Work Text:
To my dearest, Will
Do you remember when that one English teacher we had in our first year of middle school went on about how 'the eyes are the windows into one's soul'?
I remember thinking it was pretty ridiculous, I mean as if you could know someone by looking at their eyes, let alone see into their soul.
Well, I've had a lot more time on my hands to think about it, and what it could mean.
Do you remember the campaign we did the day you went missing?
That's stupid, you probably remember it the clearest out of any of us.
Well I've been thinking about that night a lot. You a lot. Your eyes, I mean.
The way your eyes like, beamed every time I'd reveal a new piece of the lore, no matter how terribly I set up the reveal.
I don't think anyone has looked at me with that much, I don't know, excitement? I can't think of a word appropriate for the intensity.
I don't think someone ever will look at me the way you did, again.
I keep thinking back to it, though. How it was the last time I was able to make your eyes that blown out and feverish and downright sparkling.
I think the Upside Down stole that from you, from us.
Maybe I just stopped being worthy of that reaction after a while.
Either way, I miss it.
I miss seeing into your eyes and looking at your soul.
Ever since you came back, I can't help but see everything that has happened when I try to see you.
It feels like even though you came back physically, you never really returned to me.
Is that fucked up to think?
Actually, I know thats fucked up to think, especially considering everything that went down.
Everyone who went down.
Maybe it's not the Upside Down or even Vecna that made you so much harder to see, but me.
Do you still draw?
Us, I mean. Do you still draw the party? Me? Will the Wise?
I think if I sat you down and described the shift in your eyes, It'd make more sense. You always had a way of making my writing become something more tangible.
We could go through your new fancy paints and I'd pick the colours your eyes used to be, vibrant and unyielding. Emerald with chartreuse littered throughout like the stars which pollute the sky.
Can you still see the stars in the city? Dustin told me something about the amount of lights in cities making it difficult. I hope you can still see the stars.
That night in the hospital after you were found I could tell something had changed. Your eyes were more of a seaweed. Darker, more timid. Like someone had smudged ink across the emerald green eyes that were reserved for me. I guess they matched the new tremble and strain in your smile.
What was it you'd always say to me? If you could say it in words, why would you paint? I don't know. A quote you said inspired you by some famous painter you read about in those old art books Mrs Byers (Mrs Hopper?) gave you for Christmas when we were kids.
Anyways, what I'm trying to say is we should meet up sometime. Catch up face-to-face. Like old times.
I want to see you. Your soul, that is.
I miss you.
With love,
Mike.
09/03/1993