Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first letter reached New York City early in September, folded carefully inside an envelope smudged from Mike’s nervous grip.

Will had opened his mail on his way to class, half distracted, expecting a letter from Joyce at most. But then he saw his own name, written in ink, not printed—and stopped walking.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Mike had written his first letter to Will the day he left for college. He’d sat alone in his basement, replaying their last hug in his head, convinced he hugged Will so hard he might’ve left a bruise. He told himself it was determination that drove him to grab a pen so quickly, the determination to keep his promise: to stay in touch, to not let distance do what it always threatened to do. But if he was honest, what really drove him was regret.

Mike had never been the one to take the first step with Will. Never the one to say how he felt. It hadn’t scared him before, because he’d always believed he had time. Forever, even. Time to figure it out. Time to talk. Time to apologize.

And then Will left for New York, and suddenly time wasn’t something Mike could count on anymore.

So he wrote.

The letter came out raw and eager and slightly pathetic, but the guilt he felt over the way he’d treated Will had been suffocating him. And maybe, if he put it on paper, the paper could take some of the weight with it. Maybe then his shoulders would feel lighter.

So he signed his name and sent it before he could change his mind.

Dear Will,

I’ve never been good with distance. I guess this letter proves that, I’m writing it barely five minutes after seeing you.

I just hugged you goodbye, wished you luck in New York, and promised I’d stay in touch. Then I came straight back down to my basement to find a pen and paper.

Why I didn’t say any of this to your face five minutes ago is a mystery to me. I’d like to say it’s because I'm a better writer than I am a speaker, but maybe that’d be giving myself too much credit. I’m probably just a coward.

Today was the last time I’d see you for God knows how long, and I didn’t want to make it weird. I didn’t want to start apologizing and have you tell me you didn’t want to hear it anymore. Part of me hopes you don’t like it when I apologize to you because you’ve already forgiven me, and it doesn’t hurt anymore. Another part of me is terrified you don’t like it because you just… don't care anymore. You don’t care what I think, what I feel, or what I have to say about what happened at all.

I keep telling myself it’s the first. I have to tell myself it’s the first. Because if it’s not… I don’t know how I’d live with that,. 

I didn’t want to think about you meeting people in New York. People who know how to be your best friend better than I ever did. So I’m writing now. If my timing’s right, you’ll get this by your first day of classes. Maybe it’s good I panicked. At least you’ll have something to read on the way there, right? 

The last time I went more than a week without seeing you was when you moved to Lenora. I remember those six months. I missed you every day, but that wasn’t even the worst part. I missed myself, too. I missed the Mike that existed when you were next to me, like I was better at being a person when you were around. 

It felt like the best parts of me went with you to Lenora. I kept thinking you’d replace me there, or that you’d finally realize you didn’t actually need me anymore. So I pushed you away first. I told myself it was easier that way, like it would hurt less if I did it before you had the chance.

And I guess that’s what scares me now. Standing on my doorstep today, watching you leave for New York, it felt exactly the same. I could feel those best parts of me leaving with you all over again. I’m scared you’ll find someone better than me out there. I’m scared you’ll realize (if you haven’t already) that you don’t really need me at all. That maybe, all along, I’m the one that needed you.

But this time I won’t be the one to push you away. If you decide you don’t want me anymore, it’s going to have to be your call.

Back then, I was an asshole. Maybe I still am. And I know I’ve said I’m sorry, but fuck, Will. I’ll never say it enough. I could spend a lifetime making it up to you, and I’d still never be enough. You deserved the best friend in the world and I just couldn't be that for you. I fucking hate myself for that. And I hate myself for letting you leave my doorstep just now without saying this shit to your face. I like to think you understand why this is easier for me. You’ve always understood me, Will. And I’m sorry, because for so long I never understood you. 

If I’d figured out what you were feeling sooner…I can’t help wondering if things might’ve been different. I don’t know how. I just know I wouldn’t be here now, writing this with regret in my chest, feeling like I failed the kindest person I’ve ever known.

I know you’ve moved on. I know what you felt for me is probably long gone, buried somewhere where I can’t reach it anymore. But you still deserved an apology from me. A real one, not the half assed things I mumbled or left hanging in the past. I’m so, so sorry, Will. You didn’t deserve a single second of what I put you through, and I swear, I’ll never hurt you like that again. I hate myself for the way I treated you. And I just can’t stop thinking about you. About what I did to you, I mean. It’s tormenting me that I was so blind and stupid, and now you’re packing your bags to leave and all I have is this fucking paper and I feel anxious and stupid. 

I know you promised you’d stay in touch with me, too. But I’m letting you off the hook. I’d understand if you don’t see how I fit in your life anymore. So, you really don’t need to write back if you don’t want to. If you’re done with me, that’s fine. I get it. I just needed to get this off my chest. 

That said, I’ll probably end up writing to you every week anyway, I can’t help it, I like telling you things. So if you do have the time, and if you feel like it, and if you want to help me not lose my fucking mind over this… I’d really like it if you wrote back. Just a sentence. It’d be enough for me. 

God, my head’s already full of questions. What does your dorm look like? Are your new friends anything like us? Do they play D&D? What are your classes like? Will you make new paintings? I keep wishing I could teleport there in a week and see it all for myself. I’ll have to settle for your stories, for now.

I hope New York is as good to you as you’ve always been to me, Will Byers. 

Love,
Mike

Will doesn’t write back right away. That almost breaks Mike.

So Mike, who apparently no longer has any concern for being pathetic, writes again.

Dear Will,

I haven’t heard back from you yet, so I decided to write a second letter. Is that too much? I hope it’s not too much.

I was thinking…it might be good to write weekly. Like a routine. Pen pals or something. It’s like keeping a diary, except you get a response. How fun is that? You can say no, of course. I just thought I’d put the idea out there. If you don’t want to write back, is it cool if I write to you still? 

By now, you’ve probably already had your first week of classes. I bet you’re the best artist there. Maybe you could send me some of your new paintings? I still have the binder with all the drawings you’ve given me. When you’re famous, I bet I can sell it. The unknown portfolio of William Byers. I could make a fortune. (That’s a joke. Sorry, I wonder if you can tell what my tone is on paper.)

How’s Jonathan? Do you have a roommate? Your mom told my mom you did. Is he nice to you? Have you had nightmares? Is someone taking care of you? Have you been on the subway yet? I heard there are rats. And crazy people. Is that true? Don’t get close to the crazy people, okay? Do you like New York? Is it better than Hawkins? I bet it is. Have you met anyone you like?

Sorry for all the questions. I can’t help it. I want to know everything. 

Do you miss me?

Love,
Mike 

The days before Will replies push Mike closer and closer to insanity by the hour.

He checks the mailbox like it’s a ritual, several times a day like if he does it often enough the universe will feel bad for him and make a letter appear. He checks it mornings. Afternoons. Nights. Sometimes twice in the same hour just in case.

He has dreams every night about Will finally writing back.

Some dreams are sweet. Will writes things like—

I miss you so much, Mike. Nope, I don’t like anyone here! 

Or, 

You know what, Mike. Maybe I should move back to Indiana so I can see you every day still. New York fucking sucks. 

Or, 

I don’t like anyone here everyone’s stupid. I wish I was with you only. 

And Mike wakes up smiling like an idiot, this soft, hopeful smile he doesn’t even recognize as his own—until reality hits him all at once and then the smile collapses. He stares at the ceiling, embarrassed by how real it felt. Embarrassed by himself. Embarrassed at the fact that Will is out there in the greatest city in the world being happy without Mike, and Mike can’t do anything other than spiral and spiral and spiral about Will, because who the hell is Mike without him anyway?

Some nights, the dreams turn into nightmares.

Will writes things like—

Mike! Guess what… I got a New York boyfriend and he’s just like you but better!

And Mike wakes up furious, his chest tight, his jaw clenched so hard it literally hurts. He doesn’t know why that makes him angry—doesn’t know why suddenly he’s concerned about his best friend’s dating life—but he is. Sue him. 

Or Will writes—

Mike! Guess what… I kissed ten people at a party this week. I love kissing. I love college!! How come you haven’t kissed any girls recently?? It’s amazing!!

That one makes him feel sick. Genuinely nauseous. He sits up in bed in the middle of the night, feverish, trying to breathe through it but he never can. He tells himself it’s stupid. He tells himself it’s none of his business because it’s not. 

His body doesn’t listen. His body apparently hates him. 

And sometimes what he dreams Will writes is just—

Hi Mike. No, I don’t forgive you. I’m too good to waste my time being best friends with someone as selfish as you. Don’t write to me again because I’m done with your bullshit and you will never hurt me again. And guess what? I already made a new best friend here anyway.

Those are the worst. Those are the ones that make him wake up shaking, convinced for a few terrible seconds that it’s real. That he ruined everything. That he really lost Will for good this time.

By the second week of September, Mike is convinced he’s lost his mind.

Until one night, when he’s checking the mailbox for the fourteenth time of the day, Will’s letter is finally there. Mike reads it so many times he memorizes it, he sleeps with it folded under his pillow and bring it with him everywhere. He holds it to his face and breathes in, trying to see if there’s anything left of Will on it, but nothing, so he finds comfort in the words. 

My dearest Mike,

First of all, I’m sorry I didn’t write back sooner. I didn’t know how to send letters from here. I had to ask my new friend Carlton in my dorm building for help. I know how to send them now! so you can expect more letters from me soon. 

Please stop apologizing to me. There really is no need, Mike. It wasn’t your fault I had feelings for you, and it wasn’t your fault I kept them to myself, and it could never be your fault you didn’t reciprocate them. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. There’s nothing to forgive.

Of course I still care about what you have to say. This means a lot to me, and I appreciate your words. But please, don’t say you’re sorry anymore. We’re good now, okay?

Your timing was perfect!! I read your letter on the way to class on my first day, so it was like you were with me on the subway, in a way. School is great. Everyone paints, so we share our work. I’ve made a few friends in my building. There’s a girl across the hall, her name is Elizabeth. She moved here from Nashville. You’d like her. She reminds me of Max. So actually, on second thought, you’d probably not like her that much. (That’s a joke. Sorry, I also don’t know if you can hear my tone on paper)

She’s really good at socializing, so I’ve been meeting others through her. A few days ago, she introduced me to Carlton, from her class, and he invited us to this bar. I was scared. I’ve never been to a party like that (or any party, really) but it was fun. I took a shot of vodka with Liz. It was absolutely disgusting. Apparently if you take too many of those, all this word vomit starts coming out and you make a fool of yourself.

I got so sick at the end of the night, Liz and Carlton had to put me to bed and sleep over. I wish you’d seen it. You probably would’ve laughed at me. 

The thought of Will drunk might be the funniest thing Mike’s ever imagined. He wishes more than anything he could have been there with him. And then it occurs to him: these New York friends—Liz, Carlton—get to experience Will’s firsts now. He should be the one drinking shots with Will, seeing him nervous, watching him laugh, teasing him the way only he knows how. Selfishly making Will blush with just a touch, because he knows the effect he has on him. 

He closes his eyes, trying to shove the thought down, but it sits heavy anyway. And Carlton.

Who the fuck is Carlton? Probably just a stranger, but the idea of another guy putting Will to bed is disgusting to Mike. He keeps reading. 

My roommate’s nice, when he’s here. He spends most nights with his girlfriend, so I usually have the room to myself. That means Liz and Carlton come over a lot, so I’m not alone that often. 

Mike stops reading. They come over a lot. The thought that, as Mike reads this, Will could be laying next to some New York City boy in his dorm who doesn't know him like Mike does feels like a stab in his chest. 

But anyway, what about you?  I heard you joined a writing class. Have you met anyone there? Have you written anything new? 

New York’s been good to me, but I miss Hawkins. I miss the party. I miss you, most of all. I’ve told everyone about you. Liz says my eyes light up when I say your name, and she asked if I thought you were handsome or something. Ironically, it seems like the only person I ever successfully hid that from was you.

Mike smiles at that.

I couldn’t find the words to describe the city, I’m not as good with words as you are. So I painted something for you, it's the view from my dorm window, hopefully that speaks for itself. I sent it with this letter.

Of course I’d love to be “pen pals”, it’ll be something to look forward to every week. Maybe I’ll see you around Christmas?

Love,
Will

The painting arrives two hours later.

Mike hangs it immediately next to the rest of Will’s art, finding comfort in the fact that something Will made in New York now lives on his wall. Within the hour, he’s already writing back, words spilling onto the page before he even fully lets himself breathe.

Dear Will,

I don’t even know where to start. When I read your letter, it felt like a movie started playing in my head, you know? Like I was right there with you, watching you. I keep wondering how close my imagination is to the real thing, or if I’m completely off. 

Thank you for the painting. It’s beautiful. The way you captured it, wow. Your art is magic, Will.

Maybe this is just me, but it feels like you’ve somehow gotten even better at painting? If that's even possible. You could send more paintings, if you want. Of the subway you mentioned. Or your friends. Maybe even that bar. I don’t know. It’d just be nice to picture your life better, to know where you are and who you’re with. To know you’re okay and happy. You’re happy, right?

I’m glad you’ve been making friends. I like knowing you’re safe. I worry about you. So, that Carlton guy you keep mentioning…he’s Liz’s boyfriend, right? I was just wondering. What’s he like? Is he like Lucas and Dustin? Like me? Have you two gotten close? You said he spends time in your dorm. Is Liz always there? Or just you and him? I guess I’m just curious. You mentioned him a lot…more than anyone else, it seems. I can’t stop thinking about it. Is he good to you? 

I can’t believe I missed you taking a shot for the first time, Will. The idea of you drunk makes me laugh. I’ve seen Nancy drunk a few times, she gets really emotional. Was it like that for you? I keep wondering what I’d be like. Probably funny. If I ever came to visit, we should take a shot together, see what happens. You could show me that bar you went to. I think it’d be fun. Especially since you said your roommate isn’t around much, I could sleep with you. On your floor, I mean.  

So… your eyes light up when you talk about me? I’m sure they don’t. Or maybe they do. I don’t know. That stuff’s in the past, right? You’re probably already meeting people way more interesting than me over there anyway. Maybe you’ve already found someone. Have you?

And to answer your question, I haven't met anyone significant here yet. People in my writing class are cool, though. But I have more fun writing to you, so it’s okay. 

P.S. I hung your painting by my window. Now when I wake up, it feels like we’re looking at the same view. Isn’t that cool? 

Love,
Mike

The letters multiply after that. Weekly becomes every few days. Every few days becomes almost daily.  Waiting for Will to write back becomes the single most occupying thought in Mike’s mind. And with more letters, more details slip through the pages. 

Carlton is mentioned more often now. Mike notices, but pretends he doesn’t. 

He learns more about Liz, but not all at once. It comes in pieces—offhand mentions, casual references slipped into letters the way Will always does when he doesn’t realize something matters yet.

But the story of how they met sticks with Mike.

It was Will’s first week in New York. He hadn’t figured out the subway yet, not really. The noise, the press of bodies, the way no one looked at anyone else. Liz had been standing next to him, arms folded tight, eyes flicking toward the doors. She was trying to avoid an older man standing close to her, way too close to her, asking her to come back to his place with him. 

By now, Will knew a thing or two about fear, so when he saw Liz trying to get rid of the man, he saw himself. 

In his letter, Will told Mike he didn’t know why he stepped in. That there must’ve been something in the air that day, because he never was one to step up. But Mike knew the truth—Will the Sorcerer? He was much braver than he gave himself credit for.  

“Hey babe,” Will said to Liz, a combination of words he thought he’d never say to a girl in his life. “We’re getting off in two stops, you okay?”

Liz turned to him confused, startled, but grateful as soon as she understood Will’s lead. 

The man frowned at Will. “You know her?”

“Yeah,” Will said, hoping the shakiness in his voice wouldn't give him away. “She’s my girlfriend. Do you need something? ”

Liz didn’t hesitate. She looped her arm around Will’s waist, pressed her hand flat to his chest. Her hands were shaking—he could feel it.

“See,” she told the guy. “That's why I can’t come with you, sir. My boyfriend would be mad. So yeah, uhm, you should go. Sorry.”

The train slowed. The doors opened. 

“Shit, well. Sorry, dude.” The old man apologized to Will, got off without another word.

Once he was gone, Liz exhaled air she had been holding in for the entirety of the interaction. 

“Oh my god,” she said. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

She hugged him before he could respond. Will stiffened at first, he wasn’t one to hug strangers, but this girl felt like someone he knew. So he relaxed in her arms, and helped her calm down.

“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable,” Will said. “I just thought he’d leave you alone if he thought a guy was with you.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable," she said quickly. “You helped me. I just moved here from Nashville and this city is terrifying.”

She talked fast, reminding him of Robin. It was cute. 

“I just moved here from Hawkins, so I’m just as terrified as you.”

“I’m Elizabeth,” she said. “Liz. And—uh—your girlfriend won’t mind, right? That you acted like my boyfriend, I mean. I didn't mean to touch you like that.”

Will laughed. “I'm Will. And no, I don’t have a girlfriend. ”

“Oh,” Liz continued. “Are you in one of those complicated friendships where people suffer?”

Well, the answer to that question was yes. 

“Oh, no.” Will laughed again, nervously this time. “I just, well…” He paused, debating whether to lie, like he always had. But maybe, just this once, being himself from the start wouldn’t be the worst idea. “I’m not really like, into girls.”

 She blinked once, smiled at him.

 “Oh. Got it. ” Three words. Nothing else. Like all Will had done was say what his favorite color was. 

Then: “Hey, Will…would you like to be my friend? It’s just that I have zero, currently. And I'm clearly in need of one. Not just to act as my fake boyfriend in creepy situations, of course. We could hangout, too. Two scared people in a big city is definitely better than one, right?” 

This interaction might've been the single most absurd one of his life so far. He had helped a girl on the train get away from a scary guy by acting like he was dating her. He came out to someone he just met. And somehow made a friend out of it. 

“Yes, Liz. I would love to be your friend.” Will offered her his kindest smile, after which Liz let out a high pitched scream, and interlocked her arm with Will, dragging him out of the train with her. 

From there, she became Will’s closest friend in New York. And Mike, reading the letters, understood their friendship even in fragments. Liz wasn’t just a girl—she was the first person in Will’s life he never had to pretend around. Mike hated to admit it, but he knew the same couldn’t be said for him. Still… he was happy. Happy that Will had someone in his life who was better to him than Mike ever was.

And the letters… they continued.

Dearest Mike,

You’ve always been the best storyteller in the world. I bet the version of my life you see in your head is way better than the real thing. I kind of wish I could see it, too.

I’ve been talking to Liz more about you. I showed her some of my drawings of you, and she said you’re really handsome. But then she also called me “biased” and said she couldn't trust me to describe you accurately. I don’t really understand what she meant by that, I feel like I draw you pretty accurately. 

I wish you could meet her. Maybe during break? She isn’t very close with her family, so I was thinking maybe I could bring her to Hawkins for Christmas. Oh, and Carlton isn’t her boyfriend. Actually, I’m not even sure if Carlton likes girls like that.

Mike rolls his eyes. Fucking great.  

I don’t know. Lately, when we’ve gone out, he’s been talking to guys. Like… I think he might have been flirting with them? Not that I really know what flirting looks like, but I like to think it’s something like two people feeling comfortable around each other, laughing at nothing, sharing looks. Carlton seems to be really good at that. I don’t know. Maybe he’s like me? I could never ask him, though. 

Mike’s hands tighten on the letter. He pauses, teeth grinding together, jaw stiff. He hates how easily Carlton’s name gets under his skin, and hates how close Will sounds to him on the page. He forces his grip to loosen on the letter, hoping that might loosen the feeling too, and keeps reading.

You asked if I’ve found someone here. The answer might disappoint you, but I haven’t. I don’t know. For so many years, the only word my brain ever connected to “love” was your name. 

The elevator inside Mike’s stomach drops. Will was always so kind with his words for him.

And I don’t really have any experience talking to people like that, either. But I guess I’ll let you know if that ever changes. I appreciate you asking, anyway.

The painting by your window sounds like a really nice idea. Maybe someday, if you have the time, you could come here for a weekend and see it with your own eyes?

From,
Will

That from stood out to Mike immediately.

He cringed, remembering the countless times he had written those same words to El—From, Mike—and only now did he really understand why it had hurt her so badly. The realization sat heavy in his chest, suddenly making him wish he could apologize to her one more time about it. 

From, Will. Fuck, that hurts. Why does it fucking hurt? 

Did it mean something? Had something changed?

Mike hated the idea that there could be a difference between Will’s previous letters and this one, that somehow love had suddenly become too strong of a word. The thought made him sick. He didn’t want to imagine Will pulling away, didn’t want to picture him choosing distance, or worse, someone else. But he gives Will the benefit of the doubt. He has to. He knows he’ll drive himself crazy if he doesn’t. So he keeps writing back to Will like he didn’t even notice at all.

Then October comes, and somewhere along the way, the letters change.

At first, they were updates: classes, weather, new movies they had watched. Safe things. Easy things. But eventually, they started writing about anything at all. Small thoughts. Half-formed ideas. Things that didn’t matter, except that they were shared. And when there was nothing left to say, they wrote anyway.

It became a routine so familiar it settled into Mike’s bones. Writing to Will, waiting for the reply, reading it until the words showed up in his dreams. The idea of breaking that rhythm, of changing it in any way, felt like a dumbest risk in the world.

So Mike still doesn’t know what possessed him to try something new when things were going so well. But on October 18th, after spending the day with Nancy, he sat down, picked up his pen, and wrote the riskiest letter he’d written to date.

Dear Will,

Guess what? I just had a great idea.

I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been talking to Nancy about you. She’s really happy to hear you’re doing well. She mentioned she wants to visit Jonathan soon, and thought maybe she could visit you, too. Anyway…

I was telling her about your Halloween plans, how it sounds like you have a lot going on, and how you said you don’t have classes on Fridays. So Nancy suggested something: what if I flew to New York for Halloween weekend to see you? She even offered to help me pay for the ticket, which, she's never offered to give me a penny in her life. So she really must think it's a great idea.  

I know I’ve mentioned visiting before. So have you. But we never actually plan anything, and as much as I like writing to you, I keep wishing I could see your face while you tell me all these stories. I want to meet your friends. 

Except Carlton, his brain adds. 

I want to see your dorm, and the city, and just… be there with you. I think it could be really fun. We could talk all night, and you could show me around. We could even do a costume together, if you want. I could bring you something from Hawkins. Is there anything you miss? 

I understand if you don’t think this would work. I’m sure you’re busy, too. I can wait until we’re both back in Hawkins, but the thing is, lately it’s been starting to feel like I can’t. I’ve been so close to buying a ticket so many times, but I didn’t want to do it without asking first. 

So this is me asking. Do you think there’d be room for one extra person in your dorm? I can sleep on the floor, like I used to when he had sleepovers as kids. I really don’t care. I just want to see you.

Let me know what you think. I know we usually just write letters, but if it’s okay with you, maybe you could call me when you have time and we can talk about it more.

Love,
Mike

The day the letter is scheduled to arrive, Mike spends the entire afternoon hovering in the kitchen, never straying far from the phone. He pretends he’s just passing through, that he has things to do, but every time it crosses his mind to leave, something pulls him back. By noon, he’s already convinced himself it was a mistake. A crazy idea. Too much. He replays the letter over and over in his head, every sentence suddenly sounding reckless, exposed, pathetic. What was he thinking, asking something like that when things had been going just fine? When writing had been enough. When nothing was at risk. But maybe Mike is just greedy like that. 

The truth is, something has shifted. Lately, he's been feeling… different about Will. And he doesn’t know when it started, or why. Maybe it’s the distance. Maybe his mind—ever cruel, never loyal—is filling in the gaps with something that isn’t real. A version of Will built from memory and longing, stitched together carefully by his imagination. Maybe he’s been feeling this way about a Will that doesn’t even exist anymore. Maybe if he sees Will again, everything will snap back into place. He’ll realize it's just Will. His old friend. Nothing more. Nothing changed. And this—whatever sickening feeling this is that makes him wonder if he’s suffering from heart failure—will finally let him go. 

Waiting for the phone to ring quickly becomes unbearable for Mike. The minutes crawl. The house goes quiet, the only sound in the room being the clock ticking forward. Then, just after nine, the phone rings. Mike exhales hard, trying to kick every hint of desperation out of his body, but all of it stays.

He picks up the phone before the first ring can finish.