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The storm wasn't just weather; it was an assault. Every heavy drop of rain that slammed against the roof of the car felt like a physical blow, a rhythmic, violent drumming that vibrated through the frame and settled deep in Mike’s bones. It felt like the sky was collapsing, folding in on itself, trapping them in this tiny, metal box. The headlights were two weak, flickering yellow eyes struggling to pierce the deluge, barely illuminating the drowning blades of grass in the Byers' driveway.
Outside, the world was dissolving into a blurred, blue nothingness. Inside, the air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp denim and the hum of the heater that was doing nothing to stop the chill in Mike’s chest.
Mike sat in the passenger seat, his pulse thrumming so hard in his throat he was sure Will could hear it over the storm. He felt like he was vibrating, a wire pulled too tight, waiting for the snap. Every few seconds, his eyes would dart toward the steering wheel. He saw Will’s hands—those long, slender fingers that usually held a charcoal pencil with such grace—now gripping the leather so hard the knuckles were bone-white.
The silence between them was louder than the thunder. It was a heavy, suffocating thing, filled with everything they hadn't said since the summer.
Then, the radio hummed. A soft acoustic track began to drift through the speakers, the melody thin and haunting against the roar of the rain.
“You were the right way... I was just waitin' for you to look at me...”
The lyrics hit Mike like a jagged shard of glass. He felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest, a physical ache that made him want to double over. It felt like a direct accusation. The right way. He looked away, his eyes fixed on the blurred yellow light of the porch, and suddenly, the present began to bleed away.
I was waitin' for you to look at me.
His mind traitorously dragged him back. Not to a few months ago, but to years of looking at Will and then immediately looking away. He thought about all the times he had caught Will watching him in the basement, or across a crowded room, and how Mike had always felt that terrifying, electric jolt in his stomach. Instead of leaning into it, he had turned his head. He had looked at girls he didn't really like, at games he didn't want to play, at a version of normalcy that felt like a straitjacket.
He thought about the way he had tried to live. He had spent so much energy trying to follow the map everyone else used. He thought that if he just played the part of the hero, the leader, a boyfriend to a girl, eventually the map would lead him somewhere that made sense.
“Is there a wrong time? Baby, I’m guessin’...”
I’m always guessing, Mike thought, his grip tightening on the door handle. I’ve been guessing for years. He looked at Will again. Will was still staring through the fogged-up windshield, his jaw set so tight it looked like it might break. Mike realized with a sickening jolt that Will probably thought Mike was annoyed. He probably thought Mike was sitting here, counting the seconds until the rain let up so he could escape.
The thought made Mike’s stomach turn. He wasn't waiting for the rain to stop so he could leave; he was waiting for the courage to finally be the one who looked back. He was tired. He was tired of being the boy who was just looking, too scared to see what was right in front of him.
“Just let me know... just let me know...”
The singer’s voice was a plea, and Mike felt it echoing in the hollow space of his ribs. He had spent so much time being an idiot—a loud, defensive, terrified idiot. He had used his words as shields and his silence as a wall. And now, Mike felt the wall starting to crumble.
He looked at Will’s profile—the slope of his nose, the messy fringe of his hair—and the lyrics felt like they were stripping him bare. He wasn't waiting for a sign anymore. He was just waiting for his heart to stop trying to jump out of his chest so he could finally open his mouth. He had been the right one for Will once, back when they were kids, and the world was just a game of D&D. Somewhere along the line, Mike had decided to try the wrong way. He had decided to guess, to bide his time, to wait for a future that didn't involve the boy sitting three inches away from him.
But looking at Will now, with the rain screaming overhead and the heater blowing dry air into the silence, Mike realized he was done guessing. He didn't want the right way if it meant watching Will ride away again. He just wanted to be the boy looking at him, and for once, he wanted to be the one to say it first.
The memory hit Mike like a physical blow, knocking the air right out of his lungs. It was the driveway. The same suffocating, relentless rain. years ago, the sky had looked exactly like this—a bruised, weeping expanse that seemed determined to wash away everything they had built since they were kids.
He could still see Will’s face through the haze of the past. It was twisted with a hurt so profound, so raw, that it had made Mike want to recoil, as if the pain were contagious. He remembered the heat in his own chest, the defensive, panicked fire that had made him lash out. He remembered the words he’d spat out—jagged, ugly things intended to wound, to push Will back into the shadows so Mike didn't have to look at the truth.
“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!”
The line echoed in the cramped space of the car, louder than the storm. He had watched Will hop on that bike, his small frame trembling under the weight of a yellow raincoat that offered no protection against Mike’s cruelty. He had watched Will pedal away into the darkness, the red taillight flickering like a dying pulse. Mike had stood on the dry porch, safe under the eaves, his heart hammering a frantic, guilty rhythm. He had felt a strange, hollow victory in that moment—but it had tasted like ash in his mouth.
He had let Will go. He had watched the person who was his entire world, his north star, his heart, disappear into a storm because he was too scared to be anything other than what a suburban kid in Indiana was supposed to be.
Well, it's been a long time
Since you've been lonely...
The song on the radio was a low, melodic ache. It was as if the singer knew exactly how many nights Mike had spent staring at his ceiling, realizing that the normal life he was trying to build was just a house made of salt, crumbling every time he thought of Will.
"Mike?"
Will’s voice was small, barely audible over the drumming on the roof. He hadn't moved an inch. He was still staring straight ahead through the fogged windshield, his profile etched in the dim, green light of the dashboard. There was a tension in his neck, a wariness that told Mike he was braced for another rejection, another wrong word.
"I’m an idiot, Will," Mike said. The words felt heavy, like stones he’d been carrying in his mouth for a decade, finally spilled out onto the floor mats.
Will let out a short, dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. It was a sound of tired resignation. "You say that a lot lately, Mike."
"No, I mean it. I’m a genuine, world-class, gold-medal-winning moron," Mike said, finally turning his entire body toward Will. He moved too fast, and his seatbelt locked with a sharp click against his chest, pinning him back, but he didn't care. He leaned against the tension. "I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, just... paralyzed. I'm thinking about that evening. The evening you rode off. I think about it every single time it rains. I think about how I stood there on the driveway like a coward while you drowned."
Will’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "That was a long time ago, Mike. It doesn't matter anymore. We’re older. Things change."
"It matters to me!" Mike’s voice cracked, the volume jumping, momentarily drowning out the rain. "It matters because I spent that whole year—and every year after that—trying to find the 'right' way to be. I followed the rules, Will. I followed the map. I tried to be the leader, the guy with the girlfriend, the guy everyone expected to see when they looked at Mike Wheeler."
He reached out, his hand hovering in the space between the seats, trembling.
"I was just biding my time," Mike whispered, the realization hitting him with the force of a tidal wave. "I was just guessing. Every day was a guess. Every girl I talked to, every shit I did in college, every 'normal' thing I did... it was just me throwing darts in the dark and hoping something would stick. Hoping that if I played the part well enough, I’d eventually start to feel it. But I never did."
You are the right one
And I′m just the boy who is lookin′ at you...
Mike’s eyes were stinging now, the heat of his own tears blurring the sight of Will’s hands on the wheel. "I was waiting for you to look at me and tell me it was okay to stop guessing. But how could you? I was the one who pushed you away. I was the one who told you that the right way didn't include us."
He looked at Will’s hands—still bone-white on the leather—and saw them begin to shake.
"I don't want to bide my time anymore," Mike said, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate plea. "I don't want to guess. I’m looking at you, Will. I’m finally just... the boy looking at you. And I don't want to look at anything else."
Inside the car, the air felt like it was charged with static electricity. The song continued to play, a soft, acoustic backdrop to the sound of two hearts finally trying to beat at the same speed. Mike watched a single tear track down Will's face, catching the emerald light of the dash, and he knew he couldn't let him ride away again. Not tonight. Not ever.
Will finally turned his head. His eyes were wide, and in the dim light of the dashboard, Mike could see the shimmer of tears already beginning to pool. Will looked terrified. He looked like he was waiting for the punchline of a joke he didn't want to hear.
"I don't know why you're bringing this up," Will whispered. "We’re finally okay. We’re friends. Why are you doing this?"
"Because I can't breathe!" Mike gasped, the honesty of it feeling like a physical rupture. "I can't keep sitting in this car and pretending that I’m not dying every time you look at me. It’s been a long time since you've been lonely, Will. I know that. I know I left you in the dark for years while I tried to play a part that didn't fit. I was so obsessed with being 'right' that I missed the only thing that actually was."
The song on the radio seemed to swell, the guitar notes echoing the frantic rhythm of Mike’s heart.
So what will I do
"I was waiting for a sign," Mike continued, his voice shaking so hard he could barely get the words out. "I was waiting for someone to give me a map. But there is no map, Will. I was wasting my time on a version of myself that was never going to show up. And then I looked at you. Truly looked at you. Not as my 'best friend' or the guy I grew up with, but as the only person who makes the world feel like it isn't gray."
Will was crying now, the tears spilling over and running down his cheeks in silent, hot streams. He looked like his entire world was being dismantled piece by piece. "Stop it, Mike. Please. You don't mean this. You're just... you're bored, or you're confused—"
"I am not confused!" Mike shouted, reaching across the console and grabbing Will’s hands. He forced Will to let go of the steering wheel, clutching his palms against his own. Will’s skin was cold, but Mike felt like he was on fire. "I have never been less confused in my entire life. I am a moron, and I am a coward, and I am an idiot who took years to realize that the only person I can picture by my side is you."
Mike gripped Will's fingers, his thumbs rubbing over the back of Will's hands. "Will. I spent all my energy guessing what I should do, until I thought I could be the person everyone wanted. But it was all a waste. You are the only one I want next to me. In every version of the future I try to see, you're the only person who is actually there."
Will's breath was hitched, his chest moving in quick, shallow jerks. He looked at their joined hands, then up at Mike's face. The radio played the final chorus, the lyrics filling the small space.
You are the only one I can picture by my side
By my side...
"Is there a wrong time?" Mike asked, his voice cracking as he whispered. "I don't care anymore. Just let me know. Tell me if I've finally gotten it right."
Will didn't say a word. He pulled his hands from Mike's grip only to reach out and grab the collar of Mike's damp shirt. He pulled Mike forward, and Mike moved readily, knocking his shoulder against the seatbelt as he leaned over the center console.
When their lips met, it was a hard, solid contact that felt more real than anything Mike had ever experienced. It wasn't soft or careful; it was a desperate, heavy pressure that carried all the years of silence and missed opportunities. Mike's hand moved to the side of Will's face, his fingers sliding into the hair at Will's temple. He felt the heat of Will's skin and the dampness of the tears still on his cheeks.
Will's mouth was warm, and he made a small, broken sound into the kiss, a soft noise that Mike felt more than heard. Mike pressed closer, his other hand finding the back of Will's neck, holding him there. The kiss tasted of salt and felt like the end of a long, exhausting walk. It was clumsy—their noses bumped, and Mike’s glasses were pushed against his forehead—but he didn't pull away. He didn't want to be anywhere else.
Will let out a long, shaky breath when they finally separated, though he didn't move his face away. He kept his forehead pressed against Mike's. The rain was still slamming into the roof, a constant, heavy noise, but the tension that had lived in the car for years was gone.
"I love you," Mike said, his voice quiet and sure.
Mike’s grip on Will’s hands tightened, his knuckles straining as he pulled Will’s palms closer to his chest, right over his hammering heart. He didn't just want Will to hear the words; he wanted him to feel the physical ache behind them.
"I love you so much it feels like my ribs are too small for my heart. It’s a physical pain, Will. It’s been sitting there, rotting, because I was too much of a coward to give it to you."
He looked at Will’s face, memorizing every tear-streak, every flicker of disbelief.
"I love the way you disappear into your drawings until your fingers are stained with charcoal. I love the specific, quiet look you get when you're thinking too hard about something, like the rest of the world has just ceased to exist. I love that you are the only person who ever truly looked at me and saw someone worth keeping, even when I was being an arrogant, defensive prick. Especially then."
Mike’s voice broke, a raw, wet sound that was nearly lost to the roar of the storm outside.
"I am so sorry I made you wait in the dark. I am sorry I let you believe you were alone when you were the only thing I was actually looking at. Most of all, I’m sorry I let you ride away into the rain that night. I watched you leave, and I felt the air go out of the world, and I just stood there because I was obsessed with being 'right.' I was so busy trying to be a person I hated that I almost lost the only person who makes me like who I am."
He leaned forward, his forehead dropping against Will’s, their shared breath warm and shaky in the small space.
"I don't want a life without this. I don't care if it's messy or if people look at us weirdly. I want to be the boy looking at you, for as long as you'll let me. I love you, Will Byers. Please,... don't ride away again."
Will didn’t just listen; he absorbed every syllable until his entire body was trembling. He let go of Mike’s wrists, not to push him away, but to cradle Mike’s face with a reverence that made the air in the car feel thin. His thumbs swept across Mike’s cheekbones, catching the salt and the heat.
"I used to think I’d invented you," Will whispered, his voice thick and fragile. "I thought I’d made up this version of us in my head just to survive the days when you wouldn’t even look at me. I spent every night for years trying to kill that hope because it felt like a death sentence. I convinced myself that being your friend was enough, that I could live on the scraps of your attention while you searched for something I could never provide."
He leaned in closer, his eyes fixed on Mike’s with a raw, terrifying intensity.
"But you were always the person I was painting. Every stroke of color, every shadow—it was you. I wasn't just waiting for you to see me, Mike. I was waiting for you to see yourself the way I do. You aren't a role or a leader or a set of rules. You're just... you. And that’s the only thing I ever needed."
Will’s fingers slid into Mike’s hair, pulling him forward until there wasn't a single inch of doubt left between them.
"I didn't ride away that night because I wanted to leave. I rode away because staying felt like drowning. But I’m finished with the water. I’m finished with the silence. If you’re done guessing, then I’m done hiding. I’ve belonged to you since we were kids on that swingset, and I’m not going anywhere. Not ever."
He closed his eyes, a final, relieved sob escaping him as he pressed his mouth against Mike’s again. there was no hesitation. It was a grounding, heavy weight—a promise that the driveway was no longer a place of departure, but a place of arrival. The storm continued to scream against the glass, but for the first time, the world inside the car felt completely, perfectly still.