Chapter Text
Mike stumbles off the plane.
The Californian heat is warm, almost too warm. He takes pride in the clothes draping his figure, maybe not so much in the vibrant visor that uncomfortably sits upon his dark curls, but he’s proud nonetheless. He makes a silent vow to never buy from airport gift stores again.
Heat seeps through the pores of his pale skin, smothering him in a layer of sticky sweat. Or maybe it's the nerves. Either way the heaviness of his limbs throws him off, just for a moment, but then he’s back on course. His eyes scan the airport from behind his dark sunglasses.
It’s the 22nd of March, 1986, and Mike Wheeler knows exactly what day it is.
“Mike!”
His stomach churns.
He had to make this work. The flowers grow sharp and painful in his palm, digging into flesh surrounding the withered stems.
Fitting
He raises his poor excuse of a bouquet, a strangled sound leaving his dry lips. The bouquet shouldn’t be poor, his back still hurts from bending down and inspecting each flower before plucking it from its roots. Tearing it from the soil. Ending its life.
El remains unfazed. Her hair is longer, it suits her. Happiness also suits her. Mike’s heart swells with delight, the rush of blood rejuvenating him. His desperate need to be a provider would always be met with Eleven.
He pulls her in for a kiss.
The flowers crumple between them.
“Careful, careful, careful, you're squishing your present,” he smiles at her, “it's a gift I hand picked for you in Hawkins.”
They were a manifestation of his devotion to her. He put in the work and had something to show for it, something to make her happy. Her favorite colors memorized in a 70/30 ratio.
He hopes he isn’t overexplaining.
Will is there, he must have snuck up on him. A shiver traverses Mike's spine. His best friend Will. Will, who had not written or called since he left, leaving Mike’s countless letters unanswered (eventually he stopped trying). Will, the first member of the party, his cleric.
Will whose drawings wrap around his bedroom walls and conceal the chipped paint. Mike thinks they also wrap around his lungs, digging into the wet folds, sliding their way into his bloodstream. Sometimes he can't breathe, can’t even bear to look at Will’s artwork, afraid it might consume him. He’s not sure he understands why.
His reaction to Will has always been physical like that. Almost too much to handle, but still something draws him towards the boy. Mike takes a good look at him. He looks like Will. Unchanging, stable.
Is he holding a painting?
“Oh, hey.”
His touch burns.