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Everyone else is long gone by now. Parents, friends—even the nurses disappeared hours ago; their quiet chatter replaced by the room’s cold silence. Will’s still there, although he probably shouldn’t be. He’s still sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, breathing in time with the heart monitor, clutching onto Mike’s limp hand like it’s a lifeline. In a way, he supposes, it sort of is. He would drown if Mike weren’t there with him. It’s sort of ironic, too, how it used to be Mike sitting by his bedside. Will was the one unconscious in a hospital bed, and Mike sat there for hours refusing to leave.
He squeezes Mike’s hand, looking for something to let him know that he was still here.
But Will sees nothing but the same, slow rise and fall of Mike’s chest. He looks small, almost helpless, lying there. So unlike the Mike that Will saw yesterday, although it feels like an eternity ago.
Will closes his eyes for a moment. He wants to tell Mike everything he never got the chance to say. That he’s sorry. That he should have done something. That he should’ve protected him, somehow. That he loves him. But he couldn’t. And all he can do now is sit there and wish they could go back to before everything got so complicated. Before El, and everyone else. Back when it was just them. Why couldn’t I just… say it? Not have to hide for once?
He shakes his head, reminding himself how ridiculous he was being. Because I know the truth. Because he doesn’t love me, not like I love him. He’s repeated this to himself so many times. He thought—more trying to convince himself than anything else—that it would have to stop hurting eventually.
It never does.
Will’s had these feelings stored up inside of him for so long, and for him to think he may never get to tell Mike—or anyone, for that matter—and to think he may never know, just hurts more. I have to tell him. Still uncertain, Will tightens his grip on Mike’s hand. This could be my only chance.
“Hey, Mike,” his own voice startles him, but Will doesn’t stop. “I know you can’t hear me, but… I’m sorry.”
He pauses, swallows. And then tries again.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I should have been. I should have protected you, but I couldn’t. I saw your face, and you looked so scared, and I just—“ His throat tightens as tears burn down his flushed cheeks.
“I stood there.” Will’s voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I just stood there and watched, and I hate myself for that, and I’m so sorry.” He presses his forehead gently to their joined hands and lets out a sob. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’m so, so sorry.”
For a while, it’s quiet. Not the peaceful kind, but the silence that makes it hard to breathe and bears down on your shoulders with an unbearable, crushing weight. Will’s head still rests against his hand.
“That day, in the van, when I told you… I told you that El felt like she was different, like she was a mistake, but you made her feel okay. I said she was scared of losing you. I told you she needed you. Remember that?” Will squeezes his eyes shut again, trying to escape the rush of pain and longing that came with the memory. “I… I wasn’t talking about El.” His breath is unstable, shaking as he exhales deeply. “The painting wasn’t from El, it was from me. The words weren’t hers, they were mine, but I—I lied to you. I thought it was what you needed to hear, who you needed to hear it from, but I guess… I guess it wasn’t.”
He’s quiet for a minute, processing.
“At the pizza place, you said your life started the day you found her in the woods. The day I disappeared. You told her you loved her. And—God, this is such a shitty thing to say, and I’m probably horrible and selfish for thinking this, but—” His voice fades, head a mess of fear, of longing. “I wished you were saying it to me,”
Will wipes his nose with the end of his sleeve and sits there, unmoving.
“I should have just told you,” Will murmurs. The words are so quiet, he’s not sure he said them aloud. “Not just now, a long time ago. Before… all of this.” He lifts his head just enough to see Mike’s face. He looks at peace, almost like he’s just asleep. Will takes in a sharp breath and lets out the words he’s wanted to for years.
“I love you, Mike.”
The silence that follows is again suffocating. The words hang in the air like thick smoke, but saying them aloud—even if there was no one to hear him—felt like a hundred-ton weight being lifted from Will’s heart. He said it. The words were out, and the rest spilled to follow in a chaotic waterfall before Will could even think.
“I’ve loved you for so long I don’t even know when it started, or how. But I never told you because I knew—because I knew you didn’t feel the same. A-and that’s okay! It’s totally okay. And now that I’ve said it, I can finally… I can finally start to move on. I just wanted you to know that, just once. In case—“
He doesn’t say the rest; he doesn’t have to. The machine keeps beeping, and Mike doesn’t move. Will takes in another shaking breath and grits his teeth, struggling to hold in the tears still threatening to spill down his face. He can’t stay here. Not like this.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna go,” he says, although his grip on Mike’s hand remains strong as ever. His legs feel heavy and clumsy, stiff, as if he were walking through wet cement. Will doesn’t let go, not just yet. He stares at Mike’s hand, the way his fingers interlock with Will’s—still and warm, but lifeless. He runs his thumb along the back of Mike’s hand, memorizing every detail. He begins to turn away.
And then—he feels it. So slight he may as well have imagined it.
A small, weak squeeze.
Will freezes, a deer caught in headlights. Everything goes still, quiet, except his heart, pounding against his ribcage. He’s afraid to breathe, lest he break the dream-like trance he was caught in. Will stays still, not turning his head even to look at Mike.
Because if he looks, and it was nothing—
If it was just a reflex, or a dream, or some cruel trick played on him by his own imagination—
Then everything he just said and felt comes crashing down, and every last speck of hope he has to cling onto would disappear. So he stays exactly where he is, staring at their joined hands like they might vanish the second Will lifts his gaze. Unspeaking, unmoving, Will tries (and fails) not to get his hopes up.
I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. He repeats the phrase in his head, rolling the words around until the syllables blur into one another and become an incoherent mess. He’s not awake. He doesn’t love me. I. Can’t.
Will places Mike’s hand gingerly back onto the bed, but stays for a second longer, their fingertips just barely brushing as dark spots appear on the white sheets around them.
“Bye, Mike,” He whispers. His voice is hoarse, wishing he could say more, but unable—it hurt too much, physically and mentally. He doesn’t look back.
And yet, he wants to look—needs to look. Wants to see Mike’s dark eyes gazing back into his with that soft expression that makes Will feel like he’s about to implode. Wants to brush Mike’s hair out of his face and tell him how he must be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. He wants to fall into Mike’s arms and to hold him, to be close to him, to never let go.
Lost in every beautiful and tragic and honey-sweet daydream spiraling around the inside of his skull, Will almost turns around. But he catches himself.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
His footsteps are slow, deliberate, echoing across the linoleum floors as he forces himself to walk up to the door. His hand lingers just above the doorknob, something stopping him from touching it, from leaving.
What if he’s really awake? What if he does feel the same? What if he heard me? What if he wakes up after all of that, and I’m not there for him?
The last thought alone makes Will want to vomit. Not only the idea of Mike being by himself, but the thought that he would rather wake up alone than next to Will. He would rather wake up next to anyone—El, Lucas, Dustin, a doctor, even. He twists the knob and pushes the door open, just a crack.
Just leave. He wouldn’t care.
“Will?”
He freezes. His heart leaps so violently, it might stop this time. The room feels like it goes silent.
Could it really be…?
Will can’t move, can’t breathe. His hand remains hovering over the door, like even the tiniest motion might shatter this perfect moment.
“Don’t leave. Please,” the voice comes again. It’s hoarse, barely even there, but it’s him.
Will turns, and he sees Mike. He’s leaning on his elbow, attempting to sit up. He looks ridiculous, really, hair all matted from lying in bed, the dirt smeared on his face a stark contrast to the sterile hospital gown and sheets. Like a scene straight out of a movie, time seems to slow almost to a stop as Will runs to him, forgetting everything—the hopelessness, the heartbreak, the fear all fall away, and it’s just the two of them all over again. Tears stream down Will’s face, dripping from his nose and chin, but this time, they’re tears of relief. He hugs him, pressing the side of his face to Mike’s neck. Mike’s frozen for a second, startled, and Will is nervous again, loosening his grip. Soon enough, though, Mike is hugging him back, burying his face in his shoulder, laughing. Will relaxes.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Will mumbles, the words barely intelligible.
“Me too,”
Neither of them knows how long they sit there in total silence, clinging to each other. Minutes, hours—they don’t care. But, of course, the moment has to end. Will’s stomach drops, and he’s flooding again with dread. His thoughts creep back, uninvited, and one stands out through the clamor:
What if he regrets waking up to me and not someone else?
The warmth that had coated the inside of Will’s brain melts away, leaving him with only his fears. Mike begins to stiffen as well. He feels the smile on Mike’s face fade through his t-shirt. Will lifts his head just enough to talk, allowing his chin to remain resting on Mike’s shoulder. Before he can even get he question out, Will finds himself bracing for the answer.
“How long have you been awake?”
Mike doesn’t respond immediately, his arms loosening.
The heart monitor slows.
Too slow.
“I… uh,” His voice is strained, drooping at the edges in the worst way. Will hardly has the time to think before he’s prying Mike’s limp arms off of his torso and laying him back onto the pillow, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Mike? Are you okay?” But Will’s voice falls onto empty ears. His one safe space, his one moment of comfort and warmth ripped away just like that. No, no, no, please not now, not again. “Mike?”
“Wake up, please, wake up. Mike?” Will is just pleading now, shaking, clutching at Mike’s hand like he can keep him here with the sheer force of his desperation. “J-just say something. Look at me. Anything, please.” Mike doesn’t stir.
“Don’t leave me again,”
Tears wet Will’s face again as hope disappears entirely. It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe. The universe is playing with him, it seems—dangling hope just within his reach, all to yank it back and laugh in his face. But then—
A low groan. Mike’s hand twitches in Will’s.
“Will…” he exhales, forcing his eyes open. Slow, unfocused. Will lets out something like a mixture of a laugh, a sigh, and a sob as he throws his arms around Mike again.
“You scared me,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Don’t do that. Don’t leave me like that again,”
Mike’s face breaks into a sleepy smile. “I’m not going anywhere,”
“You better not,” Will’s shaking all over, but grinning so wide his face hurts. It’s quiet again for a moment. Mike takes a slow, deep breath.
“You know… I—I heard you,”
Will freezes.
“…Heard what?” He grasps onto the smallest strand of hope he has left, knowing it’s about to snap.
“Will, I heard you,”
Will opens his mouth, frantically searching for something—an apology, a way to take it back. He descends into a spiral. I shouldn’t have said all that. I just made everything worse again. Now he definitely thinks I’m disgusting, and he never wants to talk to me again, and I’ll lose him again, and—
“I’m glad I did,”
Heat rushes up Will’s neck, his face burning. Mike’s eyes meet his, and this time he doesn’t look away. More than anything, Will wants to believe him. He wants Mike to want him back. But he can’t. Not knowing what he knows, feeling what he felt.
“Mike… You don’t have to say that if you don’t mean it—I know….”
“I do. And I mean it.” Mike’s face is so close to Will’s that he can feel the warmth of his breath on his face. Mike tilts his head slightly as his cheeks flush. He takes in a breath, exhales slowly, dragging out the pause for as long as possible. “Will, I…” His voice trails off momentarily, his expression distant. “God, I don’t even know where to start. I feel like I’ve been holding this in forever. Like, if I said it aloud, everything would fall apart, we would… I would fall apart.”
Mike looks away. His jaw is tight, and when he speaks again, his words are hesitant. “When you said you loved me, I thought I was dreaming. I thought there was… There was no way. Not after everything I’ve done. Everything I didn’t do,”
“Mike…” Will raises his hand, hesitating just before touching his face, brushing the tear off his cheek.
“Wait—Sorry, can I just… apologize?” he interrupts.
Will nods, and Mike clears his throat before going on. “I just—I feel like you were always there for me, even when I definitely didn’t deserve it. I was scared, and selfish and... and stupid. And I was scared. I was terrified of losing everything. Or of losing you. But I just kept pretending, because it was, I guess, easier than accepting the truth.”
Will feels like he’s stopped breathing, too, in fear of losing whatever’s holding him together.
“Do you remember that night? The first night you went missing?” Will’s hand tenses a little, but he doesn’t let go. “I do, like it was yesterday. November 6th, 1983. I remember being 12, and I just felt like… Like part of me had disappeared along with you. And I thought it was gone forever.” He looks up at Will, tears he had been holding back now running freely down his face. “I thought you were gone forever, and I—I was so scared, Will, I was so, so scared. I never want to feel that way again.” His face is still damp, but he attempts a smile before continuing. “But then, you came back, and I thought everything would go back to normal. How it used to be. But it didn’t, not really. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what would have happened if I’d have lost you for real. I think that’s when I finally realized how much I—I guess I realized how I felt about you. I don’t think I knew what that meant, not then. But I know now.”
Will’s face grows warm.
Mike shakes his head, his voice breaking. “I missed you so, so much, Will.”
“When we were in California… I remember what you told me, about how I made El feel better for being different, how El needed me. I was just so oblivious… No, I chose not to realize that you weren’t talking about El. And then, you gave me that painting, the one you said El commissioned. I loved it. I loved it so, so much. But I didn’t—I didn’t want it to be from El—I wanted it to be from you,” He pauses. Will just keeps staring at him, too lost to find words. “I just… I wanted it to be you.
“It’s you, Will. It’s always been you,” He whispers, eyes glassy. His voice is steady, but soft. “I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I’m sorry I made you feel like you were alone.”
Will can’t speak, can’t breathe, still not fully convinced he’s awake and not dreaming. Mike leans in closer, bringing his hand to Will’s jaw and brushing his thumb along his cheek. Will leans into his palm, hoping it’s enough to say everything that he just can’t quite put into words.
Mike leans in and glances downwards almost imperceptibly, his gaze landing on Will’s lips, lingering there for a few seconds before he speaks again.
“Can I kiss you?”
Will looks into his eyes, all cloudy with tears, and gives him the subtlest of nods. Shutting his eyes, he leans in first. Mike presses his forehead against Will’s, then his lips, a gentle hand on the back of Will’s neck. Stomach full of butterflies, Will falls, and falls, and falls, and it’s the best feeling. If he’s dreaming, he never wants to wake up. Tears still stream down both faces, mixing with sweat and dirt and blood and then with each other. He pulls away, catching his breath. For a minute, neither speaks. Their foreheads stay pressed together. Will pulls back just slightly—just enough to see Mike’s face, flushed and wet with tears.
“I—” Will starts, but his voice breaks. He laughs in near disbelief, weak and shaking, wiping his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “God, Mike, you can’t say all of that and then just kiss me like it’s nothing.”
Mike appears nervous again, eyes widening, flickering down like maybe he did screw something up, but Will shakes his head and frantically corrects himself, “No—no, not like that. I mean, you have to know how long I’ve waited to hear those things. How many times I imagined you saying them.” Will imagines he must look like a tomato at this point. “I thought… I thought I was going to die with all of that still stuck inside me.”
His lips part as if to apologize, and Will can tell Mike’s about to cry, and realizes that he’s crying too. He doesn’t try to hide it this time, though, pulling Mike into another hug.
“I’m so sorry, Will,” he almost whispers, voice muffled further by layers of fabric.
“It’s okay,”
“No, no, it’s not. I was a total asshole, and I don’t deserve any of this, I don’t deserve you—“
“Please, listen,” Will interrupts, because he can’t stand to see him like this, and because he’s so, so wrong. You deserve everything, why can’t you see that?
“I love you, Mike.” Will’s voice comes out as a high-pitched whisper, but it felt like breathing; how easy it was to love him. “I spent so long being ashamed—no, scared of how I felt, who I was. But, I’m not afraid anymore.” Not now that you’re here.
Mike doesn’t reply right away, just holds Will tighter, saying more than words ever could.
“I love you, too,” Mike pulls back just enough to look at his face. “I’ve loved you for so long, I was just too stupid to say it.”
Will let out a breath. “You’re not stupid.”
“I was scared.”
“So was I.”
Their hands find each other again, fingers lacing together like they’d done it a thousand times before.
“I’m still scared, Will,” Mike admitted.
“I am too. But we have each other now, right?”
Mike’s eyes are wide, and Will can see every fragment of love, of guilt, of hope sitting there. Something fragile he’d been trusted to hold.
“And, hey, if it all goes to shit, at least we’ll go crazy together, right?”
Mike smiles, placing a delicate kiss on Will’s cheek.
“Crazy together.”