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Will has forgiven Mike a lot of times. He knows this about himself, knows it in the same way he knows how to breathe or how to disappear into the corners of a room when voices get too loud. He knows Mike is blunt, that he panics and bolts, that fear makes him sharp and careless and cruel in ways he doesn’t always mean. Will has held those truths gently before, turned them over in his hands until they stopped cutting.
But standing here now, rain soaking through his shirt, flattening his hair against his forehead, pooling at his collarbone and running down his spine in thin, shivering lines, it’s hard to remember any of that.
Mike says something. An apology, maybe. The word sorry is there, Will thinks, or something shaped like it, dragged out and dropped between them like it should fix the distance.
But Will barely hears it. All he can focus on is the way Mike is looking at him. Really looking.
Seeing.
Will feels different. He knows he is. He’s felt it in the quiet spaces of himself for years now, felt the slow rearranging of his insides, the way things don’t fit the way they used to.
Mike can tell.
The thought settles heavy in Will’s chest, presses down until his breaths start coming shallow and uneven. Mike can see him. Mike can tell. Mike said it to his face, and there’s no taking that back.
Fear crawls up Will’s throat, sticky and hot. He hates it, hates that it’s there at all, but it’s real, and it’s loud, and it won’t let him pretend this is just another moment they’ll smooth over later.
He’s scared of Mike in this moment. Not in the way he was scared of monsters, or the Upside Down, or the dark, but in a quieter, sharper way. The kind of fear that asks what happens if someone you love decides they don’t want to be gentle anymore.
Because love—and Will loves him so much it aches—doesn’t actually protect you from being hurt. He knows that too. Loving Mike won’t change Mike’s mind if he really wanted to hurt him for it.
For being this.
The rain keeps falling, relentless, drumming against the pavement and Will’s shoulders and Mike’s stupid yellow shirt, and Will thinks distantly that this is how it always feels when something is about to break—too loud, too cold, impossible to escape.
He thinks of all the other times. All the moments when Mike understood him without Will having to explain a single thing. The way Mike used to look at him like Will was the only one in the room. The way he’d always known when Will needed space, or comfort, or quiet. The way he’d defended him without hesitation, without thinking.
Mike has understood him completely before. Has known him in ways that felt almost frightening in how easy it was.
Will clings to those memories now, not because they make this better, but because they’re the only proof he has that this doesn’t have to be the end of understanding. That maybe this, this thing Will has never said out loud, this truth sitting raw and exposed between them, is just another language Mike hasn’t learned yet.
He wonders, silently, helplessly, if Mike ever will.
Will turns around, gets on his bike and pedals into the storm.
He doesn’t remember deciding to do it, only the sudden, violent need to be anywhere that isn’t there, anywhere that isn’t Mike’s face and Mike’s voice and the way his name sounded wrong in his own head.
The woods swallow him whole almost immediately, branches clawing at his arms, mud slick under the wheels, rain crashing down so hard it feels like it’s trying to shove him into the ground.
He doesn’t slow. He can’t. His lungs burn, his legs shake, but the thought of stopping, of turning around, feels worse than the pain.
Castle Byers comes into view like a ghost of something he used to be. Wood warped with age, rope fraying, the sign crooked and barely hanging on.
A place that once meant safety. A place where he was small enough that nothing inside him had sharp edges yet.
He scrambles up and inside, hands slipping on wet wood, and the curtain falls behind him with a hollow noise that echoes too loud in the cramped space. The smell hits him all at once—old leaves, damp earth, dust and memory.
This is where he used to hide with Mike, shoulders pressed together, knees knocking, looking at drawings like they were maps to better worlds. This is where things made sense.
Now it just feels too small.
The first sob rips out of him so hard it steals his balance. He stumbles, catches himself on a beam, then doubles over like his body has finally decided it can’t hold anything in anymore. The sounds coming out of him don’t feel human, they’re wet, broken, wrecking their way through his chest and throat. His hands shake as he grabs at whatever’s closest, tearing paper, snapping brittle wood, ripping down pieces of the inside, hoping that if he destroys it first, it can’t reject him.
He hates himself in this moment with a burning, corrosive intensity. Hates the way he is. Hates that he can’t just be normal, can’t just be easy, can’t just stop wanting the wrong things.
“Stupid,” he chokes, over and over, like a prayer, like a punishment. “So stupid—”
The word loses meaning but he keeps saying it anyway, nails digging into his palms, tears blurring his vision until everything bleeds together. He feels so alone it’s unbearable. Alone in a way that makes his skin crawl, that makes the world feel like it’s shrinking in on him, squeezing him out.
Eventually there’s nothing left to tear apart. The inside of the castle looks hollowed out, broken, unrecognizable, and something in Will cracks with it. He spots the bat where it’s always been, leaning uselessly against the wall, and grabs it with both hands.
He crawls back outside, rain immediately drenching him, soaking his hair and clothes until he’s shivering hard. The sky is dark and furious, thunder rumbling low in the distance, and the sign above the castle looms there, crooked and stupid and still standing.
A scream tears out of him raw and desperate as he swings the bat with everything he has. The impact shudders up his arms as the sign splinters, wood cracking and snapping, pieces flying.
He swings again. And again. Each hit fueled by all the things he can’t say, can’t fix, can’t rip out of himself. His shoulders burn, his hands go numb, his vision swims, but he doesn’t stop until his body finally gives out.
The bat slips from his fingers. His knees buckle.
He collapses into the mud, chest heaving, the rain pounding against him as if the sky itself is trying to drown the sound of his breathing. He curls in on himself, exhaustion dragging him down until he can’t even cry anymore.
He just lies there, wrecked and shaking, in the ruins of the place that used to feel like home.
The memory is sharp, and it feels just as real as every other vision Vecna forced into him. It sits heavy in his chest, indistinguishable from lived experience, like his mind doesn’t know the difference anymore between what happened and what was taken and twisted and handed back to him with teeth.
And now, Will sits across from his mom, hands folded too tightly in his lap, fingers digging into each other. The room feels wrong in that particular way it always does before something important happens. It’s too quiet, too still, the air itself waiting to see what he’ll do.
The lamp hums softly behind him. The clock ticks. Every sound feels magnified, pressed up against his ribs.
He remembers.
Not in pictures, not cleanly, but in sensation. The way helplessness sank into him so fast it stole his breath. The way fear bloomed sharp and sudden at the realization that someone he loved could see him clearly enough to notice what was different.
Different in a way that mattered. Different in a way that could change things forever.
The memory curls inward, claws gently at the inside of his stomach, that same sick heat licking up his spine. He hates how easily his body remembers before his mind can catch up. His shoulders tense without permission.
Hide, his instincts whisper, the same ones that took over back then and didn’t let go for months.
Months of making himself smaller. Of carefully sidestepping Mike’s gaze, of answering questions with half-words and shrugs, of convincing himself that distance was safer than hope.
Months of telling himself it didn’t hurt to pull away, that he didn’t miss the way Mike used to look at him, like Will was something solid and known. Months of grief that had nowhere to go, because admitting it meant it hurt in the first place.
He doesn’t want that again. He can’t survive that again.
Across from him, his mom watches him like she always does when she knows something is wrong but can’t quite name it. Her brows are pinched together, worry carved deep enough that it feels like part of her now.
She’s trying not to push. Trying not to overwhelm him. But Will can see the strain in it, the endless wondering and the quiet fear that she’s failed him somehow, that there’s something broken in her son she hasn’t been able to fix.
The thought makes his chest ache.
He doesn’t want her to worry anymore. Doesn’t want her lying awake at night, replaying everything that’s happened to him, trying to figure out what else the world has taken that she didn’t notice in time.
He wants her to know the truth, and not because it’s easy, not because it won’t change anything, but because it will finally stop the guessing. Stop the endless circling around an unnamed wrongness.
He swallows. His throat feels tight, the words already there, crowded and impatient and terrified all at once. He’s so scared of what her face might do when he says it. Scared of what might shift between them, irrevocably.
But he’s more scared of staying silent.
He looks at her again. Really looks. At the way her hands twist together in her lap. Love radiates off her in a way that’s almost unbearable.
No matter what Vecna showed him, or what monster tried to peel him open, tried to convince him that this part of himself was a weakness, a weapon, a flaw to be exploited, Will refuses to let that voice decide this moment too. Refuses to let fear dictate the rest of his life the way it already stole so much of it.
His hands loosen, just a little.
He lifts his head. Meets his mom’s eyes. Lets the fear surge and settle without turning away this time.
He’s still scared, but for the first time, he doesn’t hide.
Will swallows, the movement tight. His hands unclench from his lap just long enough for him to realize how badly they’re shaking before he stills them again, fingers digging into denim.
“I—I have to tell you something,” he says.
The words hang there, fragile. His mom’s head snaps up immediately, surprise flashing across her face before it settles into something more careful. Her hands tighten around her knees, knuckles whitening, and Will hates that he did that to her.
“What is it?” she asks, her voice rough, already been dragged through worry before it even reaches him.
Will inhales. The air feels thick in his lungs, heavy with everything he hasn’t said yet. “When I was trapped by Vecna,” he starts, worried that if he rushes this it’ll all spill out wrong, “he showed me things. Really awful things.”
Her expression changes instantly into something gentle, her eyes clouded with something comforting. She leans forward without realizing it. “Will, honey, he’s trying to scare you. That’s what he does,” she says firmly. “He lies. He shows you things that aren’t real to hurt you.”
Will shakes his head.
“No,” he says, and his voice doesn’t waver the way he expects it to. “No, that’s—that’s not what this was.” He presses his lips together for a moment, breath shuddering, then keeps going before fear can grab the reins again. “What he showed me was true.”
Her brows knit together. “Will—”
“It didn’t come from him,” he cuts in, and the urgency in his voice surprises even him. His chest feels tight, but there’s something else there too, something solid, grounding him in place. “It came from me.”
He swallows again, throat burning. “Vecna can see everything,” he says quietly. “Every lie. Every secret. Every part of you that you try to lock away and pretend isn’t there.” His fingers curl tighter, nails biting into his palms. “And he didn’t show me what he wanted to happen. He showed me what would happen if I kept those secrets. If I kept hiding.”
The room feels smaller now. Closer. Will can feel his mom’s attention on him.
“Max told me he’s afraid,” Will continues, the words coming easier the longer he lets himself speak. “That Vecna isn’t just angry—he’s scared. And when she said that, I—I realized something.” His voice trembles, but he doesn’t stop. “If he’s afraid, then I don’t have to be like him. Not like this.”
He lifts his gaze to her, eyes shining, raw and unguarded. “So I’m not going to let him decide things for me. I’m not going to let fear keep choosing my life.”
There’s a long, aching pause.
His mom exhales shakily, one hand lifting from her knee like she wants to reach for him but doesn’t want to scare him off. “You can tell me anything,” she says softly. “Anything at all.”
Will nods, and lowers his head to look down at his hands, then glances back up again. Pauses, only for a moment, but it feels enormous.
Will takes a deep breath, and it's shaky, uneven. He lifts his head and looks at his mom, and something in his expression must shift because she leans forward suddenly, decisively, and takes his hands in hers.
Her palms are warm. Solid. Real.
Will shudders at the contact, a full-body reaction he can’t stop, and the tears he’s been holding back surge immediately, pressure building hot and heavy behind his eyes. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, trying to keep himself together long enough to get the words out.
“There’s—” His voice cracks, and he has to start over. “There’s something different about me.”
He says it fast, ripping off the bandage, but the words don’t actually leave him feeling lighter. His mom doesn’t let go. Her thumbs brush over his knuckles, grounding him there, keeping him from folding in on himself the way he wants to.
“I’m—I’m still me,” Will keeps going, the words spilling out now that it’s started, unstoppable. “I’m still the same. I still—I still like drawing. I still paint rocket ships and my characters, and—I still like biking in the spring, when it’s not too hot yet and everything smells like grass.” His breath stutters. “That hasn’t changed.”
His vision blurs. He swallows, forcing himself to say the part that scares him the most. “And I still love you. The same way. Even if—even if you don’t, after this.”
A sob rips out of him, ugly and loud and impossible to take back, and Will bows his head, shoulders caving inward as if the weight of it all has finally become too much to hold upright. His grip tightens around her hands reflexively, half afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go.
“I—I don’t like girls,” he says, and it comes out thick and broken between breaths. “Not like—not like my friends. Not like Mike. Or Lucas. Or Dustin.” He squeezes his eyes shut, tears spilling freely now. “I always knew. I just—I kept pretending it wasn’t there, hoping that if I ignored it long enough, it would go away.”
“Will—” his mom starts, her voice catching on his name.
He shakes his head sharply, still crying, still breathing too fast. “I just—I—” He chokes, dragging in another breath, forcing himself through it. “I like boys.”
The words land heavy in the space between them.
Will keeps his head down, sobbing quietly, waiting for whatever comes next.
“Oh, Will.”
His mom doesn’t hesitate. The moment his name leaves her mouth she pulls him forward, arms wrapping around him firmly, like she’s afraid he might slip away if she’s not holding tight enough. Will lets out a broken sound that might be a bitter laugh or a sob and then he’s crying fully into her shoulder, face pressed into her sweater, breath hitching and stuttering as everything he’s been holding back finally crashes down on him all at once.
It’s overwhelming, the release of it. His body gives in before his mind can catch up, tension draining out of his muscles in shaky waves as he sags against her warmth.
Her hand moves up and down his back, steady and familiar, and it makes something in his chest unclench so suddenly it almost hurts. He brings his arms up, clumsy and desperate, and clings to her like he used to when he was little, fingers twisting into the fabric at her back.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing and the sun against the windows and her quiet murmurs that don’t ask for anything, don’t demand explanations or reassurance.
When they finally pull apart, it’s slow, reluctant. Will wipes at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, sniffling, cheeks flushed. His mom keeps one hand on his arm, grounding him there, making sure he doesn’t retreat into himself again now that the worst part is over.
“There’s—” Will chuckles suddenly, breathless and shaky, the sound surprising him as much as it does her. He exhales, scrubbing his face again. “There’s something else.”
“Anything, baby,” his mom says immediately, squeezing his hand tighter.
Will stares at their joined hands for a second, then looks up. His smile is fragile. “There’s a boy I like,” he says, then sighs, the weight of it settling back onto his shoulders even as he lets it out. “And I know he’s not—he’s not different like me. And he never will be.”
His mom watches him closely, something gentle and knowing in her eyes that makes Will’s stomach flip uncomfortably. He’s not used to this—to being seen so clearly without trying to hide.
“I think I know who it is,” she says softly.
Will huffs out a quiet, embarrassed laugh and nods. “You probably do.”
“Is it who I think it is?”
“Yes,” Will says, barely louder than a whisper.
She smiles. “I always knew there was something different about you two.”
“No,” Will says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s—it’s just me. It’s not—he doesn’t—”
“Will,” she interrupts gently. “Even if he doesn’t love you the same way, he still cares about you a lot. That much is obvious.”
Will swallows, throat tight again, but this time the ache feels familiar. Manageable. “I know,” he says quietly.
And for once, knowing doesn’t feel like it’s tearing him apart.
His mom pulls him into a hug again. Will goes willingly this time, a soft, wet laugh breaking out of him as his face presses into her shoulder. It’s a laugh that still carries tears in it, but lighter than anything he’s let himself feel in days.
“I’m really glad you told me,” she says into his hair, voice steady.
Will nods against her, chest still heaving, relief washing through him in slow, dizzying waves. He opens his mouth to say something—thank you, or I’m okay, or I love you—but the words never get the chance to form.
Something shifts to his right.
It’s subtle, barely a sound, just the faintest movement of air, but Will feels it immediately. His spine goes rigid. Every nerve in his body lights up all at once, instinct screaming before his mind can catch up. His breath stutters to a stop.
He pulls back just enough to turn his head.
Mike is standing in the entrance.
For half a second, Will can’t process it. Mike looks unreal there, framed by the doorway, curls plastered to his forehead, jacket hanging open like he forgot to zip it on the way in. His expression is wide-eyed, caught mid-step, and he’s probably realizing that he’s walked straight into something he wasn’t supposed to see.
“Mike—” Will exclaims, the name tearing out of him on pure reflex. He jerks back from his mom too fast, standing up as his heart lurches violently, hands coming up uselessly like he needs something to do with them. “I—”
He stops. Starts again. “I didn’t—”
His mom turns as well, following his line of sight, her expression shifting from concern to mild surprise as she takes Mike in. She observes him, present in a way that makes Will feel suddenly, painfully transparent.
“Mike,” she says.
Mike clears his throat, the sound awkward and too loud in the quiet room. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking between Will and his mom like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at either of them.
“Uh, the others are almost ready to go,” he says, voice pitched carefully neutral, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on Will’s blotchy face, the damp tracks still visible beneath his eyes.
Will feels exposed down to the bone.
He scrubs at his cheeks quickly, as if that might erase the evidence, forces his shoulders back, tries to summon the version of himself that knows how to play normal. “Yeah—yeah, okay,” he says too fast. “We’ll—we’ll be there in a second. I just, uh—”
His words tangle together, useless. He can hear it happening and can’t stop it.
His mom rises smoothly to her feet, breaking the tension without drawing attention to it. “I’ll leave you two to talk,” she says.
Will’s mouth opens in instinctive protest, but she’s already leaning down. Her hand cups the back of his head briefly, and she presses a kiss to his forehead.
“I love you,” she murmurs.
“I love you too,” Will breathes back automatically, voice still wrecked.
She steps past Mike, offering him a small, knowing smile that makes Will’s stomach drop, and then she’s gone, the soft click of the door closing behind her echoing far louder than it should.
Will stays frozen, pulse roaring in his ears, confession and relief still clinging to him like a second skin. His hands hang uselessly at his sides.
Mike doesn’t move.
For a long, terrible moment, neither of them says anything. Mike’s gaze drifts back to Will, hesitant, careful.
“You, uh,” Mike starts, then stops. He swallows. “Are you okay?”
Will almost laughs. The question feels impossibly small compared to everything that’s just happened, compared to the truth still buzzing under his skin, but there’s something achingly familiar in it too. Mike always asks that first. Always has.
“Yeah,” Will says automatically, then winces. “I mean, yeah. I’m—I’m okay.”
It’s not a lie. Not entirely. But it’s not the whole truth either, and standing there with Mike watching him so closely, Will has the strangest, terrifying thought that maybe Mike can tell.
That maybe he always could.
“Hey,” Mike says quietly. “You should—you should sit down.”
Will blinks at him. His legs feel unreliable anyway, loose and buzzing in a way that makes standing seem like a bad idea. He nods once and sinks down onto the chair, movements stiff. The cushion dips beneath his weight.
He has no idea what’s about to happen.
His mind keeps circling back to the same unbearable thought—Mike must have heard something. At least the end of it. Maybe not the whole confession, maybe not the words themselves, but enough. Enough to put the pieces together.
Will had said he. He said boy. Even if Mike didn’t hear it directly, even if the walls swallowed part of it, there’s no version of this where Mike walks away without knowing.
Will braces himself.
But when he looks up, Mike is smiling.
Soft and tentative, like he’s trying not to scare him. He moves closer and sits across from Will instead of beside him, giving him space, knees angled inward, posture slightly hunched.
Will’s gaze drops immediately to Mike’s hands, where they’re twisting together in his lap, fingers fidgeting restlessly, knuckles brushing and pulling apart.
That alone makes Will’s chest tighten, and he sighs.
“So,” he says, voice tired and too honest to be anything else. “You—I mean, you heard that, right?”
Mike freezes for half a second. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, then closes again. He looks down, inhales, exhales, and finally nods.
Will’s eyes drop to his thighs, to the way his hands are resting uselessly there, fingers trembling just slightly. He presses them flat against his jeans, grounding himself in the pressure. His thoughts scatter immediately, running in too many directions at once.
He doesn’t know how to do this. Doesn’t know where to start now that the thing he was most afraid of is already halfway exposed.
Mike shifts in his seat. “Are you—” He stops, recalibrates. His voice is gentle when he tries again. “Are you going to tell me yourself?”
Will swallows.
“I feel like you should,” Mike adds, carefully. Not demanding. Not pushing.
“Yeah,” Will says after a beat. “Yeah. Just—” He breathes out slowly. “Just give me a moment.”
Mike nods immediately, and Will turns to stare at the floor, at the faint shadow their feet cast there. His mind fills with possibilities, each one worse than the last. Mike could be confused. Mike could be uncomfortable. Mike could pull away slowly, politely, trying not to hurt him. Mike could say the wrong thing without meaning to. Mike could say nothing at all.
From what Will can see now, Mike doesn’t look upset. He doesn’t look angry. If anything, he looks…nervous.
But Will knows better than to trust first impressions when it comes to Mike and feelings. Mike has always been good at hiding the parts of himself that scare him. So has Will.
Maybe this calm is temporary. Maybe it’s wishful thinking.
Will squeezes his hands into fists, then loosens them again. His heart thuds painfully in his chest.
He knows he can’t keep running.
Not from this. Not from Mike.
Will clears his throat.
The sound is rough and small, like it scrapes on the way out, and he hates that it gives him away even now. His chest tightens as he lifts his head just enough to speak, eyes fixed somewhere near Mike’s collarbone because looking directly at his face feels like too much to survive.
“I like boys,” he says.
The words land between them, quiet and absolute. Just truth, exposed.
Mike inhales sharply. It’s a quick, involuntary pull of air that makes Will’s stomach drop immediately. Mike’s eyes widen just a little, brows pulling together into something that looks pained. Will watches it happen in real time, every microexpression burning itself into his memory, and he has no idea what to do with any of it.
He doesn’t wait for Mike to speak.
“Yeah,” Will says, huffing out a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob. “I guess, that’s it.” He drags in another deep breath, lungs burning, and nods to himself hoping this is him sealing it shut.
Mike’s hands stop fidgeting and his shoulders shift.
Finally, he says it. “You’ll always be my best friend, Will.”
And there it is.
Will feels it immediately—the sharp, unmistakable pang right in the center of his chest. A dull, devastating ache that spreads outward slowly, methodically, like it knows exactly where to go. It’s rejection, clean and quiet and wrapped up in kindness, which somehow makes it hurt worse. His stupid hope caves in on itself, folds neatly away because it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
He’s familiar with this feeling. It settles into him with practiced ease, an old wound flaring up just enough to remind him it never really healed.
Will lifts his gaze back to Mike, eyes stinging, vision just a little blurred, and he doesn’t know how he’s ever supposed to get over him.
The thought feels impossible, because Mike isn’t just some boy he likes. Mike is everything else too.
Mike is his best friend.
His first friend.
The first person who chose him. The first person who saw him and stayed. The only person who knows exactly how to take care of him without being told, he knows when to push, when to soften, when to sit quietly and just exist beside him until the world feels less sharp. Mike knows his rhythms. His tells. The shape of his fear and the way his joy flickers to life.
How is Will ever supposed to find someone who tops that?
How is he supposed to love someone else when this—this connection, this care—is already written so deeply into him it feels permanent?
His chest aches with the enormity of it. With the certainty that no matter what happens next, no matter who comes into his life later, some part of him is always going to belong right here. Right across from Mike. In this quiet space where truth was finally spoken and gently, unknowingly, returned in a different shape.
Will swallows, nods once, and forces himself to breathe through it.
Because this is what loving Mike has always meant, it’s holding onto what he’s given him, even when it’s not what Will hoped for.
“I know, Mike,” Will says quietly. The words come out steady even though his chest still aches. “You’re my best friend too.”
Mike shakes his head. Will tilts his head in response, confusion curling through him. He frowns slightly, eyes lifting back to Mike’s face, and then he freezes.
There are tears shining unmistakably in Mike’s eyes, lashes clumped just a little, his expression tight as though he’s holding something back with brute force alone. Will has seen Mike angry more times than he can count. He’s seen him terrified, reckless, furious, stubborn.
But this raw, teetering vulnerability hits him with a sharp ache.
Mike swallows hard. “I think you’re right,” he says, voice rough. “About not being scared anymore.” His jaw tightens, then loosens again, and it seems like he’s fighting himself. “Which made me realize something.”
Will doesn’t dare to speak.
“I shouldn’t be scared either,” Mike continues, words tumbling out faster now. “Not like this. Not about us.”
Will stares at him, heart hammering so loudly he’s half-sure Mike can hear it. “What do you mean?” he asks softly.
Mike looks up then, really looks at him, and the desperation on his face is unguarded. It makes Will’s stomach twist painfully.
“I think you should hear the truth about me too,” Mike says.
He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking. “I’m terrified,” he admits. “All the time. I’m scared for my parents, for Holly, for everyone. I feel like if I stop paying attention for even a second, something terrible will happen and it’ll be my fault.” His breath stutters. “But I shouldn’t be scared of—of you. Or me. Or what this is.”
Will’s body moves before his brain can catch up. He leans forward instinctively, knees bumping closer, voice low and urgent. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says. “We’re going to get through this, I promise.”
He means it, and even as his nerves spark and his thoughts scatter wildly, the instinct is still there, to anchor Mike, to steady him, to be the one who stays calm when Mike can’t.
But Will is falling apart.
Seeing Mike like this is rare. Seeing him on the edge of breaking down, words fraying, hands trembling without direction, it’s nerve-wracking in a way Will isn’t prepared for. Mike is usually the one who fills the silence with action, with certainty, even when it’s misplaced.
This Mike looks lost.
Will searches his face desperately, trying to read what comes next, trying to prepare himself for words that could change everything again. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do.
All he knows is that Mike is reaching for the truth the same way he did—terrified, exposed, and finally unwilling to run.
And that scares him almost as much as it gives him hope.
Mike brings his hands up to his face abruptly, seemingly embarrassed by the tears. He scrubs at his eyes hard, palms pressing in until his skin reddens, then drags his hands down his cheeks and exhales shakily. When he drops them back into his lap, his fingers are trembling.
“Do you—” He stops, clears his throat, then tries again. “Do you know why El and I broke up?”
Will feels his brows knit together as he tilts his head, trying to follow the turn the conversation has just taken. His heart is still pounding from everything Mike has already said, and now this is a sharp detour he doesn’t understand.
“No,” Will says honestly. “She never told me that part.”
Mike nods, like he expected that. He leans back slightly, staring at his hands for a moment before forcing himself to keep talking, words spilling out in a rush that feels practiced and fragile all at once.
“Well,” he starts, then huffs out a humorless breath. “Being with El was always…easy.” He glances up quickly, and keeps going when Will doesn’t interrupt. “And that sounds good, right? Easy should be good. But it—it wasn’t always right.”
Will stays very still, and he doesn’t trust himself to move.
“I cared about her,” Mike says, voice tight. “I still do. I always will. But I didn’t—” His jaw clenches. “I didn’t love her like I thought I was supposed to. Like everyone kept telling me I should.”
Something in Will’s chest tightens painfully.
“I kept waiting for it,” Mike continues, frustration bleeding through now. “The butterflies. The heat. That spark everyone talks about. Like it would just show up one day if I tried hard enough, if I said the right things, if I convinced myself long enough.” He laughs weakly. “But it never did. And once I realized that, once it was out there, I couldn’t shove it back down again. I couldn’t pretend anymore.”
Will listens, breath shallow, every word lodging somewhere deep and sharp inside him. He’s standing too close to the edge of something enormous, and one wrong movement could slush him off of it.
Mike sniffs, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, blinking hard as he tries to keep himself together. His throat bobs as he swallows. When he looks back down at Will, his expression is raw, eyes still shining.
“Being alone again scared me at first,” he admits quietly. “I hated it. I didn’t know who I was without having that defined.” His fingers curl into the fabric of his pants. “But then you—you were there. And we started talking more. And hanging out. And it felt—” He stops, breath catching, then pushes through. “It felt right again. Like I wasn’t forcing myself into something that didn’t fit.”
Will’s breath gets stuck in his throat, and his hands clench into fists on his thighs without him meaning to, nails digging in hard enough to ground him as his pulse spikes wildly. His entire body feels tight, coiled, almost bracing for impact. He doesn’t know where Mike is going with this. He doesn’t know if he wants to.
Hope flickers anyway, terrifying and unwanted and impossible to silence.
Will keeps his eyes on Mike’s face, afraid that if he looks away he’ll miss something crucial. Afraid that if he lets himself believe this means something, the fall will hurt worse than anything he’s ever felt before.
He stays silent, heart hammering, waiting.
“I always thought…” Mike trails off, shakes his head, then tries again. “I always thought the plan was just to…push forward and finish this. Beat Vecna. Leave the upside down behind.” His voice roughens. “And then we could all just leave. Run away if we had to. Me and Lucas and Dustin. Max and El.” He hesitates, then adds, softer, “And you.”
Will lets out a small, breathy chuckle before he can stop himself. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I think about that too, all the time.” He swallows. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that helps me keep going. Just—believing there’s something after this.” His gaze flickers away for a second, then back. “I don’t know. I have this feeling that we’ll get through it. All of us, together.”
Mike nods immediately. “Yeah,” he agrees, before shaking his head again, frustrated. “Yeah, but that’s not—you don’t get it.”
Will’s smile falters.
“I’m saying,” Mike continues, breath coming quicker now, “that thinking about the future made me feel…happy. Like actually happy. But the only part of it that ever felt real—like something I could hold onto—was you.”
Will looks at him.
Really looks.
“Oh,” he says quietly, barely louder than a breath.
When their eyes lock, something shifts. Mike’s brows furrow, tension pulling his face tight, and he licks his lips nervously before continuing.
“I can’t lose you,” he says. “Not again.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he stops abruptly, sucking in a few rapid breaths like he’s trying not to fall apart completely.
Before Will can process it, Mike’s hands are closing around his, warm and trembling, fingers slotting clumsily between Will’s own. Will blinks slowly, startled, heart slamming so hard it almost hurts. The contact feels electric in the quietest way possible, humming just under the surface.
“Mike,” Will says softly, cautiously, because Mike is close, too close, and Will can feel it now. That something. That charged, fragile space between them.
Their knees brush, and the contact is light, accidental, but it sends a jolt straight through Will’s body anyway. Mike leans in more, searching Will’s face and his breath catches. Will licks his lips without thinking, nerves buzzing hot under his skin.
Mike’s eyes follow the movement instinctively. Just for a second.
Then they lift again, settling back on Will’s face, intent and terrified and hopeful all at once. Mike doesn’t let go of his hands. His thumbs press lightly against Will’s knuckles, grounding and pleading in equal measure.
Will feels frozen in place, suspended between fear and longing, between everything he’s learned to protect himself from and everything he’s ever wanted.
He just stays there, heart racing, breathing shallow, standing perfectly still at the edge of something that could change everything, or break him all over again.
Mike tightens his grip around Will’s hands. It’s subtle at first, just a little more pressure, but Will feels it immediately, feels the way Mike’s fingers curl in like he’s anchoring himself, like letting go isn’t an option anymore. Mike looks down at their joined hands, jaw tightening, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. There’s something almost shy about it, something embarrassed and boyish that twists painfully at Will’s chest.
He almost does it, right then and there. Almost leans in and kisses Mike full on the mouth, closes the last inch between them and lets the thought finally turn into something real.
He’s so close it would take barely a movement, just a shift of his weight, just a couple inches more. He can picture it with alarming clarity, where his hand would go, how he’d brace himself, the way Mike would freeze for half a second before melting into it.
The feeling of Mike’s hands in his is addictive. Solid and warm and real in a way that makes Will’s chest buzz, makes him want more in a way he’s never let himself fully look at before. He’s high on on the emotional whiplash of the past few minutes, on Mike, on the way Mike is looking up at him with his lips parted like he wants to be kissed.
The rush scares him. He’s lived with this feeling for years, learned the highs, survived the crashes, but this is different. This is the first time he’s felt genuinely close to getting it, close enough to reach out and touch.
Mike’s hand twitches. Color blooms across his cheeks, unmistakable, and the sight of it sends a jolt straight through Will’s spine. He’d feel triumphant if he didn’t also think he might pass out on the spot. It would be so easy. So easy to lean in and kiss him right now.
Will wonders if Mike is thinking the same thing. If this, this quiet, breathless tension, is what Mike looks like when he’s interested, or if Will is just projecting because he wants it so badly it hurts.
He wonders if Mike has any idea how much power he has over him. How close Will is to tipping over the edge of something he can’t take back.
He also wonders how Mike can just say things like these.
How can he sit there and talk about a future where it’s just them, about certainty and fear and not wanting to lose Will, and not expect Will to feel like this in response.
He’s felt it for so long it feels infinite, like it stretches backward through every version of himself he’s ever been and forward into versions he hasn’t lived yet. This feeling isn’t new, it’s just finally been given permission to exist out loud.
And seeing Mike like this, cracked open and aching and honest, makes it impossible to deny how deep it goes.
Because Mike looks beautiful.
Not in a way that has anything to do with appearances, but in this raw, exposed way, finally letting all of that fear and confusion show.
This is Will’s Mike. The one he grew up with. The one who used to sit cross-legged on his bedroom floor and talk about campaigns and monsters and plans like they were sacred. The one who always noticed when Will was cold, or tired, or hurting before anyone else did.
Will swallows hard.
“Are you—” His voice comes out softer than he intends. “Are you okay?” He squeezes Mike’s hands back gently. “You’re being really quiet.”
Mike inhales sharply, then he looks up.
“I don’t like girls,” he says.
The words are blunt. Simple. There’s no poetry to them, no softening around the edges, they hit exactly as they are, heavy and undeniable. They land all the way between Will’s rib cage, forcing their way past bone and breath and thought, straight into his beating heart.
“I don’t think I ever did,” Mike continues, voice shaking just slightly. “Not the way I was supposed to.” His grip tightens again. “Seeing you being so brave, saying it out loud, it made me realize that I don’t have to pretend either. That I can feel the way I do.”
Will stares at him, breath caught somewhere high in his chest.
“I can’t afford to keep this secret,” Mike says quietly. “Not anymore. Not when—” His voice wavers. “Not when we might not even make it through tonight.”
Something in Will fractures.
He’s imagined this moment a thousand different ways—angry, messy, painful, dismissive, devastating—but never like this. Never with Mike saying it himself, looking at Will like he’s the only solid thing left in the room. Never with truth sitting between them like this, fragile and incandescent.
His mouth goes dry instantly. He opens it, closes it again, words failing him completely for once.
It makes sense. In a quiet, awful, beautiful way, it makes sense.
Mike has never been interested in anyone the way the others were. Not beyond El. And even that always felt…careful.
Will thinks about how distant Mike’s been, how guarded, how tense around conversations about girls and expectations and the future.
Maybe he was figuring it out too.
Maybe he pulled away because he was scared of what closeness with Will meant, because it felt too real, too dangerous, too close to something he wasn’t ready to name yet. Maybe that’s why he tried so hard to stay with El, even when it wasn’t working. Because letting go meant facing something else entirely.
Will exhales shakily, still holding Mike’s hands, still not daring to move closer or pull away.
His heart feels too big for his chest.
“That’s okay, Mike,” Will says softly. His voice shakes just a little, but he doesn’t pull away. “You’re—you’re being really brave.”
Mike looks at him fully, earnestly, like there’s nothing else in the room worth seeing. The intensity of it makes Will’s knees go weak, makes his grip on Mike’s hands tighten reflexively, needing something solid to keep him upright.
“I love you, Will.” Mike whispers.
Will blinks.
Once. Twice.
His fingers falter around Mike’s hands, loosening despite himself, his body momentarily forgetting how to function. “What?” he breathes, the word thin and disbelieving.
Mike doesn’t look away. If anything, he leans in just slightly, almost eager to hold Will as close as possible.
“I love you, Will,” he says again, firmer this time. “It was always you.”
Something in Will snaps, not painfully, not all at once, but enough to send his thoughts scattering in every direction. Panic rushes in hot and fast, crowding his chest, making his breaths come out too quick, too shallow. Heat floods his face, his neck, his chest.
“Mike—” He stammers helplessly. “How—what—I—” The words refuse to line up.
He cannot believe what he’s hearing. Mike likes him. More than that, Mike loves him. And he’s holding Will’s hands and looking at him like this, as though the truth is simple.
This isn’t platonic. There’s no room for misunderstanding here.
Will feels his heart expand violently, suddenly too big for his body, pressing hard against his ribs until it feels like it might break through. The sensation is overwhelming, warmth blooming in his chest, spreading outward, consuming him entirely.
It feels good. Too good. It’s something he’s been starving for without realizing how deep the hunger went.
He can’t stop the smile that breaks across his face.
“Are you—” He swallows. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly.
Mike doesn’t hesitate for even a second. “I’ve never been so sure in my life.”
Will’s laugh spills out of him breathless and incredulous, the sound almost shaking him apart. He lowers his head, forehead tipping forward, still holding onto Mike.
“Mike,” he says, voice thick, overwhelmed. He exhales shakily. “I—I can’t even explain how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
Mike takes his hands away, the loss of contact immediate and startling, and Will looks up instinctively, only to freeze when Mike’s hand comes up instead, fingers settling at the side of his neck. The touch is gentle, grounding, impossibly intimate in a way that makes Will’s breath hitch despite himself. Mike shifts closer, so close it feels unreal, until there’s barely any space left between them at all.
Will can feel Mike’s warmth now, can feel the air they’re both breathing, shared and shallow and unsteady. Their knees are pressed together. Their foreheads almost are. The world narrows down to this small, fragile space, to the sound of Mike’s breath and the way his thumb rests just under Will’s ear.
The moment stretches, just long enough for Will’s heart to start racing again, just long enough for him to wonder if this is the moment something goes wrong, something breaks.
Then Mike swallows.
“Can I—” His voice is quiet, urgent and unsure and so many things combined together. “Can I kiss you? I really need to.”
Will doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think. He just nods, a soft, breathless sound leaving him as he says, “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
Mike leans in, and it’s chaste, just a brief press of lips, more a question than anything else. And then Mike pulls back immediately, eyes searching Will’s face, bracing for regret, for fear, for a sign he’s gone too far.
Will doesn’t know how to say everything he’s feeling, not with words, but he hopes it’s there in his eyes anyway, wide and bright and full. It seems like it is, because something shifts in Mike’s expression as he takes him in, relief crossing his face.
Mike’s gaze flicks down to Will’s lips, before leaning in again.
This time it lingers just a fraction longer, still gentle, still careful. Will feels Mike’s hand slide to the back of his head, fingers threading lightly into his hair.
Will lifts his hands and rests them on Mike’s forearms, grounding himself there, anchoring the moment so it can’t disappear.
Will’s been imagining this scenario in hundreds of different ways since—well, since longer than he really lets himself track, stretching back through the years until it’s tangled up with late nights and half-acknowledged thoughts and the quiet realization, sometime when he was fourteen, that this wanting never actually went away.
He’s pictured a tentative, shaky first kiss on the front porch, imagined it happening years after Hawkins, after everything, when they’re both unmistakably grown and pretending they’re not still haunted by who they used to be.
In weaker moments, he’s pictured himself throwing caution to the wind and rolling over onto Mike while they’re sprawled across his bed, limbs tangled, the world narrowed down to breath and warmth and the kind of closeness that makes his chest ache just thinking about it.
In the end, though, none of that matters, because it’s Mike. And like everything else about him, it just makes sense.
He’s funny like that—impossible to read from a distance, all closed-off lines and guarded silence, but complete and solid and undeniable once you’re close enough to see the whole shape of him.
It makes sense, the way Mike cups his jaw now, steady and sure, thumb warm against his skin as he pulls him closer.
Mike’s lips are dry and a little chapped, gentle but insistent when they press against Will’s. The angle is awkward, knees knocking, balance precarious, but Will can’t bring himself to care.
He leans in with a kind of helpless eagerness, breath hitching, heart pounding too loud in his ears. He can taste the smile on Mike’s lips when he presses closer, feel it when Mike licks into his mouth like he’s been waiting just as long, like this, finally, is exactly where they’re supposed to be.
After minutes, Will pulls back, dazed and aching and still somehow not ready to let go. He grins despite himself as he takes Mike in properly.
He looks wrecked. Hair sticking up at strange angles like Will’s hands have been there far too often, lips red and swollen and soft-looking, eyes bright in a way that makes something warm and helpless bloom in Will’s chest. The late afternoon sun catches on him just right, and he looks unfairly beautiful. Near-glowing.
Mike loving him doesn’t feel as foreign as Will braced himself for. It doesn’t feel strange or overwhelming or too much. It just feels right, maybe the most right he’s ever felt about anything in his life.
“I, uh,” Will manages, because his brain has completely short-circuited and his voice sounds rough and scraped raw. “I love you too, for the record.”
“I know.” Mike’s fingers dig into his hips like he’s afraid Will might drift away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Will makes a small, humiliating noise and shifts closer without even thinking about it. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize.”
“It’s okay,” Will says, flushing hot and embarrassed and entirely sincere. He leans back just enough to look at him, and Mike’s arms follow automatically, stretching to keep him close. His fingers grasp at the base of Will’s spine, grounding him there. “Thank you for telling me. I don’t—I’m not as scared anymore.”
“Me neither,” Mike admits, breath uneven, chest still heaving. “I feel like I can finally breathe.”
Will smiles, something soft and steady settling in his ribs. “We’ll get through this together. We’ll finish this, once and for all.”
Mike’s lips twitch, like he wants to believe that more than anything. “I really hope you’re right.”
He sounds shy. A little nervous. Stripped down in a way Mike Wheeler rarely lets himself be, and God—it’s devastating. Will lifts a hand and cups his face, thumb warm against his cheek.
“I hope so too,” Will murmurs, dizzy with Mike, with having his whole heart laid bare like this. “I really want to put this behind us. We deserve that.”
Mike nods, legs still tangled with Will’s, breath slowly evening out. “You especially, Will.”
Will shrugs. “I guess.”
Mike shakes his head, words tumbling out rough and urgent. “No—I mean it. Once we’re done with this, once we end this asshole, I’m going to take you out properly. I’ll—I want to show you that you deserve to be loved. That I love you. And that it’s not going to change.” His grip tightens at Will’s waist, and Will’s eyebrows twitch in disbelief. “I don’t want you to be scared ever again,” Mike continues. “I’ll always be with you from now on.”
“Mike,” Will says softly, smiling despite the tight ache in his chest. He presses his thumb gently against the corner of Mike’s mouth. “I really love you.”
Something in Mike gives way completely. His shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of him in one quiet breath as he tilts into Will’s touch and presses a kiss to the pad of his thumb. “Yeah?” he asks, voice muffled and hopeful.
Will nods, smile growing, uncontainable. “So much.”
He traces the curve of Mike’s lips with his fingernail, slow and deliberate. Mike shivers at the contact, and Will watches him glow with pride at the reaction, eyes soft and bright and full.
He’s beautiful. He’s everything.
Vecna won’t take this from him—not now, not ever. Not after Will has finally found the thing he’s always been reaching for.