew the problem was him. He couldn't allow himself that intimacy Carlton sought; not now, not when his head was full of ghosts.
Above all, he hadn't been able to since that day in the attic.
It had been a mistake to let Carlton help him clean. Amidst boxes full of dust and cobwebs, Carlton had stumbled upon an old cardboard box. He pulled out a blue notebook with worn corners.
"Who is this?" Carlton asked, flipping through the pages.
Will turned around and felt the world stop. He almost stumbled seeing what his boyfriend held: his sketchbook diary from his teenage years.
"You drew him on practically every page," Carlton added.
Will stepped closer and snatched the notebook with a speed that betrayed his panic.
"Just someone who helped me with drawing practice," he replied, with a voice so soft it sounded fake even to him.
He snapped the notebook shut, feeling his fingers burn.
"Come on. Help me with these other boxes."
Carlton hesitated for a moment, staring at him as if trying to read what Will was hiding behind that closed expression, but he decided not to push.
That same night, after Carlton had left, Will went looking for the notebook. He sat on the floor, his heart hammering against his ribs, and opened it.
Mike sleeping.
Mike focused on a book.
The profile of his nose. His lips parted. His hands.
Mike. Mike. Mike.
Will traced the edge of one of the sketches with his fingertip—a drawing where Mike’s freckles were rendered with a precision that bordered on devotion. In that particular drawing, Mike’s eyes looked soft, attentive, as if even the paper knew exactly where it belonged, immortalized forever in every stroke.
Will’s chest suddenly tightened. He began to lose his breath for real, and for a second, he feared it was an attack like the ones from before. He thought they had stopped, but his body had its own memory. His body remembered perfectly what it felt like to lose control.
He closed his eyes tight.
And suddenly, Mike was there. Not the paper Mike, but the living memory of his large, warm hands rubbing Will's back slowly, with that firmness that anchored him to the present when the world grew too dark. He could feel the weight of his body close by, real, and the brush of his lips against his temple as he whispered over and over:
"I’m here, Will. I’m with you. Breathe with me, okay?"
In the memory, Mike would start humming his favorite song, low and slow, setting the rhythm with his voice so Will could follow it. Will would sob against his shirt, clinging to the fabric like a life jacket, and Mike would hold him tighter. Sometimes he would even pull Will into his lap—a clumsy, desperate movement, but one completely dedicated to saving him from himself.
Mike had no idea that if he had kissed him at that moment, Will would have gone silent instantly. He didn't know that a single kiss would have stopped the shaking better than any song. Mike only knew how to protect him.
In the present, Will pressed his lips together, letting a tear escape. He didn't want to cry like this; he didn't want to keep wanting his best friend this way after all this time. But Mike was still there, in his head, soothing him as if he had never left.
"Don't cry," Mike’s ghost told him in his mind. "I'm here."
Will opened his eyes. The notebook was still in his hands, cold and silent. The apartment was empty.
Mike didn't answer his letters. Mike didn't return his calls.
Maybe he didn't miss him anymore. Maybe Will was the only one still trapped in that bedroom in Hawkins.
Will had accepted it... or so he tried to tell the world. But that night, admitting it out loud broke his heart into a thousand pieces. He found a blank page at the end of the notebook. He picked up his pencils and, with a trembling hand, began to draw.
He drew Mike leaning on his arm, peaceful, serene—existing in a world where only the two of them mattered.
When he finished, Will kissed the drawing. He closed his eyes and, for the first time in a long while, allowed himself to admit it to the empty room: he missed him too much.
The sixty-minute drive was an ordeal. Carlton drove with a stiffness that made the air inside the car feel toxic. Will tried to start a conversation a couple of times, making trivial comments about the weather or the route, but Carlton only responded with dry, one-word answers.
Will eventually gave up. He leaned his head against the window and watched the trees blur past, drumming his fingers on his knee. He felt like a hypocrite. He had spent weeks pushing Carlton away, putting up invisible walls every time he tried to get close, and now Carlton was here, playing the role of the supportive boyfriend while Will could only think about the possibility of seeing Mike.
He blamed the drawings in the attic, but he knew it wasn't just that. It had always happened; with every guy he had ever tried something with, he always ended up searching for traces of Mike in them. It’s just that Carlton was the one who physically resembled him most, and that, instead of helping, only made the absence of Mike’s personality hurt more.
"I'm sorry," Will whispered suddenly, breaking the silence. "I haven't been feeling very well lately. The stress of the exhibition has me exhausted."
Carlton sighed heavily and gripped the steering wheel tight, but he didn't look at him.
"Will, I can be patient, I really can," his voice sounded tired, his endurance wearing thin. "Look, let's go to the party, enjoy ourselves, see your friends, and have a good time. We can talk about this later. About us, about our future. I'm not going to ruin the day by arguing with you."
The softness in Carlton's voice hurt. He always tried to be understanding, even when Will gave him plenty of reasons not to be. He felt like an idiot, an impostor dragging a good man to a wedding where the true reason for his distance would be waiting.
They arrived at the church an hour early. The place was still half-empty, with that solemn silence only broken by the murmur of a few distant relatives and the echo of shoes on marble. Will walked down the center aisle feeling small, searching for familiar faces among the strangers already occupying the front pews.
Then he saw him. Lucas was near the altar, checking last-minute details with an expression that was a mix of terror and absolute happiness. Seeing Will, his face lit up.
"Will!" he exclaimed, coming over to give him a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of him. "Thanks for coming early, man."
The encounter was sweet, filled with the familiarity that years hadn't managed to erode. They talked for a few minutes about wedding nerves and about Max, who was just about to arrive. Will introduced Carlton, and Lucas greeted him with his usual kindness, though Will noticed that spark of curiosity in his friend's eyes upon seeing his partner.
"Find a seat, this is about to start," Lucas said, giving him one last pat on the shoulder before returning to his post.
Will and Carlton sat in one of the side pews, at a prudent distance. Carlton adjusted his jacket and interlaced his fingers with Will’s—a silent display of affection that, in that moment, weighed on Will as if it were made of lead.
The ceremony began. The organ started to play and the atmosphere grew thick with expectation.
Max appeared in the aisle.
Will felt a sigh escape him. She was beautiful, but not in that fragile, perfect way you see in magazines; she was beautiful with a strength that squeezed his heart. She wore a white dress that contrasted with the fire of her hair, which fell in curls adorned with small violet flowers.
But what moved Will most was her gaze. Max, who had gone through hell and back, walked with a confidence that said: "I survived to be here."
As she passed their pew, Max caught Will's eye for a second. She gave him a nearly imperceptible wink—a private gesture between two people who shared scars no one else fully understood. In recent years, she had become his refuge, the only one who knew how to read his silences. Seeing her there, radiant and alive, made the first tear roll down Will’s cheek.
Scarcely five minutes had passed, with the priest pronouncing the first words, when Will felt someone slide into the pew, right next to Carlton.
Will didn't want to look. He didn't want to miss a thing. But the scent hit him before the image: it was that smell of pine and something metallic, the same one he remembered from the nights in Hawkins. He turned his head just a few millimeters and his heart stopped.
It was Mike.
He was sitting there, inches away from Carlton, who kept his eyes fixed on the altar, completely unaware that the man from Will’s sketches had just materialized beside him.
Mike wasn't looking forward; his head was turned slightly toward them. When his eyes met Will’s, there was no surprise—only an intensity that made Will’s hands sweat.
Mike gave him the smallest, nearly imperceptible smile, and then settled into his seat. For the rest of the mass, Will didn’t hear a single word. He was far too conscious of Mike’s presence, of how Mike’s knees almost brushed against Carlton’s, and how the space between the three of them seemed to vibrate with a static electricity that threatened to explode.
When the ceremony ended and the courtyard filled with rice and shouts of joy, the group finally gathered under the afternoon sun. Dustin appeared out of nowhere, nearly knocking Will over with a hug.
"WILL THE WISE!" he shouted, laughing. "Damn, why is it that every time I see you, you look more buff?"
Will blushed, laughing as Lucas joined the group. Mike was right there, a step away, waiting.
"Hey," Mike said, in that soft voice that had always been Will’s weakness.
"Hey," Will replied, feeling the world regain its color.
Mike's hug was different from the others. It was urgent—a shipwreck of six years of distance. Will sank into his shoulder, inhaling his scent, praying that no one would notice how much he needed this.
"I missed you," Mike whispered in his ear before letting go, but his hands stayed on Will’s waist a second longer than necessary.
That was when Carlton stepped in. An arm wrapped around Will's neck, and a possessive kiss landed on his cheek.
"Hi, I'm Carlton," he said, extending a hand toward Mike.
Mike froze. His eyes scanned Carlton with a coldness Will didn't recognize, taking in every detail of his face, his clothes, and the way he was holding Will.
"Hi. Mike," he replied, shaking hands with mechanical courtesy.
"Guys, this is Carlton, my boyfriend," Will’s voice sounded thin. "Carlton, these are Dustin and Mike... two of my best friends."
Lucas didn't need a second introduction; he just smiled while picking up on the shift in the atmosphere. Carlton smiled too, but there was something in his gaze that said he had already started connecting the dots.
"So, you're the one who helped him with his drawing practice," Carlton blurted out.
Will felt the ground open up beneath his feet. Mike arched an eyebrow, looking at Will with a mix of surprise and intrigue.
"Practice?"
"The drawings," Carlton insisted. "Will has a notebook full of sketches of you in the attic. He said you served as a model to practice anatomy and shading."
Mike stared intently at Will. The silence stretched a second longer than normal before Mike spoke, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes and something that looked dangerously like triumph.
"Ah, the drawings... right. I’d forgotten about them. It was so long ago, wasn't it, Will?"
"Yeah..." Will looked for help, and Lucas caught it immediately.
"Well, what a lovely reunion! How about we head to the reception?" Will sighed and thanked him with a look.
The reception hall was a chaos of warm lights and laughter. Dustin was walking around introducing his fiancée, Liz, a girl with an intelligent gaze who studied robotics and could barely hide her shyness against Dustin's overflowing energy. Will watched them with a nostalgic smile; he loved seeing them like this, but a part of him couldn't help but think of Jane. He would have loved for her to be there, completing the circle.
"So, Mr. Busy Man," Lucas said, managing to escape his groom duties for a moment to sit at the table with them. "To what do we owe your honored presence?"
Mike let out a dry laugh, but his eyes didn't move from Will for more than a second.
"I wanted to see my friends, Sinclair. I wasn't going to miss your wedding for an office schedule."
"Yeah, right." Lucas arched an eyebrow and glanced at Will, grinning with that complicity that always got him into trouble. "I’d believe you, Wheeler, but—ow!"
The table shook slightly. Lucas winced, rubbing his shin under the tablecloth, while Mike regained his composure with suspicious speed. Max, from the dance floor, began making frantic signs to her husband.
"Max is going to kill you if you don't go now," Mike warned, pointing toward the floor.
"Shit, I'm coming!" Lucas got up reluctantly, but before leaving, he gave Mike a quick jab to the shoulder and ran off.
The atmosphere at the table turned heavy immediately. Carlton was sitting next to Will, keeping a possessive hand on his shoulder, watching Mike like someone guarding a predator that had just entered his garden.
"Carlton, would you mind coming with me to get more champagne for everyone?" Dustin intervened suddenly.
Liz had already gone to the restroom, and Dustin's maneuver was so obvious it made Will wince with embarrassment. The group was operating as a team; they wanted to leave Mike and Will alone.
Carlton hesitated. He looked at Mike, then at Will, and clenched his jaw.
"I don't think that's necess—"
"Come on, man, help me with the trays," Dustin insisted, pulling Carlton’s arm with a strength that brooked no argument. "Besides, Steve is at the bar and wants to meet you."
Carlton finally gave in, shooting Mike a warning look before walking away with Dustin.
As soon as they were gone, Mike sat closer, dragging his chair until their knees brushed again. He leaned an arm on the table and let his head rest on his palm, studying Will's face with a scrutiny that made him feel naked.
"What?" Will asked, shifting uncomfortably under that gaze.
"Nothing. I just wanted to look at you," Mike replied. His voice had dropped a notch, becoming that private frequency Will remembered. "I really missed you, Will."
"Yeah, it didn't seem like it," Will snapped. The reproach flew out before he could filter it.
Mike’s face changed. Pain crossed his features as if Will had physically struck him. He straightened up, dropping the relaxed pose.
"Will, I’m sorry. Truly."
Mike reached out, an instinctive move to brush away the fringe that almost covered Will’s eyes, but Will tensed and pulled back slightly. He looked toward the bar; Carlton seemed distracted talking to Steve and Dustin, but Will knew this truce wouldn't last long.
"Don't even worry about him," Mike whispered, noticing his distraction. There was a shadow of bitterness in his smile. "I asked Dustin to keep him occupied for a bit. I needed to talk to you alone, without your boyfriend guarding every breath you take."
Will had never been truly angry with Mike. Even when he discovered that Mike had decided to sever their connection without even discussing it, Will had tried to understand him. However, right now, he felt a surge of anger—a poison brewed from six years of unanswered letters.
"Why would you do that, Mike? You can't just show up after years and decide when and how we talk."
"You're right, I can't." Mike stood up and, without breaking eye contact, held out his hand. "But please, come walk with me. Please. Just ten minutes. I need to explain why I pulled away, Will."
Will looked at Mike’s hand—long, pale, with the knuckles he had sketched from memory so many times—and then looked toward the bar, where Carlton was starting to turn around, searching for him.
It was now or never. Will reached out and let Mike interlace their fingers, feeling that electric spark travel up his arm. Mike tightened his grip and led him toward the side doors that opened into the garden, escaping the loud music and the scrutiny of the guests.
Outside, the night air was cool and smelled of freshly cut grass. They walked in silence until they were far enough from the lights of the hall.
"Does the cold still bother you?" Mike asked, breaking the ice without letting go of his hand.
"It’s become more manageable," Will replied, letting the warmth of Mike’s palm fill an empty space in his heart.
They stopped under the shadow of a large willow tree. Mike finally let go of his hand but stayed so close that Will could feel his breath.
"Mike, what happened?" Will asked, going straight for the wound. "Why the silence? Was it because of what happened that night after graduation? Was our friendship worth so little that one mistake was enough for you to erase me from your life?"
Mike looked at him, and in the dim light, Will saw his eyes fill with the same desperation he remembered from that night. The safety bubble of the present burst, and the memory flooded back.
It was graduation night. They had decided to have one last D&D session—a farewell ritual before the party scattered. Afterward, the melancholy pushed them to Stacey’s party.
It was a mistake. Mike, who usually knew his limits, drank as if he were trying to put out an internal fire. The alcohol didn't make him happy; it made him erratic, vulnerable, and deeply sad.
Will, who wasn't entirely sober either, offered to take him home. It was an ordeal getting him up to his room without waking the Wheelers. Once inside, with the door shut and the world reduced to those four walls, Mike’s armor shattered completely.
He collapsed on the edge of the bed, hiding his face in his hands, as sobs began to wrack his shoulders.
"She died because of me," Mike choked out, his voice broken by hiccups and alcohol. "It was my bomb, Will. I killed her."
Will felt his heart shrink. Jane was gone, and with her, a piece of everyone, but Mike carried the weight of the explosion as if he had lit the fuse himself.
"No, that’s not true, Mike. It’s not," Will sat beside him, wrapping his arms around him, cradling him against his chest as he had so many times before. He stroked Mike’s messy curls and kissed the crown of his head, desperately trying to absorb his pain. "You didn't know that would happen. None of us knew."
But Mike was stubborn in his agony. He shook his head, sobbing against Will’s shoulder, as the alcohol made his tongue heavy and his thoughts a dark mass of guilt. Will had also had too much to drink; the exhaustion and the love he had kept under lock and key for years became dangerous that night.
"Will, help me..." Mike looked up. Their noses brushed; their breaths mingled. "Erase this from my mind. I can't take it anymore, please."
It was a plea, a cry from someone drowning. And Will, who would have done anything to save him, committed the greatest imprudence of his life. He took Mike’s face in his hands and joined their lips in a kiss.
Mike gasped, a sound of pure shock that Will swallowed completely. He kissed him with desperate force, trying to make the contact a medicine, an eraser for the horror in Mike’s head. Will’s mind was spinning, and a distant voice screamed that this was wrong—that Mike was vulnerable, that he was his best friend, and that he was grieving.
But before he could pull away to apologize, Mike’s hands moved violently to the back of Will’s neck. He held him tight, pulling him back in, returning the kiss with an urgency that bordered on desperation. Now it was Will who was gasping. Mike’s tears wet Will’s cheeks, but he didn't care; if he could, he would have swallowed Mike’s entire soul just to make him stop suffering.
"Will," Mike murmured between kisses, as if his name were the only thing keeping him sane. "Will."
"Mike," he replied, pulling at Mike's curls, losing himself in the taste of alcohol and salt.
Mike moved down to his jaw, biting and kissing his neck with an almost animal need. His hands traveled down Will’s arms to his waist; his fingers slipped under Will’s shirt, scratching at bare skin as their bodies pressed together in the darkness of the bed.
For a moment, Will believed he had died and this was his reward. Heaven was right there, in Mike’s clumsy hands and the way his chest rose and fell.
"Will, please," Mike begged again, searching for his mouth once more.
Will nodded blindly. He didn't know what he was saying yes to, but he could never have denied Mike anything.
However, in the middle of the frenzy, Mike opened his eyes and saw Will. Perhaps Mike saw too much. He saw the absolute love, the years of longing—a devotion that scared him more than any monster.
Suddenly, Mike pulled away as if he had been burned. He stood up abruptly, leaving Will in the cold, stripping him of his warmth so fast it hurt physically.
"I’m sorry," Mike said, backing toward the door, looking as if he had just woken from one nightmare only to step into another. "I... I don't know what happened to me. I'm sorry."
Will felt his tears burning, but he forced himself not to blink. He got off the bed, adjusting his clothes with trembling fingers.
"No, I was the one who started it. I'm sorry," Will forced a smile—that lie he always used to protect Mike. "Don't worry, Mike. I have to go. I promised Jonathan I wouldn't stay out late, you know how he gets."
He didn't know if Mike believed him, but the look of guilt and sadness on his friend’s face was enough to make him want to disappear.
"Will, you're my best friend," Mike said, driving the final nail into the coffin.
"I know," Will replied.
"I thought you had decided you couldn't have me in your life," Will blurted out back in the garden, his voice trembling from the memory. "I thought the kiss had disgusted you so much that you preferred to lose me."
Mike looked down, clenching his fists.
"It wasn't disgust, Will. It was terror," he whispered. "Because that night, for one second, I felt better. And I felt like a monster for being happy while she was dead. And I was terrified of how much I needed you just to be okay."
Will felt his breath hitch. The garden air, which had seemed fresh before, now felt thin, insufficient to fill his lungs. His head was a whirlwind of possibilities crashing into each other, crumbling.
He had spent years analyzing every second of that kiss, every gesture Mike made the next day, trying to find a logical explanation for the void that followed. He’d thought of everything. He thought maybe Mike was homophobic and the contact had repulsed him. He thought that, even if he wasn't, he had felt so deeply uncomfortable that he decided the only way for Will to get over him was to cut all ties—like amputating a limb to save the body. He had accepted Mike’s silence as a fair punishment for crossing the line.
Never, not even in his wildest dreams, would he have expected this answer.
Mike looked up. His eyes were swimming with tears that threatened to spill at any moment. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, messing up his curls in a gesture of pure desperation—the same gesture he’d made as a boy when he didn't know how to solve a math problem.
"I didn't understand, Will," his voice shook so much it was barely a whisper. "When El and I broke up... it was because of you."
Will felt a ringing in his ears. The ground seemed to tilt.
"What are you talking about?" he managed to ask, though his own voice sounded strange, distant.
"We talked," Mike continued, closing his eyes tight as if remembering hurt. "She told me. She told me I couldn't give her what she wanted, because I gave all of that to you." He inhaled and exhaled, trying to pull himself together. "She said I looked for your eyes the moment you walked in, that I always put you first. And I refused to listen. I got angry with her, Will. I got angry because she was forcing me to see something that terrified me."
Mike took a step toward him, closing the gap, breaking the safety barrier Will had tried to maintain.
"And when you moved in with us, it was so natural for me to ask you to sleep in my room..." Mike let out a hollow laugh. "It felt right, nothing out of the ordinary. I tried to convince my brain that El was seeing things that weren't there, that she had no idea what you and I were. I told myself maybe Max had put weird ideas in her head when they spent time together."
Will felt the world spinning. He heard Mike talking, but his mind refused to process the magnitude of what he was hearing. Everything he had interpreted as pity or simple friendship, Mike was redefining as a desperate struggle against his own feelings.
"But..." Will tried to speak, his voice cracking.
Mike shook his head immediately, shutting his eyes tight. "No, let me finish, Will. Please."
Mike's tears were no longer contained; they began to fall one after another, glistening under the moonlight. He looked like the seventeen-year-old boy Will remembered, terrified of his own thoughts.
"At first it was fine," Mike continued. "You slept in my room and that was enough to soothe the itch that tormented me. It was like a constant relief just knowing you were there. But then... then it wasn't enough. And you seemed to be suffering sleeping on the floor, and I convinced myself that sleeping together was strictly to help with your back pain. I lied to myself, Will. I lied to myself every night when I pulled you closer and pretended it was only so you wouldn't be cold."
A heavy silence followed. Will remembered the warmth of that body perfectly—the firmness of those arms and how he felt protected from all the horror of Hawkins. Knowing now that Mike was fighting a mental battle every time he held him made the entire past feel like a minefield.
"Every time I touched you during the day," Mike went on, his voice a broken whisper, "I did it by instinct. But afterward, when I was alone, I felt like a criminal. I thought about what El told me, about how she looked at me... And then that night after Stacey's happened. When you kissed me, the lie was over. I couldn't tell myself it was because of your back or the cold anymore. It was because I wanted you. And that terrified me so much that I chose to destroy everything rather than accept she was right and that I was... that I was this."
Will felt his heart unraveling. He wanted to hold him, to comfort this boy he was still stupidly in love with, but inside him, his morality fought against his own desire. He had a boyfriend waiting for him, likely searching for him frantically inside the party.
And in front of him, he had Mike.
Mike, who broke his heart and left him in a six-year spiral of longing and pain.
Mike, who was now showing up and seeing him—really seeing him—like no one else ever could. Carlton looked at him, yes, but he looked at the surface; Mike was looking directly at the wound he himself had caused.
"Mike, I seriously thought I could stop loving you," Will blurted out, his voice sounding like breaking glass. "All these years I tried so hard, you know? I really did. I dated people, I moved, I tried to erase every memory from my mind... and I convinced myself it was my fault. I thought you hated me. I..."
"Will..." Mike tried to say, but Will shook his head, tears falling uncontrollably.
"No, it's just that... I thought I was the only one who felt this," Will continued, his chest heaving. "I spent six years hating myself for kissing you that night."
Mike couldn't take it anymore. There was no warning, no hesitation, none of the clumsy protocol of their teenage years. Mike took a quick step, closing the final inch of air, and kissed him.
It was a desperate kiss, a collision of lips that tasted of salt and years of swallowed feelings. Mike kissed him as if he needed that contact just to keep existing, cupping Will’s face with an urgency that almost hurt. His fingers tangled in Will’s hair, pulling him closer with a force that said more than any confession.
Will froze for a second, the world spinning, before his body took over and responded to the kiss with the same intensity. For an instant, the garden vanished, the wedding vanished, and there was only Mike’s warmth, Mike’s taste, and that "coming home" feeling that only he knew how to give.
But then, reality hit him like a bucket of cold water. The weight of guilt settled in his stomach; he remembered Carlton’s suit, his patience in the car, the fact that there was a good man waiting for him just a few yards away.
Will tried to pull back, bracing his hands against Mike’s chest and pushing gently, even though his fingers were clutching the fabric of Mike's jacket, not wanting to truly let go.
"Mike, no..." Will gasped, breaking contact by barely a few millimeters. "I can't. Carlton is in there, I... this isn't right."
Mike didn't let go. He kept his hands around Will’s neck, his forehead resting against Will's. He was trembling. Will could feel the erratic gallop of Mike’s heart against his own palm.
"Just a little longer, Will," Mike begged in a broken whisper, brushing his lips against Will's again, almost pleading. "Just a little longer, please. Don't ask me to stop now."
Will closed his eyes, feeling his resolve crumble. He knew he should walk away, that he should be honest with Carlton before doing this, but the plea in Mike’s voice was a force of nature.
And Will had never learned how to say no to Mike.
"Mike..." Will murmured, but his resistance turned into a sigh as Mike kissed him again, this time slower, deeper, as if he were trying to memorize his taste.
Mike didn't stop at Will's hesitation. Instead, he moved his hands to Will's waist, squeezing tight and pulling him even closer, desperate to eliminate any trace of air between their bodies. He fed on the small sounds escaping Will's throat, on the way he shivered under his touch.
"Will? Will!"
Carlton’s voice cut through the night like a lightning bolt. Will startled, trying to pull away from Mike immediately, panic rising in his chest. But Mike didn't make it easy. He didn't let go entirely; he kept a firm hand on Will's waist, forcing him to stay by his side as Carlton drew closer.
Behind him, Lucas and Dustin came almost at a jog, trying to stop him with clumsy excuses Carlton was no longer listening to. The two friends stopped dead in their tracks upon seeing the scene: Mike and Will, disheveled, lips swollen, breathless.
Understanding hit them both at once.
"Shit," they whispered, looking toward Carlton.
Carlton came to a halt. He didn’t make a scene. There was no dramatic outburst of jealousy. Only a heavy silence as he looked at Mike’s hand on Will’s waist, and then at Mike’s gaze—which didn’t flinch, almost daring him to say something.
"I'm sorry," Will managed to say, his voice trembling, finally breaking free from Mike. "Carlton, I... I—"
But Carlton didn’t argue. He didn’t even look at him with hatred. He simply turned around and began walking toward the parking lot.
Will felt his heart thumping in his throat. Mike tried to grab his arm to stop him from leaving.
"I have to go, Mike. I have to talk to him," Will whispered, gently pulling away.
"Don't go," Mike pleaded, and for a second, Will saw the terrified boy from Hawkins again. "If you go, if you leave with him now..."
"I’m coming back," Will interrupted, placing a firm hand on Mike’s chest to soothe him. He felt the wild gallop of Mike’s heart beneath the suit fabric. "I promise. But I can't let him leave like this. He doesn't deserve that."
Mike nodded slowly, reluctantly letting go. Will ran down the gravel path, the cold wind hitting his face, until he caught up with Carlton just as he was opening his car door.
"Carlton!" He reached for his hand, trying to slow him down, but Carlton immediately broke the grip with a firm gentleness that felt worse than violence.
They stood there, under the harsh glare of the parking lot floodlights. Will opened his mouth, desperately searching for an excuse, an explanation to soften the blow—something to say so he wouldn't feel so guilty. But looking at Carlton, he realized that searching for more excuses would only make them both miserable.
Carlton wasn't shouting; he wasn't demanding explanations. He was just standing there, accepting reality.
"Save the apologies, Will," Carlton said. His voice wasn't angry, just deeply weary. "I already knew, anyway."
Will went silent.
"I flipped through your notebook again the other day," Carlton confessed, finally looking him in the eye. "I saw the fresh strokes. I noticed the difference between the old sketches and those... the devotion in every line was different. And today, the moment I saw you look at that guy in the church... I knew. Mike wasn't just a friend."
"I wanted it to work, Carlton. I really tried," Will whispered, feeling tears finally escape.
"I know. But I’ve spent months begging for a fraction of the attention you gave him the second you saw him. I tried to convince myself I could win against a memory, but I was wrong. You didn't even have to think about it, Will. As soon as he showed up, you stopped being with me."
Will felt a sting of shame. Carlton was right.
"It hurts more to stay and keep being your second choice than to leave now," Carlton concluded. "Stay with him, Will. It would be crueler for you to stay with me out of pity."
Carlton didn’t look back. He got into his car, and Will stood there, watching the taillights fade into the darkness of the road. He felt incredibly small, but also, for the first time in six years, he felt like he had nothing left to hide.
He turned slowly. In the distance, under the dim light of the garden lanterns, Mike was still there, waiting for him. He watched Will with that mix of possessiveness and tenderness he had always possessed, but now, without the weight of Carlton in the way, Will could see that Mike was afraid too. The fear of someone who finally has what they want and doesn't know if they are worthy of keeping it.
Will walked back toward him. When he arrived, Mike didn’t say a word; he simply extended his hand, palm up, in a silent invitation.
"He's gone," Will said, his voice raspy.
"I know," Mike replied.
They stayed outside for a moment longer, letting the night silence wash away the remnants of the anguish. Mike fell quiet. He took several long seconds to observe him, and Will felt that gaze burning. There was a raw mix of curiosity and an ancient longing in Mike’s eyes, as if all the puzzle pieces were finally clicking into place.
Will felt small, being watched that way.
"So... you have a notebook full of drawings of me?" Mike asked. Will wanted a demogorgon to take him right then; he had completely forgotten that part. "Just how obsessed are you with me, Byers?"
Mike let out a small laugh, expecting Will to hit back with some sarcasm or mock his ego. But Will stopped in his tracks, and Mike saw the red creep up from his neck to the tips of his ears.
"Don't laugh, you idiot," Will murmured, covering his face with one hand.
Mike stopped laughing. His playful expression crumbled at the sight of Will’s genuine embarrassment. He took a step toward him, dropping his joking tone for a much more vulnerable one.
"Wait... were you serious?" Mike asked in a whisper. He’d only wanted to tease him; he hadn't expected Will to confirm it like that. "Will... do you really have a notebook with drawings of me?"
Mike went speechless. Inside, his mind was connecting the dots at high speed: the times Will would drift off, his reluctance to let others touch his things, that air of mystery that always surrounded him. It wasn't mystery; it was silent loyalty.
"You were the only thing I didn't want to forget, Mike," Will replied simply.
Mike looked at him with a mixture of awe and adoration. Just as he was about to say something else, just as the atmosphere was about to grow heavy again, the sound of footsteps on the grass and an exaggeratedly fake cough forced them apart.
"Well, well..." Dustin appeared with his hands in his pockets and a smirk that took up his whole face. "Finally, the air feels less thick out here. I swear the tension between you two was about to cause another interdimensional rift."
Will laughed, wiping away the traces of tears, while Mike rolled his eyes, though he couldn't hide his smile.
"Crazy night, huh?" Dustin continued, trying to sound lighthearted to dissipate any lingering awkwardness. "You guys should go in and dance. Max is pissed she missed 'the show' and Lucas doesn't know how to calm her down. Come on, move your asses."
They stepped back into the hall, where the music was now more upbeat. They hadn't taken three steps when Max appeared like a whirlwind. Without a word, she snatched Will from Mike’s side with surprising strength.
"Hey!" Mike protested, trying to get him back.
Max didn't stop; she turned just enough to stick her tongue out at Mike while dragging Will toward the center of the dance floor. Will laughed, letting himself be swept away by his friend’s inexhaustible energy.
"I saw you arrive with one guy," Max whispered into his ear as they began to move to the rhythm, "and now you're here, hand-in-hand with Mike Wheeler."
Will blushed violently and began to stutter. "I... well, things happened, Max. Carlton and I..."
Max let out a laugh and hugged him tight in the middle of the dance, cutting off his excuses.
"Don't say anything now. But you're going to tell me everything, details included, another day, got it?" She pulled back slightly to look him in the eye, and her expression became unusually tender. "I'm happy for you, Will. Truly. Do you feel happy now?"
Will looked around. He saw the lights, heard his friends' laughter, and felt the weight that had finally left his shoulders.
"I don't know where this is leading," he admitted honestly. "We haven't even talked about the future, but... yes. I'm happy."
At that moment, his gaze crossed the room and met Mike's. He was leaning against one of the tables, watching Will with a devotion he no longer tried to hide. They both smiled—a smile loaded with a love that had survived six years of silence and a lifetime of fears.
Lucas, standing next to Mike, noticed the exchange and gave his best friend a knowing nudge. Dustin let out a loud laugh at some comment from Lucas that made Mike blush to his ears and duck his head, embarrassed but radiant.
Will watched the scene from the dance floor, still tucked in Max’s embrace. In his chest, an infinite warmth began to expand, filling every hollow that pain had left behind. For the first time in a long time, the drawing was complete. It was no longer a memory, or a sketch in an old diary. It was his life.
Six months later.
Will sat at his easel, completely absorbed in the final details of a commissioned piece. He had paint stains on his trousers and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing the tension in his forearms as he bit his lower lip in absolute concentration.
He was so immersed in the canvas that he didn't even feel Mike's presence until familiar arms wrapped around him from behind, startling him.
"Shit, Mike!" Will complained, though his heart leaped with joy. "I almost painted the sea red."
Mike let out a low chuckle and kissed him right behind the ear, at that exact spot that always made him shiver.
"Well, I was calling you from the kitchen and you didn't answer," Mike made a childish pout that Will could only see when he turned in his seat.
Will looked at him and smiled with a level of affection he no longer had to hide. He leaned in and gave him a quick kiss, barely a brush, but Mike wasn't satisfied. He pursued Will's lips with gentle persistence.
"Come on, you know one isn't enough," Mike murmured, stroking Will's cheek with his nose, enjoying the closeness.
Will laughed, trying to pull away without much effort as he felt the warmth of Mike’s hands on his waist. "Mike, I have to finish this, seriously..."
But Will’s resolve evaporated within seconds. Mike took advantage of his hesitation to turn Will's face and kiss him properly: slowly, with love, with a softness that only Will deserved.
Will sank into his seat, letting himself be carried away by the warmth of the moment. The brush in his hand fell somewhere on the floor, forgotten, as his now-free hands tangled in Mike’s messy hair to pull him closer.
Mike pulled away reluctantly, though he kept his hands resting on Will’s knees. He looked at him with a spark of mischief and mystery as he pulled a folded envelope from his back pocket.
"I have a surprise," he said, handing him the envelope. "We planned with the group to go to Hawkins. You know, visit our families and maybe... play a game of D&D again, like we’re twelve years old."
Will let out a clean laugh, feeling a comforting heat spread through his chest, erasing any trace of work fatigue.
"Do you think I still remember how to be the Cleric?" he joked, taking the envelope.
Mike let a wide, honest smile spread across his face. He leaned in to kiss Will's lips briefly once more before answering.
"As I recall, you ended up being the Sorcerer, and you did it wonderfully. You’ll be fine."
"Yeah, Mike. Because my powers are innate, aren't they?" Will arched an eyebrow, and Mike blushed immediately, remembering the clumsy, desperate flirting of those teenage years.
Mike composed himself quickly, though his cheeks were still a bit flushed.
"Yes," he whispered, with a seriousness that made Will’s heart flip. "What do you say? Would you go to Hawkins with me to play D&D, Sorcerer?"
Will huffed, amused, and nodded with a radiant smile that lit up the whole studio.
"Our story always started with you, Will," Mike added in a lower, almost sacred tone. He reached out and stroked Will’s hair, carefully tucking a lock behind his ear. "Let’s start a new party. You and me, forever."
"Forever," Will repeated.
Since he was twelve, since that night he disappeared in the woods until the day they finally defeated Vecna, and for a long time after, Will had only known what it was to run, to hide, and to fight. Sometimes all three at once, sometimes just one, but always something. Fear had been his constant shadow.
However, now he had Mike. Completely.
He could finally feel the air truly filling his lungs, and that reality was stronger than anything else. The Sorcerer no longer had to hide his powers, and the Paladin had finally returned home.