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Mike isn’t – crazy, is the thing.
Granted, it’s a little hard to believe right now, biking all the way across town on his old bike he hasn’t rode in years, squinting through the harsh curtain of rain showering down on him. He probably looks crazy, at least; his clothes are soaked, and his hair is soaked, and he’s soaked, and he’s, most importantly of all, in love with Will Byers.
This is, of course, not the most thrilling realization for anyone that has experienced the incredibly humbling situation of being stuck third-wheeling him and Will in the same room at the same time, but – well. Maybe he’s a little slow on the uptake. Sue him.
Slow is putting it a little generously. It had hit him like a train only two minutes ago.
(“See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Will had nodded, an easy smile on his face, and he’d looked so nice, freckled and happy and beautiful, and Mike couldn’t stop staring. “Maybe you won’t lose this time.”
Mike sputtered, “That’s – it’s not my fault I kept landing on people’s property!”
Will merely shrugged, and slowly stepped out of Mike’s garage, rain quickly getting to him. “Try not being poor,” he had wisely quipped, and it was a valiant fight, trying not to smile at him. Mike had sorely lost.
He had watched Will get into his car, despite Mike’s insistence that it was raining, it wasn’t very safe, and that it wouldn’t hurt to hang one-on-one without the rest of their friends until the rain had mellowed out. As it is, Will had promised Mrs. Byers to get home before eight, and no amount of pleading made him budge.
Will’s car slowly rolled out of the driveway, and Mike had waved, offering a slight smile, and it was then that he had thought, very ardently, I love him.)
That had been approximately three minutes ago.
It’s still raining, and Nancy had taken his car, her own being broken, and he’s still pedaling, and Will is probably still driving, and Mike is still thinking, I love him, I love him, I love him.
Mike is not crazy, to be clear. He’s simply – stubborn. Impulsive. Maybe even stupid, if one were to ask anyone in the Party.
Still.
He keeps biking.
The rain has not let up, and, he knows, majority of people would have probably turned back, at this point, a little under the halfway point of getting to Will’s house, except Mike is a very committed guy, and he’ll be damned if he gave up on confessing to Will, even if he had just figured it out a few minutes ago.
This epiphany, however, is not exactly unexpected; it’s been an underlying thing, in the pride of making Will laugh, in rushing to be the first to greet him, the last to watch him go, being as steady as he can, in being the best he could be for Will, his best friend.
It makes sense, he thinks. Will’s always been different, in a good way. The best way. Mike needs to let him know.
Mike knows that the word need is pretty extreme, but there’s no other way to say it. It feels like the awareness of it is eating him alive, as if looking at the large creature residing in his ribcage has set it into overdrive, and now it’s eating his heart for dinner. It doesn’t hurt as much as one would expect – just a slight ache ringing through his body.
It doesn’t make him invincible against the rain, though, but he doesn’t mind – rain is no big deal, and he’s fought monsters from a different dimension at age twelve to get Will back, and he’d do it again now, too. That’s the wild thing about love, probably. Doing crazy things for other people.
Mike’s not crazy, but he feels a little crazy.
He whizzes past Adams St., and the rain is still not letting up, coming down in thick sheets, warm and refreshing in the hot air of summer, August in its humid presence, and he probably should have brought an umbrella or a quick change of clothes or literally anything that would have saved him from looking like a drowned cat, and yet.
He hadn’t thought too far ahead, and he isn’t quite sure what he’ll say, but it’s buzzing around his head, the five words he’s seen on T.V., the five words he has painstakingly read in books and listened to on the radio and watched his friends say to others, and it won’t leave him alone, now, and he should’ve rehearsed something before he jetted off into the streets, and yet.
And yet.
The bike ride is quick, almost a blurry and incredibly wet haze, and he recalls very little of it as he skids to a stop in front of the Byers’ home. It’s by some twist of fate that Will is just getting out of his car, coincidentally timed while Mike’s bike steers onto the front lawn, and Will looks up from his keys.
He pauses when he spots Mike.
He squints. “Mike?”
“Hey,” Mike replies, feeling like a nutcase. He’s still holding onto his bike handles. “We – um, fancy meeting you here.”
Will stares at him. His hair is progressively getting wetter. “I live here.”
“Right,” he says. “That’s – that’s true. I knew that.”
This, thankfully, does the deed of making Will crack a smile, a little disbelieving when he laughs. “What’re you doing here? Is something wrong?”
Mike shakes his head. His hair curls into his eyes, and he makes quick business of pushing it away. “No, no, nothing is – nothing’s wrong. ‘Course not.”
“O–kay,” Will slowly returns. “Great.”
They stare at each other. It’s still pouring. Mike can slowly feel his bravery seeping out of his very frail body.
Will blinks at him. “Was there something you –”
“I just,” Mike blurts inelegantly, “had something very important to say.”
He nods, waiting, and Mike opens his mouth. The words, suddenly, feel very heavy, stuck in his throat and impossible to force out. Will stares as the realization that Mike can’t quite say what he wants quickly descends upon himself.
“I,” Mike croaks, “can’t really – say it.”
Will furrows his eyebrows. “Why not?”
He swallows. It’s as though the words are clinging onto his vocal chords, very stubborn in not leaving his very dry mouth. He admits, “No idea.”
Will’s mouth twists into a frown, the same he gets when he’s thinking, and it looks so sweet on him, Mike feels compelled to hand him a sonnet or a painting or a bouquet or something, anything. Will doesn’t seem to care too much for the rain as well, hair now thoroughly wet, and shirt gradually getting darker with rain, sticking close to his shoulders and arms. It’s not a bad sight.
Will fidgets with keys, and slowly takes a step forward. “Can you,” he begins reluctantly, “show me?
Mike thinks for a long moment, before turning very warm in the face.
“Show you?” He faintly repeats. He feels a little lightheaded.
Will nods, pink in the cheeks. “Show me,” he reiterates. “If – if you can’t tell me.”
Mike wonders if Will’s also lost his mind.
This concept does nothing to stop him from warbling out a nervous, “Okay.”
He steps forward, and it feels like a large leap, except there’s only ever been just a foot or so between them, and the rain feels so far away, bulleting off his shoulders and back and cheeks, and Mike is slow with it, just in case Will changes his mind and leans away.
Will doesn’t move away. This is both reassuring and terrifying.
Mike is slow when he raises his hands, cupping Will’s face, and even slower to lean in, instead remaining still when he stares at Will. It’s a problem, he knows, but he can’t seem to help it, frozen in wonder as he looks at Will. It’s not Mike’s fault – Will is, in short, enchanting. Captivating. A million other pretty words that can’t seem to be washed away in the rain.
Will peers up at him, rain trickling down his cheek and delightfully close. His hands bring themselves up to clutch at Mike’s front, grabbing at his shirt, and Will’s mouth remains upturned, a phantom smile when he looks at Mike, and, if he didn’t know any better, Mike would think he tilts up a little, just to get a little closer.
Mike is – he might be a little insane, actually. Nonetheless, his mother had raised a gentleman, and he makes sure, “Can – can I still show you?”
Will’s hands seem to tighten onto Mike’s shirt. “Yes,” he says, quiet under the downpour. “Please.”
Mike kisses him.
Mike kisses him, and he’s tentative when he does it, just in case Will changes his mind or he does it wrong or, even worse, he’s a terrible kisser, but Mike kisses him, and there’s the train of I love him, I love him, I love him still blaring through his head, and he’s so nervous, he thinks he might be shaking or shivering or something, and Mike kisses him, and – best of all, Will kisses him back.
He pulls Mike close, and then even closer, tilting his head this way, and their noses brush, and it’s a little bit of an awkward kiss, smiling against each other’s mouths like this, and they’re not really kissing, mostly pressing a smile against a smile, and Mike loves it all the same. It’s no surprise.
“Did you seriously bike all the way here?” Will takes the time to ask, when they finally lean away, eyes bright.
Mike shrugs sheepishly. “Maybe.”
Will shakes his head, and his hands have yet to let go of him. “You’re crazy,” he says fondly.
Maybe he’s crazy, after all, Mike thinks. Maybe that’s the thing about love.
It’s going to drive him crazy.