Chapter Text
Truth be told, she hadn’t meant to wait exactly eleven years.
The days are long but peaceful. It took a while—almost two years, to be precise—for the tension to release from her muscles. To finally relax within the walls of her small apartment, or out under the Icelandic sun, and no longer feel as though she is being hunted, watched. She had to remind herself, actively, waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with a frightful whimper or a wanting name on her lips, that Hawkins was some three thousand miles away. That no one is looking for a girl named Eleanor Iverson in Hella, Iceland.
She didn’t venture out much, at first. She had gotten lucky—the people here are far nicer. Look kindly towards travellers, even more so towards those who find a home in the quaint town. Kaía, an older woman who lived alone in a two bedroom home, allowed her to stay in the spare room, and worked for it in the bakery Kaía owned in town. She had been reluctant, had wanted the safety of her new bedroom. Kaía had been kind enough to let Eleanor be for a while as she got used to her new surroundings, but she knew she couldn’t keep herself locked away.
So she tried. She lived.
Turns out, El—Eleanor—had a knack for baking. Breads, cakes, brownies—the townsfolk ventured in often for her baked goods, and though Eleanor shied away from the praise at first, the kindness and joy in strangers turned familiar faces made her feel more at home. During her work days, Eleanor was busy enough to keep her thoughts from wandering to three thousand miles away to another small town, this one filled with faces she missed, faces she saw in dreams and nightmares alike.
Except nothing was ever enough to keep her from thinking, awake or asleep, about the boy whose screams haunt her. They echo in her ears, over the sound of her rapidly increasing heartbeat. They push her to locking herself in her room, or in the bathroom at work, as she gasps for air and looks in her reflection and all she can see is the horror stricken expression she remembers etched so clearly on his face.
And then her gaze will drop to the ring on her index finger. Thin gold band, small ruby stone, and her heart will clench and thunder and collapse at the thought of him. She thinks of him most of all. A hollow resides in her chest, emptied by the distance that has grown between them. Necessary, she knows. So awfully painful, always.
But he is safe. That’s why she is here, isn’t it? To keep him safe, to make sure he survived. She thinks of her name ripping through his throat, piercing through the air and wrapping her heart in its fist. She feels her lips burn with the remnants of their last kiss, unsure if the tears she tastes are that of the present or ones that had flavored their kiss along with the devastation, the agony. It’s all the same, anyway.
She lives because he is alive and safe, and that is enough for her. She thinks of him every day, without fail. Thinks of his unruly dark hair, always so soft between her fingers. She thinks of his eyes, always reminding her of chocolate, and the way they softened with a warmth he reserved only for her. She thinks of his smile, often wide and shifting the dozens of freckles that scatter across his face. She misses him like she misses a lost limb.
But he is alive, and that is enough. It has to be.
She slowly thaws into her new life. El Hopper remains in nothing but her heart, and Eleanor Iverson flows through her life like the cascading waterfalls just a few miles outside of Hella. Close enough that she can go visit them on her days off, sitting at the cliffs, watching the water collect into a never ending pool, a rainbow shining across the base under sunny days. This is where she feels closest to him, to the dream they shared. Running away. Starting over. She tries not to cry. Wills the tears away when they burn her eyes. But she is not always successful. The pain wins, sometimes. The loss. It is all love, though. All for him. So she sits and breathes the fresh air, twists the ring that she never takes off.
Weeks turn into months turn into years. She is able to afford an apartment of her own, just a few blocks from the bakery. Small, but hers. Slowly, she fills it with things, mementos of a new life she has created for herself. Landscape prints she hangs up on the walls, books from the local shop she makes her way through and decorates on her shelf. A journal sits on her coffee table, keeping track of her days—and bettering her penmanship at the same time. Sitting by the window, looking out at the street below. At families moving along the sidewalk, at children running about. The sight of them weighs on her body, sometimes making her incapable of even lifting the pen.
But letting her thoughts wander to the people she loves is a dangerous game, and she doesn’t often win. El hated to lose—and so does Eleanor. So she wonders.
Are they happy? Did they go to college? Get jobs? Start families of their own? Do they think about her? Talk about her? Does he? Is he happy? She hopes he is, more than anything. Has he found someone? She feels guilty for the split second she hopes that he hasn’t, but buries the thought away because it’s what she wanted, isn’t it? It’s the door she opened for him with her disappearance. She cannot blame him. Even if the thought makes bile rise in her throat, fire burning through every vein.
Seven years gone, and Eleanor sees Mike for the first time.
No, that’s not right. She doesn’t see him—but she sees his name. Michael Wheeler, staring at her from the table of new releases at the local bookstore she frequents, and Eleanor’s heart drops to her stomach. Her breath hitches high in her throat, trembling fingers reaching for the first book in the pile. The sign on the table the books sit on reads A New York Times Bestseller! She knows that means something good, something excellent. She is not surprised.
But she can’t think of anything else as her shaking fingers brush over the cover, right where his name sits. Her lips form it soundlessly, eyes burning as her gaze drifts to the image on the cover. A woman, she realizes, her features covered under the hood of a blue cloak, though her dark hair falls down her chest, over a pink gown. Eleanor’s breath trembles once more.
The shop is quiet, not busy, but she is deaf to the silence as she opens the book, right to the first page. The dedication is short, simple.
For E.
Eleanor buys the book and walks out with just that. Goes home and reads the words Mike wrote, the stories of their childhood he has turned into something easier for the world to consume. All based in a fantasy land about fantasy characters, but it’s them. Their story—the one that brought them together and the one that ripped them apart. She doesn’t have work the next day, and so she stays up reading it in bed in the glow of the bedside lamp, memories playing through her mind that she could never forget. Hearing the voices of her friends, of him, in her mind when characters so clearly based on them speak.
The ending, too, is one she knows all too well. As the birds chirp in the early morning, Eleanor sits in bed with a heavy heart as Mike’s story reaches no real conclusion, leaving more questions than answers. The birdsong is drowned out by her gasp when she reaches the end and sees him on the inner dust jacket of the book. She hadn’t even thought to look when she first saw the book. But he is there. Right there. Mike.
He blurs in and out of focus as her finger traces his picture. His hair is the same length as she last remembers, but her lips turn downwards at his smile. Not real, she instantly knows. It doesn’t reflect in his eyes, does not shift his face as when he smiles like he means it. It’s forced, disillusioned, and Eleanor lets the tears fall freely. Her fault, she knows. Her doing. She took his smile with her, even as she left her heart behind with him.
For the first time in seven years, El turns on the radio into static and puts a blindfold over her eyes, and visits Mike.
She reads all of his books as they come. Drinks in the words he put down on paper, a peek into his mind. She pictures it clearly, the look of concentration on his face. She had seen it often, years ago. The pinched brows, the twisting of his lips. She misses him more and more with every word in every novel. Every book has a dedication to just her. She is always on his mind, just like he is on hers.
He hasn’t moved on, and the emotions she feels are complicated. A swell of relief and pain come together in a tangle of grief she cannot undo. He writes their story, over and over again, with endings that are never quite happy, never quite bitter. She reads them all, praying that he finds peace at the end of each story, and he never does.
She has the power to change that.
It hits her after his fourth book, which she purchases with a postcard with burgeoning intention. She stares at the card. Greetings from Iceland stares back at her, the words plastered across the landscape, images within the blocked letters of Iceland that showcase the waterfalls. Her knee bounces as she stares at the card, as she flips it over at the blank space, heart thundering in her ears with need as the world around her keeps turning.
The cafe is as busy as it can get on a Sunday in a town as small as this, but Eleanor pays no attention to the subtle bustle of people around her. She remains at her corner table, looking out the window. The sun is bright above them this afternoon, the warmth seeping through the glass and bathing her gently. Her eyes wander to a couple sitting in the other corner of the cafe, their eyes for only each other, and Eleanor feels something in her chest tug. Heartstrings meant only for Mike.
Eleanor grabs the pen and writes, and for the first time in eleven years, she sets out to contact the man who lives in her memories and dreams.
The postcard had arrived a week or so after Thanksgiving, is what Mike’s mother told him. She had handed it to him with a smile as she teased, “I thought you have a separate mailing address for all your fans?” before turning to prepare Christmas dinner.
Whatever quippy retort that had danced at the tip of Mike’s tongue had died when he took in the postcard—from Iceland, of all places. But if the location had thrown him off, the image made his head spin on a dime.
His legs had shook as he made his way to the basement, fingers trembling in their grip of the card as he sank down on the old couch. The sound of Holly playing music upstairs faded into a faint ringing sound as Mike turned the card over, telling himself he was getting ahead of himself, that he was letting hope swell too fast. But then he read the words written in black ink, in handwriting that looked familiar, yet grown. Practiced and perfected.
The message was simple but enough to make the air rush out of his lungs.
Dear Mike,
Your books have gotten me through some hard days. Maybe you can find inspiration for the Paladin’s next adventure here. The waterfalls are beautiful.
It wasn’t signed, but Mike’s fingers had brushed along the dried ink all the same. A blot of water dropped at the bottom of the card, out of reach of the ink so it didn’t smear, and the breaths Mike had taken went nowhere. The ringing in his ears had intensified, his head spun, but only one thought, one name, echoed in his mind.
El. El. El.
She was alive. He knew it—had felt it, deep in his bones and everywhere in his heart—but this bit of tangible proof nearly undid him. Alive alive alive. Of course she was alive. He would have felt it otherwise. She is too deeply woven into his heart for him to not know.
His hand had covered his mouth, a half sob and half laugh muffled behind his palm. The relief yearned to flow through, but Mike kept it at bay. Didn’t dare feel the extent of it until she was right before his eyes. He had taken a look at the postage, at the name of Hella, Iceland, and felt the resolve tighten his stomach and chest with fierce determination that he hadn’t felt for years.
He did not give himself a moment to think. He just did.
He flew out to Iceland the day after Christmas. Told everyone he was going on a research trip for his book, unsure for how long. They would want to know, he knew. But he had to be sure—and he had to be sure it was what she wanted.
The plane ride had been full of nothing but anticipation, of nerves, of hope and fear and relief. Mike reminded himself she wanted him there—she wouldn’t have reached out if she didn’t expect him to come. Because of course he would. There was not a world that existed in which Mike and El lived in separately. Too many questions swam in his mind, but he silenced them. All in good time, he reminded himself. The only thing he wanted to do was see her, hold her. The thought alone, of an idea that once seemed impossible but was now becoming a tentative reality, made a shaky smile dance across his lips, unable to let him focus on anything else, though he did try to turn his attention to the English to Icelandic dictionary he had luckily found at the airport. His backpack sits at his feet, heavy with letters he never sent but kept nonetheless.
But he’s here.
The bus from Reykjavik to the Þjórsárdalur valley was nearly two hours, and from there Mike caught a cab that brought him to Hella. He had booked a room in the inn through the travel agency, small and quaint, with light already filtering in from the street as he switches on the bedside lamp. It’s late, nearly ten, and every nerve in Mike’s body is hardwired to push him towards the door, set out to the streets in search for the girl who has stayed with them for the last decade. In the forefront of his mind, in every crevice of his heart, yet always a shadow in his peripheral vision.
He has to force himself to wait until morning. It feels physically impossible; he tells himself he’s waited eleven years, what’s one more day? Too much, the voice in his head answers. Still, he stays. Gets into bed and stares at the ceiling, anticipation keeping sleep out of reach. Kept away, for a while, by the tugging in his chest. A deep sensation that strengthened the second he arrived at Hella, like his heart just knows. It leaves him breathless, yet only intensifies the hope that builds.
Eventually, though, he does fall asleep and despite the hope that flows through his body like oxygen, it doesn’t keep the nightmares at bay. The ones that had started that fateful night, watching as the love of his life disappeared before his very eyes, leaving behind rubble and the echo of his screams. He sees it, over and over again, different variations of what could have happened. Sometimes, he breaks free of the soldiers, but he is too late to get to her as she is swept away into the nothingness. Sometimes, it’s the reality that plays through like a loop, a constant reminder of his loss. Sometimes, he manages to get to her, only to realize she truly is just an illusion and the real El is nowhere near the destruction. Instead, he is the one who is swept away. He wakes, panting and screaming all the same, but he considers those to be dreams. At least she is alive in those.
When he wakes in the morning, he realizes the night hadn’t been too bad. Only a thin sheen of sweat slicks his skin, which he washes off in his shower. His skin is abuzz, humming with an eagerness he hasn’t felt in a long time. Excitement that feels unfamiliar but not at the same time. For the first time in years, Mike feels alive, and it’s all thanks to the tugging in his chest, a call he must answer.
So he takes his backpack and shoves on his shoes and sets out to venture amongst the town that he knows has become her new home.
The crisp air singes his cheeks with its chill, but Mike doesn’t mind it. It’s a quiet morning, and he doesn’t see many people out yet. The inn seems to be located on a main street, with shops on either side of the road, and for a short minute, Mike is overwhelmed. He doesn’t know where to start. Should he ask someone if they’ve seen a woman with El’s description? Should he just wander? The town isn’t too big, it would be doable. The tugging in his chest grows stronger, needier, robbing him of his breath. He presses a hand to his chest, kneading the area, but it doesn’t lessen the sensation. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s dizzying in its insistence. Is she nearby? Does she feel this, too? Can she—
His thoughts are interrupted by the low rumble of his stomach, and Mike huffs out a breath. He hasn’t eaten since his bus ride snacks, mostly because the excitement and nerves had made it impossible to eat the night before. But hunger gnaws at him, and it’s at that moment that Mike spots a bakery across the street, a few store fronts over.
When he squints, he sees the sign on the door read opið, and his trusty translation dictionary gives him the greenlight that the bakery is open. So Mike crosses over the empty street, hiking the strap of his backpack higher up his shoulder, and the moment he steps onto the sidewalk, he feels it.
That pull in his heart, the one that belongs solely to El, stronger than before. Enough to falter Mike’s steps, enough to make his breath stumble. His gaze rises, flickering over the glass door and windows, squinting in hopes of seeing inside, unable to make out anything. His heart pounds, the bakery empty, but a light comes from a doorway behind the counter. Go. Go inside.
It’s a call that must be answered and it pushes him forward with a shaky breath and hope. So much Goddamn hope.
The bell above the door jingles as he steps in, the scent of freshly baked bread hitting him. It’s a small bakery, with not many tables to sit, and it’s empty this early in the morning. Mike is sure most of the town is asleep, so it’s just him and—
“I’ll be right with you!”
The strap of the backpack falls from his shoulder to the crook of his elbow. That voice. It’s one he will never forget. A voice he hears in his dreams, gentle and warm, murmuring his name with a softness that has left an irreversible imprint on his heart. Now, it calls out to him from the kitchen in the back and Mike stands, frozen, suspended in disbelief until there is proof. Until she is—
Right here.
She emerges like something out of a dream. The kitchen light backlights her silhouette as she steps out, blinding him for a heartstopping moment which makes him wonder if it’s truly her, or if the universe had played some horrible trick on him.
But then his eyes adjust and her face comes into view—a face he has seen in dreams and a photograph he kept at his table, now in his wallet, a face he will never forget—and the backpack falls from his elbow to the ground with a heavy thud that nearly drowns out the only word that falls from his lips.
“El.”
She stops and, oh, those eyes. Wide and brown and so familiar as they lock with his, and the world narrows into this precise moment when, after eleven long years, El finally says his name once again. “Mike.”
It comes out as a sob, but he recognizes it all the same. Stumbles over his forgotten backpack as his body moves before he can command it to, but it doesn’t matter because she’s rushing over just the same, moving around the counter. Even in motion, his eyes don’t tear away from her, his gaze trapped in awe. Their footsteps are a hurried cacophony until the chasm of distance that existed between them diminishes into nothing and after losing her at sixteen, Mike has El back in his arms at twenty-seven.
She hasn’t grown taller, he notices, as his arms wrap around her frame familiarly, feels the press of her chin on his shoulder as he curls down into her while she rises on her toes. They collide with a gasp as Mike feels her fingers dig into the back of his jacket, like even this isn’t close enough, and Mike’s eyes squeeze shut in relief, lips parted with disbelief, as he is wrapped in her scent, vanilla with hints of raspberry, holding her with the conviction of a man who will never let go.
“It’s you. It’s you,” he repeats, feeling the hot tears streaking down his cheeks. In his arms, he feels her trembling. He knows he is, too. “I knew it. I knew you were alive. I didn’t—I could feel you. I knew it.”
He would see her everywhere. In the words he wrote, in crowds of unfamiliar faces in the hopes of somehow finding hers. Her voice was always a faint whisper in the back of his mind, constantly reminding him, like his subconscious was afraid he would forget the unforgettable.
She is older now, obviously. Lost some of the roundness of her cheeks, cheekbones angular, lips still full and pink as he remembered. Everything about her is familiar. Everything about her is her.
“Mike.” She whispers his name and he feels her head shift until her lips move against his neck, right over his pulse point. He trembles, her fingers digging deeper into his back, and Mike is sure he can feel her heart pounding against his own chest. “You came.”
A sound escapes him, halfway between a sob and a laugh, buried in the strands of her hair. Longer than he’s ever seen it, down to her waist, and it helps lift a weight off his chest. Like the longer her hair is, the freer she is. “Of course I came,” he replies, voice shaking. He’s not sure when he’s going to stop, but he doesn’t mind it. One of his hands slips up from her back, rests on the back of her neck under her hair. Her skin is warm. Alive. “You asked me to.”
Maybe not outright, maybe not in so many words, but she did. He knows she did. He never would have gotten on that plane otherwise, never would have risked her safety. El moves back until she can look up at him, her face blurring out of his vision for a moment until he blinks the tears away. Here she is, right in front of him, in his arms. Nose pink from tears, eyes glistening and eyelashes wet with the tears that run down her own cheeks. But a smile, real and bright and dimpled, as her hand rests on his cheek.
Mike instinctively leans into the touch, feels a breath shudder out of him at the swipe of her thumb against his skin. He’s still partly in disbelief, even with her in his arms. The tears he sees now are nothing like the last ones that rolled down her cheeks; these are of joy, of relief, even though some pain lingers. The pain of leaving, the pain of separation, the pain of silence. Mike feels it, too. "I knew you'd understand," she says quietly and Mike shakes once more. He understood. What she told him in the void, before she left. A truth he clung onto for years.
He presses his forehead to hers, unable to keep too far, and El’s eyes flutter shut as she exhales softly. “There’s so much we need to talk about,” she murmurs knowingly, her other hand fisting the front of his jacket. “I need—”
“Eleanor?” Mike hadn’t even heard the bell above the door jingle, a startled gasp escaping them both as he turns, El still in his arms, to see a woman entering the bakery. Older than them, maybe in her forties, with graying hair tied back into a ponytail and bright blue eyes that watch him suspiciously before her gaze slides over to El.
She speaks again, this time in Icelandic, and Mike is only a little surprised when El responds in kind. Only a little, because this is new, but also because if she’s been here this whole time, of course she picked up the language. He can’t keep up with what El says, but he watches the way her lips form the words, the way they roll off her tongue in near effortlessness. He is proud even as his chest tightens painfully.
He recognizes his name when she brings it up in her conversation with the woman, who seems to nod in understanding. She says something else then, which causes El’s eyes to widen as she asks in English, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” the woman replies, rolling her eyes with fondness, a smile dancing on the edges of her mouth. “You deserve it.”
Mike watches, puzzled, until El squeezes his arm and smiles, “Let me get my bag and we can go.”
He can only nod dumbly, watching her head back into the kitchen, eyes on her retreating figure until it disappears through the doorway. Mike feels it building, then. The sudden panic when she gets out of sight, and he is a second away from following after her until the woman speaks again. “Take care of her.” Mike’s gaze snaps back to the woman, blinking in surprise at her firm expression. “She is a special girl.”
Mike bites his tongue, keeps himself from telling this stranger that he knows exactly how special El is. He knew it from the moment he met her a decade and a half ago. But instead he presses his lips together and nods, bending down to pick up his backpack and straightening just as El returns.
Her eyes find his instantly, and the smile she wears is warm, tinged only a little with disbelief. She’s got a brown paper bag in one hand. “Come. My place is two blocks from here.”
And then her palm presses to his, her fingers slotting in between his own, and as they step out into the crisp Icelandic air, Mike gets the knowing feeling that he’s home.
Her apartment is utterly her.
Quiet and quaint, with pieces of her everywhere. Colorful pillows on the couch, knick knacks decorating shelves, artwork on the walls. The curtains are parted to let the natural light in through the windows, bright and warm, and Mike can’t help but think back to Hopper’s cabin, where the curtains were always closed. He is reminded, with a breathless sort of realization, that she is no longer in hiding.
His gaze continues to travel, landing on the bookshelf tucked into the corner of two walls. Various books are neatly stacked, including cookbooks and a few on learning Icelandic, some novels, and then—his books. The titles and his name written along the spines, the top edges of the dust jackets peeling and worn as if she has flipped through the books many times.
Mike’s throat works as he puts his backpack on the couch, turning to look at where El stands in the connected kitchen. “Hungry?” she asks, placing the bag on the counter. “I brought some croissants.”
Mike’s lips part, but nothing comes out. He’s stuck silent where he stands, air swirling and going nowhere as he just stares. Here—she’s right here. Like something out of a dream and he touched her, held her hand. He knows she’s real, yet the fear lingers. Like he’ll wake up any second, like he’ll touch her again and she will disappear. Nothing but an illusion like the last time he saw her.
He thinks he may cry again. He cried for her for eleven years, without fail. On the anniversary of their meeting, the same day he lost her, on her birthday, on his birthday. He cried when he thought of her smile. He cried when he thought of how she kissed him, how she said his name. He thought of her and he smiled and he cried, for the moments they had and the moments that were stolen from them.
“Mike?”
Her soft voice pulls him out of his thoughts, blinking back into reality and catching her watching him with a tilt of her head. It’s so distinctly El. She may be older, but she’s the same. Still her. “Yeah?” he asks with a clearing of his throat.
A smile touches the corner of her mouth. “Breakfast?” she asks, pulling out a decently sized croissant.
“Yeah.” He smiles in return, nodding quickly. “Breakfast.”
The counter that separates the kitchen and living room has two stools and they sit side by side, except they both face each other, her legs slotting between his longer ones, both of their feet resting on the low rung of the other’s stool.
The croissant is delicious, warm and buttery, a satisfied groan escaping him upon the first bite. “This is incredible,” he says after swallowing, reaching to rip off another piece.
El smiles in front of him, pride shining in her eyes. “Thank you.”
Mike’s eyebrows shoot up. “You made these?”
She nods, reaching for her own croissant. “Yes. It took some time to learn, and a lot of failures—” She wrinkles her nose at that and Mike can’t help but smile. “But I got better. I go in early most days to get things started for the day.”
She’s always been an early riser and in that moment, Mike pictures her life here. Pictures her getting up early in the mornings, wonders if she still eats waffles—do they have Eggos here?—or if she’s moved onto other things. He pictures her in the bakery kitchen, flour on her cheek and nose, hair tied back with wisps escaping to frame the gentle features of her face. He looks at her now, and he doesn’t see the fatigue of battle. Doesn’t see the weariness of being hunted. He sees peace, contentment. It’s a bigger relief than he thought possible.
Mike nods along to her words, tilts her head when she finishes and asks with a fond, “Eleanor, huh?”
El’s gaze flickers, the shared memory resurfacing. Twelve years old at the middle school during Will’s memorial assembly, when Mr. Clarke had found them and Dustin and Lucas in the hall. Introducing El as Eleanor, the boys chiming in that she was Mike’s, of all people, second cousin.
El’s throat works, her voice soft as she replies, “It seemed right.”
A gentle laugh escapes him as he nods, the notion dropping his gaze to her hand on her knee, and Mike’s throat dries. He had missed it before, but he sees it now, and his fingers tremble as he takes her hand in his, lifting as the sunlight glances off the thin gold band, the ruby that sits in place.
A knot tightens in Mike’s chest, slowly traveling up his throat as pressure once again builds behind his eyes. His bottom lip quivers as his thumb brushes along the stone, his voice nothing but a whisper. “You still wear it.”
The ring he had given her on his first visit to Lenora, all those years ago. A promise of his devotion, of his love, of everything in him that only exists for her. The sight of the ring on her finger, even now, strikes him in the chest.
“Of course I do,” El says quietly. She shifts her hand, then, until she is holding his hand, too. “Keeping you close like this—it’s how I survived.”
Mike’s gaze lifts and he sees El’s eyes are red rimmed, much like his own probably are. She looks at him with a decade’s worth of pain and loss and hope—everything he feels just the same. He never lost hope, not once in these last eleven years. He held onto the belief that he had escaped, that she disappeared to somewhere far away. He wasn’t sure if she would ever reach out to him, but that never deterred Mike in his belief. He would know. He would feel it if she were truly gone, and he never did. Not for a single second. And he was fucking right.
Every emotion tries to battle its way forward, and Mike can’t quite make sense of it. But for now, he squeezes El’s hand, basks in the warmth of her touch and presence, and says, “I missed you. I missed you so much. Every day. You—You were never not on my mind, El.”
Lips pressed together, Mike still sees her lower one tremble as she listens to him, sees the way her eyes well up with tears he has kissed away many times before. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I ever had to do,” she tells him shakily, “but I had to do it, if it meant you were going to be safe. But I never—”
She cuts herself off abruptly, eyes squeezing shut in what he can only perceive as regret when she shakes her head, sniffling. Worry gnaws at him as he leans forward, his free hand on her knee. “What? El, what is it?” he asks, his concern only growing when the furrow of her brows goes from regretful to painful. “El, please, just tell me. You never what?”
He soothingly, encouragingly, rubs the top of her thigh, the material of her jeans soft under his touch. It does the trick as her eyes flutter open, looking at him with wet lashes and eyes that hold agony that he knows all too well. Her lips part with hesitation, but Mike squeezes her hand, and her shoulders rise up to her ears even as her lips turn downwards.
“I never stopped hearing you. Your—” El’s throat works, her eyes flickering between his as she whispers, “Your screams. My name.”
Mike sucks in a sharp breath. He knows all too well. Has heard his own voice screaming for El, begging for her, every time he sleeps. Sometimes he wakes with his throat raw, like he had been screaming for her in his sleep. His freshman year college roommate would tell him as such. The guy lasted three months before requesting to transfer to another room. Mike didn’t find it in himself to feel bad about it.
“But you—” His throat feels raw again. “But you weren’t there. Not at the gate. You—you escaped—”
“Yes,” she nods, the corner of his lips lifting up in the briefest of half smiles. “But I was close enough. I heard. And I’m—” El shakes her head, a fresh track of tears streaking down her cheeks, her other hand finding his as she leans towards him. “I’m so sorry, Mike. I’m so sorry. I hate that I put you through that. I just needed you to be safe and to be able to have a life after—”
“After what?” Mike asks, not unkindly, not sharply. Desperately, more so. Disbelieving as his eyebrows shoot up. “After you? You thought—El, you seriously can’t think that I would have a life after you left.”
“But you did,” she says, a smile that is both sad and hopeful, a tilt of her head full of understanding. “You went to college. You wrote books—you’re so successful, Mike. You’re—”
“Alone,” he finishes, hands still holding hers, his arms resting on the tops of his thighs as he meets her gaze. Wills her to understand that a life without her isn’t a life worth living. El falls silent as Mike continues, “I was alone, El. I wrote books about our adventures but could never get the ending right, because none of them ever felt right. I wrote them because it was the only way I could feel close to you. I wrote them because my story has always been with you, and after you left, there was nothing worth writing about. So I stayed in the past, because at least you were still there.”
He tastes salt on his lips from tears he didn’t realize are running down his face, but he does nothing to wipe them away. Not as El lets out a small sob, not as his heart aches for her. “I chose to believe you were alive, somewhere out there, because it was the only thing that kept me going. Not moving on, but moving forward, at least. I could never—” He shakes his head, voice desperate. “I could never move on from you. I would have let you haunt me for the rest of my life.”
El shakes her head, expression crumpling, nose red. “That’s not what I wanted for you—”
“I know.” Mike’s voice is soft, even as he sniffles and takes one of their joined hands to rest hers on his leg, just so he can raise his now free hand to cup her cheek while her fingers clench the material of his pants. He swipes away at her tears. “But don’t you get it, El? You’re a part of me. Losing you was like—”
“Losing a limb.” She murmurs the words, almost to herself. Like they have meaning, like it’s the comparison she has been using for them this entire time. His heart thuds against his ribs.
Mike nods. “Yeah.”
Their gazes meet and Mike’s chest twists at the pain that swims in her brown eyes, the regret. “I hurt you,” she whispers. The three words are laden thickly with grief, with self inflicted agony, and Mike just wants to hold her.
“No,” he immediately shakes his head, ducking it in order to catch her averted gaze. When he successfully does, Mike tells her, “You saved all of us. But more importantly, you saved yourself. And I’m sorry, El.” She blinks, eyebrows furrowing together into a confused frown, and Mike swallows the lump in his throat, the tip of his nose burning. “I’m sorry we failed you. I’m sorry you resorted to doing that. I’m sorry you had to come all the way here, away from your home and your friends, because you thought it would be safer for everyone. We should’ve done more.” He shakes his head, the anger that is so familiar from all these years swelling. Self hatred and helplessness combining into something acidic. “We should’ve protected you. I should have protected you.”
“Mike, no,” El cuts in. Her hand comes up to cover his on her cheek before she pulls his hand back, curling her hand over his and resting them over her heart. A shaky breath escapes him at the feel of her pounding heart, gaze locking with hers. “Leaving you was hard. It was so hard, Mike, but—” Her smile is soft, sad, but hopeful. “But the only thing that made it a little easier was knowing you’d be safe. They would have killed you if it meant getting to me and I—” Her eyes slip shut, eyebrows pulled together like the mere thought agonizes her, and Mike understands. He knows the feeling. “I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t.”
Of course he understands this. He can hate it, can scream because of it, can agonize over it, but he understands.
“I know, I know,” he says, watching as her eyes open, and he’s ready to give her a small smile. “And I can’t lose you again. Okay? I can’t. I won’t.”
“You won’t,” El is quick to say, though honest. Their joined hands remain pressed against her heartbeat, and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. “I promise.”
Her gaze drops to his lips as she says it, and it’s all the permission Mike needs. He leans in, watching El’s eyes flutter shut, and his own follow suit just as he presses his lips to hers.
It’s a gentle, soft kiss, but it rocks him to his core. Makes him tremble where he sits as El lets go of his hand, only for her fingers to find home in between the thick strands of his hair, and Mike sighs into the kiss. God, he missed this, missed her. She tastes like buttery croissants and like salty tears and like coming home, and with his free hand he cups her cheek once again, tilts her head just so to deepen the kiss.
Her lips are as soft as he remembers, the wistful sound that escapes her resonating deep in his chest. A small part of him still can’t believe they’re here, but he’ll save that existential contemplation for later. Right now, he kisses the girl—the woman—that owns his soul, lets the relief of decade-long belief coming true flood through him with the warmth of contentment, and lets himself be glad he only bought a one way ticket.
The boy she loves is the same yet different, but that is the price to pay for the course of time.
They lay in bed together under the covers, sunlight slipping through the gap between closed curtains. She only lives on the second floor, with an apartment building right across the narrow street. The town is too small to not be careful about private moments. Now, Mike sits propped up against the headboard, El’s cheek resting near his heart. She likes the cold weather, but even she agreed that they couldn’t lay in bed without at least one layer, even with their skins flushed and heated, slick with a thin layer of sweat from their blissful reunion.
Her finger traces nonsensical patterns on his chest through the soft worn material of his shirt. She feels his own fingers absently playing with the ends of her hair. She knows it’s longer than he has ever seen it. And yet everything about this is familiar; like finding home in a place she has tried so hard, over the years, into making her own. Only now does it feel utterly complete.
She had known, of course, something was missing. Had known that no matter where she went, Mike would always be the missing piece. The life she has built for herself here is nice, good, peaceful. Most of her good memories back in Hawkins included Mike, and there had been a time where they were too painful to think about. But as they lay with their legs tangled beneath the sheets, the memories no longer hurt.
“Did you ever visit?” Mike asks, breaking the gentle silence of the room. It’s bright, with the early afternoon sunlight seeping through the curtains. “In the void, while you were here.”
“I tried not to,” she admits, almost guiltily. Picks at a loose thread on the neckline of his shirt. “I was too scared, like somehow they would find out. And that if I saw you, then I would—” El shifts, tilting her head to look up at him, only to see Mike already looking down at her. “I wouldn’t be able to stay away. And I had to, to keep you all safe. I just hoped that you were okay. But then I read your book, our story.” She moves up, then, so she’s sitting next to him, their sides still pressed together, legs still tangled. Mike’s eyes never leave hers. “And I had to see you. You were sitting at your desk, writing your next book, I think.” Her smile is warm, loving, as she tilts her head and asks, “You wear glasses now?”
A huff of a laugh escapes him, nodding his head side to side. “Sometimes, when I’m writing.”
El remembers the sight well. Thin frames and big lenses, suiting him nicely. Handsome, but he’d always been. She wished she could have taken a picture of him like that, lost in the world he was revisiting as the clicks of the typewriter echoed in the void.
“I don’t just write books, you know.” Mike’s voice pulls her out of her reverie, and El blinks, tilting her head in confusion. Mike’s smile is gentle, and it makes her want to kiss him again. She always wants to kiss him. “I wrote you letters. Almost every month, since you left.”
The air hitches in El’s throat, eyes widening. Words he wrote, just for her. Letters, like when they exchanged them back when she lived in Lenora. How she would wait by mailbox every week for Mike’s new letter, how she would seal hers with a kiss before sending them off to Hawkins. The memory makes her eyes burn, and her voice is quiet but shakes as she asks, “Did you—do you still have them?”
His smile touches his eyes—it has since the moment she saw him in the bakery, unlike his smiles in the photos in the backs of his books—as he nods. “Yeah. In my backpack. One sec.”
He disentangles their legs from beneath the sheets, pressing a kiss to her temple before he stands. El watches him walk out of the bedroom, breathing a little shaky as she hears his footsteps return soon after, his backpack in hand. El swallows the lump in her throat as he settles back down next to her, backpack on his lap as he unzips and digs through.
“Oh,” El gasps in surprise when Mike pulls out a stack—a very thick stack. Eleven years’ worth of letters tucked away in envelopes. When Mike holds them out to her, the burning in El’s eyes intensifies, and she’s unable to blink back the tears that spill over, the tightness in her heart near painful.
So many letters, so many words, he spent time writing for her even when he believed that he may never see her again. Even when there had been a point in time when Mike had struggled to tell her how he felt, he always showed her in the right ways, until he learned to talk about his feelings, too, without fear. Mike always knew what to say to El, how to get through to her, how to make her feel seen and wanted and loved. No one in her life loved her the way Mike Wheeler did, and these letters, unsent but treasured, are just another proof of that.
She’s openly crying, which she only realizes when Mike puts the letters down between them and shoves his backpack away. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, alarmed as his hands cup her cheeks, wiping away the free flowing tears from her cheeks. His voice is gentle, despite his worry, as he tilts her head up enough to get her to look at him. “El, hey, talk to me.”
“It’s nothing,” she says with a shake of her head, but he presses his lips together, unconvinced. A short, watery laugh escapes her and because it’s Mike, it’s easy to be honest. “I almost forgot what it was like—to be loved by you.”
Mike’s expression softens, lips parting to let a sharp breath escape. The lingering pain swims in his dark eyes, his thumbs swiping gently along her cheeks. “I’m sorry life let you get to that point.” When she opens her mouth to protest, Mike doesn’t let her. “But I’m here now, El, and I’m not going anywhere, okay? I love you.” Her heart jumps at the words, ones she had ached for so long to hear from him again. They feel just as lovely, just as beautiful. “I want to stay if—if that’s what you want.”
“Of course I want that,” she replies instantly, tearfully. Her hands come up to grasp his wrists, though she doesn’t move his hands away. “I love you, Mike.” His smile is perfect, brilliant, making her pulse quicken even more. A truth that has stood the test of time and space and everything in between. “But your family, your life back home—”
“You are my life, El,” Mike cuts in strongly, gaze flicking between hers. “That whole plan about us running away together, leaving everything behind? That was real to me. You are my life, you are my home. Wherever you are, that’s my place.” She lets out a quiet sob as he presses his forehead to hers, noses slotting together perfectly like they always have. “I spent years without you, and every day felt harder than the last. I only kept going because I knew you were still out there, and I couldn’t let—I couldn’t let what you did be in vain. Being with you is all I’ve ever wanted, El.”
Oh, her heart hurts in the best way. It swells and throbs and aches for him, for a future that finally feels possible after all of the blood, the tears, the pain. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, too,” she whispers, resolve building with hope, with love, with everything warm as she smiles. “I think you’ll really like it here.”
“Me too,” he replies with a smile, rubbing his nose with hers. “I heard the waterfalls are beautiful.”
El laughs, though it’s short lived as she tilts her chin enough to press her lips to Mike’s, sighing into the kiss he returns just as eagerly, just as sweetly. She feels herself come alive, this close to him, feeling and tasting him, and she was a fool. A fool to think that she’d ever be able to live the rest of her life without this—him.
When the kiss breaks, they don’t pull apart. El’s hands have slipped up into his hair, her heart pounding and lips tingling as she asks, “Do you want to go? To see the waterfalls?”
Mike smiles down at her. “Tomorrow, maybe. We’ve got plenty of time.” He pointedly drops his gaze down to the space between them. “I know you’re thinking about these.”
She follows his gaze to the pile of letters, a breathless laugh escaping her. He knows her too well. She itches with the need to open every single one, to drink in the words he wrote especially for her.
Later, they will decide on what to tell the others. Later, they will talk more about the nightmares they fought alone in their time apart, about the hope they clung to, about the love that never left. Later, Mike will make this place his home, too. Later, there will be pictures on the walls and on the shelves that reflect their smiles, their happiness, their peace. Later, she will be Eleanor to the town, but always El to him. Later, the life they have built together will be the one they have always dreamed about—once a fantasy but now a reality, one that will never be disrupted, one that will always be filled with the love they fought so hard for.
But for now, at this moment, El settles back into bed, and as Mike opens his laptop to write the ending—the real, happy ending—of his next book before even writing the beginning, El pulls out the first letter Mike wrote for her, two weeks after she had left.
November 20, 1987
Dear El.