He’s trying to move on.
It’s just that Mike Wheeler makes it fucking hard.
Him and his stupid curly hair that falls all in his face, and his dark eyes that always light up at the mention of Marvel or one of his other favorite comics. Him and his cute laugh that sometimes just comes out as a stupid snort that never fails to make Will join in. Him and his dumb voice, the one that has its own tone for Will.
Will isn’t stupid, he notices it. The way it gets just the smallest bit softer, and his body language becomes gentler as if to reject his instincts to defend. He hears it.
It was one of the reasons El broke it off with him. They talk about it sometimes. El isn’t angry at him, she never was, and she needs to just complain sometimes. Complain about the fact that she was kissed before she knew her name or that she was a girlfriend before she was a student or a daughter.
And sometimes Will complains. Occasionally as it is, he complains about all the pain. The van, the talk at the tower, but before that too. He complains about their fight in the rain or how they drifted apart, or how no matter how much he just wants to move on, how much he always wanted to move on, he can’t.
So Will is distant, and Mike is weird, but Will knows he’s trying, and El sees it all. And he hates that she does.
He loves his sister, and she would never hurt him, but the only other person who has seen him—who he’s let see him—is Mike. Or was Mike. It used to be that way.
So El looks at him in pity, and he tries to ignore it, and she covers for him when he just can’t pretend anymore.
Hence answering the door. Because Will can’t pretend not to notice how Mike is always late, or how he greets Will in an overenthusiastic tone that just reminds him of Mike’s mother when she talks to one of the women she knew from high school, one who speaks to her like they’re still friends while she nods and looks for an out.
Will hates that Mike has to look for an out. He’d rather just not talk at all. He thinks it’d be better for both of them. But Mike refuses. It’s almost as if he superglues them together even though they both know it’s awkward—even though there’s a million words that go unsaid.
Now, apparently, is no exception. Mike takes a seat right next to Will on the floor, just close enough that it’s not weird for two “friends”, but still not close enough to say “that wasn't what I meant at the tower”.
