Archive of Our Own

Mike stares at the noisy TV. A channel is playing Star Wars. He doesn't understand a thing but admitting that right now would be really stupid. It feels like they've all seen this movie a hundred times, even though it only came out last year.

The plot isn't bad, but Mike can't concentrate. Someone walks back and forth past the basement door. Their steps are quick and light. It must be Holly. Will glances at him, trying to say something about the scene on the screen, but Mike can't even make out the words.

Will likes Star Wars. Probably. Mike doesn't understand what there is to like about it. Lightsabers are an interesting idea, of course, but there's no explanation of how they work. Space is endless and full of things. That's how it seems to Mike. He couldn't handle it if it were real. The world around him is already unpredictable and changing every second. There are too many variables.

Mike nods to Will, as if he understands what he wants to ask. He doesn't have time to blink before the credits roll. The room goes dark, and only faint reflections play on Will's face. Mike swallows nervously and reaches for a can of сoke. Will doesn't like сoke, and neither does Mike. He has no idea why he brought it today.

“What do you think?” Will asks softly with a smile.

“Interesting,” Mike doesn't really answer.

He didn't watch it. He couldn't bring himself to sit still. He doesn't like space or lightsabers; he wishes it were just ordinary metal with a drop of magic.

It's all so incomprehensible that his head starts to split in two. Will stands up and pats him on the shoulder out of habit.

“The movie's over. It's already ten.”

That means it's time for him to go. Jonathan has probably already arrived. Mike is both grateful and resentful that Jonathan now follows Will everywhere. Of course, after disappearing into some other dimension, it makes sense to keep such a close eye on Will. And yet something inside Mike twitches when they can no longer stay up late in the basement and talk about everything and nothing in the dark.

Will is not to blame for any of that.

“See you tomorrow!” he says, disappearing behind the door.

Mike doesn't dare to mention that he and El had planned to spend the whole day together tomorrow. Suddenly, tomorrow's meeting no longer seems so eagerly awaited. Mike hates waiting in general.

And he hates what comes after even more. He presses the huge flat button on the TV. The screen goes blank through the static. For a second, the darkness seems safe. Maybe it was.

The next day, Mike is distracted. He and El never watch movies. They rarely listen to music either. She doesn't like it. She doesn't say so, but Mike knows for sure. He feels the same way when watching Star Wars. At first, his chest aches with injustice. They're kind of dating, after all. Shouldn't she like all these things? His things?

Mike plays music less often. More often, they just hold hands. El never says anything, but Mike feels that she likes it. Contrary to the comments that Lucas and Max like to make, they hardly ever kiss. Mike doesn't understand why. El doesn't seem particularly interested either.

When the silence becomes too much, Mike turns on the radio. She immediately glances in his direction. She likes the radio a little more than his favorite songs. The announcer is talking about the particularly hot summer, then politics, which Mike understands even less than the plot of Star Wars. They don't listen to the words; Mike just needs background noise. He strokes El's fingers, trying to focus on what's happening.

After a strange click, The Cure comes on the radio. Mike can't remember which song it is. He frowns until he gets to the chorus.

Will likes The Cure.

El kisses him goodbye and smiles. Mike can't think clearly all the way home. The pedals turn by themselves.

The bed is disgustingly hard. He’s heard it’s all just hormones. Mike has no idea how it works, but he doesn't like anything about it.

Mike runs his finger along the sheet next to him. The fabric is pleasantly cool. Someone should be lying next to him. If not now, then in the future. Mike never liked to think about it, but he's been told that since childhood. He knows that El isn't the type to lie next to him. Because she's not like that. It would be Mike lying next to her, not the other way around.

Or maybe there will be no one at all. Mike's chest tightens, and a bitter taste remains in his mouth. It doesn't feel right, and he doesn't know why. The right things should be easy to imagine. Mike can only imagine Will, because they really used to lie like that all the time when they were kids. But this is completely different.

The past is much easier to love than the future.

They don't talk and don't watch movies together anymore. Now there are only eye rolls and heavy sighs between them. Mike flips through the channels looking for something to distract himself. They didn’t have many options, and for some reason every channel was showing the same part of Star Wars. It was as if there were no other movies in existence. Mike tries to force himself to watch it, but he doesn't understand anything again.

He could ask Will what's going on. Will would explain. Except they're not talking. He turns off the TV after twenty minutes and barely restrains himself from kicking it hard. It’s not worth breaking it.

A week later, the Byers leave for California. Mike curses the entire West Coast. El kisses him goodbye again, this time longer, knowing they won’t see each other for a while.

The kiss seems bitter to Mike. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know how to tell her that to her face. And she probably wouldn't understand anyway.

Will smiles at him for the first time in a long time. They talk as if they were twelve again. The light bulb above Will's head reminds Mike of how many times he fell asleep in this room. His fingers reach for something, but there is nothing nearby.

“I don't understand Star Wars at all,” he grimaces. How ridiculous. He doesn't even know why he's saying this.

The last time they looked at each other normally was when that stupid movie was on TV.

Will smirks and raises his eyebrows:

“I know, Mike.”

Mike can tell for sure that he'll miss the way Will tilts his head when he rolls his eyes. And the way his own fingers find Will’s hand in the dark when they sit in front of the TV in the basement.

Mike isn't sure if he could ever miss anything else so much.

Will complains about the weather in Lenore every time he calls, even though they have things to talk about besides the weather. Mike nods, forgetting every time that Will can't see it. He responds listlessly, talking about Dustin and Lucas. He doesn't say much about Max; there's not much to say about her right now. Mike twists the phone cord around his finger and pulls it too tightly. White marks remain on his hand, and it seems so strange.

Will is silent on the other end, and then, Mike thinks, he hears a sigh.

“See you.”

And, Mike thinks, Will hangs up before he gets an answer. He shudders. It's their first conversation in a month and probably the third since Will moved to California. The world is tilting and in danger of turning upside down.

Mike knows for sure that he hates Hawkins. He feels sick every time he goes outside. He knows this city too well. One day, he realizes that he can't find a single unfamiliar corner. It makes it hard to breathe. Mike has become so tangled up in this city that he doesn’t know how to exist without it. He doesn't want to leave his room. Outside this house, everything is even worse than inside. Mike used to have a part of himself that belonged to someone else. Now that part is two time zones and six states away. Mike rented all the Star Wars movies from the local video store. Steve looked at him with amused bewilderment and pity.

Mike was already two weeks late returning them, but he hadn't watched one. They were just lying around in his room.

He doesn't want to get out of bed. The world spins before his eyes, as if the only things that exist besides Mike are his ceiling and Will. Mike knows for sure that Will exists. He ignores the loud knocking on the door. He doesn't answer when Nancy calls his name. God knows what she wants. If he doesn't open the door, she might think he's not here. And Mike would give anything if he really wasn't here. Mike knows Nancy isn't persistent, so he pops the first cassette he finds into the player. The music drowns out the knocking, and Mike feels like the ceiling is really floating in front of his eyes until he closes them, finally losing touch with reality.

Will gave him The Cure tapes back in the summer. Mike wanted to show them to El. But then there was too much going on, and she never really listened to it.

Everything follows one after another, like one endless sound. Mike gets used to the song too quickly. Did Will like this song? He pulls the headphones off his head. His face is burning, and the player hits the floor. His chest should be tightening, but instead something too heavy is pressing down on it from the inside.

Mike opens the window and leans halfway out onto the street. For some reason everything is going wrong for him. He can't talk to Will and doesn't know what to say to him. Every letter from El feels like words without weight. Mike knows he should be better.

Mike also knows that he hates not only Hawkins, but Lenora too.

He gasps for air, pacing around the room until Nancy knocks on his door again. Mike grabs the metal handle with his fingers and meets her questioning gaze.

“Are you skipping Lucas's game today?” she asks without preamble.

He did ask for a ride, but that seems like a hundred years ago. Time passes as he stares at the peeling paint on the door without answering.

“Mike?”

“Yes,” he replies.

Lucas will understand if he misses just this once. The noise of the stands throws Mike off balance. Being around his friends without Will feels completely wrong.

“Yes?” Nancy asks.

“Yes,” he repeats. “I don't want to.”

Nancy leaves him alone. She's obviously not going to solve his puzzle piece by piece. If only he could do it himself. Talking to Will about the weather is great, of course. But only because Mike basically likes talking to Will. His voice is soft even when he's tired. He doesn't get angry, and Mike breathes a sigh of relief every time, not knowing if he should. But Mike continues to pace around the room until the phone rings downstairs. Mike jumps up at the same second, but it's just some stupid attempt to sell insurance.

“Secure your future and that of your loved ones!” a cheerful female voice exclaims on the other end of the line.

“Thanks, but I'll survive without it!” He slams the phone back into its cradle so hard that it almost falls off the wall. Buying a new one now would be unnecessary.

Nancy looks at him questioningly, probably wondering how he got to the phone before she did. Mike shrugs and mumbles something, which she takes to mean telemarketing, and he adjusts the receiver back into place. A second later, he picks it up and presses it to his ear, dialing Will's new number in Lenore, which he has memorized.

The line is busy, as it has been for the past couple of weeks. They haven't spoken yet this month. He rolls his eyes and exclaims, “Come on!” and then glares at Nancy as if she's somehow to blame.

“Did you know Dad's having problems at work?” She says it casually, but her gaze is fixed on Mike, and then she glances at the phone.

“Really?” he replies sarcastically. “What a surprise. Where doesn't he have problems?”

They refused to pay for his trip to California. Then Mom sat Mike down and spent several minutes explaining about a big audit and cuts to Dad's bonuses at work. It's not like Mike understands where he works. But since Ted Wheeler never cared about his kids, why not make it mutual?

Mike knows they've always had more money than most people in this town, and they can still afford a lot. Restricting themselves was more painful. He could no longer drive across the country and ask Will to talk to him normally. Which was part of the plan if the silence lasted long enough. Was it fair? No, Mike had nothing to complain about.

But he shrugs.

“I know, Nancy. I don't think it's that kind of thing. Let him deal with his problems.”

The next day, Mike returns all the overdue tapes to the rental store and fidgets awkwardly. He doesn't want to ask Steve directly not to charge him.

“How do you like the incredible immersion into the universe of Star Wars?” He breaks into a smile, and Mike sighs heavily.

“It sucks.”

Steve doesn't insist on the genius of the film. He kindly takes the tapes from Mike's hands and puts them back in their places, humming Take on Me under his breath, which Mike recognizes from the first notes.

“Where's Robin?”

“She's off today,” Steve looks back at him. “Want to take anything else?”

Mike stares at him for a few seconds. Unthinkable. Mike's head is a mess. They’re playing something on the radio nearby. Mike listens for a moment and recognizes the voice of the lead singer of The Cure. You've got to be kidding!

“Why didn't you take any money?”

“Do you have any spare cash? Then put it all on the table, Wheeler.”

He snorts and chuckles lightly as he puts the last cassette on the shelf.

“I don't...”

“Come on. Don't I know what it's like when money that suddenly appears out of nowhere stops being so endless? Or what do you think I'm doing here?”

An awkward silence follows. Mike feels ashamed–he’s never really thought about why Steve works. That was rude. The song on the radio swells, and the lead singer sings “boys don't cry” five times in a row.

“Thanks, Robert Smith, very appropriate,” Steve rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, even though the radio is obviously not there, but on the counter next to him. “So?”

Mike finds himself behind the counter next to Steve an hour later. Steve talks for a couple of minutes with the owner of the rental shop, who seems not to care who pays for customer service. He shrugs and lets them get on with their work.

Will would have gone crazy if he had seen what Mike was doing in his absence.

Steve explains the system to him: where everything goes and why horror movies are shelved next to romcoms. Mike realizes how many movies he hasn't seen yet.

“And here you have Star Wars, Star Trek, and all that other space shit you love.”

“I don't...”

“Usually, people don't take all three Star Wars movies if they don't like it.”

“I haven't seen them,” Mike blurts out. “They have been lying on the bed all this time. I wanted to understand what was so great about it, but I couldn't even turn them on.”

“I thought your girlfriend liked Miami Vice more.”

“This isn't about El.”

“Then who is it about?” Steve raises his eyebrows.

Mike looks away, realizing he may have said too much. Of course, it's just a movie, and it's just Steve Harrington. And it seems El really liked Miami Vice.

Mike doesn't answer him, busily arranging the tapes that have accumulated over several days on the shelves. One of them has the word Orphée written on it in a terribly tasteless orange and gray border. He sees the girl's fingers gently holding the man's shoulder. Her eyes are closed, but the way they are close together and her whole posture screams something. The man seems to be lying on her lap, and Mike involuntarily swallows.

“It's some kind of French classic,” says Steve. “The French always have weird movies. Robin and I stumbled upon it once. She insisted on watching it, but she didn't like it. I don't know why exactly; I fell asleep after twenty minutes. It seems like complete bullshit.”

Mike nods and puts the tape somewhere. As Steve later explains, it's just a way to kill time. Robin doesn't really put anything away, and there's no point, because people always take the standard set of about twenty movies.

At the end of the day, Mike asks if he can come back tomorrow. And the owner of the video rental store obviously doesn't care who he pays.

Everyone at home is already asleep, even Nancy. Although Mike knows that she has been staying up late lately for the newspaper. The light is still on in her room, but when he enters. He sees only sheets scattered around the room and her sleeping on the made bed. He gathers everything into a messy pile and leaves it on the table, then turns off the light. The door remains slightly ajar.

Mike lies down on his bed without turning on the light. It feels as pointless as the window he left open this morning. The room is very cold. Will hates the cold, and after everything, Mike can't blame him. It's always hot in California. Will probably won't freeze there. Maybe it's the best place he could have ended up. Mike hates Lenora a little less.

After all, he can go there to get Will. Now he can. But will Will be waiting for him?

Mike hangs out at the video rental store with Steve for hours every day for the next month. Sometimes Steve asks if it's time for him to go to class, but it seems he’s just being polite. Mike always shrugs in response. Sometimes Robin joins them. She looks at Mike too intently, and it makes him uncomfortable. Sometimes she pats him on the shoulder. In any case, she understands movies much better than he does.

Mike returns to the Orphée tape again and again, devouring the images with his eyes. There’s too much tenderness, and the orange color ruins it, yet even he can’t ignore the obvious.

“Enough, there's nothing good in it,” Robin snorts, taking the box from his hands. "They should have filmed what really should have happened in their story. The way Orpheus descended into the underworld for her was...

“Loyal?”

“Brave, I wanted to say. In any case, the scariest thing here is not knowing if someone is following you.”

Mike nods uncertainly, still looking at the tape in Robin's hands. He wouldn't have turned around. It was always so stupid. Orpheus was given everything he wanted. He just had to forgive and move on. An image of absolute darkness with a young man walking through it pops into Mike’s head. He hums softly to himself. He turns around because he's afraid to go on alone. And there's no one behind him.

He ruined everything.

Mike always ruins everything too.

At home, he paces back and forth in front of the phone. He dials the California number once. The line is busy again. Mike presses his forehead against the wall and closes his eyes, keeping the receiver to his ear. If he imagines Will is listening, what would he even say?

“Talk to me,” he whispers, squinting with all his might, as if wishing hard enough will make it happen.

Mike mechanically dials the number over and over, staring at the buttons worn smooth from frequent use. The paint is almost completely worn off the five and the seven. He doesn't like Will's new number.

The line is busy. The line is busy. The line is busy.

“Pick up the phone.”

The same numbers again and again. Mike feels like they might as well be burned into the inside of his eyelids, so that every time he closes his eyes, he hears the dial tone in his ears, telling him that no one is going to pick up.

The line is busy.

The line...

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Byers?”

“Mike?”

He sits down on the floor, staring at the wall opposite him. As luck would have it, there are photos of him and Nancy and a silly little picture of a sickly happy family. Not real. His chest tightens and Mike grimaces with bitterness. If he tried saying the word family aloud, it would taste just the same.

“Should I get Will on the phone?”

Mike doesn't answer again. Does he have anything to say to Will right now? Will he ask about the weather in Lenore, as usual? Will he say that everything is fine? Will he remain silent until Will hates him?

“Honey, are you okay?” asks Mrs. Byers, who must be hearing only his heavy breathing.

“Is it warm in Lenore today?” Mike asks instead of answering.

“Yes, the sun is shining all day,” she replies after a second's delay.

“Good,” Mike exhales.

So, Will isn't cold. For some reason, he hates that. Across the country, Will must be sitting in his room, drawing something, while Mike is here.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Byers.”

He hangs up. It’s rude, and he’ll have to apologize later–but not now.

Mike doesn't show up at the rental store next day. He jumps on his bike and pedals as far as he can. Spring is just arriving in Hawkins, and the air is still cool, so the tears sting his face, which feels almost fitting. He doesn’t even know why it’s falling. He decides to find something to help him make amends to Will. The thrift store doesn't have a very large comic book section. Mr. Whitman indifferently points to one unfortunate shelf, and Mike feels the satisfied expression slip from his face. A whole shelf of useless magazines with Superman and Batman and some ridiculous comic about romance. Mike flips through a few pages, looking at how cloying it all looks, and puts the comic back in its place.

He finds a worn copy of X-Men #132 in the pile. It's the silly date between Cyclops and Jean Grey, where they kiss. Mike stares at the page for so long that he seems capable of reproducing it in minute detail.

The letters are imprinted in his mind. “Stop being Cyclops. Be Scott Summers for a minute.”

Mike doesn't blink as he reads the letters over and over. It wouldn't work, would it? Not like that. He'll have to say at least one word to Will before handing him this comic. Otherwise, it's not an apology at all.

“Hey, Wheeler.”

Max squints, holding hangers with clothes that clearly survived the Great Depression and are completely tasteless in his opinion. The floral dress is no better than the blouse he could barely imagine his mother wearing. And Max didn't fit the image of a diligent housewife. Mike feels nauseous at the very thought.

“Do you shop at thrift stores?” he asks instead of saying hello.

“What about you?” she objects discontentedly, but Mike notices a slight blush on her cheeks.

Mike hides the comic behind his back and looks as if he has been caught doing something criminal.

“El doesn't know anything about the X-Men. If anything, you need to start with the first part.”

“It's not for her.”

“Of course,” Max rolls her eyes and turns away. “How could I have thought otherwise? You never change.”

“What are you talking about?”

She puts the clothes on the table in front of Mr. Whitman, and Mike notices that they are clearly too big for Max. Man studies the price tags intently and, after a couple of minutes, announces the price.

“Twelve dollars.”

“Twelve? That's robbery for this crap!” she exclaims, then shrugs. “Put it on Neil Hargrove's tab.”

Mike raises his eyebrows in surprise, but Mr. Whitman just nods and writes something down. Max stuffs the clothes into a bag while Mike quickly pays for the comic. They leave the store in complete silence. Max hurries toward the trailer park, and Mike tries not to fall behind her, which is quite difficult as he pulls his bike along.

“So, you can just put stuff on his tab?”

“Yes, he shouldn't have let Mom use his name everywhere. But at least that's some use for the jerk. What about you? Can't you buy Will a normal comic book from a normal store?” She snorts.

Mike presses his lips together, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over him. He should have bought something good, even if it meant spending more money. He looks down at the cover, where Jean Grey and Scott Summers stare back at him. There’s a sharp glint of judgment in their eyes. Even apologizing is something he can only do half-heartedly.

“Nancy says my dad is having problems at work.”

“You don't look upset.”

“I'm not,” Mike nods. “He's a terrible father.”

They talk for a while longer until they reach the trailer park. Max stops and turns awkwardly toward him. Mike knows she would never admit her weakness, especially to him, so he stops too and starts nodding.

“Listen, Mike,” her gaze softens. It's the first time Max has ever looked at him like this. "You haven't been to class in a while. Guys are worried. Come tomorrow, okay?"

He is lost and nods to her several times, more surprised by her change of mood. His absence from class couldn't have been anything special, so what's there to worry about?

“What did you mean then? When you said you shouldn't have thought the comic was for El?”

Max sighs and shakes her head.

“I'm not the one who has to explain it to you.”

When he finally has enough money for a ticket to California and back, Mike can't believe it at first. He's sure Steve really did something to make it happen. Otherwise, how could he have come up with almost five hundred dollars in a month and a half? Mike spends the whole evening persuading his mother until she finally lets him go after a call from Mrs. Byers, promising to listen to Will's mom in everything.

It seems that this day can officially be declared the best of the year. Mike throws whatever he can find into his suitcases without thinking, and then puts the carefully packed X-Men comic #132 on top. All evening Mike plays The Cure on his player and promises himself that he will show it to El in California.

Nothing’s going right in Lenore. Being in California doesn’t make the distance any shorter. A lot has happened this week, but it’s fine. Mike–that’s what’s not.

The painting with the dragon hangs above his head. He doesn’t want to remember the past week at all. El knocks on the half-open door of his room, and Mike immediately sits down. She never came here alone. It just so happened that she couldn't show herself in public. Mike recalls a strange conversation with his mother, in which he had to explain that he wanted to go to California not just because of Will.

“Hey,” she says, sitting down on the bed next to him.

El wears a purple T-shirt under a gray shirt, and it no longer looks wrong, as it did in California. Does she really like purple? Mike thought he had imagined it back then. Ridiculous.

“Hey. Did Nancy let you in?”

El shakes her head.

“Your mom did.”

He exhales in surprise. His mom knows about El now. And it's all so strange. She puts her feet up on the bed and thoughtfully scratches the fabric of her jeans. These are from Lenora's. Mike remembers them.

“Remember what we talked about? The letters.”

Mike bites his lip and shrugs.

Love.

It obviously means more to El, so how honest can he really be about it?

“What do you feel for me, Mike? You care about me, right?”

“I already said that,” he blurts out, slightly irritated. She is calmer now than she was during their conversation at Lenora's.

“Yes, I remember. You said you love me. But you won't say it again, will you?”

Mike’s mouth dries up. The room feels sticky. He tucks his knees under him, leaving his hands on his thighs. El is still running her index fingernail along his pant leg, but he doesn't seem to notice.

“Why can't you say it?”

I can.

He chokes on the words he doesn't say.

“I don't know,” he blurts out instead. “Could you stop asking?”

Mike looks at the painting of a dragon on the wall, at the player lying on the bed, at his own hands–anywhere but El. The paint is so smooth Mike could run his finger over it without feeling it. A huge red heart blazes on the shield, and he can almost feel it pulsing. Filling with blood and beating.

Love. That's what it's tapping out. His own heart is beating like crazy right now.

“Why did you ask Will to paint this? Were you trying to get me to say something with it? I don't think it works that way, El. I don't know why it's so important to you.”

Mike frowns slightly, as if it upsets him. But does it really? It can't upset him. What's wrong with El waiting for him to confess? The heart in the painting swells again, so that Mike can see the veins that are about to burst from the strain.

Love. Such a silly word. It takes less than a second to say, and for some reason it sounds so easy in Mike's head. But his lips are like stone, and he can't bring himself to say it.

Love. Love. Love.

“What painting, Mike?”

The heart is breaking, and a thin stream of red liquid flows from the swollen vein. Mike abruptly wipes a tear from his cheek and looks at El as if he is seeing her for the first time in his life.

The world doesn’t come to an end after that, and Mike does not understand why. If the end of the world came right now, he would be grateful. But outside the window, the sky remains bright blue, and the walls around him do not shake. No one screams; only complete silence presses on his ears.

And Mike hears too well in this silence. What painting?

The bed creaks when El gets up. She doesn't turn around, and he doesn't stop her.

Only when Max starts a conversation two days later with the question, “Did you guys break up for good?” does Mike remember that this evening even happened. He's not surprised; it's expected. He's not upset, which is strange.

He just shrugs and hears the usual sarcasm in response. Max doesn't understand what's wrong with all this.

Mike hardly understands that either.

The Byers stay with them while they look for a new place to live. It's even easier for Mike to imagine Will lying next to him, like when they were kids. The sheets are cold; he wouldn't like it.

Mike runs his finger over the fabric again in complete darkness, as if outlining where Will should be lying. The longing becomes much stronger when Will is behind the wall instead of on the other side of the country. Because they still aren't talking.

Star Wars is on TV again on Saturday. Mike moves the antenna in the basement slightly to get a better signal and tries to finally understand what is so special about it. The basement door creaks louder than the characters in the movie. Will stops at the bottom of the stairs, only then noticing the noise from the screen.

“Wanna watch?”

“You don’t like Star Wars, do you?” Will raises an eyebrow.

“I thought you might want to...”

“Not this part, Mike. Turn it off.”

Mike switches off the TV, and the basement settles into a soft shadowed gloom. Will watches him too closely, but Mike won’t meet his eyes. Suddenly the room feels smaller than it ever has.

He probably should get up and leave Will here alone. He and Jonathan have become almost permanent fixtures in the basement, even though Mike has more than once offered Will to sleep over in his room. But he doesn’t move. He presses his lips together and pushes down the guilt, deeper and deeper. There’s nothing selfish about staying here, right? He just wants to talk.

After a few minutes, Will sighs and moves to the other end of the couch. The longer they sit in silence, the tighter Mike’s throat feels.

“Why don’t you like this part?” he asks quietly.

Will doesn’t answer right away. He slouches slightly, staring at the floor. The dim light from the hallway touches the edge of the couch, revealing that Will hasn’t even closed the door. Wasn’t he planning to stay here?

“It’s all too simple,” Will says, avoiding the question.

Silence falls again. Mike can’t stop looking at the space between them. They used to sit much closer. It seems that when Will was in Lenore, the distance wasn’t this huge–now it stretches about a meter.

Will doesn’t even glance at him. It’s sharper than a kiss from El back in Lenore. Mike hugs his knees to his chest. The fabric of his jeans rustling too loudly in the hush. He turns toward Will, trying to catch his gaze, but Will stubbornly examines the pattern in the floorboards, as if he’s seeing them for the first time. Mike suddenly feels so tiny he could vanish entirely into the cushions and the old upholstery.

When did it all become like this?

Mike imagines that if the dragon painting were here, each exhale would create new cracks in his heart, dark red liquid flowing from them.

“You’re not talking to me,” Mike says, stretching the words.

Will frowns slightly, as if the words stung, but quickly hides the expression.

“No. I’m just tired.”

“That’s not true.”

The words escape sharper than he intended. Only then does Will throw him a brief glance.

“Maybe,” he says, “but that’s my answer.”

Will has never been angry at him like this. They’ve always said hurtful things to each other, things no one should have spoken aloud. They argued, shouted. Sometimes they ignored each other for weeks, which drove Lucas and Dustin mad. But Will has never looked at Mike like this. Will’s eyes don’t acknowledge him at all, like he doesn’t exist

“Why do we lie to each other?” Mike asks, his voice trembling but barely raised. “Friends don’t lie, Will.”

Will spins fully toward him.

“I don’t–”

“Yes, you do!” Mike interrupts. “You avoid me, say you don’t want to sleep in my room. Because of… what? You always find an excuse not to be alone with me. What happened, Will? What did I do?”

Mike’s voice shakes, finishing almost in a whisper. His breath catches: his heart pounds so loud he hears it clearer than his own words.

Will just stares at him for a moment.

“It’s not a lie,” Will reminds him sharply.

“El didn’t ask you to make the painting.”

In the basement’s dim light, Mike sees Will’s face change, but for the first time, he cannot read it. Every sound seems too loud: he can hear the kitchen clock ticking. He didn’t know its sound carried all the way down here.

“It’s just a painting, Mike. Does it really matter that much right now?” Will asks quietly.

“What matters is that you lied,” Mike says, clenching his fists on his knees.

Will gives a short, tired laugh. There’s no humor in it–only exhaustion and faint irritation.

“Mike,” he whispers, his eyes scanning Mike’s face, and Mike feels his heart threatening to burst from his chest. “Why did you break up with El?”

The question carries a hint of tension, and Mike freezes, feeling the cold air in the room.

“I–” He opens his mouth, but no words come.

Will tilts his head slightly, hands still on his knees. His breathing is even, though slightly quicker. He looks Mike straight in the eyes, and Mike feels trapped in a cage. His eyes follow Will’s figure, resting finally on his fingers, tightly laced.

“That’s what I mean,” Will murmurs.

“Mean what?”

“You say I lie to you,” he pauses, “but sometimes… sometimes you just don’t want to see what’s right in front of you.”

Mike shakes his head, breath uneven. His nails scrape the upholstery so hard that a bit of fabric sticks to them. The air smells of dust and old wood, and it all feels unbearably real. Why is it so real?

“I’m not angry,” Will adds, almost whispering. “Really.”

But Mike can hear the truth in his voice–it isn’t entirely true.

“But if you don’t understand why it all happened, you can’t expect me to explain it for you.”

Mike hugs his knees tighter, feeling the space between them so thick he could almost reach out and grab it. His eyes have adjusted to the dim light, and now he can see the glint in Will’s gaze. Every flicker across Will’s face, cheekbones, lips, everything.

“You always leave,” he repeats dumbly. “You don’t want to be in the same room with me. I don’t understand–”

“You do, Mike,” Will’s face twists with something painful. Mike notices the shine at the corners of his eyes and almost reaches out toward his face. “You can’t keep lying to yourself and pulling me into it.”

“I can’t,” Mike swallows hard. “I can’t help pulling you into this when it’s all about you.”

He slowly draws in a breath and braces himself for Will to get up and leave. The room doesn’t move. By the couch lies the old mattress Jonathan usually sleeps on. Mike knows Will probably insisted they switch, even knowing how badly he gets cold. The whole table in the basement is covered with their stuff. It must be uncomfortable. Will probably just hates this basement and this house because Mike is here.

Though nothing here really belongs to Mike anymore. These are Will’s things: his T-shirt hanging over the chair, his textbooks spread across the table. Will always does his homework carefully, which is kind of stupid. Like any of this upside down stuff leaves them worrying about high school.

And the basement smells like Will. So strongly that Mike thinks he might as well suffocate right here.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “I miss my best friend.”

Mike hears Will let out a heavy sigh.

“Mike,” it sounds like he should be telling Mike to back off. But all he says is, “I miss you too.”

Mike sniffs and only then notices the tears on his cheeks. He rubs his face with both hands in confusion before finally looking at Will.

“Y-yeah?” He lets out a small laugh. “You miss me?”

“Yeah.” Will shifts closer in the space between them. He wraps his arms around Mike and lets out a quiet breath near his ear, which makes Mike shiver. “You didn’t have to put on Star Wars just to talk to me.”

Mike laughs, then sniffles again and lets out something that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

“Sorry, I can’t focus on this at all. The beginning’s so boring and confusing. Maybe you should just tell me the plot.”

Will takes the long way around, but now Mike understands a lot more. He tells him about a boy named Luke who discovers a powerful thing called the Force, and about an old mentor, a friend of his father’s, who teaches him how to use it. He talks about droids, and Mike still doesn’t really get that part. Or maybe that’s because he’s resting his head on Will’s shoulder by then. His fingers move absentmindedly along Will’s forearm, and that helps.

Mike sniffles now and then, trying not to do it too loudly so he doesn’t interrupt Will’s story.

“He’s kinda like you,” Mike says.

“Who?” Will asks, surprised.

“Luke,” Mike murmurs, leaning his shoulder more firmly against Will’s.

“No, I– ” Will huffs quietly. “I’m definitely not Luke.”

“He’s special. Like you.”

Mike feels Will’s shoulders shake and lifts his head to stare at him. Will is laughing, one hand covering his mouth as he looks back at Mike.

“I think you misunderstood Luke,” Will says with a shrug.

“And who was telling the story?”

Will nudges him lightly in the shoulder. Mike dramatically collapses back onto the couch and ends up across Will’s knees.

“You’d like Han Solo,” Will says.

“Han Solo?”

“Yeah. He’s a jerk.”

“Hey!” Mike reaches to smack his shoulder, but Will catches his hand first and pins both of Mike’s wrists against his chest.

“Shut up.”

They wrestle for a few minutes until Mike finally gives up, because somehow Will turns out to be a lot stronger than him.

Will keeps going with the story about how Luke, Han Solo, and their friends attack the Death Star, a huge space station where Luke’s old mentor dies. When Will gets to that part, his voice grows quieter, and Mike goes a little still while Will finishes the story with them coming back and celebrating the victory.

For a while after that, they lie there in silence.

“So, if I’m Han Solo, then who are you?” Mike finally asks.

He says it like the question just occurred to him, but he’s been thinking about it for a while.

“Princess Leia,” Will says dryly. “Because she tells him to shut up.”

Mike immediately jerks his head up.

“Hey!”

Will can’t hold it in and starts laughing. Mike tries to look offended, but that lasts about five seconds before he starts laughing too. Their laughter comes out way too loud for late at night, and Mike buries his face in the pillow a couple of times trying to muffle it. His breathing goes uneven because the laughter just won’t stop.

It takes them a few minutes to calm down.

Will traces his finger along Mike’s shoulder, lazily drawing lines over the fabric of his T-shirt. Mike stares up at the ceiling, still trying to catch his breath; his chest rises and falls noticeably.

“He’s better than he tries to seem. Han Solo. But he’s actually super cool. Even though people think he doesn’t answer when someone tells him they love him.”

“Oh?” Mike rolls onto his side and ends up staring at the table.

“He doesn’t say it. Not out loud. He doesn’t answer her the way people expected.”

Mike feels his heart start beating faster, annoyingly obvious in his chest. Will’s fingers gently play with a strand of his hair, and Mike goes still for a second, trying to figure out if that’s on purpose or if Will’s doing it without thinking.

“Princess Leia?”

Will pauses before answering quietly.

“Yeah.”

Mike presses his palms to his chest like Will’s words were something incredibly important.

“What does she say?” he whispers.

Will carefully tucks a strand of Mike’s hair behind his ear.

“I love you.”

And suddenly it doesn’t sound like he’s repeating someone else’s words anymore. Mike stops breathing.

“And what does he say?”

“I know.”

Mike swallows. Will doesn’t move his fingers away from his hair, and their weight suddenly feels too noticeable. Mike almost stops breathing entirely because he realizes there are things more important than breathing. He hopes Will forgets where his hand is right now, and why he should probably move it.

But after a few seconds, Will finally let it go. Mike feels the spot by his temple grow cold, and before he can even think about it, he reaches out and catches Will’s wrist.

For a moment neither of them moves. Will’s hand is warm under Mike’s fingers, the pulse there quick and steady. Mike stares somewhere near their hands, as if he looks up too fast, the whole moment might shatter.

“I think,” he says after a while, his voice quieter than before, “if I were Han Solo, I probably wouldn’t answer either.”

Mike shrugs one shoulder, still not looking at him.

“But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her,” he continues. “Maybe he just can’t say it like that. Maybe he’d trust her in the dark. Maybe he’d let her see him when no one else does.” His thumb shifts a little against Will’s wrist before he notices and stills it. “Maybe he’d be ready to be himself around her.”

Will watches him for a long moment, quiet and thoughtful, like he’s turning the idea over in his head.

“Like Scott Summers and Jean Grey?” he asks finally.

Mike blinks and looks up at him.

“You read the comic?”

Will shrugs, just a little, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. Mike lets out a soft breath that almost turns into a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like that.”

The room goes quiet again. Mike becomes painfully aware of how close they are, of the fact that he’s still holding Will’s wrist.

“And… hey, Will.”

Will’s gaze shifts back to him.

“Yeah?”

Mike hesitates, like he’s testing the words before letting them out.

“I don’t think you’re Princess Leia.”

Will tilts his head slightly.

“Why not?”

Mike’s fingers tighten just a little around his wrist, almost without meaning to.

“Because…” He swallows. “Someone’s supposed to answer you.”

Will doesn’t speak right away. His eyes stay on Mike’s face.

“Answer what?” he asks.

Mike finally meets his eyes.

“I love you.”

Something shifts in Will’s expression, small but noticeable. His fingers turn slightly in Mike’s grip, not trying to pull away anymore, but fitting there instead. Will lets out a breath he didn’t seem to realize he was holding.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

He doesn’t move his hand from Mike’s.