Chapter Text
Mike wondered when it started. Was it the day they met on the swings? The day Will used his Vecna powers—as Mike called it—to protect him? Or was it the day on the radio tower—no thanks, best friends—he fell in love with Will?
He let the thought fall flat, cringe knotting in his stomach.
He’s not in love with Will. That’s ridiculous.
This feeling is just…sorrow. He just misses Will, and that’s all there is to these feelings. He stares down at the words on the page, hesitating to scribble them out.
He wrote mindlessly, going over the dried ink on the paper as he brushed to a new page. Ever since he and Will stopped talking, he’s kept the habit of writing his thoughts down.
Though, it's not exactly general writing. He finds most of these pages are filled with things about Will, against his better judgement.
He starts to write about the day on the radio tower—as he had done the day before, and the day before that, and the last few days before that.
He hadn’t seen El in that moment. He knew what she was doing while he was with Will, but his mind wouldn’t rest as it went over the small detail of her words, every line in her face during their last talk.
Had he not noticed a new wrinkle? Were the spaces under her eyes a shade darker than he remembered? He couldn’t remember.
Had she already known what she was going to do? Had she always planned to leave him all alone, with these stupid, stupid thoughts—thoughts he didn’t know what to do with?
In the moment he was with Will—watching his eyes, his eyes watching his—it’s as if the world wasn’t really ending.
A tumbled apology, something messy, something rambled, fell from his lips.
The way his under eyes crinkled when he smiled. How the space under his eyes was still glimmering with sticky and sweet tears, tinted red—from tears, or maybe, from the space around them—as they stared back.
Will grinned at him, softly crinkling the skin around his eyes as the lines around his mouth had deepened. He wonders if Will’s developed deeper smile-lines now that he’s older—since it’s been a few years since he’s been able to see his face.
He wasn’t an artist like Will was. He didn’t have that kind of superpower. Instead, he was good with words—he liked to think on paper, at least—as he wrote until his fingers turned numb.
He wrote about every detail he caught on Will’s face. Tricking his mind, over and over again, to assess him—to convince himself that there's a chance, he wasn’t just his Tammy.
He let his pen fall flat on the page. It splatters ink over the neatly written sentences.
He breaks to a new line.
‘—Maybe, hidden in between the lines of his face, he was in love with someone else.
Someone other than me,’ he writes, ‘that someone who can give him what he needs.’
The pen falls flat again, splattering even more ink onto the last sentence. His chair scratches the floor when he pulls out from the desk.
He can’t think about this now. Not with the picture of El beside him on his desk. Not ever.
He glances around, his mind picking up every little thing that reminds him of Will, trying to bring back a memory, or something familiar—that would make writing about him easier.
Something that would make thinking about Will easier.
Nothing does.
He takes his glasses off, setting them off to the side somewhere, and standing from his chair. He lets the ink sit, smudged, on the desk—rubbing his sore eyes and walking out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Shortly after everything went down—the day on the radio tower specifically—Will left Hawkins, changed his number, and stopped calling.
No one told him where he moved to—and truthfully, he never had the guts to ask anyway. But he knew they still kept in contact with him, as sometimes when he would go visit Johnathan and Nancy, Johnathan would make a pitiful excuse to go answer the phone, and even from the living room, he could hear Will’s voice through the speakers.
He never asked about him, despite how badly he wanted to, he knew what Will was doing nowadays wasn't any of his business.
One day, on a breezy evening, he was down at the library when he looked to his left.
He, proudly, has his own little section for his published books. The writing that he stared at, for hours, revising it—trying to gauge if it was something even worth publishing, if it was something people would read, if it’s something Will would read—when he saw a man who looked just like Will.
He stared for a long while. Memorizing every line of his face, every new hair and wrinkle—though there weren’t many, of course—when he suddenly felt guilty.
He was staring at this poor man, nearly stalking him as he looked through his books, all because he looked familiar.
Before he could gauge anything else from the man, he made haste out of the library, feeling acid rise in the back of his throat.
What Will was doing nowadays was not any of his business; he reminded himself. He chose not to be a part of his life anymore the moment he let Will drift away.
*
Did his gums show when he smiled?
He dabbed the brush in the pink paint, but hovered over his teeth. He wondered, in that moment, if Mike had seen everything he shouldn’t have seen about him. Or—that small voice in the back of his mind whispered—Mike didn’t want to see.
The lines around his mouth darken when he frowns, dabbing the pink gently around the edges of his teeth anyway. He tinges the space under Mike’s eyes red, matching the atmosphere in the painting. He wishes he had a photo of that moment, something physical, something to hold in his hands to remember exactly what Mike looked like.
He wishes he remembered exactly what his face looked like with a grin on his features, his eyes full with love.
With love, he cringed. He wondered if in that moment, when he was looking at him so softly, as if his face was something familiar, something he loved—he wondered if Mike saw Jane’s face in his.
He sits back in his chair, staring at the canvas. He felt he was halfway done with it, and yet, something was missing—not in what he hadn’t done, but something missing in what he had.
Was it the look in Mike’s eyes? Were they not the right colour? Was his hair that long in this moment, did he look so smooth? Were his eyes filled with that fondness?
He couldn’t remember.
He felt nauseous knowing he couldn’t remember Mike’s face, then, felt guilty he even tried to.
He wanted to burn what was left of the canvas and forget everything he ever knew about Mike Wheeler.
The door creaks open in front him.
“William?” That soft voice rings out in the room. He turns around to see those dark curls, those familiar brown eyes meeting his—a softness stitched into his face the same as it is in his eyes.
“William, love, you’ve been in this studio for hours now. Give yourself a break?” His voice rings out.
God, he thinks to himself, you wouldn’t have called me love.
Mike wouldn’t ever call me love.
Those dark eyes don’t seem so familiar now.
“Yeah.” He swallows the thought, washing the guilt down with it. “Yeah, um, I’m almost done, Carlton.” He swatches his brush in pink again, peering over the canvas to the doorway as he slips out of it and shuts it behind him. Carlton has obviously been curious about the painting. Will doesn’t hide his paintings from him—but as he brushes pink on the apple of Mike’s cheek, knowing that his eyes are on Will at that moment—he knows Carlton wouldn’t understand.
A small part of him wonders if maybe he would. But another part of him, the larger, more reasonable part—isn’t willing to test it.
He stares into Mike’s eyes. They were the first thing he painted when he started the piece. Unfortunately, if you were to ask him why he started that painting—he wouldn’t be able to answer you. He’d just stare at the dried blobs of paint, the swirls of his brush that make up Mike’s hair. How he spent hours in this studio, trying his very best to capture Mike’s full beauty, and still feeling as though he couldn’t come close to the softness in his eyes, the etched, divine lines on his face.
Every time he tried to sketch his own eyes, tried to make Mike look at him, he scribbled it from the page. Not unless they had a childish softness that Jane always had in hers.
Will walks from the art room, nibbling on his bottom lip. He can’t think about that any longer.
It must be with this rainy season, but he finds himself thinking about Mike more than he usually would be—as the amount of years that’s been put between their last meeting has left a hole in his memory where Mike used to be.
The last time Will saw Mike was at a wedding.
Nancy’s and Johnathan’s wedding, of course, as neither of them couldn’t not go to their siblings' weddings, despite how unwilling Will had originally been.
It wasn’t specifically because he didn’t want to see Mike. It didn’t have anything to do with Johnathan and Nancy, either—as he loved them both, and was more than happy to see them together.
A small, selfish part of him didn’t want to go because he felt guilty.
He felt resentful that he’d never be allowed to get married, but then he’d feel guilty, because that had nothing to do with Johnathan and Nancy—and then he’d feel even guiltier, because he knew, deep down, after seeing Mike’s face at their wedding—he’d never wanna get married anyway.
He walks out to see Carlton on the bed arranging his wallet. He has a load of cash tucked into the front pocket, though they’ve never been that well off—but before he can think of something to say, Carlton glances at him, and tucks it away into the drawer.
“Oh, finally,” he murmurs, grinning softly. “My eyes were starting to get heavy.” The bed tangles as Carlton pulls the sheets back, laying down.
Will just stares. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to sleep properly with the state of his mind, Mike’s painted face stained into his vision.
As he stares at Carlton, Mike’s face seems to overlap it.
He feels guilty again. He hopes closing his eyes will help him forget about all his thoughts anyway, so he lays in the sheets, closing his eyes and murmuring goodnight.
Now go away, Wheeler.
That night, Will unwillingly dreams of Mike. Or, rather, several Mike’s—because, to Will’s dismay, their usually empty street is crowded with Mike.
He stumbles up the stairs to his and Carlton’s shared apartment on downtown Hillory Street, desperate to escape the faces.
The studio door slams behind him as he collapses into his chair. He doesn’t look up as Carlton approaches. He doesn’t remember hearing the floor-boards creak underneath his feet until
Carlton's hands go to his shoulders, having that same, familiar weight as they rub his neck softly. He feels his body relax.
He reaches out and picks up his paintbrush, though can’t clearly see the painting.
The edges seemed frayed, blurred, as though the center-piece was Mike’s eyes. Had he always painted them to look right at him?
Something deep inside him grows hot. He couldn’t remember if he intentionally painted that yearning look in his eyes.
He nibbles on his bottom lip with hesitance, but before he can let the feeling linger, he senses Carlton lean down closer. The hairs on the back of his neck rise as his warm breath coats his skin.
Will opens his mouth, but his jaw falls slack. The words he was hoping to get out, the protests—or for all he knows, encouragement—wither on his tongue.
Carlton’s breath closes in on a single spot, teeth sinking into his neck with an unmatched hunger.
He arches his back in the chair with a wince, skin prickling under the force of his jaw.
Carlton’s hand goes to his chin to tilt his head back, gaining better access to the wound—his tongue shooting out past his lips to lick and kiss the blooming bruise. He feels those lips pepper soft kisses all up his jaw. The noise he lets out is beyond embarrassing.
Before he can try to push him off, to gasp his name, to see his face—to do anything—Carlton pushes their lips together.
Fuck.
Those same teeth suck his bottom lip in, biting down until he can taste blood, just to pathetically kiss it better. His tongue licks at his lips, demanding entrance, all to push past his lips to intertwine his tongue with Will’s. His head swims, eyes burn, and worst—or best—of all, he feels that hand etch lower.
It goes over his chest, his stomach,
His heart pounds.
There’s an unfamiliar throb that makes tears prick in his eyes, having to hold his breath to stop a moan—that hand moving lower and slipping past the elastic of his boxers.
His eyes squeeze shut as his whimper gets muffled by the other man’s tongue.
It’s too hot, too much, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this sensitive before.
His hand opens wider, that palm grinding down a little harder. Will feels his body wrack with a shudder, his eyes flying open—
—Oh.
…Oh.
His eyes lock onto Mike’s before he allows the name Carlton to fall as a whimper from his lips.
Mike draws his hand back up his chest, pulling his shirt up with it. It bundles at his collar as he drags his head backwards, sliding his tongue against his. Will nearly chokes.
Mike’s hands roam—one still at his jaw, holding his face in place—as the other goes down his chest. He has to close his eyes when he shudders in pleasure.
He feels white-hot sparks ignite under his skin, as if Mike’s hands were truly everywhere—that same tight feeling building low in his guts.
Mike leans down too close. Whispers something in his ear that sends that hot feeling in his gut erupting in lava. Stars prick his vision.
Will blinks.
…No fucking way.
He sits up in bed with sweat dripping down his face and a hard-on in his boxers. Carlton lays still, sleeping naked next to him.
He stumbles out of the tangle of sheets and rushes to the bathroom, getting under the shower spray and turning the water as cold as it will go.
It’s already bad enough he’s having wet dreams at his grown age. It’s even worse that they’re about Mike.
Mike Wheeler, out of all people. He shakes his head.
He stares down at the issue, his face burning hot with shame, with embarrassment—with need.
Not today.
He makes sure to be out of the house before Carlton gets out of bed. He doesn’t think he’d be able to face him properly after his dream, let alone actually hold a conversation with him.
Carlton isn’t stupid. He knows Will too well and, unfortunately, would be able to tell immediately why Will woke up flustered.
Whether he’d be able to tell it wasn’t about him, though, Will doesn’t know.
He locks the door behind him, force of habit, and starts down the street.
The houses are colourful, usually, but look dull in the early October weather—reflecting on the sky above him, as heavy, gray clouds crowd the skies.
The street is empty. It usually is, this early in the morning, especially living further out of the main part of town.
He glances at the sky without having to squint, the rain gently pattering down on his head and on the sidewalks around him. The clouds are drawn in so heavily over the sun, he can’t even gauge where it is in the sky.
He’s thankful it isn’t a storm outside, as he needed the fresh air anyway.
He walks these sidewalks all the time. Living in New York really makes everything accessible to him, as everything is within walking distance—like his favourite spot to hide away, the downtown cafe.
The bell above his head chimes as he steps into the shop, politely ordering a Hot Chocolate and escaping to the corner. The warm lights above his head provide the slightest of shelter as he pulls out his sketch book, slowly canceling out the noise around him—the shuffle of feet, the talking of customers, what the baristas are doing behind the counters.
He’s done this hundreds of times. He’s sat in this corner, anytime of the day, for hours on end. It never depends on if he brings his sketchbook or not.
One of the best aspects, in his mind, is that he never runs into anyone he knows—not that he knows many people here in New York, but alas, he thinks it’s nice to have privacy.
The blank page stares back up at him.
He takes a deep breath, inhaling the cool, fresh air—running his fingers up his face and through the part in his hair, momentarily pushing it from his eyes before it tumbles back in front of his face.
The creaked window lets enough air in, and he peers out at the swirling skies. He’d gotten to the cafe just in time, as the morning rain begins to fall even harder now—and a small part of him wonders if it's trying to taunt him with memories.
It’s not my fault you don’t like girls. The words echo in his mind.
His eyes drift back to the swirling steam above his drink, wafting like the clouds outside. An insignificant part of him wonders what Mike would be doing now.
Would he enjoy this weather? Does it even ever rain, wherever he is? Is he grateful it doesn’t rain, for the chance the falling droplets would remind him of that day?
He rests his hand on his chin with a sigh, the bell chiming for the front door. He pulls out his pencil.
Did his gums show when he was angry? He tried to sketch his teeth. How he scowled when he yelled, the look in his eyes when he fought.
El is not stupid!
He glances around the room, as if those eyes were engraved into every surface the same way they stained his mind.
He sees the boy standing at the front desk. It takes a moment for it to register, and he almost thinks he’s dreaming again—because the man he sees looks just like Mike.
He flickers his head away, face warming up uncomfortably. He must be losing his mind.
He scribbles in the corner on his page, filling another blank space.
‘I thought I saw your face today, but it wasn’t you. Just a boy that looks like you. I guess I haven’t fully woken up yet.’ He stares down at the text, before attempting to smudge it away with a lingering scowl. He flips to a new page. He has to stop thinking of Mike, has to stop drawing his eyes, his hands, his lips.
He hesitates before his pencil hits the paper—what looks did Carlton ever have in his eyes?
“Will?” The voice rang. Soft, familiar.
His eyes flicker to the noise, his throat closing up and going dry, eyes widening ever so slightly.
That boy who looked just like Mike stands in front of him.
Mike stands in front of him.
Will can hardly manage to get a breath in as he meets Mike's eyes. His head snaps away from his face, feeling a stir in his lower gut, and his heart drops—his eyes quickly drifting to his sketchbook, to the open cafe door, to the people lining up at the front desk, back to Mike—his mind scrambling for something. Anything.
“Uh—I—Mike, it’s—” He stammered. Mike tilted his head, and for a moment, Will almost mistook the look in his eyes for softness. For sincerity.
“Been a while? Yeah, I know.” He finished Will’s sentence. Will manages to look him in the eye, but after last night's dream—he looks away again.
“I—I didn’t even know you lived in New York. I thought you’d still be down in—in Hawkins,” He replies. Mike almost laughs. He sits down across from him in the booth, and Will’s brows furrow for a beat, but thankfully, it goes unnoticed by Mike.
“I moved shortly after you did. It didn’t feel the same without you.” He hums a laugh. Will tries to bring himself to look him in the eyes. “—I didn’t know where you went, but I guess I couldn’t stand the empty space anymore.” He reasons.
Will shakes his head. “You had Dustin, and Lucas. You had Max, too.” He keeps his voice low, grabbing the cup and taking a sip of the steaming liquid. He’s quick to slowly pull the sketch book from the table and tuck it into his book bag, feeling Mike’s gaze heavy on his face. He finally meets his eyes.
That’s the look. The look he’s struggled to paint—the softness he’s spent hours trying to achieve.
It makes him wince.
“Well—obviously, but it’s a little different without your best friend." Mike murmurs.
The way it rolls off his tongue makes Will pause again. Mike has such an awkward way with words that often leaves him quiet.
He nibbles on his cheek. “Do you still consider me to be? After this long, I mean.” He asks. He can see the way Mike’s eyebrows furrow for a second, before evening out. Though Will meant it seriously, Mike simply grins, and tilts his head downward to the table top.
The bell chimes behind them again. Mike glances up.
Will doesn’t. He can’t be bothered with the thoughts in his mind.
“Can I… have a way to talk to you?” Mike asks, hesitantly glancing up through his lashes to meet Will’s face.
He doesn’t respond. He feels a wash of guilt build up in the back of his throat, and he tries to swallow it down—tries to swallow down the rising heat to his cheeks, the taste of guilt, and the words that would come out a jumbled mix of the two.
Mike seems to hesitate, before reaching into his pocket and sliding a card his way. In a neat, printed font, a set of numbers stare up at him.
Mike’s number. In his confusion, Will forces himself to meet Mike’s eyes, swallowing nervously and tucking the card into his pocket with a rush.
“This isn’t the place. Or time. I live in the apartment building on Hillory street, third floo—”
“Will?”
Will’s words fall flat and he feels his stomach drop, his face going pale. He glances to the side so fast he feels the bones in his neck crack, meeting Carlton’s gaze with uncertain eyes.
“Will, what’re you—??” he begins, before his eyes drift away from him.
“...Mike.” Carlton greets, his voice flat and stern, tinged with condescension.
Mike’s eyes flip between Will and Carlton, confusion set in his gaze and every line of his face.
His eyes finally meet Will’s and stay there, his adams apple bobbing familiarly in his throat as he swallows. Will feels guilty for a whole other set of reasons now.
“Carlton,” Will responds, more sternly than Carlton had, “It was by chance.” He murmurs. Carlton’s brows furrow, his nose tinged up.
“Outside.” He responds. His eyes finally pry off of Mike, his glares falling flat.
Will follows him outside the cafe, but how fast Carlton’s steps are, Will has a hard time keeping up—gritting his teeth in frustration. “Carlton!” He shouts, and the taller man’s steps slow, but he doesn’t stop.
Or respond.
He sucks in a breath. “You met with him?! After—after all you told me?” He sounds angry, but Will can’t catch his eyes. “It wasn’t what it looked like,” He stumbles.
“Really? Because I thought you were done entertaining him. That shit-eating grin on his face says otherwise.” Carlton spits, harshly.
Will hesitates and slows his feet even more. He’s grateful that in the morning rain, there’s no one else on the sidewalk with them.
Grin? He wonders. Mike was smiling at me?
A small part of him frowns. He wishes he would’ve caught his expression. It’d make painting his face much easier, if he could remember what he looked like with a childish grin.
Carlton stops a little ahead of him and turns to face him. His expression is no longer sour, no longer angry.
His face is understanding, soft—but exhausted. Will wouldn’t be able to paint it perfectly if he tried—let alone if he could bring himself to.
“I’m not—I’m not angry, William,” He murmurs, quiet in the loud of the rain.
“I’m confused. Scared. When—when you opened up to me about him, do you remember how distraught you were? How vulnerable you were, to open up to your partner about your lover-that-never-was?” He asked. Will winces, turning his head to the ground.
Of course he remembers. He cried so hard that day, Carlton had to bring him to the on-call doctors because he passed out cold.
He sighs in frustration, and Will glances up to see his eyes again.
“It was an accident, Carlton. Sure, he—he’s an idiot, but he isn’t a bad guy,” he tries to reason, walking towards Carlton, “We’re just friends.”
Yeah, but we used to be best friends.
Will winces, guilty, and looks away. Carlton rubs his eyes and nods, his head tilted to the sky. “Okay.” He sighs. “Okay, I—alright. I understand. Just… talk to me next time, okay?” Carlton asks. Pleads.
Will swallows, his hand crinkling around the number card in his pocket.
“Alright. I will, I promise.”