Work Text:
Will
Dinner at the Wheelers' house always felt louder than it needed to be.
Not bad. Just... full. Voices overlapping eachothers and forks clinking. Holly laughing at something that wasn't funny. Ted cleared his throat every thirty seconds like he was preparing to say something important and then forgot what it was. Karen moving between the stove and the table, asking if anyone wanted more chicken, more potatoes, more of everything.
Mike sat across from me, half listening, half somewhere else like he usually was. He laughed at something Nancy said, shoulders shaking a little, and it felt normal after all the things with vecna.
I finished eating faster than everyone else. Not because I was rushing. Just because my stomach felt tight in a way food didn't really fix.
I pushed my plate away and stood. "I, uh- I think I left my sweater upstairs. In Mike's room."
Mike looked up. "Oh. Yeah, you can grab it. Door's open."
"Okay," I said.
I didn't look at him again as I headed for the stairs.
The hallway upstairs was quieter, the noise from the kitchen dulled into a distant hum. The carpet muffled my steps. The walls still had the same posters they always had, even if some of them had faded a little over the years. Hawkins felt like that now. Familiar, but worn around the edges. Though it felt the same when I was little.
The walls were lined with old photos. Nancy at a dance, Mike and Dustin with missing teeth, Holly as a baby. Me and mike on our first sleep over, me and Mike on the swingset the second time we met up and a few others of me and mike when we were young were all hung up next to their family portraits. None of El and him. It makes me feel so guilty to think that way I loved El, she it my sister but- it's so unfair I loved him longer.
I wish I was a girl.
Mike's door was cracked open, just like he said. Light spilled out onto the hallway floor.
I pushed it open the rest of the way.
His room still felt like his room. That was the first thing I noticed. The same old desk shoved against the wall, cluttered with notebooks and loose papers and dice. The same cluttered desk with notebooks stacked at weird angles, the same old posters taped to the walls, edges curling slightly. The same bed with the headboard that creaked if you leaned on it wrong.
It smelled like laundry detergent and something else I couldn't name. Just Mike.
My sweater wasn't on the chair where I thought I saw mike left last after he wore it.
I frowned and checked anyway, fingers brushing against fabric that wasn't mine. One of Mike's hoodies. I recognized it immediately it was gray, frayed cuffs, a little tear near the pocket. I'd borrowed it once in California when the nights got colder than expected.
I let my hand linger for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped it.
Get it together.
I checked the bed. Nothing. Looked in the closet but it was just Mike's clothes, arranged in that half-organized way where he knew where everything was even if it didn't look like it.
I stood there for a second, confused.
Then I remembered. I remeber him taking it off when I sat on his bed earlier, tugged it over his head because it was too warm, tossed it down without really looking.
I crouched and leaned down, lifting the edge of the comforter.
Nothing.
I sighed quietly and dropped lower, palms on the carpet, peering under the bed.
It was darker than I expected. The light from the room barely reached under there, shadows swallowing everything past the first few inches.
I reached the flashlight laying next the side of his bed with his other random tirnkets, turning on the flashlight.
Dust motes floated through the beam.
There were old shoes. A couple of comic books stacked unevenly. A bent wire hanger. And-
A box.
It was shoved way back, pressed almost against the wall, like it had been pushed there on purpose. Forgotten and Hidden. The cardboard was worn at the edges, darker where dust had settled into it over time.
I frowned.
Something about it made my chest feel tight.
I slid farther under the bed, jeans scraping against the carpet, and hooked my fingers around the edge of the box. It scraped softly as I dragged it toward me.
It was heavier than I expected.
That made me pause.
I pulled it fully into the light and sat back on my heels. The flashlight beam wobbled as my hand shook just a little.
There was writing on the side, done in black marker. I brushed some dust away with my sleeve.
PALADIN
My stomach did a small, strange flip.
D&D, I thought automatically.
Of course it was. Mike labeled everything like that. Old character sheets. Dice. Miniatures. Stuff from before everything went to hell.
I hesitated.
I shouldn't look. I knew that. This wasn't mine. It wasn't meant for me.
But I was already here. And it was already out. And curiosity had always been my worst enemy.
"It's just D&D," I whispered to myself. "Just old stuff."
I lifted the lid.
Paper.
That was the first thing I saw. Not figurines. Not dice. Paper. Stacks of it. Envelopes, actually. White and off-white and some that had gone a little yellow around the edges.
They were packed tight, corners bent, edges pressed together like someone had forced them in with shaking hands. The box was filled to the brim, overflowing, like it couldn't hold any more.
My heart slammed so hard it felt like it skipped.
I picked one up.
The envelope was plain. White. The flap unsealed.
In handwriting I knew better than my own, it said:
To Will
My heart slammed so hard it hurt.
I stared at it, waiting for my brain to correct itself. To tell me I was reading it wrong. That it said something else.
It didn't.
I picked up another.
To Will.
Another.
To Will.
My hands started shaking.
This didn't make sense.
It really, really didn't.e.
Slowly, like I was afraid the box might disappear if I moved too fast, I sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under my weight. The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thick and close.
I held one letter in both hands.
Mike hadn't written to me much in California. That was just... the truth. I'd told myself it was fine. Told myself he was busy. Told myself distance did that to people.
El had shown me her letters once. A whole notebook filled front to back. Mike's handwriting everywhere. Stories about his days. Apologies. Little drawings in the margins. Page after page of I miss you without actually saying it.
I'd smiled. Tell her I was happy for her.
Then I'd gone to my room and cry into my pillow where no one could hear me.
My throat tightened as I slid my finger under the envelope flap.
The letter inside was folded neatly, creased like it had been opened and closed too many times. The ink was smudged in places, like maybe someone's hand had lingered there too long.
I unfolded it carefully.
Hey Will,
My chest ached.
I started reading.
The letter was long. Longer than anything Mike had ever sent me.
Today was... kind of a lot. Dustin wouldn't shut up about some radio thing he's working on, and Lucas keeps saying it's not going to work, which obviously means Dustin is now determined to make it work out of pure spite. Max beat all of us at arcade again. Steve showed up with Eddie and somehow they convinced Mrs. Henderson to let them use the kitchen, which was a terrible idea. Eddie burned something. On purpose, I think.
I let out a quiet, broken laugh before I could stop myself.
It sounded wrong in the empty room.
I kept reading.
I keep thinking about how you'd be rolling your eyes at all of this. Or making fun of Dustin. Or just sitting there quietly, listening. It's weird. Everything feels kind of the same, but also not. Like something's missing and I keep expecting it to show up and it doesn't.
My vision blurred.
I blinked hard and read on.
El wrote today. She said she likes school there, even though it's different. I'm glad she's okay. I really am. But I don't know how to explain this without sounding like a jerk, so I'm just going to say it and deal with that later: it doesn't feel right without you here.
My breath stuttered.
I pressed my thumb into the edge of the paper, grounding myself.
I don't know when things got so quiet between us. I don't remember deciding to stop telling you stuff. It just... happened. And now every time I think about calling or writing, I don't know where to start. So I'm starting here. Even if I never send this.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Never send this.
I flipped back to the envelope, then to the box, then back to the letter in my hands.
Oh.
Oh.
I miss you. Like— actually miss you. Not just "oh yeah, my friend moved away" miss you. It feels stupid writing that down. I don't know why it's easier on paper than saying it out loud. Maybe because paper doesn't look at me like I'm being dramatic.
Tears spilled over before I realized they were coming.
They dripped onto the page, darkening the ink.
I wiped at my face with the sleeve of my shirt, heart racing.
I keep thinking about California. About you there. About whether you're okay. Eleven says you're fine, but that's not the same as hearing it from you. I wish I'd said more before you left. I wish I'd said anything that wasn't dumb.
I laughed again, quietly. Miserably.
Typical Mike.
Anyway. This is getting long. I don't even know why I'm writing this. I guess I just wanted to talk to you. Even if it's just like this.
I reached the bottom of the page.
My eyes skimmed the last line without really understanding it at first.
Then it hit me.
Love,
Mike
The world tilted.
My breath caught so hard it hurt, like my lungs forgot what they were supposed to do.
Love.
Not "from." Not "see you." Not even "your friend."
Love.
Mike had never written that to me. Not in a letter. Not in a card. Not ever.
He hadn't even written it to El. I knew that. She'd cried about it once, frustrated and hurt and confused, asking me why he couldn't just say it.
And here it was.
On paper.
For me.
My hands shook so badly I had to lower the letter to my lap. Tears spilled over, dripping onto the paper. I wiped at my face with my sleeve, shoulders curling inward like I could make myself smaller.
This wasn't one letter.
There were hundreds.
All the words I thought he never said. All the times I thought he didn't care enough. All the silence I'd blamed on myself, on distance, on being replaceable.
They were all here.
Stuffed into a box.
Hidden under a bed.
I let out a shaky breath that turned into something like a sob before I could stop it. I covered my mouth with my hand, shoulders curling inward like I could make myself smaller, quieter, less obvious.
I didn't hear the door open at first.
I was too lost in it- in the ache in my chest, in the letter trembling in my hands, in the word love burning on the page like it had been waiting to be seen.
The floorboard creaked.
I froze.
Then—
"Will?"
Mike's voice.
I looked up just as the door swung wider.
He stood there, framed by the hallway light, eyes immediately dropping to the box at my feet.
Then to the letter in my hands.
Then to my face.
His expression changed so fast it almost hurt to watch.
Shock.
Fear.
Something like panic.
Tears slid down my cheeks, slow and unstoppable.
The room went completely silent.
___
Mike
I noticed Will hadn't come back down when Karen asked if anyone wanted dessert.
Jonathan shook his head and said something about being full. Nancy was already standing, offering to help clean up. Holly was talking nonstop about ice cream even though no one had said ice cream yet.
Will's chair was empty.
At first, I didn't think much of it.
He probably got distracted. Or just needed a minute. Will does that sometimes, slips away quietly, like he didn't want to interrupt the world by existing in it.
I kept eating anyway, forcing myself to finish even though I wasn't hungry anymore. My food tasted like nothing. I chewed mechanically, listening to Ted ramble about something on the news while my eyes kept drifting to the stairs.
Still no Will.
I checked my watch.
Too much time had passed.
I stood up abruptly, chair legs scraping against the floor louder than I meant them to. "I'm gonna- uh- check on Will," I said.
Karen smiled. "Okay, honey. Tell him dessert's almost ready."
"Yeah," I muttered.
I took the stairs two at a time.
Halfway up, a strange feeling started creeping into my chest. I tried to shake it off.
You're overthinking. You always overthink.
The hallway upstairs was quiet.
Too quiet.
My bedroom door was open.
The light was on.
I slowed.
Something was wrong.
I stepped into the doorway.
"Will?"
He didn't answer.
Then I saw him.
Sitting on the edge of my bed.
My bed.
There was a box on the floor between his feet. A box I knew instantly. My stomach dropped so hard it felt like I'd missed a step on the stairs.
The Paladin box.
No.
No, no, no.
Will was holding something. Paper. A letter.
His shoulders were hunched forward, like he was folding in on himself. His hair fell into his face, hiding his eyes- but I didn't need to see them to know.
Tears slid down his cheeks, dripping silently onto the page in his hands.
The room spun.
Everything crashed at once.
I couldn't breathe.
Oh god.
He found them.
Every muscle in my body screamed at me to run.
I took a step back without thinking, heel catching on the threshold. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.
He hates you.
That was the first thought. Immediate. Absolute.
He hates you for lying. For not sending them. For pretending you didn't care when you cared so much it made you stupid.
He hates you because he knows now.
Because he knows what you are.
I turned, panic surging, ready to bolt down the hallway, to get out of the room, out of the house, out of whatever this was—
"Mike."
Will's voice cracked.
My name pulled me back like a hook in my chest.
I hesitated.
That was all it took.
Will stood up fast, letter falling from his hands onto the bed. He crossed the space between us in two steps and grabbed my wrist.
His hand was warm.
"Don't," he said, breath shaking. "Please don't go."
I froze.
He moved past me, still holding my wrist, and shut the door. Then before I could even process it, he locked it.
The click echoed in my ears.
We were trapped.
Alone.
My heart felt like it was going to rip itself out of my chest.
Will let go of my wrist and turned to face me. His eyes were red. His cheeks streaked with tears he hadn't bothered wiping away.
I couldn't look at him.
"I- I didn't mean to," he said quickly, words tumbling over each other. "I was just looking for my sweater and I- I saw the box and I thought it was D&D stuff and I didn't think-"
"It's fine," I blurted.
It wasn't. Nothing was fine. My hands were shaking so badly I shoved them into my pockets to hide it.
"I shouldn't have-" he continued. "I know it was private, I just-"
"Will," I said sharply, because if I didn't interrupt him, I was going to break.
He stopped.
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating.
My eyes flicked to the box on the floor. The letters spilling out of it. Proof of everything I'd tried to bury.
"I never wanted you to see that," I said quietly.
Will swallowed. "Why?"
The question hit me like a punch.
Why.
Because I was ashamed. Because I was terrified. Because if he saw it, he'd see me too clearly.
I laughed weakly. "That's... kind of a long answer."
"Try," Will said.
I shook my head, stepping back until I hit the edge of the desk. "You're crying," I said instead, because that was easier. "So I'm guessing this went... badly."
Will stared at me like I'd missed something obvious.
"I'm not crying because I hate you," he said.
My chest clenched painfully.
"You're not?"
"No," he said immediately. "Mike, I-" He stopped, pressing his lips together like he was trying to hold himself together. "I'm crying because I thought you didn't care."
The words landed harder than anything else.
I sucked in a breath that burned.
"I did," I said. "I do."
"Then why didn't you send them?" His voice cracked. "Why did you let me think, after Rink-O-Mania, that you just... didn't try?"
Guilt flooded me, hot and choking.
"That fight," I muttered. "Jesus. Will, I've replayed that a thousand times."
"Then explain it," he said. "Explain why I stood there feeling like an idiot for missing you when you apparently had hundreds of letters for me shoved under your bed."
My hands clenched into fists.
"I tried," I said. "Okay? I tried."
He looked at me, disbelieving.
"I tried calling," I snapped, emotion breaking through. "I called your house so many times I had Joyce's stupid telemarketer script memorized. Encyclopedias, Will. Encyclopedias. Every single time."
His eyes widened slightly.
"I couldn't get through," I continued, voice shaking now. "And after a while it just felt like— like maybe you didn't want to talk to me. Or maybe you were busy. Or maybe I was just... bothering you."
"That's not-" Will started.
"And then I started writing," I said, cutting him off. "And I couldn't stop."
I gestured wildly toward the box. "Every time something happened, I'd think of you. Every stupid thing Dustin said. Every D&D session. Every night I couldn't sleep. And I'd write it down because it felt like talking to you."
"Then why didn't you send them?" Will whispered.
Because if I sent them, they'd be real.
Because if he read them, he'd see how much I needed him.
Because El-
I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration and shame crashing together. "Because I felt pathetic," I said. "Because you were gone and El was gone and I didn't know how to be normal about it."
Will flinched at El's name.
"I wrote to her too," I said quickly. "I did. I swear. But it was... different."
"How?" he asked.
The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
"I had to force it."
Will froze.
"I had to sit there and think about what to say," I continued, voice breaking. "Like it was homework. Like I had to make sure it sounded right. That I sounded like a good boyfriend. And I liked writing to her, okay? I did. But it didn't come out like- like this."
I pointed at the letters again.
"With you," I said hoarsely, "it was easy. I could write for hours. I didn't even think about it. The words just... happened."
Will stared at me, breathing shallow.
"And the worst part," I whispered, "is that I didn't understand why."
My chest felt like it was splitting open.
"I couldn't write 'love' to her, will..." I said. "I tried. God, I tried. And every time I did, it felt wrong. Like lying. Like forcing something that wasn't there anymore."
Will's eyes filled again.
"But with you," I said, voice barely audible now, "I didn't even hesitate."
Silence slammed down between us.
I laughed weakly, shaking my head. "That's when I realized something was wrong with me."
"Wrong?" Will echoed.
"Yes," I snapped, emotion surging. "Because I'm not supposed to feel like that. I'm not supposed to think about you when my girlfriend's across the country. I'm not supposed to miss your voice and your stupid drawings and the way you sit too close like you forget personal space exists."
He let out a shaky breath.
"I thought if you knew," I said, eyes burning, "you'd be disgusted."
"That I'd what?" he whispered.
"Hate me," I said. "Think I was some kind of freak who made everything weird."
Will shook his head slowly. "Mike... I never-"
"And then El wrote," I interrupted. "And she said you might like a girl. And I know that sounds stupid, because it's not like you did anything wrong, but it felt like someone punched me."
Will sucked in a sharp breath.
"I thought," I said, voice cracking, "that maybe I was the only one who felt like this. And that scared the hell out of me. So I backed off. Not because I cared less. Because I cared too much."
Tears blurred my vision.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered. "For Rink-O-Mania. For acting like I didn't try. I tried so hard it nearly killed me."
The room was dead silent except for our breathing.
Will stepped closer.
I braced myself.
Then his hands were on my wrists, grounding me.
"You idiot," he said softly.
I let out a broken laugh that turned into something dangerously close to a sob.
"I thought you were crying because you hated me," I admitted.
He shook his head fiercely. "I was crying because you loved me."
The word hit me like lightning.
"I don't-" I started. "Will, I don't even-"
"I know," he said gently. "You don't have to understand it yet."
His thumbs brushed against my skin, warm and steady.
"But you never didn't care," he continued. "And I think... I think part of you always knew- about me too."
I didn't argue.
"Oh my gosh what are we going to do." I sighed sighing so loudly "I am going crazy."
He smiled at that.
That was all I needed.
Will’s hands slid from my wrists, hesitating for just a second before one of them came up to rest lightly against my chest. Right over my heart.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“So are you,” I replied.
He nodded, lips pressing together like he was bracing himself. “Mike… can I—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Can I do something? And you can tell me to stop. I mean it.”
My pulse roared in my ears.
I thought of the box under my bed. Of the word love written in ink. Of every night I’d stared at my ceiling thinking about him and not letting myself ask why.
“Okay,” I said. “Yeah. Okay.”
That was all it took.
Will stepped closer.
The space between us disappeared so slowly it felt unreal, like time had stretched thin just to watch us suffer through it. I could feel his breath now and it was warm and shaky, I could see every freckle on his face, every tiny crack in the armor he pretended he didn’t have.
His hand slid up from my chest to my shoulder, fingers curling gently into the fabric of my shirt like he needed something solid to hold onto.
He hesitated. Just for a heartbeat.
I didn’t.
I leaned in, barely moving, giving him every chance to pull away.
He didn’t.
I kissed him first with no hesitation. It felt like relief... like I finally found home.
His lips were warm and gentle, fitting against mine in a way that made my chest ache. I’d never felt anything like this before, that sense of rightness. I didn’t want the moment to end. I didn’t want to pull away.
My hands slid from his shoulders to his waist, steadying us both, like I was afraid he might disappear if I let go. His fingers moved up to my neck, then into my hair, tugging me closer but it was not rough, just desperate, like he needed to be sure I was real.
I could feel his breathing speed up against me.
After a moment, he pressed a hand lightly to my chest, just enough to create space. I let myself be guided back, even though every part of me wanted to stay exactly where I was.
He took a few deep breaths, head tipped down, like he was trying to remember how air worked.
I looked at him, my heart still racing.
“God,” I muttered, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
He glanced up at me and smiled unmistakably happy.
“I’m going to get way too attached,” I said, half laughing, running a hand over my face and tipping my head back.
He laughed too, quieter, like the sound was just for me.
Then he looked at me, really looked at me, and said it,
“I love you.”
My chest tightened, but this time it didn’t hurt.
“I love you more,” I said, without thinking.