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Carlton was found dead in an alley.
His mom called Will. “I don't know, Will—” she sobbed, “It's horrible. The police— they sent me the pictures, and I couldn't look at them, it's like— whoever did this to him, my poor son, they— they hate him. They hate him, Will. So much.”
Will was horrified.
He'd spent the entire telephone call comforting her, hearing her heart-wrenching cries while suppressing his own. He didn't know who could've done this, this— horrible act. There wasn't any serial killer on the loose; the headlines would've been filled with it, with how big NYC was. Everyone would've been in a panic, and maybe— in this terrible premonition, maybe Carlton was the beginning of it all, of this terrible chain of events.
The moment the phone call ended, he received an email from the NYPD. They were to pay a visit in their shared apartment, ask Will some questions, and gather more information regarding Carlton's death. Will, shell-shocked, couldn't even muster up a response. He sat there in silence until several knocks rapped on the door.
He'd been in a daze throughout the interrogation.
What was his relationship to the victim? Roommate. Where was he at exactly 10:57 PM, the victim’s estimated time of death according to the autopsy? Coming home from a group project consultation. Does the victim have an enemy, or someone he was wary of? Not that Will knew of. The rest of the questions, Will tuned out, chest hollow.
The apartment descended into silence when the police left. Will was left on his own, the other half of the place still smelling of Carlton.
His haphazardly thrown jacket was still hanging off the couch, freshly-washed when he'd left it. Carlton’s laptop was still plugged in, his wallpaper of him and Will on their first date looking back at him. Will closed it, about to lose his mind.
Phone calls after phone calls arrived the next. The ringing grated on him, so he sought the refuge of his room, leaving the calls unanswered in the living room. Still, he couldn't escape. Even his room smelled of him, traces of him all over the place.
Will counted from one to ten, then ten to one. He'd been through this before. Had been through grief, of mourning— those two were the most familiar to him next to his family and friends, much to his chagrin. He was certain his college acquaintances could even smell it from him, their pitying glances, their questions, as if he hadn't left Hawkins at all.
He laid on his bed. Carlton used to lay here with him when he was feeling particularly clingy, a grin on his stupid face. Will reached for Carlton’s dress shirt, brought it to his nose, and held it until he fell asleep.
Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe he'd be here, beside him, once he woke up.
It wasn't a dream, and he was alone.
There was also knocking in the door, so he wasn't all that alone.
Who? There was sludge in his ears— he couldn't hear properly. He removed Carlton’s shirt from his face and rose from the bed, approaching the door.
Rubbing his eyes, he tore it open.
“Will!”
“Mike?” Will asked, blinking the crusts off his eyes. Mike was smiling widely, and there were groceries on his arms.
Will wasn't sure if he wasn't dreaming at all or this was all an elaborate prank. Carlton dying, Mike on his doorstep— where were the cameras? He looked around, seeking out the glint in the corners, but there wasn't any. Maybe they were hidden cleverly, and everyone around him was on it.
“Hey, don't look so surprised,” Mike said, entering the apartment. Will was too out of it to tell him the usual oh, it's messy, I should clean— instead settling on watching him set the groceries— groceries — on the table. “This is what being friends are for, right? Best friends?”
Huh. Will closed the door behind him, watching Mike bring out items from the grocery bag. “You didn't say you're coming,” Will heard himself say. “I would've cleaned.” It felt like a script, those perfunctory things you say when someone visits your house.
“It's not a mess at all,” Mike said, all sunshines and rainbows. His perfume drowned out Carlton’s, expensive and dizzying. Will recalled a rich professor wearing the same one, heavy and musky, filling the entire room with it. It had been one of his most hated classes despite the quality teaching. “I could even clean it, if you want.”
“No, I— I'll do it,” Will said, walking up to the broom leaning on a corner. He began to sweep, brushing off the gaze on his back. This was what to do— cleaning, tidying up, he'd done all of this before, when El died. He tried to push back the couch to sweep what was underneath, but his arms wobbled. It fell back pathetically. Will dropped on the sofa cushion and buried his face in his hands. “...Sorry, it's just. You know.”
“I’m unexpected, I know,” Mike said softly.
Will carded his fingers through his hair, blinking. “No, not that, it's just Carlton’s—”
“Is today a bad day? I mean, Lucas brought you up, and I realized we haven't talked for a year or two, and I wanted to catch up.” Mike’s voice was so soft, like he was talking to a baby. Will wanted to fall asleep back again, return to dreaming. “I could leave, if you want.”
“No, it's okay,” Will forced a smile. “Do you want anything?”
Everything Mike had said was true.
They hadn't talked for a year or two since Will had left Hawkins with Carlton. Hawkins was too much for them queers, after all, and they had to go somewhere where there'd be less scrutiny compared to the place they were from, and there wasn't a better place than NYC. Still, Mike and Will parted on good terms, so maybe they'd just grown apart. The impact of El's death on Mike was still fresh during those times, and he rarely met with the Party.
This was where they were always meant to stand, after everything. This tentative thing that was their friendship.
“It's really okay, Will, I'm just checking on you,” Mike said. He looked around and hummed. “This is the first time I've seen your place. It fits you like a glove. So you.”
Will smiled helplessly. “Thanks.”
“Where's your—” Mike gestured to one of Carlton and Will’s picture frames. “you know?”
Even now, he still couldn't say it. Boyfriend, lover, partner. He'd always referred to Carlton as something— friend, him, that guy, that person, you know. But it doesn't matter now, anyway. “He's gone,” Will said. Mike’s eyebrows raised. “He's dead, Mike. Just yesterday, so… yeah. I'm— you can stay, if you want. But I can't really… do this, right now.”
Mike’s gaze softened. He set aside the grocery bag and sat next to Will on the couch. “You’ll be fine,” Mike said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Will stilled. “You know what, I can even clean up for you. Cook something— I learned a lot during the past two years, so let me be, yeah? I'll handle everything.”
“It's embarrassing, I'm sure you're tired. Hawkins to NYC is no joke, after all.”
“I don't mind,” Mike smiled, pulling him in. He rested his head against Will’s shoulder. “Did you know, in those writing workshops I've attended, they said it helps expressing our thoughts more so it translates to our writing. To be more open, or something like that. So. Here. I missed you.”
Will yawned, and he felt Mike chuckle. “I missed you too, but—”
“But?”
“Nothing.” Whatever Will was supposed to say, it escaped him. His mind had been too much of a mess. He shook his head and stood up, staggering a little bit.
“I really mean it, Will.”
“The what?”
“That I missed you. So, yeah. It made me happy you feel the same.”
Will didn't know what he was supposed to feel, but he knew nothing nowadays, like a rug was pulled from underneath him. He didn't know where to stand, and he didn't know what to do. There was just— far too much he knew he needed to do, but it piled up into this incomprehensible mess he was wanting to not do anything at all.
“...Will?”
“You're free to browse the TV,” Will stood up, and Mike's head left his shoulders. “I'll just—” He gestured to his room. “Uh.”
“Sleep well,” Mike smiled. “I'll whip up something for us.”
Will shot Mike a grateful smile before he got out of there, sludge threatening to come out of his ears.
Mike offered to take him to school with his car, a 1986 Chevrolet Caprice. Will didn't know its name since he'd never been interested in cars, but Mike told him with this huge smile. He looked proud of it, caressing its hood and explaining how it came to be his. Mr. Wheeler bought it for him when he went to college, which came to no surprise to Will since the Wheelers had always been the wealthiest out of their bunch. Mike had been taking care of it ever since, it looked like.
“It looks like it,” Will said approvingly. Mike broke into a grin. “How many girls have ridden it?”
Mike pinched his cheek. Will didn't react. “No one, of course. This is reserved for friends only. Lucas, Dustin, and Max all got in it, and you're all that's left.”
Will gave him a smile.
Rounding the car, Mike opened the door to the passenger's seat. “Here you go.”
Will got in, and Mike closed it for him. This level of attention— it was reminiscent of how everything used to be, when it was just Mike and Will, them against the world. He watched Mike round the car once more to sit in the driver's seat, and watched more as he started the car. It was surreal, how Mike had grown up without Will— or Will had grown up without Mike. He'd always thought they were going to grow old together, as friends, but alongside everything he'd wished for when he was young, it was nothing but wishful thinking.
It didn't hurt much, now. It was overshadowed by a far larger hurt, this harrowing loss.
Throughout the rest of yesterday, he'd been answering calls about Carlton. It reminded him of what he'd gone through with the police. Yes, Carlton is dead, yes, he is murdered, and yes, his killer hasn't been found yet. Will had been checking in with Carlton’s mom since she was the one who knew everything. It could've been Will since he was his boyfriend, but— well.
There weren't any suspects yet, but Carlton was a homosexual. That was more than enough.
Carlton’s mom suggested hiding the nature of what Carlton and Will's relationship truly was from the NYPD, and he obeyed. He knew better than everyone else to keep this kind of thing to themselves. He was sure Carlton would also wish to keep it a secret, since even though they often frequented gay bars, he'd always been the wary type. It was what made Will connect with him, after all.
“It's too quiet,” Mike pointed out. He pulled out a mixtape and put it on the dashboard. There was something written in it— For Will. “Here, I made this for you before I got here.”
Will took it and looked up at Mike. “...When are you an expert in these?”
“Well, I told you I learned a lot of stuff.”
Huffing, Will placed it in the cassette player. When the first notes of Should I Stay or Should I Go filled the car, he allowed a smile to grace his lips. “Oh, wow.”
“See? I remember.”
If Mike really missed Will, and Will missed Mike, then what could be the lack of contact between them be attributed to? They were two friends missing each other's presence, yet neither of them had tried reaching out. Will had, at first, once he'd finished arranging his bedroom here. He'd checked in with Max, who'd responded. Lucas, too. Then Dustin. Mike— there wasn't any response from Mike.
Maybe it was Mike's fault. Or maybe it was Will's, since he'd given up so soon.
Now he was here, doing this. All of this, just after his boyfriend had died. Maybe Mike had sensed his loneliness, which was— that, the core of their friendship. They became friends since they were lonely people; Mike had approached Will because he looked lonely, and he himself was that— lonely. Mike had always done that, sensing whenever Will was lonely. It was comforting, but knowing Will was lonely when he was in Hawkins and he was in NYC? Now that just seemed ridiculous.
But— but. They had always been like that. They'd always sensed what the other was feeling, like they had this weird connection between them. During the Mind Flayer possession, then in the cinema back in summer ‘85— Mike had always known. It wasn't strange, but still— he wondered how they drifted this far from each other.
At a stop light, Mike looked at him. “A penny for your thoughts?”
Will huffed. “It just feels surreal, seeing you here.”
“Is it that strange?” Mike asked, a hand on the steering wheel. “I'm actually concerned about looking like a hick in this place. Do you think I look like a hick?’
Will giggled. “No, it's just weird. Not in a bad way,” he clarified. He couldn't explain it. Mike was— he'd always associated him with Hawkins. When he went to visit him and El in Cali in ‘86, there was this feeling of the past coming for him. Mike and Hawkins, and Hawkins with the Upside Down— Mike's presence was welcome, but he'd been so closely intertwined with Hawkins it was difficult to separate them together. Hawkins was home, and Mike was— well, he used to be, well. That.
Will pinched his temple and gave Mike an apologetic look. “I'm really sorry I can't talk properly. I'm normally more sociable than this.”
“No, it's fine. You lost him, it's normal. But it'll get better. Way better, okay?” Mike said. The light turned green, and he pulled on the gear stick. “I'll be here for you.”
“Oh,” Will said softly. “Thank you, really. You've done so much already, even if you just arrived yesterday. I can't thank you enough.”
“You make it sound so big,” Mike chuckled. “It's just a habit for me. Doing this for you. Everything's over now, so it's just— I guess I just want to return to how we used to be.”
How they used to be. Mike defending him from the bullies, Mike comforting him, and Mike just being there for him when everyone was busy with themselves. Will missed it, too. He couldn't help but smile at Mike. “Those writing workshops really did wonders at you, huh.”
Mike pouted, and pinched his cheek again. Will let him be.
“We heard what happened with Carlton. My condolences.”
That was the highlight of Will's day. The schoolmates he and Carlton were acquainted with had greeted him with that, with pitying looks and sad faces. The voices, too, low and hushed, and Will had responded with this sad smile and nod. It really felt like a script he was rehearsing over and over again.
He'd appreciated it, but it also reminded him of what he'd lost— who he'd lost. Carlton was gone, and his killer was still out there, merry and free. It was a difficult thing to absorb, to make sense of. Just a few days ago they were cuddling in their bed, exchanging kisses and being who they were outside of the small town they were from. They were happy, and they were together. His days with Carlton had occupied lots of his happiest moments, and he should've known something this good wasn't meant to last.
Mike was leaning against the car roof when Will had spotted him. He took one look at Will, and took him in his arms. “That terrible, huh?” He asked. Will didn't do anything. “We can watch a movie. I saw this movie in the newspaper, some The Silence of the Lambs. Do you want to watch it? I heard it's good.”
Will shook his head. “I'm not really feeling it, Mike. I'm sorry you came at a really bad time…”
“Not at all,” Mike said. He made Will sit in the passenger's seat, and looked at him in the window. “Whatever you want to do, I'll be here, okay? I want to make it up for you— I really do. I did a lot of things that make you sad, so. Yeah. Let me care for you.”
Will nodded, too tired to argue. Mike caressed his cheek with his knuckles through the window— and he knew he would've reacted more if not for the bone-deep exhaustion he was feeling, and he really, really felt tired.
He closed his eyes the moment the car started and slept the whole ride, entirely missing the fond gazes occasionally flicked towards him.
“The murder weapon was an axe,” Carlton’s mom said on the couch, trembling. Will reached for her cold hands. “The complete results of the autopsy just came in, and they said the lacerations on his neck were applied with blunt force that could only come from an axe. They did some tests, and they matched with an axe. Will—”
She cried on his shoulders. She shook terribly, and he patted her back. He reminded her of his mom, and felt his heart being torn open once again. “I'm sure we'll find out who it is,” Will murmured. “They couldn't have gotten that far. They'll— they'll pay, I'm sure. They should be.”
She shook her head, and her wrinkles looked particularly deep. It was like she aged for ten years, and Will bit his lip. “The police aren't finding anything. They told me— they told me it's too clean, too organized. Even the murder weapon isn't found, and the tracks in the crime scene weren't— it's too clean, like from a serial killer.”
When Carlton first introduced Will to his mom, he wasn't expecting anything. He had expected sneering, had expected thinly-veiled snarks and whispers expected of a middle-aged mother in Hawkins. He wasn't this supportive mother of a homosexual son. The shock he'd gone through after meeting her was almost embarrassing, expecting the worst but it was Hawkins, and— here she was, still here, relying on him.
The door to Carlton’s room opened, and Will looked over her shoulder, seeing Mike rubbing his wet hair with a towel. Mike's eyes flicked over at them. “Oh,” he said. “I didn't know you had a visitor.”
Carlton’s mom let go of Will and levelled a look towards Mike, before it went back to Will. It had gained a suspicious edge.
“Oh,” Will said. “Uh. Well. Mike's a friend of mine, and he was just visiting. He didn't have a place to stay, so he's crashing temporarily.”
Carlton’s mom just smiled. “I know, honey.”
She left eventually, after filling him with more details. No, there wasn't any suspect— according to the police at least, since both her and Will knew there'd be many suspects if they revealed Carlton’s sexuality to the police. Still, if they did that, the case would invite far more scrutiny from the public. Even in a supposedly “progressive” city such as NYC, homosexuality was still considered taboo. Carlton’s mom— even if she was this overly positive person— wished for privacy. She didn't want her son’s case to be picked apart by the public, and so here it was, here they were.
“Who’s that?” Mike asked. He slumped on the couch beside Will, placing an arm around his shoulders. “Is this about your rent? She looked like a landlady.”
“She’s Carlton's mom,” Will said. Mike’s arm fell on his waist and pulled him closer. “What's the matter?”
“I'm only staying temporarily, so I might as well enjoy you now,” Mike said, smiling. Will’s brows furrowed a bit, and Mike noticed, judging by the way his eyes had flicked up to them. He poked the middle of his forehead, and Will's eyes widened. “There. Gone. You don't look so good with that frown, you know? Not that I'm saying you're ugly, since you've never been ugly, but— you know what I mean.”
Will felt like there was some kind of inside joke in those words. He couldn't grasp them, couldn't comprehend, and he was frowning again. Mike’s eyes softened, like he was staring at a cute puppy, and his fingers went to Will's hair, ruffling them.
“I wish you can see yourself, Will. Look at you— even with that messy hair, you still look good. It's up to you if you believe me or not, but I'm just saying.”
There was something inside those words, but there was also a haze in his mind, some storm, preventing him from reaching what those words meant.
Huh.
Will nudged him away and fixed his hair back to the way it was. “I'll just take a bath. You can watch some movies from Carlton's collection under the TV.”
“I don't know his collection,” Mike said.
“There's Star Wars in there, all of them,” Will said, remembering Mike loving them. Mike didn't respond.
Will took his towel from the chair and went to the bathroom. Eyes trailed after him.
Death surrounds you, William. Everyone around you is shadowed by death. You know that, don't you?
Will sat up with a start. His chest heaved, and the surroundings came to him with a snap. His room— paintings, yes, colorful paintings hanging on the walls, and there was the picture frame of him, his mom and Jonathan on the night stand, the scent of paint and fried eggs— fried eggs?
“Good morning,” Mike brushed the art supplies on the table aside before he put down the breakfast tray. He sat on the edge of Will's bed and fixed his skewed collar, which previously revealed the patch of skin on his collarbones. “Did you sleep well?”
Henry’s flesh-like face flashed in his mind. Will didn't speak and merely reached for the glass of water, which Mike thrusted into his hands. “Thanks,” Will blurted out, once his throat began working again. “I’m really sorry to bother you with this. It looks great,” he said, looking at what Mike had prepared.
Mike beamed. “You're not a bother at all, what are you talking about? It's actually fun, making this for you. Your kitchen's nice— though it's small. But we can work on that. Anyway, pancakes—” He sliced a tiny fraction and held it to Will's lips, to his surprise. “Here.”
“Oh—” Will gasped. “Now you don't have to do this, oh my god…”
“Come on, Will, please?”
Will chewed on the inside of his mouth before he shook his head. “I have hands. I'll do it,” he said, and reached for the fork. Mike tilted it away from him, smiling playfully. Will tried to be stern, “Mike.”
“Let me do this,” Mike said, “I want to do a lot of things for you, especially when I remember how I treated you back then. I've been an asshole, a massive one.”
“I know,” Will told him. If Mike was a puppy, he was certain his ears had drooped down. “I know it Mike, okay, and I've forgiven you. So if you're here because of guilt, then just don't do anything at all. I don't want you forcing yourself to do all this, it's just stupid— I appreciate it, I really do, but if it's because of guilt and not because you really want to—”
“I want to do it,” Mike said. “I like caring for you. I like being with you. We've been doing this since we're kids, and I miss how we used to be. Didn't I already tell you that? I'll keep reminding you of it, Will, that everything I do for you, I'm not being forced to do so. It's not guilt at all, but— but…” He trailed off, and Will waited. “But I really want us to be like before. When we're free to just be with each other and do stuff, and laugh and watch movies…”
Will felt his heart melt. Maybe his tongue had melted too, words out of his grasp.
He opened his mouth to speak, finally, when sugar filled it instead. Mike had stuffed his mouth with the pancake. Will was taken aback, chewing the pancake instinctively, and he heard Mike laugh.
“You remind me of those hamsters,” Mike pointed out, wheezing. “A shame I don't have my camera right now. I brought it, but I wish I’d captured it. You really look like it.”
Will rolled his eyes and chewed on the pancakes, forgetting what he was supposed to say. Mike watched him chew, another slice of pancake ready on the tip of the fork.
He missed it too, what they had. What they used to be. Those simple days of just playing in the Wheelers’ basement, going through hours and hours of campaigns with no care in the world. It was hard to believe only almost a decade had passed since Will had disappeared— it was like they'd live through lifetimes due to what they'd experienced. Grief, loss— too many had been lost, and never to return.
Mike put down the fork. “Do you wish you could go back?”
Will thought about it, and found it wasn't that difficult, anyway. He promptly shook his head.
Something in Mike's gaze changed. It had been a quick one so Will didn't catch what it was, and it had returned to his usual soft one. “Me too,” Mike whispered. “You've done what you could to get here, I know. You're out of that town.” Will smiled at that— he'd loved Hawkins, but there was just far too much. “I've also done what I could to get us here, to this point.”
Will tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Mike gestured for him to come closer, and Will did. He took Will in his arms— warm— and buried his face in Will's hair, saying, “Don't worry about it. It's all in the past so now, I'm enjoying the fruits of it. It's nice, right, what we are now? Still friends, best friends…”
Mike trailed off, but his face remained on Will's bed head, feeling his breaths on his scalp.
He was so warm. He didn't change, after all these years. Still Mike, his friend--- best friend.
“It's because he's a fag,” Will heard a schoolmate whisper to another schoolmate. He didn't know their names, but he'd shared classes with the one who'd whispered. “He's dead because he's a fag, and they're still not telling the police.”
Will averted his gaze and headed for the school gates. This wasn't new at all, having experienced this before. He'd learned to tune them out, had learned to push it all away and keep to himself. It was just— it was just sad, that he had to be this way again. The friends he had made here, he was distancing himself from them. The dream he'd had, it kept on returning to him, flashes of shadows and monsters. Of death.
“Byers might be next,” they continued to whisper. Will gripped his backpack tightly, counting inwardly. One, two, three— all the way up to ten. “He's got to be careful. Or Anderson. This is an art school, they have a lot to target here.”
Will sped up his steps until he was out of there.
One, two, three— eight, nine, ten.
Take a deep breath, and calm down. Just calm down. Don't think about anything else, just focus on breathing. Inhale— exhale. Like that.
It was like he was back with Dr. Owens, his skin attached with wires. Back there, he was being instructed to breathe and not think, just breathe— and it was like he hadn't left at all. There was death wherever he was, whether he was out of Hawkins or not, and he wondered if leaving had been the right thing to do.
With him, he carried death. There was far too much death in Hawkins, and he was spreading it here, too. They were sensing it, even, those looks at him. The gazes, the—
He shouldn't have left. It was because of his selfishness that Carlton died. He had been the one to suggest they leave Hawkins, to leave everything behind and explore in the city. It was just a small suggestion, a hesitant I’m planning to study in NYC, I think, maybe— we can be— you know. There.
It was a small suggestion, but one that Carlton hung onto entirely, even purchasing a matching lock and key necklaces for them both to celebrate this new chapter. The same necklace was still hidden behind Will's shirt. He didn't know what had gone with Carlton's.
He remembered that day fondly. Carlton put it on for him, then a kiss on his nape. It was a very nice day, his eyes glittering upon seeing Will's smile.
Will wondered how everything had gone this way. He wondered why he was the way he was. Was it something that came with his birth?
Was it fate— for him to be like this, where hurt and pain trail his every step?
Was this his payment, for forgetting where he came from, for moving forward and not looking back to where everything had begun? Was Carlton’s life the sacrifice for being so adamant to bury everything— to just forget?
The police finally decided on a motive— theft. It was his key necklace— made of gold, Carlton’s excited whisper flashed in Will's mind—and the same necklace wasn't found on his corpse.
Corpse. Not even body— corpse. It was hard to believe that was all Carlton was now— a corpse.
His body was already in a funeral home, being prepared to be put in a coffin. Carlton’s mom told Will she'd tell him when the coffin was already set up, and as for the case— the police had held onto the motive with all their might, looking through security cameras like their life depended on it.
Mike was leaning against his car when Will found him. He had taken to driving Will to school, and also driving him home. It was— well, it was nice, to not suffer through the daily commute, but it was also a bit… well.
Nevermind. Will saw what had changed in Mike the moment he saw him— his eyes turning soft, the tension in his shoulders disappearing, an easy smile being drawn in his lips. Mike waved him in, and Will gripped the strap of his backpack tight, forcing a smile of his own.
“Hey,” Mike greeted. He began to ease the backpack off Will's back, “How's school?”
“I should be the one asking you that,” Will said. “Don't you have one?”
“The second semester just finished, so we're on our break,” Mike said, slipping the backpack through the open window. It landed on a heap in the backseat. He then opened the door to the passenger's seat, so Will slid inside. “Your semester's finishing soon, right?”
“Yeah,” Will said. He chewed on his lower lip, waited for Mike to get into the driver's seat, before he spoke. “...Mike?”
“Hmm?”
Will played with the fingers on his lap. He wasn't hearing the start of the car, so he looked up at Mike, only to see him just staring, waiting. Will cleared his throat and shrugged, “I'm just wondering if I should visit Hawkins after our finals. After— after the funeral.”
Mike’s eyes went wide. “That's great!” He said, “You're gonna come with me when I go back?”
Will shrugged again, still unsure.
“It's amazing, Will, everyone missed you,” Mike said gently. “You rarely visit, after all. We understand it— I understand it, really, but there's always been something missing without you there. It's— this is nice, we're gonna go on this roadtrip with only us. The groceries I bought are actually perfect, I already bought some chips—”
Will couldn't help but smile. “I'm still not sure about it, Mike, calm down.”
“But there's the possibility,” Mike said, relaxing on his seat. “I can't believe we didn't have a road trip together before, it's nuts. I should've visited you before— should've done— well, I should've done what I did earlier than this.”
Will let out a faint chuckle. “We're both busy, I think. Your visit is surprising, but it's… welcome.”
“Yeah,” Mike breathed. He stared at Will, and in the minuscule of seconds, Will thought it'd flicked down to his lips.
He was losing his mind. Will looked out of the window, caressing the back of his hands. Here he was again, like everything had gone back to the way it started. Like he hadn't made any progress at all.
Even here, in this city— it was like he hadn't left at all. It was still the same. People near him still get hurt, and maybe, maybe it really was just all about him, no matter how selfish it had sounded. It was because of him trying to force his way out of the small town he knew, even if deep inside, he knew where he truly belonged. Whenever Will did something, whenever he so much as attempted more freedom than what he deserved, there was always a drawback.
The Mind Flayer. Bob. Bob had called him brave, that facing one's fears was brave, and Will had done it. He'd tried facing them. What happened instead was he got himself possessed, pathetic and useless, and he'd killed— murdered— soldiers with families undoubtedly waiting for them. In the summer of ‘85, he'd tried hanging out with his friends, even organizing a whole campaign for them to play with and— and now he had gotten himself hurt, had gotten him to ruin the place he felt safest in and—
There was far too much. It was always Will trying and trying, clawing his way out, and there was always a price to pay. He'd be hurt, and he'd hurt people, and maybe letting things remain in its place was the best course of action. Carlton's death— this was out of the supernatural things he'd experienced, but maybe it was the final nail in the coffin to make Will realize what things had always meant.
Death trails after you, William. Do your best to remember that.
It whispers to you, it takes what is around you.
“Will?”
Will shook his head. “It's nothing.”
“Okay,” Mike said, understanding as ever. “I’ll always believe you, but talk to me, okay?”
Will nodded, his eyes slipping shut. Hawkins, Hawkins, Hawkins. It had been almost a decade, but that place— it still lingered. It still called. It still whispered, and he wasn't sure if it'd ever go away.
Will had helped with the preparations for the funeral while juggling his requirements for the finals. Mike had suggested shouldering some of the tasks, particularly the writing ones, and Will had been hesitant at first but Mike was just so— he was so insistent. Helpful. It tugged into Will.
“The funeral’s tomorrow,” Will was laying on the bed. Mike was sitting on a chair beside it, head resting on the pillow beside Will's head. It looked uncomfortable, but he didn't mind, he’d told Will. “Are you going?”
“No,” Mike said. “I don't know him.”
Will looked over at him, and Mike’s dark eyes found his. Mike smiled and beckoned him closer, and when Will did, he draped an arm around his stomach. Heavy, grounding. “You know him. I introduced you to him before.”
“I don't remember,” Mike said. “Does it matter?”
Will bit his lower lip and nodded. “I wanted you to get along with each other, my boyfriend and my best friend.”
“Ah,” Mike said. He shifted closer, and now his nose was buried in Will's hair. His palm was on his exposed stomach, the ridges of his palms in contact with his cold skin. “Well, my question remains. Does that still matter?”
It doesn't. Carlton was dead. Will remained silent.
“See?” Mike asked, his face buried on Will's shoulder next. He felt him breathe, felt him sigh on his neck. “What's the use of it? And besides, you're the one I visited, not him. You're the one I missed. You're the one who's my best friend, the one who's important to me.”
“...I know. I know that,” Will whispered. “But I wish you'd gotten along, before he died. You're actually very similar. I think you'd get along.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you like him because of it?” Mike asked. “Because of his interests, blah, blah, like mine?”
Will felt like he'd walked into a trap. “Mike—”
“It's okay,” Mike said gently, finding Will's hand and placing it on his stomach. He placed his own palm on top of it, warm and slightly calloused. Long and thin, but firm nonetheless. It had grown larger than what Will was used to, but it was Mike, anyway, and Mike— he'd always been familiar. “I'm here now, and maybe we'll have a campaign once we get back there. It'd be fun. You don't have to look for me in someone else now.”
There was that again. The feeling that Will had something in his mind he couldn't reach. This huge cloud over his own mind, covering up what he wasn't supposed to know.
“Huh?”
Mike had never known about Will's feelings for him— his former feelings. He'd tried, in his pathetic attempt of confession in that van, but it had gone past Mike. It was okay, and he'd gotten over it, knowing that was all Mike was to him— a friend, a Tammy—
It sounded so ridiculous. Will huffed and looked away from the deep, intense gaze on him. It was heavy, all-consuming, and he'd never been on the other end of such gaze before, much less from Mike. Will put an arm above his eyes, putting it out of his mind.
“Are you going to sleep here?”
Mike chuckled. “Can I? It'll be like before. The only thing we're missing are the comics.”
“Yeah,” Will murmured, eyes hidden behind his arm. “It'll be like the old days.”
After everything he'd gone through, he didn't know his destination was the beginning all along. If he knew he was going in circles, then perhaps he shouldn't have moved at all. Shouldn't have met Carlton’s eyes in that art class, shouldn't have talked back to him, shouldn't have responded when the flirtings began. He shouldn't have tried browsing college options outside Hawkins, shouldn't have tried bringing Carlton with him. If he didn't, he would still be alive. If he never knew Will— if Carlton had heeded the murmurings of Zombie Boy and freak in their town and Will hadn't responded in turn, this shouldn't have happened. Carlton's life wouldn't have been lost, along with his hopes and dreams.
Will’s chest trembled when he tried to breathe, and Mike's caress on his stomach only did so much.
The funeral was a quick affair. Will tried his best not to draw attention to himself, only exchanging smiles and condolences with some of the schoolmates that had gone, and some words with Carlton’s mom who had been quietly weeping before he was gone.
Back in the apartment, Carlton’s room had already been cleaned, bereft of the things that had made it his. Carlton’s mom wished for his stuff to be relocated back to their home in Hawkins, and wasn't that another reminder of Will's failing? Carlton was going back to Hawkins— where he should be, all along— and Will would be, too, tomorrow.
His bad decisions— his terrible choices in life— it had always been about his unreasonable desire to escape.
Mike's head rested on his lap, and Will carded through his hair dazedly. Mike loved it. “I’m excited for tomorrow,” he said. “You can play your songs on the cassette player, and maybe— maybe you can feed me chips while I drive. It'll be a long one, I'm telling you. Like ten hours, eleven hours— you have to play loud songs so I won't fall asleep, or maybe we can sleep in motels, but there'd be a delay.”
Will nodded. Mike snuggled into his stomach, sighing.
“All done?” Mike asked Will, closing the trunk.
“Yeah,” Will said. “I packed for a week.”
Once they got in the car, Mike immediately opened the cassette player, wiggling his brows at Will expectantly. Will huffed and slid one of his mixtapes, and off they went.
They left New York past-noon, so the darkness of the night managed to reach them on the road. It wasn't a bother at all, and Mike had actually taken note of both motels and hotels on their way just in case. Will had a map on his lap, a bag of chips on his hands which he feeds Mike with occasionally.
It was— normal. Like they'd done this before even if they didn't. Like it was expected, even. It made Will a bit insane, like he was meant to be like this, like he was meant to be by Mike's side all along, doing this, doing all— this.
Mike, Hawkins. They were what had always been there.
Not Carlton, not New York, not a life outside of what he'd known, where more people would be involved in what was haunting him, shadowing him. That way— there'd be no more Carltons, no more— no more loss, no more pain. Will would shoulder it, this thing that trailed him, and no one else.
“What would you do, once we arrive?”
Mike liked his stomach, for some reason. Will never liked it, had never liked what had been in it. It reminded him of what he'd carried, what had grown in it.
They were in the woods, laying on a picnic mat. It was late at night, so they had called off going to motels since it was expensive and it was far too much for students. After that, Mike had suggested the woods, and it took Will again to those simpler times where they'd play in it, silly costumes draped over their form and waving the weapons they'd made with spare materials.
Mike's head was on his stomach, Will's hand encased on his. He felt like a cuddly plush bear.
“You're spacing out again,” Mike said, and Will blinked awake. He couldn't see Mike's face from this position, but his voice— it was petulant. He tentatively raised his palm to Mike's face, who had shifted, his cheek against his stomach. “You're always thinking deeply since I got here. You know you can tell me everything, right? You have me, and I have you. Everything you do, I don't mind even if it's something horrible, or— or— no matter how despicable.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” Mike sounded certain. “When you were possessed, I never stayed away from you. Even if everyone's been calling for you to just— die, to end it all, I stayed with you. It'll never be any different now.”
Will's fingers paused in Mike's curls. “Do you mean that?”
“Of course,” Mike said. “Of course I do.” As if to show he was really in it, Mike took the hand on his curls, brought it to his lips. If Will was more lucid, he'd have thought more about what Mike's actions for all these times had been about. What was he doing this for? Why was he doing this? Questions, questions— all these questions— and barely any answer.
Will closed his eyes, and lips were pressed on the inside of his palm. It tickled a bit, the corner of Will's lips twitching. This, that— what does this mean?
He knew not to expect something. He'd done that before, looking through signals, looking through everything Mike had done for him and applied the delusions he'd had to make it something more. It was nothing all along, so this— this was nothing, too. He wasn't about to repeat what he had done, knew better than to expect more than what he currently had.
“I think…” Will began. “I think I killed him.”
There was no audience— only him, Mike, and the woods around them.
The press of lips on his hands shifted to his knuckles. “You didn't,” Mike said. “Friends don't lie.”
“If I hadn't— if I hadn't dragged him to New York, it wouldn't have happened to him. He wouldn't have been killed. It was— it was my fault, Mike, everything. I've always been who's at fault, like, like it hadn't changed at all. Me, always. If I didn't meet him, if I hadn't dragged him to my world, he would've been— he would've been still alive. Breathing. Not a— not a corpse, but a living, breathing person who have dreams, who can still reach for those dreams, who can still meet someone else—”
“Will—”
Will tore his hand away from Mike and sat up, Mike's head falling from his stomach. He stood up, began to pace— “It's all my fault, Mike. It's all my fault. I did this to him because I was selfish, and I've never really learned how to be content with what I have. If I learned how to be content, this wouldn't have happened. This happened before, this always happens—”
“Will…” Mike called softly. “Calm down.”
Will could— he could calm down, but his body was running high on adrenaline, like he could speak whatever was in his mind right now. He'd never felt clarity like this before, ever since Carlton died. It was like the fog had been lifted, and he could think clearly.
He felt Mike stand up. He felt Mike walking up to him, taking his face in his hands. Will looked at his blurry face, though his smile had never felt clearer.
“It's not your fault,” Mike said firmly. “It's not your fault, okay? It's been— it's been an oversight. I didn't think you'd feel like this at all, but I should've known. You've always been like that— blaming yourself, taking everything as your fault. It's not, okay? It's not.”
There was this fog again, over his mind. His thoughts slipped from him, and Mike’s words went past his ears, like he'd never said anything at all.
Will felt himself being maneuvered, feeling himself settling down on something warm. A lap— Mike's. It felt like a dream— all hazy edges, everything slipping out of his grasp, his consciousness twisting and turning.
“Good night,” Mike said, closing his arms around him. “Nothing's your fault, okay? Nothing. I didn't think it through, and now—”
The car rolled into the Wheelers’ garage.
Mike jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, “I'll go check with the others first. You can take your stuff to the basement— I'll handle the ones in the trunk.”
“Okay,” Will said, and watched Mike jog inside.
He took his stuff to the basement, before he returned to where the car was. Mike still wasn't out, he could hear his voice with his parents inside.
Mike had driven for twelve hours, the least Will could do was ease what he could carry. He rounded the car, prodded around the trunk for the latch, sighing in relief when he felt the click. Will took out Mike's backpack, slung it over his shoulder, took some groceries into his hands and— their picnic stuff. He spotted the mat on the deeper end and leaned over to reach it.
His hand landed on something hard. Frowning, Will took hold of it and brought it out, heavy and big.
An axe.
There was something hanging off of the blade— shiny, glinting.
A key necklace. It stared at Will.
Some door opened. Footsteps came for him, familiar, grounding.
“Will?”