Chapter Text
The ballpoint pen he’d stolen off the newspaper club’s setup at the club fair from freshman orientation lay on his desk, surrounded by balled up sheets of paper with what seemed like gallons of ink sunk into their college-ruled lines. The boy himself was absentmindedly picking at his nails, leaning against his bed. Mike Wheeler glanced towards the desk’s surface and immediately looked away. He stood, taking up too much vertical space. He’d always been too tall and gangly, constantly having to fold in his limbs in order to be the right amount of invisible. Debating whether or not to go out was useless, it was better in his room anyway.
Mike turned and resolutely faced his desk.
Dear Will,
I called last Wednesday and ended up talking to your mom. She assumed I wanted to talk to El, so I let her hand me off to her. I didn’t call for El, though; we don’t call. She practices writing so neither of us have to work to fill the silence. Calling is kinda a friend thing, I guess, so it was weird. I wanted to talk to you more. And I didn’t get to. So that doesn’t happen again, I’ve started writing letters to you. So far, none of them have been good enough I’ve been kind of stumped about what to write. I figure it’s just better to go where my thoughts take me.
I hope California’s good. You’ve sounded tired over the phone. This is supposed to be what’s best for you guys, and I guess I’ve just been so caught up with El I haven’t had the chance to ask. I haven’t been a very good friend ever since she- since when we lost you for the first time, I think. I’m sorry. We’re still best friends, though, right? I get if you’re like, super popular in Lenora, cuz you’re pretty amazing a really cool guy, Will. But you’re always gonna be my best friend, and I’d better be yours too. I really We all miss you. It’s just boring without our Will the Wise around, y’know?
It feels weird that everybody else has somebody and I’m alone. It’s always been you and me, it’s so
“God, fucking-” Mike ran his hands through his hair, gritting his teeth. He balled up the paper. Set it alongside the others. Fourteen on his desk, almost a notebook’s worth in his little trash can. Sometimes he felt like lining them up. If he didn’t throw them away, he could make a tidy line of paper balls, waiting there on his desk to remind him that he couldn’t even talk to his best friend normally anymore. Well. Write to his best friend. But same difference.
It’s gotten so much worse since he left.
Before, Mike would have these moments. These brief little shocks where he just had to throw his arms around Will or stare at him or take his wrist to tug at his arm. And sometimes he didn’t know how to stop. Sometimes, during that last summer, he would be with El and she would be smiling at him and he’d want to kiss her but only because the sun in her eyes and the green all around them blended and made this hazel-y effect that looked almost like Will’s in the dark. Sometimes when El would take his hand he’d forget who she was and when she tugged him too hard he’d remember, because Will always knew his strength and he knew how fast Mike ran and he would never accidentally pop his shoulder like she did. Sometimes she’d surge up and kiss him and it felt wrong because she smelled like mint, not like the tea Jonathan made every morning and fresh cut grass.
Sometimes he’d be with Will and before he knew it, they were two seconds away from being snuggled together on the couch watching reruns like they did when they were nine and he had to drag himself away because his face felt hot and his brain was fuzzy. Sometimes he’d wake up in the morning and dreaded seeing Will because he knew it was a bad day and the thought of blue-green eyes and citrus tea made his stomach do cartwheels. He got better at locking it up, spent more time running off with El. She’d giggle and kiss him and bile would rise in his throat because it was all wrong but he just smiled and kissed her back.
Now he’d wake up earlier than everyone else on weekends, and sneak down into the kitchen to make some orange-vanilla tea with the raw honey his mom had started buying on her farmers market health craze. His room was organized completely differently, but Will’s art was on display. He remembered watching Will make each one of them, his eyebrows slightly furrowed and little creases on his forehead that Mike used to not be afraid to smoothe with his thumb. He remembered laughing at his bashful face when Will presented them to him. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he’d kissed the little creases goodbye or took Will’s hand and dragged him along to find the perfect place to hang up the pictures.
Sometimes he wondered if Will would taste like citrus too.
Then he’d slap himself across the face and remind himself he had a girlfriend. She wouldn’t be cool with Mike kissing anyone else, even if it didn’t mean anything. Because it certainly did not mean anything. Even if Will hadn’t grown all the way up back then, Mike had. And he’d grown into romance. With Eleven. A girl. Like a normal person, which he was. “Yes, Wheeler, because thinking of yourself and your best friend as a pair like the couples in your life is very normal. Especially when you have a girlfriend you adore who you should have been thinking of first.”
He flopped down on his bed and groaned into his pillow. Maybe letter writing was best saved for another day.