Chapter Text
Mike stared at the painting. His likeness turned away from him, his tiny acrylic sword raised against the braying head of the dragon. Will’s cleric stood to the south of the heart Mike the Brave wore on his shield, stood at the head of the party, leading them. It had been his for three years now, back when he still lived in the momentary euphoria of El’s return - everything would be fine once she got back to Hawkins. It had been shoved under his bed since then. Like he’d said, his euphoria had been momentary. It was slathered in dust and carpet fluff, surprisingly light in his palms, which was ideal, he supposed, grabbing an elastic band from the emptying knick-knacks drawer of his desk; it wouldn’t be a burden to pack. He slipped the canvas in between a folded desk lamp and a pile of books, huddled among a few other posters, a little too empty to close the lid on before. The tape stretched across the top and wrinkled over every dip and cranny, cut off just in time for his mother to burst into the room.
“The car’s here, Michael, hurry up!” She snapped, her eyes flashing from side to side as she searched for something else to run off with.
“Ok, ok, jeez, I’m nearly done!” He lifted his hands as if in surrender, and the box was snatched from under them, “Don’t squash it!” he tried as she left, just out of earshot.
Her voice trailed up the stairwell, followed by another, one that made his chest tighten. “Sorry, Will, you know what he’s like. Late for everything.”
“It’s fine, Mrs Wheeler,” Will replied, polite as always.
They were really going today. No more Hawkins, no more Nancy or Holly, no more Dustin or Lucas or Max. Just Will and him and California. USC wasn’t and had never been his first choice, but he hadn’t given a damn where he was going since 1986. He hadn’t thought he would even live this far. He nearly hadn’t. And when he had no clue on what to do, he always followed Will. Besides, Dornsife was good enough for him as far as creative writing courses went, and if it was awful, he would have Will to bitch to. His mom said it would be good for him, getting out of Hawkins. So did Will, and Dustin and Lucas when he’d breached the topic to them. And he knew it deep down too. But actually admitting that was the hard part.
“Michael!” His mom shouted from the bottom of the stairs, shooing him like a chicken.
“I’m coming!” He yelled back, frantically gathering the last of the boxes and swinging his backpack over his shoulder. He had no chance of giving his room a last, sweeping glance that would live in his memories for the next two weeks, instead slamming the door and jumping down the stairs, the boxes barely holding on.
“Hey, sorry about that,” he managed from behind a wall of cardboard, “I forgot a couple of posters.”
Will smiled bemusedly, reaching up to take a box, his T-shirt sleeves hugging his arms, “Don’t worry about it. We have ages to get on the road.”
The door was already open, and Will backed out of it into the glare of the sun, already warming up to whatever insufferable temperature it chose to reach today, the rays peering through the conifer branches. Will’s car was reversed into the drive, the trunk popped and packed to bursting with cardboard boxes and bags. Mike had never openly admitted it to Will - but he knew he’d caught on - that he was sickeningly jealous that he could drive. Will had passed his test with flying colours first try. Mike had got nervous and forgotten about the handbrake when trying to park on one of the only hills in Hawkins. His parents had yet to sign him up for more lessons. He found a spot for his box between two others, one labelled ‘Bathroom’ and the other ‘stationery’ in Joyce’s cramped handwriting.
“If there’s no space in the trunk just put them in the back seat,” Will said from the inside over the cargo cover, doused in shadow so his eyes dimmed to brown.
Mike nodded, nausea prodding his throat. Almost everything he owned was going to be sat in Will’s Honda Prelude and carted across the country in flimsy cardboard, his room left bare for months as everything in Hawkins went on without him. He shut the door with both hands, the bang echoing off the tree behind him, and began to busy himself with another set of boxes his mom had brought out. She jostled them in her arms, and he lunged forward,
“Hey, that’s my tapedeck!”
“I wouldn’t know, Michael. You haven’t labelled it,” her eyebrows arched accusingly at him, and she passed them over, ignoring his glare.
Mike lent in the backseat door, letting Will pull them onto the pile he’d begun, “I can never get anything right,” he muttered, watching his tapedeck slide into the safety of the underseat.
“Mom labelled all of mine. I wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t.”
“Yeah, but your mom is great, and mine is just … nagging me all the time,” Mike watched her brown heels clatter into the hallway.
Will followed his gaze, kneeling on the seat, “You’ll miss her when we’re there.”
Mike huffed, staggering a little under Will’s push to his side. He glanced back at him, smiling, one given, one returned. They’d barely spoken in the summer. At least compared to how much “best friends” should speak. He’d spent his time shut up in his room, grieving, ignoring Will when he came to the door, or sent a note, or brought round comics for him to read. He’d been a total asshole. But Will didn’t seem to hold it against him. If he had, Mike didn’t know what he’d do. Not be on his way to California, he supposed. Not getting out of Hawkins.
His mom announced herself with the snap of her heels on the patio, depositing more boxes in Mike’s arms, “There’s a mountain of boxes inside, Michael. Can you make yourself useful?”
He rolled his eyes and followed her, giving Will a look where he waited in the car, responded to only with a smirk.
“Don’t give me attitude on the day you’re leaving for college, young man,” his mother warned, raising her left hand into the sunlight, the golden band around her finger glinting dully.
“I’m not.” He re-entered the house, the times he would in the next four months lowering into single digits.
By the time he’d finally stuffed his backpack into the footwell between two other bags, his dad had finally woken up. Holly had come to watch from the living room window before Ted had got out of the Lay-Z-Boy, and that was saying something considering how many pills she’d been prescribed since November. She was usually out until noon at least. He stepped into the hall to yell that he was ready, and nearly bumped straight into his dad.
He stared blankly down at his son through his glasses, wrinkles peaking over his forehead, “Where are you going, Michael?”
“College?” He replied. Of course his dad had forgotten. The only things he remembered were what channel the football was on and where the jar of cheese balls were.
He looked uninterestedly past Mike to the drive, where Will waited nervously by the bright red Honda, then back at Mike, flattening his lips, “See you at Christmas, son.”
He walked off into the kitchen. Mike watched his reseeding polo shirt, another weight rolling down his throat into his stomach. That was poor, even for Ted Wheeler. Nonetheless, he shouted up the stairwell, “Okay, we’re going now!” prompting the scrambling of feet and as Nance and his mom ran to send him off. He stepped back, and Holly appeared from the dining room, her hair down over her shoulders, caught on the lace of her pink cotton shirt.
He started, then gathered himself, “Hey. Why are you up so early?”
“You’re going?” She stared up at him with slightly bloodshot eyes.
Mike nodded, slipping a shirt button through his fingers to do something with his hands, “Yeah, but I’ll be back for the holidays.”
“Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, well no,” her shoulders slumped, “But for Christmas.”
“So Will won’t be around to draw with me?”
“No, but you can use all the crayons in the basement. And all the DnD stuff. It can be yours when I’m away.”
She sucked on her lower lip. It came away bloody, “Thanks, I guess."
His mom rocketed down the stairs, clutching her pearl necklace, pursued by Nance, and exhaled the second she saw Holly. “Oh, sorry, Michael. We were looking for Holly. Where’s your father?” She looked instinctively towards the Lay-Z-Boy, abnormally absent.
“In the kitchen. It’s fine, he already said goodbye,” Mike grabbed her arm before she could advance further down the hall.
She eyed him sceptically, but turned back, giving up the chase. Nancy ambled down the last few steps, her fringe still held back in clips from sleep, “Will’s got all your important things, right? ID, wallet, food?”
“Why would Will have my ID?”
“Because he actually brings the important things, not his entire collection of VHS tapes.”
Mike grumbled at her, but it was all performative. The string around his stomach was tightened. She pulled him into a hug, her head only reaching his earlobe even with the extra height of the bottom step, “You’ll be fine. There’ll be a DnD club somewhere,” Nance pulled away, a stray hair tickling his chin, “and you can always drop out if it’s trash.”
He smiled at her fondly, before his mom pulled him away into her own arms, “But you’re not going to drop out because it will be amazing, won’t it, Mike?”
Mike held her tightly, the familiar scent of her perfume filling his brain one last time, “No, it’s going to be great. And Will’s going to be there.” His throat burned, and he swallowed against it. She held him at arms length then planted a kiss on his cheek, her wide eyes glistening in the sunlight.
Holly came last. She hovered by the wall, chewing on her fingernails, and he scooped her off the floor like he used to do to annoy her years ago. Some things hadn’t changed. “Mike!” She yelled, kicking her feet against his chest.
“We’ll miss you,” he said over her protest, strands of golden hair sticking to his face.
“And I’ll miss Will more than you, dipshit,” she said into his shoulder, giving up.
Mike set her down on the carpet, smiling sadly at her begrudging smile. He leant back on his heels, “Alright, I’m… off,” he motioned over his shoulder to the opened door, and his mom nodded, staunching a fallen tear with the crook of her thumb, “Yes, yes, off you go.”
He backed onto the path, waved through the door frame and received three back, then hurried down the path to Will. One tear was camouflaged under the guise of rearranging hair, and he smiled at his friend, who left the rock he was kicking around to open the passenger door.
“Ready?” Will asked, searching Mike’s face.
“Yeah,” he slid into the seat, giving him a brief smile before squashing his feet around each side of his backpack and clipping himself in. He didn’t look back. Not just yet. Will slammed the door and made his way round to the driver’s side, fishing the keys from his shorts pocket. Mike’s chest clung to the house, his heart rocketing in its cage as the engine coughed into life, pulling and stretching as the pedals were pushed and the car began to move.
He rolled down the window, stuck a hand out and waved, “Bye!” he yelled, as the car tipped onto the pavement. His family waved from the front step, brown and blonde watching the black sheep go, and in one round of the sprinkler, they were gone. He pulled himself back into the car and let out a juddering breath. Will drummed his fingers against the wheel to a silent beat, the band aids hugging them sticking and pulling from the plastic. Mike leaned back in his seat, swallowing and attempting to conceal his red-rimmed eyes. Will wouldn’t say anything if he saw him crying. They’d got tearful in front of each other a million times. But that was when they were little. Now it didn’t count. He watched the familiar houses pass in a blur, one, two, three, all the same. Two days time, the conifers would turn to palm trees and the houses would become unfamiliar cubes full of unfamiliar faces. There would be no one to hold him back anymore, only their nagging voices in his head. But El would, in the silence of Will’s car, the walls he’d built between them, his guilt, his shame and in anytime he thought of Hawkins. And that was why he was going, he told himself. It was killing him. It nearly had. And he had plenty of time to knock down walls between the two of them. California was going to be great. He just had to let go.
“Hey, can you get the map out?” Will gestured to the glove box, keeping his eyes on the road as they passed by Lucas’s.
Mike wondered if he was watching as he unclipped the latch, letting the door fall nearly into his lap. The map was neatly folded in between a couple of manuals and documents, and he unchained it, spreading it over his thighs. It was a normal spread of Indiana, Indianapolis highlighted with a big red star, avoided completely with a wobbly marker line down the middle.
“I’ll be fine until we reach Marion,” Will sped them down another street, nearing Forest Hills, “then I’ll need directions.”
Mike trailed a finger down the line of cherry red and snorted, bringing it back with a sniff and a swallow.
Will turned momentarily, “What?”
“We’re going down Route Sixty-Nine,” He smiled at Will even though he knew he wouldn’t find it as funny, distracting himself from the burning dryness of his eyes.
Will rolled his eyes and shook his head, unsuccessful in loosening the grin on his lips. He rummaged one hand in the map pocket by his side. “Damn. Jonathan took them all out.”
“I have some,” Mike unzipped his backpack and dug straight to the bottom, hitting gold with a plastic box under a pile of battered comics. He unclasped the clear case and slotted the cassette into its place in the deck, where it was sucked away into nothing. A couple of static filled seconds later and the intro of Smalltown Boy filled the car.
“Oh, God no,” Will sighed, “I should never have let you pick.”
Mike slapped the map with both hands, “What’s wrong with Bronski Beat?”
“Have you been listening to this song with your ass? It’s horrible!”
“And you listen to The Smiths!”
“Because The Smiths are good!”
“You tell yourself that.”
“Fine. When we get to Route Sixty-Nine I’m putting The Smiths on.”
Mike threw himself back dramatically in his seat, pretending to rip his hair out. Will laughed over the steering wheel, a laugh he reserved only for Mike. It was high and contagious, like foxes in the night, a little breathless, and Mike began to crack up too. The Honda Prelude shot down the IN-15, through the sun, the windows rolled down, on its scarlet way to California.
***
The car pulled into the gas station parking lot and Will cut the gas, its engine stuttering into submission. Mike uncurled his legs from the seat, brushing down his jeans. They were way too hot to be worn in the middle of summer. They opened the car doors and stepped out, the identical grass plains of Illinois stretching away into more identical trees, the only hint of humanity the power lines and a rusted phone box basking in the sun over the road. They’d passed a hundred of these stations already, only stopping here because Will had complained he was hungry.
“I’m going to find a bathroom,” Mike said over the gleaming car roof as they slammed the doors shut.
“Alright, I’ll see you back at the car then,” the wallet was stuffed into Will’s back pocket as he began the walk up to the bright red doors.
The station was cool from the large ceiling fan whizzing in circles above their heads, slightly dull even under the fluorescent lights. Will wandered off to the refrigerated aisle while Mike found the bathroom in the back, locking himself inside. As he washed his hands, he looked up into the spotted mirror. He wasn’t in the best shape, but he hadn’t been for a year and a half. At this point it was normal. His under eye circles were looped in veins and plum pigmentation, his lips bitten and bloody and scabbed over day after day after day after day. He barely brushed his hair any more, and his shirt was a crinkled mess of grey and navy from sitting on his floor for days. Maybe weeks. Next to Will, he looked like he’d been through a hurricane. He tried flattening his hair, his wet hands slipping through each curl to find more and more knots. For the first couple of weeks, his mom had nagged him into taking baths, going out, getting dressed, eating. But as he became less and less responsive, she’d given up. Mike had stayed in bed for a week before The Party had shown up in his bedroom, thrown his curtains open and shoved him into the bathroom for a bath, washed the weeks of grease out his hair for him, found him a new pair of clothes and forced him outside to go to the cinema. They hadn’t staged such a full scale house invasion since, but Will had turned up twice a week to help out. This rarely included a hair wash and shower. He gave up on his now damp curls, yanking paper towels from the dispenser and wiping his hands. He had bigger fish to fry than some hair knots. He left the bathroom and walked into the main body of the station, looking around down the aisles and avoiding the eyes of the cashier. It was Will-free. He left the doors, the cheerful ringing of the bell dissolving into cicada chirping coming from somewhere among the corn fields. He slipped into the car, theirs the only one in the lot.
Will was fastening the lid on his bottle of orange juice, “Good whiz?” he asked, passing the bottle to Mike.
Mike hummed back in agreement, uncapping it and taking a sip. It was sour and had all the bits in. He grimaced and put it back in the drinks holder.
“Alright, my music now,” Mike leant down to his bag. The engine revved with the clatter of keychains. Mike grabbed another tape from the bottom of his bag, straightening up just in time to catch the bag of skittles thrown into his lap, “Thanks.”
Will clipped his seatbelt in, “No problem.”
Mike turned the tape over. It seemed unfamiliar. Across the white band, in his own boxy handwriting it read “For Will”. Memories slammed him in the head like the butt of a gun. He had sat on his floor for hours over weeks, waiting on a radio station he hadn’t really liked, recording over and over to get the songs he knew Will liked until he had filled the cassette. It hadn’t been done in time for Christmas.
“Oh, it’s one for you.”
“What?”
Mike showed him the tape, “As in, I made it for you. I never got it to you in time, though. It was when you were in Lenora.”
Will took it carefully from Mike’s fingers, his face unreadable.
Mike’s stomach dropped. Did he not like it? He’d stopped going on about The Cure recently. Had he fallen out of love with them? And they made up at least forty percent of the tracks too.
Will flipped it over to the B side, then back to A. He turned and smiled, real, toothy, genuine, “Thanks.”
Mike shrugged, his chest tightening a little, “Don’t worry about it.”
Will pressed the cassette into its chute, and The Cure began the drive as he spun them out of the parking lot and onto the road. A Twix bar balanced between his middle and ring fingers where it leaked caramel onto his bright red band aids, “When’s our next turn?”
“In two more lefts. Are we getting into Missouri soon?”
“I hope so.” The car was pooled in music, crinkling Will’s nose as he smiled along to the lyrics.
“What town are we staying in again?” Mike unclasped the glovebox and switched the map of Illinois for the map of Missouri.
“Springfield,” Will said between bites.
Mike found it in the bottom left of Missouri, another red line drawing his eyes to it, “Still ages to go, then,” He rolled down the window and leaned out, the wind whipping his collar this way and that, his collar flashing in and out of his peripheral. He sighed into the stream of breeze then ducked back into the car. Will nodded along to the chorus of the song, the sun highlighting the dips and rises in his cheeks, slipping and sliding as he moved. Mike smiled to himself, glad his friend hadn’t grown out of the music he’d loved three years ago.
***
The sun had drowned itself in drink and taken to bed by the time they passed town lines into Springfield. By now, Will was barely talking, clearly exhausted. Mike had not been capable of keeping the conversation going. He curled in his seat, watching the flat expanses of drought - dried grass pass by, his forehead rhythmically stroked by coppery street light rays as they broke through the Honda’s windows. His head pressed against the glass, the cold seeping through his skin and into his mind. A restlessness played in his joints, not quite aching but craving to be stretched out onto the dashboard like a cat after its nap. He’d been sat in the same rotating set of positions for eight hours. A neon white sign flashed by, swallowed by a wall of leaves, and the car began slowing as they approached a crossroads. Will indicated right and they whirred round the bend, passing onto another main road and more Missouri grass plains. Mike closed his eyes, bronze slipping over his eyelids and highlighting his veins, then siphoning off into blackness. Will yawned loudly and the click of the indicator came again, a pause in the acceleration, then the turn of the car as it crunched onto beaten down tarmac. He opened his eyes again to see a smattering of cars parked in the shadows of a long cubic building set with curtained windows. The car slipped into a spot on its lonesome, and Mike sat up slowly. The keychains clinked as Will turned the engine off. He exhaled, hard and long, nearly becoming a whistle as he let it go. Mike caught his eye in the rear view mirror, and they smiled at each other.
“No more driving until tomorrow,” Will said, the relief evident in his voice, “Then it’s only, what? Twelve hours to Albuquerque?”
Mike closed his eyes and laughed, “Oh, Jesus.”
“You’re not even driving,” a pinch squeezed his side, and he grabbed Will’s wrist. He always picked the same spot. He had since they were little. Only because he knew where he was ticklish.
Will sighed, and opened the door, a sudden cold breeze filtering into the front, “Come on, let’s check in. I’m starving.”
Mike dropped his wrist and snatched his bag from the floor, stepping out into the parking lot. Bugs sung in the grass beyond the fence, hidden in the leaves of the billowing trees, overhung by a plum sky. A street light swarmed by moths cast the only light over the tarmac expanse. A small white cubic office sat opposite the tarmac from them, a huge arrow sign strung to the side to point them obnoxiously inside for “Midtown Motel, Rooms available!” Will locked up the car, his own backpack slung over one shoulder, and then followed Mike towards the office. His brunette hair, bobbing in Mike’s peripheral, was played on by the golden light, sucked into a ghostly green as they entered the cool light of the office. It was small and cramped, the lights buzzing over the tick of a plastic clock, the red second hand ticking past the five. A desk sat in the centre, decorated sparsely with a scarlet phone, cash register, and various books. A girl sat behind the counter with a Coke and a magazine, her black hair piled onto her head in a wrinkled pink scrunchie, sneakers crossed on the desk.
She looked up through her lashes when Will cleared his throat. “Hey, we have a room booked under Joyce Byers,” he smiled nervously, and gripped the strap of his bag tighter.
The girl put down her Coke, the straw rolling over the lip of the bottle. The ghost of an eye roll washed over her pointed features. The book flipped open over her hands, slashed with table after table of names and numbers. “Room seven. That’s thirty dollars.”
Will fished his wallet out and handed over a couple of notes, left unchecked before being shoved into the register.
She reached beneath the desk and returned with a key. “Check out at ten thirty. You’re booked for one night,” she said in a monotone voice, picking her magazine back up. Michelle Pfeiffer’s glazed over eyes urged them to leave.
Will took the key, said a quick thank you and then raised his eyebrows for half a second as the two shared a glance. ‘Let’s get out. Quickly’ they said.
They traipsed over the car park. Mike’s eyes stung from the sudden light change. A fuzzy iridescent blur was burnt into his vision from the fluorescent bar. Will’s sneakers echoed on the metal steps, and Mike followed the sound, trailing his hand up the bannister over the freezing metal. They passed by one darkened room and along to Number seven. The key clicked in the lock and they stepped inside, flicking the light on. It was simple, two neatly made beds pressed against the far wall, facing a small TV, its antenna sticking up. Another door stood in shadow, presumably to the bathroom. Mike dumped his backpack on the furthest bed and jumped backwards onto it, the springs creaking under his weight as he closed his eyes. The room had that hotel smell - linens and air freshener.
The key clattered against the wooden side board as Will put it down. “If you’re getting comfy, should I go get dinner then?” He said from somewhere to the left, slightly gruff from their near-constant-turned-extinct conversation.
Mike sat back up, “No, I can go. It’s fine.”
“No, don’t worry about it,” Will dumped his own backpack on the other bed.
“No, you drove all day. I should do something.”
“And I’ve been looking at maps of Springfield for days. I know where everything is,” Will shrugged.
Mike insisted, “No I’ll go,” he got off the bed.
Will raised an eyebrow, “Mike, come on. You look rough.”Mike spluttered, but Will just moved back towards the door as if he was backing away from an animal, “And you’ve been playing with your hair all day and I know it’s because it’s full of knots. Take a shower, have a rest, brush your hair and I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Fine,” Mike began, snatching his bag off the bed and throwing bits out to find his wallet, “but I’ll pay.”
“Lock me out, okay?”
Mike threw his headphones onto the floor, “No, Will, wait!”
The door slammed just as Mike snatched his wallet from the cage of a shirt sleeve where he’d hid it. Will’s shadow hurried by the window, sheer curtain muting his colours. Mike sighed, bubbling with annoyance, his chest ache beginning again as he was left alone with electrical buzzing and cicada song. He flipped the wallet open, snatching a ten dollar note from behind a folded Polaroid of El. It was from maybe two years ago, up at The Squawk, the sun setting in her eyes as she smiled timidly into the camera. Two hair bobbles separated a pair of pigtails among the rest of her hair, the hot pink plastic beads claiming their peachy sheen under the twilight. The second the photo had spat out, she’d jumped and the moment had been gone.
(“It’s okay, it’s just the photo printing.”
“Why is there no picture?”
“It’s not developed yet; you have to keep it somewhere warm, like your pocket. Here.”
“When will the picture come?” “In fifteen minutes.” “At five-three-nine?”
“Yeah, at five-three-nine.”)
But now more than the moment was gone. He snapped it shut and threw the wallet onto the pristine sheets, trying to breathe out the hands pushing on his sternum. He opened Will’s backpack and stuck the ten dollars in the back of his sketchbook. Mike gathered his clothes off the floor, dusting the carpet fluff away, and picked out his pyjamas. He padded into the bathroom, praying the water would wash away the confusing spiral of feeling in his chest.
Now, hair wet and unmatted and pyjamas on, Mike lay on his bed and waited for Will to come back. His bare legs were too hot on the duvet, so he kept completely still, focussing on the rise and fall of his chest and staring at the ceiling as the damp strands of his hair tickled his neck. His feet dangled off the edge, tapping their heels into the frame to the tune of something he’d heard in the car today - The Smiths, but he hadn’t realised it was them yet - and he tried to catch the lyrics. Something about towns and rain and God. El was being forcefully caged in the back of his mind, drowned out by stupid questions he was taking off the top of his head; I wonder when Will will get back? What’s on TV right now? Do I have my portable tape player? Yes, but I don’t have the tapes. They’re in the car.
Rippling ridges of wallpaper dug through the ceiling like ivory tunnels, followed by his eyes. It was a boring room. There was nothing to distract him. Not a funky light shade to trace the patterns of and imagine the texture. Not a painting or print hung on the wall. Even the sounds were boring - just bugs and buzzing. The room had filled with the steam from his shower, thickening the air into a humid slap in the face. He didn’t like the heat. Why did he decide to come to California? Will, He answered for himself. He had no one else to follow. Everyone else had just shut him out, or maybe it was Mike. Either way, everyone’s doors seemed open only ajar. But not Will’s. Will’s had always been wide open. They practically lived in neighbouring rooms that shared the door. Hell, a corridor with an archway. They shared everything. Well, they had. Mike had started stacking tables and flowerpots in the archway, and Will was struggling to get through. If he just reached a little further, and Mike came out from behind the coat-hangers, he could get to him. He just needed that last push.
Mike started at the knock at the door and jumped off the bed, his thoughts disintegrating like tissue paper underwater, and he hoped it really was just Will, considering the length of his legs that were on show. He had outgrown his shorts a little. Mike scrabbled on the sideboard for the key, unlocked the door and poked his head out.
Will smiled from behind a large paper bag, his muddy green eyes reflecting the warm overhead light. Mike opened the door wider and Will came in, kicking his shoes off by Mike’s. “There was a McDonald’s round the corner, so I got our usual,” he passed Mike the bag.The base was warm.
“Cool,” he set it on the floor between the beds, “but you should’ve let me pay.”
Will shook his head and sat on the carpet, leaning against his bed and crossing his legs, “You always buy us things,”
Mike tried to insist but Will changed the topic, “I fit right in, though,” he motioned to his T-shirt, mostly red with two yellow stripes, one thicker than the other.
Mike smirked at him, then opened the bag, pulling out the little white boxes and cans. He set them in the carpet. Will popped a can and took a mouthful, the bubbles spraying like tiny sugar bullets inside the metal. Mike grabbed a handful of fries and began to eat, pulling his legs up to his chest.
“So, what comics are you into at the moment?” He had already asked this question in the car, but it was obvious he was just trying to get Mike to say something.
“Just older stuff.”
“Did you read the ones I brought you last week?” Will pulled the paper off his burger.
“Oh, yeah, I did, thanks. Do you want them back? I have them in my backpack,” he reached instinctively for his bag, but Will waved a hand.
“No, it’s fine. Keep them.”
Mike shrugged, his T-shirt sticking to his shoulders from residing wet, “Just tell me if you want them back, okay?” He unwrapped his burger too, instinctively taking the top off to remove the slice of tomato nestled in there. He put it on Will’s paper. The red juice seeped into the paper for a moment, before Will disassembled his own burger and put Mike’s orphaned slice of tomato beneath the bun.
He split a nugget in half with his thumbs, “How hot is it in California?”
Will looked up for a split second before returning to his food, “Hot. Like all the time. Like summer in Hawkins but worse.”
Mike nodded, grease coating his fingertips.
“What? Regretting it?” A smirk played among his words.
Mike’s stomach dropped like a stone, even though he knew Will was joking, “No, no, not at all,” he said quickly, shaking his head. Water droplets sprayed everywhere.
A short laugh came from Will’s bowed head, just a tease of the one only Mike’s ears had heard. They went quiet, the need for words phasing out. Mike passed off anything he was picky about onto Will - a bit of lettuce, a fry that was too salty, his leftover nuggets when he got too full. That was the way it always had been.
Will finished off the food and put the trash back in the bag, depositing it in the bin by the TV. “Alright,” he dusted off his hands, the band aids on his fingers crinkling over each other, “I’m going to get dressed, then do you want to watch something for a bit?”
Mike nodded, “Yeah, sure. I’ll see if I can find anything,” he clambered up and padded over to the TV, turning it on at the wall as the bathroom door closed behind Will. After a little fiddling, the screen fizzed to life on a game show, ‘incorrect’ buzzer blaring over a groaning audience. He switched channels. The news, cartoons, some comedy show neither of them would care for. He switched the channel again, and the familiar saturation and sharp dialogue of Star Trek poured out of his childhood and into the TV screen. Mike sat back on his heels and held the edges of the TV, smiling fondly. Back when they were probably a little too young to watch it, he and Will would haul all the blankets out of the basement and up the stairs to the TV, pile them on the floor and force his dad to switch the channel. They’d settle down with sticky hands and bright red cheeks, and watch in awe at the special effects.
“Is that Star Trek?” Will closed the bathroom door with a soft click, now dressed in a loose white T-Shirt and green cotton bottoms.
Mike nodded and turned back to the screen, “Yeah, I was just flicking through and it came up.”
Will crouched down beside him, bringing with him a waft of honey and teatree, “I haven’t seen this in years.”
They looked at each other, and Mike tilted his head, eyebrows raised, only the strobing buzzing of lasers between them. Will smiled, the lines of his cheeks cast out like waves onto a beach, and he staggered up, pulling Mike with him. They clambered onto Mike’s bed, and settled down to the show, chests bubbling with that childhood excitement he’d magnetised from his memories. He leaned against the headboard, one leg bent so he could hug it, the other extending down the bed beside Will’s curled body, his head propped lazily on his arms. Mike was way too hot. His leg was swathed in body heat but he didn’t move it - this was how they always watched things. Will exhaled, the hum hiking from high to low beneath the rustling of the duvet he settled into. Mike leant back further, watching wistfully as the crew looked about in confusion while Captain Kirk preached about poker. Back when things were good, and it was a Friday, they would have dinner in front of the TV at Mike’s, the sun setting outside the windows and watch until Joyce came to pick Will up. Will would beg for just ten more minutes, and she often gave in before dragging him out to the car and forcing a hurried goodbye. They’d only been, what? Ten or eleven? A year and a bit before Will went missing. Maybe, if it had been a Friday and Joyce had been able to drive him home, things would be different. He looked down at him as the credits began rolling. Will’s eyes were closed, hairs slipping across his forehead boyishly, tickling his eyelids and kissing his lashes. His arms pressed into his right cheek, pouting his lips for him to transform his face into a kind of petulant frown.
“Are you asleep?” Mike asked, quiet enough to sleep through.
A smile crept across Will’s face, “I’m just resting my eyes.”
“You sound like my dad.”
Will’s eyes opened slightly, “Sorry.”
Mike pushed himself off the headboard and laid down next to him, mirroring each other, “What for?”
“Sounding like your dad,” Will grinned, taking the hit
Mike gave him in the shoulder. Mike didn’t actually mind. He was just as fond of his father as Will was. “Do you actually know what was going on?”
“Of course I do. They destroy the square thing and then the alien tells them they’re going to die,” he waited for Mike’s obvious further questioning.
He raised his eyebrows and turned to lie on his front, still looking at Will, “Uh-huh. And what happens after that?”
“They…” Will looked up at the ceiling as if it held all the answers in its ivory ridges, “Don’t die.”
Mike pushed him again, weeding that stupid laugh out of Will’s lips. Beneath the humid steam heat from his historical shower, a blossoming, sweet warmth woke in his chest. Thank God he was here. Thank God he wasn’t sat in his room on Maple Street, lamenting Will’s departure alone, besides a void-like cold in his chest. He wouldn’t dare to say it to Will, because no one understands the difference, but he loved him. Not in love with him; that stuff wasn’t real. Just men getting confused. It wasn’t like with El, because that was a different feeling, like being young and fun and free, and that was being in love. But he loved him as you should a childhood best friend. He was like home. He wondered if Will felt like that too. A sceptical noise came from the back of Mike’s throat and he slid off the bed, switching the TV off on a Coca Cola advert. Will stretched, reaching his arms above his head and watching Mike sleepily, drowsy lids urging to close. Beside his bed, Mike had laid his bag where the edge of the duvet seeped inside the open top. He brushed it out the way and began delving for his toothbrush - no point in staying up if Will wasn’t going to. Taking the hint, Will leant across to his own bag and looked for himself. Mike went to brush his teeth first. The bathroom was cramped and still damp with shower residue and the faint scent of honey. He uncapped the toothpaste and smeared a little on the bristles of his brush, ran it under a jet of water and began to brush. The space behind his eyes persisted with an ache, dull and barely there, but knife-like when he focussed on it. Will appeared behind his reflection, looking how Mike felt, and claimed the other half of the sink.
He had the toothbrush running under the water when his soft palm rested on Mike’s arm. “Mike, are you feeling okay?” A worry dimple had reached its precipice between his eyebrows.
Mint tingled on his tongue as Mike spat the toothpaste out into the sink and busied himself with his reflection, “Why?” He’d been trying to act normal all day. But of course Will noticed.
His hand dropped away, leaving Mike’s upper arm prodded with cool spots, “I don’t know, you just haven’t been talking much. Like in the car.”
Mike shrugged, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little homesick.” He kept his voice airy. On the one hand, worrying him would only make things worse. He knew he was excited for California - what right did he have to dampen that? His mood skyrocketed around Will anyway. He’d be fine tomorrow. On the other hand, it was hard to articulate ‘I couldn’t tell my girlfriend of two and a half years I loved her when I knew she was going to kill herself, I’ve been ignoring all my friends for months, I’ve ignored you for months and you just don’t seem to care and if anything, you’re closer to me than ever, and I hate how free I feel away from everyone else when I should be mourning being two thousand miles away from my family’ without completely breaking down. Will’s face relaxed in relief,
“Oh, well. I promise you’ll feel way better when we’re actually there.”
Mike nodded along with a tight smile. ‘Friends don’t lie’, that’s what he told El. What a hypocrite he was.
“Hey, you could even call your parents if you wanted to. There’s going to be a phone box on campus somewhere.”
“Yeah, maybe I will. Holly will want to know all about it.” The knife in his stomach twisted fiercely at Will’s bright face. He thought he’d helped. One day he’d get round to it. One day Will would understand everything. That day just wasn’t today.
A clatter came from the edge of the sink as Will abandoned his toothbrush and held out his arms for Mike to fall into. He did, resting his chin in the cloud of teatree that clung to Will’s neck, both hands clutching the soft cotton of his T shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut, reciting in his head ‘I’m sorry, Will. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll tell you soon. I love you, I’m sorry’ hoping he could hear it through the walls of their two skulls.
Will rocked him slightly from side to side, “When you get all your posters up and your old furniture everything will go back to normal. It worked for me in Lenora.”
They straightened back up, and Mike gave him another tight smile, “Thanks.”
Will returned to his toothbrush, a lingering smile dusting his features. Mike left the bathroom and returned his stuff to his bag, feeling worse than ever before. The sweat drenching the back of his legs protested against the duvet as he crawled into bed, now smelling faintly of Will’s shower gel. One day, back in ‘86, he had thought he’d never feel more guilty; he’d argued with Will, on his birthday no less and not even brought him anything because he’d fucking forgotten. And he’d still not really apologised for it. Today was competing with it. When the dark came and the bathroom door closed, he watched Will’s shadow cross to his bed and set his toothbrush down on the side table.
“Night.”
“Night, Will.”
“I hope you feel better in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
The sheets rustled as Will slipped beneath them, and then all went silent. Mike stared at the pixelated grey wall, his best friend’s presence burning into his back like a hot tin roof. Lulling him into sleep, the void in his abdomen widened and spread, swallowing him whole, until Mike lost his consciousness and slid through faint flashes of yelling and tears, eventually waking him in the tail end of the morning so he could open his eyes to Will’s slackened face, peaceful in sleep, and refill the glass of shame he poured down his throat.