Byler one shots

27

They’re somewhere in California, for sure, but Eleven got them turned around hours ago. Not that it’s her fault, exactly—maps are confusing—but it was her giving them bad directions, and she did refuse to listen to Will trying to correct her (which annoyed the hell out of him—even if they were only siblings by adoption, they acted like they’d grown up together). She did manage to find a gas station with a convenience store, fortunately, but it was still her who got them lost. (Now it’s her trying to convince Lucas to blow the rest of their money on Eggos. God, they all sometimes still act like they're fifteen.)

As he stands by a rack of chips and waits, Mike can’t help but wonder about whether they’ll make it back in time for school—driving from Hawkins to San Francisco is taking longer than any of them expected. He can’t help but wonder if Holly passed her latest math test, the one she kept babbling on about. He can’t help but wonder if the people back at home will ever stop avoiding all their families (it’s not their fault he and his friends attracted so much attention, even if it was ten years ago). He can’t help but wonder how his mother and Joyce are doing, since they had a falling out ages ago that hasn’t quite healed yet—and he can’t help but wonder if that’s his fault. (And Will’s, he supposes, but he never could bring himself to blame Will. Besides, he and Will are a package deal, so Mike is more than willing to shift any blame off of Will onto himself.) 

“Mike,” Will murmurs, seemingly reading his mind, touching his hand and pulling him out of his thoughts. Instinctively, Mike glances at the cashier, but she seems too preoccupied by El and Lucas arguing to look over at them.

“Yeah,” he says, voice slightly rusty from lack of use. He coughs, says it again. “Yeah.”

“C’mon,” Will says, tugging him toward the door. The cashier still doesn’t look over. “Let’s go out.”

Mike follows him blindly, implicitly trusting, already sinking back into his thoughts. He’s been given a lot to think about in the last year or so—maybe even more than when he was twelve, which seemed impossible until recently.

“Dustin,” Will addresses the other boy, “wait for us in the car when you’re done, we’re gonna go for a walk.”

Dustin nods, but Mike doesn’t really register that. Will pulls him along, opening the door to the store, and Mike vaguely notices the blast of hot air that hits them as they leave.

There’s another tug on his hand, and Mike realizes that Will has led him to the back side of the store, sitting on the curb in the shade—it’s too hot to be standing in the sun. He sinks down to join him, staring half-absentmindedly at the license plate on the car in front of them (not theirs, probably the cashier’s). It takes him a minute to realize that Will is looking at him.

“What?” he asks, voice clear this time.

Will doesn’t say anything for another moment before asking, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Mike says automatically. Then, hesitating for a moment, he corrects himself. “Maybe. I will be.” It’s the truth.

“Okay.”

That’s possibly what Mike loves most about Will, he thinks as Will tips his head back and leans against the wall. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, he doesn’t push, because he knows when Mike needs it and when he doesn’t.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Will says after a moment.

“I know.”