Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

After today, Michael decided he never wanted to set foot in an airport again.

Karen had gotten up with him before the sun had even risen, taking the time to drive him all the way to the Indianapolis International Airport, which was roughly two hours from Hawkins. The drive was mostly silent, and Mike had slept through a lot of it, but exhaustion still lingered in his bones. The night before had proven to be the worst so far, meaning he’d barely slept at all, amounting to maybe three hours total of rest before he was dropped off in the busiest part of Indianapolis.

From the minute they entered the city, it was chaos. People trying to commute to work filled almost every street; the traffic was abysmal, even before the sun was fully above the horizon. As they neared the airport, it only got worse, making it evident that nearly the entire population of Indiana was apparently leaving the state for spring break. 

His mom dropped him off at the front, gave him a small goodbye and a reminder to stay safe, and patted him once on the shoulder before driving away. Mike had just pressed his lips together as he watched her pull out of the lot, shaking his head. If he were Nancy or even Holly, she probably would’ve cried, hugged him until his spine was battered and bruised, and watched him go until he was entirely out of sight. He sighed quietly before turning his back on the spot where Karen had just been and heading for the entrance.

The first thing he’d noticed when stepping inside was the sheer chaos of it all — not the messy, unplanned kind, but the organized variety that somehow made it worse. Everything was happening as it was meant to, just all at once. The noise hit him immediately, a dense wall of sound that made his head throb painfully. Screaming children, their cries echoing off the ceiling, paired with the overhead speaker, the screeching wheels of suitcases, and the overall chatter polluted the air. Business-ready adults shoved past without so much as a glance, briefcases held tightly in their hands, bodies moving with sharp, purposeful urgency that left no room for personal space. 

Mike stood there dumbly for a moment, frozen just inside the sliding doors, backpack slung over one shoulder and his carry-on threatening to roll away if he loosened his grip. The air smelled of sweat, coffee, and something vaguely metallic, all blurring into a nauseating mix. The overhead lights were too bright, reflecting harshly off the perfectly polished floors and shiny walls, and he felt that pressure behind his eyes worsened the longer he was exposed to it.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to ground himself, reminding himself that this was temporary. A means to an end. He was just here to get on a plane. That was it. Simple.

But, as he gazed out into the bustling crowd of travelers and airport visitors alike, it felt anything but.

Somewhere overhead, a distorted voice cracked through the intercom, announcing the boarding for another flight, the gate number unrecognizable to Mike. Still, he flinched anyway, shoulders tensing as if it were made specifically for him. His fingers curled tighter around his suitcase handle, knuckles turning pale, and he forced himself to start moving before he lost his nerve entirely.

Every step felt like he was wading deeper into a pool of water. People brushed against him from every direction, the press of bodies too close, too sudden. He caught his reflection briefly in one of the glass panels by the metal detectors — pale, eyes exhausted, jaw set too tightly — before the masses too consumed that area. Curse people who also travel during spring break.

The thought of how long it’d been since he’d last seen a good night's rest pecked at his thoughts, making him grimace to himself. He really didn’t want to think about that. He pressed at his temples, scowling at the still-lingering headache that he was beginning to speculate was a migraine, and kept walking.

He let his backpack slide down his shoulder a little, fingers tightening around the strap as he followed the current of people towards the terminals. Signs overhead hunh in neat, impersonal rows — DEPARTURES, ARRIVALS, GATES — all of them bleeding together when he glanced up too quickly. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, so faint he’d barely noticed it at first, but once it registered, he couldn’t unhear it, the sound burrowing under his skin uncomfortably.

By the time he made it through the measly metal detector, his head felt thick. Not sharp enough to be blinding, not painful enough to stop him outright. Just constant, heavy pressure, like someone was pushing their palm up against the front of his skull and refusing to move it. He shifted his jaw, then rolled his shoulders, trying to work some of the tension out of his body as he trudged along the polished floors.

He drifted past souvenir stands and fast-food counters, barely registering them despite the commotion they were stirring up. His stomach twisted painfully at the thought of eating, and he decided he wasn’t hungry anyway. The people around him hurried by with purpose — families corralling kids, couples arguing in low voices, solo travelers like him muttering under their breaths — and Mike felt oddly detached from it all, like he was moving through the place without actually being there.

He checked his boarding pass, which was shoved into the pocket of his shorts, just to be sure. Gate C17. Of course, because he was just so lucky, the gate was all the way down at the end of the row. Great.

The further he walked, the quieter it got. The crowd thinned into clusters instead of masses, the noise softening into a constant, distant hum. His steps slowed without his meaning to, his feet dragging against the tiles as the pressure behind his eyes pulsed once, then again, stronger than before. He winced and scrubbed a hand down his face, blinking hard.

By the time he reached his gate, which was so far down the line it was bordering on torture, his shoulders were tight, and his head pounded in a way that made him feel hollow.

He dropped into one of the plastic seats near the window, backpack sliding down to rest by his feet with a dull thud. His small carry-on joined the bag’s side, handle snapping into the divot where it retracted. For a moment, he just sat there, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. The tinted glass reflected him faintly — folded in on himself, smaller than he felt he should be.

He pressed his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes, breathing in and out slowly, just the way Ms. Kelley had told him to.

The airport announcements droned on overhead, distant and distorted, and Mike tried to focus on that instead of the way his head throbbed in time with his quick heartbeat.

He still had time before boarding. Surely it would let up before then.

It did not, in fact, ease up before then.

The moment the plane touched down, a low jolt shuddered through the cabin, followed by the dull roar of the engines as they slowed. People around him shifted immediately, unbuckling seatbelts, reaching for bags, talking all at once like the fight hadn’t wrung all the patience out of them already. Mike stayed still, forehead resting lightly against the backing of the seat in front of his own as he waited for the pressure in his ears to dwindle. The altitude had only served to make his head hurt worse, and he was convinced he was going to have another nosebleed if this kept up.

When he finally looked up, sunlight poured through the many oval windows, glaring and white-hot, washing the rows upon rows of seats in bright yellow. He squinted, blinking as his vision adjusted, his head giving a sharp, protesting throb in response. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, jaw tightening as the pain flared and settled back into that awful, familiar pulse.

The air felt completely different when the cabin door slid open. Drier for sure, warmer as well. It smelled faintly like jet fuel and something he couldn’t place — not bad, just unfamiliar. Mike followed the line of passengers off the plane, steps careful as he rolled his carry-on in front of himself, the backpack on his shoulders feeling heavy in a way that didn’t have to do with its weight.

Everything felt too sharp, too loud.

The terminal stretched out ahead of him in pale tile and glass, mid-morning sunlight bouncing off every surface. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness in his neck, and pressed his fingers faintly to his head again before letting them fall away. He didn’t want to look like he was already falling apart, even though the bags under his eyes most likely gave that away already.

He took a breath and stepped out into the sea of people anyway, allowing the crowd to steer him toward where he assumed the Byers — and Eleven, of course — would be waiting for him.

Anxiety sparked low in his stomach, sharp and sudden, like a drop at the start of a rollercoaster. It left him lightheaded instead of thrilled. He knew he should be happy, elated even, to be here, to finally see them again after months of letters between him and Eleven, of multiple tries at calling Will, only to be met with a busy line.

But he just… wasn’t.

Instead, the thought of seeing Eleven made his chest tighten sharply in a way he didn’t have a name for. Not fear, exactly. Maybe guilt. Something tangled and heavy, sitting just behind his ribs. And when he thought about Will — really thought about him — his stomach twisted unpleasantly, like he swallowed something that didn’t want to go down.

His thoughts turned traitorous immediately. 

What if they knew?

The idea slipped in uninvited, sticky and impossible to shake. What if Will could tell the second he saw him? What if Eleven could, too? What if they looked at him and saw right through everything he’d tried his hardest to keep hidden — the wrongness, the uncertainty, the parts of himself he didn’t know how to explain without breaking something open?

His pulse picked up, breath going shallow as questions stacked one over the next. What if his face gave him away? What if he smiled wrong, looked too long, or reacted too slowly? What if everyone already knew, and he was the only one stupid enough to believe he was hiding it?

The pressure behind his eyes throbbed in warning.

Before his spiral could dig any deeper, Mike forced himself to move, fingers fumbling as he swung his backpack off his shoulder. He bent his head and dug inside, desperate to distract himself with something grounding. His hands trembled as he felt around, fingers finally wrapping around the stem of the bouquet he’d brought with him. The plastic wrapping crinkled as he pulled it free.

Blue and yellow flowers spilled into view, with a few purple ones tucked between them — Lucas’s suggestion, but he hadn’t explained why. They were wilted slightly from the flight, petals bent and tired from the altitude, and Mike frowned despite himself. He adjusted them clumsily, like he might be able to fix them if he tried hard enough.

A small card was tied around the stems with twine. His handwriting stared back at him as he straightened it out, messy and unmistakable.

From, Mike.

He swallowed, grip tightening, as he straightened.

Whatever else he was feeling — whatever was wrong or complicated or spiraling in his head — this part, at least, he could do.

As he kept walking, he spotted them before they spotted him. 

They were hard to miss, clustered just past the barrier where arriving passengers spilled out. Jonathan stood near the front, shoulder-to-shoulder with someone Mike definitely didn’t recognize — a tall guy with hair that fell nearly to his lower back, dressed head to toe in aggressively patterned clothing, all of it mismatched. He stuck out like a sore thumb, honestly.

Will stood a step and a half behind them, arms wrapped around something clutched close to his chest. It was cylindrical and pretty long. Mike wasn’t really sure what it was. His posture was closed off, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze fixed somewhere just over the crowd instead of through it. He didn’t look thrilled to be there, and the sight of that made something uneasy churn low in Mike’s gut.

Eleven stood close to him, though, energy practically vibrating off of her. She kept rising onto the tips of her toes, craning her neck as she searched the sea of faces. Every few seconds, her eyes darted somewhere new, hopeful and impatient all at once.

Mike swallowed and pushed forward, weaving between people until he was close enough to be seen. He figured he wasn’t exactly subtle, either — the bright yellow button-up, gray shorts, sandals, and the stupid hat and sunglasses Karen had insisted he wear. He felt like a walking tourist, but at least it meant they couldn’t exactly miss him.

Eleven was the first to see him through the crowd.

“Mike!” she shouted, already breaking away from the group.

Before he could brace himself, she barreled into him, arms wrapping tight around his torso. Mike froze for half a second — just long enough for the moment to register — before letting out a small, awkward laugh and patting her back with the hand not holding the flowers.

“Oh— careful, careful, careful,” he said, voice pitching up slightly as she squeezed tighter. “You’re squishing your present.”

That earned him a startled little gasp as she loosened her grip immediately, pulling back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were bright, searching his face like she was making sure he was really there.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I was just— I missed you.”

“Yeah,” Mike replied, nodding a bit too fast. “Yeah. I missed you, too.”

He shifted the bouquet between them, holding it out like an offering before the moment could stretch any further. “Um. These are for you.”

Her face lit up instantly, and a small spark of guilt flared in Mike’s stomach.

“I uh— I handpicked them for you. Back in Hawkins. I know you like yellow, but… now I’m realizing it’s too much yellow. I know you like purple, so I got you some of those, too. So I did kinda, like, a seventy-thirty split kinda thing…?” Mike rambled, words tumbling out before he could stop them, trailing off after he realized he had been going on too long.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, carefully taking them from his hand as if they might break. She looked at the tag that had been tied to the stems, and Mike could see her expression fall ever so slightly. Shit, what had he done wrong? “Thank you.”

Behind her, Jonathan was watching with a small, tired smile, the stranger beside him giving Mike an enthusiastic double thumbs-up for entirely unclear reasons. Will still hadn’t moved.

Mike’s gaze flicked past Eleven’s shoulder, landing on him without permission.

Will met his eyes almost immediately.

It was only for a second, barely long enough to register, but it sent a quiet jolt through Mike’s chest anyway. Will looked different up close. Paler. A little taller, which was surprising. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between anticipation and restraint. It tugged at Mike’s heartstrings a little, and he couldn’t quite place why.

Eleven took half a step backward, eyes flicking between the two of them as if she could see the tension hanging there. She gave Mike a small, expectant look — not pushing, just… noticing — and moved aside enough to give him space.

Still, Mike hesitated.

Will was right there now, close enough that Mike could see the faint freckles dusting the bridge of his nose, the way his grip tightened on the cardboard tube thing he was holding. He hovered uselessly in front of him for a beat too long, brain short-circuiting as he tried to remember how he was supposed to do this. Hug? Wave? Say something normal? Anything?

Instead, he, of course, panicked.

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Will in what could only be described as the most awkward, stiff, secondhand-embarrassment-inducing hug imaginable — too quick, too careful, like he was afraid of doing it wrong. His shoulder bumped Will’s awkwardly, and his hand landed somewhere between Will’s upper back and arm before he retreated again.

Okay. Good job, Michael. Totally nailed it.

Will froze for a second before hugging him back, tentative but real, and for a brief, dizzying moment, Mike forgot how to breathe correctly. It was over just as fast as it started, heat creeping up his neck as he avoided Will’s eyes.

“Uh,” he said, brilliantly.

“Hey, Mike,” Will offered, blinking a couple of times like he needed to reboot, too. At least they were both floundering together. “How are you doing?”

“Hey— yeah. Yeah, um, good, man.” Mike replied, tripping over his words on their way out. Holy shit. Why was this so difficult? “Great. I mean— yeah.” He swallowed and gestured vaguely to the cardboard-looking tube Will was clutching, desperate for something else to focus on. “Uh… what’s that?”

Will followed his gaze, tightening his grip instinctively before relaxing again. “Oh, it’s— it’s nothing,” he said with a slight, self-conscious shrug. “Just a painting I’ve been working on.”

“Oh,” Mike said, nodding a little too fast. Ow. “That’s— that’s cool.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “I always liked your art.”

Will’s mouth twitched, and Mike assumed he was trying to fight a smile. God, what he would give to see Will smile. Still, something in the back of Mike’s mind made him second-guess himself, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. Again.

Then Will ducked his head, making something in Mike’s chest loosen at the sight. “Thanks,” the other boy muttered.

The word sat between them, fragile and unfinished, and Mike had the strange urge to say more — to ask what the painting was of, how long he’d been working on it, or even why it mattered so much that he’d brought it here.

Before he could do something stupid like ask, the dude with long hair swooped in with his arms already open, pulling Mike into a hug that was arguably just as awkward as the one he’d inflicted on Will. The hug lingered a beat too long, loose and uncoordinated, as if neither of them quite knew where to put their arms. Yikes.

Mike stiffened on instinct, blinking hard a couple of times. 

Whoever this guy was, he absolutely reeked of weed — the smell clinging to his hair and clothes in a way that made Mike’s eyes water. He pulled back as politely as he could, blinking once as the guy smiled down at him like they were long-time friends.

“That’s a rad shirt, man,” the guy said, his voice carrying the most aggressively Californian accent Mike had ever heard in real life. Mike felt his face twitch in a barely-there cringe, careful not to let it fully register. “Ocean Pacific?”

“Uh— wait, what?” Mike replied, nodding once reflexively before his brows pulled together in confusion. 

Before the other man could elaborate, Jonathan spoke up from a few steps away, like he realized the moment needed saving.

“Oh, Mike,” he said, offering a small, tired smile. “This is my, uh… friend. Argyle.”

“Oh, hey,” Mike replied easily, straightening his posture a little out of habit. He was beginning to grow overwhelmed, the throbbing in his head still pounding just under the surface.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Argyle tutted, clicking his tongue as he stepped closer. Mike had just enough time to tense before Argyle grabbed the collar of his shirt, inspecting it far too closely for comfort. “No. It’s a shitty knock-off. Yeah.” 

He shook his head decisively, long hair swaying with the movement. “But don’t sweat it,” Argyle added, grinning like this was very normal. “I’ll get you the good threads out here, man.”

He leaned in even closer, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper that was still far too loud. “I’ve heard a lot about your sister.”

Mike’s stomach dropped, brows shooting up in exasperation.

“Wait— what?” he started, blinking in complete confusion, eyes darting over to Jonathan.

Before he could even finish his question, Jonathan cut in sharply with an aggressive clearing of his throat. “Uh. O-okay. Um, we should go?”

Argyle finally leaned out of Mike’s personal space, mercifully giving him room to breathe again. He stretched his arms all the way over his head with a loud, unapologetic yawn, like the entire airport wasn’t right there listening. “Yeah,” he agreed easily, “this is kinda awkward, man.”

“So awkward,” Mike echoed, running a hand down his face as if that might reset his brain. The noise of the airport rushed back into his focus all at once — suitcase wheels, overlapping conversations, the distant echo of announcements — and it made his head feel too full, too crowded. The dull throb beneath his skull thickened into something heavier, more insistent, and he winced to himself, careful not to let it show.

Luckily, no one around him seemed to notice, and he relaxed with that fact.

As the group began to move towards the exit, Mike lagged a step behind. Ahead of him, Argyle leaned over to Jonathan and stage-whispered, far louder than necessary, “I really thought it was Ocean Pacific, bro,” before the two of them drifted off in the lead, laughing quietly to themselves.

Mike huffed out a breath that lingered somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, shaking his head fondly. 

He startled slightly, though, when he felt a hand slip through the crook of his arm.

Eleven walked beside him now, linking their arms together without hesitation, matching her stride to his like it was the most natural thing in the world. She tilted her head up to him, smiling so brightly it almost hurt to see — all uncontained excitement and relief, like she’d been counting down the seconds until this moment.

Mike’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest.

The guilt was still there, heavy and unmoving, coiled tightly between his ribs.  If anything, it only sharpened now — made worse by the warmth of El’s side on his, by the way she leaned into him so easily. He swallowed thickly before forcing a smile back, hoping it looked real enough.

“I have our whole day planned,” Eleven said suddenly, snapping Mike out of his spiraling thoughts.

He jolted subtly, attention snapping back to her. She was beaming — bright and excited and so undeniably happy that it made his chest ache in a way he didn’t want to delve too deeply into. 

Mike smiled back anyway, a little shaky around the edges, and lifted one eyebrow in silent initiation for her to continue.

She stifled a little giggle behind her bouquet, shoulders shaking lightly as she tried to contain it, eyes shining. “First, El Rodeo for burritos.”

“Wait, really?” Mike blinked, surprise knocking some of the fog loose just a bit. “Burritos for breakfast?” 

“Yes,” El said firmly, nodding with absolute confidence, like this wasn't up for debate. “Trust me.”

Mike huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as they continued weaving their way through the thinning crowd toward the exit. “Yeah, no. I… I trust you,” he said, voice laced with playful concern. “It’s just a little weird.”

She grinned like she’d won something, her grip on his arm tightening for half a second. Mike found himself matching her faster pace without really meaning to, steps quickening as the automatic doors came into view.

“Then,” Eleven continued decisively, clearly pleased with herself, “after burritos, I want to go to Rink-O-Mania.”

The way she said it — certain, unapologetic, already fully committed to this plan — made something warm and genuine bloom in Mike’s chest despite the cold guilt still coiled there. “Rink-O-Mania,” he repeated slowly, testing the name. “Okay. What’s Rink-O-Mania?”

“It’s the most fun place in Lenora,” she said, awe softening her voice, like the place was magical. “They have skating. And games. It’s awesome.”

“That… actually does sound awesome,” Mike admitted, glancing down at her, lips quirking upwards despite himself. After a beat, curiosity nudged in. “Are your friends going to meet us there?”

The word friends hadn’t even finished settling before Mike heard a scoff cut through the conversation from behind them.

“Friends?” Will said flatly, disbelief threading through his voice. Okay — that was new. “What… what friends?”

Mike glanced back at him, thrown by the sharpness in his tone. Will’s brows were knit together, his posture stiff in a way Mike didn’t recognize. Huh. Mike stared at him uncertainly, and Eleven didn’t even spare a glance back.

She just hummed, casual and unbothered, like the question barely registered. “You know,” she said lightly, smiling up at Mike again. “Stacy and Angela.”

There was a brief pause, the silence deafening. It lasted far longer than it needed to. Mike almost said something to snap the tension, but Will beat him to it.

“...Angela?” he repeated. The name came out wrong, clipped and flat, the disdain unmistakable. It made Mike frown, confusion only deepening.

Before Mike could ask why — or before Will could say anything else — Eleven kept talking, words tumbling over each other as they stepped through the automatic doors and into the harsh, bright California sun.

“You’ll meet them,” she assured quickly. “I promise. Just not today.” She squeezed Mike’s arm a little tighter, tilting her face up towards him again, eyes hopeful. “I want today to be about you and me.”

Mike swallowed, suddenly unsure. Everything about this felt wrong now, and he wasn’t exactly sure what to make of it. Still, he forced himself to nod, a small smile still playing on his lips. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, blinking at the harsh sun for a moment as they stepped out from the auning and into the crowded parking lot. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

Argyle steered the group towards a bright yellow van, marked with a Surfer Boys Pizza logo, that perfectly matched his entire… thing he had going on, and said he'd drive them wherever they wanted to go. The whole thing smelled strongly of weed, which hit Mike like a personal offense. 

He shoved his bags into the very spacious trunk before crawling into one of the back seats, sitting next to Eleven. Will crawled in after, taking the spot on the other side of the girl. 

Mike’s headache had started to worsen again, and as the car sped off in the direction of whatever the hell El Rodeo was, he began to second-guess how much of the day he could actually last through. The pounding underneath his skull was growing steadily, and he seemed to forget the fact that he wasn’t staying on top of his Tylenol.

With a gentle sigh, Mike leaned his head into the window of the pizza van as Eleven rambled about something else, not really hearing any of it. He silently hoped he’d get through the day smoothly, but something in his gut already told him that wasn’t going to be the case.

EARLIER THAT MORNING…

Hawkins, Indiana

Sirens.

So. Many. Sirens.

That was the first conscious thought Max had after being woken up, the blare of police sirens and the flash of blue-and-red lights streaming through the cracks in her curtains. People outside were yelling at one another, presumably the police department ordering each other around, and the dog outside was barking up a storm. 

She groaned in sheer annoyance, flipping onto her side and shoving the pillow over her exposed ear. It didn’t do anything to stop the constant stream of noise from curling its way through her walls, only adding to the anger rising in her throat. She eventually gave up, grumbling something nearly incoherent about how this could’ve waited until the hour was decent, even though it was already a little past eight. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered where her mom was and if she’d made it to bed the night before. Sirens were never a good sign, even in a town as decolite as Hawkins, and a tiny flicker of anxiety kindled in her belly just thinking about all the possibilities of what could’ve happened during the night.

Finding her mom so drunk she couldn’t even speak coherently or nearly passed out on their couch was an almost nightly occurrence, and she’d learned to just leave her be when she got like that. Her mother was… unkind when she was under the influence, to say the least, but Max still cared for her. Of course she did. The thought of her mom going out on a drunken rampage did scare her a little, even if it was silly, which is what got her out of bed in the first place. Just to check, of course.

Getting out from under the covers proved to be difficult, exhaustion weighing heavily in her bones, but she managed to land squarely on her feet instead of toppling onto the floor. She yawned into her fist before grabbing her jacket, which she’d discarded on her bedpost a few days prior, sliding her arms into the sleeves to fight the slight chill that always seemed to find its way through the mobile home’s floorboards.

Before deciding to take off without any sort of direction, Max lingered by her window, lifting the curtain just enough to peer through with her index and middle fingers. Blue and red light strobed across her bedroom walls, too bright and too fast, blinding her for a split second before she blinked away the daze. Her heart kicked against her ribs.

Outside, the street was crawling with police cruisers. Five cars — no, more than that. The doors were all thrown open, radios crackling, officers moving in tight, purposeful lines, as if they knew exactly where they were going. Which they probably did, now that Max thought about it. It looked like the entire police force had ended up on her street.

Max’s eyes followed the trail of flashing lights, her brows knitting together as she tried to make sense of it. Her gaze dragged from car to car, then to the cluster of officers forming farther down the road. There was a shape to it, a direction. Everything was angled inward, converging to a single point.

Eventually, the pattern clicked.

Wait— what?

All of them were pointing to the Munsons’ trailer, which was directly across from her own. 

Max’s stomach dropped, a cold, hollow sensation blooming in her chest. The flashing lights painted the metal siding in harsh reds and blues, making the place look wrong somehow — distorted, maybe. One of the officers was already unspooling bright yellow caution tape, meticulously stretching it across the dirt and gravel.

A small group had gathered near the front door of the other home. 

Wayne Munson stood directly in the middle of it, shoulders hunched, face drawn tight as he spoke. He was gesturing wildly towards the door, which stood ajar, while the other hand nervously scratched the back of his neck. Max could tell something was wrong, noting the officers leaning in, their voices low and serious. 

Her fingers curled into the curtain where she held it, not realizing how her grip had tightened.

Eddie’s trailer.

Her pulse hammered so loudly in her ears that it drowned out her better judgment. Before she could talk herself out of it, she was already storming out of her room and towards her own front door, fingers curling into fists at her sides. Whatever was happening, she needed to see it herself — before the entire street filled with reporters, gawkers, and anyone else curious enough to take a peek.

The spring air was cold against her skin as she stepped off her porch, wrapping her arms around her torso loosely as she headed down her driveway. Red and blue lights filled the trailer park, painting everything in harsh, fractured color. She ducked instinctively behind one of the parked cruisers closest to the Munson trailer, crouching lower as if that might make her invisible.

Wayne Munson’s voice carried first — frantic, cracking, barely coherent. Max caught fragments of it over the crackle of radios and the murmurs of officers. Something about not knowing a girl. About her just showing up. His hands flew wildly as he spoke, gesturing towards the open trailer door while officers moved in and out around him. Every one of them looked paler than the last. Some couldn’t even spare the man a glance. One turned away outright, pressing a hand to his mouth in disbelief.

Max’s stomach dropped. 

When the last officer stepped out of the trailer, saying something along the lines of him being sick, Max rose just enough to peer over the hood of the cruiser. Her eyes widened, almost painfully so, and all the color drained from her face.

Lying just inside the threshold of the home was—

Chrissy Cunningham.

She recognized her instantly — the Hawkins High cheer uniform, the blonde hair, that stupid green bow tied to her ponytail. Chrissy looked exactly the way she had the night before, when Max had spotted her car pulling into Eddie’s driveway at an ungodly hour while she’d been outside feeding her mom’s dog.

Except now, as Max stared at where she was sprawled on the floor, everything was wrong. Each one of her limbs had been snapped at angles no one’s body should ever bend. Her eyes were gone, sockets hollowed out entirely, and her jaw hung crookedly to the side, dislocated beyond recognition. Her skin was sickly pale, veins standing out even if her heart had stopped beating. 

Chrissy was dead. There was no other, more optimistic way to put it.

Max’s breathing shallowed, a wave of nausea rolling in her gut at the sight. Just as she was about to turn and run back to her own home, a hand gripped her left shoulder, causing her to jump nearly out of her skin, heart threatening to leap out of her throat. When she looked up, she was met by the new police chief, Officer Powell. 

She wasn’t really fond of the new chief. He wasn’t as much of an asshole as Hopper, but at least Jim had been familiar with the Party. She frowned for half a second at the thought, quickly schooling herself again when she realized what was happening.

“Hey!” he barked, shoving Max back a step. The force made her stumble, biting out a quiet curse. “What do you think you’re doing? Get back inside. You can’t be out here.”

Max scoffed despite herself, anger flaring hot and sudden over the fear. She shot him a glare before retreating another step, legs trembling beneath her. Her eyes flicked one last time to the broken form lying just inside the trailer, the sight searing into her mind. 

Then she turned and hurried back towards her own trailer, the image of Chrissy following her inside, impossible to shake.

The door slammed behind her with more force than necessary, the crack of it sharp in the stillness. Max leaned into it for a moment, chest heaving as her breathing picked up, short and uneven. Her heart was still racing, adrenaline buzzing beneath her skin in a way that made it hard to think straight. 

She needed to tell someone. Anyone. The image of distorted lights and distorted limbs refused to leave her mind, looping again and again until it made her stomach twist with another rolling wave of nausea. She couldn’t just sit with this. She didn’t want to be alone with it.

Eddie was clearly gone, so that was obviously out of the question. The spot where the van Eddie drove sat idle last night was now bare, tire marks skidding out of the trailer park in sporadic, wavy lines. He obviously ran after whatever happened, making him seem all the more guilty. Something in Max’s gut churned at the thought of Eddie Munson being a killer, especially to that extent, but it seemed apparent that it was him.

Whatever, she’d have time for this some other time. Right now, she needed to call around and find out who was home.

She lunged for the landline screwed into the wall, the pale yellow phone slick and uncomfortably cold in her hands. The cord briefly tangled around her wrist as she yanked it free, fingers hovering over the keypad as her mind scrambled for a name. Lucas came to her first, instinctively and immediately. But, of course, she hesitated. The thought of trying to explain why she was calling her ex-boyfriend before she could even start to repeat the insanity that happened practically in her front yard seemed too uncomfortable, too lengthy. She let out a suffering groan, thinking hard to come up with someone else.

(317)-455-1098.

The phone rang once.

Max held her breath, fingers tapping against the drywall next to the phone.

Twice.

Her grip tightened around the receiver, knuckles paling as she stared at the wall across from her, heart already beginning to sink.

Three times.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Everything around her felt as if it were pressing in on her; her trailer suddenly felt too small.

It seemed like the answer wasn’t coming, a small sigh escaping her lips. Just as she was about to give up, her thumb hovering over the hook to slam the receiver back into place, the line clicked. 

”Hello, Wheeler residence speaking!”

Relief hit her so hard she felt dizzy.

Max sagged against the wall, shoulder pressing into the peeling wallpaper as she exhaled shakily. She clutched the phone closer to her ear, as if letting go would make the line disconnect. Her fingers crossed instinctively, nails biting into her palms. 

“Mrs. Wheeler, hi! It’s— it’s Max,” she said quickly, words tumbling out before she could even think of anything better. She hoped her voice didn’t sound too desperate when she asked, “Is Mike home?” 

There was a pause on the other end of the line — it wasn’t very long, but it was enough for that anxiety to flicker back to life in Max’s belly.

”Oh, hi, honey!” Karen replied, her voice warm and effortless, as if it were just a typical day. “No, I’m sorry. I actually just got back from dropping him off at the airport; he’s headed to California to visit the Byers for spring break.” 

Max closed her eyes, heaving a heavy breath that she hoped wasn’t audible on the other end. The words landed harshly, sinking right into her chest. Of course, somehow she’d just barely managed to miss him. It wasn’t even like she wanted to talk to him about this; she just needed anyone who would possibly listen.

In the background, something clattered loudly, followed by Ted Wheeler’s distant, irritated grumbling. Something about the mundanity of it, the typical family noise, felt wrong, almost cruel, compared to the image burned into Max’s mind of Chrissy this morning.

“Right,” Max murmured, barely audible. She dragged a hand down her face, fingers pressing hard against her forehead as if she could physically push that horrible memory away. “Okay. Um— what about Nancy? Is she there?”

”Ted! Is Nancy home?” Max heard Karen yell to her husband, voice slightly muffled as she covered the receiver. Max could picture it perfectly — the kitchen, the counter cluttered with mail like it usually was, Karen pacing slightly while she waited for an answer.

”Nope!” Karen said after a moment. ”She left earlier this morning while I was out. Something about an article she’s working on, I guess.” There was a subtle but unmistakable shift in her tone then. ”Is everything alright, Max? You sound… a little shaken. Is there something I can help with?”

Max swallowed hard, throat suddenly feeling tight. It felt like she tried to explain — say something like They found Chrissy or Eddie’s trailer is covered in police tape — everything would spill out at once, messy and uncontrollable. She didn’t want that.

“No, no,” she said quickly, forcing the words out before she lost her nerve. “It’s fine, really. I just— needed to check on something. Thanks, Karen.”

”Okay,” Karen replied gently. “If you—”

Max hung up before the other woman could finish, the dial tone buzzing loudly in her ear. She slammed the receiver back into place, an angry grunt escaping her throat. The sound of it echoed in the trailer, unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet — well, save for the sirens, obviously.

Okay, so that was a bust. 

Her brain kicked into overdrive, cycling through names faster and faster. Steve and Robin — working at Family Video, no question. Wouldn’t work. Erica meant Lucas, and Lucas meant questions she wasn’t ready to answer, so nope. The Byers were across the country. Mike and Nancy were MIA.

That left exactly one option. 

Dustin.

Max turned back to the phone, fingers hovering over the keypad as her mind whirled, trying to conjure up his phone number. Literally everyone else’s came to mind, but not his. Not a single digit. Her jaw clenched tightly, a growl growing in the back of her throat.

“Come on,” she muttered, white-hot anger burning inside her. She stabbed at the buttons once, stopping herself with a frustrated groan. After nearly thirty seconds of staring at the phone like it might take pity on her, she slammed her fist into where the receiver sat on the hook hard enough for it to rattle.

“That’s it.”

She spun on her heel and bolted down the narrow hallway towards her room, already yanking open drawers and tossing clothes aside. Her hands shook as she reached for the first hoodie she could find, along with a pair of jeans and her backpack.

If she couldn’t call him, she’d just go there. Surely he’d be home. Max had assumed that the news had already broadcast the whole situation, and Dustin’s mom did not play when it came to her son, so the odds that she’d allow him out right now were slim. She’d just, like, run or something. Maybe she could steal borrow someone’s bike from their front lawn. She didn’t exactly care at the moment; she just needed to get there.

She couldn’t bear sitting down for any longer, not with the image of Chrissy still fresh in her mind, not when something this bad was happening and everyone she knew was just barely out of reach. 

Max shoved her feet into her red Converse, not even bothering to tie them. She was done waiting.

Max eventually arrived at her destination, calves screaming and her lungs on fire. Sweat slicked her temples and soaked into the collar of her sweatshirt, strands of hair plastered messily to the back of her neck. She bent over briefly, hands braced on her knees as she dragged in a few uneven breaths, chest rising and falling fast.

She hadn’t been able to find a bike to borrow, all of them either being in use or actually locked up somewhere safe, so she’d run the entire way instead. The decision had felt smart at the time, but now, standing on the cracked pavement of the Hendersons’ driveway, it felt like her legs might give out from beneath her at any moment.

It hadn’t even been that long of a run. Maybe twenty minutes. Less, if she was being honest with herself. But it had somehow felt like hours.

She straightened slowly, wiping at her forehead with the back of her sleeve before taking the front steps two at a time. The house loomed in front of her, quiet and unassuming, porch light still flicked on despite it already being well past nine. The normalcy of it all almost made it feel worse.

Max raised a hand and knocked on the door, lighter than she meant to. The sound barely registered. When nothing happened, she raised her fist again and hit much harder, the sound echoing dully through the house. She hovered there, panting, silently praying that Dustin was actually home. She didn’t know what she was even praying to anymore, just anything that would listen.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, already raising her hand to knock against the wood again. Before her knuckles could connect, the door swung open, and there stood the boy she was searching for. She let out a relieved breath, leaning down with her hands on her knees again to finally catch her breath properly.

“Max?” Dustin said, brows lifting as soon as he opened the door. Confusion crept across his features as he took in the sight of her — hair plastered to her forehead, chest heaving, eyes just a little too wide. “Uh… hey? What—”

She lifted a hand immediately, palm out in a silent Give me a second, bending forward again as she sucked in a few more shaky breaths. Dustin stifled a small nervous laugh, clearly unsure whether he was meant to be amused by the sight of her or deeply concerned. 

After a moment that felt longer than it probably was, Max forced herself upright again. She crossed her arms loosely over her chest, more so to keep herself together than anything else. The adrenaline had begun to ebb, leaving that familiar hollow anxiety tingling just under her skin.

Chrissy’s face flashed behind her eyelids the moment she blinked. The cheer uniform, the bow, the way her limbs were bent in unnatural directions. She swallowed hard, as if that might push the memory down with it. 

Her jaw tightened as she dragged in one last breath, steeling herself. There was no way to ease her friend into what she was about to tell him, no careful lead-up that could avoid making Dustin panic. If she hesitated any longer, she might lose her nerve entirely.

“Dustin,” she said, voice low and tight, every ounce of urgency bleeding through despite her best attempts to hide it.

She looked up at him then, really looked at him, and whatever he saw on her face made his joking edge fall away immediately.

“I need to tell you something,” Max continued, “and you’re not gonna like it.”

BACK IN CALIFORNIA…

Lenora Hills, California

It was loud.

The sound seemed to crawl under Mike’s skin, bass rattling through the floor and up his legs into his chest as soon as they stepped inside the building. Neon lights bathed the room in purples and pinks, reflecting off the polished rink in the center. Everything was bright and colorful, and it was already curling right into the folds of Mike’s headache.

The ache in his skull had only grown worse while they were at El Rodeo. Despite discovering how delicious a breakfast burrito could be, the sound of Argyle and Jonathan’s conversation overlapping with Eleven’s ramblings had been overwhelming. All of his senses seemed to be in overdrive, every touch, smell, and sound echoing inside of him uncomfortably. It had all served to make the pain worse, and he was entirely out of luck when it came to painkillers. They were buried in his backpack and locked in the trunk of the pizza van, so trying to get them would only raise questions among his friends. He really didn’t want to have to answer anything about it, so he decided just to tough it out. 

That had been a mistake, though, which he realized as soon as everything came rushing at him like a speeding car. Rink-O-Mania was packed, which only made everything worse. Kids laughing, parents yelling, workers scolding. It filled every nook and cranny of the building, and there was no escaping it. No matter how far Mike had managed to drag El and Will away from the masses of people crowding towards the rink, the sound followed. 

Now, as Eleven dragged him into the whirl of bodies, Mike felt a sense of panic rising in his throat like bile. He gripped onto the railing as she tugged him onto the wooden paneling, legs threatening to give out from under him if he took another step. The wheels attached to his skates skidded uncertainly as he tried to find his footing, his knuckles going pale as he held on to the side rails.

El turned to face him, brows knitting in confusion. The grin on her face never faltered, though, and it made Mike’s chest ache just a little bit. She looked so excited. That flicker of guilt flared just a little brighter, and something in him caved at the sight. Maybe he could do this, just for a little while. 

As long as she’s happy. 

“Come on, silly!” she pressed, voice loud over the onslaught of overlapping noises around them. She continued tugging at his hand where it was still linked with her own, eventually succeeding in pulling Mike forward as he loosened his grip around the metal barrier.

Mike held onto Eleven for dear life as she tugged him along. She seemed like a natural at this, her skates gliding gracefully over the wood while Mike’s stuttered and wobbled. He nearly toppled straight to the ground as his stopper caught on something, a loud ”Shit!” falling from his lips. Luckily, El caught him by the shoulders before he could hurt himself. She just laughed, and Mike laughed nervously in return.

“I-I’m not so sure I'm cut out for this,” he admitted shakily, reaching out for the rails at the edge of the rink to try and keep himself upright. He nearly fell during that endeavor, too, which only discouraged him more. He sighed out a panicked breath as he held on, scooting himself around the edge to try and keep up with his girlfriend. “This is so hard! How are you so good at this?”

“I told you! I come to parties here all the time. Practice makes perfect,” she called back over her shoulder, a giggle following her words. Her hand tightened on Mike’s as she tugged him closer to her side, forcing him away from the outskirts so they could join the whirlpool of other skaters closer to the middle. 

“C’mon. Just… push with one foot, glide with the other. Push, glide, push, glide,” she explained, demonstrating with her own movements. “You’ll get the hang of it!”

Mike followed her vague instructions as best he could, and they actually helped a little. He didn’t seem so much like a newborn deer trying to walk on ice anymore, his movements a little less sporadic and more controlled. He eventually even kept up with El’s quick pace, which was saying something. 

“I think I’m getting it. Maybe. I don’t know,” he shrugged nervously, a small laugh escaping him. “I wasn’t expecting this to be so difficult.”

As the two carried on skating in a never-ending oval-shaped circuit, Mike could feel the burn of eyes following his every move from the edge of the rink. At first, he’d half-expected it to be Will, who had opted to stay behind for a little while to eat some of the snack bar food they’d ordered after they got there. Mike knew that wasn’t truly the reason he stayed at the table, but the throbbing in his skull made it too difficult to figure out what was really going on. He cursed at himself internally, annoyed that he couldn’t get his stupid headache to just dissipate.

When he eventually turned to face the outskirts of the rink, he was met with a girl staring him down. She had blonde hair half-tied in a bun and was wearing an obnoxiously loud leopard-print shirt, pink shorts, and knee-high socks. There was a small group of people standing next to her, too, which made something in Mike’s gut twist. Their eyes met for a long moment, long enough that Mike was starting to think that the girl believed she knew him from somewhere. 

Their stare-down was forcibly broken as Eleven steered him around the curve of the rink, but the fire in her gaze made Mike anxious. Despite the lag in his brain and the throb echoing underneath his skull, he wasn’t able to stop thinking about how uneasy it made him feel. There was something wrong about it, something that felt threatening, but he couldn’t place why.

Mike turned back to face Eleven, who seemed none the wiser to the situation at hand. Her face was still stuck in that same grin she’d been wearing since they met at the airport, her excitement radiating off of her in waves. For a moment, Mike wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing, because the vibes around them were far too joyous for something so sinister-feeling.

The lights around them shifted hues, going from purples and blues to pinks and yellows. The music playing through the speakers shifted, from an upbeat song to a slower one. When the two looped back around to where that ominous girl had been standing before, she had vanished. Mike really started to think about whether it was all in his head, which didn’t seem too unlikely given his current circumstances. 

Before he could help it, Mike’s gaze drifted past the crowds towards the area where Will sat alone at their table. When Mike found him in the masses of people crowding around the snack bar, he realized that Will was watching the two of them, too. His eyes were fixed on the rink, and Mike was almost sure that his eyes were glued onto where his and Eleven’s hands were conjoined. When he realized this, he quickly unraveled his fingers from where they were tangled with the girl’s. He wasn’t really sure why he felt the need to do so, but something in him screamed for him to put just a little bit of distance between himself and his girlfriend.

Eleven turned to face him, her smile faltering for the first time that day as she flexed her now-empty hand by her side. She furrowed her brows, and Mike could tell that she was contemplating saying something about his sudden switch-up. It was clear she didn’t know what to say, so the two just continued skating around the circuit in silence.

The music and lights changed again, and eventually the two closed the gap between them again without holding hands. The mood lightened, and Eleven was back to giggling and cracking jokes while Mike just nodded along at the right moments. His legs were growing sore, and his head was pounding more than ever, but he was having fun. 

For the first time all day, he started to think that maybe this wasn’t all so bad, that perhaps he’d survive the day without incident. Maybe what he saw with Will was just a misunderstanding, and that girl on the edge of the rink was just a simple bystander, or a figment of his imagination. 

He could do this, surely he could.

Hawkins, Indiana

Dustin ushered Max into his room almost immediately, rattling off something about needing to work on a project when his mom asked why Max had shown up so suddenly. Max wasn’t entirely sure that Ms. Henderson had bought it, given the long, narrowed look she’d cast in the girl’s direction as soon as she crossed the threshold, eyes flicking over her sweat-damp hair and flushed face, the suspicion radiating off of her uncomfortably.

Max barely registered any of it. Whatever lingered behind them paled in comparison to the knot twisting uncomfortably in her gut as Dustin shut his bedroom door and turned to face her. Concern had already begun overtaking the initial confusion that laced his face, making Max all the more anxious. Maybe she really should have gone to Lucas instead.

She perched herself on the very edge of his bed, careful not to disturb the aggressively patterned Star Wars sheets peeking out from beneath the comforter. The mattress dipped faintly under her weight, even as she tried to make herself take up the least amount of space possible. The room around her was grounding in a way, though. The amount of nerdy shit cluttering the space was far nicer than the blank, peeling walls of her own place.

Dustin’s bedroom was… a lot. Every inch of the walls had been claimed by something — action figures arranged in some sort of pattern Max couldn’t figure out, movie posters for films Max had never heard of, shelves sagging under the weight of science books and half-built contraptions. It was a chaotic show of what modern nerd coulter seemed to be, all bright colors and molded plastic. Max had never exactly seen the appeal herself, but right now, it was comforting.

Her gaze drifted over a collection of figures she didn’t recognize, then to a stack of comics teetering dangerously close to the edge of one of his shelves. She focused on the little details deliberately, anything to keep her mind from circling back to the horror she’d witnessed this morning. It wasn’t really working, but the thought was nice.

 Her foot bounced faintly against the floorboards as she clasped her hands together in her lap. The longer the silence stretched, the more she could feel the dreaded words pressing against the back of her teeth, begging to be released. Everything in her mind screamed for her just to spit it out, but she had trouble finding the courage to begin.

After another long moment of her picking at her cuticles, trying to figure out what exactly she was going to say, she finally opened her mouth. Words caught in the back of her throat, a strangled noise escaping instead. She clicked her jaw shut again and inhaled raggedly, cursing at herself internally. Why was she so scared? She’s known Dustin for a few years now and has been through hell with him time and time again. This should be the least of her worries.

“I know who died. In Eddie’s trailer,” Max blurted out suddenly, visibly startling Dustin from where he stood on the other side of the room. It was unintentionally vague, and she muttered a curse to herself when she realized that. She couldn’t bring herself to meet Dustin’s curious gaze, which she just knew would greet her if she glanced upward.

Dustin just hummed, clearly trying to encourage her to continue. The room sat in silence for another long moment, and it was clear Max was wrestling with herself on how to say it. 

“It was…” she trailed off, feeling tears sting at the corners of her eyes. God, she could just see the form of that poor girl lying across the trailer floor, twisted and battered in ways she didn’t think she’d ever forget. 

“It was Chrissy Cunningham.”

Silence washed over the two again. When Max risked a glance up, she saw Dustin begin to pace back and forth — three steps to the left, turn around, three steps to the right, repeat. Max bit at her nails nervously, watching him for multiple moments. He’d raised a hand to his chin with that classic thinking face he usually did when his brain kicked into overdrive, and if Max were in a better headspace, she probably would’ve laughed.

A clock ticked monotonously somewhere in the room, counting the seconds of careful quiet. If Max had counted correctly, they had been going for three whole minutes of this. The tension in the room was so thick she swore she could cut it with a knife if she tried hard enough. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, dread settling into her belly as a whirl of thoughts overtook her.

She started to assume that Dustin just didn’t believe her. Why would he, anyway? It seemed totally absurd, Chrissy the cheerleader being in Eddie Munson’s trailer. They seemed like such an unlikely pair; Max wasn’t even sure she would have believed herself if she heard this come from her own mouth without having witnessed the events that took place outside her trailer that morning.

Eventually, Dustin’s pacing increased in speed, and he finally broke the silence. “Chrissy Cunningham?” he asked, voice laced with disbelief that Max had already prepared herself for. He didn’t seem upset or angry. Just perplexed. “You’re sure it was Chrissy?”

“Yes, she was in her cheer outfit and everything. Same thing I saw her in when I saw her with Eddie last night,” she shrugged half-heartedly, voice unintentionally weak. God, she felt so useless.

“Wait,” Dustin said, glancing at her once before turning around again. “You saw her with Eddie last night?”

It came out sharper than he’d probably meant it to, words tumbling over each other in the familiar way they did when his brain got ahead of his mouth. There wasn’t accusation in his tone so much as disbelief.

“When?” he pressed, then immediately added, “Why?”

Max barely flinched. She was used to this side of him — that little detective in his brain that yearned for everything to have an answer waiting for him. If anything, it grounded her a little, reminded her that she wasn’t the only one desperate for everything to line up and make sense.

“I don’t know why,” Max bit out, frustration bleeding into her voice as she scrubbed a hand over her face. “She just… walked into his trailer last night. Like it was nothing.”

She let out a shaky breath as she tried to rewind the memory, trying to piece together some sort of timeline for the events that led up to everything. “I was out feeding my mom’s dog when I saw her,” she continued, words slowing as she tried to concentrate. “It had to have been around ten. Maybe eleven. Somewhere around there.” Her shoulders lifted in a half-hearted shrug. “It was dark, and I wasn’t exactly checking my non-existent watch.”

Her voice softened on the last part despite herself. “I don’t know,” she murmured, guilt creeping up her spine. She didn’t deserve to be upset. “Sorry.”

For a moment, the quiet pressed back in, uncomfortable and heavy. She knew Dustin just needed time to process, and she didn’t blame him. Everything she was spouting made no sense, and she wasn’t surprised that her friend needed to think it over for a while. She would have done the same.

“Did you tell all of this to the cops?” Dustin asked eventually, his pace slowing just enough that Max could track him without getting dizzy. He’d worn a shallow track into the carpet now, his sneakers scuffing back and forth as if he might actually tear a hole into the floor.

“No,” Max answered immediately. The word came out firmer than she actually felt in the moment.

She glanced down at her hands, running her forefinger over her knuckles as she searched for something more coherent to add. Her thoughts tangled together, panic fighting with the logical side of her brain, until she eventually gave up with a quiet huff. “No,” she repeated, softer this time. “But I— I can't be the only one that saw them together.”

“They stood out,” Dustin said, finishing Max’s thought for her. Max watched him work through it in real time, his mouth opening, then closing again like he couldn’t decide on which thought to grab hold of first.

After a moment, he muttered, mostly to himself, “Eddie the freak and Chrissy the cheerleader?” The way he said it — flat, incredulous — almost made Max laugh despite herself. Almost.

“Exactly,” she murmured. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t really talking to her. She pushed herself to meet his eyes, even though it took effort. “You know,” she added quietly, “his name’s not in the news or anything yet, but I can guarantee that Eddie is suspect number one.”

Dustin scoffed, sharp and sudden, the sound cutting through the room. Max startled despite herself, shoulders jumping slightly. That wasn’t really the reaction she was bracing for.

“No way,” Dustin said immediately, already shaking his head as he turned back into motion. His pacing resumed, even quicker now, more frantic. His sneakers scuffed uncomfortably against the carpet. “Eddie didn’t do this. No way.”

The certainty in his voice made Max’s jaw tighten slightly. She resisted the urge to facepalm, biting back a groan and instead lowering her gaze to where her hands sat in her lap. The constant movement was too much: tracking him felt impossible, like trying to follow a bouncing ball while everything else spun. Her nails dug into her palms, pressing into her skin until there were little red crescents left in their wake.

“No way,” Dustin repeated, louder this time. It seemed he thought that if he said it enough, it would stop the rest of the world from believing otherwise.

Max exhaled slowly through her nose. “Okay,” she said, voice careful but threaded with evident frustrations that she couldn’t quite press down. “I get it. You know him, and stuff. You like him or whatever.” She finally looked up again, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion dragging at her limbs. “But we can’t just—” she started, cutting herself off before the thought could finish forming. She let out a sigh, shaking her head. “We can’t rule it out.”

Dustin stopped short for half a second, agitation apparent on his face. Max watched the tension coil in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on his words before speaking them. “Yes, we can,” Dustin said at last, the words clipped and final as he turned back to his restless pacing. Back and forth. God — was it physically impossible for him to stand still for longer than three seconds?

“Dustin!” Max snapped, throwing both hands in the air, exasperation spilling over. “Can you stop pacing for one second?”

Miraculously, he did. Max had never been more thankful for anything in her life, so much so that she could probably cry. She didn’t, but she could’ve. Dustin froze mid-step, shoulders tight, fists clenched at his sides. For half a second, Max felt a flicker of relief, thinking that maybe she’d gotten through that thick skull of his. It died out as soon as he turned to face her, though.

“You don’t know him like I do, Max,” Dustin said, and the frustration in his voice matched her own perfectly. That was new, and kind of unsettling, actually.

She blinked, taken aback at the intensity of his tone. Her brows knitted together, a flicker of annoyance passing over her features. “Okay?” she replied, pinching the bridge of her nose as a fresh pulse of irritation lingered under her skin. “And?”

“When we all got to high school,” Dustin continued, words coming faster now. “Lucas made all his sports friends. Joined the basketball team. Got all… absorbed and shit.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, like he couldn’t quite articulate what he meant without sounding bitter. “And Mike and me?” Dustin went on, voice tightening. “We didn’t have anyone. No one was nice; the bullying only got worse. No one talked to us unless it was to fuck with us.” He swallowed, jaw working as he forced himself to keep going. “No one,” he repeated quietly, “except Eddie.”

Max just sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. She didn’t have time for all this sappy bullshit, and she didn’t really want to be hearing about Lucas right now. “Okay. Well,” she started, a hint of sarcasm threading into her tone. “They said the same shit about Ted Bundy.” She shrugged half-heartedly. “Yeah, he’s a nice guy, but then he’s murdering women on the weekend.”

Dustin narrowed his eyes at her, raising one brow. “So you’re saying Eddie is like Ted Bundy? Really?” he asked, voice clearly unamused. 

Well, he caught her bluff there, she supposed. She deflated a little, shrugging again. “No, I’m not saying—” she started, trailing off before finishing her sentence. She groaned dramatically, shaking her head. “I’m saying that we can't presume anything, okay?” she said after a beat, finally meeting Dustin’s eyes again. “But it’s not looking good for Eddie.”

Dustin sighed, walking over to the bed and joining Max by sitting on the edge as well, far enough away that their sides didn’t brush. Max was silently grateful for the lack of contact, feeling overwhelmed already by the intensity of this whole situation. Her emotions were all over the place, and she wasn’t sure she could take much more arguing.

The two sat like that for a long while, the tension dying out like a candle left lit for too long. They both deflated a bit, the irritation melting away into anxiety. Dustin began shaking his leg up and down while Max picked at her nailbeds, their nervous tells breaking free before either of them could stop themselves.

Dustin was the first to break the silence, turning to look at the side of Max’s head. “Why didn’t you tell the cops all of this?” he asked quietly, the frustration that was in his voice before ebbing away into concern.

“I…” she started, swallowing around the lump in her throat. She fought to come up with some sort of excuse, but all she managed was a weak “I don’t know,” her tone completely unconvincing. She knew Dustin saw right through her.

“You… don’t know?” he pressed. His tone carried the disbelief Max expected, along with something else measured beneath it that Max couldn’t exactly decipher.

Max crumbled instantly, leaning her arms on her knees and avoiding Dustin’s eyes. Her face was etched with worry as the memories of the night before flooded back. They weren’t exactly bad or scary, but knowing what she did now, everything seemed more sinister than she initially thought.

“Last night, after I saw Chrissy go in the trailer,” she started, dragging a hand down her face as she spoke. She couldn’t shake the pit of dread that had settled in her stomach a long time ago, and now, as she recounted the memories, it flared even brighter. “...something else happened.”

“When I got back inside, I checked on my mom and shit, like I always do. Put out her cigarettes,” Max bit out, leaning back up and crossing her arms over her torso. “I sat down to watch TV for a little while before heading to bed, and maybe fifteen minutes after I got back inside, the lights started to flicker. Which, in that trailer park at least, is normal. It could just be the wiring or whatever.

“Then, from the window, I heard someone scream. Honestly, I shouldn’t have even bothered to check what was happening, but something nagged at me until I did. I looked through the blinds, and I saw Eddie running to his van before he drove off. I didn’t see Chrissy leave, and… it’s obvious why now, I guess.” Max shrugged, blinking hard as she fought to keep her voice steady.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, finally meeting Dustin’s gaze. He looked just as worried as she felt, which made her feel slightly better. “Nothing was really weird or anything, minus Chrissy not leaving. I mean…” she trailed off for a second, scratching at her cheek. “Eddie always drives like a maniac, and as I said, the power goes off at my place all the time. It’s a piece of shit. But… I started to think back, and…”

“I don’t know,” she repeated after a beat. “The look on his face. He was scared, Dustin. Really scared. Maybe he was scared because, you know, he just killed someone, or maybe, um…” she trailed off again, fighting with herself to just spit it out. “I don’t… I don’t know, maybe—”

Dustin finished it for her when he realized her internal struggle. “Something else killed her.”

Max nodded instantly, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. It didn’t make sense. They’d closed the Gate twice now. There was no way the Mindflayer could get through, no way that he could flay any more innocent people, not anymore. The Russians were dealt with, and HNL had been closed down for a long time. It felt silly even to think it was a possibility.

“But… that’s impossible,” she eventually said, tone quiet as she voiced her internal thoughts. “Right?”

Dustin just shrugged, clearly not in the mood to sugarcoat anything anymore. The conversation had soured anything positive left in the two of them, and it didn’t seem like their morale was getting any better as the seconds passed. 

“I don’t know,” he eventually muttered. “It should be.”

The silence settled between them again, giving Max the chance to think again. No one else had been there besides Eddie and Chrissy, Max knew that for sure because Wayne worked nights. She’d overheard that one time when he and her mom were talking shortly after Max had moved in. She scratched at the back of her palm, and it felt like a lightbulb went off in her head when she realized that no one else but the suspect knew what happened that night.

“Dustin, only one person knows what actually happened,” she said, breaking the silence again. He met her gaze, and it looked like that same lightbulb went off in his mind as well.

At the same time, they both breathed out: 

“Eddie.”

Dustin had, thankfully, allowed her to ride double on his bike when the two of them took off, neither of them eager to waste more time chit-chatting back in Dustin’s room. She’d hopped on behind him no problem, gripping onto the back of his jacket as they drifted out onto the asphalt.

The warm spring air hit her square in the face as the two sped through the streets of Hawkins, the rhythmic whir of the tires and every jolt in the cracked streets grounding her enough to keep her thoughts from spiraling completely out of control. 

Still, anxiety ate away at her steadily as she realized that they could be walking right into the belly of the beast by looking for Eddie. What if he really had murdered that girl? Maybe he was out on a rampage, and when they found him, they’d be his next victims. The thought of dying at the hands of Eddie “The Freak” Munson made a shiver rack through Max’s body despite the warmth pressing in from all around her.

Neither she nor Dustin had said it out loud, but they’d come to a silent agreement to skip past Lucas’s street, pedaling by without slowing down. Max wasn’t sure if she felt guilty about that or not — she wasn’t exactly in the mood to bring him into all of this when he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be associated with the Party anymore. Plus, she didn’t really want him cornering her again and asking questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

With Lucas out of the question, there was only one place left to go. Dustin followed the familiar route towards the center of town, and Max immediately knew where he was headed. 

After around ten minutes of biking, the neon green sign of Family Video rose out on the horizon. Dustin turned into the lot and all but threw his bike into an empty spot. Max barely had time to swing herself off of it before it clattered to the ground, making her heart pound painfully against her ribs.

Dustin had beaten her into the store before she’d even realized it was a race, and she just barely managed to squeeze through the doors before they closed on her. Dustin was already at the counter, and Max could just barely catch the sound of Steve and Robin complaining behind it.

“How many phones do you have?” Dustin said impatiently as Max joined his side, leaning her weight into the front of the counter. From the looks of it, Steve and Robin had been watching the broadcast of everything that had happened to Chrissy on their store TV, and it made Max’s stomach churn. That was the last thing she wanted to see right now.

Steve just rolled his eyes, finally prying his eyes away from the screen to look at the two freshmen. His hair was as flawless as ever, and he was wearing the (admittedly ugly) Family Video uniform. He didn’t seem too thrilled to see either of them, which was understandable. 

“Two, why?”

“Three, if you count Keith’s in the back,” Robin chimed in from where she stood a few feet away, smiling as she stacked what looked to be tapes behind the counter. Max had always liked Robin. She found comfort in the girl’s presence usually, but right now her ever-cheery attitude wasn’t helping the bundle of nerves that had yet to untangle in Max’s belly.

“Yeah, three works,” Max muttered, tapping her fingers against the painted wooden surface. Both adults eyed her suspiciously, and she just smiled in a very unconvincing manner back at them. It was painfully obvious they were up to something, but she wasn’t sure how to shake them from their plan.

Before she could register what was going on, Dustin was vaulting himself over the counter, startling her out of her staring match with Robin, who seemed to be the most suspicious of the two employees. He landed clumsily in the back area, immediately knocking over a precious stack of VHS tapes in the process. Plastic cases clattered loudly across the floor, echoing through the near-empty store. Dustin didn't even flinch, forgoing looking back or apologizing.

Steve, on the other hand, looked as if he had just witnessed a personal tragedy. “No, no, no— my tapes!” Steve cried, diving towards the fallen pile with so much dramatic urgency that Max had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep a loud snort from escaping. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to alphabetize those?!”

“What are you— hey! My pile!” Robin yelped as Max followed Dustin’s lead, swinging herself over the counter with far more grace and promptly knocking over a separate stack of tapes. Max barely spared them a glance as she tossed her backpack to the floor and beelined for the nearest phone.

Dustin already claimed the company computer, cracking his knuckles like he was about to crack a top-secret code. He logged in with ease using the password he’d memorized after watching Steve type it in a few too many times. Steve and Robin scrambled around behind them, trying to pick up the mess that the kids had left in their wake.

“Dude,” Steve said after a second, standing up straighter and looking at Dustin like he’d lost his mind. “What are you doing?”

“Setting up base of operations,” Dustin replied easily, not looking away from the screen. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he pulled up the database for who checked out what.

Max didn’t bother hiding her laugh this time. The situation at hand was too absurd to do anything but. Robin shot her a glare that shut her up instantly, but she was still grinning stupidly.

“Get off,” Steve demanded, stepping forward and trying to push Dustin off the chair. “That’s employee only. You don’t work here.”

Dustin groaned and shifted his weight just enough to stay planted, glaring up at Steve. “I need it, idiot,” he snapped, already scrolling through some of the files stored on the hard drive. “This is important.”

Steve groaned too, though his was far more dramatic. He dragged a hand down his face before pulling it back up to rake through his hair once. He paced back and forth a couple of times, shaking his head frantically. “For what?” he demanded, exasperation dripping from his voice.

“Eddie’s friends’ phone numbers,” Dustin replied easily, still clicking away at whatever was on the screen. Max was honestly awe-stricken by how normal this all seemed, by how easily Dustin was handling it.

Steve let out a short, bitter laugh and tried — again — to pry Dustin out of the chair, gripping the back of it and giving it a sharp tug. Dustin didn’t move an inch. “Oh, right,” Steve said, voice tilting into something dangerously close to… jealousy? “Your new best friend. The one you suddenly think is cooler than me because he plays some nerdy dice game in his mom’s basement.”

“Yes,” Dustin replied automatically. Then he paused, his brain catching up to his mouth. His fingers stilled over the keyboard, and he turned in the chair to face Steve, brows knitting together. “—Wait. No? I never said that??”

Behind them, Robin was still crouched on the floor, hastily stacking plastic VHS cases back into uneven piles. Her movements had lost their normal, easy rhythm, her shoulders tense and jaw set. The irritation radiating off of her was… noticeable. A little alarming, even. Robin Buckley never got mad. She got sarcastic or annoyed, sure, but never totally upset.

Finally, she straightened with an exaggerated sigh, tossing her hands up in the air. “Okay, seriously, you guys,” she said, gesturing between Max and Dustin. “Maybe on, I don’t know, a Monday, you guys can play around back here, or unpack whatever is going on with you two—” she cut herself off, pointing an accusatory finger at Steve. She then pointed vaguely at the front of the store. “This is our busiest day of the week. People want their movies! This” — she motioned towards the mess of a back area they had created — “is not helping in the slightest.”

“Robin,” Dustin said lightly, not looking up as he resumed his typing and clicking. “I empathize. Deeply. Truly.” He pressed Enter with finality. “But this cannot wait.” 

“Oh my God,” Robin exclaimed, dragging both hands through her already-messy hair as if she might actually rip it out. She paced once, stopping short before turning around and doing the same thing again. “Calling Eddie’s friends is an emergency? Really?”

“Correct!” Dustin shot back without hesitation, popping the t confidently.

Robin slowly turned her head to look at Steve, who looked just as irritated — arms crossed tight over his chest, cheeks a little flushed from arguing with a fourteen-year-old who refused to be intimidated. The two of them locked eyes in silent, exasperated solidarity.

“Want me to strangle him,” Robin asked flatly, “or do you want to?”

Steve considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “We could take turns.”

Dustin let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes so hard Max was surprised they didn’t get stuck. Finally, he twisted in his chair and looked back towards her, expression sharpening into something more serious than before. Max startled when the attention landed back on her, instinctively folding her arms loosely over her torso like she needed to protect herself from whatever was coming.

“Can you fill them in while I do this?” Dustin asked, already turning back to the screen, the clicking of keys resuming shortly after.

Both Steve and Robin turned to face Max now, making her shrink in on herself even more. They both still looked upset, which made her worry that they might start yelling directly at her, too. 

Steve clicked his tongue, shaking his head in exasperation. “Fill us in on what?”

Lenora Hills, California

The drive home from Rink-O-Mania was unbearably quiet, the silence pressing in on all sides of the van. The sun had gone down a while ago now, and the streetlights had turned on, the light shining through the tinted windows as Argyle drove them back through the city towards the Byers’ house. Cars passed by in a blur, buildings slipping in and out of focus on the edges of the road. Civilians were still out and about, the California nightlife just barely beginning to pick up, and there were quite a few cars littering the side streets they’d driven down.

Mike’s forehead rested on the window, the cold glass pressing into the ache that had been seated there all day. His eyes burned from straining them back at Rink-O-Mania, and the feeling of unshed tears still stung along his waterline. Watching the buildings pass in and out of his vision monotonously wasn’t helping the swirl of thoughts wrecking his mind. 

The last few hours at Rink-O-Mania had gone so, so terribly that Mike was starting to rethink this whole trip. When he’d gotten on that plane, no matter how reluctant he was at first, he wasn’t expecting his first day in the Golden State of California to end with him being questioned by a police officer. Watching the bloody aftermath of someone getting bludgeoned in the head with a roller skate wheel was traumatic enough, let alone being taken back into a storage room by an angry man in a blue uniform, demanding that he answer questions he didn’t know the answer to.

Not long after thinking that the girl staring at him from the side of the rink was a pain-induced hallucination, everything had gone sideways. The girl, now known as Angela, and her lackies had come up to them at their table shortly after they stepped off the rink to spend some more time with Will, and maybe get a milkshake or two. She’d introduced herself as a friend, someone who was kind to Eleven at school, and Mike had been stupid enough to believe it. He’d allowed them to pull her back onto the rink and torment her without a second thought. 

From Wipeout playing over the speakers to the chocolate milkshake staining her dress, Mike felt like he was at fault for everything that happened to Eleven. If only he’d picked up on the way they were acting beforehand, he would’ve been able to stop all of this from happening. He wasn’t even sure why it all happened, honestly. Something about El being a snitch at school? No one could give him a clear answer, which only sent him spiraling further.

After Eleven ran off and hid somewhere, the location still unknown to Mike despite how long it had been, something between the two boys had snapped. After searching yet another room and still coming up empty-handed, Mike snapped at Will for not telling him that El had been lying to him all this time in her letters, saying that everything was fine and that she had real friends who cared about her. He stupidly told him off for moping around the two of them all day, too, which Mike still felt a pang of regret in his stomach for saying.

The rest had been a blur, but Mike distinctly remembered getting defensive about not sending letters to Will despite sending the equivalent of a book to Eleven. The hurt in Will’s eyes would probably haunt him forever if he were being honest with himself. Just thinking about it made Mike want to throw up, a wave of nausea curling through his abdomen uncomfortably. He would never forgive himself for yelling at him, saying the things he had when he knew they weren’t even true to himself. 

”We’re friends, Will! We’re friends!”

”We used to be best friends.”

He wanted to apologize, he really did. But every time that he caught Will’s eyes, his expression was cold and closed off, making it clear that he wasn’t in the mood to listen to another word out of Mike’s mouth. He couldn’t blame him; if Mike were in his shoes, he would feel the same way. He has been a total dick, and he knew he was in the wrong. He’d accepted that hours ago now. But he couldn’t force Will to accept an apology, and he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to spit the words out anyway, given the chance. 

The two split up after that, and Mike had to will himself not to cry in the aftermath. His emotions felt like a wave he couldn’t avoid, and he tried to blame it on the ache in his head. He knew it wasn’t true, though. He knew there were other reasons, ones he couldn’t even admit to himself, that he felt the way he had. Seeing Will so angry and hurt had made Mike want to cry even more. 

The two were still searching for Eleven when he heard the blood-curdling scream of Anegla. His first thought after pushing through the sea of people was how terrifying it looked. Blood was gushing from a wound right in the middle of the girl’s forehead, streaming down the bridge of her nose, and dripping off her chin. It was a scary sight, truly. Mike’s pulse picked up as soon as he registered what he was seeing, the color draining from his face when he realized who he was seeing.

El stood with the weapon — a roller skate, which, if the situation weren’t so dire, would have been a little funny — clutched to her chest, looking horrified at her own actions. Blood covered the front wheels of the skate, some of it dripping onto the patterned carpet below. Eleven’s chest was heaving as she tried to calm herself down, and Mike could see the dying anger in her eyes. It seemed like the fight she’d had seconds earlier had shifted into fear as she stared down at what she had done. Angela was wailing and crying in the arms of her friends while they cried out for someone to dial 911.

”What did you do? What did you do?!”

The sound of his own voice echoed back at him, making his head throb harder than it already was. He was sick of this stupid headache. Mike hissed quietly at the pain, adjusting where he sat pressed against the glass, his mind finally tuning back into the vehicle surrounding him. The two men in the front seats were droning on about rubber wheels and ice skates, but Mike could barely tell what they were even talking about. Jonathan was so clearly high out of his mind, and Argyle didn’t seem to be faring much better — which was a little scary, because he was currently behind the wheel.

The other two were still silent. Mike couldn’t bring himself to look over at them, too afraid to catch their gaze and be forced to say something he wasn’t quite ready for. He could feel the tension radiating off of Eleven, where she sat pressed against his side, her body stiff where it was usually loose. Will wasn’t much better; Mike could hear him biting at his nails and fidgeting with the edges of the painting clutched in his hands that he must have pulled from the trunk. He was obviously lost in his own mind, too.

Mike tuned it all back out by the time the two dorks in the front of the van’s conversation devolved into them making noises that sounded vaguely like something a circus would use during a clown act. If the shoe fits, he supposed. He closed his eyes as his mind swirled restlessly with the day’s events again, everything repeating over and over and over again until he couldn’t think of anything else entirely.

He fought the urge to groan as the car jerked over a pothole, praying silently to himself that nothing else would go wrong. That the rest of the night passes quietly without a hitch, so he could just go to bed and forget about everything else that happened.

But, with how today had gone, he realized that there was no use in getting his hopes up anymore. There was bound to be more going awry, and he didn’t have the energy to try to think too hard about what it could be anymore.

Mike had zoned out the entire time at the dinner table. 

Every time he’d managed to tune back in and try to join the conversation, he just grew confused about the fact that Murray Bauman was actually physically sitting just a few seats away and that Joyce was supposedly leaving for a business trip she’d forgotten to mention to any of the Wheelers before Mike had left home. The Byers kids were just as confused as he was, which made him feel a little better, but at the same time, it was worse. How had she just magically forgotten to tell even her own children that she was leaving for fucking Alaska the day after Mike arrived??

Murray apparently already knew this, too, as he was the one who brought it up. Something about it screamed alarm bells, but Mike couldn’t figure out why. He seemed to be the only one thinking that, anyway, as everyone just looked confused as he was, trying to get more information about where she was even going. Something about the founders living there, he thought, as he wasn’t fully listening anymore. He huffed quietly to himself as he shuffled the food around on his plate, leaning his aching head on his left hand.

At least the risotto was delicious. Murray really did have a knack for cooking good food; Mike could give him that.

When the conversation eventually shifted from catching everyone up to the day the kids had, things grew quiet. Joyce had practically forced a confession out of Jonathan, which proved not be too hard given the state he was in. When Joyce had tried to question Eleven about her involvement in everything that had happened at Rink-O-Mania, the girl had simply pushed her chair back and stood without a word before stomping up the stairs towards her bedroom. Everyone stared up at where she had gone in shock — minus Argyle. He was too busy reading the label on the white wine, which both he and Jonathan had mistaken for olive oil not too long ago.

Mike couldn’t help the slight pang of guilt he felt as he kept his gaze glued to the top of the stairs. Something in him still reminded him that this was at least partially his fault. If only he hadn’t let her go out there alone. Maybe they wouldn’t be in this situation, perhaps everything between them would be fine. That maybe things would be just as they were before they fought during the apocalypse involving Starcourt, before the Russians, or before Hopper tried to separate them. He knew that was wishful thinking, because things weren’t even right with himself, but he would never admit that to anyone.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a light touch on his unoccupied arm. His body reacted by making him jolt painfully, heart thudding against his ribs. He whipped his head around to see Will staring at him with wide, concerned eyes. A spark of guilt and pain hit Mike square in the gut as he met those brown eyes. He wanted to apologize. He had said some horrible things. But, alas, he didn’t know where to start. He was debating whether to say something, not knowing what would make sense, but his better judgment told him it was a terrible idea. Instead, he kept his jaw wired shut, knowing that wouldn’t fix anything, but there wasn’t a way it would start an argument or anything worse either.

Instead, his eyes roved over his friend’s face, trying to commit it to memory. He wasn’t so sure he’d be able to see it this close again, not after what he had said tonight, so he needed to make this time count in some way. He wanted to map the freckles that danced over Will’s nose bridge, wanted to look back at the way his hazel eyes sparkled in the dim kitchen lighting, and remember every little crease in his skin from smiling too hard. He wanted to remember it all, even if he didn't deserve it.

After a few long, drawn-out moments of that, he realized he’d been staring for way too long. He quickly cleared his throat and turned his eyes away, gaze landing on the half-empty plate in front of him awkwardly. He realized that while he had zoned out, everyone but the two of them had left the table and dispersed through the house. Huh. He hadn’t realized that much time had elapsed; it was as if he blinked and the clock had skipped twenty whole minutes without his permission.

He hesitantly slid his eyes back to his friend, who looked just as jumbled up as he felt, which just confused Mike even more. Before she could ask about what that look was, Will straightened up in his chair and met Mike’s eyes again. He quickly snapped his jaw shut before he could say something stupid. 

“Do you want to take your stuff up to my room? Since you’ll be sleeping in there,” Will asked smoothly, as if Mike hadn’t just seen him trying to recompose himself after that awkward stare down. Mike had to force his eyes to stay glued to Will’s own stubbornly, refusing to be caught taking in the boy’s features again. “I can help you. If— if you want.”

“Oh, sure. Help would be nice,” Mike hummed, pushing his chair back as quietly as he could and standing. He stretched his arms over his head without thinking too much about it, though he could feel Will’s eyes boring into his back from behind him. It was a little strange, but Mike didn’t bother saying anything about it.

His stuff had been discarded in the living room haphazardly after Murray greeted them while he was cooking dinner. They were, obviously, too distracted to do much else besides throw his bags by the sofa and join him and Ms. Byers at the dining table. He led the way into the front room awkwardly, stopping in front of his two pieces of luggage. He scratched the back of his neck, trying to figure out how exactly they should go about this. He could’ve easily brought this up himself. Why did he enlist Will to help so willingly? 

“You can just grab my backpack. It’s lighter, I guess?” he said with a shrug, already reaching for his carry-on. It was light, too, as he had only packed a week's worth of clothes. Will easily reached around him to grab the backpack, his arm lightly brushing Mike’s in a way that made them both freeze for a second. Neither one seemed to notice the other’s fumble, and they quickly resumed as if nothing had happened.

Together, both boys hauled the items up the stairs with ease in the direction of Will’s bedroom. Mike had yet to see it, and he hadn’t heard much about it from El, so he wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. The outside of his door was stark white with a small yellow “W” painted on the front. It was similar to the one he had back home in Hawkins before they moved, which made something stir in Mike’s stomach. He didn’t linger on it too long, though, as Will was already opening the door.

The first thought that Mike had after stepping inside was that it wasn’t nearly as personal as his old room was. The walls were painted a soft, muted blue with white trim, each one mostly devoid of anything hung on them. Where there once would have been drawings taped up haphazardly or band posters covered with David Bowie and The Clash peeling at the corners, there was nothing now. The emptiness almost made the room feel temporary, as if they were planning to pack everything back up again. That was far from the truth, Mike knew, but he could still hope.

Some things were still the same, though. The bedframe was unmistakably the same one Will had had since they were both kids, paired with the same slightly too-small blue comforter that looked like it had been through a few too many sleepovers. His desk sat against the far wall under the window, the surface littered with half-dry paint pallets, markers with slightly chewed caps, and ripped-out sketchbook pages covered in unfinished doodles. They all had some sort of monster, armor, or even beautiful landmarks filling the margins. Some were covered, and Mike couldn't see the whole picture, but he still let his eyes wander over them for a little bit too long.

Eventually, he pushed his suitcase up against the side of Will’s dresser. It was the same one he’s had for as long as Mike can remember. He knows that somewhere on it, there's a small carving of a heart with the initials M+W in the middle, but he can’t remember where exactly it is. It had been chewed up by years of use, and the wood had grown slightly discolored, but it still had charm. When Mike straightened, he ran his thumb over a particularly rough spot with a barely-there smile on his face before he could stop himself.

The sound of someone clearing their throat made him jump, and when he turned around, he saw Will watching him with a soft expression in his eyes. He quickly snatched his hand back from where it rested and held it behind his back, as if that could hide what he was doing. He shuffled his feet together where he stood and glanced down at them, a little afraid that he’d made his friend uncomfortable with how he’d reacted to the wave of nostalgia that hit him.

“Oh! Um,” Will started, breaking the silence between them as he remembered whatever he’d been thinking about originally. “You can take the bed if you want, I don’t mind.”

Mike looked back up at him instantly, brows pinching together in confusion. He looked over at the neatly made bed for a moment before looking back at where Will stood awkwardly a few feet away. “What? No, dude—” He quickly shook his head, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “That’s literally your bed.”

“It’s fine,” Will assured, blinking at him a few times. He scratched at the back of his neck while looking over at his bed just like Mike had done, as if he were suddenly second-guessing himself. “I don’t mind.”

Mike narrowed his eyes, scanning Will’s body language up and down. It was clear that his friend did mind, if the way he fidgeted with his fingers and cast a longing look at his mattress said anything about it. He swallowed down a sigh before turning without a word towards the closet. He ignored Will’s gasp of protest behind him as he dropped down to his knees, not paying mind to the way his head throbbed in response to the motion, and began digging into the depths of the wardrobe. He pushed aside the heaps of clothes that hung from the bar overhead until he spotted what he’d been looking for.

With a grunt, he pulled free a rolled-up, green sleeping bag that had been tucked between a pillow and a box that was so heavy that Mike assumed it held an abundant collection of cinderblocks or something insane like that. He huffed out a few heavy breaths from the exertion before throwing it behind him in the vague direction of the foot of Will’s bed. It landed with a heavy thud before rolling a couple of extra inches over the carpet. Mike dusted his hands together before standing up, turning back around to face Will, who looked a little dumbfounded. There was a small crease of concern pinched between his brows that did nothing but confuse Mike, but he didn’t say anything about it.

“I do,” he finally replied with a shrug. He kicked the sleeping bag at his feet lightly to bring attention back to it. “I’ll just take this. It can’t be too bad, right?”

Will clearly hesitated. Mike could see the gears turning in his head as his eyes drifted from the floor and back up to Mike’s face.  He stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest after a few moments with a shake of his head. “Mike, you really don’t hav—”

“It’s really okay,” Mike insisted, cutting Will off before he really did try to make him take the bed instead. He dropped back down onto the ground, his knees slightly smarting against the boards under the carpet. He tried to hide the wince he knew he made as he unrolled the green fabric close to the foot of the bed with a little more care than he knew was necessary. “I like the floor. It builds character… or something. I dunno. It’s like old times.”

The old times mentioned weren’t exactly as Mike described them. Every time the two would have a sleepover back in Hawkins, they would both end up in Will’s bed together, trying to cram themselves into the small space of the mattress with fits of giggles. They’d read comics from their collections until the late hours of the night, and laugh until it felt like their chests were on fire. They only stopped because of Lonny, who had somehow been bright enough to walk into Will’s room to check on them one night. It was safe to say that Mike was banished to the floor after that, but they’d still end up hanging out together on the hardwood floors doing all the same things until they inevitably grew too tired to continue, and Will would migrate back into the comfort of his own bed. Mike knew that they couldn’t ever go back to that, not anymore. Not after everything they’ve been through. He missed it.

Mike was brought out of the memory by the sound of Will’s soft little laugh. He took in the barely-there smile that Will tried to hide behind his hand a few seconds too late, a smile of his own threatening to spill over just from the reaction alone. The tension in the room was lighter than it had been between them all day, the feeling pressing up against Mike’s chest finally easing in a way that made it easier to laugh along. He smoothed out a wrinkle by the top of the sleeping bag to try to hide his own growing grin, but it didn’t do him much good. He knew that Will could still see it, but he didn’t care.

Eventually, the conversation dwindled, and it was time to get ready for bed. Mike shrugged out of his yellow button-up and tossed it in the vague direction of his bags, not really caring to check where it landed. He was acutely aware of Will’s eyes on his back as he bent over to dig through his backpack for a fresh set of clothes. The other boy was sitting in his bed with his arms folded loosely around himself, already changed and under the covers. The feeling of his eyes boring into the back of Mike’s head made his neck prickle with heat that he tried to keep from becoming too noticeable, but he wasn’t sure it was working. 

Mike’s hands fumbled around for a few extra seconds before finally just picking a plain white shirt and a pair of blue plaid sleep pants. It would do. He made sure to grab the bottle of Tylenol, too, hiding it in his clothes before stepping out into the hallway to head to the bathroom. He sighed softly to himself and finally allowed his body to deflate a little once he was alone. Some of the tension in his shoulders melted away, but the pain in his head stuck stubbornly to his skull like a glue he wasn’t able to peel off.

His bare feet padded across the floor softly as he turned into the small bathroom that was right in between Will and El’s rooms. The door clicked softly behind him, and his back hit it not long after. One look in the mirror confirmed what he already knew: the bags under his eyes were extremely dark, and his hair was a mess, paired with the sickly pale color of his skin. How no one had brought up how much of a mess he looked, he wasn't sure. He felt about as bad as he looked, too, his limbs aching and head throbbing painfully to the beat of his heart. 

He didn’t want to linger on his looks too long, though, so he quickly changed his clothes despite the protest in every part of his body. His knees nearly buckled from under him while he bent down to pull up his pajama pants, and his head felt like it’d been stabbed straight through his skull when he stood upright again. He chalked it up to it just being exhaustion from school or jet lag, but something in the back of his mind screamed that it was something else. What that something was, he didn’t know, but he was sure that it was the cause of why he felt like absolute shit. 

Leaning over the sink, Mike uncapped the bottle he’d brought with him and shook out two of the elongated white pills into his left palm. He stared at them for a few moments, the feeling of uncertainty crossing his mind. He wasn’t sure why, as he’d already taken a few doses just like this one without hesitation. He grumbled something incoherent to himself that sounded vaguely like encouragement before he threw them back into his mouth. He used both hands to catch a few drops of water from the faucet before bringing that to his mouth, too, and using it to swallow the pills. They went down easily, just like they had before. 

He wiped a stray dribble of water from his chin before picking up the bottle, along with his discarded clothes, and exiting the bathroom silently. The house was quiet, the same way it was before, except now a few more lights downstairs had been turned off. He furrowed his brow slightly, trying to piece together how long he had been in there. He hadn’t even heard Joyce come up the steps, which were just a few paces outside the bathroom. He struggled lightly to himself, his mind too tired to try and figure out anything else, and turned back to the door with the blue W painted on the front.

He shouldered his way inside as quietly as he could, afraid that Will might have been asleep already, though when he turned around, he saw that the other boy was still sitting upright in bed. The lamp on the nightstand had been flicked off, though, which made it a little harder to make out the shape staring right at him. Mike stopped in his tracks, another wave of confusion hitting him. Why was he staring right at him?

“Uh…” Mike said dumbly, scratching the back of his neck. He tried to get his eyes to adjust faster so that he could make out the expression on Will’s face, but it was far too dark to tell. “Everything okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” Will replied, and Mike took it as ominous. He took a few more steps into the room, gauging if that was alright, before walking over to his bags to put his dirty clothes with his other things. “You were in there for a while. Are you okay?”

“Wait, what? What time is it?” Mike asked as he straightened up. He tried to glance around the room for a clock, but he couldn’t find one. “How long was I in there?”

“Like, thirty minutes,” Will replied quietly. Mike could see him anxiously fidgeting with his fingers from where he stood, a pang of guilt passing through him, but he still didn’t even know how so much time had elapsed. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Huh,” was all Mike could reply with for a couple of long moments. He tried working through how that much time had passed, but he came up empty. He had literally only changed his clothes and taken some pain medicine. That couldn’t have taken thirty whole minutes! Finally realizing that he actually needed to answer, he scratched at his neck awkwardly as he fumbled for words. “I—I think I’m fine? My head hurts a little, but I’m sure that’s just jet lag or something. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you, seriously. I didn’t realize I was in there that long.”

Will seemed to accept that answer, as Mike saw him lie back down and roll over without another word. He released a short breath, something in him deflating slightly, before crouching down and crawling over to his sleeping arrangement. He unzipped the sleeping bag and climbed inside, the fabric crinkling loudly in the quiet of the room. The zipper was no better, making Mike flinch awkwardly as he zipped it back up. He followed Will’s lead in lying down, deciding to forgo asking for a pillow despite the discomfort of the floor, especially after the awkward confrontation he’d just had. He’d rather fight a Demogorgon by himself with no weapon than have to ask anything of Will right now.

Mike stared up at the ugly popcorn ceiling above him, mind acutely aware of how close he was to Will right now. He could hear every little breath and rustle of the comforter above him. The frame was so close that he could easily touch it if he reached out a little, same with the little sliver of mattress that poked out from behind the footboard. He could hear every creak of the boxspring and every shift in the wooden supports. Mike tried to keep his thoughts normal, trying to keep himself from syncing up to the other boy’s breathing like he used to at their past sleepovers. That would be weird, right?

“You comfortable?” Will’s quiet voice startled him, making him jolt harshly. He flushed in embarrassment, cheeks heating up in a way that made him glad that it was too dark to see him. 

“Y-yeah,” Mike replied, a little too quickly. “Totally. Super comfy.” He cringed outwardly at himself as the words left his mouth, a hand raising to his face to silently face palm. Why was he so bad at just acting normal? Like he always did?

There was a pause. It wasn’t very long, but it stayed quiet long enough for Mike to start worrying that he’d weirded Will out. What if that was the last straw? What if Will just kicked him out of his room, and they never spoke again? What if—

Will cut off his train of thought, as if he knew that he was spiralling. “Okay, good,” he whispered. Mike heard him roll over onto his other side and sigh quietly. 

Mike rolled over as well, the thin fabric of the sleeping bag crinkling loudly in protest. The sound felt painfully amplified in the quiet room, making Mike tense up uncomfortably. He waited for Will to react or say something about it. Maybe even make him leave. When he didn’t, Mike let out a shallow breath through his nose and bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying sorry. He didn’t want to drag on the conversation they were having any longer.

What he wanted, or more so needed, was sleep. His body felt heavy in a way that only came from the aftermath of an emotionally exhausting day, limbs weighted down by what felt like sandbags, eyelids burning just enough to remind him that he needed to close them. But his brain refused to cooperate, thoughts still running wild and turning back on themselves over and over again, no matter how much he tried to will it to stop. It made his head throb painfully, but there was no end to the train of thoughts running through him.

He was still painfully aware of how close Will was. They weren’t touching — not even close — but they were close enough that Mike could sense him anyway, as if he were right against him. His presence weighed heavily in the room, the sound of his breathing the only thing that Mike’s ears could hone in on. It shouldn’t have mattered, really. It never mattered before. Not like this. They’d shared rooms, tents, hospital waiting areas, the Byers’ couch — hell, they practically grew up on top of each other. So why did it feel so different?

The thought made his chest tighten painfully, anxiety curling between his ribs insistently. He shifted slightly, careful not to make the fabric crinkle again, staring up at the ugly popcorn ceiling that he could barely make out in the darkness. He didn’t understand what he was spiraling over, only that he hated the feeling that he had to tread lightly around the other boy now. Nothing between them had changed, at least with Will, so he couldn’t even figure out why things had grown so tense with him, too. He just wanted things to go back to how they were before, back to when things were familiar and normal. Whatever normal was now, with the Upside Down and everything crazy that came with that. But still.

Eventually, mercifully, his exhaustion won over the thoughts whirling behind his eyes. The constant churn of worry dulled, each thought stretching longer until they drifted away altogether. His breathing evened out without him realizing, his shoulders slowly relaxing as the fight in his head lost momentum. He hadn’t even realized how tightly he’d been holding himself until he felt it slip.

Without thinking, his breathing fell in sync with Will’s. The realization should’ve made him tense again, made him stop and wake back up to full alertness. But instead, it did the opposite. Something deep in his chest eased, the restless edge finally smoothing out as if his body had been waiting for him to find that rhythm all along. Sleep crept in quietly after that, steady as ever. The room around him felt like a blur as he allowed himself to fall into its waiting arms, his body relaxing fully against the floor beneath him.

The last thing he registered was the sound of a clock ticking somewhere nearby. It sounded close to his ear, but that didn’t make sense. Mike had seen for himself that there was no clock hanging on any of Will’s walls, and whatever this one was sounded far too loud to be a clock like that, anyway. It’s deep tick sounded like something that would come from an old Grandfather clock you’d see in your grandparents’ living room, not some teenager’s bedroom. His mind was too far gone to try and figure it out, though, the thoughts slipping away before he could finish forming them. 

The ticking distorted as he finally fell into sleep entirely, the room dissolving into darkness around him and pulling him under peacefully.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Chime.