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Will Byers and Mike Wheeler have not seen each other for two years. Two years of waiting by the phone, unwashed flannel shirts, prying eyes. Two years of unpacked boxes, unplayed mixtapes. Rewritten letters, shredded paper. There are a few pieces of paper that are telling the truth, and the ones on Will’s desk collect dust and tell lies. Two years ago, he would’ve said “I love you” and he would’ve been telling the truth. Today, he would’ve said “where are you?” and maybe he’ll tell you he loves you. Maybe.
Two years ago, two lovers, 2,000 miles away. Too much.
It is August when Mike knocks on Will’s door again. It is cold, and it feels like coming home.
“Mike?” It comes out slightly strangled. From the cold, he’d tell you, but that’s not why. The aforementioned looks caught, and for a second as if he regrets something. But Will just keeps looking at him, so he finally meets his eye, too.
Neither of them look away, but neither of them say anything, and the sun dips farther under them. Instead of words, Mike steps loosely forwards and wraps his arms around the smaller boy; it is warm, and it feels like coming home.
Will sighs deeply as he returns the gesture, and if he holds on just a little tighter than Mike, neither of them mention it. His face buries itself in Mike’s neck, and the words “I missed you” come out in a whisper against his skin. In one breath, Mike swears, “I’m so sorry,” and they are silent.
They stay there, brittle wind drying their wet eyes, and Will wonders how much of it is real.
August 2, 2008
Will and Mike are quiet. They don’t communicate much through words, opting to brush their hands over the other’s knuckles instead. They do not speak with teeth and tongue, rather pat the couch cushion next to them and watch the other sit. It is unlike them, but it is life. They live, but they live a little lovelier than usual.
Mike feels a lot like their hesitance is because of him. Not being around Will for so long has made him think he’s missed crucial parts of his growing up; things like how he’s got a 3.9 GPA and he doesn’t have his driver’s license because he hasn’t bothered to. Being here now, among soft blankets and silver cutlery lining place settings, he decides he’ll grow up with Will for the rest of his life. For now, though, he’s sorry because he’s looking at Will a lot more than Will is looking at him and he thinks coming here might not be as cathartic as he thought.
(Maybe he’s looking because Will looks different two years later. Maybe his cheeks are more blushy and maybe he has more freckles. And maybe he still has Mike’s David Bowie shirt.)
Mike swallows. “I missed you too, by the way.” Will looks up, and Mike looks only slightly distressed. “I didn’t say it before. I think I would’ve cried if I talked.”
“You cried anyway, dipshit.” Mike smacks his arm, but smiles despite himself.
Mike has never loved being somewhere so much. They ate when they were hungry and they slept when they were tired, the window was always open and their eyes were never on anything besides each other.
They both stay in Will’s room, because neither one said anything when they were going to sleep and they both walked into his room without another word. They act like they have known each other for longer than the soles of their feet have known their shoes (because they have, and they’ve loved each other for even longer than that). Now, in California, where every hallway is warmer than he could’ve known, he relearns what it means to love. Will’s mother is his own and they laugh as they fold gray and red collared shirts and blend random fruits to make smoothies all together. All together.
There are things they should probably talk about, like why neither of them tried to reach the other. They should probably talk about why Mike is even here, and they should definitely talk about why neither of them ever want him to leave. They should probably talk about why Mike is always staring at Will, and why Will is so glad.
For now, Will tells him things about himself, things he couldn’t know because the phone didn’t ring in autumn and it didn’t ring in winter. He tells him about how he’s started crocheting, shows him sweaters he made for himself and his siblings. Mike, infatuated as ever, recites his idiosyncrasies in his head when he hears them and blows the dust off the file labeled Will in his head. He feels sorry.
Will shows him things he’s painted (Mike only really got to see things he’d drawn with pencil or crayon) and Mike asks if he can take some back to Hawkins. Will smiles and says yes. What he really wants to say is will you take me, too?
Mike tells Will about school. He tells him about Hellfire, and he is quiet.
“I felt bad about joining, y’know because… well you said you couldn’t have joined another party- and… well- I felt a little like I was betraying you… I didn’t want-”
“Mike.”
Mike looks up from where he watched his fingers dance in his lap because no one has ever said his name quite so soft.
“It’s okay.” And it was.
That night there is a glare over the faces of two lovers in one bed cast by a lamppost outside the window. The lamppost is black and there are chippings on it and probably initials carved on it as well. The light is gray and wouldn't remind you of love. Here, in Will Byers’ bed under the light of a waxing crescent and a nearby lamppost, Mike Wheeler is reminded of love.
Mike sleeps with his fingers around Will’s wrist and it is unbelievable.
August 3
Small flurries of light dance in front of Will and Mike while they cut bell peppers in the kitchen. They are very loud, much louder than yesterday, but it is mostly in effort to talk over the loud press of the garbage disposal every time Will turns it on.
“Would you cut that out?” Mike says, but he’s laughing, and Will doesn’t stop. “I have to, idiot. Look at all the pineapple skin.” Mike rolls his eyes, and Will keeps flipping the switch.
“How about you eat it. Then we wouldn’t have so much to clean up.”
“We? Your lazy ass hasn’t done anything.” The flip is switched once again, and Mike picks up one of the watermelon rinds and throws it at Will’s head.
“Ow! Dick.”
“I cut the whole pineapple! And the watermelon!” Mike argues, “imagine how many bell peppers you’d have right now if I weren’t here. Tell me. Guess a number.”
“Seven thousand.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “You would probably have one. Now stop distracting me unless you want blood on your peppers.”
Will picks the watermelon rind up off the floor and tosses it in the sink along with the pineapple. “I hope you realize all of this is your fault anyway. If you hadn’t whined your ass off about wanting pineapple then we could’ve been doing something else right now,” he says, and the garbage disposal is on again. Mike scoffs.
“I literally cut the pineapple,” Mike says, and his voice is high, but his cheeks are pink and his heart is full. He wonders how much of it is real.
The bell peppers are cut and they eat them quicker than they probably should, but they don’t mind and Mike is smiling so much. Will smiles too, and he wants to kiss him.
They finish cleaning the kitchen, and neither of them know what to do.
“Want to go for a drive?” Mike tilts his head just barely, and Will smiles, the gesture reading yes more than a nod ever would. Mike smiles back, and he retrieves his keys from Will’s nightstand and they leave his quiet California home, for the first time, together.
The engine is loud when it starts, and the air conditioning blows comfortably once they settle. There are stickers, Will notices, on the dashboard, and Will laughs because they’re from various TV shows Will never thought Mike would watch. He marks it down in his mind as something he’s learned about his best friend, rather than something he didn’t know. He’s trying not to be so cynical.
--
Later in the day, when the house has begun to wind down and the TV is off, Mike holds a short pencil over an open journal on the couch. Down the hall, the one lined with paintings, is Will, stance similar, a worn pen with him. At the top of the page, he scrawls the words August 3rd and then a line break; he sighs.
I can’t believe I woke up with you today. I can’t believe, after all, I opened my eyes and you were already looking at me. I keep blinking to see if you’ll go away. I still feel like you are not real. Everytime you look at me, I start to think that you are.
I think one day I’ll let you read everything I’ve written about you. I’ll let you see everything I’ve drawn. But only if I still feel like you’d like to. I still think you’re as pretty as I did when I left.
Will pauses, tapping the end of his pen against the desk. He debates continuing his rambling until a soft knock sounds from behind him.
“Yeah?” He asks. The knob turns, gently, and then there’s Mike, pencil and all. He smiles and Will’s heart soars.
“Hey,” says Mike, “are you sleeping soon? Not that you have to. I was just wondering because… well I'll sleep whenever you do. It’s no problem.” Will tilts his head and stands, closing his journal when he does so. He takes a few tentative steps towards the other and takes his hand, flicking the light off as he drags the other towards his bed with him.
“I’m tired,” he says simply. Mike, illuminated by a single street lamp outside Will’s window, nods lightly, and buries himself in Will’s duvet with him. There’s a haze around them, one of violet need and good reason. So for now, Mike reaches forward, murmuring a quiet “c’mere” and Will obliges, tucking his head under the other’s chin. Here, he can hear the steady thrum of Mike’s heart against his skin; here, he decides, it is real.
August 6
The others of the house adjust nicely to Mike being there. None of them question it, but Joyce and Jonathan give each other knowing glances from across the table at meals, and El asks Will “you OK?” when they cross paths in the kitchen. The answer is always the same, and El leaves, content to hear him finally happy.
Mike has been skimming through Will’s bookshelf and reading just about every one of them. There’s not much else to do, because they’re always tired, and because it’s nice to lay around on each other with books in their hands on the old couch in the living room. Will holds his copy of The Catcher in the Rye delicately so as to not bend the spine; his counterpart, lanky as ever, is sprawled out over the sofa with his legs in Will’s lap. In his hands is Will’s copy of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. From here, Will can hear his shallow breaths. There’s nothing he’d like to hear more.
“You’ve read this one, right?” Mike asks, peering above his book. Will reads the title before nodding, slightly.
“Yeah, I loved that one. You like it?”
“Yeah it’s really good. I think Nancy would like it.” Will nods, smiling. Sweet.
They turn back to their pages and they get infinitesimally closer. Mike, who Will has discovered over the few days he’s been here, is an incredibly fast reader, turns the final page of his book and sighs as he places it lazily on the coffee table beside them. He rubs his eyes and Will rubs his calf.
“Tired?” He asks. Mike nods.
“The couch is comfy. You can keep reading, but can- can I… like… put my head in your lap, or something?” His voice trails off at the end of his sentence, and Will swears his cheeks are dusted slightly pink, but he nods regardless. Of course he does.
Mike’s head settles itself onto Will’s crossed legs, and Will takes his right hand and opts to tangle it into Mike’s hair and support his book with just his left. Mike closes his eyes, and Will grazes his thumb over his cheekbone.
The sun is setting. Mike, who still feels Will’s hand on his face, is in and out of sleep. The quiet hum of the ceiling fan is audible, and the TV is on as well, and down the hall Jonathan is playing something Mike recognizes. But here, under a blanket of love crafted by the boy above him, he decides that it is real.
--
That night, when every light is off besides the same lamp post outside of the room, Mike speaks quietly to the boy next to him.
“Where are you thinking about going to college?” Will shifts a little next to him on the bed at the question.
“Probably Lenora Community. It’s where Jonathan goes, and it’s close to home. I don’t want to worry mom by going over to like… the east coast, or something.” Mike’s eyebrows furrow, and he wonders why Will sounds so forlorn.
“Is that where you want to go, though?” The question seems forbidden, and Mike almost says forget it and they can go back to counting sheep or whatever it is they do when they lie down. Before he can, though, Will sighs a little and replies, “I don’t know. I’m afraid that it’ll be too much of an ordeal to bring up, and then if I don’t get in, what’s the point? It’s fine if I stay. Jonathan says it’s alright there and that’s good enough for me. I don’t know, though. I just- I don’t know.” Will sighs when he stops rambling and Mike blushes.
“Sounds like you want to go somewhere else.”
Then it is quiet. Mike can hear little taps against the window from belligerent moths and he decides he doesn’t mind.
“Yeah,” Will says, finally, and he says it very quietly as if he’s worried someone other than Mike will hear. They won’t. They never do.
Mike, still on his back, turns to face Will, who moves to do the same. He reaches his hand up timidly and begins to trace Will’s facial features with his fingertips. He uses his index finger to memorize the jut of his brow bone, slowly moving down to find his cheekbone. His skin is soft, so soft, and his movements are fervent now.
Mike, ever so slowly, dips his finger to trace Will’s jawline, and reaches his thumb to trace his lips. He wants to kiss him, he realizes, because of course he does. He stops after a minute and rests his hand on the pillow just next to Will’s face. Neither of them move away, and their eyes remain open, fixated on the other.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh. Yeah, right.” Will is more relaxed now, but he still tenses up at the reminder. He is quiet for a moment, until he speaks, very softly.
“Bowdoin.”
Mike smiles brightly and Will frowns wistfully. He grabs Will’s face in both his hands and pulls him into his chest, kissing the top of his head repeatedly. He laughs, as if Will had just been accepted to Bowdoin, as if he’d just graduated. He laughs as if it is himself, as if he is in love. As if.
“I’m glad, Will,” he says after a minute. Will is silent, still, but Mike can feel his smile pressed up against his chest, so he doesn’t mind. They fall asleep like that, caught up in each other, breathing each other in.
August 13
Today, Will and Mike live in grapefruit and pear trees and they love from afar.
Will shows Mike the pottery wheel in the garage and Mike asks why he didn’t show him sooner. Will says he didn’t think he would’ve cared.
“Of course I would’ve cared,” Mike says, “if it’s important to you, I care.” Will looks down. Carefully, again, Mike lifts Will’s chin with his finger.
“Hey,” he says, “I’ll always care. Okay?” Will nods.
“I know.” He knows.
There is nothing distasteful about them. There is nothing secretive or shameful about how they feel; Will bleeds his love for Mike, and the latter is not shy to wrap his arms around the other’s waist in the kitchen. In any setting, every setting, they are in love. They don’t need to say it. The feeling is enough.
Together, they spend the morning in the garage spinning clay and laughing loudly. There are a few moments where there is an overbearing feeling of sadness. Something of untimeliness, like he could’ve had this much sooner if he’d just asked. If he hadn’t ripped up every letter, if he hadn’t been so abrasive.
--
Will is with Jonathan at the table later.
“Mom was having a stroke the other day because she found out you’re taking AP environmental,” Jonathan says, reaching for the cantaloupe. He snickers.
Will groans. “Why does she think I’m incapable of anything? She does this every year. I’ve done just fine.” He stops to take a sip of water.
“Remember when I told her I signed up for AP euro and she almost fainted? I just don’t get it. It’s insulting at this point.” Will’s words are heavy but he doesn’t seem as upset as they make him sound.
There’s a bouquet on the table to Will’s left. There’s a lot of hydrangeas in the backyard, and he cut a few to put in the vase and deemed it “repurposing.” Mike thought it was a good idea.
Mike has been in his room for a few hours, and before that he’d been quiet with him on the couch. He doesn’t dwell on it.
A noise from the doorway casts Will’s gaze up, and he’s here.
Mike takes timid steps towards him at the table. He looks guilty, and his hands are still at his sides, picking loose threads from the hem of his sweatshirt. Will looks at him with a blank expression, because there is no other way to look at him. He speaks quickly.
“I’m gonna take a shower.” Will stares.
“Okay,” he breathes, and he tries not to sound too disappointed. He’s seemed troubled all morning, and he notes to ask what the matter is. Not yet. Not now.
Mike steps out languidly, and Jonathan peers at him, seemingly confused, and Will shakes his head. He steps out as well, and in his absence, slides a journal onto his desk and holds a sturdy pen.
You are quiet today. Everyone else is so loud. Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I didn’t move away. If I hadn’t, you would not be in the other room. Is that worse? It has taken you two years to be in the other room. I think about everything in regards to whether or not you were in my mind. Three weeks ago, mom had a bouquet in the kitchen. When the bouquet in the kitchen began to wilt and when Jonathan let me drive his car around the cemetery I started to think of you. Does everything change for you, too? Or does the snow pile outside your window less often?
--
When Mike gets out of the shower, Will is back at the dining table. There is a bowl of sliced peaches in front of him and he’s holding a book with his left hand.
I just know it. We’ll chitchat. Chitchat, chitchat, chitchat. That’s all. And the funny thing is--
“Will?” he breaks out of his trance to the doorway, and Mike is there. The ends of his hair are wet, and he’s wearing Will’s shirt.
Will cheeks turn pink and he murmurs a slight “hey.” He tries to distract himself, peering back down into the book in his hands. He’s fidgeting, shaking his leg, until-
“Will.” he looks up, startled, the voice significantly closer than it was before. Mike is beside him now, and he looks so sweet. His hands are in his lap and his fingers are rubbing against each other.
“Hey, sorry,” Will says, “this book is really good.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve read that.”
“You have?”
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his neck and laughing a little, “it’s funny, it- it kind of reminded me of you.” Will blushes, now. He smiles and casts his gaze into his lap. It doesn’t last long, however, because Mike lifts his chin with his index finger, and it’s terribly gentle; his breath hitches, and Mike looks sorry.
“How come we’re only seeing each other now?”
Mike takes his hand away from Will’s face slowly.
They’re both quiet. It’s one thing neither of them had mentioned, not because Will didn’t want to know, but because he knew Mike didn’t want to talk about it. He could see from the way his fingers twisted themselves around each other or anything else within reach any time Will talked about how he missed Hawkins sometimes. (Sometimes.)
“It’s- I know it’s not entirely your fault, so you don’t have to look so called out, I just… I just feel like it’s weird, y’know?” Will is careful with his words, how they sound, how Mike would take them. He looks soft, but he looks rigid, and he seems like he’ll never speak again.
Mike takes a breath before he speaks. “I- I know. I’m sorry anyway, because I wish I had at least written you.” He doesn’t meet Will’s eye, and it looks like there’s something else he has to say, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he takes Mike into his arms, presses him against his chest, and they are there.
August 19
Everyone is okay today. Will and Mike, down the hall, are reading in Will’s bed, and the air conditioning is loud but his door is shut. He casts his fingers lazily over the expanse of Mike’s forearm, settled comfortably over his duvet, and if either of them listened closer to anything else than they did to each other, they’d realize the front door opening, and the sounds of jovial voices melding together. If they listened, maybe they’d hear an old friend outside their door.
There is a brief knock, a few whispers, and Will and Mike slowly, reluctantly separate to their own sides of the bed. Will says “come in” probably quieter than he should, but Steve hears him anyway and opens the old door that he’s learned to love behind.
“My favorite Californians!” Steve exclaims, coming towards the bed. Will is excited, too, and Mike rolls his eyes playfully.
“I still live in Hawkins, Steve, you saw me last month.”
“Not for long, eh?” Steve is pulling his bag around from behind him, and before they can decipher what he means, he pulls out two boxes of Reese’s Pieces and hands them to each of them. They smile, thankfully, and there is no light from the lamppost, but they still feel like they can hear it.
--
9:04 PM
Steve and Mike are on the old couch, and it’s the first time Mike’s been on here with someone and Will not being here as well. It’s an odd thing to notice, as are all the other things he notices when Will’s not around. Especially when he is.
“Hey, so… what’s up with you and the kid?” Steve’s ankles are crossed, and there’s a mug of some sort in his hand. The TV at the top of the room is playing Hell’s Kitchen but the volume is low; Mike’s hands stop fidgeting at the question, and his mind burns with the effort to come up with a reasonable response.
“What’d you mean?” Steve glaces at him.
"I don’t know. What do I mean?” Mike feels like it should sound like he’s kidding, but he doesn’t. He knows that’s the point.
“We’re best friends. I came here because I missed him.”
“Are you gonna leave?” Mike stiffens.
“Well… yeah- yeah, of course I am,” Mike’s voice falters at the end of his sentence and he squirms against the couch cushion. He knows he will, but part of him feels like he’ll never leave, that he’ll live amongst laundry piles and bell peppers for the rest of his life. Live amongst Will for the rest of his life.
Steve turns towards him a little more, just so he’s facing Mike more than he’s facing Hell’s Kitchen.
“Look, kid, I’ve seen a lot of things. Most of those things we’ve seen together, y’know, alternate dimension, all that. Whatever. I have also seen the way you two,” Steve points to Mike and then down the hall, “interact. I don’t mean to be intrusive. Not my intention. I do care about the well being of my dear child friends.” He places his hands over his heart, one over the other, and it’s meant to be lighthearted. It is, but there’s a part of Mike that feels caught, and there’s a part of him that wishes he could know entirely what Steve meant. He just nods.
Last week, he and Will pulled their weight in the backyard garden. It was overrun with weeds, so many, in fact, that when they stepped back inside they poured themselves glasses of water and rubbed aloe over each other’s arms. There was a cutting board on the counter and a saucepan on the stove, and they have never sat closer together.
He doesn’t need Steve to tell him what that means.
August 21, 11:43PM
They are quiet again. There’s this feeling Will gets when Mike looks like he’s hiding something, and he feels bad. Mike has spent last night and tonight in the other room, which is uncommon, but Will is worried he’ll be selfish so he lets Mike sleep away from him. The room feels a lot more sterile and the lamppost outside is not nearly as bright as it should be, but there is a moth tapping against the window that won’t let him sleep.
Will turns over and groans, frustrated, into his pillow. The cotton of it does not stop the moth, and it keeps going, and the more it taps the more it starts to sound like tell him you love him. The more it starts to sound like he loves you too.
Will gets up hurriedly and he’s dizzy for a moment before he’s stepping quietly towards his bedroom door. The guest room is a few doors down, and the sight of it makes his stomach lurch. He steps tentatively towards it, wincing when the floor creaks and tuning it out when he realizes he does not know what he will say. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t think so.
The wood of the door is thick when Will taps his fist ever so gently against it. When a quiet “hm?” sounds from inside, he turns the cold knob to the right and pushes the door inside the room. The lamp is on, which is the first thing he notices. The second is the open window, comforting, inevitable, and the third thing is Mike’s worried expression. He has a pencil and paper on the bed in front of him, and his bag is propped against the bed to his right. Will, mercifully, steps entirely into the room, and strides quickly towards the other’s bed, wrapping his arms around the other wordlessly. Mike is warm, and Will feels terrible.
“Are you alright?” he asks, but he doesn’t know exactly why he did. Mike looks up at him anyway, but not how he usually does. Usually, he looks at Will like he’s a deity, like he’s built the world; now, though, he’s looking at him like he would have built it for him. Like he’s in love with him.
Will places a steady hand on Mike’s cheek and furrows his eyebrows. Mike is still looking at him, and he hasn’t answered, but his hand moves to the small of Will’s back and he presses himself against him again. Will sighs, and he decides he’s still worried.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you.” Will looks up, gives him a lopsided smile and says, “aren’t there a few things you didn’t tell me?” It’s a joke, a nod to everything they kept from each other throughout their adolescence. It’s no one’s fault, especially not theirs.
“I did write to you. I just never… sent them. I felt like they were stupid and I felt bad so I never sent them. I’m sorry.” Will is silent. He doesn’t move, afraid of disturbing the dust on the corners of their conversation; carefully, he asks, “do you have any with you?”
Will can tell by the way he does not move that he does, in fact, have one of them with him. He sighs, and Will wonders if the consequence is beyond him.
There is a pause, as always, and then Mike pulls away and leans towards his bag. He unzips the front pocket, which is covered in pins of sorts, and pulls out a brown envelope. He stops for a moment, like he’s still trying to decide what to do, before he straightens and hands it to Will.
Will looks at the letter, then at Mike, then at it again. His name is written neatly on the back and he blushes.
“Do I… do I read it now?” he inquires, and Mike nods after a beat. He scoots an inch closer to Mike on the bed and opens the envelope as carefully as he can.
A plain sheet of lined paper is folded within it, and Will looks up at Mike one last time before he unfolds it. He looks troubled, still, but now there’s something else in his expression, too. He decides he’ll figure it out later.
Will unfolds the paper, and Mike’s neat handwriting is scrawled from top to bottom; Will places his hand on Mike's knee when he starts reading.
Dear Will,
It’s been 13 months since you moved. I’ve written you nine other letters, but I threw them away. I could never say what I wanted to.
It is so quiet without you, in fact, and I am quieter as well. Mom asks me what’s wrong all the time, but she noticed I put your drawings on my wall, and she stopped asking. Or maybe it’s because I never answered. I’m not sure, but everyone else doesn’t seem to be as affected as me (no offense). But I think it’s because Dustin has Suzie, and Max and Lucas have each other, y’know, and I don’t have you. Which sounds dumb, but maybe I’ll tell you what it means. Maybe tomorrow.
I’ve been talking to Robin a lot more. She and I get along, especially since she likes someone too. She told me about them and I actually knew them already from school. You would love school. The art teacher in high school is so much better than our middle school one. I don’t have any friends in that class so I talk to her a lot and I told her about you. I brought some of your artwork in one day to show her. She loved them. She loved them so much and I think I love them a lot more.
Lucas and I are out of our mindless bickering phase finally. It’s a big step for us (I wish you could be there to witness the absence of bullshittery) and so sometimes we watch movies in my basement with just the two of us. I really like Texas Chainsaw and Lucas really likes Nightmare on Elm Street. I hate Freddy Krueger so much so I hate that movie, don’t tell anyone but I couldn’t sleep for a week.
Robin works at the video store still but Steve left since he went to college. I applied to work there a month ago and I’ve spent most days there since I don’t really know what else to do. I wish you were here. You could work with us. You’d get along with Robin so well. She knows I like you. She’s the only one that does because I’m too scared to tell anyone. She was confused why I didn’t tell Nancy but Nancy has a big mouth and she’d tell Jonathan and you live with Jonathan so it would just not work.
Max works at that flower shop near Melvald’s and every time I go there it feels so weird to not see your mom through the window. I don’t think it set in how much she felt like my own until you guys moved away. You guys always felt a lot more like family than mine did.
Dustin hasn’t shut up about Suzie, believe it or not. I think it’s cute, but I wonder if they’re planning on ever seeing each other again. Every time he talks about her I tell him that maybe if he would get his driver’s license then he could maybe go visit her and his comeback is always that “I could do it for him.” That one always gets me because it’s the very last thing I would ever do. I tell him I would never drive over that many state lines and he says I’d do it if it was to you. I told him that I wouldn’t. I think I would.
I think once I’m seventeen that mom will be less pushy and she’ll let me do whatever. She’s always been kind of lenient but now that Nancy’s out of the house she has no one else to bear down on so she chooses me (I know so stupid). Maybe she’ll let me drive to you.
I always loved the way you were still so bright after everything. You’ve always looked and felt like the sun. Always, and I wish I’d told you that more before you left. There’s so many things I could’ve said and one day I’ll say them. One day, since I still feel guilty.
I have to stop talking about love. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t like how it sounds coming out of my mouth and I think it’s unfair to you. I have always been unfair to you. I swear, I will see you soon. I promise.
Love, Mike
The paper feels lighter in Will’s hands than it did at the beginning. There’s love all over his face and all over the room and especially on his hand where it’s still touching Mike’s knee. He looks up again, and he’s smiling, and so Mike starts smiling, too. Will starts laughing, and Mike starts laughing, and the lamppost is laughing and the moth is laughing and they are in love.
Mike cups Will’s face with both of his hands and looks at him, and Will’s hand is still on Mike’s knee. There’s still things Will wants to ask. Right now, though, Mike looks like he wants to say something. He’ll ask later. Maybe tomorrow.
Mike says “I love you” and there is nothing astonishing about it. It is all so familiar.
“I know,” he replies, “I have loved you forever.” And he has.
Mike supposes his latent love has been repressed far too long. So, he wraps his arm around Will’s waist and they lie down, Mike pressing kisses over his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, his nose. Will laughs, brightly, echoing. Mike hears it so closely and wishes bashfully that he was closer. The door, the one to their right, shudders when the air conditioning turns on, and in another situation they would put any amount of distance between themselves; but here, on Will Byers’ bed in the suburbs of California, Mike and Will get even closer.
“I love you so much,” Mike says in one breath, and he presses his lips against Will’s.
Will kisses back, slowly, like he’ll die if he doesn’t. He puts his hand against Mike’s cheek and tilts his head slightly to the side, and Mike’s lips are so soft, and his hand is in his hair, and he feels like he might die. Here, with his lover, insistent against his lips, they decide that it is real.
They pull away, reluctantly, and Will’s eyes are greener than they’ve ever been.
Mike presses one final, lingering kiss against the other’s lips, and when he pulls away there are flower beds draped across their faces in zigzag patterns to turn them both pink. Their eyelids are heavy, and Will decides they’ll just sleep here tonight. Mike tucks his head under Will’s chin, and their arms tighten around each other. Will reaches to turn the lamp off, and once they’re bathed in darkness, Will kisses Mike’s head.
“I want to stay forever,” Mike says against his skin, and Will’s heart soars.
“Of course,” he says, “you’re family.”
--
It is September, and Mike and Will are in love.
There’s a pitcher of lemonade on the dining table and they’ve scooted their chairs closer together to take sips from each other’s glasses. Jonathan is at the table, too; he’s going back to school soon, and it reminds Mike that he’ll have to do the same at some point.
Neither of them mind all that much. The press of their lips together at arbitrary times in arbitrary places seems like enough.
Mike is doing some sort of crossword puzzle beside him, beams of funneled light haloing his dark hair. Will tries not to laugh when Mike starts looking frustrated, erasing something on the page aggressively.
“Something wrong?” Will laughs, now, when Mike looks up and rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, with you, dipshit. Let me do my puzzle,” he pokes the blunt lead of his pencil into Will’s hand sprawled out on the table.
Will does not laugh. He does, however, roll his eyes and allow himself the faintest smile, placing his hand on Mike’s shoulder and pressing their lips together. He loves how easy it is. If he had known, fuckever miles away, that this is what he could’ve had if he’d just asked, he would’ve asked sooner. Maybe he would’ve gotten his driver’s license.
Mike knows he’ll have to go back at some point. But not now. For now, he wears Will around his wrist when they go out together, sidewalk chalk seeping into their bloodstreams. They do this often, almost as if to make up for lost time; they’ve made up for it, at this point, two years later. Mike and Will, hand in hand, seventeen and smiling.
It feels like them. It feels like coming home.