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The whole trip has been uncomfortable from the start, Mike believes. From Jonathan watching him in the review mirror (and him pretending he hasn’t noticed), to Will pointedly not watching him and choosing to stare out the window instead, silent for countless hours at a time.
It’s hot. They’re in the desert and the air conditioner isn’t working in the van, and Argyle’s weed smells so strong that Mike’s head feels foggy in a way that has him wondering if he’s contracting a contact high. Jonathan’s eyes catch his in that stupid review mirror again, and he quickly looks away. Towards the back of Will’s head. On accident. Of course.
His hair is disheveled from the heat and from—you know—burying a dead body—and the back of his neck is smudged with dirt and shimmering with sweat. The sun is going down, casting him in an orange-red light, and something inside of him pulls. Behind his ribcage, throughout his heart, feeling like it’s coming from his soul itself.
Look at me, Mike thinks. He pushes the thought forward—wonders vaguely if this is how El uses her powers—and then pushes the thought harder. Look at me.
Will continues to look out the window, at all the passing dirt and rock and spanning miles of emptiness, and Mike lets out a puff of air that can’t quite be called a sigh.
He doesn’t know why he needed Will to look at him in that moment. Doesn’t know what he would do or say if he did. He just can’t stand this silence anymore. This straining uncomfortableness surrounding them that makes it seem like they’re eons apart even though they’re sitting closer than ever.
“Should we stop for the night, man?” Argyle asks from his seat up front.
“It’s not even dark yet,” Jonathan answers.
“Almost. Motel’s coming up. Might be the only one for like…a hundred miles for all we know.”
There’s a pause. Mike wants to take a glance at the two of them, but Argyle was right, dark is creeping in fast, and it’s painting the skin of Will’s neck a soft blue, which is a stark contrast to the vivid warm color it was just a moment ago, and seriously, why can’t he look away?
“You’re right,” Jonathan agrees.
He takes the next exit, which isn’t even a town, but rather just two gas stations, a restaurant that looks closed, and motel.
“Gas station snacks?” Argyle questions.
“Guess so.”
They pull up to one of the pumps and Jonathan hops out and immediately starts filling up the van. Will is out almost just as fast, with Argyle and Mike trailing behind at a much slower pace.
Mike’s legs feel numb. His ass feels numb. It feels good to get out and walk. But something about seeing Will speed away, almost as though he’s trying to escape, it makes his stomach sour.
“Pick out something good,” Jonathan says to his friend. He gets a thumbs up in return.
The air in the station is blessedly cool. The man behind the counter looks like he was born and raised there. Mike shuffles into the same aisle as Will, halfheartedly staring at the selection of candy and chips.
He wants to say something.
Anything.
“What’re you getting?” he asks. The first words spoken in ages.
Perfect. Excellent. Smooth, Wheeler.
Will shrugs.
Mike wants to put his own head through a wall.
The thing is, he’s not even entirely sure what he’s done wrong. They buried a dead body. They talked on a car under the sun. He discovered the pen. He thought they were fine. He thought things were good. And then Will retreated into himself and now Mike has no idea what to do or where to go and Jonathan keeps staring at him for fuck’s sake and he feels like he’s going to implode. Or cry.
Dear God, please don’t let him cry.
He reaches out and grabs two random bags of chips and a candy bar. Argyle walks behind him with his arms so full things are piled under his chin.
“Don’t forget your drinks, brochachos,” he says.
Mike nods, then wanders over to the cooling area. He has to walk past Will to get there. He wants to reach out and touch him. He wants to shake him. He wants to hug him. He wants to yell. He wants to apologize.
He grabs the biggest bottle of water they have. Pauses. Adds a coke. Then he makes his way to the counter where Jonathan has miraculously appeared.
Jonathan gestures for him to set his stuff down. Will materializes behind him, passing his stuff forward so that it can be paid for. Mike can feel his presence at his back. The cashier looks at all their items with a raised eyebrow.
“Do you need this bagged?” he asks.
“Yes, please.” Jonathan says.
It takes three plastic sacks to carry all their stuff. Most of it is Argyle and Jonathan’s.
They pile back into the van for a short trip across the street to the motel. The vacancy sign is only half lit up and the building itself looks aged and sun-worn. There’s only one other car in the lot.
They have no bags to carry besides their food, no clothes to change into once they clean up with generic motel complimentary toiletries.
They all follow Jonathan into the lobby like a line of ducklings, and the woman at the check in is literally the oldest person Mike has ever seen in his life. She coughs, a hacking cough of a life-long smoker, and then clears her throat. She looks like she’s at least one hundred and two. Wrinkled, small, hunched, and frail. Hands arthritic, and wispy gray hair cropped close to her head.
“Can I help you?” she barks.
Her voice is strong though.
“We need two rooms, please. Doubles.”
She coughs again.
“Sign in.”
Jonathan goes through the documentation and payment as she gathers their keys. He passes one to Will.
“You guys go ahead, we’ll finish up here. Take your food and we’ll get you first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks, Jonathan,” Will says.
He leads the way out of the lobby and down to room 114, and for some reason Mike has his gaze focused on Will’s shoulder blades and he’s clenching their bag in both hands. He must look as anxious as he feels.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to share a room with Will. It’s just that he doesn’t want it to be uncomfortable like the van ride has been. He can’t do the quiet anymore.
Will comes to a stop and unlocks their door, flicking on the light switch in the entryway with a gasp.
“What?” Mike asks, peeking around him.
And oh.
Oh no.
“There’s only one bed,” Will says.
There is, indeed, only one bed. A king from the looks of it, taking up most of the tacky, dated room.
“I thought he asked for doubles,” Mike replies.
“He did.”
“Should we tell him? I’m sure they can fix it.”
Will sighs.
“It’s not a big deal. I just want to shower and eat. It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before. It’s big anyway.”
Mike’s brain screeches to a halt.
Bed.
Share a bed.
With Will.
Share a bed with Will.
After a whole spring break of awkwardness and the van ride of torture they’re going to share a bed.
“Okay,” Mike agrees.
Will finally moves forward and holds out a hand to take the bag so that he can place their stuff on the mattress. Mike obliges and follows him. There’s no tv, but everything is orange and very early 70’s, and the bathroom is attached to the back of the room.
“Do you mind if I clean up first?” Will asks. “I’m dying.”
“Nah, go ahead.”
“Thanks, I’ll be quick.”
Will gifts him with the tiniest grin, just the slightest upturn of lips, and the feeling in Mike’s heart/soul returns and soars.
He feels so alive that for a moment he’s afraid.
He doesn’t even notice that Will’s gone until he hears the bathroom door click shut. He lets out a shaky exhale and presses a palm to his chest.
This is stupid.
This is so stupid. It’s Will.
He wants to cry again.
Mike doesn’t understand what’s happening. He feels like his emotions are going haywire. He just wants everything to go back to normal. He misses his best friend, the Will from before, way before, who used to draw him pictures and have sleepovers in his basement. Who used to tell him everything and who he’d tell everything to in return.
Mike wants to sprawl on the bed, but he doesn’t because he’s filthy and they have to sleep there tonight. Instead, he paces. And he thinks.
He’s never been a man of good coping skills. He likes to avoid thinking about things that make him uncomfortable. Sometimes he doesn’t even do it on purpose—it just happens.
But this situation has gotten out of hand, and now, he has to think. He has to.
When Will was possessed by the Mind Flayer, Mike told him, in front of Will’s whole family no less, that becoming friends with him was the best thing he’s ever done.
You said yes.
He meant it then.
He means it now. Despite whatever is happening between them, he would never want a life without Will in it. It’s different than whatever he has with Dustin and Lucas. They’re his friends too, but he and Will have always been…inseparable. Almost as thought they just exist on the same vibrational wavelength.
“You can shower now,” Will interrupts.
Mike jumps.
“You’re already done?” Mike asks, voice a touch too high.
Will’s wet hair is sticking to his forehead and his cheeks are flushed.
It looks good on him.
“Yeah, I feel like this place might not have a lot of hot water, so I didn’t want to take too long.”
“Oh. Yeah. Smart thinking.”
They both stand there awkwardly for a moment, Mike staring at Will, and Will looking somewhere over Mike’s shoulder, before Mike nods his head and walks towards the bathroom.
He closes the door behind him and leans against it.
Do you wanna be my friend?
Yes!
How did they get here?
Mike strips quickly and turns on the shower, gets in underneath water that is far too warm, and washes quickly and efficiently. Then, he stares at the shower wall, blankly, letting himself embrace this time to himself so that he can contemplate some more.
When they pulled fake Will out of the water all those years ago, before they even knew what the Upside Down was, when he genuinely thought he was gone forever, even if it was only for a brief moment, it was almost as though he died too.
He didn’t know that pain like that could even exist.
He cried so hard it hurt his stomach. It hurt his chest.
He let his mother hold him like he was small again.
You were supposed to help us find him alive!
What is wrong with you?!
He had never felt such anger. Such pain.
What is life without Will in it?
He thought he lost Eleven too, and that hurt. And it hurt deep. But it was different. Losing El was like losing a loved one. Losing Will was like losing himself.
And what does that mean?
Mike turns off the shower, towels off, and redresses in his dirty clothes.
When he re-enters the bedroom, Will is sitting cross-legged on the bed, snacking on chips.
“Want some?” he asks.
“Nah, I’m not hungry right now,” Mike replies.
And he’s not. He should be, he hasn’t eaten all day. But the thought of food makes him feel queasy and unsettled.
“You sure?”
Mike nods.
He settles himself near the headboard, propped up by the overabundance of pillows that smell like dust.
Minutes drag on in silence.
It’s torture.
He feels like it’s all his fault.
Mike thinks of the box under his bed. Stops. Throws that thought in the closet. Locks it. Exhales.
Soon, Will shifts, turns to face him.
“Tired?” he questions.
“Yeah,” Mike answers.
“We can go to bed.”
“Okay.”
They both stand and turn down the covers. Will places the food on the floor and turns out the lights. Blue florescence is streaming in through the blinds like a bright nightlight, but neither of them can be bothered to shut them. They climb into bed, still dressed in their day clothes, which is horrible for sleep but the alternative seems worse. The space between them seems vast with the size of the mattress.
Will must have actually been the tired one because seconds after his head hits the pillow, he’s asleep. The softest snores can be heard on every inhale, which Mike used to tease him about when they were little, and which Will still denies he does to this very day.
Mike can see how his face is smoothed out in sleep in the low light. Can see the perfect bow of his lips and the shape of his nose.
The lock on the closet in Mike’s brain flips. The door opens.
Will,
I keep writing you letters and never sending them, but I do hope you get to read them someday. There’s a lot, you know? I write to you every day. I mean, I call every day too but the line is always busy. I hate your mom’s job, by the way.
Mike sniffles.
You know how we always tell each other everything? Or, at least we used to. I hope we can still do that. I dunno. I know I was a jerk last summer. I’m still sorry about that. Anyway, I have to tell you something.
A stray tear makes its way down his cheek.
Hawkins, it’s not right without you. I miss El, but you, you’re different. It’s been months and I still look for you like I’m expecting you to be there. I wish we could go back. I want you here. I want to play D&D in my basement again. I want movie nights and video games. I want to see all the pictures you draw. It’s not that I don’t want to grow up. It’s that I want to grow up with you.
Mike presses a hand to his mouth to hold a sob inside.
He stuffed this down for a reason.
I think you’re the only thing keeping me in Hawkins. There’s nothing for me here. If you’re not here, then why should I be? I want to be where you are. El, she’s great, don’t get me wrong. But she’s not you. I guess that’s what I wanted to say. Like I said, you won’t read this.
Love always, Mike.
More tears break free, catching in his eyelashes and at the corner of his mouth, caught by his fingers.
He’s never been able to say it to El. Not once to her face. But with Will, it comes so easy. He knows. Maybe he’s always known.
Mike drops his hand to reach across the space between them, stopping short of Will’s lips.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
Mike’s words go unheard.