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Mike bounced his leg nervously, staring blankly at the table. How much longer? Abruptly, he pulled out his watch, glancing at it quickly. Only four thirty-seven.
He had to get out of here. Mike squeezed his eyes shut, shoving his hands back in his lap as Eddie went on in some stupid voice about a secret quest or something. Usually this would be fascinating, but right now—he just couldn’t right now. He just couldn’t.
“Mike," Dustin hissed in what was probably supposed to be a whisper. “Hey Mike, you good?"
Ignoring him, Mike just stared at his hands, subtly checking his watch again under the table. (Still four thirty-seven.) Lucas said something to Dustin, quietly. They kept worrying about him and annoying him all the time. Nonstop asking him to go to the movies or come over and if he was okay. Which was ridiculous. Why wouldn’t he be okay? He was so okay. He was—
“—Wheeler!”
Mike jumped and glanced up, scowl already fixed on his face. Eddie leaned forwards over his screen, gesturing to the table, eyebrows raised.
“The game? Honestly." The DM rolled his eyes, before switching back to his theatrical voice. “The tunnels are cold and drafty. The wind blows by your ear, you can hear it whispering to you… calling out…”
He started bouncing his knee, staring down at his hands with his shoulders hunched up to his ears. What was Will doing right now? November 6th was always hard for him, hard for all of them really. Not that Mike had a right for it to be hard for him. He’d tried to call last night, but the line had been busy. The line was always busy.
“I open the door.”
Mike shifted in his seat, looking up through his bangs again, accidentally meeting Lucas’s eyes.
You okay? He looked away, refusing to answer his friend’s mouthed question. Mike was okay, totally fine. It was Will they should all be worrying about—Will, all the way over in California. Almost two thousand miles away. Anything could’ve happened and they wouldn’t even know because they were too busy with the stupid Hellfire Club.
He checked his watch again. Four-forty. As soon as he got home, he would call Will, try to actually talk to him this time. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to call—he tried nearly every day. But Will never picked up. Which was—it was fair, really. Mike had been awful last summer. It made sense that Will wouldn’t want to talk to him.
“There is a rumbling, shaking the earth around you. From the shadows, a low clicking echoes out.”
But he had to know that Will was okay. He had to at least check on him. It was November sixth.
“Perception check… three.”
“You peer into the darkness, sure that something was there, but it seems empty.”
“Shit," Dustin murmurs, but it seems less heartfelt than usual.
How could everyone just be playing—playing stupid games when this was the anniversary of the day their best friend went missing? How could they be doing this when last time they’d played DND on November sixth Will—Will had—
“Then it emerges from the corner. A demogorgon. ”
Mike, Lucas and Dustin all flinch as one, earning a few odd looks from around the table, but Eddie didn’t even notice.
The demogorgon. He sucked in a breath, but his lungs stayed empty, so he tried again, and again. Dustin glanced at him again. Mike tried to ignore it.
“Fireball it?" Lucas mumbled halfheartedly, tapping his fingers against the table. The tapping didn’t have any specific beat or rhythm, but Mike’s mind automatically started trying to translate it into Morse code. That was a W, I, L—maybe he was just hearing what he wanted to hear.
“We don’t have any clerics, Sinclair.”
Mike tried to get a breath in again. Tried not to remember the face opening up like a flower, rows and rows of teeth, spit dripping from its maw. Tried not to remember—tried—
He pushed his chair back from the table suddenly, tearing a hand through his hair as his shoulders shook. Will. Was Will okay? What was Will doing right now? Was he okay?
Mike waved a shaky hand at Dustin when he tried to ask if he was okay. He was fine. He was fine.
“Campaigns not over, dumbass," somebody said—he didn’t even know who, and honestly, he didn’t really care.
His eyes shut tight and he slumped, dropped his head to his chest as the players and DM traded words back and forth. Will.
Dice clattered against the table, the sound stretching and filling his mind, echoing long after the plastic came to a stop.
“It was a seven.”
It was a seven. The demogorgon… it got me.
It was a seven.
It was a seven.
Mike stood straight up, twisting his hands together, tugging at his watch, his hair, his shirt…
It was a seven.
He stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over his shoes. His back hit the wall. No no no no no.
“Mike! Jesus, are you okay?"
He couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe.
“Will?" Mike managed to choke out. “ Will?”
Was he okay? Where was Will? Hands were touching him, reaching for him, and he pushed them all away, standing shakily. Where was Will?
“What’s going on?" Somebody said, laughing uncomfortably. People were talking, but he couldn’t make out anything else they said, breath coming in short gasps and tears starting to drip down his face.
He pushed past them all and ran away, ducking into the first door he saw and slamming the door behind him. He crumpled against the wall, sliding down, his shirt rode up and the cold wall pressed against his skin.
Will was fine. Will was fine. Will was fine—he was all the way in California. Will was fine .
Mike let out a sob, burying his face in his hands. He was just being stupid. ‘Dramatic, like always,’ his dad’s voice echoed in his head. It was true. He was just being dramatic. Because—
Will was fine.
Will was fine.
Will was fine without him.