Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

WILL

Mike's head against my shoulder. His messy dark curls, freshly cut. A chaotic nest, perfectly imperfect, home to thoughts I wish I could reach. 

Mike's scent invading my nostrils. Addictive. Comforting. Boyish.

Mike's words, each repeated twice in my mind to mimick his habit. Stupid, friends, believe, us. Crazy. They rest beneath his tongue and above my shoulders. They belong to him and to him only. He made them his, just like he does with everything he touches. 

We're sitting comfortably on the sofa, an open comic on Mike's lap. The house is empty for the first time in ages, which makes the living room seem ten times bigger than usual. I'm deeply thankful for this, because in this silence, I can focus my attention completely on Mike's calm breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

The setting sun reflects on his pale face and I could stare forever. I could count and recount his freckles at least a million times. Dots on his skin like splashes of watercolor on my paintings. I wish I could trace my finger all over them. I wish I could do so many things.

Unlike Lucas or Dustin or Jonathan, Mike sleeps with his mouth closed. I observe, silently.

His sacred lips are rosy and plump, but slightly chapped because of the cold. Winter is a time to take care of things. Mike does it all year long. He protects me throughout the change of seasons. Besides a blossoming flower or a whitering one. It doesn't matter to him. For once, I wish I could return the favor. I wish I could look after him. I wish I could care for his lips. I wish I could give them the love they deserve. I have all of me to offer, don't I? I picture this, just for a small second.

A soft peck turning into something else. My flesh against his. Our swirling tongues. 

I stop myself from further indulging in foolish fantasies that will only hurt me. There's no point in daydreaming. There's no point in feeding delusions. After all, no one's worthy of those lips. No one's pure enough to kiss Mike Wheeler without staining him. Even less me. 

And despite knowing this, I cannot help it. I feel myself growing tighter in places I shouldn't and I hate it. I loath myself for it, and yet, secretly, I keep wishing for more moments closer to Mike. How greedy I am.

At the worst possible moment, he shifts. I startle. 

"Will?" he asks confused, and heat rushes to my neck at the speed of light. He slowly opens his eyelids, and the deep hue of mahogany spills out to remind me of impossible things. To give me a taste of paradise. How many times have I tried to recreate that shade on my palette without success? How many times have I tried to capture that intensity that only his irises can provide? I feel my ears burn, my forehead sweat. I know my cheeks are turning red and I pray he doesn't notice this guilty flush. 

"Will." It's not a question this time. It's just my name. My dull, boring name rolling out of his holy mouth. What have I done to deserve this blessing? "God, it's almost night time. Why didn't you wake me up?" He lifts his head off my shoulder and I curse the day I was born without him sewn to me.

Because I was too busy looking at you. 

"Sorry... I mean... you just seemed so comfortable. I didn't want to disturb you." I reply instead, and he just stares.

It's been like this for a while now. Ever since we moved into his house, Mike and I have been dancing this rhythmless song. Sometimes we're so close we might aswell become a single person. Other times, it feels as if we were back to last year: infinite miles apart. Perhaps I'm imagining it. Perhaps I am dancing alone. But when he looks at me like this, like he can see right through me, how am I supposed to get over this useless, dirty desire? 

"I'm hungry. Do you want something to eat?" He gets up. 

Come back. Touch me.

"It's okay... I'm not really hungry." I look down. "I should probably shower anyway. You know, before the others come back and the bathroom becomes a battlefield."

He lets out a laugh, my favorite laugh, the one that lets a small smile lingering on his face. "You're right."

I leave the couch and head towards the bathroom. 

"Will." he calls from behind me and I melt. One word from him is all it takes. 

"Yeah?"

He takes a second too long to respond. "Don't foget about the water tap thing."

"Oh, yeah, I know."

What a trivial thing he reminded me of, and yet that interaction was enough to make my insides burn. Have I always been this malleable? Is that why Vecna chose me, because I am too weak? Because I'm the kind of boy to react deeply to meaningless words, and to fall for another boy who would never love him back?

I enter the bathroom and lock myself up. Rapidly, I take my clothes off, almost ripping them out. The mirror in front of me is terrifying, and yet I force myself to look into it. I'm tired of escaping. I contemplate the naked body in front of me, so foreign. A body that grew too fast. A body that feels too big. A body that reacts to the wrong things in the wrong ways. This revivided corpse. This vessel. I dread it.

My eyes well up. The sight is too painful. A million thoughts take over my mind. Twisted memories, words, faces. 

My father's face each time I failed at baseball. Each time I proved I wasn't strong enough. Faggot written all over him. It reached a point where he didn't even try to hide it anymore. I still remember the first time he said it out loud. 

Zombie boy. That cursed nickname, written all over the school's desks and whispered all over the school's hallways. Eyes everywhere, searching for the one who came back to life, and finding this scary freak in me.

Finally and most importantly, the vivid memory that will haunt me forever. The hostile look on Mike's face that one rainy afternoon. And his words, like daggers to the heart, words I wish I had made up. 

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

All of this I feel in my throat that tightens, and in my jaw that trembles. What is it that hurts me more? Is it the accusations, or the truth to them? I hate being judged, but even more, I hate how right they were. How right they are. 

In an attemp to silence these screaming thoughts, I turn on the shower tap and stand under it. The water falls, covering my shoulders. It's boiling, and I recall what Mike told me. I don't care anymore. Let it burn me. Let it cleanse me. Let it purify me. Take the demons away, take the particles that infected me away, take Vecna away, and with it, take these terrible, impure wishes away.

In this privacy, I am met with my own growing desire, overflowing. A part of me would like to take care of it. I do not dare. Above all, these wishes must not be heard: just erradicated, at all costs. Rather than giving my body what it craves, I rub the soapy sponge harder and harder against my arms until the skin turns red. It hurts, it hurts so much, and I cannot contain myself any longer: tears begin to roll down my cheeks. Multiple feelings crash: self-loathing, need, lust, hurt, humilliation. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately searching for a pitch-black darkness to drown in. Instead, I find my greatest fear.

Mike's ruthless eyes on me, not staring at his Will, but at the sickening boy who dared to love him

Chapter Text

MIKE

Water drops hitting the ground too hard. If I didn't know this sound was coming from the bathroom, I would've guessed it was raining outside.

The cupboard is nearly empty: I only find an expired package of cookies. It makes sense: this family already uses up food incredibly fast, and with the addition of three more people to the household, food's ephemeral nature becomes even more noticeable. I'm still very much hungry, so I decide to make some scrambled eggs. 

I prepare two plates, and just when I'm about to start eating, Will comes out of the bathroom. I look at him. Lately, that's all I ever do. For some strange reason I cannot comprehend, everytime I want to say something clever to him, I find myself out of words. 

And so, I watch. His wet hair, drops falling from it, water dripping down his body and soaking the clean shirt he's just put on.

His expression looks troubled. His hazel eyes are swollen. Has he been crying? No, that can't be. Why would Will be crying? Is it because of Vecna? Is it because he's afraid, uncertain of the future? We all are. 

"Will, are you ok-"

"What is this? Breakfast at 6 pm?" he giggles. "Wait, you made some for me?"

"I know you said you weren't, but I figured you'd be hungry."

Something changes in his expression but I can't quite grasp it.

"Yeah, well, I guess one can't refuse some scrambled eggs" He sits in front of me. 

"Syrup?" 

"Always."

I pass him the bottle with complicity. He gives me a shy smile.

And so, we eat. In silence, where only the loud chewing of our mouths can be heard. We devour our syrup-soaked scrambled eggs, the ones Nancy would call "disgusting". Just like we did as kids. It is in these small moments we share that I miss how things used to be. Nostalgia hits me in the least expected moments. I don't understand how everything changed so fastly. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe not. Maybe it's for the best. 

Still, I cast multiple glances towards him, as if to prove a point. 

Look back, I secretly beg. He doesn't. I don't really care about him looking back. It's just the fact that he's so obviously actively avoiding it. That's what bothers me.

Since when did everything become so awkward? This is Will we're talking about. Will the Cleric. The Sorcerer. Will the Wise. My best friend Will.  

You know when. Stop lying to yourself. 

Before I can give more thought to this, I hear static out of my walkie talkie on the table. I grab it.

"Hello?"

"Mike?" El's soft voice comes out.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Is Will there? Mom wants to talk to him." 

"Uh yeah. He's here." I look up from my walkie and catch Will's eyes on me.

So this is what it takes to make you look at me.

However, he quickly lowers them to the object between my hands, as if my gaze burnt.

It's almost like a game, this thing between us.

Will stares at me. I stare back. He looks away, like he's afraid of getting caught. Like he's commiting crime. And so, he gets more adept at hiding. He starts looking only at the right moments, when I can't catch him. As soon as I feel him on me, he vanishes, and it's like he's never been there. And so I pressure him. I gawk at him, waiting for a reaction. It never comes. He pretends not to notice.

Maybe this has been going on longer than I can imagine, but ever since the Byers moved into our home, ever since we started sharing the same spaces, it has become as palpable as the fear that's been infecting Hawkins for the last 18 months.

And I know that, despite our best efforts, things aren't the way the used to be, and they haven't been for a while now, and they probably never will be again. But does he really resent me this much? 

"Mike?" Will's voice takes me out of this trance. 

"Yeah, sorry. Here, have it." I pass the walkie to him. His cold fingers brush against mine almost imperceptibly, but I feel it all within me. He slightly recoils.

He hates that too, I've noticed. But I can't blame him, because I'm guilty of these sorts of reactions as well. We deliberatly avoid physical contact, so when it does happen, I sense it stronger than ever. We both feel umcomfortable for unexplainable reasons. 

"I can leave, if you want." I say, offering him some privacy.

"It's okay, you don't have t-"

"Really, I don't mind. I have a comic to finish anyway."

Here it goes, another forced excuse. I cannot stand being this self-aware. I cannot stand this heavy, suffocating tension between us. I cannot stand this sharp sting anymore. I feel it in my eyes and in my knees. It shouldn't hurt this much. It's not that serious. It's just Will.

I need to be alone. And so, I'm off to my bedroom.

Am I about to cry? When did I get so emotional? Why am I reacting just now, as if this hasn't been happening for who knows how long?

In these last 18 months we've been tiptoeing around each other, overly cautious, and so every interaction feels mechanically planned. As if both of us were tickling bombs, seconds away from blowing up. 

We've grown apart in a strange, yet inevitable way. This gap is as impossible to close as the cracks spreading across Hawkins. Indeed. We've fractured, just like the place where it all began. 

We once thought we couldn't exist without the other. Seemed obvious, right? Unquestionable like the blue of the sky. Finding each other was instinctive. Now it's almost the opposite.

The harsh truth is, being Mike and Will is no longer natural to us. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

MIKE

Everything's blurry. Lucas' hair is shorter. The boys are screaming, their high pitched voices merge all together.

"Fireball!" 

"Yes!"

Something warm settles over me. It's been so long since we've been last together like this. It's been so long since I've last felt like this. 

"Wait. Wait!" I hear myself say, my voice so different from what I expected it to sound like.

They're all looking at me now, expectantly. Of course they are. I am the Dungeon Master. This role comes to me so effortlessly. 

At the other end of the table, he sits. His youthful eyes are not afraid to look straight into mine. How much have I missed that. 

"Mike?"

The way he says my name is so hopeful. I love that tone. It makes me want to preserve it, to keep it as my treasure. It makes me afraid of disappointing him.

I will never let you down, I feel the urge to assure him. Something stops me. Why make promises you can't keep? And yet I'd give anything, everything to protect that spark. Still, it is weird that I feel such a profound sentiment over something so minor, so silly as it is his voice. It's probably just because I've missed it. Yeah, that must be it. But there's nothing to worry about. I'm finally home.

I simply laugh. They do too. He does too.

And then, I feel myself getting dizzy, and I blink, and I am somewhere else.

What?

As I open my eyes, I immediately recognize my bedroom. It's the same as always and yet so different. It looks bigger, yet cozier. There are so many painting hanging from my wall. I'm lying in bed, all covered up, my walkie talkie on the pillow.

"I can't wait for the next campaing." here it is, that voice again. Electricity courses through my body. 

"Same..." I reply.

"Did you study for tomorrow's test?"

"There's a test tomorrow?!" 

I know there is one, I pretend I don't to make him laugh. Yes, now I remember. This memory is from five years ago, back when everything was still normal. When we believed our tests couldn't get any harder. When we thought that the world was as simple as we knew it, and that evil only existed within the D&D board.

Just as I hoped for, he chuckles. It's not one of those forced laughs that seem to be all he can give me lately, no. This is a real laugh. 

Suddenly, I hear a distant voice yelling through the walkie talkie. It's far away, but close enough for me to recognize it. Masculine. Adult. 

"Is that your dad?" I question, and he does not reply. "Will" For the first time in this precious memory, I pronounce his name out loud. It tastes of honey. 

"I'm sorry, he's just-"

"Don't be." I have to interrumpt him. It breaks my heart to hear that voice get smaller and sad, trying to find the words to justify his own father. "Hey, do you wanna hear a story?"

"Yes. Please"

And so I begin storytelling to distract him, and I know I've done this countless times before, because I do it automatically. It's just who I am. When was the last time I've felt this confident about myself? I didn't even remember what is was like not to feel lost.

When I come up with these stories, I am not thinking of them, but of him. Of how face might be looking like as he listens to me. Of what worlds he would like to discover today. As everything else I've been doing in these memories, it's like the right, obvious thing. That's something else I miss from these days: the lack of options, which lead to a lack of indecision. Our paths used to be so clear. So obviously intertwined.

"That's so cool!" he exclaims, and there it is again. The hope. That's how Will is supposed to be: inherently hopeful. That's what made it so easy to be around him. Even after this hell had already broken loose, even after getting kidnapped, Will had still kept it within him. It was contagious.

I could blame Vecna for the distance between us and for the way he's changed, but deep down I know I am the only one to blame. I was the one to change first, which forced him to change as well to not be left alone. And most importsntly, I have been the one pushing Will away. 

"I can hear you talking, Michael! You have school tomorrow morning! Go to sleep right now!" My mother orders from the other side of the door and I think of her. I think of how lonely she must've felt and how lonely she still feels. I think of this broken family. 

"I gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow. Over."

"Good night, Mike."

This used to be an imperative habit for us. A daily routine for Will and I. Staying up till late, talking every single night without fail for as long as possible until one of us fell asleep, or until our mothers intervened. The only ritual we have now is that ridiculous glancing game.

I turn off the light. I close my eyes. I fall asleep.

A voice, getting closer and closer.

"Mike. Mike. Mike. Mike. Mike!"

It's Nancy, isn't it? I open my eyes abruptly. I expect to see a long-haired, tender-featured Nancy, freshly into her teens. I am met with a much more mature version of her instead. 

Of course. That was just a dream. 

"What?!" I shriek and let out a huge yawn. I have woken up with cold sweat all over my body.

"What do you mean 'what'? The crawl!" she exclaims. I remember.

These past few months we've been so busy with the crawls I've barely had any time to sleep, or to pretty much do anything. But tonight is the night. At least after this I might get some days of rest. I get up and follow her. 

Everyone's already there. Steve, Jonathan, Robin, Hopper, Joyce, El, Dustin, Lucas. Will.

Surely, I wouldn't realize how grown up he looks if it wasn't for that dream. That stupid dream that conjured up another version of him to compare him to. One I had almost forgotten, but now I'm sure I will never let slip again.

He's different. His eyes a different shade, his body a different size. My eyes roam over him. Larger shoulders, longer legs, greener eyes, lighter hair strands. He's standing beside Robin, whispering something to her. When did those two become so close? Something twists in my stomach. What else have I missed?

"Mike!" Nancy snaps at me, clearly annoyed by how distracted I am.

"Sorry. Sorry! What were you saying?" 

And the planning begins. We go over and over everything we've already discussed a million times, just to make sure it's clear. The truth is, it's more than clear, but of course everyone still has doubts. These doubts, however, have nothing to do with the plan itself, and re-examinining it won't do much. It's more about the situation we're in. 

So many crawls, and nothing new has been found in the Upside Down, apart from military bases. The question on our minds can almost be heard: is Vecna really still alive? Maybe we're worrying over nothing. Maybe we should just let it go. Maybe we actually killed him last time.

But then again, Nancy's visions and Will's goosebumps are more than enough to keep us alert. No one will be able to sleep peacefully unless we get a confirmation that he's truly gone. And to be honest, if that isn't the case, it would still be better to have the certainty he's back. This ambiguous state we're currently in makes it harder to think. It plunges the group into an endless anxiety. We don't even know what we're up against, if we're up against anything. Everyone feels stuck, on the verge of something that never comes. 

I spot Dustin, who's standing next to Lucas. When they're side by side I notice how much they resemble each other, in some melancholic way. There are dark circles and bags under the puffy eyes of both, a sign of grief. I force myself to look away. 

Then there's El, talking to Hopper. El, El, El. My dear El. She feels my eyes on her and immediately looks back at me. 

"Well, I think we all know what to do" Hopper declares and everyone agrees. 

We start to disperse, and that's when she reaches out to me. 

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah... I mean, I'm just tired. We all are." I reply. She nods. We haven't spoken much lately because there's not much to say. 

"Good luck." I tell her, even though I know she does not need it. She nods again and smiles. And then, just as quickly as she arrived, she's gone.

I am left alone with my own thoughts. How dangerous. 

The crawl is about to begin. Everyone's ready.

I return to my dream. Will's voice, Will's spark. Maybe El doesn't need any luck, but I do. And so, quietly, I plead.

Will Byers, please, give me your hope.

Chapter Text

WILL

"How did you know that Vickie wanted to-"

"Make out?"

"To date."

"Oh, well, we volunteered together. You know, there were like signals."

"Signals?"

Robin’s words rumble in my mind. This is the twentieth time I've replayed this conversation in my head. Maybe more, I've lost count at this point.

I take her words very cautiously. Normally, I wouldn't take them at all, because as much as I like Robin, I know she's not respected for her impartiality. We are pretty much alike in that respect (and not just in that one), both so... dreamy? Delusional? Unreliable?

But then, I remember the intimate scene I spied on. I remember her arms around Vickie, pulling her closer so naturally, as if she belonged to her. No, as if they both belonged to each other. Intrinsically together. 

I remember their smitten laughs, not friend-like at all. I remember the fervent look on Robin's face, the equally fervent look on Vickie's face. And more than anything, I remember their kiss, which lingered like an obvious truth. As if it were the only way it was supposed to be.

These past years, I had felt so alone. The only weird kid in Hawkins. I would've never imagined there was someone else, just like me, right beside me. And so, capturing that kiss and talking to Robin about it opened a whole new world of possibilities. 

I let everything disappear behind my eyelids as I close them, Robin's words echoing one more time.

Signals.

Signals?

That one Sunday morning. It's Winter. It's cold.

Seven o'clock in the morning. Surprisingly, no one's awake yet, and for the first time in months, I find some peace in this usually crowded living room. The silence is soothing, but I need a distraction.

Headphones on, "Out of Touch" playing at full volume. My hand has a life of its own. I start drawing whatever comes at mind.

Today, it is a constellation. A made up one, obviously. I have not yet developed Dustin's prodigious memory to be able to recall each and every constellation by heart. I can't blame myself: the patterns are unique, unrepeatable. You have to study them thoroughly to be able to recreat them precisely, and I'd rather not draw something at all if it will lack detail. Even Cygnus (the Swan), my favorite one, as simple as it is, is somehow hard to remember.

And so, I have invented this constellation. 

I draw, and I draw and I keep drawing, and time flies by swiftly, like a bird that never lands. The sun rises, peeking through the curtains and covering my paper. I am done, about to get up, when all of a sudden, I feel a warm hand settle on my shoulder. I slightly jump, taken aback. I take my headphones off.

"Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." The voice that undoes me whispers against my ear. He does it as if it were nothing. It's everything to me.

I blush. I had almost forgotten what it was like to be this close to Mike. Christmas is approaching. Perhaps this is my gift.

I wonder if he's aware of this. I wonder if, just like me, he counts the days and hours and minutes we're apart. If he also measures the spaces between us. A part of me hopes he does, just to know I am not alone in this madness. But another part of me prefers a clueless Mike: it allows me to be less self-aware.

"It's okay." I finally turn around and meet his face. It hits me like breathing after holding my breath for too long. His brown eyes soften.

He rapidly looks up and down, as if searching for something, and I could swear he's staring at my lips right now. More heat rises to my face.

I wish this would last forever. These moments that to him are accidental and to me, essential. I will cherish them eternally.

"Mike?" I mutter. He looks up again.

"Yeah, yeah. Uhh... sorry. What was I...? Oh, yeah, right. Um..."

It's so cute when he gets nervous and his words tangle over each other. My grin stretches wider before I can stop it. I feel giddy, almost lightheaded.

"I just wanted to tell you that- Wait... did something good happen?" He questions, and I realize how terrible I am at hiding my emotions.

"Why?"

"I mean, you're smiling, and I just..." He stops himself and lowers his gaze before going on. "I guess it's been so long since the last time I've seen you smile like this..."

Why, Michael? Why do this to me? 

There's something so sweetly melancholic in his tone. Nostalgic. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to hold him. I want to keep on smiling forever. I want to...

"I've missed it."

The final blow. No method of torture can compare to this. You might aswell break every bone in me right now; it wouldn't hurt this much, and I wouldn't love it this much. 

I am so shocked I don't know how to react. Despite everything, he still knows me just as well as he used to, because he changes the subject immediately.

"Oh, you were drawing? Can I see?" 

I nod and hand him the drawing. I am always anxious for his opinion on my art. 

The brown on his eyes turns honey.

"It's... it's beautiful, Will."

You are.

"Thanks." I reply.

We lock eyes. Seconds slip by, impossibly slow, like time itself is holding its breath, just like I am right now. Mike brings time to its knees. 

I drink the honey of his eyes as if it could extinguish this passion within me. It only fuels it more. There's warmth in them: golden, sweet. His pupils dilate. 

Suddenly, we hear the door open and break eye contact. 

"Good morning, boys!" Mrs. Wheeler comes into the room.

"Uhm... here, have it." he returns the drawing timidly. 

Now, I am the one to examine my own art. I follow each line, each detail only I would notice. And then, something inside me clicks. I look up to Mike's face and catch a glimpse of his freckles. A pattern that's unique, unrepeatable. My gaze drops to the paper in my hands. Of course. How stupid I've been. 

I could never invent a constellation this beautiful. I’ve known it by heart long before I ever drew it.

Signals.

That one December night. December 24th.

I watch through the Wheeler's window. Snow is a silky dress that covers this fragile town to give it a facade of beauty. But all it does to me is further remind me of the terrorizing particles from the Upside Down's infected air. Is it safe to breath? Will the lump in my throat get any tighter? Is this Hawkin's Christmas present? Will this be our last winter here?

We're sitting at the dinner table. Mr. Wheeler's reading the newspaper. Mom is talking to Mrs. Wheeler too excitedly, as if to try and make up for ruining the enviroment ON such a special ocassion. Jonathan and Nancy are silently observing each other. They don't need words to understand what the other one's thinking. Holly's reading a book.

Things are and have been weird with Mike for a while now. Not knowing how to act around each other leads to a constant avoidance. Small interactions like the painting one are only ephemeral occurrences in which I almost let myself believe things will go back to normal. They never do.

And now, here we are. Facing each other but drowning in our plates. I dread how forced this feels.

It's curious how things can change so quickly, so drastically, without one having time to register it. Some years ago, Mike and I would've done anything to spend this day together. Now, I'm sure Mike would love to dissappear from this table. He'd love to spend Christmas Eve somewhere else, far away, with El. Not with his parents. Not with these intruders in his house. Not with me.

And yet he can't. Poor thing. Restricted from loving freely. Forced to keep his lover hidden from his family and from the world.

Originally, mom, Jonathan and I were going to spend Christmas Eve with Hopper and El. But after Mrs. Wheeler's insistence to spend it with them became too heavy to be ignored, we decided to change plans. I'm sure she thinks she's doing us a favor, even if it's out of pity. After all, she's unaware of El's existence and believes Hopper to be dead. How crazy. 

This dinner table couldn't get any worse. From the way he's been glaring at the Byers for more than an hour, it's clear that Mr. Wheeler doesn't want to have us tonight. In fact, it's clear that he doesn't want us there at all and he hasn't for a while now. If it were for him, we wouldn't have lasted much in this house. I'd give us two months.

Everyone's immersed in their own world, that's what truly sucks. This should be a moment of conection, not isolation. 

"Mike?" I find myself calling that forbidden four letter word, and I immediately regret it. 

"Yeah? What is it?" 

He won't look at me. 

Sorry. Sorry for interrupting your thoughts, your ravishing mind's thoughts, probably dedicated to El. I am too selfish, I know. I just want a place up there. Worse: I just want you all to myself, though I'm certain that's not even an option.

It will never happen. Why, after so many years, do I still have hope? This illusion is an endless, fever dream. So real, so fake. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Hope can be such a dangerous thing. I'm sure you'd hate mine.

I would never get between you two. You know that, right? Not that I have a chance. I love you and her too much to do it. To wreck such a virtuous bond.

Still, a ravenous part of me craves to have you just for tonight. I'm starving, Michael. Can't you hear my bellow? This famished being monster I have become, it is all yours. You created it, thus it belongs to you.

Even when you're not with her, you're still thinking of her, aren't you? And even if you weren't hers, you'd never be mine. 

I'll settle for that. I'll settle for just being yours. I'll settle for never touching you as long as you touch me. I'll live with the hunger of not having you as long as you have me.

"Will?" he calls my name and I instantly leave this trail of thought. My name on his mouth is a spell. 

I always end up engrossed in these idiotic ideas, forgetting the world around. I curse myself for neglecting the lovely boy in front of me. 

"Sorry, I... I accidentally said your name out loud." What a pathetic excuse. Jonathan glances at me across the table with his nothing-escapes-me look.

To my surprise, Mike cackles, probably because of how absurd I must've sounded like.

A waterfall, dropping from your mouth so gently, filling the room with this rich sound. I would ridicule myself incessantly to get that out of you more often.

At least I have the pleasure of his attention now. 

"It happens, I suppose?" he says, half-mocking me, and he continues to bless me with his laugh and I have no other choice but to join him.

The more aware I become of my words, the worse they become. Hilarious. A small tear runs down my cheek from laughing so hard, and maybe, just maybe, from the emotion of having a moment like this with Mike. I think Jonathan senses this, as I feel his perspicacious eyes on me once more.

"God, I'm sure we've laughed less at funnier things." utters Mike.

"You're right." 

Our laughter dies.

Please, don't let this end. Don't let it slip through your fingers. Don't let it vanish like everything else has.

"Do you-"

"Have you-"

We speak at the same time. We giggle again. God, what a mess we are. 

"You go first." I say. He slowly leans closer and takes more than a second to speak, as if he were rethinking his words. Is it that important?

"Your plate is full." 

I frown, confused.

"So is yours." 

"Yeah, because this turkey sucks." 

The mischevious twinkle on his face reminds me of 12-year-old Mike Wheeler. It doesn't fit him at all, and yet it fits him so much. Does that make sense? His face is too grown for it, and at the same time, it looks like it was made for it. That smile is one of the many puzzle pieces that have been missing, and it seems it has finally found its way back where it belongs.

How much have I missed this look on him. I wish it had never left to begin with. And like dominoes falling one after the other, a chain reaction begins, and so many absent details come back to mind, because deep down there are many other things from that time that I wish he had kept. 

His protectiveness over me. His desire to spend every passing day playing D&D. His honesty, his leadership. 

"Tell me about it." I look down at my plate and spot the uneaten food. I look at Mike's plate, same situation.

Unpalatable turkey. I thank it for having such a deplorable taste that now Mike has to talk to me about it.

"Should we just say we're not really hungry?"

"I think your mom's not that naive."

"Isn't she thought?"

We giggle.

"I mean... maybe we could, but then we wouldn't be able to eat dessert."

"Oh, don't worry, I'd willingly sacrifice dessert just to avoid ingesting any more of this."

"You're so mean!" I'm turning red. I know it.

Stupid.

"I'm just being honest!" 

Honest. Is he coming back in pieces?

"Come on, look at me straight in the eye and tell me you don't agree." he whispers. 

I try. I can't. We burst out laughing.

"Here, I bet you can't even swallow it whole." And just like that, he grabs his fork and spears some turkey from his own plate. Then, he brings it towards my face, and as if I were a baby, airplanes it around in front of me. The fork flutters like a butterfly, like the ones in my stomach.

Mike Wheeler, are you trying to give me a heart attack?

I follow it with my eyes, intently.

"Oh, I can sense the doubt in your eyes, William Byers." he taunts with that tone. That tone that makes him sound just like he used to when playing D&D. 

I force myself to stop thinking about the past and just wrap my lips around the fork, taking the piece of turkey in. 

I swallow, and from Mike's reaction, it is clear that my displeasure has not been well hidden.

"That's certainly a face."

"Sweetie, are you okay? You look sick." I hear my mom's worried voice and for the first time in these last few minutes, I take my eyes off Mike. But before I can reply, someone else does for me.

"Actually, Mrs. Byers, Will was just telling me he has a stomachache. I'm sure it's nothing serious, but it wouldn't hurt for him to take something. Shall I go with him?"

I am surprised, but then I remember this is Mike. It is so like him to do something of this sort.

We get up and I follow him, and the next thing I know we're in his room. He sits on the edge of the bed and I mimick him, sitting on the other end.

"I really needed to get out of there." he mutters.

"Yeah, it wasn't an exemplary dinner."

Silence. 

"I can't believe it's already Christmas Eve. Time flies by too fast." Mike continues. I can't believe he's the one so clearly trying to start a conversation. He probably just doesn't want things to get uncomfortable so quickly.

"Yeah..."

"I mean, you guys moved in what? Eight Months ago?" 

"Already?"

"I know, right? Can you believe that?"

"I can't."

His gaze lands on mine. It feels as if some sort of supernatural force were trying to pull me closer to him. I resist. 

Silence, silence, more silence. Will we be trapped in here forever?

"I know despite living together we haven't been together as much. It's just..." There it is. The things we never say. The things we keep hidden in the dark, finally coming to light.

It all begins with one uncomfortable silence. That's enough to make an emotionally withdrawn boy like Mike open up, and a weak boy like me make some huge confessions. I must hold back.

What is he trying to say? Is this what I think it is?

Stop it, Mike Wheeler. Stop feeding this delusional soul's hope. Stop giving me what I fear the most. Stop giving me exactly what I want

"I guess... I guess I just wanted to apologize for it. I know sometimes it can seem like I am avoiding you on purpose."

Which you are.

"But I am not. I swear. I mean, sometimes I am, but it's not because I'm mad at you or anything. I don't want you to get the wrong idea..."

"Then why is it, Mike?" the words come out on their own and sound a lot harsher than in my head. His eyes widen, his brows rise, his lips part: he looks stunned.

I abominate this side of me and when it comes out. I hate showing it to anyone, but especially to Mike. He doesn't need to see how little I've changed, how childish I still am, how much I still resemble that boy who dissappeared on November 6th. He doesn't need to see how much I truly care, how sensitive I am.

He doesn't need more reasons to push me away, to abandon me, to replace me. Eleven's face comes to mind.

Stop.

This is why I dread moments like this one so much. They make me too emotional. Too overwhelmed with an intensity others cannot handle or remotely understand.

I can foresee the outcome of this conversation like a gypsy reading the lines of a hand and finding an unchangeable destiny.

These cursed moments are the perfect opportunity to slip up. To unleash everything I've been holding back. All the work I've put into bottling up my unnecessary reactions goes to hell. They endanger my bond with Mike, because they take me to the edge of destroying everything. 

My eyes get misty and dart from corner to corner, looking everywhere but at him.

"Hey." He wraps his fingers around my arm and holds it firmly. His touch is gentle, but translates to electricity all over my body. I feel it everywhere, running down my spine to my core. But mostly, I feel it in my legs. I want to run, to let it all out, to scream my love for him and yet I have to keep it quiet, even when it grows stronger and stronger with every passing day, as I have for the past six years.

"Hey." Mike repeats. His voice is softer this time. Velvety. "It's okay, it's okay."

Why am I so predictable? Why are you this kind to me? Why are we so complicated?

I let myself be touched. I let myself be openly weak. I let myself be hugged by this oblivious boy who doesn't know what he's doing to me.  

With Mike, words are not needed. I don't have to say anything for him. He just gets me, or at least that's how it strikes me as. But I fear there may be some things he'll never understand.

The warmth of his embrace puts me at ease and saves my tears for another time. I manage to calm myself down enough not to reveal my true feelings.

The day of the big confession will have to wait. Deep within I know, sooner or later, it will arrive. I hope it never does. A confession gives place to a rejection, and then, Mike and Will would truly be over. Nothing but ashes would be left, ashes of a tricky fire that only lets itself be seen from certain angles. Some would reduce it to a "light show".

I blink awake. The reverberation of each memory I've just revisited strikes me.

I still believe the same as I did back then. I prefer to leave everything as it is. I went on just fine for so many years, right?

Last year, our small world split into four gates to the Inferno, and with a burning hell beneath our feet, I remained strong.

I don't require any conviction to keep on loving him. My faith in Mike Wheeler will never quiver. 

So I can take it. Let the signals keep the question mark.