#ill move it to ao3 soon. maybe tomrorwšŸ«”šŸ«”šŸ«”šŸ«”šŸ«”šŸ«”šŸ«”
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qulizalfos Ā· 10 months ago
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[runs in after abandoning my blog all week and throws this on the table] HAPPY BIRTHDAY WAYLI @wayward-sherlock PLEASE ACCEPT THIS FICLET AS A SYMBOL OF MY GRATITUDE TOWARDS HOW FUCKINF AWESOME U ARE ALWAYS <3 I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU BTW!!! anyways i hope u enjoy 2k of college byler shenanigans :) mwah
home (is wherever you are tonight)
ā€œOh, my God,ā€ Will says, sitting forward, face alight in ways that terrify Mike. ā€œThereā€™s another reason, thereā€™s a huge reason you're here, youā€”ā€ ā€œItā€™s Valentineā€™s Day, right?ā€ The shift in Willā€™s expression is instantaneous. It mightā€™ve qualified as comical, too, if Mikeā€™s heart wasnā€™t about to explode.
Youā€™d think Mike would have scrounged together a better sense of how to backpedal when heā€™s about to do something incredibly stupid.Ā 
Heā€™s trying not to think too hard about how quickly they rattle off in his head, the worldā€™s most inconvenient list of reminders. What is wrong with you? Weā€™re justā€¦ not in the mood right now. Youā€™ve been on the bench all year. Not for the first time heā€™s gritting his teeth and wondering if it would have been entirely too much to ask for him to have acquired, by now, some intricate sixth sense for recklessness. Heā€™s well aware that thereā€™s no cosmic cure against the potency of his own mistakes, but heā€™d take anything to help him generally steer clear of these specific situations.
Encounters with murderous, eldritch entities ought to do that to a person. In his ā€”for the record, totally impartialā€” opinion.
No goddamn dice, he thinks as he raises a fist to knock.
Maybe it is different, he supposes, because heā€™s less consumed by a wave of defensive volatility and less likely to bury the truth at the first sign of scrutiny, recoil at any chance of being left behind, and more willing to stop before he gains too dangerous an amount of momentum. It still happens, obviouslyā€” (case in point: now, loitering in an empty corridor, bland wallpaper finding a way to make it look like itā€™s laughing down at him, shifting his weight as he waits) heā€™d just convinced himself he had it more under control.
Itā€™s ridiculous anyway. This whole thing is clearly careening towards a setup for a copious amount of slip ups on his part. But, itā€™s whatever.
Willā€™s probably out, anyway, he considers, belatedly.
Itā€™s Valentineā€™s Day, ā€”granted, a Wednesday evening dragging by with a sluggish, hazy qualityā€” but a significant date all the same. Will is, Mike hedges, almost definitely out, maybe with the mystery guy in their joint history lecture, whose name Mike neglected to wheedle out of him last week. Maybe theyā€™re both walking home from some fucking cafĆ©, and Will would be getting cold like he does when the threat of snow looms at every waking moment, and to make matters worse, the other guy might do something sickeningly romantic like wind his scarf around Willā€™s neck, all while Mikeā€™s standing at his dorm door like an idiot.
Itā€™s possible heā€™s not very committed to the whole ā€œbreatheā€ thing El suggested, the day before the sky turned blue again, the day he was most convinced it never would again.
He threads a nervous hand through the disaster-prone section of his hair, hoping to smoothen it out, as he lifts his clenched hand, setting his face in concentration and aiming to knock one more time, andā€”
He has to flinch back to avoid accidentally punching Will in the face with his knock. Needless to say, that would be pretty counterproductive.
Will. Standing in front of him, soft furrow between his brows, loose sweater, lips parted.
Heā€™s beautiful.
He shoves the thought to the side. Itā€™s not the safest one to have when Will is less than two feet in front of him.
ā€œMike?ā€
It hits him about an hour too late: Maybe itā€™s ironic, how this holiday, composed entirely of spontaneous lovesick bullshit and cordiform chocolate boxes, doesnā€™t warrant him showing up at someoneā€™s door unannounced. Not when itā€™s already 7pm.
It isnā€™t that he hadnā€™t brought that into consideration, just that now itā€™s not just an inkling in the back of his mind he has to ignore if he has any hope of getting ready with minimal distraction, but a real, pressing concern, andā€”
Willā€™s face splits into a grin, and the thought vanishes as quick as it came.
ā€œHey,ā€ Mike tries, too hastily. The longer Will stands, just blinking at him, the further Mike burrows his hands into the pockets of his jackets.
He snaps out of it fairly quickly, and the expression has melted into something pleasantly surprised. Mike can work with that. Heā€™s done much more with much less. ā€œUhā€” hi.ā€
ā€œAre you busy?ā€ Mike cranes a neck to peer around Willā€™s shoulder, unsure of what heā€™s looking for but appreciating the lack of anything all the same. ā€œIf youā€™re busy, Iā€™ll totally come back, toā€” fuck, maybe not tomorrow, you have thatā€”ā€
ā€œMike.ā€
ā€œYep.ā€
ā€œIā€™m not busy,ā€ he says with bright eyes, stepping back from the door to accommodate him. ā€œIā€” donā€™t just stand there, come in, of course Iā€™m not busy. Why, whatā€™s up?ā€
ā€œThought maybe you were off at a candlelit dinner,ā€ Mike remarks, because itā€™s easier to get out than the other thing, kicking off his shoes and trying not to think too hard about Will, the same Will in the same shadowy alcove as him, whose expression is tinged with fondness, at dinner; with warm lighting and a muted hum of chatter and someone else sitting across from him. ā€œWith the fancy napkins.ā€
ā€œI think I wouldā€™ve mentioned the horrors of scraping together enough money for anything like that,ā€ he says, and Mikeā€™s efforts at miming cradling the aforementioned, hypothetical napkin receive a raised eyebrow. ā€œSeriously, is something going on? If Maxā€”ā€
ā€œNothingā€™s happening,ā€ Mike tells him, passing him out and swiveling around to keep walking backwards, reversing into the couch and pretending he didnā€™t whack his knee as he drops onto it, picking at the edge of the nearest cushion, sprawling out as much as he can manage to. ā€œWhich is precisely why Iā€™m here. Well, one of the reasons.ā€
Will hums, folding his arms and leaning on the back of the couch, contemplative. It has no right to be as endearing as it is. ā€œAre there a lot of reasons?ā€
ā€œIā€™m not allowed to visit you anymore?ā€ Mike jokes. ā€œShould I have called and given you a weekā€™s notice?ā€ He sits up, relishing the back and forth. ā€œShould Iā€”ā€
ā€œNo, youā€™re justā€¦ I dunno.ā€ Will pokes his shoulder and skirts the couch, settling in the space Mike makes for him. ā€œYou seem nervous. Like thereā€™s something youā€™re not telling me.ā€
Shit.
Mike lets out what may be considered as the fakest laugh heā€™s ever mustered, darting his eyes away and plastering on a frown. He gives a half-hearted attempt at an unconvinced, hopefully somewhat assuring scoff, tugging free the crease thatā€™s formed at the ankle of his jeans. ā€œWhat makes you say that?ā€ he asks. Heā€™d like to describe it as nonchalant. Maybe heā€™s not as good at hiding as the boy in front of him, but heā€™s been sidestepping the obvious for what feels like his whole life. Heā€™s had more than enough practice.
ā€œOh, my God,ā€ Will says, sitting forward, face alight in ways that terrify Mike. ā€œThereā€™s another reason, thereā€™s a huge reason youā€™re here, youā€”ā€
ā€œItā€™s Valentineā€™s Day, right?ā€
The shift in Willā€™s expression is instantaneous. It mightā€™ve qualified as comical, too, if Mikeā€™s heart wasnā€™t trying its damndest not to explode. Again, counterproductive.
Willā€™s mouth drops open a little, the line of his body stock still, and just hovers there, close enough that the warmth of his breath brushes Mikeā€™s face, and the room slips into little more than a backdrop. Mike searches his eyes for a sign thatā€™s not there. He lifts a hand from where itā€™s resting on a dark green cushion, weighing the implications and consequences of reaching out against the part of him that doesnā€™t want to consider technicalities until far, far later. The moment stretches, engraving itself into Mikeā€™s memory.Ā 
And then it shatters.
Will slumps back, clearing his throat twice in rapid succession, and the corners of his mouth quirk up in diplomacy. ā€œI mean, youā€™re not wrong.ā€
Mikeā€™s throat feels unreasonably dry. ā€œNope,ā€ he says, omitting any mention of the crisis heā€™d had marching down the hall, questioning whether heā€™d gotten the date wrong and everything would blow up in his face tenfold, and just drumming his fingers against his thigh.
ā€œSoā€”ā€ Will frowns, ā€œwhat are you trying to say?ā€
This was all going much smoother during the numerous rehearsals in his head. ā€œItā€™s Valentineā€™s Day,ā€ he parrots, trying not to think about Willā€™s sharp inhale too much, ā€œand I havenā€™t done something on Valentineā€™s Day for years, and youā€™re free, and Iā€™m free, andā€¦ā€ he trails off, searching for the right words. ā€œI donā€™t know, I thought we could hang out.ā€Ā 
Silence.
Itā€™s about to backfire, he can sense it, so he rushes to add: ā€œIn solidarity.ā€
ā€œRight,ā€ Will says, faraway. Mike sort of needs to run outside and scream for an untold amount of time.
ā€œDoesnā€™t have to be super special,ā€ he says, sensing the need for a prompt change in subject. ā€œUnless you want it to be special, but I just figuredā€” like, what were you gonna do before I came?ā€
Will glances at him once, quizzical, but drops it.Ā 
ā€”
Itā€™s a short walk from the dorm to the closest Circle K, and one spent wrapped up in pleasant, amicable conversation, catching up on the various aspects of each otherā€™s lives that arenā€™t entwined already, and about halfway there Will stoops to tie his shoelace. As Mike waits he considers how scary it could be if he dwells too long on how noteworthy the most mundane tasks become in Will Byersā€™ company.
They wander inside, Mike leaning on the door to open it for Will in what he hopes is a courteous manner, and trails down an aisle beside Will, the faint beat of a trashy pop song barely covering the echo of their footsteps on the tiles.
ā€œJust the sodas?ā€ Mike checks, swerving to avoid a display stacked high.
ā€œYeah,ā€ Will says, nabbing a coke and gesturing to the fridge. ā€œTake your pick.ā€
Mike reaches for a 7Up.
ā€œKnew it,ā€ Will says, something indecipherable in his tone. And then heā€™s extending a hand, covering Mikeā€™s for a split second ā€” long enough for an odd sensation to bloom in his ribs, but short enough for him to want to say, fuck it, and tangle their fingers, but Will teases the can out of his grip, leaving Mike with a cool smear of condensation on his palm.
ā€œWe can pool our resources,ā€ Mike quips as Will deposits the cans on the counter. The cashier flicks a lazy glance at them and tells them the price. ā€œI have a quarter.ā€
ā€œGenerous of you,ā€ Will observes, producing a crumpled dollar note from his back pocket.
They settle on a wall outside, and Mike kicks the solid stone intermittently with his dangling heels, sipping away as Will starts to talk. The sky runs like spilled ink above them, perforated with only a smattering of stars and a few dark clouds, but Will is bathed in the gold ring of a streetlamp. Thereā€™s a lull in conversation, but itā€™s fine. Mikeā€™s content to stay here all night.
ā€œThis was nice,ā€ he says, in lieu of everything else.
Will bumps against his shoulder. ā€œYeah?ā€
A tiny droplet of rain lands on Mikeā€™s nose, and three more freckle more of his exposed skin. A low fizz kicks up, drilling into the gray landscape surrounding them, and more dots pepper on the wall.
ā€œYeah.ā€Ā  Will turns away. Mike scans the area around them, but theyā€™re alone save for a few empty chip packets strewn across the concrete. Willā€™s gorgeous. Mike canā€™t explain it, but he knows when warmth floods your veins itā€™s a sign that merits extra morosis, and his intentions are in the right place, and itā€™s so hard to steer himself in any direction other than pitching forward and propping up a hand on the other side of Willā€™s jaw. Mike doesnā€™t let himself think too much of it as he presses a kiss to Willā€™s cheek.
Itā€™s as short-lived as it is sweet: Willā€™s answering gasp, all wide eyes and questions in every line of his face, the beads of rain on his skin, near lucent in the orange lighting, the tickle of his bangs getting in Mikeā€™s eyes a little when he turns.
And then Willā€™s breaking away to set down his Coke, and closing the gap between them.
Truthfully, Mike didnā€™t know that kissing could feel like this. It seems like something so untouchable, so far from whatā€™s in his own comprehension of the world, that finding this kind of warmth could happen, but Willā€™s slinging an arm around his back and all coherent thoughts promptly dissolve in the now steadily falling rain.Ā 
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