Archive of Our Own

Will sits in his room, the air stale, his mood all in all terrible. He leans against his headboard, the wood digging into his back in a way that hurts enough to be annoying, but not enough to move. His current state of being consists of feeling entirely too aware while somehow simultaneously feeling disconnected from himself and the things around him.

He’s been given too many things to think about.

Rinkomania, the airport, the last however many months of his life he'd spent yearning for a boy that obviously didn't care whether he stayed or went. Mike and his ability to send a message in the shittiest way possible.

Is he a bad friend? Is that why Mike decided that, apparently, he'd be demoted from the high pedestal of best friend into something even less than capital F friends? Is he a bad friend turned kind-of brother to El for not knowing she had been lying to Mike for months? Is that his fault?

The entire day had been a test of both his resilience and his ability not to cry in a public space.

He'd thought he was right for not mentioning Angela when she'd first appeared, wanting to spare El from the embarrassment of being caught in a useless lie.

But it had blown up in his face just as most things usually do.

Mike had said sabotage when he'd been going for mercy.

Is there something about him that makes it impossible for people to understand him?

He'd thought Mike did.

He tucks his lips in at the thought.

The moment replays over and over again in his head.

Mike's face, the way he spoke to him, spitting venom at him like it was water, and yet it burned just the same.

Why did Mike talk to him like that? Why doesn’t Mike care anymore? Did he do something?

How… How does he fix it?

He slumps into his pillows and stares at the ceiling, the trickle of tears down his face a gentle reminder of the hole in his heart.

Maybe it’s all a lot simpler than he wants it to be. Maybe his entire friendship with Mike never mattered. Given how cloudy his mind is nowadays, maybe he’d dreamed up the closeness, the click of their puzzle pieces when snapped together.

Maybe even as a kid, he'd been fooling himself. He was the shy kid who could barely speak, creative and quiet, and wholly just a sad case, and Mike was his knight— his protector and his heart's keeper. The one who brought him out of his shell and taught him it was okay to be bright in an otherwise dark world.

He thought they were a class act. A duo. Two people who understood and cherished one another as best friends, even if Will wanted more.

Yeah.

Apparently not.

It's become more and more obvious that it had all been in his head. His whole life so far, he’s been operating under the assumption that they were each other's favorite, would always be the first thought in one another's heads, but he's coming to the unfortunate realization that it had never actually been true. 

He'd been a temporary placement in Mike's life while Mike had made an eternal mark in his.

He cries silently into his pillow, hugging his blanket to his chest as if it could soothe the wound that had opened on the sensitive surface of his heart. The realization burns under his skin.

He's stupid. Stupider than he had ever given himself credit for. He’d imagined it— That's the only way to explain it. He thought he lived in a world where Mike saw him with at least a fraction of the love he thought of Mike with— thought of him as more than everyone else.

He'd believed it so vehemently— had made all the excuses and given Mike the benefit of the doubt. Mike was sweet to him, so endlessly kind. He took care of him and paid him attention in ways no one else did. Mike would give him the shirt off his back, Mike would hold his hand, Mike would never make him feel bad for being himself, Mike would always care, Mike, Mike, Mike.

But all those things meant nothing in the face of distance. In the face of the natural love a boy holds for a girl. And it's not like Will can fault Mike for the girl part. Just because he struggles to feel anything other than friendship for girls doesn't mean Mike has to.

As much as he wishes it were possible for Mike to love him, he's almost happy that he can't. Because that means Mike can be normal— have and give love like people are meant to. Mike can grow up and find that feeling that everyone seems to chase. He can feel it and nurture it and make it into something real, something reciprocated.

Not like him.

His love would stay locked tight, never meant for anything but to be held close to his chest, burning in his heart for the rest of his life.

But… but that's besides the point. He never expected Mike's love. He just hadn't expected his coldness. He never expected Mike to speak to him like…

Like a stranger.

"We're friends. We're friends."

They barely even feel like that. Friends don't ice each other out. Friends don't avoid touching each other. Friends don't say things they know will hurt the most.

"It's not my fault you don't like girls."

He cringes at the memory of that night, the icy water pouring down his body at the realization that he would truly never be like his friends. That he'd always be innately different.

Maybe… Maybe their detachment has been coming for longer than he thought.

Maybe Mike found out about him— maybe he'd somehow managed to worm the truth out just by looking at him or paying attention to his actions a little more than he had before— noticed him looking at him a certain way.

There's always been something about him that makes it easy for people to sniff out what he is, after all. Maybe Mike just finally decided to pay attention to it.

It hurts to think about it.

He hadn't expected Mike to ever look at him like others have— as a queer, someone to be avoided, or, if one's in the mood, insulted.

His brain feeds him the unhelpful idea that maybe Mike is protecting himself from the queer boy he'd accidentally chosen to grow up with so that he wouldn't catch his disease.

A pit forms in his stomach, one that twists and turns and makes his heart jump to his throat. He gets the vague urge to walk to the bathroom and empty his stomach, but refuses it, lest he run into Mike on the way.

He turns on his side and continues to lament on the past when he had felt so loved, so right next to Mike. 

That feeling is gone, sucked away as if it had never happened in the first place, and all he can really feel is empty— a shell that lives and breathes but feels nothing.

What happened to them?

Mike used to care, used to want him around. Will had felt like nothing more than a tick, watching him and El as they pranced around, so locked into each other that he was nothing but background noise. He'd felt outside himself, a drone in an empty body watching as his life played in front of him.

He could not have been there at all, and they wouldn't have noticed.

Would Mike even care?

If he disappeared? If he died, gone without a trace? If all that was left of him was his art, every piece he'd poured his heart into and the single letter he'd tried to write after receiving nothing but silence from Mike— would he even care?

Had he cared back then, even? 

When his life was deemed over, dead and gone, and literally buried, did Mike mourn?

He never asked, never wanted to wonder how his friends and family had prepared to move on without him. Would he have been nothing but a pothole in their memories, to be paved over and forgotten? Or would he have been a cavernous gape in their hearts, one that couldn't be filled despite best efforts?

Would he have become a distant memory, or would he loiter in their minds like a ghost that haunted them at every turn?

Neither idea is comforting.

Given how Mike has taken his absence this time— the losing contact, and the total lack of care he's shown him, he's afraid to imagine it. Maybe it was easier for Mike to accept than he would ever want to admit— ever want to imagine.

Will rolls over to his other side, sliding his head off the puddle of tears staining the fabric under him.

All the thinking and crying has left him exhausted, and he's almost thankful for it. Sleep will save him from thinking.

He closes his eyes and wishes for a moment that Mike would come up from the couch downstairs and lie with him— talk with him about anything— be it comics or D&D or… or even El. anything that would bridge the too wide gap between them.

He imagines Mike slipping under the blanket beside him and wrapping him in his arms— holding him like he matters, like he's someone important.

He always did have a good imagination.

He falls asleep, soaked in his own tears and tucked into a ball under his blankets.

— or at least, that's what should have happened. What greets him isn't sleep, but something else entirely.

He’s falling through a void— a black nothingness that never begins or ends and yet continues endlessly. Moves and yet stays still, warm and yet cold. He reaches out but touches nothing. Speaks, and yet the words travel not.

His body spins as if on a centrifuge. His insides turn, the overwhelming merry-go-round of movement sending his stomach into a tumble.

He opens his mouth to scream, and still, nothing comes out despite the strain on his vocal cords. His heart thumps in his chest; his breathing, though he can't hear it, is heavy.

What is happening? He needs to wake up. Wake up…!

But nothing happens.

He continues to spin until eventually he slows to a stop, now floating aimlessly in space. He pleads into the nothingness but there's no answer to his cry.

To have his voice taken from feels crippling— the inability to scream, to make his presence known in this unfamiliar space between the when and where.

He's on his way to a true, frantic panic when he sees it. Light— something growing into his surroundings as if from nowhere.

When he finally meets solid ground, it's discombobulating. His vision swims, and his head feels as if someone had pumped him full of air until the pressure pushed on his skull like an overfull tire. 

He presses his fingers to his temple, and it works in the smallest way, the pressure releasing from his head enough for thoughts to slip through. He breathes, slow and deep, and his heart begins to calm as he does.

When he finally manages to come down enough to take in his surroundings, the blood running through his body seems to freeze.

The flowery wallpaper on the wall glares at him. He blinks at it, a confused huff leaving his lips.

What…?

He looks around at the warm lights and the modern kitchen. When he sniffs the air, the scent that he picks up is familiar, achingly so. There's no doubt about it.

He's in Mike’s house.

He’s back— but… It’s not the Wheeler house he's familiar with now.

Some of the pictures on the walls that should be there are gone, while others are old but somehow look brand new. His eyes scan the area, taking in the wallpaper he knows to have been replaced now returned, untouched.

The confusion swirls in his mind for a moment longer, until his eyes fall on the rug in the living room. It's light green, with little dark green swirls and leaves blotted around. Except… Will knows that rug.

It was replaced after he and Mike spilt grape juice on it while jumping around playing knights and wizards— he knows it was. The guilt for it slept in his chest for months afterward.

Karen had been beside herself; he could never forget it.

But… That would've been in…

No, but…

"Mike?"

He jolts, looking up at the sound of a voice.

His eyes widen, not having seen this version of Karen Wheeler in anything but a picture since the age of 12, before the blonde hair and wine became a daily occurrence.

He swings around at a creak in the floor, nearly tumbling over himself. When he looks up, His eyes nearly bulge out of his head at what stands before him.

Mike…?

A much smaller, much sadder version of his best friend looks back at him. His little fists are clenched at his sides, a harsh frown settled over his lips. The crinkle of his clothes shows that he'd recently been outside, the shiver that courses down his body evidence of a biting cold.

Shock rolls through Will's entire being. He stares at the child before him— so small, so familiar— a memory from far away.

Little Mike's face twists into something crumbling, a steady wall that cracks at the sight of his mother. He stumbles forward. A jolt of surprise and fear shoots through Will, the immediate reflex to protect such a small person flaring. He tries to catch the little boy, only to be walked through as if he isn't there at all.

The feeling is strange. His stomach swoops, expecting resistance, but none comes.

Will stares at his hands, and they glimmer back. His skin is translucent— as if he were made out of a sparkling tulle. He stares through the spot where his forearm should be solid.

A shaky breath leaves him, his eyes wobbling left, then right.

Okay. A ghost then. Or… or a poltergeist. A vengeful spirit.

He shakes his head. Not the time.

He wills the anxiety that threatens his nerves away, instead turning to follow Mike's course. When he whirls around, it's to Karen wrapping her arms around Mike's tiny figure.

He double-takes once more at the difference in their size. The Mike he knows has grown so much, taller than his mother now.

Things really change.

Cries echo around the room, shaking Will to the core as they rattle the walls. Sniffles and garbled language join the sobs, making for a devastating medley of noises. The noises are something he imagines would be heard at a funeral, at the scene of a crime where someone lost their person, the person whom they planned to spend their life.

Or maybe something even more terrible— something Will can't even imagine.

Mike cries against his mother's dress, whimpers falling from his lips that break Will's heart with every second he hears them. His hands ache, and tears of his own spill over his lashes.

What is this? Why is Mike…

A small realization begins to form, starting a pit to form in his belly.

A little voice sounds from over the gasping and crying.

“Will… Mom, Will…”

His voice breaks off into a sob, which only feeds into the speed of the tears down his face. Karen shooshes him as she strokes his hair, her own face broken up into something Will has never seen on her before. She kneels and locks Mike into a tight embrace.

“I know, baby. I’m so sorry- I'm so sorry.”

Will watches as Mike mourns, as he cries and begs for him to come back. All Karen can do is hold him as he shakes against her, at some point beginning to shake with him, a few silent tears falling down her cheeks, streaking her makeup.

Will's chest is tight as the realization settles over him fully.

This…

This is— he’s watching his own mourning. He got what he wished for.

It’s with that realization that he’s falling again— his sight breaking up into blackness, flickering from the Wheeler living room, to the void once more.

The endless swirl and twirl make him sick— his brain and eyes confused on where to look or what to think. He reaches out for anything to steady him, but there's nothing, no crutch to balance on.

He feels more alone than he ever has, looking into a pit that holds a depth he has no way of knowing. Does it continue forever? Is there an end he just hasn't seen yet? Rather than contemplate it, he closes his eyes and tries to forget.

Eventually, something in the atmosphere changes. It gets cold— so much so that he feels it fresh against his skin like a live wire. His feet land once more on solid ground.

He lets out the breath he's been holding, relief washing over him. He opens his eyes slowly, allowing them to adjust to the flashing lights.

He’s outside, in a place that's familiar but not, rocks and dirt, and the sound of water.

A tiny voice catches his attention.

“It’s not Will… it can’t be.”

When he turns, the shock threatens to knock him down. It’s his friends— all of them, only smaller. His eyes flicker between them for a moment, taking in the looks on their faces, blue and red lights making them look all the more frightened, their features smothered under the harsh colors.

He looks out on the water, at the shining lights reflecting off the surface. The water ripples as multiple bodies move about, urgent as if their job is important.

He sucks in a breath. A group of men dressed in gear clamor around a point in the lake, sending water sloshing as they lift something, pulling it up from the water.

He can't quite make out what it is, too surrounded by people who block his line of sight. When he does finally manage to see something, his heart drops.

A hand, small and encased in a white sleeve, hangs limp, pale finger tips dipping into the frigid water. One of the rescuers moves , giving him a better view.

Will's breath catches in his throat.

There, in the middle of the group of men, a little figure lies on a gurney, lifeless and unmoving.

The face is familiar, the hair blotted across the forehead, sticking with the water. Long eyelashes settle over a pale cheek. A mole sits above blue, cracked lips.

His favorite jacket rests on his shoulders.

The realization hits him like a punch.

It.. It’s…

“It’s Will. It’s really Will.”

Lucas's voice breaks, trailing off into nothing.

Mike’s breath hitches, a sob pulling from his throat. He stumbled back from the truck the group leaned against, nearly tripping over the rocky ground. The desperation and fear on his face are enough to leave a scar in Will’s heart for the rest of his life. He'd never imagined— never thought of what it would look like to see Mike when he…

Will has never seen him like this before.

His eyes are wild, blinking rapidly like he can't quite believe what he's seen. He shakes his head, his mouth opening and closing.

Mike's lips curl, the tears in his eyes spilling over and trailing down his cheeks. A hitched noise catches in his throat.

"No… No it…"

Mike turns around to face El, his small hands clenched at his sides. Will isn’t sure what he expects, but Mike yelling at her is the last thing. His little face draws up, a fury present that cloaks over the desperation.

"You said he was alive! Why would you lie to us?"

He steps towards her, wobbly and desperate, carried forward by his anger alone.

"What's wrong with you? What is wrong with you?"

El stands there, her face stark in the night. She looks… confused, afraid of Mike. Mike, who, for all Will knows, had only treated her with kindness up until this point, was now turning his anger onto her.

She quivers under his fire.

"I…"

"What?"

Mike stares at her with a venom not befitting such a small child. He shakes his head, glancing back at the water, his eyes shiny and disbelieving, then back at her.

"You lied."

His little voice cracks, utterly heartbroken. Mike looks once more at his friends before turning and speed walking to his bike.

Will walks after him, unseen and unfelt, but his emotions fit the moment, a desperate sadness that makes his chest ache.

Lucas and Dustin tumble forward to stop Mike, choking on their own tears, but it doesn't work. He turns around to them when Lucas grabs his wrist. His breathing comes heavy, and his shiny eyes see nothing as he looks at Lucas, who tucks his lips, suppressing a sob.

"Don't… Mike…"

No words leave Mike's mouth as he shakes the hand off and turns away.

Lucas, through his tears, holds his hand out again.

"Mike… c'mon, don't do this, man…"

Mike ignores him, standing next to his bike. Lucas shakes his head, wiping his tears with a shaking hand.

"Mike…"

But Mike hears none of it, grabbing his bike and standing it up. Dustin's voice breaks through, small and desperate enough to splinter into Will's heart.

"Mike… Where are you going?"

Mike says nothing, the sound of his hoarse breathing being the only thing to reach Will's ears. Dustin calls once more, but Mike is already speeding off, the sound of his frantic pedaling the last thing they hear.

Mike is long gone, and Will is left with only the sound of Lucas and Dustin’s cries as they mourn him, hugging each other for purchase against the heartbreak. Dustin shakes his head against Lucas.

"I— I don't understand."

El stands to the side, a tear of her own tracking her cheek.

Why is he seeing this? He thought it would be nice to know they cared— Mike cared— but this isn't what he meant. He never wanted to see them like this.

If this is what kind of pain mourning him meant, then they would've been better off forgetting him. He doesn't want to see this anymore.

Whatever being that sent him here seems to listen, dragging him back into the void, the sensation having become somewhat familiar now.

He spins and swims and, embarrassingly, after waiting for a while, tries to do a flip. The wait time has grown, and being stuck in the cloudy void becomes more disconcerting the longer it lasts, so he's doing the best he can to distract himself.

When the void changes once more and his feet hit the ground, it's somewhere familiar— the most familiar.

He stands in front of Castle Byers. Not the way he knows it now, broken and scattered into nothing but a stack of sticks, but castle Byers in its untouched state.

It's nighttime, has to be near some time after sundown. The woods are alive with the sound of bugs and critters.

Will looks around but finds nothing of note— nothing that could be the reason he's here. So, he sets his sights on the main focus of the area— the obvious one.

He walks closer to the fort, stepping carefully as if his form was any more physical than the wind, but unable to help the instinct to sneak.

He kneels at the opening of his childhood safespace, and his ears pick up a noise under all the sounds of nature.

A sniffle alerts him to a presence inside the fort. Now confident with his theory that someone is inside, he drops to his knees and crawls halfway inside.

The sight that greets him is unfathomably sad, gripping a part of his heart and squeezing.

It's Mike— the little one. He's curled up in the corner of the fort, a heavy jacket over his shoulders, his hair windswept and wet. In one hand, he holds a flashlight, and in the other a piece of paper. Tears stream down his cheeks slowly, dropping off his chin and onto the paper.

Hiccups and raspy sobs break through his lips every couple of seconds, racking his tiny body in shakes. A walkie sits next to him, the light glowing to show its power is on, but the boy doesn't look at it.

He sets one paper down to pick up another, a sob pushing out of him the moment he looks at it.

When Will manages to get a peek at the papers, his lips press together.

His drawings. The pile is drawing after drawing, all made by him from the ages of five to 12. Everyone one of them had been gifts— gifts for Mike.

Will stares at the scene, his pulse pounding and the very fabric of his being burning. He reaches a hand out as if he could touch— as if he could somehow comfort this poor kid, but as he does, a stick snaps outside.

Little Mike jolts up, his eyes flying wide. He scrambles in his place, throwing the drawings to the side and shoving off the ground in a scamper. He rushes straight through Will and flies out the entrance of the fort.

Will is stunned for a few seconds, about to make after him—until he hears it.

"Will! Will, is that— Is that you? I- I'm here! It's Mike!"

The sounds of small feet stepping around the fort in a circle.

"Will! Please, I— I'm here!"

Will wipes at his eyes, scrubbing the tears that have begun to fall away.

Jesus, he'd never— he never knew. He never knew he had—

Mike had waited for him.

Little Mike's voice continues to shout, becoming more and more helpless, and more and more subdued the longer his calls go without a response.

"Will…! I… I'm here. Why aren't you… Why won't you come home?"

The steps outside Castle Byers stop for a full minute before beginning once more. They grow closer until eventually, little Mike passes through him again.

His face, having previously been marred with tears, now looks even worse. Red and scrubbed, dirt on one cheek, and a renewed sadness settled over his spirit. He sits back in his spot next to the pile of drawings.

Mike stares forward as another tear falls down his cheek and into his lap. He picks up a drawing and stares down at it. Will can't tell what he's thinking, but he has a pretty good clue of how he feels.

The desperation, the denial,

It's familiar. The same but different.

The walkie beside the smaller Mike begins to sound, a voice breaking through the static.

"Mike? Mike, where are you?"

It's Lucas. His voice fraught and tired. Mike makes no move to answer.

The walkie goes off again.

"Mike, you… You shouldn't be alone."

And still, Mike doesn't move, eyes still glued to the drawing.

Once more, the walkie lights up.

"I miss him, too. We all miss him. But… But we should be missing him together. We can't let the party end over this. Will would—"

Mike's hand shoots the device and flips it off, pushing the antennae down as if it hurt him just by being up. He shoves the walkie to the side once more.

The walkie, now discarded, feels awfully like Will's heart, ripped out of his chest and tossed somewhere else, far from its place in his chest.

Little Mike makes a noise that wrenches through Will's soul. At once, the sobs start once more. Will can only watch as the smaller version of his best friend cries— cries over him.

When the black creeps into the edges of his vision, he's thankful.

He sits in the void, unmoving, lost in his own mind. Sitting there and watching Mike break down had felt like his soul had been squeezed of all the positive and left with only the negative. He'd never known Mike had mourned him so hard, so much. He's terrible for thinking he would ever do otherwise.

Maybe… Maybe things are different than what he thinks they are.

When the world comes into focus again, it’s to a familiar scene— except on a different side of it, a side he's never seen.

He watches as Jonathan’s car speeds away, his friends' backs facing him.

They disperse, words shared between them, but Mike is noticeably subdued, wiping a tear from his face nonchalantly as Lucas pats his shoulder.

"It'll be okay. You'll see her soon, man."

Mike acknowledges his words with barely a nod before getting on his bike and waiting silently as everyone else gets their bikes up from the ground.

With a flicker of darkness, he’s in the Wheelers kitchen, Karen and Mike looking at one another near the spot he’d witnessed both Wheelers crumble to the ground. 

Mike stalks wordlessly toward his mother. When she sees him, giving him a warm smile.

"Did you see Will off? I know it's hard—"

He wraps her in a hug mid-sentence. She stops, momentarily surprised, but settles into it quickly, cupping her son's head.

The scene is familiar— almost play-by-play the same as when Mike had thought he’d died. He can only wonder what the source of his sadness is now.

El. Probably El.

Seeing her leave was hard for Mike, of that he’s certain. He refuses to acknowledge that Mike had mourned them the same— refuses to acknowledge the feelings that thought dredges up from within him.

Karen pats Mike's back.

"I know. It's hard, isn't it?"

Mike nods into her shoulder, releasing a strained breath.

"How do I do this?"

She sighs, petting his hair.

"There's no easy way, honey. You just… You take a gamble, and… you just do."

At her words, the edges of this reality begin to crumble, bleeding dark until Will is once again in the void.

The void, an old friend at this point, greets him with an unpleasant mix of hot and cold and wet and dry, spinning him about at times and keeping him achingly still at others.

He hopes the wait isn't as long, but he's unfortunately disappointed. He tries to breathe, to remind himself that he's probably just sleeping and can escape anytime, but that flighty part of him fights the notion.

Who's to say this isn't another den? Another holding cell that the mindflayer created for him?

His hands shake and his nerves scramble, an immediate reaction to the idea.

To fight the thoughts, he chooses to think of what it all means instead.

Mike was so sad— sad enough that a part of Will feels like a creep for watching his private moments. Mike's sadness isn't meant to be displayed for him, no matter how much his heart yearns to have that spot again— to be the one Mike shares these sorts of feelings with, the one who gets to hold his hand and help him through it.

It's not his place, that much has been made clear.

If anyone, El should be the one to see this, be made aware of Mike having gone to his mother while he grieved over the distance that would keep them apart. It would serve them, maybe make them even closer, more in love.

Will doesn't need to see how much more Mike cares about El than him. He knows.

The reminder serves as nothing but a stake to his heart.

When he feels the air change and the world come into view once more, the relief is instant.

That is, until he realizes where he's at.

In front of him, he recognizes Mike immediately. His clothes are the same imitation of a California native as they were when he last saw him. His hair flops over his head, messy from the stress-induced running his hands had done through it.

Will clenches his hands.

Why does he need to see this? He was there. He knows what happened here, so why does he need to be reminded?

The whole thing is beginning to feel like a humiliation.

If he looks to the right of Mike, he knows what he'll find, but he's resigned himself not to look. He doesn't want to watch the embarrassment wash over his face. Doesn't want to see what Mike saw when he bruised his heart black and blue and left it in a heap on the floor.

The embarrassment was enough from inside his head— to see what everyone else saw would be cruel.

But he can hear, despite his refusal to see.

Mike's face is drawn up, incredulous, like he can't believe the words that Will is saying. Seeing it again makes it no easier to stomach.

When had Mike ever looked at him like that before?

"You've made it super clear that you're not interested in anything I have to say."

Mike's face only pinches more, his head bobbing like past Will is being nothing but stupid.

"That's just not true."

Will can only shake his head, grasping his shirt over his chest. He doesn't need to hear this again. He wants to leave— get out so he doesn't have to relive the embarrassment.

Against his wishes, past Will continues.

"You called maybe a couple of times. It's been a year, Mike. Meanwhile, El has, like, a book of letters from you!"

Mike looks at him like he's ridiculous, and maybe he is. His face flickers briefly, seeming unsure for a moment before settling into something resolute.

"That's because she's my girlfriend, Will!"

The embarrassment grows and bubbles up in his stomach. Why did he ask? Why did he feel a need to hear it plain rather than read the context clues?

Don't ask.

"And us?"

He prepares for the answer, but no preparation feels like enough.

"We're friends. We're friends."

Mike's face goes from stony to something vulnerable for all of a second before snapping right back. Past Will buffers a moment. Will can remember the feeling, the drop of his heart into his stomach, the instant nausea, the questions swirling in his head.

Friends? Just that? What happened? Why don't you like me anymore? Did you find out? I thought we were…

His shaky reply fills the air.

"Well, we used to be best friends."

There's a moment of quiet where Mike's face zooms through emotions that Will can't quite catch. A choked noise sounds from Mike's throat as his expressions morph from one thing to another. Eventually, he settles on something resigned.

"Well then- maybe you should've reached out more, I-I don't know. But why is this on me? Why am I the bad guy?"

Will finally manages to look at himself after refusing it for so long.

He looks… He looks strange to his eyes. Seeing himself outside a mirror or a photo is… It's an experience he never expected to have, especially when he looks so sad.

He can remember everything his past self is feeling as it shoots across his face. The sadness, the desperation. The understanding that everything he knew was wrong.

He watches it sink into his skin, the shame rising as he realizes the spectacle he's become— how he's begging at the feet of someone who doesn't love him— won't.

He never realized how he wears his emotions on his face.

Mike sighs, his eyebrows furrowing into an expression that Will can't quite read. His eyes take past Will in, softening. He opens his mouth, but words don't come out.

When he tries again, they do, but they're no more comforting.

"Let's just… Let's just find her, okay?"

Mike waits a moment, and when Will doesn't respond, he begins to reach a hand out, hovering it in the air for a moment. It sits, still, and with a firm shake of his head, he drops it. Will hadn't seen that— hadn't seen the near attempt at bridging the gap.

Mike stands still for a few seconds more before turning and walking off, taking Will's heart with him.

His past self stands in the middle of the crowded rink, the place where his heart should be sitting dreadfully empty in his chest, his eyes holding tears that he refuses to spill.

Will has never found himself worthy of pity, not really. He's had things happen to him, sure, but he's always thought he had no room for it— others have survived worse. He knows others who've survived worse, so he could never complain.

But in this moment, he feels it. Pity for himself.

The room darkens at the edges and slips away, leaving him once more floating in nothing.

He twirls around in the darkness, weightless and free. He finds the feeling of it almost comforting given how heavy his heart has become.

What is the point of this? Is there a reason he's here, or is this for fun? Just to taunt him?

He couldn't be sure.

He'd felt cared about for a moment— like maybe things were truly different— but the reminder of the day he'd just lived through sullied the entire thing.

Maybe there's a reason for that— Maybe the lesson he's meant to glean is that Mike used to care about him at some point, but he doesn't now.

The realization sits heavy in his chest like a weight.

When he's finally brought back to the world once more, he sees the party, minus him. Or, the original party, anyway. Mike, Lucas, and Dustin sit at the lunch table.

They're laughing— or at least Dustin and Lucas are. Mike sits across from them, his lips tilted slightly. There's a certain aspect to him that throws Will off. That, and the shirt he wears.

It reads 'Hellfire,' the cut of it on Mike is overly nice, showing off his wide shoulders and his arms in a way that makes Will feel embarrassed. He pointedly pulls his eyes away, ashamedly pulling his focus onto the topic of conversation.

Lucas laughs as he slaps Dustin's back.

"Gonna be honest with you, dude, things are looking bleak."

Dustin groans, scrubbing his hands down his cheeks. Mike watches him, his face resting on his hand. He raises an eyebrow, apparently just zoning back into the conversation.

"What happened?"

Dustin groans again, throwing himself onto Lucas's shoulder back-first. The other boy grins and gives him a noogie, making Dustin push off him and turn around to shove his shoulder as he laughs.

Mike watches them, a content smile on his face— but there's something underlying that Will can't really name— can't figure out.

Dustin shakes his head, focusing on Mike.

"I have a D- in Latin. And so, if I don't get my grade up, my mom is gonna take away my radio."

He looks intently at Mike.

"Do you know what that would mean, Michael?"

Mike blinks at him, one eyebrow drawn up and his mouth open in a blank look.

"No Suzie—?"

"No Suzie! And do you know what that would mean?"

Mike leans forward, suddenly very interested.

"No, what?"

Dustin clasps his hands over his heart and mimics a bird flying away.

"My heart will be gone with her. Every day that I don't hear from my love is barren and empty. I feel, as they say, like a breath without air, the rain without water, the sun without shine. She is my matching piece to the puzzle of life. "

Lucas and Mike give him a moment as he clenches his chest. Will finds himself also giving him his moment, glancing at Mike as if he could glance back and they could share a look, as they used to so often do. Mike, of course, doesn't look his way.

And as if the spell had been broken, Dustin slaps his hands against the table, his face scrunching up desperately.

"No, seriously, man, I don't know what to do. I need my Suzie time, you understand?"

Mike crinkles his nose. He takes a bite of cafeteria spaghetti that Will is certain he regrets the moment it enters his mouth, and hums.

"I guess."

Dustin watches him, his face falling into something sad. The table shakes when he shoots up from his seat and rounds it, sitting himself next to Mike and clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"I get it, man. Long distance isn't for the weak. At least you'll see her soon, though?"

Mike's eyebrows furrow. He swallows the ghastly pasta and gives Dustin a look.

"What are you talking about?"

Dustin glances at Lucas, who shrugs, and then back at Mike.

"You… You miss El, right? That's why you're moping?"

Mike sits up straight, banging his knee against the table, startling all three of them. He clears his throat and bangs a fist against his chest as he chokes on a stray noodle. When he manages to breathe around it, he speaks.

"Y-yeah, that's— that's it. Totally. Just miss my… My girlfriend."

He clears his throat, his distant eyes staring at nothing.

"My… Girlfriend."

Dustin once again glances at Lucas. Will watches an interesting exchange as they communicate with their eyes. Dustin eventually nods, turning back to Mike and patting his shoulder again.

"And… You'll get to see Will. That'll be cool! I'm sure he's missing us— I mean, there's no way he could find cooler friends, right? Nothing can replace the party."

Dustin nudges Mike's shoulder, a smug grin on his face that makes Will smile. Mike grins in a way that seems like he can't help it, nodding.

Lucas shakes his head, sure.

"No, never. I bet he's biding his time, having to fight off losers more loser than us, just waiting to get back."

Mike grins, his demeanor changing instantaneously, his back straightening, and his lips drawing up into a smile. He crosses his arms and flicks his pointer finger out matter-of-factly as he speaks.

"I bet no one there even knows what D&D is. He's… He's too cool for those people."

They all share a united nod. Will feels his ego inflate a tad.

Dustin grins, nudging Mike back and forth.

"Yeah, the coolest."

He stops moving, bumping Mike once more as he deflates. He hums, looking up at the sky like Will had died or something.

"… I miss that guy."

Lucas nods, looking down with a smile.

"Yeah. Not really right without him around. But we'll see him soon, I bet. Well, some of us sooner than others. Lucky Wheeler."

Will's face tingles as he smiles. It's nice. He feels… He feels missed, and as much as he's sad that they have to miss him, it's good to know they do. Really good.

Mike, however, has slumped at Dustin's side. He stares into the distance, his face back to that downturned, drained look.

He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a sigh. When he tries again, his voice is soft— softer than usual.

"I miss him. I miss him like— like I've been chopped into bits and half of them were shipped away with him. I dunno. Things don't feel right without him."

Dustin sits up straighter, glancing at DLucas, then back at Mike. He clears his throat.

"Yeah. I miss him too. The party definitely isn't the same without him."

Mike sits up and shakes his head, frustrated. His hands grab the sides of his head dramatically.

"Yeah, but— but it's not just the party. It's me. I feel like I'm… Like something is…"

He throws his hands up, evidently done trying to explain. He sinks back down onto the table.

"I wouldn't… I wouldn't expect you guys to understand, I guess."

A glance is exchanged between Lucas and Dustin again, one that speaks, but Will can't tell what of.

Lucas clears his throat.

"Yeah… Can't say I really get it. It's not like he's… You know, dead. He's just not… here."

Mike once again throws his hands up, the frustration evidently reaching a peak.

"I know that. I know, but— but I— it feels like he is! Like I can't stop thinking about how much I miss him and… I just wish he were here. Like— no one else could get me like he can, ya know? I feel like I can't exist without—"

He stops. Completely stops all movement, all noise. His eyes flicker between two points, but they don't seem to see. His hands drop from the air where they once moved in gestures.

He lets out a choked noise, and all at once, movement begins again.

He stands, quick enough that both Dustin and Lucas look up at him, alarmed. He grabs his backpack, nearly sending it flying into Dustin's head, then grabs his lunch tray with a shaky hand. His eyes meet neither boy when he speaks.

"I— I gotta go to… I gotta go. See ya."

And with that, he speeds away, his long legs taking him out of the cafeteria in seconds.

The remainder of the party watches him go, with equally wide-eyed looks on their faces. It isn't until the shock has worn off that Dustin turns to Lucas, his face grim.

"Do you… Do you think…?"

Lucas nods, his face sad, but not like something bad happened— no, like he'd just confirmed something he always thought, but never knew, and it hurts his soul.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

Will watches them, their lips moving, and yet he can't hear, the audio of the world having cut out as his surroundings fade to black.

What… What did any of that mean?

He's happy in a way to know they talked about him, missed him, but what was wrong with Mike? What was he saying? He missed him that badly?

It warms his heart as much as it ices his skin.

Then why didn't he call? Why didn't he write? Why didn't he just say that?

Nothing about how Mike had treated him since arriving in Lenora said that he missed him. The void around him gives no answers, and yet the longer he floats, the more he wonders.

It isn't long before the world materializes once more, taking him through multiple quick flicks of different scenes, all of which show him Mike.

Mike is… different, zoned out. Will elects to ignore the stab in his heart at the realization of what Hellfire is as he watches a campaign with a group of people, most of whom he doesn't know. They laugh and taunt and energetically voice their characters.

Everyone but Mike seems endlessly enthusiastic. He rolls for action with some enthusiasm, but it teeters off the moment he's no longer the center of attention. When one of the unnamed people, a Cleric it seems, of this supposed 'new party' casts a bless spell to aid Mike in his damage, his lips tighten.

When talking to Lucas or Dustin, he looks out of it. If Will had to find a word for it, he’d say that Mike looks drained. His usually strong personality is diluted, subdued by a cloud that Will can almost see hanging over his head.

He watches as Mike cries in his room by himself, ripping papers and snapping pencils while he sits at his desk and stares at nothing at one time, or at a blank piece of paper another. The visual is deeply unsettling: Mike alone in his room, obviously drowning under some unspoken weight with no one to be there for him.

Will elects to ignore the pulsing desire in his heart to stress that he would be there.

The point is, there's something wrong, something he had not seen since meeting Mike again in Lenora.

Will listens to him call El. He watches his face— the way he smiles, but never enough, and laughs, but never loud. Every word feels empty, and every laugh sounds like a copy of the other.

Even if they aren't the same anymore, Will still knows Mike more than most. He knows what his happiness sounds like, his sadness.

He's looking at a soulless clone of the boy he loves— he has to be. This reality is so far disconnected from what he had thought.

It hurts Will's heart to watch Mike as he struggles. The way he crumbles, the way he stares at the picture on his desk of all of them together. He can't tell by looking at him, but he can take a guess on where his eyes land.

El's pretty face stares back at him when he looks at Mike's desk.

Mike really missed her that much. Enough to stare at her every day.

He lowers his head and waits for something to happen.

The days carry on. He sees the same sort of moment over the span of what he thinks is a couple of months, if the calendar on the wall is correct. Mike sits at his desk and begins to scribble before tearing the page out and throwing it. Sometimes he snaps a pencil, sometimes he swears and slumps in his seat, and other times he's completely silent.

The loop has become tired. The most prominent that Mike's eyes always land in the same place, sticking there for long moments. That stupid picture.

Will's hands clench into fists at his side. Why does he have to see this? It hits him at once, the anger.

He turns around and yells, hopeful to catch the ears of whatever put him here in the first place.

"I get it, okay!? I get it, so I can leave now!"

Nothing happens. Mike still sits at his desk, a pencil stuck in his hand, clenched like it would bite should he let it go.

So Will yells louder.

"I don't need to be here! I know it's… I know it's for nothing, you don't have to show me this!"

Nothing changes. He pulls his hair, his teeth gnashing together.

"Okay! He loves her! I- I won't do anything to— to stop that! I understand what this is and I… I'm sorry for ever thinking otherwise."

He shakes his head, a scoff on his lips.

"I understand that… That he cares— at least a little. I understand that things are different from what I thought, but… I don't wanna be here anymore. Please."

When still, nothing happens, he sits on the floor and curls into a ball. It feels safer than sitting and staring at the premonition of the boy he loves.

He wants to go home. Wants to— wake up, or— or even go to a new memory, that way he doesn't have to sit here and think of his unrequited love even more.

What is the point of this? He's confused down to his very core. Okay, Mike mourned him. Is that supposed to make him feel better? Because somehow, it really doesn't.

He never wanted to be the reason his friends struggled, the reason they cried. He didn't choose that, and yet it was given to him anyway. He wants to forget he ever had to see it.

But… But otherwise, even besides the morning. What was he supposed to learn?

Mike missed him at some point and had felt sad without him. Cool. It's nice to know— except the Mike he met at the airport obviously doesn't feel that way now.

Mike loves El enough to break down to his mom about it. Perfect. He's— he's happy for them.

But what is this for? Why does he need to know?

"Why...?"

He speaks it out into the room, but as expected, he gets no response.

Eventually, he stands to sit on Mike's bed, sinking into the familiar blankets and feeling a part of his heart settle against his better judgment. He always did love Mike's bed. It smells like him, so familiar and safe—and when the other boy is there too, it becomes a temple of nothing but Mike.

His scent, his warmth, his laugh, if Will is lucky enough.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts.

He's pathetic.

He looks up at the boy at the desk, who has taken to tapping his fingers against the wood. Mike stares at the paper for a moment, and then finally, something happens that Will hasn't yet seen.

Will jolts up when Mike stands from his desk and walks towards the bed. He's almost convinced that he can see him for a moment, his brown eyes piercing into him— that is, until the other boy kneels in front of him and drags a box from under the bed.

Will peers down into it, curious about what Mike could be up to. The box is full of papers, scattered rectangles full of color with a binder set on top— one he recognizes instantly. He furrows his eyebrows.

It's… It's a binder.

Mike grabs it and picks it up with a reverence not fit for something so old and outdated. He puts it on his bed and opens it, the smell of crayons and old paper wafting up at once.

It's filled with drawings, all done by Will himself.

Will sighs, the surprise dominating his every thought. The first drawing in the binder is one he recognizes.

The very first art he'd ever done for Mike.

He'd drawn it after having known Mike for a few days. In his little mind, it was enough to deem him worthy— worthy of his friendship and his art and, somewhere deep inside, his heart, too.

The drawing is crude. A pair of roughly shaped figures, one with a wizard hat, and one with a sword and shield. Between them, the figures hold hands, the pleased expressions on their faces unfit for the fact that they look prime for battle.

Will smiles despite himself.

It's not an artist's dream or anything, messy in the way only a child's drawing could be. It's not beautiful by any means, and yet... He can't help the way his nerves soften, and his cheeks burn. It's incredibly endearing to know Mike has kept it.

A relic of their relationship.

Ten years of friendship, and Mike still has it. He ignores the warmth, the love that surges from the bottom of his heart at the reminder of how thoughtful Mike can be when it matters.

When he tilts his head to see Mike's face, the expression he wears is startling, if only because of how… sweet it is.

It's soft. Reverent. A look Will has seen and was once used to, but not anymore. He's missed it desperately. The warm gleam in Mike's eye and the slight curve of his lips— it's an expression that used to be aimed at him pretty often, back when Mike…

When he cared.

Will tucks his lips, the warmth of the moment settling into something lukewarm.

Mike gently flips through the drawings, laughing to himself at some and frowning at others. He traces his fingers over the drawing Will had made of the two of them on a dragon at the ripe age of 8.

They sit atop a dragon, a rather undetailed one, as it soars through pink clouds. They hold hands, as they so often did in Will's works.

He flips to the next one and lays his hand over a drawing Will had done of Castle Byers, only as a real castle. The spires reach high and the blue rock of the walls are adorned with cracks. The two of them stand at the gates like proud homeowners, hands once again joined.

And when Mike turns the page again and finds the drawing Will had done for him on his twelfth birthday, he pauses.

It's them, as Will's drawings often were.

They sit together right outside Castle Byers, the real one, the area surrounding them bright and pristine. But beyond that, the world becomes darker. The ash of the upside down, the rain, and the gloom. It seeps into the sides of the page, an oil black that threatens to consume everything.

And yet, what surrounds the two of them is only bright, warm. Mike radiates a blue aura, wrapping around Will, while Will radiates yellow, wrapping around Mike.

They blend together into a brilliant green that stands stark against the darkness.

The drawing had meant so much to him. It had been a dream and a proclamation in one. A wish— That Mike had been there with him when he was stuck in that place. He never wanted him there, not really, never wanted him to have the same trauma he was subjected to, but the idea of Mike being there, holding his hand and keeping him safe? It warmed him when there was only cold.

But the drawing wasn't just a wish; it was also the truth.

That with Mike, Will felt invincible. With Mike, he felt safe. Together nothing could harm them. Mike made him feel like he was bright, like he could fight all the darkness that threatened his every waking moment.

Mike had cried when he gave it to him.

He glances at Mike's face, and for a moment he feels it— feels that connection they've always had. It's with another moment that that connection severs once more.

They weren't the same. Mike is still Will's safe space, but it has become obvious that he isn't Mike's. Somehow, that's the worst part.

What happened to them?

Mike stares at the drawing a moment more before setting it on the bed, tucking the rest of the pages away gently, and shifting the box back under his bed.

He picks up the drawing and brings it to his desk, leaning it against his wall in front of him.

Mike sighs, the sound harsh, almost painful. He grabs his pencil, hovering his hand over the blank page. His face scrunches, then evens out. He hesitates a moment more before pressing the pencil to the paper.

And with that, he begins to write. It starts tentative, nervous, but once he starts, it’s like he can’t stop. His hand moves fast, the words coming out messy but intelligible.

Will watches him, all too curious. He slowly creeps to stand behind him, but with Mike writing so quickly, he can't make out the words.

So he waits.

Mike writes. He writes and writes, and Will is almost afraid he'll be blipped somewhere else before he can read anything.

He's sat back on the bed, watching Mike's hand as it crushes the pencil into the paper, rough against it as if it had offended him.

Mike’s hand trembles as he brings it to his eyes, swiping under them before continuing his writing. Will sits up. Mike is crying.

The tears aren't torrential, aren't streaming, but they're there.

What could it be?

Will swallows.

Does he have a right to know? To peep in on Mike's life like this. Obviously, Mike didn't want to share it with him, so is it fair for him to know anyway?

Something in his chest settles, resolute.

No. No, it's not. But if it'll give him his answers as to why in the world he was brought here, dragged to this scary place between times, he'll violate Mike's privacy just this once.

Mike makes a noise, something between a frustrated groan and a hiss of air through his teeth. He pulls away from the paper, only to jolt right back, flipping it to the clean side.

And with that, he begins to write again, somehow faster and more frantic than Will has seen yet.

His curiosity has only grown, getting harder and harder to ignore. His foot taps the floor in a quick rhythm as he witnesses Mike's energy go from nervous to desperate, thoughts filling the page quicker than Will can keep up with.

What could he be writing? Is it a journal entry of some kind? A letter?

What could bring Mike to such a point that his nerves practically radiate off him, sucking the air from the room and leaving Will himself almost winded.

A noise knocks him from his thoughts.

When he looks up, Mike has slammed his pencil down on the desk. He looks stunned, entirely lost in himself. He sets his elbows on the desk and holds his head in his hands for a few seconds before shooting up from his chair, sending it careening to the floor.

He grips his chest and hurries out of the room, gone from Will's view in seconds. His heart thumps in his chest. He wants to go after him, wants to help him, wants to hug him— try to make him feel better.

But…

His eyes slide to the paper.

He can't. Mike can't see him— and... And this is a memory— or a- a dream. He can't help, but he can get answers. He walks slowly towards the desk, feeling like every step is one closer to the edge he's about to fall off.

He pulls the paper and begins to read.

Will freezes, his eyes blurring.

Oh.

His heart thumps against his ribcage, rattling him.

He scrambles to keep reading.

Will sits in the reality a moment more, the words settling into him.

This is… this is so far disconnected from what he had expected, what he had thought. Mike missed him. He missed him so much, and yet Will hadn't been able to tell.

There's something in the letter that's so familiar, it makes him pause.

The specifics, the aching emptiness and the half living that, apparently, Mike experienced too. He fights between two feelings— happiness, pure, uninhibited happiness at the fact that Mike felt so deeply about him leaving. Mike wanted him here, yearned for him in a way not unlike how Will yearned in return.

It's impossible and unbelievable and apparently true.

But the other feeling, the dark presence that has settled in his chest—

Refusal.

What did Mike mean? He said… He said he should be forgotten, that Will deserves better than him.

An uncomfortable buzz settles under his skin as he scans the letter again.

There's something in the words that Will can't eak out, as if the meaning is trapped behind a door in his mind, one that's locked tight no matter how clear the evidence is in front of him. He can look through the peephole and see a glimpse of what has been sequestered away since he realized he was the letter's intended recipient, but opening the door is another thing entirely.

Should he be wrong, the entire foundation of his mind would collapse.

He can't risk it.

No matter how flowery the words or how warm he feels knowing Mike craved his presence, he can't let himself fall into the trap.

He won't admit his thoughts, not if they have room to be wrong.

His shaky hands hold the page in his hand, only remembering the words scrawled on the back when he spots a lead mark on the edge of the paper.

He flips it, met with even more to read, more to freak out about, probably. With a shaky inhale, his eyes begin to trail over the words.

Will can't move. He can't see anything but the words on the page, echoing in a repeating loop inside his head. His breathing has shallowed to a point that makes his heart pump faster, scared that it's holder is on his way to the afterlife.

Tears escape his eyes like a faucet, unable to be stopped.

Is this… Is this real?

The hope in his chest rises against his will.

Everything Mike had written soars through his mind. From the tether, to the paint drying, to the skittles, to the apology, the words whirl around.

'I love you'

He chokes on his breath, stumbling back from the desk. A sob tears from his throat, sending him onto the floor. He sits on his heels, holding a hand over his chest as the blood rushes in his ears.

It can't be— it can't be real. He can't let himself believe it for even a moment.

Despite his wishes, the door in his heart opens.

He runs a stressed hand through his hair, then sticks his knuckle in his mouth. His body thrums, the beat of his heart becoming a drum over his every muscle.

What if it's true? What if Mike loves him and he loves Mike?

What then?

A noise startles him. Mike shuffles back in the room, slamming the door before drooping into his desk. He slumps in his seat, his hands in his hair, and his head ducked down.

A gaspy noise leaves his lips and Will swears he can hear him mumbling. Before he can wonder about anything else, his vision blurs.

The edges of his vision go black, and once again, he's drifting.

His heart thuds, still floored by the words he'd just read.

It can't be. It can't be, but what if it is? Does Mike really feel that way? Could he really be…

Before he can question any longer, the world appears on all sides of him.

It's… Rinkomania again.

Why is he back here? What is the point? He has to… He has to figure the letter out; he doesn't have time for the humiliation this day brought.

He looks around, but everything is the same, no changes that he can make out. Past Will and Mike stare at one another, Will mid-sentence.

"—used to be best friends!"

Will cringes, willing himself away from here. It works, in a way. Between one blink and another, he's in a different spot in space, staring Mike in the face.

He blinks, then looks around, his balance thrown off by having basically teleported. When he looks back at Mike, he's surprised to see him equally confused. He tilts his head at the other boy, and when Mike looks at him, a flicker of surprise on his face, his heart drops.

He chokes on the word as it leaves his lips.

"M-Mike?"

Mike's head snaps up. His eyes flicker over Will's face, completely lost, but it slowly sinks into realization. He steps forward.

"Will? What is—"

Before Will can hear the rest of his words, the room begins to go dark. His brain scatters as his eyes bounce around, then land on Mike, who looks just as alarmed. His eyebrows rise, and his mouth opens.

Mike reaches toward him.

"Will! I—"

Then darkness.

It's seconds before Will's eyes snap open.

He's back to reality, lying in his bed, the blankets twisted around his legs, and his cheeks warm and wet. He sits up immediately, the happenings of the last however long circling in his head.

He… He has to go. He has to go now.

He sits up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, buzzing with an energy he hasn't felt in a long time, but as he makes to stand, his vision begins to swim. He's hit with a surge of vertigo so strong he has to throw himself back down on the mattress lest he fall to the floor.

No— no, he has to go. Mike- Mike loves him. Mike might love him, and he can't get up, and he's so frustrated he could cry.

He struggles one more time before admitting defeat— for now.

His eyes water as he stares at a particularly interesting bit of material from his popcorn ceiling. He tries to process everything before, hyping himself up before he chickens out.

He can't figure it out— can't decide whether he was just served with the most unrealistically realistic dream he'd ever had, or if he genuinely saw those things— if they happened.

He hopes to any being, omnipotent or otherwise, that it was real.

Please. Please let it be real.

The moment he doesn't feel like he'll puke if he stands, he's hunting down Mike Wheeler and getting his answers.

He loves me. He said he loves me.

He chews on his knuckle in an attempt to ground his thoughts— find some semblance of balance in the unbelievable situation he's found himself in before he jumps the gun.

A knock sounds at his door, the noise all encompassing and loud in the wake of the dream—the time travel?— the situation.

He sits up slowly, testing how much he can trust his head not to send him careening into the wall before stumbling to his feet.

He walks to the door, slow as he tries to keep his balance. The knocking continues, faster and more desperate the longer he takes.

He opens it, and the words of complaint he had locked and loaded vanish into nothing when his eyes fall on the perpetrator of the aggressive knocking.

Mike looks down at him, his breathing heavy and eyes wild. There's a red blotch on the side of his head.

When his gaze lands on Will, he steps forward, quick and intent, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him in. Will's forehead presses against Mike's shoulder, shoved forward by Mike's hand on the back of his head.

The contact sends his heart pumping.

Mike exhales, Will's name on his lips, and Will can only breathe out similarly.

"…Mike?"

Mike pulls back, pushing them the length of his arms apart.

Intense eyes study him, flickering across his face, embarrassingly sticking on the area of his cheeks where tear tracks are sure to have stained, his emotions written clearly.

Mike swallows, his thumb caressing Will's collarbones over his shirt.

"Hi."

He shakes his head and clears his throat, the intensity of his eyes dampening and then strengthening once more.

"Did… Did you… Was that you?"

They stand together for a moment, neither moving nor speaking, or, really, breathing. Will nods, slowly, looking up into the coffee brown of Mike's eyes.

"It was me. That was… you?"

Mike lets out a long sigh, relieved or pleased, Will can't be sure. Mike nods, swallowing around nothing, and Will watches the movement of his neck as he does.

"You saw the- the visions? Memories?"

Will nods, stiff and wide-eyed.

"Yeah, I— I saw some."

Mike's breathing becomes shallow. Will can see the tension in his shoulders. His jaw slides forward and then back.

"What… What did you see?"

Will gets lost in his gaze, the deep pools of chocolate that drag him in. As if under a spell, his words come slowly.

"I… I saw you. So much."

Mike nods, his eyebrows nearly touching in the middle. Mike's hand brushes Will's, seeking contact through the tension like they'd done many times in their lives. Will brushes him back with a finger tip.

"I saw you, too."

Will quivers under Mike's hold, his knees weak and his shoulders stiff. He nods.

"… What exactly did you see?"

Mike's eyes stick to his for a moment before slowly trailing to the rolled painting that sits against the dresser. Will follows his gaze, swallowing at where it lands.

His hands shake as he clasps them together.

"Oh."

Mike nods, worrying his lip.

"And… And more."

He tucks his lips.

"What about you…?"

Will breathes out, shaky. How does he put it into words? How does he explain the emotional rollercoaster he just got off of?

"…A letter."

Mike's breath hitches, and he seems to lose his balance for a moment. He leans against the doorway.

"Oh."

They stand in each other's space, feeling one another's presence without making a move to gain or lose space between them. Mike's eyes miss his, settling instead somewhere above them. His body language gives the look of someone who's prepared for battle rather than a conversation.

"I'm sorry."

Will looks up slowly, a frown crinkling his lips.

"Sorry?"

"If you… If you didn't like… What I wrote. If you don't…"

He sucks his lips against his teeth.

Will shakes his head quickly, grabbing Mike's wrist. Mike's head lifts and he finally looks Will in the eyes. Will exhales, quick and airy.

"No. No, I— I want you to tell me. Tell me if I'm… If I'm seeing something that isn't there. Tell me if what I saw was… What was it...?"

Mike grits his teeth. A battle seems to happen across his body, his hands twitching and his shoulder bunching and unfurling, the tension bouncing between points.

"What did the letter say?"

Will's tongue feels too big in his mouth. What if he says it, and Mike is confused? What if it was all a dream?

What if he says it, and Mike says it wasn't real?

He wouldn't be able to handle it— wouldn't be able to stomach the door in his heart being slammed once again.

Please. Please let him have this.

He shakes his head slowly, the fear bleeding into desperation.

"That you… "

He grits his teeth, the walls inside him building their defences.

"…Love me.

Mike's cheeks redden, and the shaking of Will's legs grows stronger. Mike opens his mouth, and when the words finally come out, they're hoarse.

"…Yeah"

Will's breath stutters as Mike breathes out.

"I do."

Will's trembling limbs feel as if they could give out, crumble him to the floor like a de-stuffed pillow. His trembling voice comes out small.

"…You do?"

Mike nods quickly.

"I do. I do, Will."

He steps forward as if pushed by an invisible force, wrapping his arms around Will's middle and pulling him in.

"I do. I do. I love you."

He squeezes Will tighter, the rasp of his breathing evident in Will's ear.

"And I'm sorry."

Will falls into the embrace, his pulse jumping like it had been set to rabbit mode. He wraps his arms around Mike's shoulders and shoves his face into his collarbone.

"Don't be sorry. Please, don't be sorry."

He manages to speak, just barely, through the overwhelming crash of emotions.

"You're— You're sure? Please. Please don't lie to me."

He shakes his head against the hard surface of Mike's shoulder.

"I couldn't take it. Please."

Mike pulls away, his shaky hands encasing Will's.

"Even if I knew nothing else in this world, I'd know it. I love you. I love you, Will."

Tears cascade down Will's cheeks, his nose scrunching in a way that he's sure isn't pleasing, but he can't care, not now.

"I— I love you, too."

Mike vibrates at the words, his shoulders quaking. He leans against the doorway as he pulls Will forward.

"There's no way— there's no way."

Will shakes his head against Mike's chest.

"I do, Mike. I love you."

Mike pulls away to look at him.

"You read my letters…?"

He nods, tears spilling freely down his face, but he can't care, not when he's so happy.

"One. I read one. And it was— it was… It was beautiful and so sweet and so sad."

He sniffles, the rise and fall of his emotions driving tears down his face.

"It told me everything."

He shakes his head, the memories of Mike's grief, of his sadness, hitting him once more.

"… I saw you mourn me— saw you miss me when you thought I was… I never knew how much it hurt you."

Mike sobs into his shoulder, his breathing heaving. He shakes his head in disbelief.

"Of course it did. I was…Will, life without you is so hard. I didn't wanna do it then, and I don't wanna do it now. I don't know how. I don't want to."

Will trembles under the weight of such a statement. Not because he doesn't like it, but because he understands it all too well.

"I don't either. It's so hard without you. I thought you— you hated me."

His shoulders shake with the force of his crying, but Mike's hands gently rub them. He looks Mike in the eyes, taking in the fact that he's here. He's here.

"I tried to get over you, Mike— but I can't. You're all I want."

Mike envelops him under his arms, squeezing into an embrace so warm and safe that he wishes he could stay there— he wants to make a home in Mike's arms and live there for the rest of his life.

Mike's nose presses against his neck as he hugs him, the strength of the embrace higher than needed, but almost better for it.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Will. I'll make it up to you, I promise. Please let me. Please."

Will cries into Mike's neck as he nods. They lean into one another, the warmth of it seeping into every crack.

Will feels both whole and split into a million pieces. Mike pulls him closer, not an inch between them, as they hobble together to his bed, sitting heavily on the mattress. They lean into one another as if distance hurts.

When he leans into Mike, etching as close as he can, Mike pulls him in, then tentatively leans forward and kisses his forehead. It's nothing he's ever felt before, and the warmth of it surges through his body, sending butterflies through his belly.

This is it. This is what he's wanted.

Mike noses his temple.

"I could never make you understand how sorry I am."

Will nods slowly, a small smile on his lips.

"It's okay."

Mike shakes his head quickly, a hard look on his face.

"It's not! It's not. I… I hurt you so many times."

He wraps his arms around Will's shoulders, the heaviness of it particularly grounding on Will's shoulders after all the crying.

"I was… I've been scared. A coward. I… I've never been happier than when I'm with you. Never wanted to see someone smile so much."

Will's cheeks warm as Mike's fingers hold the side of his head, playing with his hair as he speaks. Will listens, the ball of warmth in his belly spreading through every part of him.

"I… I didn't wanna accept it— didn't wanna have another reason that I'm… That I'm not enough."

He pulls back to cup Will's cheeks.

"But I don't care anymore. If I can be enough for you, that's all I care about. I want to show you what it is to be loved. I want to— to take all the things I've always secretly wanted to do and do them. I wanna talk to you like I love you, I wanna hug you and- and hold your hand, and kiss you."

His shaky hands cup the back of Will's neck and pull him forward to press their foreheads together.

"I want to be your- your boyfriend. I want to get you flowers, the yellow ones you like— as many and as often as I can. I want to buy you sweet gifts and take you on dates. I wanna take you to the movies and dinner and- and stargazing. I wanna- wanna drive you around to all the comic stores and art supply shops that I can once I get my license next month."

Will has forgone trying to hold in his tears, accepting them as they come instead.

"I wanna show you that I can be good to you. For you. I wanna learn to accept every part of what makes us different so that we can be happy. Together. I'll never hurt you again, I promise."

He holds up his pinky finger, shaky as it is.

"Never, okay? I'll fix everything. No more hiding or- or lying."

Will nods into his neck, his raspy breath making for a great show of his stability as he slots his pinky in with Mike's. He laughs through his tears.

"No more hiding sounds nice."

Mike laughs, somewhat hysterically, before pulling Will forward. He wraps him up in an embrace that feels like a promise, like a prerequisite to the rest of their lives.

Mike sighs over his shoulder.

"I love you."

Will laughs, overwhelmed, and sad, and unbelievably happy.

"I love you, too."

When they pull away, Mike squeezes his shoulder and tugs the both of them against the headboard, settling a pillow behind Will's back. He then leans down to better look at him.

"Comfortable?"

Will nods, cozying up to Mike's shoulder as he wipes his tears —because he can do that now. Wow.

Mike wraps an arm around him and pulls him close. Will pokes Mike's arm to get him to look over.

"I… I don't blame you for being scared. I don't want you to think you can't be afraid, Mike."

He slides his hand down to hold Mike's.

"I just… Maybe we can be scared… Together?"

Mike's eyes fog once more. He sniffs, then nods.

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds— I want that."

Will smiles at him, then, with a generous amount of hesitation, presses a kiss to Mike's shoulder, making the other boy redden at once.

It's then that he notices the red mark on Mike's face, slowly growing a light purple. He furrows his eyebrows, reaching up to press a gentle finger to it. Mike jerks away.

"Oh! Yeah, ow, careful, please."

Will shakes his head, curious.

"What happened?"

Mike's face reddens at once. He scratches his head and avoids Will's gaze.

"…Were you dizzy when you woke up?"\

Will blinks.

"Yes…?"

Mike gives him a sheepish grin, shrugging his shoulders.

"Yeah, I busted my ass over your couch. I hit the coffee table like a deadweight."

Will's mouth drops open. He stares for a moment before clapping a hand over his mouth as he laughs. Mike gasps, pretending to be offended, but the smile on his lips gives him away.

"Excuse you, I could've died!"

Will shakes his head, a smile on his face so bright that he's almost afraid of blinding his new lover.

"I can't… Why would you— why didn't you just wait, dummy?"

Mike's entertained smile doesn't go away. He leans forward and knocks his nose into Will's temple.

"I… I had somewhere important to be."

The words promptly shut Will up. His cheeks glow a sweet red as he looks at Mike, then away.

"Oh… I can't fault you too much, then."

Mike grins at him, then pulls him in to cuddle him better.

They both take in the moment, somewhat reeling from the strangeness of finally being honest with each other and somewhat simply existing together after so long without.

After a few minutes, Mike clears his throat dramatically as if the moment is awkward, making Will laugh against his hand. Mike grins, then becomes a little more serious.

"So… What did you see? Like, exactly?"

Will glances at him, his cheeks warm at the unfamiliar proximity.

"It… It was a lot. I saw when they pulled the decoy out of the quarry."

Mike grits his teeth. His hand begins to run up and down Will's arm.

"Ah."

Will plays with Mike's fingers.

"Mm. And… just some other little moments, I guess. When we left for Lenora, you and your mom had a moment in the kitchen, and I saw that. I saw you in Castle Byers after I… While I was gone."

Mike pauses for a second before continuing his passive stroking.

"I… I forgot about that."

He turns to press his lips to Will's head, exhaling.

"It was where I felt closest to you. Where I thought… Thought maybe you'd come if you remembered the way."

Will's lips fold into a frown at the tone of Mike's voice.

It hurts to hear him so sad.

"Thank you for never giving up, Mike. I knew to some extent, but I never… I didn't know you believed so hard that I was alive when I was… gone."

Mike squeezes his hand in his.

"Nothing could've convinced me. I knew you were alive— I could feel it."

His voice lowers into something fragile.

"I'd look for you anywhere, Will."

Will's eyes tear up, and he lets them. When he replies, it's in a softer, more emotional tone than he means for it to be.

"Thank you."

Mike shakes his head.

"Any Paladin would."

Will smile against Mike's shoulder.

He hums.

"I saw a conversation between you, Lucas, and Dustin. Then the letter. I dunno, just… It was a lot."

Mike laughs softly.

"Did you like it at least? Was my prose good? The grammar acceptable?"

Will laughs, a joy so pure and unadulterated rising in him that he almost can't believe it.

"It was superb. A plus."

Mike makes a pleased sound, then looks down, sighing heavily.

"I… I'm glad you read it. There are so many things that are easier to write than to say. But it's stuff that deep down, I… I've always wanted you to know."

Mike turns to him.

"And now you do. I hope you do."

Will nods, getting caught in Mike's eyes before he can stop himself.

"I do."

They stare at one another, features and little details of each other's faces being drank in and admired in a closer way than ever before.

The tension rises as Mike slowly leans closer, his eyes flickering down and then up again. Will's heart pounds in his chest, ready to burst through his skin. They're close enough for Will to feel Mike's breath when the other boy stiffens.

Will's heart drops, the pause spiking his anxiety at once.

"…Mike?"

Mike gives him a reassuring little lift of his lips.

"I… I have to go do something. Wait for me?"

Will tilts his head, then nods.

"…Okay."

Mike kisses his head once more before slipping out from beside him and going out the door.

Will sits in silence until it becomes too much, and he has to get up and put on a cassette to settle his nerves.

He lies back in his bed and considers everything that has happened. He feels a little like a new person— like a shell has been peeled back and he's been born anew, someone whose place in the world is no longer a question, but a statement.

He knows now. Everything he was afraid he imagined as a farse, a fantasy, was real. He gets this— gets to have the dream he's cooked up since the moment love became a word in his vocabulary.

And god, he's excited.

There are a few wrenches in his plans, particularly the opinions of others and… oh, man.

El. Yeah, that's.. That's one he hadn't considered.

But… He's ready to handle it. For the first time in a long time, he's prepared for anything— any challenge, and obstacle, he's ready.

He's not alone anymore.

He's no longer one part of an unreciprocated whole— a Cleric with no Paladin.

Finally, he's complete.

Will settles under his blanket and lies against his pillows, only just realizing that it's barely past 8. When he'd lain down originally, it had been… No, but...

Wait. How hadn't he questioned it until now?

With a new question in his mind, he begins to wait.

It has to be another hour before Mike comes back, opening Will's door gently and walking over to the bed.

He sighs heavily as he slumps onto the mattress, sliding right in next to Will under the blankets as if it's the most natural thing.

"I broke up with El."

He says it like a proclamation. Will pauses his hand from reaching for Mike, instead settling it over the blanket.

"Oh."

He swallows, the question stuck in his throat.

"Is she… Is she okay?"

Mike hums, scooting closer to him.

"She's mad. Of course, she's mad. I've wasted her time, made her date a guy who… well, obviously being mad is understandable."

He glances down at himself, then at Will, who cringes. Mike smiles at him a little.

"But… We'll be okay, I think."

He turns more fully into Will and whispers as if he could be heard through the wall.

"Between you and me… I think she's been over me for a while. Maybe not feelings-wise, but… In every other way. I haven't… I haven't treated her right. A habit of mine, apparently."

Will pokes Mike's side and he grins, his face morphing into a humored expression before it falls into something complicated.

"I think… I think we're both relieved, but she doesn't want to admit it. We've been holding each other back, I think. I mean, I definitely haven't helped her, that's for sure, so…"

He shrugs, leaning his head on Will's.

"I could be wrong, but I don't know, I… I feel like I can actually be there for her now. Without all the— the expectations and stuff, you know?"

Will nods gently, threading their fingers together.

"Yeah. I think I get it."

Mike gives him a soft smile. His face morphs into something shy before scooting closer.

"And… And I can… I can do what I wanted to, now, so…"

The blood rushes to Will's cheeks as if the words summoned it. He bows his head.

"What… What would that be?"

Mike's hand slowly lifts to his cheeks, the tips of his fingers gently brushing Will's skin. The pads of Mike's thumb and pointer finger roam over his jaw, settling just underneath it.

"Can I… I would like to kiss you. Please. If you… If you want that."

Will nods like he never has before, and Mike grins, explosively happy.

He leans forward slowly, taking his time to give Will the chance to move. He doesn't, and when their lips meet, it feels as if the world gains new color. The sky has turned upside down. The sun shines like it never has before. He tastes a sweetness in the air usually only found in the best months of summer, the months he loves the most.

His life has led to this moment.

His hands grab at the collar of Mike's shirt as he pushes into the kiss, entirely lost on what to do, and yet completely uncaring about getting it right.

It's perfect. Unlike anything he's ever imagined.

When they come apart, Mike's hand falls to his side as they lean their foreheads together. Mike's smile can be heard in his voice.

"Wow."

Will laughs, entirely overcome.

"Wow."

Mike laughs, still breathless.

"I want to do that again."

Will smiles into his shoulder.

"I… I don't mind."

Mike's hand slides onto his cheek, and once again, Will is basking in what he now knows is love— reciprocated and all.

They kiss a while longer, leaving and coming together over and over, giggles and gasping breaths shared between them. It's a reunion of hearts, a finding of home, and a discovery of something new all rolled into one. It's effortless and easy and so, so amazing.

After they've gotten their fill, what has to be at least an hour later, they're settled in the bed, snug together with little to no space between them.

It's in the time that Will is finally able to ponder the question that had nagged him hours ago.

He sits up in the bed, startling Mike, who was wrapped around him.

"Mike…"

Mike sits up too, grabbing Will's arm in support.

"What? What's wrong?"

Will turns to him, his eyes wide and confused.

"Who put us in the dream?"

They stare at one another, wide-eyed, as the question soaks into their brains.

And thereon begins a new question for them to find the answer to.

But you know what?

They'll do it together.