Archive of Our Own

The truth is, El had been preparing for Mike’s arrival long before he got here.

When she buys clothes and shoes, she is conscious of the way she puts them away; making sure there’s enough room in the closet for his clothes to hang, enough drawer space, enough spots for his shoes. When she first catches herself doing it, she actively wonders if she’s going crazy. This life that she is building should be one for herself—but a life without Mike is not a life at all. She cannot help the reminders of him she brings to her new home. It can’t be a home without Mike; it’s a bittersweet truth El has known always. She makes do with what she can.

Books and vinyl records decorate her shelves; ones she discovered on her own and ones Mike showed her. Books that he wrote himself, his name proudly displayed on the worn spines since she reads and rereads them all the time.

And then there, on her bedside table, sits a small photo frame of the only picture she has in her apartment. There are art prints that she purchased to decorate the walls with, but this—this one picture is hers. One of the only things she carried with her when she made her escape from the only home she has ever known.

The same picture that sat on her night stand for years. One of her favorite pictures of Mike—in his Ghostbusters costume, his expression a mix of annoyance and bemusement. Forever stuck at thirteen, not the sixteen year old she had left behind. Twenty, now. The polaroid had worn on the edges until she preserved it in a small frame, the last thing she looks at before going to bed and the first thing she looks towards when she wakes up. 

She has worked hard in her new life, has done everything she can to make this apartment not only a home for her, but also a place for Mike. . . Some day. When it’s safe. When the time is right. If he still wants her.

So she pushes on, spending her days in a constant state of wishful dreaming. Just waiting. Just hoping.

The split second following the moment he wakes up, Mike has no idea where he is.

The bleary world slowly comes into focus, his eyes and head still sleep heavy. But even if his gaze doesn’t quite focus on his surroundings—survival skills, right there, probably dropped in the negatives—his ears pick up the sound of someone moving around outside of the bedroom he woke up in. Pale blue walls, dark curtains to subdue the sunlight—those are the only things Mike notices before reality hits him all at once.

El.

Mike doesn’t comprehend anything. Tunnel vision blinds him to everything else as he kicks off the comforter—lavender with tiny blue flowers—and stumbles onto his feet. The carpet is soft beneath his bare feet, which he barely registers because his heart is thundering so wildly, it renders him useless to anything else as his hasty momentum forces him forward. From the bed to the living room, he convinces himself he had been dreaming as his hands grasp the doorframe as he pushes himself out of the room, wild gaze wandering the living room brightened by sunlight bathing through the windows. A noise towards the back left catches his attention, his gaze swinging, and then—

“El.”

Her name is a croak, a wish, a prayer, a salvation. And then she’s looking up from where she had been pouring a cup of coffee—so casual, so simple—and Mike feels his back hitting the wall behind him to support him as his suddenly weakened legs threaten to give out beneath him.

The world closes on him until it’s just El.

El, who is slowly moving around the counter to approach him, brown eyes wide and full of so much emotion that he knows tightens his own chest, too much for him to pick apart right now. El, who has grown out her hair so it reaches her waist and, he swears, as she moves through the sunlight, it looks a little redder than brown. El, who is alive and in front of him and looking at him the same way she always has, and it’s enough to revive some power back into Mike’s limbs as he pushes himself off the wall, a sound between a sob and that of a wounded animal escaping him as he launches himself at her.

His arms wrap around her tightly and El grunts at the impact, but her own arms go around him immediately as Mike holds her to him. They already had this moment, this disbelief of reunion, yesterday when he finally laid eyes on her for the first time in nearly six years and his head had started to hurt from how much he had cried. 

But somewhere between yesterday and waking up this morning, his brain had convinced him, in his sleep, that it was all a dream. A dream he has had countless times over the years, so it was easy to believe it hadn’t been real.

Except it is. Except he’s here, in El’s apartment, in fucking Iceland, and he is finally holding her in his arms after being torn away from her half a decade ago, and he holds onto her like the dream come true she is.

“I’m here,” El whispers, her hand cupping the back of his head, fingers in his hair. “Right here.”

Mike feels himself trembling, face burying into the crook of her neck as he breathes her in, one hand splayed on her back to keep her as close as possible. Soft and warm and real and he welcomed all of this yesterday but today is a new day and loving her never changes.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, how long he holds her. But El doesn’t complain, just holds him in return, the silence of the apartment only disrupted by his heavy breathing and wavering sobs. He just wants to revel in her presence, feeling like he can finally breathe for the first time in years. Every part of him comes alive from the inside; parts he thought would remain buried, parts he didn’t think would see the light of day, that had dimmed and withered as every day passed without El. 

Now, though, Mike feels alive. He can feel the life humming in his veins, the fire sparking awake, and he can’t help his next movements. He can’t help the way his hands raise to cup her cheeks, damp with her own tears, nor can he help the way he pulls back to give him enough room to just lift his head from the crook of her neck and immediately find her lips with his.

It’s not the first kiss they have shared since he arrived, but it’s just as desperate, wanting, relieving as the electricity turns his veins into livewires when El presses into him. Too eager for this early in the morning, but he doesn’t care. The kiss tastes like salt from both of their tears and years’ worth of separation and love that hasn’t lessened despite that. Mike is hyperaware of her, a sense that hasn’t dimmed over the years, losing himself in the kiss but keenly aware of her fingers in his hair, her chest pressing to his, tongue sliding along his in a deepening kiss that threatens to steal all of the air from his lungs. 

He clutches onto her like she may disappear from his grasp if he doesn’t hold her tightly enough, an ache that had settled so deeply into his soul only just beginning to soothe over as one of El’s arms slips behind his shoulders. In the middle of her apartment, they hold each other with unwavering desperation, and it’s unfortunate that the need for air starts cropping up until it’s unavoidable. 

Their kiss slows until they stand sharing the same breath, Mike’s head ducked to keep his forehead pressed to hers as he opens his eyes because he can’t not look at her. El’s eyes are closed as she catches her breath, tear-dampened cheeks flushed and lips pink. She looks like she’s letting this moment sink in as well, and it punches any air out of Mike’s lungs as he uses his gentle but desperate grasp on El’s face to tip her head back so he can really look at her, prompting her to open her eyes.

Tears cling onto her lashes as brown eyes, the color of caramel, peer up at him and reflect the smile that pulls at her lips. Beautiful—she is so beautiful. And it’s not as though Mike forgot—he could never, ever forget what she looked like, the image of her burned into his mind—but seeing her in person, getting to hold her again, are all privileges he thought he lost for so long.

“I thought yesterday was a dream,” he says, his voice hoarse from sleep, from too many warring emotions. Take your pick.

“Not a dream,” El reassures with a gentle shake of her head. Her hands move, then, and Mike’s throat works as she takes his right hand in both of hers, his stomach dropping as she presses his palm to the left side of her chest. Mike feels her heartbeat, thudding steadily—if picking up its pace a little upon his touch. Eyes locking with his as she holds his hand in place, she whispers, “Real.”

Mike lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s holding and it shudders out of him, making his entire frame shake as reality sinks in. He may be thousands of miles away from his friends and family but, here with El, he is finally home. In a place completely foreign to him, Mike is surrounded by familiarity and hope. He wants to revel in it all at once, but El squeezes his hand.

“Come—I made breakfast.”

She uses her grip to pull him along, his gaze never leaving hers as she leads him towards the kitchen. There’s an adorable breakfast nook towards the back of the kitchen, the cove made of windows that look out at the little courtyard for the residents of the apartment building. It’s not big, the building or the courtyard, but it’s got a homey feel to it, a potted plant hanging from the ceiling with its vine of leaves spilling out of it.

El sits him down in the booth style seat that runs along the half circle of the cove, his heart jumping when she pulls away, but it’s only to grab the two mugs from the counter. She sets them down and Mike sees she made coffee for him and tea for herself as she slides in next to him, and he’s relieved when she doesn’t leave any space between them. Thighs pressed together, like she needs the closeness as much as he does.

The table holds plates of eggs, bacon, toast, and waffles. A jar of strawberry jam and a bottle of maple syrup are also present, and his coffee is exactly how he likes it, sharp and bitter with the subtlest hints of sugar. But other than sipping the coffee, Mike just stares at the food, steam curling off of it to tell him it’s fresh, and his chest tightens at the knowledge that El made all of this. She didn’t cook much, back in Hawkins. There was too much going on, more pressing matters to tend to, instead of learning to cook anything other than heating up some Eggos. 

But the spread in front of him is simple and delicious looking—and hers.

He doesn’t realize he’s so lost in his thoughts until El’s voice speaks up to his right. “You’re not hungry?”

Mike blinks out of his head, turning to look at her. She’s watching him in concern, and he’d do anything to wipe that look off her face. “No, no, I am—”

El pulls one of the plates towards him. “Then eat,” she instructs. Gentle, but firm enough to get Mike to pick up the toast. Using the fork, he scoops the sunny side up egg onto the toast like an open sandwich before taking a bite. It tastes as good as it looks, and he wonders if part of it is because El made it. As he chews, Mike watches her pour a generous amount of syrup onto her waffles, and the corner of his mouth tugs up as his heart twists. Some things never change. 

He’s hopeless to look away from her as he eats. Don’t be a creep, the voice in the back of his head nags, but he can’t tear his gaze away from her. Mike takes in every little difference in El, even if he had done so yesterday. Her hair is longer than it has ever been, thick and shining, obvious that she takes good care of it. She’s even gotten her ears pierced, two sets of earrings sitting in the lobes. A small silver hoop in the lower one, and a heart shaped stud in the one above. His gaze lingers on the triangle of the three tiny beauty marks on her cheek, near her lips; marks his own lips have brushed over many times before. 

The warmth of El’s thigh presses into his own, and he’s grateful for the reminder of this being his reality. He’s not sure if it’ll ever properly sink in for him. 

She glances over, her eyebrows rising with that soft smile gracing her lips. She doesn’t say anything, and Mike doesn’t blush—not too much, at least. “Sorry—I don’t mean to stare like a creep.”

El frowns, shaking her head. “You’re not,” she says, shifting so she’s facing him. Mike is acutely aware her leg is no longer pressed to his, but now her knee is, and her hand rests on his thigh. Her touch burns into his skin through the flannel of his pajama pants. “Mike, I’m—” She exhales softly through her nose, giving him a smile that is so painfully tender, it makes his heart ache. “I’m glad you’re here. And we will talk more, but you need to eat first.” He blinks and she squeezes his leg. “Your stomach has been growling since you woke up.”

This time, heat does fill Mike’s cheeks. He hadn’t even realized, but of course she noticed. “Okay,” he chuckles breathily.

He knows they need to talk some more; their conversation yesterday had been long, intense. An amalgamation of emotions they both have been dealing with on their own for years. And as relieved, as grateful, as Mike is to be with her again, his heart is still broken. El had told him the reason why she did what she did, leaving him and everyone behind. He understood the fear that drove her to her choice, but he would never stop hating the circumstances of her life that made her come to that decision. To live alone, away from everyone she knows and loves, just to keep them safe—El has always been the most selfless person he knows, yet he wishes she had been selfish. Just that one time.

They eat in a comfortable silence, though Mike’s gaze wanders around the apartment. Up until now, he hadn’t really taken the time to take in his surroundings, but the more he looks, the more this apartment screams El. 

The couch is a deep burgundy color, facing a TV set with a VHS player slotted in the table the TV sits on. Next to the TV are two bookshelves, stacked in a neat sort of chaos with books, puzzle boxes, VHS tapes, and vinyl records for the player that sits on a small table beneath the window to the right of the shelves. Unlike the bedroom walls that are pale blue, these ones are plain white, but the apartment is colorful enough to offset that. Plenty of greenery with the number of plants El has strategically placed around so they get the perfect amount of sunlight from the windows. Framed prints hang on the walls, artwork of pretty landscapes and butterflies. 

Most of the living room floor is covered by a rug, colorful circles printed on it, and a deep green throw blanket tossed over the couch. The drapes are pulled back, drenching the space in the early morning sunlight, gleaming off the petals of the small flower bouquet in a vase sitting on the coffee table. 

There’s a desk sitting under the large window in the living room that overlooks the street that holds art supplies, along with a basket sitting on the ground next to it that is stuffed with what looks like knitting supplies. He can see the colorful balls of yarn, the pair of needle sticks poking out.

So much of El everywhere. Mike thinks he might be in heaven.

By the time they finish breakfast, Mike is happily full. El wakes him off when he tries to clear the table, telling them they can take care of it later, and pulls him towards the living room. Despite having the entire couch, they settle down with little to no space between them, much to Mike’s relief. 

El sits facing him, one leg folded beneath her and his fingers itch with the desire to play with the ends of her hair. But then El says, “This is a lot,” and Mike freezes in place, instant panic icing his blood.

“What?” he asks, his voice sounding like a whisper over his suddenly thunderous heartbeat. Does she regret having him here? Is he invading her space? Intruding on this new life that she has built for herself? 

She doesn’t want me anymore.

She doesn’t love me anymore.

Those thoughts painfully squeeze the air out of his lungs, drying his throat out, and he is descending into panic until El says, “Coming all the way out here, leaving your home behind—I know it’s a lot for you, Mike. But you. . . You came anyway.”

Oh.

“Of course I came,” Mike says roughly through a tightened throat as he reaches for one of her hands in both of his, pulling them to his lap. “And it’s not a lot for me, El. It’s not. This is exactly where I want to be.”

Wherever she is, that’s where Mike will find home. It’s a truth that has been ingrained in him since the moment they met.

He squeezes her hand, so small in his own but so strong. “My home is with you, El.” He sees the way her throat works in a swallow before she inhales sharply. “Coming here was the easiest choice I could ever make. Besides, that had always been the plan, right?” He offers a small smile, even if his chest clenches. “You and I, running away together to some far-off land?”

El smiles and nods, despite the crease in her forehead and the guilt that floods her brown eyes that she drops to their hands. “Right,” she whispers, watching the way his thumb rubs along the back of her hand.

The look on her face makes his stomach tighten, worry pooling in. Mike is desperate to know what’s going through her mind as she bites down on her bottom lip, the warm sunlight on his back having nothing to do with the anxious heat that spreads across his skin. “You didn’t believe me, did you?” Mike asks, a tremor in his voice that carries the weight of his own guilt. El’s gaze flicks up to meet his and despite her obvious confusion, Mike continues, “My plan, it wasn’t—it wasn’t real enough. Just a fantasy. You didn’t believe—”

“Of course I did,” El cuts him off, the firmness of her normally soft-spoken voice rendering him silent. She frowns in a way that’s not quite a glare, but there’s a hardness in her gaze that makes him shut up and listen. “I did believe in it, Mike. But my fear of something happening to you was stronger.” She exhales sharply, shaking her head, like she can’t believe he would question her. “If I didn’t believe, why would I end up here, of all places?”

He presses his teeth together, unable to find a lie in her words. Because she has a point, doesn’t she? This little Icelandic town, a near two hour drive from Reykjavik, is home to a beautiful valley emphasized by two waterfalls. Not the three Mike had fantasized about, but pretty damn close. She had told him as such, when she finally finally finally visited him in the Void to tell him where she was, telling him it was safe, telling him she would be waiting if he decided to come. As if he would ever choose otherwise.

And, of course, Mike had bought an English to Icelandic translation book, as well as a couple books about the country itself. The town El lives in is tiny, but its beautiful waterfalls draw people in. This is where she chose to settle and the significance of it is not lost on Mike, despite his earlier doubts.

“You gave me hope, Mike,” El says, bringing him out of his thoughts. Her smile is tender, loving. “And I was always going to come back to you. I couldn’t—” She sucks in a breath, pressing her lips together. “I can’t live without you. These last couple of years were difficult. The only reason I pushed through was because I knew I would see you again.”

But I didn’t. The words dance on the tip of Mike’s tongue, but he bites them down, refusing to set them free because he knows they will hurt her. Even if it’s the truth. Even if he clung onto this theory, this hope, that El was still alive—because the alternative didn’t make sense, didn’t add up, couldn’t possibly be true—while everyone else just indulged him. They told him they believed, but Mike wasn’t sure if they truly did, and didn’t ever want to question them. He’s not sure if they ever really understood that Mike had some kind of sense for El. That if she was dead, he would know.

Her disappearance didn’t feel final like her death would have. He grieved—oh, he grieved, and he still is despite her being in front of him—but he grieved for the girl she never got to me. For the cards she was dealt that led her to this choice. He grieved for the years they lost. But he never grieved El’s death, and he was fucking right for it.

But despite believing her to still be alive, he had been haunted by the possibility of never seeing her again. He knew if she disappeared, it was for safety reasons—for hers and for everyone’s. He would never want to jeopardize that, never want her decision to be made in vain. Despite the agony of her being out there by herself, despite the impossible distance between them. Mike understood her choice, just like El had said he would, but that didn’t mean he accepted it. That didn’t mean he would ever move on.

El Hopper is not someone you can move on from. She is once in a lifetime, she is the one and only. The mere idea of moving on isn’t just impossible, it’s laughable.

“You can be angry with me, you know,” El says gently.

Mike looks at her. Eyes he has seen in his dreams, unforgettable. “I don’t want to be.” His voice is hoarse with the strain of his emotions.

El nods slowly. “But you are,” she surmises. Not upset, but accepting, understanding. Like she expects it and welcomes it. The tension in his chest only intensifies. And she sees that struggle in his face, he’s sure, in the clench of his jaw, because she only squeezes his hand and says, “Mike, it’s okay.”

It’s not, though. And he’s not entirely sure how to work through that.

Mike’s first full day in Iceland, they decide to stay in.

El took the day, and the next, off and doesn’t work on the weekends, so it’s just the two of them, no interruptions. She tells him she got lucky with a kind boss, the woman who owns the local café/bakery El works at. She also makes money by making—knitting or crocheting, because apparently she can do both—clothing pieces people in the town request from her. She is, to Mike’s joy, pretty popular around her. It doesn’t surprise him, nor does it surprise him that she picked up work that kept her hands busy.

So they stayed in the apartment; cooked lunch together, talked, and spent hours on one of the thousand-piece puzzles she had. It was as peaceful as it was surreal, Mike’s body coiled with tension like he was waiting to be woken up any second now, realizing it was all just a dream. How many days and nights did he spend fantasizing about this life with El? How many hours has he let drift by as he lost himself in a life that he spent years thinking about, only for it to slip out of his fingers?

Now it’s here, it’s real, and yet Mike is still waiting for the alarm clock to go off, for the other shoe to drop.

They don’t leave each other’s side for four days. They cook together, watch movies together, sleep together. Hands, tentative by years of distance, slowly grow confident, needier, as the long weekend passes. Heated kisses with heady gasps turn to desperate touches and wanting moans, skin slipping along skin. He wants to bury himself inside of her in all of the ways that matter, all of the ways he can. It is easier, better, preferable, to do that than sit too long with the hurt that still throbs in his chest, the anger that stews.

Not angry with her, though. Never her. Mike Wheeler has been angry with many people for a long time, has been angry at the world for even longer, but anger has never had any room to exist with all of the emotions he feels for El. It never will, even now. Especially now.

Their secluded bubble pops as Monday rolls around and El has to go to work. Her shift starts at eleven, not having to open this morning, but as she brushes her teeth, Mike sits on the closed toilet seat and watches with dread pooling in his stomach. She’s working until six, and the thought of spending seven hours without her makes his throat burn with bile he forces down.

Calm down. She’ll only be a couple blocks away. You’re being insane.

The self-inflicted admonishments do little to soothe him. And perhaps his anxiety is a living thing, radiating off him in waves, because after El rinses her mouth, she asks him, “Do you want to come with me?”

Mike blinks at her words, at the bright lights of the bathroom. “What?”

She smiles warmly, hinting at a dimple. “There’s plenty of seating in the café. You can stay during my shift. Jóhanna won’t mind.” El reaches out, her fingers brushing along the ends of his hair curling by his ear, tucking them behind it. His heart skips at the gentle brush of her fingers against his skin. “You can sit and write or read. I’ll sneak you some free pastries,” she adds with a cheeky grin that makes him fall even more in love with her.

Which is how he ends up in the café she works at, setting up shop at a corner table where he has a view of El working behind the counter. His small round table holds some notebooks, pens, a couple of books for research, and the brand new laptop his mom had gifted him after his first book got published which has thus made his life so much easier to write wherever he wants.

Within ten minutes of sitting down, El had placed a fresh mug of coffee and a buttered croissant for him, giving him a quick kiss before she returned behind the counter. It wasn’t lost on Mike that any time someone came into the café, they would look his way in a mix of confusion and intrigue, though no one really approached him. He did note, however, the friendly way everyone greeted El.

Here, she is Eleanor. Here, she is greeted with big smiles and peppered with questions on how her weekend was. Many of them speak English, but there’s a little Icelandic conversation that goes over Mike’s head, and he’s rendered a little speechless, plenty awed, as El responds in the foreign language.

Of course, she has been here long enough to pick up on it, and it reminds Mike of the years between them, of the person she has become that he doesn’t quite know yet.

He should be working, but instead he finds himself watching El interact with all these people. Strangers to him but familiar acquaintances and friends to her. He hears his name on her lips once or twice when talking to people, who will glance over at him with an appraising look. Then they’ll say something to El, whose cheeks will pinken with a smile, and it only piques his interest. But Mike remains seated, doesn’t insert himself in conversations that he doesn’t belong in.

He feels like an outsider, and that’s never been anything new. Growing up in Hawkins, he knew where he stood on the social chain. Always a nerd, a loser, an outcast. And it never bothered him, not really, because he had his friends and they’re all he needed.

But this—this feeling of being on the outside is different. Mike always knew El was leagues ahead of him. She shined bright, deserved to be celebrated and loved, to be appreciated for the person she is and not what she can do for others. Selfishly, maybe naively, Mike always thought he would be right there next to her. Her number one cheerleader, the one she would always come home to.

Looking at her now, the comfort she has found in this new life, the friends she has made, the life she has built. . . El may have called for him here, but is there truly any room for him? Does he belong here, next to her, where he knows nothing except for her?

The fact of the matter is, that’s enough for Mike. All he has ever needed or wanted is El. Everything else has come second from the moment he met her. He knows, given the time, he will adjust and adapt and love it here—he already does, simply because El is here.

Mike is ready for his new life here. Yet, with every person that comes in here to greet El—Eleanor—like she is a long lost friend, Mike starts to wonder that no matter how much he wants to stay, he’s not sure if he should. What if he’s intruding? What if the life El has built for herself has no room for him, and she hasn’t realized it yet because she is holding onto their history?

The thought makes him nauseous, makes the room spin. But he remains still. Pretends to write and take notes and do anything but focus on the fear that claws his throat.

When the afternoon rush dies down, El’s coworker, Maia, clocks out around two, since she had opened at six. Once she leaves, giving Mike a polite smile as she goes, it’s only him, El, an older woman a few tables over reading a book, and two people chatting at a table on the other side of the café. He sits back in his chair just as El rounds the counter, having no customers to take care of, and approaches him with a smile.

He returns it instinctively, helpless to do anything but despite the anxiety raging war inside of him. El’s smile widens as she sits on the chair next to him, smoothing down the apron that covers her baggy jeans. “I’ve never seen you in glasses before,” she comments.

“Oh, yeah. Got them in college,” Mike says, chuckling lightly as he plays with the thin frames. “You like ’em?”

El nods, leaning forward to fold her arms on the table before propping her cheek on one hand, gazing at him with warm brown eyes. “They suit you,” she says with an observational tilt of her head. Mike’s skin heats as her eyes track over his face lazily yet with purpose, like she’s taking in every detail. It’s a familiar sensation. Loving. “You look grown up. Mature.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile that’s too bittersweet. “Not sixteen anymore,” he says in a tone just a little shy of sharp.

He feels instant guilt, but El doesn’t flinch, doesn’t frown. She only nods in acceptance, her smile turning into an aching combination of nostalgia and remorsefulness. They’re no longer kids—no longer teenagers fighting a war they never should have been a part of in the first place. But there’s no changing the past, and now as they become adults, moving forward in a life removed from monsters and scientists and alternate dimensions, the growing pains are a reminder of both their victory and the losses they endured to get to it.

“What do you want to do for dinner?” El asks. “We can stay in, or I can show you some places around here. There’s a small restaurant—it’s American owned, so you’ll be familiar with the food.” When his eyebrows rise, she chuckles. “It’s run by a man, Connor. He moved here almost two decades ago and opened the place. It’s good. A taste of home, he says. I think it’d be better to ease you into the food here before you try the local stuff.” Her smile is a little rueful. “I made the mistake of eating whatever sounded good. My stomach was upset for a week after.”

Mike’s own stomach churns. “Who took care of you?”

“Jóhanna checked in on me,” El says, head bobbing sideways. “But it was just me.”

His throat closes up at the thought of El in a new place, a foreign land, sick without anyone to truly look after her. Not him, not Hopper. He thinks of her in bed, clutching her stomach, and it pathetically makes his eyes burn at the reminder of how alone she was.

In his grief, Mike at least had his family and friends. Even if he snapped at them, even if he tried to push them away. He had them. El had no one.

She could have had him, but—

“We can try the American place,” Mike says.

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything else as a customer walks in, and El stands up at the sound of the bell above the door ringing. She doesn’t hesitate to kiss Mike on the cheek as she gets up, his skin burning where her lips touched, a buzz in his ears that drowns out the sound of the old man entering calling out, “Good afternoon, Ellie!”

Mike barely gets any writing done, but he was a fool to think he would in the first place.

“You’re quiet.”

Mike’s jaw tightens at El’s words, slow to glance down at her. They’re walking back home from dinner, the sky still pretty bright despite it being close to eight in the evening, hand in hand as El leads him down streets she is familiar with.

He doesn’t mean to get lost in his thoughts. For years, he had been waiting, praying, for the day that he was with El again. Fantasizing endlessly what it would be like to see and touch her again. It’s better than anything he could have dreamed of, to be sure, but that dread of insignificance hasn’t left him. He took it with him to dinner, where it only intensified with every person that looked their way, with anyone who had come up to them to chat.

The two of them had sat on the same side of the booth, and it only earned them intrigued raised eyebrows by the few people who had stopped by to chat. Some in English, some in Icelandic, but they’d ask El who he was and she introduced him, every time, as her boyfriend. And he would see, every time, how these strangers’ faces would light up, who would then shake his hand and welcome him to town.

One woman had even said, “No wonder Eleanor was breaking all the town’s single boys’ hearts. Didn’t give them the time of day.”

El had rolled her eyes fondly while Mike blinked, his brain struggling to process that information. Logically, Mike knows El is gorgeous. Logically, he knows it’s only normal and unsurprising that there would be other guys interested in her.

Foolishly, it had never crossed his mind that she would have found someone other than him.

“Did you ever date anyone else?” Mike asks instead of directly replying to El. He forces the question out, unsure if he really wants to hear the answer. The words grate through his throat, his heart telling him he wouldn’t be able to handle an answer he doesn’t like.

But he is as masochistic as he is selfish, it seems.

Whatever his spiral, though, he doesn’t notice El has stopped walking until she squeezes his hand to get him to stop. He nearly stumbles as he looks back at her, catching the incredulous look that crosses her face against the dying light of the slowly setting sun. “What?”

Their arms are outstretched between them, a few steps separating them as El stares at him as though he has grown another head. The back of Mike’s neck heats up, suddenly feeling foolish for his question, but it gnaws at him, refusing to leave him alone. “Six years is a long time, El,” Mike says carefully. Maybe this isn’t a conversation to have in the middle of the sidewalk, but there’s no one around as he recognizes his surroundings as the apartment building’s neighborhood. “It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility if you dated someone—”

“Did you?” El asks, cutting him off. There’s a stubborn set in her jaw that tells Mike she doesn’t want to know the answer, just like him.

He chokes on air, gaping at her. And maybe it’s hypocritical of him, but he can’t help the scoff that escapes him before answering, “Of course I didn’t.”

“Then why would you ask me that?” El asks and Mike feels a punch to his gut at the hurt that crosses over her features, eyes flickering between his.

“Because you built a new life for yourself, El,” he answers, Adam’s apple bobbing because despite the bewilderment, the offense, that settles on El’s face, she doesn’t let go of his hand. “You made a home and you have a job and new friends, so it would make sense if—”

“No, it wouldn’t,” El says. “Nothing about me being with anyone other than you makes sense. Mike—” His name is an exasperated sigh, an admonishment, a wish only he can answer as she steps closer, eyes never leaving his. “No one knows me better than you. I could become friends with every person in this town, and none of them will ever know the real me. Not like you do. And I don’t—” She shakes her head, frowning as she lowers her voice. “I don’t mean just my powers. Even back in Hawkins, it was—” Another pause, a deep inhale with brown eyes locking with darker brown, her stare so intense and he knows she wants him to hear her. “It was always you. It will always be you. Only you, Mike.”

His throat closes up, the feelings her words stir up making it difficult to breathe even as his heart thunders wildly. She is a master, he realizes, at easing his worries. Her honesty settles deep into his heart, his very bones, and Mike feels like a fool. An utter, idiotic fool for his insecurities. He wouldn’t have been angry if El had found someone else; she deserves to experience all of the love, all of the good things in the world, despite whether or not it would break his heart. All he has ever wanted are good things for El.

But to hear that it’s only ever been him in her heart, the way she lives in his, is the exact reality check he needed.

The way El looks at him, a loyal sort of fierceness in her bright eyes, looking like she wants to kiss him and maybe sort of wants to slap him for even thinking there would ever be anyone else, and Mike would laugh if he didn’t give into his own impulses in that moment.

Hand still holding hers, Mike tugs El the rest of the way towards him and ducks his head in one smooth motion, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. She makes a small noise in surprise, one he swallows eagerly because she responds just as quickly, lips parting to deepen the kiss. Mike’s blood sings at the slip of her tongue along his, her free hand clutching the front of his windbreaker to pull herself impossibly close.

Mike presses in, the chill of the evening chased away by the fire burning through him, desperate to drown in her taste. He loses all sense of his surroundings—if it has nothing to do with El, he doesn’t give a shit. Not when she licks into his mouth, pulling a groan low from Mike’s throat.

“Mike, Mike,” El gasps into the kiss, barely able to get his name out in between kisses. “We need—we should get home.”

Through the needy haze in his mind, Mike knows she’s right. Knows that they can’t continue on like this in the middle of the sidewalk. Home—that sounds perfect. That sounds right. “Let’s go.”

Either they were closer to the apartment than Mike thought, or they didn’t waste a single second as they reached the front door. The keys in El’s hand jingle as she slots it into place, Mike’s front pressed to her back as he crowds her in, catching the upwards curves of her cheeks as she smiles at the proximity. As soon as they’re inside the apartment, the last bit of Mike’s restraint, which he already had a loose grip on, snaps.

He’s on her before the door even fully closes, faintly hearing the lock click back into place that El likely uses her powers to do, but his attention is solely on hers. He’s kissing her again, desperate and hungry, arms wrapping around her waist to tug her back in. El’s lips curve into a smile as she returns the kisses just as eagerly, her tote bag thudding as she drops it to the floor before wrapping her arms around his neck.

They move in perfect harmony, El walking backwards and guiding him towards the bedroom as Mike blindly follows, refusing to let the kiss break. Every nerve ending in his body stands on end, electrified as they stumble towards the room, El’s hands slipping down to shove his jacket off his shoulders, and Mike lets go of her long enough to shove it off the rest of the way before returning the favor and pushing off her cardigan.

He fucking burns to be close to her, years’ worth of distance coming to a head as they reach the bed and with one arm wrapped around her waist, lowers her onto the bed with his tall frame moving down with her in a fluid motion. With El in his arms, Mike feels sure of every movement, his body slotting between her parted legs as she keeps him close, her hands cupping his cheeks and her lips moving with his as he leans one arm on the mattress next to her.

God, he loves her—he loves her so fucking much. Loves the way she tastes; so sweet and like home. Loves the way she feels; soft and warm, his hands able to map every dip and curve easily. Loves the sounds she makes; needy whimpers and approving moans with every swipe of his tongue and pressure of his fingers. 

He loses himself in her, in this closeness, their hands exploring territory that somehow feels both familiar and new as layers of clothes are peeled off. Each inch of newly exposed, soft skin continues to quicken Mike’s pulse, worshipping with his hands and lips, breathing heavily when El’s own hands move along his skin, igniting a fire in her wake as she runs her fingers over his arms, down his back, up into his hair. He takes his time moving down her body, a primal sort of satisfaction burning through him every time he feels her body react to where he takes his mouth, wanting to replay the sounds of her cries of his name when she falls apart. The breath shudders out of El when she pulls him back up, her kiss bitten lips parting when he licks his own clean before pulling him in for another deep, drawn out kiss.

This closeness—God, he missed it so much. To feel every breath she takes, to have the taste of her permanently etched onto his tongue as he moves over her, marking her soft skin with his desire in every sucking, biting kiss. El’s nails, painted purple and long enough to bite, drag down the skin of his back as their bodies move together. 

He worships her with his mouth, his hands, with every part of him. This girl—woman, now—who still wants him with the same kind of ferocity that hums through his veins, who presses kisses along his neck and tugs at his hair and moves her hips in time with his own. 

Mike holds himself over her with his arms braced on the mattress on either side of her, one of El’s arms loosely looped around his neck while her other hand cups his cheek. Their kiss is barely a kiss as they move together, lips dragging as they gasp into each other’s mouths with every press of Mike’s hips into hers. 

“I love you.” Her words sear onto his lips from hers, hand still cupping his cheek. El gasps, arching into him as one of his hands finds her thigh, dragging it down to the crook of her knee to hook her leg around his hip. “I love you.”

Mike lets out a rough breath, gazing down at her—an angel in this bed that has become his. Her dark hair is a halo against the pink sheets, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with the same kind of desire that grips him tight. El looks up at him with such reverence, it knocks whatever remaining air out of his lungs, his movements slowing, lost in the warmth of her eyes, the heat of where they come together.

He is so lucky—he’ll never stop wondering how she chose him, of all people. He will never stop being grateful for it, either.

“I love you,” Mike returns, forehead against hers. His jaw tightens, holding himself back from coming apart in more ways than one. “Always.”

It brings them over that craved edge, gasping breaths and low groans with their names on the other’s tongue as El trembles against him, his own body quaking with pleasure he has only ever felt with her.

In the aftermath, the room glows with the moonlight seeping through the window and the heat of El’s body sinks into his own as he lays on top of her, his cheek near her shoulder above her breast and nose pressed to her throat. His skin still buzzes, his heart thudding in time with El’s as her fingers gently card through his hair, her other hand simply resting on his back. There’s not a stitch of clothing that separates them, cleaned up but having no interest in putting anything back on other than the duvet that covers Mike while he covers El.

His own fingers graze up and down her outer thigh, while his eyes track the way his other hand plays with the ends of her long hair. Their world is quiet, save for their gentle breathing as they come down from the high of being this close, this intimate, after too many years. They had taken the last couple of days, since Mike arrived, slow. Almost like they were starting over, a little too on the side of caution. Mike knows, though, it was his own doing. Being too into his own head, spiraling over something he had no control over, overthinking everything instead of talking it through—it created a bit of distance between him and El.

Which he hated. After all this time, distance is the last thing he wants from El. Even if it’s the result of his own anxieties coming forward.

“I didn’t mean to offend—hurt—you, when I asked if you dated anyone else,” Mike suddenly says, breaking the peaceful silence. He feels El’s fingers pause in his hair for a brief second before continuing, like she understands that Mike needs to say this. “I was just trying to see. . .”

He trails off, jaw clenching, and she probably feels the muscle hardening against her collarbone as she asks softly, “See what?”

Mike’s throat works, the words already tasting bitter. “See if there was room for me in this new life of yours, or if I was just intruding by showing up here.”

“Intruding?” she repeats, and Mike’s chest clenches because the way she says it is so reminiscent of when she was younger, when she’d repeat a word she didn’t know the definition of to see how it sounded and felt on her own tongue. But Mike knows that’s not the case here; that her repetition is borne from disbelief rather than curiosity. “Mike.” Frustration laces his name as her hand leaves his back, but the touch returns just as quickly—this time with her fingers grasping his chin to lift his head, making him blink in surprise until his eyes find hers. “I had been waiting for the day you would get here since the moment I arrived. Everything I did—leaving Hawkins, building a life here—I did it for you. So that one day, when it was safe, we could be together without monsters and the government getting in the way.”

Mike’s throat works, looking down at her big eyes, framed with long, dark eyelashes. Her words slam into him, the truth of them branding into his soul, and it’s as healing as it is wondrous. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“You didn’t,” she interrupts. “And I wish you’d stop being afraid of being angry. What happened sucks. What I did sucks. You are allowed to be upset about all of it. But what you are not allowed is to think that you’re intruding here. Not when I spent all this time making a life here to share with you.”

His lips part, but no words come out. El’s voice was soft but her words firm, looking up at him with eyes desperate for him to understand her. And he does. He has always been able to read El well, even if there was a point in time, after everything happened, that he drove himself crazy wondering why he didn’t pick up on her plan in the first place. He understood, after a while, that she hadn’t wanted him to. He understood, with heartbreaking clarity, that she wouldn’t have gone through with it if he knew and tried to talk her out of it—because if anyone could have succeeded in convincing her to change her mind, it would have been him. They both know that; or, at least, it was something El always knew and something Mike had to catch up on. 

So now, as El looks up at him, aglow in silver moonlight and ethereal in every way, robbing him of his breath, Mike understands he needs to let go of the insecurities that have been clinging onto him. El has room for him here, but Mike has no room for anxieties that don’t do either of them any good. 

“It’s a beautiful life,” Mike says, eyes slipping along all of the features of her face. “It’s exactly the life I’ve been waiting for.”

El smiles, relieved and apologetic all at once. “I’m sorry it took so long for us to have it.”

A soft breath escapes him, lips curling up. He wants to burrow himself inside of her, wrapping themselves in blankets and keeping them here. His life happily narrows in onto this woman under him—what more could he possibly want?

(Answer: nothing. This is exactly where he wants to be. He has been waiting for it since he was twelve years old.)

“Better late than never, right?” Mike says lightly, smiling when he pulls a melodic little laugh from her. How many times did he hear her laugh in his dreams? Countless. A haunting memory he found both peace and heartache in. Raising his hand, his finger lightly traces along the edge of her face, brushing away strands of hair as he does so. “I’m sorry for being weird before. I don’t want you to think that I don’t want to be here, because I do. More than anything. It’s just—I know you told me to come, but I guess I was still anxious, maybe, about still fitting into your life.”

El’s answering smile is understanding, with a touch of empathy he doesn’t quite get until she says, “I understand, Mike. I was. . . Anxious, too, about whether you wanted to really be here, or if you were coming because you thought you had to.”

Mike exhales sharply through his nose, heart panging in his chest as his finger traces the curve of her ear. “I guess we were both being—”

“Stupid,” El finishes softly, the corner of her mouth kicking up. “But we know better now—” Her hopeful gaze flicks between his. “Right?”

He answers her by kissing her again, slow and deliberate, her soft lips parting under his as she arches a little into him. Every kiss feels like the first, and although that one had been quick and impulsive and over ten years ago, the fire that stirs in his blood is the same. It brings him to life and puts him at peace at the same time, welcoming that feeling of being exactly where he belongs after being lost for too long.

When they pull apart, Mike rolls them over so El is now lying on top of him, her giggle a balm to his soul as he wraps his arms around her, keeping her close. She presses a kiss to his jaw before her head settles by his neck, her skin warm against his, legs entangled under the covers. 

It’s easy to fall asleep like this, utterly wrapped up in El. She drifts off to sleep first and Mike can’t help but focus on the gentle, steady thud of her heart against his own chest. Its rhythm brings him the most perfect sort of peace, easing away the worries that had been accompanying him these last couple of days. Mike knows there is a lot they still need to catch up on from being separated for so long, but there is no sense of dread for their time together coming to an end. It finally settles in his head that this is it—this is for real. There are no monsters, no soldiers, no evil scientists waiting, there is no other shoe that needs to be dropped.

Their lives, after years of fighting and surviving, can finally be their own and they can experience them together. They deserve it—El deserves it.

Mike knows it won’t be perfect. There will be nightmares to contend with, bad memories to wade through, and maybe even arguments that are borne from everything they have gone through. But he’s not worried, not even a little—not anymore. Whatever they have to deal with, they will face it together. This life together will be a good one, a happy one. In this town, in this apartment—this is where it all can begin again.

This is El and this is home.

The truth is, El had been preparing for Mike’s arrival long before he got here.

And it’s a good thing she had. His sweaters and polos hang neatly among her flannels and dresses. The cabinet behind the mirror in the bathroom has plenty of space for his deodorant and shaving supplies next to her face wash and makeup wipes. The books on her shelf—the ones Mike wrote—are now cheekily signed by him, all of them made out to some variation of to my Mage, my one and only muse. The desk that holds her knitting and crocheting supplies also houses his laptop and notebooks.

Her picture of thirteen year old Mike was no longer the only photo in the apartment. They took pictures—all the time, everywhere they went. By the waterfalls, at the park, during day trips to Reykjavik. Each photo was developed, either placed carefully in photo albums that found home on the shelf, or slid into frames that hung on the walls or sat on their bedsides. Some were stuck to the fridge with magnets, too, among El’s work schedule, the week’s chores divided up, and the grocery list.

She realizes, fairly quickly, that hadn’t been waiting for just Mike’s arrival, but for this place to truly feel like the home she wanted it to. She had been waiting to feel like she belonged again—and that has only ever been the case when she is with Mike.

From the night they met, their hearts stopped being their own. From then on, they had been constantly separated from each other—from themselves.

No more. They have, finally, found their way back to themselves.

And the peace of it is everlasting.