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Years down the line, Will Byers will pick up a book from his local library's 'Up and Coming Featured Authors' section. He's not quite sure why, but something draws him in. After checking it out and taking it home, he briefly skims the pages before settling down to read for the night.
The writing style feels so familiar. Not only that, but the story, too. Something fuzzy and soft, memories bitten at the corners and left for scraps. It regales the tale of two boys, nerdy and geeky and together in their little isolated bubble of a town.
Will knows this story. Of course he does. It's his. It's his, and it's Mikes.
But why, why would Mike write this? Not even under his own name, nonetheless. The pen name reads M. Hart. Hardly something he'd ever glance twice at.
Page by page, Will sees his childhood unfold on paper from the perspective of the boy he once loved. Cold, frost bitten fingers clenching tight onto swing set handles. The knot in Mike's heart that never quite left after he saw Will's body, sopping wet and lifeless by the quarry. A boy, haloed in light as he hands over a painting, a silent confession. More, more, more. Every second of everything Will has tried to forget since he left so long ago.
Eyes bleary, Will finally reaches the last few pages. His heart aches as the desolate, grey radio tower is described.
"Friends?"
His brain freezes. Will he go through this again? Will he go through the pain and solitude Mikes words left him feeling one more time?
Will breathes shakily, and flips the page.
"You know we've never been just friends."
Will and Mike- or as the book states, William and Michael (Real classy, Mike.) gently kiss, and Will slams the book closed.
What is this? What is this?
Is this really what he thought it was?
Confused and hurt and hopeful, Will's eyes dart with rapid speed down the final pages.
Love, Mike.
He sobs, heart catching on his throat as his fingers gently brush the two words. One more chance.
Will is on a plane back to Hawkins before the sun rises.
~
When Will's plane finally lands in Hawkins, the barest peaks of dawn shine over the horizon. He takes a dingy cab out to the Wheeler's, backpack clutched tightly over his shoulder. He didn't think to bring much. He really should've packed more. The only things he managed to throw together before leaving was a few necessities, a change of pants, and the book. The book.
He really wasn't sure how long he'd be staying. He really should've packed more. The wispy pages seemed to stare him down, even from inside the bag. It's heavy in his hands, and heavy in his heart.
(He really should've packed more.)
Maybe some extra shirts would've covered the papers enough that Will couldn't feel it's weight on his mind.
Mike would let him borrow some shirts, wouldn't he? They always used to share as kids. Will swears he still has an old sweater lying around he never returned before he moved away.
Pulling up to the curb, Will steps out on to familiar concrete, laughter and fond memories trickling back into his mind, long quieted but never forgotten. Before he knows it, his hand is on the door, solidly knocking.
It takes long enough for the door to be answered to realize what he's actually doing. This is insane. He flew states at the drop of a hat, all for...what? For Mike? (Of course he did. It's Mike. There's no universe where Will wouldn't.) And now he's on his front step without even knowing if he still lives there. For all Will knows, Ted and Karen could've sold the house. It's likely, considering how much their father used to whine about the draft.
Long lost in a whirlpool of thoughts, Will doesn't notice when the door opens. He doesn't notice a bleary, yawning figure (Oh God, Will woke him up, didn't he? He didn't consider the time. He should've been more careful.) in the frame, eyes focusing in on the person with his hand still raised to the wood.
No matter how much Will's brain runs on about how he must've woken Mike up, his brain freezes at the actual sight of him. Shaggy, unkempt hair tousled by fitful sleep, his pale complexion that's only sharpened as he's grown. His mouth parts, but nothing leaves.
"...Will?" Mike breathes, suddenly more alert than he's been in years. Seeing Will Byers, his best friend, back in front of him is like a glass of water thrown into his face. He wants nothing more to reach out, to confirm what he's seeing is real...but he doesn't. His hand hovers by his side, longing.
He lost that. (He lost Will.)
"Mike." Same tone. Same astonishment.
"I...what are you doing?"
Hastily, only one thought on his mind, Will digs the book out of his bag and shoves it into Mike's chest.
"I could ask you the same thing."
(Will stands tall. Ignores the crack in his voice. Ignores the relief that flows through his veins at seeing Mike once again after so long.)
Mike stares. Opens and closes his mouth a few times. Blinks.
"You read it?"
"Did you mean it?"
"...What?"
"Love, Mike. Did. You. Mean. It?"
Will takes the book back. Opens it to the last page. Points.
A silence that tells so much, yet reveals so little.
"Yes."
(At this, Will's eyes really do begin to overflow. Confusion, exhaustion, grief. Too many feelings. Something he's always had around the other.)
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Mike takes a shaky breath, threading the pages between his fingers. No time for the truth like the present, right? For all he knew, it might be his last chance. "I was scared. You were so brave, Will. I wasn't like that. You moved on, and I- I was still stuck on repeat. I was still stuck on stupid expectations and feelings and I just- I loved you so much but I couldn't do anything about it and-"
"You loved me?"
Mike's face drops. Something inside of him crumbles. Pages wrinkle in his hands, curl around the dents pressed by his nails.
"Mike."
"Yes." (Yes.)
Time stops.
Will was done being patient. He had waited for years, (Sixteen years and three months. Five days, if you were really counting.) pining and hoping and grieving over a love he would never have.
Letters that dwindled in supply and lengthened in time, a broken promise to write to one another during college. Phone calls that were clipped and short, but kept him coming back for anything. (Sometimes, if Will called late enough, Mike would ramble on and on. He always did that when he was tired, and listening to his voice for hours on end was Will's favorite thing in the world on winter nights.) Slowly, little by little, they drifted apart.
Two halves, broken from their state of wholeness.
Not only had he lost his soulmate all those years ago, but his friend.
But now? Now, there was no more reason he had to wait.
Now, it was all his.
Gently, like he was afraid of being caught, Will reached up and slid his hand along Mike's jaw. Felt it relax under his timid touch, watched as Mike's eyebrows furrow and dip in both confusion and hope.
(He wanted so much...)
"And do you still?" He whispers.
Again, "Yes."
That was all the permission Will needed to push himself upwards and plant his lips against Mike's. For a second the two were frozen, neither breathing, neither moving. And then the next, the sound of a book dropping accompanied hands fumbling onto Will's waist, shaky and slender as they clung with years of built up desperation.
(...and now it was finally his.)
They would talk later. Later was good. For now, the two had only one focus.
Each other.