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Any second now.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticks steadily, seconds passing by, and El presses her head against the window, once again looking out in hope.
(Does time go by slower when you're waiting for something?)
At least, that's what it feels like.
The setting outside is dull, paling drastically in comparison to the sunny spells that El was used to. Now, it's November, and majority of the bright orange and red leaves are gone, no longer covering the branches and replaced by ice.
It's cold, too, sharp and biting— (will Mike make it in this cold?)— but El is warm, in her oversized sweater with sleeves trailing well over the tips of her fingers; it is Mike's after all.
She closes her eyes in fond memory,
(“Can I have this?” El asks, holding up a crimson sweater.
“What- Oh. Yeah, sure,” He shrugs, “I was planning on giving it away either way, I've outgrown it now.”
El puts it on, untangling some of her curly hair which suddenly gets caught in it.
It's still too big for her despite him being too tall for it now, it feels warm and soft against her skin, and she's suddenly blanketed within a feeling of comfort.
“I'll keep it.” She decides,
“Go ahead- take as many as you like, I don't really need them anyways,” he grins,
“They seem to fit you well enough though, short stuff.” His tone suddenly teasing, a stupid grin on his face.
She playfully retorts back with a "Sure, lanky.”
Unable to keep the giggles from spilling out of her, she laughs, sides aching and hand over her mouth.
She's carefree. She's happy.)
Her eyes snap open, elbow bashing the window accidentally as she jerks.
She winces in pain, rubbing her elbow,
“Everything okay in here?”, asks Joyce, head peeking from the doorframe of the sitting room, concerned expression highlighting the worry lines on her face. El likes Joyce. She's kind, and gentle, tone constantly cautious, she has her overbearing moments but that comes with all moms.
(Not El's mom. Not Terry. But then again, Terry isn't like most moms. Or at least- she didn't have the chance to be.)
“Yeah,” El looks out the window again. It feels like the thousandth time.
“When are the Wheelers arriving?”
“Any minute now. Karen called me from the gas station, said Holly got carsick along the way... it's a little hectic. But they’re coming.”
El frowns, starting to respond with a polite "I hope she's okay—”
The sound of gritty pavement crackling. A polished car stopping in front of the Byers' house.
Mike.
She rushes to get to him, brushing past Joyce in her flurry and stopping by the ornamental mirror, hung by a crooked painting of a rose on peeling, pale green wallpaper, to give herself a once-over.
Dark brown tendrils at the front of her face messily held back by two clips, a few strands already escaping (damn curly hair), nails bitten down with chipped vermillion nail varnish (Nancy had given it to her), a simple, aegan blue pleated skirt with buttons on the side and black dolly shoes.
Pretty. She thinks.
She tucked a few of her curls behind her ear hastily and walked up, fingers moving the lock, deep breaths, she opens the door—
—————
Are we there yet?
This is what Mike wanted to ask as he sat in the back of the Wheeler's car, sitting on one side at the back as Holly sat squashed between him and Nancy, his forehead leaning against the fogged window. He contemplated for a second, index finger at ready, then settled on a messy, barely legible EL, prominent amongst the rest of the fog painting the safety glass.
“Seriously, Mike?” he hears an amused voice, turning to see Nancy lifting an eyebrow in regard to the gesture. He rolls his eyes,
“I miss her.”
“I know. And I miss him.”
The understanding that passes between them is unspoken yet strong. He knows how much Nancy misses Jonathan and yearned to see him again- often spotting her fiddling with a necklace he knew Jonathan had given her.
He missed El too.
Really bad.
Well, fuck. Of course I miss her. She's kind of my favourite person in the whole world.
He missed her laugh, he missed the way she could light up a room with it, the way her hugs felt like comfort and her presence felt like the quietest form of sunshine, reserved until it bled through unexpectedly through her bright voice, he still remembers the sound of it—how could he not?— clear and hopeful on the walkie-talkie.
(“El?”
He hopes his voice isn’t too muffled by static as he speaks into the walkie-talkie, waiting for a response. His voice has edge and uncertainty laced within it, still not completely over the many nights where he was only met with crackles and silence.
He doesn’t think he'll ever get over it.
But tonight isn't for dwelling on that. Tonight is for calling El, who's all the way in Maine. Who will be picking up any second now, because she's alive. And whole. And she can hear him, she can—
“Mike?”
He exhales suddenly, the heart racing moment halting and replaced by a sense of relief washing over him like a tidal wave, letting out the breath he didn’t know he'd been holding in.
“Yeah. It's me.”)
“Damnit!”
Mike suddenly jolts, head snapping up in attention, and tries not to sigh. Just his dad driving over another pothole.
He lifts his wrist to check the time; 7 minutes have passed, but it feels like a hundred years. He taps his knee impatiently and looks outside (again), watching the bushes and trees pass by in a pine and moss green blur, he starts seeing houses with pretty doors and intricately cared for front lawns.
One of them further along must be El’s. She has to be close.
And before he knew it, the car was pulling up to the front of her house, without an immaculate front lawn and polished perfection but seeming homely all the same.
He stepped out of the car, suitcase in hand. His dad honked the car, indicating their arrival.
Breathe, Mike, breathe. It's just El.
He looked up, and—
————
“Mike!”
“El.”
He isn't sure how, maybe by instinct, but he'd dropped his suitcase at the sight of her, leaving it discarded in his haste to get to her.
In the blink of an eye, she's rushing to him. One moment she's standing there, an expression of pure joy etched onto her features, looking pretty, and beautiful and other words that Mike wants to tell her, but before he can even get a word in edgeways she's squeezing his waist in the most simultaneously suffocating and best way. He wraps his arms around her (home), face burrowing deeper into her neck, nose cold against her skin.
She thinks its the best feeling in the world, as an overwhelming sense of bliss erupts from within her.
When they finally break, he immediately presses his forehead against hers, brushing the hair out of her face and wiping the tears (when did she start crying?) that had formed. Her face breaks out in a wider grin, unable to keep it off her face, as she wipes his in return, thumb brushing against his barely visible freckles and cheekbone too.
“I’m glad you're home.” She whispers, hand dropping to intertwine with his other one.
“I’m glad I'm here,” He says in return,
“Where else would I be?”
She smiles in response, the two of them pulling apart, scanning the other and processing their presences.
She quirks an eyebrow, “You’ve gotten taller.”
“Yeah.” He responds sheepishly, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck,
“Didn’t think it was possible. But I did.”
“Those oversized sweaters are gonna look like dresses on me at this rate.” said El, humorous intention overtaking her voice which had previously been filled with choked sobs,
Mike laughed, curling into himself as he reached out for her hand again,
“May I come in?”
His thumb rubs over her fingers, and a tiny smile graces her face,
“Be my guest.”