Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

February 1990 

It was the summer before senior year when Mike stopped seeing his government-assigned therapist.

As it stood, his sessions were only once a month, which probably wasn’t often enough for all the crazy shit he had seen in the past five years, but the thing was, Mike didn’t really need therapy. He was appreciative of Dr. Owens’ help arranging all this for them, but the reality was that, out of all of them, he was the one who emerged the most fine. He wasn’t kidnapped to another dimension. He wasn’t targeted by a telepathic, mutated psychopath, or forced to watch Eddie or Max die in his arms. Hell, he wasn’t raised in a lab to be a government weapon, and he certainly wasn’t stuck in a coma for two years. 

And he knows that that doesn’t mean he wasn’t affected. Sure, fine, logically speaking Mike knows that he might, maybe, be a little traumatized. There are weeks where he averages four hours of sleep maximum a night, days where he feels like he’s moving through a gray fog of shapes and sounds instead of the real world, can’t remember what he had for breakfast or what happened in any of his classes. But, to be frank, he just doesn’t spend very much time thinking about it. 

And when he doesn’t think about it, it’s almost like it never happened at all.

In fact, he was trying to explain this very thing to Dr. Miranda the day he decided not to see her again.

“Michael,” she had said– why did adults always call him by his full name?– “it sounds to me like you’ve gotten very good at compartmentalizing your thoughts and feelings.”

Mike didn’t respond, only shifted uncomfortably on the cushy armchair that was probably meant to make him feel safer or something. This was the thing about his therapist; he never seemed to be able to figure out what she wanted from him. 

“Do you know what that means?” 

When he shook his head, Dr. Miranda picked up a whiteboard, uncapped a marker, and started to scribble something. When she held the board up to face him, he could see that she had drawn a simple house with a triangular roof, lines separating each floor and separating the floors into rooms. She had labeled most of the rooms– family, friends, school– but left a couple of the boxes blank.

“Compartamentalization is your brain’s defense mechanism,” Dr. Miranda explained. “You can think of it like a house where all of your thoughts and feelings are sorted into their own rooms. Keeping them all separate makes it a little easier to deal with, right? And sometimes that can be a good thing; when you’re at school, you don’t want to let an argument with your friend get in the way of your grades. But sometimes it can also be a way to avoid things you don’t want to think about.”

She tapped one of the empty boxes on the whiteboard. “If you keep all of the bad things that have happened to you in this room, and you keep the room shut and locked, it might seem like a good way to protect yourself. The problem is, avoiding everything that hurts you doesn’t actually stop it from hurting you. It won’t stay behind the door forever.”

Mike stared at the whiteboard. He felt itchy, the way it felt in summer when it was hot and humid and he had the constant phantom feeling of mosquitoes biting at his skin.  

At the end of the session, Mike got up, said goodbye, and then skipped next month’s session. And the one after that, and the next, and so on. And, OK, in retrospect he sees the irony, that he stopped attending therapy because his therapist pointed out his tendency to avoid things and he didn’t like how it made him feel. It’s been a couple years since, though, and Mike has turned out just fine if you ask him.

Except, now, watching Jack press his lips against Will’s cheek in this art gallery, a sick feeling in his stomach– Mike thinks Dr. Miranda may have been onto something.

Because, sure, Mike knew that Will has been dating, has heard all about it these past few months. But he doesn’t think he actually knew it until today, not really. Up to this point, the idea of Will’s boyfriend was just that– an idea, almost like a dream, the sort he would wake up from in the middle of the night drenched in sweat before falling back asleep. He didn’t meet them. He didn’t see them. So it sounded horrible, but most of the time it was pretty easy to pretend the guys Will dated practically didn’t exist. 

And now Jack is standing in front of him, a very real person who’s the same height as Mike but with broader shoulders and a more symmetrical face, and he’s snaking his very real arm around Will’s waist, like it belongs there, and–

Mike hates him.

It’s almost a relief, at dinner, when Jack actually does turn out to be a douchebag. See, that’s why Mike hates him– Mike is a good friend, wants Will to have nothing but the best, and this guy is so far below Will’s league that he’s as good as a hot dog vendor standing outside the metaphorical stadium. Admittedly, Mike did already hate him an hour ago, but he doesn’t think too hard about his retroactive logic. 

It’s fine, he reasons with himself that night, staring up at the bumps and cracks on the ceiling of his dorm room. Soon, Will is going to come to the same conclusion. They won’t stay together long. Maybe they’ll even break up within the week.

They don’t.

Or the next week. Or the week after. In fact, Will only spends more time with his stupid boyfriend, mentions him more in casual conversation, excited stories and evenly-tempered complaints, the way anyone would vent to a friend about the person they’re dating. And Mike is a good friend. He listens, nods attentively, and files it all away into a neat little box where he doesn’t have to look at it. 

Every Tuesday and Thursday, Mike has an 8AM class, a calculus requirement that he couldn’t manage to get out of. The sky is still dark when he wakes up. Frost clings to the windows, crunches under his feet when he steps outside, only the barest hint of pink on the horizon.  On Tuesdays he has late classes, too, and by the time he gets out it’s already dark again, like the sun never rose at all, like warmth and light are faraway relatives that have never come to visit. Mike walks back to his dorm, watches his breaths bloom like smoke in the cold air, and feels unbearably, achingly sad.

Somewhere in Indiana, Dr. Miranda can rest easy knowing that she told him so: not thinking about it doesn’t mean not feeling it.

Thursdays are better. On Thursdays, he and Will both have a two-hour break in the middle of the day, one that they use to take lunch and study together. This Thursday, it’s paradoxically both sunny and snowing outside, and Will arrives at the cafe with flurries caught in his bangs and melting into his knitted beanie. His nose is pink. The sight of him like this, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, thaws any trace of cold hanging about.  

Will is always so bundled up in winter that it verges on comedic, and it takes him a full minute to undo it all, a hand warmer falling out of his gloves as he pulls them off. Mike knows, without seeing, that Will has additional ones tucked into each of his wool socks. It’s something he’s done since he was a kid, back when Joyce would take home bulk packs of the things from Melvald’s, one of her tricks to avoid turning the heating up at the Byers’ old house until they absolutely had to. 

Does Jack know any of this? Mike doubts it.

“How was yesterday?” Mike asks, once Will has ordered and returned to their table with his lunch. He knows Will had an art history test, had been freaking out about it when they last hung out on Monday. 

“It was fine,” Will sighs as he sits, offering a small but sincere smile. “You were right, it wasn’t that bad. Long, though. I hate how late that class goes, I was just glad when I finished and could finally leave.” 

“Yeah? Did you get your cookie?” Mike smiles back, drumming his fingers on the table. This is yet another thing he knows about Will– Wednesdays are his busiest day, and after his back-to-back block of classes, he always stops by this little bakery a block down and gets a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie as a treat for making it through the day. 

Will’s smile falters. 

“Oh– no, I didn’t.”

“Oh.” Mike frowns. “Why not? They were sold out?” 

“No, it’s just–” Will hesitates. “I don’t know, Jack was telling me they’re a lot of calories.”

Mike stares at him. He stops drumming his fingers. “What?” 

“I mean– cookies are already a lot of sugar, and he says peanut butter is really fatty, apparently even a spoonful has–”

“Wait, so–” Mike takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he tries to keep his voice even. “What, he told you to lose weight or something?”

“What? No, it’s not like that.” Will furrows his brows. “You’re making it sound bad. He’s just health-conscious, that’s all.” 

“Health– Will, it’s one cookie. That’s so stupid.” Mike wants to kill this guy. How could he take this away from Will? If he was really such a good boyfriend, he would be baking Will a whole damn tray of peanut butter cookies.

Will shrugs, averting his eyes. “I guess.”

Mike scratches his forehead, trying to ignore the pounding in his temples that seems to occur every time this subject comes up. He tries to keep it in, really, but despite his best efforts, he blurts out, “Will, what’s the deal with this guy?” 

Will pauses where he’s halfway through picking up his coffee, looking taken aback. “What?”

“What do you see in him? Is it, what, the money? Looks?”

He immediately regrets it. Will’s whole face flattens, like a wall of stone slamming into place. “You think I date people for their looks and money?”

“Wh– no, I just– I mean, honestly, Will, I just don’t see what else he has, when he says shit like this to you, and he flakes on Valentine’s Day–”

“He had a big test the next day, I knew I shouldn’t have told you that–”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” Will bursts out, loud enough to turn the heads of the table next to them.

Mike glances around nervously, suddenly feeling like he’s toeing dangerously close to something he shouldn’t be. He’s already this far, though, and the ball is rolling, picking up unstoppable speed. “I would be, if it was anyone else, it’s just– it’s him, Will. I was happy for you with the other guy!”

“The other guy,” Will echoes, his lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line.

Mike throws his hands out. “Yes! I just don’t think Jack is right for you.”

“Because you know what’s right for me,” Will spits, folding his arms over his chest. “Maybe he’s kind of intense about his health. But Jack is– he’s smart, and nice, and funny, and he– he really likes me–”

So? I really like you, Mike wants to scream. 

“–he takes me out to dinner, and he takes me to the movies–”

“We go to the movies!” Mike blurts out, unable to contain it any longer. “I buy you dinner.”

Will presses his lips together so hard that his skin pales. For a long moment, the words just hang in the air between them, definitively creeping past the borders of dangerous. 

“You’re not my keeper, Mike,” he says eventually, quiet but firm, and somehow it stings more than anything he could’ve shouted or cussed. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly have as many options as you do. Jack is a good guy. He makes me happy. So I’m sorry that you don’t like him, but I’m not going to break up with him just because you want me to.”

“I didn’t say that,” Mike snaps. He doesn’t see why not, though; he would if the tables were turned. He used to ask Will for advice on his relationship all the time. 

“Really? What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying that I don’t think you should lower your standards and settle for the first person that makes you feel like somebody wants you!”

Will’s face drops.

And there it is, ladies and gentleman, a booming voice in Mike’s head announces, your world champion of sticking his foot in his mouth and ruining everything, Mike Wheeler!

“Look, I–” He tries, already knowing it’s in vain, “I just meant–” 

“I need to go study,” Will announces flatly, his chair scraping the floor as he stands. 

He’s not making eye contact, but the hurt is there, etched into every line on his face. Mike’s jaw works uselessly at the air, mouth opening and shutting as he scrambles to think of how to take it back, how he can fix this–

Will grabs his jacket, his hat, and scarf, and makes to leave. Before he does, though, he pauses, looking like he’s warring with himself, before he turns towards the table again.

“And you know what?” Will says, taking a deep breath. “That’s rich coming from you, Mike.” 

Before Mike can formulate a response, Will is gone, leaving him by himself at a table for two. Mike’s eyes drop down, landing on a pair of yellow knitted gloves and a cold handwarmer packet. He shoves them into the pockets of his own jacket.

That afternoon, Mike skips his next class, trekking back to his dorm. When he opens the door, Josh is studying at his desk. He looks up at the sound, startled.  

“Oh, hey, man. Don’t you usually have class on Thursdays?”

“Yeah, I do,” Mike replies shortly, walking past him and putting his jacket up on a hanger. He reaches into the pocket and takes out the gloves, curling his fingers around them like he could feel the ghost warmth of Will’s hands if he tries hard enough.

When he looks up, Josh is still staring at him.

“What?” Mike snaps. 

Josh blinks, seeming to jolt himself out of it. “Nothing. Are you good?”

“Of course I’m good. Why wouldn’t I be?”  

Josh shrugs enigmatically and turns back to his textbook. Whatever. Mike kicks off his shoes, sits on his bed, and grabs a book off his nightstand, lying back against the headboard as he feigns at actually reading it. 

The thing about being friends with someone for so long is that you come to know exactly where it hurts the most. Most of the time, Mike holds this information like something precious, a map of how best to navigate and protect Will Byers. For instance, as a rule, he doesn’t raise his voice, has never cussed at him, ever, even during their worst fights. And the other times, the small percentage where he does weaponize this extensive knowledge, he never means to. In the heat of the moment, it’s like he senses danger and shoots before he can think.

He had kind of forgotten that Will, too, knows exactly where the gaps in his own armor lie.

Glancing at El’s friendship bracelet, lying on his nightstand, Mike feels a stab of guilt so thick he could drown in it. He thinks back to the end of eighth grade, spring bleeding into summer, cycling to Hopper’s cabin and back everyday. He had liked dating El, hadn’t he? He had liked the routine of it, at least. He had liked it when she laughed at his jokes, or when he could make himself useful, explaining something to her that she had never seen before. He had definitely liked being El’s boyfriend. He liked knowing exactly who he was, what he was supposed to do, and above all, horribly, he liked that someone liked him– a girl, and one who was a superhero, at that.

Maybe Will is right. Maybe Mike doesn’t have room to say anything about Jack. Even back when Mike was doing all the right things, saying his lines– he had never been a good boyfriend, not underneath it all. Not where it mattered. 

And in that same place– underneath it all, where it matters– Mike knows he isn’t a good friend either, not really. 

He waits until half past five, when he knows Will should have just returned from class. Springing out of bed, he rushes over to the phone and punches in the number.

“I’m sorry, Will,” he says before the other boy can even say hello. “I was such a jerk today. I just– I don’t like the idea of you giving up something you like for someone else, anyone, OK? But–” Mike swallows, forcing the words out. “You’re right. You’re right, it’s not any of my business. And the thing I said– I didn’t mean that either, I don’t know why I said it when it’s not even true, I mean, duh, lots of people want you, you’re like Casanova nowadays–”

He hears Will let out a huff of laughter. It’s like he can breathe again.

“–and, yeah. I’m sorry. Really.”

There’s a short silence over the line. Then Will prompts, “And?”

“And… you know what’s right for you, and I should respect that?” 

“And?”

“I shouldn’t be such a pushy asshole?”

“And?”

“And…” Mike chews his lip, thinking. “I have your gloves, so maybe I should come over and give them back to you, and maybe I could bring the Game Boy, too?”

Will chuckles softly on the other end. “OK, Mike. Sure.” 

His voice drops into something else, something quieter and more serious. “I want you guys to get along. You’re my best friend, Mike. It matters to me.” 

Mike screws his eyes shut so hard he sees spots. His first instinct is to reject the idea. He trusts Will, but he doesn’t trust Jack, not in the slightest, and he definitely doesn’t think he’s good enough for his best friend, who is about as close to perfection as a human being born to this earth can get. If Will is going to date other guys, if he’s going to watch it from the sidelines– he thinks the person Will is with should at least love him almost as much as Mike does.

It hits him, then, that that’s the first time he’s ever had that thought so candidly, stone-cold sober, without any metaphors or bush-beating to hide behind even in his own head. 

“Mike?”

“Yeah,” Mike replies immediately, opening his eyes. “Yeah. Of course. It matters to me, too.”  

On his way to RISD's campus, he stops by the bakery and buys one peanut butter chocolate chip cookie, just for good measure.

March 1990

“Mike Wheeler, let’s see,” Professor Stevens hums, thumbing through the binder in front of him overflowing with graded papers and notes. 

Mike shifts in his seat. Without really meaning to, he glances up at the clock overhead, despite having arrived not even thirty seconds ago.

“Mike…” Stevens says again, a little ominously as he leans towards the pages, eyes fixed intently and roving over them. “You are doing… very well, so far, in this class.”

“Oh.” Mike straightens up. “Really?”

He had been a bit intimidated, registering for a creative writing course, but Will had been so encouraging and Diana told him she was taking the same one, so he bit the bullet. Stevens isn’t intimidating, though, not really, despite his intense energy and fancy tweed suits. Actually, the only thing that does kind of scare Mike is just how supportive he is; the first week, he told the class that he desired to build a “deep, honest relationship” with each one of them, which is why he holds these mandatory office hours every few weeks. Mike isn’t so sure he wants his professors to know him deeply and honestly, especially when they hold in their hands the stories that he privately considers pieces of his own soul. 

“Yes, really,” Stevens says, offering a small smile. “I’ve enjoyed reading your work. I feel that you’re quite influenced by Tolkien, with maybe some Stephen King in there as well, am I correct?”

“Yeah– yeah, totally.”

Stevens goes on like that, discussing his writing, offering him general feedback on his work and asking how his upcoming midterm assignment is going. Eventually, the conversations lulls, the professor staring down at his binder in silence.

Mike is just about to clear his throat and ask if that’s all when Stevens speaks up again. 

“There’s a bit of a theme, don’t you think?”

“A theme?”

“In your writing,” Stevens says, tapping his fingers idly on the desk as he flips back and forward in the binder. “Your first assignment– you wrote about a Victorian woman engaged to a man she doesn’t love, who chooses to take her life the night she was to be wed. The second is about a scientist seeking a way out of a time loop, who finally gives up only to find he cannot escape even through death. This medieval one– your most recent– the boy who wishes to be a bard is forced by his father to become a knight and work under a king he hates, and in the end he simply accepts there is nothing he can do to stop it.” He looks up, raising his eyebrows.

“...Uh,” Mike says articulately. He'd like to go back to talking about Tolkien.

“And I have to say,” Stevens interjects, “I don’t understand why you felt the need to clarify to the audience so often that the other boy in the story is his ‘best friend’.”

“Well… because he is.”

“Yes, but why don’t you trust your audience to infer that from what you’ve written? When you keep mentioning so many times that they are only friends, at a certain point it starts to feel like you’re implying something else.” 

“What?” Mike’s voice pitches up higher without his permission. “I’m not implying anything, that’s–”

“Well, I have to say, it might actually be more interesting if you were,” Stevens says, and then waves his hand like it’s a meaningless tangent and not sending Mike’s heart rabbiting in his chest. “In any case. I suppose I would just encourage you to branch out a little with the endings of your works. These aren’t the only two options, you know, dying or accepting your fate.”

Mike frowns. “But– I mean, in these kind of situations, what else can they do? It’s just inevitable, right?” 

Stevens looks up, fixing him with a heady stare behind his glasses. “Is it? You’re the author, aren’t you?”

Mike opens his mouth, even though he has no idea how to respond to that, but Stevens doesn’t give him the chance anyways, twisting around in his seat and searching for something on the bookshelf behind him. Seeming to find it, he pulls out a thin black book and passes it over to Mike. A quick glance at the cover doesn’t tell him much; it’s a plain black background, containing only the name and the author: Maurice; E.M. Forster. 

“Since you’re so intrigued by characters who are trapped by circumstance,” Stevens nods to the book, “I think you might enjoy this one. It was only published about twenty years ago, after the author’s death, though it was written decades before. Let me know what you think of it.” 

“Um– thanks,” Mike mumbles, nodding and tucking the book away into his bag, his mind still caught a few paces behind in their conversation. 

The meeting ends there, with Stevens handing him all his graded papers back as well. Even though he had gotten quite high marks, Mike finds himself spaced out as he walks through the halls that house Brown’s English department, storming up a mental response to Stevens’ suggestion: the ending was suitable for the story, it’s called ironic tragedy, writers have been ending stories that way since the Greeks– 

His shoulder bumps into something solid and moving.

“Shit, sorry, man,” Mike starts, turning around and coming face-to-face with–

“Oh– Mike!” Jack greets, blue eyes looking him up and down before he offers one of those wide smiles that doesn’t seem to reach his whole face. “How are you?”

Of fucking course, Mike thinks, and prays he didn’t say that out loud.

“Um, good. I, uh– forgot you went here.”

OK, not the friendliest response, but Mike is trying his best. Jack smells like he took a bath in a bottle of cologne, and it’s making it a little hard for him to focus. (Does Will like oaky colognes? Why hasn’t he ever mentioned that to Mike?) 

“That’s great,” Jack says absently, evidently not listening to or caring about his reply. “Actually– now that I think of it, it’s a good thing I ran into you. You know how Will’s birthday is coming up?”

Duh; it’s like asking if Mike is aware that Christmas is in December. He keeps his mouth shut tight as he nods.

“Well, I had this idea,” Jack continues, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself. “I was thinking: a surprise party. I can host at my place, invite friends, and of course you can come and invite anyone you know–”

“A surprise party?” Mike interrupts. He’s more than a little put off by the phrasing of you can come, like Mike needs permission to celebrate his best friend’s birthday. How long has this guy known Will, exactly? Two months? “Like– you’re thinking– people hiding in the dark, jumping out, shouting at him?”

“That’s what a surprise party is, isn’t it?”

Mike thinks someone needs to write a strongly worded letter to the Brown admissions committee, because clearly, they’ve made a big mistake with this one.

“Yeah, man, I just–” Mike brings one hand up to rub at his temple. “I just don’t know if that’s something Will would, um, enjoy.”

Jack folds his arms over his chest. “Well, why not? Everyone likes to be surprised. It’ll be fun.”

Mike scrunches his eyes closed, trying to think of a way to explain how astoundingly dense this idea is without Will yelling at him later for being rude to his boyfriend. Then something hits him.

“I mean,” he starts hesitantly, “Will is just a little jumpy, you know? But if you really want to keep that part, maybe there’s something else you could do to surprise him.” 

Jack cocks an eyebrow.

“Will’s brother, he goes to NYU, I’m, like, 100% sure he would come down for the weekend if you invited him. And Will has some friends, too, up in Massachusetts, they’re not that far– look, I’ll give you their numbers, OK? And, uh, chocolate cake is his favorite. Ice cream cake if you can find it.”

Jack, for some reason, wrinkles his nose at that, but nods along to the rest of it, considering. “Yeah, that would be great. Will do. Thanks, Mike. And, hey, while we’re on the subject– you don’t happen to have any gift suggestions, do you? I’ve been wracking my brain, but Will is just so hard to shop for, you know?” 

Mike doesn’t know. Actually, he’s never had trouble thinking of what to get Will in his life, and he’s kind of taken aback that Jack is asking him this, because shouldn’t Will’s boyfriend know these things? 

“Um– you could get him art supplies, but it can be tricky ‘cause you have to know what the good brands are and everything. He likes video games, they just released Super Mario 3–”

“Yeah, but I was kind of thinking something special, you know?” Jack interrupts breezily. “Something he’ll love. Hey, what’s that board game you guys like to play? The dragons one?”

“Uh…” Mike trails off. He doesn’t even bother telling him it’s a tabletop roleplaying game and not a board game, stomach twisting with the thought that he doesn’t really want this guy anywhere near D&D. That, at least, should stay something just for them. 

The problem is, he knows exactly what something special would be, because it’s what he’s been planning on getting Will, ever since stumbling upon it in the store a month ago, had even been planning to go buy it sometime later this week. It’s what’s been keeping him going through midterms, picturing Will carefully peeling the wrapping open with that focused expression, the way his eyes will light up once he realizes what it is, that brilliant smile spreading slowly across his features, like the sun itself is shining through him. 

And, really, Mike would rather roll around in a parking lot full of broken glass than give this up to Jack, but he thinks of what Will told him: He makes me happy. And that’s it, isn’t it? It would mean more to Will coming from his boyfriend than from Mike. Mike knows what a horrible, selfish friend he is, deep down, but maybe he doesn’t have to act like it.  

“There is something, actually,” Mike says, the words feeling heavy in his mouth like they don’t want to come out. “There’s this record store, about three blocks east of campus, next to that Chinese restaurant. They have this special release of Combat Rock, you know, The Clash? It’s signed and everything. That album, it’s Will’s, like, all-time favorite. So, yeah, um–” He swallows. “He’ll love that.”

Jack smiles easily and claps him on the shoulder as he leaves.

Friday, March 23rd, 1990 

The sound of a sharp knock on the door floats into the kitchen, insistent even over the music humming from Jack’s radio.  

“Oh, I’ll get it,” Will calls, hurrying off and leaving Mike standing alone at the kitchen island that’s been converted into a snacks and drinks station. There’s not a whole lot of people here yet, and certainly no one he knows aside from his best friend. 

Mike can admit, begrudgingly, that Jack has a hell of a nice apartment, a whole lot nicer than the place Mike and Will just signed a lease on together. It’s good for hosting, with its open floor plan and tall windows that let in the fading daylight. There’s something about it, though, that he can’t help but find a little uncanny. It’s too neat, like it’s been airlifted straight from a department store and dropped here, airbrushed and untouched. Their apartment will be better, he thinks, even if the kitchen is cramped and the laundry machine is in the basement. It’ll be homier, decorated with all their stuff, warm and safe and theirs, and then maybe (hopefully) Will will like it better than this place, won’t feel the need to come over here so much if God forbid he and Jack are still– 

A clamor at the doorway jolts him out of his thoughts. Mike looks up in time to see Will tackling Jonathan into a hug, rocking back and forth with the force of it. Robin is standing just behind them, beaming as she watches until it’s her turn. Dustin, apparently, had some important club competition this weekend, and wasn’t able to make it, but this seems enough for Will judging by the way he’s positively radiating, smiling from ear-to–ear.

Then Will turns around, directs the force of that smile towards Jack and hugs him, and Mike hears him murmur, “I can’t believe you did this.”

Mike swallows and looks away.

They all catch up as more people start to trickle in and the party picks up, making introductions and, in Robin’s case, barraging Will with questions about how he met Jack and how the semester is going and how fancy these snacks are, popping two of the brie puff pastries into her mouth at once. Jonathan is quieter, watching Jack as he talks with a characteristically unreadable expression on his face. Mike hovers on the edge of the circle. He doesn’t speak much. On their own accord, his eyes keep flitting over to Jack’s fingers curled around Will’s waist.

When all the guests have arrived and the sun has long dipped past the horizon, Jack calls for everyone to gather in the dining room. He disappears to the kitchen and comes back with a devil’s food cake that makes Will’s eyes widen with delight.

“But first,” Jack says, procuring a small box wrapped in striped gold paper from behind his back and pressing it into Will’s hands, “something for the birthday boy.”

Mike frowns. That definitely isn’t shaped like a vinyl record. 

He looks at Will, who is glancing around furtively at the crowd of his friends gathered around them. Will has never liked opening presents like this, not with everyone’s eyes on him, not even when they were kids at their shared birthday parties in the week between March and April. He doesn’t say anything, though. Will just smiles and starts to carefully peel off the tape in that way he does that keeps the paper perfectly intact, unveiling a rectangular velvet jewelry box. As he opens it, Mike cranes his neck to see what’s inside. 

It's a watch, a huge one, almost garishly so, with a thick silver band and a bright black and red face. Mike vaguely recognizes the logo. It’s mid-range luxury, something his dad’s boss would wear, not Will Byers who probably couldn’t name a designer watch brand if his life depended on it.

“What the fuck?” Mike whispers under his breath. It must not be as quiet as he hoped, because one of Will’s friends next to him shoots him an amused look– Julie, he recognizes from that hellish dinner.

By the looks of it, Will must be thinking the same thing. His face is frozen, eyes wide and blank. In the next second he flits through at least three different expressions before landing on something that falls just short of happiness. 

“Wow. Jack, thank you, it’s so… shiny,” Will says, smiling up at his boyfriend.

Mike likes all of Will’s smiles, he does, but this one– it doesn’t quite seem to shine.

On his other side, Jonathan and Robin exchange a wordless glance.

___

The cake is a little dry, Mike thinks bitterly, stabbing at it with his plastic fork. He overshoots, hits the edge of the paper plate with a force that bends one of the tines in half. Sighing, he leans forward and sets the plate down on the coffee table in front of the couch he’s seated on (a white leather one– what college student would buy a white couch?). The frosting is making him feel sick anyways, though in fairness, he hasn’t had much of an appetite since he walked in here.

Looking up, his eyes land on what they always seem to be searching for– Will. He’s standing across the room, talking easily with a couple of his art school friends, second slice of cake in hand. His eyes are sparkling, his hair all styled and a little more grown out than he kept it throughout high school, and he’s wearing a necklace that falls in the triangle of his button-down shirt, right where his collarbones peak out. His nose wrinkles when he laughs hard at something. If this is what nineteen looks like on him, Mike thinks it’s going to be a great year.

Jack sidles up just then, joining their group. Instinctively, Mike’s fingers curl tighter around his Coke can, almost leaving an imprint in the metal. He could kill this guy, seriously, how could he steal Mike’s perfect gift idea and then not even use it, opting instead to buy something so astoundingly dumb, something Will doesn’t even want– 

Will glances up as Jack wraps an arm around his waist. A warm, wordless glance passes between them as Will settles back against his boyfriend’s shoulder, and all at once all the fight is punched out of Mike. It’s replaced by a tightness in his chest that borders on physically painful. 

That exchange, that knowing glance– it’s how they’re supposed to look at each other. It’s how Will usually looks at him.

Or– 

Used to? 

“Hey, Mike!”

Mike snaps out of it in time to see that Robin has come over to sit down beside him, perched on the arm of the couch, smiling cheerily. Why the arm, he doesn’t know, since there’s a whole spot open on the cushion next to him, but he doesn’t really care. He looks away again, back at Will. Will and Jack.

“Hey,” he says. 

It strikes him how belated his response is, how obvious he’s being, how he should straighten up and make small talk and act like a normal person at his best friend’s birthday party. 

He just can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

Robin follows his gaze. 

“So…” She says slowly, after a beat, “How are things going in the world of Mike? Liking college so far?”

“Um, yeah, it’s… fine,” Mike replies, throat tightening. Finally, he forces himself to look up at her. “You?”

“Good! Yeah, things are great,” Robin chirps, the chipperness of her voice not quite matching the pensive look on her face. Her eyes scan over Mike’s face, like she’s looking for something. 

She swings one leg back and forth, quiet for a moment, before she speaks again. “You know, I was thinking about it– we never really got to know each other that well, did we, back in Hawkins? Which is kinda weird, considering, you know–” She makes some vague gesture with her hand that Mike takes to mean either we’re both friends with Will or we fought against eldritch monsters and miraculously survived together. 

“Yeah. Guess we didn’t.” 

He breaks her gaze, tries to look casually around the room, but his traitorous eyes always seem to find– 

“Hey,” Robin says, her voice carefully level, “can I say something that’s, like, completely out of line and possibly wildly inappropriate, and you can just tell me to fuck off if I’ve got this wrong?”

“Sure,” Mike replies flatly, only half paying attention.

“Do you want to know why Will is with him and not you?” 

Mike whips his head around so hard he thinks he hears the joints in his neck pop.

He searches, but he doesn’t find any shock or disgust in her eyes– only that same expression from before, something thoughtful and a little softer than he normally sees on her.

Mike blinks rapidly. “Why?” He croaks, his voice cracking a little.

Robin nudges him with her elbow, gestures up to where Jack has one arm around Will, talking to him in some low conversation clearly just meant for the two of them. They look… happy.

“Because he made a move.” 

___ 

The party is still in full swing when Mike decides to leave. It’s not a party-party, not like Halloween, just a bunch of Will’s friends gathered in a room getting tipsy off white wine, some group sitting on the carpet playing a card game and laughing, music pouring quietly from the radio. It’s the kind of thing he could actually enjoy, maybe, if he tried talking to people. If he didn’t feel so out of place, like a giraffe in a herd of gazelles. (Actually, savannah animals do tend to coexist quite peacefully, so maybe it’s not his best metaphor, but the point stands.)

Of course, he has to say goodbye to Will before he goes. He just can’t find him at the moment, pacing in awkward circles around the outskirts of the dining and living room and craning his neck.

“You looking for Will?”

Mike jumps, whirls around to see Jonathan standing right behind him.

“Uh– yeah. Do you know where he is?” 

“He and a couple of his friends went down to the corner store. Apparently they ran out of champagne, Jack wanted to get another bottle.”

“Oh.” Mike looks at the door, hands twitching uselessly.  

“Guess he covered for me all those years with the, uh, Purple Palm Tree Delight, so I won’t say anything to our mom.” Jonathan smiles, this fond looking coming over his face that he only seems to get when he’s talking about his brother or Nancy (ew). It makes him look younger. He gestures at the mostly-eaten cake still sitting out on the marble countertop in the kitchen. “Hey, you want another slice? Jack said he doesn’t want leftovers.” 

“What, he was complaining about the macronutrients of chocolate cake?” Mike mumbles before he can think to stop himself.

But Jonathan laughs. Like, actually lets out an audible chuckle. Mike’s head shoots up, eyes wide with surprise; he hardly ever hears Jonathan laugh, much less causes him to do so. The last time might’ve been when he was about six years old.  

“He said he asked the bakery to substitute the butter for margarine, but they said no,” Jonathan says, the corners of his mouth tipped up in amusement as he takes a sip of his drink. He says it in that dry way where Mike can’t really tell if he’s joking or not, but he laughs at it anyway, a shock of warmth spreading through his chest.

Mike doesn’t spend a lot of time alone with Jonathan. Despite practically growing up with him, he’s never really sure where he stands with Will’s brother, which is kind of weird because he can’t think of why they wouldn’t be good. Jonathan is just so indecipherable. He’s quiet, always giving people these looks like he knows something about you that you don’t, keeps to himself except around the incredibly small circle of people he truly likes. Mike isn’t sure if he’s in that circle, but he’s always wanted to be, always had this odd desire for Jonathan’s approval for reasons he can’t quite articulate. 

“I love Will,” Jonathan continues in that same wry voice, “but I don’t know if I always… get these guys he likes. You know?”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, not sure if he actually knows what Will’s taste in men is aside from Jack, but right now it feels like they’re on the same team, and he wants to keep it going.

Jonathan glances at him, and there it is again– that look. It’s half amusement, like there’s an inside joke that only he is privy to, and half something else. 

“I’m glad he has you, Mike,” he says after a beat. 

This catches Mike off guard. “Really?”

He winces– why would he say that, but Jonathan just nods. “Yeah, really. I know you guys have had your ups and downs in the past, but you’re his best friend. From what he’s told me, I think you’ve been really helping him through all this– college, moving out. I mean, it’s exciting and all, but it can be hard too, you know?”  

Will told Jonathan that? Mike feels another jolt in his chest, for a different reason entirely. He didn’t know Will thought he was helpful. That’s– it’s nice. It’s a nice feeling. 

“Yeah,” he responds, a beat too late, “yeah, it– it can be hard. But–” he clears his throat. “Will, he’s doing really well here. You don’t have to worry about him.”

“Yeah?” Off Mike’s nod, Jonathan lets out a sigh, his posture relaxing a little. “And what about you?”

“Huh?”

Jonathan’s eyes travel over his face. “How are you doing, Mike?”

Mike blinks. “Oh! Yeah, no, it’s been– it’s great. It’s fine.” 

He hopes it’s not as obvious as it had been to Robin that he’s lying.

Jonathan doesn’t say anything. He looks back and forth between Mike’s eyes, a little uncanny in how much it reminds him of Will.

“You know, I’ve just had… midterms and stuff,” Mike adds awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to another. 

For a second, he thinks Jonathan might say something else, but at that moment the door swings open. Will and a couple of his friends come pouring in, shrugging off their coats and shoes, a bottle of champagne in hand. Will is flushed from the cold. Mike’s chest aches stupidly at the sight of him.

It’s always been like this for him, he thinks, on some level. But it’s getting worse.

He catches Will on his way out, lightly nudging his arm. Will looks up, steps away from the conversation he had been loitering on the edge of.

“Hey, I’m gonna head out now, I think,” Mike says, gesturing with his thumb towards the door. 

“Oh– already?”

Mike can’t tell if he sounds disappointed, or if it’s just wishful thinking.

“Yeah, I– you know, I had so many tests this week, kind of… tired.” 

It’s a weak excuse, but Will seems to accept it, nodding sympathetically. Then, like he remembered something, he perks up. “Oh! Wait here.”

He runs off down the hallway towards the back of the apartment. Mike arches an eyebrow, confused, but Will returns a second later with a thin, stapled stack of paper in his hands. When he offers it out, Mike takes it, looks down and realizes that it’s his own short story, the one he’s turning in for the midterm assignment in his class with Professor Stevens. The front page has a couple Post-It notes plastered around it, covered in Will’s neat scrawl, and judging by the yellow tabs sticking out from the rest of the stack, he must have annotated every page like this.

“You– you finished it?” Mike stares down at the packet. “You didn’t have to– I only gave it to you yesterday–”

“I know, I read it all last night,” Will replies bashfully. “It was really good, Mike.”

They’ve done this before, Mike showing Will his finished drafts, not because he wants him to feel obliged or anything but just since Will usually asks to see them anyway, has always liked his stories. And he’s done this before, too, annotating them with his thoughts and reactions and opinions, but for some reason it’s making Mike feel kind of weird right now. But, like, a good weird. 

“Thanks,” he says softly, looking up to meet Will’s gaze.

“Especially the ending,” Will adds, smiling in a way that’s almost a little shy. “I liked that part a lot. It was… different.”

“Yeah,” Mike echoes, “different.”

He’s stepping back to go when he remembers. 

“Will– hey, about your birthday present. There was a delay with the order, so– I’ll give it to you next week, OK?”

Will nods brightly and waves him off. 

Tomorrow, he’ll go to the record store, first thing in the morning. 

___ 

The lights are off when Mike gets back to his dorm. Josh is probably at some party of his own, won’t get home until maybe two in the morning if he makes it home at all. Mike checks his watch. Right now, it’s only… 10:43PM.

The room feels oddly still right now, all his books and games and clutter sitting in place, like they’re waiting for something to happen. He makes his way towards his desk and bumps a pen off by accident. The clatter when it hits the floor makes him wince, feels almost violently loud in the silence, as does the scraping noise the chair makes when he pushes it out to retrieve what he dropped. A soft click of his pen. The ruffle of pages when he opens his notebook. It’s his private one, the one he uses to dump his story ideas and rough drafts, but also as a kind of journal, a way to release his thoughts when they feel too loud in his head.

Mike flips to a new page and stares at it. Now, the only sound is the steady inhale and exhale of his breath, the sound of his existence in this room. The white page looks back at him. He touches the pen down, the briefest contact, but nothing comes out. There’s too much in his head, a crowd crush at the front of his brain right where he can’t ignore it, clamoring for his attention, but he can’t even think of where to start. 

He shuts the notebook and lets out a long breath.

Laundry. He has laundry to do. There’s something Mike can make himself useful for.

Downstairs, the laundry room is empty, too. Someone’s clothes lay forgotten in a dryer, and someone’s cycle is still going, a repetitive hum as it spins, but other than that there’s no sign that anyone lives in this building besides him. Mike puts his clothes in a washer, pours detergent into the capsule, and starts the cycle. For a minute, he stands there and listens to the sound of the two machines, tumbling just out of sync.

Mike doesn’t know why he’s half-expecting Josh to be there when he walks back up to his dorm. He isn’t, though. Nobody is. Just that stillness, that heavy quiet he doesn’t know what to do with, and there’s something about it that feels hot and thick in his throat when he breathes in. Making his way over to the window, Mike pulls until he manages to pry one of the panes open, just enough to stick his head out into the cold. The night air bites at his cheeks. After a minute, it starts to sting, but he lets it.

He wonders if Will’s party is still going. 

Mike looks to his side. In the glass reflection of the other pane, the one that’s still closed, he can see it: the painting. The thessalhydra. The Party rushing towards it. And there, the small figure representing himself, leading the charge.

Suddenly, one thought breaks free from the crowd, voice rising insistently above the noise: what if it was him?

What if Max had been right? What if there was no “Tammy” back in California? What if it hadn’t been some random guy Will liked all those years ago, not some nameless face in the school hallway, but Mike? What if the painting… meant something else?

It’s not a foreign thought. It’s just one that he’s never lingered on, one he’s buried under alternatives and explanations and dismissals, fantastical scenarios on his sleepless nights. At one point, he had even convinced himself that maybe it was Lucas. Now, though, Mike can’t help but wonder if he had really been looking for what was true, or just what was easy.

Maybe it has to do with what Robin said tonight, the words crawling through his head, dragging themselves in fitful circles: Because he made a move. 

Because he made a move.

Because he– 

But– so what? Say it was him. If, back then, Mike had worked up the nerve and manned up to what he must’ve suspected on some level– what would he have done? What could he have said? That he wasn’t gay or anything, just all wrong inside, like he didn’t know how to be anything at all? That he wanted Will in some way he couldn’t put into words, couldn’t even really tell himself? Hey, Will, I can’t be your boyfriend, but could you please never date anyone else because that would really kill me, and maybe we can be something a little more than friends, but only in the shadows, only where no one will ever know? 

What kind of offer was that? Not one Mike would ever make. Maybe there was some part of him that really was that selfish, but he couldn’t inflict that on Will, who deserved so much more. Who had found so much more.

And anyways, Will had said it himself, his first time in this dorm room– I mean, I was fourteen, Mike. This painting– maybe at one point this was how he saw Mike, but not anymore. Now it was something he had long grown past, something he probably looked back on the same way you look at an awkward childhood photo, with amusement and a little embarrassment. Will is standing out in the sunshine, and Mike is here somewhere in the dark, where the light doesn’t dare to touch. 

Mike shuts the window. He strips out of his clothes and into pajamas, shuts off the light, and crawls into bed, pulling the blanket so far it’s almost over his head. He knows that his laundry is still downstairs, and he’ll have to run it again in the morning if he doesn’t go change it out, but like so many things nowadays, he can’t bring himself to care. With his eyes shut tight, he wills himself to think about nothing at all. 

April 1990 

The problem is, once Mike has opened the door, he can’t seem to shove it closed again.

He thinks about it in his Computer Systems class when he should be taking notes. He thinks about it when he finally decides to fold his clean clothes instead of letting them sit in a basket next to his bed. He thinks about it on the way to class, on the way back from class, in the dining hall, getting coffee, brushing his teeth, like a relentless drumbeat through the everyday monotony of his life. He always comes back to that same conclusion, but he thinks about it anyway, sitting in the puddle of ache and making no effort to clean it up.

It’s a Wednesday, and Will is going over to Jack’s after his back-to-black block of classes ends. Which is fine. He’ll get lunch with Mike tomorrow, and they hung out on Monday, and they’ll probably hang out again at least once this weekend. It wouldn’t bother Mike so much, except that he’s had a low-level headache since he woke up, and the idea of being alone with his thoughts for the rest of the day makes his temples throb. 

Back at his dorm, he picks up the phone and hovers his hand over the dial buttons, running through a mental list in his head before settling on a name. 

Mike listens to the tone, sitting down on the carpet facing the wall, kicking his legs up against it and letting himself slide down until his torso is flat on the floor and his feet are pointed up towards the ceiling. Weirdly, it kind of helps with the headache. 

“Hello?”

“Lucas, hey!” He says brightly.

“Mike? It’s not Tuesday.” 

Back in Hawkins over winter break they had both agreed they hadn’t kept up enough last semester, and decided to set up a time to call each other once a week, just as he does with El. As nice as the routine is, he’d think Lucas would be a little more enthusiastic to hear from him outside of their scheduled calls.   

“No, yeah, I know, I just– felt like talking to you. Are you free?” 

“So Will is busy?” 

Mike frowns. “Well– yeah, but I have friends other than Will, you know. I just wanted to catch up.”

Faint static buzzes in his ear as Lucas doesn’t respond, making his disbelief evident. Sometimes, he knows Mike a little too well. 

“So, how have things been?” Mike starts, rolling his eyes at no one in particular.

Lucas tells him about Purdue, the chemistry class that’s putting him through hell, some crazy rumor he heard about one of the fraternities, a story about a party he and Max went to the week prior. He sounds tired, but happy, like college is a lot but he’s managing. A melancholic wave crashes through Mike, and he wishes suddenly that they were back together in person again, bickering uselessly about a D&D rule or racing on their bikes through the neighborhood.  

“Where is Will, anyway?” Lucas asks after he’s caught Mike up on everything new since they last called. 

Mike sighs, already annoyed just at the thought of it. “He’s with his stupid boyfriend.”

As much as Lucas can hold him in check, he can also have an almost shocking amount of patience, and has sat through these rants many times over the past couple months. Mike isn’t actually sure if he’s ever called Jack by name when they speak, as stupid boyfriend usually suffices for Lucas to know exactly who he’s talking about by now.  

“–he thought Will would want a surprise party,” Mike is in the middle of complaining, twisting the cord of the phone around his finger. By now, he’s starting to feel a little funny, all the blood in his body rushing down to his head and torso, leaving pinpricks in his legs. He tips his head backwards until he’s looking at his dorm room upside-down. “Like, he thought Will would enjoy people hiding in the dark and popping out screaming at him. Seriously, how stupid can one person be?”

Before Lucas can respond to the rhetorical question, he’s launching into another tirade. “And, and, you know he asked me what he should get Will for his birthday? He doesn’t even know what kinds of things he likes! I mean, anyone with half a brain who’s spent any amount of time with Will could figure something out, but then he didn’t even take my suggestion that he asked for. He got him this dumb watch instead just to show what a rich douchebag he is, even though Will already has one, and he doesn’t even care about that kind of thing, so why would his stupid boyfriend drop that much money on something he won’t even wear?”

He hears Lucas start to say something, but he’s on too much of a roll to stop now. “I mean, Will is amazing, you know? I don’t know why he’s still with this guy, especially since he could easily find someone better. I think I’d even take back stupid boring Carlton at this point. Honestly, I just don’t get what he sees in all these weird guys.” 

“...Yeah, I’ve had that thought before,” Lucas says flatly.

Mike sighs dramatically. He’s revving up to launch into another stream of complaints, but Lucas speaks again first. 

“Mike,” he says, a note of caution in his voice, “we talk about this a lot, man.”

Something about the way he says it makes Mike sit up, a faint alarm bell ringing in his head. His legs fall back to the floor. A wave of dizziness jolts through him as his blood starts to flow in the right direction again. 

He frowns. “Um… OK?”

“I just mean–” There’s a pause where Lucas seems to hesitate. “It’s fine, but I don’t just wanna talk about Will’s boyfriend all the time, you know? I mean, I’d rather hear about you.”

“Me?” Mike can hear the note of panic that’s edged into his voice, as though Lucas can reach into his brain over the phone and take a look at what exactly has been occupying so much of Mike’s headspace this past month. 

“Yeah, you know. What’s going on with you right now? Have you got any, I don’t know, roommate stories, bad professors, crazy parties? Got any girls you’ve been seeing?” 

The last part is said in a drawn-out, exaggerated way, and Mike know he’s just being funny, but it makes his heart drop anyways. He twists the phone cord around his finger so tightly that his skin flushes red.

For a brief, crazy second, he considers what would happen if he just told Lucas everything. Lucas is his second-oldest friend, his best friend aside from Will. He’s the closest thing Mike has to a brother, and though they bicker like siblings, in the end he knows that Lucas has good judgement, is probably right about things more often than not (even if Mike won’t admit that to his face). This thing about Will, and girls, and the future– it’s in his head almost constantly, and if Lucas really wants to know what’s happening in his life, that would be the truth. Of course, he won’t do it; he can’t imagine actually telling Lucas all of this, but not telling feels equally wrong, almost like a lie of omission.  

He must’ve stayed quiet for too long, because Lucas rushes on, “I mean, we don’t have to talk about girls! I just meant anything, you know, anything you want to talk about–”

“There is someone, actually,” Mike interrupts, surprising even himself.

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Oh!” Lucas sounds surprised and– is that relief? Is Mike imagining that? Has he been hoping, this whole time, that Mike would grow up, start making an effort already, like the rest of them? “That’s great! Who is she?”

Mike bites his lip. “The thing is– she, um– she has a boyfriend.”

God, it sounds so, so obvious like that. His heart picks up pace, pulsing in his chest. 

“Oh,” Lucas says again, this time sounding disappointed. “Shit, that sucks, man. Like, a serious boyfriend?”

“I don’t know. They haven’t been together very long.” 

“Huh, OK. Well, maybe it won’t go anywhere. But even if she stays with him, there’s gotta be lots of other cute girls at Brown, right?” 

Mike nods silently, forgetting that Lucas can’t see him. He hesitates for a second, before blurting out, “Hey, Lucas, you, like– you know a lot about these things, right?”

“...Cute girls? Hell, yeah, I do.” 

If they were face-to-face, Mike would be miming a vomiting gesture. 

“No, like, dating. You and Max, you’ve been together for a couple years, I just figured maybe– I guess I just don’t know a lot about this stuff.”

“You want to know how to ask a girl out?” Lucas sounds genuinely confused.

Mike screws his eyes shut, rubbing his temple. “No, I just– I’m trying to say– you’re pretty good at the whole relationship thing, right? I mean, you were always better at it than me. I’m just curious… how. Like, what do you think makes someone a good boyfriend?”

He winces at the clunkiness of his own words. Lucas doesn’t sound deterred, though; if anything, he sounds like he’s been waiting for the opportunity to talk about this. Max is one of his favorite subjects, and he’s always just as enthusiastic to ramble on about her and their relationship as Mike is to complain about Will’s stupid boyfriend. 

“Hey, I’m not perfect, but I try,” Lucas laughs. “I guess I would say… first of all, you should always listen to her, you know? Pay attention to what she likes, what she doesn’t like, things that are important to her.”

Mike stretches his arm up towards his desk and fumbles around until his fingers grasp around the edge of his notebook. It’s his school notebook, but it’ll do. He pulls it down into his lap, pen already wedged between two pages to mark his place, and cradles the phone between his head and shoulder as he starts to take notes.

“And once you know those things, you can try to use them, you know? Girls like it when you remember things. Buy her flowers she likes, or take her to a movie she’s mentioned, but the more personal it is, the better. Like, Max– she likes going to the arcade, getting pizza, and renting really shitty movies for us to laugh at. Not everyone would think it’s romantic, but it’s what she likes, right? You have to be thoughtful, especially for birthdays, anniversaries–”

Mike hums in assent as he jots this down.

“And you have to respect her, obviously. Don’t try to move too fast. Don’t give up on her, but don’t be too pushy, either. If she’s upset, see how she wants you to respond, if she actually wants help or just wants to talk about it.”

Mike looks at the list so far. None of these seem very hard at all; actually, he already does most of these things with Will anyway. Remembering things about Will comes naturally, and he doesn’t have a problem with remembering birthdays and buying gifts, if the look on Will’s face when he opened the Clash record was anything to go by. He cares about Will’s feelings more than anything in the world, he would never give up on him, and he doesn’t want to brag, but he thinks he’s pretty good at cheering him up when he’s upset. If this is all it takes– maybe–

“Oh, and communication!” Lucas adds.

Mike blinks. “Communication?”

“Yeah, that’s the most important one, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” Lucas hums, “you have to talk to each other. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard, actually. When Max and I broke up freshman year, she wasn’t talking to me, you know? Not about the important things. And when we got back together it was because we started opening up to each other again. But it’s not just stuff like that, it’s the little things too, that’s what I’ve learned since then. If something bothers you, if you want something, you have to say it.”

“So- talking about your… feelings.” Mike grimaces at the way the word tastes in his mouth.

Lucas laughs a little. “Yeah, man. Don’t get me wrong, it can be hard, and, like– embarrassing. But you have to get over it. And once you do, it’s worth it, I promise. Sometimes after we talk things out, I’m just wondering what I was ever even worried about, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Mike says quietly. He doesn’t think he knows, though, not really. 

He picks up the pen again, and hesitantly writes it out at the bottom of the list: Communicate- talk about feelings.

When he finishes talking to Lucas and is left in the silence of his dorm room, he spends a minute staring at the page, like he could burn a hole in it with his eyes if he tried. 

If there’s anyone in the world that Mike could remotely approach emotionally vulnerable with, it would be Will, there’s no doubt about it. His whole life, Will has always brought it out of him, softened his defenses down until he was willing to hand over the jumbled, tangled mess of his thoughts and feelings and try to sort through it together. Will is the most caring and considerate person that he knows. He could probably bring that side out of a rock– which, actually, probably isn’t very far from Mike in terms of communication skills and emotional intelligence. Maybe that’s why this has been so hard, then– something he can’t talk to Will about. Not Will, not Lucas, not his mom or Dustin or Nancy or El. 

Something he can’t even really talk to himself about.

Mike starts to flip the pages, so fast they almost tear, until he reaches the back page: PLAN FOR THE FUTURE. There’s one thing he still hasn’t written out, hasn’t even touched. Maybe it’s because there’s some part of him, this whole time, that has been holding out, thinking that if he had given dating a shot and decided it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, then, well– maybe the same thing would happen with Will. Maybe Will would give up, too, and they could stay single together, and Mike wouldn’t have to worry about any of this stuff. 

But that’s insane, isn’t it? And he doesn’t even want that for Will, not really. He wants his best friend to find what he’s looking for, the someone that he’ll really love, the way Lucas has Max. 

But somewhere deep down, Mike knows, has maybe always known, that he won’t find that. What has he been thinking, all these hypotheticals about putting himself back out there eventually, finding a girl he’ll settle down with somewhere, someday? Even if he could manage to find someone who wanted him, why would he think that would turn out any differently than dating El had? Mike can act like it all he wants, but he knows that he can’t be a good partner, isn’t even a good friend, and it all comes down to this one thing, the thing about honesty and openness and being himself. The fact that storyteller is just a pretty word for liar. 

He blinks roughly, his throat suddenly feeling hot and raw. 

Is that it, then? Attending his friends’ weddings for the rest of his life? Watching Will find the person he’s really meant to be with and going back home alone every night? Mike can’t picture it, can’t picture being by himself, can’t picture being with someone else, can’t picture anything in his stupid, useless future. 

Mike grabs the top of the page and tears it roughly out of the book, leaving a jagged edge where the binding of the paper was. He flips a few pages back and does the same thing to the new page, too, the one he had just scrawled out while on the phone with Lucas. The wastebasket is right there, but something gives him pause. Instead, he gets up and walks over to his desk, opens the attached drawer, and shoves the two pages roughly in there, wedged in the back between graded assignments from last semester and some long-forgotten administrative paperwork.

Fumbling around in the drawer as he stuffs the pages deep down where he can forget they're there, his hand brushes against something else.

Mike furrows his brows. He pulls out what turns out to be a thin black book, his eyes landing on the cover and title: Maurice. His eyes widen as it dawns on him that this is the one Professor Stevens had given him almost a month ago, and, wow, he really does need to start organizing his things better.

But right now, he also needs to get out of his head. Mike flips the book over curiously, trying to find some clue as to what it’s about, but nothing is printed on the back either. Still, Stevens had recommended it to him, so he figures it must be decent. 

Mike jumps onto his bed and settles back against the headboard, propping the book up against his knees as he flips it open to the first page.

___ 

It was a mistake.

A huge mistake, Mike thinks, swiping furiously at his wet eyes as he flips to the last page. He doesn’t know how late it is, definitely past midnight. He hovers the flashlight as close to the page as he can so as to avoid waking up Josh, whose breathing is a steady rhythm on the other side of the room. 

Mike hadn’t gotten what the book was actually about, not really, not until page 56, and he’s not sure whether he should be embarrassed that it took him so long to catch on. Before that, he had been a little confused as to why exactly Stevens had recommended this; it was nothing like his own work, nothing like Tolkien or King, but he liked it well enough to keep reading. He felt like he kind of understood it, actually, like it was speaking to some part of him he had never really named before.

There was one part in particular, the part where Maurice described his dream: “‘That is your friend’, and then it was over, having filled him with beauty and taught him tenderness. He could die for such a friend, he would allow such a friend to die for him; they would make any sacrifice for each other, and count the world nothing, neither deity nor distance nor crossness could part them, because ‘this is my friend.’”  

Mike liked that. He liked it a lot, actually, enough to grab a Post-It note from his desk and stick it onto the page, just to mark where it was if he wanted to go back to it. 

And then he kept reading, and suddenly they were talking about being like the Greeks and Symposium and he didn’t get what it was alluding to, until suddenly he did. 

Once he understood, an electric jolt of shock passed through him, and he half-wanted to close the book and leave it unfinished. There was another part of him, though, an urge to keep going, and that was the side that won out. He kept reading, the whole time getting this strange feeling rising and rising somewhere in his gut, jumping at the slightest noise as though he was reading contraband, and, Mike supposes, it would have been, at one point. Even when Josh came home, he couldn’t put it down, desperately wanted to see what happened next, and now–

Mike finishes the book. He shuts it, sets it carefully on his bedside table, and then closes his eyes, pressing the backs of his fists into his sockets like the pressure will help with how he feels inside.

Clicking the flashlight off, he pulls the comforter over his shoulders and rolls onto his side. He stares, eyes open, at the wall. He already knows he won’t be getting much sleep tonight.

___ 

Mike skips class the next afternoon. He hadn’t been able to pay much attention to his morning lecture, staring straight ahead but thinking, still, about the book. It had kept him up that night, that feeling, like he was free-falling into the pit that opened up in his stomach. It doesn’t even make sense. The book had a happy ending, far happier than he had been expecting, really, so he doesn’t know why he feels this heaviness, this dread. It's the kind you get when you’re about to get sick, or waiting on bad news.

It’s not an unpleasant day out. He walks down from campus to the waterfront, for some reason, and strolls along the bridge until he reaches its midpoint. Mike puts his elbows on the railing and looks down, down into the bluish grayish water. The waves lap at the support beams in a steady, constant flow. He stares at the rhythmic movement as he drifts off into his head. 

It’s Clive, he thinks. That’s what’s bothering him. It had been a happy ending for Maurice and Alec, but Mike can't stop thinking about what would happen to Clive after all of that. His fingers twitch on the rail, curling around the edge tightly, and he realizes that he’s angry, actually, not at the author for ending it that way but at Clive himself. Why had he ever ended things with Maurice? Why had he let him get away? He couldn’t understand how he could do that, decide that he was suddenly straight as a board and marry some random woman, because that wasn’t how it worked, was it? Being– being like the Greeks, it was something you were born with, right? Something you couldn’t change even if you tried. If you couldn’t accept it, the only thing you could do was–

Avoid it.

Mike takes a deep, shaky breath, filling his lungs with the clear springtime air. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the river, the rush of the water and the gentle whoosh of the wind through his hair. Somehow, it makes him feel less like he’s alone. 

When he gets back to his dorm, Mike drops his bag by his desk and pulls the chair out, taking a seat, each step slow and careful the way a prisoner would step towards his sentence. He opens the drawer and reaches around until his hand curls around a loose page. There it is– PLAN FOR THE FUTURE. 

Mike flips the page over to the blank side and draws a T-chart in the middle of it. He doesn’t label either side, but he doesn’t have to; he knows what they mean. His dad’s voice chimes lowly in his head: time to face the music, son. It’s something Ted always says when talking about this sort of thing, The Future, facing up to his responsibilities, the facts of life. He thinks of his therapist, of all the closed doors in his head with handles long untouched. Maybe it’s time to see what’s inside. 

On the left side of the page, Mike jots down: El. Girls at school. Carrie Fisher. Made out with girl at party?

He hesitates, and then crosses out the last line, because it doesn’t feel like it should count, considering how that had gone. Mike stares at the second item, too, his gut twisting. There had been girls at school, right? Girls in class, in the hallway, puppy crushes when he was a kid? He thinks there must’ve been, but he can’t conjure up a name.

Mike swallows, takes a deep breath in through his nose before moving on to the other side.

Will. There it is, the obvious one. There’s part of him that’s always considered that the only one, that if he could just get over this one impossible obstacle, he would be normal again. But if he’s really thinking about it–

Mike dips his pen down to the paper, barely brushing it, and hesitates before writing: Eddie. 

It hadn’t been anything like what he feels for Will, but it had been something, something that was undoubtedly different than what he felt about Steve or Lucas or Dustin. Growing his hair out, begging his parents to get a guitar that he never ended up touching, laughing at Eddie’s outrageous speeches, the way it always kind of made him nervous when Eddie got in his space during campaigns and yet he also kind of wanted it to happen–

Fuck.

Mike stares at the page. Vaguely, he realizes that his hand is trembling a little, his pen unsteady, but he keeps going. Social studies, fifth grade, none of his friends were in the same class, but it was OK because there was this kid named Jacob, and Mike never even spoke to him but he always found his eyes drifting over to him while the teacher was talking, found himself hoping they’d get seated together. He never thought too hard about it. Third grade, Mr. Mullen, a young teacher with brown hair and a bright smile, and Mike had started putting so much more effort into his writing assignments, like he wanted to impress him or something. When Mr. Mullen handed back his papers with a nice note, Mike had always kept them, never threw them away like he did with his other teachers.

Luke Skywalker. Marty McFly. For Christ’s sake, he had watched The Outsiders three times in one month, and two of those times were by himself–

Finally, a pit of rapidly dread hardening in his stomach, Mike writes El on the right side of the paper, too. He thinks about her shaved head when they first met, how Dustin mentioned once that she and Will really could be siblings, how easy it was to kiss her and hold her hand, because it never seemed to give him those anxious butterflies everyone talked about, not really. Had he truly felt that spark with her, flaring out of his control from the moment they met? Or was it something he decided he felt? 

Oh, fuck. 

Mike realizes, distantly, that his hand is still shaking. He drops the pen with a sudden clatter, wipes his palms on his jeans. He opens the drawer and shoves the paper back in, way at the back, because he can’t think about this anymore, he can’t, this whole thing was a mistake, the book was a mistake–

He’ll return it to Stevens tomorrow. If he can’t see it, he’ll forget about it soon enough. He always does. 

___

“Dude, are you OK?”

Mike jolts. When he looks up, Diana is fixing him with an odd stare.  

“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine,” he responds absently, and goes back to picking at what remains on his tray from the dining hall.

Diana raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I just asked you if you were ready for finals, and you literally did not answer me at all.”

“Oh.” Mike winces. “No, I’m good, I’m just–” he makes a vague gesture, “thinking.” 

He had been trying really hard not to think, actually, but it’s like telling himself not to picture an elephant; of course, the elephant is all he can see. 

“Thinking about…?”

“I don’t know. Stuff.”

Diana huffs out a laugh. “Super vague, but OK.” She pauses, and then squints at him. “Wait– you didn’t break up, did you?”

Mike blinks, confused. He should probably ask who and/or what she’s talking about, but he’s so caught off guard that all he says is, “No?”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.” Diana frowns thoughtfully. “So, what is it then? Are you in a fight?” 

“...In a fight with who?” Mike asks uncertainly. 

Her lips twitch, almost amused. “You know. Will. I mean, I get it, when I’m in the doghouse with Amy it’s, like, all I can think about.” 

Mike stares at her.

Then it clicks. Her asking if they broke up, their conversation last semester, speaking at length about the subtext in Gatsby when they first met, why she had so openly told him that she had a girlfriend– 

Diana thought, this whole time, that he was gay.  

That he was dating Will. 

So this, then, this is the part where Mike clears things up. This is the part where he tells her that, he gets the miscommunication, it was probably his fault, but he’s actually not gay, and definitely not dating his best friend, of course not, that would be…  

Instead, he looks down at his food and says, “No, we aren’t fighting. It’s, um– something else.”

When he doesn’t elaborate any further, Diana shrugs. “OK. Well, I know we haven’t really done this before, but if you want to take your mind off it, my friend is hosting this thing tonight. It’s, like, a party, but nothing crazy. It’ll be fun.”

Mike means to say no.

He has a final tomorrow at 9AM, after all, and he doesn’t really do parties anyway, especially since his singular experience had taught him he doesn’t handle his alcohol well, so he formulates the words thanks, but I can’t in his head, and they travel out of his brain and up his lungs and through his trachea and then somehow the sounds his idiotic vocal chords end up producing are: yeah, sure, sounds good. 

Several hours later, he finds himself in a stranger’s apartment with music pulsing through his skull. 

Mike smooths the front of his shirt down for what must be the third time in the past five minutes. He just wants to be extra sure it doesn’t have any wrinkles, and incidentally, has no idea what else to do with his hands. It’s a blue flannel that Diana had picked out of his closet for him, and glancing at her standing next to him, he realizes that they’re matching.

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” She asks again.

“No, I think I’m probably going to leave early, anyways,” he replies, ducking down so she can hear him over the music.

Diana slaps his shoulder. “What? Come on, Mike, loosen up a little! You’re supposed to be having fun here.”

“I– I am,” he lies, wary of insulting her friend’s party. 

Actually, he thinks this is objectively, probably, a pretty decent party. It’s not as much of a rager as Halloween or his cousin’s, but it’s filled up pretty fast in the last hour, and people have started to dance in the living room, limbs loose like they don’t care if anyone is watching. The energy is loose and easy, not frenetic or overwhelming, so sure, it could be fun. 

Mike just– he can’t get rid of this feeling. This thing he’s been carrying around for the past month, but really he thinks probably before that too, like it was born in the cavity of his chest and grew and grew until now it’s swelling against his ribs, pushing them out of place. He can’t focus on anything else. On top of that, he has this weird premonition that drinking wouldn’t make it go away, might make it worse actually, like whatever it is will finally crack through his bones and all come pouring out, and he wouldn’t be able to shove it back inside. 

Mike had never given the book back. Instead, he’s been carrying it around, taking it out when he’s bored and reading certain parts again like he’s trying to find something he missed the first time. Whatever he’s looking for, it’s not something that he can articulate to himself.  

“My friend’s here,” Diana says to him, looking over his shoulder and waving at someone across the room. “I’m gonna go over. You want to come with? I can introduce you.”

“Uh, yeah, in a sec,” Mike replies distantly, “I’m just gonna use the bathroom.” 

For a second, her gaze lingers on him, something like concern passing over her face before it slips away. She shrugs and walks off.

Will would like this party, Mike thinks, making his way towards the back of the apartment where he thinks the bathroom might be. It would be fun if Will was here. But Will has a final tomorrow morning too, that’s why he couldn’t hang out today, and he just broke up with his boyfriend anyway, wouldn’t be in the mood– Mike should do something with him, though, something fun that would take his mind off it, he had seemed really upset– maybe the art museum again– or a new movie, now that it’s getting warm they have public screenings in the park every weekend–

It would be like a date, some shadow of his brain whispers. Mike frowns. Because it’s not like a date, they do stuff like that all the time.  

If he told Diana, she would think it was a date. Why didn’t he correct her? 

Why hasn’t he returned the book?

Mike shakes his head, trying to come back into the present. It’s dim in this hallway, lit only by the flashing lights from the living room, and it’s giving him this weird dizzying sensation, his head spinning a little. The bathroom light is on, though, pouring from underneath the barely-ajar door, so he takes the handle and pushes it open.

There are two guys in there. They break apart in an instant, heads snapping towards him.

Mike’s mouth drops open. 

For a couple seconds, he thinks he’s forgotten how to speak, until he manages to stutter, “Oh– shit, sorry–”

Spinning around, he closes the door shut all the way behind him, firmly.

Mike swallows. His heart is in his throat all of a sudden, like he walked in on a demogorgon chewing someone's head off and not just two guys kissing. Has he seen that before, ever, in a movie or a magazine or something? He doesn’t think so. He would’ve remembered if he had. He takes another breath and tries to come back to his senses, starts to walk towards the living room again, but his heart is still going, and he realizes with a start that his hands are clammy too. What’s wrong with him? Is he homophobic or something? Diana is gay, he knows that, he knew her other friends might be too when he came here. 

No, he doesn’t think that’s it. He hadn’t been disgusted by that. 

He had been– he had been–

In the corner of the room, he spots a glass door that opens out onto a balcony, where a few people are gathered smoking. He changes course, heading towards it. Fresh air will help. His head feels too full, and so does his chest, that feeling back with a vengeance, trying to push its way out of his ribcage like the monster from Alien. 

No one looks at him when he pushes through the door. Mike walks over to the railing, leaning against it until he’s looking directly down at the street below. His stomach swoops, a wave of vertigo unsteadying him. He doesn’t like heights, hasn’t since the quarry all those years ago, but for some reason he keeps looking, like his eyes are trying to focus on something below. A hazy orange streetlight barely lights up the sidewalk, fuzzing through the darkness. For a minute it’s completely still, unchanging, until he sees movement. It’s an old couple, he realizes, walking hand-in-hand. 

 Mike closes his eyes. The night breeze bats at his face, curling through his hair, but it’s warm, it feels nice, like it lifts something away just enough for him to breathe again.

What if, he thinks, in another life, he was what Diana thought? What if he was like the Greeks? Like Will?

This time, he doesn’t push the thought away. He hangs onto it, tries to let himself picture it.

It wouldn’t have to change anything else about him. Mike would still be the same as he’s always been; he would still like D&D and Nintendo and dinosaurs; he would still annoy Nancy and get into pointless hypothetical arguments with Dustin; he would still be a wiry, loser-y nineteen-year-old at Brown who doesn’t know if he wants to concentrate in English or Computer Science or both and doesn’t know what to do with his hands at parties. 

But his future would look different. Mike wouldn’t have a wife, might not have kids at all, might never be able to get married. When he was looking for someone to be with, he would look at boys. He would flirt with a boy, smile at a boy, tell his friends about a boy, hold hands with a boy, kiss a boy, fall in love, move in together, make dinner and do laundry and watch movies and sleep in the same bed and build a life, not with a girl but with a boyfriend–

Oh.

Oh. 

Mike pushes away from the railing. He keeps staring down at the street, eyes wide, head off somewhere very far away. That feeling in his chest is morphing, glowing hot and melting and molding into something new, something he can’t even describe.

All of a sudden, he can picture it so clearly, like a movie he’s already seen. And he thinks– oh, God. He thinks he wants that. In a way that he’s never wanted his future before.

Mike stumbles back inside. He bumps into Diana, hurriedly tells her that he’s heading out and hardly gives her enough time to say bye before he’s out the door. He takes the stairs so fast that he half-worries he’ll lose his footing, exits the front door of the apartment complex and keeps walking, down the sidewalk, bathed alternately in the light and then in shadow as he passes scattered streetlights, around the corner, until he reaches a bus stop with a payphone next to it.

He fumbles in his pockets until he manages to find some coins and inserts them in the slot, picking the phone up and staring at the keypad until the number he’s looking for pops into his head. 

“Hello?”

“I think I might be an idiot,” Mike blurts out. His chest is heaving, he realizes, as though he’s run a marathon, but it’s not from exertion.

“Sorry, who is this?” Max asks in a tone of faux-innocence. 

“No, I’m– I’m serious,” Mike says, blinking hard. He can’t play along right now, even if he wants to. “Max– I think I’ve been… really, really stupid.”

“Mike?” Through the tinny connection, she sounds worried now, her usual banter gone in a second. “What are you talking about? Did something happen?” 

“Nothing happened, I’m fine, I just– it’s–” Mike takes a deep, shuddering breath in, and squeezes his eyes shut, like it’ll put some distance between him and the real world. “I think I might be– oh, fuck. You know how I told you I wasn’t gay?”

Silence stretches through the receiver, until he hears Max ask quietly, “Yeah?”

“I think I was wrong.”

There. Mike exhales sharply, dropping his forehead against the wall. He hasn’t had anything to drink, hasn’t smoked a joint, and he just– said it. It’s almost anticlimactic, the way nothing happens in the beat before the words come out and the moment afterwards. He has the weird thought that maybe he had been half-expecting the phone booth to blow up, like in a spy movie, and it makes him smile, even though he feels like he might also be about to cry.

“That’s not stupid,” Max says firmly, like she’s willing to argue with him on it if he tries. “That’s not stupid at all.”

“How? I’ve been in love with my best friend for years,” Mike laughs, but there’s no humor to it. It comes out sounding almost desperate. He speaks in a blur of fragmented, half-finished sentences. “I– I told you that, a whole year ago. I’ve known that. But somehow I just never thought– I realized that I was– today. What’s wrong with me?” 

“The syrup and eggs,” Max snipes automatically, and when he laughs again, it’s real this time. It’s weird, how she knew he needed that, needed to remember that it doesn’t change anything for her. 

Her voice softens. “Mike– you’re nineteen. You know that, right? You’re not even twenty yet. We’re freshmen.” 

Mike blinks. 

She’s right. He turned nineteen two weeks ago, on a Wednesday. Will had skipped class to hang out with him, and brought him cupcakes from the bakery that they split, and they had a Star Wars marathon late into the night even though they both know the dialogue by heart at this point. It was perfect. If all his birthdays were like that, he wouldn’t mind getting older.

“I don’t know what to do now,” Mike admits, a little dumbly, standing there in the middle of the night on a stranger’s street, free hand shoved awkwardly into his pockets. 

Max thinks for a moment. Static hums over the line.

“Well,” she says slowly, “what do you want to do?” 

He doesn’t know if he has the answer to that, either. What are you supposed to do after a life-altering epiphany, exactly? He’ll go home, take a shower and brush his teeth, go to bed and wake up in the morning like he does every day, he guesses. But what after that? Maybe, he thinks, knowing now that he’s been looking in the wrong places– maybe he tries dating again. Maybe that will be the thing that finally helps him get over Will, if he can find another boy that he likes, maybe even gets a boyfriend of his own. He’s not really sure how dating works for people like him, but he could find out, and on a college campus, there have to be options, right?

Mike wrinkles his eyebrows at the thought. That’s it, then? He moves on and finds some new boy? How is that fair, when he’s already found the boy he likes the most, when he hasn’t even tried– 

Oh. 

Mike hasn’t even tried.

Because he made a move. 

“Yeah, I think I– have some idea,” he replies absently, his head spinning a little with the force of everything rushing through it. “Thanks, Max.” 

When Mike gets back to his dorm, he pauses as he goes through the motions of his nightly routine, gazing above his desk where the painting is hung. 

There’s a reason, of course, that he’s been avoiding all this for so long. Facing this head-on– it scares him. It’s terrifying. And Mike has seen a lot of terrifying things since he was twelve, but this one feels somehow more impossible than any of them, and he knows that accepting the truth means accepting that fear as his reality. But here, in this painting, Will had depicted him as a paladin, charging towards and not away. And a paladin would be brave, wouldn’t they? Even if something terrified them, they would put their chin up, and they wouldn’t look back, especially if they were doing it for someone they loved. If they had that– it would make it a lot easier. 

Maybe it’s true that it had been years ago, when Will painted this. But if this was really how he saw Mike, at one point, then maybe it’s possible for Will to see him like this again. 

Maybe Mike just has to try.