Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

40 days and I miss you

I’m so high that I lost my mind

It’s the summer I’m dreaming of

40 days and I’m blown away

-

If Mike Wheeler doesn’t get in the car and drive back home, Will Byers will jump off a cliff.

The pinnacle of summer reeks of restlessness and suffocation, and he cannot be outside for more than five minutes. Peaceful as he was an hour ago when he lay in bed listening to Disintegration by The Cure, Mike thought it would be genius to drive to the lake, oblivious to Will’s constant complaints of the heat.

He wore an obnoxious string hat, bursting into Will’s room (well, the Wheelers’ guest room—his family didn’t have a place to stay after the sudden events and move), and went on about Will’s lack of interest in going out these past few days. His complaints muffled the sound of the cassette.

But I never said I would stay to the end
…

He stayed silent for about 2 minutes before he couldn’t listen to him anymore. Annoyed, he released himself from his bed, “Fine, just promise we’ll leave when I say so.”

“I promise,” he grabbed Will’s arm, “now let’s go.”

It was nice at first, letting the water carry him. The heat’s exhaustion became somewhat bearable, and he no longer felt so somber. But he grew uncomfortable as the sun’s flames grew stronger, and he retreated from the water, sitting under a tree with the most shade. He watched Mike flap around in the water—pale, slender arms clashing the surface, spurts of dark hair rising every 4 seconds. He found himself gazing at Mike more often. He thought of him more, as well. Maybe it was the months spent apart or living in the same house that caused this fixation.

However, he also thought about the things Mike kept from him during his time in California. Learning how to swim. Hellfire Club. Even though he mentally forgave him, he was upset that he never heard about Mike’s Dungeons and Dragons excursions directly from him. Dustin brought it up on a tearful afternoon when he recollected his memories of Eddie to Will. He felt devastated by the loss of someone so enthusiastic and dear to Dustin, Lucas, and Mike. Why would Mike keep this from him?

Nevertheless, he never brought up D&D to Mike anymore. Ridiculed by the turnout of that rainy afternoon, he tried not to think about it ever again. But it was so, so, so difficult not to.

And it wasn’t only this that crowded his mind, but also the growing pit in his stomach caused by everything that makes him feel indistinguishable and forgotten, more so that he feels he’s no longer alive, no longer in his body.

Mike couldn’t know about the weight that was tearing his soul apart.

“Will!”

He turns his attention to the boy calling his name.

“I’m going to hold my breath, time me,” slicking his curls back, he held his nose and went under.

One,

…

Two,

…

Three,

How come he has known this boy for an eternity, yet he can’t fathom how Mike can’t seem to realize the loss of life in his eyes? And why, contradicting his hesitation to leave his self-isolation, can’t Will stay apart from Mike regardless?

A flicker of light peeks through the dark green leaves. A cloud cascades down to shade the stretch from him to Mike.

The sound of splashing, “How many seconds?”

Shit, he lost count.

“25,” he blurts.

Groaning, Mike retreats from the water, walks over to him, and sits against the bark, facing him.

He turns away, but senses those dark, glinting eyes staring at him. Not knowing what to do with himself, he lies back with both arms behind his head.

A sharp inhale, “Why don’t you speak to me anymore?”

Now he really doesn’t know what to do.

“I do,” but he says it more in an uncertain tone than a reassured one.

“No, you don’t,” he doesn’t miss a beat, “You’ve been avoiding me and rarely go out anymore. What’s going on, Will?”

A look of guilt consumes his features. He doesn’t know why he’s withdrawing from Mike; he’s his favorite person in the world, but everything around him leaves a bitter feeling because he cannot find happiness in the places he used to.

Will turns to look at him, “Nothing, I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Mike looks defeated. Will could cry.

“Can we go now?”

“Sure,” he forces a smile and gets up.

The drive back home is quiet.

Chapter Text

If I saw something good

I guess I wouldn’t worry

If I saw something good

I guess I wouldn’t care

-

Grief might be the worst feeling in the world.

He feels it everywhere, all the time—though he doesn’t know what exactly it is that he’s grieving. He’s succumbed to a state of despair, disguising his discontent as exhaustion, all of this passing through the eyes of his mother, Jonathan, and his friends. 

Dreams of a 6-year-old boy come to him in tormenting waves, a boy who, regardless of his father’s abuse, still believed he could live a day where he felt nothing but love—no endless ridicule, self-resentment, pitiful gazes. He could draw all he wanted without his father sneering at him. He could play whatever with Mike all day. He could lie in the arms of his mother, rejoicing in his peace and youth. Jonathan could play his music with the pure intent to share with his brother, and not to mask the yells coming from their parents’ room. Someone could tell he was upset and listen to him explain his feelings, and they would comfort him instead of throwing another insult.

Though his mother and brother assure him they are here for him, for whatever he needs, Will can’t help but keep these feelings concealed from them because if they knew, then he would truly circle back to how things were then. This redirection would not only happen in his mind, but in everyone else’s, and he loves his family (and friends) too much to cause them worry, especially for himself.

However, he has begun to catch Mike studying him ever since the day at the lake with a sorrowful expression on his face.

He’s doing it now.

Mike turns away when Will catches him. They were watching Unsolved Mysteries in the living room on opposite ends of the couch, but Will zoned out during an episode he’d already seen and stared at the TV as if in a daze. He should be more cautious about staring off with a blank look on his face, because then people would ask him if he’s alright, and, considering his past experience, they would assume something is wrong within. But he has no control over this, so he’d rather lose the obligation and hope no one notices.

“Are you hungry?” he breaks the silence to avoid questions.

Mike glances over and quickly looks back at the TV, responding, “Yeah, sure.”

They walk over to the kitchen, and Mike grabs two containers of leftovers out of the fridge, holding each in either hand.

“Which are you feeling: spaghetti or mashed potatoes?” 

“Hmmm…I’ll have mashed potatoes.”

A pause.

Mike grins, “Thought you would’ve picked spaghetti because you’re pasta-tively perfect.”

Oh my gosh. 

Will covers his face with both hands and groans, “Never say that again.”

But underneath his hands, a smile grows on his face.

Laughing, Mike grabs two bowls and serves both his and Will’s plates. 

“Did you not like that one? What about ‘life is full of pasta-bilities?’”

It takes all of Will’s strength not to burst out laughing. But then he looks up at Mike, who has a ridiculous grin on his face, and who slowly says, “You’re right, mashed potatoes are more a-peeling.” His voice cracks at the punch line, and they both fall into a burst of laughter. 

Their laughter dies down, overridden by the hum of the microwave. They gaze at each other, the shadows of amusement still visible on their faces, eyes glistening with tears, and they seem to be the only people on earth. 

The microwave’s small beep breaks their contact, and they walk over to the dining table, each with a bowl in their hands. The chair screeches as Will pulls it back to sit across from Mike, who rolls up his slate blue long sleeves and waits for Will to sit. 

“Have you seen Jonathan today?” Mike asks.

“No, why?”

Sitting up a bit straighter, Mike grins, “He told me he was going to a jeweler today…”

He waits for Will’s expression to change.

Nothing.

“What do you mean? What would he be doing there?”

Mike drops his arms to his side and teases, “Will, come on.”

Will stares expectantly.

“What?!”

“I think he’s proposing to Nancy.”

Oh…what?!?!?

You could see his mouth drop from a mile away. Proposing? Why did Jonathan tell Mike and not his own brother? 

Mike nudges his foot under the table, gawking at Will’s frantic look. 

“Wh-When did he tell you?”

He sits back in pure astonishment.

“Last week,” he mumbles, mouth full of food.

He feels a sting of betrayal and a little bit of resentment. “How come he told you before me?” 

“Aww, don’t feel bad. He’ll probably tell you once he gets the ring—”

“Does anyone else know?” Will interrupts.

Mike shrugs, “So, what do you think? Your brother is getting married to my sister.”

Will still feels bitter about his oblivion, but when he glances at Mike, his joyful eyes pull him into a trance, and he forgets all about the bitterness and closes in on the boy in front of him. His loving gaze, the knocking of their feet below, and his smile, which adorns his face. Will could stare at him forever.

“I think it’s beautiful.” 

His smile grows bigger, and so does Will’s.

Giggling, “You do know he asked me to be his best man,” Mike watches the moment the color drains from Will’s skin.

“No, he didn’t.” 

“I’m joking,” he chimes.

Will sighs and kicks Mike’s leg, who is still laughing, “Yeah, you better be.”

They continue eating their lunch, discussing how Jonathan would propose and if he’d already told their parents, bickering when they disagreed with each other. 

“So,” Mike starts, “should we do something this weekend? I feel like we haven’t hung out much and I…I miss it.”

Will wishes he had a mask on because he knows for sure his face is blazing red.

Flustered, “Yeah, sure, um, what do you want to do?”

Swirling his spoon around his bowl, Mike replies, “I don’t know, anything really. What do you want to do?”

He smiles at Will, who feels warmth spreading throughout his senses, burning every inch of his face. He feels the tempo of his heart change so drastically—he falls; he never wants to look away.

Oh God, I’m helpless.

“We could ride around on our bike like we used to…”

Mike scans Will’s sudden change of color, “Cool.”

“Cool,” he gently replies.

In times like these, Will is usually reminded that the joy he feels will soon dissipate, but as he’s in it, he can picture it so clearly; he can see the warmth and colors that saturate every corner—he can see the fondness and intimacy of the moment, everything feels and seems right. He doesn’t want to taint it with the thoughts that already overtake every aspect of his life, so he shares this moment with Mike, thinking of nothing but him, admiring his every move, clinging to every word he says. 

A knowing look appears on Mike. He averts his eyes to the space between them, contemplating how to address something Will really wishes he hadn’t.

Mike clears his throat, “So, I talked to El about…something, well, not just something, it’s important…”

He locks eyes with Will and, very quickly, rambles something incomprehensible.

“What?” Will shuffles his chair closer to the table, listening more intently now.

His breathing grows shallow as he prepares to say, “The painting—why did you lie to me about it?” 

Will’s heart drops to his feet.

He was not expecting El to bring up the painting, especially since the two broke up not long after he gave it to Mike. The painting should have been just a distant memory now, a weak chance of redemption, completely forgotten, and he was also not expecting Mike to bring it up now. 

Mike is waiting for an answer. 

What should he say? That El didn’t commission it? That it was all done by him for Mike alone? That it wasn’t just a painting but a depiction of his feelings? That it’s living proof of the love that’s been living quietly in his heart ever since he laid eyes on Mike? 

He’s panicking now. Mike can’t know how he feels—he’ll never talk to Will again, probably won’t even look at him. He can’t lose Mike, not because of this. 

“What are you talking about?” He finally responds.

“Well, I mean, um, I thanked her for being so thoughtful for asking you to paint it, and she just looked at me weird and didn’t know what I was talking about.” He loses his breath and starts, “So, I told her what you told me, and …”

Mike’s eyes trail around the room and land on Will’s. “I want to know why you said it was from her.”

Will studies the desperate features of the boy across from him, searching for a sign that indicates Mike knows it was him projecting his feelings, not El. If he knows, then it doesn’t show.

He garnishes every possible excuse and pieces it together as he falsely confesses, “Look, I know you were so worried and concerned about El’s safety and if you would even see her again…” Will continues to watch Mike’s expression, which remains the same as before. 

“And I didn’t want you to think that just because she had gone, that she wouldn’t still need you…So I did what any friend would do.” Catching his breath, “I had taken the painting with me in case things went wrong—I worked on it for a long time and didn’t want to lose it. I know it would’ve helped you feel better about El, so I lied and said it was from her, and uh, I sort of just said whatever came to mind to…help you.”

Mike stares at him doubtfully and says so, so, softly, “...But everything you said sounded so…sincere and deliberate—did you mean any of it?”

Will’s heart is crushed at the sight. He can feel his cheeks warm up, hear his pulse rising to his ears. How could he have caused Mike to look so heartbroken?

“I mean, for El, yes, well, I thought she would mean it, but…”

He searches Mike’s face for any sign of resignation. 

“...Will, I saw you crying,” 

Oh.

All the shame he’s bottled up for years comes in an instant, piercing every bit of his heart and soul, threatening to spill out in a somewhat quiet cry. He fears he might break down here in Mike’s dining room, all the fabricated pieces of his character decaying into rot, all the lies and secrets, the tearful nights, the whispered prayers of his death. 

He has to allow himself to breathe before mumbling:

“Look, I was just overwhelmed and tired…I was thinking of all the things that could go wrong, and it scared me…”

Mike looks unsure about his response. 

“Will, you don’t have to lie to me. I’m your best friend. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, just tell me,” voice breaking, “I can help you. You don’t have to give me all the details, but I am here to listen, just don’t pull back and—”

“It was nothing,” he interrupts, looking away, “Nothing at all.”

He gets up abruptly, leaving the half-empty bowl on the table, and lingers at the sorrowful scene, catching one last glimpse of Mike’s tear-ridden eyes, and walks away.

Mike watches him leave until his shadow falls and disappears.

Chapter Text

You said you’re always sleeping

But if so, I’ll be leaving

It’s just that I’m always falling

And it makes me feel bad, yeah

-

Will couldn’t eat dinner, not with Mike at the dinner table, or with his entire family’s polite discussion. Or with the painful knot inhibiting his stomach, restraining his appetite, along with his composure. 

So he told Karen that tonight, he was eating with his mom. She didn’t ask any further questions; she probably thinks Will misses his mother, who’s staying with Hopper and El. He does, but he won’t be at their cabin either.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he puts on a brown sweater; it prickles his skin, but he doesn’t have much else to choose from, in his clean laundry anyway. The sun peeks in through his blinds—it’ll be dark soon.

Quickly, he steps out and hurries to the front door. He glances at the dining room, only seeing the back of Mike’s head, and the aftermath of their ordeal rushes to feed off his soul, pining needles into his skull, penetrating every thought he’ll have for the rest of his life. He starts to turn, but Will is out the door before he catches him. 

–

The wind crashes into his face as he pedals down the road, hearing the sounds of water sprinklers and children laughing loudly. The pavement is smooth—he zig-zags until the intersection with the perpendicular street and turns left into Dearborn. 

He has only a few minutes left until sunset, so he speeds up to reach the woods, where across lies Lover’s Lake. Echoes of the whistling leaves send chills down his spine, but he continues pedaling and comes to a stop in front of a jumble of trees, leaving his bike propped up on a trunk. Leaks of dim light open the entrance to the heart-shaped lake, welcoming his tired legs, and he steps in. 

Will retraces the steps he and Mike took two days ago. He recalls his senses from that afternoon, wishing he could’ve left the scene untouched by his sorrow, so Mike wouldn’t reveal his worries, but he didn’t, and now he can’t bear to see Mike look at him with such pity. The then humid air is now cool and hypnotizing, transporting him to the place where he almost turned to dust. The echoes of Mike’s chatter blend into the incomprehensible ambience of woodland insects and critters—distorted mimics of the unsettling sounds he feared every minute since he was twelve. He can’t forget the days of terror, the sunless rot, and contorted silhouettes. He can’t forget the hunger and the bruises. The horrible noises and mutilated animals. The vivid thoughts of never seeing the people he loved again.

He thought that when he returned —if he returned —he would feel better surrounded by his mother’s love and in his own bed, protected from the monsters that clawed their way into his nightmares, but they grew invincible in his own mind. His brain couldn’t protect him, so how could anyone else? He left a burden, tainting the lives of everyone around him forever. He wanted to yell. He wanted to go back in time and stop himself from leaving Mike’s basement. He wanted to become the boy he used to be. But he can’t. He can never know youth again.

And so, every night, he quiets his breathing and pretends he never existed. That he was never a weapon or an embodiment of childhood trauma. That he quietly lived in some heaven, immune to cruelty and anger. Free of temptation and melancholia. Floating on a stream, illuminated by a golden light, streaking his hair and eyes with gold, reflecting pure, innocent love. 

He imagines he’s in heaven now, having arrived at the lake, sitting just at the edge of the silky, dark water, and tracing the stars encircling the full moon. The grass around him shivers, pressing in on his palms, and he feels a part of the many green blades, held together by tightly-knit roots. He falls backwards, closing his eyes and pretending the grass is closing in on him, making him part of something grand and beautiful. Something untainted and flawless. His stomach cries of hunger, but he doesn’t care. The ground transfixes his bodily necessities; he no longer feels human, but inanimate—he can’t feel or think or cry. No one can hurt him; he can’t hurt himself. Guilt is something distant and alien. His past is unknown to him. Is this what it feels like to die?

Unfamiliar sounds shatter his tranquility. He jolts up and looks around for the source, but he can’t see beyond the trees. In fact, he can barely configure a single tree; everything looks like a pitch black canvas. Waves hit the side of a small cliff—the wind picks up, aggravating the sound of branches intertwining with each other. He feels alive now, and so, so small. He anticipates a crash, a wave of anxiety filling his body. 

Why didn’t he bring a flashlight? Frantically, he attempts to configure where he came from, and sighs of relief, recognizing the lopsided bush he passed a few minutes before. He focuses on the narrow trail leading back to the entrance of the woods, and feels around for the pebbles to make sure he doesn’t lose it. He tries not to think of the moment’s resemblance to nights in the Upside Down, when he lost himself in unfamiliar and discolored vines, fear paralyzing his body, obstructing his ability to run. 

Stop thinking about it. He picks up his pace, trying to drown out the memories with his footsteps. By the time he reaches his bike, he has broken out in a cold sweat and gone somewhat frigid. He can’t exert energy pedaling right now, so he guides his bike to Cornwallis Street and then forces his leg over and sits; it takes deliberate effort to keep himself stable with his trembling hands. 

Streetlights illuminate Maple Street as he approaches it, and the Wheelers’ house sits at the end. How many times has he pedaled down this street? And how many hours has he spent with Mike, Dustin, and Lucas playing D&D and eating junk food until after dark? How many times has he gone back home in utter darkness, anticipating the next time he’ll traverse this street again? He desperately misses those days. Desperately misses his three best friends. He wishes they would ask just one more time for a replay of those nights. The only way he’ll feel like himself again. But he knows they won’t. They never will.

He pulls into the driveway and leaves his bike next to Mike’s forgotten one—he’s traveling by car now, well, only when his parents allow him, because he wants to practice for when he gets his license next year. Using the key under an empty pot, he unlocks the door and carefully closes it. Everyone should be asleep by now.

Will treads warily into the warm hallway, where he crosses the kitchen and stops when he sees Mike sipping a cup of water, fiddling with the end of his white t-shirt, over long, pale blue pants, looking straight at him.

“Will,” Mike whispers.

Will keeps his distance from him. “Hi,” he’s still trembling from the sudden rush of panic, and hopes Mike doesn’t notice the tremble in his voice.

“How was dinner?” putting the cup in the sink and moving closer to Will, who was guiltily standing near the doorway. 

“Umm…yeah, it was good.” Why was he still awake?

They stand, studying each other for a few seconds. Mike purses his lips, the blinds’ shadow covering the left side of his face. For a moment, Will glimpses a 12-year-old Mike asking his mom to let Will spend the night after an ecstatic and lengthy campaign, but then he shifts to his right foot, and the moonlight brightens his matured, strong features: his sharp jawline, his raised cheekbones, his furrowed brows, his glistening eyes, his delicate, radiant mouth. 

He breaks out of his trance when Mike comes closer, leaving some space between them, and reaches up with his hand to the side of Will’s hair, who lightens at his touch, “You’ve got something in your hair,” plucking out a piece of grass and dropping it to the side. 

Will glances at Mike’s lips without realizing that his attention is now on his eyes. Did he see him? And why is he so close? He holds his gaze, thinking of what to say next, but nothing comes to mind, just those brown eyes and the hand that was in his hair a moment ago. 

“You look tired,” Mike softly breaks the silence, drawing back. Will releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

He regains his composure, “Uh, I am…I’ll just go to bed now.”

They mumble goodnight, retreating to their rooms, and Will almost collapses when he reaches his bed, though he doesn’t know if fatigue or Mike is to blame. 

He changes into a clean shirt and pants, lingering by his bed, thinking of Mike. Mike, who waited until he came back. He waited for me. He crawls into the sheets, cool and mesmerizing. His stomach grumbles again; he had forgotten he skipped dinner, but it would have to wait until tomorrow. He feared he might run into Mike again and do something more embarrassing. 

The painting, he remembers. How will he get himself out of this one? Mike didn’t seem that much troubled by it, so he surely won’t ask why he lied or cried again. Would he? 

Will dreamt that night. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t wake with unease, nor did he wake several times throughout the night from incessant nightmares. He slept peacefully because he had dreamt of the boy sleeping upstairs, who had the painting hung above his bed.

—

Sunlight peeks in through his blinds, slowly waking him from a pleasant sleep. Slowly opening his eyes, he jumps when he sees Jonathan at the end of his bed, watching him expectantly.

“Jeez, you scared the shit out of me,” he screeched, heart beating out of his chest.  

Jonathan sits up straight, sweeping the hair off his forehead. “Sorry, I just couldn’t wait to show you.”

Will sits up, disoriented and confused. “Huh?” But realization settles in when he pulls a small, black box from his jeans’ pocket. Jonathan opens it and hands it over to Will, who reaches out with both hands, eagerness replacing his urge to fall back asleep. 

He knew absolutely nothing about jewelry, but he knew the ring was breathtaking, and so he knew Nancy would love it.

“Wow, Jonathan, it’s beautiful,” he examines the ring closer, noticing the tiny diamonds around the fine-cut square diamond in the center. He glances at Jonathan, who is now pacing back and forth in his room.

“So, do you think it’ll suit Nancy?” He swings his arms by his side, revealing his worrisome features by the window. 

Will doesn’t hesitate, “Yes, calm down.” He hands the ring to Jonathan, moving to sit at the edge of his bed, and motions for him to sit down. Planting the ring back in his pocket, he plops on the mattress, rambling.

“It’s just there were so many choices, and I didn’t know exactly what she wanted, but it’s not like I could ask her, ‘What’s your dream engagement ring?’ because she’ll know. So I asked Mike if he knew what Nancy liked, but he was no help; he just kept pestering me and asking if I was proposing and when.” He catches his breath, “The jeweler was no help either, he kept trying to get me to buy the expensive, blingy ones, but I think Nancy would like the daintier ones better, but now I’m not sure.” 

Will was never oblivious to Jonathan’s unnecessary worry. The pressure of supporting a single mother from a young age rooted itself into apprehensiveness and second thoughts. But he knew Jonathan always made the right choice.

“Look, I’m sure Nancy would love anything you pick for her as long as you let her know it came from the heart. She knows you always put others before yourself, and that you’re a bit…fidgety when it comes to things like this.” Jonathan gives him a look. “But it’s because you worry too much. The ring is beautiful as it is. You chose the best one.” 

He pats Jonathan’s arm, who was beaming with relief. “Thanks, Will, I needed to hear that.”

“Aww, Will and Jonathan Byers, the most sappy brothers on earth.” Mike's head peers through the door, grinning ear to ear. He definitely overheard the majority of their conversation.

Startled, Jonathan stands and yanks Mike in, “Close the door! Someone might hear us,” slamming it shut and locking it.

Will watches Mike, who was fondly smiling at him, take Jonathan’s spot on his bed. Remembering last night’s encounter, he feels a shock run through him. He was aware of every breath, every expression on his face. He averts his gaze to Jonathan, flustered.

“So, when are you going to ask her?” Will asks, trying to remove the blush creeping up on his cheeks. 

Jonathan looks tense, “I have no idea.” 

“Well, we can help you plan if you need to?” Mike offers, leaning back and resting his elbows on Will’s bed.

“Really? I think I can figure it out once I feel more self-assured,” He rubs his face and glimpses at his watch, “Shit, my shift starts in 20 minutes, I have to go,” Jonathan hurries to the door, turning to look at both of them, “We’ll talk later, not a word of this to anyone, got it?”

They nod simultaneously, and he’s out the door before they can say anything else.

Will sighs, falling back on his covers, next to Mike. He steadies his breathing, listening to the rise and fall of Mike’s chest. They are inches apart; if Will were to reach out, Mike’s hand would be in his. And if he were to turn…

“Dustin wants us to meet him at Family Video in a couple of minutes,” Mike interrupts, gently nudging Will’s hand. “Do you want to come?”

“Sure,” Will picks himself up quickly, caught off guard by their brief contact. 

Mike follows him up, glancing up at Will’s disheveled hair, then back to his eyes.

Will notices, becoming conscious of his current state: knotted hair and wrinkled pajamas, “I’ll get ready first,” he laughs. 

Mike smiles, “Okay, then, I’ll wait for you outside.”

Once Will changes into something more decent, a dark blue striped t-shirt, brown jeans, and white Converse, they ride down sunlit streets, and Will remembers how he felt in his recent dream, which he can’t recall anymore, but he still knows Mike was in it, because only he can make him feel this way.

—

“I am not watching that for the hundredth time,” Max snatches Star Wars from Lucas’s hands and places it back on the shelf.

They’ve been at Family Video for fifteen minutes, and they still can’t agree on what movie to rent, mostly because Max and El were stuck on The Karate Kid Part II, which Lucas strongly opposed.  

“Guys, please, we’ve been here forever,” Dustin moans. 

Lucas scoffs, “Well, if these two would stop gushing over Ralph Macchio, we would’ve been halfway done with a different movie.”

Mike was in the aisle next to the rest of the party, squinting at the titles of the movie cassettes. He recommended plenty of science fiction and comedy films, all of which were criticized by Dustin, Lucas, El, and Max, so he was browsing the shelves alone, and Will, of course, was watching. 

Lucas and Max were continuing their dispute when Steve stomped over and shushed them. “You either pick one now, or you can get out and annoy someone else.”

“We aren’t leaving until Lucas stops whining about Ralph,” Max turns to him, “You’re just jealous of him.” She pats Lucas’s shoulder, who shrugs off her hand, and starts to defend himself, but Steve grabs the nearest movie, gives it to Dustin, and pushes the group towards the entrance. 

“Take that and don’t come back,” He scolds, standing by the door with his hand on his hip.

“So we can keep it?” Dustin asks, but runs away when Steve starts toward him.

Will laughs and follows them to their bikes, which were piled up at the corner of the building. 

Mike, who stayed behind, reaches the rest of the party, shielding his eyes from the sun with his arm. “Which movie did he give you?”

Dustin dramatically reveals a dark cassette, reading the cover, “Alien, in space no one can hear you scream.” 

“Well, Will’s never seen it, have you?” Mike pats his back.

“Nope.” 

Lucas yells from afar, “Guys, race you to Mike’s house!”

He takes off, and after looking around at each other, they all hop on their bikes and follow Lucas.

—

Though Lucas had a head start, Will overtook him easily, partly because Lucas was distracted by Max’s verbal abuse, who was still upset about their movie fiasco. He stood by the garage, waiting for everyone else to arrive.

He sees Mike in the distance, hair blowing back with bits sticking to his forehead. It was hotter now that noon was approaching, and he couldn’t wait to get inside away from the heat.

“How are you so fast?” Mike drops his bike, panting, and leans back on the cement wall.

“I’m training for the Olympics,” he jokes.

Mike smiles fondly, meeting his eye. Will holds his gaze, admiring his every feature, savouring the moment. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words never come out because of the yells approaching the driveway.

Their contact breaks, and he drifts his attention to the playful commotion. 

“That was not fair, Max was distracting me,” Lucas complains, marching to the door. 

“Whatever you say,” she jabs Lucas’s side, running inside so he couldn’t react quickly enough. 

El rolls her eyes and walks in after them, “They were like this the entire way.“

The remaining three burst into a fit of giggles and go down to the basement.

-

Something was watching Will.

He could feel its hunger, its desperation for blood, for death. 

For him.

He tries to make out his surroundings, but everything is dark and desolate. He’s alone. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear shrieks of fear, stabbing his ears, paining and forcing his hands to shield them. Growling noises penetrate his skull. He frantically feels around, praying the ground will lead him out of here. But it’s worse than the utter darkness: made of sharp blades, similar to the ones he laid on by the lake, and they slash his palms, gushing warm liquid. He senses it closer now, inching its way toward his helpless body. He’s defenseless and bleeding, shivering and distraught. He tries to lift himself, but pierces his hand through another blade, wailing in nauseating pain. He’s going to die. 

He slumps down slowly, crying torturously. Heavy metal churns his insides, threatening to spill what little he had eaten. The blistering agony in his hand was going to make him pass out. Something grabbed his leg, something deformed and viscous. He couldn’t move, not with his hand throbbing and drowning in blood. 

It begins to pull him, slicing the upper part of his hand; he yells, he yells until he can’t bear to open his mouth. All he can feel is the tormenting pain of his hand ripping in half. He can’t endure it. He can’t spend one more second in here. 

With his other arm, he reaches to grab a blade, closing it in his palm, unable to ensure he doesn’t prick his skin. He brings it up to his neck, twitching and retching with affliction, and he stabs it in.

Will jolts awake, exasperated and sweating. He looks around, recognizing his friends’ faces. It was just a dream. You’re safe. He holds his heart, breathing in deeply. 

Someone was whispering his name.

He turns to see Mike studying him with unease, gesturing if he’s okay. He nods, but Mike looks unsure of his response. Will sinks further into the couch, slightly annoyed by Mike’s reluctance to accept his answer. He never listens. But what I said wasn’t true, so should I even be upset?

He quiets his thoughts, turning to the TV, but the movie was already over. How long had he been asleep?

Dustin asks if they want to get some food, to which everyone but Will agrees. They gather themselves and skip up the stairs, fueled by the desire to eat. Mike waits around until they’re up the stairs and sits next to Will, who is still enveloped in the cushions. 

“Did you have a nightmare?” 

Will would’ve been rude if he weren’t already drowning in the delicate voice Mike used. He was fumbling with his hands, probably nervous about checking in on Will because he always turned away from him. Will crumbles at the thought. 

“Yes,” he blurts.

Mike softens his eyes, hands still fidgeting, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He flinches at the thought of having to tell his dream aloud. And he doesn’t want to inscribe the look on Mike’s face when he reveals what he did to himself, so he mumbles, “No, not really.”

“That’s okay,” Mike clasps his hands together, looking down at the floor, “Do you want to come eat with us?”

The mention of food makes him sick. “No, I’m not hungry…but you go ahead, I’ll be okay here.”

He meets his eyes, “Are you sure?”

Will nods, attempting to smile, but poorly fails.

Mike returns it, but it is etched with some strange, somber undertone. 

He retracts, leaving Will to his reclusion.

Once he hears the door to the basement shut, he begins to sob. It comes out of nowhere, taking over his body. He shakes in his hands, ugly sounds of cries filling the empty room. Streams of tears tickle his neck. He’s never felt so helpless, so vulnerable to emotion. Why was he so mean? Mean to himself. Mean to Mike. Mike, who, out of all people, always lingered back to make sure he was alright. Who knew when he felt upset or was hiding something. Mike, who cared so much about him, yet Mike, to whom Will couldn’t reveal his feelings.

He heard himself gulp for air; he couldn’t be himself to anyone.

Chapter Text

You come anyway

You say you’re clean and you like it that way

You got a new boy

He keeps it light, yeah, you like a light love

-

The sun rose an hour ago, and Will was awake to see it. He stood by the window, still, and watched as the rays slowly illuminated the vibrant green grass.

He had not slept—let alone closed his eyes for more than five seconds. His nightmare from yesterday was etched into his eyelids, so vivid and fierce; it pained him to think about reliving it or risk resting his eyes only to see the blood and the glass and his hand…

Shoving both hands in his pockets, he leaves the room of insomnolence, bones aching and head throbbing. 

Sounds of sizzling oil and clanking dishes welcomed him into the kitchen. Mike’s mom was alternating between two pans of eggs and bacon when she noticed Will approach, and with great enthusiasm, “Hey Will, how’d you sleep?”

“Fine, thank you,” he lies, looking at the table to see if Mike was up yet.

He wasn’t. 

She sets down the wooden spoon, “Before I forget, your mother called and asked me to let you know that she’ll be picking you up for breakfast.”

He smiles politely, “Did she say when she would get here?”

Turning to look at the digital numbers on the microwave, “She won’t be long now, maybe ten minutes?”

“Okay, thank you for letting me know,” He leaves, rushing to the bathroom to try and wash off the sleep deprivation, which was very visible below his eyes. The cold water hits him vigorously, but he splashes it on his face—he didn’t want his mom to worry if she saw the dark circles and puffy eyelids on him. He dabs at his face with a towel, and when he’s finished, his face is numb and pale. He stares at his reflection, wondering when the color first drained from his skin and he grew unfamiliar with his own image. How many nights had it been? How many mornings has he woken with hammering heartbeats, debilitated bones, and the aching feeling that nothing in his life has changed? He was stuck in a cycle of death; every morning he rose dead, and every night he slept a dead man. He plowed through the day as if it were a field of foreign crops that couldn’t survive in this place, but even with aid, even with the person who knew all there was to know about them, they always died. 

Will jumps at the bathroom door, which was slammed open unexpectedly, and he hits his hip bone on the wall, pain jolting him more awake than he ever was. It was Mike, disoriented and shocked to see Will, whom he hadn’t seen since yesterday, in the basement.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here,” he flinches at the bright cool lights, stepping back into the hallway.

“No, you’re fine, I should’ve locked it,” he croaks, attempting to talk through the stinging in his left hip.

Mike notices Will leaning onto the sink in utter discomfort, then realizes he’s hurt because of him, “Shit, are you okay? I’m sorry, I should’ve knocked, I don’t know why I just burst through,” he hurriedly stands beside him, gently holding Will’s arms to turn him towards himself, Will rubs at the bruising spot, “No, I’m fine, it’s just a bruise, it’ll go away.”

“Are you sure? Do you want ice? I can go get some,” He leaves his hands on Will’s arms, warm and firm, waiting for him to answer; Will switches back and forth between Mike’s eyes and his hands, startled by the closeness and genuineness of it all. The affection might make him faint (although it might be the tender broken vessels changing into a livid purple). 

Mike’s hands are under his forearms, fingertips lightly pressing the underside, his thumbs caressing his skin in linear movements, and he falls at the tenderness of the blissful scene. He looks up at Mike, who was watching the contact between them.

“It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt much,” Will’s faint voice breaking the silence, mesmerized by the intimacy. Mike meets his eyes, realizing he’d been holding Will in silence, and drops his hands, letting them hang awkwardly by his sides, “Sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” he follows Mike’s gaze around the room, rapidly making his way around their surroundings, and he lands back on Will. He seems much closer now—he swears he can hear the reverberations of his heart; he can see his pupils dilating, creating the black hole Will is pulled into. He waits for the crash, the realignment of the stars, the fabrication of invisible space, the moment he clashes with him. 

Mike leans closer, fixing his eyes on Will’s lips, and Will can hear his heart dropping to his feet. In the small increment left between them, Will thinks about how many times he’s pondered this moment; it was silly then to think of it ever occurring, but here, in the luminescent bathroom, he was in the thought, the twist of his stomach, the holding of his breath, the urge to pull him in stronger than ever.

But then Mike retraces his steps, the previous scene dwelling him in utter shock. Will sees the exact second Mike gains awareness of his intention,---shame erases the admiration he had in his eyes, and Will could almost hear him think, What am I doing?

Mike doesn’t look at Will when he mutters, “Sorry.”

And then he’s gone, leaving the stench of guilt to linger in the hall and passing it on to Will.

Rumbles of a car approaching the driveway break him out of the room, transforming the ruination in his heart into a desire to leave, for getting out of this house and away from Mike. He knows what he’ll be like now—he can see his father’s disgust guiding every future word and action Mike will say and do. He will not have Will’s nuisance living under the same roof as him. Yet, he is the one who leaned in, not me.

He almost trips on the way to the front door, never mind his mother’s concern for her insomniac son—there were worse things she didn’t know, could never know.

The air conditioning whirs faintly in his face when he gets in his mother’s car, and he leans slightly forward to increase its briskness. The heat is already suffocating and polluting the air. His mom greets him with a smile and notices the sweat dripping down Will’s forehead, so she turns the air to high power and drives away from the crime scene, but he could never be as far away from it as he wishes.

-

“This was so good,” El manages to get out, mouth stuffed with the last of her blueberry pancakes. 

The three were finishing eating at the small, wooden dining table. Will was surprisingly hungry—he had two plates of pancakes smeared with maple syrup and bacon, and was listening to the faint radio coming from the living room, waiting to clear up the dishes.

I never, never want to go home

Because I haven't got one anymore

Take me out tonight

Because I want to see people

And I want to see lights

Once everyone was done, he gathered the plates and forks, stacking them up and bringing them over to the sink; he was about to open the tap when his mom grabbed his shoulders, ushering him out of the kitchen, “No, honey, I’ll clean up, you go do what you need to do.”

“But I need to help you,” he cried playfully, but stopped when he received a stern look from her. “Okay, okay…” Accepting his defeat, he approached El, who was fiddling with the radio on the couch. He sat next to her, watching her flip through the channels until she found an ABBA song. 

She gasped in excitement, “Will! Listen to this.” She turns up the volume and dramatically sings the chorus:

Don't go wasting your emotion

Lay all your love on me

Don't go sharing your devotion

Lay all your love on me

She hangs on to the last ‘me,’ screeching rather loudly. Will covers his ears, “Please, I’m going to die.” She laughs, turning the volume down.

“Max and I are going out later, do you want to come with us?” 

“Sure, where are y’all going?”

“I don’t know…but it’s not like we’re doing anything else,” She lies back on the couch, fanning herself with a magazine. Will holds his hip, feeling to see if the pain has reduced—it feels better, but it still hurts when he presses it.

She stays quiet for a few seconds before asking, “Did Mike ever talk to you about the painting?”

Seriously? Why is this canvas coming back to haunt him again? He cringes at how he abruptly left Mike when he asked, “...yes.”

She sits up, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

“So…what else did he say?”

He fidgets with the seams of the brown couch, “Umm…” What exactly did he say again? “He said something about…talking to him and not pulling away…I don’t know what he means, though—I mean, what is there to talk about…” He trails off, thinking of the things he needs to talk about. 

“Right…” She eyes him suspiciously, “So he didn’t say anything about himself then?”

Her suspicion now spreads to Will, “No…”

She sighs, “Of course.”

“What? Was he supposed to say something?” 

“Yes, I mean, no…he’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

Will stares dumbfounded, “Tell me what?”

She smiles, picking herself up from the cushions, “Come on, we’ve got to meet Max in 10 minutes.”

He follows her to her bike, distracted by the whistling trees towering over him, and he bumps into her as she’s raising the kickstand, “Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t worry…” She looks around, realizing he doesn’t have his bike, “Oh, you don’t have a bike…just hop on with me.” 

“Are you sure you can get us all the way to wherever we’re going?”

“Yes,” she says confidently, getting on the seat.

“Okay, then,” Will stands on the pillion, trying not to make El lose her balance, and once she manages to start pedaling, they make their way to Max.

-

Turns out, El couldn’t get both of them to the fairground, so halfway through, they swapped spots, and now Will was exhausted as they reached the entrance, where Max stood sipping a can of soda. 

“Finally,” she shouts as they walk up to her, panting and drenched in sweat.

El snatches the can out of her hand, greedily gulping the rest of it, then tosses it in a bin to the right. They cross the entry, debating on where to go first, and decide on a game of ring toss. 

Max positions her arm to toss the plastic ring onto one of the glass bottles, focusing on the angle to let go of the ring, and then throws towards the target, where it hits the side and falls on the table where the bottles are spread out.

“Damn it.”

They take turns playing until Will finally makes it, winning a purple shark plushie, which he lets El have, and after a couple of hours of defeats and some wins at other games and irritating complaints of the heat, they buy corn dogs and sit on a picnic bench, watching kids run around and listening to the yells coming from the frightening rides.

“I swear the balloon dart guy rigged the game,” Max complains. She was still seething with anger at her loss, which she claimed was because the darts weren’t sharp enough to pop the balloons.

“Oh well, at least you won that poster,” El nudges the rolled-up parchment of (humorously) The Karate Kid. 

“Yeah,” she picks it up, rolling it open, “I can’t wait to see Lucas’s face when he sees it hung up in my room.”

Sounds of laughter echo throughout Will’s soul, and in this moment, he feels pure joy, and for the first time, nobody, not even himself, can restrain him from feeling happy with these two girls. No nightmare, snide, or indignation can take this ecstasy from him. So for the next minutes, he relishes each comment made by them, grinning and laughing at their jokes and stories. And the sun makes its way to the horizon before he knows it.

-

After aching muscles and alarming heat stroke symptoms, the three friends said their goodbyes and headed back home, meaning he’d have to face Mike again. 

His mom was nearing the home now, and he felt sick. It was six o’clock, so they would be setting up for dinner. 

“Did you have fun today?” His mom pats his shoulder, unaware that he was growing more worried by each house they passed.

“Yeah, we went to the fair and barely won anything, but it was nice.” He smiles over at her, but he looks queasy.

“What’s with the face?” She turns his face back towards her, slowing at the stop sign.

“Uhh…what do you mean?” Her hands tilt his head to the side, and she frowns at his fake oblivion.

“Um…I…I ate too many corndogs…” He hopes this convinces her, and she releases his face, continuing to Mike’s street.

“Alright, then, make sure you grab some water before bed,” She pulls into the driveway, pulling Will into a hug, “And make sure you’re getting enough sleep, your eye bags get bigger each time I see you. Tell me if you’re having trouble sleeping and I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

He blinks through the tears swelling in his eyes, “I will, goodnight.”

They pull apart, and Will exits the sanctuary that was the car, and walks towards the daunting house. He knocks, praying that anyone but Mike opens it. 

“Hey, Will, come in!”

Nancy. 

He sighs in relief and steps in.

-

Dinner wasn’t bad, so far.

He didn’t talk except to compliment Karen’s chicken and stuffing casserole. He was also avoiding Mike, whom he could see from the corner of his eye, studying him, and who sat right across from him, again. He felt awkward lifting his spoon to his mouth while Mike was watching, so he pushed the food back and forth in his plate—he wasn’t that hungry either way after the fair. Nancy was enthusiastically explaining the courses she wanted to take at college this upcoming fall, and the rest of the family and Jonathan listened, congratulating her deliberate planning and excitement. Jonathan would be going with her, though he was a bit anxious about the fact that he would be leaving their mom and Will. But after their mom’s heartening reassurance, he applied and was accepted. Will was happy for him, but he would miss him so much. 

Him leaving also meant that Will would be living at the Wheelers by himself. He would eat every day with Mike’s parents, Mike’s little sister, and Mike himself. He gulps. He still has a whole month left until Jonathan takes off.

He picks up his glass of water, downing the rest of it. 

Mike was still watching him. He looks up at him, but as soon as he does, he turns his head towards Holly, who was impersonating a character from a movie she watched. 

He was already disgusted by Will.

Will faltered and faded into despair. This is how it’s going to be now. He won’t talk to you. He won’t make eye contact with you. He won’t care if you…

Care if what? 

Will disintegrates the thought. He forces himself to finish his meal, then excuses himself from the table.

In his room, he lifts his shirt to see the purple bruise sprawled out in an ugly shape. Horrendous like him. 

He reaches for his bed and shuts his eyes. 

Chapter Text

Closed doors 

Bring open minds

(And I don’t want to see you)

See you smile

Inside 

(And I don’t want to know you)

-

Will was drained. 

He’s filled with so much resentment, so much disgust, he can’t bear to see his own face, his own hands, or even hear his own voice. But he’s in front of the mirror regardless, criticizing every visible and hidden feature he wears or buries—all this to confirm that he is not worthy of a happy life. 

He’s stuck in a never-ending cycle of discomposure and sorrow. The eyes in the mirror resemble his dad, if that was even what he was. No matter how much he tries to run away from his father, he wears a piece forever tied to him. And so, because of this, he can’t see himself through the eyes of anyone else but him. He sees the embarrassment and anger of having a queer son. He sees the unspoken wishes of his absence, of belonging to another family. He sees the growing distaste, the wrath, the remorse of creating him. 

Surely a five-year-old boy couldn’t have done anything wrong? He hadn’t a clue about the evils of the world. Surely he couldn’t have been the evil roaming the earth. Right? 

Will didn’t know how to answer these questions. 

He didn’t know anything about himself anymore. Nothing worth praising, anyway.

A wave of nausea hits him like a train. He runs to the toilet, retching, but nothing comes out. Pale, clammy hands grasp his knees, bent forward on the tiled floor. He closes his eyes, controlling his breathing, still gagging. 

He stays put for another minute until the nausea settles down, then lifts himself slowly. The lower part of his back spreads discomfort all the way to his ribs, and he drags his feet to his bed, lying back on his stack of pillows. 

The house was abnormally quiet—he glances at the clock on his nightstand: 11:38 A.M. They all probably went out; it was Sunday, after all, so he didn’t expect them to be back until later. 

The pillows provide some relief; his back is no longer as strained—his mouth, however, is raspy and dry.

He retreats from the comfort of his bed, desperate for water. He trips over a pile of laundry that needs washing; he groans, grabbing a basket from the bathroom and stuffing it with shirts, socks, and pants. He puts the basket by his bed—he would do it later.

The clock ticks as he pulls himself to the kitchen, holding his stomach. He stops when he notices Mike by the kitchen island, pencil in hand, scribbling down on a newspaper. 

Should he say something? Would he even say anything back? Should he go back to his room? No, he really needed water. Dang it, just get what you need and leave.

He steps quietly to the cupboard, holding his stomach, disgust still lingering in his body; it creaks when he opens it, but he grabs a glass and fills it halfway up with water from the sink. He begins to walk back to his room, but Mike asks, “Are you sick?”

Will turns, unable to meet Mike’s eyes, and stares at the newspaper between them on the counter, which was opened to the Sudoku page, Mike’s handwritten numbers scattered on the boxes. 

“...Uh, sort of, I think it was the heat from yesterday—I just threw up, well, I didn’t, but it hurt my back….” He feels like he says the words to the black and white paper instead, and the oddity of his lack of eye contact weirds him out, so he pulls his gaze up to Mike. His freckled skin turns red when Will looks at him.

“Oh, um, okay…do you–do you want medicine?” He stutters.

Why was Mike flustered? And why wasn’t he angry with Will?

“I think I’ll feel better soon…thank you, though…” He waits for Mike to answer, studying his mellow eyes, adorned with fiery lashes, full of wonder, and…what was he thinking? He looks away, deciding to leave before he perturbs Mike.

In his room, he lies back down, gulping down his water, the shape of Mike’s eyes still etched in his brain. He wishes Mike would address what happened in the bathroom, so he could get the end of their friendship over with and not worry about when Mike would confront him. But he’s letting it hang in between them, obstructing the atmosphere when they’re in a room together. Should Will be the one to apologize? 

Will stops.

What would he even be apologizing for? Being in the bathroom in the first place? Get yourself together. 

If Mike wanted to apologize or say something about it, then he would. Will just needed to wait. 

He stares at the ceiling, reenvisioning the scene again: Mike pushes open the door, Will hits his side, Mike holds his arms, Mike drops his arms, Mike apologizes for holding him, Will says it’s okay, Mike looks at Will’s lips, Mike leans in, Mike leaves, Will stays, Mike pushes open the door…

Will repeats the sequence over and over until the clock ticking fades into a dreamless nap. 

-

The rattling of pans startles him awake. He jumps up, wincing in pain when the sudden movement hurts his back. Who was making all that noise? Was everyone back already? What time was it? He turns the blocky clock towards him: half past noon. No, they couldn't be back yet. 

He stands, stretching his arms over his head; his t-shirt exposes his lower stomach, and he’s reminded of the bruise. He checks on its healing—it was a faded purple now. Good. 

He’s about to leave when he notices a small white bottle on his nightstand and picks it up, reading the tiny, blue letters underneath the brand logo: muscle relaxant. 

The only person who knew he was in pain was…Mike.

Mike brought him medicine even though he refused it. Why? Will contemplates their awkward and dismissive interactions ever since yesterday morning. Mike avoiding his eyes, keeping quiet at dinner, blushing when Will spoke to him, stuttering when Will looked at him…Didn’t this mean that he didn’t want Will as a friend anymore? Why would he bring him this? Unless…

Mike still cared about him. 

Three rhythmic knocks softly intrude on his thoughts. Mike stands by the door as if he’s somewhere he’s not supposed to be, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Will shuffles on his feet.

“I just came to see if you’re awake…” He notices the bottle in Will’s hand, “I thought you could use some of those pills–I take one when my legs are sore from riding my bike, so I figure they could um, help with your back...” his hands fumble with the doorknob as he speaks. Will endears at the sight, but quickly stops himself from admiring the boy.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Mike’s smile lifts him off his feet. “No problem.”

“Oh, and also I made us lunch if you’re hungry–I mean, you don’t have to eat if you don’t want to, but I thought that since everyone is out that we could eat…together, but it’s fine if you don’t want to, I just–”

“Mike,” Will interrupts, “I don’t mind eating with you.”

Mike releases his breath, “Oh, okay…I’ll wait for you.” He closes the door again, leaving Will staring at the space where he used to be.

He opens the pill bottle and swallows one with the little water he has left.

Every time Mike did something like this—something so caring—he wondered if he had mistaken the implications of their interactions, but he knows Mike doesn’t like him that way. Obviously, he wasn’t upset with Will about their near kiss because why would he make him lunch if he was? So, why did he still feel unsure about Mike’s feelings?

The topic is too complicated to figure out in one sitting, so he leaves it and his room and heads for the table that was waiting for him, heads for the boy with an indiscernible heart.

-

Mike had set two plates of macaroni and cheese on the table with two glasses of lemonade beside them. Will approached carefully, taking in the sight, and pulled out the chair he had sat in that day. Mike followed after, handing him a spoon, fingers brushing as Will accepted it. 

They eat silently, only the sounds of their spoons scraping the bowl filling the silence. 

He tried not to think about the gesture too much; if he did, then he would probably stare at Mike lovingly for the entire meal. Mike never cooked anything in his life, yet he not only cooked something for Will, but also set the table. Even though he had made the easiest thing in the world, Will couldn’t help but swoon at the act.

“Is it good?” Mike asks, catching Will’s eye.

“Yeah,” Will takes another bite.

He hears the grin in Mike’s voice, “Well, I used an instant packet because I probably would’ve messed it up if I tried to make it from scratch.”

Will laughs, noticing the lift in Mike’s confidence.

Their portions grow smaller as the sun illuminates the room. I could stay here forever, Will thinks. He sneaks a glance at Mike, who was finishing the last of his drink. He looks back down before he notices.

Will eats the rest of his macaroni, the two exchange a look, and simultaneously rise with the dishes in their hands. Mike opens the faucet, “Here, I’ll clean up.” He takes Will’s empty plate and cup and starts rinsing them. Will stands by and watches him fondly. There’s a somewhat ethereal demeanor to Mike when he’s focused on something. A hazy, delicate motion that settles itself in the way he holds himself. Something…bewitching.

He realizes he’s staring when Mike clears his throat, catching a glimpse of Will leaning against the cabinets, arm propped on the red counter. His face grows hot as he turns away. 

The splash of water reminds him that he has laundry to do. Grateful for the reminder, he exits the room. Why was he always gawking at Mike?? He had to stop if he wanted things to go back to normal.

He curses his ignorance, moving towards the spot where he left his basket…but it wasn’t there. Did he misplace it? He looks around, poking his head in the bathroom to see if he left it there instead, but it wasn’t there. 

He goes back to Mike, who was drying off his hands with a blue plaid kitchen towel, and asks, “Have you seen my laundry basket? It was in my room, but I can’t find it…”

“Oh, sorry, I already put it in the washer for you when I went in to give you the medicine. Didn’t think you wanted to struggle putting it in because of y’know.” He smiles, and his face is like a plunge encompassing warmth. 

Will is struck with an intense desire to embrace him. But he refrains, “Thank you.”

“No worries, you’d do the same for me.” He pats Will’s arm as he brushes past him.

Mike leaves without bearing witness to the affectionate smile brightening Will’s face.

-

He was dreaming.

He was sitting on a plastic gray stool at the end of a rectangular wooden table. There were bottles of beer sprawled all over it, but he couldn’t see where he was; the flickering overhead light was dim and tainted yellow, unable to reach beyond the table. He hears footsteps, loud and fuming footsteps, encircling the table—he didn’t need to see who it was, the rush of blood was enough to feel the presence of his dad. 

The air reeks of acidity; it fumes, suffocating Will in its pungent smell. 

He feels so small. The moment seems so familiar to Will, but he can’t recall an exact memory, just the feeling of sickening anxiety and the trembling of his arms and legs, waiting to be blown to bits. 

The footsteps stop. He freezes.

He could sense him there, insulting Will with his eyes. He anticipates the wounds, the sharp blows, and burning skin. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t escape.

Something knocks him off the stool, striking him to the hard, cold floor. He hits his head hard, and it blurs his vision. He can’t see the table to lift himself, so he accepts the defeat, hugging his knees, begging someone, anyone, to help him.

But no one arrives.

His dad’s feet clash into his back, and he shrieks, but his voice sounds different. Each kick that follows sends him back to his younger body. He burns, tries to numb the feeling, and holds his knees tighter. Then his dad yells, but he can’t understand the words—they’re distorted into sinister vibrations, breaking the shelter he created with his own body, and he’s exposed. He cries hysterically, convulsing in pain, but he doesn’t stop kicking—the aches live. He’s destroyed.

He’s never felt so tormented. He’s never felt so tormented. He’s never felt so–

A bright light emerges, creating blobs of color fading from yellow to blue, yellow to blue to green beneath his eyelids. 

He looks around, discerning the white sheets, the blue blanket he must’ve dropped on the floor, and the clock that reads 3:39. 

Holding his hand to his heart, he takes in everything around him, every object on his nightstand and dresser, every poster and drawing on the wall, to bring himself back to life. 

You aren’t there anymore. He can’t harm you now.

He holds back tears stinging the corners of his eyes, breathing in deeply, one…two…three, releasing the breath, again, in, one…two…three, release. 

This wasn’t helping; he needs fresh air.

-

The sun’s heat is subtle as it makes its way down to rest. Will glides down the grassy hills, meditating to the sounds of flies buzzing and birds calling out to their companions. He’s chasing tranquility somewhere he had forgotten. A place he did not know. His hands guide him rather than him guiding them. The feeling enchants him, so he lets his subconscious sway his movements, pulling him through the wind.

He’s too enamoured with the exhilaration and deliverance from suffering that he does not realize he has stopped riding and begun walking into a lush woodland. In it, he grazes the ivy climbing up the rough, sharp tree bark. The leaves emit a salty, dewy stench that sticks to his nose; he breathes it in, and it brings him back from the trance.

He had walked himself into the field behind his old home. He had gone where he would after his dad…

He runs to the castle, wind blowing in his ears, and he sees it from a distance, but…it wasn’t how he left it. He picks up his pace—he needed to make sure first.

Castle Byers was not demolished. Its walls were reconstructed, the sign nailed in the center, the curtain blocking the inside. He pulls it open and crawls in: the piece of wooden crate against the wall with a yellow blanket over it, his miniature figures and lamps on the table, drawings he had forgotten about on the wall. 

Perplexed by the perfectly assembled makeshift fort, he sits on the crate, studying each corner. His eyes fix on a piece of paper stashed beneath a stack of comics, he reaches out to pull it, and—

It’s from Halloween. A clear piece of tape holding the two once broken pieces together. The pieces that were ripped between Will and…

Mike.

-

Where is he? 

He runs into the kitchen, dining, and living room, skips up the stairs, and pushes through his bedroom, knocks on the bathroom door—no trace of him in any of these places. 

He runs back down and ventures to the basement. Mike stood pensively in front of the couch, back turned to Will. He was staring at the wall in front of him, where he taped up Will’s drawings. 

“You rebuilt it, didn’t you?” 

He jumps, taken aback by the bitterness in Will’s tone. “What?”

“Castle Byers, you rebuilt it.” Will was angry. Angry that there were so many unspoken things between them. Things that Mike did and said that could change the trajectory of their relationship. Hellfire Club. El’s hints at something he confessed. The medicine and willful favors. The castle. The photo. The way Mike looked at him. It seemed so easy for Mike to do these things. Contrasting Will’s urge to keep a veil between them, so he wouldn’t lose their bond. Why was Mike ripping this veil? Why was he causing Will to second-guess every word and touch? Why did he keep such consequential and endearing actions from him? 

Mike opens then closes his mouth, darting his eyes to the floor. “...yes, I did, but–”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

“I don’t know–I guess I was just…I was nervous to tell you because…because I,” He hesitates, looking to Will for help, but Will was unbothered by his struggle, indifferent to Mike. How could he help him if he didn’t even know how Mike felt? “Umm, because…” He sits on the couch, a look of hurt bleeding into his eyes. “Nothing.”

So that was it? Nothing? 

Will glares at him, cursing Mike for leaving him to figure things out on his own. 

“You’re not going to tell me why you rebuilt it?” 

He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, “I–I don’t know if I can anymore…” His voice lowers to a whisper.

Will leaves with the gnawing in his heart; he couldn’t endure the emotional current of the situation, hitting him like a brick.

And so he withers away, abandoning Mike in the storm.

Chapter Text

Faces

And I’ve fallen

(And I don’t want to hear you)

Wonder why

I’m here now

-

Will was trying to act normal. Normal enough so that he would not arouse suspicion from his family and friends that something was off about him and Mike. 

So he ate breakfast with Mike’s family and made his usual compliments. He did some chores and made an appearance outside his room every once and a while. He went out on a bike ride in the morning, listened to Jonathan about his job and music recommendations, and called his mom to ask her how she’s doing. 

Everything was alright—as long as he stayed clear of Mike. 

As long as he kept busy, he wouldn’t have a chance to be alone with him. This was good. Really good.

But as noon approached, a certain someone came knocking on the door, pressuring both Mike and Will to picnic with him and the rest of the party, who stood behind him.

And that certain someone was, of course, Dustin.

And so he didn’t have a choice but to join them on their long ride to the junkyard, where they had just arrived.

Lucas and Max spread a green, old blanket on the flattest section of dirty grass. El followed with a plastic bag of sodas. The three sat next to each other, waiting for Dustin and Mike to give out the ham and cheese sandwiches. Will didn’t have any specific task, so he positioned himself next to El, crossing his legs, and accepted the Coca-Cola she’d passed to him. 

He could hear Dustin and Mike bickering by their bikes, hands rummaging in Dustin’s brown backpack. 

“Dude, you’re squishing them,” Dustin pulls Mike’s hand out of the bag, “Just take the chips,” ushering him away with his hand.

Mike tips Dustin’s hat back playfully and takes out a family-size bag of potato chips. He strolls over, dropping the bag in the middle of the blanket, which is taken a second later by Max. 

He sits next to Lucas, glancing at Will subtly. Will looks away.

They pop open their cans, anticipating the crispiness, but their faces scrunch up at the flat and oxidized taste.

“Ew, how long did you guys have this out for?” Lucas wipes his mouth, placing his soda down in front of him.

“We didn’t bring them, Dustin did,” El responds, nose wrinkling. 

They pass the potato chips around, and when Dustin sits down, armful of sandwiches, he scoffs, “Seriously? I do all the work, and you all decide to start eating without me?”

El giggles beside him, taking off her purple bucket hat to better see Dustin’s face. 

“Ugh, stop being dramatic. You didn’t even refrigerate the sodas before you dragged us out of our air-conditioned homes,” Max snatches a plastic-wrapped sandwich, tearing it open and frowning at Dustin.

“Jeez, calm down,” He passes out the rest, and the group quiets down, focusing on consuming the much-needed food in their hands.

The heat warmed Will’s sandwich, but he didn’t care—he was starving. He stuffs himself with notes of melty cheese and smoky ham until nothing but crumbs are left.

The junkyard was cluttered with rusted metal poles and scraps, propped up next to deteriorated cars and broken appliances. Car windows shone in the afternoon light, blinding Will. He shields his face with his forearm and soaks up the sun on his bare legs, tingling with heat.

“Stop chewing so loudly,” Lucas scolds Mike, voice muffled.

“You’re literally talking with your mouth full, you shouldn’t be concerned about manners.” He grabs another handful of chips and brings them to his mouth, meets Lucas’s eyes, and crunches the chips conscientiously. 

“I’m going to dump the chips on your head and–”

“Guys, please stop fighting, or I’ll send you flying to the other side of the yard,” El interferes, eyeing them with a look she most likely learned from his mom.

This silences them, and Dustin bursts out laughing. 

“That wasn’t funny, considering she actually did it to me a couple of years ago,” Lucas throws a pinecone at him, but misses, hitting the car behind him instead.

“Hey, I was only twelve,” El points out.

“No, you’re Eleven.”

She telepathically lifts the pinecone Lucas threw and hits it on the side of Mike’s head.

Will laughs, and El turns to look at him, “Do you want one too?”

“No.”

“I’m kidding, I would never hit you,” she ruffles his hair.

“Will, how do you always get away with things?” 

Lucas faces him, wiping sweat off his forehead.

“It’s because everyone loves me,” he jokes.

“Yeah, especially Mike, he never yells at you like he does to me and Lucas,” Dustin says this casually, but Will and Mike exchange a look, shifting uncomfortably on the blanket. They look away, and the rest of the party eyes their sudden change of mood.

“Okay…let’s go for a walk,” El breaks the tension.

-

“Stop throwing things,” Max smacks the rocks out of Lucas and Dustin’s hands, which they were tossing over into the quarry.

They had gotten bored walking around the junkyard and walked to the drop, but the heat was making them angsty and irritable, and Max was lashing out at the boys’ every movement, so Will paced back and forth, waiting for them to get tired, so they could leave. El, however, was lying on the ground, hat covering her face, though he didn’t know why—the dirt was scorching hot. 

Mike stood as far from them as possible, reserved and still. Will would have thought he looked scared, but he couldn’t really configure his face. He could only work out his arm crossed over his stomach, and the other arm massaging his neck. He catches Will observing him and ushers him over with a frantic wave.

Will wanders to his side, and he instantly sees his panic-stricken features. So he was scared… but why? He sees his hand trembling by his neck, skin void of color, turned transparent and pale. There was something odd in his demeanor, but he couldn’t figure out what…

“Are you okay?”

“No…I-” His voice shakes, and he brings his hand to close his mouth, breathing in through his nose.

His fear spreads to Will now; he’s never seen Mike like this before. He has to get him out of here.

“Umm, do you want to go back to the junkyard and sit?” Will softens his gaze, though he promised himself he would stop because of the previous events. 

Mike nods gratefully; they fall into step as they begin their walk. His hands were still jittering, and Will was tortured with the urge to lock them with his. But he didn’t. He couldn’t do something like that now that Mike needed someone to talk to; he didn’t want to force him into anything. Thankfully, he doesn’t see any more of his hands because Mike shoves them in his pockets. 

A cloud covers the sun, casting a shadow over their bodies as the path fades from patches of dirt to wispy grass. He turns to Mike, who is looking down, kicking his feet over the ground, and as if the world knew he was admiring the boy next to him, the clouds part to let the sun brighten his view. 

“Careful,” Mike pulls Will to the side, blocking him from running into a pile of trash. He lets go of his arm; they walk past the picnic blanket, and he sits on a car hood, waiting for Will to join him. 

“Thanks,” he blushes. Why wasn’t he watching where he was going?

The car rumbles when he sits to Mike’s left. 

“When you were in the Upside Down…”

Will is surprised by his immediate start of explanation. He listens closely, turning his entire body towards Mike.

“...we were at your memorial service at school and…someone said some…mean things about you, and I-” his voice breaks, Will is saddened at the tears forming in Mike’s red-rimmed eyes, threatening to spill out.

“I was angry because you were gone and didn’t know if I would ever see you again. And this guy didn’t care. He didn’t care if you were in danger or if you were dead,” his voice breaks, and the tears fall out, “And I…I was tired of everyone treating you like shit. People at school and your…” He looks at Will, gently “...your dad…I didn’t know why they would say those things to you. You were always quiet and kind and always put others before yourself…” He wipes his eyes with his palms.

Will’s own eyes well up. He listens to the audible cry of Mike’s wounds, feeling the split second his heart breaks open and releases all the pain he has kept inside, hidden from the people who love him. He yearns for his hands; he yearns for every piece of his soul and mind; he yearns for the relief of Mike knowing he is there, so he holds out his hand, removing Mike’s from his face, and intertwines their fingers like pieces in a puzzle. Mike maintains his gaze as he does, muscles relaxing at his touch, and shifts to face Will completely, tears flushing his face.

He whimpers distressingly, chest rising quickly, but he continues, “...so I pushed him, and El embarrassed him in front of the whole school. So when he followed me and Dustin to the quarry, he–” He looks back down, calming his cries before he says, “He made me jump into the quarry. He threatened me. He would’ve hurt Dustin if I didn’t.”

Will cries silently, the weight of his words dragging him into a bottomless pit. He squeezes Mike’s hand, unable to stop the doom that was spreading over him like waves. He almost lost Mike. The thought suffocates him. It stabs Will inside, over and over and over. A piece of himself deteriorates. He sinks into the feeling, charging his lungs with insurmountable anxiety. He looks at Mike to assure himself of his presence, that he is alive and reachable, that he can still discern his curls and features and voice, and that if he were to call his name, he would respond. “Mike,” he whispers, but his name sounds like a breath, a sound of life.

“I didn’t hesitate, Will,” he looks at him helplessly, “I didn’t hesitate to jump. I didn’t even try to fight. I didn’t–” his voice quivers, and he falls into a gut-wrenching silence.

The world around him did not matter anymore, not when his world was crumbling in front of him.

“El saved me…But I keep thinking about what would have happened if she hadn’t,” He sobs into his hand. “I would have never known you were alive. That you would have come back to me. I wouldn’t-” His words drown under his tears, and Will pulls him into a hug, holding him tight, fingers grasping his shirt. He does not want to let go, ever. He never wants Mike to be alone. He never wants to let his emotions engulf him in flames. He never wants him to feel undeserving of life. He never wants to–

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into Will’s neck.

“What?” Will snaps his head back, Mike meeting his bewildered eyes. Why is he apologizing?

“I’m sorry for keeping things from you,” he pulls back, covering his eyes with both palms. “I’m not good with talking about these things, especially because I have to talk about my…feelings…But I–I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry, Will, for everything.” He’s hyperventilating, his shoulders violently shaking as he covers his face. 

Will pulls him in again, burying his face in Mike’s shoulders, and Mike accepts his embrace again, crushing their ribs together, holding Will’s head in his hand, fingers intertwining with his hair. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He squeezes him tighter. “I’ll always be here with you.”

Mike sobs; he feels his teardrops on his shirt, hears his pulse against his chest. Two hearts beating as one. All of Mike’s sentiments flow to Will—he feels them so fervently, a heartache consuming his soul. I love you, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t form the words on his lips, not when he feels Mike in his arms, tying himself to him through vulnerability, not when this feels like a transcendent of words, like he was already saying them without opening his mouth.

The two reach a calm in each other’s space. Their breathing slows, and they timidly return to themselves, leaving a heavy space between their tender bodies. 

“Guys, what are you doing?” Dustin yells from afar.

Will looks at Mike, consoling him with a glance, and together they withdraw the car, both cloaked with a mutual contentment. 

“Sorry, I just wasn’t feeling good,” Mike meets him at the other end of the car. He did it purposefully so the sun would glaze his puffy, misty eyes, providing some barricade to avoid their friends’ concern.

The rest of the party trudges past them in a lively discussion, slowing to observe Mike and Will’s disoriented looks. Dustin looks over Mike, where Will stands.

“Okay…” He shifts his gaze from Will to Mike, “Were you guys crying?”

“No,” they say at the same time, rather eagerly.

Raising his brows, he mumbles something to Mike, then pats his shoulders.

“Let’s go then.”

El catches Will before he follows the rest, and asks quietly, “What happened? Are you okay?”

He smiles politely, “Yes…El, thank you for saving him.” He stops, watching her study his expression.

A look of realization crosses her eyes, and she pulls him down for a hug, “You don’t have to thank me. What would we have done without him?”

-

Will drifts past Mike, looking back to smile at him. 

“You’re not even trying to race me.”

“I’ll let you win this time,” Mike returns the smile.

They glide past mailboxes and flower shrubs, inching their way towards home. Mike seems more relaxed now that he has shared his suffering with Will. 

He is proud of him. And happy. And sad. All at the same time. 

Will feels his warm presence behind him, alive and passionate. He relishes the intimacy of knowing someone so dear holds the same pressures of such humane voracity for bonds, recognizing that Mike, too, has emotions he shelters and hides, afraid of how the person on the other end would react. He recalls his anger at Mike for not telling him about the things he hid, and shames himself for revealing it, unaware of the anguish Mike sustains. 

They drop their bikes in the garage, but they can’t go inside yet, not until Will apologizes.

“Mike,” he calls, stopping him from opening the door.

He turns, blinking through his full, glossy lashes.

“I am sorry for lashing out at you yesterday…I didn’t know you were struggling, and I assumed you just didn’t want me knowing these things for some reason, and I got…angry.” He holds his eyes, watching the flicker of light waft through them, “I also want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me…I don’t say it often, but everything you do means a lot, and I don’t know if words will ever be enough to say it, but I love how caring and considerate a friend you are. I don’t want you to forget that.”

Mike looks breathless, faltered by the words falling smoothly from Will’s lips. Will gulps down the lump in his throat, suppressing the longing to reach out and draw his fingers across his cheekbones.

“Thank you, Will.” A crimson flush billows into his skin, “And, sorry about the Castle–I should’ve told you about it–”

“No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I appreciate you fixing it, I really do,” Will loses himself in the high color of his cheeks, its vividness reflecting onto his smile.

Mike shifts under his gaze, lips quirking to the side, “I knew you would like it.”

They grin at each other, endearingly.

-

The smell of roasted garlic and tomatoes welcomes them home. Chatter and laughter fill the room with hints of nostalgia, of younger days spent dining and lounging in Mike’s house, and Will could have never felt safer. Mike follows him to the table, filled by his presence, and rummages his way through thoughts and interests, anything, and everything that crosses his mind. And Will listens, delighted by his tranquility.

He sees Mike in a new light now that he understands his actions a bit better. Someday, he’ll fully understand Mike, but for now, it’s enough to be the person he can trust and gradually reveal his feelings to. To be in the same room as him. To live under the same roof. 

It was enough.

He will forever carry Mike’s heart in his. In life and in death. Awake and asleep. Willingly and unwillingly.

Forevermore.