Work Text:
And I know you’re scared
Well I’m scared too
Oh, but every time I try to make lunch
For anyone else, in my head
I end up dreaming of you
– Black Country, New road
The Place Where He Inserted The Blade
It’s been a year since Mike’s death, Will is reminded by everything. It’s in the air — whispering little taunts because Mike loved the fall; it’s in the looks on his family and friends’ faces — they’re grieving too, he knows, but no one will actually understand his hurt. And maybe, that’s a selfish thing to say but Will is allowed to be selfish. He’s allowed to wallow in a fetal position as sorrow kicks him when he’s down, there’s no mercy when Will goes to pray, too, it’s like he’s been left in the dark about something. Something that he thought himself to be overly familiar with. It turns out sadness is different from grief.
Fall paints everything in orange, red, and gold hues. Hawkins is no different, even with the losses and situations over the years, where you think fall is trademarked with some disastrous event, the Hawkins way. Like in November of 1983 where Will went missing, in October of 1986 where they defeated Vecna, and now, September of 1988 where Mike was murdered.
The town has taken hit after hit.
Will can’t help but get lost in his pondering as muscle memory guides him to the Wheeler establishment — across town from the same house the Byers moved back into a few years ago. It’s the one of the only ways he allows himself to take unchanged routes, across town and past the looks, it’s like what has happened to him , is news for the entire town to gossip about and give unneeded politeness. This trip is familiar, this trip is betraying, this trip is faithless because every time he goes down this road in his brother’s old Galaxie, it leads to deception.
The deception is done by Will to Will.
Hawkins was small, everyone knew what everyone did. It was no surprise when just hours after police had found Mike’s body, the town was abuzz with speculation. Hawkins was that one crowded hallway in school that you avoided. For the fear of getting to your class late, the judgment and the look and the gossip and the ridicule.
But the rest of Hawkins is joyful, the rest of Hawkins is preparing for Halloween, the rest of Hawkins is going on with their lives. Will lives in the past, he takes back alleys and rare unknown roads to avoid the memory of his best friend igniting again, causing a nuclear meltdown. And Will can picture it now, the mushroom cloud spotted by Fort Wayne, it’ll make headlines. What does he do when everything he remembers is water stained by a poorly straightened head of black hair and matter-of-fact voice? Playgrounds, diners, arcades, ponds are haunted by a friendship forced away from him. Will is not only mourning Mike’s life, he’s mourning the life they could’ve had together, college with Mike? No, college with Mike is off the table now, no breaking a sweat when moving into their apartment — no struggling to catch up on bills and mutually stressing, but at least they’d be stressing together.
And Will’s mind just screams, did HasHem take my best friend away because I didn’t have enough faith? Is it all Will’s fault that his best friend will never be able to trace his wrinkled skin and tell stories of getting into trouble on accident and on purpose? What’s worse, Mike’s death was so sudden. Mike’s death was out of hatred. Mike’s death was done by Troy and his friends.
The memory of Troy is like broken glass digging into Will’s skin, like cutting open an old scar just to rub salt in it. To desecrate something you thought couldn’t be more violated. And he never would’ve known that Troy’s bigotry bordered on brutal and contempt driven homicide, that Will would be told by the police that Mike’s body was so bruised and beaten that they could only identify him by the tattoo.
The sun tattoo on Mike’s back, that was mirroring Will's moon tattoo on his chest, now Will wants to wash off the marking with bleach and cleaning supplies. He wants to hurt Troy but that won’t make him comprehend what has happened, what he has done. The murderer never understands. Especially fucking Troy, he’s always been insane and cold — why is Will surprised that Troy would do this? Probably because it’s to Mike; Will thought Mike always had passed as straight even after he came out.
The cold air nips at Will’s unprotected cheeks, the sun cowardly hides behind a cloud, the leaves fall into all the wrong places — and Will can’t help but think this isn’t how it ought to be. His worldview is dimmed, the trees seem like they are only there to be chopped down. The cars speeding past are just their carbon emissions, no families going to the pumpkin patch or visiting the fall carnival. It’s all meaningless, it’s all dark without Will’s candle.
Which was Mike, but of course the universe snuffs out every good thing.
Will walks to where the Wheeler’s door is, after parking in their driveway and preparing himself. Knock, knock, knock. He’s bundled up in layer after layer, braving for the cold and the sheer amount of loss that accompanies every visit to the Wheeler household; Will knows it is another stab in the gut to go. He visits everyday, because not even the haunting of everywhere he used to go to see Mike, meet Mike, spend time with Mike is even enough to keep him away. El and Dustin haven’t been over to see the family in weeks, “too busy with school and college preparation”.
Will sees through their excuses, he sees through to the hesitation that comes with this. Like voluntarily swimming through shark-infested waters, in this case — the sharks are memories, whether they choose to come in bleeding or not is on them. And so what, if Will always has to make an appearance bleeding? He can take the pain, there’s already been insult to injury, so what’s one more?
“Will, come in,” Nancy ushers him in, smiling through the agony that makes her eyes glass over. Will walks into the house, beginning to take off his scarf and jacket. Nancy just stands there, in front of him as she waits for Will to be done with ridding himself of the layers and hanging his accessories up.
Inside, it is decorated like Halloween and Thanksgiving have spilled over and blemished the usual decoration. Red, orange and brown are beginning to be colors that Will is dreading.
Slipping out of his boots, he speaks up. “Sorry for coming every day. It just makes me feel better.” Will feels like the apology is needed, because the look that Nancy gave him at the door is enough to remind Will that it’s not just a stab in his gut to go, it’s a stab in everyone elses’ guts too.
“Don’t be sorry, it makes me feel better, too. Like you’re coming to pick him up — for a ride or…”
They don’t name Mike because they know better, and Nancy can’t finish her sentence before she begins to cry. Nancy’s shoulders shake as she hugs herself, stray tears running down her face and pooling under her chin. Will tears up.
And Will rushes to embrace her, runs a shaky hand through her hair. He shushes her incoherent and insistent babbling, if only I told mom he snuck out and why didn’t he just wait til tomorrow? Maybe Nancy is the only one who would understand the torment to feel like the weight of someone’s murder is on your shoulders. Is this how Mike felt the night they pulled Will’s “body” out of the quarry? That he could’ve done more, if only he had known the cost?
“I miss him, too. It’ll be okay, Nance.” and they stay like that for a few minutes, and Will silently starts to cry too and tears are the only thing that fill the hole in his heart. But tears eventually dry up, then what do you do? Nancy’s weeping slows, pulling away from Will.
She wipes her face. “I’m sorry.”
Will gives an empathetic smile like he doesn’t fall apart as quickly as she does, like sometimes his mom has to hold him in her arms for hours. Like Will isn’t an incomplete puzzle forevermore. “It’s okay, it’s hard. Now, am I on time for dinner or what? I hope I wasn’t too early,” Nancy chuckles, small and hidden. Her face is still dusted red from crying.
“You’re on time. Come help me set the table,”
Mike dying was something that brought Will closer with Nancy. It’s like the same disease infected them, slowly breaking down the last bit of strength they had — until it was gone, until the barriers were successfully torn down and they were defenseless. Will had always felt defenseless to a degree, prone to the Upside Down and Vecna but everything that happened with Mike was the straw that broke the camel’s back. At least when Mike was alive, Will knew he’d always have someone to back him, that through the fights and the pettiness and the distance there was still a paladin ready to fight for his cleric. Will should’ve known better to protect his paladin, too.
And every damn day, he curses himself for not doing so.
In the Wheeler kitchen chaos unfolds, a familiar scene that Will has seen a million times before, just with a familiar face missing. That familiar face has a hooked nose, sparkling brown eyes, and dark hair grown just down to his shoulders, every strand filled with pride and rebellion, because that was what rebellion was to that familiar face. It was making your dad believe he fucked up in raising you, making your mom constantly ask when you’re going to get a haircut and make your sister see herself in you. It was telling all of this to your best friend who is so desperate to know the inner workings of your life, that he’ll sit and stare at the sight of you sleeping for hours on end, a glimpse of what it is to be inside your mind. That’s what freedom was, the liberation of never stopping to care what your parents might think.
Karen and Holly are at the stove, as she tells her daughter how to properly boil pasta: salting the pasta is for flavor and makes it cook faster. Will makes a beeline to the cabinet where the plates and bowls are kept, reaching for 5 porcelain dishes and bringing them to the dinner table. It should be 6, it should be 6, it should be 6. He moves like he has gone into autopilot.
Like Will’s body was something to only control, not live in, and he resided in his crumbling palace of thoughts. The ceiling leaked water when it rained down, his defenses were penetrated long ago, and it was only a matter of time before his castle caved in on itself. Will sees himself set the plates, then the silverware and help Nancy bring over the glasses of water. Nancy thanks him, and he hears himself respond.
Karen takes out the roast from the crockpot, setting it into a cooking dish from what Will can tell. Will hurries over to help bring the food, focusing on the way the meat glistens inside of the dish and a little liquid sloshes around as he gently places it on the table.
Will takes his seat then, across from Ted who looks up from his book of crosswords for a moment. Then back down again. Holly greets Will at the table with a smile missing a tooth, so he asks her about that and she proudly displays the spot, Will, I know that the tooth fairy isn’t real…Don’t tell daddy or mommy, though she whispers into his ear, and it’s a promise that he swears to keep with his dying breath.
The moon hangs in her place when Will is escorted to his car by Nancy, whom offered and he couldn’t turn it down. Will counts the number of steps he takes, 34 until he makes it to the vehicle. Nancy looks like she wants to say something, Will knows this because he knows — knew, her brother and the two are — were more alike than they want to admit. She bites her lip, staring at the ground and even though Will’s expression reads, it’s alright, take your time he wants to gently hound her on getting out what she wants to tell him.
“Will…everyone else will think I’m crazy — but I know you’ll understand —” the start is so abrupt that Will stops in his tracks.
“What is this about? Why would they think you’re crazy?” Will asks, cutting her off. His keys are in his hand, and even though he so desperately needs to get out of here because being at the Wheeler residence for this long gives him false hope, nosiness keeps his feet still.
Nancy shakes her head in disbelief. “I’ve been hearing things, hearing Mike and I wanna believe It’s just imaginary. But sometimes I see him, in the — the hallway or while I’m out. It’s like he’s trying to talk to me.”
What is she talking about?
“Nancy. Mike is dead, he’s not coming back,” Will states. His voice is cold and hard, set in stone and he knows that the words are hurting her. They’re hurting him too.
Outside the wind picks up, invigorating and frosty though it’s just mid October; it seems like everything has been freezing over more quickly. It doesn’t give Will a good feeling, because all winter has ever done for Will is disassemble whatever good he’d thought would come. The bad always stays, the good never comes and he’s old enough to know that now — even though it’s such a hard truth to accept. But what truth like that is never hard to accept? Will looks at Nancy again, and tears well up in her eyes.
She looks like Mike when she cries.
Nancy lets out a hitched breath. “I’m not crazy, I know it. I know he’s dead, Will, he’s my brother and he’s gone — and I’m one of the people who has to live with the most hurt. Everyday I wake up, and look into his room, I just remember my little brother is never going to sleep in that bed again. And — and he’s never gonna sit at breakfast next to me again, I’m never gonna have to drop him off at school again…but I hear him, I see him —”
“Don’t you think I live with the most hurt, too?”
It’s a selfish response he knows, to focus on the way Nancy feels like she shoulders the majority of anguish from this, when she is telling Will that she believes Mike is haunting her. That somehow, some way he could be back. Will just can’t let his pain be brushed over though, and let someone believe his loss will be smaller than anyone else’s, it will never be smaller than anyone else’s, for have you ever had a piece of your heart surgically cut out? I bet you haven’t, and you don’t know what to do with this void that slowly fills your mind, your life, and everything that used to be.
“I know you do. I’m sorry. Please just hear me on this.” Nancy is pleading now, Will knows that she just wants to be heard but this does sound crazy. This sounds like she’s out of her mind and needs to be put somewhere to treat mental illness.
He does the thing he thinks is right.
“Okay,”
“I think he’s haunting me — like he knows that I could’ve stopped his death. And I didn’t, I didn’t protect my brother when he needed me. And now he’s haunting me,” Will puts his hands on Nancy’s shoulders, steadying her shaking figure, he looks into her scared and frightened eyes. “You protected him the best you could, we can’t tell the future and no one could’ve known what would happened,”
Will needs to be strong for her.
“Do you really believe that? Or is it just to calm me down? Don't you think that if you did something different, just a small difference, Mike would still be alive?”
Will’s eyes dart to the floor. He doesn’t believe Nancy and he doesn’t know how to tell her, because she is so frantic for someone to support her delusion. She trusted Will, and he let her down. “Can we just talk about this tomorrow?”
So, he deflects. As always.
“Yeah, have a good night — call you tomorrow or something,” and Nancy is heading back inside. Will unlocks the car door and slides into the driver's seat. Will didn’t expect her to give up so easily, maybe she’s tried it with a few others and they gave her that exact reaction, bewildered and worried for her mental health, so Nancy now knows that if you are really scared… you don’t tell.
He slumps his head on the steering wheel for a moment. This, the Wheeler household — used to be a good thing; now it just feels like an old hanging spot for a friend group that split up. It brings back remembrance, but it won't bring back the dead. Nothing will ever bring the back dead, not Will's Christmas list or his birthday wish or prayers to HasHem. He’s tried and tried, but it’s like ever since Will saw Mike’s casket (the Wheelers had a closed casket funeral, the mere mention of an open casket one evoked tears from Karen) the thought of HasHem being a merciful being, vanished. What merciful being would do this to the humans He says he loves? And Will knows it has to be a wrong thing to do, to question the very core of what his God is built on but it has happened a million times before, so who cares?
After a sigh and a few stray tears and an exhausted , why can't he just come back? Will changes his car from park to drive, pulling out of the Wheelers’ driveway. This can't become a cycle because he doesn't need another one since Mike died. Will breathes in and then out, to steady the shaking that taints every inch of his body but it doesn’t work because the shaking just comes and comes and comes. There’s no stop, and is this purgatory? And Will’s sorry for asking so many questions, but it’s like his internal monologue will forever be doubtful and curious, when you can barely trust yourself you ask for clarification but it’ll never come. No one wants to give you clarification.
Will’s hand reaches for the knob to turn on the radio, to finally distract himself from the swarms of thoughts. They well up like tears in Nancy’s eyes, and are pushed back out to sea with the sound of The Smiths. “Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want” is pretty ironic in this situation, though he loves the song. And so did Mike, he loved The Smiths in general. The station is switched when that thought popped up, now it’s a song that Will doesn’t recognise and maybe it’s better this way.
There’s no way to tie the memory of his best friend to something he doesn’t recognize, something new, because Mike will never be something new.
Will’s face twists in confusion when his car radio plays the previous station’s song — unprompted by Will. He turns the station, probably just a glitch or something; but Will knows he can’t brush it off as a glitch when it happens again. Will’s mind automatically wanders to that possibility of Vecna, even though it’s been 2 years since they defeated him, and —
humming.
That’s what cuts off Will’s speculation with a contained yet still powerful gasp. He immediately slams down on the brakes, the screech harms his ears, and hitting his head against the dashboard…well harms his head. He knows that there’s someone else ( or something else, the back of his mind adds) in the car with him; a serial killer, a thief, maybe Holly, who knows. All Will knows is that he can hear his heartbeat in his ears, his hands are getting clammy and what do you do? When you for-sure-know there is something in the car with you? From the right backseat he hears it — a faint, familiar voice singing along to the song softly. Will’s curiosity has always overpowered his fear, so Will looks to where the noise comes from in his dimly lit car.
Oh, fuck, Nancy isn’t going insane from loss.
There’s Mike, vapor-like.
Grown out hair, freckle-ridden and effortlessly breathtaking, Will’s eyes seem to leak acid rain because when Mike looks over, he’s pained. Will’s heart feels like it’s going to explode from so many repeated blows; this is too much, this is too much, this is too much. Mike says nothing, his eyes are just locked with Will’s, brown and they appear like this every time Will closes his eyes he can picture the exact shade of russet brown from memory. So ingrained in his memory, that seeing it in person for the first time is so shocking, Will swore that he’d never see it again. Will told Nancy only about 20 minutes that Mike isn’t coming back, what a big, fat liar he has just made himself out to be.
He looks away out of need, because if his staring keeps on Will thinks he might die from everything flooding in and taking him under the harsh waves of his emotions. Will has always been no good at keeping his feelings at bay — except when he pretended that he wasn’t in love with Mike for years. It was out of the fact that his sister needed Mike more than he did (still, his thoughts used to scream but who aches for and wants him more? until his mind was raw).
“Will,” of course, the first time Will hears Mike’s voice again, it’s his name. It’s the tone that was always designated as Mike’s-Will-voice by everyone; like he was something so sweet and delicate to be had.
Maybe if Will blocks out the voice, it won’t come back.
“Will.” the tone is incessant and cements the can’t in being able to block out Mike’s voice. And not coming back. Mike is just as demanding in death as he was in life; and Will knows he has yearned for it as soon as it was ripped away from him.
Will’s choked up, “Mike,”
“So you remembered my name. Good job,” Mike claps, slow and teasing like this is just two old friends catching up. Like Mike isn’t nothing but a husk and Will doesn’t feel like he has been left out to dry. Even if it’s so incorrect to feel this way, because this isn’t the situation, fuck, this isn’t how he should recall the circumstances. Mike wouldn’t leave Will out to dry if he could help it, Will knows, he knows, he knows. He doesn’t need to be reminded.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he is, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens, the thing that’s supposed to keep him here and remind him that this is real. Will resists the urge to let his focus go blank and feel how it is to be out of body. Shaky fingers reach for the pack of cigarettes in the center console, a habit that he picked up after the war with Vecna had ended. Will grabs a lighter too, lighting up and feeling the anxiety that is supposed to disappear with the slow inhale instead linger.
“Have you been haunting Nancy?” Will asks as he exhales the light smoke that spreads throughout the Galaxie like a thin veil.
“I call it watching from afar —”
Will takes another drag before cutting Mike off. “She’s losing her mind trying to figure out why. She thinks that she’s done something wrong,”
Mike climbs up into the passenger seat, and Will watches in sadness soaked astonishment as his figure semi solidifies, seemingly at the sight of Will. And the horrible, horrible thing is he couldn’t care less about that — his brain is trying to wrap around the fact that how can a thing so familiar be so entirely different? Just last August, Mike was so happy and so delightful sitting in that seat, the wind kissing his hair and the sun lighting up his features with such a barbarity, that how could nature love a person more than Mike Wheeler?
“Oh,” is that all Mike can say to Will’s words? To the fact his sister is distraught over it?
Too many questions race through Will’s mind, back and forth, it doesn’t help with the slow tears that trickle down his cheeks. They glisten like little stars encapsulated in a drop of salty sorrow. Will’s head slumps forward again on the steering wheel to assess the situation that’s going on right now. It’s so overwhelming, the fact he’s back in Mike’s presence — the fact that Nancy was actually right about this — Mike’s almost indifferent behavior. When Will wished for his best friend back, it wasn’t like this, he wanted Mike back in the flesh, with warm skin and deep breaths; not wraithlike. Will wished for his best friend back with his birthday candles, not the spirit of his best friend who could very well have changed. He's read the stories.
“I’m sorry for not showing up sooner. I wanted to,” Mike starts, like he’s going to ramble on. But he stops.
“Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be somewhere else? I don’t understand — and you drop in like this is casual…and my world isn’t being turned upside down! If you could’ve come sooner, why didn’t you?”
Do you watch the days go by in my sad life? sits on the tip of his tongue, begging for its release with some spiteful version of his thoughts. All that version of his thoughts can focus on is how Mike could’ve come sooner. And he didn’t.
Mike shifts uncomfortably in his seat, like he can read Will’s mind. “I don’t know why I’m here. And how do you expect me to act — I’m sorry, Will, but I’m really just as clueless and nervous as you are. Sad, too…” Will knows what Mike was going to say next, but cut himself off. It was probably something along the lines of, you can’t mourn my life more than me . But watch Will do just that.
“I didn’t mean to come off like an asshole. I’m sorry too, this is just so much after a long day.”
“You’re right,” Mike’s eyes glance down, the view of his long eyelashes are indescribable (Will feels his hand itch for a pencil like in the before). “I should’ve appeared at a different time,”
“Better now than never, I suppose.” and Mike smiles at Will’s attempt to show he really does feel joy, even with dried tears on his face and a cigarette he should’ve put out when got the chance, spilling ash on the car’s carpeting.
Will has missed Mike’s smile even if he didn’t notice just how much, and would be able to point it out blind — lost without senses and delving deeper into a never ending madness. Time had gone by so quickly, Will has only now realized how long he’s been stopped on the side of a road. Still so far away from his home. Will looks over to Mike once again, he hasn’t changed at all; it’s like a bittersweet time capsule because these are the non-tarnished and non-bloodied version of the clothes he was identified in. They’re still the clothes, just carrying a moments-before-disaster feel. And sure, Mike looks wonderful (he always does), but he is completely unchanged when Will has a new haircut and half new wardrobe and new shoes.
It feels like Will and everything is moving on from Mike, leaving him behind. And that’s probably because they are — the dead don’t change, they stay forever the same.
“I miss you so much,” Will blurts out, with will I just be talking to a ghost all my life? Like a crazy person? making a nest in his head.
The thought hangs over the both of them, draping the conversation in an uncomfortable question again: what will become of their relationship now Mike has revealed himself as a ghost to Will? Will knows Mike feels the same way, written on his face and easily identifiable
. And Will won’t be strong enough to let Mike go again.
“I missed you, too.”
“What happened — with you?”
Mike raises his eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“With Troy.”
“He murdered me, that I know. The rest of those memories are there, just in a way I can’t explain,”
Will does something bold. But he can’t stop himself. His hand reaches for Mike’s hand, almost weightless and ice cold on his. “Then explain in the best way you can, Mike.”
Mike knows this: he never should’ve snuck out that night. He should’ve waited till tomorrow to go on that date and lie to his parents about who it was; Mike thinks about what would’ve happened if he had everything differently — everyday. There’d be no blood, no bruises, no grief, no devastation and no separation of “Before” and “After” for his family and friends. How do you feel guilt over your murder? Mike finds a way to — he finds a way when he sees how drastically different and sad everyone’s lives have gotten, he feels that need to change anything about the circumstances when looming over his mom sobbing in Mike's room. Unbeknownst to her, and he thinks that if he made himself known it’d only break her poor heart more.
And all Mike can think about when he wanders around Hawkins, as an apparition and living vicariously through the townsfolk, is Will. Green eyes and a perfectly sloped nose flood his thoughts every time he doesn’t find something — or someone to occupy him. He’s taken to fucking with innocent people and having conversations with small children to push away the sadness and utter dismay. So many missed opportunities, missed experiences, missed firsts together; all they are, now, are things to regret and perturbate over.
Now, Will can understand the short-lived natural disaster that went down and the heartache that racked through Mike so many years ago. When it was thought that the body pulled from the quarry was Will, this time it wasn’t placed by the government. This is real. This is permanent. This is eternal.
Selfishly, Mike thinks he has been the one having a hard time adjusting. Everything was so easily stripped away from him, so easily plucked out of his grasp with a jeer; his head left reeling and this time Mike can’t help the others pick up the scattered pieces of their lives. All he is now is a phantom, watching from the sidelines as his sisters get older, parents fight more and more, best friends take on the world with a piece of their group missing.
He can only watch Will cry himself to sleep, no shushing his tears and no I’m here now, it’s okay — because Mike isn’t there, and he isn’t going to be there again.
The most horrible, horrible thing about this irrevocable situation is the fact that Mike can’t move on, literally. After you died (and Mike was never ultra-religious but he regularly went to church and had some faith in God), Mike thought you were to be judged for your actions and decided if you should go to hell or heaven. So why is he still here? If people’s souls linger on Earth after they have passed, you’d think everything would be crowded with spirits and haunted; but it just feels like a desolate and stark wasteland, something the most horrible being is sentenced to. Is Mike’s soul really that horrid, was his actions and the life he led, something that gave him this as a punishment? If the lingering doesn’t make you slowly go insane, the isolation surely will.
The thought of just being left alone with his mind, was something that downright terrified Mike when he was alive. More often than not, it felt like his mind was the first thing that began to poison him — slowly and steadily, venom infecting Mike’s bloodstream — it felt like his mind was the first one to turn against him — creeping thoughts that expressed doubt and ridiculed him.
Mike wonders if Will ever thought that, too.
When Mike first discovered that he could reveal himself to the alive, he immediately wanted to go to his mom — Nancy, Holly — Will — anyone, and let them know, I’m not fully gone, guys, I’m still here, I know I can’t cherish the sun on my skin but I’m not fully gone, I’m still me. After some pondering, Mike knew it’d be better to leave things alone (and promised himself to) because interfering with their growth isn’t something he wants to do, seeing the ghost of your dead best friend/brother/son is usually something that wilts the plant.
Apparently, Mike is only good at shattering promises and stunting the growth of any young and promising life. It’s like his touch is something that emits darkness.
Will wants an answer to what really went down that night — from the perspective of someone who could never lie to him and Mike is going to give him that. As soon as he can figure how to, without crumpling to dust as he sees those tears in Will’s eyes and the dejection that spills from his pores; something that’s probably Mike’s downfall, the state of his best friend — who may as well hang the sun and paint the stars — being low. But maybe, Mike doesn’t have to explain with words, that used to be his strong suit.
In what used to be Jonathan’s car, in the very seat that his sister had sat in, Mike asks Will the question again. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course, I trust you.” The words spill out of Will’s lips so easily, so quickly. Those four words leave no room for doubt inside of Mike’s thoughts, but they feed the growing anxiety that makes a home in his gut, something as heavy as lead.
Mike knows his hand must feel like plunging into ice water after he feels how warm Will’s hand is, his palm doing nothing to satisfy the coldness. Will’s fingers intertwine with his, slotting perfectly in the gaps; Mike’s undead heart skips a beat. And the comfort is enough, it’s forever enough because it comes from Will — which means that it’s true. The only time Mike has ever shown his recollection of an event, was when he was newly a wraith, and with a little girl he had found all alone at the park, she was red-haired and emerald-eyed. He can’t remember her name for the life of him, but her voice was mellifluous and she was well mannered even for such a scared child. Mike was more scared than her. She’d asked what he thought of playgrounds, if playgrounds were always this lonely when you’re labeled a freak, and as Mike explained, her hand in his… They were in 1976. On the first day of school.
She saw Mike when he was her age, she saw Will when he was still so small with so much hope. And before a small girl he never had known, never will know, he broke down and tears of haze rolled down his cheeks. The grief was so big, it spread to her like a disease — an outbreak of pure ruin, highly contagious and those infected are encouraged to quarantine. Now Mike is going to infect his best friend with more ruin, finally crumble every stone that Will hopped to and fro. Outrunning the bridges he burns, a pyromaniac fueled by vengeance.
“What are you thinking about?” Will asks, he’s memorized Mike’s array of miens; anger, sadness, joy, fear, and thought. Will is gentle with his question, he is always so gentle with Mike and this mirrors so, so much.
It hurts, everything hurts.
“Showing you my memories. Of what happened.”
Will swallows. “You can do that?”
“Yeah…but I’ve only done this one time — and I’m not entirely sure how it works. I just grabbed her hand, and started to talk,” Like I’m doing right now.
The air grows heavy, the longer Will’s hand squeezes Mike’s the more Mike solidifies, the colder he gets. It’s like Will is somehow still holding out hope that if he gives more than he’ll ever take, Mike will come back. And all this balancing on breaking branches, shattering and not strong enough to hold up Will’s weight, only brings splinters. Mike timidly starts, what exactly happened when he snuck through his window. The boy he went to see. The color of the sky. How good it felt to live as himself. Will’s face grows sullen the more he goes on.
Slowly, the surroundings of the interior of Will’s car dissipates, replaced with the lusterlessness of that chilly night in early October 1988. They’re watching from third person, watching Mike pinned up against the wall with a boy whose face is faint, features flickering and changing; that’s right, he doesn’t remember the look of his meet-cute that ultimately led to his demise. Will’s fingers twitch in Mike’s grasp, as the kissing carries on for a few more seconds, until Memory-Mike practically throws the boy off of him at the approach of a clique. The face, dark eyes clouded and a nose that the party always made more fun of than the culprit of most bullying ever could. It’s Troy, hair buzzed short and surrounded by differing goons.
“Look what we have — a couple of fags having some fun over here…” His voice came out like metal scraping on a glass plate, painful and oh-so-familiar because it’s something you can never escape. “Wheeler? That you?” and an ill-omened grin flashed throughout Memory-Troy’s face.
Mike is obviously too shocked and on guard to say a word, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment and mouth hanging open. The words don’t come, they never come at the right time, even when Memory-Mike’s obviously trying to coerce them out, save his own ass.
“I always knew there was something going on with you. Did you turn him” — Memory-Troy pointed to the meet-cute, frozen in his place — “into a fag, too?” There’s a sinister chuckle, and as Troy moved forward the rest of the guys do like they’re his bodyguards, only there for when shit goes down and to do all the dirty, laboring work for him. Leaving Troy with the thing he finds meanwhile.
“Why don’t you just leave us alone? We didn’t do anything wrong.” came from the meet-cute, voice deep and shielding, the boy stepped in front of Memory-Mike whose expression at that time is like a terrified child who has been caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Will’s lip is trembling when Mike looks over, his eyes are glued to the scene unfolding before the pair — and Mike knows Will can guess what is coming when the first punch is thrown by Memory-Troy. It landed on the meet-cute’s face, suddenly blood erupted, so much red from his face and Mike cried out, what the fuck was that for?
“You’ve got a three second head start, fairy.” The coward who proclaimed he was mighty enough to take on this, began to sprint off from the situation. Abandoning Mike. You can guess what comes next, because you read about this all the time in stories and newspapers and all-over-the-globe. They bash the gay kid who felt like he was finally strong enough to come into himself.
Memory-Mike bites the inside of his cheek, eyes darting back and forth between the boys who began to encircle and crowd him. “Do you guys think he’s the one who actually turned Byers into a fag?” is spat out like hellfire, setting aflame to Mike’s self-esteem, setting aflame to Mike’s pride, to the small patch of honor he had sported. Memory-Troy’s face gets close enough to Mike’s, where their faces almost touch — “Are you gonna turn me gay, too?” Mike pulled away, it was disdain that filled his veins, made him shake and tremble because how are you going to get out of this? How do you escape what is so clearly going to end badly — or end everything at all? And it did end everything.
Troy’s fist, this time, meets Mike’s face. Again and again. The other boys begin to join in on the beating and soon enough Mike is on the ground, cradling his poor head as kicks and fists brutalize every part of his body; there’s going to be plenty of bruises in the morning, Memory-Mike had thought, tears in his eyes and a pained-yelp escaped his mouth. Mike looks over again, tears of his own rushing his eyes and there is Will, free hand covering his mouth. It’s a hollowness that only comes from knowing the truth, knowing how hard the blow is going to land, yet wholly unready for the impact.
Will bit down on his bottom lip to stifle the labored breaths that came from within — Mike wanted to cup his best friend’s face and tell him, it’s okay to cry, and it's okay to not be strong for me. Mike pushes down his internal monologue like bile rising in his throat, rising slowly and sour tasting, because this film doesn't have a happy ending. This film doesn't have a door to exit the theaters.
The memory of events changed course, because this is around the time Mike went limp from the repeated brutality dealt to him by a group of homophobes; Will's mask of controlled crumble falters, because now the hazy vision has changed course to the forest. Troy led a couple of them carrying a charcoal colored bag. It’s no doubt Mike’s body, considering the struggle and the size. Will’s hand squeezed Mike’s, enough to hurt if he had any way of feeling pain again and he knows that his best friend is searching for comfort, some way to battle the savage scene before them. The scene of his best friend in a body bag, being buried deep in the forest — no longer a blessed secret to be kept but instead a ricochet of disruption.
Who gets exile from the sacred land of Mike Wheeler? Everyone.
“I can't do this anymore. Please.” escapes Will’s mouth like a desperate plea, an admission of guilt for watching this nasty affair; this murder. Done in cold blood.
The illusion of Mike’s memories fade, leaving bleak imagery to forever toss and turn in its bed, searching for a form of justice and a form of peace that will never come. Forever buried beneath the first fall of snow that had coated Hawkins on the night of Mike’s murder, even if everyone hadn't known there'd be someone to grieve until a week later — the sky would grieve immediately.
They don’t talk on the ride back to the Byers residence, mainly because Will is so visibly shaken — and something new appears on his face, the unmistakable stare of dissociation, you could have easily compared it to the mark of the beast or a 666 clear as day on his face. And Mike couldn't have focused on his best friend’s behavior more. Will’s hand reaches for a knob to turn the heat on, it must be cold to him because there's a sigh of relief when warmness fills the car in plenty. Mike is so used to the cold, entrapping him like a specimen in a jar that it's practically become something to rely on for the past year; you've never met a ghost that's warm to their core, have you? It's always cold, always freezing over like the winter, always dusted with frost and mummified naturally by shimmering storms.
The roads are empty, as expected for being out this late at night, and they make it home to the Byers establishment fairly quickly, especially coming from across town. Will parks the car, turning the keys and taking them out of the ignition in one swift motion — Mike just remembers how he won’t ever get his driver's license now. No standing in line at the DMV and trying to look presentable for a photo on a card that will be botched anyway, no excitement fluttering the wings of your heart as you proudly display it to your parents: Mike, honey, I’m so proud of you! That will be a small thing, on the list of regretting not doing sooner.
Mike’s attention centers on Will. “Can you open the door yourself?” Will asks as he’s opening his own door, the tear in their own little seclusion lets in a draft. Will’s hair is slightly lifted from its original place, like Mother Earth is running her misty fingers through his locks.
“Yeah,”
Will leads Mike up to the porch, they’ve stood on this wooden floor trillions of time before, dressed in Halloween costumes, dressed in fancy attire, dressed in swim trunks and sandals — and Mike doesn’t understand how Will does it. How does he still visit Mike’s house? Isn’t his head swimming with memories of small bodies reading through comic books or getting told over and over to pick their bikes in the front yard? If the roles were reversed, Mike doesn’t think he’d be able to find the strength to support others like Will does; and yeah, he saw the way Will collapsed on Mike’s casket and how every time he sees Will on the ground sobbing, it’s almost in the exact same way. But what does anyone else do? His mom and dad only fight more and more, on the brink of separation but Holly’s face is the only thing keeping them together.
Lucas and Max try to forget it ever happened, and Mike did wonder how Max would ever react if he died but she’s been consoled in her mom’s arms so many times that how did he think she may not care?
The Byers residence seems to be devoid of any people, except Will (and Mike, but does a wandering spirit really count?). Most of the lights left them in the dark, so as Will explores further into the house — flitches are switched and soon the house is lit up, a faint yellowish glow; Mike knows Will has never been a fan of the dark. Things crept in through the dark, things seeped in through the dark, Will was almost frozen to death in the dark, and Mike actually died in the dark. Late at night.
Will, unbothered by the lack of company and not inclined to say anything, seems to treat this to be a common occurrence; Mike wonders just how many nights Will has spent lying down in the puddles of misery that litter this place. How many nights he’s spent preparing for the river of tribulation (no matter how many lifejackets you pack, you will always drown and be left sputtering and struggling for air).
“It’s a mess, I know — or you probably already knew, too.” Will starts up, quickly picking up around the living room area. Mike nods, because he’s so lost in his own thoughts to try deciphering someone else’s, much less start a conversation. Will’s voice did leave the stray, maybe you knew this because you’ve been around, watching me, for way longer than I thought and Mike can assure he wasn’t. It was something he couldn’t do, there was a line he couldn’t dare to cross. He wanders slowly into the kitchen. There aren’t many dishes in the sink, but a few line the counters and the dining table has some papers strewn over the surface, and among the mess a book sticks out like a sore thumb: “A grief observed” by C.S Lewis. Mike swallows the desperate question, if Will or Joyce or Jonathan or El were doing reading like this lately, so his body(?) inches closer to the table with a devastating reluctance because in this household there should be no reluctance by Mike Wheeler.
This is his second family.
But Mike reaches for the book with a hunger that knows no wait, something sparks inside of him for the first time since he died; his fingers turn the page to the blank page before the foreword. The neat and spaced out cursive reads:
4/7/89
I miss him. You miss him. I think you can relate to Lewis’ story and journey - he would be 18 today, same as you turned 2 weeks ago.
Love always,
your mother
It’s soul crushing, these words are a weight that Mike would never be able to carry — like Atlas, he knows that Will’s back is breaking, cracks trailing down perfectly sculpted porcelain skin. But haven’t they always been there? Mike remembers spotting the markings all throughout their childhood, their adolescence, when skin began to stretch and grow into something more permanent. There is a persistent longing for those days again, sticking to him like popsicles left out in the sun, when summer was for fun and when summer was something to be cherished. And Mike has lurked around his family and friends enough to know their summers are no longer something they wished to draw out; except Holly, who still somehow retains her childlike qualities and innocence, he sees the way their mom desperately tries to keep that light inside her.
There are sounds of cleaning in the background, Will is so no-doubt embarrassed by the shape their house is in, trying to rid himself of it, he was always labeled as the low-class poor kid by people who didn’t like him. Rumors spread like wildfire, drying out any truth, so of course that’s something that followed Will like a mutt to its owner. With being labeled the poor kid, there is always the word dirty associated. Because when you think of those on the brink of poverty, you think of uncleanliness, do you not?
Mike always found it stupid. What’s even more stupid is he can’t take his hands off of the script on this blank page. Signed on his birthday.
He flips to the next page, which is the foreword. And Mike must’ve forgotten how good it feels to have the weight of a book in your hand which is something so mundane but should forever be appreciated. Especially when you have gone so long, seeing everyone else able to but not yourself. Mike busies himself with ardentally taking in word after word, why hadn’t he thought about solidifying himself sooner? Pretending to be one of the living, something he wasn’t? It’s not like that’s something Mike is unfamiliar with, he’d spent the majority of his life locked in a closet he didn’t know that he was even in, until Will’s voice had begun to deepen and he’d noticed how beautiful some of the boys in his school had become, how handsome Steve Harrington was. Like it was second nature.
Mike doesn’t know if Will has forgotten he was hosting a guest, but it was fine — for now.
And to Lewis that sudden deprivation brought about a brief loss of faith. “Where is God? . . . Go to him when your need is desperate, when all other help is in vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face.” It’s a punch in the gut, where truly was God the night that Mike should’ve gone to join Him in the palace of heaven? Did he turn a blind eye, did he — something Mike always feared was true — find this a fit punishment for someone like Mike?
Someone who had tooth rotting visions of kissing the temple of a boy whose heart was so sick with need, and every time Mike has done it, he can only realize that this is the only temple he will ever be accepted in. Every time he woke, every time he recalled the face, every time he wished the voice took a different tone, every time he wished the face took a different shape, it all led back to Will. A burning secret he could only keep with a closed heart.
So Mike reads, “The earthly beloved, even in this life, incessantly triumphs over your idea of her. And you want her to; you want her with all her resistances, all her faults, and her unexpectedness. . . . And this, not an image or memory, is what we are to love still, after she is dead.” a little more closely than he would’ve when he was alive. What did Will think reading this? Did Will read this? Did Will skip the foreword and carry on with the book? Did Will even read the book? The thoughts pop up like those little moles in one of those arcade games, where your task is to hit them down successfully before they sprout again in some other place. Mike fails at it because he lets the questions linger and linger, until they disappear but appear in some other space of his mind, with a different undertone to it. Madeleine L’Engle, Crosswicks, August 1988 — the date is just a month before he died.
Will finds him before he turns the page to the actual contents of the book, his footsteps echo in harmony with the page turning in the otherwise quiet establishment. Mike rushes to put down the book in his grip, like it’s a murder weapon. “Hey,” Will’s voice fills the void between them.
“Sorry.”
“Um…about what?” Will asks, followed by a confused laugh.
“The book. It was personal, and I was reading through it, and you caught me —”
Will’s eyes finally focus on the copy in front of Mike, and he visibly swallows, something similar to oh-I’ve-been-found-out like a strike of lightning flashes across his face but he pushes it away. Will makes his way closer. Too close in proximity for Mike not to notice how his best friend’s body pours out ripple after ripple of warmth, so alive, and Mike feels like a moth drawn to the flame. This has to be a personal attack on his self control, he can feel it pierce through his bones.
The rain starts to come slowly, a repeated pitter patter falling against the ground, there’s been so much rain lately. But it can’t compare to the constant storms that come from Will’s eyes, feeding the grass and the plants and all life — keeping things going through his grief, like a lifeline. And that’s the circle of life: you are born, you are loved, you are begrieved, and you are dead.
Will watches as Mike wanders around his bedroom, gaze rushing to every new addition even if it is hidden among so many familiar things. His best friend runs a finger along the new bedside table Will had found on the side of a road, he traces the faces on new posters — The Cure is still a favorite — his eyes glaze over when he spots the new polaroids. Will, El, and his mom are smiling in the photo and tears run down El’s cheeks. It's taken in Jon’s new college dorm that is so neatly decorated; Will bets that Mike is thinking about how that could’ve been him. That could’ve been Nancy, Holly, and Karen smiling, that could’ve been titled “Mike’s big move in!! - 8/21/89”. The realization washes over Mike’s face, rough and biting at him like a frightened animal. Mike walks over to Will’s closet, left open and haphazardly organized because he hasn’t found the energy for months to go through it, throw out the old and rearrange. It’d hurt too much to do that. There’s probably Mike’s clothes and Mike’s gifts.
“I like the new decoration,” is all that slips from Mike, who comes to sit next to Will on his bed, above the patterned comforter and adorned with a tiger stuffed animal. It’s visibly old and wearing down, because Will has had this since he was a little boy and good things don’t last forever, hell, they don’t even last that long.
Will puts his hands in his lap. “Thanks. Can you imagine I found that table” — Will points to his nightstand — “on the side of a road?”
“Was it in perfect condition, too?”
“It was. Mom immediately wanted it, because she said my old table was falling apart,” and Will realizes that Mike probably already knows that, even in death, because he watched that table wear down throughout the years and the coats of paint peel and sticker designs fade. “You probably already knew that, didn’t you?”
“No.” Mike slightly grinds out.
And Will didn’t expect that, and should he expect it to be a lie? A white lie to stop the words from coming, like they recall this conversation as a hurricane and how hurried words came.
“This is gonna make me sound like a dick. But I avoided you, this house, Joyce, El, Jonathan…I tried to rip myself from any memory — or look at you,” his voice is small, like he’s trying to hide the truth and wish it went down with his body in that forest. That the police never found secrets and his figure dealt a hand filled with hate.
Will breathes in through his nose. “So, you don’t know anything about what’s going on with me?”
“A little. And I can imagine, ‘cause it's not like you went through drastic change in a year. I know you, Will.”
I know you, Will. That’s the worst thing anyone has ever said and it’s the best thing anyone has ever said to him. People are scared of being known, being discovered and uncovered like a crown jewel lost to history; but it’s all Will wants. His prayers are refused, or just never choosed, but he just wants to be known and the one time he is it’s by his now dead best friend. Mike knows how slow Will is to change. And how he has to be eased in like a child on their first day of kindergarten for fear of fleeing, and never looking back.
“Well, what do you know?” Will inquires.
“That you look good with that haircut,”
And Will lets out a breathy laugh as Mike smiles, but it’s not nearly enough to break the tension that hangs undisturbed in the atmosphere. Lingering, waiting, wanting to crash this discussion.
“I mean seriously — I wanna know so I can tell you.”
Mike takes a second to think before responding.
“You gave up college, you visit my house everyday, you’re getting closer with Nancy, you’re job hunting…you’ve been doing this new thing with your hair, along with your art,” it’s like water rushing in, murky and dirty, filling up Will’s lungs because when Mike said no, is he sure this is what he meant? This isn’t a no, this is more like a, I’m not entirely filled in on your life but I still know the naturalness of it.
“Mike, that’s still a lot,”
“This is partly based on assuming — and partly based on what I hear when loitering around everyone else. But, can I see it? Your art?”
Who is Will to say no?
“Yeah.”
The art that Will has finished is sitting and rotting away in their hall closet. They are pieces done exclusively through the inspiration of loss, and the palette that Will worked with was definitely bleaker than expected — there’s no great big colors that take up space when you look upon it, there’s no wonderful yellows or pinks or oranges that he usually uses. And Will’s friends and family took notice, it was in their tone when they complimented, it was written in their body language, but they said nothing. Isn’t that the story of his life? Written clear as day, but never spoken about. Maybe it’s just human nature to beat around the bush, avoid things until they confront you and have had enough.
Will grabs a few of the canvases, they feel more heavy than ever because the muse is about to be revealed, their mourning artist’s soul mixed into paint. The closet is crowded with abandoned things, but the canvases are most apparent because Will usually houses his canvases somewhere in his room, usually the closet and behind dressers, because slowly but surely it has been taking up too much space. These ones are to be partly ashamed of, though. And Will doesn’t know why, they’re still masterpieces just in the shape of Mike’s face, death ridden.
Mike waits patiently on Will’s bed, tracing the same pattern that has been on his covers for years, he looks like he’s been put in a trance. Will almost feels bad breaking him out of it, when he searches through a box in his closet, to find recent sketchbooks overflowing. Like a magnet, Mike can’t help but grab a canvas from the few and Will feels his anxiety spike — the feeling of someone examining his art is a rush of adrenaline, it’s a mix of bad and good. What do they think? What do they like? What do they hate? It’s one of the things
“Will…” Mike begins but he’s been sucked into a black hole, and the only thing that can show Will what Mike thinks is the smile that spills across his face. His tone was the tone always used exclusively for Will, again, and Will can feel his cheeks heat up and he can’t bother to hide it with Mike’s undivided attention on the art.
“Do you like them?”
“You already know the answer.”
And Will’s knees are weak, Mike’s looking up into him like he's drinking in the sight of who made these paintings, beautiful brown eyes that Will wished stained everything a brown. That’s the color of paradise to Will, that’s the color of perfection to Will, that’s the color of — Mike lets out a breathy laugh. Tracing the sketch of his face in one of the finished sketchbooks, Will can’t tear his gaze from his best friend, who is basking in this; Will wonders if Mike is aware that with every brushstroke, every coat of paint, every hour spent, he was thought of. And he’s the reason Will hasn’t had the inspiration or motivation to keep up art. That’d be a burden to carry, so Will keeps his mouth shut and let Mike think he kept up with his usual shenanigans and art classes and different forms; because that’s what friends do. Is it really lying if you just don’t tell?
He buries the thought when words of praise fill the room, otherwise silent.
“I was right — about the not-doing-what-you-usually-do-with-your-art…it’s different but it’s you. It’s so Will Byers and just…I don’t know but I missed your art.” Mike comments, ghosting over the smooth surface of Will’s works he’s least ashamed of.
It’s a still life work, using faint colors and the subject of the painting is the party’s D&D characters as figurines; placed on a wooden table and each facing forward — except the paladin figurine which symbolizes the rest of the party moving forward except Mike. He can’t move forward in life, and if you pay close enough attention to each of the party’s figurines, Will’s is the only turning a cheek like he can’t move on without his paladin. Which is true. Compared to the rest of Will’s paintings and drawings this is the most tame, most least obvious and the only thing that gives way to his grief, is the color palette, along with a scattered expression embedded with each of the party’s characters.
Mike’s finger drifts to the paladin. “My character, right?”
“Mhm, the bard is Dustin and the ranger is Lucas and the rogue is Max and El is the mage…and” — Will points to the tearful cleric — “the cleric is me.” Mike nods along, but the confusion conquers, when Will names El as an actual mage. That’s not a D&D class to him, Will forgot about that.
“I thought El agreed on being a wizard, since mage isn’t an official class, like Max —”
“The second edition came out. Mage is an official class,”
Mike smiles, small, but there’s a glimpse of his teeth. “Oh,”
“We haven’t played D&D though. Not since…you died. It’s not gonna happen, I think — ‘cause I don’t want any dungeon master besides you.” Will’s fingers topple over his others as he fidgets, and truthfully he didn’t think he’d be able to admit the words without crying. He guesses it’s probably different with the confession being directly to the one reason Will can’t stomach playing D&D without his missing puzzle piece.
“Why? It just feels like I’m holding you back, then. I don’t want to do that, Will,” Mike says.
“It’s me. I’m holding myself back and I think you should’ve been able to tell from the get-go, I’m never gonna be able to get over you,”
Mike has a solid but heavy expression. Will knows how it came out, how the words make it a little less easy to hide but Mike has always been oblivious so the worry is quick to crumble to dust. If Mike couldn’t tell in 1985, when Will lied about taking a commission from El about D&D (despite her having no knowledge of it at the time) and in the back of a pizza van — going to rescue her and back to Hawkins, he made a veiled confession of love. Mike didn’t know, Mike didn’t ask about him silently sobbing after, and the wordless drive back. Mike and El broke up a month later. And he never asked Will about the painting and the speech and the utter lies. But his best friend wasn’t stupid, Will knew that Mike had to be aware to some degree.
That terrifies him, but what does he do? His cover isn’t blown and that’s the one thing Will can thank HasHem for — even if Will would’ve, could’ve had a chance with Mike. Now (and then) that Mike is — or was, out.
“Do you have the poem I wrote, and asked you to keep? The spring one,” Why is Mike asking about that, now?
Will doesn’t ask why but he’s grateful for the subject change. “Yeah. Want me to let you reread it or something?”
The rainstorm has gotten louder, when they both quiet. Will thinks about the strays on the street, Will thinks about Mike out on the streets but he won’t get soaked. Mike swallows, then he speaks up:
“I want you to read it to me. Is that okay?”
“Mike, I can’t really read poems like you do —” Mike cuts him off.
“I don’t want to hear my voice read it, please,” the line between asking and begging is blurred by Mike — his voice comes out barely above a whisper.
Will nods, and nods and nods. He knows exactly where the poem is, he’s read over it a thousand times trying to uncover the symbolism and the meanings behind the lines. So far he’s gotten nowhere because Will isn’t good at analyzing poetry; that’s the difference between Mike and Will. Opening the top drawer of his end table, there’s a lined paper folded into a small square buried underneath tons of things. He sits on the bed next to Mike again. The words on the page are in Mike’s perfect but small print, done in black pen. In the spring (When I fall apart), Will looks over to Mike who gives a look of expectancy and this is going to be the death of him; reading your best friend’s poem about being in love with a(nother) boy, who’s dead, who’s the only you can ever love.
His voice is shaky.
“I will love you in the spring
Just as I do in fall, in winter, in summer —
Don’t you know I don’t love her?
Sure, she’s a pretty thing,” in the corner of Will’s vision, Mike’s eyes are wide (and adoring, maybe?), trained on Will.
“She doesn’t hold the key to my heart;
And I hate that it’s true, leaving me black and blue.
I will love you when I fall apart
Just as I did when I flew, grew —” he can feel Mike’s growing stronger, the way his best friend’s bouncing leg slightly shakes the bed. Will swallows and continues.
“Don’t you know my writing reveals?
I’m no good at hiding,
But your touch is golden and heals;
Everyday I am fighting, but love, I am also subsiding." what does your writing reveal, Mike? Whose touch is golden and heals? And how long will Will have to agonize over it not being him?
“All I gave to fit in. Find kin.
It doesn’t work, and just now, I’m growing into my skin.” This was written in April of 1986. He didn't realize that Mike knew he was gay that far back.
The room went silent as soon as Will’s voice went away, haunted even more than it is, so quiet that he could hear his own breathing — Mike’s leg bouncing up and down — the rustling of bed sheets as he adjusts his position; Will folds the paper back up and drops it in his lap. He figures that Mike won't want it.
“I never got to ask you who this was about,”
“Yeah,” Mike agrees.
“So, I’m asking. Who is it about?” Will’s heart is racing in his chest, he doesn't know why because what's so nerve-wracking about finding out who your best friend had a crush on? Maybe because you're in love with him, and you'll never have the chance to confess it. Now that he's dead. Internally, Will thanks his intrusive thoughts with a smile through the blow of the honest truth. Thank you for stepping on my curiosity, even though I hoped it would stay. Just a curiosity.
Mike gets this look, that one look because he knows what his words will bring. Like the sentence that will come from his mouth will wreak havoc on everyone around him, so he should keep it to himself and build a bubble. “Will. You could never hate me, right?”
“What?” sure, he's dumbfounded but nothing could ever make him hate Mike. Not if an evil makes a nest inside of Mike’s mind, not if the end of the world would happen at Mike’s hands, not if Mike is found out to be a traitor, a liar, or a cheat.
“Please tell me,”
“I could never hate you. Why are you asking this?”
Mike's eyes tear up, and he's blinking back tears and Will doesn't know what to do. “It's you. The poem is about you, every line I write — wrote, is about you. And I love you, I always have…I couldn't admit it for a long time, but the day we defeated Vecna, oh, I knew for sure you had my heart. And I don't know why I'm admitting this right —”
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“Everything I draw is about you. And I’ve been in love with you since we were 14,” Will whispers, because this is the first time he has ever said it aloud. It feels foreign, like a different language on his tongue and his eyes leak like a faucet mirroring Mike. Whose eyes resemble a scared puppy, fretting the kick and being pushed away, like he expects to be rejected by the one who has been pining for four years; hoping, wishing, dreaming, thinking about fitting his face in the slope of Mike’s neck. Like Will could live there, if only his best friend made a little space.
Mike is the first one to move, cautiously like he’s not sure if he's allowed to have this or if he moves too quickly, this will all be over so soon. Will understands. He wants to savor the moment too, and there doesn't have to be any rushing for this. They can take their time, God knows they deserve it with how fast paced their lives have been — since Will was born, the only thing he has been familiar with is the feeling of sand slipping through his finger — you blink once, and 4 years have passed. And you're riding a bike down a hill, and you can't stop, and when you do you crash into a tree left with scars. Will forgets all about that when cold palms cup his face, so delicate that he forgets if this happened any earlier Will would relive freezing to near-death in the Upside Down. Exhaling slowly, Mike’s face inches closer and Will’s hands grip Mike’s shoulders; pulling him in closer, closer, closer until their bodies knock together in an awkward fashion.
This is better than the nightmarish treacly dreams that have plagued him since adolescence, it’s so real and Will doesn’t give a fuck about the fact that tears might stain this moment. Mike’s already softly crying, as his forehead rests against Will’s. Apprehension swallows him up like a car in a storm, sucked into the tornado that has been heading for Hawkins all his life. He prays that this isn't a mistake as he leans in to connect their mouths at last.
Mike kisses with fervor. It’s a relief that he wants this as much as Will, whose heart steadies to a normal beat with the feeling of Mike’s lips fully solidifying and a warmness making this its home. This is truly home. Will knows this is home when his fingers reach up to tangle in Mike’s hair, still so silky and curled as he remembered it — running his fingers along his best friend’s scalp has been a fantasy for as long as he can remember. Will knows this is home when Mike’s hands run down his jaw, neck, and come to rest along his collarbone. This is going to scar him for the rest of his life, and Will wants it to. He finally gets the one thing he wants when Mike is damned to stay on Earth, a spirit, and can finally admit his feelings for Will.
Mike pulls away, dried tears on his cheeks and looking like a mosaic of emotions. A flurry of feelings, and his gaze changes by the second and Will is trying to comprehend what just happened. Did they just kiss? Did Mike just admit he was in love with Will? Did Will just admit it, too? Is this the thing of his wildest dreams?
Hands still linger on each other, pupils blown wide and this is the greatest moment of Will’s measly life because he got to kiss the boy with a pen in his hand rather a sword, the boy with a hooked nose he’s embarrassed of, the boy with a voice so loud it drowns out any doubt, the boy with so many words who is left wordless now. And is that a good thing? Will hopes it is, the way Mike is looking at him is indubitably admiration, taking in the sight of a blushing, smiling Will before him. And Will is taking in the sight before him, too. A flustered yet proud Mike, who glimmers like a diamond with pale skin and he wants to kiss every inch — tired of leaving his fingerprints anywhere but Mike.
“You’re beautiful.” Mike mutters, caressing Will’s cheek.
And for once, Will believes it. He’s beautiful.
“You have one new voice message — Nancy. You were right. I’m sorry, call me.” Nancy picks up the phone immediately, dialing for the Byers landline.