Archive of Our Own ^beta

Letter 1. (Sent and received)

Will,

It's been three days since you left Hawkins. It stings, still. Not like a serious wound yet fatal. You know, like a poison in your veins you have no idea about. I know and it's worse. I thought I must tell you some news, so here is the list of things happened:

1. Holly didn't like my joke. Rude.
2. Nancy hangs out with Steve and Robin. It's been odd in this unique abstraction way to see her having friends again after Barbara. As if she is a Debussy’s play starting to realise it sounds beautiful. As if she remembers she deserves good things being not like the others. Do you know what I mean? Should I say that I'm happy for her, the world must end. MUST. But I am. Happy.
3. I stopped by your house and waited for you to come out. It was strange and awkward. You make me crazy, you see. In a good way. Ew. 
4. Steve said we need to learn shooting. Have no idea who let him into our house. 
5. I visited Max, or tried. We once hugged, in the past. I regret not doing it at least twice. Such a futile idea, Will, a regret that lingers when the person is still there. A regret that even if it will happen, the embrace, it won't be the same as it could have been. It's top-secret information. 
6. I had a funny dream and went wandering along the street today. What was it about? I can't tell you. Don't wrinkle or grimace! I'll tell you when we meet. 
7. We had a meeting with Dustin and Lucas. Sometimes I'm scared I'm going to lose them, too. Imagine fire burning in your hands (you're a sorcerer, right?), and then you can't control it. I mean. (illegible, few words furiously crossed out) fall and fall. I know something about falling (again unreadable, two whole lines covered with blank ink) don't think about it. 

So, that's all I can say. It's so odd, the situation. It makes me (dots on the paper, as if the thought was really desperate trying to escape on the letter) almost miserable. A bit.

Don't tell El, but it's for some reason easier to lose her. Maybe because I lost her for the whole year? Because I know her for a few years less than I know you? Because love helps with yearning? But I miss you. I miss you not because you're gone and it's been three days but because you are not going to return even in a month, a year, ever? I miss (all black, the message's lost in translation). 

So, write me back? I'm not good with letters but I'll learn. Wait for me to be best at writing the coolest letters like all those poets. 

Sincerely yours,

Mike

Letter 2 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,

I hate it here. 

No, okay, let me be so clear that the whole world would rebuild itself in the shape of my frustration and despair.

I hate it here. 

Twenty days after, the world lives (how? why?), our friends are alive, El has already sent me a letter (you haven't; why?) and I hate it here. 

Sometimes I wake up with an immediate, devastating, overwhelming realization: you're not here. It feels like that day I thought you died. People think I always knew you were alive judging by my actions (bizarre) and words (loud). Will you hate me if I say I did trust them? I didn't want to with my blood so hot I couldn't breathe and a black hole in my stomach (growing and growling as if it could swallow the universe without you), and I think I said, “It's not Will,” but I believed. You know, white noise was everywhere. I hope you never face it: I had to live in the world without you, believing you were dead. It wasn't long. It was a torture of a dying star. 

I'm lost for words. I wanted to say that I feel such unpredictable anger as if I need to mourn someone who died. Nancy said it happens, her eyes kind and gentle. She touched my hair with love that she probably keeps sleeping between her ribs and heart. Forget it. 

Anger. I can't be angry at my family. Or at Dustin. DEFINITELY not at Lucas. Or Max! So sometimes these blazing flames turn my head towards your mother. It's unfair, I know. But I can't be angry at her all the time.

So, I just let it boil. And boil. And make me unbearable to talk to.

You would talk to me. I know. But how can I tell you that I hate everything and nothing, and your mother in particular? Fucking hell, it's such a mess, isn't it? 

I think I won't send this one.

Maybe one day we'll laugh at it.

Sincerely yours,

Mike 

Letter 3 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,

I haven't told you, but once I stepped into a void and fell. No one told you because it was a small, insignificant moment, like the ones you make sketching things. It's a sketch. It's just a stroke on paper. 

Yet I remembered this feeling. I have no one to talk about it with, so I'll tell you. You'll read it in a letter and won't look at me with something in a shade of sadness.

So, falling felt like you couldn't breathe. Truly! I'm not lying. You don't have time to even think, your brain mesmerized by the feeling of gravity. You control nothing in the air. There's a shiver. It's cold, the air. The world gets to be only you and water beneath your feet. Or face. I held my breath not out of fear but out of curiosity. I was scared, you know I don't like heights. But I felt so strange. I belonged to something bigger than me. I was more scared when El lifted me.

Dustin asked whether I'd wanted to die. We were at the lakeside, you were here. Max laughed at something Lucas said. Peace and quiet. And then Dustin with his stupid and amazing question. 

He wanted a sincere answer. Just like in court, I raised my head and let this idiotic silence sink. It was a blanket, scratchy and almost thorny. It made Dustin fidget. I laughed. I said no. He looked comforted by my simple answer. 

Do you think I lied? 

Ask me one day. I don't think you'll ask. Want to know why? Because I won't send this one. 

Let us have a normal, quiet life for once.

Sincerely yours,

Mike

Letter 4 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,

I met such a cool guy. It's a rare thing; I can feel from miles away you grin, the way your eyes light up, and your voice cracks a bit when you say, “Oh, Michael liked someone first?” and it's rude. I liked you first.

So, his name is Eddie, Eddie Munson. That guy who seems to be against the world in a way that pisses everyone off. You ask how I could meet him? 

Easy.

I was, eh, having an interesting moment of staring into nothing because the reality sometimes is a squirming, sticky thing. So, he just stood next to me and said, “Hedgehogs have more chromosomes than a human being.” I swear to a fucking GOD it was out of the blue. Eddie looked so proud of himself that I helplessly laughed, you know. He's so much older and wiser, and I felt like a kid, but in a good way. For the first time in my life, I looked at someone who's older than me by four (?) years and felt good about being younger. I know Dustin has something like that with Steve, you have Johnathan, and I, in some way, should have Nancy. God, it's a mess. I mean. It felt good. He's higher than me but says it's going to change. He's funny and unpredictable, and he says we must experiment and try new things when we're young. He says it's okay to be different. 

Will, would you hate me if I joined Hellfire Club? It's hypocritical, I know. Puppy eyes, don't join a new party, Will, and then BOOM. I join it instead.

Do you remember what I said about anger? Eddie makes it easier to handle. I gave him only a sketch (you're my best friend, I miss you, I hate everything), and he said. Okay, don't be angry at him. He said it's a normal thing to hate, abhor, and despise something, so I wouldn't blow up like a star, which was too aggressive to realize some pressure. Sorry, there was such a long metaphor, and I laughed through half of his explanation, so. 

Then he was surprised that I have a girlfriend. Not like in an offensive way! It's just. His brows flew so high he looked incredibly hilarious. Tilting his head, Eddie with the greatest caution asked, “Do you miss her?” and what is the question? I said that I do. The laugh sounded like a bark, actually, yet he looked pleased, almost exalted. 

You'd probably say he's eccentric and, politely, too noisy. But you'd love him. 

I think I'll rewrite it a bit; something feels off. Especially the part about your mother. I love Joyce; she's the greatest mom of all people, but may I be pathetic? Please? And the mention of El… (a few words started, crossed out; it's possible to decipher “care”, “different” and “love”). So, yes.

It's the end of September. I miss your voice. I still remember how it sounds, but the truth is, I know it's going to change. We're growing up.

So, with the knowledge of not sending it to you, I'm afraid of not remembering your voice. God, let me keep it forever, and let me learn how else you can sound, lower and more mature, so I would memorize it like a code to the safe, like an answer to a mystery. I don't want to forget. I don't want to miss it changing. 

Sincerely yours, 

Mike 

Letter 5 (Sent)

Will,

October has come! I was busy with all the school stuff going on. It’s boring here without you. I turn my head to the left, waiting for you to appear in this magical, whimsical manner, but you never do. 

We talked just yesterday, so it feels a bit easier to pretend we just play a game of hide and seek: California is just a place here, in Hawkins; I just have to find it and decipher the greatest mystery of your being. Eddie says that sometimes I speak like I don’t have a brain or (and he grins) as if I need to write poetry. I can never get him right. 

I’m still not sure if you really don’t mind him. Me, joining Hellfire Club. That’s why I hate telephone calls: the distortion of real emotions. I couldn’t understand whether you’re sad or not. Angry? Happy? Half-happy? El uses this phrase a lot, and I’m starting to grasp what it actually means. 

Lucas joined the basketball team, right? I’m a bit impressed and irritated at the same time. Maybe watching how your friends grow makes it with you. He will be great; it’s out of the question. Yet, what if he changes so much he’ll prefer to forget about his old friends? Trying something new is a good thing; even Eddie seemed to be pretty chill about it. Maybe I’m just jealous. Of what, you ask? I don’t know. 

Maybe by the moment you read it, Will, I’ll have already had the answer. Nancy always says I’m slow when it comes to realizing the most important yet simple truths. 

Nothing happens. 

I miss fooling around with you. I miss talking with El. I miss something that in reality has never happened but can’t understand what it is. 

See you around, Will the Wise.

Sincerely yours,

Mike  

Letter 6 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,

Do you think love must feel like that thing called a panic attack?

Bear with me here, as if this is a part of In Memoriam we read once in a book hidden in your attic. I was twelve when I met El and decided to love her. Sometimes it feels like a panic attack your mom used to have the first months after your disappearance. 

I don’t know why. El is incredible. She’s so kind-hearted, so strong. She learns things from scratch and gets much better at them. Mathematics? Easy. Understanding someone’s pain? Easy. She’s constantly reinventing herself in order to find her own self. She seeks to be a human as if she isn’t one already. She’s a supergirl I can’t dream of having even as a friend. It’s funny to hang out with her. It’s cool to explain poems and watch how she analyzes them and discovers something I haven’t noticed. 

And I love her. 

I’ve chosen to love her. Isn’t it the right thing to do? I call her 353 times every single day, believing she’s alive. Then why do I feel that something is so, so strange? As if it’s not forever as it’s meant to be? 

Sometimes I feel mortified by the word “love.” What should it even mean? Should I be happy when she’s around? I am. I’m happy when you’re around as well. When Max mocks at me and I pretend to be annoyed, I am actually happy. Do I have to want to share everything with her? But she won’t understand some things. I’d better talk about them with you. Sometimes I feel embarrassed explaining something to her. Not in a bad way! It’s just (black ink on the paper, no words beneath it, just simple frustration). Do you remember that time in September? We had to write a poem. Dustin couldn’t come up with a rhyme (or an idea), so I spent the whole evening trying to get him there. The destination. He kept on whining about my teaching skills. And I got more and more disappointed; Lucas giggled, and Max wasn’t very nice about all this “metaphorical crap” I had in mind. You were the only one who stayed by my side, your chin pressed to my shoulder. You were there, concentrated and still. I loved it. Sometimes loving Eleven feels like that. Constant burning. Something so terribly wrong, as if I’m going to die. 

I love El, you know. I just want to know if it should be this way. I was in love with her. I know it because I once asked Nancy about it. It felt so morbid, of course. But I needed to know. When I was in love with El, it felt like I caught lightning in a bottle. 

But lightning can’t stay there, can it? There’s no bottle big enough to keep it there. 

Forget it; this one is definitely nothing but a mess. How can I tell you that loving her is a panic attack? (letters quivering, ink-stained with the question mark)

Maybe I know someone I can talk to about it. A bit. Maybe. 

I wish I could talk to you. And even if I had to explain, you wouldn’t be cruel about it. You would understand everything faster than me. 

Maybe I’m scared you’d say it’s okay to feel this way. I know nothing at all these days. 

Sincerely yours, 

Mike

Letter 7 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,

Eddie is the worst person alive, and I hate him. 

You see, I can’t send this letter to you because you’ll need the previous one for the context. So, it’ll be a draft for a real letter. I’m good with drafts; they make me miserable and guarded. So, what’s the matter? You’d say, Tell me. 

I talked to him about El. What a bother to make up things so our relationship would make sense. My best piece of drama was like that: making up a story so he could understand and not ask questions. 

He didn’t. I wish, oh I WISH he did. 

Instead, he looked at me half-amused, half-impressed. His left corner of the lips curled into something soft yet mischievous. Not a grin, not a smile; something terrific. I had a bad feeling. I was right. 

And then it happened. Now, the play starts. 

Eddie: Wheeler, what a story. 

Me, a bit concerned: Yeah, that’s it. So...?

Eddie, not blinking at all: And you decided to ask me as if I’m a couch in a relationship. 

Me: Yeah? 

Eddie, really satisfied: Let’s play a game, kid. Close your eyes and imagine you’re twenty. Close your eyes I said! It’s not going to work any other way. 

So, I closed my eyes, it was black, and I felt like an idiot. I imagined being twenty.

Eddie, vibrant and happy: What do you see? 

Me: I’m at home? 

Eddie: Good, good. What else? Wheeler, c’mon, you’re a Dungeon Master, be more creative or I’ll kick you out of my party. 

Me: Jesus! Will is somewhere here, I guess. Our friends should come. 

Eddie: Your best friend, right? 

Me: What? Will? Yes, yes, he’s with me. I mean, in this madhouse of imagination, right now he’s in California and…

Eddie, vaguely annoyed: I don’t give a fuck about “now,” Wheeler. So, you’re together at home. Does he live there? 

Me, a bit wary: Have no idea. Maybe. 

Eddie: Cool. Cool. What are you doing? Don’t say cooking, or I’ll jump from a cliff.

Me: Cooking. Just to annoy you. I don’t know, I just… We just do stuff. Cleaning, I guess. 

Eddie, kind of quietly: And El? 

Me: What? 

Eddie: Where is El? Is she… with two of you? With your friends? 

I opened my eyes so abruptly my head went spinning. Eddie wasn’t smiling, imagine? Will, he ALWAYS smiles or grins or is ready to do this mischievous curl of the lips. Yet no. God, he scared me to death. 

I felt dreadful, like that night I lost you. I was staring at Eddie in this quiet room, the sunlit in his hair, and he didn’t even look conflicted or cunning. Just. Like he really wanted to help me but couldn’t. Like I needed one more push in the right direction, but it couldn’t be him. Like it must be me who gathers up all the pieces. 

Eddie just stared at me. I wish he had said something. I wish I knew what I wanted to hear. 

I love Eleven; sometimes I feel as if it’s ruining my life. 

Anyway, it’s such a solace to think about you in my future-to-be. I am happy. But shouldn’t I have imagined El instead? 

I’ll go and try to call you. Haven’t heard you speaking too long, and it’s almost the end of October. Your mom definitely should let you talk. 

Sincerely yours, 

Mike 

Letter 8 (unsent, yet received) 

Will, 

Today I had a fight with Lucas. Such a futile thing that won’t be included in the manuscript of our friendship. Yet, it felt grandiose. He said I’m being a jerk, never supporting him, and that I’m an egoist and I’m impossible to handle.

Funny how Max got involved, and we were basically in a screaming fight, half-scared and half-angry (remember this biblical wrath? Something of the kind), till it ended. Surprisingly, I left with Max. We kept silence because we both didn’t know what to say in this helplessly stupid situation. Once on the roof, we sat so our knees brushed. 

I said I hated it. Max smirked. For the first time I heard her saying, “I don’t know if we should stay together” in this very calm and reserved manner. Then her voice trembled a bit. I didn’t know what to say. What do I know about love? I know it makes you feel horrible. 

So, being an idiot who knows too little, I bluntly said that it’s not true and they love each other. You didn’t see her face, Will. She looked like I was so obnoxious it was almost cute. I fidget; the air is really cold. 

Love is not a remedy, Max said. It can’t solve all problems. 

I wouldn’t know. All “fights” I had with El left me breathless because I couldn’t understand the reasons. If it comes to us, you and me, Will, then I think I get it? The night I said what I said. Unerasable statement that hit you right there with my stupid mouth open. I could never say “I’m sorry” afterwards. 

We talked a bit, Max and I. For some reason when I stumbled and stuttered with the answer, her face softened. Remember? The way Eddie did.

We skipped classes and went wandering with no clue where we were going. 

Then Max asked, “Do you love me, Wheeler?” as if it was either a crossword or some stupid drinking game. We never said anything of the kind to each other. Maybe the whole fighting and dragging and shattering was too suffocating, so she wanted to know. 

“Of course, I do,” I answered with all dignity saved. “You are no stranger, Max. I love you. Don’t you dare tell anyone about it.”

She giggled, Will! I swear I felt like I won the lottery. Max is a mystery, you know, a whole bunch of legendary spells instead of words—such a prick. Of course, I love her like I love all of my friends. It just feels wrong to say it out loud. But I think I should. What do you think?

And Max said, “Never, it would be a shame.” 

My cheeks were burning, yet I rolled my eyes. I asked her if it felt different to love Lucas. She said yes. She said yes. 

And it was so inconvenient, Will. 

I wanted to be brave and ask HOW. I didn’t. I chose to be a coward, a very sad one. Wretched. As if I missed a chapter. 

What was in that chapter? Should I have a fight with El to understand? Should I have a fight with you to understand? But I’m not in love with you, right? 

I hate it. I hate to be scared. I hate not understanding what I’m scared of. 

Don’t worry, I don’t hate you.

Sincerely yours, 

Mike

Letter 9 (unsent, yet received)

Will,

Today is the 6th of November. I woke up with a deep fear that the world could divide us. You see, I keep thinking and contemplating all the small pieces of conversations I’ve had. I still don’t understand.

If I chose to love El, I must love her furthermore. 

I do understand people break up; they come and go. But she’s good, right? She’s done nothing wrong. There should be a reason to stop loving someone. Must be (lines are curly a bit, as if the pen pressed too hard). I don’t feel bad around her. She’s the first girl who wanted me and saw something in me. Have no idea what. 

Honestly, I could never understand what YOU found in me when we grew up. 

When I’m with El, there’s something normal and ordinary about it. The kisses are okay, really cool. And I loved the way it felt to spend time with her and be so over the moon about it. You see? I was in love; I loved her in this bubbly-pinky way everyone keeps talking about. 

Will, I want to love her the way I once did. 

I think I loved her right once we were younger. I think. I fathom I (unreadable, the paper is scratched, there’s a hole in it). 

I remember seeing her the year after losing, and it was so quiet in my head immediately. I wanted to laugh and scream and jump and scream merrily: she’s here, she’s returned, she’s here. When did it stop? 

Why do I even think it stopped? Maybe I just miss her. Maybe I’m crazy with yearning. 

There’s something much worse, Will. Something I’m not brave enough to talk about. I’m not even sure WHY, considering I haven’t sent you a thing since October. You are a part of it. You are there. 

Could we be like Tennyson and Arthur Hallam? They were best of friends. After losing his best friend, Tennyson spent seventeen years writing grief poetry. 

I haven’t talked to you properly and don’t know why. Or how. If I pretend you died and write you a poem, will you understand what I’m trying to say? Will I, myself, understand what I’m trying to utter so hard it never comes out as it should? 

I hope you’re good and well. I hope you have friends who make you laugh (but not like I do, okay) and friends you can talk to. I hope you miss me, but not like I miss you. It’s a twisted thing; it’s a horrible and pitiful thing. I feel forlorn without you. And I don’t know why. Give me some time to understand, will you?

I wish I was more like Lucas, who came to Max and said all the right words, and she giggled. Starstruck. 

What’s wrong with me? 

You wouldn’t know, I guess. And it’s also my fault. 

Sincerely yours, 

Mike 

Letter 10 (Unsent, yet received) 

Will, 

I heard your voice today on the phone, barely recognizable words, and I felt like sinking. I didn’t recognize it. I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t. El should’ve taken a pause because of the silence lingering between us. 

And then I remembered: I haven’t talked to you since August. 

But what can I tell you? All this shit from my unsent letters? Idiotic, anxious, barely making any sense? 

So, I’ve been meaning to tell you I think I’ve lost my mind. Let’s talk about love once more, shall we? It has something to do with your voice. 

I think I was in love with Eleven. I think I love her. I don’t think I want to spend love with her in a way people want with their lovers. But I should, right? Will, I’d kill someone to tell me I shouldn’t. You see, Will, all magic died when I felt as if I was stabbed in the stomach thinking about loving El the way I should. 

When I was twelve, I met a girl so cool I wanted her all to myself as if she were like a pearl or a gem. I’d never been friends with girls before. Three years later I know better. All that love was pure and simple because it was never meant to last. It’s the same when you love a character. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? 

It’s too late to change anything. I will never do better, and it’s safe right now, isn’t it? You’d say I’m a coward and too harsh, and I’d say yes.

But I want you. 

(all other lines crossed out; a few words of “hate”, “miss” and “sunshine in the eye of the storm” could be dissected.) 

Sorry. It’s too much to keep it even in the paper. 

Sincerely yours, 

Mike

Letter 11 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,  

Today it’s snowing, the snowflakes big and different from one another. I thought you’d like the picture. I thought I’d like it here with you. I know it won’t work like that. 

Lucas, Dustin, and I spent the whole day at Steve's new workplace, giggling and messing around with him. It was funny and bright, as if for the first time in months I felt carefree and happy. Then it grabbed me, the understanding of something great: I miss Eleven the way I missed Dustin, the way I miss the good old days. Something that you can overcome. I held my breath, my lungs too tight, and wanted to die. 

I don’t miss you like you’re going to come back, Will. 

I miss you like you died, and I need to deal with that. 

Steve got worried (I might’ve gotten pale as fuck.) and I had to bleat words of lies. Then I drank too much chocolate milkshake and—hush, you have to trust me—cried in the bathroom without any reason. My friends’ laughter was a consolation. I couldn’t fucking stop, Will. I don’t know why. I just hated this understanding: I miss you in another font, in another shade (it’s more to your taste) than I have EVER missed anybody. 

I’ve known you for ages, Will, and I’m afraid I will never get why it’s so important in a glass-stained picture of the world. 

And then I thought. I thought. (no words added, no black ink spilled)

Sincerely yours, 

Mike 

Letter 12 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,

Could it be that I’m in love with you? 

I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I can’t be in love with you. I can’t love you. I have El, who is kinder to me than anyone would be (you’re out of touch here, I JUST CAN’T), who loves me properly, and I just need to play along. 

Eddie said it’s hard (I could or could not have a panic attack in front of him; it’s humiliating) and that it’s okay. Oh, yeah, I said with my voice cracking and bones breaking, it’s not. It’s not. I just got mad or something. I can’t like a boy; I can’t like YOU. You are my best friend, someone who knows the worst in me not because I told you but because you witnessed it, because you unraveled me, because you saw through my words and actions and still wanted to stay. 

I want you to stay for a night. I want you to tell me all secrets. I want to talk and talk to you without feeling I’m too much.

And I can’t. Even thinking about it is a shame. I don’t care much about religion, so let me go to Hell (I’m a part of one anyway), but I do care about who I am. 

You must never know, Will, you see? It’s too bad, too scary to let you know any of it. 

And Eleven. God, she’s been through so much. I’m going to be Mister Normal and be perfect about it. There will be something good about us two. People always say we look good. 

(written in small letters in margins)

I love you. 

Sincerely yours, 

Mike 

Letter 13 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,

I’m going to visit in March. I barely vomited after hearing it. I thought of you, brave in flickering white lights, and how I said meeting you was the best I’ve ever done. 

I have no idea how I’ll look you in the eye and pretend I don’t understand your place in my idealistic future.        

When I need to be brave, I remember falling and knowing that death’s reaching his hands. I remember three seconds being closer to you (in this unique opportunity to die in a not very impressive way) than any moment before. So, when I need to be brave, I remember falling and imagine myself falling again. 

I faced death. It was my choice (stupid? ask me one day of neverhappence). I've been doing it since that day. 

I fell and I lived, and I found you. So, if I need to fall again (so far only metaphorically) for my own sake, to do something, then okay.

I will fall and will be falling till something happens. Maybe you could catch me. 

God, thank you, you're not going to read it; it's formidable. I can't get along with myself anymore. I think about love being a fall, a panic attack, a future, a chance, and a choice, and nothing makes sense. Except you and me, if I allow myself to remember. 

But, if we're being serious, don't jump after me, and don't fall for me. Just wait. Every fall must end.

Sincerely yours, 

Mike

Letter 14 (Unsent, yet received) 

Will, 

January comes to its end. Let me share my thoughts after clearly not thinking properly for three weeks. 

1. I am in love with you. It might be the worst thing happening to me. It might be the best thing to ever happen to me. Both of these things can be true because there’s you and there’s happiness (even if I hate feeling happy about loving you). 
2. I was in love with El because we were children, so young in that nightmare; we needed something to grasp. We held this love in a way people press cloth to the wound. I loved her, and I love her still. Never in a way like “You’re a part of my idealistic future with cleaning and cooking and living together.”
3. I can never tell you because I’m not going to break El’s heart. And it’s safer this way. She said you’ve been drawing something special for a girl. I was wrong that night, wasn’t I? You do like girls. Anyway, life is long enough for me to pretend and be comfortable with it. You see, I’m a coward. Don’t know how I can say whom I like without fainting. 
4. I am so scared it’s not even serious anymore. I’m scared that I’d meet you and you’d be there with your new voice, new hair, and taller than you were. I’m scared of making my love feel more real than it is right now. 

Would you try and pretend I didn’t say anything if I once confess to you? I wouldn’t, but I can’t help but helplessly imagine our conversation. You’d put your arms around me, the warmest embrace of a new beginning, and whisper that it’s okay and I’m still your best friend. 

But I’m not. God, I don’t know how I would explain the reasons behind me not writing normally as I should have done. I’d say, “It’s because I fell from the cliff,” and you would understand. But in reality I don’t know what I’d say. Nothing, probably. 

Loving you is choosing to have a panic attack because it’s worth it even when I hate it. 

I know, I know. With all of it said, I must at least try to be honest with you. But I’ve chosen Eleven.

Do you think I’m a horrible person for giving her only incomplete love? Would you hate me for being a coward? 

Sincerely yours,

Mike 

Letter 15 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,

You are the start of all beginnings. Did you know that John Milton’s Paradise Lost begins by returning to the beginning? It assures you: there is a first time for everything. There’s always a starting point. But at the same time, it’s not a beginning, as it repeatedly refers us back to other texts. It’s cold in medias res, beginning in the middle. I imagine saying it to you, desperately hoping to impress you with all these smart words and ideas. I ask you if you know such a text, and you say no. Most probably indulging me. You do it sometimes with a soft crack of a smile. I still remember it. I hold it dearly, for I don’t want to forget. 

I refer to The Divine Comedy, of course. And rereading it gave me an odd idea: there are no absolute beginnings—only strange originary middles. 

Ask me what I mean. I’ll tell you here, as if you’re lying on my bed. Drawing and humming. 

So, it’s true. I do believe there are only strange originary middles. I met Eleven in the middle of searching for you. And I was searching for you after losing you. I kissed her, I saw you dead, and I met Max against all odds. 

But you, William Byers. There was nothing before you. You were the start of all beginnings for me to remember, as I can’t quite recall anything before. You were my beginning and my middle, and I’m afraid no matter what, you’ll become the end of all endings. The Song of Songs. No pretext, no other focal points. 

You take my hand and say, “I know.” 

That’s the second time, another first time, the world would start.

I desperately need you to understand it without me telling you. But in order to do so, I have to talk with you, the real you, the future you, I mean. And I’m so scared, Will.

Loving El is easier because it’s safe for both of us. Because I chose her years ago and was too idiotic to put a period at the end. Because loving you is falling from grace willingly. The cliff, the day, a step, you there. El saved my life. Maybe I loved her for that: telling me without words not to give up. Saving me so I could find you. 

I hate myself for loving you. Or maybe I should be thankful for it: the smothering feeling of belonging to you. Which I also hate. You’re so far away (the distance prolonged by me only) with all your drawings and words and consolations. I have a person to love, and you have a life to live. It’s unbearable. The fate of Odysseus if he’d never made it home. 

I’m pathetic. 

But you know the craziest thing, Will? I would fucking never change a thing. I would never trade this love for anything else. I don’t want to love Eleven the way I love you. It feels wrong, catastrophic blue, even to think if I could love her or pretend she’s you. Never ever. At least the feeling could belong to both of us: mine to hold and yours to keep. You are the start of all beginnings. 

I want to die knowing it. 

Sincerely yours, 

Mike

Letter 16 (Unsent, yet received)

Will,

I talked to Eddie today. Let’s keep it realistic: I was so wild Eddie had to lead me up to the roof, icy and cold. He said he liked my hair, and I didn’t tell him it was a bit because I liked his hair. 

Then he demanded some answers. You see, Will, you can’t say NO to Eddie. When you two meet, you’ll get what I mean. Oh, he’s a crashout every day. If he looks at you, you have no room to escape. Just be ready to be honest as you bleed with every secret. Eerie, isn’t it? 

But maybe I needed to talk to someone. Anyone. 

Lucas seems to be preoccupied with his new friends. We still hang out; it’s just not the same as it was. And I can’t talk to Max about the whole “I’m in love with a boy dating your friend” thing. She’ll hate me. I don’t know if she hates, you know, gay people, but probably she’d make an exception for me. 

So, I looked at Eddie and spilled all my bleeding-in-ink secrets without a single stop. 

You know what he said? God, I almost cried. He said, and I quote, “It’s okay to be scared or to be a bit of a coward.” You know what, Wheeler? He smiled, his eyes lit up, it’s a big secret, but usually all I do is run away. 

Then, of course, he gave me a whole speech about why I have to talk to you (not even about love) and remember you are my best friend. Talk to Eleven because it’s poisonous to lie to her in such a cruel manner.

Don’t think he trusted me when I said I would.

And then I thought maybe if I just pretend it’s okay, pretend that I haven’t ignored you a day, and pretend not to be gay, it will all just disappear.       

Why am I even bothered with it? Why can’t I just sleep in till I’m twenty and I have more important things to do than living in a hoax? 

I know you would be nice about it. I know Eleven won’t hate me (I guess), and our friends are better than this. I know. Realistically speaking? I know that everything is going to change if the words tossing and turning behind my ribs are allowed to exist in this small space among us. You will never forget I’m in love with you. Eleven will never be someone I can run to. Our friends may not be against it, but it would be different. 

No man is an island, yet I am to be one. 

It scares me. 

The world won’t be nice about it, and haven’t we had enough? I want to be okay and normal at least in something. 

I know it won’t work like that. I know I need to come closer to the edge of that cliff with water almost silver and the sky pale blue. Be brave, I’d say, and jump and fall with my eyes open. 

You want another secret, Will? Sometimes I feel ungovernable violence that burns through me. That type that makes you be cruel and dangerous, not to all people but to your friends. Eddie said it’s all because I’m so scared that it makes me want to hurl and hurt. Something about letting everyone feel miserable. He warned me not to be like that with you.

I wanted to say it’ll never happen and then remembered: oh, I know something about being unreasonably cruel with people, with you.   

So this is me trying. 

God, let me be kind to you once more. I know that I can be. I know that the chances are very low. 

Will you forgive me for being vicious? It could be better if you won’t. 

Sincerely yours, 

Mike 

Letter 17 (Unsent, yet received)

Will, 

I had a dream about you. We were there, at the place of our almost-deaths. You looked at me and said that I had to jump to prove that I love you. I jumped because I never wanted to see your face like that: pitiful, full of regret, as if you don’t recognize me. Remember? The start and a panic attack. I woke up and realized it’s only a month till I see you. 

The truth is, I know you’d never be so ruthless. I know. But sometimes I wish you were. So I could jump, not because we both regret bearing the weight of my love between us, but because I was ready for something. Is it a metaphor for moving on? 

I don’t have much to say. 

I unlearned to be me since the day I stopped talking to you. Maybe you forgot about me. Maybe you’re dating that girl Eleven once mentioned. Maybe you’re too angry with me for silence and caring about my own idiotic sinking feelings. Maybe loving you could be easy if I allowed myself to. 

Max and I had lunch on the roof yesterday. That’s what we do sometimes when Dustin is with Eddie and Lucas is busy with his new friends. So, we were eating together, with me creeping down the grave of lost innocence. 

The day was quite nice, I might say. 

Then Max said, as if declaring the great war, “I think I’m going to break up with Lucas.” And I blinked with broccoli in my mouth. I was so lost that I just mumbled, “Okay.”

She was a bit hysterical, saying, “You think it’s okay? Really? He’s your best friend. Be fucking real here, Wheeler.”

I had to chew and be quiet (and far away from that cliff) before pronouncing, “I know. I know. It’s just different from other times, right?”

Let me be clear. I’m the worst person to talk to about DATING and LOVE. But Max needed someone. I could be this someone, like an accidental drawing in the margins of your textbook.

Max turned her head to the right so I couldn’t see her face. I pushed a bit, saying that it’s okay if she feels she needs it. Something Eddie told me, really. That’s all I’m good at, repeating wise things. 

She just answered with a short ‘yes.’ We talked about it a little, both awkward and uncomfortable, yet she laughed at the end like a little bird (never ever tell her I made this comparison), and there was a smile in her amused words. “You’re terrible at it,” she uttered. “I liked it. I’ll blackmail you with it till the day you die.” 

I was happy because it meant we’d be friends for a long time.    

The water, the sky, the fall. 

Eleven says she loves me, and that pathetic part of me hopes she doesn’t. 

If you liked boys, would you love me? I don’t know what scares me more: your ‘yes,’ your ‘no,’ or the terrible ‘I did.’ 

I read books and watch TV. I know how it works. 

So, maybe at least you may be happy for both of us. Be happy, William Byers, it’ll turn my sleepless nights into something meaningful. 

(in cursive, swoopy letters as if they are embarrassed of the meaning)

But may I please be jealous of whoever you love? I’ll be quiet about it, I’ll never ruin it for you, and I’ll try to help you build it. Just please be happy.

Sincerely yours, 

Mike 

Letter 18 (Unsent, yet received)

Dear Will, 

In two days I’ll see you. For one last time I’ll write you a letter no one will ever see, read, or receive. 

I’ve already asked Eddie to take care of Dustin and Lucas, and he laughed, saying nothing is going to happen. Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I had a bad feeling. Maybe you’ll visit in summer and meet him. God, he’ll be unbearable, I know it. He’d make a thousand remarks only two of us would understand, and you’d feel embarrassed, but he means only good. 

I packed my things, and soon I’ll be ready (no) with all beautiful lies stitched on my heart. 

The truth goes like that.  

You were first, Will. I chose you before I could choose anything. You were my first friend, my first companion, and my first partner in D&D. The first person who could knock some sense into me, the first person who made me soften all these loathsome things in me (they do exist). I fell from the cliff, and then I fell for you. It felt similar: helpless, uncontrollable, breathtaking. 

I loved you first. 

We will never have a heated argument about it. Because I'll never tell you (love is a panic attack all of a sudden when you eat broccoli) and because I was there first: right there, in front of you, next to you. The swings. Chill air. 

The truth is, I don't want you to love me back. I want to sit with this thought at night and lull it in the silk velvet of the darkness:

I loved him first.

Ever yours,

Mike

(a small, hasty note in barely readable handwriting down the page, the letters little and jumpy)

(let's imagine you do love me back, which is absurd and obnoxious, and I still have a girlfriend—another type of a panic attack thing—but let's imagine you love me back, which I wouldn't be able to comprehend; you can even say, “I've loved you longer,” and okay, let it be. But still, my dear Will, I loved you first)

///

Once deep in his twenties, with hands tickling from all the plans they’ll have been making, he’ll say they would never be together if Mike hadn’t been romantic, stupid, and oblivious. Their friends would laugh with their chests full of sunlight. 

But it hasn’t happened yet. 

Will has never in his life wanted to search in the closet for a blanket in the middle of the night. He was tired to no extent. His bones are aching like old ships crashing against the shore. Mike is in the kitchen, alone. His eyes dry, looking for something in the cupboards. Will wouldn’t be surprised if it’s wine. 

He still needs a blanket. And he can't fucking find it with dissapolintment so hard it hurts his head. 

Trembling hands, dizzy head. That’s the moment his foot touches a carbon box not neatly pressed close. Will sighs, his mind wandering through the day they’ve had. The fire never felt so bright. His own body never felt so bizarre and alien with those joints and muscles. 

He doesn’t want to think about his powers, Vecna, or Mike going numb, his eyes empty and glossy as if he’s there still but can’t return. Apprehensive. Frustrating. Melancholy in the way his touch lingered on Will’s back. 

He shakes his head, opening the box. He has no idea why he does it. Maybe he’s too exhausted to realize he touches something private and hidden.   

And then he’s awake. 

It’s letters. A whole bunch of them. Not all of them in envelopes, but all of them to him.

Will blinks. Then blinks again. His heart, alive and cheery, pounds in his chest, making blood run faster. The code is I can’t believe it. Love is the last thing Will must think of right now, but he’s been fathoming that Mike wrote something. Sometimes he would imagine him coming with that awkward and brave smile saying… anything, really. Will would take anything. Sometimes he even regretted loving Mike. Only sometimes. 

And yet, here it is. 

All the answers, all the letters he has never gotten to read. 

It’s wrong. All of it, digging old stuff from the grave and reading it as if it wasn’t hidden for a good reason. But Mike didn’t get rid of them. There’s no dust on the paper or on the box. It was touched before. 

Will gulps. Shivers run down his back. It’s nothing, right? Just a bunch of all-forgotten messages in the bottle. Nothing is going to change, and Mike is too busy with locking his feelings in those small, suffocating rooms in his head. Will knows he does it all the time: the sorting, the distancing, the forgetting. 

He’s curious, and he’s tired. He can entertain himself with at least something remotely funny because, God, Mike couldn’t write shit when he was younger. Yet the ugliness of his letters could be too important to ignore. 

So, Will finds the first letter (it's marked as draft for some reason) and takes a deep breath. He imagines Mike sitting in this room, with lovely curls, tilting his head and imagining things. It makes Will smile a bit. Bleak, real smile of happiness so out of place. 

Then he takes a deep breath, opens the first letter, and never stops breathing again the way he used to. 

///

Do you think I lied? 

It rings in his head, and Will blinks ferociously with his head spinning around in a carousel. 

Ask me one day. 

Will turns around with his eyes burning. He can’t fucking breathe, and all because Mike Wheeler decided to be reserved and private with the code of a sleeping cell spy in his head.   

I don't think you'll ask. Want to know why? Because I won't send this one. 

Let us have a normal, quiet life for once.

No. Don’t let us have it with it behind. Is it how this started? Is it the start of every single unsent letter Mike has ever written? 

Will wants to jump and find him and smother him with his embrace till the moment they both forget any language and speak with their eyes only. 

Will opens the next letter, so desperate he wants to forget he ever believed Mike didn’t care about him. His ribs are crunching, reorganizing new spaces for this strange pain not known before. Like a word you meet for the first time in a context screaming love yet turning out to be pain. 

And it flows like a river of ink, the words are ships going nowhere yet handling and bearing Mike’s deepest hurt. 

You would understand. 

I do, Will mouths, half-blinking because Mike sounds. He sounds so, so lost. All the talking about falling and running and not understanding love. 

Eddie he writes, and Will feels that love buried in cold ground, never to be mentioned. He didn’t talk about him. He let Dustin rule the memories like a spaceship. He didn’t grow a single meaningful flower of memory since he found out Eddie had died. Mike didn’t even cry. Will remembers him alone in the backyard, his head tilted, his hair short and curly around his ears. He was quiet with sick-yellow light showering him in itself. Will regret not approaching him. Maybe it was the only time they could talk and get it right.

No. No, there’ll be a chance now. 

The letters go further, more and more confusing, yet Will feels genuine humility and sorrow. He has a feeling, stupid and morbid, and he starts to understand where it goes. He breathes in small, controllable breaths, trying to hold himself together and not faint here on the floor after the horrific day full of blood and loss.

And then it comes. It comes—the strike, the blow, an astonishing scream of fear. 

Could it be that I’m in love with you? 

Will thinks about the miserable days and how his brother consoled him in his gentle, kind manner full of love and support. He remembers hating Mike (just a bit) and hating everything around them. The world, unfair and cracked in all the wrong places. The people. Mike. Eleven. Himself. He wanted to die for a blink of an eye to get a break. 

Mike was in love with him.

Will makes the sound of a mourning whale that never finds its family or beloved one. He’s shaking so much he can’t hold the papers in his hands. All is round and round with stained colors and hushed sounds. 

The first time Will saw Mike after feeling so lost and small next to him was the worst moment in his life. He believed Mike didn’t want to be friends. He was so nonchalant about ignoring Will, and it still sucks, yet Will now gets it. 

He gets it. 

Maybe he’s too soft for it, for Mike and his broken anger in shades of sharp love. Or maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Will reads. And reads. The tears stuck in his throat together with laughter. He goes over and over again the words Mike pressed to the paper because he was too scared to open up about it to anyone. 

He could’ve talked to Will. It was his choice not to.

And Will understands it. 

So, maybe at least you may be happy for both of us. Be happy, William Byers, it’ll turn my sleepless nights into something meaningful.

Will screws up his eyes with the strongest headache he’s ever had. He wants to cry so much it hurts. He deals with it by imagining all those days he spent alone in his room wishing to reach Mike in his dreams and ask why. 

No happiness is possible if it’s without Mike, the boy who is right there, with his new fears and shades of shame. There’s a reason Mike and Eleven broke up. Everything is clear now. Will doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. 

I loved you first.  

Will blinks his tears away. His heart soars. The paper is damp a bit, but it’s okay. He’s going to keep the letters safe from now on. They will. 

It’s easy not to think about Mike’s feelings right now. Did he have a change of heart? Does he want to repeat something from the letters? Could they—

Will jumps to his feet with an unpleasant feeling of dizziness and rushes down the stairs, no word sweet in his mouth. The letters there, in his right hand, gently kissing his skin. And Mike is there, with the most miserable sandwich Will has ever witnessed in his life. He looks gloomy and barely present at the moment. Even dishevelled, he is immaculate.

“Did you lie?” Will blurts out, his voice loud.

Mike visibly flinches. Then slowly blinks, turning his head and facing Will’s madness. His eyelashes flicker a bit. They stand still for three breaths, the only alive people in the whole world, and then Mike notices it. The letters. 

“No,” he whispers, half-scared, half-terrified. “No.”

“Yes,” Will breathes out, wanting to cry again. His hands shake from the hunger of not touching Mike. “Did you lie? Do you still imagine it? The falling? Does love still feel like a panic attack? Do you…” The words hesitantly drop between his shoulder blades as they heaved.

Silence could serve them well in the past. Yet the past has long ended. 

“Say something,” Will manages to utter. 

Mike is still completely silent as if sucked out of any possible sound. 

“Mike. Say something!”

“I can’t!” he screams in return, so wild and new for Will that they both startle. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. You found my letters?”

It’s such a stupid question that Will just wants to crawl out of his skin and be a new person with no burning ears or heart dying to be alive. 

“I hate it.” Mike avoids looking at him, his sandwich looks even more pathetic. 

“You said that,” Will says quietly and abruptly, “in your letters. Did you…”

“Don’t,” Mike looks agonizing. “Can’t you just… I don’t… Jesus, why did you find them? Why now?”

“They were just sitting there.” Will takes a small step forward remembering the glare, remembering the gentle words, the cruel words. Now they’ll flourish into a garden inside of his future if Mike lets them be. “Mike. Please. It’s just me, you can talk to me.”

Mike hoarsely laughs. It’s unkind and gulping, altering the air between them. 

“I should’ve never written them,” his voice darkens; he still doesn’t look at Will. Yet his ears are burning red. 

“I’m happy you did. I truly am happy.”

“Yeah, no. Don’t be smug about it, Will.”

“I love you,” he says without a pause because Mike has already said it. In this funny, whimsical, not quite happy way, he has. “I love you. I’ve loved you longer than you can ever imagine.”

Say it, Will begs like he’s a madman. One single thing you said in your last letter. Please. 

He doesn’t want to be normal or ordinary—too late for that, with all these queer things around. He knows he’s pretty young and can find someone else in the future. But the truth is, he doesn’t want to. And judging by the look on Mike’s face, he’s not alone. 

“I…” he stutters, and Will waits for Mike to rediscover what it means to be happier. “I’ve loved you first. I think.”

“You think?” Will can’t help but tease him a bit, his smile watery, and he’ll cry the moment they hug. 

Mike’s gaze is wandering yet finds Will’s eyes and fixes forever. 

“It’s not a joke?” He whispers as the distance between them melts and gets nothing but the length of a single touch. “Is it another dream?”

“I’m not going to ask you to jump, if that’s your question.” Will takes another step, his heart is a merry puppy with endless love. “I would never ask you of it.”

“I know. It was just…”

“A dream,” he finishes, and Mike follows his steps, his eyes wide open. 

“I didn’t want you to know. Really. I was okay with that. I swear.”

“I am not okay with that. It’s… I love you,” he says again because there are so many lost opportunities. Happiness, hiding behind every wall of misunderstanding. “Please, Mike. It’s not… We’ll talk, you can even have a heated argument about me reading the letters, we can do anything. Just…”

“It’s such a shame,” Mike says, his face a wrinkle. He’s still so beautiful that Will can’t breathe. “All the things I’ve said there. You… I just… I’m so unfair. I could pretend. Right? But you…” He looks around, being more and more crazy with every second. Probably, that’s how Eddie met him. Not dozed out but completely out of his head moment. “Will, aren’t you…”

“Try it,” he says loudly. “If you still think it’s a great idea and it’s too early for you, just say it. I’ll pretend with you.”

“Don’t be an idiot, William!” He raises his voice again, dropping the sandwich on the floor. “Pretend? After I heard you saying… Saying… It’s like death; you can’t escape it once it claims you as his.”

What a morbid simile, Will vaguely thinks, too absentminded to be properly concerned with it. After all, Mike has always been nothing but dramatic. 

“Then what is it, Mike?” he demands, and Mike hisses at him. What a wonderful night. “Say that you don’t love me, and let’s fucking move on then!”

“But I love you!” Mike reaches out, and his fingers press into Will’s shoulder with the authority of the desperate love of a man who promised himself not to love anymore. “I’ve loved you first, and it’s never going to change. I love you,” he repeats quieter, with his voice cracking with softness. Will is so cautious, pressing the palm of his hand to Mike’s neck. Brushing off the curls. 

“You have loved me first,” Will says, not quite believing himself. Will sniffs, his eyes half-closed. “It’s okay. I’m also scared of it.”

“Of love?”

“Of that sad sandwich you dropped on the floor, actually.” 

They are caught up in that rare and a bit hysterical laughter, which makes Mike throw his head back, and Will lets the moment linger. Pressing the knuckles of his hand to Mike’s temple—he shivers and stops breathing—Will just allows himself to forget everything. The letters are still in his left hand. 

“Did you like them?” Mike asks, tilting his head quite a bit.

“I loved them,” Will admits. “What about we make new sandwiches and talk?”

“I’m not running away.” Mike looks conflicted. Then he breathes out, “Eddie wouldn’t like if I did.”

Will wants to kiss him so much right now, pressing all those years in a single and starving kiss into Mike’s lips, but they have time. 

“If you run,” Will says quietly, pressing his forehead into Mike’s, “I run away with you.”

He could feel Mike’s breathing against his lips. It was reassuring and right to share it with him.

“You caught me,” Mike whispers, sheepishly, a small smile breaking through his voice. “I fell and you caught me.”

Will can feel his chest swelling greedily with joy, with hope. He kisses the top of Mike’s head. 

Unwritten letter, left locked inside Mike’s chest yet uttered and lived:

“You are the best thing I have ever had in my life. Thank you for… meeting me.” 

“I know,” Will says, and the world lives. “I know. I love you, too.”

And it’s just like that: pure and simple, in letters and speeches, now and ever.