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The gun is heavy in Mike's hand. Not due to its weight, but instead because of what it means for him. What it will do to him.
He takes a slow, deep breath in and exhales shakily, like his lungs do not want to let go of the air, as if they know that this may be the last time they get any. He's okay, he thinks to himself. He's okay. Mike's finger twitches against the trigger and images of blood and mangled skin overpower him for a moment. He's okay, right?
No, a voice in his mind whispers. If he was okay, he wouldn't be standing out here, alone and holding a loaded gun. He's not okay, he's a fucking freak. A depraved, messed up freak. That's why he has to do this. Why he wants to.
Does he really want to though? Mike thinks for a moment, unknowing. He's spent so long thinking that he has to, that he hasn't got a choice, that it would always end like this, he never really thought about whether or not he wanted to. He must, he supposes. Why else would he be here? Standing in an open field, with nothing and no one around for miles, a gun held tight in his right hand, and a letter left on top of his bed for Will to find, there really is no reason to be here other than want. Or need maybe. Because he needs to do this, doesn't he? He can't keep living like this, he can't. Can't go on when all he sees in the back of his mind are flashes of blood splatters and mutilated flesh and never healing wounds. Constant visions of gore whenever he closes his eyes, haunting him like ghosts, or the demons of his past.
A tear falls from his eye and Mike blinks, not realising he was crying. He scrubs at his eyes roughly with the hand not holding the gun, trying his hardest to not break down right now. He came here with one goal in mind, so he should just do what needs to be done, and do it quick. No point in dragging this out.
He doesn't want to though. Now that he's really here, on the edge of the end, he's terrified. Mike's fought monsters from what was quite literally hell before, but even that can't come close to the fear he feels now. Another tear falls and he closes his eyes.
Will he really never get to see Will's lopsided little smile again? Never hear his soft voice again, never look into his pale green eyes again, never feel his hand brushing against Mike's own when they're walking back from class together again, never be able to hug him tightly, trying to get as close to him as possible, to soak up all the warmth he excludes, and wish he didn't have to let go, again? Will Mike never again experience the agonising, yet oh so familiar feeling of missing Will, even when he's right next to him, so close that if he even moves an inch, they'll touch, but still so far, because Mike's never really there anymore, or anywhere, and Will is –
Untouchable, in a way. To him at least. He can't get close to Will, not anymore, not in the way he wants to, not in the way he needs. Even though he knows it's wrong and disgusting, and that if Will ever knew how Mike felt about him, he'd be horrified. He'd hate him, Mike thought, and suddenly he was dropping to his knees, the gun slipping from his sweat slick hand and falling somewhere in the grass. A raw, choked sob clawed it's way out of his throat, and then tears were falling freely, and he was gasping and whimpering and pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes, desperately trying to stop crying, to stop being so fucking weak, but he couldn't. He couldn't stop, because he was weak and stupid and didn't know how to deal with his own emotions. That was why he was here, because he couldn't take it anymore, living with Will, but not actually getting to be with him, to have him. To be his friend, to try all the time to be his best friend, but not getting to –
To love him. Not in the way he wants to, the way that he irreparably does.
Because he loves Will like a planet loves its sun, caught up in its gravity, forever orbiting it. He loves Will the way a dog loves its owner, with adoration and undying loyalty, waiting for them to come back always. He loves Will so much, so fiercely and completely and just so fucking much. He feels like he could die from it, the way loves Will. It's the most intense emotion he's ever felt. It's also maybe the most subtle emotion he's ever felt, possibly because it's just always been there, tender and warm and familiar, and that's why it took him so long to understand what he was truly feeling. That, no, he didn't actually like girls, he was just trying to convince himself that he did, trying to do what he thought he was supposed, trying to be like everyone else, and that, yes, he did like boys, maybe one boy in particular, and that maybe he even loved him and always had.
But none of that matters, because Will doesn't love him at all and definitely not in the way Mike loves him. Why would he, anyways? What was Mike, but some faggot who begged to be his friend, but always seemed to fuck up and cause him pain. Not to mention that Will was just so much better than him, completely out of his league. He was funny and intelligent and kind and handsome and so fucking good. Too good, really. Because even after everything Mike had done, even after all the times he'd said things he couldn't take back, Will still stayed with him. Still acted like they were friends, still pretended he cared for Mike. He didn't know why. He was just – good.
Not Mike though. Mike was – he was damaged. Perverse. For feeling this way about his best friend, and for only being able to stop feeling that way by doing this.
The sound that comes out of Mike's mouth was almost inhuman, one that only a wounded animal makes. Fuck, he thinks, his whole body trembling. He didn't want to do this, he was afraid. You'd think he'd be used to the prospect of pain by now, but it was still paralysing. His thin frame shook as he inhaled shallowly, hopelessly trying to get his breathing under control. Get it together, he told himself. Get it together and get it over with.
Taking in a breath of fresh, spring air, Mike looked around where he was kneeling in the grass, trying to see where his gun had fallen. A glint of steel just a few inches away caught his eye, the metal gleaming in the silvery light of a crescent moon. He reached for the weapon, a simple object that would take his life, close his eyes and lull him into an endless sleep. His hand shook slightly as it closed around the grip of the gun. He tightened his hold on it and hesitantly brought it up to the side of his head.
This was it. This was the end for him and Mike couldn't tell whether he was relieved or melancholy. Both, in a way. On one hand, he would finally be free of feeling, of suffering, finally be allowed rest. On another hand, he'd be missing out on so much, on all the little joys life had to offer, never truly getting to experience happiness.
It didn't matter though, how he felt. He still had to do this.
His mind wandered, for a moment, to Will. He thought of him and how he had seemed last night, when they had been huddled up on the couch together, watching a movie that Mike couldn't remember the name of, due to the fact that he had been too busy sneaking glances at Will to actually pay attention to what was going on. He'd looked beautiful then, though Will always looked beautiful, but especially in that moment, curled up on their loveseat, wearing a forest green sweater that was just a bit too big for him, and grinning faintly at the TV. Mike had longed to reach out and touch him, grab his hand in his own or pull him into his side with an arm around his shoulders. He hadn't, obviously, but he had yearned to.
He smiled at the image of him in his thoughts and let his eyes flutter shut.
And with that, he pulled the trigger.