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Mike hadn’t meant to start cleaning. It was one of those restless afternoons when the light hit his desk just wrong and every inch of his room suddenly felt too small, too full of old things that didn’t quite belong to him anymore. He told himself he was just clearing space, tossing out the junk that had piled up over the years.
Mike was restless. He’d been restless ever since everything happened with One, since the world once again went to shit.
Since he and El broke up, Dustin was a shell of himself, their party was falling apart as they each dealt with their brokenness over everything that had happened.
He’d been restless, since Will had moved back to Hawkins and they were trying to act like everything with their friendship had gone back to normal. It hadn’t.
But then, under a stack of notebooks and tangled cassette tapes, Mike found the box.
It was a shoebox, worn soft at the corners, the cardboard warped slightly from time. There was a bit of duct tape holding one side together and his name scrawled across the lid in his own handwriting, messy, uneven letters from when he’d been younger and thought permanence was something you could draw in ink.
He sat down on the bed, legs folded beneath him, and lifted the lid. The faint smell of dust and film chemicals drifted up, something strangely clean and old all at once. Inside lay a jumble of Polaroids, stacked in uneven piles and held together by a rubber band that had long since gone brittle.
He touched the first photo carefully, like it might crumble if he pressed too hard. The photo was from last year, when spring began to bleed into the warmth of summer. Before the Mind Flayer, before Bob died, before El dumped him the first time, before the Byers left. Before Will left.
The colours were still bright, that familiar washed-out glow only instant film had. He recognized the scene immediately: the Wheeler backyard, a bright May afternoon, the sun flaring off the lens. Someone, probably Dustin, had caught him mid-laugh, hand raised in protest, hair sticking to his forehead from the heat.
He smiled a little at that. He’d forgotten how it felt to laugh like that.
The next few photos came faster. The arcade. The quarry. A half-blurry shot of the group crowded around a picnic blanket. And then, inevitably, Will.
There he was, sitting cross-legged on the grass, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. His expression was soft, mid-laugh, the corners of his mouth just starting to turn. Mike remembered the exact moment. He’d snapped the picture too soon, trying to catch the light on Will’s hair, and Will had rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed.
Mike had gotten the camera for his birthday that spring, a Polaroid Land Camera his mom said was “retro” but that he’d instantly loved. Back then, it felt like a way to keep everything close. To stop time before the next disaster struck. He spent all that summer, until everything went wrong, taking pictures of everyone. Trying to hold on to the memories.
Now, flipping through those frozen fragments, all he could think about was how much life was in them. How much he’d missed. How much he wanted back.
The pictures weren’t just snapshots of a summer before everything fell apart. They were pieces of a feeling he couldn’t quite name. A warmth that had lived in the space between sunlight and laughter, between the click of the shutter and Will’s smile.
He sifted through more of the photos, fingers brushing over the glossy edges.
Will on the couch in his basement, knees drawn up, the glow from the TV painting his face in pale blues. Will sprawled across Mike’s bed, a comic open in front of him, hair falling into his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly as he read. Will at the dining room table, pencil smudges on his fingertips, a half-finished sketch beside an untouched glass of lemonade.
There was one of him outside, too, standing next to his bike, the late afternoon sun catching on the metal frame, his grin wide and unguarded. That one made Mike pause the longest.
He hadn’t realized, back then, how often the camera had found Will. Or maybe it wasn’t the camera at all. Maybe it was him, always turning the lens in the same direction without thinking.
He kept flipping through them, and it became almost funny, almost painful. Out of all the people he could’ve captured - Dustin’s theatrics, Lucas’s exasperation, Max’s quiet smirks, El’s smiles and laughter - it was always Will who ended up in the frame. Will laughing. Will lost in thought. Will looking straight at him, like he knew something Mike didn’t.
Will.
Will.
Will.
Each photo felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of them might tip him over. The air in his room grew still, quiet except for the soft shuffle of paper and the faint hum of the ceiling fan.
He told himself it was just a coincidence. That Will had been around a lot that summer. That it didn’t mean anything. But even as the thought passed through his mind, it rang false, thin as film.
Because the truth was there, staring back at him from a hundred captured moments.
He loved him.
Mike swallowed painfully.
He’d known something was wrong with his feelings for Will the moment the Byers packed up and left Hawkins.
It wasn’t the silence that followed that bothered him, it was what he missed.
He was supposed to miss El. That’s what everyone expected. Girlfriend moves away, boy gets sad, end of story. He told himself that was what he was feeling. That hollow weight in his chest, that strange ache when the phone rang and it wasn’t for him.
But the truth was, it wasn’t El’s laugh he kept hearing when he fell asleep. It wasn’t her voice echoing through the static when he sat by the phone. It was Will’s. Always Will’s.
He’d tried calling at first, sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor with the receiver pressed to his ear, heart pounding in the pauses between rings. Joyce was always on the line, or Jonathan would answer and say Will was out, or the connection would drop into nothing but static. Each time, he’d hang up with a hollow feeling in his chest, a tightness that didn’t ease.
So he tried writing instead. Letters to El came easily, or at least, they looked like they did. He’d fill pages with stories and jokes, things that sounded right, that sounded like the kind of boyfriend he was supposed to be.
But when he tried to write to Will, the words refused to behave.
Every time he sat down, all that came out was the same thing, over and over again:
I miss you.
I need you.
Come home.
Three lines. That was it. No stories, no filler, no excuses. Just the truth, stripped bare and staring back at him in his own handwriting.
He could sign those letters easily enough - With love, Mike. It looked natural, almost automatic. But he could never write that on the ones to El. With her, the word felt heavy, clumsy, like something borrowed from someone else’s story.
With Will, it felt like breathing.
And when he’d arrived in California and seen him… it was Will that Mike wanted to run to and hug. Will that he felt the sudden urge to kiss and never let go of. Will that he wanted to hold hands with and talk to and be with.
He couldn’t even bring himself to hug Will after that thought crossed his mind. El was his girlfriend. Will was his friend.
Then everything had happened with Vecna and suddenly they were back in Hawkins, El had dumped him and Will was there and Mike couldn’t fucking breathe.
“Mike?”
Mike’s head shot up, the sound of his name. He hadn’t even heard the door open.
Will stood in the doorway, half in shadow, one hand braced on the frame. The afternoon light from the window caught the edge of his hair, turning it to gold. For a second, Mike couldn’t move. His stomach dropped so fast he thought he might actually be sick.
“Hey,” he managed, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.
Will smiled, small, familiar, devastating, and it hit Mike all at once how long it had been since he’d seen that expression up close. It felt unfair, almost, that someone could walk into a room and bring the air with them.
“What are you doing?” Will asked, stepping inside.
Mike’s throat went dry. He gestured vaguely at the bed, at the mess of photographs spread out like scattered memories. “Uh… just looking through some old stuff.”
Will came closer, curiosity tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reached down and picked up a few of the Polaroids.
“I forgot about these,” he said softly, flipping one over. His smile widened as he studied the image. “God, this was forever ago.”
Mike watched him, the easy way Will’s fingers traced the borders of the photo, the way his expression flickered between amusement and nostalgia. His heart thudded unevenly.
He wanted to say something - to joke, to ask if Will remembered that day, to admit he’d never really stopped thinking about it - but the words tangled somewhere in his chest. So instead, he just nodded, trying to look casual while his pulse roared in his ears.
“Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Feels like a lifetime.”
Will’s gaze flickered to his. “You okay?”
Mike sighed, a long, shaky exhale that seemed to pull the weight of every unspoken word out of him.
Will glanced at him, then quietly moved a few of the Polaroids aside to make space before sitting down beside him on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, the faint creak of the springs loud in the small room.
Mike couldn’t breathe. Being this close again, close enough to feel the warmth of Will’s shoulder just inches from his, it was like drowning in something invisible. Familiar and terrifying all at once.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “For not talking to you. When you were in California.”
He felt Will go still beside him, tense, like he was afraid to move the wrong way.
“Mike, it’s fine,” Will said after a beat, gentle as always.
But Mike was already shaking his head. “No. It’s not. I mean, I told myself it was, but…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on the photos scattered between them. “I tried calling, you know. A few times. But the line was always busy, or you weren’t home, or it just… never worked.” He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “And I tried to write, but I couldn’t.”
Will tilted his head, voice quiet. “Why not? You wrote to El.” There was no accusation in it, just curiosity, the kind that always made Mike feel seen and exposed at the same time.
Mike’s throat felt tight. He stared down at his hands, the Polaroid edges pressing faintly into his fingertips. “Because it hurt more,” he said finally. His voice cracked, but he didn’t try to fix it. “Not being with you. It hurt more than not seeing El.”
The silence that followed was soft, fragile. Mike could hear Will breathe beside him, could feel the space between them shrink and shift.
He didn’t look up, not yet. He wasn’t sure what he’d see if he did.
Then he felt it, the faintest brush of fingertips against his own.
A jolt ran through him. He froze, eyes flicking down, and there it was. Will’s hand, inching closer until their fingers touched. The contact was light, hesitant, like Will was giving him every chance to pull away.
Mike didn’t. He couldn’t.
He turned his hand palm-up, his movements slow, careful, until Will’s fingers slid naturally between his. Their hands fit together so perfectly it made his chest ache. Their hands stayed there, still and warm, as if even the smallest motion might break the spell.
They were holding hands. After everything, after all the words that never made it past his throat, it was suddenly that simple and that impossible.
Mike forced himself to look up.
Will was already watching him, eyes wide and uncertain, his expression flickering between fear and something dangerously close to hope. His lips parted, like he was about to speak but couldn’t quite find the words.
Mike bit his lip. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it everywhere, in his chest, his throat, his fingers twined with Will’s. For a moment, he just breathed, trying to steady himself.
“I love you,” he said at last, the words barely more than a whisper but heavy with everything he’d never said before.
Will’s eyes widened, disbelief washing over his face. He didn’t pull away; he didn’t move at all. The silence between them deepened, filled only by the sound of the clock ticking somewhere far away.
Mike swallowed and said it again, steadier this time. “I love you.”
The second time felt different. Realer, louder somehow, as if saying it once had broken something open and now it couldn’t be taken back.
Will still didn’t say anything. They watched each other softly and Mike felt like he was on a precipice about to fall. Then Will leant forward.
He was hesitant at first. A tiny movement, as if he was afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too quickly. Mike’s breath caught. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but watch as Will’s face drew closer, his eyes flicking down and then back up again in silent question.
Mike didn’t move away.
And then, softly, slowly, Will pressed his lips to his.
The kiss was barely a whisper, a gentle brush that sent a shock of warmth through Mike’s whole body. His eyes fluttered shut. The world seemed to fold inward until there was nothing left but this, the taste of summer air, the faint tremor of Will’s fingers still laced with his, the wild relief of finally.
For a second, neither of them breathed. Then Mike tilted forward, just a little, enough to meet him again. Another kiss, still soft but steadier this time. Will smiled against his mouth, and that broke something loose inside Mike; he couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped him, half–joy, half–disbelief.
When they finally pulled apart, they didn’t go far. Their foreheads rested together, the air between them warm and shaking with the remnants of nervous laughter.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Mike whispered, voice unsteady but sure.
Will let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yeah,” he said, cheeks pink, eyes shining. “Me too.”
They stayed like that, hands still joined, the world soft and small around them, a moment that felt like it could last forever.
“I love you,” Will whispered into the space between them.
The words hung there, trembling in the air, before Mike closed the distance and kissed him again.
It wasn’t careful this time. It was bright and clumsy and full of relief, all the years of not saying it, not daring to hope, collapsing into that single, dizzy moment. Will laughed softly against his mouth, a sound that felt like sunlight.
His hands came up to cradle Mike’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, and he pressed a flurry of small, breathless kisses across his skin - his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his nose - until Mike was laughing too, the kind of laugh that shook loose everything heavy inside him.
When Will finally found his lips again, it was slower, surer. The world outside seemed to blur away, leaving only the quiet thrum of their hearts and the warmth of being seen.
They stayed like that, wrapped in a silence that didn’t need to be filled, a kind of peace Mike hadn’t felt in years.
And in that moment, Will’s laughter still echoing in the room, Mike knew that he was finally home.