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DECEMBER 20th, 1993.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS.
Will Byers doesn’t drink.
Ever since the days of Lonnie stumbling home in the early hours of the morning in a drunken stupor, Will hasn’t touched it. He’ll never forget the feeling of pure, unadulterated fear at the sight of his dad slurring his words, the nasty sting of alcohol hot on his breath, seemingly trying to scare whatever he thought was wrong with Will right out of him.
Yeah, Lonnie’s a piece of shit. And Will would never wish that feeling upon his worst enemy.
There have been a few times, back in high school and after the end of the world had come to a close, when Will had let himself partake. But overtime, he’s decided the lingering, excruciating headache the next morning isn’t worth it
Sure, sometimes he feels a little left out in his sobriety. Like last night, Will spent the evening watching his whole group of friends stumble through the winter wonderland of downtown Chicago, all sappy and blissfully drunk without a care in the world, and he couldn’t help but wonder what that felt like. But he had a sober Lucas to help round up their crew too, laughing delightedly at their drunken antics. And he might as well have been drunk. It’s true what they say, that it’s infectious.
And at the end of the night, when Will was essentially dragging Mike up the stairs to their apartment, and Mike had snaked an arm around his waist, hand slipping under his coat and freezing, spindly fingers pulling him close, Will relished in the feeling in a way he probably would have missed if he wasn’t fully coherent. And hey, if he had been drunk, he wouldn’t have had the joy of watching the love of his life become the sappy, sweet mess he becomes after a shot and a half.
(And wouldn’t get to tease him about it later– out of love, obviously.)
This morning, as Will watches Mike blink his eyes open to the warm, wintery light spilling through the blinds and promptly tucks his face into Will’s side, hissing like an alley cat, Will can’t help but be a little smug at his choices.
He turns to his side to face Mike, and cards a hand through his dark curls. Mike just groans into Will’s shoulder in response.
The air in their room is thick and warm, smelling like the flowery incense Mike’s mom had sent them for the holidays and the remnants of the Fall candle Will’s mom had forced them to take home with when they came home for Thanksgiving (Mike had mentioned he liked the scent once, and somehow Joyce determined that that meant he needed a lifetime supply). Will can’t help but smile.
If you had told Will five years ago that the world had not only not ended, but that he’d end up living in a cozy Chicago apartment with Mike Wheeler in his bed, he probably would’ve passed out.
And now, in this reality, the one where they spend their nights stumbling around the city with their bestest friends in the world, and spend their mornings in this cozy little bubble they’ve created for themselves, Will still can’t really believe that this is his life. His apartment, his boyfriend tucked neatly into his side in their bed.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Mike grumbles, shoving with a limp hand at Will’s shoulder and cutting off his sappy train of thought.
“What does that even mean?” Will laughs, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.
Mike doesn’t even grace him with a response, he simply makes a miserable whining sound and buries the icy tip of his nose into Will’s collarbone.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a lightweight?” Will teases, hands moving through Mike’s hair once more. “And that you are the sappiest drunk to ever touch this planet?”
“Only you and Max and literally everybody else, every single time I drink,” Mike says, voice muffled where it’s pressed into Will’s t-shirt.
Will pinches his chin, gently lifting Mike's head until dark, slightly-bloodshot eyes meet his gaze. “You got drunk off of a shot and some bright pink thing the waitress handed you, and proceeded to argue with a just as drunk Max for 2 hours about what just the right adjective to describe your Lit professor from sophomore year was.”
“Oh, and this was all while the waitress who was serving us was desperately trying to get your number,” Will laughs as Mike shoots up out of his grip, clutching at his head with one hand and wincing with regret.
“She was not,” Mike says in disbelief, nose scrunched like a bunny. God, he’s cute.
“She so was, she kept hovering at our table and only offering you water, even though Dustin was the one who kept trying to get up on the table,” Will recalls, not even trying to hide the delight in his voice. “But don’t worry, you noticed after about the thirtieth time and proceeded to make direct eye contact with her, grab my face with both hands, and kiss me right on the mouth.”
Mike groans, eyes drooping, and he falls back into the pillows, returning right back to his previous position, throwing an arm around Will and clinging to him like a koala.
“Another thing, you kept leaning over and honest to God kept trying to lick me!” Will cackles, hand buried in his boyfriend’s curls.
Throughout the night, while squished in the little booth at their favorite bar and restaurant, Mike had repeatedly kept trying to lean over and lick the side of Will’s face. He was even successful, after he changed his target to Will’s neck. That’s when he and Lucas decided to wrap things up and herd them home. Lucas had bravely taken it upon himself to take El, Dustin, and Max home to his and Max’s place, and Will had basically carried Mike the whole three blocks to their apartment.
Mike huffs at Will’s teasing, and in retaliation, much to Will’s exasperation, Will feels a hot stripe of spit across his throat as Mike licks at him again.
“Mike!” Will shrieks, trying to pry himself out of his boyfriend's grip.
“Wiiiill,” Mike responds, holding tight and letting himself be dragged onto Will’s chest as he shifts to his back. “Quit moving.” He makes an aborted motion to pinch Will’s palm where it’s still buried in his hair, but seems to decide better of it, and his hand falls limply to rest on Will’s chest.
Will shakes his head, sighing in exasperation. They lay there for a bit, Will’s hand in Mike’s hair and Mike pressed against him deliciously. The cold, winter wind blows at the window, and the radiator in the living room clicks to life on the other side of the wall. It’s all so cozy and domestic, Will’s heart squeezes.
He’s starting to think Mike has fallen asleep again, when Mike mutters something against Will’s t-shirt.
“What was that, love?” Will presses another kiss to Mike’s forehead.
Mike lifts his head then, eyes sparkling and happy, crinkled at the corners despite his current condition. “I love you.” He whispers, reaching for Will’s collar.
And that, that’s what does Will in. The way Mike Wheeler makes him feel like being loved is the easiest thing in the world. As easy as gentle teasing and playing with the curls on his head, as easy as waking up in a bed curled into the love of your life.
“I love you, too.” Will whispers back, and Mike tugs gently as his t-shirt collar, urging his face down.
Their lips connect in a slow, lazy kiss. Mike tastes like mouthwash Will forced him to use last night and the sweet, warm taste he always seems to possess. He hums into the kiss, hand twisting further into Will’s collar, and Will can feel the sound down to his toes.
They pull back on an exhale, and Mike’s eyes stay on Will’s face, scanning his features with that silly little pleased expression he gets whenever he determines that Will is happy. Without warning, he pushes himself forward on Will’s chest once more and presses a quick peck to Will’s nose, before resting his head back over Will’s rapidly-beating heart.
“You’re ridiculous,” Will says, but his voice catches on the edge of a laugh, and he squeezes Mike tighter into his chest for a moment, before gently moving to maneuver himself out from underneath the sleepy figure on top of him.
Mike breathes out a little whine in protest, splayed out in the space where Will was moments before.
Will crosses the room, pulling one of Mike’s forgotten sweaters from off of the desk chair in the corner and tugging it over his head. He ducks into the connected bathroom and grabs a bottle of aspirin on the counter, shaking two out into his palm.
When he looks back at the bed, his boyfriend is watching him with heavy lidded eyes, flat on his stomach and buried in their comforter.
Will feels a rush of adoration coarse through him at the sight, and he closes the distance to kiss Mike’s cheek, setting the medication on the nightstand next to the discarded glass of water from last night.
“I’m making pancakes,” He declares, making for the door. “Get some more sleep, and don’t lick anything that isn’t food.”
Mike’s eyes are now closed, and he shoots Will a silent thumbs up.
Will feels his cheeks pinch in a smile, the familiar, heady rush of affection growing in his chest as he makes his way through the Christmas decorated living room to their apartment’s tiny kitchen.
He starts up their very fancy, very out-of-place coffee machine that Karen Wheeler had gotten them as a housewarming gift.
Will pulls out a heavy cast iron pan and ducks into the cabinet for pancake mix. The morning is quiet, the silence only broken by the sound of early morning traffic and the buzz of the coffee maker.
As he works, Will flicks on the tiny, cheap radio resting on the counter next to the stove. The Cranberries’ ‘Linger’ crackles through the speaker, and Will hums along as he fills a mug with hot coffee.
A half hour later, just as he’s plating the half dozen pancakes and clicking the stove off, a pair of long, sweater-clad arms snake their way around Will from behind.
His heart squeezes as Mike rests his head on his shoulder, breathing him in.
“Mornin’,” Will says, resting his cheek against Mike’s head and reaching to fill another mug. As soon as he finishes, he spins in Mike’s arms, coffee pressed between them. Mike’s hair is a disheveled mess, and he still doesn’t really look fully awake, eyes heavy-lidded and content.
Mike’s arms unwind from around Will’s waist, and he takes a long, appreciative sip of the drink. He reaches around Will, setting his mug back on the counter and drawing him back in by the hips.
“Morning,” Mike presses into Will with a long, sweet kiss that makes Will smile into his lips. Will winds his arms around Mike’s neck, pushing onto his tip-toes. A chilled hand sneaks up under the hem of his t-shirt and pinches at the skin just above the jut of his hip bone.
At the press of cold fingers to his skin, Will moves back, slapping Mike’s hand gently in protest. Mike offers him an innocent, teasing smile, reaching back around him to grab his coffee.
“You mentioned pancakes?” He says, peeking over Will’s shoulder where he’s started to assemble two matching plates.
Will dumps a frankly outrageous amount of syrup on both, and turns to Mike, who takes it gratefully. He presses a kiss to Will’s cheek before pushing himself up onto the free counter space near the phone.
Will grabs his own plate and goes to stand between Mike’s legs, a belated thought popping to the front of his mind.
“I should call Lucas, make sure everyone else got home safe.” He says, and reaches to Mike’s left to grab the phone, dialing the number to his and Max’s apartment.
“Byers!” a joyful voice rings on the other end of the line. Will can hear the groans of a certain sister of his in the background.
“Lucas! Quiet down,” He hears her scold, and Lucas just laughs.
“I trust you made it home?” Will asks, taking a nibble from Mike’s pancake, just to piss him off. Mike doesn’t seem to notice or care though, simply taking a bite from Will’s plate instead.
Lucas sighs. “We did, although I’m officially out of advil,” He says. “El’s the only one up, Dustin's on the living room floor and Max punched me when I tried to get her up. How’s the man who seemed to confuse you for a lollipop?”
“I heard that!” Mike grumbles, stuffing another bite into his mouth. They’ve officially swapped plates at this point.
“He’s… vertical,” Will says, and Mike pinches his arm where it holds the phone. “Thanks for taking them all home by the way, you know how Mike gets.”
“You mean losing any ability to walk on his own after like, a beer and a half?” The boy in question huffs in protest. Lucas laughs again, and El grumbles something incoherent in the background. “Well, I better try to get Max to drink some water and check if Dustin’s alive. See you tomorrow?”
“See ya’, good luck!” Will grins into the phone, before the telltale click of the call ending.
As he sets the phone back in its cradle, Mike slides down off the counter, pushing their discarded plates away.
Mike’s hands sneak under Will’s sweater again, but this time he doesn’t pull away. Mike holds one hand just under Will’s ribs, the other on his hip bone, thumbs tracing patterns into the warm skin there.
“Hi,” Will mutters, reaching one hand to Mike’s cheek and the other to the crook of his neck.
“Hi,” Mike breathes back, eyes tracing heavy lines across Will’s face. “Thank you for playing doctor this morning.” He kisses Will’s nose, then his forehead, then his cheek.
Will laughs, throwing his head back. Mike uses this to sneak a kiss to Will’s jaw. “Of course, silly,” Will responds, cutting off Mike’s little kisses with a press of his lips to his own. “I love you.”
Mike pulls back after a moment, smiling widely, hair even more of a mess than before. His hands squeeze where they’re warming against Will’s skin under his shirt. “Love you more.”
And as Will stands there, in their tiny kitchen, surrounded by the smell of sweet syrup and coffee and Mike, he just grins.
“Not possible.”