Work Text:
31st December, 1996 — 10:16 PM
“Wherever you go, whatever you do…
I will be right here waiting for you…”
Mike was a terrible singer. He sang through his nose, always off-key, mumbling all the time and acting like he was amazing and on top of the world.
Will loved it. He loved him so much that it he made it everyone's problem. He found Mike’s singing endearingly cute, much to everyone’s disgust, especially Max’s.
Right now, the private concert was happening in the kitchen. Their kitchen, as in Mike and Will’s, in their own two-bedroom house. A space fully cluttered with Will’s artsy junk, Mike’s discarded papers, old typewriters, caked-up paints and the ashtrays they pull out whenever they felt like smoking.
It was the same house Mike had snagged back in ’93 thanks to his sweet slice of inheritance when Karen finally divorced Ted’s sorry ass.
Mike’s big brain play at the time was simple: toss half the money into an investment account, throw the rest at a mortgage and call it a day. Then, a few weeks later, he pulled off the ultimate speedrun—upgrading himself from roommate slash best friend slash college student straight to a graduate and a boyfriend.
He never looked back.
Why would he? He had literally everything he could ever need: Will right beside him, his paint fingers in his hair at night, a proper roof over his head that wasn’t a depressing dorm room or a shoe-box studio and a stream of government hush money. Honestly, Mike Wheeler was on top of the damn world and he had no intention of coming back down.
So the situation right now was quite tricky. The soapy water in the porcelain sink was lukewarm. It had remnants of lemon detergent and burnt garlic from their date night pasta—Will’s call.
Mike was humming a disjointed tune off a Richard Marx cassette tape Max had lost a few weeks ago and complained furiously, but Mike never told her the truth. At this exact moment, Richard Marx was being given a serious run for his money by Mike Wheeler’s vocals and Mike himself was locked in a high-stakes match with a stainless steel spoon.
"Stop fighting back," Mike muttered to the utensil, turning the faucet on higher to rinse off a clump of foam.
There’s this thing about Mike: he hates doing dishes, but there’s another thing about Mike: he loves Will too much to let his beautiful hands anywhere near dish soap. Despite all his icks, he does the dishes every morning and every night. He does the laundry too and twice every week cleans the house. The only thing he’d ever let Will do around the house is some cooking because it’s a form of therapy for him. His taste palette is as colorful as a paint palette and he’s all about flavors and spices that Mike loves too much. Whatever Will wants, he gets. No question asked.
Mike held another spoon directly under the stream of tap water again. The rounded metal instantly caught the pressure, redirecting a splash of spray straight up onto the collar of Mike’s T-shirt and across his cheek.
"Okay, mature," Mike said, wiping his chin with his shoulder. "Very mature."
From behind him, Marx’s voice slowed down to a low hum and then disappeared, replaced by a giggle soft enough to be a secret.
Mike’s ears flattened at the sound as it broke the noise of the running sink. Will stepped behind him, his socks sliding against the wooden floor of their home. It was a small space, but spacious compared to the Byers’ home in Hawkins. The space of the kitchen was filled with the smell of canola oil, garlic and coffee pods. It was warm and cozy and theirs.
Will wrapped both arms around Mike’s waist, leaning his chin against the damp curve of Mike’s shoulder before placing a soft kiss. He rested his face there, breathing in the familiar mix of dish and laundry detergent and faint woodsy cologne that Max gifted to him while advising him to shower.
"Oh, the spoon won again, I see," Will murmured against his neck, his thumb tracing a small circle through the thin fabric of Mike’s shirt.
Mike paused for a breath, his sudsy hands hovering over the drying rack. A small smile softened his face. He leaned his head back against Will's, soaking in the weight of him.
"It doesn’t like me. What can I say or do to change its mind?" Mike asked, turning his head slightly to press a quick kiss against Will’s temple.
"Talk dirty to it, maybe it’ll cave in."
“Like you cave in?” Mike laughed, gently elbowing him.
Will smiled softly, scrunching his nose. “Do I?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Mike replied, trying to remove the burnt garlic from the pan. " You should step back before I splash you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” He planted another kiss on his shoulder before Mike turned his head around.
“Oh, actually… uh can you sort through the mail on the counter? I didn’t get a chance to see it in days. There must be some bills that are due."
Will’s eyes suddenly went a bit serious. Of course some bills would be piled up. They haven’t gotten a chance to go through their mail for several days now because Joyce was here visiting them.
"Fine, babe," Will said softly, untangling himself with a small sigh and a smile.
His socked feet walked over to the laminated countertop where a small wooden tray held the deliveries.
Out in the hallway, the faint clanking of electricity echoed through the floorboards. Will doesn’t know why it happens, but it does often.
His eyes went through the small pots on the table and Will perfected them into a stable and sleek shape. He didn’t mess around when it came to his house. Joyce loved his attitude like a sweet mama bear.
Joyce was very happy to visit them whenever she gets the chance. Her visitations were a routine they built over years of living in the city because they lived just three blocks away from Jonathan and now Joyce too, who had moved closer after Hopper’s heart attack two years ago.
The grief had been heavy, but it had pulled them all tighter together. Especially Mike and Joyce, who knew very well what grief does to a person.
Will remembers just how broken Mike was when El passed away. He still recalled his mumblings about ‘regret’ and ‘not doing the right thing’ when she was alive. Will never pushed him to tell, but before he asked him to be his boyfriend, Mike explained everything he felt in those moments.
It was the guilt of not coming clean to her when he had the chance. It was the regret of not telling her why he didn’t love her the way she wanted him to. It was the fact that his heart always belonged to Will, but he had too many obstacles to overcome before he could say it out loud. Will, who had just gotten out of a year-long relationship, couldn’t believe his ears at all. He took a few days to collect himself before he told Mike that his feelings were mutual.
Will sprinted and slowly began separating the papers into little piles like the neat freak he was.
Bills went to the left. A postcard from Dustin, covered in frantic handwriting detailing his latest lab incident at MIT, went into the middle. Local diner coupons, a dry-cleaning flyer and a thick envelope from Karen and Holly stuffed with clipped newspaper recipes, graduation pictures and gossip went to the right.
Then his fingers brushed against a textured envelope made of heavy ivory paper. That was odd and unexpected. That wasn’t even one of the gym mails that Max accidentally subscribed from their address. That wasn’t something familiar.
There was a return address printed on the corner, just a postmark stamped in dark indigo ink:
E.J.
Reykjavík, Iceland.
Will stopped. His thumb hovered over the rough paper. Nobody they knew lived in Europe, let alone Iceland.
He slid his thumb under the flap, breaking the wax seal and pulled out a single sheet of lined notebook paper. The handwriting was rounded, slightly clumsy, with capital letters that tilted awkwardly to the left.
He could recognize this handwriting anywhere. He knew who it belonged to.
But you see, the mage is very clever. A cleverness only matched by her sister, who, upon hearing the pleas of the paladin, had a change of heart.
Will’s breath hitches right in the center of his chest. Her? His mind scrambles, trying to catch up with the word, trying to anchor it to something real. It couldn't be—except it could be.
A sudden and blinding wave of heat rushes beneath his skin, electric and bright. Happiness… no. Not happiness, not yet. Hope. Hope ignited in him so violently it almost hurt.
El. A sister he had for a very short time. The girl they all mourned, the girl who had left such a hollow ache in everyone’s chest for years—she could be alive.
The mage you saw die was not real. She was an illusion.
His fingers fumble against the thick paper of the envelope, trembling so hard he almost drops it onto the counter. Mike’s words from that night echoed back in his ears, suddenly stripped of their grief and replaced with a terrifying promise.
It really was her. It had to be.
A shuddering laugh threatened to spill out of his throat, his hands shaking beyond relief as he desperately tried to slide his thumb under the sealed flap again to pull the paper free. It wasn’t working because he was shaking too much.
I’d like to imagine that she’s in a beautiful land, somewhere far away. She finds a small town to call home. Safe from the danger of the Black Hand. And it is here, at last, that she finds peace. That she finally finds happiness.
Peace. Happiness. The words rung through him like a choir. He hopes with everything he has that she found it in some quiet corner of the world where no one was hunting her, where she didn't have to bleed for anyone.
He finally flipped it open. The distant voice of water indicated that it was still running. Mike was still fighting with a utensil, mumbling curses incoherently, as Will started reading.
Hi Mike,
How are you?
I am missing all of you very much. I was in contact with Dad for a while, but then he died. I visited Joyce secretly and found out. I was too scared to write to anyone else. The Govt is still looking for me, but they’re slowly believing I really died.
Dr. Owens says it is almost over now. He says in a couple of years it will be safe for me to come home again.
I sometimes visit you, but I can’t see much. Just you and Will watching movies most of the time or cooking. I miss him and Max.
Please reach out and tell me everyone is fine. Tell me what is going on in your lives.
I miss you. I love you.
Bye.
Love, El
Will’s chest went tight. The noise of the running tap behind him faded into a dull and distant hum.
I love you.
The words burned on the page and on his mind. They are the same words Mike whispers into the crook of Will’s neck every morning before the sun rises. These are the same words Mike says when he hands Will his morning coffee, when he pulls him out of his artistic daze and cuddles with him, when he kisses him until they are both breathless on the living room rug. These are the words that belong to Will.
Will looked back toward the hallway that led to the kitchen. Mike was still humming, oblivious, holding a mug under the water. It briefly made him question why Mike spent more than half a day washing dishes, but right now he’s glad about it.
A dark and heavy knot twisted deep in Will’s stomach. He remembered the years he had spent staring at the back of Mike’s head in classrooms, smiling when he glanced back, sitting across from him at the DnD table. Tracing his face with his eyes at sleepovers, looking desperately for a sign or anything. He remembered the agony of watching Mike hold El’s hand, the suffocating feeling of being an afterthought. It had taken more than a decade of heartache for Will to finally get where he is right now. It took years for Mike to finally realize what they were. From that moment onwards, they had three years of absolute and undisturbed happiness.
If El came back... if she found out… It would all be ruined.
Suddenly the static electricity in random places of their home started making sense.
Will’s hand shook slightly. He had spent his entire life being the good person. The quiet boy who gave up what he loves, who hid his feelings, who took whatever pieces of affection were tossed his way. Who had the weight of the whole world on his shoulders and still never acted in revenge.
Not this time, a voice whispered inside his head. It was sharp and defensive and it didn’t sound like who he was. Not Mike.
Before his mind could talk him out of it, before his heart could say the opposite and coerce him into being a good person again, he made a decision. Will folded the letter twice, shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. Shredded the envelope with the address and smoothed the rest of the mail out on the counter.
Later that night, they cuddled on the couch together, watching The Thing because they opted for a quiet New Year’s Eve this time instead of going out with Max and Lucas or inviting over anyone. Their favorite movie played in the background as the fireworks erupted in the sky, the sounds deaf to their ears because they were lost in their own world.
Chaos erupted in Will’s heart all while Mike’s lips were entwined with his. Their breath sped up with every passing smack of the lips and every piece of clothing that was discarded from their bodies gave way to more and more heat in the dead of January.
As Mike held Will closer and placed his lips to his neck, leaving bites and marks all over—Will eyed his jeans from afar. The letter still burned holes in the pocket, like some radioactive thing.
Will simply chose to ignore his screaming conscience because the boy marking him up was too tempting for him to even think about a supposed dead girl.
Two weeks passed. Then three. Then four.
Every morning, Will made sure he was the one at their mailbox. Three more letters arrived from Iceland over the month. Will didn't even read the last two. He took them straight up to Mike’s side of the room where his stuff sat, slipped them into the paper shredder and soon they were unrecognizable. Torn to shreds like Will’s ability to feel sympathy for her.
Nothing ever came easy for Will. No matter how much he tried, his conscience gnawed at him like a constant, dull throb behind his ribs all day, but at night, when Mike wrapped his long legs around him under the heavy comforter, pulling Will close against his chest, the guilt evaporated into something fierce and stubborn.
He was saving them. He was keeping close what was his.
"You're doing it again," Mike said one morning, leaning against the doorframe as Will re-stacked the mail on the hallway table for the third time that day and it was just 10 AM.
Will jumped slightly, dropping a flyer for a local pizza parlor. "Doing what?"
"Fixing the mail," Mike said, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes studying Will with an unreadable expression. "You've been hovering over the door every time the mail slot clicks. Are you expecting something?”
“What would I be expecting?” Will gave a chill answer, but his insides were burning.
“An art grant, maybe. Letter from a gallery you’ve been applying to, perhaps?"
"No," Will said quickly, keeping his voice light as he picked up the flyer. "No, nothing like that. Just–last month we were late on the water bill because we both forgot about it and I don’t want that to happen again, so I’m vigilant when these things drop by.”
“Babe, come on.” Mike was behind him in the blink of an eye. Will was seriously amazed at the speed he was used to doing this all the time. “Relax. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“I do… You don’t let me do anything around the house at all. Just wanna take some of the weight off. You know… the small and weightless stuff. So it doesn’t… bother us in the long run."
Mike stared at him for a long moment. Watching his lashes kiss his cheek and green eyes glinting under the energy saver above their head. Then he stepped even closer to him, wrapping his arms around Will's waist and burying his face in the crook of Will's neck. "My baby," he mumbled softly. “Always so thoughtful.”
A little too much thoughtful, he wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He accepted the kisses on his face and his neck gracefully and with his whole heart because they belonged to him and him only.
Mike,
Why aren’t you replying to my letters?
I’m starting to think I may have the wrong address. I had no way of reaching you so I visited you in void and found this. Maybe the house number or the block is wrong.
El
The buzz of the paper shredder erupted again. The letter turned to unrecognizable pieces of junk. Ninth letter in three months.
May 7th, 1996
The letter shredding went on for another few weeks. Until a printmaking class that Will always wanted to take opened as a three-month course with certification at their local college.
Mike urged Will to apply and join. In fact, he surprised him with an offer letter on Will’s birthday because he applied on his behalf. Will was super happy with his art teaching job and his art commission’s money. It gave him enough time to unwind, relax and have fun with Mike and their family and friends while also keeping close tabs on the mailbox when Mike was at work.
Despite hesitation, Will agreed because he didn’t want to be grateful and he also had a lifelong dream of implementing the technique into his artwork. The class was about to begin in two days and Will was all ready to go.
El had gradually dissolved into a gone shadow in his mind, pushed into the quietest background of his life. Between the dizzying rush of early-morning commutes, late-night figure-drawing sessions that left charcoal smudges on his jaw and Mike constantly pulling him away from his easel just to kiss him senseless, there simply wasn't any room left for ghosts or unwanted mails.
They were so thoroughly consumed by their work, Will’s classes and the beautiful weight of each other that the past had simply starved from neglect. Will didn't spend his days looking back anymore; he spent them anchored firmly right here, in the warm space Mike had carved out just for the two of them.
The letters stopped coming eventually. There hadn’t been one for almost a month and Will could finally breathe.
On a rainy Tuesday evening, Will came home an hour late because he had to meet Max. His boots were soaked and his bag filled with brayers, linoleum cutting tools, inking plates and stencils was extremely heavy. It clinked heavily against his hip as he saw Mike’s car in the driveway. He wasn’t supposed to be here just yet.
When he pushed the door open, the place was quiet. Mike’s shoes were by the entryway, his coat hung from the nook and the smell of coffee was swirling inside, burning his nose. Everything seemed to be in place. There were clear signs of Mike running inside in the rain and taking his clothes off when he came inside.
Will picked up his discarded shirt that sat at the corner of the chair and turned to take it to the laundry hamper when he realized that the mail on the entryway table was missing. The bills were neatly arranged on the kitchen counter, stamped with paid receipts. Letters from Dustin were stacked on the other end. Karen’s yet another recipe book arrived just in time and his college’s promotional flyer sat there too. It was all arranged just the way Will does, but Will didn’t touch it, so who did?
Will’s blood ran cold.
He walked slowly towards the living room. "Mike?" He called out in a slow tone, bracing for an answer.
The bathroom door was closed; the sound of the shower running behind the thin wood echoed.
Will frantically scanned the counter again. Near the small kitchen trash can, a scrap of pale paper peeking out caught his eye. He reached down, pulling a discarded envelope out from under a crumpled paper towel.
It was postmarked from Iceland. It was opened. That meant Mike had seen it. Panic surged through Will's veins. It was sharp and blinding. Mike knew. He had found a letter from El and he had actually read it.
The thing that Will hid from him all those months, Mike knew it now and he must know what Will did.
Before he could react or dive deep into his guilt of the past or fear for the future, he decided to dig the letter to see what the hell was even written in it.
Will dropped to his knees right there on the kitchen linoleum, his heart pounding an erratic rhythm against his ribs. The smell of stale cucumbers and damp paper towels hit him as he shoved his hands straight into the small plastic trash bin.
He tossed aside the crumpled takeout napkins, a rubbery coffee filter and an empty milk carton, his hands trembling so violently he nearly knocked the whole bin over.
Near the bottom, caught beneath a soggy wad of newsprint, his fingers brushed against the heavy paper.
He pulled it out. Will slowly unfolded the sheet of lined paper with unsteady and heavy movement of his fingers. His veins had lead inside them, unable to move them. His eyes scanned the rounded and familiar tilt of her handwriting.
Mike,
I know you're reading these letters. I just have a feeling.
I want to know why aren't you answering me? Have you found someone else to love? Please talk to me.
El
Will stared at the page, the ink swimming right in front of his eyes.
Have you found someone else to love?
How could he, very politely and very sweetly, tell him that yes, he did. He did find someone to love and it wasn’t just someone; it was him. It was Will. Mike’s Will. On the very bitter side of his mind, he wanted to scream that Mike didn’t find him. He always had him. He was just too scared to have him and when he stopped being scared, he got him.
A cold wave of terror flashed through his mind. It was like he was back in the Upside Down. It was a sudden and paralyzing fear of the inescapable. The illusion of his safe little world shattered into a million sharp edges.
Mike knew what Will did. He knew El kept on waiting for an answer that never came and why it never did. Probably El knew too, or maybe she was still guessing. Will was 90% sure that she was putting the pieces together from the silence. She maybe knew why reaching out across the ocean wasn’t working.
The nightmare he had managed to bury for months was suddenly trashed in their kitchen bin, fully exposed, dripping in cucumber juice.
Will turned and sprinted out of their home, out the front doors into the brisk New York rain. Their home’s yellow mailbox sat right beside the main entrance on the sidewalk with the red pointer pushed up.
His heart leaped a frantic beat. If Mike had read El’s letter today, he would have written back immediately. Of course he would. He had just found out a dead person was alive—and not just anyone: The love of his life.
Was she still the love of Mike's life?
Grief makes people settle, just like a realization was settling in his bones right now. It forces them to patch up hollow and aching spaces with whatever is closest and the thought clawed at Will's throat like ash. Maybe Mike had only loved Will to fill an El-shaped void in his chest. Maybe Will was just the safest option. The one who knew him entirely and still chose to love him through everything.
The realization shattered something delicate and vital inside him, leaving him completely hollowed out.
Will pulled the small latch of the box open. His hands were freezing, slippery with rain. Inside sat a single white envelope, crisp and semi-dry, addressed in Mike’s sharp and angular cursive:
To: E.J.
Reykjavík, Iceland.
Will’s heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird trying to break free. He stared at the envelope. This was it. Mike wrote to her. He must’ve told her he missed her. Or that where he was in life. Making a promise of waiting for her. Three years of safety, of warmth, of believing he was enough dissolving in a single afternoon rainstorm.
With trembling fingers, Will tore the envelope open.
He pulled out the folded sheet of paper. His eyes scrambled across Mike’s handwriting, searching for the blow that would break him entirely. Pierce his heart into the same shreds that he’d been making of these letters.
El,
We’re okay. I’m glad you are okay too. You have the right address and it wasn’t a mistake at all.
I'm very surprised that I was right all along about you being alive, but stop trying to reach us.
Me and my boyfriend are happy. We’re finally safe and the nightmare is over.
You are supposed to be dead. Stay dead.
Never contact us again.
-Mike.
Will froze. The letter shook in his hands, the paper rustling softly against the cool breeze blowing down the road. The terror that had been strangling him for the last twenty minutes and the agonizing certainty that he was just a placeholder in Mike’s broken heart were replaced by a strange and ringing silence in his ears.
His breath caught in his throat. His eyes bulged as he read the words again, searching for a trace of hesitation, a soft edge, a hidden flicker of grief, or maybe the love he had for her.
There was none.
It was an execution order. Written in neat and decisive blue ballpoint ink.
Me and my boyfriend are very happy.
The sound of the rain hitting the concrete ceiling behind him seemed to stop entirely. He stared at the words, his eyes wide, re-reading the dark blue ink until the letters blurred together, mixed with water and smudged at the edges.
Stay dead.
There was no longing or hesitation as Will had anticipated. There was zero buried affection being reignited. It was just cold. A brutal line drawn on a rock with a sharp edge and left to rot for ages to densify it.
Slowly, Will folded the paper back up as the rain turned into a drizzle and then eventually stopped. He was soaked from head to toe, but the letter was somewhat saved. It had to be. Will made sure it was safe and sound so it would reach her. He placed it carefully back into the envelope, tucked it safely back into the box and closed the brass latch.
His eyes had no emotion in them, just an unreadable inkling as he walked back to the footsteps of his home like a man walking in a dream.
When he unlocked the front door and walked inside, Mike was standing in the hallway, wearing a pair of loose grey sweatpants. His towel was in his hair, drying the remnant water from the shower.
Mike stopped when he saw Will standing in the doorway, soaked from the rain, staring at him with wide and stunned green eyes. He stopped the mechanical rhythm of his hands, the towel hovering at his collarbone as he caught sight of Will frozen in the entryway.
Water dripped in slow and heavy beads from the fringe of Will’s hair, trailing down the pale line of his throat and soaking through his collar, but he didn't seem to notice the chill. He just stood there, clutching his keys so tightly his knuckles were bone-white, his wide green eyes fixed on Mike like he was trying to solve a math problem that was missing every value in the equation (i fucking hate math and will does too)
Will’s heart was beating in his ears, rolling like drums, chiming like flutes. He stopped analyzing what instrument fits the beat best. His eyes looked at the slow, yet knowing smile that tugged at the corner of Mike’s mouth, like he knew what happened out there.
He casually slung the towel over his shoulder, his eyes taking in the wrecked expanse of Will’s expression.
"What happened, babe? You’re soaked." Mike asked softly.
Will couldn't speak. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling heavily, his knuckles still red from the cold air outside.
Mike walked over to him, stepping right into Will's personal space like he was used to. His big hands reached out, taking Will’s wet coat by the lapels, pulling him in close until their chests pressed together. Mike wrapped both arms firmly around Will's waist, bringing one warm hand up to cup the back of Will’s neck, his thumb resting over his jawline.
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against Will’s lips, tasting the cold rain and questions on his mouth.
"You know I love you, right?" Mike whispered, his eyes looking down at him with a terrifying and fierce devotion.
Will let out a shaky breath. The corners of his mouth twitched, a breathless giggle spilling out of him as the tension drained entirely from his body.
"Yes," Will breathed, leaning his forehead against Mike’s collarbone. "Yes. I do. I love you too."
Mike brushed the tip of his nose against Will's, smiling faintly. "Good."
Later that night, the rain started again and beat steadily against the bedroom window. The small television in the corner was buzzing softly, playing a late-night movie neither of them was paying attention to.
They were tangled together on the sofa under a heavy wool blanket. Mike was lying on his back, one arm anchored firmly around Will's waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns over the small of Will's back. Will lay pressed against his side, his ear resting directly over the rhythmic beat of Mike’s heart.
Will closed his eyes, sinking into the warmth of the room.
He had spent months terrified of the ghost coming back to claim what was hers, but listening to the unbothered rhythm in Mike’s chest, Will finally understood.
She had never been a choice. She was just something that had been in the way. An obstacle. Mike knows what Will does to obstacles: he removes them. What Will didn’t realize until today was that Mike lets him.
That’s more than enough for him to numb his heart to what doesn't suit him. What doesn't suit them. He can live happily with the fact that his boyfriend doesn't feel an ounce of remorse in whatever he does when it comes to Will. It simply means they won't be getting any more junk mail from Europe.
"But in the end if I'm with you, I'll take the chance..."