Work Text:
Yellow letters on a deep blue binder stare back at Mike as he stands transfixed in the basement that had never seemed this dark before, and the deep-rooted rot in his chest spreads its vines from around his heart, completely filling up the cavity in his chest and creeping to his stomach and twisting there, and it hurts, so, so fucking bad, for a second, he can't breathe. The letters become blurrier as his eyes fill with tears again, and he has to blink them away, to force himself to look, but they wouldn't stop falling.
Even in this situation, even after everything that went down, after nearly losing his sister, after losing his life, after losing El— and this, this is what he hates himself for the most— the weight of the loss crushing down on every fibre of being didn't stem from that alone. His grief took on a more human-shaped form, a gaping hole in his heart, his psyche, that seemed to throb and throb and throb until it was all he would feel, it consumed him entirely.
The soft, cautious, slightly irregular footsteps which he’d heard nearly everyday since he was five, heard enough to recognize blind, instinctively, faded as they climbed up the stairs.
It would have been one thing for it to have been something he could easily blame on the circumstance, on the Upside Down, on horrifying monsters from other dimensions or the actions of a man consumed wholly by one. It would have been easier to come to terms with if it were something beyond his control, something he couldn’t have prevented, couldn’t have known.
He didn’t know this would happen. He didn’t think any of it would have gone down the way it did. But deep down, sometimes, he thinks that maybe he did.
He inhales shakily, the air rattling in his chest, head spinning, because maybe, maybe if he wasn't so consumed by his own selfishness, then everything would have been fine. If he’d done the right thing, been there more, listened, said the words he should have—
Guilt hits him in waves, a pulsing pain in his head, nausea flooding his system, pushing every thought aside except one that kept him up every night.
This is his fault.
El, Holly’s ruined childhood, his mother’s near death, the grief Mike had caused everyone by being unable to say what he was supposed to in the last moment—or rather, why he couldn’t get them out even before then, years ago.
Mike swallows the lump forming in his throat, reminding himself where he was.
He lifts his arm with his binder towards the others, but his eyes remain glued to the last one, and he places his right next to it, eyes already raw from crying stinging with a new wave of tears.
Even now, he’s unable to look away.
His thumb grazes the space between the two folders. The space between them. The space he created. He pushes his binder even closer to it.
He drops his arm, hands tightening into fists.
But Mike knows, even from the beginning, before the world went to hell and he lost everything, he’d always been unable to look away. This happened because he was unable to look away, because he realized he didn’t want to, because he realized he couldn’t. But he’d tried to anyway, and that ruined everything, the yellow letters a reminder of that very failure, of his selfish act that had damned them all.
Will.
His nails bite into the flesh of his palm, and the pain grounds him, snapping him back to reality. He blinks harder, wipes any more tears that threaten to spill, breathes in to steady himself, to prepare himself for what lies outside the comfort of his basement.
He walks up the stairs dazed, though his head was slightly clearer from the all the fog from before, before the noise from outside attack his senses immediately. Before he can even process what’s happened, he’s pushed to the side by Holly and her friends rushing down the stairs.
“Jesus, watch out!” he shouts, caught off-guard, almost ignored immediately by all of them as they clamber to the seats where the Party was just a few minutes ago. Holly says something back about them taking over an hour to finish, but he doesn’t pay it much mind as he watches the kids talk over each other, excited, some not-so excited, all brimmingto the edge with so, so much energy and brightness that it seemed to light the space once more.
A warmth blooms in his chest, a small smile he couldn’t help slips out and grazes his face.
Nothing could explain how proud Mike was of his little sister, of how far she’s come, of how much she’s grown, how brave she is for getting through the living nightmare she was in and standing her ground, not letting it break her in any way. The relief that flooded him when he saw her alive, unhurt, overpowered his guilt at his lack of being able to do anything even when he needed to, of not being able to get to her sooner.
He watches the kids scramble over each figurine, each tower and map on the table, and for a second, he’s twelve again, surrounded by his friends who all spent the whole day waiting specifically for that very moment, launching silly campaigns that were their entire worlds then.
The spark was shared, the mantle passed on.
His heart welled with pride, a bittersweet taste on his tongue.
He closes the door behind him, a sigh escaping his lips.
He can hear Lucas, Dustin and Max at the dinner table, Dustin complimenting his mother’s cooking and the others agreeing immediately, before they go off about something else, and the familiarity of the scene only serves to remind him of how important this is, how important they are to him. How it’s not going to be as frequent from now, how he’s not going to be able to see them every day, how they’re moving on with their lives.
Mike will remain in Hawkins. He will remain in the confines of what that means forever, he won’t move on, because he can’t. And a small part of it, an illogical part of him, thinks they’re leaving him behind by doing that, and then he feels like a selfish, self-absorbed monster for it immediately after.
“Mike?”
Mike’s head snaps to his side, so fast he almost gets whiplash, and locks eyes with the most beautiful hazel he’d ever see, filled to the brim with so, so much concern, affection, so much he doesn’t deserve. Will’s eyes are red rimmed, he smiles softly, comfortingly, as if Mike is the one that needs comfort right now.
“C’mon. Let’s hope they’ve left us crumbs at least,” Will laughs weakly, smiling so, so comfortingly that Mike has to fight back against the tightening of his chest and the familiar burn behind his eyes and the top of his nose. He steps to face Will, letting himself smile in return.
“Yeah,”
Will’s brows furrow slightly, walking closer to him, gaze still gentle. “You okay?”
“Yeah—Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” he says, but he knows that Will doesn’t buy it, he doesn’t buy it himself, so he continues on anyway, to somehow cover up the mess he’s begun to weave for himself. “It’s just—it’s been a long year, you know?”
Will snorts, eyebrows raising playfully. “Maybe a long couple of years, yeah,”
But the sag in his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed by Mike. How he’s not coming any closer, how there’s that fucking distance now that was never there before Mike went and ruined everything. He can’t not notice how he’s grieving too, his sister, his entire childhood, and so much more than Mike could imagine losing.
Mike nods, even though his throat is tight and his eyes are burning again. “Yeah,” he repeats, quieter this time, voice catching. He shoves his hands into his pockets, thumbs worrying at the seams, eyes flicking towards the wallpaper, painting on the wall, anything else. “Just tied, I guess.”
Mike catches his eye, though not on purpose, but Will doesn’t look way. He studies Mike for a second longer, like he’s weighing something, and Mike feels like he’s being seen through, like he always, always has, when it comes to Will.
Instead of saying anything more, Will nods, lips pressing together in a weak smile, and turns toward the kitchen.
Mike feels it immediately. The space stretches, thin and sharp, and something in him can’t stop thinking about the wrongness of it all, and he panics.
He doesn’t think. He just steps forward. It’s instinct, the same one that’s always dragged him towards Will even when he’s been trying— failing—to do the opposite. He falls into step beside him.
Their shoulders brush, just barely, but it sends a jolt through Mike’s entire body, electric and grounding all at once. For a second, Will glances over, surprised, and Mike’s heart stutters, because there it is again. Mike follows him close enough that their arms bump when they walk, close enough that Mike feels like he might fall apart if Will pulls away, but he doesn’t. He never does.
The kitchen is warmer than the rest of the house, filled with the low hum of voices and clinking cutlery. Karen is moving between the stove and the table, her smile tired but real. It’s quieter than usual when they step in. Not silent—never that—but subdued, like everyone’s speaking a little softer without realizing it, laughter edged with something softer.
Dustin’s mid-sentence about something Lucas definitely did not do during the last fight, Max smirking tiredly as she sips her glass of water, and they all glance up when Mike and Will enter.
“There they are,” Dustin says, sarcasm laced with something more genuine. “We were starting to think you’d decided to live in the basement forever. Again,”
“Tempting,” Mike mutters, automatically, with Will mumbling “We were seven,” at the same time. Lucas scoffs, and goes off about how ridiculous they were, convinced they could live off of the snacks they had in the basement.
They sit. Mike ends up next to Will without really thinking about it, muscle memory guiding him more than intention. Their knees brush under the table, and that makes his chest ache in the best and worst way.
Karen reaches over and squeezes Mike’s shoulder briefly as she passes him a plate. “Eat something, sweetheart,” she murmurs, soft enough for only him to hear.
Mike nods, though his stomach twists at the thought.
For a while, they just exist. Forks scrape gently against plates, dishes are passed around, and it’s almost normal. Dustin and Max argue about the second Back to the Future movie, and why exactly Dustin thought it was inferior to the first one, and Max calls him an idiot, just to egg him on further, snickering when it works.
Mike watches Will instead of eating.
He watches the way Will pushes his food around when he’s lost in thought, the way he laughs at Lucas’s dumb jokes even when they’re not funny, the way his eyes keep drifting to the window like he’s looking for something. But he knows, just like they all know, that she isn’t coming back.
Distantly, he wonders if this is what haunting is like.
It’s instinctive, inevitable, when Will meets his gaze.
Mike freezes, fork hovering uselessly over his plate. He wants to look away. He doesn’t. His chest aches with the effort of staying still, of not reaching out, of not saying something reckless and selfish and too late.
Will’s expression is unreadable; soft, tired, a little sad. He tilts his head, just slightly, like he’s asking a question.
Mike gives him a small, crooked smile. An apology. A promise. An attempt at comforting, because that’s all he wants to do. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do.
Will returns it, just as small, and Mike’s entire body lights up with it, filled with a warmth he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to experiencing. But the twisting in his stomach only gets worse, the vines tightening around his heart.
The conversation swells again, never really having dimmed, Dustin having said something stupid and Lucas having backed it up, which makes Max snort, dragging Will into making fun of them with her, much to their half-hearted protests at Will’s betrayal, and Mike can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him despite himself, only to be met with the same treatment Will got.
He eats a few bites without tasting them. He feels anchored and adrift all at once, caught between the warmth of the room and the cold certainty curling in his gut.
Will’s moved on, he tells himself. He’s stronger than Mike, always has been. He survived things Mike can barely comprehend. Of course he wouldn’t stay stuck here, orbiting someone like him. And he doesn’t deserve that either.
He deserves the world and beyond twice over, and so much more than Mike could ever offer him.
Mike stays in his chair, stays close enough that when Will stands to help clear the table— a habit born from the eighteen months he lived here, because he’s polite and kind and so fucking sweet— Mike stands too, mirroring him before his mind catches up to him. Their shoulders brush again, real contact, brief and electric, and Mike has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek.
Will doesn’t react, focused half on what he’s doing, but his mind is somewhere else, before he moves on.
Mike watches him go, heart full and hollow all at once. That void. The rot.
The Party keeps talking, keeps laughing, keeps existing in this fragile, liminal space where the world hasn’t quite ended yet.
And Mike lets himself have this much.
-
The house empties slowly, reluctantly. Max is the first to stand, chair legs scraping softly against the floor. She stretches, wincing a little, then gives Karen a small, sincere smile, thanking her for dinner, which Karen returns with a smile of her own.
“You good?” she asks Mike, low enough that the others won’t hear. He nods automatically. She raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, but lets it go. When she hugs him, it’s brief but tight, grounding in the way Max always is when she chooses to be.
“See you,” she says, and then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
Dustin’s next, loudly announcing that he’s being “forcibly removed from a perfectly good post-apocalyptic feast to return to his abode,” which earns him a half-hearted groan from Lucas. He hugs Karen, promises to return a container she definitely didn’t give him, and then turns to Mike, and Mike just knows in his bones that he’s going to miss Dustin’s hugs the most.
Dustin grins, claps his shoulder, and bounds out the door like the world hasn’t fundamentally changed.
Lucas stays longer, lingering by a little more, talking to Will about a comic they were both reading, about small things, Erica, Johnathan’s new movie about Cannibals? Like Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal Lecter cannibal? And Will clarifies that No, no more about it being a metaphor for—capitalism, he thinks? and by the time he’s left, the noise in the basement has died down, and Holly’s back in her room. He hugs Will goodbye, tells him to call if he needs anything.
He turns to Mike then. “You too. Don’t think you’re alone in this,”
Mike swallows. “I know.”
Lucas nods once, satisfied, and pulls him into a hug that’s solid and steady and lasts a second longer than expected.
“Night,” he says to the both of them.
And then it’s just him and Will.
Karen disappears down the hallway with a murmured goodnight to the both of them, leaving them alone in the kitchen.
Will turns toward the door, already reaching for his jacket, looking around the room, as if he was memorising it.
Mike feels panic coiling in his gut, sudden and tight.
“Will—”
Embarrassingly enough, his voice breaks on the first syllable. It’s sudden and overwhelming, a spike of something sharp and desperate that overrides anything else, that auto-pilot that always seemed to kick in when it came to Will. Before he can think better of it, before he can talk himself out of it like he always does, he reaches out.
His hand closes around Will’s arm.
Will straightens up, but doesn’t pull away, his eyes widening as he looks down at where Mike’s fingers are wrapped around his arm, like the contact itself is unexpected, like Mike touching him isn’t something he anticipates anymore.
Fuck.
The guilt is immediate, hot and acidic, and his grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. He can’t. If he does, Will will walk out that door, and Mike is suddenly, terrifyingly sure that something in him will break beyond repair if that happens.
The rot spreads again, and its in his throat now. His heart is pounding so hard he’s sure Will can hear it. Words crowding there in his throat, tripping over each other, but nothing comes out.
“I—” Mike swallows hard, and suddenly his mouth is too dry. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, loud and frantic. “Sorry I just—”
Will still hasn’t moved. He’s watching Mike with the same gaze he always does, but there’s something different about it this time, like he’s afraid to move first, afraid to scare Mike off.
Mike hates himself for that too.
He forces himself to keep going. “I was just… I mean, you don’t have to, obviously, I just thought—”
He exhales shakily, shoulders slumping, the fight draining out of him all at once. “Could you stay? Tonight. I mean.”
He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t say I don’t think I can handle being alone right now or if you leave, I’m scared I’ll fall apart. He doesn’t say I miss you or I need you or please don’t go.
But it’s all there anyway, threaded through his voice, his grip, the way he can’t quite bring himself to meet Will’s eyes, staring instead at where his hand meets Will’s.
Will blinks.
“Stay?” he echoes softly, like he’s making sure he heard right.
Mike nods too quickly. “Yeah. Just—crash here. Like before. If you want.” A bitter, self-deprecating edge slips in before he can stop it. “I mean, if you already have plans with Johnathan, or if you’d rather go home, that’s totally fine, I get it,”
He finally looks up then, and he wishes he hadn’t.
“You want me to?” Will asks, quiet, and Mike fucking hears his heart breaking.
Mike’s fingers tighten unconsciously where it had dropped around Will’s wrist, thumb moving back and forth. He hates that Will asked, felt the need to ask, and hates that he made him feel like he had to.
“Yeah,” Mike says, voice rough, honest in a way he rarely allows himself to be now.
For a moment, Will just looks at him, looking into him, and Mike feels too seen, too exposed, and for a second he’s terrified. But this is will, and he smiles, and suddenly any doubt that Mike had dissipates, and he can breathe again.
Then, slowly, he relaxes under Mike’s touch. “Okay,” he nods, continuing more tentatively, “I’ll let my mom know.”
Relief crashes over Mike so hard it makes him dizzy. He lets go then, reluctantly, painfully, but Will doesn’t step back immediately. But he does have to let Joyce know, so Mike waits near the dinner table while Will slips away to dial home.
Mike watches him go, heart still racing, hands trembling faintly at his sides, and he has to clench them to stop it. Or try to, anyway.
Karen looks up when Will explains, her face softening instantly.
“Oh, of course, honey,” she says, warm and genuine. “You’re always welcome here. You know that.”
Will smiles, small but grateful, and Mike can’t look away.
The phone rings. One, twice, thrice.
Mike stares at the floor, at a scuff mark near the baseboard he’s known since he was a kid. His chest tightens as Will starts talking, voice careful, gentle in that way he only uses with family, with Mike, sometimes.
“Hey, Mom. It’s me.”
The sound hits Mike straight in the gut.
It’s stupid, he thinks distantly. It’s just a phone call. It happens all the time. But his brain betrays him anyway, dragging him backward to a much bigger kitchen, with different wallpapers , with the lights too bright, to Will standing by the phone with both hands wrapped around the receiver because it was heavy.
Mike had been right here too, right behind him, begging Joyce to let him stay over even though it was a school-night, listening to every word, heart pounding as Joyce’s voice crackled through the line, because that was their biggest concern.
You can stay, Joyce had said then, too, a little exasperated, but full of endearment nonetheless. Only this time, boys, don’t make it a habit even though it did end up becoming a habit.
Mike remembers the relief flooding Will’s face hearing her words, remembers how he’d reached for Mike’s hand afterward. Mike had held back. He always had.
He swallows hard.
Because back then, staying was about fun, about staying up past their bedtime playing on Mike’s console, trying to stay up all night talking but falling asleep barely an hour in, about reading comics together, giving each character a voice of his own, and Mike remembers Will finding his Dr Doom impression so bad that it brought tears to his eyes from laughing, and it scared Mike at first, because he thought he’d hurt Will.
Will’s voice drifts out to him. “Yeah—I just thought I’d be nice to stay over,”
There’s a pause. Mike imagines Joyce on the other end, concerned.
“Yeah,” Will continues. “I’m okay.”
The way he says it is gentle, practiced, though Mike knows he appreciates the concern.
Mike’s fingers curl into his palms. He thinks of all the times he should’ve been braver. All the moments he’d swallowed the truth because he thought it was for the best, because he didn’t realize completely. All the space he’d created between them and then acted surprised when it grew teeth, as if he hadn’t aggravated it.
The call ends quietly. Will thanks her, Will letting out a small breathy laugh, promises to call in the morning. He hangs up and exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
When he turns, Mike straightens immediately, heart lurching like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
“Everything okay?” Mike asks, too fast.
Will nods. “Yeah. They said it’s fine.” A beat, then softer, “Mom said good night.”
Mike smiles faintly.
Will scoffs, remembering something, then adds, “Hop picked up, actually.”
Mike blinks. “Oh. Uh—how’d that go?”
Will laughs. “About how you’d expect.” He mimics Hopper’s gruff tone without meaning to, affectionate despite himself. “Told me not to stay up too late and not to play too much Ata—” he cuts himself off, laughing “A-tary?”
Mike huffs a quiet laugh before he can stop himself. “I’m surprised he knows,”
“Yeah,” Will says, smiling a little now.
They share a look, small, almost shy, and then Will gestures toward the stairs. “Basement?”
Mike nods, suddenly hyper-aware of every step, every breath, every inch of space between them as they head down. The door closes behind them with a soft click, sealing them into the quiet space that had grown to become theirs since.
The basement feels different at night, Mike thinks, smaller, more intimate. But maybe that’s because Will stayed here for those eighteen months. The only light comes from the small light above, casting long shadows across the familiar clutter—boards, figurines, the table still set up from earlier, with new ones up, some removed, in new locations. And, against the far wall, the binders. Their binders.
Mike feels his stomach twist again.
Will notices too. His gaze flickers toward them, then away just as quickly. He sits on the edge of the couch, hands clasped loosely in his lap.
“So,” Will says gently, breaking the silence. “What's up?”
Mike lowers himself onto the couch beside him, his knee brushing Will’s. He doesn’t move it away. He fidgets with his hands, swallowing, trying to find the words to say it, but his throat closes up before he can say anything. He stares at the carpet, at a frayed thread he’s picked at a hundred times before
The feeling from before is back, that wrongness in him, the goddamn fucking rot, and he doesn’t know how to get it through to Will, what he feels, the folder of unsent letters still under his bed, the painting on his wall, his guilt, his remorse, the weight he’s been carrying for so long he doesn’t remember what it felt like to set it down, his lo—
“I don’t know—it’s like,” he croaks, voice stripped-down, leg bouncing. “It’s like every time I try, it just gets stuck,”
Will nods like he understands, and Mike knows that he does, he understands Mike better than anyone else. He always has. “You don’t need to have it all figured out, Mike.”
And it just makes the burn in his chest so much worse, and his eyes are clouding with a fresh wave of tears. Mike shifts to sit hunched forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together so tightly his fingers ache.
“I didn’t do anything,”
The words come out rough, torn straight from Mike’s chest. He laughs once, hollow and sharp, like it hurts him. “That’s the worst part. I didn’t— I didn’t do anything. I just stood there.”
Will stiffens, turning fully toward him now. “Mike—”
“I’m serious,” Mike cuts in, voice cracking immediately. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Everyone else did something. Everyone else was— was brave, they did something. You, Lucas, Dustin, Robin, Steve, Johnathan, Nancy, even Max— and El. Fighting, saving,” His throat tightens violently around her name. “And I was just there. Watching. Like I always do. I’m supposed to be the leader, right? That’s what you said. That’s what everyone thinks. But when it actually mattered, I froze,”
“I was supposed to help her,” he says, words tumbling over each other now, frantic. “I was supposed to say it, right? I keep thinking, if i—if I said it, then maybe she’d still be here. Like it was some magic word that would fix everything. And I just—” He chokes. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t fucking do it, even in the end,”
Will moves closer without thinking, knees knocking against Mike’s, one hand hovering like he’s unsure where he’s allowed to put it, choosing finally to rest it on Mike’s shoulder and he leans into it instantly, and the pressure concentrating in his chest feels like it’s going to crack his ribs open.
His shoulders start shaking before he realizes he’s crying, and Will’s hand moves lower, sitting closer, hand moving over his back, and Mike reminds himself how to breathe again. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You were there. You helped, all of you did,”
Mike shakes his head violently. “No. No, it didn’t. Not enough.” He drags a hand down his face, smearing tears everywhere. “She was looking at me, Will. Like she— And I just froze. I always freeze.”
“Mike,” he says again, firmer this time, though not any less gentle. He places a hand on Mike’s forearm, grounding, and he looks so concerned, so saddened on Mike’s behalf, that his heart throbs. “You didn’t fail her.”
Mike lets out a broken sound that’s half a sob, half a laugh. “She knew,” he whispers, voice breaking again, and his eyes burn as his vision grows blurry again, and he knows this is it. He needs to get it out, needs to say it, ignoring the part of him that tells him that he’s already said enough, he’s ruining everything again, he’s going to make it irreversible. “She knew, she knew Will, and I know she knew.”
Will stills. His voice is cautious. “Knew… what Mike? What—what are you talking about?”
Mike struggles to get enough air in his chest, lungs shaking with the effort. This is it. He can feel it, the edge of something massive and awful and inevitable.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts, the words tumbling out too fast, too raw. “I—God, I’m sorry, Will.”
Will turns to face Mike fully now, brows knitting together, something wary flashing across his face. “For what?”
Mike’s hands curl into fists against his knees. “I wanted to,” he whispers. “Fuck, I wanted to love her like that so badly. I tried. I really did. But it never—it never felt right. Not the way it was supposed to,”
Will goes rigid beside Mike.
“I loved her,” Mike says quickly, desperately, eyes shooting up, locking with Will’s, but his eyebrows are furrowed, and his gaze unreadable. “I still do. Just—” His voice drops. “Not like that. Not the way I kept pretending, not the way I was supposed to. It was like— like loving family, like wanting to protect her, be there for her. And I thought that was enough. I thought if I just tried harder, it would turn into what it was supposed to be.”
He feels Will shaking his head, sees it in his peripheral vision. “So what, you’re saying you just—what? Couldn’t say it because you felt guilty?”
Mike lets out a broken laugh. He finally looks up then, eyes glassy, red-rimmed, shining with unshed tears. “And I couldn’t. Because every time I tried, every time I thought about saying it, every time I thought about what love was supposed to feel like, all I could think about was—”
His voice breaks completely.
“You,”
The word hangs between them, fragile and terrifying.
Will stares at him, stunned. “What?” he breathes.
Mike shakes his head frantically, like he can take it back if he moves fast enough. “I didn’t realize it at first. Or maybe I did and I was just too scared to admit it. But it was always you. It’s always been you. From the beginning.” His hands tremble as he lifts them, then drops them again, unsure what to do with them. “And I treated you like shit. I know I did. I ignored you, I pushed you away, I said things I can’t take back,”
The air between them goes electric.
“No,” Will says, almost to himself, his head shaking. He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. “No, Mike, don’t do this.”
Mike flinches. “Do what?”
“This. Don’t say things you don’t mean because you’re upset,” Will says, frustration seeping into his voice despite himself. “You went through something horrible. We all did. That doesn’t mean—”
“I’m not—” Mike chokes on the word and has to stop. “I’m not trying to change what happened. I know, I know I screwed up. I know that, and I pushed you away, and I didn’t realize what it meant until it was already ruined. Until you stopped reaching for me.”
Will stands abruptly, pacing a few steps away, hands curling into fists. His voice is tight when he speaks. “You don’t get to say this now, Mike. You don’t get to drop something like that and expect me to—what? Just accept it?”
Mike watches him like he’s watching something slip through his fingers. “Why not?”
Will turns back to him, eyes blazing. “Because you never chose me.”
His heart drops straight to his stomach.
“You pushed me away,” Will continues, voice shaking now with anger he’s swallowed for years. “Over and over. You ignored me. You stopped playing DnD with me, and then you—” His voice breaks despite himself. “You—You said it wasn’t your fault I didn’t like girls. What the fuck, Mike?”
Mike’s face crumples completely.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispers. “God, Will, I think about that night all the time. I would never—”
“But you did, Mike,” he cut in, eyes watery. “You did say it. And then you didn’t apologize,”
“I tried,” Mike says desperately. “I went to your house. It was raining—I remember it so clearly, I was soaked, and Lucas was yelling, and I kept thinking if you’d just open the door, I could fix it—”
“But I wasn’t there,” Will says quietly. “And after that, you stopped trying. And then I went to Lenora, you stopped calling, you stopped writing,”
“I wrote to you,” Mike blurts out, panicked.
Will laughs bitterly. “A couple times, maybe, Mike,”
“I did,” Mike insists, standing up as well, voice breaking completely now. “I just—I didn’t send them.”
Mike’s shoulders cave in on themselves. “They’re in a folder under my bed. I wrote to you all the time. About stupid stuff, about missing you, about how everything felt wrong without you here.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I just couldn’t send them. It wasn’t—it wasn’t normal. Boys didn’t write like that to each other. I was scared.”
Will stares at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. “You forgot my birthday.”
“I know,” Mike sobs. “I know. And I hate myself for it every day. I’m so, so fucking sorry, Will, I was terrified,”
Tears stream down Will’s face now, and he looks so wrecked, and Mike wants the ground to swallow him whole, to go to Will, but he stays, he needs to finish.
“I was terrified of wanting you,” Mike says, voice barely holding together. “Of knowing I wanted you. Of knowing it wasn’t—normal. Of knowing that if I let myself feel it, I’d ruin everything, so I tried to bury it. I tried to be someone else. I tried to be what I thought I was supposed to be. I didn’t understand why being close to you felt like it was tearing me apart, and instead of dealing with that, I just— ran. Every time.”
He’s crying openly now, shoulders shaking, words spilling out like blood. “And every time you got close, it reminded me that I was failing. That I was lying to you. To her. To myself.”
Will stares at him, stunned, arms at his sides, looking lost. “When I told you,” he says, voice dropping, raw and trembling, face wet, “when I finally said it out loud— who I am— you pulled away again.”
Mike looks up at him, stricken. “I thought—”
“I thought you were disgusted,” Will whispers, tears falling freely down his own face now. “I thought you finally knew and that you didn’t want to be near me anymore. And I understood it. I did.”
Mike’s heart feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest.
“No,” he whispers desperately, scrambling to his feet. “No, Will, that’s not—God no, you’re—you’re everything, Will. I pulled away because I thought I’d imagined everything. I thought—I thought you liked someone else, that you deserved someone better than me,”
Will laughs, broken and disbelieving. “You don’t get to decide that for me, you don’t get to decide that alone,”
“I know,” Mike says quickly, stepping closer, drawn to him like gravity. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I was wrong. About everything. I was too late, it was too late.” His voice drops, breaking, a sob wrenched in his throat. “I ruined this too,”
Will shakes his head, breathing hard. “Mike—"
“I deserve it,” Mike rushes on, words spilling out between sobs. “If you hate me, if you don’t feel anything, I get it. I just—” His voice breaks again, utterly, completely wrecked. “I needed you to know. I needed you to know that—I love you, Will, I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, and I’m so sorry,”
Something in Will’s expression shatters.
He closes the distance between them in two steps and cups Mike’s face in his hands, fingers warm and firm against his cheeks. Mike gasps, the contact short-circuiting every coherent thought he has. He clutches at Will’s arms instinctively.
“Look at me,” Will says, voice fierce and trembling.
Mike does, eyes wide and desperate, tears clinging to his lashes.
“You idiot,” Will whispers, forehead pressing gently against Mike’s. “You absolute idiot.”
Mike lets out a broken sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I know.”
Will’s thumbs brush under his eyes, wiping away tears with infinite care. “I love you,” he says quietly, and Mike feels the weight he’s been carrying, that pressure that made him feel like he was going to explode, ease itself, and he smiles, he can’t help it, and it’s a little delirious, but he’s just so, so lucky.
“I love you, Mike,” Will repeats, shaking his head a little. “I never stopped loving you.”
That’s when Mike breaks again, breath catching almost violently.
He collapses forward, forehead dropping against Will’s shoulder, hands clutching uselessly at his hands, now lying by his sides, like he needs something solid to keep him upright. “I’m so sorry,” he chokes. “I’m so, so sorry. I hurt you. I hurt her. I hurt myself, I hurt everyone. I didn’t mean to— I swear I didn’t mean to.”
Will brings their joint hands up, letting go only to bring his own up to Mike’s face, Mike’s taking their place around his wrists.
“Mike,” Will says, gentle again.
Mike looks up at him, like Will wants him to. Mike is crying again, tears streaking down his face, breath hitching uncontrollably.
“I was angry at you,” Will admits. “I am angry at you.” His thumbs brush under Mike’s eyes, wiping tears away even as his own spill over. “But you don’t get to disappear on me,” Will continues, forehead pressing against Mike’s. “Not again. Not without letting me decide too.”
Mike’s hands tighten Will’s wrists, holding on like an anchor.
“I won’t, I swear I won’t.” he whispers.
His eyes flick down, then back up, searching Will’s face like he’s still waiting for the catch. Like he’s bracing for the moment Will realizes this is a mistake.
Will sees it. Of course he does.
His hands slide more securely along Mike’s jaw, thumbs warm against tear-damp skin, steadying him. There’s a pause, deliberate, careful, giving Mike time to pull back.
Mike doesn’t.
So Will leans in the rest of the way.
The kiss is barely there, more a brush than anything else, soft and hesitant. It lasts maybe a second, maybe less, maybe more, and it’s sweet. More than he deserves. But he’s always been greedy, so he leans in again, properly this time, and Will responds immediately, so he leans in again, and again, and again, until Will pulls back giggling, and their foreheads stay together.
Mike exhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut. His hands loosen just enough to slide down Will’s arms, grounding himself there, still holding on.
Will smiles, soft, fragile and genuine, and Mike can’t help mirror it, laughing despite himself. “I don’t deserve you,”
Will shakes his head, Mike turning as well, following his every move. “You’ve always had me.”
Mike lets out a broken sound that’s half sob, half laugh, collapsing forward until Will has to steady him, arms wrapping around his waist, and Mike’s around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.
They don’t say anything else, staying like that until they’ve both calmed down, not letting go even then, and they don’t need to.
For the first time, Mike doesn’t feel alone in the wreckage.