Work Text:
It's the day of Mike Wheeler's wedding.
And he couldn't be happier.
Or, at least, that's how he's supposed to feel, right? It's a question Mike can't stop asking himself all morning.
He's going through motions: opens his eyes, swallows a pill to numb the terrible hangover headache he has after the bachelor party, takes a shower, washes his face, dries and combs his hair, brushes his teeth; stares at the wedding tuxedo for a quarter of an hour before finally putting in on; checks the ring in his pocket, says hi to his mom, his father, Nancy and Holly, all gathered in his apartment for the day, drives to the venue with his mom chattering in the seat next to him – and throughout all this time, he keeps asking himself whether that's the moment he's supposed to feel the happiest in his life.
Mike keeps asking, because, in fact, he's not happy. He's miserable. All he can feel is the giant void in the middle of his chest, pulsing and swirling and aching. He's probably at his lowest emotionally ever since he was eighteen. Or sixteen. Or fourteen. Or twelve.
Though, no. He could never be as low as he was when he was twelve. Not as low as he was that night in the pouring rain when he saw a body being dragged from the quarry. His life ended. Of course, this horror eventually turned out to be untrue, and, despite all the other horrors it brought consequentially, Mike has always been grateful for this.
He doesn't feel particularly grateful for anything now – well, except this, always this – and surely not for the wedding preparations his mom has made along with his bride.
Mike couldn't care less for the cake, or the napkins, or the flowers. He hasn't even bought a new tuxedo; the one he wore to his high school graduation has still fit him, his body as scrawny as it was in his teenage years, so why bother? The best he can do is show up, anyway, and that's done.
The venue gradually fills with people. Guests. Guests who's arrived to attend his, Mike's, wedding. Family. Friends. Good acquaintances whom it was polite to invite. Colleagues; not really colleagues, though, because none of them are writers, but people from his work; his editor, his publisher.
Mike notices Dustin and Lucas, both visibly wincing from the same kind of hangover headache that torments Mike's woeful head; they've spent the night together, and the fresh memories flood Mike's mind.
He never should've held a bachelor party; but they've been all together so little recently, all four of them. Maybe they should've just played DnD instead of going to a bar; but they're all grown men, men – except for Mike himself, surely, – with serious careers and tight suits and mortgages and long-term partners, and it suddenly seemed so weird to suggest it. Imposturous.
Now all Mike can see before his eyes is Will from the night before.
Will. Will Byers, his best friend of twenty years. Will whom he hasn't seen for the past two years.
Will with his gentle chuckles and soft smiles that make his whole face shine and Mike's mind go blank, Will with his eyes of that stunning hazel that seems to be the brightest emerald one moment and the darkest brown the next in the shifting bar lighting, Will with his constant touches when he's passing a glass, checks if Mike's alright, pulls him to the dancefloor as if he knows it's gonna make Mike all stumbly dizzy; Will with his low-waist jeans that fit so tight on his round hips, Will with his strong hands, Will with his beautifully styled hair, Will with the stud in his right earlobe, Will, Will, Will.
Will with his tantalizingly pink lips that are not Mike's to kiss.
What?
"You okay, dude?" Dustin pats Mike on the shoulder, "Big day, right?"
Mike nods and forces a strained smile on his face.
"Yeah. Yeah, it is."
Max, in her beautiful pale green bridesmaid dress, holds tight onto Lucas's arm and whispers something in his ear before they both approach the groom.
The short hugs Mike shares with his friends – whom he adores, but who are painfully, tooth-rottenly in love, and they've been like that forever, before and after their own wedding Mike has attended as the best man, – doesn't do anything to lighten his mood. It does the exact opposite; Mike's head buzzes.
He stands between the neat rows of seats before a nicely decorated with fake white blossoms and little yellow daisies wedding arc, and just looking at it makes him even sicker. How did he even get here? What has led him here, through this notoriously long preparation route, to the place he wants to be at the least in the world?
Oh, yes.
Jealousy. Jealousy, and anger, and pathetic, bitter longing for something he can't ever have.
It's a nasty coincidence, a horrid joke his life put on him, but Mike's met Lisa on the same day he's learnt that Will has, in fact, a boyfriend.
Will said it so casually. Just in the middle of another "how's your day been?" conversation they've been having for years, Thursday calls each week, sharing news and complaints, discussing books and movies, talking about jobs and friends, ranting and laughing and whatsoever. The last thing Mike has expected to hear was the sound of Will's chuckle followed up with a short "Oh, it's been great, really. Carlton's moved in with me. We've just finished unpacking his boxes." Mike hung up almost immediately with a shitty excuse of forgetting he had a meeting with a friend, although he hasn't really any friends and he's never made any appointments on the time of his and Will's calls.
It just didn't seem right, not being Will's number one anymore. Being replaced by some other man, a man who is like Will, surely, but with whom Will doesn't share the history like he does with Mike, a man who doesn't know the pattern of Will's breathing nor the curve of his eyebrows when he's sad, the demons of his nightmares nor the way he shifts eagerly in his chair when he's excited. Then again... this man will learn all those things eventually. He'll learn Will in and out, because Will is worthy only of this kind of treatment, of pure and utter devotion, nothing less. And Mike's place is in being his best friend, and Mike loves being Will's best friend, but he is still jealous.
The next day, Mike asked Lisa out.
He has no idea why she's said "yes" – both to this and the proposal he's made mere six months later. He hasn't been a good boyfriend; he's never learned how to. He hasn't been eager nor particularly chivalrous even though he always brought flowers to a date; he wasn't funny, all his humor dry and bitter, all is jokes too sarcastic, all his quirks too weird; he definitely can't be considered handsome, and he suspects he's a horrible kisser, too. The sex they've had was meek and unimpressive, and there hasn't been much passion to it. So, the reasonable thing to assume is the matter of him having a nice apartment downtown and a well-paid writing career that fits so well with hers; after all, that is how they met. At work. Where Lisa got the position of the illustrator for Mike's latest book.
And Lisa's art is great. It's not anything matching Will's, obviously, but she knows her way with brushstrokes and colors. She knows what she's painting well. She loves fantasy – just like any other nerdy girl from a small town that came to a bigger city to pursue her dreams – and she's been playing DnD since she was a kid. Mike's never played with her, though; he's never even wanted to.
Lisa is considerably beautiful, too. Light brown hair cut short into bangs framing her face into a circle, hazel eyes, puff rosy lips, a mole on her cheek, small breasts and round buttcheeks and all that. She has a soft, giggly laughter, and she likes to cuddle, and she is, really, a very good woman. And a very fine match.
But Mike doesn't love her.
He doesn't love her.
Mike loves the way she reminds him of Will.
The realization punches him right in the chest. The void of his heart, this gushing wound, oozy and black, pushes through his ribs, cracks his bones, twists his guts, spills into his mind.
It's so obvious now.
Mike's staring at the place he's about to be wed at with a nice, kind enough to like him woman in half an hour, and he just realizes now that he's been in love with his best friend for the past twenty years.
He is in love with his best friend.
Mike's blood flushes to his face. His heart races, pulse beating in his temples at an enormous speed. It's getting hard to breathe; Mike pulls on his tie, trying to loosen it with his trembling fingers, but the knot his mom fixed for him is too tight and won't budge. Mike pants, his face red, his skin burning, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
Will's going to be here, too. Will, his fucking best man. Will's sounded so happy over the phone when Mike's made the invitation. Will's probably bringing his fucking boyfriend as his plus one, because Mike's never said he wouldn't be okay with it, and why wouldn't he be okay with it in the first place? Will's going to be here and how's Mike supposed to marry Lisa when Will's standing right behind him, so fucking close and so unreachable, Will with his perfect eyes and perfect smile and perfect face?
Mike can't marry Lisa. He can't.
But he must. He made a promise to. He hates breaking promises. He's broken enough of them to have that hatred engraved in his bones. Marriage is another promise; a promise he can't make now. How can he cancel everything now?
There's no one else to ask for advice. His mom would be heart-broken. His dad would be outraged. Nancy would berate him for hours. Holly's too small, forever a kid in Mike's eyes, even though she's been the first among the three of them to get married. Lucas and Dustin won't understand how can he love Will. Max would hate him for pestering Lisa in the first place. Mike turns around. There's no one to ask for help. His first instinct is to call Will, anyway. Will's good at feelings. Will's always been good with feelings. But Mike can't see Will now. Not now. Not today. Not here.
Mike's vision blurs, flooded with tiny black dots. He's feeling dizzy. He grapples one of the draped in creamy fabric chairs in the front row to steady himself. The neat sign on it says "Will Byers, best man".
Mike feels like throwing up, the pounding in his ears gets louder and louder until he can't hear anything, the red and black dots before his eyes consume everything until he can't see, too.
Deaf and blind and so fucking oblivious, like he's been for his whole life.
What a disappointment he is. A complete failure.
God. He's going to break Lisa's heart. She did nothing to deserve that kind of betrayal, but she deserves better than Mike. Everyone deserves better than Mike.
Oh, shit.
It's not the first time he's been having this thought. What is he, really? A mediocre writer, his books a poor retelling of his own trauma, over and over again? A terrible son and brother who always forgets about birthdays and family meetings like his head is occupied with something else? A shitty friend who never calls first? They'd all be happier without him.
Mike's chest clenches. It feels so fucking heavy.
He needs a glass of water. He needs a cold shower. He needs space. Or, rather, the lack of it, a comfortable corner he can hid in, a locked room, a closet. Mike turns around frantically, searching for a way out. There must be something. A supply room, a toilet, a storage, a kitchen safe, anything.
That's when he sees Will. And, god, Will's gorgeous. He's wearing a pastel sand suit, and he's smiling so wide; there's another man entering just a step behind him. Will's smile slowly dies on his lips when he sees Mike. He takes a few steps towards him, and Mike just bolts.
He has to get away. He has to run.
He can't talk to Will.
On his way out, Mike bumps his thigh into a champagne stand. Glasses fall down, shattering with a horrible clang, shards piercing Mike's trousers, scraping his calves. He only stops for a second to see the mess he's made. To feel dozens of pairs of eyes staring at him.
Then, he runs.
There is a toilet down the corridor of the building he budges in.
With shaking hands and numbs fingers that barely move, Mike turns the lock. He opens the tap, splashes cold eater in his face, and it doesn't work. It doesn't work at all.
He's still in love with Will. And he still hates himself for being in love with Will, too.
Mike stares at the spotted with water drops mirror. He can't even recognize the man staring back at him.
Red spots on pale skin, messed up hair, tears on his cheeks. Wrinkles on his forehead, fist gray hairs, blank eyes; he's only twenty-seven. When did he turn into this miserable, pitiable man who has nothing to live for?
When did he turn into someone who marries the first woman who moderately likes him simply because he can't accept what he really feels?
Uh, yes.
He's always been that someone. Only the last time he didn't have the guts to admit the truth until the very end.
Pathetic, cruel, useless loser.
Mike smashes his fist into the mirror. It hurts.
Hurt feels good.
Absent-mindedly, Mike watches blood drops form on the side of his hand, slowly stream down his wrist, ruin the sleeve of his shirt with crimson stains. His reflection, shattered exactly the way he feels himself to be – broken into a hundred pieces, missing some, too – glares at him with a judgy expression, frowning, lips twitching to the side.
Is this who I am?
Mike gasps. He tears the bloody tie from his throat, takes off his blazer.
This is all a mistake. This is all just another huge, enormous fuck-up.
No wonder. Mike's been a fuck-up all his life.
He's fucked up everything he's had with Will while Will was right here, close, barely a touch away, when Mike could reach a hand and embrace him, hug him, kiss him, if only he'd been brave enough, and maybe Will would have him, even stupid and broken as Mike's always been. He's fucked up everything he's had with El, too, to the point where she had been planning to take her own life and he hasn't noticed it. Now, she's dead. Now, he's going to fuck up another woman's life, no matter how. Now, Will lives miles away, in some clean and always, even on the rainiest day, sunlit apartment, an apartment he comes home to another man, and that man holds him, that man kisses him, that man fucks him, and Will's happy he does.
Mike flinches when he hears someone bang on the door.
"Mike? Are you there?"
It's Lucas. Of course. Someone had to see where he went, after all.
Mike doesn't answer, hoping that the sound of water running from the tap will mute down his loud gasps for air that's still lacking in his clenched lungs.
"You've really gotta come out. Nancy is good at the damage reduction, you know that, so the whole champagne thing, it's okay, no one's going to be freaking out. Lisa won't even know!"
Lisa. Mike can't even think about Lisa. Mike's never really thought about Lisa. She was just there, and it was nice. The same way is used to be with El.
What a damn asshole he is.
Why does he deserve to live at all?
"C'mon, man, I've had jitters too!"
"Did you now?" Max's voice sounds an octave higher than usual.
There's a muffled sound of her hand smacking Lucas's head.
"Well, yeah. Because you're a menace. But you're my menace! Anyway, it's perfectly normal to have cold feet before your wedding! It doesn't mean you should lock yourself in the bathroom," he pauses. Probably looks at his watch, because he adds, "Twenty minutes before the ceremony."
"Go away," Mike whispers, closing his eyes.
The door handle rattles again.
"Dude, you should really open the bloody door. Your mom will lose her mind if you're late to your own wedding!" Dustin's voice chimes in. "I know you're always late, but that's over the line."
"Go away!" Mike raises his voice.
Mike knows the truth to Dustin's words, though. He's always been late. He was late to understand himself, late to know what's inside of his heart, late to realize his feelings for what they are. Now he's too late.
The love of his live has completely grew out of him.
If only Mike hasn't been so fucking dumb, and slow, and tardy.
"Mike! Get out of there right now, or I swear, I'm gonna kill you," it's Nancy this time. Of course. His bossy sister. "Mom's freaking out. Even dad's freaking out. Mike, I tell you one last time, I'm going to break this fucking door down and make you pay for it!"
Her each word is followed by a loud knock of her small fist on the door. Mike has no doubt that she'll break it down eventually, persistent as she is, even though the door seems to be rather solid.
Mike looks in the mirror – what's left of it – one more time. Then he looks down. There's pinkish, half-washed-out stain of his blood on the sink; there's a shard of the mirror glass, too.
It's not big, merely three inches long. But it'll do.
The voices behind the door still overlap in threats, pleas and reassurances, but Mike doesn't listen anymore. He rolls his sleeves up, neat as never before, and stares at his arms. His skin is so pale; he can see every vein under it. It's good. He's not going to miss.
He's not going to fail this simple task of relieving the world of his existence.
"Wheeler, come out of there!" Max's voice suddenly pushes through the muffle of Mike's thoughts, "You don't have to marry if you don't want to, okay? Lisa's pretty chill. You'll figure it out! Just... come out of there, Mike. Open the damn door. Please."
Mike takes a deep breath.
It's alright. His friends care now, but they have each other, they always will. His parents have two more kids, both way better than he is in every way, and both are better siblings than he could ever be.
He won't be missed too much. It'll pass.
"Mike?"
No. Please, please, no.
Not him.
Not Will.
The voices tune down. For a while, Mike can hear only echoes of whispers and subtle rustle, and then, for an immeasurable amount of time that seems to stretch forever, it's the silence. The silence and the sound of his own rapid heartbeat in his throat.
The mirror glass shard lingers above the inside of Mike's elbow.
"Mike?" Will asks again, his voice soft as an angel's wing.
Mike still flinches so hard the edge of the glass pierces the skin. A few blood drops land on the tiles of the floor. Red on light blue.
"Please, talk to me, Mike," Will says. He doesn't shout. He doesn't raise his voice even a little bit. "You know you can always talk to me. We'll figure it out. We'll fix it. Together. It's going to be okay."
Mike gulps.
"No," he finally says, "It's not."
"Okay," Will says calmly, "Why not?"
"I can't-" Mike presses his eyes shut before uttering the ugly truth. "I can't marry her."
There's a pause. Mike plunges the shard a little deeper into his flesh, and the dull pain in his arm makes his head clearer.
"Then don't," Will says simply.
"I can't just- I can't just come out and say it's over. Not now," Mike whispers. His head spins. He presses his forehead to the door.
"You can. You can. I'll help you, okay?"
"No. It's- It's too late to help me. You- You can't help me, Will. You can't," Mike chokes on his words. "Just- Tell mom I'm sorry, okay? I'm really sorry."
"You'll tell her yourself," Will reassures him, soft and gentle, the way he always is.
This world doesn't deserve Will Byers.
Mike doesn't deserve him even more.
"No," he whispers, "I won't."
"Mike?" Will's voice trembles. He rattles the door handle. "Mike, you're scaring me. Stop. Stop, okay, whatever you're doing. Talk to me."
Mike closes his eyes. He loves to hear Will's voice. He's always loved it.
It seems right to let go of his life with the sound of Will's voice in his ears. It's even comforting that he's so close, just behind the door, that Mike can almost feel his presence, almost sense his touch, almost see his face.
He drags the glass shard one inch down his arm. It's still not enough, but his head feels lighter when he watches the little streak of blood spilling down to his wrist.
Will is going to be the first one to find him.
Mike shivers. It doesn't seem so right anymore; it's unfair. Selfish as fuck.
Like he's always been. Selfish, and cruel, and self-absorbed, and confused too much to see clearly.
"Go away," Mike begs, turning his back to the door. "Please. Leave me alone. I'm not worth it. I'm not-"
"You are," Will bangs on the door, three hard knocks. His voice isn't so soft anymore. It's stern; nearly angry. "Open the door, Mike. Right now."
"No."
"I'm going to bash it in, then."
"No."
"Step back."
"No!" Mike snarls, "You can't! I- I have something here."
"Mike, stop. Please, just stop, okay. Let's figure it out," Will softens again, "I promise, whatever your reason is, you don't need to do this. There's always another way out."
"There's not. You just- You don't know."
"Tell me, then. Tell me everything, Mike. I want to know. I want to make it better."
Mike slides down the door to the floor.
"You'll hate me. You're gonna hate me."
"Never. Mike, I'll never hate you."
Will repeats every word as if he's trying to land the message. Mike remembers the times he used to do the same, repeat every console and every reassurance two, three times in a row, because that's always made Will feel better. Has Mike learnt the trick from Will or has it been vise versa? It's so hard to tell. They grew together, so close they grew into each other, like two trees with their branches entangled, their roots twisted together, so tight you couldn't remove one without destroying the other.
"Will?"
"Yeah?"
His voice sounds closer now. He's also on the floor, probably clinging to the door from the other side. Mike glances at the glass shard in his hand.
If he's going to do it while Will's right here, he owes him an explanation.
"I ruined everything, didn't I? I ruined us."
"You didn't. Mike, what are you-"
"Just let me- Let me say it, okay?" Mike sighs. Cold tears sting his cheeks. "I was so, so dumb. I guess I- I refused to admit it, but I guess, in some way, I always knew, right? We were always so close. Ever since we were six."
"We're still close," Will whispers from behind the door.
"Yeah, but- That's not what I mean. I mean- I mean- I've always been your closest person, right? The one you trusted the most?"
"You still are. Mike, you'll always be that for me."
"You have a boyfriend now. Like, a permanent long-term kind of boyfriend," Mike chuckles dryly and scrapes his skin some more, "So I guess he's your closest person now. Not me."
"Mike."
Will sighs.
Mike still hears it. He's perfectly attuned to the sound of Will's voice. If there were a thousand voices screaming in unison, Mike would still recognize every whisper that escapes Will's mouth.
"And it's only right. I've been an insensitive asshole my whole life. Fuck, Will- I started dating Lisa because you moved in with him! Because I was your best friend first, and it was fucking unbearable you had someone else."
Will doesn't give him an answer.
Mike squeezes the truth out of himself drop by drop; the same way he squeezes the blood from the three-inch long cut on his left arm.
His one act of bravery. Probably his last one, too.
"I was so jealous. And the funny thing it, the- the- it's not really funny now, is it?" Mike shakes his head, "The thing is, I didn't understand, why. I just didn't want you to have anyone who could take what I had with you, who could be closer to you than I was."
"No one can take your place in my life, Mike," Will says firmly, although his voice is shaky the exact way it always is when he cries. "You're irreplaceable."
Fuck. He's made Will cry. So much for going with grace.
"Don't cry- Will, please, don't."
"Open the door."
"So... Ughm," Mike clears his throat. "Still. Are you... happy with him? Please. I want you to be happy, Will."
"Mike," Will sighs again, "We broke up."
"What?"
Mike's fingers tremble. He pulls the glass shard away from his torn arm. Can this mean he has a... well, not chance, not really, not yet, but at least some hope?
"We broke up. I realized I couldn't- I couldn't really be with someone I don't love."
"Makes two of us," Mike scoffs. Then his voice softens, "Why?"
"It doesn't really matter now. "Mike, open the door, okay?"
"But... why?"
"Because I'm an idiot who can't let go for the sake of his own sanity," Will spits out bitterly, "Because I've only loved one man my whole life and that's just it, Mike! Dating's all nice and fun until at night I dream only of- Ugh."
"Your... Tammy?"
"Just open the door."
"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, Will. I wish I knew who it was. Then I could show him, you know, tell him just- Just how perfect you are."
"What?!"
"I mean, I- I always knew you were perfect. I just only realized... now. Today. That what I actually felt is that you're perfect for me. That you're... what I want. That you're the one I really want to spend my whole life with. Damn it, Will, I proposed to the woman who looks exactly like you."
"What the fuck, Mike?" Will bangs his fist on the door. "You're telling me this now?!"
Mike scrapes another inch down. He can barely move the fingertips on his left hand now.
Better to get it over with as fast as he can.
"Promise you'll forgive me, okay? Promise. I can't do it if you won't promise to forgive me."
"Then don't do it!" Will keeps with his attacks on the door.
It shakes, bumping Mike on the head. He drops the shard and can't grope it on the floor. After another thump he scrambles to the side, forces himself into the small space next to the sink, tucks there, pressing knees to his chest. He feels so small, small and useless and heartbroken.
"Will-"
The lock gives up with a loud snap. The door swings open.
Will's standing right there, messy, red in the face, tears glistening on his cheeks. He squints, looking at Mike, assessing the damage.
"You were so right. I hate you. So much."
"You do?" Mike stares at the floor.
Will gets down, too, takes off his blazer and wraps it around Mike's slowly growing limp arm, holds the pressure on it tight and then places his other hand on Mike's cheek.
"I can't believe you are so dense."
The kiss he leaves on Mike's lips is short, and salty, and has a metallic aftertaste, but it's the first kiss in Mike's life that actually makes him feel alive.
His eyes open wide. He gasps.
And, fuck, his arm hurts so much.
"Yeah. I'd really hate you," Will smiles despite his tears. "If only I didn't love you so much, you idiot."
Mike's lips spread in a dreamy, mad wide grin.
"I love you too."
Will just shakes his head. He puts Mike's right arm around his shoulder and lets Mike lean on him when they both stand up. Mike winces. Will, surprisingly, smiles.
"Oh, stop it. You know it's just a scratch, right?"
"No, it isn't."
"It is," Will huffs, "And it's a good thing it is. I can't imagine living without you."
"I couldn't... Too. Neither. Whatever," Mike mumbles.
Will half-walks, half-drags him to the exit.
"Let's get you to the hospital."
"Wait," Mike frowns, "What about this Tammy? Who is he, then?"
Will sighs.
"There wasn't ever any Tammy, Mike. There was only you."
"Oh," Mike squints, "Really?"
"Yeah," Will chuckles, "Really."
"Will you kiss me again?"
"Maybe. If you stop behaving like the moron who's trying to give me a heart attack."
"I wasn't-"
"I know. I know." Will kisses Mike on the temple and opens the car door for him. "It's gonna be okay now. I know it feels crazy now. But we'll get through it. Together. I promise."
Mike believes him. Because it's Will.
It's Will keeping the pressure on his wound during the whole drive. It's Will sitting with him in the hospital and holding his hand while he gets the stitches. It's Will making the calls to his mom, to his ex-bride, to his friends when Mike falls into a nervous, unrestful sleep after all the emotions of the day take over him. It's Will sitting by his bed when Mike wakes up. It's Will, taking care of him, loving him, kissing him.
And it's okay. Mike is going to repay it tenfold. He's going to care for Will, love Will, kiss Will too. For the rest of their lives.
Ten years later, it's the day of Mike Wheeler's wedding.
And he couldn't be happier.
This time, with Will's ring on his finger, for real.