Chapter Text
Mike always thought that the part of Will God specifically made in His image were his hands. He used to stare at them for hours as the callused fingertips delicately touched page after page of a sketchbook. He watched tendons stretch under Will’s soft skin as he gripped pencils and pens, fidgeting in frustration with the eraser. Mike felt that maybe that’s all God needed to be, really. A pair of artist’s hands. (More specifically Will’s hands, but he wouldn’t admit that.)
Mike’s own hands were not touched by the heavens. His lines were shaky and way too deep, any drawing he did could be outdone by a fifth grader. In short, he was nothing to worship artistically.
Maybe he was too sharp. Mike had always stuck out in funny angles, too loud and too gangly for his own good. He didn’t have the strength to stay soft like Will did. Shards of his father’s words and his mother’s annoyance wormed their way into his heart and brain, severing whatever connection to drawing he had within him. Sometimes he felt too cowardly to be an artist, scared to put something that beautiful to paper; it’s too permanent, too visible, too sacred. The parts of himself that yearned to put down watercolors and pencil on a page were also the parts of him he was genetically predisposed to hiding.
The one thing he did have going for him in the genetic lottery was Nancy’s knack for storytelling. His older sister was nothing if not a writer. She took the sharp angles handed to them by their parents and turned it into ambition, compassion, control. Mike didn’t manage to garner the same positive traits she did, but in an effort to give himself some credit, he could admit he had some of the same raw talent she possessed. He loved telling stories, loved watching his friends waiting with bated breath as he explained their newest campaign, loved the look on Holly’s face as he entertained her with fairytale after fairytale. It filled him with such an overwhelming sense of euphoria to be able to make people happy with his words.
Too often, he had the opposite effect. He said something snarky at the wrong time, let an inside thought crawl out of his mouth before he could stop it. As much as he wished the giggles and smiles given to him by his words were what’s ingrained in his brain, it was instead the looks of hurt that he managed to conjure up, more of them than he could bear to think about.
What good is talent if you lack control? Nancy was a journalist, a person emanating morality and empathy with every word she wrote. Will had such precise control over colors, it’s like Mike could feel every emotion Will did when making each piece. Dustin had science, Jonathan had photography, even El was a goddamn superhero with more self-restraint than Mike thought possible.
In comparison, he was brash and idiotic, too quick to speak to actually think. And unfortunately, he was discovering on the daily that life tended to require thinking.
That’s why when El discovered him one evening, running his hands over the careful strokes of a painting Will gave him on her behalf, he didn’t think twice before rambling about how much he adored it. He didn’t stop to consider the confused look on her face, didn’t pause to read the room as she slowly pulled away from him.
“Mike?” She said finally, confusion knitting her brows.
Mike stopped mid-ramble, an explanation of D&D classes dying on his lips.
“I do not know this painting. I do not know Dungeons and Dragons like you do. I think you are confused,” El said, carefully putting her hands over his.
He sat for a moment, processing what she said and processing the feeling of her hands. They were rough and small, toughened from her training. It wasn’t unpleasant, having them in his grasp. Nothing about El was unpleasant. He adored her, he really did.
“Oh,” Mike said, softly. “Why would he lie, then?”
El looked at him, shrugging. “Will painted it, that’s all I know,” she then giggled softly, saying “I thought it was for a girl he liked, he kept hiding it!”
“Huh, that’s funny,” Mike said, forcing a laugh that felt hollow as his mouth suddenly went dry.
El giggled again, seemingly in agreement. She then kissed his cheek and left the room, calling out “I love you!” As she shut the door behind her.
“Yeah,” Mike said after her, his voice cracking. “I… oh, whatever,” he muttered as he heard her steps on the stairs.
The painting now suddenly looked more sinister, the eyes of the dragon following him as he studied it yet again. He left it on top of his dresser warily, flopping down on his bed and trying desperately to do anything but think. Which, of course, led to him thinking quite a bit.
He thought about Will painting something for Mike, spending hours on it dutifully. He thought about Will’s soft hands dragging the paintbrush through the acrylics, mixing together the perfect shades like he always did. He thought about El’s calloused hands on his. He felt like throwing up.
Instead he buried his face in his pillow, trying desperately to figure out a way to not completely ruin his relationship with Will and still get answers. If he was softer with his words he would just talk to him, but he knew his impulsivity would win out every time. Instead, he settled on something he hadn’t really done in months.
He pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, sat at his desk, and wrote. And for once in his life, he willingly thought.
~
Papers were scattered around Mike, drafts scribbled out so hard the paper tore. How could he possibly know what to write if he didn’t know what to feel?
He couldn’t even bring himself to wonder how Will felt. Was he just misunderstanding everything? Looking for signs that weren’t there? Signs that he didn’t even know if he wanted? Would Will, empathetic, kind Will, look at him and laugh as he read the worn paper Mike handed him?
The thought of handing his feelings over to Will, letting his guard down more than he ever had, was absolutely nauseating.
More than that, he was scared. He was scared that he didn't understand his own feelings, scared to observe his soul too closely, scared to hurt someone with his words yet again.
He knew the effect words had on Will. He watched as slurs spat from bullies’ lips, digging into Will like a knife. He heard about all the messed up shit Lonnie had told him over the years, the effect of the threats and name-calling building up behind Will’s eyes. He remembered that rainy night years ago when Mike’s own words dug into Will’s skin, delivering a blow Mike had never meant to give to his own best friend.
From that night on he had vowed to be more careful, to not let his tongue get in the way. But it did. He cringed as he recalled his trip to Lenora, how crass and careless he’d been with Will. How even his apology didn’t feel like enough. He didn’t want to ever hurt Will, didn’t want to ever hurt anyone, but time and time again he did.
He knew that Will referred to him as “The Heart” of the party, which is a label Mike had always simultaneously revered and feared. If he was the emotional center, then each time his cutting words went after his friends, it had more of an effect. How could someone lift people up yet also tear them down? How could he be so reckless?
He felt like the Scarecrow from that movie Holly loved, the Wizard of Oz. A man with a heart but no brain, a cruel dope with no consideration for others until it was too late, until there was nothing he could do but grovel and hope his sins would be forgiven. And seemingly, everyone was much too forgiving.
Yet, his emotions seemed to be burning through his heart the longer he sat with them. He longed to quell the ache that simmered beneath his skin, to take Will’s beautiful hand in his own. The more he thought about it the worse the fire under his skin got. Does he? Is he…?
Hot, bitter tears pricked his eyes as he thought of what it all meant, as he thought of El. His superhero, the girl who’d protected him time and time again. His first kiss, his first everything. But the brutal, crushing feeling of butterflies never accompanied her name, and the sparks that danced in her eyes when they looked at each other never quite caught in Mike’s.
A quiet sob escaped from Mike’s mouth as a tear stained the endless letter drafts scattered on the desk in front of him. He felt like such a fraud. It wasn’t fair to El and it wasn’t fair to Will, him being this way. El didn’t deserve to be tossed aside, but she also didn’t deserve to be lied to. If he could go back in time and stop himself from conflating his admiration and infatuation with love, he would in a heartbeat. But now, no matter what she would be hurt.
And Will. Will. Either he’s reading into the painting, into everything, way too much, or he’s been suffering silently for months, years even. Mike thought of the countless looks they shared, moments that didn’t cross his mind at the time but in a new light, mean more than he ever thought possible. Either Will’s been suffering in yearning resignation, or Mike was about to make an absolute fool of himself and run their relationship forever. Both options made Mike nauseous. Once again, Mike hurt the ones closest to him without meaning to. He was like a pain magnet, attracting messes he couldn’t fix and people he didn’t deserve.
But still, the desire to tell the damn truth for once was overwhelming. To set everything straight, to feel in control of his life for the first time since he was eleven years old. So he bit back the bile building in the back of his throat, and made a plan.
- Tell El: if he tells Will before her, no matter the outcome he’ll feel awful. He may not understand his feelings for her, but he’s not a monster.
- Tell Will: somehow infinitely more terrifying than telling El. He might die on the spot, but he’d rather die quickly and with a measly sense of hope than slowly and suffering.
Well, shit. Here goes nothing.