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Mike doesn’t think of it as a song at first.
It’s just a few lines written on the pages at the back of his notebook— the one he usually saves for math homework or half-finished campaign ideas. The words don’t really fit together yet. Not in a way that makes sense. He keeps scribbling over sentences and crossing out words, rewriting them smaller because maybe they’ll behave better if they don’t take up too much space.
He tells himself it’s nothing. Just something to keep his hands occupied when his brain is running marathons.
Still, every time he looks down at the page, he thinks of Will.
Not in a dramatic way. Or in realization. Just in the way that you think of something that’s always been there— like television static or sunlight peeking through the window that you don’t notice until it’s gone. Mike stares intently at the line he can’t fix, trying to imagine how Will would phrase it instead. Will would know how to make it work. He always knew how to make things sound just right. Like they belong right where they are.
Mike taps the end of his pencil against the paper and sighs.
It’s stupid, really. He’s not much of a poet. He doesn’t even understand why this feels so important to him, only that he knows that he wants it to be gentle. He wants it to sound like something you can keep forever. Like something a proud parent would hang on the fridge with a tacky magnet. Something that wouldn’t disappear just because you don’t say it out loud.
He doesn’t write Will’s name.
He never does.
But it’s always there, laced into every word Mike writes and every line he can’t seem to finish.
——
For Mike, it’d become routine to write in the back of his notebook. At home, during class, at lunch— anywhere he had access to a pencil and his thoughts. And his notebook, of course. It’s become almost like second nature for Mike to sit at his desk, open his backpack, and grab his notebook out along with anything else he needed for the class.
So, it’s no surprise to himself that he finds himself jotting down phrases while half-listening to Mr. Clarke’s lecture on waves.
Mr. Clarke is talking about wavelengths, about how signals travel and overlap and interfere with one another, his voice steady and familiar. Mike catches bits of it without really trying— enough to follow along if he has to. Enough to nod his head at the right moments. The rest of it blends seamlessly into the background, like static your brain stops registering once it’s been there for long enough.
His pencil moves involuntarily.
Not full sentences. Just fragments. Words that feel oh so close to something, only for their meaning to just wash away. He writes one down, stares at it for a second or two, then erases and tries again. Smaller this time. Quieter.
He keeps the notebook angled just enough where only he can see its contents, back pages hidden by the corner of his textbook. It’s not something he really thinks about anymore. It’s just how he sits now. How he exists in classrooms.
Will is sitting one desk to the left of Mike.
Mike doesn’t look at him directly. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t have to. He knows where he sits in the same way he knows where the windows are, or where the door is. He notices the way Will leans forward when he’s particularly interested in something Mr. Clarke is saying, and the way he balances his pencil between his fingers when he’s thinking. He can’t help but notice everything and nothing all at once.
Mike tells himself that he’s only distracted because science has always made his brain feel busy in a good way.
That’s all.
Mr. Clarke rants about resonance— about how certain frequencies amplify each other when they line up just right— and Mike’s pencil stills. He glances over the last line he wrote, feels the too familiar tightening of his chest, and shakes his head once before erasing it.
Not right.
He mindlessly taps his pencil against the paper, once, twice. Mike glances up just in time to notice Mr. Clarke walking through the rows of desks, speaking not only through his voice but his hands as well as he walks. Mike flips the notebook closed a second too fast, heart racing for no real reason, then relaxes once Mr. Clarke passes his desk.
He opens it again when he feels safe enough to do so.
By the time the bell rings, the page is much messier than what he started with. Eraser smudges, scribble marks, and small doodles populating the paper. He doesn’t try to fix it. He never does right before the bell. That feels too much like tempting fate.
He closes the notebook and slides it, along with his other class materials, into his bag as chairs scrape and people start standing up. Mr. Clarke is still talking, encouraging any student that might need help to meet with him after lunch.
Will turns halfway in his seat– just enough to meet Mike’s eyes. “Did you get the homework?”
Mike nods, though he barely remembers what was assigned. “Yeah.”
It’s true enough.
Now he has to make it through the war-zone known as lunch.
——
Mike walks to lunch with a purpose, weaving through the crowded hallway, side-by-side with Will.
The lunchroom is a sharp contrast from the quietness of the classroom— loud conversations, trays clattering against tables, the smell of food. Everything has its place, yet Mike feels very out of place. Uncomfortable. Which is odd since he doesn’t typically feel uncomfortable around his friends.
Dustin and Lucas are already sitting at their table once Mike and Will arrive, deep in conversation. Mike carefully sits his backpack down onto the linoleum tiles, adjusting it until it’s sitting exactly how he wants it to. He takes his seat, immediately noticing the distance, or lack thereof, between Will and himself. Their elbows bump as Will takes his seat, and Mike’s face flushes slightly on impact.
“So, Mike, hypothetically speaking, if someone were to start a band—”
Mike doesn’t notice Dustin talking to him. He’s lost in thought, staring aimlessly ahead of him. He can hear his voice, and the noise of the lunch room, but his brain drowns it out. He wants to reach in his bag and grab his notebook and just write. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not with this many people around. That’s like willingly trying to battle Vecna and only having five hit points left. It’s a suicide mission. He curls his fingers slightly against his thigh, eyes now locked on a poster taped to the way a few feet away.
“Mike?” He still doesn’t register that Dustin’s talking to him. “Mike.” Dustin speaks louder this time, effectively snapping Mike out of whatever version of LaLaLand he’d trapped himself in. “What? I– uh. Sorry.” Mike blinks, turning his attention to his curly-haired friend.
Dustin launches right back into his rambling, undeterred. Something about band names and how they’d need someone to play the keyboard because that was, in his words, “non-negotiable.” He also suggested that they should have someone play the triangle for some reason.
Mike nods when he thinks he’s supposed to. Says “yeah,” and “that’s cool,” at the right time. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.
His fingers drift toward the strap of his backpack without him really meaning to. He could probably unzip it half-way— enough to slip his notebook and a pencil out. He could probably write a line or two down before anyone noticed.
He doesn’t.
Will shifts beside him, leaning back in his chair, and suddenly Mike becomes painfully aware of how close he is again. Close enough to see. Close enough to notice. Close enough to touch.
Lucas glances at him from across the table, eyebrows raising just slightly, and Mike straightens in his seat, carefully pulling his hand back,
He can write later.
The notebook stays where it is, in the safety of Mike’s bag.
For a while, that feels like the right choice.
—
Dustin keeps rambling about more band names and how the triangle is still, somehow, a serious musical contribution. Lucas hums noncommittally, already half distracted. Will leans back in his chair, knee bouncing lightly against the table leg.
Mike nods when he thinks he’s supposed to. Smiles at all of the right moments.
The noise of the lunch room swells around them— trays scraping, laughter piercing the air at nearly every table, the hum of way too many voices in one room. It all blurs together until his thoughts start clawing at him again, restless and insistent.
Just one line, he tells himself.
He doesn’t even mean to reach for his bag at first. His hand moves on instinct, fingers finding the cool metal zipper, easing it open just enough. He slides the notebook onto his lap, hidden beneath the table, angled away from view. The pencil is already in his hand.
This is a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
He knows that, yet does it anyway.
The line comes out cramped and crooked from the angle, letters pressed too close together. It’s almost right. Close enough that his chest tightens as he stares at it, debating whether to erase it or let it stay. He doesn’t notice that he’d brought the notebook up to actually rest on the table.
That is, however, until Dustin notices.
“Oooooh,” he says, a cheeky grin spreading across his face as he leans across the table. “What’s this? Secret notebook? Are you writing, like— poetry?”
He reaches out, fingers hooking toward the edge of the notebook like he expects Mike to swat his hand away and laugh it off. Like this is nothing. Like it’s safe.
Mike yanks it back instantly.
Too fast. Too hard.
The notebook snaps shut with a sharp sound that slices cleanly through the noise around them.
For half a second, the table goes very quiet.
Mike’s heart slams into his ribs. He laughs— too quickly, too loud, too forced— and he shoves the notebook back into his bag like it’d burned him.
“It’s nothing,” he says, even though his voice comes out strained. “Just homework. You’re annoying.”
Dustin laughs, hands raised in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, jeez. Didn’t know I was poking into top-secret Wheeler business.”
Lucas’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly.
Will doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Mike, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turns away again.
The conversation eventually stumbles back to life.
Mike doesn’t reach for the notebook.
He doesn’t even touch his bag again.
By the time the bell rings, one thing is painfully clear.
This isn’t where it’s supposed to happen.
——
The second Mike enters his home he heads straight for his room. He shuts the door behind him and leans back against it for a second, breathing out slowly. The house is quiet in that familiar late-afternoon way— his parents still out, the television downstairs muted.
Safe.
He sits on the edge of his bed, leaning over to unzip his backpack and grab the notebook out. He flips to the page from lunch— it’s practically the same. The line is still there, faintly smudged where his palm brushed it.
It’s close.
Too close to ignore, yet too close to fix.
He stares at it for a long moment, pencil hovering over the lines, then sighs and lets his hand drop.
He’s tired of fighting it. So, so tired.
That’s when he notices the guitar.
It’s been leaning against his desk the whole time, exactly where he left it who knows how long ago. The strap is worn and twisted, one string slightly out of tune. Ordinary. Familiar. Something he’s had for years without ever really thinking about it.
Mike looks at it anyway.
He hums the line under his breath without meaning to. Just once. Quiet enough that it barely counts.
The rhythm clicks into place like it’s the missing puzzle piece he’d been searching for all along.
His fingers tap against his knee, already counting something out before he realizes what he’s doing. The melody doesn’t feel forced. It also doesn’t feel fragile.
It just… exists.
Oh.
He stands and grabs the guitar before he can talk himself out of it, then returns to the edge of his bed.
The first chord rings out softly, then another. He winces, adjusts his fingers appropriately, and tries again. The progression is simple— nothing fancy, nothing flashy. Gentle in a way that makes his chest ache.
He plays it once.
Then again.
The line exists here better than it ever did on paper, stretching out instead of folding in on itself. The words don’t feel like they’re trying to escape him anymore.
Mike exhales, something oddly similar to relief loosening in his chest.
He doesn’t finish the song. Not even close. But for the first time, it doesn't feel like it’s slipping though his fingers.
The notebook lies open on the bed, forgotten.
Mike rests the guitar against his leg and stares at the wall, heart beating a little faster than it was before.
Maybe it isn’t meant to be read.
Maybe it never was.
The thought lingers long after he sets his guitar down.
——
A few days pass, and Mike keeps writing.
The notebook doesn’t disappear from his life, but it changes. It becomes a place to drop things instead of solve them. He mostly writes at night, sprawled across his bed with the guitar within reach. He writes sitting on the floor, back against the bed frame, pencil tapping against the paper when the words stall out.
Some lines stay. Most don’t.
He stops being precious about it. If something doesn’t work, he crosses it out and moves on instead of staring at it trying to feel something. The pages look a lot messier, more lived-in, but the words feel lighter for it.
During the day, the song hums quietly in the back of his mind.
He hums it while brushing his teeth. Taps the rhythm against his thigh in class. Lets the melody loop while he pretends to pay attention.
At night, he plays.
He figures out the chords slowly. Nothing complicated, just something steady enough to hold the words without swallowing them whole. He plays the same progression until his fingers know where to go without him having to think about it.
That’s when it starts to feel real.
Not finished. Not perfect. But real.
He thinks about Will more than usual.
Not in a spiraling way. Just… constantly.
Once, he almost says something. They’re in the basement, dice scattered across the floor, Dustin mid-ramble, Lucas talking about his new and improved slingshot, and Will lazily sitting on the couch, thumbing through a comic. Mike opens his mouth then closes it again, the words retreating back into his chest.
He isn’t ready.
But the thought doesn’t go away.
Instead, it sharpens.
Mike realizes, late one night, that he doesn’t actually want to explain the song. He doesn’t want to justify it or talk it to death. He just wants Will to hear it.
Will knows how to listen.
That’s the thought that settles everything bubbling inside Mike’s head.
Mike sits there for a long time after setting the guitar down, staring at the walkie on his desk without touching it.
Not yet.
——
Mike doesn’t think too hard about it when he grabs his walkie.
He’s already halfway down the stairs before the thought fully settles— already tugging his shoes on, guitar case clinging to his body by its strap. This movement feels practiced and a bit automatic, like his body decided before his brain could catch up. He feels like he’s running on autopilot.
Outside, the air is warm and still, late afternoon stretching lazily toward evening. The street is quiet in that way it usually gets before dinner, the hum of cicadas starting up in the trees.
He takes a deep breath then presses his thumb to the button.
“Will? You busy? Over.”
Static hums softly before Will’s voice comes through. “No. What’s up? Over.”
Mike shifts his weight, eyes tracing the cracks in the sidewalk, the places he’s stepped over a hundred times without thinking. Right now, he’s thinking a little too much. “Do you want to hang out later? Maybe go to the quarry? Over.”
There’s a brief pause— nothing heavy, nothing loaded.
“Yeah,” Will says, voice crackling through the static. “Yeah, sure. Over.”
“Okay,” Mike replies with a lot more ease than he thought possible. “I’ll be there around sunset. Over and out.”
Mike clicks the walkie off before either of them has a chance to say anything else.
——
The ride there feels strangely ordinary.
The guitar bumps against his back with each turn of the pedals, strap tugging at his shoulder in a way that’s both familiar and grounding. He focuses on the road— the cracks in the pavement, the rhythm of his breathing, the steady movement forward. Every time a thought tries to surface, he lets it drift past without meaning to.
He slows on instinct once the quarry comes into view.
The sun is already dipping low, washing the sky in a pale orange color, the water below smooth and reflective. The air feels cooler here. Quieter. Like the world has narrowed its focus just a little.
Mike stops near the edge and exhales heavily through his nose.
Oh.
He hadn’t meant for it to look like this.
Truthfully, he just wanted somewhere out of the way. Somewhere private. The timing definitely wasn’t planned, and the lighting definitely wasn’t intentional. At least he tells himself that.
Still.
He notices the way the treeline glows faintly, the way the water mirrors the sky almost perfectly. The place feels suspended, like it’s waiting for something. He sets the guitar case down beside him and sits, knees drawn to his chest, absently tracing the edge of the case with his fingers. His foot bounces once, then stills. He fixes his gaze on the path leading up to his location.
He waits.
After some time, Mike is snapped out of his trance by the sound of footsteps crunching against gravel.
Will appears at the top of the path, slightly out a breath, hair catching the last of the sunlight. He takes in the view then turns to Mike with a small, curious smile.
“Hey,” Will says.
“Hey,” Mike replies, surprising himself with the steadiness of his voice.
They stand there for a moment, the quiet stretching comfortably between them. Will’s gaze drifts briefly to the guitar, then back to Mike. He doesn’t ask.
Mike awkwardly clears his throat. “It’s not finished,” he says quickly, dropping his gaze. “And it might not be any good.”
Will shrugs lightly. “That’s okay.”
Something about how easily he says it nearly unravels Mike.
They sit beside each other,close enough that their shoulders brush. Mike adjusts the guitar on his lap, fingers clumsy with nerves.
He breathes in and starts to play.
The first chord hums warm and low, vibrating through the guitar and into his chest. It sounds fuller out here, like the air has more room for it. Like the sound isn’t constricted to the walls of his bedroom anymore. He presses his fingers harder, then softer, listening to the way the sound changes beneath his touch.
He keeps his eyes glued to the strings.
The worn wood under his thumb, the faint sting in his fingertips— it grounds him. When he starts to sing, his voice is quiet at first, cautious, but it eventually steadies as he goes.
The words come in fragments. Lines he’s written and erased, reshaped and shrunk. Some of them land differently out loud. Softer. Less sharp.
He lets them be imperfect.
The song stretches instead of collapsing in on itself. Pauses linger and notes blur gently at the edges. He doesn’t notice when his shoulders drop or when his breathing evens out.
A memory slips in uninvited— chalk dust in the air, Will leaning forward in class, pencil balanced between his fingers, tongue slightly poked out in concentration. Mike writing the same line over and over, smaller each time, trying to make it behave.
Now, it doesn’t fight him.
Halfway through, a lyric slips out that he didn’t plan. Something Will said once, late at night, tossed casually into the static of the walkie.
The words hang between them.
Will shifts closer.
Mike’s fingers stumble, panic flaring sharp and familiar. He almost stops. Almost apologizes.
Instead, he breathes in and plays through it.
The sky deepens as he finishes, the last traces of pink and orange fading into a dark blue. He lets the final chord ring out fully, fingers staying on the strings until the vibration dissolves into silence.
The quiet afterward feels immense, but not dangerous.
Mike stares down at the guitar in his lap, heart pounding. His hands feel heavy, like he’s just set something down he’s been carrying for far too long.
He looks up, and Will is already watching him with those soft yet intense hazel eyes. Not surprised. Not confused. Just like something has finally clicked into place.
“You didn’t mess it up,” Will says quietly.
Mike lets out a shaky laugh, carding his fingers through his hair. “That obvious?”
“A little.”
They sit there, shoulders brushing. The guitar rests forgotten between them.
Will shifts closer again, close enough that Mike can feel his warmth and smell the faint soap-and-something-else that’s always smelled like Will. He doesn’t touch him.
He waits.
Mike’s heart races. The instinct to back up claws at him—sharp and familiar. The urge to laugh it off. To crack a joke. To pretend he didn’t mean any of it like that.
He thinks of the notebook.
Of all the lines that never made it out of the margins.
Of how close this came to staying hidden forever, confined to pages and Mike’s mind.
Not this time.
He leans in slowly, deliberately, every inch of movement heavy with intention.
It feels like crossing a line he’s been standing in front of for years without realizing it had a name. He gives Will time—real time—to pull ways if he wants to. He watches Will’s eyes flick briefly to his mouth, then back up again, searching his face.
Will doesn’t move away.
When their lips meet, it’s soft at first— almost hesitant, like both of them are still testing what’s allowed. The contact is light, more breath than pressure, but it sends a sharp, unmistakable jolt through Mike’s chest anyway.
He exhales shakily.
Will does too.
The sound is quiet, barely there, but Mike feels it everywhere. He leans in just a fraction more, drawn by warmth and familiarity; by the way Will meets him with the same careful certainty. The kiss deepens slowly— not rushed, not desperate. Just a little more pressure. A little more trust.
Mike’s hand comes up without him realizing it, fingers curling into the fabric of Will’s jacket. He doesn’t pull. He just holds, grounding himself in the reality of it: Will is here. This is happening.
Something in Mike finally gives way.
The tightness in his chest loosens, unspooling into something warm and steady. For a second, the world narrows to this— the quiet press of Will’s mouth, the warmth between them, the low hum of evening settling around the quarry.
And somewhere in the middle of it—without warning, without ceremony— Mike feels something settle.
Not rush. Not panic. Just the absence of both.
The constant hum under his ribs— the one that’s always told him to be careful, to hold back, to brace for loss— goes quiet. He isn’t thinking about what comes next or what this means or how fragile it might be. He isn’t wondering if this will hurt later.
All he knows is that he wants to stay right here. That if this moment never changed, it would be enough. That sitting this close to Will, breathing the same air, feels less like a risk and more like coming home.
When they pull apart, it’s gradual. Reluctant.
Mike stays close, forehead resting lightly against Will’s, eyes closed as if he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he looks too hard.
His hand is still gripping Will’s jacket. He doesn’t let go.
For a second, Mike stays completely still.
Not because he’s afraid to move, but because everything in him feels too loud, too full, like one wrong move might send it spilling over. He tightens his grip on Will’s jacket slightly, anchoring himself.
He can feel Will breathing. Slow. Real. Close enough that Mike can feel the warmth of it against his chest.
The realization hits him all at once, heavy and almost dizzying:
This is happening.
Not in the abstract way he’s imagined countless times. Not folded safely into notebook pages or half-formed melodies. This is real and solid and sitting right beside him, looking back with that same quiet patience Will always had for him.
Mike’s throat tightens.
He thinks about how long he’s been holding this. How many times he’s swallowed words back because they felt far too fragile to survive being said out loud. How many places he’s hidden pieces of himself, convinced that wanting something too much meant losing it.
The notebook.
The lunch table.
The way his heart jumps every time Will would laugh or lean in just a little too close.
All of it presses in on him now— not painful, just present.
“I almost didn’t do this,” Mike admits quietly. “I kept thinking I’d mess it up. Or that it would be… I don’t know, easier not to say anything.”
Will doesn't interrupt. He never does. Instead, his fingers curl firmly around Mike’s wrist.
“But it wasn’t easier,” Mike continues. “It was just quieter. And I think I got tired of being quiet.”
“I’ve been listening anyway,” Will says gently.
Mike exhales, leaning his head against the curve of Will’s neck. “I didn’t really want to write you a song,” he says. “I mean, I did. But it was never really about the song.”
“You just needed somewhere to put it,” Will says, bringing his free hand up to comb through Mike’s hair. “Yeah,” Mike whispers. “Somewhere it wouldn’t disappear.”
They sit there as the last of the daylight fades, the quarry settling into evening around the,. The guitar lies forgotten between their knees, the notebook miles away.
Mike squeezes Will’s hand once, deliberate and sure.
“I just wanted to give you my heart.”