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They told Mike alone. Hopper pulled him aside, sitting him on the edge of the bathtub– Mike far too confused to ask why– but understanding the minute Hopper broke the news to him; he started vomiting immediately. He twisted on the ledge and hunched over, his sobs so violent he began coughing and spitting up what little food he had eaten over the past two days. All of them had been squabbling with Mrs. Byers because they weren’t hungry or they didn’t have time to stop and eat– it all seemed so pointless now. Will was dead.
Lurching over the bathtub, Mike didn’t even begin to process Will’s death. He had no emotions, no realizations, no thoughts, only the strong urge to believe that it all wasn’t real. Mike wanted to believe that he had fallen asleep in the backseat of the car as they drove back to Will’s house. He wanted to believe that this was some horrific nightmare that was impossible to wake up from, but every time he clenched his eyes shut and continued coughing, he hoped he’d open his eyes to Will shaking him awake. Mike never woke up.
He felt like he had been sleeping all the way up to Will’s funeral– the second one of its kind. Mike drug his feet the entire morning, his mother arguing that they couldn’t show up late– it would be far too disrespectful– and his father scolding him for being so emotional. His friend was dead and his father thought he was being too much of a “girl” for tearing up as he put on the same suit he had worn a year earlier, but this time knowing that Will was going into the ground for good.
The word “viewing” was self-explanatory, but Mike somehow didn’t seem to understand its meaning until his father was dragging him into the funeral home, a line forming near the door. At the front of the line was Will’s uncomfortably short coffin. The lid was open.
“I can’t do this.” Mike said, shaking his head. He couldn’t let his last memory be of Will’s stiff, lifeless, plastic looking face. He had nearly thirteen years of smiles and laughter and tears and blushing he wanted to remember before that. “Dad, I don’t want to see him like that.”
“You mother talked to the grief councilors at school and they said this would help you with closure.” He said tiredly, checking his watch. “We should be done by lunch.”
“Dad, I–I can’t. I can’t do this. I don’t want to! I can’t look at him!” Mike cried, trying to pull his father’s arm back towards the door.
“Michael, stop making a scene.” He said, slapping Mike’s back. “And don’t you dare start crying.”
Mike stiffened up, both his lip and his posture, as his father scolded him. Crying was for girls, Mike had to remember. Holly could cry, Nancy could cry, but Mike wasn’t allowed to be that weak. It was what women did when they just didn’t know how to handle things. Men always knew how to tackle things– even the sudden death of their childhood friend.
As they reached the front of the line, Mike’s father pushed him forward, Mike approaching the coffin awkwardly, leaning backwards to try and avoid coming too close to it.
“Will, oh my god.” Mike whispered, looking at his friend’s crossed arms and pale cheeks. He was never going to be able to remember anything other than his friend’s face hallowed of life. Every memory faded in an instant. “I’m sorry.”
As expected, Will remained silent. Mike wasn’t forgiven. He never would be.
After the coffin was the receiving line, Jonathan and Mrs. Byers standing with Mike’s father, shaking his hand and hugging one another. Mike stepped up behind his father, trying to avoid their eyes.
“Hey, Mike.” Mrs. Byers said softly, holding her arms out to him. “How are you doing?” Mike shook his head, unable to say anything without dissolving into tears. “It’s okay, baby. Come here.” She pulled Mike in for a hug, soothing him with a slow hushing sound.
“I’m sorry.” Mike whispered, feeling himself begin to cry again. The tears burned his eyes, blurring his vision and taking away the reality in front of him and allowing him to only see Will’s pale face. “I’m sorry.”
“No, baby, it’s okay. I’m here. You can cry.” She answered in a hushed voice, holding his head in her hands. “It’s okay to be upset. We all loved him.” She had no idea.
“I know y–you must be more upset.” Mike began to feel guilty, being pulled into the same grief as Will’s family. Mike never opened his mouth in time to be considered close enough to Will, to be invited to Thanksgiving or Hanukkah. He was a best friend; that wasn’t family.
“You are allowed to be sad too, Mike. You’re allowed to grieve. You are allowed, baby.” Mrs. Byers looked above Mike’s head for a moment, her jaw tightening as she made eye contact with Mike’s father still loitering behind them. “It’s going to be okay.” She promised, kissing his forehead.
“W–Would it be okay if I came over later?” Mike asked quietly. “T-To just… to sit in his room?”
“Of course. Of course.” She nodded, her eyes glistening as she smiled at him. “Do you want Jonathan to come get you?” He perked up beside his mother, nodding in confirmation.
“No, no. I’ll bike. I– I have some things I need to do.” He hugged them both one more time before his father led him back outside.
They drove home in silence. Mike appearing to his father to be strong and valiant, but truthfully numb beyond communication, sitting in the backseat. He was still hoping he’d wake up.
He biked over to Will’s house, still in his black blazer and suffocating tie from the funeral. He stepped out of his father’s car and went straight around the house to where he had left his bike lying by the basement door. The bottoms of his slacks were already covered in mud and were getting grease on them from the newly oiled bike chain. It was an unsettling sight, Mike was sure, standing at the Byers’s door disheveled and out of breath, but Mrs. Byers let him in anyway.
“Can I get you anything, honey?” She asked, taking him by the hand and walking him into the house. “Do you want some hot tea? It always helped W–” She sighed, still keeping a smile for Mike. “It always makes me feel better.”
“I’m okay, thanks.” Mike muttered.
As they went to Will’s room, Mike tried to avoid echoing the places he first heard the news of Will’s death. He hugged the wall as he walked and tried to pretend he was in a different house, a different place, a different Earth. They approached Will’s door, and Mrs. Byers released his hand. She pushed the door open and let him go in on his own.
Mike expected it to be more like a museum, but the room was far more alive. The bed was still unmade and the drawers were still half-opened. It was as if Mike was waiting for Will to return from the kitchen with a snack as they sprawled out on the floor. Mike was going to be left waiting for a very long time.
Will’s hand radio sat by his bedside, still channeled to receive Mike’s calls. The night Mike found out about Will’s death, with the entire group around him, he pleaded with Eleven and asked if she could do anything. Mike was sure she could reach him through the radio, hear his voice one more time. To his horror, Mike had to watch Eleven shake her head and slowly take the radio from his hands, trying to comfort him in emotions her vocabulary wasn’t quite able to articulate. He grabbed the radio and fiddled with the buttons, wondering who was listening, if anyone at all.
He made Will’s bed, straightening the blankets before sitting down on the mattress. He stared out Will’s window, unsure how the sun could shine so brightly on such a dark day. Mike remembered the last time he sat on Will’s bed, just the two of them, worried about the nameless creature slowly consuming Will’s mind. Will was in tears, shaking and fretting about the now-memories floating through his mind, and Mike chose to try and comfort him with his new identity as a Superspy– something to save them all. Mike believed it, but he didn’t think for a second that maybe Will would need saving too.
He had reached over to stop Will’s hand from shaking, and smiled at him with determination and all he could think about was holding his hand. His own foolish crush blinded his vision to the monster flitting in the background; he naively wanted to be suspended in the warm feeling he felt sitting next to Will, being there to comfort him, being the one to promise he’d be safe. Mike had let him be deceived by his own fluttering stomach and jittery hands hide him from the fact that Will was fighting for his life, fighting for every last piece of himself to remain on the Earth. Mike was so blind. He loved Will and he never told him– or offered to help when he needed it most.
Child love wasn’t supposed to go through such hoops; there was nothing that prepared him for going from longing looks on the playground to trying to trek through the emotions involved in realizing that his love wasn’t enough. Mike’s feelings couldn’t protect Will from anything– it wasn’t valuable if Will didn’t know. It didn’t mean a damn thing if it just sat in the bottom of Mike’s stomach, twisting and swelling every time he thought about the stiff face of his friend.
The radio in Mike’s hand ran through a channel of static, the noise hissing at him. There was no one there. Not even a stranger angry for intercepting his calls. The radio was dead. Mike would never be able to tell Will how he felt about him. From swing set to the grave, Mike was never going to stop loving Will– and he was never going to forgive himself either.