Chapter Text
A few days pass. Then weeks. Then months.
The leaves drop from the trees, creating a raucous pathway for Mike to walk on. Then, snow comes giving everything a striking white blanket to grow cold under. Eventually, the snow and ice thaw and spring comes, the child of summer sprouting flowers from cracks within the concrete, and painting the hills and fields a gorgeous, luscious shade of green. The sun stays up in its perch for longer, and when slowly dragged down by the moon and stars, it sends glorious streaks of colour across the sky. Warm orange, dying yellow, crimson blood red, pretty pinks and light purples.
Time is beautiful. Mike watches it pass, wiping the area around him clean before repainting it in each season’s furniture and decorations, making themselves at home before being gradually shoved out by its zealous successor.
Mike has never been one for summer. Sweat pours from his skin in droves, making him look like he’s just taken a bath in oil. His clothes suffocate him, and cling to him, and his sweat. Every five minutes he feels as if his skin burns from the inside out, with bursts of heat flying throughout his body, unable to remove the fleshy cage he’s trapped in.
Fall and winter were always kinder to him. Their low temperatures, oddly enough, made him feel freer, the cool winds brushing past his face giving his cheeks a cherub look. But, the wooly sweaters shoved over his head are barbs against his skin, digging deeper and deeper and deeper, with every shuffle of his arms, finger pulling at his collar.
Spring is the one. Mike was born in spring, and he feels as if the season was made for him. The heat is not too low, yet not too high, but just enough that he feels free and warm all at the same time. His arms are relieved of the gripping nature of sweaters, his legs are free from tight pants.
However, despite his and summer’s enmity for one another, Mike will admit that summer is not without its virtues.
The summer nights, just before fall shoves its way into the door. The nights are unlike any other.
The smell of wet grass from his dad’s mandatory watering. The dew from the hose dripping onto his feet, his toes. The sky, still clinging onto the vestige of day, yet it cannot deny that night is upon it.
Summer nights and Mike are close. Very close.
And yet, it is the late May of 1992, and Mike is suffering for it.
His room has one window, which does not open nearly enough, leaving him trapped in a sauna of stuffy air, stinky clothes and sweat without a trace of water in it.
His bags and boxes by the door, prepared to be lugged down into his car, before being driven back to Hawkins, to sit in his basement with the unyielding heat for months, before being shoved in his car again and dragged back to Rhode Island.
Mike is lying on his bed, dazed by the heat. His lips are chapped beyond belief, and it feels like the last drop of water touched his tongue years ago. Any attempt to leave and go outside, results in him feeling like Dracula come again, the sun branding his pale skin with an embarrassing pinkish colour, mocking him for refusing to wear sun screen.
His blue shirt sticks to the hollow of his throat, and Mike has to repeatedly pull it out. He’s even taken to not wearing shoes in his room anymore, leaving his bare feet out to itch with the warmth.
Then, a shout from the hallway.
“Mike! Phone!” His roommate shouts, unfazed by the heat.
Lucky bastard.
Mike summons all the energy left within him, and uses his willowy arms to push himself to his feet. He makes the slow trek to the hallway, to see his roommate holding the phone, looking at him like he’s one of the undead.
He might as well be at this point.
He holds out the phone. Mike takes it. He then slings his backpack over his shoulder, before walking away.
Mike raises the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” He croaks.
“Mike.” His sister rings back. “It’s Nancy.”
“Hey Nancy. Didn’t we call a week ago?”
“Yeah we did, but I have something to tell you.”
Her tone isn’t so dire that he thinks someone’s dead or anything, but it’s serious enough that Mike stands up a little.
“What is it?” He asks.
“Well… We’re having another get-together. At Robin’s uncle’s house.”
“He let us use it again after the leak?” Mike queries. He would’ve thought the massive paint stain would’ve been enough of a deterrent to not let a bunch of kids he doesn’t know basically rent out his house with no fee.
“Apparently he’s not too fussy about that stuff. Also, everyone else is coming home after college, so we thought it would be a good time to arrange it.”
“Okay,” Mike says, “so why do you sound like somebody’s died?”
Nancy sighs, and he can practically hear her pinch her nose.
“I just didn’t know if you wanted to come.” Mike purses his lips, and wipes his brow of sweat.
“Why wouldn’t I want to come?”
Nancy takes a pause. Then, apparently throwing the issue out the window, she starts rattling off details.
“Nevermind. Anyway, we’re all meeting on the 29th of May, but we’ll probably all get there at different times. Can you do that?” She quizzes.
“Yeah, that’s great. I finish on the 28th, so it’s fine. Who else is coming?”
“Um, me, obviously, Robin, Steve, Jonathan, Lucas, Dustin, Max and,” she takes a barely noticeable pause, and then her voice pitches up ever so slightly, “Will.”
In Mike’s head, the phone goes buzzy. He never expected Will to turn this down, he’s Will after all, and these are his closest friends. And he shouldn’t be scared off because of Mike.
The line clears, and Mike says, “The usual. Okay, well, I have the address, so I’ll see you guys there.”
The quick silence from Nancy’s end clearly suggests that this was not the reaction she was expecting. However, she takes it in stride and bids him goodbye.
The line cuts, and Mike goes back to his room, going back to lie on his bed.
Will and him haven’t shared a phone call since, well since that.
He didn’t expect anything otherwise. He wouldn’t have forced anything else.
Mike clearly imposed his feelings onto Will, who didn’t reciprocate whatsoever, potentially ruining their friendship, and Will, justifiably, freaked out. Especially since he had told them all, back when they were fighting Vecna, that he wasn’t into girls.
He probably thought that Mike was taking advantage of him. Toying with him, putting him into danger.
Mike had no intention of doing such a thing, but he can understand why Will lashed out.
And Mike thinks of not going, to save Will the discomfort of being around him. But Mike decides to go. Because these are his friends too.
And if Will doesn’t want him around, or can’t stand to be around him, he’ll leave.
He’ll do whatever Will wants.
—----------
The car ride is just as insufferable as Mike expected it to be. Hot, sweltering and stinky. At least he can roll down his window.
When he pulls up and parks the car, the house looks the same. Unchanged. Only two cars are there, and he didn’t place enough emphasis on their last visit to know who’s car is whose.
Mike cracks open the boot, grabs his bags and walks inside, the door unlocked.
It’s slightly cooler in here, thanks to the invention of air conditioning, but still only marginally. Summer will give him no reprieve it seems.
Unlike last time, there’s no nagging sister to give him a greeting, Nancy might not even be here yet.
So, Mike trudges up the stairs, and makes his way to his old room. He pushes the door open, and sees his bed is already made, blue and white bedsheets.
Perfect to show his sweat stains.
But, Mike drops his bags and bolts over to the window, throwing it open completely, allowing the hot air to flow out, and allowing the barely cooler air to flow in. What an efficient system.
It’s probably cooler in the kitchen or something, Mike thinks.
He throws the door open again, before stopping short in front of Will’s room. He doesn’t open the door, doesn’t press his ear to it, as he might have a year ago, eager for any sighting of Will.
Whether or not Will’s in there, he leaves him alone. He turns and walks down to the kitchen.
Right into Jonathan’s presence.
Mike stops short. Jonathan looks up at him from his seat on the island.
“Hey.” Mike says.
Jonathan gives him a small nod and an even smaller, “hey”, before digging back into his bag of chips.
Mike moves over to the fridge, taking out a tiny bowl of grapes, before sitting on the edge of the table, two seats away from Jonathan. He throws one in his mouth, and chews, the crunch echoing throughout his mouth and the room.
“Is Robin here yet?” Mike asks.
Jonathan nods. “Yeah, she just went out to the store to get some more stuff. And probably some movies while she’s at it.”
“That’s Robin for you.” Mike jokes emptily, but the joke clearly lands flat, taken from Jonathan suddenly deciding to stare at the wall in front of him.
Silence. He and Jonathan have never been in a room alone together, ever, but he can remember a time where their interactions were better. More friendly, more trusting.
He was Will’s cool older brother. Why wouldn’t Mike like him?
Him picking up Will from playdates and giving Mike unsolicited, (very unhelpful), but well meaning advice on his D&D campaigns. A kind and amusing smile, a not so rare ruffle of the hair.
He used to view Jonathan like the big brother that he never had, but always wanted. He’s never understood why that had to go away.
Will told him. Mike ponders. They’ve always had a good relationship, and Will tells his brother everything. He’s probably told him how weird you are.
Mike throws another grape into his mouth, trying to shut himself up, even though the thoughts aren’t spoken.
“I know you and Will stopped calling.” He says, out of the blue. If Mike had swallowed one more grape, he probably would’ve choked, embarrassingly so.
“What?”
“He didn’t tell me, but I could tell. He seemed sadder.” He turns to look a flabbergasted Mike in the eye. “He really liked those phone calls, Mike.”
Mike looks down at the table in shame, although in theory he has nothing to be ashamed about. Will was the one who shut him out, not the other way around. He’s not the one to blame.
But he shuts down such childish arguments, and tries to remain calm and composed, especially in the face of Jonathan.
“I didn’t think he was comfortable with calling me anymore.”
Jonathan, in Mike’s view, despite his year long stoning out, has always been very wise. He remembers Jonathan’s discerning eyes during his fight with Max in the cabin, roving over him without a sharp word, but so many silent judgments emanating from him. He reminds himself of those eyes burning a hole into his back when he spoke to El in the tub, as if he could tell that he was lying. Jonathan’s eyes all over him during those 18 months, catching every brush of the hands he shared with Will while passing plates over, every bump in the hallway walking from room to room, every over-repeated offer for Will to take Mike’s room, despite the fact that the request had been denied ten times.
Jonathan Byers is observant. He knows exactly what to watch, when to watch, and how to watch without disturbance. That’s probably what made him so good with a camera.
Never out of practice, Jonathan watches Mike. The tense line of his shoulders, the way his arms are compressing his body, his fingers picking at the grapes he holds. He watches. And then he understands.
He understands that something happened. That Mike was probably that something, but that it wasn't malicious, or cruel or inconsiderate in his actions, as he was in the past. He unravels from months of calls with Will, his sudden change in voice tone, his energy, his joy, that Mike did or said something that caused Will to retreat, likely out of fear, and run away. He understands that Mike probably understood that and let Will go.
Jonathan understands, without a word of it from his brother, a word of what was said, or even being in the room, what happened. Exactly what happened.
And Jonathan loosens. He forgoes the protective, mean older brother mask he so often wears around Mike, and instead takes on the mantle he wears for Will. Kind and understanding. He reaches over and throws a hand on Mike’s shoulder, taking a firm grip.
“Maybe he was uncomfortable. But I think you don’t get what he was uncomfortable about.” Mike’s demeanor softens as well, shocked at this long gone display of affection.
“What do you mean?”
Jonathan rubs his tongue against his gums. He debates telling Mike everything, but leaves that duty up to someone else.
He won’t spill all his baby brother’s secrets.
“I think you should talk to him.” When Mike starts to object, he raises a finger to silence him. “Whether he wants to or not, you should talk to him. And whatever happens,” he starts to get up and walk away, “happens.”
Jonathan then walks into the foyer, when the door opens. Mike can vaguely hear warm greetings and hugs are exchanged. Then the other person starts to make their way into the kitchen.
It’s Will.
Their eyes lock onto each other instantaneously. Mike wants to say something, say a lot of things, but then Will takes away the chance for him.
He whips around and mutters something like, “Gotta go to the store.”
The front door slams shut, and a car starts outside.
How am I supposed to talk to someone who can’t even be in the same room as me?
—----------------
Eventually, when everyone is here, and Will comes back from his impromptu shopping trip (not having even bought anything), they convene in the backyard. They chill out on the grass in the evening, inhaling the sweet summer air, drinking, and looking up at the watercolour tapestry that is now the sky.
Along with the changing seasons, their clothes have changed, shifting from jeans and long sleeved shirts to fluorescent shorts and tops.
Will sits opposite him, leaning against Dustin’s chair, picking at the grass, while turning his head up to laugh at a joke every so often.
Mike’s eyes don’t stray from him the entire time. They follow his every movement, like a hungry lion starved of its meal for days. And Mike has been starved.
Starved of Will’s eyes on him, affirming their friendship without words. Starved of Will’s mellow, soothing voice, his laughter which feels like it buoys him from the ground, lifting him up higher and higher. His little eye rolls. The way his eyes light up.
His smile.
Mike has been starved of these things, things that give him life, that serve as his food, his sustenance.
And he’s so very hungry.
Will catches his eye. He then gets up from Dustin’s chair, giving him a quick grab on the shoulder, before going back into the house. Shameless as ever, Mike doesn’t even spare a second before following him, not even giving an excuse as to why he needs to follow Will.
On the hunt, Mike finds that he’s not in the kitchen, he hears footsteps from upstairs. He practically runs.
Out of breath, and on the landing, Mike prowls around, looking for any sign of Will. The third door ahead of him is slightly cracked open, about three inches or so.
Mike pushes it even more open tentatively. Will stands there, facing the window. He doesn’t twist his body around to face Mike, but keeps his back to him.
A tacit rejection in of itself, but Mike takes it in stride, and goes to stand next to him.
Silence. Mike’s feet shuffle around the floor, he’s picking at his hands behind his back, rubbing his finger together with so much force he thinks the blood might burst out from the tips.
He gives Will little sidelong glances, furtive like a kicked puppy, but Will keeps on staring straight ahead, refusing to look at him.
Armed with a proverbial and emotional pickaxe, Mike breaks the ice.
“How’s your painting going?” The words are stilted and unnatural, like his tongue has turned to wood and his mouth now spits splinters.
He can hear Will rolling his tongue around in his mouth, before he graces him with his words.
“Finished it. Last week. Sent it over.”
Mike bobs his head up and down, in some zany imitation of a nod.
“Did you have an inspiration? Like, a muse?”
Will nods. When Mike looks over to him, giving him an unspoken, “what?”, he finally faces him, piercing a hole in his eyes with the intensity of his gaze.
He placates him with an answer.
“El.”
Mike is too stunned to even give an “oh” in response.
He didn’t expect it to be him. He’s already been the muse of many of Will’s artworks before, so he’s more than satisfied.
What surprises him is the realisation of what El has done. Not in a malicious way, El could never do anything awful intentionally, but that, dead or alive, El is a spectre. A ghost hanging heavy over their heads, Mike’s for the longest time, but now especially Will’s. El’s presence or her lack of it, warped so far what she truly was, kind, funny, silly, fierce, morphed into a black thick cloud, chaining Mike to misery, for the rest of his life.
Although, Mike thinks, maybe that’s not true. Maybe it wasn’t El, but how I thought she was. How she was meant to be. What was right and what wasn’t. What I was supposed to do. How I was supposed to feel. Things I was supposed to say to her.
Because, El wouldn’t truly want this. She wouldn’t want Will and Mike to be miserable forever, just because neither of them can let go of their guilt.
Mike then comes to the realization that Will uses El as a shield. A flimsy shield to fight Mike off, to remind him of what he had, and how Will is a poor substitute. That Mike deserves El, and only El, and that he doesn’t want Will.
Will doesn’t know how wrong he is.
“You were wrong. In Chicago.” Mike blurts out, turning to face Will completely. Opening himself, baring himself to Will. Giving him all of Mike, everything he’s got.
Will shakes his head, still steeped in denial.
“I wasn’t confused. I said it then, and I’ll say it again. Do you want me to say it?”
Will stops shaking his head.
“Say what, Mike?” He makes an imperceptible noise, like an animal being struck with a spear.
“That I love you. Because I do. I’ll say it, if you want me to. But you can’t keep blaming this on El.”
Quiet suddenly decides to take over Will once more, leaving Mike with a ghost in front of him. But he’s been practicing speaking to those who are no longer there. So he’ll do just fine.
“For as long as I can remember, we’ve been friends. Best friends. I don’t really remember much since before we became friends, but I can remember everything afterwards. I remember the look on your face when you said it, and how I didn’t feel so alone anymore. You made me feel that way.”
He takes one of Will’s hands, getting him to look up at him.
“You did. I meant it. Back in the shed. It was the best thing I ever did. And I do feel that way. But if you don’t,” he takes in a breath, his selfish lungs unco-operative at the potential of his feelings being unreciprocated, “that’s fine. I hope we can still be friends. That’s all I want.”
Will makes a pained expression, biting his gum so hard Mike can see the outline of his teeth, and rolling his eyes away from Mike.
Then he says it. “I was in love with you.”
Mike’s back straightens.
“When I told everybody that I didn’t like girls, that I had a crush on someone,” he shoves his tongue into his gum, making an indentation, “it was you. I liked you.”
Mike looks at Will, intently, and sharply. Recontextualizes everything he’s ever known, or thought he knew, about his and Will’s friendship.
“I was your Tammy.”
Will nods, and whispers, so quietly that the words might as well be a dagger. “Yeah. You were.”
Quiet. Thicker and more impenetrable than ever before.
“Who the fuck is Tammy?”
Will’s head shoots up. “What?” He asks, incredulous.
“Who is she?” For some reason, this random girl, who Mike has no idea about, has ruined his and Will’s relationship, without speaking a word to either of them. He wants to know exactly who she is.
Will’s mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, as if Mike’s dragged him from his comfort zone.
“Doesn’t matter. The point is that, I thought that you and I were friends, that you loved El. So imagine my surprise when–”
“When I barge into your dorm telling you I love you.” Mike surmises. Yeah, now that he thinks about it, it might not have been the most tactful way to go about it. But, nevertheless it still happened.
“Yeah. I didn’t believe it. I thought you were joking around or that Vecna had finally come back or something. That’s why I freaked out on you. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Will nods at Mike’s not-so-quite forgiveness. In his view, Will has nothing to be forgiven for whatsoever. He was just protecting himself.
Mike on the other hand, has made no attempts to shield himself, leaving himself bared, ready for Will to carve into him, bleed him and scar him.
He makes one last attempt.
“You said ‘I was’, past tense. What about now?”
Will’s eyes practically puncture a hole into his, burning through, but with none of the rage and fury and pain that fire brings. Actually, it peels them back layer by layer, revealing his lens, going past his cornea, going through the optic nerve and making an odd pathway not to his brain, but jumping straight to his heart.
Through this seemingly impossible path, Will sees everything. Everything Mike has gone through, what he’s felt, what he’s discovered within himself. But even though he’s bypassed his eyes, he still finds that Mike Wheeler is still blind.
“Oh, for god’s sake.”
Suddenly, Mike’s mouth is warm. The heat emanates from his lips outwards, soaking into the rest of his body. It pulls his hands one to wind around the nape of Will’s neck, getting a gentle grip into his hair, the other to grab his back and pull him closer.
Will’s hands cradle his face, as the kiss grows, in intensity and in length. For Mike, it’s like a taut string has been cut, releasing years worth of tension, vibrating everything around it in its wake.
They break apart, still holding onto each other tightly, foreheads touching.
“Say it.” Will commands him, breathily.
And he obeys. “I love you. I love you so much.”
Will smiles. “I love you too.”
Mike then takes in face in his hands and leans back in. They stand together under the still merging evening sky, a tapestry of hues. Light reds, pale purples, pretty pinks, barely noticeable blues, and faded yellows.