for better or worse (i want you)

by losingcontrolnow

Mike and Will, best friends/roommates/partners in crime get married. It's an accident. Really.

It's Mike's fifth proposal and he only gets better every time.

They're at one of Lenora's best, most expensive restaurants — a vintage place with Greek art pressed onto the wallpaper. The entire place is doused in warm, golden light. Soft chatter rings in Mike's ears as he listens to Will order a pretentious sounding wine off the drink menu. Will's foot hits his calf and something about that makes Will laugh.

Mike, a person with zero romantic bones in his body, can see just how romantic this is.

It's the third Friday of the month, so Will picked the place out. It's perfect because of course it is. It's Will's choice. He doesn't do one thing halfway.

The ring sits heavy in Mike's pocket. He stares out the window as a patron tosses her keys at the poor valet, nearly missing his eye. Mike sighs, shifting in his seat as he glances back at Will.

Will is currently wowing the waiter — whose pupils might've turned into two tiny hearts had they been in a cartoon, fixing one of the three jacket buttons on his cheap tuxedo. If Will fiddles with any further, it might fall apart and all their planning of two weeks will go right down the drain.

Admittedly, Will is far better at faking classiness than Mike is. Mike can't tell a salad fork from a dessert fork, while Will makes a comment to the waiter about the great smell of the bouquet — whatever the fuck that means. Mike sips on the wine and makes a snide comment to Will about how it tastes like an eight dollar wine to him.

"Your tastebuds are useless." Will says, unblinking. "Like seriously? Stop making that face."

"What face?"

"That face."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Can you at least fake liking it?" Will hisses. "Rich people are supposed to like this shit and before you forget, we're supposed to be rich people."

"Fuck. Fine." Mike mutters. He adjusts one of the buttons on this three button jacket. "Let's just get this over with before I stab myself in the eye with this salad fork."

"That's a dessert fork." Will corrects quickly, before he leans forward, features pulling into the most serious expression Mike has ever seen. "Are you okay?"

Mike glances back at the valet. "I hate this place."

Will softens, shoulders loosening as he leans back into his seat. "We don't have to do this right now, you know."

"How the fuck are we going to pay the bill, then?"

Will shrugs. "I could do it today."

"Oh, please, you can't top me. I'm the maestro of grand love confessions."

Will blinks. "Please jog my memory, great maestro. Which one was your grandest love confession? Proposing to Jane on Halloween before a passerby threw up on you? Or telling Sarah Miller that you were in love with her while her boyfriend was right next to her? Or when — "

"Fine." Mike clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I get it."

Will chuckles. He picks at his jacket again before he shifts in his seat to lean forward, chin resting on interlaced fingers. The light catches on the high of Will's cheekbones as his lips pull into a soft smile.

"I think I could definitely top you."

"Is that a challenge?" Mike asks, though it's a rhetorical question. Will's resulting grin is answer enough.

Will pushes his right hand forward, palm outstretched. "The ring, kind sir."

Mike makes a big show of rolling his eyes and cursing Will under his breath, but any argument with Will is already a lost one. Mike reaches into his pocket to pull out the cheap silver band. He passes it to Will under the table, praying to heavens above that this goes well.

It's either this or they end up spending a night in jail for conning a restaurant.

"Are you ready?" Will asks, and the glint in his eye back, smile tugging at the end of his lips.

Mike says, glancing back at the valet one last time before he says, "I was born ready."

What happens next is a bit of a routine for them.

Mike pretends to look back out the window, watching the grand convertibles and pseudo movie stars roll in front of the restaurant, while Will gets down on one knee.

They have a signal. When either one of them gets down on one knee, the other doesn't look back until someone else has loudly gasped. It helps the shock factor and it always works.

This time, it's the lady from the table across from them. She stops rocking her baby, loudly gasping and she tells her husband to look at the scene Mike and Will are making. She looks so excited, it breaks Mike's heart to think that it's all fake.

Still. Mike's heart races every time. Side-effects of the job.

It takes Mike a few attempts to try and get into the zone of the lovesick boyfriend, but Will is at that level without much effort. He's such a good actor, it makes Mike want to tear up. Which Mike does so, once he gasps and covers his mouth with both his hands for dramatic effect.

They've gotten the attention of everyone sitting in that half of the restaurant, including the waitstaff, who quietly whisper to each other. Mike tries not to smirk, turning his attention back to Will, who takes a deep breath like he's about to start his grand speech.

"Mike Wheeler," Will says, his voice full of conviction and gusto as he holds up the cheap steel ring in front of Mike. The woman across from them looks like she might just pass out.

Mike doesn't hold back on his gasps and his freaking out. He really needs to sell this. "Are you seriously doing this?" He asks Will, before he sniffles into his sleeve.

"Since the moment I met you, I knew you'd steal my heart and ruin me for everyone else." Mike chokes out, burying his face in his silk handkerchief before he dabs at his eyes. "It's you and it'll always be you. Would you do me the honor of being mine forever, once and for all?"

Mike can't help but gush about himself. He really got the waterworks going for this one. He gasps, one last time, takes one last look at Will on his knees holding up the ring and he says, "Yes, a thousand times yes!"

The restaurant erupts into chaos and Will sweeps Mike into a hug so tight, it takes Mike a second to remember that this isn't real. None of this is real. Will sliding his ring onto Mike's ring finger isn't real. Will putting his arm around Mike's waist, fielding the quick congratulations from the other patrons, isn't real.

The manager of the restaurant comes up to them, all smiles and hearty congratulations. Will keeps his grip on Mike's waist tight as he accepts the handshake. Mike just ducks his head, playing the part of the blushing groom perfectly.

"Oh, this is so wonderful! What a sweet young couple!" The manager says. "Please allow us to treat you both to dessert. The tiramisu this evening is excellent."

"No, no, I think — " Will cuts off, turning to look at Mike. He's wearing that enamored look so perfectly, it's unnerving. "I think we're just going to get the bill and get outta here for now. What do you say, honey?"

Mike chokes on the nickname. They hadn't discussed that. But the sharp eyes of the manager are on them both and Mike quickly recovers.

"Yes, yes, I'm exhausted. I can't feel my legs." Mike says, shaking his head before making a show of burying his face in Will's shoulder.

"You heard the man." Will says. "You guys take black card, right?"

The manager blinks. "Oh, on such a joyous evening, you shouldn't be worried about paying for food. Dinner's on the house tonight."

Hearing the words dinner's on the house makes Mike want to melt into Will's side and scream, but he stays perfectly still. He takes a quick glance at the Greek art adorning the walls. They're never coming back here.

"Oh? That's wonderful. We can't thank you enough." Will says, his grin blinding as he turns back to face Mike. "I think we'll be back here for our anniversary, right, babe?"

Mike coughs into his fist, dodging Will's quick glare. (Is his face as red as it feels?) "Yes, of course. See you guys in a year."

It takes another fifteen minutes for them to twist and turn out of the manager's grip. Mike says something about really celebrating this night and Will makes a quiet, incomprehensible noise in the back of his throat. The manager, his face now a bright shade of red, lets them go with two packed desserts and a pat on the back.

They walk down the street quickly, barely managing to keep the laughter from teetering over the edge. As the restaurant hides behind the other buildings of Lenora's busy town, Mike takes a second to stop and he bursts out laughing.

"His fucking face — " Mike wheezes, as he leans into the nearest car for support. "His face, I'm — "

They've stopped in front of a bar and Mike can hear the music seeping out, making the ground shake under his feet. There's a revolving door of people, pushing in and out of the bar. Mike is sure if he walked up to any of them, they wouldn't know their own names.

Will stands in front of him, a few inches above him with his foot stuck on the edge of the pavement between Mike's feet. The moonlight beats down on his face, highlighting all the sharp angles and soft skin. Mike bites down on the inside of his cheek as he eyes the soft green light of the inside of the bar.

"I can't believe you said that in front of thirty something people." Will says, his tone chastising, but he can't stop laughing either.

Mike barely recovers before he dissolves back into a fit of giggles. "What, like they don't know sex exists?" Mike says, holding his hand up. The steel ring glints in the moonlight. "Plus, I just got fucking engaged. I think I'd have to be physically restrained to not have sex on my engagement night."

Will blinks. "You can have sex when you're restrained."

"Why do you know that?"

Will shrugs. "I've read books." He quietly mutters.

"Books." Mike repeats. "Books."

"Yeah, at least I can fucking read."

Mike slightly leans back, feigning a wounded expression. "I can read."

"Looking at the expiry date on the carton and telling me to get more milk is not reading."

Mike scoffs. "I hate your guts."

Will laughs, loud and bright. "Also. Admit it."

"Admit what?"

"I'm the maestro of grand love confessions." Will says, crossing his arms over his chest, in a stance of challenge. The freckles lining his cheek glow as he cocks his head, almost grinning.

"In your dreams." Mike scoffs as he shakes his head. "I made that guy cry last time."

"He was on the verge of tears already."

"Why would he be crying in a restaurant?!"

"I don't know!" Will says, kicking Mike on his calf. "But you don't get that one."

"Fucking — " Mike cuts off. "Fine. What about the one in the bar?"

"Don't remember." Will says, absentmindedly tapping his chin.

"You don't remember Dustin's birthday where I got on the counter, proposed to you in front of all our friends and got our drinks comped?" Mike asks, leaning back into the car as he watches Will's expression change from nonchalance to bright red remembrance. "I still remember Max's face, holy shit."

"Dustin was so pissed at us for stealing his thunder." Will laughs into his fist. "But, hey, at least he didn't have to pay for the drinks."

"He should be thanking us, for all I care."

"I know!" Will exclaims, his laughter melting into a soft smile as he shakes his head. "Oh, man, that was fun."

"It was." Mike says, a little more fondly than he should. "This proves that I'm definitely better at proposing than you are."

"How does that prove anything?!"

"I don't remember you making a single person cry today."

"You almost cried."

Mike blinks. "Yikes, the delusion is real. How does it feel living like this?"

"Like I'm the Oracle, all seeing, all knowing? Feels great."

Mike rolls his eyes. "Should've saved the yikes for that."

"You're the worst." Will clicks his tongue. "Just tell me I'm the greatest, best, grandest maestro of grand love confessions."

"I think your grammar's incorrect."

"I think you're incorrect." Will retorts. He nudges Mike with the toe of his shoe, feigning his sheepishness. "Come on. Please, please, please."

"No."

"Just admit that I'm the best." Will says, and the way he's smiling is making Mike want to look away.

He's going to cave so easily, it's humiliating.

"God, fucking — " Mike takes a deep breath, before he locks eyes with Will. "Better fucking open your ears and listen to this because I'm never gonna say it again."

"Uh huh." Will says giddily, not listening to a word Mike said.

Mike sighs, shaking his head. He's struggling to fight that smile off his face. He crosses his arms over his chest, inhaling deeply. Will isn't even bothering to hide the satisfaction this is giving him.

"Will Byers, you're the greatest, best, grandest maestro of grand love confessions."

Will takes a second to process that before he bursts into a fit of giddy laughter.

"I can't believe you fucking said it, holy shit. You know you're never living this down, right?"

"Here we go." Mike says, rolling his eyes, but Will drapes his arm around Mike's shoulders and Mike's anger just melts away, as quickly as it came.

"I'm just kidding, I'll never bring it up again."

"Good." Mike says, trying to punch some malice into his voice. It doesn't work, because of course, it doesn't fucking work. "Now, let's get you home, maestro."

The thing is, Mike doesn't remember how it started. The only two things he remembers is that he'd bought the cheap stainless steel rings off the street of Lenora's market for fifteen dollars and he remembers the evil glint in Will's eye as he'd inspected the ring. Will, the ever petty criminal.

"I have an idea." Will had said. Faster than a blink of an eye, it had quickly barreled into a routine.

They've been doing this for five months. They pick out a luxury restaurant — a place that normally wouldn't accept people like them, who can't tell salad forks from dessert forks. They get a meal, nothing too elaborate. Sometimes Mike pretends to propose and sometimes Will does.

The food gets comped, they get a meal for a day, no harm no foul.

Lenora has made Mike into an unwavering con man. It's the economy! Mike tells Nancy every time she chastises him about his practices. He tells Nancy it's a necessary evil. Nancy calls him an idiot.

It's not like Mike enjoys being a criminal. He doesn't enjoy conning people out of their money they've earned, but Lenora is bleeding them dry. They need that money. Besides, it's not like he's in for the thrill of the crime, anyway. The second Will gets out, so does he.

Okay. Maybe he's lying. It's definitely a tiny bit thrilling.

Like this time. It's Mike's turn to propose and Will actually gets the waterworks going so intensely, Mike wonders if he's going to melt into a puddle for a quick second. They get a bottle of lemon vodka as a gift and it looks so expensive, they debate about selling it for some quick cash instead.

But, like it does on most days, the impulse inside them wins out. Will suggests draining the bottle and Mike can't disagree. It's rare that they get chances like these.

It's nearing midnight. The breeze is carrying a warmth that makes Mike want to shed his jacket, but Will is shivering, a pink coloring his cheeks. A few blocks down, there's an abandoned park.

After Mike makes sure there are no kids in sight who they can traumatize from their drunken antics, they occupy the swingset, passing the bottle in between them. They're still working off the high of tonight and Will won't stop laughing at his jokes. Even the stupid one about his socks. Mike's cheeks hurt.

No wonder they somehow manage to come up with the most insane idea of all time.

"What if we take this to the next level?" Will asks, taking another swig from the bottle.

While Mike is down in three drinks, it takes Will six, seven, eight to get the same effect. Will doesn't get drunk — that's more Mike's forte, but there are days when he just lets go. Today seems to be one of those days.

The tips of Will's ears are beet red and he glows from the soft, golden light of the streetlamp above him. Will is saying something, hands expressive and eyebrows furrowed, but Mike is busy stewing inside his own head. From the haze of his own drunkenness, Mike can't stop watching Will from the corner of his eye.

"— you listening?" Will says, and Mike blinks.

"Huh?"

"So, you weren't listening."

"Uh." Mike's throat is suddenly dry. "I was. I totally was."

"What did I just say?" Will asks, and if he were sober, he'd be glaring at Mike right now.

Mike lets his cheek rest against the cold metal chain that holds up the swing. The taste of rust floods his nostrils. When he meets Will's eyes, he can't help but ask, "Has anyone told you you have really pretty eyes?"

Will blinks. The red from his ears seeps down, bleeding into his cheeks. "Don't be fucking stupid. Answer my question." He says, suddenly stern.

Will sounds like his question is serious, so serious. There's an itch under Mike's skin he just can't get to. "What did you say?"

"I said we should get married. Like, for real." Will says. His arms are crossed so tightly in front of his chest that Mike wouldn't be surprised if he bursts at the seams. "I mean, since we've been — "

Some sober part of Mike's brain screams at him and tells him to think twice about this. A marriage is not something to be taken lightly. It's a commitment and if his parents' marriage taught him anything, it's a chore. A chore not worth the effort it requires.

But, this is Will. Will. His best friend, his partner in crime. Will would never be a chore. It would be an honor to be married to him.

Mike looks back at Will, one last time. He should know why Will, suddenly, asked for his hand in marriage, but he finds that he really doesn't care. This is Will. There's no way in hell that he doesn't have a good enough reason. That's enough for Mike.

"Okay." Mike says, unblinking. This stops Will's rant halfway through. He stops and stares at Mike like he's grown a third head.

"Okay." Mike repeats. He's so drunk, it's not even funny. "Let's get married. For real."

They get married. For real. There's a church and an actual officiant and Will is holding Mike's hand so tight that it keeps Mike tethered to the ground. The altar might be shaking beneath his feet or Mike's legs are so weak, he can't keep it together.

His brain is struggling to process all of this. The moonlight passing through the colored glass of the church, the yellowish tint of the officiant's supposed white suit, the pink of the corner of Will's mouth. It's a lot and not even the haze of the lemon vodka is enough to shield him.

The officiant is saying a lot about sickness and health, for better or worse, and Mike and Will are parroting the lines back to him, while the one witness to their blessed union is trying not to fall asleep right then and there.

"Do you have your rings?" The officiant asks, and Mike kind of wants to laugh. He can't believe they're actually wearing the fifteen dollar rings to their own fucking wedding, but then it also makes perfect sense. Who, other than Mike Wheeler and Will Byers, would show up hammered to their own wedding?

It feels like an eternity passes before the ring makes it onto Mike's ring finger and Will won't stop giggling and Mike's heart won't stop pounding in his chest. He's a fucking goner. He wants to jump out of his skin, give in to the fight-or-flight feeling concocting inside his body.

The officiant declares them married. The lady in the audience claps thrice before she gets up and leaves. Mike isn't even sure if they kiss. The last thing he remembers before he falls asleep is the sound of Will's voice ringing in his ears and the gentle thrum of his pulse.

Mike wakes up to the sound of someone yapping.

It sounds a lot like the dog he and Will have been talking about getting. They're too broke for a pomeranian, too busy for a husky, but Will likes beagles. A beagle would be nice. A tiny, baby beagle would be nice.

"Mike!" The beagle calls out to him, swatting at his foot. "Wake up!" Mike didn't even realize their budget accommodated a talking beagle, that's pretty neat.

"Holy fucking hell," The beagle mutters.

Mike settles further into his pillow, trying to delay the incoming headache brewing inside his skull. It's not until someone grabs him by the collar that Mike finally stirs. The daze settles, Mike blinks repeatedly, only to find Will staring back at him, white as a ghost.

They're close. So close. There's a faint line of freckles crowning Will's cheekbone and he distinctly smells like coffee. An espresso shot. Maybe three. Will blinks before he realizes the distance between them has significantly evaporated and he blanches, quickly letting go of Mike.

"Will?" Mike says, suddenly surprised at how foreign that word feels on his tongue. "What happened to our beagle?"

"What the fuck are you on about?" Will asks, before he shakes his head. "Forget that. We have a problem."

Mike blinks. This is such a shitty apartment that there could be a million problems before breakfast and he wouldn't even hesitate to believe it. It could be the plumbing. It could be their neighbors having a three-day long sex marathon again. It could be the rats.

"Is it the rats again?"

"Worse." Will states, and he's stepped away from Mike's bed, arms carefully crossed over his chest. He stands at the foot of his bed, cautious and wound up, like he's about to jump out of his own skin. "Way, way worse."

Mike can't think of one thing worse than the fucking rats chewing on their garbage. He looks back at Will with a questioning gaze.

"Mike. I think we got married last night." Will says, and it all comes crashing down.

"Okay, let's recap." Max says, and she looks so much like a marriage counselor, it's hilarious. But Will is terrified and it's way too soon for that joke, so Mike bites down on it. "What do you remember?"

Dustin tuts, quickly interjecting. Lucas glares at him, but somehow Dustin completely misses that. "Wait, wait. You guys didn't… you know… consummate the marriage last night, right? Because we definitely don't want to know about that."

Will, from beside Mike, makes a wounded, incomprehensible noise in the back of his throat. Jane swats Dustin's knee. Mike buries his face in his hands, feels the burn of his cheeks, red hot.

"That's fucked up, man." Lucas, the voice of reason, quickly says, while shaking his head. Dustin grins sheepishly.

(They didn't. They definitely didn't. Mike would remember something like that, right? But, then again, you would assume he would remember getting married. He could've murdered someone last night. Still, that prospect is far less terrifying than the mere thought of sleeping with his best friend.)

"Let's go back two horrible minutes ago when Dustin didn't make us want to blow our brains out." Max says. "Think back to last night carefully and tell me what you remember."

It's like a scene out of a movie. Mike and Will only have one couch, which they're occupying, while the others have pulled up chairs and even a stack of Will's old college textbooks to sit on. They're all facing Mike and Will, staring them down.

The house is a mess, worse than Mike remembers. There are clothes everywhere, empty bottles of beer everywhere and Mike's vomit-green socks hanging off the back of the couch. Will says he woke up to the loud blare of the television, which means they'd left the television running all night. Whatever state they were in, they were the furthest thing from stable.

Mike can't stop fiddling with his wedding ring.

Wedding ring. Right. Mike's eyes had nearly popped out of his skull when he'd seen it on his ring finger. They never make the mistake of wearing it out of their scams.

They take the rings off the second they're out of the restaurant because you never know when you're going to run into a cute girl, at least in Mike's case. Will seems pretty disinterested to anyone who might show even the smallest inkling of interest in him. For Mike, though, the wedding rings kind of put a damper on flirting.

Which means something had definitely happened last night. Mike doesn't bring that point up to Will. He might completely fall apart if Mike says that.

Will is on the other end of the couch. He might as well be sitting on the armrest from the way he's trying to put as much physical distance between them as possible. Still, all the way from here, Mike can see the tremble of Will's hand, the way he just won't look at Mike, no matter how hard Mike tries.

"Um," Will starts, quickly clearing his throat, before he speaks again. "I definitely remember vodka. Maybe a church? And this lady with green highlights in her hair who gave me a mint. I think. I'm not sure about the last one."

"Okay." Max says, carefully, and she focuses her attention on Mike next. "And, Mike?"

Suddenly, every head in the room swivels to face Mike, who completely shrivels up under the attention. Will still isn't looking at him. Something inside Mike deflates.

"Lemon." He says. The faint taste of citrus lingers in his mouth. "The vodka was definitely lemon."

"Thank you, Mike." Max replies, nodding her head gently. "That was completely fucking useless."

Dustin laughs, which slowly dissolves into a cough as Jane pinches his arm hard. Mike's eyes lock with Jane's over the steam wafting from everyone's coffee mugs. She turns away from Dustin to give Mike a supportive thumbs-up but somehow, that only serves to make him feel worse.

"Okay, so, we need to be logical." Lucas starts, taking a sip from his coffee. "You need a marriage license for your wedding to be recognized."

"There's no fucking way they'd sign your license when you were as drunk as a kite." Dustin says.

"High as a kite." Jane quietly corrects, as she grabs a slice of the pizza they'd ordered.

"Right. High as a kite. Thanks, Jane." Dustin pats Jane on the head, making a quick move for the coffee pot after.

Mike bites down on his tongue as Will gets up from the couch and disappears into his room. The silence falls for one long second before everyone breaks into chaos.

"Dude, holy shit. What the fuck were you thinking?"

"You had a Vegas wedding and you're not even in Vegas."

"Where'd you get the lemon vodka?"

"I'm going to go check on Will." Jane says, putting her pizza down, before she gets up and follows Will into his room.

Mike's brain is mush, ready to give out any second now. He runs his ice-cold hand over his face, wishing for all the chatter to just fade away into white noise. Right this second, he needs to talk to Will and no one else.

One of the floorboards in their living room has come loose and it creaks loudly with even the tiniest bit of weight being put onto it. That's how Mike doesn't even have to look to know that Will is back.

He stays perfectly still, knowing all three of his best friends are trying to gauge his reaction, but that resolve crumbles when Will hands Max a certificate. Lucas, who's been sitting beside Max all this time, finally looks up at Mike and loudly sighs.

"What?" Mike asks. "What is that?" He looks up at Will, who's standing beside him, but Will won't meet his eyes.

"Your marriage license." Max says, holding up the certificate. The blood in Mike's veins turns to ice. "Signed by your officiant. DJ Tanner."

"DJ Tanner?" Lucas asks, while Dustin quickly completes his thought with, "Full House."

"Your officiant's legal name is DJ Tanner." Max mutters, under her breath. "Must be a pretty big Full House fan, huh."

"Fuck, what the fuck." Will mutters, while Jane's hand quickly clamps down on her brother's shoulder in a show of support.

It makes Mike wonder what Nancy might think. She'd definitely be pissed, but she'd know what to say. This is the first time Mike has ever wished for his sister to be beside him. How unnerving. Mike looks at Jane's hand on Will's shoulder one last time before he turns back to Lucas, who looks like he's about to launch into a spiel.

"So. You have a license, which means your marriage is legal, which means you're a recognized couple in the eyes of the state." Lucas reviews. Max clicks her tongue and Lucas flounders to come up with something to counteract his brilliant observation. "This is not… not as triumphant as I had hoped."

Will has turned green enough to rival the Incredible Hulk, but Mike doesn't make any moves to comfort him. That's probably the thing that'll set Will off and Mike doesn't need a panicked Will right now. Mike needs to be the voice of reason. For both of them.

"Look." Mike starts. He runs a hand through his hair. "Let's review our options."

"Right." Max says, quickly snaps her fingers. "Good idea, Michael."

"Okay, so…" Lucas starts, wringing his fingers together.

Lucas pauses, turns to Max to whisper something in her ear for her approval. Mike watches the entire exchange with a bit of horror and a bit of fascination. If they would've accidentally gotten married, it probably wouldn't matter to them. Not one thing about Lucas and Max would change post marriage.

"So, off the top of my head, you guys have three options. Divorce, obviously, but that'll be fucking expensive. Lawyers, papers and not to mention the time you'll spend going down and coming back from court. Then, there's annulment, but your marriage is valid, so that option is out the window."

"What's the third one?" Will asks, so softly that they almost don't hear him.

Lucas and Max exchange a glance. "You guys stay married." Max finally says.

The wind is knocked out of Mike's lungs with a single sucker punch.

"I mean, this logistically makes the most sense. You live together, you share expenses… and you have to admit, a lot of things are not going to change."

"Except, we'll be fucking married." Will says, and the word sounds so poisonous coming from him that Mike almost flinches. Somewhere, deep, deep down, that stings.

"Well, yeah." Max softly shrugs. Mike doesn't miss the glance she gives him. "Not sure if that's the worst thing in the world."

Mike risks a look, only to find Will already looking at him quizzically, like he's assessing Mike. Mike gulps, taking in the wild flare of Will's cheekbones as Mike's teeth sink into the inside of his cheek. Mike wants to say something so desperately, but the words just don't leave him. He can't think of one thing to say.

The tension in Will's shoulders seeps out of him as he shakes his head, quickly standing up. He mutters some half-assed excuse and flees to the kitchen. Mike watches him go, the urge to reach out to Will coiling tight around Mike's gut.

He's well-aware of the fact that everyone is watching him closely. The urge to go to Will wins over.

Mike's legs feel like lead when he makes his way over the kitchen. There's an itch running rampant under his skin that he can't scratch and his mouth is full of sand. He knows it's up to him to fix this sitch.

Will isn't great at dealing with pressure. He'd panic and flail about their dorm room when he'd have one of his episodes, spending most of his time stress-braiding Jane's hair. That was during exam week or times when Mike 'accidentally' used up all the hot water before he could have his shower.

Now, Will has just found out that he's married to his best friend when they were both so wildly drunk that they don't remember it happening. This is not going to end well.

In the kitchen, Will is hunkered over the sink, breathing heavily like he's trying to keep himself from throwing up. He's so engrossed in his activity that he doesn't notice Mike walking in at all. Mike stands by the door, not wanting to overstep.

The tips of Will's ears are red, hair stuck to his forehead from the sweat lining his brow. The sun is streaming in through the open window, a cool breeze flitting in as Will grips the sides of the sink to keep from collapsing. A flash of steel catches Mike's eye.

The ring. Will is still wearing the ring. Despite the scene they've made, despite the fact that they were just out there discussing divorce, Will hasn't taken it off.

Mike doesn't understand why this kitchen is so stuffy. It should not be so hard to breathe.

"Hey." Mike says, and Will startles. His eyes go wide like a deer caught in headlights, but it doesn't take him longer than a second to recover. Mike can't tell if the red of Will's cheeks is an effect of the heat or if it was always there.

"Hey." Will mutters. He leans against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. He's avoiding Mike's eyes. "Some fucking morning, huh?"

"Understatement."

Will scoffs. "Yeah."

The anger has subdued, leaving room for fear that's so blatantly readable on his face that it takes Mike a second to recover. He's never seen Will like this — so flustered, so speechless. Will always has something to say. Always. Especially to him.

Mike shifts on his feet. "Are you okay?"

Will's breath hitches, his gaze catching on Mike's. "I just can't believe this is real."

Mike glances out the door, out into the living room where their friends are gathered. Jane and Max talk in soft, hushed tones while Lucas and Dustin are busy staring at the marriage certificate on the coffee table. Mike gulps, feeling his heart flutter beneath his ribcage.

"It's pretty fucking real."

"God, fuck — " Will mutters, burying his face in his hands. "What the fuck were we thinking?"

Mike blinks. That's a great question. Yes, they were drunk, but no man's first drunk instinct is to find the nearest church in it and get married. The idea came from something, from somewhere and even though it ultimately doesn't matter, Mike wants to know who brought it up.

"Do you remember me saying something funny last night?"

Will stops chewing on his thumb, his train of thought coming to a screeching halt. "Funny like what?"

"I don't know, like a proposal or something."

"Not really…" Will trails off. "We got the bottle, then we spent two hours looking for that park and then… oh yeah, we argued about the second-best Die Hard villain."

"Jeremy Irons." Mike says, unflinching. Will doesn't even hide the sharp roll of his eyes.

The defensiveness seeps into Will's voice as practiced. "William Atherton exists."

"Timothy Olyphant is a better option than William Atherton!"

"We don't have the time to do this right now." Will says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Mike resists the urge to smile. "So, where were we? Yeah. Die Hard villain and then… Did we talk about a… dog?"

"You mean Rufus."

"I'm not naming our dog Rufus." Will hisses, getting hooked on the bait. "You can't name a beagle Rufus."

Mike shrugs. "Eileen named her dog Dog."

"Yeah, because she's Eileen." Will says, a smile tugging on the end of his lips. "She's beyond help at this point."

"I'm telling her you said that."

"No!" Will exclaims, but it's so soft-hearted. "I need my early morning espresso, fuck you."

The tension in the room seems to have ebbed away as fast as it developed. It's a little cooler under Mike's collar now. Then Mike's eyes fall back to the ring on Will's ring finger and his brain short-circuits. Mike has to physically tear his eyes away from it.

Will sighs, leaning against the sink again as he stares down at his feet. "I can't remember anything else."

"Me neither." Mike says, trying to search the deep tresses of his brain for just one more iota of memory. He comes short, like he always does. "You know what I think? It doesn't fucking matter."

"You're right." Will says with a ghost of a smile. "It doesn't fucking matter."

Being married is weird. Being married to his best friend is weirder. Still, not a lot of things change. Max is right about a lot of things and she's right about this one, too. They still share a living space, Will still buys the groceries, Mike still does the dishes every alternate day. Mike has to admit that despite his initial reservations, it's not that bad.

Unfortunately, Will doesn't feel the same way.

Not a lot of things change. But, Will definitely does.

He doesn't seem like he knows how to interact with Mike now. Will doesn't talk to him unless he really fucking has to, doesn't look at him unless it's to ask Mike to pass him the ketchup. There's a wall between them, fifteen feet of concrete high and Mike doesn't know what he needs to do to break that down.

It drives Mike insane.

It's been five years since they moved to Lenora. Leaving Hawkins behind was not difficult but most of what Mike loved about Hawkins came with him. On most days, Will vehemently denies it, but Mike knows that if it weren't for him, Will never would've left Hawkins.

They've spent lifetimes together. Their childhood, middle school, college. If Mike thinks about it, there hasn't been one stage in his life where he hasn't had Will. Apparently, not even fucking marriage.

That makes it worse because Mike notices when Will doesn't talk to him. They're supposed to be a unit, the two of them. Now, Will won't even meet eyes with him.

Mike needs to fix this. It's up to him and only him. The idea comes to him perfectly, falling into his lap, when Mike thought all hope was lost.

It's the third Friday of the month. Mike is nursing a warm cup of coffee, hand curled tight around the mug. As always, like the jobless and friendless assholes that they are, Mike and Will are holed up in their apartment, watching one of Will's favorite movies.

Correction.

Will is watching a movie. He's on the couch, bundled up in his blanket while trying not to sob. Mike is sitting by their kitchen table that can barely stand on its one leg, staring at the back of Will's head, trying to think of ways to make up with his husband. Er, best friend. Best friend is way more appropriate.

Mike hears a sniffle from the couch and something twists in Mike's gut. He should be there to comfort Will — refilling Will's ice-cream bowl or giving him a shoulder to cry on, because 27 Dresses always gets the waterworks going and Mike knows this, he knows this.

Will is his best friend. There's no one on this planet that knows Will better than he does. That means no one knows how to get Will out of a funk better than he does.

Mike can't help it. He glances back down at the wedding ring. He still hasn't taken it off, despite every bone in his body that tells him that wearing it is a bad idea.

People might misunderstand. Their friends might misunderstand. Women don't approach Mike anymore (probably because they think he's married, that's the only reason). Still, despite all of that, Mike finds himself only caring about the fact that Will isn't talking to him.

Mike can't take his eyes off that cheap band of steel. His mind takes him back to the one half of the night that he remembers. Mike's great, grand love confession in the restaurant that night as he tried to prove his maestro status, the swingset, the lemon vodka. The soft halo of light on Will's head from the streetlamp above him.

Then, it clicks.

"Do you wanna get dinner?"

Will stiffens, Mike can see it all the way from the kitchen table. Vaguely, Mike wonders if there's a chance that Will might pretend that he hasn't heard Mike or if he might say no, and Mike doesn't know how the fuck he'll deal with that because Will never rejects him. Never.

The anticipation of Will's answer has Mike reeling.

Mike hears the soft click of the television remote as the movie pauses. Will paused 27 Dresses for him. This story might just have a happy ending.

Will turns in his seat, arm swinging around the back of the couch and his eyes are red-rimmed. "What?" He asks softly, sniffling into his blanket and Mike just blinks.

"Oh. I don't mean like… you know, a romantic dinner. I meant more like… one of our… uh, illegal activities. We still haven't returned out tuxes from last time, so we could go out tonight, maybe try out Alfredo's. I don't know, it could be fun."

Mike can hear the gears turning in Will's head as he pauses, gaze pinned to nothing on the floor.

Will's voice is full of conviction when he rips Mike's heart out of his chest and stomps all over it. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Oh." Mike mutters. He scrambles to think of something to say, but Will's flat out rejection has stumped him.

Mike clicks his tongue as the silence falls, strung tight like a drum. Will's eyes are wandering all over the living room, the tension written all over his face like it's been permanently etched into him. The fight seeps out of Mike as fast as it came.

"Yeah, you're probably right." Mike says, shaking his head. This is a lost cause.

Mike gets out of his seat to get rid of the empty cup he was nursing, but Will stops him.

"Wait." Will says and Mike pauses. "I just… I don't know. It's not like I don't want to hang out with you, you know… it's just been a long day."

"Yeah, I get it." Mike says, maybe a little too sharply.

Those four words strike Will. Mike might be a sick, sick bastard to admit this, but seeing Will's face, struck with guilt, makes him feel better. At least, it's not just Mike who's floundering to find things to say now.

Will turns back to the television for a quick second and Mike thinks this conversation might be over. Mike bites the inside of his cheek. Another day gone by with zero progress made. He resists the urge to scream into a pillow.

Mike blankly stares into the inside of his empty cup, turmoil brewing inside him with the bitter, bitter taste of loneliness as he feels Will slip away from him. This is not how they're supposed to end.

"Mike." Will calls out, and it takes Mike a second to realize that he's calling out to him for a few seconds now.

"Oh, yeah." Mike clears his throat. "Sorry."

Will picks at a loose thread in their garbage couch, soft pieces of brown hair falling over his eyes as his other hand fiddles with the remote. Will looks like he's fighting an internal battle, distressed and exhausted. Mike can't really tell which side wins over when Will sighs and asks him, "You wanna finish the rest of the movie with me?"

Mike's heart flips. "Sure."

Something in Will's face softens. "Okay." He says, turning back to the television but he doesn't press play yet.

Mike gets two ice-cold sodas from the fridge, joining Will on the couch. He keeps a healthy amount of distance between them because the last thing Mike wants to do is nuke the point five percent of progress that they've made.

Will presses play, painting the sides of his face in pinks and purples and yellows of the television screen. That's what mostly distracts Mike for a hot minute before he turns his attention back to the movie, barely absorbing anything. These movies aren't for him, but it's progress. This is progress.

"Soda, please." Will says, putting his hand forward without looking away from the screen.

Mike does as he's asked, but not before he sees it. The steel on Will's ring finger. He's wearing it. Will is wearing the fucking ring. Despite the fact that they've been at a standstill for the past few weeks, Will hasn't taken the ring off.

Mike tastes sand in his mouth as he presses the cold soda can into Will's waiting palm.

He wants to bring it up, but the last thing he needs is for Will to shut down again. So, Mike keeps his mouth shut, sips on his soda quietly and tries to keep his mind off the ring. It's hilarious just how spectacularly he fails.

They're in a good place. That's a bit of an overstatement.

They're in a decent place. Still, too much.

They'll survive. That's accurate enough.

Of course, Mike should've known it wouldn't last.

It's the loud slam of the door closing behind them that makes Mike bite down on his doubts and cave. He doesn't even know what happened.

The night was going well enough. For once in a long while, Mike and Will had stopped moping, gathered their act and headed out to a bar. Mike had even gotten a girl's number. It was starting to look like an evening to remember. No wonder something immediately went wrong.

"Okay, what's wrong?" Mike asks.

Will scoffs as he sheds his jacket and takes off his shoes, with a kind of smoldering intensity that Mike has never seen in his best friend before. He seems so foreign, so strange that Mike almost has trouble recognizing this person in front of him.

"Nothing's wrong." Will says, his tone final as he gathers his things and heads to his room. He hasn't looked at Mike once, not once and it's come to the point where Mike can no longer ignore it. It's starting to drive him fucking insane.

"Nothing's wrong? You almost broke our fucking door down."

Will shakes his head as he tosses his jacket, that's been draped over his arm, into the halfway open closet and busies himself with doing small things around the room, like organizing his books and putting his paints away. He completely ignores Mike's presence. It's so fucking passive aggressive that it makes Mike want to fling himself out a window.

Mike stands by the door, thrumming with a restless energy that makes him want to walk into the room, grab him by the shoulders and shake him hard until Will tells him everything that's on his mind.

"I'm fine." Will says, as he turns his easel away from Mike's view. "Just go away, Mike."

"What the fuck?" Mike can't help himself. "Just tell me what I did."

"You didn't do anything, that's the fucking problem." Will manages to say somehow, through gritted teeth. His back is to Mike, which only adds salt to the wound. Mike's feet are glued to the floorboards, even though all he wants to do is move away from here.

They don't fight. They never fight. Mike is getting that twist in his gut that happens only when he can feel the conversation is slowly barreling towards an argument. This time, it's not a twist. It's a terror, coiled so tight with his intestines that he's starting to choke on it.

"I didn't do anything?" Mike scoffs. "As far as I remember, I'm the only one trying to do anything to salvage this friendship. All you want to do is ignore me and mope around."

There's a distinct red crawling up Will's neck. "Oh, really? Does accepting the number of a random girl from a bar count as salvaging this friendship?"

Mike recoils. "What? What's that supposed to mean?"

Will's breath hitches and he freezes, like he's snapped out of whatever little tirade he was going to go on. Will's cheeks flush and he looks away, turning back towards the back of his easel.

"Forget it." Will mutters under his breath.

"No, no, no, you don't get to say that to me, not today." Mike says. He holds onto the door frame so he doesn't cross the line of waltzing into Will's room. "You brought up this argument. Don't walk away from it."

"Fine." Will snaps, turning on his heel as he faces Mike. He's crossed his arms over his chest so tight, he might be trembling. "Why aren't you wearing the ring?"

That gives Mike pause. "What?"

"You're not wearing the ring."

Mike blinks, as he holds up his left hand. Surely enough, he doesn't have the ring on. There's a small strip of white skin on his ring finger where the steel band should be. Will is on the verge of being red in the face as he watches Mike's face closely. He hadn't even noticed.

"I didn't even notice." Mike mutters, without thinking twice. After the words leave his mouth, Mike realizes that's the worst thing he could've said.

"Yeah, I thought so." Will replies, his teeth sinking into the corner of his mouth as he shakes his head. "So much for trying to salvage this friendship."

"That's not fair. That's not fair." Mike retorts. "What about the last few weeks? Should I fucking remind you of everything that you've done? Every time I want to talk about the way things have been going, you shoot me down. Every time I want to hang out, you're busy. Oh, and should I even bring Scott up?"

"Who's Scott?"

"Eileen's brother who keeps flirting with you!"

Will blinks, though Mike doesn't miss the subtle hitch in his breathing. "He wasn't flirting."

"Oh, give me a fucking break." Mike says. "Everyone can see that he's into you, except you!"

Something about those words makes Will deflate. He sort of folds in on himself and the regret hits Mike square in the stomach like a powerful sucker punch, although he isn't entirely sure what he's said wrong.

Will sits down by the edge of his bed, like he's bracing himself for something. The color has drained out of his face and he tucks his hands away between his thighs, like he doesn't want Mike to see them shake.

"This was a mistake." Will says, so softly Mike almost misses it.

"What?" Mike asks, awestruck. "All this because I didn't wear a ring?"

"It's not about the rings!" Will exclaims, and he sounds so angry but his eyes are brimming with tears. "The rings don't mean anything."

Mike flinches, feeling the full impact of Will's words hit somewhere under his ribcage. Will's face pales, like he's been struck by thunder, but he does nothing to retract his words. He sits terrifyingly still before he speaks again. Mike almost wishes he hadn't.

"This, us, whatever we are — doesn't make any sense." Will says, wildly gesturing at the empty space between the two of them. There's a pit in the bottom of Mike's stomach. "We should've gotten divorced when we had the chance."

That's the most rational thought that one of them has had in days. It's the most logical option. It makes so much sense. That doesn't make it hurt any less.

The heaviest pause falls over them like a dusting of snow.

Mike can taste the copper flood his mouth when he bites on his tongue too hard. His mind is racing with his things he wants to say, all of them wrong and bitter and angry, but Will doesn't deserve to hear even that. He takes his hand off the doorframe of Will's room, tears his eyes away from Will and walks away.

His heart is pounding in his chest and he's trying to keep his mind off how final Will's words sounded. He doesn't want to think about what he might do if they were. Mike jogs to the kitchen to get a glass of water, wishing that Will would follow him and wishing that he wouldn't.

(Will doesn't come because of course, he doesn't.)

The first thing Mike does when he shuts the door of his own is call Max. No matter how much shit she gives him, no matter how much they bicker and claw at each other's throats, she always answers.

"Dude, it's ass o'clock in the night, what the actual fuck." Max curses, when she picks up on the fifth ring.

Mike leans, his back against his closed door and he sinks to the floor, clutching the cellphone close to his ear. He listens to the clinking of dishes in the background of Max's call as he tries to ignore the burn behind his eyelids. Knees hugged close to his chest, crying on the phone to his best friend, Mike makes a great poster child for a heartbroken middle schooler.

"Mike, you okay?"

Mike swallows, feeling the grit clogging his throat as he does. "I need a place to crash for a few days. If that's okay."

A beat passes. "Of course, it's okay." Max says. Any edge in her voice that Mike had heard before seeps away as rapidly as it appears. The noise of the dishes being put away comes to a stop. "Hope you're fine with the couch, though."

"It's fine." Mike says. He'll take the dirty, grimey floor of a nightclub at this point. "What about Lucas?"

"Don't worry about Lucas, I'll deal with him."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me, he can't say no to me."

"That is… extremely disgusting." Mike mumbles. "Please, please, stop talking."

Max laughs, loud and bright. The knot inside Mike's chest loosens.

"I'll get the couch ready." Max says. "If you wanna come over now."

Mike bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes traveling to the strip of white skin on his ring finger. He runs his thumb over that spot. The knot in his chest regrows. He tries not to think of Will and Will's terrifying, venomous words and he tries not to think of how much Will sounded like he meant it.

Mike wonders how long Will has been holding onto these thoughts. If that's how he truly felt, he should've said something sooner. To think that all this time, the only one truly fighting for them was Mike. Just Mike. Who knew getting married would've been their undoing? It's so ironic, it makes him want to laugh.

"Yeah." Mike says. Outside his door, it's dead silent. He tries not to think of what Will might be doing. If he's even slightly upset. Probably fucking not. "I'll see you in an hour."

"Okay. Take care."

Mike mumbles a quick thanks and hangs up. His palms are clammy as he turns his phone off, sliding it into his pocket before he gets up and reaches into his closet for a bag.

Mike doesn't own a suitcase big enough to fit all his clothes in, which means he's going to have to come back tomorrow morning. Which means he's going to have to face Will again. That thought is enough to make Mike flinch, before he quickly shakes his head and starts filling his bag with his things.

It's odd how methodically Mike finishes packing up. Not one lick of regret. He's got his essentials, but he leaves his binder of Will's drawings and sketches and doodles, right there in his dresser drawer.

Over the course of their entire friendship, Mike has never thrown out anything that Will has given him. Their friendship might be over but Mike would never think of doing that to him. He ignores the jump of his heart and leaves the binder as it is.

Mike can taste the anxiety on his tongue as he turns the doorknob. He's greeted by darkness, soft moonlight flooding in through the open windows. The house has never been this cold, this empty.

A chill crawls up Mike's spine as he hears the sound of someone humming softly. The humming is low, like Will's muttering the lyrics under his breath, but the house is quiet enough that a pin drop would echo.

There's a clink of a cup, the whir of their secondhand coffee machine running. The only way to the door is past the kitchen. Mike gulps, slings the bag over his shoulder and starts walking.

Mike can't help as he slows down by the kitchen. Will's back is to him, but the floorboard creaks under Mike's foot. Mike flinches as the sound echoes through the empty space. Will turns on his heel, their eyes brushing.

Will opens his mouth to say something, but the sight of the bag slung over Mike's shoulder makes him freeze.

Will puts the mug down and it makes a soft clink on the granite counter. The color has drained out of Will's face, softly accented by the moonlight. He's frozen on the spot as Will's eyes switch from Mike's face to his bag, back to his face. If Mike didn't know any better, he would say Will almost looked upset.

"I'll be back for my stuff tomorrow." Mike says, adjusting the strap of his bag.

Will visibly gulps, moving to turn off the button of the coffee machine. The whirring comes to a quick halt and the house is finally doused in tense silence. Mike keeps waiting for Will to say something, anything, but he gets nothing. Sounds about fucking right.

"Okay." Will says, softly, like there's something stuck in his throat.

Mike feels his heart flip in his chest. "Okay."

Will moves from his place and Mike's eyes catch on something.

There are two mugs, waiting to be filled with coffee. Will was coming to him. Will was coming to him.

There's something about that realization that has a chill crawling up Mike's spine, but he ignores it. Will's eyes are hazy, blank, features schooled so well that Mike can't see the sadness anymore. Maybe it was never there.

"I'll, uh, see you around." Mike says and turns on his heel. He's worried that if he looks at Will for a second longer or if he says something more, he'll want to stay.

"See you." Will says. He doesn't sound like he means it at all.

Three weeks. They don't talk for three weeks.

Mike has never felt the time slowly inch by him, as the days turn into nights and Will's call never comes. Mike won't admit it, but he waits so desperately for Will's call, to hear his voice and admitting that is embarrassing enough.

Mike goes to work, eats Max's half-decent food and sleeps on their couch. They don't treat him like a burden, they never do, but Mike knows he doesn't belong here. This isn't his home. That misplaced feeling buries itself deep inside his chest, burrowing into his veins.

If only he could go back home soon.

He misses Will, misses him like a limb. He barely manages to say it to himself in the mirror without losing his mind. He can see the ache, can feel the ache of Will's absence but it's a matter of principle now. Mike will not call him first.

The patch of white where Mike's ring used to be is now reverting back to its original skin color. It's like the ring was never there in the first place, like the thing that tore him and his best friend apart never happened.

It's slowly eating away at him.

Mike knows everyone can see it. Dustin keeps asking him if he's okay, Jane stops by more than she needs to to get Mike strawberry ice-cream refills whenever he runs out. Lucas and Max never leave him alone, not even for a second, always including him in their activities and their space and it's enough to make him want to curl up into a corner and sob.

All these people, all this love and Mike still yearns for Will by his side like no other.

At the end of two weeks of couch-surfing, Mike gets out of Max's and Lucas' house. Despite their protests and complaints, Mike manages to convince them that he's fine and that he's stable enough to be on his own.

Mike himself doesn't believe any of it, and he doesn't know how well he manages to convince Max. The woman has a foolproof bullshit detector. But Lucas, the saint that he is, reminds Max that Mike has rights, and that she cannot hold him at her place against his wishes.

"Fuck that," Max breathes out. "I don't give a fuck about what some stupid town in Switzerland says."

But her eyes are brimming with tears and Mike can feel his pulse thunder. She pulls him into a tight hug, red hair flared and some of it goes into Mike's eyes. Lucas pats him on the back before giving him a hug tight enough to rival Max's.

"Call me if you need anything." Lucas says, with conviction. "I don't care if it's just because you're craving Doritos. I'll be there."

Max blinks. "Don't dare call me if your emergency is a sudden Doritos craving."

Mike hasn't smiled this much in ages. He almost forgets about Will and the ring and the ache in his chest.

"Alright. Deal."

Mike doesn't have much experience with motels, but he tries his best to find one that doesn't look like it could host a meth lab. He finds Seafoam Motel, tucked away in one of Lenora's unsavory neighborhoods and Mike hates everything about it, but hey, it's a roof over his head. That's enough for him.

It doesn't look like his housing crisis is going to resolve itself any time soon. He's saved up some money from the two weeks he spent on Max's couch. His spine is cussing him out, but he has the money to rent an apartment if he wants it.

The motel floor is grimy, sheets crimped and the grout in the bathroom walls is nauseating, but if he leaves the motel and gets a place of his own, it'll mean that his friendship — relationship — marriage — whatever he has with Will is finally over. Mike doesn't know if he'll be able to cope with it.

Will is going to call. He will. Soon enough.

Mike is out getting some motel ice when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

The sun sank below the horizon a few hours ago and the sky is a vicious shade of blue. In Hawkins, they used to be able to see the stars. Mike and Will would stay up for hours on end (on non school nights, of course), trying to name the stars or make up the weirdest names if they couldn't.

Will named one of the stars Zarkon, like the villain from Voltron. Mike named his favorite one — the brightest one they could see, after Will.

Mike shakes his head, trying to relieve himself of the memory as he reaches into his pocket to get the call. Mike chokes, letting go of the lid of the ice machine suddenly and it almost slams down on his hand.

It's Will.

Will called first.

Mike stares at his phone, trying to think of things he wants to say, but he's coming up empty. Despite the innate desire of talking to Will that's been plaguing him for the past two weeks, Mike realizes that he hasn't actually thought of what he wants to say to Will. None of the words feel right.

The call goes to voicemail. Mike tucks the phone back into his pocket. He gets the ice, failing to keep his mind off what Will might've said. Mike Wheeler is not a lovestruck schoolgirl and he's not going to act like one. Still, as he gets back to his room, he's flooded with a strange eagerness as he listens to Will's messages, one by one.

"Hey, it's Will. Oh. Um. You have my number saved. This is — right, fuck. Sorry. This is so fucking weird. I just — forget it."

"Okay, look. Fuck it. You haven't come home in two weeks. It's just — I don't know, it feels so… weird. Can you just let me know if you're planning on coming back… or if you have a new place — which is fine, totally fine! It's okay if you do, just — "

"Fucking stupid ass machine. Okay, anyway, I was saying. Just let me know. Please. I… it's not the same here without you." Will takes a deep breath before he speaks again. "I'm sorry about what I said. We were not a mistake. I was just… I was just… I was being petty, okay? Jesus — "

"Machine keeps fucking cutting me off, okay, whatever. There, I admitted it, okay? I was stupid and petty and I got pissed at you and you deserve better than that. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. And I… I miss you. That's… whatever, you don't have to listen to this. Hope you're okay."

"I totally understand if you hate me, but if you're fine with it, we can meet up. It's fine if you don't want to! Trust me, I get it. But, I don't know, maybe I could buy you a cup of Loyola's shitty ass coffee and we could hang out. Dare I say it, it might even be fun — "

"Jesus Christ. Anyway, like I was saying before I was rudely interrupted. Let me know. I'll see you soon."

This might be a bad idea. Scratch that. This is the world's worst idea.

But Mike is a sucker and he's curious and that's how he finds himself driving out to Loyola's diner, two hours out from Seafoam Motel to meet Will at two in the morning.

Loyola's, by itself, isn't interesting looking. It's the simplest mom-and-pop joint Mike has ever seen, but the coffee is to die for. Mike and Will had found this place on their way back from a road trip when all a sleep-deprived Will could think of was a stack of waffles and chilled vodka. They hadn't found the vodka, unfortunately, but they'd made the discovery that Loyola's made waffles like no other.

Except Jonathan, according to Will, but Mike doesn't bother confirming or denying that claim.

Given the odd time, there is no one at Loyola's except one lone motorcycle and Will's car. Mike parks right next to him. He hopes that their conversation is at least mildly productive otherwise getting their cars out of parking is going to be one awkward time.

From the outside, Mike sees Fran, the owner's wife who usually handles the night shift, as she serves Will coffee. They're talking about something, but Will's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. Fran nods, sticking a cigarette between her lips before she walks away. Mike takes that as his cue.

Mike finds Will in their usual place, sipping on his coffee quietly. His eyes are glued to his phone blankly, but he isn't scrolling or calling anyone. He seems tenser, less lively and there's a panic laced through Mike's veins as he approaches Will.

"Hey." Mike says, voice almost hoarse from disuse.

Will's head snaps up, eyes slightly widening as he takes in Mike's appearance. "Hey."

"You look… surprised."

"Yeah, sorry. Just wasn't sure you'd show."

Mike takes the seat in front of Will with eased practice. "Me neither."

Will blanches at the comment, but he quickly recovers. "You want some coffee?"

"Sure."

The silence between them falls once Will has given Mike's order. Fran's eyes travel between them, the question blatant in her gaze, but neither of them answer her. Mike takes a deep breath. Will turns his phone off and sits with his fingers interlaced, eyes trained someplace beyond Mike.

"Look, Mike, I…" Will finally starts. "Fuck. I don't know where to begin."

Mike has a few ideas but he keeps his mouth shut. He wants to hear what Will has to say.

"I didn't mean it." Will says, finally meeting Mike's eyes. "Any of it."

The rings don't mean anything. The words ring in Mike's ears like a blatant taunt. "It sounded pretty fucking real to me."

Will flinches, curling in on himself. For a second, Mike regrets saying those words, but if this friendship is going anywhere, Will needs to know about Mike's honest feelings. There are no half measures anymore. So, Mike bites down on his tongue and waits for Will.

"I'm sorry. I have no idea what came over me."

"The funny thing is I still don't know what happened." Mike says. "You don't say things like that. Not to me."

Will's breath hitches. He looks so small, so fragile. "I'm sorry."

Maybe it's the fact that it's two in the morning. Maybe it's the fact that Mike misses this guy sitting in front of him, like he might miss his own limbs. Maybe it's the fact that Mike doesn't want to do anything but bury his face in Will's shoulder and go home. The fight in Mike dies out, rapidly replaced by something akin to desperation.

"Just talk to me."

"It's fucking stupid." Will mumbles under his breath, as he watches the steam wane from the coffee.

"What is?"

"Mike." Will says, voice stern. The fingers around his mug have tightened. "Just drop it, okay?"

And, just like that, they go right back to square one. Mike leans back in his seat, shaking his head. "Fine."

The coffee has gone cold, but Mike finds himself bothered the most about the fact that Will still doesn't want to talk to him. He unknowingly grimaces.

"Stop making that face." Will says.

"What face?"

"That face." Will clicks his tongue, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Ugh, you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"No, I really don't."

"We're really playing this game?" The tips of Will's ears are burning red. "Fine. You remember we went to Josie's and that girl gave you her number?"

"Yeah." Mike remembers. He hadn't called her back.

"I just — I just didn't like the idea that you might've taken the ring off to flirt with girls, okay?"

"Wait, what?" Mike pauses, taking the information in. It takes him a second to realize the true implication of Will's words. "You're — you're jealous?"

"Was. Past tense. And, can you not say it like that?"

For a second, Mike goes red enough to rival a tomato. Will watches him wearily and before he gets a chance to ask what's happening, Mike doubles over and bursts out laughing.

Will stares helplessly, eyeing the red of Mike's cheeks, the tension melting from Will's shoulders as Mike's loud laughter dissolves into a fit of giggles. The chatter in the diner ceases for a second, but it picks up right as Mike stops, body still shaking from the aftereffects. Mike wipes a tear from his eye as it escapes. Will stares at him, eyes widened, like Mike just had a psychotic break.

"I'm sorry, that's just fucking insane to me." Mike says, before he bursts out laughing again.

The idea of Will being jealous is surreal. It's so unrealistic, but it's so fucking real, that Mike can't help his laughter. Will buries his face in the crook of his arm, drowning in the pool of embarrassment that he's created, but he doesn't look upset anymore. That counts as a win for Mike.

"Oh, fuck me for wanting my husband to be faithful to me." Will says, rolling his eyes. "Moron."

Mike almost laughs, before his brain registers Will's sentence. Mike's knuckles go white, his throat drying faster than a dish of water left out in the Sahara Desert. Unconsciously, his eyes slip to Will's hand, where the steel ring still rests, unmoving.

"That's the first time you've said it." Mike says, almost in disbelief.

Will absentmindedly sips on his coffee, like he didn't even notice the slip. "Said what?"

"Husband."

"Oh." Will mutters, suddenly looking away. "It was a slip of tongue, whatever."

"Will. Don't do that."

"Right."

There's a soft turn in Mike's gut as Will's shoulders start to tighten. He quickly changes the topic.

"Why didn't you just tell me? About the number thing."

"Mike. We're not in a relationship, we're just married on paper. How can I ask you not to take someone's number when there's nothing between us?" Will says. "It's not my place."

His words are blunt, straightforward, but they don't sit well with Mike. There's nothing between them. Nothing. Still, when they fought, Mike remembers the nights he'd spent staying up, feeling ill. The cavity in his chest grew larger, impossible to ignore. If there was nothing between them, would their fight have affected Mike as much as it did?

Will is still wearing the ring. If there was nothing between them, he would've taken it off.

"I want you to tell me these things." Mike replies. "I mean, we're still friends, right?" His mouth feels like it's full of sand.

"Yeah." Will says, so softly Mike almost doesn't hear him. "Friends."

"I want you to feel like you can talk to me." Mike says, maybe a little too honestly. Their eyes brush. "I miss that about us."

A smile quirks at the corner of Will's mouth. "Yeah, me too."

"So, we're okay?"

"We're okay."

"Good." Mike says.

Mike moves back in a week later. It takes some time to get back to their usual dynamic, but once they do, it's impossible to look back. The gap of three weeks they'd spent apart gets bridged so fast, Mike almost forgets something happened.

They're making dinner one night. Translation: Will is making dinner and Mike is switching through the channels, looking for something to watch. Will looks up from his spaghetti pot and almost nonchalantly asks Mike, "Did you ever get a new place when you moved out?"

Mike stops his searching, looking over his shoulder to find Will's gaze in the kitchen.

"No." Mike answers.

Something unrecognizable, almost alien flashes in Will's eyes but it goes as quick as it comes.

"Good." Will says, almost possessively and turns back to his pot, leaving Mike reeling with a sensation under his skin he really can't name.

Waking Will up in the mornings is probably the toughest thing Mike has to do all day.

They'd stayed up all night watching a Voltron rerun the night before, which means waking Will up is going to be impossible. Mike might as well aim to land on the moon. Still, somehow, by sheer will itself, Mike manages to drag Will into the bathroom and get him to brush his teeth.

Will brushes his teeth through the haze of sleep and half-lidded eyes, until his grip on his toothbrush eventually slackens. Their shoulders brush and Mike tenses. He hadn't realized that the physical space between them had basically fucking evaporated into thin air. He goes to move, to give Will some space but he freezes when Will falls back asleep onto his shoulder.

Mike stops brushing, watching Will doze away on his shoulder from their cloudy mirror. Will is the only person on this planet who can fall asleep standing up. Something inside Mike wilts as he feels Will's breath on his neck, Will's body heat as he presses into his side.

Mike's skin prickles like gooseflesh.

"Will." Mike says. Will doesn't stir. "Will."

"Hm?" Will wakes up, sharply inhaling. "What the fuck happened?"

"You fell back asleep."

Will sheepishly grins. "Oh. Sorry."

He turns to glance at Mike, toothpaste smearing the sides of his mouth. The sleep seems to have left Will as he continues brushing, quietly humming under his breath. Mike can't stop watching him. Will's eyes catch on his from the tiny bathroom mirror. He grins.

Oh.

Oh.

Will looks ridiculous and beautiful and Mike wants to kiss him. Mike wants to kiss him. The realization doesn't even make him blink once. It makes sense, it makes so much sense. Mike wonders why it took him so long to realize it.

"I was thinking." Mike starts. Will's head snaps up. "We should get a dog."

Will's eyes slightly widen. He stops chewing on his brush, turning to completely face Mike. "Do you think we're ready for something like that?"

Mike holds his gaze. Even in the barely lit bathroom, Will is glowing.

"I think so." Mike says.

Will's face breaks out into a smile, the toothbrush almost falling out of his mouth. Mike's heart flips in his chest.

"Okay. But if you name it Rufus, I'm running away with the dog."

Mike rolls his eyes. "What the fuck is wrong with Rufus? It's a classic and it's a pun!"

"How is it a pun?"

"You know… how the dogs kinda go… roof roof."

"You're crazy." Will bursts out laughing and Mike comes alive.

It's midnight and Mike can't catch a lick of sleep.

Ever since he's met his realization, the fact that his feelings for Will might not be as platonic as Mike had originally suspected, Mike's brain has been working in overdrive. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do with this information and he tries his best to act normal — as normal as he can possibly act, seeing that he's in love with his best friend — but it's not working as well as expected.

There come moments where Mike just can't help himself. Even when doing the most mundane activities like watching television or doing the dishes, Mike can't stop himself from watching Will. One half of his face drenched in the blues and yellows of the movie they watch, Will's sleeves rolled up to his arms, sweat sticking to his brow as he scrubs the dishes extra hard.

Mike expects things not to change anymore than they already have. How naive of him.

Under ordinary circumstances, he would've said something about this. But he and Will are just starting to return back to normal, they're finally getting their groove back.

Will doesn't shut down when Mike starts talking to him. Will doesn't look away when Mike meets his eyes. Sometimes, they sit by the fire escape with their legs tangled, listening to the city pass them by as Will lights Mike's cigarette.

If Mike loses him this time, Mike isn't sure he'll survive it.

On most days, it's easy enough to ignore the pang and the ache fluttering under his ribcage. Mike sticks to staring at Will when he's sure Will can't see him, wondering about what he could've done differently to somehow let Will know about his feelings. On most days, that ordeal is easy enough.

But every man has a limit. Mike hits his at midnight on a warm Tuesday.

Mike isn't sure what possessed him, but he rolls out of his bed where he was lying, sleepless and makes his way over to Will's room. As expected, the door to Will's room is firmly shut.

Off the bat, Mike's conscious brain — the part that isn't delirious with the desire to sleep — tells him that this is a terrible idea. Will doesn't react well to being woken up from his sound sleep and what the fuck are they going to do anyway, even if Mike manages to wake him up?

But Mike knows this is an irrational feeling. He just wants Will beside him. The desire inside him is starting to grow wings and it knocks at Mike's ribcage, begging to be freed.

Mike lifts his hand, curled into a fist and knocks.

At first, Mike doesn't hear a response, nor does he expect to. It was stupid of him to do this. Will is probably on cloud nine by now, dreaming of Scott or whatever, and even if he does wake up, he's probably going to sock Mike in the face. Which Mike wholeheartedly deserves.

Mike lingers by Will's door for a quick second, before he turns on his heel and starts walking away. The turn of the doorknob is what makes Mike pause.

"Hey." Will says, voice scratchy from disuse. His hair is mussed, sticking up, shirt crumpled from what looks like a good night's sleep. There's a tiny twinge of guilt festering inside Mike.

"Sorry." Mike says, uselessly. "Couldn't sleep."

Will's eyes haven't completely adjusted to the flood of moonlight and he squints, swallowing down another yawn. Mike expects Will to curse him out or say something unsavory, but instead, Will shakes his head.

"Come on, I'll make you some tea."

They don't turn the lights on. Will makes the tea purely guided by muscle memory. He sets the water to boil, sets out two mugs and two tea bags lie in the empty mugs. It's chamomile tea. Nancy loves chamomile. The soft fragrance of the tea fills Mike up with nostalgia, and he tries not to choke on the scorching memories.

Will turns the stove off as the water comes to a boil. Mike stares at the back of his head, overcome with the desire to tell Will everything. Weakness. Again. Mike can feel his firm resolve dissolve into nothingness as Will fills Mike's cup with the water first.

The water gets a honeyed color and it tastes like baked apple — soft and subtle but impossible to ignore. It sticks to Mike's palette.

The sleep hasn't quite washed out of Will's eyes as he sips on his tea, but nothing about his demeanor leads Mike to believe that Will is pissed with him. Will hasn't tried to call him an asshole once. It's almost unnerving, the way the night seems to have stripped Will down to his barest.

Mike leans back onto the counter as Will hops onto the space beside the stove. His back is to the moon, the light curling around the back of his head like a soft halo. Mike's mouth goes dry, hummingbird heart hammering underneath the cage of his ribs.

"Will." Mike says. Will's head snaps up from where he's staring at the floor. "I'm in love with you."

The words tumble from Mike's mouth before he can stop them. The realization of what he's finally said only sinks in when Will's gaze pins him to his spot against the counter, and Mike's knees threaten to buckle.

It's comical, the way Will goes from half-dazed and half-asleep to completely awake and alert. But Mike isn't laughing.

The uncertainty picks up inside him, pulled taut like an elastic band as minutes pass and Will doesn't say a word. He isn't as easy to read as he used to be. The band of elasticity snaps against Mike's skin as Will tosses the mug into the sink and jumps off the counter.

Deep down, Mike wonders if Will is about to beat the shit out of him. He's been married to Will for what — six months now, and he still isn't sure if Will likes men. And even if Will likes men, that doesn't mean he has to like Mike.

Ugh, like. Like Mike's some fucking high schooler, passing around love notes to the boy sitting across him. So childish. But still, Mike finds himself rife with anticipation, picking at the marble of the counter as Will walks towards him, face pulled into a blank mask.

Say something, Mike wants to beg and plead, but he keeps his mouth shut. His teeth gnaw away at the inside of his cheek in fear, anticipation, his fingers tingling from how hard he's gripping that counter behind him.

Mike doesn't realize he's holding his breath until his lungs scream for oxygen. Not yet, he tells himself as Will stops in front of him, close enough to Mike to take in the scent of honeyed chamomile that clings to him. Not yet.

He's expecting Will to say a lot of things. What he's not expecting is for Will to smile, face breaking out into a contagious grin that almost makes Mike buckle at the knees and say, "Took you long enough."

And it happens. The thing that keeps Mike up. The thing that he dreams about when he sleeps. The thing he hasn't stopped thinking about since Will fell asleep on his shoulder.

Mike kisses him first.

For a second, Mike's brain shuts down, but his body quickly reacts. This is good, familiar territory. Mike doesn't waste a second, curling his hand on the back of Will's neck, drinking in the honey and sleep and chamomile on Will's tongue. Will makes a soft, incomprehensible noise in the back of his throat and Mike logs it away, in some part of his brain that refuses to let go of it.

When they break apart, Will seems to realize how tightly his hands are wound in Mike's hair and he lets go, seemingly embarrassed. Mike's lungs give a cry of relief as oxygen floods his insides and he watches the soft dusting of pink lining Will's cheeks.

"When were you gonna tell me?" Mike asks, instead of grabbing Will's face and kissing him again.

"Soon."

"Soon." Mike echoes. "You're un-fucking-believable, you know that?"

"Don't start this up again." Will says, seemingly irritated, but he dissolves into a fit of giggles. Mike can't help himself either.

"So…" Will trails off, once they've both recovered. His teeth gnaw at his bottom lip as he takes Mike's hand and picks at his ring. "Where do we go from here?"

Good question. One that Mike doesn't even have the answers for. For once, he finds himself uncaring about the fact that he doesn't have the answer to every question.

Mike cups his fingers around Will's chin, pulling him in. Will gasps softly, but his hands on Mike's waist feel like they've always been there.

"We have all of tomorrow to worry about that." Mike says, his eyes asking a question that goes unsaid. Will says yes.