Chapter Text
Will,
I’m sorry.
I know it’s selfish of me to do this, especially considering El’s been dead gone barely a year. I’m sorry you have to lose your sister and your friend. If you even still consider me a friend. I hope not. That’d make it easier for you to move on and be happy. You deserve to be happy.
I haven’t spoken to you in months. Maybe you’re waiting for me to reach out, or maybe you didn’t want me to. I think I didn’t write to you because I was scared to find out. But if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t reach out because I’m a coward.
Mike crumples the piece of paper into a ball and tosses it off the desk, where it joins the growing pile of half-written notes in his overflowing trash can. The rising sun peaks in through a small gap between curtains, the only source of light in his dorm.
Lucas lay asleep on the other side of the room, snoring loudly with his body half hanging off the edge of his mattress.
Mike wonders what will happen when he’s gone— will his side of the dorm remain empty for the rest of the year? Will he be replaced by a new face almost instantly, forgotten in the sea of everchanging students? Will Lucas miss his presence, or will he be grateful to be rid of Mike, the eternal deadweight he’d been forced to carry the past year?
The letter for Lucas is buried in the back of Mike’s dresser, alongside six others. Dustin, Max, Nancy, Holly. One for his parents, and one for Mrs. Byers, who had at one point in time been more of a mother to Mike than his own.
The only letter left to write was Will’s.
One more letter, and then he’d be done.
He’d be free.
That had been two weeks ago. Two weeks of trying to write one single letter. Two weeks of nonstop failure.
How do you fit your entire life into one letter? Mike had been desperately trying to figure that out. Perhaps it’d be easier if he still spoke to Will, and their friendship wasn’t a total mess right now. But the truth was, Mike ruined everything he touched. And Will didn’t deserve that. Mike had done enough damage already.
On some level, Mike knew it was ridiculous to blame himself for Will being kidnapped all those years ago. But part of him, deep down, knew he could’ve prevented everything. If he’d biked Will home, or asked his mom to drop the other boy off, or if he’d stopped selfishly dragging on the campaign just so he’d have more time to hang out with Will, then maybe Will would never have gone down Mirkwood.
Maybe nothing bad would’ve ever happened.
“What’re you doing?”
Mike turned around with a start, almost knocking his desk over in the process. Lucas was sitting upright in his bed, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“Nothing,” Mike was quick to answer, chancing a glance to make sure the crumpled paper around him was sufficiently unreadable, “Just… working on a draft for my book?”
“Is that supposed to be a question or a statement?” Lucas asks, but he doesn’t press the topic further. “Did you even sleep?”
“I don’t have class today,” Mike shrugs, “I was going to sleep later.”
A lie. Recently, being asleep was just as bad as being awake. Far too many nights had been spent staring at the ceiling, waiting for a creeping darkness that refused to arrive. And when it did finally come, it was suffocating.
Lucas’s face shifted to a strange expression that Mike couldn’t quite decipher, before he pulled himself off the bed with a yawn. “Suit yourself.”
The dorm room descended into silence, broken only by the rustle of clothing and bags as Lucas prepared for the day. Meanwhile, Mike gathered all his abandoned letters into a pile, resolving to take out the trash later that day.
“Hey, Mike?” Lucas glanced up from where he was tying his shoes, “There’s a, uh— party tonight. If you’re interested. Dustin and I are going. Not Will, though.”
Mike hates the way Lucas specifies that Will isn’t coming, as if that will make the offer more enticing. Most of all, he hates that it works.
“Yeah,” he tries to sound casual, “Sure. Where’s Will?”
Lucas shrugs on a jacket, fumbling around for keys on his own desk, “Hanging out with his art friends, I think?”
“His boyfriend?” Mike asks, hating the annoyance that made itself clear in his voice.
“Maybe,” Lucas says, “Probably. Hey, listen, I need to pick Max up, so—”
Mike waves his hand dismissively, “Go ahead.”
“Thanks. See you later, then.”
The door clicked shut behind Lucas, and Mike was alone. He turned back towards his desk, where a blank paper glared up at him. He crumpled it into a ball, tossing it into the pile with far more force than necessary. He tossed the pen away too, for good measure.
What the hell was wrong with him? Why was Mike so unable to feel happy for Will? So selfish that the idea of him having other friends left him feeling hollow and nothing but anger?
He wasn’t enough. For so long, Will was the only friend Mike needed, and Mike was the only one Will needed. Even now, when Mike had taken a sledgehammer to their friendship and torn it apart, when he’d locked Will out of his life, he still felt jealous. And what right did he have?
Will’s friends were probably nicer than Mike. They’d be funnier, they’d understand when Will was complaining about the tones and brushstrokes on his artwork and wouldn’t be infuriatingly oblivious to what he was talking about. They probably made an effort to show up on time, not thirty minutes late with some half-baked excuse that ruined their hangouts.
Will deserved to be happy. He deserved better than Mike. But Mike, selfish as always, couldn’t bear to see him happy with other people. Fucking asshole.
Mike retrieved the pen from the floor and reached for a new piece of paper.