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“Mikey! Mikey, slow down!”
Mike only giggles, continuing to drag an equally giggly Will down the halls of Hawkins Elementary, their hands intertwined.
He was a boy, a paladin, specifically, on a mission to get home as soon as possible to show his best friend the gifts he’d bought (begged his mother to buy) with Will in mind while he and his family had been gone on summer vacation. A brand new pack of crayons and a sketchbook that had that unique texture of paper he knew Will liked so much was waiting in his basement, ready to make his best friend in the whole world the happiest boy alive.
They rush past a crabby teacher, and a kid in second grade that Mike has on a blacklist for accidentally pushing Will this morning, and Will’s big brother, Jonathan, who Will squeaks out a, “See you later Jonnnn!” to as the older boy watches them in mild amusement and fondness.
He vaguely acknowledges Nancy’s shout from behind, telling him “Mom’s car isn’t even here, yet, Mike!” but it’s Nancy, so it goes in one ear and out the other.
The gates (the plain brown double doors) to paradise (the outside world) are so close, the September air hitting him as his grin goes wide.
Who cares if he can’t see his mother’s car yet? He’ll just run home with Will on his back. He’s done it before!
(When they were a minute away from his house, and he’d been struggling the entire time, but it counted for the record.)
His excitement had been so unmoved, too, until he took his first step out and miscalculated the movement.
His first instinct to falling was to let go of Will’s hand, not wanting him to fall forward with him. His second was to try and catch himself with his arm.
But Mike Wheeler was seven years old, an age of which he hasn’t quite developed the fastest of reflexes yet, and so his hands land next to his face instead, leaving his face to meet the asphalt.
A little dust gets into his eyes, but it’s really nothing compared to the pain on the bottom half of his face, a scratch along his chin and cheek, a cut on his lip from some small rock.
He registers Will’s concerned yelp of his name, some ooohs from the other kids that had witnessed. He also registers the tears that spring to his eyes, and the clench of his fists on the ground to hold back his bawling.
Soft hands wrap around his arm, helping him up with some struggle. He meets his best friend’s worried face, hazel eyes wide as those hands fly to his face to inspect the damage.
Mike focuses on not biting his lip, mindful of the cut, but his chin trembles with the restraint of not sobbing. He leans into Will’s palms, seeking the comfort of them despite the sting of friction on the scratches.
“Let’s get back inside,” Will whispers. “Clinic.”
“Okay.” Mike replies wetly.
They walk more carefully this time, and Mike feels relieved at the fact the school clinic is so close to the exit. The nurse isn’t in, though, and he’s unsure what to do next besides follow Will’s guide to sit him down on a chair.
He watches Will bite his lip, brows scrunched in helplessness at the lack of adult. Then his eyes narrow to a kit on the desk, and he quickly grabs it and goes back to sit beside him.
“You can cry,” Will says, picking up a cotton ball and lifting it to Mike’s lip. “Just me.”
Mike has heard these words before, from those few times he’d been at the Byers’, and Will’s dad was being mean. Will’s voice is not as steady as his big brother’s, but his is just as genuine.
Mike lets the tears fall, hands clenching in his lap as Will cleans his cuts and scratches with his gentle hands. Will pulls a bandaid from the kit for his chin, then another for his cheek.
Softly, he asks, “Better?”
Mike wants to say yes, if only to take the sadness out Will’s expression, but they never lie to each other, so he shakes his head. His face still hurts, most especially the cut on his lip, and he just wants the hurt to go away so he can go home and play with his best friend.
Will holds his face again, thumbs swiping at his tears, but as much as Mike loves his touch, his crying doesn’t cease.
“M’ sorry, Mikey,” Will says, which is dumb, because none of this is Will’s fault. It’s that stupid step at the exit’s, and perhaps that stupid rock conveniently placed where his face had landed. Never Will’s fault, because Will is never wrong. “I dunno what—“
He stops, and he makes that face he gets when he gets an idea, like that time Chester ran away and Will thought of running around his street with dogfood and a handfan to get the puppy to come back. It’s in the light of his eyes and the split of his growing smile.
You’re so pretty, Mike thinks, before Will is suddenly leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss on his lips— right over his cut.
It’s short in reality, barely even three seconds, but it’s like an eternity to Mike. Will’s lips are soft, perfectly fitting against his, like they were made to come together like that.
He knew Will was his soulmate! Take that, dad!
His heart beats loudly in his ears, and Will is pulling away.
He’s smiling, a little shy, but evidently proud of himself. Mike realizes his tears have finally stopped, expression of misery replaced by awe.
In the back of his mind, he registers his cut still kinda hurts, but it doesn’t compare to the thud of his chest, or the warmth of his cheeks as he stares wide eyed at his best friend, who’s smiling now, like he’s solved all the world’s problems with that kiss.
(Mike doesn’t doubt that he could.)
“Better?” he asks again, face pink. “My mom kisses me where it hurts when it’s me. It should feel better, right? Or does it need to be your mom?”
“Magic,” Mike whispers, hands flying to hold the other boy’s. “You’re actually magic, Will!”
Will giggles, properly lacing their fingers together. “Magic kiss?”
“Magic kiss!”
They giggle at each other, hands still clasped, in their own little bubble of magic healing kisses until Mike’s mom finds them, worry written all over her face.
When they’re finally home, in Mike’s basement, he asks Will to kiss his other two scratches as well. His best friend complies with a beam, holding his face and healing him with soft lips over bandaids, happy to relieve him of his hurt.
Will draws on his new sketchbook with his new crayons, Mike draped over his back and watching over his shoulder, and there’s nothing in the world that could tear them apart.