Chapter Text
The argument is still fresh in Will's mind the morning after. It's the weekend, which means there's nothing for Will to do except have the details of what Mike told him stew around in his head, a rotisserie of ill feelings and misplaced shame.
It turns around and around until it's all Will can see when he closes his eyes, the superimposed image of Mike saying those words drifting on the back of his eyelids. Max certainly knows something is up, and manages to cajole the details out of him soon enough, cursing Mike foully once Will's done regaling the details of what went down between him and the alpha.
"If I see him again," she threatens, stomping to the kitchen, and then back to the table, as if she has become so full of rage her direction has become aimless with it, "I am going to beat the shit out of him. The absolute shit, Will!"
It's laughable to think of Max doing that, in all honesty. She's an omega just like Will and a head shorter to boot, and neither of them do any workouts beyond going for a dual morning run in the nearby park. Max would have no idea how to overpower a grown adult alpha like Mike, much less beat the shit out of him like she's promising now. Still, the sentiment is sweet, and Will can't help but smile at the sight of Max's righteous rage.
And then it falters the second he remembers the finer details of the night before. The second he remembers the way Mike had snarled at least respect yourself a little, and the way he had proceeded to tell Will that James wouldn't treat him right. That James would fuck him and leave him. That essentially, that is all he is good for.
Will still doesn't give a fuck about James. Nothing Mike said about his idiot roommate had hurt Will, because there was no love lost there. It has always been and continues to be about the principle of the question he had asked Mike. If there's someone out there with a visible interest in Will, why is Mike in his way? Why is Mike standing in his path? Even if it's a knothead like James?
The eagerness to protect can only be stretched so far. Mike takes on the role of a knight in shining armour like a duck to water — he thrives in it, revels in it, makes it his calling in life. But asking him for anything more, when something exists in the air between them, is like pulling teeth.
And then there's that other thing Will doesn't know what to make of; Mike's cruelty, which unexpectedly lashes out in these moments, as if Will's crossed some invisible boundary by pushing his limits. It feels like walking on eggshells and waiting for mumbled, half-sincere apologies is all he can do.
Out here in New York, his love for Mike and his resentment when it comes to Mike follows him around like a dark cloud, unmissable. A melting pot of complication, of tangled emotions he can't seem to unravel, leaving him stranded by the sidewalk and crying and vomiting into his toilet bowl at four am in the morning.
Worst of all is the memory of what he'd told Mike, half-drunk and sorrowful. He won't treat me well. I'll wait for someone who will. In the light of day, it seems so terribly vulnerable and pathetic to have told Mike that, exposed the softest parts of himself for Mike to inspect under a microscope. How stupid, Will thinks, how utterly idiotic.
He'd been exactly what Mike had accused him to be, an omega completely lacking in self-respect and dignity. To crave needing to be courted, to crave receiving meaningful gifts every day, acts of service that remind him he's the priority for his alpha, it's a craving and desire that should have stayed buried. Especially in front of the man he's been in love with his whole life.
"He'll wise up, you know," Max says now, having exhausted the wave of rage as she flops down at the table opposite Will. She's pensive as she twists locks of her hair around her fingers, curling them before straightening them again, but her eyes are clear when she meets Will's gaze. "He'll realise what a dickhead he's being, and he'll get it together and court you. You just have to — "
"To wait?" Will smiles sardonically. It feels as if that's all he ever does. Wait for Mike to come round. Wait for Mike to get his head straight. Wait for Mike to catch on to the world passing him by. Wait for someone else equally worthy to step up to the plate.
The thing is, there can be no replacement for Mike. No other paladin, no other Mike the brave. Mike is uniquely him and he uniquely appeals to Will in a way no one else possibly can, from the second he sat down beside Will at the swings and asked to be his friend.
Max shoots him a sympathetic look, and nudges his hand, her touch gentle in a way Mike's words hadn't been. "Hey. Wanna head out to the art gallery thing you've been raving to me about? I definitely won't get a single thing, so you're going to have to explain every single artwork there in full detail. With citations."
Will blows out a breath, and considers his options. He can either spend the rest of the morning crying into a tub of chocolate vegan ice cream over Mike — habitual by now — or he can do as Max says and at least get something out of his ruined weekend. It won't be the same as talking on the phone with Mike or planning for dinner with him, but at least it will distract him from the argument. One look at the eager glint in Max's eyes, and he's agreeing to it with zero hesitation, pushing Mike to the back of his mind.
The rest of the day passes by as well as it possibly can. They head out for lunch at a cafe, getting overpriced pesto spaghetti that Max says she hates and Will says he's moderately okay with.
After scarfing down ice cream bought from a vendor down the street, they enter the gallery, which is everything Will had hoped it would be. He flutters around everywhere, dragging Max here and there, pointing out the different pieces and paintings, describing the brush stroke techniques and the shading and the mixing of colours.
"One day, I want to see your paintings up here," Max says admiringly, looking up at one of an indigenous woman overlooking a grassy plain, the simplicity of the colours breathtakingly beautiful all the same. Will had pointed it out to her the second they entered the gallery, and both of them had peered at the name, wondering who it could be. Obviously, they didn't recognise it, but guessing where the artist might have possibly studied was half the fun. "Hey, don't give me that look. I can totally see it. Will Byers, cross-hatching expert — "
"I told you I hate cross-hatching," Will says, amused, and then shakes his head. He keeps his eye on the painting, and remembers a time when all he could draw was Mike. Mike on the sides of his notebook, Mike on the surface of his table at home in Hawkins, Mike on a corner of his maths homework he'd hastily scrubbed clean later. Mike is such a cornerstone of his life that the aftermath of every argument feels like a watershed moment, things switching irreversibly into a point of no return.
"I don't know," he continues, wrapping his arms around himself to self-soothe. He keeps his eye on the painting, wondering if the artist has a Mike of her own who's the brightest thing in her life and simultaneously the bane of her existence. Does she, too, argue with him at every turn, skin herself for his pleasure? Or does she have more self-respect than him? More dignity? "I don't see it, funnily enough. I think I'd like to teach kids, maybe. It would be fun, you know? Guiding them to finger paint and stuff."
Talking about it reminds him, abruptly, of the way he used to teach Holly at the kitchen those eighteen months he stayed at the Wheelers. He would gently guide her into turning her scribbles from mere squiggles on a paper to something resembling a form, and she eventually impressed her art teacher with her progress, excitedly running home to show Will her grade.
"Yeah, I can see that, too," Max says easily now, a slight smile lifting the corner of her lips. "I could tag along. Be your assistant. Carry your paints for you."
"Don't sell yourself so short," Will says, crinkling his nose. "You'll carry around my canvas for me." He dodges Max's offended slap, finally laughing out loud for the first time since the argument with Mike, only quietening down at an offended shhh! from the corner of the gallery.
The rest of the day passes by in similarly pleasant fashion, with the two of them popping into a lingerie store on the way home. Will helps Max pick out a black lace teddy that he knows is going to drive Lucas wild, and Max, in turn, convinces Will to buy a few lace panties that's going to give his self-confidence a severe boost if he ever chooses to wear them.
One of them is pink and crotchless, the sides done up in strings tied together in a neat little bow that can be easily unravelled with a quick pull. Will had been scandalised when Max put it in the shopping basket, and had attempted to remove it at least five times before Max had threatened him with bodily harm.
"Why is it so important to you that I — that I buy this?" Will had basically shrieked, holding the panty up by the bow.
In all honesty, it was a dream of a lingerie item, and something in Will did wonder what he'd look like while wearing it. A smaller part of him, the shameless one ruled by his omega hindbrain, also wondered what Mike would look like if he saw him wearing it. He shut both parts of himself down with fierce brutality, attempting to put the panty back on the shelf, before Max snatched it out of his fingers, placing it back in his basket.
"Because," Max had said flatly, with a tone so severe Will shut up and paid attention, "you are adorable, you are cute, and I want you to feel sexy when you're wearing things like these. Mike said you have no dignity? Fuck that. You have so much of it you can wear something like this to your boring art lectures and feel absolutely fucking delicious in it."
She had a matching crotchless panty in her basket, too, and the determination in her eyes finally made Will relent, as he reluctantly trudged to the cashier counter with the lingerie in his shopping basket.
Laden with their purchases, and with the evening fast approaching, they decide to head home and heat up leftovers for dinner.
At the door of their apartment, though, there's something decidedly red and blue propped up against the wall, visible from a distance. From about twenty steps away, Will squints while speaking to Mike, and then pauses in his footsteps, and stares. Max stops as well, and there's a split second of silence before she erupts into loud, raucous laughter.
"I knew he wouldn't take long!" she crows, as Will draws closer and gingerly picks the object up. It's a large, ostentatious bouquet of red roses and blue peonies, the contrast beautiful and arresting enough to make Will's breath catch. And it must have cost a ton, because the bouquet's wrapped in a ribbon that's trimmed with gold threads, a tiny, key-shaped metal locket hanging from the loop of it. Will momentarily lifts the locket wondrously, tracing the sharp edges of it with his thumb.
There's a small envelope attached to the back of it, but even without the envelope, Will would have been able to tell who the bouquet was given by. It's practically smothered in Mike's scent, bergamot and cedarwood and coffee grains pouring off it in waves, strong and overwhelming in its confidence. He can't help but inhale it in after an entire weekend of missing it, and feels his lip tremble as the notes of the scent course through his lungs, enters his veins.
At Max's impatient prodding, though, he knows he can't delay it any longer. He gingerly detaches the envelope and opens it one-handed, Max balancing her chin on his shoulder to read the letter within as well.
Dear Will, it reads,
I'm sorry. More than I can say. I don't think you lack self-respect, or dignity, or anything as terrible as that. In fact, you're the most respectable, beautiful, intelligent person I know. You have dignity in heaps, certainly more than me, and it's me that's got far too little of it when I'm in front of you and looking into your eyes, which seem like they hold the world in them.
Honestly, Will, I can't explain it away or excuse my actions. It's just that being around you makes me lose my head. It makes me act like a Neanderthal. I become the knothead I keep accusing James of being, when I shouldn't do that. I should be a man worthy of you. An alpha worthy of being in your presence.
But I'm not sorry for not giving James your number. Ask anything of me, Will, but don't ask me for that. I'd deny him a thousand times over, and any other alpha, if they asked. And I'll keep doing it too, and I don't feel sorry for that. I know I can be worthy of you, Will. You have to let me rise to the challenge, yeah?
These flowers are the first gift. I hope you like them, Will, because I saw their beauty and you were the only person I thought of. Are you blushing now? I really, really hope you are, because I like it when you blush. I like it when you do a lot of things.
Please, Will. Put the flowers in a vase by your window sill. And let me make it up to you.
Love,
Mike
It is the cheesiest, bluntest, sweetest letter Will has ever received. Max whistles low through her teeth, a sign of approval, while Will clutches the envelope to his chest and grins helplessly, Mike's scent embedded in his lungs.
*
The next gift magically makes its way to his designated desk in the art studio at college, when he goes in for a morning class mid-week following that disastrous weekend.
Will has no idea how Mike managed to sneak into the studio and place the gift on the table. Managed it he has, though, and Will is stunned into silence when he traipses into the room to see it there. It's a set of brushes, a luxurious, expensive brand that Will can never afford on his own, sitting like a dream between his fingers.
With a glossy finish, the strands fine and soft to the touch, the handle wooden-plated and embossed with elaborate, abstract carvings, the brushes are a beauty that Will cannot help but smile at. Even so, he makes a note to himself to warn Mike not to buy such expensive gifts for him in the future.
"Fuck, that's good," his seatmate groans later, a beta by the name of Zoe. They met the first week of orientation, and she had immediately corralled him into staying by her side, proclaiming everyone else to either be snobbish or a dickhead. "You got a lucky alpha looking out for you, huh?"
"This is his second gift," Will admits, holding out the brush for Zoe to inspect with a keen eye, as she tucks a braid behind her ear to get a closer look. Her fingers slide along the brush, and for a second, Will gets a possessive wave of heat rush inside him, as he almost tells her to back off. He just barely stops the words from falling out, fully aware of how insane they sound. "He gave me flowers over the weekend."
"He's obsessed," Zoe says admiringly, pulling out her own ordinary-grade brushes. It is the same affordable brand that Will's set comes from, which he usually attends class with. Everyone had bulk-bought the brushes from the utilities store on campus, and while they worked decently well for Will, the strands often bent far too much for his liking.
He remembers complaining about it to Mike once, who must have recalled his whining. The thought of it, that Mike never forgot how much he disliked the brushes, sends something warm and soft coursing through him.
"So, he's courting you, huh? How sweet," Zoe continues, eyeing him with a keen look of curiosity.
The words make Will pause, as he turns the brushes over in his hand. He hadn't realised Mike was actually courting him; he'd just assumed Mike was apologising for the argument in a clumsy, overdramatic, rather expensive way. The letter, after all, said nothing about courting.
Would it be prudent, then, to tell him to cut it with the pricey presents, or should Will just sit back and let it unfold? His stomach churns with the anxiety of the uncertainty, of possibly reading things the wrong way — and yet, as the brushes sit between his fingers, comforting and opulent, he cannot help but feel… cherished. Almost adored, in a way, Mike's care for him coming off the ostentatious set of brushes in waves.
Still, he can't possibly accept the gift quietly. It's not in his habit to do so, not when he grew up in poverty and knows far too well how important money can be. And so, he resolves to bring it up to the alpha.
When class ends, Will leaves the studio to see Mike waiting outside, leaning against the wall opposite with his foot erratically tapping against the floor. He looks nervous, as he proceeds to shift from foot to foot, hair flopping over his eyes in waves while he checks his watch — and the sight makes something in Will's stomach swell.
When he draws near, Mike instantly looks up, and the wide smile that steals over his face — even with the pinch of nerves tightening the skin around his eyes — is more than a little heartwarming. "Hey," Will says quietly once he's close, gesturing with the set of brushes in his hand, enclosed in an ornate wooden box. "This is so… it's too expensive, Mike. I can't accept it."
Mike frowns instantly, as he stares at the box with a look of consternation. His scent sours slightly, as if in distress, reacting quickly to Will's words. "Do you not like it? I asked the store lady, and she told me this was the best one. She talked a lot of shit about brush techniques which I tuned out, but I'm pretty certain — "
"I love it," Will says hastily, because he cannot let Mike go another second while assuming Will thinks the lesser of the brushes in some way or another. "So much, Mike, it's crazy. You're crazy."
"Crazy together?" Mike tries, and holds his hands up, grinning, when Will shoots him a look. "I'm glad it made you happy. Listen, I…"
His voice trails off as he chews the inside of his mouth, and almost instantly, Will knows he's about to bring the argument back up. And suddenly, he knows he doesn't need to hear about it all again.
Mike's always been terrible at apologies. He's good at hurting, and not so good at articulating where he went wrong and what he should have done better. What he is good at, though, is making amends for his misstep, be it words spoken out of turn or being too heavy-handed in his insults. It's a song and dance Will is familiar with, and without it, Mike wouldn't be the Mike Will knows and loves.
Accepting Mike for who he is and what he cannot seem to change about himself is going to get him in trouble some day. He can practically hear Max's voice shout at him in his mind, yell at him to stand firm and make Mike actually, properly work for it for once, use his words to show why he's apologetic. Make him pay, she'd say with a frown and a wagging finger. Make him get on his knees, and don't let him up until he satisfies you.
But Will's never been the kind of boy to do that. He's a romantic, and his soft spot is the size of Jupiter when it comes to Mike, all squishy and chewable on the inside. Something that can be easily bitten through and used and squashed, over and over and over again.
"It's okay," he says quietly, staring at the box in his hands. He cannot bring himself to meet Mike's eyes, wondering yet again if he's displaying as little self-respect as Mike had accused him of. Despite the letter, the words still snag in his brain in a way that is probably unhealthy. "Seriously, Mike, it's — "
"It's not okay to me," Mike says, frowning and shaking his head. He steps closer, and covers Will's hands with his own, larger fingers enveloping his easily. "I was an asshole to you when I shouldn't have been. And you were right to ask it of me. Will, you have to know, I didn't only avoid giving James your number because James is an unmitigated asshole. There's another reason, and it's something I have been thinking of for the past few months, now. Will, would you let me co — "
Whatever he's about to say is drowned out by the rush of students clambering past them, a nearby studio having apparently just ended its class. In a flash, Mike tugs Will into him, and Will stumbles, automatically clutching the brushes to his chest. He shrinks into Mike and feels Mike nudge into his hair — more out of alpha-esque protectiveness than anything else, really, but it's the thought that counts.
It feels nice, and the way he guards Will, nudging his hair and clenching down hard on his hands, is a heady sensation. Will revels in the sweetness of the gesture for a moment, his cheeks hot with a blush he cannot seem to tame.
His watch beeps, though, and he abruptly realises that if he doesn't get a move on for his next class, he's going to have to deal with his irritated professor. "Rain check?" he suggests, looking up at Mike to see a defeated glint of dismay enter his eyes, before it filters away just as fast.
Still, Mike smiles, weary and small. It makes something in Will's chest ache, as he realises Mike's hand has now gone to cup the edge of his elbow, achingly gentle and protective. "Rain check," Mike confirms. "Come on, I'll walk you to your next class."
Will frowns at the offer, even as he dutifully falls into step beside Mike. "Your next class is two blocks away, it's going to take you ages to get there," he reminds Mike, but Mike simply shakes his head, stubborn and obstinate to a fault. He drops his hand from Will's elbow to the small of his back, his pinky brushing the belt loops on Will's jeans, and the feel of it makes Will dizzy with burning want.
The brush set stays clutched to Will's chest, a reminder of the space between him and Mike shifting to accomodate something else — something new.