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Mike watches as Will flies past him and out of the house, not responding to his name, brushing his clothed arm against Mike's bare one in close proximity on the stairs. What the fuck was that about?
Shaking his head, debating whether to go after him immediately, Mike crosses the threshold to his room and what he sees stops him dead. Cliché, he knows, but he's not sure his heart is beating right now. There, on the bed, sitting innocently on his navy duvet, caught it the cross hairs of sunlight, is his box of unsent letters to Will. Back when he was living in Lenora, and Mike was the asshole who didn’t write to him.
Well, didn’t send them.
And he knows he left them in the wardrobe, up at the back, behind the extra pillows and sleeping bag. But here they are. Over a year later. Glistening in the rays of the sun.
He drags his legs over, carefully placing both glasses of iced tea on the carpet away from his socks and his feet which he's not sure he has control of. He's already tripped over something once since walking into the room. Ah, the pillow. The spare pillow from the top of his wardrobe. Which lies on his bedroom floor like evidence from a crime scene.
And he remembers vaguely telling Will he could sleep over tonight if he wanted. And Will, being the monster that he is, obviously decided to make himself useful and help. Bastard.
And here they are, under his fingertips. The Crime Itself. Just when he looks closer, steals himself and allows (forces) his eyes to glance down finally, he sees the letters are untouched. The lid is off the box and leaning up against the edge of it, like someone had been fucking delicate about the matter, but the envelopes are still all there, stacked one behind another. Sealed tight: unsullied.
Will's name and address glares up at him and Mike thinks he's going to be sick. He stumbles up, claws his way into the bathroom. Vomits up his breakfast, last night’s bedtime toast, half a metre of intestine, and a kidney. Then he dies, right there, on the bathroom floor. At least... at least he would. If he could fucking get off the bed.
If he could fucking get off the bed, he’d race down the stairs. Grab his bike, hell - he’d jump in his Mum’s car and see if he could miraculously figure out how to drive it without a single lesson in Driver’s Ed, just if it could get him to Will faster. Just to grab him and stop him and fucking explain.
Just what exactly would he say? Sorry mate, I did write to you, like every bloody week, but I couldn’t send them because most started with a Hello how are you? And ended like a love letter. I miss you. I love you. Shit, I think I love you. I’m in love with you. I’m in fucking love with you. And I know I’m an idiot – just love me back, please. Please. He’d laid out his heart on those simple sheets of paper. Bared his soul and all that shit, and fuck if he isn’t thinking in clichés again. Because Will was never supposed to see these letters. It ended up just being like some sort of shitty therapy or something.
Some of the letters contained phrases like I fucking want you damn it. I want you in all the best ways, and all the wrong ways. And Me and my fucking right hand are lonely without you. And he realises, with an overwhelming shame, that that’s going to be harder to gloss over in an explanation.
He considers just putting the box back up in the wardrobe. Piling shoes he never wears in front of it this time. Maybe his Dad’s untouched toolbox, bought in 1982. He still doesn’t move.
Shit.
Because it’s all just damage control at this point. Will and him; they’d finally got back to things being normal…ish. They were “best friends” again…ish. And he really didn’t want to fucking lose that. Not when Will is volunteering for a sleep over for the first time since Joyce and Hopper have bought their own fucking house and Will doesn’t have to sleep in Mike’s basement anymore. Not when The Party is all back together and Max is awake, and they’ve all been going for milkshakes at the diner, and movies at the theatre, and talking about mundane shit like school – now its reopened – and having to fall back a year to catch up, and how college is just a little further away and no one is sure if they even want to go, except Dustin. Obviously. And, as Mike looks down at the box of letters, he has a fleeting moment where he almost wishes Vecna was still alive so he could blame this on a fucking hallucination.
Because he knows things still aren’t right, with him and Will. Because Will laughs with their friends, but not always with his eyes. And when they sit for movies, Will right next to Mike, like everything is a-o-fucking-kay, he absolutely does not press his body up against him like he used to. And sometimes Mike misses the whole bloody film because his mind is completely occupied with the two-inches between Will’s clothing and his, and it’s like the Grand Canyon has opened in Mike’s basement, and sometimes he can swear he hears the wind whistling through it.
That brush on the stairs earlier, was like a rush of electricity – seriously Mike? Still with the clichés? – and maybe, maybe that’s when he died. And all this is some sort of hell. Because Will took one look at the letters Mike never posted, and took off.
He’s been friends with Will since they were five years old, he knows when he’s fucking angry. He absolutely knows when he’s angry at Mike. Because it bubbles under Mike’s skin like his blood is boiling: like someone has set his bones on fire, and Mike would do anything, anything, to put it right again. Sometimes he looks at Mike like the anger in Will is spilling over, spilling out of his eyes and out of his mouth – and it used to, it used to come cascading out all the time. And they’d fight. They’d fight in a garage with the rain chucking down and Mike’s saying stupid shit. Like the worst fucked up sentence ever. And they’d fight at a roller-rink, when Mike’s third-wheeled Will and Will can’t fucking take it anymore.
But they don’t fight now. There’s like this unspoken rule since they got back to Hawkins a year ago. Like they are both standing on this precipice – maybe the edge of that fucking Grand Canyon – and if they push too hard someone will fall. Which is why best friends…ish. Which is why Will stormed out of here instead of actually having it out with him.
Maybe Will hopes Mike will just hide the letters away and they can pretend this never happened. That Mike didn’t post the one-sided sheets of nonsense to El, and fold six-pages a week into a letter for Will – and post it in his wardrobe.
His fucking wardrobe, standing open, glaring at Mike like it’s accusing him of Murder. Again with the crime scene analogy?
And Mike is crying. Fuck. Maybe he’s been crying for a few minutes now. Maybe he’s been crying for days. Maybe the Earth has hurled itself all the way around the sun and been flung off into space and Mike is still sitting here, crying on his bed, holding on for dear life. Like the little fucking weirdo he knows he is.
Because if Will ever asks to see those letters, they were written for him after all, it’s Game Over. Forget just Game Over. The machine has crashed, the arcade is on fire, and they are digging a grave – Here lies Mike and Will’s friendship, died 1987, when Mike couldn’t keep it in his pants. He’s dehydrated, and he hates himself, and there are two glasses of warming iced tea on the floor and still Mike Can’t. Fucking. Move.
He's not sure he registers when the door creaks open. He definitely didn’t notice the front doorbell, or the car honking outside, or the fast footfall of feet on the carpeted stairs. It’s all probably part of a soundtrack to the end of the world. You know. Again.
But then Will is clearing his throat, and fuck, it is Will. And Mike looks up from the soggy Vans on his bedroom floor, to the wet hair plastered against Will’s forehead. And the fucking smile Will’s giving him, like he’s shy or something. And that’s not right, because Will is angry right now. Mike knows he’s angry. He has every right to be angry. But shit, if that smile isn’t actually reaching Will’s eyes for once. And Mike’s not sure if he’s going to melt away onto the floor at Will’s feet, or if he’s going to do something terrifying – like kiss Will senseless. He’s kinda given up fighting the clichés now.
“Sorry,” Will starts, like the beautiful boy has something to actually apologise for, “I just had to nip home a sec.” Mike watches as Will takes in the sight of him, the melted ice in the tea, the way Mike’s hands are shaking. And he wonders how long he’s actually been sitting here. On the bed. Waiting for a second apocalypse. And just when, exactly, the rain had started, ‘cause he’s sure two minutes ago these letters were lit up with sunlight like fireworks on the fourth of July. Like Will’s smile, right now.
“Can I come in?” Will adds. And he’s fucking asking, like he thinks Mike will say no. Just when Mike opens his mouth, no sound comes out, so he just nods dumbly instead. Idiot that he is.
Will takes another step into the room, and Mike stares - like it’s some sort of car-crash or trainwreck he just can’t pull his eyes from - as Will reaches behind him with one hand to shut the door. And Mike wants to spend time analysing that, because that’s new, the shutting the door thing. At least since Will came back. But he can’t because now he’s registering Will’s other hand. The hand carefully balancing a black Vans shoebox, and he needs to really fucking say something, like now.
“Are you-“ he stops. He tries again, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, “If you wanted to borrow some shoes, you just had to ask.” And he knows it’s not funny, but it gives him permission to nervously smile like he’s been wanting to do since Will turned back up all wet and dripping. And when he sees Will roll his eyes at him, he knows he could have said worse.
“You wrote to me.” It’s not a question.
“Yeah, I – er, I mean. No.” The letters on the bed glare up at him, shaking their head in their obviousness.
“Which is it?” Will asks, and he’s nervous. Is he nervous? Mike wonders suddenly, because if anything, the boy looks fucking cocksure right now, with that half-hidden sort of grin at the corner of his mouth. And Mike is not turned on by it at all. Obviously. Because he is terrified.
“I wrote them, I just er, I never sent them.”
“No shit,” Will laughs, openly this time, taking a step closer to the bed. Mike forgets how to breathe. He can smell the fucking rain now, mixed with the scent of Will’s skin, and his shampoo, and the same fucking laundry detergent Joyce has used since they were in kindergarden. And Mike knows, with absolute certainty, he’s about to pass out.
Just somehow, he doesn’t. Which is bloody cruel if he’s honest, because that would be the perfect out of this situation. And he realises, in some faded part at the back of his mind, that his leg is shaking. And his socked foot is jumping up and down on the floor. And maybe he’s waiting, maybe his body is preparing to run the moment Will asks Why? Why didn’t you send them?
Just, he doesn’t ask.
Instead, he slides a hand away from the box he’s still fucking clutching, and places in on Mike’s knee. To ground Mike or something. Not that it works. His knee is about to explode. And his imagination is digging that fucking grave again. Here lies Mike Wheeler. Died 1987 from spontaneous combustion when Will fucking touched him. It doesn’t ground him, but his leg does stop bouncing.
Will is hunched over, leaning into his space, his breath ghosting over Mike’s cheeks. Which is ironic, considering who is actually dead here. And when Mike goes to say something, Will does.
“Me too.”
“You too?” Mike looks up, confused, as Will straightens, his hand sliding off Mike’s knee, fingers just grazing the inside of his jeaned thigh as he does so. And fuck, if he survives this, Mike will totally be remembering that later. When it’s dark. And he’s in the shower.
“Me too.” Will repeats. Nodding down at the box of letters on the bed.
Then, unceremoniously, and, in an impulsive, completely Will like gesture, he opens his Vans shoes box and upends the contents on the bed. In theory.
But it was obviously filled with hundreds of scraps of paper and they fly everywhere. They swish side-ways, some tumbling off the bed onto the floor, some landing as far away as the cluttered desk Mike always means to tidy. Some float down in front of Mike’s face like it’s fucking confetti and Mike catches Will’s guilty smile between the mayhem and wonders, exactly, what they are celebrating.
A small scrap of pink paper has landed on his crotch and Mike lifts it up, doesn’t look at it, but instead just stares at Will. Who’s crossing his arms, like he’s defensive all of a sudden. Mike raises an eyebrow at him and Will gently kicks his ankle, looking down pointedly at the paper in Mike’s hand.
He gives in. He looks at it.
It’s torn off the bottom of an invoice, messily, there’s a biro mark near the tear line and Mike briefly ponders if it was off someone’s name. He turns it over.
‘Fuck, I miss you today. Can’t you call or something?’
He shoots his head up and stares at Will, who has chosen this helpful moment to inspect Mike’s carpet. Mike reaches his hands down, and slides another piece of paper into his fingers.
‘You wrote to El again today Mike. And she’s jumping around the kitchen like it’s bloody Christmas. And my heart is right there, flung out on the floor. And she’s stamping all over it’
He grabs another one.
‘Lenora is shit you know. And I want to tell you that school is cool and I’m making friends, but we said we’d never lie to each other. And I hate fucking Hawkins, and I’m sure I’d hate high school anywhere. But maybe, maybe it would be bearable with you?’
Mike scoots up the bed, gathering handfuls now, completely oblivious to the fact Will is watching him, worrying on his lip, as Mike unconsciously reads each one aloud.
‘I missed you today. There was this fucking gorgeous sunset and I looked over like you would be right there, and if you were, you would have told me to paint it. I didn’t.’
‘I wish you’d call Mike. You never fucking call. And I don’t know if I’m allowed, you know, to call. Because it hurts too fucking much’
‘There were two boys kissing today, back behind the bike sheds at school. I thought I was going to be sick. We never did that. Why the fuck didn’t we do that Mike?’
Mike’s breath is racing now, like his heart, and he’s probably crying again, and Will is moving the box of envelopes off the bed and onto the floor and perching, somewhat precariously, on the mattress next to Mike. There’s a two-inch gap between them. Of course.
‘I want to hate El, you know. Sometimes. And I hate that. Because I love her really. And you love her. And that’s the problem isn’t it?’
‘Mom said you tried to call today, when I was out. I swear, I will never leave the house again. I’ve lifted the receiver six times but I can’t punch the numbers in. Shit, just call back’ This one’s on the back of a grocery list.
‘I wish I could hate you more. I wish I could love you less’ Mike doesn’t throw this one back in the pile, he slides it away into its own space.
‘Sometimes I think about… you know? With you. And I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. But I want your hands everywhere. On me I mean. I want them on me, everywhere. Fuck.’ Mike thinks he’s hyperventilating, between sobs, and Will is still there, not touching him.
The next one has no writing at all; it’s a pencil sketch of Mike. He’s playing DnD: he’s the DM. And Mike actually fucking laughs at this, like the exhale of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He starts digging through the pile now with both hands to find the drawings. One of two boys on a swing-set. One where they are dressed up as Paladin and Cleric, no, two of those. Just in the second one Mike is leaning down off his horse and kissing Will. And his breath hitches, and Will’s stops. But Mike keeps going.
Because when you suddenly realise you’ve been starving all your life, how can you not dive in?
There’s a drawing of him at the movie theatre, back from that disastrous summer in ’85. The sketch shows Mike, eyes glancing down, and he fucking remembers this, and Will has scrawled in the corner ‘You looked like you wanted to kiss me, did you?’
And that’s when he looks up at Will, finally, dragging his eyes away from the outpouring of Will’s thoughts, and feelings, and daydreams. And Will is crying, and shaking. And it’s instinctive when Mike takes his face in his hands, wipes the tears from Will’s cheeks with his thumbs. And every touch was burning before, but not this. This is warming. This is like a pink sunset, or a hot bath, or the first sip of cocoa in December. And he’s giving into the clichés, like they’re part of him now. And he’s pulling Will closer.
“Yes, yes” He breathes, holding Will’s eyes with his own. “Yes I wanted to kiss you. I’ve always wanted to kiss you.” And this is it, the moment he’s been waiting for, like his entire fucking life.
Then Will steals it, and kisses him first.
His lips are pressed against Mike’s - warm, and willing, and wanting. And one hand has found Mike’s shoulder, and the other is in his hair. And they are both pulling in, closer and closer. And Mike uses his fingers to tilt Will’s head a bit, so he can taste him deeper, and when he hums against Will’s lips, a desperate sound, Will is gasping, and then they are open mouthed kissing. And Mike has Will’s bottom lip between his own, then his tongue is on Will’s teeth before Will’s tongue is in Mike’s mouth and…
Fuck it, there are no clichés for this. No similes. No metaphors. No fucking analogies. There is nothing in the world that could compare with kissing Will Byers like this. He could kiss Will everyday for the rest of his life and it would always feel just like this and nothing else. With the taste of him in his mouth, and the smell of him in his nose, and the feel of his body pressed just here, and here, and how in the world are you supposed to compare perfection?
He pulls back, just enough to breathe, just enough to rest his forehead on Will’s. Opens his eyes to check Will still has his closed, then joins him again in darkness. Mike has never felt so alive in all his life.
“You wrote to me.” It’s not a question. At some point they have both stopped crying, but their breaths are still wet against lips.
“Every day,” Will confesses, “Every fucking day.”
Mike slides his eyes back open and finds Will is already looking at him. He wants to say I love you. He kinda wants to scream it, loud enough for the Earth to come hurtling back towards the sun from where in was flung into space. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t need to. Will knows. He knows Will knows.
He trails his hands down away from Will’s face, down across his chest, clothing still damp from the rain as he presses his fingers into it. He finds Will’s hand with one of his, then leans back slightly, reaches down, and uses the other to lift the box of envelopes from the floor. The rain has stopped now, the sun peeks out from behind a cloud at the exact moment he places the box in Will’s lap, eliminating it. Fuck if the world isn’t full of clichés.
“Do you want to read your letters now?” He asks with a laugh.
And Will responds with a kiss.