Chapter Text
January 19th, 1987
Will woke up the same way he did everyday. Mike’s bed being empty, Mike’s bed half made, the sunrays hitting Will from the window from the tiny gap between the curtains, his thin mattress that pressed cruelly against his spine every morning, the smell of Mrs. Wheeler’s breakfast and the conversation of people downstairs and conversations he was never a part of because he woke up so late.
These past, almost, 10 months living with the Wheelers had been rough for Will. At first everything was going great. Mike had even offered Will to sleep in his room when all of them were discussing how they would arrange the sleeping places so everyone has a space somewhere.
Now, Mike probably regretted making that decision or at least that’s how Will saw it being reflected. The first weeks in late March and Early April of 1986, went great. They talked until late at night about music, comics or all the embarrassing things they used to do. Will didn’t know when or why, but Mike went distant all of a sudden. He stopped volunteering to do stuff with him and he barely talked to him all day except at night when he wished him goodnight. Will didn’t know what but he had convinced himself he had done something wrong for Mike to act like this all of a sudden.
Besides Mike being avoidant towards Will, Will didn’t really have anything to do in this house. He used to paint. He didn’t paint anymore.
He didn’t have inspiration nor motivation to paint and it made it worse that his only muse was avoiding him. The only thing that kept Will entertained in the Wheeler’s house was reading Mrs. Wheeler’s mom’s (a.k.a Nana’s.) old poetry books.
It had started when Will was trying to find inspiration to paint, that’s when he found the dusty poetry books.
He never was much of a reader, not really, but poetry felt different. Like someone had taken feelings he didn’t have words for and laid them bare on the page. Desire. Loneliness. Grief. All tied together forming metaphors that change your view in existence.
Will wished he could have that talent. He wished he could take the ache inside his chest and make it mean something instead of just letting it rot there. He imagined having the wisdom of using big words and connecting them through metaphors to make stories. Will could only wish to have that kind of wisdom.
Will sometimes wondered if Mike could write poetry. He knew that Mike had always had some sort of passion for writing and he used to write most of their D&D campaigns for the party. But Mike had never shown Will his private drafts, never let him see what he wrote outside the game. Which in Will’s mind was unfair since he let him see all of his paintings. Well… most of them.
Mike was smart, brave and had dreams. That’s all poets needed. And if Mike ever wrote poetry—if he wrote it in the way he was—then it would be the most beautiful thing Will could imagine.
He wanted to ask him. Will wanted to ask Mike so badly about what he knew about poetry but then he remembered him and Mike didn’t really talk anymore, which was weird because Will remembered Mike as someone who he always told everything to.
Will stretched and yawned. He looked at the clock Mike had on top of his night stand. It was 12:24 P.M. He was already used to waking up this late.
He stood up and turned toward the window. Snow had fallen thick and quiet, piling up on the trees and the driveway, turning the world pale and distant.
He used to love the snow. He used to beg to go outside, fingers numb and cheeks burning, laughing until his lungs hurt. Now nothing excites him anymore. Not really.
He walked off the window to get changed. He put on some jeans and a sweater. Then he walked downstairs to the kitchen where a moment ago everybody was talking but now it was empty and only a note on top of a plate that was covered in foil. The note said:
Me, Joyce and Holly are at the supermarket. Jonathan and Nancy already left for work and Ted went to some meeting he has, so it’s just you and Mike in the house. Eat some of the breakfast I made. Stay safe and if you go outside please put on warm clothes!
- Karen
Will read it once and then put the note aside, to eat whatever food Mrs. Wheeler had made him. If Will had been honest he wasn’t hungry at all, he hadn’t been hungry in weeks. He had lost his appetite like he lost his passion for painting or like he had lost Mike.
Will ate the food anyway. Maybe it didn’t give him that satisfactional feeling, but at least he had something to fill the void with.
Will didn’t really care to be alone with Mike in the house. Mike was probably just going to stay in his room, doing whatever things he did when Will wasn’t there. Will could just stay sitting at the couch listening to some music.
After he ate his breakfast, he put the dishes aside and walked to the living room. He laid on the couch and put the headphones of his Walkman to his ears.
He chose a mixtape cassette he’d made when Jonathan taught him how to do one. The first song was “A night like this” by The Cure. It was one of his favorites despite its sad lyrics. He just looked at the ceiling. He swore if he just stared at the ceiling for too long, he would start floating.
He snapped back into focus when he heard someone walk down the stairs. Mike. Will reached his head over the sofa to see what Mike was doing. Mike disappeared to the kitchen and came back with a bag of chips and as he was walking back he spotted Will.
“Umm… hi,” Mike said with his same unenthusiastic tone, like he was forced to talk to Will.
“Hi,” Will answered, lowering his headphones to his neck.
“Uh, I’ll be in my room… If you need anything.” Mike said, with his usual cold, unreadable voice he’d been using towards him since months.
“Thanks, I guess.” Will said, annoyed a bit.
“Okay,” Mike said after a beat. “Um… I’ll go now.”
Will lifted his headphones again. “Bye.”
He didn’t look up when Mike turned away.
Will didn’t really care what Mike thought. I mean obviously he did, he always did. Will wished that for even a single minute he could hate Mike. He knew that wasn’t possible. He could never hate Mike. Even in one of the worst days in Will’s life when Mike had said “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” Will still couldn’t bring himself to hate him. He should’ve been angry then. He should be angry now.
Instead, all he felt was tired. And stupid. Like forgiveness came too easily to him, like it was something people could take without asking.
Will heard the sound of Mike’s bedroom door close from upstairs. He started to feel this guilty feeling in his chest. Had his tone been too mean towards Mike? Did he actually do something?
The music didn’t help him anymore. It didn’t distract him anymore, he couldn’t escape the thoughts. Will couldn’t shake that one thought. Once it comes, it doesn’t turn back.
Am I so easy to let go?
Was that what it was? Will had so many unanswerable questions. Will deep down knew that this is somehow his fault since Mike acted especially distant to him. Will squeezed his eyes shut. Mike had been distant with everyone lately, sure, but Mike barely even looked at him anymore.
Will could feel his eyes sting. He closed them, like that would stop him from crying or thinking at all. But he couldn’t help it. A few tears rolled down the sides of his cheeks to the couch. He pressed his hands over his mouth, just in case Mike could hear him sobbing all the way to the upstairs room.
The situation didn’t get better when the cassette clicked and “Boys Don’t Cry” by The Cure started playing. That song was too personal to him and it made him cry even more as Robert Smith started singing.
He moved his hands from over his mouth to press his eyes to hopefully stop the crying. His mom, Mrs. Wheeler and Holly would probably get there soon and he didn’t want them to find him like this.
“Stop crying,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Stop crying. Stop crying…”
Will rolled onto his side in a fetal position. He breathed in slowly, like he was trying to make himself smaller, like if he folded in far enough he might disappear into the living room altogether.
He wished he could stop feeling everything so deeply. He wished he could stop loving Mike the way he did. He wished he could apologize to Mike and tell him he’s sorry for loving him and making his life harder because of that.
“Will, wake up.”
The voice reached him gently. Will stirred, his eyelashes fluttering as he slowly opened his eyes. The lights felt too bright at first and he groaned quietly, lifting a hand to shield his face.
When his vision finally focused, he saw his mom sitting beside him on the couch. Her coat was still on and her hair a little wind-tousled from the cold.
“Hey,” she said softly, smiling the way she always did when she thought he needed it. “You must’ve fallen asleep. Me, Karen, and Holly just came back.”
Will pushed himself up a little. His body felt heavy, like sleep hadn’t rested him at all. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “I guess I did.”
Joyce brushed a hand over his arm, warm and grounding. “You shouldn’t sleep anymore, or you won’t sleep tonight,” she said gently, already standing. “Come on. Get up and help us with the groceries.”
When Joyce got up, Will let out a frustrated scoff. He really didn’t want to do chores right now.
“Okay, Mom,” he said, pushing himself off the couch, still shaken up by the nap.
Will followed Joyce into the kitchen. Will paused at the entrance when he spotted Mike already helping there too. Great.
They were all quiet. Focused on their own tasks. Will took the spices from the bag.
“The spices go to their own jars. You and Mike can fill them up.” Karen said, turning to Will while taking the milk.
Will just nodded. He wished he could be doing anything else than standing too close to Mike. He handed one of the spice bags to Mike, who didn’t even bother to look at him or say thanks. They quietly filled the spice jars with the new spices, Will’s eyes—totally on accident— flickering over to Mike.
Mike had the sleeves of his sweater tucked to his elbows and Mike’s hair was frizzy and messy like he hadn’t touched it in days. He tried to know what Mike was thinking but there wasn’t a thought behind those brown eyes.
Will didn’t know when Mike had become so unreadable. Will knew that Mike had always been kind of… closed and unpredictable but not to him. Mike used to tell him when he felt crazy or when he felt like his life was crumbling down. Mike didn’t say anything anymore.
Will must have drifted too far into his thoughts, because when he snapped back, he realized Mike was looking at him.
“What?” Mike asked, confused.
“What what?” Will replied quickly, heat rushing to his face.
“You were staring.”
“I wasn’t,” Will said, too fast.
Mike held his gaze for a second longer, like he didn’t quite believe him, then turned back to the jar in his hands. He screwed the lid on tightly and lifted it onto the shelf.
“Okay,” Mike said flatly-
Great. He had just thrown away another opportunity to have a conversation with Mike.
Karen returned with two grocery bags and set them on the counter. “You two should take these to the freezer in the garage.”
“Sure,” Mike said immediately, grabbing one of the bags.
Will picked up the other and followed him without a word.
The garage was cold, dusty like no one had been there in months and all of his painting equipment was sitting there in a corner. He looked at it for a minute and shot his gaze back to Mike who was putting the things in the freezer with too much force, that made Will almost flinch.
“Are you… alright?” Will asked quietly, unsure if he even had the right to.
“I’m fine,” Mike said, too quick.
“You don’t look fine,” Will replied, voice careful, like he was stepping on thin ice. Every word felt dangerous, like it could crack something open he wasn’t ready to see break.
Mike didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, back half-turned, cold air spilling from the freezer, his shoulders tense like he was holding something in.
“I said I’m fine.” Mike said, looking anywhere but at him.
“Did I do something?” Will asked, quietly.
“What? No—” Mike started, then stopped himself. His hand tightened around a frozen box like it had personally offended him.
Will swallowed. “Then what is it?” he asked.. “Because you won’t talk to me. You won’t look at me. And I don’t— I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix something if I don’t even know what I did.”
Mike shut the freezer a little harder than necessary. The clang echoed through the garage. He turned around to face Will.
“There’s nothing to fix,” Mike said.
Will let out a small, disbelieving breath. “That’s not true.”
Mike’s jaw tightened. “Can we just drop it?”
Will stared at him, at the way his shoulders were hunched like he was bracing for impact. He took a step closer before he could talk himself out of it.
“No,” Will said. The word surprised even him. “We can’t. You’ve been like this for months, Mike. Months. And you keep acting like it’s nothing, like I’m imagining it, like I’m—” His voice wavered. He forced it steady. “Like I’m being annoying just for asking.”
Mike turned then, sharp and sudden. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to,” Will shot back, too fast. “You act like it. Every time I open my mouth, every time I try to talk to you, you shut down or you leave or you pretend you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”
“I am fine.”
“You’re not,” Will said, softer now, almost afraid. “And it scares me that you won’t tell me why.”
Mike laughed once, short and humorless. “Why does it scare you so much?”
“Because you’re my best friend.”
Mike’s face flickered just for a second.
“That doesn’t mean you get to interrogate me,” Mike said, voice rising. “You’re always doing this. Always digging, always asking what’s wrong, like it’s your job to fix me.”
“That’s not—” Will shook his head. “I’m not trying to fix you. I just want to understand you.”
“Well have you thought maybe I don’t want you to understand me?” Mike said, too quickly.
Will stared at him, stunned. “Since when?”
Mike dragged a hand through his hair. “Since— I don’t know, Will. Since everything. Since nothing. I just—” He stopped, breathing hard. “You don’t give me space.”
“I give you all the space you want,” Will said, his voice breaking despite his effort to keep it together. “You’ve taken all of it.”
“Exactly!” Mike snapped. “And you still want more.”
Silence rushed in, loud and suffocating.
“I just wanted you to tell me what I did,” Will said. His voice was barely above a whisper now. “That’s it. If I messed up, if I said something wrong, if I— if you’re mad at me, I just wanted to know. Because not knowing feels horrible.”
Mike’s eyes darkened and his voice dropped. “Maybe everything is not about you.”
The words cut deeper than Will expected.
“Oh,” Will said. He nodded slowly, like that made sense. Like his chest wasn’t aching. “Okay. Right. So I just… what? Pretend everything’s fine while you treat me like I’m always in the way?”
“I never said you were in the way,” Mike snapped back.
“You don’t have to say it!” Will said louder. His voice echoing off the concrete walls. He immediately lowered it again, panic flashing across his face. “You make me feel like I am.”
Mike’s mouth opened but he closed it, rethinking. “You’re too much sometimes,” Mike said suddenly. “You always feel everything so deeply and you expect everyone else to keep up. I can’t— I can’t do that right now.”
Will went very still.
“Oh,” he said again, softer this time. “So that’s it.”
“That’s not—” Mike started.
“No, it is,” Will interrupted. His voice was shaking now, but he didn’t stop. “I’m too much. Got it.”
Mike’s face drained of color. “Will, I didn’t mean it like—”
“But you did,” Will said. His eyes burned.
He stepped back, putting distance between them.
“I’m sorry,” Will said, though he didn’t know what he was apologizing for. Existing, maybe. “I won’t bother you again.”
“Will—” Mike took a step forward.
Will turned away before Mike could finish, before he could say something worse or something kinder that would only make it hurt more. He pushed open the garage door, cold air rushing in as he fled back toward the house.
Joyce looked up from the kitchen when he came in, concern already forming on her face. “Will? Honey, are you—”
“I’m fine,” Will snapped, too loud, too sharp.
He climbed up the stairs and locked himself in the bathroom since he didn’t have his own room.
He curled in the corner of the room, feeling the cold tiles below him.
Did Mike really see him that way?