Chapter Text
Mike’s taken the weekend off to hopefully unwind from his increasingly stressful week.
He’d feel like an asshole if it was during the school year, in which every weekend felt like a blessing and he and his friends would’ve seized the opportunity to pester every store clerk in a three-mile radius. It’s summer break, though, so he doesn’t feel as bad considering every day of the week feels the same. Max’ll be fine by herself for a day.
It’s gloomy today, overcast with clouds that roll over each other. They’ve darkened since the morning, so it’s probably going to rain soon. Just his fucking luck.
He’s been strolling around Hawkins aimlessly for about an hour. He popped into Family Video earlier (probably half an hour ago?) to see if there was anything he felt like renting and watching at home by himself, but nothing new particularly caught his eye and he didn’t feel like rewatching Return of the Jedi without Will by his side.
He ducks inside Melvald’s General, browsing languidly through the aisles. It’s not like the stock has changed over the last probably-twenty years. The guy that isn’t Joyce Byers is working today. It’s kind of shitty of him, but he’s sorta glad that Will’s mom isn’t here. If she were, she’d probably invite him over and tell Will that Mike would show and when he didn’t, they’d both get sad.
Truthfully, his friendship with Will had been on the rocks since summer began. Everything felt right at the graduation ceremony and the party that followed, but Will became distant after. Mike had chalked it up to stress about college. He’s not so sure anymore, especially now that he’s had to focus more on work than hanging out.
The Reese’s are on sale today.
He mulls over buying a pack or few. He doesn’t particularly have a reason to, as he doesn’t plan on dropping by the Byers’. Back in middle school, he used to carry one around either in his backpack or his pockets just in case Will wanted one, but he hasn’t asked for a while. It used to be his favorite. Or maybe they still are, just that he and Will aren’t close enough for Will to just ask for them anymore.
Eventually, after a minute of quiet contemplation, he settles on getting a set of three just for the fun of it. If he runs into Will, he’ll give them to him. If not, he’ll just eat them himself. It’s a win-win scenario, sort of. Roundaboutly.
The Reese’s weigh down his right pocket unnaturally as he leaves. It feels like they’re gonna pull down his pants, even though he knows he wore a belt today and zipped his fly and everything.
A cold gust of wind blows right into his face. God, it’s cold. He needs to get home, like, fucking immediately.
Fast-walking the way home is practically coded into his blood; he hardly has to pay attention as he lets his legs carry him home. It’s oddly reminiscent of that time he went trick-or-treating with the Party minus El plus Max—cold day, weird outfit, walking fast. It’s not exactly that the Ghostbusters costumes were weird, just that nobody else really wore their costumes to school and they therefore looked like a bunch of freaks. He’s so busy trying to get home and inside that he doesn’t notice the bike dropped precariously on the lawn outside of his house.
His keys jingle annoyingly loud as he fumbles between the mail key and the house key plus his myriad of other essentials clipped onto the keychain. He finally gets it open, pushing the house door inward to see none other than one William Byers in his living room.
It throws him off guard, because he’d had no notifier that Will was coming over. Not like he’d need to ask for permission every time! Just, Mike’s not really feeling it today.
Will startles out of what must have been a deep train of thought at the sound of the front door closing. “Hi, Mike. Sorry for dropping by unannounced. Jon’s busy with Nancy and my mom needed to run errands. She was weirdly paranoid about me being alone today, so she dropped me off here. Hope that’s fine.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Mike says hesitantly. “That’s cool.”
He knows it comes out awkward and stilted, but he honestly couldn’t care less at the moment. Whatever they’re doing right now is not at all what a pair of best friends would do, even if said pair were growing more distant by each day.
Hurriedly, he adds on, “And hi, Will.”
Will only smiles at that, but it’s tight around the edges. Mike has no idea how long he’s been here, and what he’s been doing. The TV in the living room isn’t on and there aren’t any comics spread out on the coffee table; it kind of looks like Will’s just been sitting there in silence for a while.
“Do you mind if I draw for a bit? I’ll be quiet, and you can read or something. Or go to your room. Or I can go to the basement. Whichever is the most convenient for you,” Will finally asks, voice small. It’s not like him to be so shifty about being around Mike, and much less for him to ask if he can draw. Will was practically born with a pencil in his hand; there’s no force greater than his drive to create.
Being around Will reawakens the memories of that trio of fucking normies that showed up to his work that week.
What are you, his boyfriend?
The words stay fresh and heavy in his mind. They’ve carved out a place for themselves, situating and then making space for …when this faggot’s not working.
Something twists uncomfortably in his gut at the idea of them seeing him here with Will today, out of place in his own home simply because of the presence of his best friend. What type of friend is he? Mike’s gotta be the world’s biggest asshole if this is how he feels around his best friend of basically-his-whole-life. He shouldn’t even be considering Trasey, Massey, and Jasey’s opinions because he’ll likely never see them again.
He realizes he’s been a bit silent for a while. The room’s descended into a sort of awkward silence, one that never would’ve existed three years ago. Even three months ago, this situation would’ve been unfathomable to Mike.
“It’s fine,” he grinds out.
Will doesn’t look relieved at this. In fact, he has little to no expression at all. He retreats somewhere, likely the basement, where Mike knows he used to keep supplies for Will. Nothing too fancy, just a sketchbook and a few pencils. Maybe a couple Crayons, but definitely not a full set.
They’re both moving around one another, existing in the house but not existing with each other. It feels like they’re at some sort of stalemate, waiting for the other to make a move.
He doesn’t want to be the one to say something, but he knows that this tension between them might snap and blow into something wildly out of control. Will can be heard rifling through the boxes of stuff in the Wheeler basement, and Mike prepares himself for the inevitable.
When Will emerges, he hardly gives Mike a glance. It stings, just a little bit, but it’s not like he’s gone out of the way to get his attention. He drops himself onto the couch, clutching the supplies close to his chest to ensure they don’t spill out from his arms. Mike watches him quietly, staring still at how he organizes his stuff on the coffee table.
Will looks up at him after a minute, a questioning look in his eyes. “Is there something on my face?”
Mike’s eyes immediately snap to his lips while he speaks.
It’s a moment of weakness he allows himself, before immediately staring Will in the eye and fixing his gaze there. “No.”
Will only shrugs, and breaks eye contact to begin sketching a rough shape into the book. Mike traces the movement with his eyes, marveling in how fluid the motions look compared to the rough stiffness in how art usually feels to him.
Mike takes Will’s lack of further conversational prompt as his sign to go find something else to do instead of standing there and staring like a creep.
He retreats upstairs first to grab—or do—something. By the time he makes it up, he’s already forgotten what he went up for in the first place.
His socks slide against the carpeted floor. He remembers when he would run down the hallways upstairs with Will, trying (and failing) to not get carpet burn from the amount of times they’d slip and fall. It was probably shortly after they became friends with Lucas, when Mike was still fiercely protective of Will and only Will. His reach outward of people to hold close to him came later, when his tiny six-year-old brain realized he could care for more than three people at a time.
He can almost imagine it, the shrill Mike, wait up! You’re gonna fall! from Will’s voice. His own high laughter, airy and carefree. We fall all the time, Will. Keep up! The pattering of their feet that could be heard from essentially anywhere in the house, synchronized with each footstep.
Mike realizes, now, that he misses Will.
How could he miss someone who’s right beneath his feet, drawing in a notebook that he kept for him?
He opts to grab the stray cups he forgot to bring downstairs before he left. Better something done than nothing. They’re stacked carefully on top of one another, contents all drank or dumped into one cup for simplicity. Clinking sounds follow him everywhere he goes in the house, and his stack wobbles dangerously as he moves down the stairs.
Will doesn’t look up when Mike comes down, either. He doesn’t know at all why there’s this weird distance between them now. It’s larger than the one from when Will moved to California, because at least there was a sporadic letter with a life update then. At some point, they trickled to a stop until the Byers finally moved back to Hawkins.
He doesn’t understand why fifteen feet feels so much further apart than two thousand miles.
Fine. If Will’s not going to say something, he will. His skin feels all itchy with the idea of a confrontation.
“So, uh, Will?”
Will makes a noise of mild interest. Which is better than nothing, but he used to say more. They used to talk more than this.
“Why did you stop writing? To me, I mean. In Lenora.”
The moment it comes out, he thinks through the gravity of his question. Why would he ask that? It’s not his fault Will decided they would be better off not knowing each other.
There’s a weird, coughing sound. Until Mike realizes that Will’s scoffed at his question, which, what the hell? What’s there to scoff about? It’s a real question, ignoring how it kind of blames Will for their drifting.
“You never answered,” Will says.
“I didn’t think I’d have to.”
He finally looks up, and their eyes meet. He looks confused, maybe hurt. And the look morphs into a sort of acceptance, but Mike has no idea why that journey of emotions would travel across Will’s face.
Another huff of air, and Will turns away. He looks mad, but Mike really doesn’t understand anything Will’s done throughout the conversation. They’ve always been about silent communication; their brushes of hands, bumps of the knees, is almost solely how they used to talk before Will became more outwardly spoken at around seven-and-a-half years old. Mike didn’t think it’d be any different with Will so far away, which must’ve been his first mistake.
“Why?” Will asks, voice interrupting the increasingly long silence.
“Hm?”
Mike can hear him clear his throat from where his head’s angled away from him. “Why didn’t you write back?”
There’s nothing he really can say to remedy the situation. He’s kind of buried himself in too deep to backtrack on the conversation, or redirect and deflect like he would’ve when he was fifteen. But that’s what comes with maturity, isn’t it? Realizing when you’ve fucked up, and maybe even owning up to it on the odd day.
He doesn’t know what to say to fix it.
“I…don’t know.”
“How was I supposed to know you read them, Mike?” Will continues. “That you even received them? For all I knew, you could’ve moved out far away from Hawkins to leave all our friends behind. To leave me.”
His voice is rising higher now, louder. It’s like a year of pent-up anger is just now exploding out of him, the words rising up and spilling out his mouth like bile.
“I read them. I read them,” Mike says. “I read every single one, Will, I swear. I just..”
He trails off lamely. How is he supposed to tell Will that the only thing stopping him from sending a response was how his hand naturally scrawled the words “Love, Mike” at the footnote of every page? What can he say to hide how stupidly pathetic that sounds?
Will’s face is flushed with whatever emotion he’s feeling. Back when they were kids, Will used to be bullied for being so expressive, so he started hiding how he felt at most given opportunities. It got to its peak around the times before and after the Byers moved to Lenora, because Mike felt like they could never go through a conversation without Will carefully wiping every indication of a sentiment blank.
So, it’s weird now that Mike can see Will’s every feeling written so clearly on his face.
“You what?” he snaps. Will used to be gentle. His features are scrunched up in frustration, but Mike can’t tell whether it’s against himself or against him.
“Listen, Will,” he opts for. Will turns his head, just a fraction. It might’ve been a subconscious decision, more instinctual than a real choice, but he’ll take his small victories where he finds them. “You said you missed the clouds. And it was kinda hard to read, but you said you missed me, too.”
Will’s face immediately darkens into an even deeper shade of red, and his head turns away again after his eyes widen just a fraction. “Stop.”
Mike keeps going. “Writing letters is hard, Will. You were right. Why do you think I didn’t send any? It was always easier to talk, like you said.”
“Stop, Mike. Why do you even care?”
He shuffles closer to the couch before realizing that he still has a pile of tupperware in his hands. Retreating into the kitchen to put them in the sink, he calls back, “Of course I do, Will. You’re my best friend.”
Will mumbles something, or maybe he says something at a normal volume and Mike just wasn’t straining his ears enough to hear it from where he is in the kitchen. So, he waits until he sets down his stuff before retreating back into the living room, standing awkwardly at the junction. “What’d you say?”
“Thought Max replaced me. As your best friend,” Will mutters. His face is turned back towards Mike, but he’s still not meeting his eye.
And sure, Max is a good—maybe even great—friend on an off day, even if Mike would never admit that. But what about their relationship gives off best-friendship? What at all about how they interact resembles how he talks with Will?
Will would never say something like that, not if he knew what Mike thinks of him.
“Of course she hasn’t! We’re still best friends, Will. We’re a team, a party. Nothing’s gonna change that.”
Mike knows his volume is rising, too, matching the pitch Will no longer carries. Will’s brow furrows, like something in his statement was wrong.
“Really?” he says, voice dripping with disbelief. “Where’s Dustin right now? What about Lucas? Jane? Max?”
“I don’t know where everyone else is, but I know Max is at home-”
Which clearly must’ve been the wrong thing to say, because Will’s eyes darken, and he looks up at Mike with a glare. “See? You don’t know where anyone is except for Max! You don’t care, and by the way we never hang out anymore, they don’t either and I don’t blame them!”
Right, they never hang out as a party anymore. He didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal, honestly, with everyone essentially going their separate ways before college. And Mike and Max work together, so of course he has to know where she is in case Ned asks.
“Yeah, we don’t go out as a group anymore, but we still hang out!” he protests.
“Hardly!” Will snaps. “You barely ask to hang out after your shifts. And if we do, I’m the one initiating them.”
“I can’t always hang out, Will. I’m tired.”
Will rolls his eyes and nods along to what Mike’s saying. Why doesn’t he believe him?
“But you can always hang out with Max, right? Can’t hang out with the rest of the party, ‘cause we’re not cool enough?” he says flatly. It’s not like Will to be so blunt—usually, he’d talk himself in circles until he either made the point or Mike asked for clarification.
“That’s such a stupid thing to say, Will. You guys are cool, and Max is too.” He hardly pauses before spitting out, “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls.”
He realizes, right in the moment the words spring from his mouth, that he has made a very big mistake. He sounds like Troy, like the girls from work, like Lonnie Byers. He didn’t mean it in that way; he never meant for it to come out like that. It’s too late to take it back, though, because Mike can see the disbelief, then hurt, in Will’s eyes as he processes what he said.
Will physically flinches back, even though they’re eight feet apart. His eyes get all cloudy with tears, and Mike wants to do nothing more than rush over to him and wipe them away and apologize. But he can’t, because his feet are rooted to the ground and his lips are sealed shut.
“Okay,” Will finally replies, meekly and devoid of all fight. He sets down the sketchbook, making sure to flip the cover closed before laying his supplies on top. There’s nothing else around him, so he zips up his jacket, heading towards the door.
Mike doesn’t say anything as Will unlocks the door, pulls it open, and leaves.
He’s stock-still for a couple of minutes, mind blank. He hasn’t had a fight like this with Will ever, and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do. Logically, he should follow him; ride his bike after him in the rain, and beg him to listen. But he’d checked—at least before he left the house earlier in the day—and Holly might’ve taken his bike, because no one’s home and the bike’s missing.
Maybe he should run. He knows the way to the Byers’ by heart, and he could probably make it there blind. It’s, what, a twenty minute walk? But Will’s got a head start on him, and he might not let him in. What’ll he do then? Wait outside and beg like a dog?
He just might.
There’s an ugly pair of blue rainboots awaiting him in front of his door, like it’s fated he’d need them today. They’re a little small on him, clearly purchased for a much younger and much stupider Mike Wheeler, but he can’t claim that he’s not being insanely moronic now.
He ventures out into the rain, watching ahead of him with squinted eyes as it patters against the road. There are already small rivers of it flowing into the drains, sweeping away anything in its path into the slopes. The water’s getting in his eyes, and it’s fucking with his already poor vision.
The first couple blocks are familiarly numb, and there’s no sign of Will anywhere. It makes sense that he knows how to get away quickly, especially after the whole thing with the demogorgon back when they were younger. Briefly, he wonders if Will’s been taken again, but dispels the thought since there’s been no Upside Down activity for so long. It’s a naive line of thought to have, but Mike doesn’t want Will to suffer through that again.
At around halfway to Will’s house, Mike spots writing on the sidewalk. It’s clearly chalk—even he can see that from far away, and it’s getting washed away faster by the second. He walks over to it, boots splashing in the quickly accumulating puddles. He steps into and over a patch of grass to read the words.
On the concrete, spelled out across multiple tiles, is Mike “The Queer” Wheeler.
It’s getting washed away by the rain, letters already disintegrative and running down the slant of the pavement. But it’s unmistakable, the way the words are scrawled on the concrete. There’s no sign of anything else beside it, and it’s written plainly there for anyone strolling by to see. He has no idea how long it’s been there, waiting for him.
They’re laid out in front of him, and it fills him with dread. His eyes, blurry with the rain, run over the words over and over, searching for a sign that it’s a joke or not intended for him. The sinking feeling from earlier that week is back, forcing itself into his throat.
His hands clench into fists, then relax. What can he do?
The rain pours harder, falling down in droves. He’s fucking drenched in this weather. His name has already washed away, but The Queer stays on the sidewalk like a brand. If someone were to come by now, they’d never know it was about him and not made by him. The idea changes nothing, though, because he was there to see it get washed away.
Mike stands there, in front of the remainders, and watches them get washed away, too. The sidewalk is clean, save for the thin streaks of alternating blue and yellow running past his bright blue boots. The rivers of pigment meet no resistance, and they swirl into the already coursing flood of water to muddle it and get washed away into the drain.
It shouldn’t matter to him. He knew what he was getting into, defending Will over and over again after the onslaught of bullying. It shouldn’t matter, but it’s humiliating and it makes him itchy all over his body.
Rain has seeped into his clothes, into his hair, and he hasn’t wiped his eyes since he watched the chalk-water slip past him. He’s cold, and wet, and he doesn’t know if he has it in him to continue.
Mike of a couple years ago would’ve pushed forward without a heartbeat, blindly chasing Will through the rain to pound at his door with an apology already spilling past his lips. Mike from a couple of years ago would kick current-Mike in the shin and look at him like he’s crazy for saying the things he did. He is, but it hurts more in his head now that he can imagine his past self.
“What is wrong with you?” he’d spit. “What. Is. Wrong. With. You?”
And Mike, the pathetic fucking coward he is, would take it and say nothing. Because he has no idea what’s wrong with him, and maybe it’s because he’s heard the shit Ted’s been spouting and maybe it’s because he stopped trying to fight back.
He steps forward, cringing internally at the wet squelch of the grass, and plants his feet right over where the words just were. He looks ahead again, eyes squinting to see a figure. There’s no one there, which means Will’s probably made it home. Hopefully, in a much better state than Mike is in.
He’ll apologize tomorrow. The rain’s getting worse by the second, and his mom’s gonna kill him if he tracks it into the house.
The path home is slower than the way to. He has to keep avoiding large puddles of water in case they get on his pants and then leak into his shoes. There might already be a puddle of it gathering in his rainboots, which entirely defeats the purpose of wearing them.
His keys dangle, quieter this time, as he cups a hand over the lock while he fumbles with them. There’s still no one home when he makes it back inside. Small mercies. He drops the keys in the tray next to the shoe rack, and realizes there’s something else in his pocket.
The 3-pack of Reese's finds itself at the scene of the crime. They’re frosty in his hand as he brandishes them, and there are a few lingering small drops of water on the plastic wrapper. He debates on whether or not he should eat them, or wait to deliver them to Will tomorrow along with his apology and explanation.
He drops them in the tray, next to his keys, and shuffles himself upstairs to change and maybe take a shower.