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Mike doesn’t slam the front door when he leaves.
He closes it carefully. That’s how he knows he’s serious.
If he were angry, he’d slam it. If he were unsure, he’d hesitate on the porch. But he just steps out – cool evening air heavy with something sharp and decisive lodged behind his lungs. There’s something sparkly running through his whole body – like the bubbles from champagne at the surface of the glass his mom had earlier.
He doesn’t have to look down to make sure his hands are shaking, he already knows.
And even if his legs feel like jelly as he crosses the alley, he has to do it. He has to know.
He’s going to look Will in the eye and ask why he kept so quiet. Why the only answer he ever got was silence, even after every little shout that came from his lungs.
The last few weeks passed lightspeed-by, and still, it feels like has been ages. He feels like his bones have been scratched – just to carve Will’s name on them.
And the fact that the sky looks heavy and about to fall doesn’t make things easier. Blue and grey tangling into dark, swollen with clouds that haven’t broken yet. The air feels metallic – like the second before lightning.
His sneakers hit the pavement in quick, measured steps. And the words “don’t turn around” run like a mantra inside his mind.
And it replays. And replays, and replays.
The sound of Will’s laugh – the one he hasn’t heard in a long time now. About the way he used to look at him, really look. The way he used to care, with soft words and longing smiles.
The way Mike’s heart always skipped when Will was around – and how it got used to the calming sound of his voice. The lingering, bubbly feeling after their hands or knees brushed, and rose heat rushing into his cheeks right after.
About the way Mike thought, oh so stupidly, that maybe Will felt the same. He just thought he was being obvious.
Almost three months ago – when he found out the Byers' were coming back from California – Mike came to a lot of realizations.
At first, he didn’t understand why he felt so lost and out of place most part of the time. It felt as if walls were about to collide with him in the middle – getting irritated with everything, avoiding talking too much and feeling like he had a lot to say at the same time.
Because Will had stopped writing letters to him. And to all those letters, Mike had replied once just to ask for a fucking patch from Joy Division after Will told him about some local indie store near his new house.
He didn’t even like them that much. And the worst thing? Will actually sent it.
And Mike admits he’s been a total dick. He knows that he had to say something else, but he was scared. Every time he tried to reply, his feelings jumped out of his heart, wrote themselves down and filled white spaces that ended wrinkled inside the trash can below his desk.
“I feel like I haven’t been myself ever since you moved.”
“I've never missed anyone this hard in my life.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
All those letters, signed with Love, Mike.
There had been a tiny coffee stain in the corner from where he’d knocked his mug over at 2 a.m. He’d almost rewritten the whole thing because of it, but he told himself it made it real.
It wasn’t really hard to guess. The hard part was to accept it.
That’s why it took him some time to say something. To be honest not just to him, but to Will as well.
And when he finally sent the letter, Mike really tried to give him time. He felt like pouring his feelings the night he wrote it, hands shaking when he mailed it the next morning before school. He remembers the way his fingers hesitated at the edge of the mailbox slot.
Not when he wrote it. Not when he signed it.
Only when he let go.
The metal door shutting with a hollow clang followed him with every step home.
Then he waited.
And waited.
And really, tried to wait some more.
Mike turns the corner toward the Byers’ house now, jaw tight.
Waited.
For a call. For a letter back. Anything.
And silence was the only answer he got.
Maybe he deserved it. For taking so much time. In the letter he explained that he really wasn’t trying to ignore Will, that he had to clear through some kind of mist blocking his way before daring to do something about it.
Maybe that wasn’t enough.
When Will came back to Hawkins, Mike had studied him the way you study a test you’re afraid you failed.
Was there distance?
Was there discomfort?
Was there pity?
Will had been quieter. Careful. Not cold. Just… careful.
And Mike’s brain, traitorous and loud, had whispered:
He read it. He doesn’t feel the same.
So Mike retreated, like he always did when he was scared. Then the half-laughs, the half-conversations. Their eyes running away from each other when they shared a three-second-long stare. Pretending the air between them wasn’t different now.
Every time Will looked at him like he was waiting for something more, Mike felt guilt crawling up his spine.
But he couldn’t get himself to say it.
Will now kept this sad stare at him most of the time and it was suffocating. He never thought pity would be the last thing Will would feel towards him. Not Will out of all people. That sad stare has been living at the front of Mike’s head and inside his chest ever since.
The air feels thicker; he rubs his palms against his jeans. They’re damp.
He’s halfway down the street now.
What if you ruined it?
The thought lands harder somewhere near a thunder he hears in the distance.
Is that a sign to not do this?
Because, what if the letter wasn’t brave? What if it was selfish?
What if Will had been perfectly fine with their quiet, steady, lifelong friendship – and Mike had detonated it with three stupid words?
I love you.
The words burn inside his ribs, tears tickling his eyes.
He can see Castle Byers in his mind. The first time they built it with Jonathan’s help. The way Will used to look at him back then – open, certain. Like Mike hung the stars and all that shit.
Somewhere along the line, that look changed. Or maybe Mike just started seeing it differently.
He doesn’t know which version scares him more.
The Byers’ porch light glows soft against the darkening sky, and he slows down for the first time.
He becomes aware of the way his heart is pounding now – not loud and frantic, but deep. Heavy. Like war drums in the distance. Like the heat before the war.
Not yelling. Not accusations. Just the decision to step onto the battlefield.
He just wants an answer. He can’t keep standing in the middle of his own conclusions because those were the ones that haunted him the most. He’s going there to understand.
To ask why Will didn’t say anything.
Why he didn’t reject him.
Why he didn’t accept him.
Why he’s been looking at Mike like something fragile about to shatter.
Mike climbs the porch steps, hand hovering near the door.
He can still leave. He can still pretend this is fine. He can go back all the way to his house and get inside his room to loop the memories again. Rewrite them. Reinterpret every glance until he’s too tired to feel it.
But that would mean being lost forever. And he’s tired of flying around and wandering into the pieces of the best thing he’s ever had. Tired of feeling hypervigilant around every little reaction these feelings have caused.
At least after this, he can have closure and maybe regain some direction.
His breath breaks when he inhales, still he reaches for his key. He doesn’t remember when was the last time he used it.
Voices spill out first and Will’s laugh hits him low in the stomach. It’s been a long time since he heard that sound. Loose. Unfiltered.
And Mike doesn’t mean to look, but he does anyway.
Because they’re standing just outside the living room – near the doorway, close enough that their shoulders almost brush. The other guy is mid-sentence, smiling in that easy way people do when they’re comfortable.
Will looks different when he’s comfortable – softer around the eyes, less guarded.
Mike notices everything at once.
The way the guy leans in slightly when he talks. The way Will’s head tilts when he listens. The way their conversation doesn’t look strained. It looks effortless.
The taller guy says something Mike can’t hear and he actually doesn’t care but it made Will laugh again. His eyes almost run all the way to take the guy’s hand away from Will’s shoulder.
He feels his teeth sinking in, nails clinging to his palms.
He never looked at you like that.
The thought hits immediate and cruel.
That dude dares to glance up at him.
“Oh– hey, man!”
Mike doesn’t smile. Doesn’t greet him. He doesn’t even nod. He’s being mocked right in his face.
He just rolls his eyes slightly –too much, too exaggerated– and pushes the door open wider as he steps inside.
“Whatever,” he mutters, barely audible but sharp enough.
The guy blinks. Will stiffens instantly.
“Uh… Mike?” he says, confused.
Mike just shrugs into his jacked like he belongs there, like nothing's wrong and the air isn’t buzzing. Like he totally doesn’t want to run all the way to his house and get wasted with his mom’s disgusting bitter wine.
Mike hears the guy clear his throat.
“Huh… I was just leaving.”
“Yeah,” Mike says flatly. He doesn’t look at him.
The guy hesitates, glancing at Will like he’s asking if everything’s okay without saying it. That’s me and Will’s language only, you idiot.
Will forces a smile. “It’s fine, Carlton. I’ll call you later.”
Mike’s jaw tightens at that.
I’ll call you later.
Now that the guy has a name – and Mike wishes he didn’t, Carlton nods and steps out into the April weather.
The door closes, leaving the house with a heavy yet familiar quietness.
Will turns slowly.
“What was that?” he asks.
Mike doesn’t answer immediately. He moves further into the living room, slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world. He stops in front of the framed fruit platter Will painted when he was seven. Mike has seen it a hundred times.
He stares at it like it's fascinating.
“What was what?”
“You just walked in and–“ Will gestures vaguely. “That.”
Mike shrugs, jaw tight. “I’ll bring my invitation next time, sorry.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
When Mike finally turns, it’s quick – almost defensive.
He meets Will’s eyes. That sad stare.
The one that’s been haunting him. It makes something twist painfully in his chest.
“What is your problem?” Will asks, more firmly now.
Mike laughs once more, short and dry and humourless. It sounds wrong in the quiet room – brittle, forced.
“My problem?”
“Yes. Your problem.”
Mike feels the words pressing against his ribs. The letter. The silence. The weeks of distance. The look on Will’s face when he laughs with someone else.
He meant to said it calmly. It doesn’t quite come like that.
“You seem busy,”
Will blinks. “He was leaving.”
“Sure looked like he was staying.”
Will's eyebrows draw together – too much, too sharp. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you two looked pretty comfortable.”
Something flickers across Will’s face. Confusion, realization and irritation all meeting after the other. Mike knows all too well.
“Are you serious right now?”
Mike’s hands are shaking again. He shoves them into his pockets.
“I don’t know. Am I?”
He can feel the air twisting heavier as Will storms his eyes at him. It feels like temperature just rose five degrees.
Will crosses his arms. “If you came here to start something–“
“I came here to ask you something,” Mike cuts in.
Will stills at that. The room seems to get smaller, and Mike takes a step closer.
“Then ask.”
They're too close now. Not touching. But close enough he can see the tension in Will's jaw. Mike doesn’t even know where to start, but he holds onto Will’s gaze.
“What was all that?” he asks.
Will blinks twice. “What?”
“All of that,” Mike gestures toward the door. “The laughing. The shoulder thing. The whole–“ he trails off, annoyed at himself for not having a better word. “whatever.”
Will’s expression shifts from wary to incredulous.
“Are you actually serious?” he asks again.
“I’m just asking.”
“No,” Will says sharply. “You’re not.”
Mike scoffs. “So you’re just going to pretend that wasn’t weird?”
“Weird?” Will repeats. “I was standing in my house talking to my friend.”
“Yeah, and you were totally glowing at him.”
“Oh my god.”
Mike pushes forward now, because he’s committed. “You haven’t smiled like that at me in ages!”
There it is. Too honest – but said wrong.
Will’s jaw tightens. “So this is about you.”
Mike’s eyebrows shoot up. “It’s not about me–“
“It’s all about you when you do this.”
“When I do what?”
“When you come at me already mad like I’ve done something. I can’t read your mind, Michael.”
“Oh don’t Michael, me” Mike rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say you did anything!”
“You don’t have to!” Will snaps. “You walk in here with that look on your face like I failed some test I didn’t know I was taking.”
Mike’s chest tightens so hard he has to inhale just to keep steady.
“I just asked a question.”
“No," Will says, low and controlled now. "You asked it like you already decided the answer.”
The silence lands heavy upon Mike’s shoulders. He has to shatter it.
“So is that the answer?” Mike’s voice drops, sharp, dangerous.
Will laughs once – but there’s no humour in it.
“The answer to what, Mike?”
“To why you seem so much happier when I’m not around.”
That lands. Will goes still again.
“That’s not fair.”
“What do you even mean?”
“You don’t get to decide what I feel. I really don’t get all of this but the fact that you’re insecure doesn’t mean–“
“I’m not insecure.” He cuts.
“Then what is this?” Will gestures between them, stepping forward and closing the gape instead of retreating. “Because it’s not about Carlton.”
“Stop saying his name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like he matters.”
Will's eyes flash.
“He does matter,” he says, firm now. “To me.”
That’s it. The spark. It feels like someone struck a match between them.
Mike’s voice rises without meaning to. “Since when?!”
“Since he shows up!” Will fires back. “Since he actually talks to me instead of shutting down every time something gets hard!”
Mike recoils like he’s been physically hit.
“I don’t shut down.” He whispers.
“You disappear!” Will says, and his voice cracks just enough to betray how much that hurt. “And then you come back and act like I’m the one who left. You act like- I don’t know! You look at me like I’m something painful to watch!”
The words cross all the way to Mike’s lungs, shattering his breath.
“I didn’t leave.” he says, but it sounds weaker than he wants.
“You pulled away first,” Will says. “Don’t stand here and pretend you didn’t.”
Mike's heart is pounding so loud he swears Will can hear it.
“So what? I pull away and that’s it? You just– what? Find someone easier?”
“You think this is about easier?”
“I think you like that he doesn’t make you feel–“ Mike stops.
“Feel what?” Will demands.
Mike’s voice breaks loose.
“Like you have to read him? Like you have to wait around?”
Silence collapses in the space between them. That’s closer to the truth than anything he’s said so far.
Will’s breathing is uneven now.
“You don’t get to be angry at me,” he says, low and furious. “For reacting to the way you’ve been treating me.”
“I didn’t treat you–“
“You shut me out!”
“I was trying not to ruin it!”
“Well congratulations,” Will snaps. “You’re doing a great job.”
The words sting. Will grabs his jacket off the chair, movements sharp, frustrated. Mike watches his hands tremble slightly as he shoves his arms into it and moves toward the door.
“Are you really walking away right now?”
Will exhales. Heavy. Wounded.
“This is confusing right now. I can’t– I can’t do this like this.”
Mike blinks. “Will–“
“I’m going for a walk. I need space.”
“Will.”
The door opens, cold air rushes in – biting real. Will doesn't look back when he shuts the door.
“Will!”
Silence.
Then thunder.
Mike’s head replays everything, standing there, breathing hard in the suddenly quiet house – the heat of the argument still burning under his skin. He realizes he didn’t even say what he actually came here to say.
This wasn’t supposed to be an accusation. It wasn't supposed to turn into sharp words and slammed doors and that look in Will's pretty eyes.
He came here to talk. Not to lose him.
He runs a hand through his hair, breathing hard.
Then he goes after him.
Outside the sky seems angry, like it can't decide what it wants. The last of the sun bleeds red through thick, swallowing clouds. Grey swallows red. Red fights back.
Rain pours in sheets, soaking through his jacket in seconds.
Will is halfway down the street, walking fast, shoulders tight. Hands balled into fists like if he unclenches them something will spill out.
“Will!”
He doesn’t turn.
“Will, stop! You– you know I hate running-“
“I said I need space!” Will calls back without looking, voice ripped apart by the wind.
Mike jogs to catch up, breath coming up in a fast, ruffle pace.
“I don’t want space!”
“Well that’s too bad!”
The rain comes harder, bouncing off asphalt. Streetlights haloing the rain around them. Everything feels distorted. Unreal.
Mike catches up enough to grab his sleeve.
“Will, come on!”
Will jerks free and spins around.
“What do you want from me, Mike?!”
It isn't just anger – it's exhaustion, fear. The question echoes through the storm, casting from the clouds above like the sky is waiting for the answer too.
“I want to know why it feels like you’re already gone.”
Will laughs, but it breaks in the middle.
“I’m right here."
“Not like before.”
A crack of lightning spits the sky open. For a second they're both illuminated – soaked, shaking, standing in the middle of the street like they've been caught in something bigger than them.
Will lets out a bitter laugh, short and hollow.
"Before? Before when you wouldn’t even talk to me half the time?”
“I was trying to figure it out!”
“Figure out what, Mike?!”
The question falls like thunder – loud, unavoidable.
Mike looks away instead of answering, rain running down from his face isn't enough to hide the hesitation.
“You think this guy–“ he gestures vaguely, hands slicing through the air, rain flying off his fingers “–you think he’s what? The solution?”
Will’s face hardens. “You don’t get to talk about him like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because he didn’t hurt me!”
The words slice clean. Precise. Mike feels it straight through his ribs.
“I didn’t–“
“But you did!” Will says, voice shaking now, whether from cold or anger he can’t tell. “You pulled back. You shut down. You made me feel like I imagined all of it.”
His throat tightens, the question comes quieter; “imagined what?”
At that's when Will goes still. Not angry. Not yelling, just still. The storm feels louder in the silence between them.
Mike feels something ugly and defensive crawl up his chest. Fear turning mean.
“So what?” he snaps, because softness feels too dangerous. “Now you’re just settling?”
“What?”
“You’re just settling for the first person that gives you attention.”
The second the words leave his mouth–
He knows.
He shouldn’t have said that.
Will goes completely still – red from rain or rage or something breaking open. Rain still pouring like peace couldn’t find its place. The streetlight flickers above them.
“What did you just say?” Will asks quietly.
Mike swallows, but pride won’t let him take back yet.
“I’m just saying–“
“No,” Will cuts in, voice dangerously calm. “Say it again.”
Mike’s jaw tightens.
“You’re acting like he’s everything just because he looks at you.”
Will stares at him like he’s seeing someone else. Like he doesn’t recognize him anymore.
“I am not settling.”
“Then what is it?!”
Will steps closer, eyes bright – furious bright, hurt, something deeper under it.
“It’s called being wanted, Mike.”
That hits harder than anything else tonight.
"It's called," Will’s voice cracks when he speaks, “not feeling like I’m too much. Or confusing.”
Mike’s breath catches. “I never said you were.”
“Well, you made me feel like I was.”
Silence feels louder than every thunder this time. Heavy, devastating. Rain running down their faces and neither of them can tell what’s water and what isn’t.
“I don’t even get what all of this is about! You never wanted me like that, Mike! I just don’t understand– I won't be able move on if you keep acting this confusing!” Will cries out, desperate.
Mike recoils like he’s been slapped.
“Move on?” his voice is wrecked already. “Why would you– why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true!” Will shouts. “You never looked at me like that, Mike. You don’t get jealous over something you don’t want!”
Mike lets out a broken, disbelieving laugh.
“Why do you choose to keep breaking me like this?”
Will grabs his own face desperately, eyebrows lifting almost hyperbolically. “What are you talking about?!”
“After I–“ Mike runs both hands through his soaked hair, pacing once like he’s unravelling. “After I said all that. After I told you– After my letter– do you really have the nerve to–“
Will doesn't let him finish, words landing heavy.
“… What letter?”
Mike stops pacing. His face drains in a second. He doesn’t answer.
There's a new possibility. A terrible one.
“Mike,” Will steps closer, searching desperately for his face instead of fighting it. “What letter?”
“Don’t do that,” it comes out reckless. Fragile. Almost pleading.
Mike looks at him, completely froze. Something inside him collapsing and crumbling in different directions.
“The one I sent you. You were in California, I–“ His voice falters. “The one where I told you–”
Will’s breath stutters. “Told me what?”
Mike stares at him.
Then it hits him. Not confusion. Not denial. Absence.
“You didn’t get it,” Mike whispers.
Will shakes his head slowly. “The only letter I got from you was the one where–“
“I asked for the stupid Joy Division patch.”
The rain feels suddenly colder – the sound of it hitting the pavement, streetlights flickering like nothing monumental is happening... something about it is so small, so ordinary, so painfully mundane that it feels cruel.
Mike’s chest starts heaving. Not from running – from something finally breaking loose.
“I mailed it," he says, but the words barely made it out. "I wrote it three times because I kept messing it up. I– I told you everything.” His voice cracks violently now. “I told you I didn’t understand why it felt sick every time you weren’t around. I told you I missed you more than I should."
He swallows hard, like the next part physically hurts. "I told you I didn’t want to be your best friend if it meant watching you fall in love with somebody else.”
The confession hangs there, trembling in the rain. Will’s heart is beating so loud Mike swears he can see it in his throat, he can feel it in the air between them.
Or maybe that's his own.
“I signed it Love, Mike.” The words come out shattered. “I thought that was clear enough.”
For a second, neither of them moves. Then Mike sees it – the shine in Will's eyes isn't just rain anymore. Tear mix with the storm, indistinguishable, unstoppable.
“I never got that,” Will whispers, water washing all the anger away, making him sound wrecked.
Mike laughs, but it’s hollow. “Yeah. I can tell.”
Thunder splits the sky above them, loud and sudden – but it doesn't scare him. He's already been struck.
For months he thought Will was avoiding him. That it was all in his head. That he could just pull away that easily – that the distance was rejection. He replayed every conversation. Every glance. Every almost.
How small one lost letter can be. How easily something fragile can disappear.
And how close they came to losing each other over something that never even arrived.
“You didn’t respond,” Mike says, voice barely a whisper. “You never said anything."
A car passes at the end of the street, tires hissing against wet asphalt. The world keeps moving.
"So I figured you read it and decided not to ruin things. I figured you didn’t feel the same and were just… sparing me.”
Will shakes his head desperately, rain flying from his hair. “I would have answered. I would have–“
“I thought you were pretending it never happened,” Mike continues, spiralling. “So I tried to pretend too. I tried to act normal. I thought if you didn’t want me like that, then I had to kill it. I had to–“ his voice collapses. “–I had to get over you.”
Will steps forward, cutting distance. Their breaths mix with the rain.
“Mike. I swear to you. I never saw it.”
Mike’s eyes are wild now. Hurt. “Then where is it?”
Will seems to understand the second he goes quiet.
Lenora Hills. A small-town post office. Joyce juggling hospital calls and paperwork and moving boxes. Stacks of forwarded mail. Indiana to California to Indiana again.
It would have been so easy.
A wrong forwarding label. A mis-sorted envelope. A letter sitting in some dead letter-bin with no return address bold enough.
Or-
“Did you put a return address on it?” he asks quietly.
The question is almost swallowed by the rain. Mike blinks.
“… I don’t know.”
He probably didn’t. If it go misrouted–
It would have been undeliverable.
Gone.
Months of agony because of a lost envelope.
Will lets out a broken sound. Half laugh. Half sob.
“You idiot,” he whispers – but this time isn’t accusatory. It’s devastated.
“I thought you knew,” Mike says, and his voice sounds younger somehow. Stripped. “I thought you read it and chose not to answer.”
“I thought you didn’t feel that way,” Will shoots back, stepping closer. “I thought I imagined everything.”
Rain beads at the edge of their jaws, falling in slow drops between them. They're inches apart now.
“I waited for you to say something when you got here,” Mike admits, voice trembling. “I kept thinking you’d bring it up.”
“I kept waiting for you to give me some sign,” Will says. “Anything.”
Lightning flashes between them as if the sky wanted to capture this moment forever as well. After all this time.
Months and distance and pain. All because of paper and ink and bad timing.
Mike’s voice drops raw. “I told you I loved you.”
The words land soft, but they don't disapear.
Will inhales sharply, like the air just knocked.
“Not in a best friend way,” Mike adds, eyes locked to his. “In a way that scared me.”
Will’s hands move before he can stop them – grabbing fistfuls of Mike’s soaked jacket like he need proof he’s real. Oh, but he is.
“You loved me?” he asks. It sounds like wonder. Like he's holding something fragile in his hands and is afraid it might vanish.
Rain runs down Mike’s lashes, catching the corners of his mouth. His hands don't second guess when they rise up to cup Will's cheeks, bold and certain.
“I still love you, Will," he says, voice steady in a way it hasn't been all night. "I never stopped loving you.”
Will breaks at that. His breath just leaves him all at once, like something inside him finally looses after being tight for months.
“I love you too, Mike. I have loved you my whole life.”
The rain melts every said word into their souls. It soaks through denim and cotton and skin alike, running down their faces like the sky couldn’t hold in anymore.
Mike doesn’t think. He just brings Will closer still – who makes a sound – half protest, half relief – and then their mouths crash together.
It’s messy immediately. Wet and slightly off-angle because neither of them knows how to pace this. Because they've waited too long.
Will kisses him like he’s trying to make up for every unread word. It’s desperate, clumsy, breathless. Years of almosts and months of longing collapsing into one violet, electric moment.
It’s not graceful. It’s not careful. Will's hands fist into Mike’s jacket, dragging him closer like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again, and presses closer, breath stolen, mouth warm despite the cold rain. Mike tilts his head, deepening it without hesitation, like he's done being afraid of wanting.
It's the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission because it’s been waiting too long.
Mike’s hands are everywhere at once – Will’s shoulders, his jaw, his hair, tugging, grounding, desperate to make sure he’s real. Rainwater mixes with the heat of their skin, and they’re slipping, stumbling a step back, but neither of them lets go.
After months of misunderstanding and swallowed confessions and late nights staring at ceilings. It’s the letter that never arrived. It’s every time they almost said it and didn’t.
Mike responds like he’s starving.
They break apart only to breathe – foreheads knocking together, chests heaving – but the distance lasts less than a second before they’re pulling each other back in.
Will’s hands slide up to cradle Mike’s face, thumbs brushing rain from his cheeks. His lips move against Mike’s like he’s trying to memorize the shape of him. Mike shudders under the touch, fingers gripping into Will’s sides, anchoring himself there.
There’s something fragile under the desperation. Like if they move wrong, the silence might come back.
So when Mike presses forward again, it’s not just hunger. It’s reassurance. It’s a question and an answer at the same time.
Are you here?
I’m here.
They kiss for what feels like hours, until their lungs burn and the storm feels distant compared to what’s happening between them.
“I thought you ignored me,” he says, voice breaking. “I thought you read it and just–”
He can’t finish. He kisses him again instead.
The rain runs down their faces, into their mouths, over their closed eyes. It feels like something being washed clean. Time of misread silence dissolving into the pavement beneath them.
Will kisses him harder.
“Do you think I would’ve stayed quiet?” he murmurs, mouth dragging against Mike’s jaw, his cheek, back to his lips. “After that?”
Mike exhales something that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob.
“I don’t know,” he admits, pressing their foreheads together. “You were so far away.”
“So were you.”
The words hang there, swallowed by thunder.
Mike surges forward again like the thought of distance physically hurts. Their teeth knock again; neither cares. It’s messy and desperate and real – hands sliding down backs, clutching at damp fabric, pulling each other closer like they’re trying to erase every mile between Indiana and California with sheer force.
The rain soaks through everything. It makes them shiver. It makes them reckless.
It feels like the world is breaking open around them – and instead of running from it, they step into it.
Will cups Mike’s face, thumbs brushing under his eyes.
“I meant it,” Mike whispers before Will can say anything else. “Everything in that letter. I meant it.”
“Then speak now,” Will breathes, barely pulling back.
Mike hesitates – not from doubt, but from the weight of it. From the fear that this moment could still slip through his fingers like water.
“I love you,” he repeats, and it sounds like surrender.
The storm cracks overhead.
Will kisses him like that’s the only answer that matters.
“I love you,” he says back against Mike’s mouth, almost fierce. “God, I love you.”
The desperation shifts then – not gone, but steadier. Their movements slow just enough to feel each other properly. Fingers tracing jawlines. Palms flattening over racing hearts. The kiss deepens, less frantic, more consuming.
Raindrops feel lighter, dripping from their chins like the sky feels relieved too. It runs down the back of Mike’s neck where Will’s hand rests warm and sure.
They’ve both been holding their breath for months. The sky exhales for them.
And when they finally pull apart, it’s not because they want to. It’s because they’re smiling into each other’s mouths like they can’t quite believe it’s real.
They stumble backward, soaked, shaking. The moment hangs there – charged, irreversible.
Not far. Never far.
“This is real, right? You really mean everything?” Will asks and Mike heart burns.
It’s not doubts in Will’s voice. It’s fear.
The kind that comes from wanting something so badly you’re terrified it might vanish.
Mike cups the back of Will’s neck, steadying both of them.
“Everything I feel about you is real. It's always been,” he says, softer now. “I would never play about this. Not about you.”
Will’s glassy eyes look at him with attention. With care. And he missed it. He missed him so much.
“I meant it in my letter,” Mike continues. “I meant it now. I meant it every time I almost sent you letters and I didn’t.” His voice roughens. “I just didn’t think I was brave enough to keep you.”
Will’s fingers tighten in his shoulders.
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” Will whispers, browns knitting together.
Mike exhales shakily. “I know.”
There’s a pause – heavy, sacred.
“I thought I was the only one still stuck,” Will admits. “Like I was holding onto something you’d already let go of.”
“I don’t ever want to let go of you,” Mike says immediately. “I just– I was scared. I’m sorry Will. I’m really sorry.”
Tears replace raining water on his cheeks once again. But he really means it. He was so deep into the feeling of Will not feeling the same that he never imagined this possible scenario.
Will studies his face like he’s memorizing it.
“You hurt me,” Will says – not accusing. Just honest.
“I know. I’m so–”
“And I hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry too.” Will is looking at him with big shiny eyes and Mike can’t even remember what was wrong at all.
The rain softens into a drizzle, like the storm has spent itself.
Will’s voice drops. “So what happens now?”
Mike swallows. This is the part that matters more than the confession itself. More than the almosts.
“Now,” he says slowly, “we stop guessing.”
Will’s brows knit slightly.
“No more silence. No more waiting for the other to make the first move. If I’m scared, I say it. If you’re hurt, you say it. We don’t let it rot. Let’s re-built our good communication step by step. Okay?”
Will nods once. Absorbing it.
“And if it’s messy?” he asks.
“It’s already messy,” Mike says, almost smiling. “But it’s ours.”
That does it.
Will leans his forehead against his again, breathing evening out.
“This is real,” Will says quietly, like he’s convincing himself.
“It’s real,” Mike promises.
Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just steady.
For the first time in months, neither of them feel like they’re standing on the edge of losing something.
Because they’re right here, at this very moment. Standing together in the rain.
They look at each other like they’re both still half-expecting to wake up. Mike brushes Will’s nose with his own before leaning in once again. Will lets out a shaky breath and it goes straight to Mike’s lips.
They kiss slowly. Certain. A quiet sealing of something that almost slipped through their hands. Rain cools their skin, but warmth blooms between them – steady, grounding and familiar. The kind that stays after a long day.
It feels like a beginning.
When they pull apart, neither of them steps back.
“Okay,” Will murmurs, like he’s testing the word.
“M’kay,” Mike echoes.
The storm has softened into light, smaller drops. Streetlights blur gold against the wet pavement. Hands anchoring together with confidence now.
The walk back to Will’s house is short, thankfully. Will didn’t run that far, but it was enough to make Mike’s legs sting.
“I wrote twenty-seven pages of how I feel about you,” he says.
Will glances at him. “You’re such a nerd.”
“But you love me?” he really didn’t mean to make it sound like a question.
“Yeah,” Will says, a bright smile on his lips. “I do.”
The door creaks open when they step onto the porch together. Warm air spilling over them instantly.
“Oh my god guys, what happened to you?!”
Joyce stands there with a dish towel in her hand, eyes wide.
“Why do you both look like you got thrown into a lake?”
Will freezes. Mike opens his mouth.
Nothing happens.
Joyce studies them for exactly two seconds – the soaked clothes, the flushed faces, the puffy eyes, the way they’re standing just a little too close.
Her eyebrows lift.
“Ah,” she says, lips turning into a smile slowly. “So it finally happened.”
Will turns red. “Mom–“
“You two, bath. Towels are in the bathroom,” she says calmly, like this is completely normal. “And if you two get pneumonia after that dramatic exit, I’m not driving to the hospital at midnight.”
Mike huffs out a nervous laugh.
Will mutters something like, “it wasn’t dramatic.”
Joyce just smiles knowingly. “I’ll go get dry clothes.” She says gently. “And you’re staying,” she adds, looking at Mike. Not even a question.
Mike nods, still sniffling. She squeezes his shoulder once before walking off.
In the bathroom, steam slowly fills the air. They sit on the edge of the tub first, wrapped in towels, knees touching. It’s just when like they were kids.
“I know that everything I said before can’t really be erased,” Mike starts quietly. “but I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being such a jerk.”
He breathes in, then exhales, feeling the warmth fill his lungs.
“I guess I was just trying to protect myself,” he admits, “and with that I didn’t realize… that I was hurting you in the process. None of this is your fault, it was such a big misunderstanding, and I was jealous and I–“
His voice catches.
“I was scared you’d realize you deserved someone braver.”
Will looks at him. Not angry, not defensive. Just open.
“I told you. You don’t get to decide what I deserve.” Will says softly.
Mike nods. “I know. I just… I didn’t think I was enough– that’s totally a low self-esteem thing, I know–“
Will’s knee presses a little more firmly against his.
“You are, Mike.” He says simply. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. And you’re more than enough for me.”
The steam thickens around them, quiet and warm. Mike’s heart threatens to get out of his chest to drown inside Will’s own.
“And I’m sorry too,” Will adds after a moment. “I should’ve told you sooner how much it hurt. Instead, I just… let it build up.”
“You had every right to be hurt.”
“And you had every right to be scared.”
They sit with that. It’s true.
Mike looks up.
“Will?” he asks.
“Yeah?”
Mike breathes. “In my letter… I wrote that I think I’ve loved you for a long time.” He laughs shakily. “I didn’t know how to say that without ruining everything.”
Will looks at him, listening patiently.
“And that’s why crossing this line–” His voice wavers but doesn’t stop. “–I know I’m being redundant at this point, but this isn’t just some crush for me. It’s not just… experimenting. Will, this is my whole life.”
The words hang there.
“I’ve never felt like this about anyone,” Mike says, raw and terrified. “And that scares me. Because if this goes wrong, I don’t just lose someone. I lose you.”
Will’s chest rises sharply.
“I don’t know how to survive that twice.”
That’s the truth.
It sits heavy and trembling between them. Mike’s hands shake slightly in the water.
“I need you to understand that when I kissed you out there, it wasn’t just because I was jealous.” His voice lowers. “It was because I couldn’t stand the idea of never doing it.”
Silence.
Will blinks. Once. Twice. He’s still processing. You can see it – the way his brain is racing to catch up to something his heart has known for years.
“You…” Will’s voice is barely there. “You’d really risk all of it?”
Mike doesn’t hesitate.
“For you? Yeah.”
That breaks something open in Will.
He shifts closer, water sloshing gently.
“I thought loving you meant I had to be small about it,” Will says slowly, like he’s choosing every word with care. “Like I had to tuck it away so it wouldn’t scare you.”
Mike’s face softens immediately.
“I fell in love with you in pieces,” Will admits. “Not all at once. It was stupid things. The way you always talked first when I couldn’t. The way you’d grab my sleeve in the halls. The way you looked at me like I mattered.”
Mike’s breath shakes.
“I tried to stop it,” Will says honestly. “When El started dating you. I told myself that was it. That that was what normal looked like. That I’d just… be happy you were happy.”
His voice wobbles.
“But every time you chose me first? Every time you came running?” He swallows. “It made it worse.”
Mike looks devastated.
“I didn’t know,” he whispers.
“I know.” Will gives him a small, watery smile. “That’s the thing. You weren’t cruel. You were just you. And I know you and El loved each other and still do. Just not in the way you thought you did… I heard both of your versions already.”
He reaches for Mike’s hand under the water and laces their fingers together.
“When you sent that letter – even though I didn’t get it – I think some part of me felt it. Because you started pulling away. And I thought that was my sign to let go.”
Mike’s thumb rubs over his knuckles.
“Do you know what that’s like?” His voice isn’t loud – but it’s firmer now. “To love someone and feel yourself shrinking because you don’t know if there’s space for you?”
Mike listens carefully. Of course he does know, but it’s Will’s turn to speak.
So he just watches Will swallow.
“I used to wait by the phone,” Will admits. “Every night. I’d tell myself I wasn’t going to. That I was done. And then it’d get late and I’d sit there anyway, staring at it like it owed me something.”
His jaw tightens.
“And when you didn’t call, I’d pretend it didn’t matter. I’d tell myself I was being dramatic. That you had a life and I was just… somewhere in the background of it.”
He shakes his head slightly.
“But you weren’t background to me.”
That takes the air out of the room. He clings to it.
“When you never replied again, I thought that was it. I thought you finally realized I was too much. Too intense. Too obvious.”
Mike’s hand tightens around his.
“I tried to move on,” Will says, more fiercely now. “I went out. I talked to other people. I let Carlton think he had a chance because I thought maybe if someone else liked me, I could make myself like them back.”
His voice cracks – but he doesn’t look away. “But every time someone laughed, I compared it to you. Every time someone touched my hand, it felt wrong. Because it wasn’t you.”
The bathroom feels smaller somehow.
“I hated that,” he breathes. “I hated that loving you felt bigger than my own pride. Bigger than my self-respect. I told myself I deserved someone who didn’t hesitate.”
His eyes lift fully now – no hiding.
“But I didn’t want someone else.”
A beat.
“I wanted you. Even when it hurt. Even when I thought you didn’t want me back.”
The water shifts as he moves closer without realizing.
“And when you kissed me out there?” His voice drops, shaking with intensity instead of uncertainty. “I wasn’t shocked because you were jealous. I was shocked because I’ve been wanting that for years and I convinced myself it was impossible.”
Mike looks wrecked.
“You don’t get to say you’d lose me twice,” Will adds, softer but firm. “You don’t get to act like I wouldn’t lose you too.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside Mike’s ribs.
“I was already grieving you while you were still alive in front of me,” he admits. “Do you know how messed up that feels?”
Silence.
Then quieter – but no less intense:
“I don’t need you to be fearless, Mike. I just need you to not disappear when it gets hard.”
His fingers squeeze tighter.
“I’m not small. And what I feel for you isn’t small either. I don’t want to tuck it away anymore, because I never stopped loving you,” Will says. “I just got quieter about it.”
Mike leans forward slowly, like he’s approaching something sacred, until their foreheads touch. The air between them is warm and damp and trembling.
“I don’t want quiet,” he says, and it sounds like a vow.
Will’s lips tremble. He doesn’t pull away.
“Okay,” he whispers, because that’s the only word he trusts right now.
“I want loud,” Mike admits, breath ghosting over Will’s mouth. “I want stupid. I want movie nights where we sit too close and everyone knows why. I want to fight and make up and be ridiculous and dramatic and–” He huffs a shaky laugh. “I want it to be obvious.”
Obvious.
Will lets out a wet, broken laugh.
“You’re such a dork.”
Will brushes his thumb along Mike’s cheek, slow and careful. He tucks a piece of damp hair behind his ear, lingering there like he’s memorizing the shape of his face.
Mike kisses him again – slow, deliberate. Intentional.
Their mouths move together gently, like they’re testing something fragile but real. Will’s hand slides to the back of Mike’s neck, not gripping – just resting there, warm and grounding. Mike’s fingers curl into the fabric at Will’s waist, softer now, like he’s settling instead of clinging.
Will tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to feel it – to feel Mike responding without urgency, without fear. It’s not desperate anymore. It’s deliberate.
When they part, it’s only an inch.
Mike’s nose brushes Will’s. Their foreheads touch.
“This is terrifying,” he admits.
“Yeah,” Will breathes.
“But it’s you.”
And that makes it worth it.
“I don’t want to do that again,” Mike confesses.
“Do what?”
“That,” he says quietly. His thumb traces absent circles against Will’s wrist. “I hate fighting with you, Will. I hate it. We’re both stubborn and annoying and we get under each other’s skin, yeah – but that’s normal. I can handle that.”
He shakes his head.
“But the silence? That was the worst part. Not knowing what you were thinking. Thinking maybe I already lost you and you just hadn’t said it yet.” His voice lowers. “Let’s not do that again. Let’s not guess each other into something that isn’t real.”
“Good,” Will says. “Because I’m terrible at guessing.”
That earns a small laugh from Mike. Shaky and real.
“You have to tell me, Mike,” he adds – not accusing. Just steady. “Even when it’s ugly. Even when you think it’ll ruin everything.”
Mike’s smile fades into something more serious.
“I will.”
Will searches his face like he’s memorizing the promise.
Steam curls lazily toward the ceiling, softening the light in the bathroom until everything feels warmer than it should. The water has long since stopped sloshing; they’ve settled into it, knees knocking, shoulders pressed close because there isn’t room not to be.
Will’s thumb is hooked loosely in Mike’s sleeve, like he doesn’t quite trust the air between them yet.
“Don’t disappear on me and call it protection,” he says gently. His voice isn’t sharp. It’s careful. “I don’t need you perfect. I just need you honest.”
Mike’s nose brushes his when he nods. Their foreheads stay touching.
“Okay.”
It doesn’t sound small. It sounds decided.
The silence that follows isn’t the bad kind. It’s warm. It sits with them instead of between them. Water laps faintly against the porcelain when Mike shifts.
“When you walked through the door earlier,” he admits, eyes flicking down before coming back up, “I thought you were done with me.”
Will exhales through his nose.
“I mean… I sort of was.”
Mike pulls back just enough to stare at him. “Wow.”
Will laughs, shoulders shaking, splashing water against the rim of the tub. “You were getting on my nerves, Mike! I had no idea what you were even trying to say. You were just– talking in circles.”
“You even Michael-ed me!”
A loud, unguarded laugh bursts out of Will, bright and real and echoing off tile. It startles them both. Mike just stares at him like he’s witnessing something rare.
“Oh, I can do that whenever I want,” Will adds, grinning now, water dripping from his lashes.
“That’s evil,” Mike mutters, but he’s smiling too – helpless about it.
Will nudges their knees together under the water. “You love it.”
Mike doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he finds Will’s pinky, and hooks it with his. The motion is automatic. Muscle memory. Basement floors and flashlight promises and I won’t tell if you won’t.
Their pinkies rest there, linked and steady above the waterline.
“I’m happy that’s over,” Mike says quietly. His thumb rubs once over Will’s knuckle. “I’m right here.”
The steam shifts. The world feels smaller than it used to.
“I know,” he says.
And this time, he does.
Will looks down at their linked pinkies, at the tiny bridge they’ve built without thinking.
"And I'm here too."
Their faces hover inches apart, breaths warm and mingling in the damp air. The bathwater has cooled slightly, but neither of them seems to notice. Their pinkies are still linked above the surface, wrinkled from the heat.
And then, abruptly, Mike pulls back like he’s just remembered something catastrophic.
Will blinks, disoriented by the sudden loss of closeness.
“What?”
Mike’s eyes are wide. Almost horrified.
“Oh my god.”
Will straightens immediately, water sloshing against porcelain. “What?!”
“What’s gonna happen with Cartoon?”
There’s a long pause. Steam curls between them.
Will stares at him.
“You know that’s not even a name,” he says flatly. “And are you really asking about him right now?”
“It’s a valid question!” Mike insists, gesturing so dramatically he almost sends a wave over the edge of the tub.
It’s Will’s turn to drag a hand down his face.
“Oh my god.”
“I just confessed my undying love for you in the rain!” Mike argues. “I deserve some clarity.”
Despite himself, Will lets out a quiet laugh. The sound softens the sharp edge of the moment.
“He was really just a friend.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really.”
Mike narrows his eyes, studying him through the steam like he’s trying to catch a lie in the condensation.
“He didn’t look like just a friend.”
Will rolls his eyes, but there’s color rising in his cheeks now – visible even in the hazy light.
“Okay,” he admits. “Maybe he liked me. A little.”
Mike’s jaw tightens instantly. A muscle jumps near his ear.
“A little,” he repeats, carefully neutral. Failing.
Will shrugs – exaggerated, almost careless – but his pinky tightens around Mike’s.
“Yeah. It’s really not that deep.”
Mike stares at him.
And Will laughs. Actually laughs. Because the way Mike is trying so hard not to be jealous about something he insisted on bringing up is painfully obvious and a little bit adorable.
“He was nice,” Will explains, softer now. “Easy to talk to. And yeah, I think he had a thing for me.”
Mike’s expression darkens again despite himself. His shoulders square slightly.
“And?”
“And I didn’t.”
The answer comes fast. Clean. Immediate. That makes Mike still.
“Not even a little?” he asks, quieter now. Less defensive. More afraid.
Will leans back against the tub, considering it honestly. Water laps gently at his ribs.
“I told you. He was nice,” he says. “But he didn’t make me feel…”
He searches for the word, brows knitting together.
“Like your chest was collapsing on itself?” Mike offers dryly, though his voice betrays him.
Will smiles – small, soft, certain.
“Exactly.”
The steam seems to settle around them.
“And I sort of…” Will exhales slowly. “I kept looking at him and wishing it was you instead.”
That hits. Mike’s head snaps up. His surprise is immediate, unguarded.
“I wanted you to see me the way he did,” Will continues, quieter now. “Like I was… worth something.”
“But I do–”
“I know, Mike.” He smiles gently. “But I didn’t know that until a few hours ago.”
Something fragile shifts in Mike’s expression. Relief. Regret. Awe.
“But you’re not… secretly choosing him tomorrow?” he asks, attempting humor, but there’s something vulnerable tucked underneath.
Will gives him a look.
Mike grins sheepishly. “Just checking!”
Will shakes his head, fondness warming his whole face now.
“I’m not choosing someone else,” he says simply. “I’m choosing you.”
The simplicity of it steals the air out of Mike’s lungs.
His throat moves when he swallows.
Their pinkies tighten again, almost unconsciously.
“But,” Will adds carefully, practical even in the middle of this, “I should probably talk to him. I don’t want to just disappear.”
Mike nods slowly. He understands that one.
“Yeah.”
A quiet settles – not heavy, just thoughtful.
“Are you mad?” Will asks after a moment.
Mike thinks about it. Really thinks.
“I was,” he admits. His voice is softer now. “But I think I was mad at myself.”
Will tilts his head slightly.
“Because you thought I was replacing you?”
Mike huffs out a breath. “Because I thought I waited too long. And that I’d already lost you.”
Will’s expression softens immediately.
He squeezes their linked pinkies.
“You didn’t.”
Mike looks down at their hands – wrinkled skin, hooked fingers, steady.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess I didn’t.”
A beat.
Then his mouth tilts.
“So he was just throwing himself at you, huh?”
Will rolls his eyes with theatrical flair. “I am very desirable, thank you.”
That finally earns a full laugh from Mike — loose and bright.
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. His gaze lingers. “You are.”
The compliment hangs in the air longer than the joke did.
A soft knock lands against the bathroom door. They both freeze.
“You boys turning into raisins in there?” Joyce calls through the wood.
Mike glances at Will, grin creeping back in.
“Worth it,” he murmurs.
Will splashes him. Water drips from Will’s fingertips after he splashes Mike, tiny ripples distorting their reflections in the surface between them.
Mike wipes his face dramatically. “Rude.”
Will grins. “You deserved it.”
Mike reaches up slowly – giving Will time to pull away if he wants – and brushes damp hair off his forehead. His fingers linger there, tracing the line of his temple like he’s mapping something familiar.
Another knock. Slightly firmer this time.
“Dry clothes!” Joyce calls gently from the hallway.
The sound feels almost distant, like it’s coming from another world.
Will stands first. The cool air hits his damp skin and he inhales sharply without meaning to. For a second he just stands there, water dripping from his hair to the floor, aware of Mike watching him.
He cracks the door open just enough to reach for the folded stack in Joyce’s hands. She doesn’t look surprised. Just warm. Knowing. He mutters a quick “thanks,” and she squeezes his wrist once before stepping away.
When the door closes again, the bathroom feels smaller. Different.
Will turns. Mike is still sitting in the tub, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes softer than Will has ever seen them.
Not heavy.
Not awkward.
Just new in a way that was familiar.
He tosses Mike a shirt and sweatpants. “These might be a little short.”
Mike catches them, glancing down at the cuffs. “I survived emotional devastation,” he says gravely. “I can survive high-water sweatpants.”
The corner of Will’s mouth lifts before he can stop it.
They stand to change, both facing slightly away and not quite far enough. It isn’t embarrassment – it’s awareness. Every movement feels magnified. Fabric sliding over skin. The quiet thud of damp clothes hitting tile. The subtle hitch in Mike’s breath when Will pulls his shirt over his head.
Neither of them comments on it.
They just… move carefully around each other.
When they step into the hallway, the house is hushed. The rain outside has softened to a steady whisper against the windows. Somewhere downstairs, a pipe ticks in the walls.
“Room?” Will asks.
Mike nods immediately.
They walk side by side, shoulders nearly touching, neither quite brave enough to close that last inch yet.
Will’s bedroom door creaks the way it always has.
Inside, everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be. Posters curling slightly at the edges. The faint graphite smell of pencil shavings near the desk. His sketchbook still open to a half-finished drawing. The window cracked open just enough to let in the damp scent of rain and cold air.
But it doesn’t feel the same. It feels like something has shifted under the floorboards. They stand in the middle of the room for a moment, like they’re waiting for instructions. Like they’ve crossed a line and aren’t sure what the next rule is.
Will sits first, perching on the edge of the bed.
Mike follows a second later. The mattress dips and their knees bump lightly. Neither of them moves away.
The adrenaline is gone now. What’s left is quiet and real and terrifying in a softer way.
Mike exhales slowly, staring at his hands resting between his knees.
“I can’t believe I said that I love you out loud.”
Will watches the side of his face. The way his jaw tightens when he’s unsure.
“You did,” he says gently.
“I said it in the rain,” Mike continues, a faint incredulous smile tugging at his mouth. “Which is… very dramatic of me.”
“You’ve always been dramatic.”
That earns a soft huff from Mike, but it fades quickly.
“Yeah, but–” He stops. His fingers twist into the fabric of the borrowed sweatpants. He swallows. “It’s different now.”
Will shifts slightly closer. Close enough that their shoulders brush through cotton.
“Different how?” he asks.
Mike stares at the floorboards like they might give him the right words.
“Because now it’s not just in my head.”
The vulnerability in that sits heavy in the room. Will feels it settle in his chest.
“You’re not taking it back, are you?” he asks quietly. Not accusing. Not panicked. Just needing something solid to stand on.
Mike’s head snaps up instantly.
“What? No. Never.”
There’s no hesitation. No joke. Just truth.
Will breathes out, barely noticeable. “Okay.”
“But—”
Will stills.
“But?” he repeats carefully.
Mike winces at himself. “Not like that. I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I’ve never said that out loud before. Not like that. And now you know. And that’s… permanent.”
The word hangs there.
Permanent.
Will studies him – really studies him. The fear isn’t about regret. It’s about exposure.
“You think I’m going to use it against you?” Will asks softly.
“No,” Mike says immediately, almost offended. “I think I’m scared because you matter that much.”
That cracks something open. Will’s heartbeat stumbles, then steadies.
“You matter that much too,” he says, voice lower now. Steadier.
Mike’s throat moves when he swallows.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Will reaches for his hand then – slow enough that Mike sees it coming – and laces their fingers together fully this time. Not pinkies. Not accidental.
Intentional.
The contact feels grounding. Warm. Real.
“You saying it doesn’t make it fragile,” Will continues quietly. “It just makes it real.”
Mike looks down at their hands like he’s memorizing the shape of them together.
After a second, he shifts closer. Their knees press fully together now. No space left.
“I love you,” he says again.
Will feels the words settle into him instead of knocking him over. He doesn’t make a joke. He doesn’t deflect.
He squeezes Mike’s hand.
“I love you too.”
The rain continues outside. The house breathes around them. The posters stay half-peeled. The sketchbook stays open.
But something in the room has changed permanently.
And this time, neither of them is afraid of it.
There’s something almost shy about them now. Like they’ve crossed a line and are learning how to stand on the other side of it.
Still, it feels so natural when Mike’s hands find Will’s waist as they settle in for the night. They have changed, but their souls remember each other just the same.
It feels so natural in the way Will’s face fits perfectly at the crock of Mike’s neck. The way their fingers intertwine or tangle in each other’s hair, just to make sure they’re right there.
There’s only one thing that has changed – and it’s that they’re not holding back anymore. They don’t have to run away from each other, not when now they know they can run to each other when things get hard instead.
And sometimes, there are storms you will want to hide from – where water fills you up, making everything slip away. There are things that aren’t meant to be any other way. There are storms you walk into because you’re tired of pretending the sky will be clear every day. And sometimes, that’s the only way.
They choose soaked sleeves and shaking hands over another month of wondering why. The thunder did not scare them as much as losing each other quietly. Maybe that’s what growing up is – realizing love isn’t always in the calm, but staying when the weather turns.
The next morning comes softly. The rain hasn’t stopped.
It’s gentler now – no thunder, no urgency – just thin silver lines threading down the glass in slow, patient streaks. The world outside looks rinsed. Washed. Not erased, just… returned to itself.
Will wakes first. He doesn’t move right away.
Mike is still half-curled toward him, hair a complete mess, one arm tucked awkwardly under the pillow like he fell asleep mid-thought. His breathing is slow and even, lips slightly parted. There’s a softness to his face that only shows up when he isn’t trying.
Will shifts closer on instinct.
Carefully, he lifts a hand and traces a fingertip along Mike’s cheek. Across the faint scatter of freckles there like someone flicked paint at him years ago and it just stuck.
He starts counting them under his breath.
One.
Two.
Three.
He presses a small kiss to the first one.
Then the next.
Then the next.
Mike stirs around freckle six.
By freckle eight, his mouth twitches.
By ten, his eyes open.
“What are you doing?” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.
“Scientific research,” Will murmurs, dropping another kiss just beside his nose. “Hold still.”
Mike smiles before he’s fully awake.
It’s that smile.
The one that curves slow and private. The one that used to show up in basements and bike rides and quiet glances across crowded rooms. The one that had disappeared for a while.
The one that was always Will’s.
“Go on a date with me?” Mike asks casually, like he’s asking to borrow a pencil. His fingers reach up lazily and start playing with Will’s hand, tracing the lines of his palm.
Will lifts himself onto one elbow, hovering over him.
“With you?”
Mike squints up at him. “Wow. Okay.”
Will pretends to study him critically, brushing curls off his forehead.
“I don’t know,” he muses. “You cried in the rain.”
Mike groans, dragging a pillow half over his face. “You cried in the rain.”
“Yeah,” Will says primly. “But I looked cooler doing it.”
Mike drops the pillow and nudges him with his shoulder, the mattress dipping beneath them.
“Unbelievable.”
Will lets the teasing stretch. Watches the way Mike’s mouth tries not to curve too wide. Watches the way his thumb hasn’t stopped tracing circles on Will’s wrist.
Outside, rain taps softly against the window. The air smells clean. Like something has been rinsed clear and set back in place.
Will’s smile fades into something gentler.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”
Mike tries – really tries – not to grin too hard.
He fails spectacularly.
“Good,” he says, like he didn’t just get handed the universe. “Because I was going to ask again.”
Will leans down and kisses the corner of his mouth.
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You love it.”
Will doesn’t even pretend to argue this time.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I do.”
Mike rolls onto his side, pulling Will down with him until they’re tangled properly, foreheads brushing.
“Real date,” Mike insists. “Like… somewhere. Not just the basement.”
Will hums. “There’s a whole world outside the basement?”
“Allegedly.”
Will presses one last kiss to the freckle just beneath Mike’s eye.
“Okay,” he says. “Show me.”
-
Three months later, in a box never unpacked, Hopper finds the envelope wedged between old campaign flyers and a broken flashlight. He recognizes Mike’s handwriting before he recognizes the weight of it.
He doesn’t read much. Just enough.
The boys are not actually at home since they’re taking summer jobs before they go for college. He just leaves it on Will’s desk anyway.
February 14th, 1986.
Hawkins, Indiana.
Dear Will,
It's Valentine's and it’s past two in the morning and I keep telling myself that I should call you instead, but I haven’t moved from my desk. And I don’t want to wake you up anyway.
I’ve written three versions of this already, can you believe? They’re all in my drawer and I don’t know why I think a fourth one will be braver.
I know I haven’t been keeping in touch the way I should. Not the way I really wanted to. The letter I sent you a few months ago didn’t even have half of what I needed to say.
Mom told me tonight that your mom called her. She said you’re moving back to Hawkins. She sounded so happy when she told me.
I should’ve felt relieved, but I didn’t.
It felt like the sky right before a storm breaks – heavy and full and waiting for something I can’t stop. I wanted to tell you this first. Because my head keeps replaying every moment we’ve shared, and every piece of your life you have shared with me means so much to me, Will. You have no idea.
The way you never shut me up when I’m talking too much – the way you always listen to every stupid thing I’ve got to say. Ever since we were little you’ve been here, somehow learning how to really see me without making me feel watched. You pay attention, and you care.
And I do too, I care about you more than you think. I want you to know that I’m not forgetting about you. You and the sound of your laugh are the only thing running through my mind every night I’ve been lying awake thinking about what happens when you’re standing in front of me and I don’t have distance to hide anymore.
I keep wondering when it stopped being simple. Because it used to be easy for me to say you were my best friend. And you will always be, but I also think it doesn’t cover all of it.
I tried to call it missing you. I tried to call it loyalty. I tried calling it habit. But none of them fit.
I really had to clear my thoughts and take my time to figure this out. And I’m sorry for not reaching out, but it’s exactly for that same reason that I want you to understand how important this is for me. I have so much to lose, Will, I mean it. But my chest feels heavy and sometimes I can’t even remember how to breathe because these feelings have been with me for a long time by now. Long enough I don’t even know when it started, because we’ve always acted different around each other. Or at least I have. I’ve always had this really big special thing for you. That feeling has always been familiar, but I didn’t understand what it was. We used to be practically attached at the hip ever since we were little, and it’s like something in me recognized something in you before I even knew what recognition meant.
And the way my heart recoils when I think about you being with someone else? The way every good thing that happens makes me want to tell you first? The way this silence since you stopped writing feels louder than anything else?
I think I started pulling away because I realized what it was and I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel it. Because I’ve never felt like this for anyone before.
The thing is, these feelings keep growing and I’m afraid to say it but I’m also afraid to never find the bravery again. Because I care about you more than anyone, and I don’t ever want to lose you. Because I miss you more than I want to admit, and my heart’s been yelling your name furiously ever since you moved away. Now you’re coming back and it feels like it’s about to tear out of my chest and go find you first because my pulses have been carving your initials all over my ribs.
That’s how I knew. My heart’s been spelling it out for years.
I love you.
And I love you in a way that’s more than a friend. Not platonic. It’s always been deeper than that. I don’t want to be your best friend and watch you fall in love with someone else.
Because hearts don’t bruise like this over a habit. They don’t pound themselves raw over history. Mine has been fighting me for years. Jumping against my chest every time you smiled. Stuttering when you got too close. Going wild at the thought of losing you in a way that didn’t feel survivable.
If I say it out loud and you don’t feel the same, I lose you all at once. If I don’t say it, I lose you slowly.
I didn’t know which was worse.
So I chose silence, and that was wrong.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let fear make me quiet. I’m sorry if I made you think you mattered less. You’ve never mattered less. You’ve always been the loudest thing in my life.
When you come back to Hawkins, I don’t want to pretend this isn’t here anymore. I don’t want to act like the sky is clear when it isn’t.
Maybe this ruins everything. Or maybe it’s the first honest thing I’ve done in months.
I don’t know what you feel, I just know that I’m tired of hiding from the weather.
And when you’re standing in front of me again, I’m going to try to be brave enough to say it without paper in between us. I promise.
Love, Mike.