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09/02/1985

Dear Will,

I've started this letter like five times already. Keep crossing stuff out. I don't know why it's so hard to just write to you - we've been best friends since we were five, and I've never had trouble talking to you before. But I guess writing is different than talking. Or maybe it's just that you're so far away now and I don't know how to do this yet.

It's been a week since you left. I know we talked on the phone on Thursday, but I wanted to write you too. I don't know. It felt important.

Everything here is weird without you. The basement feels too big and too quiet. Dustin keeps making jokes and then looking at where you usually sit, like he's waiting for you to laugh, and then he gets this look on his face when he remembers you're not there. Lucas is being annoying with his comic book taste as usual; he has the audacity to say the current Spiderman run is better than Uncanny X-Men, can you believe it? Anyway, you know. Normal stuff. But it's not normal Except you weren't there to back me up or tell Lucas he was being ridiculous in that nice way you do where he doesn't even realize you're calling him ridiculous.

I went to the comic shop on Wednesday. They got the new X-Men issue in. I bought two copies. I don't know why. I mean, I do know why. I thought maybe I could mail you one, but then I remembered you can get comics in California and it seemed stupid. So now I have two copies sitting on my desk and I keep looking at them and feeling like an idiot.

El and I are great good. We're figuring out the long-distance thing. It’s even weirder because I can’t call her, you know? Because of all this government bullshit. It's fine. I miss her. It's just hard when she's so far away and I can't see her. You know how it is.

Actually, I guess you don't know how it is. I mean, you've never had a girlfriend. Not that you couldn't! I just mean - you know what I mean.

Anyway.

Mom keeps asking if I'm okay. I told her I'm fine, but she's doing that thing where she looks at me like she can see through my skull into my brain. It's annoying. I'm fine. It's just weird that you're gone. The house feels wrong. The basement feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.

Is California cool? Are you making friends? Is Jonathan being less weird than usual? Is your mom doing okay?

I keep thinking about things I want to tell you and then I remember I can't just bike over to your house anymore. Like, yesterday I saw this dog that looked exactly like Chester - remember Chester? Mrs. Gillespie's dog from when we were like eight? The one that bit Dustin? - and I turned around to point it out to you and you weren't there. I did that three times yesterday. Just turned to tell you something and you were gone.

I don't know how to do this without you. I don't mean the Upside Down stuff, although that too. I just mean everything. You've always been there. Every campaign, every movie night, every time something happens - good or bad - you're the first person I want to tell. And now you're in California and I'm here and it feels like I'm missing a limb or something.

That's dramatic, right? You'd tell me I'm being dramatic. You'd probably laugh and say something nice to make me feel less stupid about it.

I miss you. I know I already said that, but I don't think I said it enough. I miss you so much. I miss El too, but it's not

It's different.

I don't know how to explain it. I don't think I'm supposed to miss my best friend this much. But I do.

Anyway. Write me back when you can. Or call. Whatever's easier.

From, Mike
Love, Mike
From, Mike

11/05/1987

Will stands in the doorway, watching Mike hunched over a pile of old maps spread across the floor. His body still feels wrong - too light, too hollow, like he's not entirely back in his own skin yet. The power is still there, thrumming under his ribs, a live wire he's learning not to touch. Every movement is a flashback to the MAC-Z, how the same fingers were able to levitate Demos. How the same fingers saved Mike. Saved the others.

It wasn’t a comforting feeling; not really.

Mike looks up, and his face does that thing where it lights up like Will just walked in carrying the sun. "Hey. You look better. Way better."

Will's chest tightens. He manages a small smile, hovering in the doorway because he doesn't trust himself to get closer. Not yet. Not when Mike looks at him like that.

"C'mere," Mike says, gesturing to the maps. "Look at this. Hawkins in 1952. Barely a dot."

Will pulls a chair over, lowers himself carefully. He’s mindful to keep enough space between him and Mike that he doesn’t feel the unignorable pull to reach out and touch. His body still aches in strange places, phantom pains from the power that ripped through him. Mike is watching him with that worried crease between his eyebrows, and Will wants to smooth it away with his thumb. He doesn't.

"Thanks for saving my life, by the way." Mike's voice is lighter now, trying for casual. "That's what you did. You saved me. It was… incredible."

The word lands like a punch. Will's smile dies. He looks down at his hands, at the maps, anywhere but Mike's face. Incredible. Like it was something beautiful. Like Will hadn't felt the Upside Down's rage coursing through his veins, hadn't felt Vecna's hunger become his own.

"Did I say something wrong?" Mike's voice is careful now, uncertain. "That's what you did. It was incredible."

Will exhales shakily. "It wasn't incredible. It felt… I don't know. I was harnessing Vecna's power. I could feel him. Feel the rage, the hunger. It was more monstrous than it was incredible."

Suddenly Mike's hand is on his shoulder, gripping tight, grounding. "Bullshit," Mike says, and his voice is so firm that Will's eyes snap up to meet his. "I have never seen something more badass in my life, Will. It was… I couldn't look away. You were…"

Mike's struggling for words, and Will watches him search for them - watches the way his throat works, the way his eyes are bright and intense and fixed on Will's face like nothing else in the world exists. God, he was beautiful.

"You were amazing."

Will's breath catches. He wants to believe it so badly it hurts. "You really think so?"

"Of course I do." Mike says it like it's the simplest truth in the world. He smiles, and it's softer now, familiar. "I was right. Sorcerer."

Will tries to smile back, but it feels fragile on his face. His eyes drift back to the floor. "Yeah. I guess you were right."

There's a pause, and Will can feel Mike studying him, trying to read all the things Will can't say. The weight of what he did - what he is - sits heavy on his shoulders. He thinks about the Demogorgon frozen mid-lunge, the way Vecna's power had felt like coming home to something terrible.

"You looked…" Mike starts, then stops.

Will glances at him. Mike's face is doing something complicated, cycling through expressions Will can't quite parse.

The question rises in Will's throat before he can stop it. "You weren't scared of me?"

Mike's expression shifts to pure bewilderment. "Scared of you?" He sounds genuinely baffled. "God, Will. I could never be scared of you. I mean, it was terrifyingly awesome, don't get me wrong, but… it's you."

The last two words come out softer, gentler, and Will feels something crack open in his chest. He cycles through too many emotions at once - disbelief that Mike could look at him using Vecna's power and still see Will, hope that maybe he's not as monstrous as he feels, and something else, something dangerous and aching that he immediately shoves down. He clears his throat, looks away before Mike can see too much.

"You know… I heard you. Earlier. In the other room."

Mike goes still. "...What did you hear, exactly?" He asks cautiously.

Will nods, keeps his gaze fixed on the wall because he can't look at Mike for this part. "I heard what you said. About... losing me."

The silence stretches. Then Mike's voice, quiet and raw: "Yeah. I meant it. I don't know what I'd do, Will." A pause, and then Mike's tone shifts, trying for lightness. "You're my best friend. My sorcerer."

Best friend. The words should be enough. They're not.

Will's gaze snaps back to Mike's face, something urgent rising in his throat. "Mike-"

But Mike is already pivoting away from whatever almost happened, his expression shifting to curiosity. "How did you do it, anyway? You just… thought about it?"

Will blinks, thrown by the redirect. He shrugs, trying to find words for something that felt more like instinct than thought. "I don't know. It's not like El's powers. It wasn't… reaching for something outside myself. It was more like… grabbing a live wire that was already in my hand. Like the connection was always there, and I just stopped fighting it."

Mike leans forward, and Will can feel the intensity of his focus like heat. "What do you mean?"

Will picks at a thread on his jeans, gathering courage. Tried to think about how he could phrase this in a way that wasn’t damning. "Robin said something to me. Before all this happened. About how the things that make you feel like an outsider, like you don't fit… those can be the source of your strength. If you stop fighting them."

He pauses. His heart is hammering. He thinks about all the ways he's never fit, all the ways he's loved Mike since they were seven years old and known it was wrong, known it made him different, known it made him other.

"So I stopped fighting. I stopped being scared of the connection. And then I just… I thought about what I had to protect. My mom. Jonathan."

Another pause. Will forces himself to look at Mike, to let him see the truth even if he can't say all of it.

"You."

Mike's eyes widen slightly. "You thought about me?"

Will looks at him like he's asked something absurd. A faint, sad smile tugs at his lips, because of course Mike doesn't understand. Of course he doesn't know that he's been the center of Will's universe since the beginning. "Of course I did."

The air changes. Thickens. Will can feel it - the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on him, years of wanting compressed into this single moment. Mike's hand is still on his shoulder, warm and solid, and Will is hyper-aware of every point of contact. Mike is looking at him with those dark eyes, the ones Will has memorized down to every fleck of brown and gold, and Will is drowning in them.

He thinks: I love you. I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you my entire life.

His lips part. "Mike, I-"

BANG-BANG-BANG

The knock shatters everything. Will flinches.

"Time's up, lovebirds! Newsflash: Hopper and El are Rightside Up. War council in five."

Robin's voice, deliberately loud, followed by retreating footsteps.

Will's face burns. Lovebirds. He chances a glance at Mike, but Mike is still looking at him with that same intense expression, like he's trying to solve an equation he doesn't have all the variables for.

Will can't do this. Can't sit here with Mike looking at him like that, can't stay in this room where he almost said something catastrophically stupid.

"We should go," Will says quietly, standing up too fast.

Mike's hand falls from his shoulder, and Will feels the loss of it like a physical thing. He leaves before Mike can say anything else, before he can do something irreversible like close the distance between them and kiss Mike Wheeler in a room full of dusty maps.

As he walks down the hallway, his heart is doing complicated, painful things in his chest. He thinks about Mike's hand on his shoulder. Mike saying I could never be scared of you. It's you. Mike looking at him like he hung the stars.

He thinks about the letters he used to get - infrequent, surface-level. He thinks about the phone calls that were good but never enough. He thinks about El, about the way Mike's face used to light up when he talked about her. He ignores the way his stomach rolls over, and braces for the chaos about to burst through the WSQK door.

10/13/1985

Dear Will,

Sorry I never sent the last letter. Well, I guess it doesn’t mean anything to apologize for not sending a letter you’ll never see. Especially considering you’ll probably never see this letter, either.

Really, I’m sorry for all of it.

I’ve realized I’m bad at a lot of things. I’m bad at relationships, for one. El and I got into a fight over snail mail, if that’s even possible. She told me that my letters were too dry, that she knew nothing about my current life in Hawkins. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that most things I remember to put to paper are things I want to tell you, not her.

I don’t really know what to make of that. Shouldn’t you want to tell your girlfriend everything? Except she doesn’t read X-Men, or have bad opinions on the Indiana Jones franchise. She especially doesn’t care about Hellfire, which I’ve been meaning to tell you about. It’s cool - a whole club of DnD nerds like us. Eddie, the DM, is super cool. I’m not sure if you would’ve liked him, but Dustin follows him around like a lost puppy. It’s kind of sweet, really. If you squint around his new metalhead facade. Or maybe it’s genuine, I don’t know.

People have been changing. Lucas is playing basketball now, totally LARPing as a popular kid. He and Max broke up, or maybe they didn’t. It’s confusing, really. I don’t understand their relationship, but as previously shown, maybe I don’t understand any relationships. Maybe I’m not meant to

I guess I just

Either way, everyone’s changed, and I feel like I’m stuck in middle school. If I’m really being honest, I’m stuck in my basement on the day I realized you were missing. Stuck at the Quarry when they pulled you out of the water. I’m sure you’d have some super wise thing to say about growing up and being confused. You were always good at that.

However, you’re not here, and for some reason I’m unable to send off a fucking letter, so I’m stuck pondering all these questions by myself.

I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA. Somehow, it seems scarier to talk to the real you, and not the version of you I imagine making fun of my jokes at lunch. The version of you I talk to in my head most days. It sounds crazy, I know, but it helps me feel less alone.

I mean, Dustin has been adopted by two full-grown adults, Lucas has the basketball team (and Max, depending on the day), and I have… what? A girlfriend who I can’t relate to and a best friend I can’t talk to.

I hope California is good. I can imagine you drawing all the palm trees right now. It must be nice to have a change of scenery. Is the light down there different? Maybe that’s good for your art, I don’t know. I hope so.

Miss you like crazy

Wish you were here

Hope to see you soon.

From, Mike

11/07/1987

No matter where you are in the Upside down, it smells like rot and copper. Will can taste it in the back of his throat, bleeding through the cracks in reality like an infection that won't heal.

His head is splitting open.

Not literally, though sometimes it feels like it could be. The connection to the hivemind is a living thing now, pulsing and writhing behind his eyes. Vecna is out there somewhere, and Will can feel him, a dark star pulling at the edges of his consciousness. Closer, still, are those poor children; hooked up to vines like IV drips. The one Will insisted on saving; the ones that dragged them all into this hell-dimension in the first place.

"Will."

Mike's voice cuts through the static. Will blinks, focuses. Mike is right beside him, close enough that their arms brush with every step. His face is tight with worry.

"I'm fine," Will says automatically.

"You don't look fine." Mike's hand hovers near Will's elbow, not quite touching. "Your nose is bleeding again."

Will wipes at it with the back of his hand. The blood comes away dark, almost black in the dim light. "It's fine. I'm close. I can feel them."

Behind them, the rest of the group moves quietly through the dark forrest - Steve and Robin covering the left flank, Nancy and Jonathan on the right, Lucas and Dustin bringing up the rear. Joyce is a few feet back, her worry radiating like heat, but she's letting Will do this. Hopper is off on an assasination mission with El and Kali. El insisted she needed to face Vecna alone, that she was the only one who could, and Hopper wouldn't let her go without him.

So now it's just them. And Will, trying to track a monster through the labyrinth of his own mind.
They go deeper. The vines thicken, coating the walls like veins. Some of them are moving - slow, pulsing movements that make Will's stomach turn. They're reacting to him. They know he's here.

"Will." Mike's voice is sharper now. "Will, we should go back."

"No." Will pushes forward, following the pull in his skull. "I'm close. I can feel them, and I’m not leaving without-"

The vine strikes like a snake.

One second Will is standing, and the next there's something around his throat, yanking him backward with brutal force. His feet leave the ground. The air cuts off.

"WILL!"

Mike's scream is distant, muffled by the roaring in Will's ears. He claws at the vine, but it's like trying to tear through steel cable. His vision starts to tunnel, black creeping in at the edges.

Then Mike is there, knife flashing in the low light, hacking at the vine with desperate, vicious strength. More vines surge toward them - too many, too fast - and Mike is yelling something Will can't hear over the blood pounding in his skull.

Will tries to use his powers, tries to grab hold of the connection and push, but the vine is cutting off his air and his concentration is fracturing and he can't- he can't-

Will looks at Mike, at the panicked look smothering his expression. Shame, Will thinks. He was about to die, in this rotten dimension that’s haunted him for almost a decade, and he doesn’t even get to see Mike’s smile as he kicks it. He only gets to see fear and anger filling up his eyes. At least Vecna could have granted him one last wish as his breath weakens.

Mike's blade finally cuts through. Oh, Will thinks. Oh, Thank God.

The vine releases with a wet, tearing sound, and Will collapses forward. Mike catches him, arms wrapping around his chest, and then they're moving - Mike half-dragging, half-carrying him away from the writhing mass of vines.

Will lets himself get carried, unable to focus on anything but the way Mike’s sweater gathers underneath his desperate hands. They stumble into a clearing where the others have formed a defensive circle. Joyce is there immediately, her hands on Will's face, her voice high and panicked, but Will can barely hear her over the ringing in his ears.

Mike lowers him to the ground, and Will becomes aware of several things at once:

One: he can't stop coughing, his throat raw and burning.
Two: his mother is talking to him, asking if he's okay, and he can't answer.
Three: Mike's hands are shaking.

Mike is kneeling in front of him, close enough that Will can see every detail of his face - the way his eyes are too bright, the way his jaw is clenched so tight it must hurt. His hands hover over Will's throat, over the places where the vine left angry red marks, and he looks like he wants to touch but doesn't know if he's allowed.

"You're okay," Mike says, and his voice cracks down the middle. "You're okay. Tell me you're okay."

Will tries to answer, but all that comes out is a rasp. He swallows, winces, tries again. "I'm okay."

"You're not." Mike's eyes squeeze shut for a second, and when they open again there's something devastated in them. "Jesus, Will, you almost-"

He cuts himself off, but Will knows how that sentence ends. You almost died.

"I'm sorry," Will manages, his voice hoarse and wrecked. "I shouldn't have pushed it."

Mike's eyes snap open, and the look he gives Will is so raw it makes Will's chest ache. "Don't apologize. Just- don't do that again. Don't scare me like that."

Mike's hands are still there, one on Will's shoulder and one near his jaw, fingers ghosting over the bruises starting to bloom on Will's neck. He tilts Will's head gently, carefully, checking the damage, and the touch is so tender it makes Will's breath catch for reasons that have nothing to do with the vine.

This is too much. Mike is too close, his hands are too gentle, and Will's heart is doing something complicated and painful in his chest because Mike is looking at him like Will is something precious, something breakable, something worth saving.

Will sits in the feeling for a moment, his brain still catching up to the fact that he’s still alive. Listening to his breathing slowly stop rasping against his throat. Joyce is saying something to Jonathan, her voice tight with worry, but Will barely hears it. All he can focus on is Mike - Mike's hands on him, Mike's eyes locked on his face, Mike looking at him like the rest of the world has ceased to exist. Mike, Mike, Mike. Always Mike.

"Why did you do that?" The words slip out before Will can stop them, barely more than a whisper.

Mike freezes. His hand stills against Will's jaw. "What?"

Will shouldn't push this. He should let it go, should accept the non-answer and move on. But his throat is burning and his head is splitting and he almost died and he's so tired of not understanding why Mike looks at him like this.

"You're… you're always-" He shakes his head, can't finish the sentence. Always saving me. Always touching me. Always looking at me like I matter more than I do.

Mike stares at him. Something shifts in his expression - fear and longing and a dozen other things Will can't name. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but so intense it makes Will shiver.

"Because it's you,” he whispers, like it was an inevitable answer. Like it was divine revelation.

The world stops.

Will stops breathing. His heart stops beating. Everything stops except for Mike's hand against his jaw and Mike's eyes boring into his and those three words hanging in the air between them like a confession.

Because it's you.

What does that mean? What is Mike trying to say? Will's brain is scrambling, trying to parse the weight in Mike's voice, the way he's looking at Will like- like-

"Guys? GUYS? Are you okay?"

Dustin's voice shatters the moment like glass. Mike jerks back, his hand falling away from Will's face, and suddenly there's cold air where Mike's warmth used to be.

"We're here," Mike calls back, his voice rough. He's not looking at Will anymore. "Will's okay. We're coming back."

The group converges - Dustin asking a million questions, Steve checking the perimeter, Joyce pulling Will into a tight hug that makes his ribs ache. Will lets himself be fussed over, but his mind is elsewhere.

Because it's you.

They start moving again, heading back toward the exit. Will's legs are shaky, and Mike stays close - closer than necessary, close enough that their shoulders bump with every step. Mike's hand keeps hovering near Will's elbow, like he's ready to catch him if he falls.

Will chances a glance at him. Mike's jaw is still clenched, his eyes fixed straight ahead, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. Like he's holding something back. Like he said too much and now he's terrified of what Will might do with it.

Because it's you.

Will's mind spins. He thinks about Mike's hands on his face, the desperate fear in his voice. He thinks bout Mike not hesitating even for a second before throwing himself between Will and the vines. He thinks about every moment over the past week - Mike hovering, Mike worrying, Mike looking at him with those dark, intense eyes.

He thinks about El. About how she and Mike either broke up, or are about to, and how Mike won’t talk about it. About how really, Mike barely mentions her anymore.

He thinks about the way Mike's thumb had brushed his jaw, feather-light, like Will was something precious.

Because it's you.

"You okay?" Mike asks quietly, and Will realizes he's been staring.

"Yeah," Will lies. His throat still burns, but that's not why his voice sounds strange. "Just tired."

Mike nods, but he doesn't look convinced. His hand finally makes contact - just his fingers wrapping around Will's elbow, steadying him. "Lean on me if you need to."

Will almost laughs. He's been leaning on Mike his whole life. That's the problem.

They walk in silence, and with every step, Will's mind turns over those three words, examining them from every angle, trying to understand what Mike meant. Because surely he didn't mean… he couldn't have meant…

But Mike's hand is still on his elbow, warm and sure, and Will can feel his presence like gravity.

Because it's you.

11/03/1985

Dear Will,

Something happened yesterday. I don’t know how to write this. I’m not sure if I should be writing it at all. You won’t ever see it, of course (sorry about that), but some voice in the back of my head tells me I shouldn’t push this any further. But, that voice sounds a lot like my dad, so if anything, that tells me to do it anyways.

It was a normal day, really. I rode my bike to school alone, since Dustin gets picked up by Steve and Lucas hitches a ride with those basketball jerks. Ate lunch and listened to Dustin complain about Suzie. I don’t know what exactly, I wasn’t really listening. I came home and decided to watch some shitty movie instead of do my homework. All typical.

I was sitting on the couch in the basement, in the spot you always used to sit. I was thinking about you, which I do a lot of these days.

I was thinking about that time in fourth grade when you fell off your bike and scraped your knee, and I walked you home even though my mom was going to be mad that I was late for dinner. And you kept saying you were fine, but you were crying a little, and I just - I wanted to make it better. I wanted to fix it.

And then I thought about when we were twelve and you were in the Upside Down, and I thought I'd lost you. And how I felt when we found you. And how I've felt every time you've been in danger since then.

And I realized I don't think about El like this. I don't think about anyone like this. It's always you. It's always been you.

I don't know what that means. I mean, I do know what it means, but I can't I don't want to know. I can't let myself think about it.

Maybe I'm just confused. Maybe it's because we've been through so much together. Maybe it's just because you're my best friend and I miss you.

But I don't feel like this about Lucas. Or Dustin. And I should feel like this about El, shouldn't I? I'm supposed to. She's my girlfriend.

I can't write it down. If I write it down, it's real. I don’t know what to do. Ironically, I think you would probably have pretty good advice for me. You always were better with the feeling stuff. Probably because you have such a good mom. I’m stuck with an emotionally avoidant sister and parents who hate each other. What do I know about love

What do I know about anything.

I don't know how to make it stop. I don't think I want it to stop. It doesn’t matter either way, I guess, since I'm not sending this. And we may never see each other again. Maybe it’s better that way, so I don’t make it weird.

Sorry for not talking to you more. I think about it all the time, almost kick myself every time Dustin asks how you are. I make up a lie about your art classes and your new friends, try to imagine what you look like with a tan. Maybe you finally got a half-decent haircut, and stopped wearing Jonathan’s hand-me-downs. Not that Dustin cares about those details, though.

For some reason, I do.

I miss you. So much. I hope you’re doing better than I am I hope California’s good.

Love, Mike

11/07/1987

The WSQK radio station smells like dust and dried blood. It's become less of Rockin' Robin’s artsy hideaway and more a makeshift headquarters over the past few weeks. The main room is a chaos of maps and walkie-talkies and half-eaten sandwiches, but the back storage room where they keep the medical supplies is quieter.

Will sits cross-legged on the floor, organizing bandages by size. His throat still aches when he swallows. The bruises on his neck have darkened to deep purple-red, stark against his pale skin. He's tried not to look at them.

Mike is standing by the metal shelving unit, doing inventory. He's been quiet since they got back, his mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes distant. He's barely said ten words in the past hour.

Will watches him count antiseptic bottles for the third time, writing nothing down.

"You okay?" Will asks quietly.

Mike's hand stills on the shelf. He doesn't turn around. "Am I okay?" His voice is tight, controlled. "Will, you almost died today."

Will watches him, throat closing. "But I didn't."

"But you could have." Mike finally turns, and his face is pale, drawn. "You could have died, and I-"

He cuts himself off. Looks away. His jaw works like he's trying to swallow something too big.

Will sets down the roll of gauze he's been holding. "Mike-"

But Mike is already moving, sitting down on the floor near another box of bandages - not next to Will, but a few feet away, like he's maintaining a careful distance. Like if he gets too close, something will break. Mike busies himself with tossing out spare bits of trash in the bin, Adam’s Apple bobbing, jaw working. Will watches, a lump of something deep in his stomach.

The air between them feels thick, charged with something Will doesn't know how to name. He's suddenly hyper-aware of every sound - the distant murmur of voices from the main room, the creak of the building settling, his own heartbeat too loud in his ears.

"Mike, it's okay," Will says, trying to sound reassuring. "I'm okay. We're all okay."

Mike's laugh is sharp and humorless. "It's not okay." His voice is barely above a whisper, but there's an edge to it that makes Will's chest tighten. "Every time we do this, every time we go out there, I keep thinking - what if this is the time I lose you for real?"

Will's throat constricts, and not from the bruises. "You're not going to lose me."

"You don't know that." Mike's hands are clenched in his lap, white-knuckled. "You can't promise that."

Silence stretches between them. Will doesn't know what to say to that because Mike is right - none of them can promise they'll survive this. Not with Vecna still out there, not with the Upside Down still roaring beneath them. But the fear in Mike's voice feels too big, too raw, like it's about more than just the danger they're all facing.

Will studies Mike's profile - the tension in his jaw, the way he won't quite meet Will's eyes. Something is turning in his mind, slow and uncertain, a puzzle he doesn't have all the pieces to yet.

"Why does it feel like you're more scared of losing me than anyone else?" Will blurts out before he can stop himself.

Mike's head snaps toward him, eyes wide. "What?"

Will pushes forward, even though his heart is hammering. "El almost died last year. You were scared, but you didn't- you weren't like this."

"That's not true." Mike's voice is defensive, but it rings hollow.

"Mike."

Mike looks away, his throat working. "It's different."

"How?" Will's voice comes out softer than he intended, almost pleading. "How is it different?"

Mike doesn't answer. He's staring at the floor now, his hands still clenched, and Will can see him retreating, pulling back into himself like he always does when things get too close to something real.

Will's chest aches with a longing so sharp it feels like it could split him open. He wants to reach across the distance between them, wants to grab Mike by the shoulders and make him say whatever it is he's holding back. But he's also terrified - terrified that if he pushes too hard, Mike will shatter, and whatever fragile thing exists between them will break beyond repair.

"You keep saying things like that," Will says quietly. "'Because it's you.' 'It's different.' But you won't tell me what it means."

Mike runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, and for a second he looks so young, so lost. "I don't- I can't-"

Will watches Mike struggle for a second, his own mind reeling. "Can't or won't?" He asks, voice deathly soft. Nervous, almost.

Mike's eyes meet his, and Will sees it - desperation. Raw and unguarded, like Mike is drowning and doesn't know how to ask for help. His lips part, and Will thinks this is it, this is the moment Mike will finally say whatever has been sitting between them for months, years maybe. Will allowed himself hope for the first time since he was seven years old.

Mike quickly flinches away, as if allergic to the eye contact. "If I tell you, everything changes," He says, eyes glued to the floor.

The words land like a physical blow. Will's breath catches. His heart is pounding so hard he thinks Mike must be able to hear it.

"Maybe I want it to change," Will whispers, before he can stop himself.

Mike stares at him. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. And Will can see him fighting with himself, see the war happening behind his eyes - fear and want and something else, something that looks dangerously like hope.

Then Mike's gaze drops to Will's neck.

The bruises. The ugly purple-red marks left by the vine.

Mike's face crumples. Before Will can stop him, Mike is reaching out, his fingers hovering over the bruises like he did earlier, except this time they're alone. His touch is feather-light, not quite making contact, and his hand is shaking. Will’s breath hitches every time fingertips whisper on his skin. The touch feels like a singe against the burst capillaries, but also like an angel’s grace. Like it was healing, somehow.

"When I saw that… thing around your throat-" Mike's voice breaks, cracks down the middle. "I-"

He stops. Swallows hard. His eyes are wet. "I can't do this without you, Will," The words come out in a rush, desperate and aching. "I can't survive this if you're not here."

Will is barely breathing. Mike's hand is still hovering near his throat, and the space between them feels impossibly small and impossibly vast all at once. He wants to close the distance, wants to grab Mike's wrist and press his hand against his neck just to feel the warmth of him, the solidness of him.

"Mike-" Will starts, but he doesn't know how to finish.

Mike pulls his hand back like he's been burned. He stands abruptly, stumbling a little, putting distance between them. "I should- it's late. You should sleep."

No. No. Will's stomach drops. "Mike, wait-"

But Mike is already moving toward the door, his shoulders rigid, his movements jerky like a puppet with tangled strings.

"Goodnight, Will." He doesn't turn around. He doesn't look back.

And then he's gone.

01/05/1986

Dear Will,

I think I’m in love with you. I think I always have been.

I've been trying to write this letter for weeks and I keep chickening out. But I have to say it, even if you never read it. Even if I burn this the second I'm done writing it. I have to say it out loud - or, well, on paper. It has to exist somewhere outside my head or I think I'm going to lose my mind.

I wish I could point to some huge a-ha moment, like in the movies. Or even some life-threatening moment where my memories flashed before my eyes. You flashed before my eyes.

Really, it was something slow and creeping. Ever since I wrote that last letter, it’s been weighing heavier and heavier. And I have plenty of alone time these days, you know. Lucas is off at practice and Dustin talks to Suzie. I sit alone, where you sat in my basement, and I think about you.

I think about finding you on the swings in the first grade. I think about the first time Jonathan showed us the DnD board game, and how excited you were to see all the magic stuff. How I kept giving you different characters to draw just to watch the way your eyes lit up. Was I in love with you then?

I remember stealing a tape of The Thing from Nancy and watching it when we were ten. I remember being so scared, but you were fascinated. I stuck it out just to watch you gasp when MacReady blows up the station. I remember grabbing your hand when it happened, and you held on. Was I in love with you then?

I remember the last words you said to me before you went missing. It was a seven. I remember when you came back, when I finally saw you again, and I thought my heart was going to stop. I swear to God, Will, it was like I could breathe again for the first time in days.

I remember the summer before high school, when we stayed up all night reading comics. The way you laugh at my jokes even when they're not funny. The way you see me - really see me - in a way no one else does.

I must have been in love with you then.

I thought I loved El, you know? That’s what made it so hard, I think. I do love her, in a way. In the same way you love a warrior-sister, pledged to fight beside one another in battle. But it’s not this. I’ve been trying to hard to make it the same, and it’s not fair to her. She deserves someone who loves her in the way I love you.

I'm so angry at myself. How did I not know? How did I not SEE it? It feels so obvious now, like I've been walking around blind for years.

And the worst part is, I can never tell you. I can never say it out loud. Because you're my best friend, and if I tell you and you don't feel the same way, I lose you. And you don’t feel the same way, and I can't lose you. I'd rather spend the rest of my life loving you in secret than lose you completely.

But God, Will. Even just knowing it is like being strapped to a shooting star. I don’t know how Lucas does it. It’s like I’m being blinded by something just beyond my sight. How do I go about normal life? How do I do homework, or go to Hellfire, or sit in this fucking basement without it taking over my mind?

I'm coming to see you in a few months. Spring break. And I don't know how I'm going to look at you and not say this. I don't know how I'm going to pretend everything's normal when nothing is normal. Nothing has been normal since the day you left. I love you. I'm so in love with you. And you'll never know.

Love, Mike

11/10/1987

The plan is suicide.

Will knows it. Everyone knows it. But no one says it out loud because saying it makes it real, and they're all pretending they have a chance.

The WSQK station feels smaller today, like the walls are closing in. Everyone is crammed into the main room - El and Hopper near the maps, Nancy and Jonathan cross-checking supply lists, Steve and Robin arguing about something in hushed tones. Dustin and Lucas are at the radio equipment, trying to establish a clear line to the other groups scattered around Hawkins. Joyce is standing by the window, her arms wrapped around herself, staring out at nothing. Will sits on the worn couch in the corner, watching them all pretend they're not terrified.

Mike is standing by the bulletin board covered in maps and notes, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. He's been quiet all afternoon - hasn't cracked a single joke, hasn't argued with Dustin, hasn't done any of the things that make him Mike. He just stands there, and every few minutes his eyes find Will across the room.

Hopper clears his throat. "Alright, listen up. Last run-through, then we all get some rest."

The room quiets. Will's stomach churns.

"El and Kali go in first," Hopper says, pointing at the map. "That's where Vecna is strongest. Your job is to distract him, keep his attention on you. Make him think you're the main threat. And maybe, if we’re lucky, you will be."

El nods, her face set with grim determination. Kali stands beside her, equally calm. They've been training together for weeks, combining their powers in ways that make the air crackle.

"While he's focused on them," Hopper continues, "the rest of you move in through here. Will-" He looks at Will, and his expression softens just slightly. "You use your connection to track where he's keeping the kids. Once you've got a lock, you open a gate and guide the team in. Joyce, Jonathan, Nancy, Steve, Robin - you provide cover and get those kids out. Fast."

"And Mike, Dustin, Lucas," Nancy adds, "you're on gate duty. The second those kids are clear, you seal every entrance. Once they’re Rightside Up… El, kill the son of a bitch."

Mike and El nod in unison, their jaws tight. Mike’s eyes flick to Will again, just for a second.

"This only works if we're synchronized," Hopper says. "If one part fails, the whole thing falls apart. And if Vecna realizes what we're doing before El and Kali can weaken him…"

He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to.

"We know the risks," El says quietly. "We're ready."

Will isn't sure he believes her, but he doesn't say anything.

Hopper goes over the timeline twice more, then the contingency plans, then the backup contingencies. Will stops listening halfway through. His head is pounding - the hivemind has been louder today, angry and restless, like Vecna knows something is coming.

Eventually, people start to disperse. Steve claps Dustin on the shoulder and says something about getting rest. Nancy hugs Jonathan, holding on a little too long. Joyce comes over to Will, cups his face in her hands, and tells him she loves him. Will says it back, but his voice sounds hollow.

Soon it's just him and Mike.

Mike is still standing by the bulletin board, staring at the map like it holds answers. Will watches him from the couch, his heart doing that painful, yearning thing it's been doing for weeks now. Months. Years, maybe.

"You should go," Mike says without turning around. "Spend time with your mom and Jonathan."

"I will," Will says. "In a bit."

Mike finally looks at him. His expression is carefully neutral, but there's something fragile underneath. "Will-"

"I'm scared," Will interrupts. The words come out before he can stop them, raw and honest.
Mike's face crumples slightly, then smooths over. He crosses the room and sits down on the couch beside Will - not at the other end like he's been doing lately, but right next to him, close enough that their knees almost touch.

"Me too," Mike says quietly.

Will's throat tightens. "I keep thinking… what if tomorrow is it? What if we don't-"

He can't finish. Can't say the word survive out loud.

Mike leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. "We will. We're going to win. We have to."

"But what if we don't?"

Mike doesn't answer. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Outside, the sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the room.

Will's chest aches. He thinks about tomorrow - about facing Vecna, about the very real possibility that some of them won't make it out. He thinks about all the things he's never said, all the words he's swallowed down because he was too scared of losing what little he had.

"If something happens tomorrow," Will says, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I don't make it-"

"Don't." Mike's voice is sharp, cutting. His head snaps up. "Don't say that."

Will pushes on, desperate. "Mike, listen-"

"No." Mike turns to face him fully now, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears. "You're going to make it. We're all going to make it."

Will searches his face. "You don't know that," he says quietly.

There’s a pause, where both of them are trapped in horrific what-if’s. Will shivers from the thought. Mike looks at him, and there's that desperation again, that fear that's too big to be just about friendship. "I can't think about a world where you're not in it," Mike says, and his voice breaks on the last word. "I won't."

Will's breath catches. "Mike-"

"You're going to survive this." Mike's hands are shaking. "And then we're going to go to college like we planned. You still wanna go to Berkeley, right?"

Will nods, not trusting his voice.

"Me too," Mike continues, and there's something frantic in his tone now, like he's trying to conjure a future into existence through sheer force of will. "And we're going to-" He stops, swallows hard. "We're going to have lives. Real lives. Away from all this."

Together? Will wants to ask. Are we going to have lives together? But he can't make himself say it. Can't risk shattering whatever fragile thing exists between them. He decides on a compromise. Halfway happy, as El always said. Something in the shape of his true feelings, if you squinted. He’d have to live with that.

Instead, he says, "Can I tell you something?"

"Anything." Mike's eyes are locked on his face, intent and desperate.

Will takes a breath. His hands are trembling. "That night in the shed, when I was possessed - when the Mind Flayer was in me - there was this one moment where I could still feel myself. Where I was still there, underneath everything."

Mike leans closer, listening with his whole body. "Yeah?"

"And I heard your voice." Will's own voice is shaking now. "You were talking to me, trying to reach me. Telling me about us meeting on the swings, I think. And I held onto it. Your voice was the only thing that kept me from disappearing completely."

Mike's eyes are wet, reflecting the dying light from the window.

"You've always been the one pulling me back," Will continues. "Every time I get lost, you find me."

"Will-" Mike's voice is barely audible.

"So if something happens tomorrow, I need you to know that. I need you to know that you saved me. Not just once. Every time."

Mike looks wrecked. His face is pale, his jaw working like he's trying to hold back words that are too big to contain. He reaches out slowly, hesitantly, like he's expecting Will to pull away. His hand hovers in the air between them for a heartbeat, and then he places it over Will's where it rests on the couch cushion.

It's the most deliberate touch they've ever shared. Not accidental, not in the heat of danger or panic. Intentional. Chosen.

Could it…?

No. Will didn’t let himself finish that sentence. Instead, he stares at their hands. Mike's palm is warm, slightly rough, and his fingers curl around Will's with a gentleness that makes Will's chest ache.

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Mike says, and his voice is fierce despite the tremor in it. "I won't let it."

Will tries to smile, but it comes out watery. "You can't control everything."

"Watch me." Mike's thumb brushes over Will's knuckles, and Will's heart stutters.

They sit like that, hands touching but not quite holding, the space between them charged with everything they're not saying. Will can feel his pulse pounding in his ears, can feel the warmth of Mike's hand bleeding into his own. He wants to turn his hand over, wants to lace their fingers together properly, wants to close the last few inches between them and-

"Do you remember that first campaign we ever did?" Mike asks suddenly, his voice soft. "Just you and me, before Dustin and Lucas joined?"

Will's lips curve into a small, genuine smile. "The one where your paladin kept rolling ones and almost got us killed?"

Mike laughs, and it's wet and shaky but real. "Yeah. And you had to save my ass like twelve times."

"I didn't mind."

"I was so bad at it." Mike's looking at their hands now, his thumb still moving in small, absent circles over Will's knuckles. "But you were patient. You didn't make fun of me."

"I liked playing with you," Will says quietly.

Mike's throat bobs. "I liked playing with you too." He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is barely audible. "I liked-" He stops. Swallows. "I've always liked being around you. More than anyone."

The air thickens. Will's heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs. Mike's thumb has stilled on his hand, and the silence between them is so heavy Will can barely breathe through it.

More than anyone.

Will thinks about El. About how Mike used to talk about her with stars in his eyes. About how he doesn't anymore. About how he's been acting since he came back to Hawkins - the hovering, the touching, the desperate fear in his voice every time Will gets hurt.

More than anyone.

"Mike," Will whispers, and his voice is shaking. "What- what is this?"

Mike goes still. His eyes widen slightly, something like panic flashing across his face. He pulls his hand back like he's been burned, leaving Will's skin cold where the warmth used to be.

"I should-" Mike stands abruptly, nearly stumbling. "Sorry. It's getting late."

No. Not again. Will's chest constricts with frustration and longing and fear. "Mike-"

But Mike is already backing toward the door, his face carefully blank except for the tightness around his eyes. "You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

"Mike, wait-"

"I'll see you in the morning," Mike says, and then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

03/18/1986

Dear Will,

This is probably the last letter I’ll write. I say that as if you’ve been receiving any of them. Like they haven’t been sitting collecting dust under my bed next to a box of cigarettes and a bottle of Coors. Like all the other things I keep secret.

The point is, I’m seeing you next week, and I think I need to stop doing this. Writing things I’ll never send, I mean. It’s not healthy. Or maybe it is, I don’t know anymore.

I’m sorry being so MIA. I know I’m a broken record, saying that again, but it’s true. I think the distance has been easier for me, in a way. I know it’s not fair to you, but I don’t know if I could handle talking to you like everything was normal. Knowing about how you spend your time in California, watching you confide in me when I’m keeping a secret that would ruin our friendship.

El says you have a crush on someone. That you’re painting them something? Maybe it’s better I don’t know the details. I don’t know what I’d do or say hearing about her. Which isn’t good, considering I’m seeing you next week.

I see you in everything. Eddie played some super weird music last Hellfire session. It sounded like something on one of Jonathan’s tapes. The ones you used to put on while we read comics in your room.

I saw someone in the hallway wearing a yellow flannel - just like the one you have. I felt hopeful, for a second, like you’d come back to rescue me from the lonely hell of Hawkins High. As if that isn’t the stupidest thing in the world.

Dustin still asks about you. I make up more lies about the weather and Jonathan. I try not to wish that I knew all about your new life. I know it’d probably just fuck me up more.

For the record, I know I need to break up with El. I’ve known it for months. It’s not fair to her - she knows something’s wrong, even if she doesn’t know what. She deserves someone who can love her fully, and I just can’t. Not when I’m in love with someone else. I wish I could tell her and not mess everything up. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could tell everyone I know.

I don't know how I'm going to look at you next week and act like everything's fine. I’ve already been obsessing over what you might look like now. A new haircut, new clothes. Maybe you’ve gotten that happy glow back, now that you’re out of Hawkins. I dream about it, as embarrassing as that is.

It doesn’t matter what I think about, though. I’m not some hopeless romantic. You're my best friend and you're straight and you're never going to feel the same way, and that's okay. It has to be okay. I'd rather have you as my friend than not have you at all. So I'll keep it buried, okay? I'll take it to my grave if I have to.

Sometimes I think back to when we were kids, and I think I see something - the way you looked at me, or the way you smiled when I make a stupid joke. And for a second I let myself hope. But then I remember who I am and who you are and how impossible this is, and I shut it down. I can keep it in check, don’t worry.

I don't think I'll ever stop loving you. I don't think I want to. You're the best thing in my life, Will Byers. Even if you never know how much you mean to me. Even if I never get to tell you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I'll see you next week. Let’s hope I don’t blow this whole thing up in my face.

Love, always, Mike

02/05/1988

It was done. Over, finally. Will had been free of the deep, skulking sense of evil gnawing at his brain for three entire months. Three entire months of applying to college instead of fighting interdimensional beings. Three months of laughing at Lucas, and letting El paint his fingernails, and sitting in Mike’s bedroom doing nothing but existing with each other. Like he always had done before… well, before all of it.

Mike's bedroom smells like dust and cardboard and something distinctly Mike - a combination of old comic books and the cheap cologne he started wearing last year that Will secretly loves.

The afternoon sun slants through the window, casting golden squares across the carpet, and Mike is in one of his moods. The good kind. The kind where he can't stop talking, where his hands move as much as his mouth, where his eyes are bright and his smile comes easy.

Will has missed this Mike. The one who isn't weighed down by the world ending, who isn't watching Will like he might disappear if Mike blinks too long. They won. Vecna is dead. The Upside Down is sealed. They get to be normal now - or as normal as they'll ever be.

"Okay, but seriously," Mike says from where he's standing by his closet, holding up two identical black t-shirts like there's some crucial difference between them. "Do you think we need a mini fridge? Because Dustin said his cousin had one and it was a lifesaver, but also I feel like we're not going to have room for it…"

Will laughs, the sound bubbling up from his chest. He's crouched by Mike's bed, pulling out boxes from underneath to see what else needs to be packed. "Mike, we'll figure it out when we get there."

"I'm just saying, I don't want to be the idiots who show up unprepared and have to eat dining hall food every single day-" Mike tosses both shirts onto the growing pile on his bed and turns back to the closet. "And we should probably coordinate who brings what, right? Like, we don't need two desk lamps. That's just wasteful."

"Very practical of you," Will says, grinning at the underside of Mike's bed frame. There's old gum stuck up there from years ago - probably from when they were twelve and thought it was hilarious. His chest aches with fondness.

They're really doing this. UC Berkeley. Both of them got in - Mike for creative writing, Will for art. They'd opened their acceptance letters on the same day, sitting in Mike's basement with shaking hands, and when they'd both screamed "I got in!" at the same time, they'd tackled each other in a hug that lasted maybe a beat too long. And then Mike had said, voice careful and hopeful, "So… roommates?" And Will had said yes before Mike could even finish the question.

Of course they're rooming together. They've been Mike-and-Will since they were five years old. Will doesn't know how to be any other way.

"-and I was thinking we could get posters, you know, make it feel less institutional. Maybe that one from the comic shop with Professor X and Magneto." Mike pauses. "What do you think? That one, or the Indiana Jones one?"

Will doesn't answer. He can't. Because his hand has just closed around a shoebox shoved far back under Mike's bed, and when he pulled it out and opened it without thinking, he found-

Letters.

A whole box of them. Envelopes, some sealed, some open. Loose papers covered in Mike's messy handwriting. And on every single one, in the top left corner: Dear Will.

Will's heart stops.

His hands are shaking as he pulls out the first letter. The paper is soft, worn, like it's been folded and unfolded many times. The date in the corner says September 1985. When Will was in California. Back when they barely talked.

Dear Will,

I've started this letter like five times already. Keep crossing stuff out. I don't know why it's so hard to just write to you - we've been best friends since we were five, and I've never had trouble talking to you before. But I guess writing is different than talking. Or maybe it's just that you're so far away now and I don't know how to do this yet.

Will's vision blurs. His breath catches in his throat. Behind him, Mike is still talking, something about posters and decoration, but it sounds like it's coming from underwater. Will's entire world has narrowed to the paper in his hands, to Mike's handwriting, to the words I miss you so much and Love, Mike at the bottom - scratched out, then rewritten, then scratched out again.

His hands are trembling so badly he almost drops the letter. He sets it carefully on the floor and reaches for another one.

Dear Will,

Sorry I never sent the last letter. Well, I guess it doesn't mean anything to apologize for not sending a letter you'll never see...

I didn't have the heart to tell her that most things I remember to put to paper are things I want to tell you, not her.

Her. El. Mike's girlfriend. Except-

Will's brain is static. White noise. He keeps reading, his eyes skipping over words, catching on phrases that make his heart lurch.

Maybe I'm not meant to

I feel like I'm stuck in my basement on the day I realized you were missing

I have… what? A girlfriend I can't relate to and a best friend I can't talk to.

Miss you like crazy

Love, Mike

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

Will reaches for another letter. Then another. His hands are shaking so hard the papers rattle. Mike's voice behind him has become white noise, a distant hum, because Will is reading and his entire understanding of the world is cracking apart like ice on a frozen lake.

I was thinking about you, which I do a lot these days.

I realized I don't think about El like this. I don't think about anyone like this. It's always you. It's always been you.

Maybe I'm just confused. Maybe it's because we've been through so much together. Maybe it's just because you're my best friend and I miss you.

But I don't feel like this about Lucas. Or Dustin.

Will's chest is too tight. He can't breathe. He's reading Mike's handwriting, Mike's words, and they're saying things that Will has dreamed about for years but never let himself believe could be real.

I can't write it down. If I write it down, it's real.

There's a gap in the letter. A space where something should be. And then:

What do I know about love

The sentence cuts off. Unfinished.

Will's hands are shaking so badly he has to set the letter down. He reaches for the next one, and the next, and he's crying now - when did he start crying? - tears blurring the ink, making Mike's handwriting swim.

Dear Will,

I think I'm in love with you. I think I always have been.

The world stops.

Will's heart stops.

Everything stops.

He stares at the words until they burn into his retinas. I think I'm in love with you. I think I always have been.

His hands are numb. His entire body is numb. He keeps reading, and every word is a knife, is a caress, is everything Will has ever wanted and never thought he could have.

I wish I could point to some huge a-ha moment, like in the movies... Really, it was something slow and creeping.

I think about finding you on the swings in the first grade. I think about the first time Jonathan showed us the DnD board game, and how excited you were to see all the magic stuff.

Was I in love with you then?

I remember when you came back, when I finally saw you again, and I thought my heart was going to stop. I swear to God, Will, it was like I could breathe again for the first time in days.

I must have been in love with you then.

Will can't see through his tears. His chest is heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. This isn't real. This can't be real. Mike doesn't - Mike can't-

But the letters are real. The paper is real under his shaking fingers. The words are real, written in Mike's handwriting, saying things Will has been terrified to even think about since he was seven years old and realized that the way he felt about Mike Wheeler was different from the way he was supposed to feel about his best friend.

I thought I loved El, you know? That's what made it so hard, I think. I do love her, in a way... But it's not this.

I'm so angry at myself. How did I not know? How did I not SEE it?

And the worst part is, I can never tell you. I can never say it out loud. Because you're my best friend, and if I tell you and you don't feel the same way, I lose you. And you don’t feel the same way, and I can’t lose you.

Will makes a sound - half-sob, half-laugh. Doesn't feel the same way. Mike thinks Will doesn't feel the same way.

I'm coming to see you in a few months. Spring break. And I don't know how I'm going to look at you and not say this. I don't know how I'm going to pretend everything's normal when nothing is normal.

Spring break. When Mike came to California and they had that week together, when Will painted him that painting and almost said something a dozen times but couldn't make the words come out. When Mike looked at him with those dark, intense eyes and Will felt like he was drowning.

Mike knew. Mike knew then, and he didn't say anything.

Will's hands find the last letter in the box. The paper is newer, less worn. The date reads the week before Mike came to visit.

Dear Will,

This is probably the last letter I'll write...

I'm seeing you next week, and I think I need to stop doing this. Writing things I'll never send. It's not healthy.

El says you have a crush on someone. That you're painting them something? Maybe it's better I don't know the details.

Will's breath catches. The painting. The one he painted for Mike, because Mike was the only person he wanted to paint. Mike thought it was for someone else. If Will wasn’t frozen in some half-dreaming state, he would’ve appreciated the irony of it all. The maddening, dramatic, painful irony.

I'm not some hopeless romantic. You're my best friend and you're straight and you're never going to feel the same way, and that's okay. It has to be okay.

Straight. Mike thought Will was straight.

Will wants to laugh. Wants to scream. Wants to travel back in time and shake both of them until they stop being idiots.

Sometimes I think back to when we were kids, and I think I see something - the way you looked at me, or the way you smiled when I make a stupid joke. And for a second I let myself hope. But then I remember who I am and who you are and how impossible this is, and I shut it down.

I don't think I'll ever stop loving you. I don't think I want to. You're the best thing in my life, Will Byers. Even if you never know how much you mean to me. Even if I never get to tell you.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I'll see you next week. Let's hope I don't blow this whole thing up in my face.

Love, always, Mike

Will is sobbing now. Full, body-shaking sobs that he can't control. The letters are scattered around him on the floor, years of Mike's secret feelings laid bare, and Will's entire world has just rearranged itself into a shape he never imagined could exist.

Mike loves him.

Mike has loved him for years.

Mike wrote letters he never sent because he thought Will was straight, thought Will could never feel the same way, thought he was alone in this.

All this time. All this time, they've been in love with each other, and neither of them knew.

"-and I don’t think we’ll need to buy all our books, I mean, come on… Will? You okay?"

Mike's voice cuts through the static. Will can't respond. Can't move. Can't do anything except stare at the letters in his hands and try to remember how to breathe.

Behind him, he hears Mike take a step closer. "Will? What are you-"

Mike's voice cuts off abruptly. Will doesn't have to look to know that Mike has seen what Will is holding. He can hear it in the sudden, sharp intake of breath. In the way the air in the room changes, goes taut and electric.

"Wait- no, those are- those aren't-"

Will finally turns. Mike is standing frozen in the middle of his bedroom, and the color has completely drained from his face. He looks terrified. Actually, genuinely terrified, like Will is holding something that could destroy him.

"Those are private," Mike says, and his voice is high and thin. He takes a step forward, hands reaching out. "Will, please, just give them back-"

Will stands up, clutching the letters to his chest. He's still crying, tears streaming down his face, and Mike freezes when he sees them.

Mike crosses the room in two strides, tries to take the letters, but Will holds them away, higher, out of reach.

"Will-" Mike's voice cracks. He looks wrecked, panicked, like he's watching his entire world fall apart. "Please-"

"Mike," Will says, and his voice comes out wrecked, broken. "Is this… are these… are they real?"

Mike opens his mouth, then closes it, running his hands through his hair in that way he does when he's spiraling. "It's- they're old, I forgot they were even-"

"These are letters." Will's voice is shaking. "To me. You wrote me letters and never sent them."

Mike's hands are in his hair, tugging. He looks like he might be sick. "Will, please, just- just forget you saw them, okay? It was stupid, I was just- I was confused and-"

"Confused about what?" Will takes a step forward. Mike takes a step back.

"It doesn't matter." Mike won't meet his eyes. "It was a long time ago."

"These are from when I was in Lenora." Will looks down at the letter in his hand, the one that says I love you three times in a row. His voice drops to barely a whisper. "That's not - Mike, this one is from last March."

Mike's back hits his bedroom door. He looks trapped, wild-eyed, like an animal caught in a snare. "Will-"

Will holds up the letter with shaking hands. He can barely get the words out past the tightness in his throat. "What does this mean?"

"Please don't make me say it." Mike's voice breaks on the last word.

The silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating. Will can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, can feel the weight of the letters in his hands, can see the fear in Mike's eyes.

"You'll hate me," Mike whispers.

Something in Will's chest cracks wide open. "I could never hate you."

"You don't know that." Mike's eyes are wet now, red-rimmed. "You don't-"

"Then tell me." Will's voice comes out desperate, pleading. "Tell me what these letters mean."

Mike shakes his head. Takes another step back even though there's nowhere to go, his back already pressed against the door. His hands are shaking.

Will takes another step forward. "Mike, please."

"I can't." Mike's voice is barely audible.

"Why not?"

"Because-" Mike makes a broken sound, covers his face with his hands. His shoulders are shaking. "Because if I say it out loud, it's real, and if it's real, then you'll-"

He cuts himself off. Will's heart is hammering so hard it hurts.

"Mike…" Will's crying again, or maybe he never stopped. "Please."

"I'm sorry," Mike says, muffled behind his hands. "I'm so sorry. I never meant for you to see those. I never meant for you to know."

Will's chest aches. He looks down at the letters in his hands - years of Mike's feelings, years of longing and fear and love that Mike tried to keep hidden. He thinks about every moment over the past year. Mike's hands on his face in the storage room. Because it's you. Mike cutting through the vine that was choking him. Mike looking at him like he hung the stars.

"How long?" Will asks quietly.

Mike drops his hands. His face is blotchy, eyes red and wet. He looks so young, so scared. "What?"

"How long have you felt this way?"

Mike's throat works. "Will-"

Will presses. He has to know. He has to know, or he might combust in Mike's bedroom."How long?"

Mike closes his eyes. "I don't know." His voice cracks. "Always? Since we were kids? I didn't- I didn't realize it until you left, but I think it's always been there. I think I've been in love with you my entire life and I just didn't know what it was."

The words land like a physical blow. Will's knees nearly buckle. Mike's eyes are still closed, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he's trembling.

Silence. Will can't speak. Can't move. Can only stand there with Mike's letters clutched in his hands and Mike's confession hanging in the air between them.

"Please say something," Mike whispers. His voice is so small. "Will, please, just- say something. Yell at me. Tell me I'm crazy. Tell me we can forget this happened. Just… please-"

"Do you still feel this way?" The words come out before Will can stop them.

Mike's eyes snap open. "What?"

Will's voice is shaking, but he forces the words out anyway. "The letters. What you wrote. Do you still feel this way?"

Mike stares at him. His jaw works like he's trying to form words but can't make them come out. Finally, he just closes his eyes and nods.

One small movement. But it changes everything.

"Look at me," Will says.

Mike doesn't move.

"Mike. Look at me."

Slowly, painfully, Mike opens his eyes. They're dark and wet and full of so much fear that Will's heart breaks.

"Do you still feel this way?" Will asks again, and his voice is gentle now, soft.

Mike's face crumples. "Yes." The word comes out broken. "Yes, okay? Yes. I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for years and I-" His voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know you don't- I know this is-"

Will lets out a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob.

Mike stops. Stares at him.

"Mike," Will says, and he's crying and laughing at the same time. "Mike, I've been in love with you since I was seven years old."

Silence.

Mike doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. He's staring at Will like he doesn't understand the words, like they're in a language he doesn't speak.

"What?" Mike's voice is barely a whisper.

"How could you think…" Will's laugh is wet, disbelieving. "How could you possibly think I didn't feel the same way?"

"Because you're-" Mike's hands are shaking. "You never said- I thought-"

"I've been in love with you my entire life." Will takes a step forward. "I thought you were straight. I thought you were in love with El. I thought-" His voice breaks. "I thought I was alone in this."

"I'm not," Mike says quickly. "I'm- I thought I was, but I wasn't. I was in love with you the whole time, I just… I didn't know. I didn't understand what I was feeling until you left and it felt like I couldn't breathe without you."

They're both crying now. Will can see it in the way Mike's shoulders are shaking, in the wetness on his cheeks catching the afternoon light.

Will crosses the room. Mike meets him halfway. Will reaches up with shaking hands, cups Mike's face. Mike flinches against the touch, as if he wasn’t allowed to experience it. Will could relate to the feeling. One of the letters is still clutched in his fingers, crinkling against Mike's cheek. Mike's skin is warm and wet with tears, and Will can feel him trembling.

"You're an idiot," Will says, but there's no heat in it. Only fondness. Only love.

Mike laughs wetly. "Yeah."

"All this time…" Will's voice cracks.

"I know."

"We could have-"

"I know."

Will searches Mike’s face, looking at him entirely anew. His best friend, someone he’d marched into battle with. Someone who’s saved his life, and had his life saved in return. The amount of dedication and admiration and love almost bursts out of his throat, unable to stay contained anymore.

He suddenly remembers it doesn’t have to. Because Mike loves him back. Wow, what a thought that was.

"I love you," Will whispers.

Mike's eyes close. A shaky exhale escapes him. "I love you too. So much. Will, I love you so much-"

Will kisses him.

It's soft at first; tentative, trembling, like they're both afraid this might shatter if they're not careful. Mike makes a small sound against Will's mouth, something between a gasp and a sob, and his hands come up to grip Will's shirt like he's the only solid thing in the world.

Will pulls back just enough to breathe, to make sure this is real, and Mike's eyes flutter open. They're dark and wet and so full of wonder that Will's heart aches.

"Again," Mike whispers. "Please."

Will kisses him again, and this time it's less careful. Mike's hands slide from Will's shirt to his waist, pulling him closer, and Will drops the letters - hears them flutter to the floor - so he can cup Mike's face properly with both hands. Mike's skin is warm under his palms, tear-stained and real, and Will has spent years imagining what this would feel like but nothing could have prepared him for the actual reality of Mike Wheeler kissing him back.

They break apart, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. Mike's hands are still gripping Will's waist like he's afraid to let go.

"This is real," Mike says, and it's not a question but it sounds like one anyway. "This is… you're-"

"I'm real." Will's thumbs brush over Mike's cheekbones, wiping away tears. "This is real."

Mike lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a sob halfway through. "I can't believe… all this time-"

"I know." Will kisses him again, soft and quick. "I know."

"You love me." Mike says it like he's testing the words, like he's trying to make himself believe them. His eyes search Will's face with something desperate in them. "You actually-"

"Yes, yes, I love you." Will kisses his forehead, his temple, the corner of his mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you-"

Mike pulls him closer, buries his face in Will's neck, and Will can feel him shaking. "I thought-" Mike's voice is muffled against Will's skin. "I thought I was going to have to pretend forever. I thought I was going to go to Berkeley and room with you and be in love with you for the rest of my life and you'd never know-"

Will's arms tighten around him. "I was thinking the same thing." He laughs, wet and disbelieving. "We're both idiots."

"Such idiots," Mike agrees. He pulls back just enough to look at Will's face, and his expression is doing something complicated - cycling through disbelief and joy and fear and hope all at once. "What if you'd never found those letters?"

Will thinks about it. About moving to Berkeley, sharing a tiny dorm room, spending every day with Mike while both of them kept this enormous secret locked inside. The thought makes him feel sick. "I don't want to think about that."

"Me neither." Mike reaches up, traces Will's jaw with shaking fingers like he's memorizing the shape of it. "Can I… can I kiss you again?"

Will's breath catches. "You're asking?"

"I'm always going to ask," Mike says, and his voice is so earnest it makes Will want to cry again.

Instead, Will closes the distance between them, kisses Mike soft and slow and thorough. Mike sighs against his mouth, his whole body seeming to melt, and Will thinks: This. This is what I've been missing. This is what I've wanted my whole life.

When they break apart this time, Mike is smiling. Actually smiling, wide and genuine and so beautiful Will's chest hurts looking at it.

"I can't believe you love me," Mike says. He sounds awed. "Will Byers loves me."

"I can't believe you love me," Will counters. "You wrote me letters. You… Mike, you wrote that you've been in love with me since we were kids-"

"Because I have been." Mike's hands come up to frame Will's face now, mirroring Will's grip on him. "I just didn't know what it was. I didn't know that what I felt when I looked at you wasn't what everyone felt about their best friend. I thought…" He laughs, shaky and disbelieving. "I thought it was normal to want to hold your hand all the time. To memorize every expression you make. To… I don’t know. Feel like the sun was shining brighter when you smiled at me."

Will's vision blurs with fresh tears. He huffs a stunned laugh, Mike’s words tingling through his whole body. "Mike-"

"I'm so stupid," Mike says, but he's smiling. "We wasted so much time."

"We were scared." Will kisses him again, can't help it, needs to keep proving to himself that he can do this now. That Mike wants him to. "We were kids, and we were scared, and it's okay-"

"It's not okay," Mike says fiercely. "I could have had this-" He kisses Will. "Could have had you-" Another kiss. "For years…"

"Then let's not waste any more time," Will whispers against Mike's mouth.

Mike's eyes darken. He kisses Will harder this time, less tentative, and Will gasps against his mouth. Mike's hands slide into Will's hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and Will's knees actually go weak. He grabs onto Mike's shoulders for balance, pulls him closer, and they're pressed together from chest to hip now, breathing hard into each other's mouths.
When they finally break apart, they're both flushed and breathing hard. Mike's hair is a mess where Will's hands have been in it, his lips are red and swollen, and he's looking at Will like he hung the moon and stars.

"God," Mike breathes. "I've wanted to do that for so long."

"Me too." Will can't stop touching him; hands running over Mike's shoulders, his arms, his waist, like he needs to confirm that Mike is real and solid and here. "Since we were kids. Since you found me on the swings and asked if I wanted to be friends."

Mike's expression softens. "That was the best decision I ever made."

Will's soul brightens. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Mike's thumb traces Will's lower lip, gentle and reverent. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Will. Even before this…" He gestures between them. "Even when I thought you'd never feel the same way. You've always been the best thing."

Will kisses him again because he can't not, because Mike said that with such simple honesty that Will's heart feels too big for his chest. Mike makes a soft sound, surprised and pleased, and his arms wrap around Will's waist properly now, holding him close.

They kiss until they're both breathless and smiling, until Will's face hurts from how much he's grinning against Mike's mouth. When they finally pull apart, Mike's looking at him with such open adoration that Will has to hide his face in Mike's neck.

"What?" Mike's laugh rumbles through his chest. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Will's voice is muffled against Mike’s skin. "You're looking at me like-"

"Like I'm in love with you?" Mike's hands rub soothing circles on Will's back. "Because I am. I'm so in love with you it's embarrassing."

Will pulls back to look at him. Mike's face is open and honest and still a little scared, like he can't quite believe this is happening either.

"Say it again," Will whispers.

Mike's expression softens. "I love you."

Will’s breath hitches. "Again."

"I love you." Mike kisses his forehead. "I love you." His temple. "I love you." The corner of his mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you-"

Will's laughing now, bright and incredulous. "I've been waiting my whole life to hear you say that."

Mike cradles Will's face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Well, I'm going to say it every day now. I'm going to say it so much you'll get sick of hearing it."

"Never," Will says fiercely. "I'll never get sick of it."

They stand there in the middle of Mike's bedroom, wrapped around each other, surrounded by scattered letters and half-packed boxes. The afternoon sun has shifted, casting longer shadows now, and somewhere outside someone is mowing their lawn. Normal, mundane sounds of summer. But nothing feels mundane anymore.

Everything has changed.

Mike pulls back slightly, glances down at the letters scattered across his floor. His expression flickers with embarrassment. "I can't believe you read those."

"I'm glad I did." Will follows his gaze. "Mike- they're beautiful. And heartbreaking. And I wish…" His voice catches. "I wish I'd known. I wish you'd sent them."

"I was too scared." Mike's arms tighten around Will's waist. "Besides… it was complicated. With El, and all. You were in California. I was confused."

Will's heart clenches and nods, his hand tightening around Mike’s shirt. That was a conversation for later, he thought. Mike must have felt his hesitancy, because he wrapped Will tighter in his arms and exhaled against his scalp. Will let himself be held for the first time, and figured he’d never felt anything better.

When they finally, reluctantly pull apart, Mike gestures at the boxes around his room with a shaky laugh. "So, uh. Should we finish packing?"

Will looks at the chaos of Mike's bedroom - clothes everywhere, boxes half-filled, letters scattered across the floor. He looks at Mike, flushed and happy and so beautiful Will's chest aches.

"In a minute," Will says, and pulls Mike in for another kiss.

Mike laughs against his mouth, warm and bright. "Yeah. In a minute."

They have time now. They have all the time in the world.