Chapter Text
Will was standing in his bedroom when he heard the door crack open from downstairs, an anticipated yet unwelcome disruption to the hour of silence he indulged in before. The minutes went by like seconds, which wasn’t uncommon whenever he found himself caught up in another painting. His brush paused on the canvas as the voices started to roll in, because there was one that stood out like a sore thumb, with that warm familiarity despite having not heard it in months.
With that, the voices blurred into nothing again. Even though he didn't care, that’s what he told himself when he refused to tag along to the airport, nothing could have prepared him for this feeling. He wasn’t sure what it was, if it was good or bad, but he knew that it lived somewhere in the hollow of his throat– tight and snug and insufferable all the same. For so long, he felt lightyears away from that voice, and now it was in his house. Downstairs, then the kitchen, then the stairs, then outside his room, then across the hall and into the guest room.
Will had been the last to know about this arrangement. It wasn’t until that morning, while he was slicing an apple for his last day of school, that someone thought to relay the message. Oh yeah, did they tell you? Mike’s staying for Christmas break. He’s coming tonight. Yes, tonight. At first, it felt like Jonathan had been joking, but he didn’t smile or even look at him at all— he just passed by, exiting through the front door to get the van started like it was any other morning, leaving him alone with air far too thick to inhale.
As a kid, the mention of Mike’s name would have caused him to perk up with excitement. It meant it was going to be a good day. It would always be at Mike’s house, because Ted didn’t care like Lonnie did. He didn’t see a threat in the form of another five year old. Karen let them make the basement theirs after Mike won the rock-paper-scissors match against Nancy, even after she demanded the best odds out of three. Back then, it felt like fate. They used it specifically for fantasy and games and everything fun, just the two of them, where they’d camp out for sleepovers and accidentally leave plates whenever Karen brought down grilled cheese so that they wouldn’t starve during their extra long campaigns with Lucas and Dustin.
But things were different now. Once the initial shock wore off, he realized that he wasn’t excited, not even a little bit. It'd only been a few minutes and he had already forgotten what he was painting. The disturbance really ruined his flow, and he contemplated turning some music on to drown everyone else out. El was giving Mike a rather loud and excited tour, and he knew it wouldn't be long until his door opened too. Finding a hiding spot felt like the most logical approach in a situation like this, albeit less appropriate, like a less fun version of the hide-and-seek games they used to play. But his feet were glued to the hardwood; his gut only turning weaker and sicker with every inch they stepped closer to his door.
Perhaps the stare he held on the knob was too intense, because before he knew it, it twisted, startling him awake in an instant. Oh god. Will straightened his back.
At first, she smiled at him, “hi,” then her face fell, “oh, sorry, I didn’t knock.” It was something he had to keep reminding her. But he didn’t care, because it was too late now. Mike was already standing right there, in the cusp of the very room Will would slam the door and collapse on the bed when the loss of their friendship felt too heavy to carry. Always around the same time El could be heard from outside her room, laughing at something Mike said over the phone.
They locked eyes for half a millisecond, but it was enough to heat his face into an embarrassingly dark red. There was so much emotion there, the urge to run up and hug him was at war with every other hurt feeling. Like he could hit him instead, or yell something obscene, or throw paint even. But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything except let his hand shake from behind the canvas. The brush felt a thousand pounds heavier now, even his fingers were sweating.
The worst part was that Mike looked good. Like really good. Like he’d done it on purpose to make him less mad. Will was seething inside— he hated him— but in this particular moment he enjoyed looking at him. He was wearing one of those knitted sweaters, sized up from the last time he’d worn something like it, and his hair seemed to be growing out too. He was different yet still the same old Mike he used to know. But that was only superficial. He couldn’t say the same about his character.
He figured Mike was thinking the same about him, with his shorter and messier bowlcut, but most notably the drainage of color in both his clothing and decor. Prior to the big move, he hardly ever showed this much black— unless it was halloween. It seemed to be the only thing Mike could focus on, anything except Will’s face. Even in his own bedroom, he was being ignored, pushed to the side, forgotten. There was always something more interesting.
“It’s alright,” he responded to her distantly, taking notice of the way Mike's gaze dropped timidly to the floor. The way he chewed on his bottom lip and played with his hands, like he was in the same boat, like he wasn’t thrilled to be here either. Like he was just itching to go somewhere else already. In which case, fine, leave, you were never invited into this room anyways.
El coaxed him with a nudge, “Mike,” and spread her arms out to showcase Will’s bedroom, a poor attempt at diluting some of the tension that had accumulated since they first barged in. It was meant to encourage him but he had little to show for it. He knew, better than anyone, who was responsible. He wasn’t sure what the best approach was— honestly, he wasn’t expecting a greeting at all. Once Will had picked up on the fact that he was being avoided, it became mutual. He supposed he was just expecting more of… that.
“Hey man,” he said, finally nodding him some acknowledgement. His discomfort was much louder than his voice.
Will didn't say anything back— he didn't want to. He settled on a nod instead, something to protect his pride, to match what he was being given— masking his nerves by keeping his body stiff like something inanimate, because if he made any sort of movement right now, he might actually break.
It seemed to satisfy El; in her oblivious and chipper nature, she grabbed the knob again and apologized for bothering him. Then they were gone. And Will could breathe again.
Eventually, he let go of the paintbrush, inadvertently smudging his work, and threw himself onto the bed. The world was ending, it had to be. And if there was any point, he’d scream, but that wouldn't glue the pieces of the sky back together.
He buried his face in his pillow, muffling the sound of a frustrated groan. Why did Mike have to visit? Why now? He was already ruining everything and it had hardly been five minutes. Because it was hard enough getting over him from a nearly seven hundred mile distance. Now they were stuck in the same house for who knows— the entire break, so probably like a week and a half. Someone might as well hold a gun to his head.
There was nothing he could do to stop this, and he had even less control when it came to the resurfacing of old feelings.