Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will stood back from his easel, blinking the sting from his eyes. The smell of oil paint filled the room, tangy-warm and peculiar. The art store clerk had recommended cracking a window if it got too strong, but it made no difference. Even in the middle of winter, California was stifling. 

Will hoped the smell wouldn’t become one more thing that permanently marked him; one more thing to make people veer away from him in the corridors.

Stop thinking like that.

After all, it wasn’t really true, was it? Quite a lot of people had approached him here, in the cafeteria and after class. Will wasn’t used to that. 

Or, at least, that’s what he told himself when he declined their invitations.

Plus, there was El. He couldn’t just leave her. 

Will sighed and washed his brush in the jar of mineral spirit, resting it carefully on a small cloth. His hands felt brittle and dry where he’d wiped them down so many times, removing stubborn little smears of colour with the dry, pungent liquid. This kind of paint went a really long way - he’d barely used anything from the tubes he’d bought months ago - but that also meant it got everywhere.

He gazed at his painting. El’s absence from the canvas made something hollow thrum in his stomach. 

Then it rumbled. 

He checked the clock. It wasn’t dinner time yet… he might still be able to get away with filching some Reese’s Pieces from the kitchen…

Will prised open his door and was met with the sound of the radio blaring. 

He rolled his eyes. That cheesy pop station again. It was bad enough hearing Madonna coming from El’s room every morning as he brushed his teeth - now mom too? 

Will hopped up to the bathroom, his messy hands held aloft. Somehow, paint had smeared all along his forearm. He must have leant on the canvas to steady his hand. 

He looked in the bathroom mirror as he scrubbed his skin. They’d been doing self-portraits in art class this semester, staring into tiny mirrors for hours on end. Will had never looked so closely at his own face before. 

There were even more spots on his chin since this morning. Great. 

As for his nose; well, at least one part of him seemed to be growing. It was like he could physically see the jocks at school getting taller every day right before his eyes. 

His eyes? 

He liked them. He hoped that wasn’t big-headed to admit. They were ‘expressive’, apparently. ‘You’ve got very expressive eyes’. 

That’s what his art teacher had said, and his face had flamed as his classmates peered closer to see if it was true. 

And his teeth? 

Well, it didn’t matter. No one would see them: it was practically impossible to smile for two hours straight as you drew yourself, so he’d kept his mouth shut, suddenly understanding all the moody old self-portraits he’d seen in the tattered art books at Hawkins Library.

And as for his hair… they’d just been to a fancy hairdresser downtown, on Main Street, near his favourite art store. He’d been a bit reluctant to go in at first - the garish pink and red Valentine’s display in the window was a little unsettling, not least because it had been in residence since a week after New Year’s, tiny shampoo bottles nestled amongst confetti hearts and giant streamers flapping in the warm January wind. But when his mom had sweetly hinted that they could afford better than one of her haphazard home cuts now, he relented. 

Joyce smiled at him from the next chair over as the hairdresser threw a giant cape around his shoulders, her bangles sliding everywhere. 

The cape made Will feel oddly like he was about to play DnD. He half expected the hairdresser to whip out a matching wizard’s hat and pop it on his head.

Where was Will the Wise’s cloak now? 

Stuffed in a box at the back of his closet.

There was something comforting about the gentle way Val washed his hair (Val! It was like this salon had been created with the express purpose of torturing him on this particular holiday), but as soon as she wheeled him in front of the mirror, Will started to panic. Not only was he forced to stare into his own reflection again , but he now had a perfectly-abstracted view of the front door, its pink and red streamers flapping ominously into frame every time a woman entered the salon with normal-looking hair and left without it. The women came and went, and all Will could think of was Mike’s mom standing in the basement doorway last summer, her new sky-high, bleached-blonde perm almost reaching the lintel. 

He remembered the way Mike’s jaw had dropped; the look of total, undisguised disgust dripping down his face. 

Mike had never been able to hide how he felt about anything. 

Val tugged her comb roughly through Will’s wet hair just as a sharp stabbing pain pierced his chest. 

He winced.

‘Sorry, honey…’ Val said, ‘It’s just so… voluminous… gorgeous, but I might need a bigger comb…’

She disappeared.

The back of Will’s neck itched beneath the crisp collar of the cape. The Velcro tickled his skin in that mild, distant way that you can’t quite put your finger on. 

He looked around and saw his mom a few chairs away, happily chatting to her own hairdresser. 

He wanted to rip the cape off. He wanted to push away from the mirror and flee out of the door. 

He did none of these things. 

Val reappeared with an armful of accoutrements and caught sight of his face in the mirror.

‘Oh, god, honey!’ she said, her laugh tinkling like the bell above the door. ‘Don’t look so scared! It’s going to be nice. Subtle. Very smart. It’ll make the girls wink. You’re gonna love it.’ 

Then she winked.

Will smiled tightly and closed his eyes.

The bell tinkled again and he heard the streamers flapping, then a deep voice cutting through the chatter.

The man approached the counter. Will could see him reflected perfectly in the mirror. 

Black leather jacket, dark hair long enough to fall artfully past his jaw. 

The man turned, one arm resting on the counter, and looked right at Will.

Will stared. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it. 

It was only then that he noticed Val’s bangles had stopped jangling. She was standing still, holding tight to two strands of Will’s hair.

Will’s heart lurched as he met her eyes in the mirror. He thought he saw something sharp in her expression, but then her gleaming smile returned.

‘I was thinking…’ she chirped, ‘This length… right… here.’ She pulled the hair taut against his ears. ‘What do you think, hun?’ 

In the bathroom mirror at home, Will made sure his fingers were clean and paint-free before smoothing a hand down his new haircut. He turned his head from side to side, checking every angle.

He really liked it. It still sat like it always had, but there was something neater and nicer about it now, something more grown up. He liked that it was short at the sides, so he could really see his jawline. And it felt cool to have it off his neck in the California heat. He’d felt a little frisson when Val trimmed the fine hairs at the back of his neck, the oddness of such an intimate touch from a stranger. She’d laughed brightly when he shivered, cooing about how handsome he looked. 

‘Easier to wash and style, too,’ she said, waving her scissors alarmingly close to his face. ‘You know how men are, they love low maintenance…’  

The man who came into the salon hadn’t looked very low maintenance, with his hair curling decadently over his shoulders. 

Mike had been growing his hair out too, apparently.

Will noticed a rogue smear of paint on his jaw just as the idea of Mike in a black leather biker jacket popped into his head. 

‘You’ll be shaving soon,’ came a voice from the doorway.

Will jumped about a foot in the air, clutching the sink.

‘Sorry,’ laughed Jonathan, ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’ He gestured to the toilet. ‘Can I…?’ 

‘Oh, yeah, course,’ said Will, squeezing past.

‘Thanks,’ Jon murmured, closing the door with a bang.

Will hopped down the stairs to ask if he could borrow some of his mom’s hand lotion again, his eyes automatically sweeping the front doormat. The radio was still blaring from the kitchen, the DJ speaking in that false, cheesy way they always did on stations like this.

‘...know Valentine’s is fast approaching, so don’t forget to let that special someone know how you feel… here’s a golden oldie for all those golden oldies… it’s Laura Branigan…’

Will stared at the empty doormat. 

He still hadn’t had a letter. 

Not one. 

Sometimes, he would scoop up the envelopes addressed to El and hold them in his hands, staring at Mike’s messy scrawl, a private moment where he could pretend his own name was written there instead. 

It would say:

Will Byers

4819 Lonzo Way

Lenora Hills, CA

98310

He could just see it, the smudged blue ink, the way Mike’s ‘W’ curled so beautifully, conspicuous amidst the rest of his scribbly handwriting. Will would run a finger along the seam where he knew Mike had licked the envelope, pretending he had permission to tear it open and hear all of Mike’s innermost thoughts. 

One time, he even ran his lips along it, before realising how many grubby hands had probably touched the envelope since Mike’s. It had just been lying on his doorstep and here he was, kissing it. 

But he didn’t even care. 

Maybe he really was a freak.

Thinking about Mike helped, though. Mike was so normal. Well, not normal-normal, but normal enough. More normal than Will. There was something solid about him, something whole and untouchable, like he’d always been on a certain path and would end up wherever he needed to be just by the simple fact that he was Mike Wheeler. 

It was comforting. 

It felt like home. 

They said you were leaving, someone swept your heart away

From the look upon your face I see it’s true… 

Will threw his head back and groaned as the cheesy music from the radio filled the house. Something about the song caused a groundswell of feeling to flood his chest. The melody was lame, but the lyrics drew him in.

He drifted into the living room and sank on to the couch, his gaze wandering up to the mantel above the fireplace. 

The Christmas card Mrs Wheeler had sent still sat pride of place right in the centre. It was the same card she sent every year: an updated photograph of the Wheeler family, posed formally around the giant Christmas tree in their living room. Everyone was smiling widely - everyone except Mike.

Will stared at the card, feeling a low sinking behind his ribcage. No one had bothered to take it down after New Year’s. His mom had obviously forgotten it amongst the billion new decorations she’d splashed out on this year, and Jon probably didn’t even know it was there at all. Will had left it there, thinking El would want to keep it, but he supposed she already had a million pictures of Mike; snaps that arrived along with his letters and that she sometimes showed him, which hurt in more ways than one.

Sometimes, over the holidays, Will had checked to make sure he was alone downstairs before creeping over to the mantel and stroking a gentle finger over Mike’s scowling face. The Mike in the photograph was wearing a brand new Christmas sweater, unfamiliar and yet so utterly Mike Wheeler that it made Will’s throat hurt. It was a rich red, the colour warm even in the blown-out camera flash, and Will knew Mike would have hated wearing it, but as always with his specially-bought Christmas sweaters, he made it look good. 

He was taller, too, his knobbly knees sticking up sharply from his perch on the couch.

And his shoulders were broader. 

And his hair… it was well past his ears. It was longer than Will had ever seen it. 

He looked so different. 

And yet he was exactly the same. 

It was the only new picture Will had of him since they’d left Hawkins, and it wasn’t even really his. 

How can I blame you when I built my world around

The hope that one day we’d be so much more than friends?

And I don’t wanna know the price I’m gonna pay for dreaming…

I need you now, it’s more than I can take…

God, what was this song?! Will turned away from the fireplace and marched into the kitchen. 

He needed chocolate. Lots of it.

He stopped when he turned the corner and noticed his mom swaying from side to side in front of the sink, wearing rubber gloves and wielding a dish brush. An unexpected laugh bubbled up inside him, but then his mom reached over and turned the dial on the radio right up, dripping suds all over the brand new set and singing loudly along.

So tell me how am I supposed to live without you?

Now that I’ve been loving you so long?

How am I supposed to live without you?

And how am I supposed to carry on…

Joyce twirled around, and the teasing laugh died in Will’s throat when he saw that her eyes were closed, tears seeping wetly down her cheeks. He stood in shock, watching her as the melody swooped and swelled.

Joyce opened her eyes, still swaying, and caught sight of Will frozen in the doorway. She quickly wiped her gloved hands across her eyes. 

‘Oh, Will!’ she sputtered. 

They both laughed, a little awkward. 

‘Are you ok, sweetie?’ asked Joyce. ‘How’s painting?’ 

‘Yeah, I’m…’ said Will, drifting towards her. ‘Mom…’

Joyce laughed, voice cracking as she blinked away tears. She gestured to the radio, rolling her eyes.

‘Oh, these songs, you know what I’m like…’

‘Mom…’ 

‘What is it, baby?’

Will glanced down at her rubber gloves, then smiled shyly and took her wet hands in his, drawing them both into a formal dance position. 

‘Do you remember?’ he asked.

His mom laughed wetly, surprise crossing her face. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ She lifted their hands. ‘Like this… up like this, look…’

They stepped together, awkward and out of time, spinning around the kitchen as the chorus of the song picked back up. 

So tell me how am I supposed to live without you?

Now that I’ve been loving you so long?

As they twirled around, laughing, Will caught sight of Jonathan lurking in the shadows by the stairs. There was a peculiar expression on his face, and he looked more clear-eyed than usual. Suddenly Will really was back in Hawkins, dancing with his mom in the kitchen before the Snow Ball while Jonathan circled around them with his video camera. 

Do you always have to be filming everything?

Just the good stuff.

Will smiled at Jonathan sadly. It had been such a long time since he’d seen him with a camera in his hand. 

Jonathan drifted slowly towards them, and Joyce held out her hand.

‘My boys,’ she said, her voice cracking, and they all twirled in a loose circle, singing at the tops of their voices. Will was laughing so much at the fact that Jonathan knew the words that he could barely join in.

Then El appeared round the corner with a look of bewildered amusement on her face. 

Joyce threw back her head and laughed. 

‘Do you know this one, sweetie?’ she asked, pulling El into the fray.

Something sour reared up in Will’s belly as their little trio broke apart and El stepped in, but then the guitar solo swelled, and Jonathan’s air guitar was so passionate that Will burst out laughing again. Joyce picked up the scrubbing brush to use as a microphone, and Will found himself floating around in a sort of trance, high above the pristine linoleum floor.

Soon the easygoing voice of the DJ cut back across the song, and the spell was broken. 

They all stared at each other, laughing, and Joyce reached up to kiss Will on the cheek, her wet eyes full of a fondness that made his heart ache. She squeezed his hands before turning back to the sink. 

‘I was just coming down to ask if you wanted a hand,’ said Jon, shaking his head with a smile.

‘Thank you, sweetie,’ Joyce replied as Jon picked up a dish towel. ‘Just doing these before the pie’s done…’

El moved slyly over to the candy cupboard and pulled out some Skittles. 

Will floundered in the middle of the room, a strange hollow feeling overtaking him.

‘Oh, Will, I keep meaning to ask,’ Joyce asked over her shoulder, ‘Are you sure those paints are ok down there? I really think you should work outside if the turpentine smell is that strong… I mean, it’s not like it’s cold out…’

She chuckled. 

‘Wha… oh, no, it’s fine, mom,’ said Will, his thoughts tripping over each other as El grinned at him from behind the cabinet door, holding a packet of Reese’s Pieces up just out of sight.

Want some?

Will sat heavily on the edge of his bed, the sticky-nostalgic taste of peanut butter chocolate coating his tongue. He stared at his easel, patiently waiting for him in the corner of the room.

Every time he went to draw Mike, he faltered.

Will didn’t know what was wrong. He hadn’t had any trouble painting Lucas in his ranger’s garb, or Dustin with his axe. His own figure was fine, too, shrouded in wizard robes and half-obscured by glowing magic. And he’d drawn Mike before. Hundreds of times.

But now, every time he came to Mike, he couldn’t seem to grip the pencil properly, let alone apply delicate layers of paint. The furthest he’d gotten was Mike’s armoured torso and an outline of his head, but when he tried to draw the rest of his body, like his legs standing strong in their fighting stance, Will ended up feeling so dizzy that he had to sit down. 

At first, he’d blamed the smell of the mineral spirits.

Will flopped face down on to his bed with a whine. How was he going to be a brilliant artist if he couldn’t even draw a figure ?! It was just Mike! It was just legs! Will wouldn’t actually have to draw his… his crotch…

Will let out another muffled whine. 

His mom’s light laugh sounded from the living room. 

Even though they’d all been singing together in the kitchen, Will knew they’d been singing separately, too; a private ballad that meant something different to each of them. 

But he was the only one who would ever have to hide who he was singing for. 

Will turned over onto his back, the packet of Reese’s falling to the floor with a soft sloompf. He heard the tell-tale sounds of little chocolatey pieces rolling away across the carpet, picking up fluff and dust along the way. 

He didn’t even bother picking them up. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Exactly how much loneliness could a person stand before it cracked them completely in two?

Chapter Text

Will had been staring at the same line on the page for five whole minutes. The distant scratching of pencils echoed around the mostly-empty study hall. Even on a gloomy winter’s day, people in California preferred being outside. 

Will picked up his books with a sigh, wondering how El was doing. She especially hated Monday afternoons; he could tell by the way a small frown had always settled on her brow when they hitched a ride home with Argyle. 

Will wandered through the school, past the huge windows overlooking the front courtyard. There were even Valentine’s banners strung up there, glimmers of pink between the trees. 

He found himself right at the back of campus, a quiet corner with a clear view of the sports field and the huge sky. He leant back against the rough concrete of the library building, squinting into the winter sun as he watched the jocks shoving and kicking each other. His eyes trailed over the tight jerseys that clung to their bodies - burgundy and gold, the colours of Lenora Hills High.

One guy had a large smear of mud right across his ass, and Will watched as his teammate aimed a hard slap at it. The boy roared and tackled his friend, and they fell to the ground in a scrum, wrestling for a while before the boy got up and roughly wiped the mud off his ass with a grin.

Will watched all this from his perch on the wall. Then he looked away, re-crossing his legs and reading the same line in his textbook for the fifteenth time. 

On his way home at the end of the day, a girl shoved a pastel pink flyer into Will’s hands. 

Sally’s V-Day Get Together! was written in curling felt tip, the ink blurry where it had been photocopied so many times. There were hundreds of little hearts adorning the piece of paper.

‘I’m having a Valentine’s get together,’ explained Sally, somewhat unnecessarily. 

The girls behind her giggled, whispering to each other with their eyes alight. 

Will’s cheeks burned, his clothes feeling much too tight all of a sudden, even though he’d only bought them brand new a few weeks ago. 

‘Oh, er…’ Will stammered, his eyes catching on the words ‘midnight’ and ‘bottle’. 

Sally placed her hand gently on his arm. 

‘My parents are out of town, so… it’s going to be wild.’ She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘Be cool if you could be there.’

Then she flounced back to her friends, leaving a pink cloud of perfume in her wake. 

Will wandered through the swarming crowds, reading and re-reading the flyer, only realising he’d taken a wrong turn when he looked up to find a completely empty corridor. The whirring hum of the janitor’s floor cleaner could be heard somewhere in the distance.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Will muttered, hurrying down halls that were already dark. Argyle liked to honk his horn embarrassingly loudly if he or El were late. It was the only thing he wasn’t chill about. 

‘Come on, vamonos brochachos, places to go, people to see!’ 

‘Pies to surf’, Will and El would finish, rolling their eyes at each other. 

‘That’s it my dudes, and you know you couldn’t live without those tasty pies…’

Will chuckled to himself as he rounded a corner, skidding on the waxy floors. If someone had told him what his life would be like six months ago, he wouldn’t have believed them.

But he supposed nothing surprised him anymore, after all they’d been through.

Ahead, a classroom door was propped open, golden light spilling out into the corridor. 

Will approached, his heart rate picking up as he peered timidly into the room. 

It was an art room, one he hadn’t seen before. Inside, people were milling around, loading canvases onto easels and unravelling pouches of paintbrushes, settling themselves onto stools.

And in the middle of the room, perched on a podium draped in velvet, was a naked man. 

Will gaped. The man was just standing there, completely naked, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

It was the man from the salon. 

Will stared as the man stretched his neck, flexing his arms above his head like he was about to run a relay. Then he stepped higher up the podium, bending one leg and raising his arm in an elegant, practised position. 

Will felt dizzy. It was like he’d stepped through some kind of portal into a dreamscape, school-but-not-school. Like when he was a child, peering into his bedroom mirror and pretending he lived in the house on the other side, the one that was a perfect reflection of his own. 

The same but not the same. 

‘Sorry, could you close the door?’ 

Will looked up to find that another tall, dark-haired man had appeared in front of him. He was wearing an expression that was firm but not unfriendly, his crisp blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar. 

He seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Will couldn’t provide one.

‘Are you coming in?’ the teacher asked, his voice softening a little. ‘We’re just about to start.’

Will still didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes roved over the lithe body of the man standing on the podium. He looked so different without his jacket. Without… well, without anything on. There was an electricity about him, something vital and irresistible that was impossible to look away from.

How old was he? Thirties? Forties? Will’s mind grappled, trying to hook on to something as he gazed at the man’s bony knuckles and knobbly knees, the surprising little fold of skin on his waist where he had contorted into position. His dark hair fell past his jaw, just like Will remembered, and there was even more hair on his legs; dark, messy, fuzzy hair, thickening unexpectedly as it extended up his thighs… 

Will swallowed.

‘Have you got your form?’ came the teacher's voice.

‘Form?’ Will managed, fighting the urge to glance at the naked man again. 

‘I’ll need your form if this is your first time here,’ the teacher continued. ‘Didn’t they tell you that in the office? It’s for the model’s safety. And yours, of course,’ he added warmly.

Model. Not ‘naked man’. 

‘I… I don’t…’

Will could see the other students starting to crane their necks, peering round their easels. Heat swarmed up his neck. 

A cutting voice came from somewhere in the room. 

‘He’s a freshman.’ 

The teacher turned back to Will, one eyebrow disappearing under his fringe. 

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Life Drawing is for AP Art students only.’ 

The teacher swept his fringe out of his eyes, and Will watched as it flopped back across his forehead. He, too, seemed oddly familiar.

‘Upperclassmen only,’ the teacher continued, starting to close the door with an apologetic smile. ‘If you come back in a few years, I’m sure we’d be happy to have you.’ 

He sounded so sincere that Will felt sure he really, truly was sorry that Will couldn’t join them. 

‘AP Art…’ came the teacher’s fading voice as Will was shunted back into the corridor. ‘Thursday evenings… sign up at the front desk and I’ll see you in a few years… if we still have the funding by then!’

The teacher chuckled and closed the door, drawing the blind down over the window.

Will stood in mortified silence as the image of the naked man seared itself into his brain, overlaid by the tiny metal grille of the window in front of his nose. 

Suddenly, the whirring hum of the janitor’s cleaner appeared around the corner and Will shrank hastily backwards.

The janitor swept by, completely ignoring him.

Will sighed and started back down the corridor when he noticed the piece of paper tacked to the classroom door:

Life Drawing in progress 4-5pm

(Mr Wheelwright)

Upperclassmen only - please do not disturb 

‘No running!’ came the half-hearted shout of the receptionist as Will tore out of the school doors and across the courtyard, his backpack bouncing. He’d practically been able to hear the honk of Argyle’s horn from the other side of campus.

‘Dude, we’ve been here for like half an hour!’ grumbled Jonathan as Argyle continued to bash the horn over and over with the heel of his hand, his cartoonish frown dissolving into a smirk when Will settled himself in the back. 

Will felt a euphoric pang of gratitude for the grimy pizza van, hit suddenly with a craving for high-carb snacks and soda. 

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, trying to wipe the grin off his face. 

El narrowed her eyes at him.

‘Who wants pizza?’ Will said loudly before she could ask questions. 

His head spun as they bumped away, making their customary stop at Surfer Boy en route home. 

Mr Wheelwright. 

The naked man. 

The naked model.

Life drawing class! 

Mr Wheelwright!

That night, Will’s dreams swirled with scenes from the party’s old DnD campaigns, rolling hills and misty moors, but now they were filled with statuesque men standing tall and proud and completely naked. 

Before long, these men turned - miraculously - into Mike.

Mike gazing at him intensely from a cliff edge, the wind sweeping his long hair into willowing tangles. Mike stepping up onto a rocky outcrop which turned into a dais draped with silks. Mike bending one knee in a pose so regal that he looked more like royalty than a mere knight. Mike pulling the heavy cape off his shoulders and letting it slide to the ground, revealing nothing underneath but an expanse of pale, creamy skin, and Will’s gaze wandered down, down, down over Mike’s taut chest and stomach, down between his legs where the hair grew thick and dark...

But just as Will moved closer, he woke up.

Chapter Text

‘It’s called Pygmalion. By Bernard Shaw.’

The boy thrust a bright red flyer into Will’s hands. He pronounced Bernard like ‘Ber-NARD’, putting particular emphasis on the name as if it was supposed to mean something to Will. ‘You’ve seen the film with Audrey Hepburn, right?’

‘I…’ began Will, but the boy just kept talking.

‘Well, the movie was based on this play, which was actually originally based on a Greek myth from, like, hundreds of years ago, where - get this - an artist falls in love with his own sculpture.’ The boy paused to adjust his beret, as if for dramatic effect. ‘Lenora High has never performed a piece by Bernard Shaw before,’ he continued, ‘We’re making history.’ 

His voice was a strange drawl that contrasted the fire in his eyes. Will realised he didn’t even know the boy’s name, even though they were in the same History class; he always held the door open for Will on his way in. 

But before Will could say anything, the boy had turned away into the sea of students, thrusting more bright red flyers into people’s hands. 

‘It’s Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw,’ Will heard him say as he disappeared into the crowd, ‘About a man who falls in love with his muse… it’ll be like nothing Lenora has ever seen before…’

Pygmalion. The word bounced around in Will’s head all day. 

At lunchtime, El kept looking at him oddly, as if there was something she wanted to say.   

When Will’s free period finally came, he abandoned his perch by the back field and headed to the library instead.

It was even emptier than the study hall. He wondered whether most people in California just snuck home instead of studying. He’d have to ask Max if they ever went back to Hawkins.

Will meandered through the shelves, past math and science and history, pretending that he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. 

The theatre section was in the corner, right by the large windows that overlooked the field.

There was no ‘Pygmalion’ on the shelves. 

Will sighed. Maybe the theatre dept was using every copy.

He turned to gaze out of the windows. The jocks were warming up for football, little glimmers of burgundy and gold in the distance. It was odd - from here they looked so different, so vulnerable and small - nothing like the hulking forms that swarmed through the corridors. 

Will imagined drawing them, the ways their bodies contorted with movement mid-leap. As he watched, one of the boys he’d seen the other day, the one with mud on his ass, turned towards him, and suddenly his face transformed into Mike’s. 

Will stared. 

Mike, out there on the football pitch, wearing a red and gold Lenora Hills Eagles jersey. 

It’s a play about a man who fell in love with his muse.

Someone in the library coughed, and Will startled. Glancing around, he noticed the little sign for the art section over in the far corner of the room. 

Why hadn’t he thought of it before? 

There were so many books in the art section - huge monographs almost as big as Will’s torso, thick volumes with swirling colours and loud writing, much nicer than anything he’d ever seen in Hawkins library. 

Will pulled a rich blue book off the shelf. It had tiny text embossed on the rough canvas cover, just the artist’s name and nothing else. He flipped it open and came face to face with a solid block of deep blue. 

It was just like the front cover; just a plain rectangle of colour, nothing else. 

Will flipped the page. The same thing. 

Painting after painting, canvas after canvas, endless rectangles in a deep rich blue so vivid Will could almost taste it. He recognised the colour from his paint box at home - ultramarine - but apparently this artist had invented a new pigment all his own and named it after himself.

Will stared in awe at the black and white portrait on the back page. He looked like a completely normal man except for his wild eyes and the paint covering his forearms.

Will smiled, belly thrumming with excitement. This was considered art? Just plain blocks of colour? He couldn’t imagine anything like this going down well in Hawkins. 

He closed the book, gently caressing the cover before placing it back on the shelf. 

Strange. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. 

Will was so engrossed that he didn’t even notice the end-of-day bell until the tired-looking librarian poked her head around the corner and found him curled on the floor, surrounded by piles of open books. 

‘Closing time,’ she said in a flat monotone. 

Will still wasn’t used to the California twang, present even in the most bored-sounding of school staff.

‘Oh, actually,’ the librarian added, eyeing the pile, ‘Maybe not that one.’

She pointed to a large book laid open on a picture of a classical sculpture. 

Will flushed and hurried to close the page.

‘It’s ok… I was finished anyway,’ he muttered, feeling like an animal caught in a trap. He hurriedly gathered his things, and the librarian drifted away like the world’s weariest ghost. 

Will was just placing the last book back on the shelf when an idea shimmered its way into his mind. His belly throbbed with danger and possibility as his hand rested, frozen, on the spine. 

It was the same book the librarian had pointed to; the one students weren’t allowed to take out. 

No one was around; Will could tell. The library had completely emptied out, the few students studying there having peeled out into the lukewarm winter sun. 

Instead of sliding the book back into place, Will began to pull it out.

Just slowly at first, as a test, to see how he felt; whether he was actually going to do this. But the book slid so easily into his hands that it was as though it was an accomplice in his plan. 

He stood staring at the front cover, feeling its energy, the way it was so full of beautiful possibilities. It was bulky, sure, but his backpack wasn’t too full today. 

Will took a deep breath, heart hammering, then quickly dropped to the floor, unzipped his bag, and slipped the book inside. 

He offered an innocent smile to the librarian on his way out, one that he hoped gave the air of ‘rule-abiding student’. She smiled thinly back, her expression falling back into fatigue as soon as she looked away. 

She wouldn’t care, Will convinced himself. She wouldn’t even notice the book was gone. And he’d bring it right back as soon as he was finished. 

Will sat cross-legged on his carpet, the last slice of pepperoni pizza slowly welding itself to his plate, and stared at the unpainted patch in the middle of his canvas.

Since he’d imagined Mike with the jocks on the field, terrible questions had plagued Will’s mind. Questions he didn’t want to think about. 

He reached forward and peeled open the art book gingerly, as if it could bite him, and flipped to his favourite page. He already had a favourite - the one that had lain open at school when he’d been caught by the librarian, the same page he’d thought about all the way home, staring out at the barren hills and bumping into the dirty parking lot of Surfer Boy Pizza for the second day in a row. 

A full-colour picture of a classical sculpture filled the page, creamy-white marble cracked all over. The book described it as a ‘nude’, and Will ran a finger over the outlines of the man’s naked body; the curve of his calf, the taut muscles across his stomach, the particular curl of his hair. 

At the bottom of the page, in tiny print, it read:

‘David’

Michelangelo

Completed 1504

Displayed at the Galleria d’Accademia, Florence, Italy

Will mouthed the artist’s name. Michelangelo. Michael-angelo. 

Will’s heart fluttered and he flipped to the front of the book to start from the very beginning, making his way through all the art movements in history.

There were many depictions of the biblical David, but even the ones from the Baroque period, which Will discovered meant ‘irregularly-shaped’, were hyper-masculine and conventionally handsome. They were like the superheroes from his comics, Greek Gods flinging rocks in slingshots or squashing Goliath’s head grotesquely into the ground with their feet. Will supposed it made sense that anyone worth immortalising in stone was magnificent, but there was something cruel about these versions of David. They reminded him of every bully he’d ever had. 

And they were nothing like Michelangelo’s David, with his big eyes and boyish hair, his trim physique and calm strength. 

Will faltered when he reached the Romanticism section, thinking of the streamers fluttering in the salon and the pink Valentine’s Day mailboxes that had sprung up all around school - mailboxes that girls like Sally hung around, giggling. 

But according to the book, ‘romantic’ didn’t mean swirly pink love letters; it meant otherworldly and wild. The Romantic paintings were full of rolling mountains and valleys engulfed in mist, just like the visions he’d always had of their DnD campaigns. 

Will’s heart raced. He folded down the corner of the page before remembering the book wasn’t his, and hastily smoothed it out again. 

The art got weirder as he neared the end of the book, murky paintings of injured soldiers stumbling back from war and jagged technicolour portraits where faces melted off skulls like wax. Will stared at a piece called ‘The Scream’ for a solid minute before something started to flicker in the back of his neck, and he slammed the book shut.

He took a bite of cold pizza and grimaced, pushing the plate away. 

He looked up at his own painting. 

There was Lucas, so gallant on his horse, and Dustin with his axe. They were both so full of life. So baroque. 

Then there was his own figure, wielding his magic staff, timid even in painted form. What art movement did he belong to?

But worst of all was the white patch of nothingness right in the middle of the canvas, the space where Mike should have been. Will had drawn and erased his outline so many times that the canvas had started to bobble. 

Where did Mike belong? He didn’t look like the statues in the art books. He didn’t look like the jocks on the football field, the ones whose aftershave lingered on Will’s jacket for hours afterward when they brushed past him in the halls. And Mike didn’t look like the boys on TV either, or the ones on the billboards and in storefronts downtown. 

Mike was…

Well, he was a nerd. Just like Will. 

Was this why he hadn’t been able to paint Mike? Was it because Mike wasn’t what might be considered conventionally handsome?

Will remembered all the times Mike had accidentally revealed how much he disliked his own appearance. He’d screw up his nose in the mirror when he thought no one was looking, or make mean jokes about his own clothes, laughing off the comments from bullies at school like they didn’t affect him. 

But Will always knew. 

Will was struck with a horrible souring in his belly. He’d never really questioned why he liked the way Mike looked before. He was used to feeling ashamed of liking Mike, but usually it was just because Mike was a boy…  

‘TELL ME HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO LIVE WITHOUTTTT YOUUUUUU!’

Will jerked upright as thunderous footsteps echoed on the stairs above his bedroom. El leapt down into the living room, singing at the top of her lungs. The muffled cackle of their mom’s laughter echoed through the door.

Will‘s heart thumped as he flipped back to the page depicting Michelangelo’s David. 

He was so beautiful. And he was strong, but not in the way the football jocks on the school field were strong. His was a quiet strength, coiled beneath the surface. Somehow, David looked both vulnerable and impenetrable. Will felt like he already knew him, as though they’d had a conversation.

His heart thumped harder as he read the accompanying info. He was right: David was ‘a masterpiece of Renaissance sculpture notable for the artist’s choice to depict the moment before David’s battle with Goliath, instead of the victorious aftermath. His strength is one of cunning and cleverness rather than brute force.’ 

The moment before the battle. When the time was right, David would cast the Goliath down.

Will liked that. 

He also liked David ’s penis. It was small. Very small. There was a small tuft of hair above it, the curls carved with such delicate precision that it seemed as though the artist must have created them without blushing at all. 

Will ran his finger over it, feeling the thrill of doing something you shouldn’t be doing. 

He blushed even harder when the accompanying text actually explained why David had such a small penis. 

During the Renaissance, meaning ‘rebirth’, artists drew inspiration from the fundamentals of classical antiquity. Though physical strength and size were well respected by the Ancient Greeks and Romans, small genitalia was considered a sign of intellectual acuity. Comparably, the barbarians were depicted with comically engorged members to signify their base and earthly desires, their lack of self control and intellectual enlightenment. 

Will laughed out loud at the irony of it all, at the strange and incomprehensible ways human nature changed over time. It reminded him of what Jon had said once, about letting yourself like things. About being a freak.

You shouldn’t like things because you feel like you’re supposed to. 

Will slumped to the carpet next to his bed, the bittersweet memory washing over him: Jon turning the volume knob up on The Clash as their mom raged down the telephone. 

How long had it been since he and Jon had even had a real conversation? 

His head lolled to the side and he squinted into the dusty darkness beneath his bed, spotting an old shoebox shoved right to the back.

It was a box of Jon’s old music magazines, the ones he’d given to Will when they left Hawkins. Will had completely forgotten they were there. 

And on top of the box, a cassette: a The Cure compilation Jon had found while raiding the Indianapolis record stores during their last week in Hawkins. 

Will slotted the cassette into his stereo and began leafing through the magazines. He couldn’t focus on the words; all he saw were pages and pages of men with wild hair and spindly limbs, roaring into microphones and smirking into the camera. 

Will started to grin. He pulled the art book towards him, open on the picture of David, and laid the magazine next to it. His heart picked up as the music swelled. 

Maybe Mike wasn’t classically handsome, but Will could see him in every single thing he’d ever loved.

Will spent the rest of the evening lying on his bedroom floor, making sketches of all the different Davids and musicians from the magazines. He turned up the music and drew until his hand ached, capturing all the parts that reminded him most of Mike; the steady determination and coiled strength, the sweeping hair and fierce gaze, the weird and wonderful beauty. 

When his body ached and his eyes started to sting, he gathered up his things, noticing a brightly coloured centrefold in the middle of one of the magazines. 

It was a pullout poster of The Cure’s Boys Don’t Cry - the very same compilation he’d been playing all night. 

Will tugged the poster carefully from the staples and pasted it on his wall, right behind his easel. 

He couldn’t stop grinning as he brushed his teeth to get ready for bed. Tomorrow, he would finally paint Mike.

Chapter Text

Will tried not to glance at his naked body in the misty mirror as he climbed out of the shower the next morning. He weighed his dick in his hand, then turned to look at his ass, wondering if it wasn’t only large penises that were considered a sign of low intelligence in classical art. 

Will heard Sally on the way out of homeroom, trilling loudly about her party on Friday. He quickly changed direction, almost walking straight into one of the football players. He muttered an apology and hurried away, taking the long route to History. 

The boy who’d handed out the Pygmalion flyers held the door open for him, but this time, he gazed a little more intensely at Will than usual. 

Will smiled and muttered a sheepish ‘Thanks’ as he sped inside. 

Will sat in his and El’s usual lunch spot under the courtyard trees. The air was chilly, the sky gloomy and bland. He’d been distracted all day, itching to get home and paint. 

Why wasn’t there any mention of butts in the art book? There wasn’t even a picture of David from behind, which Will thought was extremely stupid, considering sculptures were three-dimensional artworks designed to be viewed from all angles. 

What did David ’s ass look like? Was it small and perky, like his prick? 

Or was it big, like…

‘What is Pie-ga-ma-lion?’

Will choked on his sandwich as El flopped down beside him, holding a bright red flyer. 

Her eyes were wide and questioning as she bit into her own sandwich. Will could smell the cucumber, and it made his stomach roll.

‘Uh… it’s a… person,’ he answered. ‘It’s a play about a person. A man. He was, er, an artist…’

‘Like you,’ said El simply, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Will’s face heated. ‘Yeah.’ He huffed a little laugh. ‘Yeah, and, er, this artist, he, uh, he falls in love with… his…’ 

Will trailed off. 

El looked at him curiously. 

‘He fell in love with the sculpture he was carving,’ Will finished, affecting an air of resigned nonchalance. 

El frowned, chewing her sandwich. 

‘How?’ she eventually asked.

Will’s heart hammered. Leave it to El to ask the simplest yet most complicated questions. 

Will shrugged and turned back to his own sandwich.

‘I guess we’ll have to see the play,’ he said.

He could feel El looking at him, but she said nothing else.

They didn’t get pizza after school this time. Joyce was going to make a casserole.

But something had gone wrong with her job and she was on the phone all night trying to sort it out, so the casserole she was planning to make stayed thoroughly un-made. Jon headed out saying he would pick up a pizza with Argyle, but they didn’t come home until well after Will had gone to bed. Will and El picked at bits of salad and sandwich meat from the fridge instead, spending the evening slumped on the sofa eating candy and watching trash TV. 

Will didn’t paint. After his conversation with El, he’d taken one look at his easel and turned away, feeling sick. 

That night, he dreamed of Mike again. He was dressed in a Lenora football jersey, red and gold, being playfully pushed and shoved around by the other boys on the field like he was one of them. 

But then they started shoving him harder, pushing him down into the torn grass, treading on him, kicking him. Mike looked up at him, his expression forlorn and helpless, as though it was somehow Will’s fault this was happening to him. 

Will woke up in a sweat, only to fall back into more fitful dreams - dreams that spiralled between horror and beauty. He woke up the next morning twisted in his bedsheets and hard as rock, the shame creeping up his spine and refusing to be washed away in the shower.

Mike had been naked in his dreams again. But this time, he hadn’t really looked anything like David. 

He’d looked more like the barbarians.

Chapter Text

Will felt tears stinging his eyes as he lay on his bed, mindlessly riffling through the art book and shoving Reese’s Pieces into his mouth. 

Maybe it was the fact that he’d barely slept all week. 

Or maybe it was the stolen library book he still hadn’t returned. He vaguely worried that he was ruining it, having flipped through it so many times. Would the librarian notice? Did she scour every book students returned before re-shelving them, searching for signs of wrongdoing? Biscuit crumbs and pen marks, crumpled corners or vague, incriminating stains? 

Or maybe it was the onslaught of Valentine’s-themed flyers that he hadn’t been able to escape. Today’s was from a greasy-looking slacker who had lumbered up to him in the hall, slurring something about a bonfire down by the lake as he shoved a torn piece of paper into Will’s hand. 

‘Which lake?’ Will had asked, knowing he wouldn’t go anyway. 

‘You know,’ the guy said, winking complicitly from underneath his long fringe. ‘The lake.’

Will stared at the photograph of David ’s statue. He felt a kinship with it, one that made him feel lonely in a completely new way, because David had been made hundreds of years ago, and nobody liked quiet strength and small penises anymore; they liked huge, muscly football players and cheesy love mail and getting drunk down by the lake, and anyway David wasn’t even a real person so why did any of it matter? He wasn’t someone who had lived once upon a time and was now immortalised in stone. 

He was just a character from a story. 

That’s what his mom used to call the bible when he was younger. Ssh, she’d whisper, as though confiding a secret that was just between them two, and it had made Will wonder whether Mike’s mom whispered the same things to him when she tucked him in at night, even though he knew Mike and his family went to church every Sunday morning. Mike had never talked about it much, but Will knew he didn’t really like it. He said it was boring. 

Will closed the art book and lay down, using it as a pillow. It was sharp against his cheek, but he couldn’t find the energy to move. 

At the back of his mind, he knew something was wrong. That it had been wrong since last summer. This wasn’t just a spat. Mike would never have let it go on this long if it was. And he’d already sort of apologised for their argument, back when he helped Will pack up boxes at their old house in Hawkins. 

But then the calls Mike promised just stopped coming. 

When was the last time they’d even talked? Halloween? Mike had sounded sort of sheepish when they spoke on the phone - Will remembered how his breath had come all fast and fuzzy down the line, like Mike was puffed out even though he said he was just lying on the basement couch. They’d talked so late into the night that Will could barely keep his eyes open, and Mike had seen right through his stifled yawn, telling Will softly that they should actually say goodnight for real this time. 

Will had felt so happy for a week afterwards that he couldn’t sleep. Hearing Mike’s voice like that, so soft in his ear, had almost been enough to calm the night terrors that always came back when November rolled around. And it had almost been enough to stop the churning in his belly every time those stories appeared on the evening news, too. Stark images of hospital rooms and sharp words spoken with disgust by TV anchors, words like virus and protest and endemic. 

None of it had mattered, because soon it would be Christmas, and Mike was coming to stay.

Until he wasn’t.

Will’s mom had found him slumped on the sofa on Thanksgiving weekend, staring blankly at the muted parade on the TV. 

She placed a gentle hand on his head.

‘Hey,’ she said, voice low and soothing, ‘Why don’t we go back to the art store next week, huh? You can show me which easel was your favourite. It was going to be a surprise, but I wouldn’t want to get the wrong one for our first Christmas in California.’

Will didn’t reply. A stone had been making its slow, excruciating way to the bottom of his stomach since Mike hung up the phone an hour earlier. 

‘And how about those paints? ’ his mom continued softly, ‘You remember those ones you liked, sweetie, with the special reds?’

She was being too careful. It made Will want to smash something. 

Instead, he sat up and let her wrap him in a hug. But even the hug felt strange, because he was getting so much taller than her. 

Everything was changing.

Will sat up on his bed, vaguely noting the smear of grease his cheek had left on the glossy cover of the art book. He flipped to his favourite page again - Michelangelo’s David.  

Panic rose in his chest when he couldn’t find it. 

He went through the whole Renaissance section and then checked the contents, but it was like David had disappeared off the pages into oblivion, replaced by nothing but hideous faces and abstract bodies writhing in agony. 

Will flipped through the book manically, landing on the paintings of the war soldiers. 

One was a formal-looking portrait, a solitary soldier leaning limp against his cane with one pant leg hanging hollow just below his hip. He was blind in one eye, his head encased in bandages that covered his ear and jaw. 

But most upsetting of all was the look in his remaining eye: a devastating mix of resentful and defiant. 

It seemed to Will, at that moment, that the painting was of Mike - another version of Mike, one who had not been so lucky. 

Will felt it coming on: the all-encompassing dread that flattened the entire world. Heat scalded his lungs as he drew breath, flooded with the scooped-out feeling that someone was climbing inside his body, his mind. 

Suffocating darkness - blood - screams - flashing lights and roiling clouds, and in the middle of it all… 

Mike.

No, Will told himself, No. Mike is in Hawkins. He’s safe. He’s safe. It’s over. 

But what if it wasn’t? 

What if Mike wasn’t ok?

Will’s fingers curled into his clammy palms as he clutched the edges of the art book.  

Mike could have gotten desperately ill. He could be vomiting his guts up right now. 

Will pictured him, sallow and sweating as he slumped against the toilet bowl.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

Or he could have been in a car crash. People died in car crashes all the time. 

Will wrenched open his eyes, looking desperately around his room to ground himself.

My dinosaur figurine. Mom bought it for me for Christmas, and Mike got one that year, too…

The image of Mike was as clear as day, lying unseeingly in an upturned car, engulfed in rippling flames. 

Will cast around his room, spinning on the bedspread. 

My Jaws poster. I’ve had it since I was eight. It’s slightly torn at the edges, but I don’t mind that. 

The car crash turned into a murky lake, Mike splashing around and spouting water out of his mouth with a grin.

Or he could have gone down to the lake and drowned. The lake in Hawkins, where people go to…

Will stared at his Jaws poster in horror as Mike was slowly sucked beneath the murky surface of the lake. 

He reached for his nightstand instead.

My stuffed tiger. There’s another one on my dresser. I’m probably too old for stuffed animals, but I can’t throw them away.

In his mind, Will’s hands grappled beneath the surface of the lake, searching for Mike.

He started hyperventilating, hot tears seeping stickily under his collar as he crawled off his bed and on to the floor. 

‘Paints… my paintbox… my easel…’ he muttered.

He began crawling across the floor towards his painting.

‘The smell of new pencils… my favourite pen… the crayons Lucas gave me for Christmas that time…’

Lucas’s grin popped into his mind, warm and familiar as he slapped Will on the back. Happy Christmas, dude!

Will felt the clouds peel back a little.

‘The Christmas after… the extra comic Dustin gave me when I won his X-Men 134…’

He’d reached his closet. He slumped against the doorframe. 

‘Playing DnD in Mike’s basement… finishing the campaign… I got an Atari…’ 

It had been a particularly beautiful Christmas that year. Snow swirled outside the window, and it was so pretty that it felt like a gift just for Will after all he’d been through. They played in Mike’s basement for longer than they’d ever been allowed before, and Will remembered Mike’s grin, the way it had lit up the whole room, brighter than any Christmas lights. 

Will tried to hold the memory in his mind, but then Mike’s bright smile morphed into worry as he looked over Will’s shoulder. Suddenly Will felt something sharp collide with his shoulder, and he heard Mike’s voice screaming as Troy shoved him against the lockers.

Leave him alone! Go away! Leave him alone!

Mike’s voice cracked and broke in that way it always did when he shouted at bullies, and Will’s voice cracked too, as he cried out into the silence of his bedroom. 

‘Leave him alone! Leave me alone! Leave me…’

His cries gave way to sobs, and then… 

Silence.

Will didn’t open his eyes, his face pressed to the rough carpet as a new image floated into his mind. 

Light glimmering, watery and pale, and Mike walking just ahead. The ground was loose under their feet, stones and pebbles, and soon they came upon a great hulking rock. 

Will’s heart started to beat very fast. He knew what was beyond the edge of the cliff.

But Mike just kept walking. 

Will tried to call him, but nothing came out. 

Mike stopped right at the edge, and he looked so small, shoulders hunched in his forest-green jacket, the one Will had always secretly loved.

When Mike turned to look at him, his face was so young, and so tired.

‘It’s a long way down,’ he said. 

They’d never spoken about the quarry. Not properly. 

Will couldn’t move. He was paralysed.

Mike toed at the edge of the cliff with his dirty sneaker, loose gravel tumbling into the depths below.

‘Mike, don’t!’ Will managed, but as soon as his fingers grazed Mike’s jacket, Mike slipped over the edge, and was gone.

Will gasped awake.

He sat up, and the landscape of his Lenora bedroom swam into view: bed, poster, easel.

The last of the light had faded. The house was quiet.

Will crawled over to where the art book lay on his pillow, still resolutely shut. 

He flipped it open, searching for Michelangelo’s David. 

There it was, just as he remembered: the page intact, dog-eared in the corner where he’d folded it down.

Terrified, he turned slowly to the paintings of the war soldiers.

None of them had Mike’s face. They were just unknown men, dead and long-forgotten.

But as Will looked at the photo of the soldier with bandages over one eye, he couldn’t help but notice, despite the pain in his eyes, how handsome he was. How beautiful. 

Just like Mike.

Will sat with one hand clutching his chest, breathing slowly in and out.

Mike was beautiful. 

And he had no idea. 

He had no idea that, even though they hadn’t talked in months, he was the only thing that was keeping Will afloat. 

And all this time, Will had been letting him slip away. 

Why had he done that? Why had he let Mike slip away? 

Will’s chest constricted. Outside the door, he heard his mom singing softly as she took the stairs up to bed. 

‘And I don’t wanna know the price I’m gonna pay for dreaming… I need you now, it’s more than I can take…’

That song. None of them could seem to stop singing it. 

The desperate need to hear Mike’s voice swept over Will like a wave. He cracked open his bedroom door.

All the lights were out, but it wouldn’t be too late in Indiana.

Will crept up the stairs to the hall table where the phone sat silent in its cradle, bathed in the thin yellow light that streamed through the front windows.

He froze with his fingers on the cool plastic of the phone when he heard a small giggle from upstairs. 

He crept up to the next landing and poked his head around the corner. Faint lamplight filtered round the edge of El’s door, which sat slightly ajar, as always. Will had tried to close it behind him once, but El had surged forwards and wrenched it back open, her face hard as stone. Will had felt a little scared of her, then. Just for a moment. 

But then her face had softened back into a smile.

A muffled giggle came from El’s room again, low muttering and whispering.

Jon’s bedroom door was shut. Their mom had just gone to bed. 

Will knew who El was talking to. 

He tiptoed back downstairs, a hollowing sensation laying itself into his stomach. At the bottom of the steps, the phone sat watching him from its cradle.

Will turned away, noticing that the Wheeler’s Christmas card had fallen off the mantelpiece. It was lying on the rug, illuminated by a weak beam of streetlight coming through the front windows.

Will picked up the card. The rich red of Mike’s Christmas sweater stood out, even in the dark of night. 

He slipped back to his room and shut the door quietly behind him. 

He picked up the sketches he’d made that week, full of strong, lithe bodies, and taped them to the edge of his easel along with the Christmas card.

Mike stared back at him, defiant and beautiful. 

Will picked up his pencil, and began. 

The lines came easily, his wrist flitting and flicking over the canvas as if by some divine magic. He drew the strong sweep of Mike’s stance and his arm holding the sword aloft, giving him all the flair of a Baroque statue and all the coiled restraint of Michelangelo. Tears filled his eyes as he laid down great swathes of colour in the backdrop, blurring over the trees he’d already painted with mist to make everything a little more mysterious - a little more romantic - and he felt as though it wasn’t even him painting, but rather that he was some kind of conduit for the art as it travelled out of the ether and through his paintbrush. 

He gave Lucas a brighter blue for his coat of arms and added more texture to Dustin’s armour. 

He gave Mike bold black edges to make him stand out from the backdrop, grinning to himself as he cracked open the little plastic box of specially-mixed paint he’d created for Mike’s hair. He’d perfected the shade after weeks of testing almost every tube of brown from the store, none of which captured Mike’s exact treacle-chocolate colour correctly, and eventually named it Paladin brown, sticking a little handwritten label on the box and storing it safely out of sight.

Will was so excited that he even flipped open the caps of the new red paints he’d been too terrified to try until now, the fancy ones his mom had bought him for Christmas. They all had funny names that none of them could pronounce, and Will repeated them to himself giddily as he squeezed them onto his palette.

Quinacridone red.

Alizarin crimson.

Pyrrole red deep.

Vermilion hue.  

He squeezed tube after tube onto his palette until he forgot which red was which, shading the Thessalhydra with scales that flared like fire. The rich smell of the oils filled his nose as he got lost in a trance, not even realising how late it was until his eyes started to sting.

He adjusted the angle of his desk lamp to paint the final brushstroke; a delicate swoop of white across the corner of Mike’s gleaming silver shield.

He stood back from the easel.

It was Mike, right there on the canvas. 

Will stared and stared. He felt drunk. Or rather, what he imagined it would be like to be drunk. What was this power? Was this how Michelangelo had felt when he chipped David out of the stone? How Pygmalion had fallen in love with his own sculpture? 

Gone was the shame, and instead Will felt a sense of awe - not just at Mike, but of the power of rendering someone in art, capturing them for all to see. 

This is how I see you, Will thought, the words moving him to fresh tears. This is what you are, to me.

His eyes ran over the lines of Mike’s body, his shield and sword and tunic, over the place between his legs that had once made Will tremble to even think about. Will had painted him deftly, his legs extending in perfect form with his weight forward and sword held high as he faced down the mighty Thesselhydra. 

Sir Michael the Bold.

Chapter Text

‘Are you going to Sally’s party tonight?’ El asked loudly, producing a pink flyer from her bag as they passed Angela and her cronies on the way out of school. She’d been exceptionally cheerful all day. 

Will looked at her in puzzlement.

‘Er… no…?’ he said. ‘She asked me, but…’

But El wasn’t listening. Her eyes were on Angela, prancing over to where the boys were standing under a tree. 

Will looked down at the flyer wilting in El’s hands. He thought she’d just been given it on the way out of class - Sally was still handing out flyers, and was honestly starting to sound a little manic, as though she was afraid no one would turn up, so Will figured El had only just received one. 

But when he looked closer, he saw the four neat fold lines across the middle, the way the photocopied ink was already fading. It was as though El had kept it safely tucked in her bag all week. 

‘El…’ he said, but she was already scrunching the flyer up in her fist. She took one look at him, eyes watering, and turned away, hurrying towards the school gates.

‘El! Wait!’

‘No running, please!’ a teacher called as Will shot across the courtyard after her. 

Will glanced up and saw the dark frown of the art teacher from Life Drawing class. Mr Wheelwright. 

His cheeks burned as he slowed down, bumping hard into someone.

‘Woah,’ said a voice, and Will felt a warm, steadying hand on his shoulder.

‘Sorry - I’m…’ Will gasped.

‘Oh, it’s you! Hey.’ 

It was the boy from Will’s History class, the one who gave him the Pygmalion flyer. His face lit up in a smile. 

‘Hey, you coming down to the lake tonight?’

Will noticed he was wearing his black beret again, askew in a way that looked effortless. 

‘It’d be cool to see you there,’ the boy added, and Will was struck with a sudden vision of sitting around a bonfire, watching flames dance in his black-lined eyes. 

‘I…’ said Will, just as Argyle’s horn honked from the curb. ‘Shit, I… I’ve gotta go. I’m sorry.’ 

Will hoped his look of apology was better than his words. He turned and sprinted towards the van, leaving the boy standing alone in the emptying courtyard.

El wouldn’t meet Will’s eye all the way home. In the end he turned to the window and watched as the dry valleys turned into low concrete buildings, then back into tree-lined avenues as they sped through the suburbs.

El perked up over dinner. No one seemed to notice anything was wrong, and Will wasn’t going to ruin everyone’s night by mentioning it. 

He spent the evening in his room, everyone else dispersed to their respective corners of the house. Even his mom didn’t stay on the couch for long, telling everyone she was having a long bath instead. 

Will lay on his bed, trying not to think how different his evening would feel if he somehow went down to the mysterious lake party. He imagined all the dark corners that might be available there, places where couples could sneak off into the shadows to kiss while the bonfire danced high into the night.

Just like the lake in Hawkins.

Will’s eyes fell shut with a sigh, and he let his hand rest warmly on his stomach. He could feel his pulse beating there, a reminder he was alive. 

In his mind, Mike was leaning nonchalantly against the bike racks outside school, his leather jacket gleaming as he squinted into the sun.

What do you think about leaving your bike today? Mike asked, one broad hand spread across the seat of Will’s racer to prevent him taking it out of the rack. He waggled his other hand in front of Will’s face, car keys jangling from one long, willowy finger. 

The vision went on, expanding ever outwards, so real Will couldn’t believe it wasn’t an actual memory. One minute Mike was taking Driver’s Ed classes, then he was whisking Will off to a secluded spot in the woods, turning up the radio as they sat back and watched the sun go down over the lake. Mike pulled endless snacks out of the glove compartment and they bickered over the best flavours, Will’s hand grazing softly against Mike’s as he took the candy from his palm. 

What happened to you? Will asked gently, stroking the little red callouses on Mike’s fingers in a way he would never dare to in real life. 

Oh, yeah. I’ve been practising a lot, said Mike, as if Will should know what he was talking about. 

He turned in the driver’s seat and stared at Will with dark, heavy eyes, and the dream froze. 

It was like Will had pressed pause on a VHS player. He lay still, hand clutched to his stomach, heart pounding. He could taste his own tongue, thick and dry in his mouth. 

Then he pressed play again, and watched as Mike leaned slowly towards him, his hand rising to cup Will’s jaw… 

Will sighed, stroking the skin of his belly where his t-shirt had ridden up, letting the dream play on. It felt almost like it wasn’t coming from his own mind, but like he was truly tapping into some alternative reality somewhere; a world where Mike would want to kiss him. A world where two boys could kiss and it could be ok. They would go on to graduate high school, just like everyone else - Will saw them in their caps and gowns, out on a windblown field, his mom and brother waving manically - then leave home, head to college. 

It all felt so… normal. His dreams weren’t that ambitious - not really.

Just as Will was seriously contemplating why none of this was possible, he remembered how everything had started. 

Slowly, he peeled open his eyes. 

He stared at the ceiling, its little popcorn bumps and ridges. 

Lenora.

California.

El. 

Will swallowed, guilt lapping sourly at his insides as he allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, a world where El wasn’t accidentally hurt by his own feelings. A world where she and Mike weren’t together, where she hadn’t met him in the woods that night. A world where she hadn’t grown up in a lab, but was just a normal girl, living a perfectly normal life. 

A life far away from Hawkins. 

Will shrank into himself, feeling the guilt gnaw at his stomach.

But El was such a part of his life now, it was impossible to imagine her gone. He couldn’t picture it at all.

Yes, you can, a terrible, knowing voice whispered.

Will pressed his lips together, trying to force the tears away. Maybe he’d never really let himself think about this before. Maybe it had been too painful. 

But as he sat up on his bed, he realised the truth of it: he’d brought all of this on himself.

He was the reason El was here. The reason Mike had even met her in the first place. 

Will’s heart clenched at the thought of Mike out in the rainy dark looking for him. His faithful paladin, leading the party.

Except he’d found El first, hadn’t he? 

He’d found her first. 

And now, they were…

Will finally let himself believe it, the tears aching behind his eyes. 

They were in love. 

The fact of it hit Will square in the chest, new and true and terrible. Suddenly none of his fantasies mattered, the dreams where he could kiss Mike by bonfires and drive away from their terrible town. All Will could think about was Mike holding El’s hand, talking to her on the Supercomm, sending her letters. 

Sending her Valentine’s cards. 

Will rolled over and looked at his painting. 

It suddenly seemed childish. Stupid. What was he thinking, making that?

He sat up and stumbled to the door, accidentally tripping over his backpack. The Valentine’s flyers spilled out onto the carpet, a wash of pink and red. 

Sally’s V-Day Get Together! 

Will stared at the tiny doodled hearts that dotted the paper like a rash.

He was shivering. It was an unseasonably warm winter's evening, but he was shivering. 

He pulled the crochet blanket off his bed and wrapped it around himself, then headed to the kitchen. 

There was only one packet of Reese’s left in the cupboard. Will tore it open and shoved a handful in his mouth. 

The phone rang. 

Will froze. His mom hadn’t left any lamps on downstairs, and the hall was bathed in the gloomy acid-yellow light that filtered in through the front windows. 

The phone rang again. 

Will crept across the carpet, feeling like a burglar in his own house. 

He put the Reese’s down on the hall table. The little lights on the phone blinked, rainbow colours flashing like disjointed morse code.

Will stared at them, his heart pounding. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.  

The phone rang again, shrill in the silent house, and he snatched up the receiver.

‘Hello?’ he whispered.

There was a pause, then:

‘Hi,’ came a breathless voice.

Chapter Text

‘Yeah - she’ll be down in a minute.’

That’s what Will had said when he picked up the phone and heard Mike’s voice for the first time in months. 

But he’d been lying. El wasn’t coming downstairs. Will had watched her pad across the top landing towards the bathroom multiple times since he picked up the phone, blissfully ignorant that he was lying swaddled in his crochet blanket at the bottom of the stairs on the phone to her boyfriend, having not moved an inch for the past half an hour.

Well, he’s my best friend, Will reasoned with himself as Mike chatted away. A lump formed in his throat as he remembered their fragmented arguments from the summer before. 

… and for what, so you can swap spit with some stupid girl?  

She said she dumped your ass, that doesn’t sound like a break!

God, he hated how he’d started divvying up ownership of Mike since last winter. He never thought he’d become that kind of person: someone jealous. Just like his father.

But why couldn’t Mike be two things at once? Why couldn’t he be a boyfriend and a best friend? 

Will swallowed. Well…

‘Will?’

Will blinked, coming back to reality. 

‘Yeah, I’m…’ he said, ‘Sorry… I’m… I’m here.’

‘Ok. Cool.’ Mike paused. Will thought he could hear a smile in his voice, but he was probably just imagining that, too. ‘So, uh…’ 

Mike sounded weird all of a sudden, distant and uncertain down the other end of the phone. 

‘Are you ok?’ Will asked, concern propelling his anxiety away.

‘Yeah!’ Mike said quickly.

Silence. 

‘So, is…uh…’ said Will, ‘... is Cerebro broken?’ 

He offered a half-hearted laugh.

‘What?’ asked Mike. ‘Oh, no… no, it’s, uh… I mean, you know… Dustin’s probably gonna be talking to Suzie all night, so…’ 

‘Right, yeah,’ said Will, hating the sourness rearing in his belly. Of course Cerebro would be spoken for tonight. Hence the call. ‘I almost forgot,’ Will continued, ‘Dusty-bun and Suzie-poo are still going strong.’

Mike snorted a laugh, then seemed to place a hand over his mouth. 

Will bit his lip.

‘We shouldn’t laugh,’ came Mike’s voice, full of mirth.

‘I know,’ said Will. ‘It’s sweet, really.’ 

There was another pause where Will realised that he was only half-joking. It was kind of sweet. Sickly, but… nice. Dustin only ever had good things to say about Suzie, and he seemed really, really happy. It made Will feel good whenever they spoke on the phone. There was just something so solid and stable about Dustin. Like you could always rely on him for a laugh or a fun fact.

Will felt a swoop of homesickness, suddenly desperate to climb into the receiver and be magically transported across the country into Mike’s basement.

‘Yeah…’ said Mike, ‘It’s sweet.’ 

There was a quietness to his voice that Will didn’t recognise. His voice sounded deeper, too. Will tried to imagine how it would match his new look, with the long hair growing in and broad shoulders from the Christmas card. 

‘So… Valentine’s, huh?’ said Mike, ‘Any sickening displays of affection going down at Lenora Hills High?’

Will’s head fell back against the wall with a thunk . He thought of the flyers on his bedroom floor, the banners and streamers and the terrifying idea that had been bubbling around in his brain ever since he heard Mike’s breathy voice down the phone.

‘God, it’s awful,’ Will said, trying to sound nonchalant, ‘I keep slipping on heart-shaped confetti when I try to get to math.’ 

Mike barked out a laugh, and the sound felt like a triumph. 

Will went on to describe how the student counsellors had insisted on putting little pink letterboxes all around the school so people could post their ‘love mail’, and that he suspected some of the faculty were using them, too.

‘Jesus,’ said Mike, his voice dripping with contempt. 

‘And I got so many invites to different Valentine’s themed parties.’

‘Oh?’ said Mike, his voice spiking oddly high again. ‘That’s cool.’

‘No - not like, I mean, I’m not going or anything, obviously,’ Will hurried. ‘One of them was just this flyer for the spring play. It’s not until March, but it’s very on-theme for Valentine’s so they’re promoting it now. It’s called Pygmalion.’

‘What-alien?’ Mike asked incredulously, and Will felt like he could burst with the Mike-ness of it all. 

‘Pig-MAY-lee-on. It’s a play about a man who falls in love with a sculpture he’s carved.’ 

In the short pause that followed, Will wondered whether Mike could read everything in the tone of his voice. It seemed impossible that he wouldn’t be able to see through him like an X-ray, all the way to California and through his bedroom walls at the art book still laying open on David ’s sculpted form, the flyers on his floor, the music magazines, the way Mike himself was wielding his gleaming sword right there in the middle of Will’s easel.

‘Pygmalion,’ said Mike quietly. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Me neither,’ said Will. Why were they whispering? ‘But apparently it’s… they’ve never done it before. At Lenora. So… it’s all new for them.’

‘Yeah.’ Mike laughed oddly, a little exhale against the receiver that Will swore he could feel in his ear. ‘Well,’ said Mike, a little louder, ‘Eddie said the real St. Valentine - you know, the patron saint - wasn’t even into love at all, he was just some dude whose name got capitalised on by consumer culture. So it’s all bullshit anyway…’

Will stared into space, wondering if there had been a classical sculpture of St. Valentine in the art book that he’d overlooked. 

‘Hey, so is… er…’ said Mike, ‘Is Pygmalion like… a musical?’

Will laughed out loud and started telling Mike how he’d been listening to the Little Shop of Horrors soundtrack because Jon had found a cassette in a bargain bin at the local record store. 

The more they talked, the more Will got the idea in his head that if he uncoiled the phone cable, it could stretch all the way to his bedroom, and he could close the door and talk to Mike in private for the rest of the night. He could tell him all about the art books he’d been reading, the amazing sculptures made of marble and bronze, his brand new easel and paints. He could even tell him about the Life Drawing class. 

What would Mike think of that?

‘Well,’ Mike said eventually, ‘I’d better go, cause… you know… Mom’s gonna kill me if I…’

He chuckled, a little awkwardly.

Will frowned, but he couldn’t seem to collect his thoughts.

‘Ok,’ he said. ‘Thanks for… you know, calling. This was nice.’

Mike didn’t say anything. 

Will kicked himself. ‘Nice’?!

‘So, does El know you think all that stuff about Valentine’s?’ Will asked quickly to fill the silence.

Mike still didn’t reply.

Will’s head felt fuzzy, the mechanical hum of the phone buzzing in his ears until he started to think the line had gone dead.

But then Mike spoke.

‘What, I can’t call my friend just because it’s Valentine’s Day?’

What a strange feeling it was, to melt even while your heart sank. 

Friend. 

Not best friend. Just friend. 

The qualifier that had always been theirs must have gotten lost somewhere between now and that rainy day last summer. 

Will took a shaky breath, his eyes fixed on the empty mat by the front door. 

‘Sure,’ he said, fiddling with the little loops of the crochet blanket, ‘You can call. You can call me any day.’ 

Mike chuckled again, awkward.

‘Ok, cool,’ he said quietly. 

‘Cool,’ Will replied.

Will tossed and turned. It was no use; there was no way he’d be able to sleep. 

He watched as his bedside clock flipped over from 01:06 to 01:07. 

He sat up and flicked on his lamp. 

He stared at the patch of carpet where Mike would be sleeping in two months' time, when he visited for Spring Break. We’ll make up for Christmas, Mike had said on the phone, We’ll have a whole week to explore Lenora together. He said his mom was already looking at flights.

Will pulled open his nightstand drawer and took out the Wheeler’s Christmas card.

Mike stared up at him moodily, wearing his red holiday sweater. 

Will hadn’t mentioned the painting on the phone. Of course he hadn’t; it was a surprise. And he’d thought he was finished, but now it felt like something was still missing. There was no… what would the art book call it? 

Harmony.  

Will’s attempts to make everything a bit more Romantic had turned it wishy-washy, the greens and blues blending together and leaving the Thesselhydra as one giant lump of misshapen red on the left side of the canvas.

Will peeled out of bed and taped the Christmas card to the easel again. Then he picked up the strangely-named red paints and squeezed them onto his palette. 

It was odd; that colour had meant so many horrible things to him in the past few years, fear and danger and blood and death, but now, all he could think of was the rich red of Mike’s Christmas day sweater. 

Mike never wore red. But it looked so good on him. 

The same, but different. 

Will mixed the reds until they exactly resembled the shade of Mike’s sweater. 

He dipped his paintbrush into the thick pool of paint and held it aloft over Mike’s shield. 

Even if he ruined everything - the painting, even their friendship itself - Mike deserved to know the truth. 

Will’s heart raced.

His heart.

His heart.

Could he do it? Could he really? 

Would it be fair? 

And what would Mike think?

Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains that Will had forgotten to close. He rubbed his eyes and stretched, remembering it was the weekend; he didn’t have to get up. Giddiness swooped in his stomach as he remembered something else, too. 

The night before. The phone call.

He sat up. 

The painting stared at him from across the room. It seemed alive in the late morning sunlight, the shadows and reflections perfectly rendered, the details deep and intricate. 

And most of all, it finally had balance: the rich red of the Thesselhydra was echoed by the small red heart, sitting boldly right in the middle of Mike’s shield.

Will pressed a hand to his own heart, feeling it thump beneath his t-shirt.

He lay back on his pillows, a golden feeling sweeping over him as he closed his eyes. It was going to be a warm day - he could tell. Like spring had come early. Like the day Mike would arrive for Spring Break. 

His birthday.  

Maybe Will could take the painting with him to the airport, wrapped up with string like the art store clerk had shown him, so that Mike could open it whenever he wanted. 

Will pictured himself tying the twine neatly, carrying the painting safely to the airport. Mike would appear through the gate, his new long hair flowing around his face, smiling so wide that Will would be able to see it from right across Arrivals. He'd stride over, wearing something new but familiar, and he’d grin when he saw Will’s new haircut before pulling him into a hug, and Will would make sure it was even better than the hug they’d had when they said goodbye in Hawkins, so tight that Will would feel all of the months of silence collapse into nothingness, and he’d whisper in Mike’s ear and maybe even dare to hold him a little closer than usual, and Mike would squeeze him back, giving Will an extra second or two to feel how much his body had changed. Will would be able to measure how tall Mike had gotten just by how high on his tiptoes he had to stretch up. 

Then they’d smile at each other, and Will would know that all his worries had been for nothing, because he hadn’t lost Mike after all - Mike was standing there, safe and happy, and even though the gift Will had made was his to give rather than receive, the smile on Mike’s face would be the best birthday present he could ever ask for.

Chapter Text

‘Mom, ok, ok, I’m going now… mom…’

Mike’s mom pulled him into one more kiss as he held the bunch of flowers high above their heads, out of reach of being squashed. She was welling up when he finally tore himself away.

Mike wandered through the airport. It felt so much bigger now that he was about to fly on his own. And it felt weird to be getting back on a plane so soon. He’d hated everything about their last vacation, mainly because it had been bang smack in the middle of August, when he’d only had a few precious weeks left before the Byers moved. Why was he wasting time stuck at some stupid resort in Florida? 

But you’ve always loved it here! his mom had said, the confusion on her face making Mike want to throw his slushie in the pool. 

You should be grateful, son, said his dad, chewing on his burger. Plenty of folks would give an arm and a leg to come down here for some sun, sea and sand. 

Jeez, his dad was like a walking commercial. Mike had slunk off to the gift shop instead, flipping through the postcards to find the cheesiest one.

He hadn't ended up sending the postcard he wrote to Will. It became the first in a stack of unsent letters he still had tucked in his desk drawer at home. 

Mike bought a Coke from a crumbling vending machine in a far corner of the departure lounge, because all the cafes were full of smokers, and because he’d never drunk a Coke at 6am before. 

He felt sick as soon as he’d cracked open the can. 

There wasn’t much in the way of ‘beach wear’ at the airport shops. Mike hadn’t really packed anything; none of his vacation clothes fit him anymore. He'd tried to ask Max what kind of things people wore in California, but there hadn’t been a good time. Even in Math, when they’d worked on assignments together, something stopped him whenever he went to broach the subject.

He came upon a little stand selling shirts and sunglasses. The vendor smiled at him, and he pretended to be focusing very hard on a button-down shirt hanging from the rail. It was a bright yellowy-orange, and said ‘S U R F’ on the back.

Mike couldn’t picture Max wearing anything like it, but who knew what California was like? 

Hot, El had said - lots of times. Even in winter, it is so warm here!

Mike bought the shirt, and some sunglasses, too. And some shorts. And a hat. 

The vendor asked where he was going. 

Mike said California, feeling both cool and ridiculous at the same time. 

The vendor raised his eyebrows, then suggested Mike buy some flip flops, too. 

Mike shuffled to the restrooms with all his stuff, almost dropping El’s flowers on his way in. They were already wilting a bit, so he put them in the sink and ran the tap over them, then went into a stall to change. 

He pulled on the shorts and stuffed his jeans into his duffel, ignoring the goose pimples that sprouted all over his newly-exposed legs. 

He checked himself in the mirror before he left.

The shirt didn’t really suit him. He sighed. 

Suddenly a man in an ill-fitting business suit bustled into the bathroom, a sickly-green cast to his face. He ignored Mike and dove straight into a toilet stall. 

Mike snatched up his things and dashed to the door, turning back to quickly grab El’s flowers, which he’d left in the sink. He just managed to escape before the sound of vomiting reached his ears. 

The plane wasn’t any warmer than the airport. The aircon made the hairs on his legs stand on end, and the collar of his new beach shirt was scratching the back of his neck. Somehow, he was both too hot and too cold. 

Mike looked around. Why was no one else wearing shorts? 

At least everyone had colourful clothes on, though; blue jeans and wacky jewellery that looked like something his mom’s friends would wear around the pool in summertime. 

The further they flew from Indiana, the weirder Mike felt. He couldn’t quite believe he was going to see Will and El. 

Will, in California? It didn’t make any sense. It hadn’t made any sense all year. 

A kid screamed a few rows over. The smell of cigarette smoke started drifting down the plane, even though Mike was ages away from the smoking section. The man next to him ordered a glass of whiskey (‘The strongest you’ve got, thank you ma’am’), and when it arrived, it smelled even worse than the Coke. Who drank whiskey at 8am?

Mike turned to the window and closed his eyes.

It was 5am in California. They’d still be asleep. He’d arrive at 12:45pm Central Time. That was 9:45am Pacific Time. 

Mike flicked his fingernails together, fiddling with the velvet-y leaves of the flowers as he did the math over and over in his head. 

Slowly, he fell asleep, the bouquet slipping out of his hands and on to the floor. 

‘Well folks, we have just touched down in sunny Lenora Hills where the local time is 9:47am on Saturday, March 22. As you can see outside it is a beautiful day with temperatures of 68 degrees and light cloud. We ask that you remain seated until the seatbelt sign is off…’

Mike blinked awake, feeling strangely disoriented, like when you’re sick and wake up from a deep sleep before dinnertime. 

‘... behalf of American Airlines, thank you for choosing to fly with us. If you are visiting Lenora Hills, we hope you enjoy your stay, and for those returning, welcome home.’ 

The announcement made Mike feel sad for some reason. Around him, everyone was already itching to get up. He stretched his legs, feeling like he was moving through glue. 

The bright California sunlight streamed through the wide windows that overlooked the airport concourse. Mike kept his new sunglasses on, even though they were still inside. 

Even the air smelled different. Will had been right.

Mike fluffed up the bouquet of flowers. The tag was still intact - not bent or anything. 

Good.

Mike read back his own handwritten message, his heart thumping in his chest, and followed the crowd towards Arrivals.