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After hours of rustling back and forth on her flat mattress, El finally fell asleep. She had zero expectation that her nights at the lab would be peaceful, so she’s not surprised when she wakes up in what she knows is the middle of the night, feeling unrested.
Her eyelids flutter open slowly, and it takes a second for her to make sense of her surroundings and accept her reality. Everything is the same. The walls are still cold and chilling concrete, and the pathetic layer of paint over them is chipping. Her furniture, her sheets, even the strange pipes sticking out of the walls, all muted colors. Devoid of any emotion, youth, or freedom.
But, as she begins to regain consciousness, she notices what the small circular sources of light attached to the walls are trying to illuminate.
He had on the exact shirt she had left him in. The navy blue button down flannel, similar to hers, but their synchronized attire meant nothing while their personalities clashed in the way they did. How come she could yell the word love from the rooftops but he can’t even write it?
He keeps the same fazed and guarded stance that he had when he was sitting on her bed. When she had been yelling and pleading, externalizing every bad thought in her brain, hurling him his own notes that had been breaking her heart every time she received them. The same disparity and desperate look in his eyes now then when his hand slammed on the car window, begging her to look at him–to believe him.
“Mike?”
He bends down and smiles. A smile she couldn’t quite read. His mouth stretched wide, his grin reaching his eyes— his eyes that looked red rimmed, teary, and afraid, now that she had a closer look. She lifts herself out of bed with urgency.
“Hi, hi .” He melts, his voice sounds equal parts shocked and broken. He’s touching her cheek and the top of her head.
“Mike.” She repeats, this time less of a question and more of a cry. He brings his hand to her cheek and she completely crumbles. Eyes closing, she cradles into his touch.
“It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here to take you home . ” He smiles down at her, so sweetly, that she forgets all things bad for a split second.
Home, she thinks. Warm and clean linen sheets, Joyce’s home cooked meals, choosing between Max’s, Will's, or Nancy’s hand-me-downs every morning, Jonathan walking through the door every afternoon with a new letter from Mike. The feeling of Mike’s hand intertwined with hers or Max’s voice reading her pages from her new copy of Wonder Woman until she fell asleep.
Home , she thinks again. Mean girls who laugh at her when she doesn’t even know what's funny. Feeling like a stranger in what she tries to consider a family. The expectant eyes staring back at her whenever they see a threat, the draining feeling of lifting a hand while ignoring her own dread, how her brain is spinning and the space between her eyes hurts. The look in Mike’s eye while Angela wails in agony beneath her.
“I can't. I have to be here.” She shakes her head. “They have to fix me.”
His fingertip is absent mindedly tracing the curve of her cheek.
“You don’t need to be fixed.” he murmurs, every word dripping with so much reassurance and sincerity that she almost lets herself believe him. Then she almost flinches, and thinks back again to his judging— his harsh tone. ‘El. What did you do? What did you do?’
“They have to make me a superhero again. So I can save Hawkins.”
He sighs, frustrated. It’s now that El notices the purple hued bags under his eyes. "El don’t do this."
Yet she still refuses him, “I have to.”
His hardened face relaxes. The furrowed lines on his forehead smooth out, and the corners of his mouth that had been pulled downward in a scowl lift up slightly. It was the calmest she’d seen him in hours.
“Okay.”
He sounds strangely calm for a boy whose girlfriend was insisting on remaining in a grimy underground laboratory with the same people who treated her with utmost cruelty her entire life. Especially since he was, well, Mike. When it comes to her, she’s never seen him take no for an answer.
Her brain feels blurry and her limbs numb, but she ignores it.
“Okay?”
“We’ll talk about it later. We shouldn’t fight now.”
His hand reaches into her hair. His fingernails delicately scrape against her scalp. It feels good. She murmurs in contentment. She had been missing his touch, and physical affection in general. Will and Jonathan were not particularly touchy, at least not with her, and not for any good reason. Although Ms. Byers was a hugger, she definitely didn’t hold her hand, kiss her head, or play with her hair like Mike could. Not only did she long for him in her days at the lab, but in those six months they were apart. The page-long letters and his soothing voice over the phone still weren’t enough. Still, he was being more affectionate and intimate than usual, and she liked it.
"What if they find you?" She asks, fear catching up to her now. She shivers, thinking about Papa’s reaction. Men twice his size and armed with heavy guns putting their hands on him, pulling him away from her. Injecting him– hurting him. They couldn’t just let him go, what would they do to him? Would it be worse to what they did to her? Was that even possible?
“They won’t.”
His tone conveys certainty, yet she remains insistent.
“Please be careful. Be safe.”
He seems to catch on to her stress and provides quick relief.
“I will, I promise. You can relax now, okay? You need to rest. I’m always telling you that, aren’t I?”
“Yeah.” She laughs. “Like when I told you me and Will pulled an all-nighter and you went on about the importance of sleep…” Her body feels warm as a result of the pleasant memory.
"Yes," he continues, his hand working the escaped strands of her hair off her forehead, “But what I didn’t tell you is that I stayed up till five that same night working on my chemistry assignment.”
She thought back to a word Hopper had picked out for her from the big and heavy dictionary. The memory of him would normally sting, but she feels strangely desensitized.
So she says, smiling so big, “Hypocrite.”
Her eyelids feel droopy, but before she’s fully consumed by darkness, she attempts to touch him. Her arms feel like they weigh a tonne and are jelly-like, leaving her unable to move, but she finds a sudden burst of energy that allows her to reach out. Her hand is about to graze the bare skin of his wrist, where his sleeve has fallen back.
Just before she can, he brings his lips to the shell of her ear in a hushed whisper,
“I promise I’ll find you.”
His voice is smooth like velvet, with all the charm and unwavering confidence of a male love interest in a trashy romance flick. She begins to run into a realization when she finally touches him—she feels nothing. An empty void of space.
“Mike!”
She gasps, her eyes flying open as the remnants of her dream slip away. But as her senses sharpen, the coarse blanket pricks her skin, and the unforgiving walls of the cell seem to mock her, the illusion around her shatters. The final confirmation washes over her by the touch of the top of her head. She tries to run her hair through her precious dark brown locks, which his fingers had just been so lovingly entwined in, only to be met with a cold and unsettling absence. And she wants to cry, craving the tenderness and warmth she found herself in moments ago, even if it was just a dream.
Her breath comes out of her in pants, all while his name lingers on her lips. She brings her hands to her mouth, finally noticing how Papa is waiting for her by her door. His presence dawns upon her like a sudden jolt, grounding her in what is the harsh reality of her confinement. Dressed in gray slacks and arms behind his back, he is all daunting and unnerving as usual. He didn’t even bother to knock.
“Good morning. It’s time to go.”
She nods. Her footsteps carry her towards the bathroom, guided by a sense of routine that she hates the familiarity of. The sink is cold against her palm and her head hurts. Her brain races at a breakneck speed as she processes, her thoughts swirling with a mix of anxiety and realization. She knows that Papa heard her utter his name. She remembers how his men had held him back while she called for the young boy she just met, when she thought he would be gone for good. Fear creeps at the back of her mind, a chill trailing up her spine. She wishes he was here in the flesh, so he could intertwine their fingers and say everything would be okay. Stupidly enough, she wishes her dream had been real.
Papa's lips contort into a smile that appears clearly forced, doing nothing to soothe her nerves. She follows the direction of his hand regardless, and quickly snaps out of her reverie. Her gaze flies around the room, her eyes locking onto the various adults in lab coats, clipboards in hand. The urgency of her purpose resurfaces, replacing any lingering thoughts or distractions. Dwelling on her fantasy with Mike, wondering where he is now and if he’s as sleepless as she is, is a luxury she cannot afford.
Please be careful.
Be safe, wherever you are.