Work Text:
Mike is five when he decides that the playground is a strange place.
It’s too loud, for one, and there are too many kids doing things they aren’t very good at, which means a lot of yelling and a lot of crying and a lot of adults clapping their hands, saying names in warning voices. Mike has already climbed the slide the wrong way and been told not to, and now he’s kicking dirt near the swings because that at least doesn’t get him in trouble.
That’s when he notices the other kid.
He’s also all alone, sitting on one of the swings. His hands are wrapped around the chains, and his shoes are dragging lines in the dirt like he’s drawing without looking. He rocks back and forth just a little, the swing moving with him.
Mike watches him longer than he means to.
The kid doesn’t look sad. He doesn’t look scared either. He looks busy, like he’s thinking very hard about something Mike can’t see. Every so often, his shoulders jump when someone yells nearby, but then he settles again, head tipping forward, hair falling into his eyes.
Mike decides, suddenly, that he’s going to sit there too.
He walks over and climbs onto the swing next to the kid without asking. The chains clatter loudly when he does it, the sound sharp enough that the kid startles a little.
“Do you wanna be friends?” Mike asks.
He doesn’t soften it or explain it. The question comes out the way it does, plain and hopeful.
The kid turns his head and looks at him.
They stare at each other for a moment. Mike isn’t nervous. He’s not. He’s just waiting, like when you hold out your hand to pet a kitty and see if you’re chosen.
The kid nods.
That means yes.
“Okay!” Mike beams.
He pushes off hard and starts swinging. After a moment, the swing next to him starts moving too, tentative at first, then steadier, until their chains squeak in uneven rhythm and then settle into the same back-and-forth pattern.
When Mike jumps off and lands crooked, the kid half-stands out of his swing, alarm flashing across his face. Mike laughs and waves his arms.
“I’m fine,” he says.
The kid watches him for another second, then sits back down, relief plain and unguarded. He doesn't tell Mike his name yet, but it’s alright. Mike can ask him about it later.
They swing a little longer after that. Mike talks about how the slide squeaks and how the clouds look like they’re racing each other, and the kid listens, head tipped slightly in Mike’s direction.
Eventually, someone calls out that it’s time to go.
Mike hops off first. The kid copies him, landing awkwardly and steadying himself with a hand on the swing’s seat.
Inside, the classroom smells like crayons and glue. They sit on the rug for the rest of the afternoon, knees touching, listening to a story Mike doesn’t pay attention to. The kid traces shapes into the carpet with his finger. Mike traces them too, a little off, just to see if the kid notices.
He does. He smiles.
Mike realizes he has really big shiny eyes. He thinks he looks like a deer, or a puppy, or maybe a little duck because he’s so small.
When the bell finally rings, everything gets loud at once.
Kids spill out of the classroom all at once, shoes squeaking on the floor, voices bouncing off the walls. Mike usually finds his mom right away because she waves like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she doesn’t. Today, she’s talking to someone else, which means Mike has to wait.
The kid waits with him, sitting on a bench near the door.
Everyone gets called one by one. Parents’ voices cut through the noise, names shouted, hands grabbed. After a while, someone calls out.
“Will!”
The kid’s head snaps up.
Mike looks too.
He sees a tall boy weaving through the crowd, hair in his eyes, jacket hanging open. The boy says the name again, and his friend brightens immediately, like someone turned a light on inside him.
He stands so fast his backpack slips off one shoulder. He doesn’t bother fixing it. He just walks straight over and presses into the older boy’s side, head tipping forward.
So his name is Will!
The older boy’s arm comes around Will automatically.
“Hey, buddy,” he says, glancing down. “You good?”
Will nods.
Mike watches this very closely.
The older boy notices him then, standing there with his hands shoved into his pockets. He looks from Mike to Will and back again.
“You made a friend?” he asks Will.
Will looks at Mike.
Mike feels something warm bloom in his chest, quick and pleased, like he’s just been picked for something.
“Hey, bud,” the older boy says, like he knows what that look means. He shifts the helmet to his other arm. “I’m Jonathan.”
Mike nods. “I’m Mike. I’m Will’s friend starting today!”
The taller boy looks surprised. Mike notices his eyebrows go up, and Will looks at the ground, then back at Mike.
The taller boy smiles a little. “That’s good,”
Jonathan looks back down at Will again. “You ready?”
Will nods, then hesitates. He turns back and tugs on Mike’s sleeve, light but deliberate, like he’s making sure Mike is still there.
Mike brightens up at that.
“See you tomorrow!” he says.
Will’s mouth curves up into a small, quick smile. Then he turns and leaves, bag bouncing against him as he walks.
Will. His first-ever friend.
Mike rolls it around in his head and decides he likes his name.
Will quickly becomes Mike’s best best friend after that.
Not that Mike has a lot of friends to compare him to. There’s Nancy, technically, but she doesn’t really count anymore. She closes her door when Mike knocks now, or tells him she’s busy, but he doesn’t mind. Hanging out with Will was better than anything anyway.
They even sit next to each other every day at school and line up together. When the teacher says to find a partner, Mike always turns, and Will is already there. Sometimes the teacher pairs them on purpose. Sometimes she doesn’t, and Mike fixes it himself by dragging his chair or scooting closer until it’s basically the same thing.
Mike makes sure that Will is always close to him, enough that he can bump his elbow into Will’s arm if he wants to. Sometimes Mike does it on purpose.
Will looks over and makes a face like he knows exactly what Mike is doing, and Mike grins back, triumphant.
People say Will doesn’t talk much.
The teacher waits for Will to answer questions longer than she waits for anyone else, like she thinks he might just need more time. Kids tilt their heads at him, curious in a way Mike doesn’t like. Sometimes their classmates ask Mike why Will doesn’t say anything, and Mike shrugs and says he does, and they’re not just worthy to talk to.
Because Will does talk.
He talks with his hands, tugging on Mike’s sleeve when he wants him to follow, tapping the table twice when he wants juice and once when he doesn’t. He talks with his face, eyebrows pinching together when he’s confused and eyes going wide when he’s excited. He talks by leaning in close when things get loud and by pulling back when he’s done.
Mike understands him without thinking much about it, really, it’s like when you understand that mittens are for hands and socks are for feet.
Mike’s favorite activity is watching Will draw.
Will draws slowly and carefully, like the paper might do something sneaky if he doesn’t keep an eye on it. He presses too hard with the pencil and has to erase, then redraws the same line again and again until it looks right. Sometimes he gets frustrated and huffs quietly, nose scrunching up, and Mike slides his eraser over without even looking at him.
Will always takes it.
Mike likes seeing what Will notices too. He likes how Will actually draws houses smaller than trees and people bigger than cars. He likes how Will draws the same things again and again, but a little different each time, like he’s trying to ask them to stay put.
Sometimes Will draws Mike too, which makes Mike really happy. Mike knows it’s him because the hair is always wrong and the smile is always big.
They start going to each other’s houses too. At Mike’s house, Will likes the basement best because it is quiet and cool and smells like concrete and old boxes. They build things out of blocks and knock them down on purpose, again and again. Will hands Mike the pieces in a certain order, and Mike uses them that way because it works better.
At Will’s house, they do not stay as often or long, because sometimes a loud voice comes from another room and Will goes very still. Mike doesn’t really like that. But on certain days that Will’s house is quiet, they sit on the floor and draw. Jonathan brings them snacks and asks questions when he has time, and Mike answers most of them.
Sometimes, when they’re outside, Will crouches down to look at something small and important, like a bug or a crack in the sidewalk that looks like it goes somewhere. He always becomes focused and quiet when that happens. Mike crouches beside him and waits, careful not to scare it off, whatever it is.
Mike is still trying to figure out what Will is like. Maybe he’s like a mouse, because he’s small. Or maybe a chick, because he makes chirpy sounds sometimes. He could even be a cat, because he hisses when Mike accidentally breaks his crayons.
Or, or, oh, wait!
Maybe Will is a bunny.
Yes. That is it! He’s a bunny.
He startles easily, freezes when things get loud, likes to stay close, and needs you to be gentle or he’ll bolt. Bunnies are meant to be treated really carefully. But it’s perfect, because Mike is a bunny expert. He has at least 3 books about them. Maybe he’ll ask for one more tomorrow.
At school, Mike walks on the wall side of the hallway. That’s the side with the hooks that stick out and grab your shirt if you’re not careful. Backpacks swing there too, and sometimes they hit you in the arm or the face when kids turn around fast. Mike knows to watch out for that side, so he decides he’ll always keep walking on that side. It’s too dangerous for a bunny.
Will walks on the other side, by the windows. The windows make light on the floor in square shapes. The squares look like they’re playing a game, so Will steps around them instead of on them, even though he doesn’t know why.
When the teacher says to line up, everyone runs at the same time like it’s a race. Kids push and shove and complain. Mike reaches back and grabs the back of Will’s shirt so he doesn’t get lost. He doesn’t look at Will when he does it. He just holds on tight until the line stops moving and everyone is mostly standing still again.
In art class, a kid from another table walks over without asking and picks up Will’s pencil. Will stops moving. His fingers curl up and his eyes slide to the side to see what’s happening, but he doesn’t say anything.
Mike looks up from his paper.
“Hey!” Mike says.
The kid frowns. “What? I was just–”
“That’s his,” Mike says. He’s already taking the pencil back, putting it straight into Will’s hand instead of on the table.
At recess, the blacktop is packed and everyone is running everywhere at once. Mike runs too, but he keeps checking behind him. Will jogs after him, arms held close to his sides, feet careful about where they land.
Someone cuts between them really fast.
Mike stops and sticks his arm out without even looking.
“Whoa,” he says.
The kid almost trips, says something under his breath, and keeps running. Mike turns around.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Will nods and presses his knuckles into Mike’s sleeve for just a second.
At lunch, someone drops their tray and it crashes on the floor. Everyone cheers like it’s the funniest thing ever. Will jumps and ducks his head, his hands flying up toward his ears. Mike scoots closer on the bench until their legs are touching.
Mike starts talking.
He talks about how his dad says you can tell how old a car is by the sound it makes, and how that’s dumb because cars don’t have mouths. He talks about how many milk cartons are stacked by the trash and how knocking them over would make a huge mess and would probably be awesome, but he’s not going to do it.
Will starts breathing more slowly after that and eats the rest of his lunch.
During story time, the substitute teacher calls on Will right away.
“Can you tell us what happened next?” she asks, smiling.
The room gets quiet. Will stares at the book, his hands twist together in his lap.
“The frog fell in the pond,” Mike says instead. “And then he was fine.”
The teacher nods and keeps reading.
After school, they sit on the bench by the door like they always do. A kid sits too close and starts kicking his feet hard, making the bench shake. Mike feels Will go stiff next to him.
He shifts without standing up, moving so he’s in front of Will. He stretches his legs out so there isn’t any space left.
“Can you not?” Mike says.
The kid rolls his eyes and scoots away.
As they wait, Will swings his feet slowly every day, his heels knocking the wood. Mike swings his feet too, without thinking about it, and when they go wrong, he fixes it so they match again.
Jonathan comes to pick Will up most days. He always says Will’s name the same way, sure and steady, and Will always brightens when he hears it. He presses into Jonathan’s leg, then turns back to look at Mike before he goes.
Mike waves, or nods, or just stays where he is.
The next month, and many more months after, it keeps going like that.
Mike figures out which doors need to be pushed open first and which ones Will can handle on his own. He figures out which games Will likes to watch before he joins in and which ones he never touches at all. He figures out that whistles are bad and clapping is worse, but the quiet hum the projector makes when the lights are off is fine.
During an assembly in the gym, the noise gets so loud again that Will puts his head down, hands clenching tight in his lap. Mike scoots closer until their shoulders press together. He starts counting the banners hanging from the ceiling out loud, pointing with his chin as he goes. Will follows along, eyes tracking where Mike looks.
By the time they get to thirty one, the assembly is over.
At Mike's house, his mom asks if Will wants apple slices or crackers. Will just looks at Mike.
“Apples,” Mike says.
She smiles like that makes sense and brings them both a plate.
By the time they are six, nobody really remembers a time when they weren’t together. Mike’s mom starts setting out two cups without asking about it. Teachers say their names in the same breath. Other kids ask Will questions and accept answers from Mike.
Will’s words come to him automatically. Mike doesn’t think about it much.
That’s why the first time it happens, Mike doesn’t even realize what truly is happening at all.
They’re at Will’s house, sitting on the living room floor because the table is too tall and the carpet is softer anyway.
Mike sits cross-legged, hunched over his paper, his tongue caught between his teeth. Will sits beside him, knees tucked in, his paper turned just a little so Mike can see it if he looks. He’s drawing a house again. This one has even more windows than the last one, and Mike watches him carefully space them out, counting under his breath without making any sound.
The crayon box is tipped on its side, colors scattered everywhere. Mike shoves them around with his hand, pushing reds and greens into a pile, then ruining it immediately by dragging his arm through again.
Joyce is in the kitchen. Mike can hear the radio playing softly and the clink of something being set down on the counter. Jonathan walks past the doorway once, pauses, then keeps going.
Mike leans over and tips his paper toward Will. “Does this look stupid?” he asks. He points at the dinosaur-like thing he just drew. “I can’t tell.”
Will follows his finger, eyes tracking carefully. He shakes his head once.
“Really?” Mike says. He looks relieved. “Because I think it’s bad.”
Will frowns, thinking. He taps Mike’s paper twice near the neck, then points closer to the edge.
“Oh,” Mike says. “Too short?”
Will nods.
Mike erases carefully, then redraws the line a little farther in. “Like that?”
Will nods again.
Mike goes back to his drawing. He adds another tooth, then scratches it out because it still looks weird.
After a moment, Will nudges Mike’s knee with his own.
“What’s wrong,” Mike says, distracted.
Will points at the crayon box, then at the couch, then makes a small circling motion with his finger.
“The red one rolled away,” Mike says, already twisting around to look. “I saw it earlier.”
He crawls over, grabs it from near the couch leg, and drops it into Will’s hand. “Here.”
Will’s mouth curves just slightly, like he might be smiling. He bends back over his paper and starts shading.
Mike stretches his legs out and scoots closer again. “Can you look at this part too?” he asks, pointing. “It keeps looking wrong when I do it.”
Will leans in.
They work like that for a while, sitting close and drawing. Mike asks questions and waits for Will to answer before he does anything. Sometimes Will points. Sometimes he nods. Sometimes he pushes Mike’s hand away when it gets too close to his paper. Mike listens every time.
After a while, Will pauses with his pencil in the air.
Mike sees it and reaches for the yellow crayon. His fingers grab at the box, but it isn’t there. He looks again, digging around and pushing the other crayons aside. Still not there.
“Where’d it go,” he says, confused.
He twists around in his seat and checks behind him. He pats the floor with his hand, like the crayon might roll back if he touches it. He looks by the couch leg again, then farther out, squinting hard.
Still no yellow.
He sits back up, sighs, and rubs his fingers together, like that will help him think.
Will looks up at him.
“Mike.”
The word comes out a little rough, like it scraped its way free, but it’s clear. He follows Will’s gaze instead and spots the crayon near the couch leg.
“Oh!” He crawls over, grabs it, and scoots back. He drops it into Will’s hand. “I really gotta watch them.”
Will nods. “It rolled.”
“I know,” Mike says. “They always do that.”
Will bends back over his drawing and starts shading the roof.
Mike goes back to his dinosaur, adding another tooth and then deciding it looks better that way. He hums louder, off-key.
After a moment, Will glances sideways at Mike’s paper. “Too many?”
“I’ll make it as scary as possible,” Mike says immediately.
Will considers this. “Okay.”
Mike looks over at Will’s paper. “That’s good,” he says.
Will frowns at it anyway. “It’s fine.”
Mike nods. “No, really! I like it.”
Will pauses. He looks at the paper again. He erases part of it, slow and careful. “Now?”
Mike leans closer. “Yup,” he says. “That’s really good!”
Will nods and goes back over the line. He presses just hard enough that the pencil makes a faint scratchy sound. Mike adds another arm to his creature. He gives it three fingers, then four, then decides that it looks wrong and colors one of them in so it disappears. He hums while he does it, stopping only to blow crayon dust off the paper.
“Your dino’s crooked,” Will says.
“It’s leaning,” Mike says. “Like this.” He tilts his head sideways to demonstrate.
Will tilts his head too, comparing. “Okay.”
He draws another window.
“No,” Mike says immediately. “That’s the door again.”
Will erases just the bottom part, careful not to tear the paper. “Now?”
“Yup,” Mike says. “People won’t trip.”
Will nods, satisfied, and starts shading again.
“You need a chimney,” Mike says again, glancing at Will’s house.
“You think?”
Mike looks up. “Maybe.”
“Too much smoke.”
Mike thinks about it for a moment, then opens his mouth to agree.
Suddenly, something falls in the kitchen.
There is a loud clatter, and then the sound of a plate breaking. Will jumps so hard that his pencil slips out of his fingers and rolls across the carpet. In a second, Joyce comes into the living room and stops by the doorway, looking at Will like something crazy had just happened.
“Will?” she says.
Will looks up.
Joyce stares at him. Her face does something strange, like she is trying to smile and forgot how.
“You’re– you’re talking,”
Mike frowns. Of course he is.
Will looks a bit startled. “We were just drawing,” he says.
Joyce sits down on the floor all at once, even though she usually tells them not to sit there because it is hard and cold.
“Oh,” she whispers. Then she laughs, and then she cries, and Mike thinks she should probably pick one. “Oh my God.”
Jonathan is there suddenly. He kneels down next to her and puts his arm around her shoulders. His eyes look shiny, like he just splashed water on his face.
“He’s talking,” Joyce says, like she is worried Jonathan missed it. “He’s talking.”
Jonathan laughs and presses his hand over his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
Mike watches them.
Joyce reaches for Will and then hesitates, like she is not sure if she is allowed to. Then she hugs him tight, fixing it halfway through so it is not too tight.
“Mom?” Will says. He sounds a little confused, like he’s not sure if that’s the right thing to say but wants it to be helpful.
Joyce makes a loud crying sound and hugs him harder. She keeps saying his name again and again, fast, like she might forget it if she stops.
Mike looks down at his drawing and colors in another tooth.
Maybe grown-ups forget things when they are busy.
Maybe they don’t listen very carefully unless someone is talking to them on purpose.
Mike looks back at Will, who is still responding to Joyce, just like he always does with Mike.
Of course Will talks.
He’s the most expressive kid Mike has ever known.
Mike doesn’t say anything while Joyce is crying. He has learned that sometimes grown-ups need to finish whatever big feeling they’re having before you talk again, or else they don’t hear you right. So he keeps coloring.
He fills in the dino– well, monster’s last tooth and decides it looks better that way. He adds a shadow under its feet so it looks like it’s standing on something. Monsters shouldn’t float. That’s just confusing.
Will wriggles a little in his mom’s arms, not upset, just overwhelmed in the way he gets when there’s too much attention for too long. Jonathan notices right away and taps Joyce’s arm.
“Mom,” he says gently. “Give him some space.”
Joyce nods fast and lets go, wiping her face with the heel of her hand. She looks at Will like she’s seeing him for the first time and also like she’s afraid to blink in case he disappears.
“You were… you were talking,” she says again, quieter this time.
Mike looks up. “He talks to me all the time,” he says now, helpful. “Like, always.”
Joyce looks at Mike, as if she’s lining something up in her head. “He does?”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “He just doesn’t like yelling words. He uses the other ones better.”
“The other ones,” Jonathan repeats, smiling a little.
Mike nods. “Like pointing. And tapping. And faces.” He points at Will’s face for emphasis. “That one does a lot of work.”
Will’s mouth twitches.
Joyce laughs again, but this time it sounds steadier. “I guess I just–” She stops, then shakes her head. “I guess I didn’t know.”
Mike shrugs. “That’s okay.”
Jonathan clears his throat. “Hey,” he says gently. “You wanna keep drawing?”
Will nods immediately.
Joyce laughs through her tears. “Yes. Yes, of course. Keep drawing.” She says, standing up slowly. “We’ll– we’ll be right here.”
She retreats to the couch, sitting stiffly on the edge like she’s waiting for instructions.
Will picks his pencil back up. His hands shake a little.
Mike notices and pushes the yellow crayon closer, right into Will’s space. “You were doing the flowers,” he reminds him. “You were almost done.”
Will breathes out. “Yes.” He presses the pencil down and starts shading again, slower than before.
Mike flops back onto his stomach, chin in his hands. He watches Will draw like it’s the most important thing in the room, because right now, it kind of is.
Later, when Mike’s mom comes to pick him up, Joyce tells her.
She says it all at once, words tumbling over each other, hands waving. “He talked. Just– just like that. Full sentences. He’s been saying things all afternoon.”
Mike’s mom looks at Will. She smiles, warm and unsurprised. “Hi, Will.”
Will looks at Mike.
Mike nods.
“Hi,” Will says.
Mike’s mom’s smile wobbles a little, but she keeps it together. “That’s good,” she says. “That’s really good.”
The next day at school, the teacher gasps when Will answers a question. Kids turn and stare. Someone whispers.
Mike swings his legs and thinks about it.
Grown-ups, and even little kids, he realized just now, make a lot of noise when things change. They clap and cry and say things over and over like they’re trying to convince themselves they’re not dreaming.
But Mike still doesn’t get it. It feels like nothing has really changed at all.
At recess, they sit on the swings again. Will drags his shoes through the dirt, drawing lines without looking. Mike watches him, the same way he did the first day they met.
“You know,” Mike says, pushing off a little, “bunnies can make a lot of sounds if they want to.”
Will looks at him. “They can?”
“Yeah,” Mike says, smiling confidently. “They just don’t usually need to.”
Will thinks about this. Then he smiles, small and real.
“Okay,” he says.
They swing in uneven rhythm for a bit, then slowly, without either of them trying, fall into sync.
Of course Will talks. He has a lot of things he wants to say.
And Mike has always been there, listening the whole time.