Chapter Text
Alrik adjusted the leather strap at his wrist, watching Regin trace the warding runes carved into the old stone. The glyphs glowed faintly beneath his fingers, responding to him in a way they hadn’t before.
“That one’s wrong,” Alrik said, then frowned when the magic obeyed Regin anyway.
Regin glanced up, startled.
For a moment, the wind caught between them, warm and humming.
Alrik felt it settle low in his chest, unfamiliar and insistent.
He shifted closer, as if guarding the spell.
Or the boy.
He wasn’t certain which.
The box has been sitting in his hallway for almost an hour before Mike touches it.
He knows it’s his. The return address confirms it; same small publishing company in New York, typed neatly on a white sticker. Still, he keeps pretending it could be something else. Pamphlets. Newspapers. Church advertisements.
Anything but his.
It’s heavier than he expected when he finally carries it into his living room, dropping it onto the empty coffee table before sitting down on his couch heavily.
He stares at it for a while. The cardboard is clean and unmarked except for a strip of brown tape down the middle.
He tears the tape open with his thumb, getting hit with the smell of ink and glue and freshly printed pages. Library smell. The books are stacked neatly inside the box, all the same.
He spends another second staring. Then he picks one up.
The cover is matte, dark blue fading into black at the edges. A shield etched faintly into the background. Two figures standing with their backs turned, imaginary cloaks floating through the wind.
His fake name is printed at the bottom in clean serif letters. He’s been here before, staring at a name that wasn’t his boldly printed onto a book that contained his work. This was the second book in his series, so he should be used to it by now. But it still doesn’t feel like his real name, even though he chose it carefully.
The release of the first book wasn’t nearly as nerve-wracking as this. The first book didn’t incriminate him like this one did. Although he always knew where the story was going to end. If he didn’t, the letters on the cover would read Michael Wheeler instead of M. Turner.
He flips through the pages, catching glimpses of phrases he remembers writing at two in the morning. Sentences he rewrote until his hand cramped. Metaphors he told himself were about heroes and magic. Not about him.
He closes the book abruptly, throwing it onto the table before closing the box.
When he sent the manuscript off months ago, it had felt hypothetical. Like throwing a piece of himself down a well, with no way to ever be found. He purposefully sent the manuscripts of the first book to a publishing company he knew printed queer literature, but he still held onto the belief that he’d be rejected. And even when they asked about revisions and printing numbers, he couldn’t fully grasp the realness of the situation.
His only saving grace was knowing he was anonymous. That almost no one on earth knew he was M. Turner, so no one would ever know the amount of his own blood he put behind those pages.
So he tells himself not to spiral. He’s gotten good at that over the last few years, recognizing the start of it, the way his thoughts begin to race too quickly inside his head.
This was the plan. He wanted it published. He wanted it read. He wanted it to be appreciated by people who would understand.
And he knows he changed everything, from the names to the setting to the outcome of the story. It was fantasy. Technically, only people who truly knew that he wrote it should be able to figure out what it’s really about.
But he can’t stop seeing it. The way Regin hesitates before speaking. The way Alrik watches Regin laugh like his happiness is something fragile. The way Alrik explodes just like him. The way Regin is always the victim of Alrik’s short-comings.
Mike presses his palms into his eyes, sighing deeply.
When he started writing the first book, he wasn’t writing it on purpose. That’s the part he keeps coming back to.
He had just come home from Will’s place, an entire evening of laughing and playing games and recounting old stories behind him. He remembers looking at Will’s beer flushed face with so much fondness in his heart it was threatening to spill right out of him. The way his eyes crinkled, the way he leaned forward, clutching his stomach. The words laid right on the tip of Mike’s tongue, and he had to bite his lips in order to keep them inside.
He sat down and started writing. He didn’t have an outline, just the thoughts that had been rummaging inside his head since he stepped outside of Will’s apartment that had followed him all the way back home.
It was easier to write everything down than to say anything out loud. It’s always been that way. There were no repercussions.
He picks the box up, carrying it into his bedroom and putting it down inside his closet, hidden from visitors.
Specifically, hidden from Will, who was supposed to show up any minute now. They went out for coffee every Saturday, a tradition they implemented to ensure they’d stay in contact. It’s kind of useless, because most weeks they hang out on other days anyway, but they still haven’t missed a single Saturday since they moved out of Hawkins. That was five years ago now.
Will’s arrival was the only reason he found the courage to pick up the box, knowing that if it was still sitting around openly with Will inside that it would make him too nervous to act normal.
He looks himself over in the mirror, dressed already, picking at his hair. He’s been growing it out again, strands tickling his face uncomfortably. He likes it better like this, but it was hard to get used to.
The knock on the door forces him to stop, and he hastily walks towards his entrance. He lives in a shady apartment building, the walls of the hallway cracked with an unnerving smell lingering in the air. But his neighbors are nice and never complain about the loud music coming from his apartment, and the landlord always comes to fix whatever’s broken, so he hasn’t found a reason yet to try to look for something better.
He stands in front of the door for a moment, breathing hard, before gently opening the door.
Will is standing in the hallway, jacket half-zipped, hair curling at the ends. He smiles when he sees Mike, soft and easy, in the way only Will ever smiles at him.
“Hey,” Will says.
“Hey,” Mike answers.
Will looks him over, eyes squinting just a little. “You okay? You look like you just ran a mile.”
Mike snorts weakly, letting his own eyes roam over Will’s frame. “I was- uh. Cleaning.”
Will hums like he doesn’t believe him, but he lets it go anyway.
“Ready?” Will asks. “Jonathan says the new place downtown is pretty good.”
“Yeah. Yeah, just- give me a sec.”
Will steps inside his apartment while Mike grabs his jacket from the chair, looking for his wallet.
He can see Will’s gaze drift from the corner of his eye, curious as always. His eyes land on the coffee table, and Mike’s eyes follow.
His heart slams violently against his ribs.
The book he had taken out just a few minutes ago is still sitting right on the usually empty coffee table. He must have forgotten to put it back into the box when he packed it away.
“Oh my God,” Will exclaims as he picks up the book, gently, like he’s afraid of bending the spine.
Mike goes very still.
“Wait,” Will says as slowly, “Is this-”
The urge to interrupt Will’s thought process is strong, but as he opens his mouth, he can’t bring himself to produce any sounds.
“This is the second one.” Will’s eyes light up as he says it. “I didn’t know it was out already.”
Mike tries to calm himself down, thoughts racing, the spiral he had stopped earlier coming back full force.
“You-, you’ve read the first one?” Mike stutters out, still standing frozen by the dining table.
Will laughs softly. His eyes move from the book to Mike’s face. Mike feels exposed in a way he hasn’t in a long time. “Read it? I loved it, Mike. It’s one of my favorite books ever. I’ve read it, like, three times already.”
A confusing mix of shame and pride swirl up in his chest. He was glad Will liked it, he valued his opinion more than anyone’s. And since the first book didn’t include anything explicitly romantic yet it couldn’t even be because there was such a shortage of queer books on the market. Will really just liked his writing. His storytelling.
Still, something inside him hates that he read it. Those pages include his best kept secrets. Not just his feelings for Will, but his deeply rooted insecurities. It feels like Will read his diary without his permission, although Mike knows that’s ridiculous. He published the book for anyone to read, knowing Will loved fantasy books and that there was a chance he would pick this one up. Especially when the small book shop they always went to together started selling it.
And Will doesn’t know he wrote it. He has to keep reminding himself of that, because as long as he doesn’t find out, he’s still unexposed. Still safe from judgement.
Will keeps talking, unaware of Mike’s panic-induced stand still.
“It was so good. I mean, the world building alone? The writing style? And the characters-,” Will stops speaking abruptly, voice getting quieter as he timidly drops his gaze back to the book in his hands. “It was really good.”
Will flips the book over, scanning the back like he’s trying to memorize it.
“I cried at the end,” he adds, seemingly embarrassed. “After Freia died, and Alrik chose to leave with Regin. I didn’t expect that. I thought he’d go off on his own. Or stay in Eldermoor.”
Mike’s throat tightens as he tries to force himself to respond.
“Yeah,” he manages, “It was… sad.”
“Sad, but hopeful.” Will corrects him immediately. “That’s the best kind.” He looks up, smiling. Mike has to look away.
“Who’s your favorite character?” Mike hears himself ask against his will. He regrets the question as soon as he asks it, just wanting the conversation to end. But he still anticipates Will’s answer.
The truth is, he’s been dying to talk to Will about his books, desperate to know his thoughts. Will was usually the first person he went to with any idea or draft he had. He couldn’t do that with this book before, for obvious reasons, but now he finally has an opening. He can’t help but poke at it, a little.
Will responds quickly. “Alrik. I know you’re not supposed to choose the protagonist as your favorite, but I just-, I don’t know. I really like him.” He pauses, and Mike can hear him flipping through the pages a little bit. “Who’s yours?”
“Regin.” Mike responds, breathlessly. He looks back up at Will, only to find his eyes already on him.
Will smiles at him softly before changing the subject.
“Did you read this already?”
Mike follows the movement of Will’s hands as he points towards the book. “Uh, yeah. I have.”
Will’s eyes light up again. “Can I borrow it, then? I promise I’ll bring it back in peak condition. I breezed through the last one in, like, two days anyway.”
Mike wants to say no, anxiety pumping through his veins. But he always had a problem saying no to Will, and he couldn’t come up with a logical reason to deny Will’s request.
“Sure, yeah. Take your time, there’s no rush.”
Will smiles again as he gently places the book inside his bag. “Thank you.”
They stand there for a second, awkwardly looking at each other. At least it felt awkward to Mike, Will was missing some very important context that might make the situation feel a lot different to him.
“So, you ready? We should go.” Mike manages to break the silence, and Will nods, slinging the bag back over his shoulder before following Mike towards the door. Mike looks back at Will as he closes the door, a small flush on his face still present from the cold. He wishes he could take a picture.
When Mike gets home, he doesn’t remember what they talked about over coffee. Only the way his chest never unclenched.
He throws his jacket back on the chair in his dining area, not bothering to place it there neatly. His apartment is quiet, cold air coming in from the window he forgot to close before leaving.
He drags himself towards his couch, sitting down with his head in his hands.
Will loved the book.
That’s the thought that sticks out most inside his head.
He didn’t just love the book, he loved the characters. He loved Alrik, who Mike projected all his best and worst qualities onto. It makes him feel nauseous. He doesn’t know if it’s due to anxiety or excitement.
He runs his fingers through his hair, exhausted. Will having read the first book isn’t what’s so nerve-wracking to him. There’s nothing bad inside it. And Will obviously didn’t figure out that it was him who wrote it, or he wouldn’t have responded like that. But if he reads this second one and pieces it together, everything he worked so hard to hide for the past six years of his life falls to pieces.
The image won’t leave him; Will curled up somewhere, reading the words Mike typed out carefully with his heart in pieces. Seeing devotion and longing and knowing it came from Mike. It scared him.
Mike grabs the phone off the side table before he can overthink it.
He dials from memory.
It rings a few times before someone finally picks up.
“Hello?”
“Max,” Mike breathes out, relieved to hear her voice.
Max is the only one who knows about his book. The only one who knows about his feelings. Even the only one who knows that he’s capable of liking men. Saying it out loud still feels scary to him.
She figured his feelings out for Will a long time ago, confronting him one drunken night when everyone else already went to bed. He remembers trying to deny it at first, but the mixture of vodka, cheap wine, and Max’s piercing, annoyed stare made him break. He told her everything he’d been feeling. How he thinks he must’ve loved Will since he first saw him, and how he was never quite able to accept that part of himself.
Mike told her about the clench in his stomach when Will smiled, or how he felt sick whenever Will talked about some guy he was dating. About how he had missed his chance, and now it was too late.
The only thing he didn’t tell her about was the quiet grief that was still sitting inside his chest, the feelings for El he still wears like a bruise that never quite heals. Realizing his heart was still capable of wanting something else afterward had made him feel selfish, and broken, and wrong.
He felt wrong, because before El, there was Will, and during El, there was still Will, lingering at the back of his mind even when he was alone with her. He hated knowing he wasted her one chance at love.
But he wrote about it in his new book, and Max read the manuscripts before he even sent it out to the publisher. Ever since then, it’s been sitting between them like an unspoken secret. She hasn’t asked, and he hasn’t told. Maybe the bruise still hasn’t quite healed for her, either.
They’ve been a lot closer since he told her. They have much more in common than Mike previously thought. He also thinks that’s the exact reason they didn’t get along when they were younger.
“Mike? What happened?” Max asks, concern evident in her voice.
Mike sighs deeply before responding. “He read it.”
A heavy silence sits between them for a minute. He knew she knew who and what he was talking about.
He hears her shuffle through the speaker. “Did he figure it out?”
“No, I don’t think so. But he saw the second book on my table. He asked to borrow it.” He bit on the skin of his thumb, a nervous habit he picked up somewhere between Will going missing and El’s death.
Of course, she immediately detects his anxiety. “Mike, breathe.”
“Thanks for the suggestion. Haven’t thought of that yet.” Mike’s tone was harsh. He knows his snappish attitude was sort of childish, reminiscent of his teenage self, but he knew Max could take it. She was the only one who still dishes back, anyway.
“Okay, asshole, then suffocate and die.” Her response made him huff an air of laughter, panic loosening in his chest just slightly. “I don’t think this is as bad as you think it is. If he hasn’t figured out that the first one is about him, he won’t know this one is either.”
“But this one’s worse. I got too careless. There’s too much of us in it.”
There’s paper shuffling in the background as Max speaks up again. “I promise you, if he doesn’t know yet, he never will. You’re way too obvious in real life, a random book isn’t what’s gonna break the spell.”
Mike stands up, starts pacing. “But what if it does?”
The reply is quick. “Then you finally fucking talk to him. Tell him how you feel.”
Mike stops and reels back in offense. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Well, why the hell not?”
“It’s not fair to him. He moved on. I can’t unload all of my shit on him, almost 10 years too late.”
He can hear her sighing heavily. She’s been dealing with this way too long, he knows.
“Yes, you can. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way, it’s not gonna break your friendship.”
“Max, how many times have we had this conversation? You’re never going to convince me to do it. I can’t do that to him. He deserves better than that.” Better than me is the part he doesn’t say out loud. Max probably hears it anyway.
“I’m going to keep trying if there’s even a chance it ends with you getting your head out of your ass.” She pauses. “Listen, stop freaking out, okay? We can’t know anything before he finishes reading it. Even if he connects the dots, do you know how easy it would be to just convince him that he’s crazy? This whole situation isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence for people.”
Mike takes a deep breath, heart rate calming down. He knows she’s right. It’s still terrifying, knowing Will has this piece of him inside his bag right now, but there’s no way he’d know. Hopefully.
“I just-, yeah, you’re right. You’re right. I guess I’ll see when he brings the book back.”
“Good. Calm down. Go to bed. Or write another romantic fantasy book, if it helps you. You weirdo.” She teases, and he laughs.
“Fine, okay. Thank you.”
“Of course. Take care. And call me when you get an update.”
Mike snorts. “You’re so nosy.”
“If I’m gonna have to listen to all your bullshit then I expect to at least get all the juicy details.” There’s shuffling on the other side again, footsteps approaching. Her voice is quieter when she speaks. “Lucas just came home, I gotta go. I love you.”
“Love you,” he responds, before he hears the all too familiar click, a sign that she hung up.
He tries to go on with his evening as normally as possible. Max calmed him down, but he still couldn’t shake the thought of Will out there, in his apartment, reading his book. He wanted to know his every thought. He wanted him to never bring it up again.