[Will says it like it's so simple, and almost instantly, Mike feels himself start to dissolve. He pulls tighter at Will's hand, tugging helplessly until he can hide his face in soft, uncombed hair, just in time for the first sob to sneak out on a shuddering breath.
Home. He doesn't even know what that is, anymore. Maybe it's a house, on a street, in a town, where his mom bustles around in front of the stove and his dad is just arriving home from work. Or maybe it's a time, one he can't return to, when Dustin and El and Brianna and Steve and Billy and Jonathan were here, and not all the nights were good, but they were always full, always alive. He knows which one he'd go back to if he had the choice, but he doesn't. Whatever home means to him, there's only one door left open.
It takes a few minutes for the worst to pass, leaving Mike trembling and wrung dry, clinging to Will like a lifeline. He doesn't bother to wipe his face, instead just burying it deeper, squishing his nose up against the side of Will's neck. This is the end. This is the end, and they're not even going to know it soon.
When he can finally will himself to speak again, all he says is,] I love you.
[There's the great tragedy of it -- what they're leaving behind, the memories, the people who they won't even know existed. Everyone they've met and loved and cared for over the last two-ish years is going to disappear, and they won't even know. It wouldn't be easier, if they could -- it might even be harder -- but at least they'd be able to remember.
And the worst part is Will's going to go back to being quiet and secretive and closed-off about what's he feels, who he is. He's going to keep on living like he has to lie to everyone about it. Even if, like everyone says, years on things get better, he can't tell his 12-year-old self that.
But Mike is sobbing into his hair, and they can't keep doing this. The death, the horror, the loss is too much, and the way Mike's hiding against him, Mike the fearless, Mike the leader, Mike the courageous, bent double with his grief is the worst possible thing. Will is careful, putting his arms around Mike's shuddering, bony shoulders, but his own hitch with tears as well, especially at those mumbled words against his neck.
You won't, when we go back, he thinks, feeling it like a fist to the chest. But that will be then, and he'll think about it then. Right now, he gets to hear it, feel it in the way Mike clings to him. Like a drowning man. The irony isn't lost on him.
Will nuzzles against Mike's dirty, tangled hair and -- well, straight-up Solo's him.] I know.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2021-07-17 11:15 pm (UTC)Home. He doesn't even know what that is, anymore. Maybe it's a house, on a street, in a town, where his mom bustles around in front of the stove and his dad is just arriving home from work. Or maybe it's a time, one he can't return to, when Dustin and El and Brianna and Steve and Billy and Jonathan were here, and not all the nights were good, but they were always full, always alive. He knows which one he'd go back to if he had the choice, but he doesn't. Whatever home means to him, there's only one door left open.
It takes a few minutes for the worst to pass, leaving Mike trembling and wrung dry, clinging to Will like a lifeline. He doesn't bother to wipe his face, instead just burying it deeper, squishing his nose up against the side of Will's neck. This is the end. This is the end, and they're not even going to know it soon.
When he can finally will himself to speak again, all he says is,] I love you.
no subject
Date: 2021-07-18 02:35 am (UTC)And the worst part is Will's going to go back to being quiet and secretive and closed-off about what's he feels, who he is. He's going to keep on living like he has to lie to everyone about it. Even if, like everyone says, years on things get better, he can't tell his 12-year-old self that.
But Mike is sobbing into his hair, and they can't keep doing this. The death, the horror, the loss is too much, and the way Mike's hiding against him, Mike the fearless, Mike the leader, Mike the courageous, bent double with his grief is the worst possible thing. Will is careful, putting his arms around Mike's shuddering, bony shoulders, but his own hitch with tears as well, especially at those mumbled words against his neck.
You won't, when we go back, he thinks, feeling it like a fist to the chest. But that will be then, and he'll think about it then. Right now, he gets to hear it, feel it in the way Mike clings to him. Like a drowning man. The irony isn't lost on him.
Will nuzzles against Mike's dirty, tangled hair and -- well, straight-up Solo's him.] I know.