Chapter Text
The sunlight filtered through the windows sometime during the void after everything had happened, and today Mike felt like a shell of a person. It was blazingly hot outside; the stifling heat bringing a humid stickiness to the air that he couldn’t escape. Mike was sprawled out on his bed, too tired–too drained– to do anything but follow the lines on the walls. Everyone was at home–heat warnings trapping them inside–and Mike couldn’t bring himself to pick up the radio.
Months ago he would have had someone shaking him out of his stupor–be it the sound of the Byers or Holly asking him to play–but now the house seemed to still every time it got close to his door. He didn’t blame them; he hadn’t exactly been himself, yet the lingering loneliness persisted. It was easier this way, they didn’t need to see Mike like this.
His head lolled to the side out of sheer boredom. His eyes followed the faint lines in the paint, evidence of the demogorgon attack that changed so much. Mike lingered on one scar. It started by his ceiling, jagged lines curving and cracking all the way down into the floor. He traced its pattern lazily, until his eyes landed on a roll of paper.
Dust had gathered on the top of the scroll from the absence of touch. Small creases littered the paper catching the blaring sunlight from outside. The top corner unfurled a little bit showing off the deep green of the grass. Mike instantly remembered what hid beneath the curls and the thought filled him with a foreboding feeling.
It was Will’s painting. More specifically the painting El had asked Will to make. He felt himself sitting up from his bed before he could process the thought. He walked over to the painting and picked it up like a relic. His fingers brushed over the dried acrylic as he unfurled it slowly.
The image was how he remembered it. The red hydra was reeling back as the party attacked, all as their D&D characters. Lucas upon his horse sword raised high. Dustin carrying his labrys ready to swing. Will by his side conjures magic. And then him. Mike traced his fingers over his character. He was leading the party holding strong against the fearsome creature. His eyes lingered over the heart embedded on the shield.
“And your coat of arms here, it’s a heart”
Will's words rattled around Mike’s brain. He never really believed the painting was from El; he accepted it because Will had said so. But now, after everything that’s happened, after El is gone, he knew it wasn’t from her. Some items carry the weight of a person; the painting didn’t carry El’s. It carried the soul of Will Byers in every stroke of the brush. Every color, every line, every detail screamed Will’s name.
And if this was all Will’s, then why would he lie? The thought process burned in his brain. If El had nothing to do with this painting, why would Will lie? Why would he downplay his significance? Why would he make it seem like he was nothing more than the maker? Then it hit him, but not like a punch. It was a slow unearthing of everything he knew.
Will Byers was in love with him. Will Byers, his best friend, had been in love with him, and Mike had told him that he was just his best friend. The worst part of it all was the burning feeling that welled up in Mike's chest. The dull ache filled his bones, chilling him to the core despite the cruel heat. His eyes began to water, and suddenly Mike Wheeler found himself crying. Soft tears trailed down his cheek landing against the painting, crashing against the two-dimensional version of him and Will.
He had been so blind, and now the reality of everything was bright. The painting, the looks, the quiet unease Mike had carried around for years fit into place. The quiet feeling he didn’t dare name whispered into existence. Everything he had been avoiding crashed down around him, and suddenly Mike was quietly sobbing. His body struggled to take in air, his hands trembled around the painting, everything blurred together through his tears.
Mike Wheeler loved Will Byers more than he knew.
He loved like he loved the sun shining through the clouds on a rainy day, more than the break of dawn after a long night, more than the comfort of a warm blanket in the middle of winter. Mike Wheeler was hopelessly devoted, and it took the world almost ending for him to even begin to see it.
Even now Mike could hardly admit it to himself. A quiet reality of everything was rushing over him like crashing waves. His tears started to ebb as his body still shook with the rush of adrenaline. Mike was at a loss for everything. He didn’t even know where to begin. This was a world he never could have imagined for himself, never had time to imagine for himself.
He looked down to the painting searching for answers, but all he could see was how talented Will was. The thought of how long Will had spent on this just for Mike to be borderline dismissive of it brought a new round of tears to his eyes. How could he have been so blind. As the first tear began to fall, he heard the telltale sign of his door creaking open. Mike's head shot up from the painting hoping his eyes weren’t too puffy. Standing in his doorway was the last person he wanted to see right now.
“Mike? Are you okay?” Will’s voice echoed into the room.