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Will was like the sun. Warm and gentle. He was everything good, the light that made getting through the night possible. He burned so bright, he looked almost godlike as he sat next to Mike.
But even the sun would burn out one day. Mr. Clarke had said so himself. Good things didn’t always last. Good things could still be immoral.
Mike wondered what kind of god could create something as bright and glorious as the sun, only to be angry that he orbited its every movement, hung on every word that slipped from Will’s soft pink lips.
He wondered if any amount of praying could cleanse him.
Would sitting at the altar like the rest of the town make him clean? Could he scrub his skin until it was red and raw, let his feelings run down the drain with the trickle of cold water?
But how could he live in the dark his whole life when the sun was shining right there, illuminating every perfect feature on Will’s face? How could he knowingly deprive himself of the only light that shone in such dark times? How could he sit back and watch the sky turn red, watch the same purple and yellow flowers he once picked for El wilt and die? How could he watch the only home he ever had be crushed under the weight of Vecna—only to then turn away from Wills light?
He was so, so, so selfish. He didn’t deserve Will’s warmth. Mike had walked away time and time again. You can’t deserve something you don’t have the courage to choose. He did not deserve Will’s light. He did not deserve Will’s love.
And even now—knowing he had only ever hurt Will. Even now—knowing that no human body could handle the heat of the sun. Knowing that, like Icarus, he too was sure to be burned. He still couldn’t regret asking Will to be his friend that crisp autumn day.
His only regret was letting the sinful longing he felt encompass him until it destroyed the best choice he ever made.
Mike wasn’t good. Not like Will. If he were good, he wouldn’t have been disappointed that El commissioned such a beautiful gift for him. If he were good and holy—like El, like Max and Lucas, Dustin, Nancy—
If he were good like Will.
If he was good like Will, the memory of sitting painfully close to Will in the back of the pizza van would sting like an open wound. Because the reality that El’s words meant more when they came from Will felt like learning your mother was a sock puppet. You can’t change it any more than you can change the tides. But you still miss when you believed. He would always miss believing he was like everyone else.
Good. Pure. The kind of people you didn’t hear about dying on the news.
It was kind of funny. All of Hawkins thought Will was the fag of the group. It was bullshit. Will was too perfect to be a dirty sinner. Mike was the one who dreamed about Will’s lips on his. Mike was the one whose glances lingered and whose touches stayed. Mike was the one who would end up burning.
Because Mike wasn’t good enough. Because Mike was a sinner. And soon enough, everyone would find out. Everyone would leave him. And when that happened, he wouldn’t even have the light of the sun to come home to. He would be alone.