Archive of Our Own

five.

Mike Wheeler can do many things.

He knows how to make Christmas cookies with his mom. He can run faster than his older sister, Nancy, when they race down the street. He even knows how to read, and though he’s still learning how to read inside his head and not out loud, Mom says it’s still much more than the other kids at kindergarten will know.

But he doesn’t exactly know how to make a friend.

Nobody ever taught him that! And there were no kids on the street besides Nancy, and she doesn’t count because she’s his sister. He could play with her, but she only wanted to play with dolls, and she almost never wanted to play anything else with him. It wasn’t worth it.

It wasn’t a problem at first. He didn’t need friends. He had stories he wrote by himself, scribbled in stapled sheets of binder paper, and he drew little stick figures to go along with them. Maybe he does need a friend. An artist who can draw better things that can go along with his stories.

The problem is getting one. Getting a friend. It’s the first day of kindergarten now and all the kids around him look like they already have friends. At recess, he sees people going to talk to each other, to play, but no one is getting up and walking over to talk to him.

Huh. So he’ll go talk to other people, then. There’s a familiar-looking kid on the swingset alone. He can’t see very well because there’s a tree in the way, but it looks like a boy with brown hair that might be in his class. Why not him? He seems nice. Mike’ll try him first. Maybe they can see who can swing the highest.

So Mike climbs down from the top of the monkey bars and jumps through a couple trees to the swingset and almost hits two people playing with a soccer ball. He yells an apology over his shoulder. One of them starts after Mike like he’s gonna kill him. But it’s okay, because the kid’s still there, and the swing is still open.

The boy looks up at him, and yeah, Mike was right; he does have brown hair, and close up, he can see his eyes. They’re like the color of coffee that his mom drinks and the sunlight reflects through his hair as he plays with a leaf and Mike wants to be his friend. He’s pretty.

The boy smiles at him a little nervously, he thinks. Before he can lose his nerve, Mike looks at him, tries to smile back, and says, “Hi, I’m Mike. Do you want to be my friend?”

His mouth makes a little round O before he nods. “Okay! I’m Will.”

Okay. Good start. “Uh, do you want to see how high we can go? Like who can go higher on the swings. Me and Nancy once went almost all the way around once, but Nancy had to push me. Nancy’s my sister. She’s nine.”

“Oh, my brother’s nine too! His name’s Jonathan. When we go to the park, he’ll push me, so I don’t really know how to swing by myself.”

“It’s easy! You just have to push off the ground by yourself instead of having someone else do it.”

Will kicks at the floor. “Can’t do it.”

“Yeah, you can. You just have to push yourself more. Like this,” he tries to explain, jumping a little to get into the open swing next to Will’s. “But you’re short, so you might have to scoot closer to the edge a bit. And then you just push your legs like how you would when your brother pushes you. And then you just keep going.”

He watches Will, who tries to copy him. And he’s swinging slowly, but he’s doing it, swinging higher and higher. He tries to slow down so they can swing next to him, and then they’re swinging in sync with each other and he wants to stay on the creaking swings for as long as he can. But the bell rings right when they’re nearly at the height of the swings. He can hear the teachers calling for their classes, and their teacher is one of them. He doesn’t want to be late.

So he jumps, which is something he doesn’t do so often, because Nancy yells at him when he does, but Nancy’s not here and he does it anyways. He pretends he’s a bird like he always does and lands on his feet, stumbling a little bit, and turns to Will. “Jump!”

“No!” Will’s stopped swinging, but he’s not slowing down. “I'm scared.”

“It's fun!”

“Are you sure?” Will calls, looking down, his eyes widening. “It’s high up.”

“Well, you can wait until you’re closer to the floor to jump. You don’t have to do it now.”

Mike watches Will’s hands grip the chains of the swingset tighter, but he still nods okay. He waits as Will swings back a little bit before he loosens his grip and jumps like Mike did. But he doesn’t land the same way Mike did: he lands on his feet and stumbles and falls, red scraping along his knees.

“Will. You’re bleeding.” This is why Nancy doesn’t like it when he jumps. He gets it now. He shouldn’t have told him to jump. Will’s hurt. He doesn’t want Will to be hurt. “Are you okay?”

“Uh huh.” Will studies his knee curiously, then pushes himself up. “I’m fine. I can just get a bandaid inside. I saw some by the door.”

“Your hands are hurt too.” He catches Will’s hand and turns it over; it’s red from where it scraped against the tanbark, leaving little pink imprints in his palm. They’re not bleeding, though. He picks a piece of wood out of his hand.

“No, they’re okay. I just have to wash them. Because otherwise they’re gonna get infected.”

His eyes widen. “Don’t you die if they get infected?”

“No… Well, I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I’m not gonna die, so it’s okay.”

“Good, I don’t want you to die.”

Will smiles at him, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He makes a little note in his head: to get a really pretty smile out of him, tell him something nice. Cool. He can do that.

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’re friends, right?”

Will just smiles, pulling at him. “Let's go back in. We’re gonna be late.”

And so they run all the way back to the classroom, holding hands still, and they go back on the swings the next day, and the next, and the next.

six.

The papers Ms. Riley gave him are so boring. She handed them out to each table partner and told them to read them out loud and answer the questions. It’s a stupid reading exercise, Will thinks and Mike says, but they sit down and answer them anyways.

Well, Mike is trying to answer them. Will’s drawing a bird that’s on the windowsill in the corner of the page and not paying attention to anything the teacher – or Mike – is saying. It’s really pretty. He’s not doing well, but it sort of looks like a bird, and he’s trying to get the feathers down right.

Honestly, he’s really glad that he has another class with Mike, because he doesn’t really know anyone else and Mike’s his best friend and he’s not sure how he’d live without Mike with him. Mike’s his favorite, even in times like these, when he’s loud and Will’s tired. Dad was yelling all day yesterday and he couldn’t get any sleep.

“Will. Wiiiiiiiill.” Mike pokes him in the shoulder twice, then slumps over his desk, his arms hitting an eraser onto the floor. “Ugh, Wiiiiiiill. Will you get that?”

“Whaaaaaaaat.” He tilts his head as he looks at the drawing. It’s not great because he’s only using a pencil and it’s getting smudged everywhere, but whatever, he should probably be doing work right now anyways.

“The eraser. It’s under your seat.”

“Miiiiiiike. Get it yourself.”

“No, I’m doing my work! You’re drawing.”

He reaches under his seat and plunks the eraser on his desk, hitting his head on his desk when he resurfaces. “Ow,” he starts, rubbing his head, and looks at Mike, who’s looking at the drawing he just realized he didn’t flip over.

“You just did this?” Mike asks, his eyes wide. He looks up. Will looks away. There’s so much “Wait, you just drew this? You’re - this is so good, Will! Can I keep it?”

“Oh – I guess. Just that’s the worksheet, we’ll need another one.”

“Okay!” And he gets up, walking towards Ms. Riley on the other side of the room.

Will looks at the drawing again. It’s not that good. He’s seen some of the drawings in the art room and that stuff is much better than what he can do. But he’s also seen what Mike has drawn and it was a lot worse than what he can do. Mike can’t draw to save his life. He’s seen his writing, though, and his stories are a lot better than anything Will can do. Will can’t write, not really. They make a good team because sometimes Mike will make stories up and Will draws them.

Mike slaps an empty worksheet onto his desk. “Here. Wiiiiillllll. Your drawing looks good, c’mon. Stop judging it.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, picking up the worksheet, trying to fill things in with handwriting that’s as neat as Mike’s. Partner’s name: Mike Wheeler. Age: six. Birthday. Easy questions, easy answers. This assignment is stupid. He’s not learning anything about his partner like Ms. Riley wanted him to, but that’s probably because they’re best friends already.

“What’s this say?” he has to ask several times, and feels really bad about asking him even though Mike doesn’t seem to care. Favorite animal. Season. Movie. He fills them in without a second thought, except for favorite book, but that didn’t matter because it was what he thought it maybe was anyways.

“Are you done yet?” Mike asks after five minutes, leaning his head on Will’s desk and nudging his arm. “Will. You’re almost done. I wanna trade papers.”

“Just let me finish the question. Favorite… Does that say person? Person or thing?”

Mike leans over his shoulder. “Mhmm. Oh, that’s easy! You.”

“Really?” he asks, but he’s smiling. Really? It’s him? That’s cool. He thought it’d be his mom or something, not - not him.

“Yeah. Hey, is this stuff true?” Mike shoves his paper at him.

“One second,” he says to Mike, who’s slumped dramatically over his desk again. Mike watches him carefully write in his answer. Favorite person/thing: Me (Will!).

As soon as he finishes, Mike’s hand reaches out and grabs it. “Finally! You took so long,” he groans, but he’s obviously trying not to smile. Will doesn’t take it too seriously.

He turns over Mike’s paper. He writes so neatly. In his careful handwriting – Name: Will Byers. Age: six. Birthday: March 22. Eye color, favorite movie, favorite book, favorite candy - all right. He doesn’t really know how Mike remembers half of those things. If Will tried to name his own favorite book off the top of his head, he’d have to stall for twenty minutes because all the books he has are too good and he loves all of them. He silently thanks Mike for picking the Hardy Boys so that he didn’t have to choose one himself. Even though Mike has to read them to him because he goes so much slower on his own and the books are so big.

He tries to remember when he told Mike that his favorite color was yellow; it’s the only thing that’s wrong, because his favorite color is blue. He can’t, so he asks Mike - “When did I ever say that?”

“Is it – Am I wrong? I mean, you wear it all the time. I thought…”

“Wait, I don’t wear yellow all the time!”

Mike looks very pointedly at his shirt. He looks down too.

It’s yellow.

Maybe he does wear yellow all the time.

It’s not on purpose, though, so it doesn’t count. He tells Mike this, and he says something about how if he’s really that mad about it then that’s okay, he can change it, it’s no big deal, but his face is falling and he looks so sad.

“I like yellow though, so it’s okay.”

“But if you like blue more, then that’s okay. I can change it.”

“Well, you wear blue all the time.” He knows Mike’s looking at him now. He can feel him. Will looks down and flicks his eraser around a little bit so he doesn’t look at Mike. “That’s why I like blue most.”

Is that weird? It might be weird. But he looks up, and Mike’s just staring at him with a little smile on his face, and he beams back at him because this smile - Mike’s smile - this smile is like the bird he drew on his worksheet, flying into the afternoon sun.

seven.

He doesn’t wanna be here. He doesn’t. It’s too hot out and they’re just across the street and really Mike could go meet the neighbor boy whenever he wants to. He doesn’t want to right now. There's better things to do, like play with Will, not the kid Will saw earlier today who immediately wanted to be friends with him.

Really this is all Will’s fault because he wanted to meet the kid who’d been sitting outside on a basketball reading a comic book. When Mike had said that it was just the new neighbors, he’d went and asked Mom if they could go across the street. Mom had invited him along for the dinner they were already going to that night, and Miss Joyce said it was okay.

And now Will’s next to him, laughing because Nancy rolled her eyes when Mike had said it was so hot out in an attempt to let him go back home. “It’s not that bad!” he protests.

“Stop arguing, kids,” Dad says halfheartedly. He glares at Dad’s back.

“Could you get that?” Mom asks him. “I’m carrying the casserole.” Dad doesn’t move, and Mike sees her whisper so goddamned lazy before ringing the doorbell.

They’ve been doing that more often. Nancy says they’ve always been doing that, he’s just never noticed. He wishes he doesn’t notice. He wishes they were normal and happy and that he never had to go crying to Nancy after another dinner ended in mean comments towards him.

Will nudges him. “Are you okay? You seem - sad.”

He nods. The door swings open. “Welcome!” both the moms say at the same time. Will giggles. They file inside the house one after another, passing a man holding a baby who shakes Dad’s hand. “This is my husband, Ted,” Mom says, “and my kids, Nancy and Michael. This is Michael’s best friend Will.”

“Nice to meet you all. This is Erica,” she says, motioning to the baby, “and Lucas is around somewhere. We just had Erica - six months - and Lucas is seven now.” Lucas. He files the name away.

“Oh, good. These two are seven too. Will’s always over, and well, we’re your neighbors now, so I'm sure Lucas and Will and Mike will be good friends. There’s no kids his age on the street, and Will can’t be over all the time, so...” their voices trail off as the parents move into the kitchen.

He doesn’t want to be good friends with Lucas.

“C’mon,” mutters Will. “Lucas! We should find him.”

He rolls his eyes where Will can’t see and follows him into the living room.

-

Lucas isn’t that bad, actually. After the first day, Mike shows him around a couple blocks and the bit of the woods they’re allowed to play in, and they play games all throughout the day. It’s fun. Sort of. Will asks if it is and he shakes his head no.

They make plans with Will to go downtown and walk around, stopping at the library because Lucas wants to check out a book neither Mike nor Will has ever heard of. They’re gonna go get lunch and read, and even though Mom has to come along because they’re “only seven,” it’s gonna be fun. He can’t wait for Friday.

Lucas shows up earlier than Will – well, they live across the street – and Mike shows him around their house because they play outside mostly. They play with his Legos and laugh over some of the comics, and Mike waits for Will to show up.

He should know that the day was going to be awful when Will shows up 45 minutes late with a bruise on his arm. Mike gives him a long-sleeved shirt to hide it before he goes downstairs.
And it just keeps getting worse. Lucas and Will start talking immediately, no hesitation or anything, and they don’t stop. He tries to make them talk to him too. He tries to fit in, but he doesn’t understand the TV show they watched or whatever else they talk about. They don’t notice when he goes to the bathroom and cries, because if they did, they’d knock.

Mike walks upstairs as quietly as he can - neither of them notice him leaving, he doesn’t think - and locks the door to his room. He doesn’t ever do that either. And yeah, he hears Will’s footsteps and a knock, but he doesn’t open his door. And he plays with his toys, but they’re no fun at all, not without Will, who’s obviously still in the basement with Lucas. He settles on rounding up all his books except for one so Lucas can’t check out anything. It doesn’t matter. Will’ll probably let Lucas check out something on his account.

He doesn’t leave his room until Mom tells him to. They’re going to the library now, she says. And even though he doesn’t want to be around Lucas, he really wants to get the next Avengers comic from the comic book store next to the library. He asks to bike so he doesn’t have to hear them talking – he can already hear them from upstairs – but Mom refuses.

Lucas and Will sit by the door talking about something when he goes downstairs, and Mike watches Will look up and furrow his eyebrows in a way he knows well – his are you okay look – and he refuses to answer.

Will shrugs, but he can tell he’s not going to let it go. Whatever. He kinda wants him to anyway. That’s why he walks a few steps behind Lucas and Will and Mom, who are pointing out things that he already did, and kicks a rock down the sidewalk. Will’s keeping up with them, but he turns around several times, jerks his head like he’s trying to say come join us. He kicks the rock too hard and it disappears onto the street.

“Michael. Catch up,” Mom calls. No.

And then Will’s by his side, finally, and then he starts to feel really, really bad. “Go talk to Lucas,” he says, pulling his hand out of Will’s so he can go catch back up.

“No. What’s wrong?” His hand’s back in Mike’s. Everything’s a little bit better.

“Nothing’s wrong! Go talk to Lucas. I don’t want to interrupt. It’s probably more fun anyways.”

“It’s not.” Will looks at him, his eyes wide and confused, and he can’t find it in himself to be mad mad like he wants to be. “It’s more fun when you’re there.”

“No it’s not! You guys don’t care. He called you his best friend earlier! I heard him!”

Will stops, opening and closing his mouth. He stops too, waiting for him, waiting for an answer. “Well, yeah, but he said you’re his new best friend too. And he’s worried you’re mad at him. We can have more than one best friend anyways. And you’re still my bestest friend.”

It’s getting hard to look at Will. His eyes are filling up a little bit. “Really?” he asks, and he hates how sad and quiet his voice is. He wanted it to sound mean. Like he thought Will was lying. But nope, because he’s crying and soft and that’s not what he wanted.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t let go of Will’s hand as they catch up to Lucas and Mom. They hold hands the rest of the way to the library, and maybe it’s just him being weird because they’ve held hands so often and it’s no big deal, but he can’t really stop smiling.

eight.

“Disgusting – little – fairy –” Dad grits out and punches him. In the face this time. It hurts. His face hurts. He can’t really stand.

“Fucking coward.” Yeah. He can’t stand anymore, so he lifts his hands to cover his face. Everything hurts so much.

Footsteps running up the road. He can hear the lock turning because he’s right under the front door now. Mom, maybe. With Jonathan. Hopefully.

“Will!”

Yeah, that’s Mom. Yelling at Dad. Not good. Mom’s gonna get hurt. He doesn’t want Mom hurt. Dad kicks him in the stomach. He can handle it. At least it’s not Mom.

Hands scoop him off the floor. “Jonathan, ow.”

“Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. C’mon, we’re going.” The fall air’s cold on his face. He appreciates it. “Where’s your radio, bud? Your bed? Okay. I’ll be right back.”

“Jonathan,” he tries to say. Hurts. The car isn’t warm, so he tries to make himself less big. Curls himself up. Not on the car seat anymore, he’s under the door. Kicked. Freak. Everything hurts.

“Hey, bud, do you have a private channel with Mike that I could use? Okay. Hey, Mike.” Mike. Jonathan’s calling Mike. “Can you ask your mom if we can come over? Like now. Ten minutes? Okay. It’s urgent. Yeah – yeah, a code red. Thanks, man.” Click.

“Okay, Will, hold on, okay? We’re gonna go to Mike’s house and get you cleaned up. We might have to stay there a little bit. It’s – it’s gonna be okay. We’re – it’s gonna – okay. I’m sorry I didn’t come home sooner. I should’ve...” Jonathan keeps talking as the car starts. Will doesn’t reply. It hurts to talk. He closes his eyes.

The next thing he hears is “Holy – Will. Oh my God. Will.” He knows this: Mike, in the doorway, running out to meet the car, his voice, real.

His arms wrap around him. Fucking fairy –

“Can’t. You can’t hug me,” he tries to mumble. Everything in him protests. He doesn’t want him to stop hugging him, doesn’t want him to go –

Mike lets go.

Will can see his face fall. He wishes he’d never said anything. “Why not?” Mike asks, his hand still on his arm.

“Dad said so. Makes me a - makes me a fag.”

And he can’t look him in the eye anymore. It’s not like Mike hasn’t heard him be called mean things before. Will’s been called fairies and queers and things he can barely even say in his own mind. But it’s different when it’s not bullies and when it’s his dad.

“Oh. I mean, if you don’t want to hug me then that’s okay, but if it’s just because your dad said so, then I think you should ignore him. Your dad sucks.”

He gets it. Will might start crying.

“C’mon, let’s go get you cleaned up. Can you walk?” Will leans on him and tries to pretend he doesn’t hear Dad in the crunch of the gravel. He’s too aware of Mike’s arm around his shoulder. Of the slow steps up the driveway. Of his dad yelling faggot over and over inside his head.

And he’s in the bathroom now. Alone. Mike’s gone. Mike’s gone and he doesn’t know what to do.

He stares at himself in the mirror. His eye’s black. And he’s bruised all over his arms. There’s blood dripping down his face from a cut on his forehead. Some on the counter now. Of course Mike ran. He didn’t want to see him. He doesn’t look like himself. He wipes at the blood on his face. It smears. It makes it worse. He makes everything worse.

“Okay, so Nance said to put pressure over it for fifteen minutes, or until it stops bleeding. She said it should be fine, it looked shallow.” Mike.

“You came back.”

“What – yeah, of course I did. I just don’t really know how to deal with, uh -” he waves his hands around “- this, exactly. Nancy knows more. So I asked.” He opens a cabinet, takes out a washcloth, runs it under water. “I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

Will watches the water drip over Mike’s hand. He should probably take it now. The washcloth, not Mike’s hand. Though he kinda wants to hold Mike’s hand – no. He can’t.

“Do you want me to -” The feel of Mike’s fingers brushing against his forehead. The water dripping down his face. The cold of the bathtub. Real. “Okay. What happened? Did your dad do something?”

He nods. True. He’s being true. Friends don’t lie. He remembers that.

Mike’s hand shakes from where he’s holding the washcloth.

“Tell me about it?”

And he does. He tells him about how he’d come home that day and Dad was already mad. Drunk mad. He tried to go to his room. Dad had stopped him. Asked him what he was doing. When he said hanging out with Mike, that – something had changed. Set him off. He’d inhaled, gotten up, too mad, and Will hadn’t made it to his room in time. “Do you hear me? I don’t need a queer like you as a kid.” He’d cried. Dad hadn’t liked that. That was when he’d started punching him.

Jonathan and Mom came home then, he explains. Mom diverted his attention. Jonathan got him out. He looks at Mike, whose eyes are wide and scared like he knows his have to be. “Do you think she’s okay? Do you… Did Dad hurt her?”

Mike doesn’t reply, just leans over and hugs him. Water drips down his back, but it’s okay, because Mike’s warm and comfortable and real, and it still hurts but he brings himself to hug him back. This feels different. Mike’s hugged him a million times before, so he doesn’t know why this one feels like – so defining, he guesses, he was never the one who was good with words – but it does.

“I want to kill him so bad,” he whispers, and when Will laughs he can feel Mike smiling into his shoulder before he pulls away. “And, like, this really – it’s so awful, but you’re staying here for a couple days, right? Mom’ll let us stay home from school tomorrow. We can hang out and watch movies. We can make it better.”

“Promise?” he whispers. He needs to make sure. He needs him to stay.

“Of course. I promise.”

nine.

“His name’s Dustin.”

Lucas slams down a pair of binoculars on the basement table. Will yelps in protest from where he’s drawing and Mike jumps. It’s stupid to jump because Will jumped, but in his defense, he was watching him draw, so his sudden movement was just a surprise all around. He leans his head back on the table and watches Lucas instead.

Lucas doesn’t even bother saying a full apology before continuing on. “He lives on the block down the street –”

“Obviously, what other houses are people moving into?”

“Shut up, Mike. What else, uh - he lives with his mom and a cat.”

“Oh, a cat?” Will looks up, blinking a couple times. “What’s it like?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cute. Orange, I think. I don’t know, man, I just saw a cat.”

Will sighs and turns back to his drawing, disappointed.

“Dustin’s our age. Going into fourth grade.”

“Are you sure?” he can’t stop himself from asking. “He looks like he’s about five.”

“Dude, you look like you’re five. Besides, I asked him, and that’s what he said.” He drops into the open seat next to Mike. “So, are we gonna invite him over?”

“I mean, maybe. We can see how he is during school, or if he’s outside while we are, or if we go downtown and he’s there.”

This is not the right thing to say. Lucas lifts his hands in a not-shrug, a why-are-you-doing-this, and fixes Mike with the most exasperated look he’s ever seen on a human being.

“He’s nice, oh my God. C’mon, Mike! It’s another person, he knows how to play DnD and he said he’d teach us, he’s cool. This isn’t like what you thought I was. He’s not trying to steal Will. If anything, he’s trying to be my best friend. You and Will are safe. I swear, we need another person so I’m not third-wheeling all the time –”

“Third-wheeling? You’re not third-wheeling, what are you talking about?”

“Wait, what’s third-wheeling?”

Mike doesn’t bother answering because it’s not true. “We’re all best friends! You’re just being stupid–”

Lucas jumps in. “It’s like when one person is stuck in between, like, a couple. Like me when you and Mike are at the movies and you share popcorn and whisper to each other and stuff. That’s third wheeling. And if we’re all best friends, we can have one more. Right, Will?”

“Yeah,” he begins, and both Lucas’s and his eyebrows shoot up at the same time before he continues. “Mike’s right. You’re not third wheeling.”

“I literally am! When it’s just one of you, it’s fine, but when it’s the three of us going downtown or anywhere, you guys are practically glued together. And it’s always us three, which means it’s always you two and I’m here too.”

“Well, he’s my best friend!”

“Thought we were all best friends? Look,” he says, holding his hands up, “You guys are great, and I love you, but oh my God sometimes it’s like you’re an old married couple and also there’s me. It’s always been MikeandWill and Lucas too.”

Mike looks at Will, who’s trying not to grin. Complete opposites. He knows that anger is practically radiating off his face. This is so incredibly funny, Will’s saying when they lock eyes. Mike says the same thing with the most sarcasm he can possibly put into a conversation where he’s not actually saying something.

“See, like that!”

“Oh my God, Lucas. It’s nothing.”

“Look, the point is that Dustin’s a good fit with us, he’s fun to be around, everything is fine. So I’m gonna invite him to hang out tomorrow. Will, you good with that?”

“Mhm.”

He’s already back to doodling. How does he do that? Mike just wants to rip off Lucas’s head and Will’s drawing an admittedly very good picture of the basement. Opposites attract, he supposes. And of course that reminds him of Lucas’s stupid little third wheeling comment. He’ll think about that later. Or maybe he won’t. Both options work.

-

LUCAS’S TEN RULES OF JOINING OUR GROUP
1. Don’t be mean
2. Don’t call people stuff they don’t want to be called
3. Majority rules
4. Don't lie
5. Ignore Mike half the time
6. Ignore Mike and Will
7. Don’t ask Will to show what he’s drawing
8. Have a bike
9. Have a radio and keep it on in case of emergency
10. Don't be stupid

“I mean, this all makes sense. But. What do you mean by this one, rule 6?”

“Oh my GOD, Lucas! Did you leave it in? Dude! Why’d you do that?”

“It’s really not that big of a deal, Mike.”

“It’s annoying, but fine, whatever, Will.”

“Yeah, it’s just that but worse. Mike does whatever Will wants him to–”

“I do not!”

“And they hang out all the time without me, and they’re always like this, and–”

“Oh. Ohh. Okay, sure, I’ll join, but only because you need backup.”

-
ten.

Will likes distracting himself. He knows this. It’s not like it’s hard, honestly - just starting a drawing or a couple hours hanging out with the Party and he’ll spend the rest of his day thinking about it. The biggest distraction, obviously, is Mike, and especially with his dad getting madder and madder, he spends as much time as he can with him. Which means he’s always thinking about Mike.

He’s not complaining. He knows he needs distractions and the best one, the most convenient one, is his best friend, so everything’s okay. It gives him an excuse to leave his house. His dad’s reaching his breaking point, and middle school is just getting closer and closer, and it’s just all - Mike would say it’s going to shit and he’d be right.

But it’s not all that bad! Like, see, right now, for example. He’s at Mike’s house with the rest of the party. It’s a sleepover. They went to sleep after watching a movie, or he assumes they did - he’d fallen asleep halfway through and woken up when they’d all started to set up their sleeping bags and stuff.

And now, it’s nearly one in the morning and he’s still awake. The only one awake. It’s gotten more common recently, not being able to sleep. He’s getting used to it. He doesn’t like the dark much, but it seems more comfortable here. He can see the outlines of Dustin and Lucas on the floor, Mike on the recliner, the TV in front of them, the stairs.

At home, he’d walk around and get a glass of water and then try to go back to sleep. Sometimes it worked. He’s not sure what would happen if he tried that here. Probably nothing.

He pushes himself up off the couch he’s been lying on, trying not to step over Dustin and Lucas lying in a pile of blankets underneath him. Mike shifts slightly in the recliner he’s curled in as Will passes. One part of him thinks it’s weird, because they’d been sharing the couch when he fell asleep. The other part can’t help but get stuck on the way his hair flops into his eyes and how he curls in on himself like a sleeping dog.

It’s kinda cute. Mike’s kinda cute.

Yeah, that’s definitely weird. He tears his eyes away from Mike and his stupid recliner and turns towards the stairs.

Will knows his way around this house. He skips the fifth step on his way up, avoids Nancy’s perpetually stuck-out chair at the dinner table, opens the cabinet holding the glasses next to the phone. It’s familiar, instinctive.

He likes Mike’s house much more than his own. Every part of it holds a memory, most of them good. Of course his bedroom and basement and backyard have the most, but he passes the place where he and Mike chased Nancy up the stairs, laughing hysterically even though she stole one of his comic books, and he smiles three years later all the same.

The house is different at night. It’s normally - well - not full of light all the time, but safe, sort of. It’s Mike’s house. Of course it’s safe. But Mrs. Wheeler is always there, willing to hold some sort of conversation if he asked, to help bake cookies and make hot chocolate if he wanted. And Nancy is annoying sometimes because Mike says she is, but she’s also really cool and funny and sarcastic and like Mike in all the right ways. And the house is full of them, and Mike too.

Now, though? They’re asleep. He should be too. The house at night is too much like his own, silent until it’s loud, all tiptoeing and humming music too quietly to really hear. When Dad left for a day a couple weeks ago, Jonathan had played his music so loud that he could feel the vibrations of it from down the street.

He puts his glass in the sink and makes his way down the stairs, skipping the fifth step, stepping over Dustin and Lucas on the floor. The Mike-shaped figure on the recliner shifts over. “Will?” it whispers.

His eyes widen. “Yeah?” he answers before he can think too hard. What if it’s an axe murderer? But that’s stupid. It’s Mike.

“Why are you awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh. Why?”

“I don’t know. Just because.” Mike doesn’t respond, and Will’s mind starts working at a pace way too fast for so early in the morning. “Sorry if I woke you up,” he adds into the silence.

“You didn’t. I couldn’t - I can’t sleep either. It’s weird. It’s become harder to sleep for some reason. Hold on, I’m just gonna -”

On the floor beneath him, Lucas throws an arm over his eyes and hits Dustin in the head. Mike steps over them and jumps his way onto the couch, landing with a huff on Will’s legs. “Move over.”

All of a sudden, he’s awake again. “No,” he says, but he laughs.

“Fiiiiine.” And all of a sudden Mike falls on top of him, his face landing so close to Will’s that he can see the smile in his eyes. “Move over, asshole.”

“I’m literally squished into the couch right now. Get off -”

He sighs again and rolls off him, one arm pressed over him, facedown in Will’s pillow. Dimly, he wonders how both of them fit on the couch, on the incredibly small pillow that was designated his years ago. “This is so much better than the chair,” Mike mumbles into the pillow. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t think too much about it. He doesn’t think about it at all. He doesn’t notice Mike’s breathing evening out almost immediately or his arm wrapped around his body. Not at all. In fact, he falls asleep immediately.

He wakes up to Lucas whispering to Dustin - “Rule number 5, remember? Just ignore it.”

eleven.

It’s not true. It’s not him. He knows that. It’s not him.

No matter what they say, no matter what they find, it’s not Will. Not really. Will wouldn’t leave him. Not like this. They promised not to leave. He promised not to leave him.

It doesn’t make sense. They’re pulling a body out of the water, and it’s got Will’s stupid haircut and the jacket he refused to stop wearing, and it doesn’t add up because it’s not him. It can’t be him.

“It’s Will. It’s really Will,” Lucas whispers. He hears a tremble in his voice that’s in his too.

“Mike…” Eleven. Fuck. He’s never wanted to punch anyone more. Or cry. If Will was here, he’d brush his shoulder, say something to calm him down, make it better. But he’s not here. Eleven’s here. Eleven’s here and she’s just staring at him, trying not to cry for someone she doesn’t even know. She doesn’t deserve to cry for him.

Will won’t know about Eleven, about the liar that should’ve led him right to him. Will won’t ever know. Mike looks El dead in the eyes and tries to find words to say that’ll hurt. She should hurt. This is her fault. This is his fault too.

But Will’s not here to hold him back, so he yells.

He spins around, turning right to her. She takes a step back, her eyes wide. “‘Mike?’ ‘Mike’ what? You were supposed to help us find him alive. You said he was alive! Why did you lie to us?” He takes a breath, looks directly into her eyes, wishes more than anything that Will was next to him to get him to stop. “What. Is wrong. With you?”

“Mike.” Lucas. Pleading. “Mike, come on. Don’t do this, man.”

“What?” he snaps. Can’t cry. Don’t cry. Makes you a fairy, says Will’s dad in Will’s voice. Fuck. Everything leads back to him. He’s never going to be able to come back to the quarry again.

He wants to go home, and even though he knows he’s going to break down completely when he goes back to the basement, it’s better than here, so he swings his leg over his bike in a motion that he’s copied so often from Will and pedals off.

“Mike, where are you going? Mike!” hollers Dustin. He doesn’t look back, even though he at least owes them that.

Somewhere in the middle of the woods, he realizes this is his fault. This is all his fault. Will was biking like this before he was taken. These woods. He was taken here. He could’ve asked him to stay over. He could’ve had him leave earlier, or driven him home, or anything. There was so much he could’ve done. There was so much he still needs to say, but he can’t anymore, and Will’s just a body being pulled out of the quarry, and it’s all too fucking much.

If this was anyone else, he’d go to Will. He’s always gone to Will whenever anything – anything – went in a way he didn’t want it to go. He’d always been safe, and there, and always knew what to do. What to say. None of the others would get it. Dustin would try to crack a joke. Lucas would listen, he knows he would, but there’s always something that stops him from even trying to hold a deeper conversation with him. El knows, like, four words! What can she do to help?

He imagines Will pedaling beside him through the woods. “Will,” he says out loud, trying to conjure him into existence. “Will, everything’s gone to such shit. There’s someone, El. We found her in the woods when we were looking for you. She has superpowers. You’d love her. She said she’d try to find you, and she told me you were alive, but she just led us to the - the quarry. They pulled your body out of the water.

“It wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t. It was your clothes and your hair, but you’re not like that. I know that’s not you. It’s the opposite way from home and you’re afraid of heights. You’d have no reason to go that way. It wasn’t you. Maybe it was a fake, or that wasn’t really your body and it was someone else’s, or something, but I know you and that’s not you.

“It’s like I can feel you. I always have. And you’re not gone. You’re not dead. I know you’re out here. Just come back, please.”

Imaginary Will fades out of existence. Alone. Again. The only sound comes from him and his bike - he gave up not crying so long ago.

And the radio crackles.

He falls over on his bike when he tries to reach for it. Holy shit. Holy shit, please please let it be – “Will, are you there? Is that you? Will!” Click.

Static.

It’s him. He knows it is. He can feel Will through the radio despite the static.

“Will, come on, talk to me,” he tries. Fuck. Fuck, come on. He’s got to reply. He has to. “Will, please, I know you’re there.”

The static grows louder, more insistent. He strains his ears and holds it closer to his ear, his hands shaking. He knows this voice. He knows Will. “Mike? Mike. Help – coming after me, please – can’t hold – much longer – Can’t hide –”

A roar, garbled through the static. Will’s sobs. A scream.

And the radio goes silent.

twelve.

“Letters? She’s having us do an entire unit on letters?”

Will can picture the look on Mike’s face so easily. On the side of his math homework: Mike, cartoon, his eyes squinted and his mouth open in a grimace, his arms crossed. He adds in capitalized bubble letters behind his head the word letters??????

“Well - yeah,” he replies, shading in Mike’s hair. “It doesn’t seem that bad. Our only homework is just we have to write one letter once a week, and the unit’s only a month. So it’s only four letters, and she tells us what to write, so it’s okay.”

“That’s stupid,” comes Mike’s voice through the radio, laced with such familiar annoyance that he smiles. His eyebrows crook down on Will’s paper. “When’s the first letter due?”

“Uh… Friday? We got science readings and math homework too, but the writing’s gonna take the longest, so I’m gonna do it today, I think.”

“Yeah, that’s just ‘cause you don’t like writing. Oh, hey - do you wanna come over and help me with the homework?”

“You’re sick. And I’m bad at math.” But he wants to say yes. He hasn’t seen Mike in almost a week since he got sick with a really bad cold. They talk a lot, because of course they do, but his seat is empty beside Will’s in every class, and the May sunshine seems so much duller without him there.

“I’m fine. Mom says I’m not contagious or anything anymore. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just thought –”

“No, yeah, of course! I’m just gonna get Mom or someone to drive me, you know how she gets about me being out now.” She won’t let him out of her or Jonathan’s sight. He can barely close the door or leave the house anymore, not even to play with the dog. “Mom? Mom, can I go over to Mike’s? We’re gonna do the homework.”

A year ago he wouldn’t have had to do this, but he’s getting used to it. So is Mike and the rest of the party. They’re adapting like he is, even though he knows they shouldn’t have to. He doesn’t want them to. He just wants them to play D&D without them wondering if this monster was going to hit too close to home and send him into a panic attack. Those have been getting frequent, too. Maybe they’re panic attacks, or anxiety, or PTSD flashbacks – Dr. Owens, the guy who tests on him every so often, told him so. The party’s good at stopping him from having them, though, and Mike especially’s good at getting him out when he’s in one.

“She’s not here. She’s working late,” Jonathan calls, his door opening. The music blasting becomes louder. “I can take you, though. How long do you think you’ll be?”

“Really?” Will can feel himself beaming. Jonathan didn’t hesitate at all, but he can’t tell if it’s because they’ve decided that Mike’s house is too safe for anything to happen or if he just doesn’t care. “Probably a couple hours.”

“Yeah, of course, bud. I’ll stop downtown and tell her. No big deal.” The car starts and the radio turns on. A song he knows too well is playing. He hates Should I Stay or Should I Go now. It’s just another thing last year ruined for him. He can’t hear it without the Upside Down forming again all around him. Because then it’s not their voice, it’s his voice, and then he’s lying in Castle Byers fighting to take another breath, If he’s not careful, then he’ll just be back, and it’ll be cold and grey and sad and scary, and it’s too late because now the shadows are longer and –

Jonathan changes the station, but when he steps out of the car, he’s still irritated. God, when did he become so pathetic that even listening to music was a trigger for something worse? He waves a hello to Mrs. Karen and blinks away particles from the sky when he feels someone’s hand on his arm. Can’t even be in your best friend’s house, whispers something from the back of his mind. Pathetic –

“You okay?” asks Mike, his eyes open wide, his voice lacking the annoyance he’d heard over the radio. “You’re not – really here. Did something happen?”

“No,” he says – snaps, accidentally – and continues down the steps.

Mike follows him down the stairs, because of course he does. His footsteps are so loud, clattering down the staircase until he comes to a stop in front of him. “Are you sure? Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks, and Will’s heart squirms.

“No, I’m fine. Let’s just do the work, okay?”

“If you want to. Uhh… letter first? I don’t even know who I’m gonna write to.” Mike falls onto the couch, lying down and landing face first in the cushions.

“Neither do I.” A blank piece of binder paper lands on the floor in front of him. He draws swirls in the margins to make it less empty. Dear, he writes. Who is he writing to? Mike. Dear Mike, and then he stares at his paper a little bit more. How do you even start these things? Why would anyone write one? He’s never been good at words and emotions, and talking was hard on most days, so he drew to get them out instead. Besides, why would he write a letter to Mike when he could just talk to him? He erases Mike’s name. Maybe Mom. What would he say to her, though? Sorry I got kidnapped by a monster from another dimension. Can I go bike by myself now?

“I was thinking I’d write to El,” Mike says, tapping his fingernails on the edge of his binder. Normally he can tune the tapping out. Now it grates in his head, louder and amplified and awful. “You know, I keep trying to talk to her, but she never replies. I wish she did, though. Yeah, I – I think I’m gonna write to her.”

It’s stupid. This whole assignment is stupid. Of course he’s going to write to El, some person who saved him and made – made more of an impact in his life than Will ever did – of course he would. He hates this. He hates El. He can’t do this. He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. Why can’t he –

“Hey – Will.” And Mike’s there, pressing his shoulder to his, pulling him onto the couch. (They figured out long ago that when he’s like this, the only person who can touch him is Mike. He’s grounding in a way. Mike doesn’t seem to mind. He seems proud, actually.)

“C’mon, just take a couple breaths.” He tries. He tries. He slumps forward. Inhales. He doesn’t hate you. You’re important to him. Exhales. He’s here. It’s okay. Inhales. Focus on what’s real. Exhales, answers his question. Mike. He’s real.

Will pulls his head up and leans back on the cushions. The world’s still blurry. He blinks a couple times, then rubs his eyes, then gives up and shuts his eyes tight. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. It’s no big deal. I’m always gonna be here. Do you wanna do the math?”

They do. And when Mike stops Will as he heads out the door that night to hand him a letter, muttering “This is just a practice one, sorry it’s bad,” Will can’t stop himself from grinning all the way home. He makes everything better. His writing couldn’t ever be bad. He waits until he gets home to read it.

thirteen.

MIke’s not scared. He’s not. He’s not. It’s just a movie. Nothing scares him. He’s fearless –

The woman on the screen screams as a - something - lunges out at her. Mike screams in sync with the rest of the theater. In his defense, it was a jumpscare. Who isn’t going to scream at a jumpscare?

Will pokes him, unfazed, and sticks his hand into the tub of popcorn. “You’re so jumpy!” he whispers, eating a piece from the pile in his hand.

“I’m not! It’s not my fault that jumpscare was so –”

“You literally are. It wasn’t that bad.” Mike watches him eat another piece, leaning back in his chair. “You’re just easily scared.”

“I’ve seen worse! Mostly because of you!” They’re both grinning, he can tell. Will’s face is all lit up from the white light from the screen and smiling, and for maybe half a second he realizes he’s staring. Even until Will breaks his gaze and turns his attention back to the movie. He can’t seem to stop. Mesmerized by the colors changing, illuminating his face –

Yeah, he should probably start watching the movie again.

Normal horror shit, he notes vaguely, much more aware of the back of Will’s hand pressing to his. Clown horror. Or something. Maybe just a murderer with bad fashion sense. He can’t really tell.

The murderer pops up from - somewhere, he’s not really following - and grins evilly before charging at the main characters (whose names Mike forgot). “Fuck!” Completely by accident, he presses his face into Will’s shoulder, covering his eyes as the sound of pounding feet fills the theater.

“The only thing that can scare Mike Wheeler is some dude with bad fashion sense?” Will smiles lightly and shrugs the shoulder Mike’s just now realizing his face is pressed into. Whatever. He closes his eyes as a scream hits him, clapping his hands over his ears. It’s not for show. He doesn’t like screaming. It reminds him of Will when he was possessed.

Will’s hand flicks his arm. “The scene ended, by the way. Just them screaming and running.” And then, so low he has to strain to hear him – “Mike, I, uh - this is - okay when it’s just us and the party, but people are going to call us slurs the second we walk out of this theater, so if you could be less subtle in your jumpiness that would be great–”

“Shit, yeah. Uh, sorry.”

“You’re good.” He’s already fixated on the movie again.

Mike can’t stop, though. It’s instinctive to duck under someone’s shoulder or hide his face behind a pillow when he’s watching a movie. In real life, he stares openmouthed at whatever horror’s confronting him this time. So he hides behind Will, again and again, not thinking. It’s okay because it’s a movie and Will’s so casual about it because he’s seen much worse. He thanks God they’re sitting next to the aisle so nobody can see him being embarrassing – Lucas and Max sit on the other side of them, and they don’t care.

The fifth time this happens, Will passes the popcorn (he stole it a while back) to Lucas and Max next to him, grabs hold of Mike’s arm, and marches him out of the theater. Mike swears he hears Max responding “making out, probably” to Lucas’s “what are they doing now?” And he can’t find it in himself to be mad because the second the door closes behind them and the hallway is empty, Will’s hand slides down his arm so that he’s holding Mike’s hand just for a second before he lets go. And it’s worth it, he thinks, before he pushes the thought out of his mind.

“Why do we watch these? You hate them,” Will says with a trace of laughter in his voice. They slide down the wall, Will after Mike, and the empty hallway makes it safe for him to bury his head on Will’s shoulder.

“You like them,” he answers, his reply muffled by Will’s shirt.

“I’d be fine, like, doing anything else. Like DnD! Or just hanging around the mall. Or even just, like, watching whatever kid movies your parents take Holly to. We don’t always have to watch horror things.”

He’d probably rather die than do any of those things. Except DnD. Just not now. “Yeah, but it’s more fun this way. And I like the mall and bothering Steve and hanging out with you, so it’s worth it.”

“Really?” Will asks, before shutting his mouth tightly.

He lifts his head. “What do you–”

“Nothing, you’re just late a lot. Everyone knows you spend a lot of time with El just making out. That’s all.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess. But if you want us to hang out more, we can do that too. Sorry, you’re right, I should be with you guys - with you - more.” He likes El – of course he does – but for some reason, it’s hard balancing her and Will.

He has to reevaluate himself, every action, because suddenly half the things he does with Will are too similar to things El and him are supposed to do. It’s confusing and weird and so he just stops. All of it. Everything that could be similar – hand holding, lying on the couch together which is what he now realizes, slightly horrified, is cuddling, all of it – he stops doing on both sides. Which just kind of leaves making out with El.

“You shouldn’t feel obligated to.”

“I want to. It’s just hard to manage sometimes, I guess. Because of El’s curfew and that she can’t hang out with us, it’s hard. I want to, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They sit there in silence for a little bit longer. Will rests his head on top of his and he tries to ignore the sheer burst of happiness that comes with it. Everything’s nice, until some guy walks by holding a really large drink, and Will’s head just springs off his shoulder. Mike pretends to retie his shoe. The man doesn’t notice.

“Wanna go back in? Lucas and Max probably stole all the popcorn.”

“I swear, if they did –” He goes quiet as he opens the door to a dead silent theater, but Will laughs anyway as he walks through.

“Are you done making out?” Max whispers as he walks past, settling into the chair next to her. “You guys took so long.”

“Dude! I have a girlfriend!” The words taste sour in his throat and he can feel Will wincing when he says it. The words were supposed to be said jokingly. Now they’re just sad.

fourteen.

El knocks on his door before she swings it open. Why does she even do that? Why bother knocking? He doesn’t think he’ll ever really understand. She stands in the sunlight – it’s November now, and the sun is still shining somehow –, waiting for him to look up – he can feel her eyes on his shoulder – then: “You should write to him.”

“Sorry – what?” Will looks up from his drawing, tilting his head slightly at the picture in front of him. It’s not good, just practice for art; the sun was setting and he’d gotten the unshakeable urge to draw the sun filtering through the window’s shade. “Who?”

“Mike,” sighs El, a bite in her voice.

“No, c’mon. We’ve talked about this. I’m not writing to him. Go away.”

“Will.” And she walks over to him, sits on the chair in front of him, completely disrupting his image.

“El.” He tries to copy her voice, but it only half works because he’s not really paying full attention. He wants to finish the drawing. He’s almost done and the sun’s almost gone, so would she just move, please?

“He asks for you in his letters. He sends a PS, and it’s the same one every time.” She shoves what has to be the latest letter at him. “Read it.”

He takes it, getting pencil stains on the paper. El’s folded it so that he can’t read anything above, but the letter’s short – just a page – and the part he can read is even shorter. I hope your essay goes well. Update me. I miss you! From, Mike. And then below it – PS. How’s Will? If he’s not too busy, can you ask him to send a message with your next letter?

“It’s the same one every time.” El nudges his shoulder. “You never do. You should.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know he wanted to talk to me? I don’t read your letters, and he doesn’t write me, so –”

“He wants to hear from you. You should send him a letter.”

“Everything important he sends you anyways, so what’s the point?” He’s not really sure why he’s so insistent on this. He’d like to get a letter. He’d like to write one. But the idea of sending it? He’d rather die.

“You are best friends.”

“Not really,” he mutters, turning away from the bits of sunlight glinting in El’s hair. They haven’t been best friends in a while. Even Lucas and Dustin (they send their letters in the same envelope, a couple times a month) send more letters than him.

“Or you could send him drawings!” El says, steamrolling on. “He would love them.”

“Tell him he needs to write first if he wants me to reply. Go away, I want to finish this.”

“Huh. Okay. You’re making that to send to Mike, right?”

“No! Go away!”

The next week, El barges into Will’s room holding a folded piece of paper in one hand and an envelope in the other. She’s practically bursting with glee. If he could draw her, he’d use all the brightest colors he owns, layered over each other, blended and bold.

Cautiously, he asks what happened, and when she slaps the envelope over his math homework, he remembers. Tell him he needs to write first if he wants me to reply. And when El motions to the envelope lying on his desk, and he pulls out two folded pieces of binder paper, his suspicions are confirmed. Will 1, the first one reads, and when he opens Will 2 and looks at the bottom: Love, Mike. Mike. Holy shit.

“Okay, wait –” and he pushes El out of his room before opening the letter.

Dear Will,
El said that if I had any chance of you ever writing to me, then I’d have to write first, so here I am.

He squints at the letters of the next sentence. Mike erased something, not well enough to hide the evidence completely, and wrote over it. He makes out some letters – sh ro too – before giving up.

How are you? El says that you’re painting a lot and you’re doing fine in your classes. Besides that, she doesn’t talk about you that often. And you don’t send me anything – more erased words – so I don’t really know how you’re doing. We haven’t talked that much. I wish we would. I have – scribbled out words – I know Joyce has her telemarketer job, but if you want to call me when the phone’s free, I’d pick up. – And then, erased words that weren’t written over – Is it weird if I said I want to hear your voice really badly? Yeah that’s probably weird

He closes his eyes, willing the words away.

Anyways, I’m doing okay. I miss you a lot. I joined a DnD club at school, Hellfire. Dustin and Lucas joined, but Lucas spends most of his time playing basketball. Max ignores us. It’s only me and Dustin now, I guess. The club leader, Eddie, is so cool. We’ve heard of him, he’s the guy that deals drugs. Apparently he’s a really good Dungeon Master. You’d love him. He makes everything seem more fun. Me and Dustin are taking over the club next year when he finally graduates. I know you and Dustin still write to each other, so you probably knew all of this already.

I biked past Castle Byers the other day. When did you tear it down? Now that I’m writing that, it was probably because of the storm or something. or maybe in the storm. I’m sorry about that, by the way. I really am. I know this is a letter and not me actually saying it to you, but it’s true. I’m really sorry that I basically ruined our summer. And before you write back something about how it’s not my fault – I know it is. And I’m sorry.

Anyways, what else is new? How’s Jonathan? He and Nancy get letters back and forth, but Nancy always seems a little disappointed after reading them. She says it’s because he’s clearly lying to her about something. It's weird. They should just talk! It’s not that hard! I mean, I’m a hypocrite, but they’re a mess. Tell Jonathan for me please.

I know you’re still doing art. Painting, says El. Good. I know she told you that me and Nancy are going to Lenora over spring break, because our parents wouldn’t let us go over winter break. I just plagiarize one essay and graffitti the stall one time and now I don’t get to see you. It’s so stupid.

But back to what I was saying: it’d be cool if you could show me some of it. I obviously don’t get to see much of it anymore besides Polaroids that I know El takes sometimes and your old stuff. You’re probably the best artist in Lenora, just like how you were the best artist in Hawkins.

Anyways, I should probably stop here. I have to go to Hellfire in a few minutes. Lucas said he’d go to today’s thing, which he never does anymore, so I should get ready now.

Talk to you soon! (I hope) Write me back if you have time. I miss talking to you so much. I’d go into detail, but if I started talking about that, I’d definitely be late to Hellfire.

Love,
Mike

He puts the letter down, buries his face in his hands, picks it back up again. It even sounds like Mike. A monologue, almost. He reads it over and over until it feels like the words are ingrained into his memory, mundane in comparison to crazy together and the best thing I've ever done, and still – He can’t stop reading the last paragraph, short as it is.

There’s still a chance.

He pulls out a piece of binder paper, rests his head on his hand, and writes.

fifteen.

Mike can count on one hand how many times he’s yelled at Will.

He’s been mad, sure, but yelling was always out of the question. The first time he had – an accident, too excited – Will had nearly started crying. “It’s like – everyone’s Dad, no matter who they really are. I can’t help it. I’m sorry.” And since then, he’d tried to keep his voice down, no matter how mad he had been. Instinct, then, to spit out words with a whispered voice instead of a raised one.

Well, fuck instinct, and fuck Will.

“You didn’t bother writing! We talked maybe twice all throughout the year because you couldn’t give enough of a crap to send me a letter!” yells Will, and any chance he had of saying things and not screaming them flies out the fucking window.

“You literally told me that if I had any chance of getting a letter, I’d have to write first. And – no, wait, that’s not even true, because El said that, you couldn’t fucking say it to my face or anything, just rely on your sister to pass things through–”

“And when you wrote PS. How’s Will? at the bottom of every one of your letters to her, you didn’t think to write to me?”

For the thirtieth time since he’s been home, he thinks about the letters beneath his bed, folded in half and thrown haphazardly into a box that once held Converse. He pushes the thought out of his mind, more focused on Will: “It’s not like you bothered to write either!”

“Your first and only letter to me was half a page long, Mike! El’s was triple that! Forgive me if I couldn’t find anything to write you back after the letter you sent me was just how are you in different phrasing!”

“And your replies were one sentence long! You didn’t ask me how I was –” lie – “didn’t ask me how school was, didn’t ask me anything–”

“You forgot my birthday, Mike!” He more cries than yells it out, eyes angry and fiery and triumphant. He’s already crying, not bothering to hide the tears dripping down his face, all his anger forgotten and drowned in sadness. Standing in the middle of the room, arms covered in an old flannel and hanging by his side, crumbling bit by bit.

A quieter, repeated “You forgot my birthday.” and in another world this is where Mike would stride over to him and hug him and let him cry and murmur apologies into his ear. And they would never speak of it again.

But this is real Mike, not dream-Mike, not perfect Mike. He’s always been a stupid person, too reckless for his own good, and the fight hasn’t left him yet. He does what he does best: forget to think. “I didn’t.” Saying so – it’s a mistake, of course it is. “I didn’t forget your fucking birthday – how could I forget?”

“You did a really great job of showing it,” laughs Will through his tears, any trace of humor gone. “Yeah, really fantastic.”

“Fuck, Will –” And before he can think, he strides across the room, ignores Will’s stricken expression, pulls out his collection of letters that he’s hidden for too fucking long, and throws them at him.

Letters float around Will like feathers.

There’s one he wrote at three in the morning. He remembers every line because he debated sending it, inscribed it in his mind, edited and rewrote and sent. The original passes by Will’s ear –

Dear Will,
It’s probably really stupid to be doing this but I really miss you and you won’t know if I don’t say anything to you so I’m just going to write this and be done with it

It’s late. I should be sleeping. I can’t, though. I’ve been looking through all our old stuff, and it makes me miss you even more. Hawkins isn’t the same. School’s not the same because you’re not in the seat next to me. DnD isn’t the same; I joined a club at school that you would’ve loved, but instead of making me think you were here and smiling about it I just keep wondering what would happen if you were here. It’s not even the same at home. I still keep your drawings up and your face haunts me at night.

It’s so weird not having you here. You’ve always been here. Always. I know that when you were missing, you were alive because I could feel you. When you were possessed, I at least could see you, even if you weren’t here. You were here enough to know me.

But now you don’t even talk to me. I know it’s stupid for me to expect the same amount of letters El sends me, but I’m lucky if I get even a PS Will says hi. Why won’t you fucking write to me? I know I messed things up over the summer but it’s not like we’re not friends at all, right? I don’t know anything about your life right now and you just refuse to tell me. I miss you so much. I’m so fucking sorry.

I need to go to sleep now. Talk to you at some point, I guess.

Love,
Mike

And on the ground, covering his shoe –

Dear Will,
Remember back in seventh grade when our teacher had us write letters? And you said letters were stupid? Is that why you’re not writing to me now?

I’m sorry, this is stupid. I just can’t really think of any real reason why you wouldn’t write to me. I also know I’m not sending any of these letters, but like – you can read my mind, basically, like you always knew what I was thinking and what I meant when I did things. You always knew what to say whenever I was being weird and mean. We were in sync, I guess.

I don’t know. It’s stupid. Somehow I thought it’d stay the same, even though you’re in California now. I keep thinking one of these days you’ll write to me because you can hear me thinking about you from across the country. If you can hear me, you’re being really shitty.

That’s a lie. One of these days I’ll write you something that I can send, something that won’t be incoherent and sappy and dumb. It’s so hard writing to you about mundane things. Like you’re not mundane and boring like my life is, so why would I write to you about that?

Maybe twelve year old you was right. Letters are stupid.

Love,
Mike

Confessions. All of the ones closest to Will are confessions. Late-night things. All the letters he’s never sent.

For a second, he lets himself admire this scene: Will, in his room, wearing his old clothes, surrounded by sheets and sheets of binder paper covered in scribbles and things he could only acknowledge at midnight, his eyes open and shocked and understanding, because Will gets it, of course he does.

And because Mike’s still somewhat in sync with him, he knows what will happen. Will’s going to stand there for a few seconds, unwilling to acknowledge the writing on the ground, resolve not to read any of them.

And despite this, he will gather the pages and leaf through them. Read the words he didn’t want to think about during the daytime because they were wrong and awful and shitty. Half-scribbled confessions and outbursts and meltdowns, memories and stray thoughts and promises that he’d nearly forgotten to keep.

Skip through them after the first few, skim the bottom of the pages in a move just like El’s, see what she always wanted to see: Love, Mike scrawled at the bottom of every page.

He can already hear the flashes of voices run through his head; Will wasn’t supposed to be privy to it, but of course he’d heard. A you can’t even write it, Mike! accompanied with the rustling of papers - from, from, from, from, from –

And he’ll put the pieces together. A process that will take him seconds in comparison to Mike’s years. And he’ll realize that it’s not an accident, the love. He’ll know the reason Mike misses him more than he should that kept him from sending these stupid, awful, true messages. Mike likes him. More than he should. More than what’s acceptable.

And then he’ll hate him.

So he leaves Will there, staring openmouthed at him, and slams the door.

sixteen.

It seems like he’s been lying awake for hours on end.

The party went over to Mike’s house for a game night. Monopoly. They’d started at five and ended at ten, and not even really officially, Mike had just gotten pissed after Max had made him bankrupt and kicked the table. An accident, obviously, but the game pieces scattered across the table and left them confused.

They ditched the game for some movie, left the board out just in case they wanted to play after, and all collectively fell asleep. Max and El tucked into one another on the floor, Lucas and Dustin sprawled haphazardly across each other beside them.

Max swears they’re totally platonic (it’s probably true), because she’s still dating Lucas and doesn’t plan on stopping, and in retaliation Lucas and Dustin act as coupley Max and El. He remembers vividly that one time Lucas nearly asked Max to slow dance at some school dance earlier this year, and how when El swooped in and took her by the arm, Lucas grabbed Dustin from his spot next to Will and danced with him instead. Dustin told him after that Lucas leaned his head on his shoulder to whisper in his ear an are they looking and flipped the girls off when Dustin answered yes. Mike and him hadn’t stopped laughing.

The rest of the group has been sprawled out across the floor for – he checks the clock – four hours now, just illuminated by the nightlight they kept on for him. Below him, Lucas lies facedown on top of a sleeping bag, Dustin’s legs kicked over his, obviously because of the girls beside her. Max sleeps with an arm around El, her head pressed against Lucas’s shoulder regardless. They’re one pile now. In the beginning, they all lay separately.

Mike refused to sleep on the floor out of some weird principle he said he had, then gave up the couch to Will and curled himself up on the recliner. Will doesn’t think he really actually went to bed. With the others, he could tell the time they fell asleep, pinpoint the minute when their breathing evened out. Mike never really fell asleep. The thought worries Will. Maybe something’s wrong.

As if on cue, Mike shifts, punching his pillow. “God, this is awful,” he mutters, his voice loud in the quiet of the night. A sigh and a creak, footsteps in the dark.

Will cracks an eye open from where he’s lying on his side curled into himself. Mike’s coming towards him, closer and closer, and Will’s heartbeat is pounding in his ears, and then he reaches over and – steals his blanket.

“Hey, I was using that,” he murmurs, because how dare Mike take his blanket? It’s his, rightfully so, and he’s cold.

“Shit, you’re awake?”

“Yeah. Can I have my blanket back?” He reaches for it. Mike jerks it back.

“You have another already, asshole.”

Hm. Fair enough. But still. “Just come share with me,” he suggests, too far gone to care about the utter mistake that one probably was.

Mike goes still. It’s almost funny. “Are you– Really – Will– No, it’s–”

“Probably more comfortable than the recliner was.”

“Fine. Move over, asshole. Or don’t, that’s fine too, just gonna–” He nudges Will closer to the edge of the couch, bit by bit. “C’mon, just– if you don’t move, I’m gonna push you off this couch, I swear–”

“How violent,” he replies, but moves over anyway. Mike flops next to him. Holy shit, this was such a mistake. Mike’s pressed against him. Will’s pretty sure his heart’s going to stop.

And then he shifts, moving his arm from where it’s pinned underneath Will, and lies it across his chest in a completely deliberate move, and yeah, this is it, this is how he goes. “This okay?” Mike whispers in his ear, and he tries not to make it completely obvious that he’s about to fucking combust when he nods.

He’s not analyzing anything at all. He’s not nervous. Just earlier, Mike had lied down next to Will (who’d been sitting upright) and curled down next to him to watch, and when Will acted on some inexplicable urge to run his fingers through his hair, he’d curled closer to him, laid his head on his lap, and Will hadn’t freaked or anything. They’d stayed like that throughout the movie. Mike had said snarky comments and Will had laughed at them. Nothing changed.

Mike lifts his arm. The weight comes off his chest. With it comes a wave of disappointment. And then a blanket flutters over his shoulders and his arm returns to his spot across Will. Right. Yeah. The blankets. He’d forgotten about those.

“Better?”

“Yeah, obviously, with you here.” Stupid stupid. He can’t see Mike’s response or anything. He’d kill to see the look on his face.

“I – Will, oh my God, you –”

“You’re a mess.”

“Yeah, well, you love me.”

“Mhm. I wouldn’t share my blanket with just anyone.”

The room goes quiet. He relishes in the knowledge that he’s just stunned Mike Wheeler into silence. Then – “I’d talk to you more, but I think if I say anything, I’ll regret it tomorrow, so good night, Will.”

“Wait – what?”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll tell you later. Good fucking night, William.”

“Terrifying.” Mike buries his head into his shoulder in response. He’s not losing his shit at all. “Good night, Micheal. Sweet dreams.”

seventeen.

“What is there to do in California, anyways? I’ve been there before and it was boring.”

“Shut up, Mike, California’s great.” Max leans over the airplane seat in front of him to glare at him. Deserved, probably. “Lenora isn’t anything compared to San Francisco. Besides, didn’t you stay there for two days before your girlfriend got kidnapped?”

“You shut up! The trip didn’t go that badly.”

“Yes, it did,” say three people in unison: Max, with a stupid smirk on her face; El, who’s sitting in the aisle seat and poking her head around to stare at him with a very confused look on her face; and Will, turning away from the window, his expression clearly reading what the fuck are you on.

“Well, this trip is… going to be better?” He raises his hands. Dustin, who’s sitting on the other side of him, slowly leans back and takes a picture of the scene in front of him. He knows El is planning a scrapbook for this trip. He can feel it. His face is going to be front and center on some page. Shit. He’s not going to make any faces for the rest of the week.

“Fuck yeah it is. I’m here and that, obviously, makes it better.” Max grins at him and slides down in her seat as a flight attendant walks by.

The flight itself is easier than it was last year. He remembers being unable to sit still, too busy worrying about how he was supposed to interact with the people he cared about most that he hadn’t seen in so long, alone on his first ever flight, worried and jittery and practically vibrating. And now he’s surrounded by them and his feet aren’t bouncing underneath his seat. It’s better.

He tries switching spots with Lucas at some point, which doesn’t work because Max and him keep sniping at each other, and then he switches back and falls dead asleep for the rest of the flight. He wakes up to a click and El’s grinning face and the realization that he fell asleep on Will’s shoulder (and El got a picture of it). He’s never doing anything again.

Max successfully navigates them out of the airport and to the hotel they’re staying in, which impresses him, but hell if he’s going to tell her that. They really only had enough money for one room with a double bed, but it comes out with a pullout sofa, so they can fit all six people easily.

When they walk in, Will collapses on the second bed – Max’s already lying facedown on the first one – and when Dustin and Lucas try to bribe him to move, El pushes them onto the couch. Blood drips down her nose when she laughs at them. He pushes Will aside to sit next to him, giving a shit-eating grin to Lucas as he does so. It’s not his fault that they’re slow.

“Okay, so I wanna go to this really good burger place at 7. Because some of you are… tired–”

Dustin flips her off from his spot on the couch.

“--We’ll just stay here for a couple hours. We’re gonna leave at 6:40, so that gives you – hey, Dustin, do math really quick–”

“Do it yourself. It gives you an hour and a half, which you should know because you can do basic math, right, Max?”

“An hour and a half to sleep or shower or whatever you need to do. Knock yourself out. Oh – Will, take the other room key. You’re most responsible.”

Will’s lying in his lap, passed out completely. Yeah. Real responsible.

Mike raises his eyebrows and Max sighs, tossing him the key. “Fine. Mike, give this to Will.”

Absolutely not. He pockets it as Max leaves the room. What Will doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He’s made a little list of things like this in his head already: 1 - he stole one of his comic books years ago and hasn’t given it back, 2 - the entire group knows about him liking Will, which is a series of words that still scares him to say, 3 - he has a room key in his back pocket that was supposed to be his.

Lucas catches his eye from across the room and raises his eyebrows twice, smirking. He rolls his eyes as he ambles over to sit next to him. “It’s not like it means everything, we do this all the time,” he hisses, tangling his hand through Will’s hair to do something with his hands; they’ve started to tap again. “You know this. We’ve been friends for ten years.”

“Ten long, long years. He’s asleep?” At Mike’s nod, he continues: “And hey, did you know that through those ten long years I’ve learned something? He likes you! Like more than a friend! You’re basically dating. You’ve basically been dating for twelve years. Look,” he sighs, “think about it this way: In what world would you do this-” He waves his hands over Will- “to me? Literally never. Just ask him out, man.”

“Yeah, but we live in Indiana. People hate people like me. We can’t just do that.” He would if he could. Not like his greatest dream is to just be able to hold his hand in public.

“Okay, so… ask him out now. We’re literally in San Francisco. This week can be a test run and you can see whether you want to continue this back home.”

He looks down and, before he can think too hard about it, makes a decision. “Yeah, alright. You might’ve finally had a good idea, Sinclair.”

In a genuinely shocking turn of events, Max ends up getting everyone out of their room and to the restaurant with surprisingly minimal complaining. The food’s – fine, he guesses, and it’s not to bait Max when he says so. Thank God she just takes it as if he’s joking.

He’s not really focusing on it. In another shocking turn of events, he’s thinking about Will. How the hell is he supposed to do this? With El, he’d kissed her because there hadn’t really been any choice. Lucas told him that it was the same with Max. He can’t just kiss him for no reason, which means he needs to go and find a reason. Shit.

He’s thinking too hard. He always is when it comes to Will.

His mind whirs with possibilities throughout the rest of the meal. It’s just easy to ignore the conversation happening in the center and focus on his own shit that he only barely registers the group getting up and leaving.

Minus Will, who’s waiting for him to slide out of the booth, which takes too long because he was pressed closest to the wall beside Dustin. “Hey,” he says quietly, stretching out his hand to help Mike up. “You seem like you’re – out of it, I don’t know. Not really here. You okay?”

He nods, taking Will’s outstretched hand as he follows him out the door. “Yeah, uh, what are we doing now? Sorry, I wasn’t really paying attention. Obviously.”

“Just walking around, I think they said. If you’re tired, we can go back to the hotel.”

There’s a rainbow flag in the window of the shop that the Party’s in front of. “No – no, this is fine, I’ve got no problem with it –”

“You’re so weird,” Will mumbles, bumping into him. He just barely catches his grin in the glow of a streetlight. He’d die to see it again. To take a photo of him.

They follow behind the rest of the Party, pointing out stupid little signs and brightly lit storefronts still open at nine, stopping in a couple that interest them most. A store full of little wooden carving and its neighbor, a chocolate store, are the clear winner. They buy little birds because why the fuck not, and all throughout, he can’t stop thinking this is such a date thing to do. I’m basically on a date with him. Holy shit.

They’ve sat outside a store of brightly colored signs to wait for the others when it happens. Will’s pointing out a stop on a map that he really wants to go to with one hand. The other’s intertwined with Mike’, resting on the corner of the map. Will’s head is ducked down and Mike’s is tilted so he can see better. Admittedly, he could see how they look like a couple, especially because there’s a little yay for gay! sign above their head.

So he doesn’t really blame the man with the camera when he comes up to them. “Hey, bro,” this guy says, his voice slightly slurred, “So, I’m a photographer, and I was wondering if I could take a couple pictures of you and your boyfriend? You’re a cute couple, the lighting’s good-”

Oh my God he thinks we’re a couple some guy on the street thinks we’re together –

“Oh, uh, we’re not dating,” he says quickly. “We’re friends. Just friends.”

He looks genuinely startled. “Sorry, man. Forgot not everyone is gay for a second there. Straight people are cool too. I support.”

Mike tries to ignore how fucking cute Wills voice is when he’s trying not to laugh. “No, I – we’re both –”

This okay? he asks.

Mike nods, his heart pounding out of his chest.

Will turns back to the (now very confused) man in front of them. “Um, I’m gay, he’s bi, but we’re not dating. Just friends.”

The guy stares very obviously at Will, then at Mike, then at their joined hands. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Cause I’m not gonna lie, man, you two don’t seem like ‘just friends’ to me.” And with those final parting words, he turns and leaves.

He can’t breathe, so he watches Will’s face for a reaction he can replicate. He’s muttering something – “Are you sure?” Then, louder, “No.”

“‘No’ what?”

He turns to look at him, really look. “No, I’m not sure I– not sure I just want – fuck, Mike, I don’t want to be your friend. Or your best friend. Just yours. We haven’t been just friends in years – or ever, really – and I don’t want to be.”

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. This can’t be happening. He’s dreaming. “What – what are you saying?” It’s almost like he’s fucking breathless. God damn.

“I’m saying that I want to be with you.”

If words were tangible, he’d be knocked out in the street right now. Thinking he stood a chance and knowing he does are separate, far off things, and Will’s stupid little smile as he just says that is possibly the thing that’s going to kill him. He’s dying.

“Is that even a question?” He needs to do something. “Yes, of course, it’s – you, it’s always been you – I just didn’t know, because obviously Hawkins is a shit place to be when you’re gay, and I didn’t want you to have to deal with all of this again, so I’m sorry it–”

“Mike?”

He tears his gaze away from the lampost he’s fixated on and turns towards him. Towards Will, who’s illuminated in gold from the streetlight and blue from a neon sign and looking like him as if all the stars he can’t see in the city are reflected in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Shut up.” Will knocks his head on the wall lightly before turning his head at him, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, okay.” He swallows. “Just one more question – can I- can I kiss you? It’s just because like I don’t know if you’re comfortable with it, like I know I want to but I’d rather you feel safe than–”

“Mike. Stop thinking.” Will murmurs the words. His heart’s going to shoot out of his chest.

“Yeah. Right.” And finally, finally, he closes the distance between their lips, and his brain empties completely of anything but Will, and it’s the greatest fucking feeling in the world. He gets it now, the excitement over kissing, because shit he’d stay in this moment forever if he could. Why would he waste so much time thinking when he could just feel Will twist his hand through his hair, tilt his head, stay here kissing his best friend on the floor in front of a shop in San Francisco? They don’t have to be anything here.

Click.

He whips his head around to see a beaming El lifting a camera to her eyes. Behind her stand the others: Max with amusement enough to parallel that time when El broke up with him at the mall shining in her eyes; Lucas’s ridiculously self-satisfied look, nodding at him with a smirk; and Dustin flashes a thumbs up at Will with one hand, digging in his bag with the other.

For a second, they all just stand there, gaping at one another, Max snapping another picture before she finally breaks the silence. He’s never been more grateful for Max Mayfield in his life. “Well, all of you owe me ten bucks,” she laughs, and he can’t remember why he was so grateful a second ago. “Congrats, though. Even though you’ve basically been dating for forever.”

Will just grins, pulling him up. “Find anything cool in there?”

At some point, he realizes something. Or maybe he’s always known, a secret kept so closely he’d forgotten why he’d cared so much. But for once in his life, something feels right. Will always has. Mike wasn’t lying when he said it’d always been him.