Chapter Text
He is everywhere I go, everyone I see
Winter’s gone and I still can’t sleep
The rolled up newspaper is a block of ice in Mike’s hand and his fingers go numb when he removes it from the still opened mailbox. It’s not what he was looking for—nor what he was hoping to find—, but then again his hopes are thinning with every day that passes without a letter in the mail with Will’s handwriting on it. Mike leisurely shakes the residue of snow off the newspaper and slams the mailbox shut.
Stupid.
He shouldn’t keep hoping.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
There shouldn’t be this much snow in March.
Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid.
Everything is fucking stupid.
Mike squeezes the newspaper between his ribs and upper arm as he walks back to the house. He doesn’t look at the handpainted murals on the wooden pillars of the porch. He doesn’t dare look at the porch swing, but it glares at him in his periphery, the blue and yellow paint a stark contrast to the grayish white neighborhood on this second day of March.
When the door falls shut behind him, Mike releases an exasperated sigh, feeling like he just ran a marathon when, really, all he did was fetch the fucking mail in his boxers and flip-flops. The warmth of the house makes his cold skin burn and he leans against the door a little longer, the newspaper wedged between his body parts slowly defrosting.
A small cough escapes his throat, then another. Mike sniffles. Good. Maybe he’ll finally catch that cold that’ll take him out.
He stares down the hallway, deliberately looking past the staircase to his left. He hasn’t gone up there since Will left, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready to. To his immediate right is the living room, messy and a little dusty. Mike hasn’t made any changes since Will left, hasn’t even cleaned the place, as if that could make Will’s energy cling to the walls, ceiling, and furniture. Honestly, though, now it’s just cold and too big for a room that was initially meant for two people to live in.
There, on Mike’s left, next to the bottom of the stairs, is the bathroom. It’s ugly. Vomit-green tiles with a piss-yellow batik effect. When they moved in, Will had spent hours upon hours in that room, with brushes and acrylic paints, putting small murals on every other tile. After that, it was ugly but kind of cute. Now, it’s ugly and painful to exist in.
Mike sighs and pushes himself off the door, his feet dragging across the red and orange carpet as he moves warily, like a stranger in his own home. He makes it past the living room and pushes against the next door, revealing a tiny room that merely fits a desk and a narrow bookshelf. Mike’s office. His writing room. He hasn’t been in there in weeks. Mike can barely form a proper thought, let alone think about writing a whole ass book. The floor is a scattering of old newspapers and advertisements and unread letters addressed to Will and Mike alike—he barely manages paying bills on time and has stopped caring about anything else. Today’s newspaper lands on the pile and Mike pulls the door shut again. One day he’ll take care of this mess.
He makes it into the room at the end of the hallway. The kitchen. It’s bright with big windows stretching above the white, wooden countertop. They put a lot of money into this room when they moved in. The furniture alone cost nothing less than a fortune—something that Mike’s book deal actually paid for—and the fridge carried the price of a used car. It means nothing now. The fridge stands firm and large, but merely carries a moldy cucumber, a bottle of soy sauce, and an abundance of barbecue sauce. Mike doesn’t need to open it to know there’s a small tin can in the back of the bottom shelf, one of Will’s paints he left behind. That alone is reason for him to want to set this entire thing on fire. He walks past the dining table, blinking a little too long to ignore the different colors of the legs—red, blue, green, and yellow, painted by Will—and his hands fall flat on the countertop. Mike stares out into the backyard, a wild mess that they promised to take care of this spring.
Mike bites down on his bottom lip hard.
It’s spring soon.
Although, with all the snow and the white scenery, Mike is almost able to pretend he’s still living in a time where he and Will coexist. Maybe at the start of November, when they stood in this exact spot together and watched as a thick blanket of snow covered the backyard, watched as thick snowflakes danced in front of the windows. The week before Will was offered an opportunity that he was more than willing to take. The week before their first fight because Mike didn’t want to leave Hawkins—didn’t want to leave behind the life they built.
If he wasn’t so dead inside, Mike would laugh at the irony.
What even is this life he and Will built when Will isn’t here?
He wants to be mad at Will. But instead, Mike can only be angry at himself. He had nothing to lose but Will. Now, Will is in New York, probably living the artist dream life. And Mike is still in Hawkins, ten minutes from his parent’s home, with all his friends scattered across the country. They were friends for twelve years. Then a couple for nine. And now Will is moving on in the big city, while Mike stays in this godforsaken place they built together—something that means nothing without the man who made it with him.
Mike’s flat hand wanders across the countertop and he studies the surface. He can’t help but smile when he remembers the day the kitchen was finally done and they inaugurated it in a very Mike and Will kind of way—naked and messy and loud. This countertop has seen lasagnas that tasted like shit, burnt pasta, naked men, and a concerning amount of champagne. Now it’s just that. A countertop.
His gaze wanders back through the window, flicking between bushes and trees that are covered in a heavy white. In the corner of the kitchen is a small door leading toward the backyard. Will occasionally sunbathed on the stairs during summer, wearing nothing but boxers and sunscreen, but he never dared stepping foot into the minefield of thorns and bristles.
Maybe, if Mike wants to reclaim this place, he can start with a part of it that Will never touched. Maybe he can fuck the promise and do it alone.
Mike pushes himself off the counter.
It’s spring soon.
And Mike is going to fix that damn backyard.