Chapter Text
Hi Mike,
Writing letters is still hard for me, that hasn't changed. But for some reason, I felt it was the only suitable way to get in touch with you. Writing everything at once and waiting a few weeks for a reply — it even feels right now. Not every conversation has to be rushed or instantaneous. I guess I've just grew up. That has changed.
I like New York. It's so big and noisy, people are always rushing somewhere, and I'm with them. I haven't fully gotten used to it yet; studying still takes up most of my time. It's not like Hawkins or even Lenora at all. The clouds here are different, too. I don't know if this is good or bad.
Learning is going with ease and stress at the same time. I absorb so much information every day, I do my homework, but it doesn't feel like a labor; I enjoy the process. Because this is what I really want to do with my life. "Make your hobby your job," or something like that. I'm still getting used to it, but I think I'm getting the hang of it.
People here are more open, especially in my art department. They're not afraid to express themselves, they're not afraid to be different, and I really connect with that, you know. I've already made one friend, Mary, who reminds me a lot of Robin, just as tactile and loud. My dormmate, Josh, is also a nice guy; he doesn't litter or make noise, he's pretty quiet, so I'm very lucky. We're not friends, just polite to each other.
I try to see Jonathan once a week, and I even managed to visit the set of his film once when I stopped by to pick up his old camera for a project. Something about capitalism and cannibals (don't even ask).
Mom and Hopper are planning to move to Montauk. I'm happy for them. There's nothing left for them to cling to in Hawkins. They've lost too much there to build anything good on it. They need a new page and a lot of time.
Sometimes I can't believe I'm really here. The thought of going to college, living a normal life, used to seem impossible. Sometimes I feel like this is all some kind of illusion, created by Vecna. That everything can't be so good, because the nightmares I still have and will probably have my whole life are more real to me than the life I'm living now. Of course, reality isn't great either, we know that. Our memories are proof of that. The last curse Vecna left us. And when it overwhelms me again, I return to other memories. Our bike rides to school, D&D campaigns in your basement, building the castle with Jonathan, the music he played for me. To you, Lucas, Dustin, Max. I remember Jane. These are good memories.
I didn't expect to write so much. But it made me feel better.
I really want to know how are you? How is Indianapolis, do you like it there? You are lucky to study close to home. How are your studies? What interesting things have happened? I want to know everything.
I'll wait for your reply.
I miss you.
Will.
***
The letter was written and sent at the end of September, almost three months ago.
The reply never came.
And Will... Will simply moved on.
Remembering Mike after the nightmares became part of the nightmare. He tried to think about him briefly, in small strokes, before a new sense of loss had time to follow the feeling of relief. Traces of tears dried on his cheeks, salty drops sliding into his mouth, mingling with bitterness deep in his throat. Will tries and tries, but he can't stop himself. And when the tears renew their traces on his skin, like stones dragging across the sand, leaving deep furrows, Will feels that his skin will soon bear similar marks from how often this happens. How often he cries because of nightmares. Then because of Mike.
Will called Max (with Lucas in the background) and Dustin whenever he could; Mike's name came up a couple of times. They spoke to him a few times, not like it was real conversations. Нis name was followed by a heavy silence. And Will understood this silence.
Over time, the tears diminished; Will learned to cry quietly, staring blankly at the wall. At least that way, he no longer disturbed Josh, although he said he understood and still slept soundly, Will still felt ashamed in front of him.
Thoughts about Mike also diminished. Will had taught himself this by force. It was not without difficulty that he convinced himself that there was no meaning in this other than pain. And he needed to move further and further from that. He tried not to think about him at night, before sleep, when his mind became especially weak and vulnerable under all the memories when he was alone with himself. But to finally let go of Mike Wheeler... the man Will had known for most of his life and would remember for the rest of his days…
Will remembered him when he came across a VHS tape of a movie they'd watched together. A sweater on another man that vaguely resembled one he saw on his best friend. When he heard one of Mike's favorite tracks somewhere.
At such moments, Will didn't cry; on the contrary, he didn’t let himself escape the memory. He closed his eyes, replaying those fragments in his head like an old tape, trying to recall how Mike had smiled and made himself a fool for their laughs during campaigns.
Will smiled at these memories. They were completely different in the daytime than at night. During the day, his heart wasn't squeezed in a vice and wire, when it cried blood because his eyes couldn't anymore; It beats almost the same way it has been beating for the last thirteen years.
The word "crush" didn't change that.
Will accepted this long ago. He'd learned to live with it. It had become so much a part of him, merged with him, it was no longer something he craved to pick at or adjust because it lies uncomfortably or sticks out. By admitting it and releasing it into the world (as much as he could back then), he could finally live with it. Not that this life was much easier, of course.
In New York, Will knew, there were more people like him. Within the walls of his college, it wasn't even a problem, an agenda or a reason for anything bad. No one said it directly, but everyone understood it when they talked to each other, as if it was on the level of feelings, and therefore something natural. Even his friend Mary, as Will later discovered, was bisexual. She didn't say it outright, didn't admit it to anyone, didn't make any statements, but when she felt comfortable, including with Will, she would talk about both boys and girls she found attractive. These were just small, fleeting comments, they carried no weight, no concern for how others would perceive it. Everyone understood perfectly.
Will was shocked at first, the very idea that such a thing could be discussed openly, of course, with the right people, but still... And when Will approached her with this conversation, she merely laughed kindly, saying that she'd already sensed they were similar, and that Will himself would soon learn to recognize such people, like a kind of radar, and find allies or more.
And over time, he actually began to notice. The way some people talked about it, without aggression, without teasing, calmly. The way some guys painted their nails or accentuated their eyes with eyeliner. The clothes, the music, the signals.
There were signals for Will personally, too.
One of the guys from Mary's company, Carlton, stared at him longer than necessary. He sat closer to him. He turned to look at Will when he laughed. Will wasn't stupid; he already knew what that meant. Carlton was quite attractive. The most captivating thing about him was his height and his black curls. And at that moment, Will knew it wouldn't work out. Because... Mike, again. No matter who he looked at, he'd always search for something of Mike in them. Similar eyes, hair, smiles, pale hands with long, thin fingers, the idiotic sweaters he loved so much. Will would look at one and think of another. It would be cruel, cruel to Carlton, cruel to himself.
And when Carlton asked him out, Will, no matter how hurt and sad he was, declined. He said he still hadn't gotten over his previous “crush”. He didn't say he probably never would.
Because even if he gave Carlton a chance, and Will decided it wasn't about Mike, he just had a type, and he'd gradually stop thinking about him.
Until the first nightmare. Until the first trigger.
And when Carlton asks him what's wrong, Will simply won't be able to explain. He won't be able to tell him what happened to him, how he was dragged into another dimension by a monster, how he survived there for a week, how he died and then came back to life, how he was possessed and then developed the abilities he used to kill his tormentor.
He'll think he's crazy, damn it, because that's what Will is. No matter how much he wants it, he'll never be whole, normal again. He'll stare at the wall, fading out of reality into the void so he can't think about anything when he's overwhelmed by something more intense than usual, he'll fear unwanted touches, always on guard, he'll scream in his sleep, he'll always keep himself warm because the cold terrifies him.
Carlton will never be able to fully understand him.
Crazy.
Not the way Mike understood him.
The night after his conversation with Carlton, Will cried like he hadn't cried in a long time. That was the first time he thought about calling Mike. Calling and yelling at him. Telling him everything he thought about him, how distant he'd become, how he'd abandoned his friends, abandoned him, even though he'd said he'd never lose him. That they were all struggling too, barely coping, but had decided to move on while Mike wallowed in self-pity.
He never called. He decided, out of anger, that he would not give Mike such pleasure when he knew that everyone was trying to reach him. And at the same time, with all his tenderness for him, he realized he simply couldn't bear to hear his voice.
After that night, he felt steady. Having let out all that had pent up, leaving his neighbor a consoling packet of cookies with a "Sorry :(" sticker, he felt a humble relief spread through his body over those few hours. A grieving, empty state, unable to change anything, which had crushed all his feelings inside in a stone to the point where something new could take place nearby.
Since then, Will simply studied, made new acquaintances, hung out with Mary and her company (glad that Carlton wasn't angry and continued to communicate well with him, now without the signals), saw Jonathan, and even went out to parties a couple of times.
Time flew by, and it was time for winter break.
Will wasn't planning on going to Hawkins.
He warned the party who were going to visit their parents and wanted to see Mike, if he'd let them, so they wouldn't wait for him.
Will decided that now, more than ever, he needed a quiet place. Not the town that hated him, except for his friends and a couple of adults, not the place that would kill him from the very threshold with memories of what had happened, and his hand would instinctively reach for the back of his neck again until he remembered it was no longer there. Not the place where his sister had died.
Will distinctly felt a blow deep in his chest.
While they all broke out and went to other cities, Mike was in the closest one to the place where it all happened. If nightmares can find Will even in New York, then he can imagine what it’s like to live an hour away from them.
Will tiredly wipes his eyes and sits down on the bed, cluttered with his clothes. His duffel bag lay nearby. For some reason, that memory of the swing stood out clearly in his mind. The ones Will jumped off back then, when he was high up, and Mike was left swinging without him. But he got off them too, just a little later, when there was no longer a risk of falling painfully and breaking knees, when the swinging became slower, when it was easier and less scary.
Perhaps Mike is still swinging on them alone. Waiting for them to slow down.
This... this can't be like that any longer. Will has always been too compassionate for his own good. He doesn't know if he can ever change that about himself. Or what Mike has to do to finally rip this feeling out of him.
Will finds himself near the phone. He knows his dorm number. He dials it.
Will bites his lip. The skin tears, something tears near his heart, the old stitches come apart just a little.
No one picks up.
He thinks he'll try again today.
But this time in Montauk.
***
Will managed to sleep on the way. He left early, so three hours of sleep were very refreshing for him.
Hopper and his mother met him at the station. As they drove, Will tried to take in the new views. The town was as small as Hawkins. But where Hawkins was surrounded by forest, here it was surrounded by the ocean. It felt nice, more open. It was exactly what Will was looking for.
They bought a house close to the ocean, so close that they could even see it from the window. The house isn't completely renovated yet. Construction materials litter the hallway, here and there are missing shelves, empty spots. Hopper says they managed to finish the guest room before his arrival, buying a bed for Will with a small nightstand and closet for his things. Only their bedroom, bathroom on the second floor and living room are fully finished. They're taking their time, enjoying themselves; the building process probably heals something deep within them, clears away the bad thoughts that Will knows they harbor as well.
The room is clean and bright. The bedding is already made, though it looks a little rumpled, as if someone has slept there already. The window looks out onto the ocean, and Will can already imagine running to it, to feel the breeze and the spray of water on his skin.
He's never seen the ocean. Honestly, he didn't think he'd ever get to.
His mother comes in, and he briefly hears Hopper talking on the phone downstairs, and he remembers he needs to make a call too.
"Do you like it here?"
"Yeah, it's... just what I needed," Will looks out the window again and continues. "Now I understand why you moved here; it's even easier to breathe."
"Yes, it's magical here. Dinner is at eight, by the way. We'll go to the store and buy some groceries." His mother comes over to lightly kiss the top of his head. "Don't be bored, get comfortable for now."
When Will hears the door slam, he goes downstairs to the phone. He hesitates for a second before dialing the familiar number and putting the receiver to his ear. The beeps drag on painfully.
And they don't stop.
Well...
Will remembers that Mike is on a break, just like him, and maybe he's already home for the holidays. Yeah, he's probably not in the dorm anymore.
As Will dials the Wheeler house, his hands start to shake, his palms sweat, and his heart starts to race. Because that's the most realistic option, almost guaranteed. But there's no way out, and damn it, he'll be dealing with this alone.
The beeps keep coming. The wound on his lip opens again.
"Hello?"
Mrs. Wheeler.
"Hello, yes! Um... It's Will." How awkward, his voice trembling a little, but he tries, he tries...
"Oh, hi, Will, how are you? Happy holidays to you."
"Yes, thank you, you too, has Mike arrived yet? Could you please give him the phone?" A small pause catches Will's attention.
"Mike? He said he'd stay in the dorm for a while."
What the hell is going on?
"Yeah? Oh, it's just... I called him, he didn't answer, so I thought..."
"Didn't he tell you about this?"
Damn it. Of course he didn't tell him, they don't fucking talk.
"Will, is everything alright?"
Yes, Mrs. Wheeler has always been attentive to her children. The concern in her voice cuts Will like a scalpel. A feeling of guilt toward her swells in his stomach. His lip almost breaks under his teeth. He says the following in one breath.
"Yes, yes, absolutely... I forgot, I remember now, he mentioned it. He probably just went out somewhere, that's why he didn't answer, I'll call him later. Thank you very much, have a wonderful holiday!"
Will slams the phone back into the wall.
What's going on?
Mike isn't picking up the phone. He's not home and his mom thinks they're still in touch. Will thinks he should probably warn the others, who were planning to visit Mike in a couple of days.
Mike had just disappeared. And Will doesn't know where to look for him. A bad feeling rises in his throat like nausea.
Will goes up to his room and collapses onto his bed like a dead weight. He needs to sleep a little longer. To rest, to clear his head.
He buries his nose in the pillow. The thought of crying crosses his mind, and he wonders with an empty chuckle when he'll finally be able to go without this part. He decides that maybe he'll do it later.
With one foot already crossed the threshold of sleep, for some reason he imagines the bed vaguely smells of something familiar.
***
Will is awakened by a gentle voice and a shaking on the shoulder.
"Will, Will, get up, dinner's ready."
It's already pitch dark outside, the room is drowned in barely discernible gloom, the only illumination coming from the hallway. Will slept for a few hours, more tired than he thought.
He tries to focus for a moment, then sits up and wipes his face with his hands. Mom has already left the room.
Will manages to go to the bathroom, wash his face and wash away the remnants of sleepy fatigue. He feels a little better, but better like someone who's slept through a fever. Thoughts of Mike slowly return to his mind, and Will splashes himself with ice water.
When he enters the kitchen, the table is almost set, Hopper and Mom smile warmly at him as they finish setting the plates and utensils.
This. Now he needs to focus on this.
Dinner passes quietly, with small talk about college, New York, and his friends. Then, while Will eats his pasta, his thoughts eat his brain. Will thinks about how easily he gave up on Mike. Yes, he didn't answer, but he could have tried again. He could have called, found out, but at the same time, it was all hard for Will too. It wasn't the first time Mike had done this. For others, it was, which is probably why they had more hope and kept trying.
But they hadn't lived without his calls and letters for a year. They hadn't talked with Mike at Rink-O-Mania. Never heard how he told him that Hawkins wasn't the same without him. And it wasn't them he told that they'd never lose him, only to disappear in the most vile way possible. The same as before.
No, it wasn't Will's damn fault.
Maybe it’s no one’s fault.
Sometimes life makes you realize that it's better to leave something in the past.
Maybe that's what happened to them too.
Will is tired.
After dinner, Will helps his mother and Hopper with the dishes. This distracts Will slightly, though the repetitive motions allow his mind to drift off into the wrong direction. Will tries to block these rifts with stones in time. Not today.
"I'm going outside for some fresh air. I'll be here on the porch."
Hopper nods to him, glancing carefully at him as he dresses and heads out the door.
It's crisp and pleasantly cold outside. The warm ocean breeze contrasts nicely with the cold air, intertwining but not completely blending. Will notices a bench on the side of the porch, settles down on it, and buries his chin in the collar of his jacket.
He realizes that the cold here doesn't trigger him. He knows it would've in Hawkins.
Sitting like this, in peace and quiet, is so good that Will has from time to time to pull himself awake when he feels like slipping into sleep. But he doesn't want to leave. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting like this. He knows that time has never moved so slowly for him, that he could finally savor it.
It was already night outside, and the bright orange glow under his eyelids quickly dispelled the lingering drowsiness. A few seconds later, the sound of an approaching car appeared. Approaching their house.
Will sleepily opened his eyelids, damp from the cold and warm breath, and saw an unfamiliar Jeep pulling up. Will thinks for a second that he has fallen asleep, but his brain has already started looking for ways to understand what is happening. Maybe someone had come to visit Hopper or his mom, even if he hadn't heard them talk about it today. Maybe someone from work or something. It was dark inside the car; he couldn't even tell whether it was a woman or a man.
Since Will was already there, he decided to get up and greet the visitor from a safe distance, a step away from the porch.
The car stopped. The engine turned off. It became dark and quiet. Even quieter than it should have been. The driver was still sitting in the car.
"Hello? Can I help you?" Something tugged uncomfortably at the pit of Will's stomach.
When the driver finally got out of the car and walked around to stop next to it, Will thought he was seeing a ghost. His first instinct was to run, even with the heavy ground frozen to his boots.
"Hi, Will." Mike said.
He looked both as bright as a blob of paint from Will's palette and as if he was about to merge with the small forest around their house. It became painful to breathe, the air going from warm and soft to sharp in his throat and nose.
Will couldn't believe it.
His gaze, adjusted to the darkness, now can get a better look at him, as if he's really there. Mike stands slightly hunched over, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. His hair is a little tousled, but he can see he still has that stupid side-part that had so irritated Will all last year at school. And glasses… another reason not to believe this is his Mike standing in front of him, and not some figment of a tired imagination conjuring up a young Ted Wheeler.
Mike takes a small step forward. He stops. He becomes even clearer.
Will stands still.
He notices that Mike is already opening his mouth to throw at least something into this drawn-out silence.
No way he is going to have upper hand in this.
"What are you doing here?" Will says, sounding exactly as he intended. Not welcoming, sharp.
Mike's face is confused, but the emotion quickly fades to something formless, empty, as if Will had cut away all the bullshit Mike had been preparing for him with one question. Mike takes another step forward.
"What, I can't visit my friend anymore?"
Shameless jerk.
"Yeah, right…” Will smiles bitterly, the rage in his chest warming his body, tearing him away from the porch. He takes two relaxed steps toward the dark-haired man. He can see how this has caught him off guard. "Because you needed me so much these past four months."
Mike is silent. He continues to look at Will, his eyes even darker in the night, and Will already knows Mike isn't going to answer him. He repeats his previous question.
"I found out you'd be here for the holidays. Which makes sense, since you have no reason to come back to Hawkins anymore. I wanted to see you. And so I'm here."
"Found out? From whom?" Will can't quite grasp the possibility that Mike might have been in touch with someone.
"From Dustin. Yesterday." The answer is firm.
"Did you answer?"
"I called."
Will has never been violent, but he wants…
He just closes his eyes and takes a step back. He would have taken even more steps back, all the way to the house, but he's not like some people. And he breathes out the only logical question.
"Were you going to call me?"
Will opens his eyes and sees Mike's jaw tense. He falls silent again. The answer seems loud enough.
"I see..."
Will takes another step back. His body is ready to turn around and leave it all behind.
"Will, I came to see you." He hears Mike take a step forward behind him.
"I've heard that, so what?"
When Will turns back and sees Mike's eyes, he comes to his senses as if someone had sobered him up with a hit of a bottle on the head, cutting him against the shattered fragility that yawns in Mike’s gaze now. His face trembles, but it holds together. It's unclear, though, how.
From Indianapolis to Montauk is about fourteen hours by car. Mike learned Will would be here yesterday. The fact that Mike immediately jumped up and done all this way does something to Will that makes his voice soften enough to continue the conversation.
"Okay, you're here. How long are you staying? Where are you staying anyway?" It's clear Mike wasn't prepared for such questions, but he plays along perfectly.
"I don't know, a couple of days, maybe. Staying at a motel, you know..."
The silence becomes awkward. Only three steps separate them, maybe less. And they've forgotten how to talk to each other again.
"Not happy to see me, huh?"
Will's feeling a lot right now, and yes, happiness is definitely not at the top of the list. He's angry and upset. He feels sad and lonely, even though his best friend is standing two meters away. He could say he's glad Mike is okay, but at the same time, he's angry at him that he is, because he managed to worry him to the point of terrible thoughts.
If you strip away all the glitter, all the problems and secrets, then yes. He's happy to see Mike. But it can't be that simple, right?
"Shut up, Mike," Will replies without a bite. He hears the guy across from him let out a quiet, cautious chuckle. "You should have just answered the damn letter."
"And you should have realized by now, I'm really bad at letters." Mike says with a small curve of his bitten lips. Will hates the way his stupid heart beats bruises from that smile.
Mike's expression grow serious, a little lost too; he looks like an elephant in a souvenir shop, but he always had a knack for finding something to say, though that didn't mean what he said was good.
"Wanna go for a ride?"
The city was already plunged into darkness, illuminated by streetlamps and window lights; passersby could barely be seen. Will stared out from the front seat, blankly observing the houses and closing stores, following with eyes the streetlights and turns. Mike's car was warm. D&D dice hung on the rearview mirror. Tapes were scattered haphazardly between the seats. They drove in silence, aimlessly, but Will knew, they both knew, that somewhere they would have to stop and talk. And for now, they can remain silent.
After a while, Will felt the turns become more focused, more directed; Mike had decided on their route.
They drive up to the lighthouse and stop there.
The silence, which had been bearable before, now rises in uneasy waves that crash against the car doors, wanting to spill out, as if it doesn't want to be with them either.
Will's lip is torn between his teeth; he runs his fingers over it, rolling away the loose skin, further irritating the inflamed flesh. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Mike scratching the steering wheel.
Will can't do this anymore.
"Mike... Tell me, what's going on?" Will turns to the man across from him. Mike refuses to look.
"I..." Will sees right before his eyes the moment when Mike briefly considers lying to him. But Mike dismisses the thought. "I don't know what to tell you."
It's just impossible.
"If you keep answering like this, then I don't even know what we're doing here," The old anger, left by the porch, rises again in Will's body. "It won't be any different from your silence for the last four months."
Mike still doesn't look up at him. And Will wants to do a lot of things. Grab Mike by the jacket and shake him like a rag doll. Get the hell out of this car, which is already getting stuffy. But he’ll stay. For himself, first and foremost, because he needs answers. He needs to know.
"Why did you come?"
"I wanted to see you." Mike answers without a thought.
"I've heard that before, but why? Why now?"
Mike's leg starts to twitch nervously, his jaw tense, moving from side to side. Will knows what this means; he's seen it before in California. Mike is about to go defensive, starts to get angry too.
"I don't understand, I can’t visit my friend before the holidays? What's wrong with that?" Mike finally looks at him, the blades in his gaze cutting into Will's eyes.
"There's nothing wrong with that, unless you've been ignoring your friend for months. Or what, you thought you could just show up like nothing happened and no one would ask you anything?" Will can be sharp when he needs too.
Mike sinks back into his seat, turning to window. Silence, their reluctant passenger along with all the other unspoken crap, hangs in the cabin again. Will tries one more time.
"Mike, you... You can't do this, okay? I... We're all worried about you. After everything that happened... It's all hard already, but you're making it impossible by pushing us away."
He uses the "we" part, but now he knows Mike called Dustin yesterday. Maybe he called Lucas and Max too. And he knows Mike hasn't called him. He's had nothing from him in four months, nothing. He'll swallow that for now and he’ll bring it up again later, but now it's easier for him to say it like that; it's not even a lie. What Mike did with these few calls is still not enough, negligible. And his presence here isn't moving the needle too.
Perhaps this will make him more pliable. Perhaps guilt over Will simply isn't enough, but his guilt over them all will bring him to his senses. That's what he thinks. He looks at Mike, his gaze fixed on the back of his curly head. His left hand rests on the window frame, his fist propped against his temple. Will can't make out his reflection in the glass and simply says.
"We have to stick together. We have to move forward. Otherwise, this is just a dead end. But we're here for you, and you know that."
"No."
Mike's voice is heavy, slightly hoarse from the long silence. It hits Will hard on the head.
"No, I don't know that."
When Mike finally turns to face him, everything in Will's stomach leaps to his throat, only to fall down even harder. What he sees on his face — he's never seen him like this. And it had to stay that way.
Mike's eyes are so red, as if he's been crying all this time without Will noticing. The emotions on his face are dragging the skin down with the weight of everything he's feeling. Will notices for the first time, in the light of the car, that his face has grown thinner, paler, and he really does look like a ghost. The ghost of the man he's known for thirteen years.
"I don't know anything anymore. Everything I believed in, everything I knew, everything I felt, it all burned and crumbled like dust, and I..."
Mike's voice breaks, becoming wet with tears. He turns away in shame, throws his head back against the headrest, and stretches out in his seat like a taut string about to snap at any moment. His pale hands rise to his face, palms slipping under his glasses, trying to hide from the world, from Will, but the first muffled sob shatters the silence in the car, and Will feels something irreversibly dies within him in that moment.
Perhaps it was the Mike he once knew.
He abruptly removes his hands and continues, in a single breath, as if possessed, trying to spit out the words between sobs and clenched teeth.
"I'm angry because you're all moving on, and I feel like I'm buried alive. I'm angry because you're doing this without me, as if you never needed me. And I alone don't know what to do. And I came here in despair, I came... because I'm angry at you the most. But I wanted... I wanted to see you one more time and..."
A loud, ugly sob chokes Mike's words. He covers his mouth with his hand to seal all the sounds inside, but his attempts are futile, like his entire existence to him.
Will can't bear to watch this anymore.
He kneels in his seat and reaches forward toward Mike, almost collapsing on top of him. Will's arms frantically pull Mike's shoulders toward him and press him to his chest, hiding his sobs in layers of clothes. Mike's glasses fall somewhere. He feels Mike clutching his jacket tightly, the seams bursting under the pull, drool and tears staining his sweater. He buries his nose in the curly crown of Mike's head, his fingers gently stroking his stony, tense shoulders. All that escapes his lips is a quiet "Mike."
Will can't believe he's sitting here. Can't believe Mike is crying on his chest. For Will, all the bad was supposed to be in the past; a new life, a new chance meant they would all live and move on toward their dreams, despite everything they'd been through.
How did they not notice that they left Mike behind along with the past?
How did he not notice?
Is this why Mike found him?
Will has no answers. He only has a man who is dearer to him than anything in the world and who is now crying in his arms.
He doesn't know how long they sit like this, but Will notices when the sobs become quieter, and how Mike's hands sometimes squeeze his body tightly, sometimes hang limply, holding onto his sweater. His own eyes were just as wet, but his tears were quiet, weightless. Will knew how to cry; he did it often. And he can immediately tell how long Mike has been storing his tears up.
Will feels Mike's breathing even out, his shoulders slowly relaxing. Still burying his face in Mike's curls, he allows himself to inhale his scent, the one he's missed so much, but which he seemed to never forget.
Will feels it's time to let go of Mike. He braces his left hand on the back of the seat to steady himself and keep from falling onto the boy in front of him, his right hand remaining on his shoulder. Mike doesn't let go, his hands still holding onto the sweater near his waist. He looks up at him with tear-stained, deep, dark eyes, and Will wants to drown in them, both from the beauty and the pain he sees there.
Mike looks soothed. Will realizes he needed this. He looks down at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, hoping to reassure him. Mike... just stares at him, captivating. Will can only stare back. His breath falters.
And Mike turns away. The hands release his waist. Will returns to his seat.
The drive back passes in silence. They drive, detached and exhausted. Mike's eyelids are swollen, his glasses are a little smudged, and the image blurs periodically, so he grips the steering wheel tighter and looks around more often. Will's head is pounding from tears, pressing against the cold glass, trying to cool the painful heat beneath his skin.
Early that morning, he couldn't even imagine that his day would end like this. That the person he'd been trying to reach today would be sitting next to him in a couple of hours, driving him home after their mutual breakdown.
Will doesn't know whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.
When they pulled up to Will's house, he didn't get out of the car right away. And Mike didn't say anything to him. They don’t feel like talking anymore. But there's still something he needs to know for sure.
"Mike," Will turns to the guy next to him, his eyes crystal clear from tears, pleading. He waits for Mike, scratching the steering wheel again, obviously ashamed of his outburst, to turn back to him. He resists only for a moment. "I'll see you tomorrow, right?"
His gaze wanders to nowhere for a second, like there is another answer to this question might be. For a moment, Will is afraid. But those dark, familiar eyes return to him.
"Yeah. Yeah, of course."
Will nods gently and, with one last glance at Mike, gets out of the car. He walks toward the house without looking back.
Relief washes over him when he enters the dark house and neither of his parents is waiting for him.
Will goes upstairs into his room, takes off his clothes, and collapses on the bed. He passes out within a minute.
He dreams of nothingness that night.