Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It starts like this:

Every week, Michelle plays Angel in games of chess.  

She’s in the communal center with a plethora of other Wheeler’s mingling around.  Goth is fixing up his makeup and jewelry, Royal is dueling Paladin, Twilight (Swan) is reading, and Dead Poets (Perry) is practicing his lines with Actor.

She fixes the ribbon holding her hair up, biting her lip as she tries to figure out how to get out of check.  It’s futile, she knows.  Angel always wins.

She’s down to her queen, king, and a few pawns.  

“Check,” Angel teases, shifting to put his head in the palm of his hand.  She doesn’t need to look up to see that smug look on his face.  Blindly, she reaches out to hit him on the arm.

“Shut up, I’m thinking.”

“Well think faster.”

Michelle hits him again.

Angel wins that round, obviously.  But Michelle’s never been one to back down.  No Wheeler ever is.  Angel taunts and tries to distract her with small talk, but it doesn’t work.  If anything, it makes her more vengeful and pissed off.

Throughout their matches, more and more Wheeler’s filter in and out.  A few sit around to watch their chess match.  She catches stray conversations about a concert and wonders if she’ll want to see it.

Halfway through what Michelle thinks is their fifth game, Vampire pulls up a chair.  If she were a hopeful person, she’d say it was to help.  But it’s more likely that he wants to heckle for his own amusement.

When she moves her last rook, Vampire makes a noise in the back of his throat.  Immediately, she looks up and exhales sharply.  “What!?” She hisses.

Vampire shrugs, “Not what I would’ve done.”  He crosses a leg over the other and leans back in his chair.  She has half the mind to pull it out from under him.

“Wrath is a dangerous thing,” Angel says as if reading her mind.  He probably is actually.  Mentally she tries to tell him to fuck off, but if he can hear her he ignores it and moves his queen to take out her last pawn.  “You don’t want it to take control, do you?”

She rolls her eyes.  “So is pride.”  The one thing religious guilt is good for: remembering the Sins.  

Vampire lets out a loud laugh before covering his mouth.  “Got you there.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

Someone drapes themself over her shoulders, braided hair smacking her in the face as they fiddle with some trinket in their hand.  “C’mon,” they drag out, sounding like a whine.

Oh, it’s Arcane.  Or Curse, as he prefers.  

“Drop the innocent act, you’re like, the most prideful of all of us!” He raises his hands above his head before moving to stand across from Vampire.  “So much for being an angel.  Do what you preach and all that shit.”  Then he drops himself onto the table, knocking the game to the ground.

“What the hell!” She yelps, jumping in her seat.

“I was just about to win!” Angel frets, already starting to pick up the pieces from the ground.

Vampire freezes, “Get your hair out of my lap.”

Curse flops them all off his her prosthetic finger and goes back to messing with—

“He’s got a gun!” Someone shrieks.  

“It’s empty, you bitch!” Curse shouts, aiming the gun at a wall and pulling the trigger.  Thankfully, nothing comes out and he goes back to tinkering with it.  “Can’t even shoot anyone anyway,” he mumbles.

“A gun is still very triggering for some of us!”

“Pussy!”

“Curse!” Angel gasps like he doesn't swear when he thinks no one’s listening.  Vampire flicks Curse on the forehead hard enough for it to make a sound and suddenly they’re on the floor in a cat fight.

Michelle pays no mind to them as they roll away on the ground in a heap of limbs and helps put the chess pieces to where they were before.  She promises to herself that this will be the last game, no matter the results.

Angel starts the game.  “You are off today.”

She hums, frowning up at him before focusing on the board.  “What makes you say that?”

“Normally, it is more of a challenge to beat you,” he starts.  

“Gee, thanks.”

He clears his throat, silently telling her to shut the fuck up. “Sometimes, I am prepared to lose.  I know you may not see it, but you improve with every game.”  He makes his move before placing his hands over another on his knee.  He looks at her with nothing but concern.  “What ails you, my friend?”

Normally, Michelle would see this as nothing but pity.  The majority of the time she’s asked this question it’s condescending.  She still struggles to believe that people can mean this in a caring way.

It’s gotten easier: Willow truly has the patient of a saint.  

She shrugs.  “I don’t know, I–” she cuts herself off.  She doesn’t know how to explain it, because she is fine.  She’s not having an episode, her mom hasn’t reappeared in her life, and Willow and her are planning on getting an apartment together for college.  Her life literally could not be better.  “It’s like…” she rubs a hand over her face before it lands on her necklace to mess with.

“I’m fine, I know I am.  I was fine yesterday and I was fine last week– but I just.. I have this feeling, I guess?  In my gut that something is going to happen.”

Angel straightens up.  “Good or bad?”

She scratches at her collar bone.  “That’s the problem– I can’t tell.  The last time I got this, El nearly got arrested in California!” She exclaims, waving a hand around as she talks, something every Wheeler does.

Angel furrows his brows.  His wings are ruffled.  They tend to get like that when he’s stressed or thinking about something really hard, almost like they have a mind of his own.  Michelle’s been told stories about how his Willow (or his Will, if we’re going by name) tends to them whenever he can.  She never touched them, but she wonders if they really are as soft as they look.

She shifts in her seat and fixes her skirt so it isn’t ridding up anymore, but it’s futile with her leg bouncing, Mary Jane’s hitting against the floor every so often.  “I just– Willow would say I’m worrying myself sick but I can’t shake it.  I’m- I’m not being paranoid, I’m not making it up, It’s not all in my head– and I know she wouldn’t mean it in bad faith, but I can’t tell her.  The feeling gets stronger when I’m in here and it’ll sound like I’m crazy, but I’m not.”

“Hey,” Angel reaches over and rests his hand on the table in an offering.  “Nobody said you were.  If I know anything about being a Wheeler, it's that you never doubt their instincts.”  He gives her a smile when she reaches out to squeeze his hand.  “Everyone here has felt the same way.”

Michelle rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.  “Obviously, we all branch from the same person.”  She lets go of his hand and he leans back in his chair.

He nods at the board, “Do you want to finish the game?  If you wish, we can restart.”

She laughs, “I don’t think I’m up for losing again.”  She stands up, grabs her messenger bag, and pushes the chair in as Angel bids her a goodbye.

Michelle’s not sure where she wants to go.  Maybe to the coffee shop?  Or to see what’s going to be playing at the concert to see if she can get ABBA.  She’s been really into them lately.

She leaves the communal center and decides to walk to the park.  The streets are full of different variants, and she makes short, idle conversations with a few of them.  Sometimes, she’ll spot a new one and go out of her way to introduce herself and tell them everything they need to know.  She hasn’t done that in a few weeks.

The weather is how it’s been for the last months: a cloudy sky with moderate temperature.  She doesn't hate it, but she prefers feeling the sun on her skin.  She does like it not being in her eyes though.

The park itself was something that was built for the younger ones, it’s where they spend most of their time.  It’s close to the outskirts of the city, with a forest lining the border.  If she looks above the trees, she can make out a castle and tower.

It’s surrounded by flowers and has a large playground in the corner, holding a sandpit, jungle gym, and multiple swings.  

She sits herself on a bench facing the playground and pulls a notebook and pencil out of her bag.  A few kids call out to her and she greets them back before focusing on what she’s doing.

Michelle’s been meaning to write a campaign for the summer as a farewell.  The Party is all going their separate ways, but that’s not to say they won’t ever see each other again.  It’s more of a formality.

She knows Max and El don’t particularly care for DnD, so this is her chance to try and get them into the game.  It needs to be better than good, it needs to be perfect.  She’s already ripped out multiple pages.  Willow has told her it just needs to be fun, but Michelle has taken to ignoring that suggestion.

She looks up from the scribbled down ideas when someone sits besides her.  Dark chocolate eyes meeting ghostly white.

“What are you doing?” Vecna’d asks, even though he clearly knows what she’s doing.  

“Sometimes I forget you can see here.”

He grins, “I don’t have joint pain here either.”

She groans.  Every Wheeler that’s dealt with Vecna seems to have one common factor: chronic pain.  Whether it be from migraines or broken bones.  “Don’t remind me.  If Willow finds out I haven’t taken my meds in a week she’ll be on my ass.”

Vecna’d winces at her.  “You’re still on those?  I thought they didn’t work well.”

“I don’t have anything else.”  She turns back to her notebook.  She doesn’t want to talk about this, it’s always been a sore spot.

He makes a noise of sympathy but doesn’t push it.  Silently, she thanks him for it.  “You still didn’t answer my question.”

She rolls her eyes but there’s no heat behind it.  She doesn’t look at him when she says, “I’m trying to plan out a final campaign, but nothing is working.”

“Oh, I haven’t written one of those in forever.”  

She looks at him in confusion.

“Max— well, my Max writes them down for me.  El helps too sometimes.  It’s so the rest of the Party doesn’t get any spoilers, but I miss actually writing them down myself.  It’s weirdly therapeutic,” he clarifies.  “Cause, you know, being blind and shit.”

“I don’t know, actually.  What is it like?”

He shoves her lightly.  “Smart-ass,” he says as she laughs.

“Shhh, there are kids here!”  She points at the park

“Please, they’ve all heard worse.”

“Well we still need to set a good example.”

They both flinch harshly at the sudden voice from behind them, almost getting whiplash by how fast their necks snap.

Dad, or Parent, stands with his hands on his hips.  He was born the same year as her but he’s older because in his time, it’s 2026.  His smile lines and graying hair makes him look like her dad before he decided to bleach his hair.

He fixes them both with a look of dissatisfaction.  Vecna’d at least has the decency to look apologetic.  Michelle tries to calm down her heartbeat.  This is not helping that feeling in her gut.

She fixes him with a look.  “Did you not say Goth’s outfit was ‘cunt’ last week?”

“You can’t say that,” Vecna’d stage-whispers.

“I mean it as a compliment, not an insult.  Like how modern me says it.”

Dad crosses his arms.  “No,” he states.  “That was the younger— modern version of me.  Nice to know I still look so young that we can get mixed up.”

She snorts, looking back at her notebook.  “Keep telling yourself that.”

He whacks her on the back of the head, right on her ponytail.

“Ow!  You ass—“

“Shh!” Dad shushes her, putting a finger in front of his lips and nodding to the playground.

“But—“

“Shh!”

She scrunches her face in anger, pointing an accusing finger at him as he walks around the bench to sit next to Vecna’d who is sitting like a broom is strapped to his back.  Michelle gives up on trying to say anything else and goes back to her notebook grumbling to herself.

Not getting any new ideas, she starts to tap her pencil rhythmically on the paper and looks up to watch the kids.

Cliff runs up to them.  He’s stained with blood in multiple spots, and his hair is stuck to his forehead from the permanent Quarry water.  His eyes are pitch black but there’s still a childlike wonder in them.

Just seeing him makes Michelle want to cry.  He was too young to die.

“Tell Mini I don’t have to swing high to have fun!” He whines, sounding on the verge of tears.  He places a hand on Vecna’d knee, the other pointing behind himself.  He’s rocking back and forth.

“Swinging high is the only right way to swing!” Mini shouts.  When Michelle looks toward him, it seems like he’s about to flip over the top of the swing.

“No it's not!”

“You’re no fun!”

As they go back and forth, Dad sighs and gets to his feet.  “I’ll deal with it.”  He places a hand on Cliff’s shoulder, gently directing him to the swings.  

Michelle watches them go.

Vecna’d shifts in his seat.  “Is it.. bad that I can’t help but feel sad anytime I see him?”

Michelle moves her attention to him.  He’s staring at the three others with glosses over eyes.  He doesn’t sound choked up.

“No I,” she glances to the ground, running a hand through the bits of her hair that’s fallen out of the ponytail, “I get the same way.”

“Bad memories, yeah.”

“But we got off scot-free.”

Vecna’d bites his lip.  “It feels selfish.”

She scoffs quietly, looking back at the three.  Mini and Cliff seem to be making up with Dad supervising.  “Everything we do does.”

Vecna’d doesn’t say anything else, and Michelle doesn’t try to carry on the conversation.  She puts her notebook and pencil away and watches the sky instead.  She closes her eyes, allowing the breeze and conversations to wash over her.  It’s calming.

She can hear people racing down the street—

Wait…

There’s a lot of shouting.

She opens her eyes to squint at the road.  She should’ve put in her contacts at least, because it looks like a fucking stampede.  Everyone is running in the same direction; towards the city center.

She stands to get a better view and catches the other at the park doing the same.

“What..”

She can’t tell if people are running in panic.  Hell, even the Wheelers that stay in the forest are in the crowd.

Faintly, she hears, “He’s here!” repeated over and over.

She looks to Vecna’d who shrugs.  Slowly, she makes her way to the edge of the sidewalk.  

 She grabs at the first wrist she can.

Half-Blood nearly falls on his face, whipping around to look at her.  His gray eyes, normally calculating, are wide in excitement.

“What the hell is happening!?” She yells over the crowd.  “Who’s here!?”

Half-Blood uses the grip she has on his wrist to push them forward.  “He is!” He answers, and when Michelle looks at him she sees a smile on his face.  Still, it doesn’t answer anything.

“Who!?”

“Mike!”

Michelle nearly trips over her own feet.

She needs to get to the front.

“Move!”

She’s always been a fast runner, having to deal with the Upside Down just made her stamina better.  The problem is, most of the other Wheelers are in the same boat.  She has to resort to brute force— something she’ll apologize about later.

She almost falls multiple times, you should never run in a skirt, but in no time she gets to where the crowd stops.  She pushes her way to the front and looks—

—there!

He’s laying on the ground a few feet from the fountain like he’s fallen out of the sky.  Doctor and Apocalypse are standing on opposite sides of him while Princess, Modern, and Adult are doing crowd control.  

She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “Hey!”

Modern looks over to her.  A relieved smile overtakes his face and he runs over to drag her towards the body on the ground.  She can hear some complaints from people behind them but it sounds like white noise if anything.

Michelle stands at his head before crouching down.  Apocalypse taps his arm with his shotgun as Doctor checks the pulse.  

“How can we be sure it’s him?” Apocalypse asks, tapping his arm again.

“Stop that,” Doctor chastises, hitting the shotgun.  He sighs, “We won’t know anything until he wakes up.”

“He could be dangerous.”

“He could be Mike,” Michelle counters.  She brushes some of his hair out of his face so it doesn’t get in his eyes.  Weird, she thinks, it’s not curly.  “Can’t we move him somewhere else?”

Doctor glances at her, “It wouldn’t be safe to.”

“Do we know how he got here?” She asks.

Apocalypse shrugs, “Maybe he figured it out?”

“That’s optimistic”

They all turn to the person sitting a few feet away.  How did none of them see him there?  

Realization hits her.  “No..”

Because sitting there on a bench, carelessly flipping through a binder, is Witch.  “I had to,” he states.

“Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I took a dive into his brain— cannot even begin to describe the amount of repression—“

“How did you get into his head—!?”

“—so I brought him here.”  Witch slams the binder close and looks at them all.  “If he can’t figure it out on his own but we can, what does that say about the state of this world?”

Apocalypse chokes.  “Literally nothing—“

The body on the ground shifts.

“I thought we could help him ourselves.”

— - —

Holly, Derek, and their friends rush past him to the basement.  He left out all the things they’d need for a beginner campaign, as well as the characters he made for them.  He hopes they like them; it had him locked in his room for a whole weekend.

“Don’t break anything!” He advises, trying to make sure his voice doesn’t crack.

“We won’t!” Derek shouts.

“Yes, mom!” Holly groans.  She’s DMing, and he gave her the basic run down on everything she needed to know.  They spent the last few days writing a short campaign together.  It went surprisingly well.

Mike closes the door behind him and wipes away his tears.  El is standing against the wall next to him, her eyes watering as well.

He doesn't understand why; this won’t be the last time they all see each other.  All of their colleges are relatively close and they still have most of the summer together.  Maybe it’s because high school is over, or maybe it’s finally hitting that the Upside Down won’t be coming back.

“That was a great game,” El starts gently, “I can see why you enjoy it so much.  You are very good at storytelling.”

“It’s not a game, but thank you.”

El gently takes his hand.  “I believe this is the fourth time I’ve ever seen you cry.”

“You’ve been keeping count?” He rubs at his eyes again.  They still burn, but he finds that if he stops breathing he’ll stop crying.

“It’s not hard to.”  She keeps her eyes trained on his face.  “Do you need a moment?”  Her speaking has gotten considerably better within the last year and a half.  Mike likes to think his English lessons are helping.

He shakes his head.  “No I— I’m fine,” he dismisses.  He keeps a hold on El’s hand.  It’s grounding.  “Just— emotions running high, you know?”

But by the look on her face— tightening the moment the words leave, along with her grip— she doesn’t believe him.  Honestly, he wasn’t expecting her to; she knows him too well.

“Friends don’t lie,” she says softly, like Mike's some wild animal waiting to defend itself.

“I’m not lying.”

(Mike can’t tell the difference between a lie and a truth anymore.  At least, not from his own mouth or thought.  He says what people want to hear and thinks what he can’t say.  Sometimes he gets lucky and they match up, most of the time he can’t tell if what he believes is true— all he can do is pray.

He’s never really liked to pray)

Luckily, El doesn’t push.

She smiles, her eyes squinting— her smile lines appearing before her face shifts into something more scheming.  She leans in, and Mike copies her posture until their foreheads are nearly touching.  He has to go cross-eyed  to look at her properly.  “Do you think you could convince Ms. Wheeler to let us all sleepover tonight?  I believe we all could use it,” she whispers, like she’s confessing her deepest, darkest secret.

He grins.  “Not if Dustin gets to it first.”

They both lean back and El giggles into her hand.  She still hasn’t let go of his.

There was a time where he didn’t think he could ever have this; the comfort and simplicity that comes with El’s friendship.  He knows now that they were never good for each other romantically, but he believes he’s always known to some extent.

(Of course, he still believes he doesn't deserve this— any of this.  Sometimes he thinks the only thing he deserves is to die, but he can’t tell anyone that.  They’ll call him crazy.

Out of everyone involved in the Upside Down, he got off the easiest— hell, his mom nearly died all while he sat around and did nothing.

(Maybe if he had let Will stay that night, none of this would’ve happened)

(Maybe it is all his fault)

But, deserving and having are two different things)

He can now truly say he loves her, because it’s not tied to a lie.

El rubs her finger gently across his knuckle, and he suddenly realizes just how tired he is.

He swallows.  “I—I’m alright.”

She gets this look on her face that he can’t decipher, but before she can say anything Lucas pops his head around the corner.  “Hey lovebirds!” He hollers.  “Hurry up before Dustin eats everything!”

“Hey!”

Lucas walks back, snickering to himself.  El finally drops his hand and Mike mourns at the lost warmth it provided.  “You would think they’d have figured it out.”

Mike shrugs.  “They’ve never been the sharpest tools in the shed.” 

El looks at him like he’s crazy.

“They’re— dense.”

She stares.

“Stupid.”

“Oh,” she says.  And then she slaps him on the arm.  “Don’t say that, it’s mean.”

He holds the spot she hit.  It wasn’t very hard, but he knows it’ll turn up red for the next few hours.  He holds up his other hand in surrender.  “Okay, okay— I won’t.”

“Even if it is true.”

“Including Max?”

“Except for Max,” she reasons.  Mike only agrees because he doesn’t want to be hit again.

Their laughter carries them to the dining room to where Will and Dustin are fighting over food as mom brings more out.  Lucas and Max, it seems, are egging them on.  El and Mike share a look before taking their seats.

Mike sits at the head of the table across from where mom will sit, El at his left and Will at his right.  Lucas and Max are next to each other on the right with Dustin across from them.  

He tries to reach for the pasta but hesitates.  He’s not all that hungry.  He might take a few spoonfuls and then pick at it enough to where it looks like he just got too much.  He also wishes to not be caught in the crossfire, so he settles for a piece of garlic bread instead.

El quickly gets pulled into conversation and Mike is content to just watch.  Despite it being only lunch, he can feel his energy slowly draining away.

He lets himself zone out, conversation washing over him as he picks at the garlic bread.  

Everything had changed since they stopped the world from ending.  He’d gotten used to the Upside Down clouding over them for the last five years; it feels weird not having the urge to look over his shoulder for man-eating creatures.

Close to no one came out unscathed: Max is half blind, Jane is half deaf, Dustin has a permanent limp— and that’s not even counting all the invisible pain and scars.  Mike, himself, finds there’s nothing wrong with him.  A few scars here and there, like the one along his nose from the Starcourt. But overall nothing drastic happened to him.

(He tries to ignore the seeming constant migraines, pain, and how sometimes— most of the time— he doesn’t have the will or want to get out of bed.  He tries to ignore the sick, disgusting feeling that crawls under his skin, woven into his heart.  He tries to ignore how the self-loathing hangs in a noose around his neck, choking him to where the only thing he can say is ‘I’m fine’.

He ignores many things)

You leave for California one time, then for a year and a half, Hawkins is shut down and everything changes.  

One of the most unexpected things to come out of everything, in Mike's opinion, was his parents divorce and his moms sobriety.  He had assumed they had given up in their marriage, but also didn’t want to put in the effort for a divorce.  He is glad, don’t get him wrong.  He— he hates his Ted, and his family is happier without him.  Dustin is sure to remind him all the time.

He didn’t feel anything really, when they announced their divorce.  It was the spring break after they deceased Vecna.  His mom told his sisters and him that they were going to live with her in Hawkins, while Ted would move back to his hometown in Buffalo.  They were meant to go with him for summers, but that agreement ended because Dustin was quick to bring up the negligence.

Mike's still now realizing how.. little his dad was in his life.  At first, he wouldn’t have noticed anything different if it weren’t for the missing back handed compliments and thinly veiled insults he’s grown used to.

But then he found his mom cleaning and singing.  She listens to music a lot— he’s found they have surprisingly similar tastes— when she gardens, cooks, reads, there’ll be music playing.  

Mike has a vague memory of her singing to him when he was young.  He can’t exactly recall when it stopped, but he knows it was close to when her drinking got more heavy.

She’s always had this weight to her, likes there’s something pushing on her shoulders and holding her down.  He knows now that part of it was her marriage, but it felt like it was him.  He feels selfish thinking that.

He saw it start to lift after the divorce.  Once, he was really sick and had to stay home from school for a week.  It was during winter, so it may have been pneumonia, but it all faded into a feverish haze.  Normally, he wakes up early— always had, always will.  But he didn’t get up until lunch that whole week.

When he finally made it downstairs, he ran into his mom in the kitchen with ABBA playing from the record player.  He didn’t notice it at first, probably because she was trying to keep quiet, but once he made it to the counter, her back turned to him, he could hear it.

She was singing again.

He didn’t bring it up, and as weeks turned into months, she started to grow happier, causing her to drink less.

All his life, his mom drank.  Between her and Lonnie— he feels he shouldn’t compare the two.  It’s unfair to the Byers; Lonnie was an abusive piece of shit while his mom, at most, would yell but so does everyone in the family— he grew a strong dislike for alcohol of any kind.  He can’t stand the smell and how it makes people act.

He’d lock himself in the basement with Holly in the rare times she would get really drunk, like black out, stumbling around drunk.  Sometimes, Nancy was invited along.  He framed it as a secret movie night.  Nancy would give him this look when he’d tell Holly, but she wouldn’t give away the real reason.

And when mom would drink, her and dad would fight.  Nancy used to have him stay in her room for the night.  She’d put headphones on him and set the music loud.  They’d spend the night huddled in her bed, the covers pulled over their heads with flashlights in hand as they read the books Nancy keeps on her shelves.  

It was always romance or biographies, but if Mike got lucky— or if there was a really bad fight— Nancy would go to his room and pick out one of his books.  Of course, he had to agree to let her paint his nails or something so she could get the practice but he never fought against it.

He would complain, but nothing more.  She was already doing so much for him, it was the least he could do in return.  Even if it got him called a fairy, a queer, a—

She stopped when she got to high school, but he made sure to do it for Holly.  He expected to keep up with the routine until he left for college, if he even got in.

So when, a week after getting out of the hospital, their mom explained that she was going to purge all of the alcohol out of the house, making a promise to do better, it was hard to hold back tears.  He helped her through the withdrawal process and hiding the bad days from Holly, despite her most likely knowing.

The guilt that came with it may have been the hardest part.  He could see it biting away at his mom’s resilience, and he did his best to reassure her.  He’s not the best at words, so he would cook and host a movie night for her.  There would always be hot chocolate, even if it was definitely not the weather it was made for.

Ted would call him girly and make relatively sexist comments under his breath, but his mom would hold him and say he was kind.

It was easy to feel confident in those moments.  He started to look forward to them, if he ignored the reason behind them.

But his mom would guide his head to her shoulder and he would catch sight of the scars damning her neck, he would remember her laying on a hospital bed, coated in her own blood just barely hanging on, and Holly was gone and Max was in a coma and Will was losing himself and Mike just fucking stood there—

“Mike?”

Mike blinds once, then twice.  He looks at his hands because they sting.

Oh.

He’s picking at his cuticles again.

The small holes in his skin aren’t deep, aren’t as bad as they used to get, but he can see small flakes of blood tinting his fingers.  

His garlic bread is gone, maybe that’s why; he needed something to pick and peel and his fingers were the next best thing.

He doesn't want to bleed all over the table, it would ruin everyone’s mood.  He shifts in his seat before rubbing his hands over his jeans, pulling and twisting at any loose strings in reach.

“Mike,” Will says, more stern than before.  Mike finches slightly when Will puts his hand on his shoulder.  Will is quick to take his hand off.

(Mike wants to tell— wants to beg Will to allow Mike to keep Will’s hand on his shoulder.  The touch, even just the slightest graze, burns his skin in a way the sun never could.

But he can’t ask, because he’s sick)

Will gives him a half smile.  “You’re zoning out again.”  It feels like they are in their own bubble, completely separate from the others.  It always does, it's how they work.  

Will has to talk a little louder than they both would prefer because of the noise from the others, but in that moment all Mike can see is the pity in his eyes.  His throat grows tight.

“Yeah— sorry,” he says, eyes flicking back to his hands.  Two of his fingers are tangled in a string that definitely wasn’t that big before.  If he were to twist it a bit more, he could cut off circulation.

Will bumps his shoulder, or tries to.  The angle is awkward so all he manages to do is knock against the table.  Mike glances at him.

“Do you want some pasta?” Will asks.  “You haven’t eaten much.”

He’s not hungry.  He hasn’t been in a long time, but he can’t just say that.  Will will get worried, and then the others will get worried, and he can’t bother them with this.  It’s one of his stupid issues he has no reason to have.

So he shrugs unhelpfully, looking down again.  The action makes guilt crawl up his throat like bile.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Will stretch over the table.  “Dustin, pass the pasta.”

Mike snaps up.  He doesn't want to eat.

Dustin, who is in the middle of putting more of said dish on his plate, pauses his conversation with the others.  He flicks the spoon at Will.  “Wait your turn.”

“You’ve had like, ten servings man,” Will protests.

“Okay, first of all, I’ve only had two.  Second of all—“ he shovels more on his plate, having the noise it makes be his point.

Max snorts, leaning into her chair.  “Yeah— two hundred maybe.”

Dustin flips her off.  El pushes his hand down, but she’s laughing throughout the interaction.

“Calling me fat, Mayfield?”

“And what if I am?”

“It’s okay man,” Lucas soothes.  “I think you look hot.”  He smirks, puckering his lips like he expects a kiss.  

“Lucas,” Dustin fake swoons.  “Not in public!”

Max rolls her eyes, pretending to swallow a gag.  She always does the same routine when Dustin and Lucas do this.

They started after Will’s coming out.  It was a way to make sure Will knew they were fine with his sexuality without making him feel different.  They used to do this to El and Mike whenever they did something that was deemed “romantic”.  Luckily, they’ve toned it down, but Mike still wonders how they haven’t caught on to their break up yet.

Will takes the teasing in stride.  Mike thinks they overdo it at times, but he’s not— not gay so his opinion doesn’t matter.  

It doesn’t matter that shame runs down his spine, or that he can feel his skin grow dirty and flushed.  He tells himself he’s being completely unreasonable; this is for Will, why does Mike— how does Mike find a way to make it about himself?

There has to be something wrong with him— with Mike.  There always is.  It’s why El and his relationship didn’t work, it’s why Nancy and him fight, it why his dad fucking hates him.  There’s no doubt in his mind that he’s what’s wrong .  Maybe he— maybe his subconscious has a problem with Will being gay that he just hasn’t realized yet.

He hopes that’s not the case.  He’s a shit friend, he knows, but this is the one thing he cannot afford to mess up.  He would lose not just Will, but everyone.

There’s nothing wrong with Will: he’s perfect, and kind, and— so much better than Mike is at everything but that’s an easy feat for anyone.  He deserves to be happy.

So why can’t Mike feel anything besides his heart rotting whenever he looks at him?

God, he’s selfish.

(Maybe you should just— kill yourself, a part of him whispers.  Go take a jump off the Quarry, you’ve done it before)

Will squeezes his eyes close like he’s contemplating the repercussions of jumping the both of them.  He won’t, obviously, but everyone entertains the thoughts once in a while.  Or, at least, Mike does whenever someone’s being an asshole.

“El, would you like some pasta?” Dustin asks, purposefully oblivious to her full plate.  Mike is thankful that he’s dragging this, he really isn’t hungry.

El giggles, sparing a glance at Will before taking the bowl.  “Yes please,” she answers, taking her sweet time to spoon tiny bits onto her plate.

Normally, she wouldn't do this.  But Mike knows she’s growing into her role as ‘annoying little sister’ now that she isn’t being hunted down by the government.

Max laughs as Lucas brings his arm over the back of her chair.  Will reaches over again, pausing for a second to place another piece of garlic bread on Mike’s place.  El gives the bowl back to Dustin.

Mike wants to tell them to stop, just for Will’s sake.  He’s started to look less annoyed and more angry.

“Dustin— c’mon man.  Just pass the bowl.”

Dustin sighs.  “Okay,” he says before passing the bowl to Lucas.

Mike laughs to himself at the action.  He’s started to break apart his bread, trading his skin and jeans for food.  He keeps his eyes mainly on his own plate, looking up every time someone talks.

Sometimes, he likes to pretend he’s not in the room with others.  He’ll stop talking and decide to watch instead.  He likes seeing how people interact with each other.

“Lucas—“

“Will, it’s fine,” Mike says softly, hesitantly putting a hand on his arm.  He feels his skin grow hot when Will looks at him almost immediately.  There’s a shift in Will’s expression.  “I can wait, just— let them get distracted and then take it.”

Will keeps looking at him, and then his eyes flick to Mike's hand on his arm for a second.  It’s short to where most people wouldn’t see it, but Mike’s always been more in tune with Will than others.  

Mike rips his hand off like he’s been burned, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap.  He hopes he didn’t get Will dirty.

Will clears his throat into his fist.  “Yeah I know.  But—“ he inhales.  Mike spares him a glance.  He’s looking everywhere but him.  “You—“ he cuts himself off.

Something close to dread bubbles in his stomach.  Why didn’t Will finish his sentence?  What has Mike done this time to warrant this kind of response?  

“I,” he drags.  He leans into Will’s space a little, plastering a teasing smile.  Maybe if he can make it seem like nothing's wrong, Will will tell him.  “What?  Come on, you can tell me.”

Will pointingly looks away, but Mike can see him fighting a smile.  Good, that’s good.  “You know you can tell me anything.”

“I know.”

“So,” he grins.  “What were you going to say?”

Will shrugs and finally looks at him.  It makes his stomach flip for a reason he doesn’t understand.  “Why do you want to know so badly?  It could’ve been— I don’t know, some dumb idea I had for DnD.”

“Your ideas are never numb,” he deflects immediately, it’s practically second nature at this point.  He narrows his eyes, still grinning.  “Just— humor me.”

Will shrugs.  “I forgot.”

Mike blinks, “You forgot?”  He questions.  Part of him wants to believe that, part of him knows that it’s a lie.  He could confront Will about it, but it’s the middle of lunch and it’ll damage the mood.  Mike doesn’t want to make it awkward for his stupid, selfish desires.

Will nods, going back to his plate.  Mike leans back into his chair, keeping his eyes on Will.  “Yes Mike, I forgot what I was going to say.  I might— remember later, and if I do I’ll tell you.”

Mike hums.  He picks at his cuticles.  God, he’s such an idiot.

His mom comes back to the dining room, placing down the last of the food and setting a hand on his shoulder before taking her seat.  Mike would fight to have it just be them, but he’s still worried for her.  He wonders how lonely it’ll be when he moves out for college and it’s just her and Holly.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear you from the kitchen,” she says, looking at Dustin.  “Pass the pasta to the right person this time.”

“Yes Mrs. Wheeler.”  The bowl is set in front of Mike.  Now, he has to put some on his plate.  It’ll look weird if he doesn’t.  “Have I told you how happy I am that you and Ted aren’t together anymore?”

Max sighs, slowly reaching for her water.  “Only every time you see her.”

“And I stand with that,” he defends.  “This whole house has ground happier now that that son of a bitch isn’t here.”

Mom lightly smacks that back of his head.  “Language.”

“Yes Mrs. Wheeler.  Sorry Mrs. Wheeler.”

“I’ve told you to call me Karen.”

“Jesus man,” Lucas says.  “Just say you have a crush on her.”

Dustin gasps, mortified.

“I thought he liked Jane—“ Will starts, but El slaps a hand over his mouth before he can continue.  The damage is done, everyone already knows what he said. 

Dustin gasps again.  “This is false.”

“She’s already dating— Mike,” Max says, a fake shiver running down her spine at his name.

“I would never stoop so low to like my friend's girlfriend.  That’s just too far.”

El takes a sip of her juice.  “Didn’t you have a crush on Max?”

“In middle school!  Plus, she and Lucas weren’t dating yet!”

“Don’t remind me,” Max groans.

“I can't believe you are all going to college,” Mom pipes up.  

“I’m not,” Max reminds.  “And neither is Jane.  Cause we both didn’t finish school— with being in a coma and in hiding.  So we both have to do summer school to make up the hours.”  She rolls her eyes.  “I think it’s stupid.”

“I think it’s necessary,” Lucas says, dodging the hand that comes to hit his arm, then holding it in his own and squeezing.  “At least then you can go— maybe move in with me if it’s close?”

“I’m not making it to Duke.”

“At least we are staying here.”  El smiles.  “That way when you guys come to visit for breaks, we will get to hang out and spend time together.”

“Yeah, but we’re going all over the states,” Dustin laments.  “I’m going to Massachusetts.”

“But you got into Harvard,” Mom reasons.  Then she looks to the rest of the table.  “You all got into amazing colleges.  Yale, Duke, UPenn, Harvard.  That’s no small achievement.  You should be proud of yourself, lord knows I could never get into any of those.”

“Thank god for hush money,” Will sighs.  “No clue how I snagged something that wasn’t a community.”

The government, as a way to make sure nothing went public, gave everyone involved with the Upside Down a lot of hush money.  They said not to call it that, but that’s what it is.  The Byers and Mayfields (after Max’s mom was told about their adventures) spent some of theirs on new houses closer to everyone.  Most of the money is going towards colleges and their futures.

No one complained, obviously.  Mike isn’t sure how much was actually given, he wasn’t paying attention when they were told, but it’s close to the millions, maybe somewhere in them if he’s feeling optimistic.

Mike moves his food around his plate with his fork, content to just listen.

Someone bumps their ankle against his— Will.  When he looks at him, Will smiles.  Mike tries to return it.  He bumps his ankle back.

Mom sets her utensils down.  “We would've helped your family with the expenses, Will.”

Will flushes slightly.  “No, no— you wouldn’t have to.”

“Well— not now, of course, but I would’ve put aside some money for you.  I did it for Jonathan.”  

“And you don’t need to do it for me,” he argues. 

Mom nods, thankfully dropping the topic.  Will never liked to talk about his family's financial problems.  With how long his mom has been friend with Ms. Byers, she should know this by now.  But she’s always been a little oblivious to things about money.

Dustin stuffs his face full of lasagna.  “Who’s goin’ the furthest away?”

Max’s face screws up in disgust.  “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Dustin chews louder.  Lucas ignores them in favor of answering.  “Uhm— pfft, maybe mister Yale over there!”  He ‘oohhs’ like a hype man at Mike, who freezes when everyone’s attention turns to him.

He clears his throat.  “It’s not a big deal,” he mumbles.

He has no clue why people are so caught up in his acceptance.  Maybe because his grades weren’t as good as the others, or they expected him to be a drop out like his dad does.  

His mom sighs.  “I’m going to miss you when you leave,” she mourns.  “I can’t believe you’re going all the way to Connecticut.”

“You didn’t act this way when Nancy left.”

“Nancy was always so independent,” she waves off.  “I knew she’d get into a college far away— every time I look at you, I still see my little boy.”

Someone snickers, and Mike feels his face grow hot.  He hates all the attention on him, he’d rather lock himself in the basement for a few hours than talk to anyone right now.  

He doesn’t want to talk about college, or food, or fucking— anything.  It makes the dread crawl up his throat, and he hates that feeling because it only makes him more uncomfortable and anxious and everyone still just— looking at him, expecting a response that he can’t give which makes everything awkward—

He stands suddenly, taking the others aback.  “I need to use the bathroom,” he says, not letting himself hear anything other than his own footsteps.

When he gets to the bathroom, he locks the door before leaning over the sink.  He tries to not gag because god.

He looks disgusting.

His eyes look bruised with how dark the eyebags are.  They pop out harshly against his pale skin; he’s always been pale, but it’s never been this bad.  He looks sick (he is sick).  His hair lays flat and straight, even though it’s meant to be curly.  His bones jut out slightly and his eyes—

He looks dead.

He swallows down a gag.  He can’t throw up, he can’t.  There’s no reason for him to and it’ll get the others worried.  But just in case he does, he turns the faucet on.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves and get rid of the headache that’s coming on.

He’s been getting those more often; they last somewhere from a few minutes to days.  He doesn’t brother anyone with them.  It’ll pass, he repeats over and over.  He just needs to drink more water, less coffee.

It— he forgets to.  After staying awake for days on end because, you know, the world could’ve ended, it became close to second nature.  He’s never been one to get tired easily, anyway.  Lucas would complain about it because Mike had the habit of annoying the Party over walkie talkies when he couldn’t sleep.

But then, once Will went missing, the none sleeping shifted to worry and paranoia instead of excess energy.

He assumed it would go away once that week of hell was over, but it stuck and anytime he does sleep he wakes up in a cold sweat from nightmares that he can never remember.  He doesn’t tell anyone about them, everyone has them so what makes him special?

He shakes the head at the thought, willing it to go away.  He grips the sink tighter and squeezes his eyes shut.  “Get it together.”

He wishes he could stay in here until the others leave, or for the rest of lunch.  He needs a break from everyone.  He just wants to rot in his basement, watch Star Trek reruns, and just— be alone.  Maybe sleep all month if he can.

The sound of the vent grates on his ears, it’s too loud and not enough at the same time.  It makes him want to scream and rip his hair out.

He finds that most things do: large crowds, driving, sleeping, waking up.  He can’t do that though, so he bites the skin on his lips until it’s bleeding.  It traps scream in his throat but that makes bile rise.  It only cancels out if he stops eating.

Mike hasn’t had a… full meal in a while.  It’s not that he doesn’t eat, it— everything makes him feel sick.  He eats enough to where people won’t think twice about it, and it’s easy to get away with when his mom only makes sure they have dinner as a family.

It's the smell and texture that’s disgusting.  He’s given up multiple foods that he used to love because he can’t handle being near them without wanting to throw up.  When people ask him about it, he waves it off, saying that he’s grown out of it and changes the topic.  He hopes no one’s caught one.

Still, it’s funny that he can cook with the foods he hates, but he has to keep a window open at all times to air out the smell.

When his mom was going through withdrawal, he made it his mission to help her as much as he could.  So that meant he had to take up the cooking.  It came to him easier than he thought it would, though that was probably because it was all instructions and measurements.  Everyone was surprised by it, due to the whole rich kid stereotype.

He likes to cook, not for himself but for others.  He tried to teach the Party a summer ago, the only ones who actually got that hang of it were El, Max, and Dustin, but they’ve had experience already.  Lucas would get distracted and miss a step or two, and Will just.. can’t.

A loud laugh rings out from the dining room, making Mike jump.  He groans, the ever present headache growing worse.  He glares at the mirror.  Christ, he looks terrible.

Another laugh, and Mike finds himself ripping open the mirror before he can blink.  Razors, toothpaste, and pill bottles stare at him.  He flicks through them, trying to find the Tylenol.

(He ignores how he hesitates at the razor blades, the passing thought of stuffing a few in his pockets to take them to his room, wondering how the cold metal will feel warm)

When he finds the right bottle, he dumps a handful of pills into his hand.  He can only take two, anymore and he’ll overdose, but he doesn't mind the weight of them in his hand.  He filters through them until there’s only two left.

He swallows them dry.

He’s always hated how long it takes for them to work.  He wishes the effect was immediate, he hates waiting games.

He exhales, twisting the lid back on and placing the bottle behind all the others.  His eyes fall to the corner as he closes the mirror.  He rubs his face roughly, trying to get rid of the exhaustion.

God, this is pathetic.  He has to rely on Tylenol to get through lunch.  Is this how Max felt when she was being hunted by Vecna?

No, he thinks, don’t make that comparison.  She was suffering, you are being weak.  Get over yourself.

He looks at himself—

There’s someone standing behind him.

He grabs the soap dispenser and whips around, ready to hit them with it only to find no one there.  He looks around, catching the shower curtain shift.  He slowly steps towards it and shoves it aside, raising the soap dispenser over his head only to still find no one there except for the faucet dripping.

He lets his arms fall to his side and shuts it off.  “Fuck,” he whispers.  “Great— I’m hallucinating.  Fucking awesome.”

“No, you’re not.”

He throws the soap dispenser at the voice, spinning around.  It goes through the figure, shattering against the wall.

The figure looks down to where it should’ve hit them.  “That hurt.”  

They’re wearing a dark blue cloak, decorated with twine and various trinkets, hiding their face.  Curly, black hair spills out of the hood, highlighting pale skin.  They have brown boots, dirtied from mud.

Mike chokes.  No— no no no no no no, he can’t be back, Vecna can’t be back.

“Guys!” He yells, running to open the door.  It’s jammed— it won’t fucking open and he’s stuck in here with a monster that should be dead—

“That won’t work,” the cloaked figure remarks, and Mike has the fleeting thought that they sound exactly like him.  “They can’t hear you, anyway.”

“I’m not falling for your tricks, Vecna!  We beat you once, we can do it again!” He threatens, but it doesn’t hold much weight considering he’s still trying to open a bathroom door.

He hears the figure take a step.  “I am not Vecna,” they say in a bored tone.  A beat passes.  “I’m— surprised you haven’t realized it yet.”

“Just shut up!”

“Well, that is to be suspected.. for being the original, it is odd that you are the anomaly.”  Mike barely hears the cloak move over his banging on the door.  He need to get out, he needs to warn the others, he needs—

Something cracks in his head and it starts to hurt.  He shouts, face scrunched, clutching it between his hands.  It burns— it burns so much, his hands start to grow warm and something drips onto the ground from them.

He squints and sees blood on the floor, running down his arms.

“I didn’t want to do that,” they comment, “but you left me with no other choice.  This was the only way to get you to listen.”

Mike winces when another wave of pain hits him.  “I can’t— shit— I can’t listen very fuckin’ well if I’m bleeding from my ears— fuck!”  He shuts his eyes hard enough to see stars.

They sigh.  “I cannot do this if you keep caging in on yourself.  Physically, that is.  I need your hand.”

“Get out.  Of.  My.  Head, Vecna!”

“Do not compare me to that tyrant.”

“Stop lying, you bastard!  I won’t let you hurt my friends!”

“Gods damn it— look at me!”  They grab his arm, tearing it away from his head.  Blood pours down from his head now that his hand isn’t in the way.

Mike’s eyes snap open.  He’s staring at the floor and the ever growing puddle.  He thought the touch would go through him, like the soap dispenser did.  The hand, it’s cold even through his shirt and their gloves.

They shake him once, Mike nearly goes limp.  “Look at me,” they hiss, tightening their grip.  “I am not him.”

The reason he does look is out of pure panic.  He’s prepared to see a veiny body and skinny limbs.  He’s prepared to see ribs stabbing out of the chest, a hand with long nails.  He’s prepared to see a dark, soulless void where eyes should be.  He’s only seen Vecna in person twice, but the image of him is engraved in his brain to where no amount of scrubbing can get rid of it.

So the problem comes when he looks at them and expects to see a face that should be dead, but instead of seeing Vecna—

—he sees his own face staring back at him.

There are differences: their hair is longer and showing off natural curls, their skin isn’t sickly like Mike's, and they aren’t nearly as thin as Mike.  But it is undoubtedly himself: same face shape, same eyes, same nose (scar and freckles included).

He stops breathing, allowing his arm— the one himself isn’t holding— to fall to his side.   Blood runs down his face but that’s the last of his worries.

Don’t let your guard down, he belittles himself.  It’s one of Vecna’s tricks.  The moment you let him get to you is the moment you doom everyone.  Snap out of it.

He notes, in the back of his head, that this does not line up with any of the visions Vecna’s given to the others.  He never appears as the person he’s tormenting, instead choosing to become their trauma or fear or guilt to get them to give up.  

Then again, he’s never been a victim to it, so that all could just be a lie.  He wouldn’t be surprised if this was his worst nightmare— himself.

“Listen to me,” they— he?— demand.  Mike really has no choice not to, he is so, so confused.  “This is not a trick, nor am I— him.  You know who I am, and you need to accept that and I need you to give me your hand.”

Mike's eyes drop to the hand on his arm.  

A second passes, then another before the hand is taken off.  “Sorry.”  They sound calm now, or calmer.  

Mikes looks up, into their eyes.  It’s like looking into a mirror.  “…why are you doing this.?” He asks.

Cloaked him sighs, “It has been years, and you still haven’t realized the one constant between all of our universes.  I, and all the others, are here to help you.  I just need you to take my hand.”

Mike swallows.  He is not breathing properly.  “…who are ‘the others’?”

“Mike,” they say, holding out their hand, “who am I?”

“You— you’re Vecna—“

“No, I am not.”  They snap their fingers, in the palm of their hand is, what Mike likes to call, his lucky dice.  It’s the first official DnD dice he got; blue with yellow numbers.  “Whose is this?”

“Mine.”

They nod, “Good.  And who am I?”

Mike doesn’t answer, still staring at the dice in their hand.

“Mike, who do you see when you look at me?”

Their faces are the same, down to every detail.  Their hair, voice, skin, everything.  That dice is his—

He lost that dice, when Troy had him jump off the Quarry.  He kept it on him all the time after Will disappeared because it came from their first campaign together.  He can’t bring himself to go to the Quarry shore to search the dirt for it and no one, not even Dustin and El, knows he lost it.

No one, but himself…

The last bit of color drains from his head and he grows lightheaded.  All he can feel is the warm sensation of blood matted into his hair and trailing down his face.  He looks himself in the eyes and whispers, “You’re me.”

“Yes— well, a variant of you,” they clarify.  “I’m called Witch, and I am here to help you, so I need you to take my hand.”

“How can I trust you?” He asks.  Everything this— Witch is saying could be a lie.  It is a lie, it’s all fucking Vecna playing mind tricks and he needs to warn everyone—

“Tell me, can you trust yourself?”

No, he wants to say but he can’t bring his mouth to move.  There’s just— there’s something about this that holds Mike back from believing Witch isn’t being truthful.  Something in their tells.

Witch blinks a few times, then shakes their head.  “Actually, don't answer that.”  They thrust their hand out as a clear sign for Mike to hold it, the dice rolled to a seven.  “Your friends and family cannot hear you, they cannot help you.  I can, and so can the others.  You just need to take my hand and trust me.”

Mike knows he really doesn’t have a choice.  He’s stuck in the bathroom with a monster.  The only other thing he could do was stay here for eternity; it looks like they won’t, or rather can’t, do anything more than causing him to bleed.

He digs his nails into the palms of his hands, trying to ground himself and fucking breathe properly.  

He needs to think about this situation logically; what are the facts?

He’s trapped in an enclosed, small space with a— variant of himself?  A Vecna Vision?  Who cares, it’s all the same.  He has a head wound that’s making his head burn like a bitch.  Objects seem to phase through them, but not people.

He could, he could, he could…. The only thing he can do is stall.

Witch sighs again, which makes Mike want to tell them to shut up.  Their shoulders drop with it and they look done with him.  “If you take my hand, I will not touch your loved ones.”

— - —

When Mike comes back to himself, it’s to the sound of people shouting and water rushing.  He can feel the roughness of concrete against his back digging into the knobs of his spine and back of his head.  Something’s tapping on his arm, and there’s a hand on his chest.

He… recognizes the voices; it’s his own voice, albeit some voices are a bit pitcher or older, but still.  

He squints open his eyes, blinking a few times to clear out the blurriness.  The first thing he sees is three people— that look like him— leaning over himself.  Two are at each of his sides and one— a girl— is right over his head.  Two of them grin at him uneasily, the third is wearing a mask over the bottom half of their face.

Something taps his arm again, and while he should be more concerned about the people surrounding him, that quickly goes away when he sees what’s hitting his arm.

It’s a shotgun, looking exactly like the one Nancy owns.

He shoots up, narrowly missing the girl's head in his haste.  He can’t feel his legs very well so he scoots back as far as he can until his back hits— a fountain, he assumes, considering the sound of water is louder there.

“Where the fuck am I!?” He shouts, eyes flicking between the three people before noticing the crowd gathered behind them.  “Who the hell are you people!?”

(Max would call his voice shrill and squeaky, but he thinks this is a perfectly valid situation so she can’t say shit)

Normally, he would be more collected than this.  But the last thing he remembers is grabbing Witch’s hand and then blacking out.  And now, there are three people standing in front of him that look like him, to an extent, with hundreds more.

The girl takes a step forward, holding her hands up in surrender.  Distantly, he can hear the doctor looking one tell the masked one; ‘I told you not to do that, put away your goddamned gun’.

She crouches down to his level, taking a second to make sure her skirt is over her knees.  “Mike—“

“How do you know my name?”

“—my name is Michelle.  Michelle Wheeler,” she says slowly.

Mike's eyes widen as his heart starts to beat in his ears.

Someone clears their throat and they all whip around to the sound.  “These are the others I mentioned,” Witch attempts to comforts, placing a binder down next to him on a bench.  He’s sitting a few feet away against a bush wall.  When he looks up, he locks eyes with Mike.  “They are all variations of you: Michelle, Doctor, and Apocalypse are the ones standing in front of you.”

“Yes, thank you Witch,” Doctor sighs, pinching the bridge of his noise.  He takes a few steps to stand next to Michelle.  “How are you feeling?  Any pain or discomfort— trouble breathing?”

The only thing Mike can do is stare in wide eyed disbelief.

“He’s not going to answer dumbass,” Apocalypse says.  He gestures to Mike with his free hand, “He’s overwhelmed and confused, give him like— two hours and the rundown of this place.”

“He would be less overwhelmed if you just put away the shotgun.”

“It is a precaution—“

Michelle snaps.  “That is a great idea, both of you.”  She looks a lot like Nancy when she smiles.  She claps once, “Mike Wheeler, welcome to your subconscious,” she announces with jazz hands.

Mike blinks again, and then a few more times to make sure his mind isn’t playing tricks on him.

Michelle barrels on.  “Everyone here, as Witch said, is a variant of yourself.  Your subconscious is a mix of all of us.  As of right now, that’s basically all you need to know.  I’ll introduce you to others as you meet them, and please don’t worry about getting hurt or feeling pain— that all goes away here.

“This will take a while to get the hang of, but someone will be with you every step of the way,” she finishes.

Mike straightens his back, still staring at her.  He blinks again.  “… how can I be sure this isn’t Vecna?”

“If this were Vecna, everything would be dark and red,” Witch adds.  “As you can see, it’s mainly blue.”

“And dark,” Apocalypse quips.

“That’s because of the clouds,” Doctor waves off.  “It used to be much lighter than this.”

They.. do have a fair point, plus something in Mike's gut is telling him there isn’t a threat.  Vecna would’ve probably killed him by now and he’s learned to trust his gut because it’s right more than it is wrong.

Which stands up.  “When you go back to your body in the real world, your lucky dice will be waiting for you behind the mirror in the downstairs bathroom.  Vecna can’t do that, can he?”

“My body in the real world!?”

Doctor groans.  “Yes, because Witch had to drag you here physically.  If you were to come here on your own, we wouldn’t have this problem now would we?”  He glares at Witch, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Currently you’re in a coma-like state until your consciousness finds its way back to your body.  Only your subconscious is meant to be here— it’s how we are all talking to each other.”

The tension in Mike's shoulders slowly goes away.  Not completely, but enough to where it’s not uncomfortable.

“So I’m… trapped inside my own mind?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“And I was brought here… why?”

Everyone freezes.  Not the ‘taken by surprise’ freeze but the ‘I really didn’t want to explain this’.  Mike looks between them all.

Michelle moves first, looking at him with suspicion.  “We can get to— that later,” she says.  “For now, focus on the lay of the land.  I’ll be with you the whole time.” She stands up, offering him her hand.

“You ready?” She grins.

Hesitantly, Mike takes her hand and lets her pull him up.