eyeliner and other tools to survive mike wheeler

will still looks down at his shoes. “but… no letters?” he adds, voice softer. “i would’ve liked at least one letter.”

mike’s mouth opens. closes. opens again.

his brain feels like it short-circuits for a second because yeah, he could’ve written a letter. he just… didn’t. and now will’s standing here in all black with eyeliner and an eyepatch and suddenly mike is realizing how much time actually passed. how much changed without him seeing it happen.

and also there’s this other thing rising up in his chest that he absolutely does not want to examine right now.

“uh,” mike says, backing up half a step. “i— um—”

perfect timing: headlights swing into the lot. nancy’s car. mike latches onto it like a lifeline. “oh, nancy’s here to get me,” he says quickly, pointing even though it’s obvious. “i should— i should go.”

will looks up, something flickering across his face. disappointment, maybe. or just acceptance. “oh,” he says. “okay.”

mike keeps staring at him all weird.

will byers died in 1983, he's found in 1986. he moves to california to be with his family, he's visiting hawkins for the fall. mike wheeler is not prepared.