Chapter Text
The car moves along the dirt road as the forest tightens between the thick-canopied trees, as if Hawkins were swallowing it little by little.
Will counts the seconds between each bend in the road. He tells himself it’s just another visit. Just two weeks.
He doesn’t believe it.
He is in the back seat, forehead pressed against the glass, watching the green blur into long shadows. The air coming through the window was heavy with humidity.
Hopper drives with one hand on the wheel while the other rests carelessly on the gear shift. Joyce sits beside him in the passenger seat, occasionally looking in the rearview mirror, as if she needed to check that her son is still there.
This past year had been... strange. Not horrible, but not exactly good either. College had been big, noisy, full of people who hadn't known him since he was a kid and knew nothing of the Upside Down or invisible scars. He had learned to move on his own, to not look back all the time, to be Will Byers without the constant echo of Hawkins. And yet, there were nights when the silence of his college dorm felt too much like that of his old room, and that would undo him.
He absentmindedly touched his earring, an unconscious gesture. Something he had started doing that year, as if he needed to remind himself that he had changed, that he wasn't the same boy who left.
–We’re almost there, honey –
He only smiles and nods, without responding, and turns his gaze back toward the window where the silhouette of the cabin that had been his last home gradually takes shape, the one whose memories were a bittersweet mix.
Hopper parks and turns off the engine at the side of the house, in a comfortable silence broken only by the sound of leaves swaying in the breeze and the chirping of birds that seem to welcome them.
The three of them get out of the car; Hopper goes straight to the trunk and starts taking out the luggage, while on the other side of the car Will observed the entire landscape with scrutiny and nostalgia.
–Will? –his mother's voice snaps him out of the trance.
He looks at her without saying anything yet. She approaches and cradles his face, giving him a soft, warm caress.
–My boy –she sighs and leans in until they merge into a hug–, we’re going to miss you –she murmurs against his shoulder.
–It’s only going to be two weeks, Mom –.
Hopper clears his throat as he approaches with luggage in hand. His eyes reflect a mixture of pride and sadness. Will pulls back slightly from the hug and extends an arm, inviting Hopper to join them.
After a few seconds they pulled apart, and Hopper, the iron giant, discreetly wipes away a small tear.
–Take good care of yourself, kid –he tells him in a calm voice, placing his hand on his shoulder, pressing with gentleness and affection, and offering him his luggage with the other–. And enjoy what Hawkins can still give you.
–I will–.
His mother gives him one last kiss on the cheek and Hopper ruffles his hair carefully, as if still measuring his strength with him.
There are no long goodbyes; they get into the car. The engine starts and, in a matter of seconds, the car disappears among the thicket of trees.
Will stands still, watching as the silhouette of the car blurs until it disappears completely. It was then that he walks toward the porch, climbing the stairs while stroking the railing, feeling the old, cracked wood under the palm of his hand.
He opens the door. The interior was in shadows, cool, with that smell of old wood, tobacco, and a hint of Old Spice Classic that he would always associate with Hopper. He left the luggage on the floor and took a couple of steps forward, looking around, letting himself be invaded by the feeling of being exactly where he was supposed to be.
–Hello, Will –
He turns upon hearing the voice coming from a corner of the house. A slight creak of the floor, and the voice begins to take on light and form: the messy hair, the lanky and androgynous figure moves toward him slowly, cautiously, as if it were a hunter approaching a helpless fawn it does not intend to scare.
For a second neither of them says anything, they just look at each other. They observe one another, standing at a prudent distance, near the kitchen table.
A simple t-shirt, jeans with frayed knees, hair a bit longer than Will remembered. Nothing spectacular. And yet, everything in his chest tightens suddenly.
–Mike?–
He shrugs with his hands in his pockets, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.
–Your mother called me. She told me you were coming... I guess she didn't want you to be alone.
He feels his chest tighten; it's a mix of surprise, relief, and an emotion he wasn't willing to classify. A feeling he forbade himself from labeling, that he forbade himself from feeling again for Mike Wheeler, his friend... his best friend.
–Oh –
Mike is the first to move, walking toward him while sliding his fingers over the table.
–I hope you don't mind, Joyce insisted and Hopper didn't object, so...–
–Yeah, it's fine... I don't... I don't mind, it's just... unexpected.–
And it was true. What he felt had nothing to do with being bothered. It was more of an uncomfortable and familiar sensation, a feeling that unfolds and resets itself inside without asking permission. The one that lived inside him in silence, in hiding, curled up in a forgotten corner with the certainty that it would live there for the rest of his days.
He closes the door behind him and moves forward a bit more, shortening the distance. The floor creaks under his sneakers, filling the silence that had settled between the two. Mike watched him intently, perhaps too attentively, as if he were trying to recognize him and wasn't quite succeeding.
Will left the luggage by the table and takes off his jacket, placing it on the back of one of the chairs. He notices his friend's gaze travel over his figure. It wasn't blatant. He never was.
–You've changed –He says without thinking too much, but then seems to regret it–. I mean... it's not a bad thing.
-You too–
Mike frowns, as if he weren't sure about that.
–Not that much–
He hesitates before responding. Since he had made the decision to spend those two weeks of his summer in Hawkins, he had recreated this scenario in his mind at least 100 times—the reunion. But none had looked like this, none included that knot tightening in his stomach nor this silence. It seemed loaded with all the things that hadn't been said over the phone or by letter or ever.
–How long have you been here? –
–Since this morning. Hopper left the key under the mat for me and an absurd list of things I shouldn't touch, as if he thought I was going to burn the cabin down.
Will let out a small laugh that sounded natural. Familiar. That eases something inside him.
–That's very Hopper –
He had changed too. His body had broadened; his way of dressing no longer hid his athletic figure. Mike wondered when those muscles had appeared. He noticed that earring that glinted subtly when a faint ray of light pierced the window, his hair a bit longer, different from the haircuts Joyce had accustomed them to, the strands falling carelessly over his forehead, the different way he moved and gestured. More confident, freer. And, in a way, he felt envy.
He swallowed hard.
–It looks good on you –he said, vaguely pointing to his ear–. The... that.–
–The earring?–
–Yeah –he shrugged–. It's... you. But different.-
The heat traveled without permission from his stomach and settled in his cheeks.
–I guess that's what happens when you leave –he murmured.
–Yeah... I guess –
The silence returns, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable. It was dense. As if both were testing a ground they had known since they were children, but which now felt entirely new.
–For a moment I thought you wouldn't come. –
–Why? –
–I don't know. You're... in another life now. College, new people. Hawkins isn't exactly as exciting as it used to be.–
And thank God for that.
He laughs softly; he thinks of his college dorm, the parties he doesn't go to, the conversations he never quite fits into. Of how much he missed this, this feeling of belonging to a place, to a moment, to words that don't need to be said but are felt.
–It's not as different and exciting as it might seem. Sometimes I miss how comfortable and mundane this can be.–
Something changes in Mike's expression. He doesn't smile, but his shoulders relax a bit, as if he were releasing a tension he had been carrying for months.
–I'm glad you're here. This isn't the same without you. –
Will clears his throat, trying to clear all the thoughts tangling in his head. He grabs his luggage again and takes a few steps forward, as if he needed to move so as not to stay anchored in his own head.
–I guess... I should unpack.-
–Oh, yeah, sure, I'll walk you to your room.-
Your room, his room, the one that one day hadn't been his, the one that one day had belonged to her.
That simple word resonates more than it should in Mike's head; he feels vertigo, it's almost sinful. A mixture of guilt and nostalgia overwhelms him, and a knot in his chest tightens until it hurts.
He moves forward first, Will following a step behind while unintentionally noticing the small details: the way Mike walks, slightly slouched; how he keeps his hands tucked in his pockets; how he hesitates for a second before opening the door, as if that space were also fragile.
The room remains the same as always. The simple bed, the wooden dresser, the window overlooking the forest. But it wasn't exactly the same.
He sets the suitcase on the bed and starts taking things out without much order: folded clothes, a notebook full of sketches, a couple of books. Mike remains leaning against the doorframe, watching him openly now.
Will notices how his friend observes everything around him, how his eyes linger on the small bookshelf in the back: books, his graduation diploma, and a small photo of her smiling, framed in a small wooden frame.
–You can say it –he murmured.
–Say what? –
–That you miss Jane –
Mike is surprised by the naked sincerity and rawness with which Will speaks.
–Yeah... Every day I try to convince myself that I couldn't do more, that it was her decision. I... I didn't even consider the possibility of making her change her mind. She wanted to be free, though I would have liked it to be different. But now I'm aware that either way, I never deserved her, I was never able to make her fully happy, or to protect her... or you.-
Will didn't know what to answer, didn't know how to comfort him. That day, everyone lost a piece of their soul.
His friend looked up again, eyes glassy.
–After all... I didn't do things right afterward either, did I? –he is looking at the floor while his body shakes tremulously–. I hardly wrote to you, we hardly talked about you, I didn't even ask how you were feeling. She was part of you too, she was your sister, and I simply did what I always do: lock myself in my thoughts.
Will stands up and approaches slowly; he is overwhelmed by seeing him like this—fragile, delicate, with his feelings raw, a side of Mike he wasn't used to, seeing him exposed and vulnerable with his feelings on the surface.
He rests his hand on his shoulder and tries to comfort him, wanting to let him know he is there, that he has always been there for him; he would burn down entire cities for his friend.
Mike lunges at Will and merges into a warm hug; it is restrained but loaded with feeling that couldn't be explained with words. Will stays still at first, letting the hug take its place, let it settle. Familiarity mixes with tension, and it is then when the world seems to stop, and it's as if neither time nor distance had made a dent in that friendship. He lets his hands rest on Mike's back, and the outside world disappears; the cabin no longer matters, nor the forest, nor the bad memories—only the two of them.
–You don't know how much... how much I needed this –Mike whispers, tightening the contact, as if Will were going to vanish and he were trying to hold everything within his arms–. I thought I had lost you too.
–You would never lose me. Not even if you tried.-
They pull apart just enough to be able to look into each other's eyes, breathing very close to one another, then the hug breaks and they separate, the silence returns, but this time it isn't uncomfortable. Air fills the room, warm and dense; a kind of truce settles in the bedroom where they can simply exist together without need for further explanations.
Once again, both walked toward the bed. Mike sits on it with his legs crossed while Will kneels in front of the suitcase, unpacking it again with measured, almost ceremonial movements.
–Are you coming to town tomorrow? –Will asks suddenly, unintentionally breaking the calm.
Mike swallows, shifting his gaze for a second before nodding.
–Yeah... well, I thought it would be good to go. After all, we don't usually meet up much; it's a good opportunity for me to, I don't know, integrate again.-
–Oh, I thought you guys met every weekend to play D&D or something.-
–No... After you left, we met a couple of times but I guess everything turned weird all of a sudden. It wasn't the same without our wizard.-
–Then we have to change that. Tomorrow we'll go to town together; I've arranged to meet the guys at the Palace Arcade. It'll be like old times, it'll be cool.-
–Yeah, cool... –
Mike held his gaze on Will for a few seconds more while he folded his clothes.
–By the way, I thought maybe I could make dinner and stay to hang out and well... I don't know, maybe spend the night?–
Will stopped folding clothes and looked up, surprised.
–That's fine... if you want –he replied naturally, letting him interpret his words however he wanted, and continued moving around the bedroom in a carefree manner—a folder of sketches on the desk, socks in the dresser—putting everything in its place.
Mike drummed his fingers against his knee nervously.
–I can... sleep on the sofa, I don't want to be a bother –he added, in a low and somewhat clumsy voice.
–You're not a bother –Will replied–. I already told you.–
The aroma of melted cheese and freshly made, slightly burnt pasta suddenly fills the whole cabin. Mike moves through the kitchen with ease, stirring the macaroni, trying to keep it from sticking to the bottom of the pot, while Will sets the plates on the table.
–Maybe they aren't the best macaroni in the world... buuut they'll fill the stomach, you must be hungry, it's been a long trip.–
They drop into the chairs and Mike is the first to start eating. Will is playing with his fork, moving a macaroni from one side of the plate to the other.
–So, well, we've hardly talked about you. How is life as Hawkins' future great writer going?–
–Right now I'm just the guy who turns in twenty-page papers about dead authors. Sometimes I feel like the professors look at me weird when I try to sneak a fantasy element into my stories –he confesses, scratching the back of his neck–. It's a bit frustrating. Everything here is very... flat. Very realistic.
–Hawkins needs a bit of imagination, Mike. Don't let them take that away from you. You were always the best Dungeon Master for a reason: you know how to make people believe the impossible.
–Yeah, but now there are no dice, no guides, no boards, Will. Just blank pages laughing at me –Mike sighs, but his eyes shine a little more–. Though I have been writing something new. A personal project. It's different from anything I've tried before. It's... more personal.
–I'd love to read it. Someday.–
Mike looked down at his plate, and the shine in his eyes turned into something deeper and more vulnerable.
–Maybe –Mike replied in a whisper–. Someday. When I have the courage for someone to see what's in there. I'm glad you're here, Will. Really. I feel like... I can finally breathe without my chest burning.
–Me too, Mike.
After dinner they open the sofa bed and Mike settles in, trying not to take up too much space. He adjusts the blanket and sits up straight, arms over his legs, clearly uncomfortable.
Will comes out of the room with a pillow in his arms and gives it to Mike.
–Goodnight, Mike –
–Goodnight, Will. –Mike smiles sideways.
On the other side of the bedroom door, Will remains in the center of his bed; he feels like it's swallowing him and the mattress is pressing against his ribs. It's hard to breathe, he feels dizzy while his head spins with an overflowing heart.
In the living room, Mike is still lying on the sofa, his legs sticking out from under the blanket. His eyes wander around the house; he amuses himself looking at the shadow of that horrible reindeer hanging on the wall, he concentrates on the incessant dripping of the kitchen faucet. He wants to fill his mind with something other than naming what was fluttering in his mind and in his stomach. He wanted to get up a couple of times, simply to check that Will was okay, but he always stopped—maybe it was the fear of being intrusive, or that his emotions were too visible.
Tossing and turning in bed, Will covers his face with the pillow; he feels like he wants to stop breathing—anything to stop that anxiety from continuing to weigh down his chest.
Finally, he sits up and, in a burst of bravery or he doesn't even know how to explain it, he gets up and opens the door before his thoughts make him regret it.
–Mike? –he whispers from the doorframe–. Are you awake?–
Mike sits up with a start without answering.
–If you want, we can share the bed. You don't have to stay on the sofa; I know it's... uncomfortable. It would be like... when we had sleepovers –He was trying not to sound as ridiculous or desperate as he felt he was sounding.
Mike blinked, a bit surprised, and nodded shyly. He took his pillow and dragged his blanket across the floor as he moved toward the room, closing the door softly behind him. Will climbed onto the bed from the edge and sat on the side closest to the wall, while Mike sat on the other side, leaving a small space between them, as if closeness were still something he needed to measure.
–Okay... Yeah, this is definitely much more comfortable.–
–Yeah, besides, the bed is big enough for both of us.–
They settled in, without hugs, without intense gestures. Their shoulders barely brushed, and their hands rested close without quite touching. Neither of them spoke; the silence was comfortable, peaceful at that point of the night.
–Goodnight, Will –
–Goodnight... Mike –
Mike closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to calm that tension that had settled between them. Will followed him, closed his eyes, feeling how the swarm of butterflies nesting at the bottom of his stomach began to go dormant. Aware that the presence of his best friend breathing beside him would mean they wouldn't stay this way for too long, but not now. There was no urgency, no need to rush.
That first night, Hawkins remained outside. The cabin, the forest, the entire world was reduced to that shared room, to the contained calm, to the closeness without compromises. Both were together, simply, and for now, that was enough.
The morning arrives without haste; rays of sunlight filter timidly through the worn curtains. Will opens his eyes gently, trying to adjust to the change in light, and a memory hits his mind without anesthesia: Mike.
He sits up abruptly and discovers that the other side of the bed is empty. He reaches out and takes Mike's pillow; it is still warm and carries his scent. For a few seconds he stays there, clutching the pillow in his arms, in calm. He listens, amidst that silence, to the forest’s own language: branches rustling in the breeze, a bird singing insistently, the wind slipping through some crack that Hopper had never finished sealing. And, further off, muffled but present, the sound of footsteps in the kitchen.
He gets up slowly and moves hesitantly toward the exit. He takes the doorknob and, before opening it, takes a breath of air that expands his lungs before letting it out softly.
He opens the door and finds Mike moving around the kitchen. He is preparing pancakes and coffee. He stands for a few seconds admiring him from the doorway; he can see how Mike shakes the pan with a quick movement and flips the pancake over for a perfect landing.
-Good morning-he says, his voice still a bit sleepy.
Mike turns, surprised for just a second, and smiles at the sight: the messy hair, the sheet marks still stamped on his face, and the right leg of his pajama pants rolled up to the knee.
-Hey, Will. Good morning.-
There was no awkwardness. No weird pause. Just that: two people waking up in the same place, sharing a normal morning. Will walked to the table, slid the chair across the floor, and sat down across from Mike.
-Coffee?-he asks as he moves the coffee pot toward Will's cup.
-Yes, please.
-Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed last night.-
-You don’t have to thank me. Fortunately, my bed is big enough for the both of us, and it’s not like we’ve never had a sleepover or anything.-
-Yes, of course... what I didn’t remember was that, while you sleep, you purr like a kitten.-
Will nearly chokes on his coffee; he coughs gently under his friend's amused gaze.
-I’m looking forward to seeing the guys-Will says after wiping his lips with a napkin, trying to break the ice again.
Mike smiles vaguely.
-I’d like to stop by my house first... to change clothes and stuff. Yesterday I forgot to bring a change.-
-Yeah, sure, no problem.-
Mike gets up, leaves the cups in the sink, and turns on the tap. The water runs for a few seconds while he rinses them, and Will finishes his last bite, watching him without realizing it. There is something strangely domestic about the scene.
-Well, I should probably go take a quick shower before we head out too. If you want... you can watch TV or something. I think it still works, sometimes.-
Mike lets out a small laugh.
-That old relic?-
Will smiles and nods before heading to the bathroom. He stops for a second, as if about to say something else, but finally continues on his way and closes the door.
Mike is left alone in the kitchen. Silence settles in again, different now. More heavy. He walks to the living room and turns on the television; the screen takes a few seconds to react: first a low hum, then a white line that opens until it fills the frame. He sits on the edge of the sofa and rests his elbows on his knees; he runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.
In his mind, he projects his own image sitting there, waiting for the noise to fill the void, and he hates how much he resembles his father. The image finally settles: Muppet Babies. Kermit and Fozzie appear in a park; they swing out of sync, one goes and the other comes.
*"I feel weird when you’re not by my side-says Fozzie."
*"We work better together-Kermit responds calmly."
Fozzie looks down.
*"Do you promise not to leave me?"
*"Never".
Mike frowns. Something tightens in his chest without permission.
-What?-he mutters.
He stands up abruptly and turns the volume knob all the way. The sound dies, but the image remains, silent and uncomfortable. He swallows hard and finally turns off the TV from the front button, with too much force. The screen shrinks into a bright dot before disappearing.
The sound of water comes from the bathroom. Mike shakes his head and lets it fall against the back of the sofa, annoyed with himself. He spends a few minutes like that until the sound of the water stops. He gets up, more out of a need to move than anything else, and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water, but stops dead.
The bathroom door is ajar.
Before his eyes appears the image of Will. His back is turned, his hair is damp, and droplets of water slide from his neck down his back. His porcelain skin is slightly flushed from the heat of the shower. He doesn’t move. Mike feels the air get stuck in his throat. He swallows slowly, conscious of every heartbeat echoing in his ears. He isn’t thinking about anything specific; it’s a sensation, a strange knot in his stomach he hadn’t asked for, but it’s there.
He looks away almost immediately with guilt, as if the right thing to do was to do it quickly, before it could turn into something else. He clears his throat and takes a step back.
-Uh...-he murmurs, not quite sure who he was talking to.
Will appears seconds later, as he finishes readjusting his shirt, then combs his hair with his hands.
-Everything okay?-he asks naturally.
Mike nods too quickly, faking as if he had something to hide.
-Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine. The TV is still alive, by the way.-
-A miracle. Sometimes when it lost the signal, Hopper would hit it so hard I thought the buttons would go flying one day.-
Mike gives him a somewhat awkward smile and breathes a sigh of relief as the conversation follows its normal course, because that’s how he was, that’s how they are, that’s how they always are. Tension, silence, and a return to normalcy as if nothing had happened.
-Well... whenever you’re ready, let’s go. By the way, how did you get here?-
Mike raises his eyebrows, amused.
Outside the sun shines brightly, the door opens with a creak and the figures of Mike and Will emerge from inside.
Will raises a hand and covers his eyes, squinting until he adjusts to the light.
Leaning against the sturdy trunk of a tree is Mike’s faithful bicycle.
-So this is your big plan?-he laughs again.
-Yeah, I still don’t have my driver’s license. I asked Nancy for some lessons, but she always seems to be too busy with her new job.
-It’s okay, it’ll be like the old days, only I don’t think I can use my old bike, Mike-
-Uhm... it’s fine. We can share. You sit in the back, okay?
Mike gets on first and stands on the pedals, holding the handlebars. He moves forward a bit to leave the seat free.
The bicycle moves a bit as Will settles onto the seat. Mike adjusts the balance with an automatic gesture, as usual, as he had always done—only this time the passenger isn’t Jane. He remains standing, firm on the pedals, his body leaning slightly forward.
-Let me know if you’re uncomfortable-he says, without looking at him.
-I’m fine-
Mike begins to pedal and the bicycle moves forward through the irregular rattling of the path. Their bodies vibrate as they slide over the rugged terrain of the forest. They aren't going too fast, but not slowly either. The rhythm is comfortable. Will allows himself to look around, letting the landscape pass before his eyes while his hands rest on Mike's shoulders.
It feels good. Quiet. Peaceful.
The bicycle bounces as it passes over a stone that is too large and the balance breaks for just a second. Will clings to Mike’s stomach out of pure survival instinct. He feels Mike’s body tense under his fingers and, immediately after, relax again as they regain stability. Will lets go at once, almost embarrassed, and puts his hands back where they were before.
-Sorry... I thought I was going to fall-he murmurs.
-It doesn’t matter, Will. You can hold on-says Mike, turning his head just enough to look at him out of the corner of his eye with a slight smile.
It didn’t sound uncomfortable. Nor especially close. Just practical. Just Mike being Mike.
The path seems longer than in his memory. More potholes, more curves. Or maybe it was him, no longer quite fitting into those journeys. Sitting there, behind Mike, his body following the movement of Mike’s, Will has a strange sensation: something between calm and guilt. As if he were occupying a place that doesn’t quite belong to him... but that he doesn’t want to move from.
The feeling doesn’t leave him; it refuses to abandon his gut. It stays stuck to his skin. Will recognizes it with an uncomfortable clarity. That place—the seat, the hands on the shoulders, the shared balance—hadn’t always been his.
For years it had been Jane occupying that spot: the one who leaned with him into the curves, the one who held on when the road became irregular, the one who breathed in the scent of Mike’s shampoo. Will had seen it. Many times. From the outside. Always from the outside, always as a mere spectator, like an invisible entity who wasn't allowed even to imagine being in that place; that place he felt he was, in some way, stealing, usurping.
And now it was he who was there.
Will looks down, as if the thought itself brought him shame.
He doesn't want to keep thinking that he is occupying a space left by someone else. He doesn't want to feel like a replacement, nor like a temporary version of something that had belonged to someone else. And yet, he cannot deny the uncomfortable truth: a part of him fitted too well there.
That was what bothered him most.
Because it felt good. Too good.
The rattling of the bike, the heat of Mike’s body in front of him, the almost automatic gesture of holding on so as not to fall—everything had its own logic, simple, without explanations. Like pieces of an old puzzle they had never finished putting together.
Will presses his lips together and thinks of Jane, of her way of looking at Mike, of how hard she had fought to find a place in the world. Of how her childhood had also been stolen, of how she had been his family, his sister, of how she had sacrificed herself for the world, for Mike, for himself... And yet, he still doesn't want to move from there.
He doesn't want to step down from this moment, nor from the shared silence, nor from the closeness that demands nothing but says everything. He doesn't want to go back to being just the one watching from a step behind.
The guilt can come later, later on, the heavy feeling mixed with an uncomfortable certainty. Now he just wants to enjoy this, whatever it was.
When Mike brakes in front of his house, Will breathes again, as if only then he had remembered how to do it.
They get off the bike carefully, leaving behind the contact, the shared balance, but not the feeling; he takes that with him.
They enter the house; it remains the same as always. Karen always had exquisite taste in decoration, somewhere between modern and classic. Warm lights illuminate the walls which are adorned with several family photos from over the years.
-I’m going to take a quick shower and change. I don’t need to tell you that you’re at home; you can wait for me wherever you want. I don’t think I’ll be long.-
-Yeah, sure, no rush.-
Mike nods and climbs the steps two at a time, disappearing upstairs without looking back. You can hear him rummaging in his closet and then the bathroom door closes with a soft thud.
Will moves toward the wall of photos; he smiles seeing one of the family photos where Mike is smiling and missing a tooth. Then there, among all those family portraits, is a photo from graduation day where everyone poses happily with their diplomas, oblivious to the future that awaited them, to the imposed distance. He raises his hand and strokes the frame with the edge of his thumb.
-Who’s there?-a raspy, tired voice asks.
-Hello? It’s Will, Will Byers.-
-In the living room.-
Ted Wheeler is sitting in his usual chair, with the newspaper spread out and his glasses slightly crooked on his nose. The television is on, but the volume is at a minimum, like a background murmur, as if it were white noise to fill the house's vacuum more than something he was actually watching.
He raises his eyes slowly, as if the gesture cost him more than it should. His eyes linger a second too long on Will: on the somewhat tight shirt, the still damp hair, the jewelry glinting in his right ear, on that soft way of standing that doesn't quite fit Ted's concept of a "normal boy."
-Ah... hello-he said finally, clearing his throat-.
-Hello Mr. Wheeler, I’m sorry to have startled you-Will responds, straightening up without realizing it.
Ted nods once, as if he had completed an important task, and looks back down at the newspaper. Two seconds pass. Three. The silence stretched, uncomfortable, like old gum.
-Mike said...-Will begins to chatter, just so as not to stand there- that he was going to shower and that I could wait for him here or well, somewhere in the house, I guess.
-Aha-Ted murmured-.
Another nod. Another pause.
Ted turns a page with a slow, exaggerated gesture, although it was evident he wasn't reading anything. Will stands still, hands joined in front of his body, suddenly feeling too visible. As if he didn't know where to place anything—not his arms, nor his voice, nor himself.
-And... how is your mother?-Ted asks without looking at him, like someone fulfilling a minimum social obligation.
-Good. Working hard. As always.-
-Right. Right.-
The television lets out a canned laugh from some forgettable program. Ted frowns, annoyed, and turns the volume up a bit only to turn it back down almost immediately, as if the noise also bothered him.
He looks at Will again, this time from head to toe, without bad intention... but without tact either.
-You’ve grown-he comments-. You look... different.
Will forces a small, uncomfortable smile. Ted always makes him feel exposed and vulnerable, unlike Karen; she always made him feel warm, always said Will was her son's favorite friend, the one she invited to eat and sleep over more days than necessary.
-I guess.-
He responds simply, under Ted's attentive gaze as he presses his lips together, thoughtful.
Silence and more silence, uncomfortable, the kind that stings and bothers, the kind that stretches and stretches and seems like it will never end until Mike’s father speaks again.
-Well. The basement is open, if you want to wait there.-
It doesn’t sound like an invitation. It sounds like an emergency exit, and Will has no intention of wasting the opportunity to escape Ted’s critical eye.
-Thanks, Mr. Wheeler.-
Ted sighs and goes back to the newspaper.
Will crosses the living room and heads down the basement stairs with far too much eagerness. Each step takes him away from that look, from that feeling of not quite fitting in, of being constantly evaluated without words.
The basement smells of dust and old cardboard. Of memories. Of endless afternoons.
He turns on the light and the space reveals itself to him like a time capsule: the wooden table, the shelves full of books, the old sofa against the wall. Nothing seems to have changed much... and yet, everything felt different somehow.
Will moves forward slowly, touching things almost with reverence. On the table, the old board, with a broken corner. On the sofa, a forgotten toy sword. A die rolls when he brushes against it accidentally and the hollow sound pulls a smile from him.
The memories project in his mind like slides, and the echo of their voices resonates in his head.
* "Something is coming... something hungry for blood."
* "A shadow grows on the wall behind you. It swallows you in the darkness."
* "It’s the Demogorgon!"
* "Will, your action!"
* "I don't know!"
* "Fireball him!"
* "Cast protection!"
* "The fireball! Will, cast the fireball!"
* "The Demogorgon got me"
The echo fades and Will suddenly returns to reality; he presses his fingers against the edge of the table and sits in one of the chairs, resting his back against the chair and letting his head fall back. He doesn't feel sad, which surprises him most.
There was nostalgia, yes. A soft knot in his chest. But also warmth, as if that place still recognized him. As if, despite everything lost, something had stayed waiting for him, because he belonged to that place in that moment.
Maybe some memories could be simply beautiful and for the first time in a long while, that feeling was enough.
Mike leaves the bathroom and heads down the steps just as fast as he had gone up; he stops in the entrance hallway but there is no sign of Will. He pokes his head into the entrance of the living room and can see his father still sitting there motionless like a plaster figure. He twists his mouth and walks toward the kitchen, silently descending a couple of steps of the basement stairs.
From that height he can see his friend sitting at the table; he smiles softly as his heart skips a beat, remembering all the times they played for the fate of the world with paper and dice rolling.
But now they are no longer children. Now they are the masters of their own destiny, and the idea that Will has to return to New York soon turns his smile off and becomes a familiar bitter pressure tightening in the pit of his stomach.
In his chest beats the sense of belonging; the basement is his kingdom, but Will had always been the heart of the place. A miserable sensation invades him, the weight of knowing that, in a few days, that basement would return to being just a room full of inanimate objects and dust, and that he would return to being just a spectator in the distance of Will's life.
Mike goes down the stairs and Will sits upright again upon hearing his footsteps approach; he turns his body as the image of his friend appears: ripped jeans at the knees, worn Converse, and a tie-dye shirt still damp in some parts. His hair falls wavy and wet over his forehead, rebellious and wild.
–I knew I’d find you here. I hope my father didn’t scare you with some of his bullshit. –
- It’s okay. He just... made me feel like I’d grown up more than I should have. -
Mike approaches the table and stands behind him, letting his chest rest against his friend’s back and mutual warmth settles between them. He reaches his hand over Will’s shoulder and brushes the board with his fingertips, sliding them to the figure that had once belonged to his friend.
Will sighs and his shoulders drop heavy.
– I will never let the Demogorgon catch you again, Sorcerer.-
Then Will raises his head, looks up, and meets Mike's eyes. The silence of the basement becomes thick and the air heavy.
Mike remains frozen for a moment, caught in his gaze, until something catches his attention on his friend's face.
– Wait, don’t move– Mike whispers.
He obeys, stopping his breathing for an instant and Mike leans forward. He gets so close that he can feel the heat emanating from his body and his breath softly hitting his lips.
With an extremely delicate gesture, Mike raises his hand. His fingers brush the skin of his cheek, causing the pores of his skin to prickle. Mike concentrates all his attention on a small loose eyelash resting on his cheekbone and with infinite patience, manages to catch it between the pad of his index finger.
He pulls back just a few centimeters, just enough for Will to pull himself back together. Mike holds his finger in front of Will's face; the tiny black eyelash glitters under the warm light of the basement.
–Make a wish.-
Will closes his eyes for a second, as his heart hammers against his ribs.
And he wants to be selfish; he doesn't even have to think much about it. It has been written inside him for years, a longing that is merely dormant, cradled and lulled by the beating of his heart.
But he isn't like that; he isn't selfish, and in his head, only one desire resonates: that Mike, his friend, be happy.
He blows gently on Mike’s finger. The eyelash takes flight, getting lost in the air of the basement, the lair of secrets.
Will smiles, and Mike clears his throat, breaking the tension of the moment.
-Ready to go to the arcade?-
They go up the stairs and leave the house, getting onto the bicycle. But this time there are no jokes or clumsiness, only the usual path, as if the body remembered before the mind.