Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mike Wheeler thinks he’s supposed to be dead. 

Scratch that.

Mike Wheeler knows he’s supposed to be dead.

It’s not like he planned it. Not really. He just moved without thinking, throwing himself between El and Billy because there was no other choice, no time. The metal rod clenched tightly between his trembling fingers gave him a false sense of hope, one of strength.

And then the last thing Mike felt was the sharp, cold impact of that same metal rod slamming against the side of his head with an inhuman strength. He hears the crack—his own skull breaking like glass—and then his body hitting the concrete floor of the sauna room. 

Death didn’t come fast. It came slow, like the trickle of blood sliding down the curve of his cheek and pooling on the ground beneath him.

It wasn’t like he’d never thought about it before. Death. Dying. It’s a familiar weight in his mind, like a stone in his pocket he can’t throw away. But this…this was different. And he’s not sure why.

He remembers someone dropping to their knees in front of him, their mouth moving frantically. He remembers the ringing in his ears. He remembers hands roaming over him, pressing against his face and his neck and his chest, over his heart. He remembers the way his breath rattled in his chest, how he felt the life drain out of him. He remembers his heart stopping.

And then…nothing.

Nothing, until he woke up gasping, the sound swallowed by earth.

Panic surged through him, raw and animalistic. He’s trapped—no, buried. His body feels stiff, heavy, but not like he’s hurt. He feels wrong. Like he’s been pieced back together in all the wrong ways.

His fingers twitch, and that’s when he feels it: the sensation of smooth wood pressed against him. It’s suffocating. It’s terrifying. But there’s something else gnawing at him too. Something even darker. Hunger.

Instinct takes over. 

He pounds his fists against the wood until it splinters—his coffin, he realizes faintly. Dirt falls on top of him like snow, dirtying the pristine suit he was wearing. Mike didn’t have something like this in his closet when he was alive so he assumes his mother had it specially made for him, which makes his chest ache. He shoves at the earth above him, clawing and tearing with a strength that isn’t his own. His nails split and bleed, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. The more he fights, the more he realizes how deep he is, how much weight is pressing down on him. It should be impossible.

But it's somehow not.

The dirt gives way, crumbling beneath his frenzied hands, and then suddenly, air—cold and sharp— rushing into his lungs. He breaks through the surface with a ragged gasp, his head snapping back as he gulps down the night air, choking on the taste of wet soil. He collapses on his knees, staring at his trembling, dirt-caked hands. 

His nails are cracked, some torn down to the quick, and yet the pain is almost satisfying. It makes him feel alive. He can feel blood welling up, dark and thick, but even that looks wrong, It’s darker than it should be. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He’s not sure how long he stays there, crouched over the freshly disturbed earth like he's praying at his own grave. The moonlight spills over him, illuminating the twisted, jagged edges of the broken coffin beneath him. He can see his name etched into the headstone. 

Michael James Wheeler

April 7th, 1971 - July 2nd, 1985

Beloved son, brother and friend

He traced his fingers over the letters, committing them to memory.

He's fourteen. Was fourteen.

Now he doesn't know what he is.

He’s cold, he realizes. but not the kind of cold that comes from a chill in the air. It’s bone-deep, unnatural.

“Not the warmest welcome back, huh?”

Mike jerks his head up at the sound of the voice, familiar and yet so, so wrong. His eyes lock onto a figure leaning casually against a nearby gravestone.

Billy Hargrove.

Except…this can’t be Billy. Right? El or The Mindflayer would’ve killed him. He should be dead. Yet here he is, grinning like he’s in on some sick joke only he understands. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Wheeler. Well—“ he tilts his head, “sort of.”

“What did you do to me?” Mike spits, scrambling to his feet. He feels the unnatural strength in his limbs, the way his movements are too fast, too fluid. 

Billy shrugs. “I didn’t do anything.” he says, a smirk tugging on his lips. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his bare feet crunching over the dead leaves, then gestures at Mike’s grave with a lazy wave of his hand. “You’re the one who decided to crawl your way out of the dirt tonight.”

Mike’s heart should be racing, but it’s not. There’s no pulse pounding in his ears, no rush of blood. He feels like a puppet strung together with ice-cold threads, his body moving without the familiar rhythms of life.

”What happened to me?” Mike demands. His voice cracks, raw and desperate. “I was dead. I-I know I was dead.”

”Yeah, you were,” Billy agrees, “Saw it happen myself. Backed up against the wall trying to protect your damsel in distress like a good little hero. Then—“  He mimes swinging a bat, or rather the metal rod he’d used to kill him, a mocking whistle following the arc of his hand. “Crack! Right to the head. Down you went.”

Mike’s fingers instinctively reach up to the side of his head, expecting the sticky warmth of blood, the sharp sting of pain. There’s nothing though. Smooth skin. Unmarred. 

Mike’s hand trembles as he pulls it away from his head, staring at his fingers like they might hold an answer. There’s no blood. There’s no pain, just a dull ache, like when you press down on an old bruise. His skull isn’t shattered though it feels like it should be. He should be dead. He knows he should be dead.

But he’s standing here instead, cold and breathless under the moonlight, while Billy Hargrove of all people watches him like he’s the most amusing thing he’s seen all night.

“You’re lying.” Mike snaps, but the words come out weak, unconvincing.

Billy's smirk deepens, his blue eyes glinting with something dark and dangerous that makes Mike take a small step back. “Oh, trust me, Wheeler. I wish I were. But you're here, aren't you? Breathing—well, sort of—walking, talking. Not exactly the typical behavior for a dead guy, don't you think?”

Mike swallows, or tries to. His throat feels tight, dry like it's filled with dust. He glances down at his hands again, the blood smeared across his fingers already drying to a dark, flaking crust. He watches as the wounds close up on their own, frowning. Wrong. It's all wrong. He looks at Billy again, narrowing his eyes.

“What are you?” he demands. “What am I?”

Billy chuckles, a low sound that grates on his ears. “Finally, a good question. You're not quite dead, but you're not quite alive either. You're somewhere in between.” He takes another step closer, circling Mike like a predator sizing up its prey.

Mike's frown deepens, twisting around to follow Billy's movements. “Get to the point.”

“You ever hear those stories about vampires, Wheeler?” Billy asks casually, like they're two friends chatting. “About the ones that come back from the dead with a thirst for blood?”

Mike feels the words like a punch to the gut. Vampires? He almost laughs, because it’s ridiculous—impossible. But… No. No. It's stupid of him to even entertain that thought. He shakes his head, more to himself than to Billy, as if he can ward off the idea with sheer denial.

“Vampires aren’t— They’re not real.”

Billy raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh really? You believe in demogorgons and mind flayers, but you draw the line at vampires?”

Mike glares, pursing his lips. He scoffs, glancing away. “I believe in what I can see.” he mutters.

“Oh, come on, Wheeler.” Billy snorts, an incredulous laugh that grates on Mike’s nerves. “You’ve heard of a flesh monster made of rats and heard of an 8 foot tall humanoid creature with flesh petals for a face, but vampires are when you get skeptical?”

Mike stares at him then screws his eyes shut. He pinches his arm hard, nails digging into his skin until he feels the split. It’s a sharp, grounding kind of pain, and he focuses on it with everything he has. 

“This is a dream,” he mutters to himself. “Just a really bad dream. I’m gonna wake up any second.” 

“The fuck are you doing?”

Mike’s eyes snap open. He’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling like he’s just run the mile in P.E., and yet there’s no comforting thrum of his pulse, no rush of blood in his ears. He feels like a puppet made of ice. He meets Billy’s gaze, wild and desperate. “I’m trying to wake up,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “This— none of this is real. It can’t be real. It can’t be.”

Billy's expression twists into something almost pitying, his mouth pulling into a mock frown. “Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you’re not dreaming. I’d say pinch harder, but I don’t think that’ll do shit.”

Mike blinks, still clutching his arm. He looks down, expecting to see his skin marked with angry red welts, but instead, there's only smooth, unbroken skin. Skin that's so pale it's almost translucent, his veins dark and spidering beneath the surface. The pain is already fading, and the tiny cut he made is gone, healed over as if it never existed. 

The world spins around him. His stomach lurches, a deep, primal fear settling in his bones as he stares at his unmarred skin. He shoves the sleeves of his suit jacket up, exposing his forearms to the moonlight, searching for something—anything—that looks like his own. He pinches again, harder this time, digging his nails into the flesh until he feels them crack against his skin. It’s deeper than before. It has to hurt, it has to—

The wound is gone before he can even blink, and his nails, though bent and dirty, show no signs of the force he just exerted. It’s like his body doesn't belong to him anymore.

“See what I mean?” Billy's voice breaks through the silence, taunting and almost gleeful. “You can hurt yourself all you want, Wheeler. But you'll just keep coming back. It’s cute, though—watching you try.”

“Shut up.” Mike snaps, though his voice is hollow, edged with panic. “Just—shut the fuck up. Stay away from me.”

Billy just watches him, a look of something almost human in his eyes. “You can run all you want, Wheeler. But you can't run from what you are.”

Mike doesn't answer. He just starts walking, then running, faster than he's ever moved before, the wind whipping past his face. He doesn't know where he's going. He only knows he needs to get away, as far as possible from the grave that was supposed to be his end.

Chapter Text

Mike goes to his house first. 

He's not sure why but he really, really wants his mom right now. Which is kind of childish of him but…who cares? He's dead, he can do whatever he wants.

As he’s standing at the front door though, a pang of fear washes through him.

He stares at the warm, golden light filtering through the small window on the door and illuminating his face. He can’t see his reflection which is…he should have expected that, he thinks. 

For a moment, he stands there, frozen on the sidewalk, drinking in the sight of it. He feels the strangest, most aching kind of relief—a wave of comfort he didn't know he still had the capacity to feel.

His eyes flicker across the familiar scene inside, hearing the distant hum of his dad watching the news on the TV, the faint clinking of silverware against ceramic as someone finishes dinner, achingly familiar laughs and voices. It’s home. And yet it feels impossibly far away, like he's staring through a window into someone else's life.

Mike clenches his fists, a shaky breath leaving his lips. It’s so normal, it hurts. He half expects his mom to swing the door open and scold him for standing out in the cold without a jacket. He can almost hear her voice, concerned yet firm: Michael, you're going to catch a cold.

His throat tightens. He swallows back the lump building there and forces himself to raise a hand, about to knock. He freezes when he realizes it's shaking.

“Pull it together, Mike.” he mutters to himself, fingers curling back into a fist. He’s not a little kid anymore. He doesn't knock when he comes home; he just walks in, kissing his moms forehead as a greeting and listening to Holly telling him about a new friend she met at the park. He grabs the handle and twists, but it's locked. He lets out a small, strangled laugh, like he's surprised. Of course it's locked. He’s dead. 

He’s not supposed to be here. 

His hand drops, the laughter dying in his throat as he stares at the door, a frown tugging at his lips. He feels stupid. So, so stupid for coming here. For thinking he could just walk in like everythings fine. He’s been dead for—how long? Days? Weeks? Months? He doesn't even know. What did he expect? His mom to throw open the door, see him standing there, and pull him into a hug like nothing happened? Like she didn't see her only son's casket be lowered into the ground?

The thought stabs through him, cold and sharp. He pulls back from the door like it burned him, turning away. He can't do this. He can't face them. Not like this. He’s—

“Michael?”

In all his anxiousness, he hadn't heard the door creak open behind him, nor the sharp gasp.

He would know that voice anywhere. He turns slowly, like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter. His mom stands there in the doorway, her face half-lit by the glow of the moon. She looks…exhausted. Her eyes are puffy, rimmed with red like she's been crying. But the look on her face when she sees him—like she's seen a ghost. Which, he supposes, she kind of has.

“Mom,” he chokes out, raw and strangled like the word is being ripped from his chest.

She doesn't say anything. She just stares at him, her hand gripping the doorframe so tight her knuckles are white. Her mouth opens, then closes, like she's trying to say something but can't find the words. Mike watches her, his heart aching in a way he didn't think was possible anymore. He takes a step forward, reaching out for her. 

“Mom, I–”

Then, another figure pops into view.

“Mom, who's at the…” The words die on his sister's lips as she stares at him. “...door.”

Nancy stands there in the doorway, behind his mom, framed by the soft glow of the light. Her eyes are wide and bluer than he remembers, her expression frozen somewhere between shock and fear. Her hands are tangled in her hair, about to pull her hair up into a ponytail. And behind her, there's a tiny, familiar figure peeking around her legs—Holly, clutching her stuffed bunny with both hands. Her face is scrunched up in confusion, but there's a glimmer of recognition in her big, round eyes.

“Mike!” Holly squeaks, her voice so sweet and innocent that it almost breaks him. She takes a step forward, like she's about to run to him.

Nancy's hand shoots out, grabbing Holly's arm and pulling her back. She doesn’t take her eyes off Mike, her gaze sharp and piercing, like she's trying to piece together a puzzle that makes no sense. “Stay back.” she says, her voice low, and Mike isn't quite sure if she's talking to him or to their sister.

Mike's breath catches in his throat. He tries to say something, anything but his voice feels like it's stuck behind a wall of dirt and ice. “Nancy,” he manages finally, eyes flickering between her and his mom. “It’s me, please.”

“No,” she whispers, almost to herself. “This isn't real. You're dead. I saw you in the—”

She stops herself, swallowing hard as she looks away from him and to his mom, who is still staring at him, wide eyed. Mike feels a sharp pang of pain at her words, like a nail driven straight into his chest. 

Nancy's eyes well up with tears, and she looks like she's about to say something when Holly suddenly breaks free of her grip. She rushes forward before Nancy can stop her and throws her arms around Mike as best as she can, burying her face into his hip.

For a second, Mike isn't sure what to do. He’s stiff, frozen in place, terrified of hurting her. But then his body moves on its own, crouching down and wrapping his arms around Holly like he used to. He squeezes her tight, pressing his face into her hair. She smells like strawberry shampoo and crayons.

“Mikey,” Holly mumbles against his chest. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Holls.” His voice cracks, and he can't help the tears that spill over, sliding down his cheeks.

After a couple moments, she lets go of him, bottom lip jutting out into a pout. She reaches up and wipes some dirt from his face. 

Mike's heart clenches at the tenderness in Holly’s small gesture. He can't help but laugh, but it's a broken, strained sound. It almost feels normal for a second. Almost like everything hasn't changed, like he hasn't changed. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling deeply, trying to hold onto the moment for as long as he can.

But then Nancy yanks her back.

“Don't touch her.” Nancy snaps, her voice sharp as glass. Her eyes are burning now, her expression twisted with fear and something else. Grief, Mike realizes. He gets it—he wouldn't trust her either if she came back from the dead—but it still hurts. 

“Nance—”

“You can't be real,” she breathes out, cutting him off, her voice cracking under the strain. She's blinking rapidly, like if she just does it enough, he’ll disappear and she’ll just go back to bed and pretend it was all a bad dream. “You're not real. You're—” she swallows hard, like she's choking on the word. “You're dead.”

The word hangs in the air, heavy and thick. Mike flinches like she slapped him. He feels the weight of it like a stone settling in his stomach. Dead. He is dead, he knows this. But hearing it from her lips, seeing the way she looks at him like he's a monster, like he's something unnatural—it feels like a second death.

“Nance, please,” he begs, taking a small step closer. He feels like a little kid again, begging her for just an ounce of her attention, her love. “It’s me. I swear it's me. I-I’m here.”

“Stay back!” Nancy's voice cracks as she stumbles backward, pulling Holly closer to her, Her hand shakes as she points a trembling finger at him. He’s never seen her look so…afraid. No even when they were younger, facing the horrors of the Upside Down together. “Mom,” she says, her voice a strangled whisper. “Tell him to get out.”

His mom still hasn't moved away from the doorway. Her lips part, quivering, but no words come out.

“Mom,” Mike pleads, voice desperate. He feels like he's splintering apart, pieces of him breaking off with every second that passes. “Mom, it's me. Please say something.”

Her hand trembles as she slowly reaches out, like she wants to touch him but is afraid he’ll turn to dust if she does. Her fingers brush against his cheek, and he feels it—that soft, familiar touch he’d been needing. It makes something inside him crumble.

“Oh, Michael,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “My baby.” She lets out a choked sob and pulls him into her arms.

He wasn't expecting it. He thought she’d take Nancy’s harsh approach or scream or faint or slam the door in his face. But she's holding him like she’ll never let go, her fingers digging into his back, her tears soaking into the shoulder of his jacket. He feels like he might break apart right then and there as he wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. 

“You're— you’re alive.” she murmurs, her voice laced with disbelief. “Oh my god, Michael, you're alive.”

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the words stick in his throat. He wants to tell her that he's okay, that everything is okay. But it's not. He's not okay. He's wrong. He feels wrong in her arms, like he doesn't belong there anymore.

“I’m here,” he says instead, because it's the only thing he can say. “I’m here, Mom.”

Over her shoulder, he can see Nancy, standing there with tears brimming her eyes, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She’s looking at him like she doesn’t know him, like he's something terrifying and unknown.

He’s always taken showers for granted, he thinks. You never really know how much you need something until it's ripped away from you.

It’s relaxing, the way the water hits his face and rolls down his body, taking the dirt on it with it. 

The hot water stings against the cuts that seemingly hadn’t healed yet, but it's a good pain. A grounding one. It reminds him that he's still here—still something at least, still solid enough to hurt.

The steam fills the small bathroom, making him feel uncomfortably warm. He lets the water wash over him, his eyes slipping shut as he presses his forehead against the cool tile. For a moment, he just breathes, focusing on the steady thrum of water against his back and the warmth spreading through his aching muscles.

He tries not to think about the way Nancy looked at him. Like he was something she couldn't understand, like she was staring into the face of a nightmare. He tries not to think about the way his mom held him, how it felt both perfect and wrong all at once. He feels like an imposter in his own skin, wearing a costume that doesn't fit right.

If he tries hard enough, he can almost pretend things are normal, that he's just Mike Wheeler again, taking a shower after a long, hard day at school. He can pretend that any second now, his mom will call up the stairs, reminding him not to use all the hot water, or that his dad will complain about the sound of the pipes rattling. But it doesn't.

When he finally turns off the water, he stands there for a moment, dripping wet and shivering despite the heat still lingering in the air. He takes a deep breath and steps out, grabbing the pajama pants his mom had set on the sink and pulling it on, feeling the softness of the fabric against his skin. It's one of those small comforts he never thought he'd appreciate this much. He can still smell the faint scent of detergent on it, a reminder of his mom’s meticulous laundry habits.

The mirror is in front of him now; fogged up, obscuring his reflection. He reaches out with a trembling hand and wipes away the condensation, staring at the empty space where his face should be. 

It hits him again, that sudden wave of grief for something so small: the sight of his own face. How often had he complained about it? The awkward freckles that spread across his cheeks, the untamable hair, the curve of his nose? Now he’d give anything to see it again, to recognize himself.

A laugh bubbles up from his throat, bitter and tinged with hysteria. It sounds wrong in the silence of the bathroom, echoing off the tiles. Of course he can't see himself. He’s a vampire now—he should have expected this. But somehow, it feels like another cruel joke, like the universe is mocking him.

The bathroom door creaks open behind him. Mike tenses, head snapping up as he twists around. Nancy stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. She’s changed out of her clothes from earlier, now in sweatpants and one of her old Hawkins High gym shirts. Her eyes are still red, her expression drawn tight with something he can't quite place—fear, grief, maybe anger. Maybe all of it at once.

“You took a long time,” she says, her voice flat.

Mike blinks at her, then looks down at himself, dripping water onto the floor. He hadn't realized he'd been there so long. Time feels slippery now, like it doesn't quite matter anymore. Like it's already left him behind. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking back up at her. “I…I needed it.”

“Yeah, I bet you did.” There's a sharpness in her tone, like she's digging at him with a knife, testing to see if he'll bleed. Her eyes flicker over him, taking him in, analyzing him. She doesn't look away, even when the seconds stretch into something uncomfortable. “So, what's your plan?”

“My plan?” He echoes, confused. He turns away from her and reaches for the shirt he’d grabbed from his old drawer, pulling it on with clumsy hands. “I dont…I don’t know. I just wanted to see you. I needed to—”

“Needed to what?” Nancy's voice rises, her face twisting with something close to disgust. “Needed to show up here like this? Needed to freak out Mom and Holly? They thought you were dead, Mike. We buried you. I buried you.”

“I was dead,” Mike snaps. “Or did you forget that part?”

Nancy flinches, and guilt slams into Mike. He opens his mouth to apologize, but she's already turning away, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. For a moment, she just stands there, staring at the wall like she's trying to make sense of something impossible.

“You shouldn't have come back,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. It’s not cruel. It’s broken, hurt, sad.

Then, she walks away, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoes in the small space, ringing in his ears like a gunshot.

Mike stands there, staring at the closed door, his chest heaving like he's just run a marathon. He can still smell her perfume, the faint familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine. It's comforting in a way that makes him want to curl up on the floor and cry.

But he doesn't. He can't.

Instead, he takes a deep, shuddering breath and steps back toward the mirror, looking into the empty space once again. He raises a hand to his face, running his fingers along his jaw, his cheeks, the sharp line of his nose, his cracked lips. He can feel it—he knows it's there. But it’s like he doesn't exist. Like he's just a shadow of who he used to be.

He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the tears spill over, hot against his cold skin. “I’m here,” he whispers, his voice cracking in the silence of the bathroom. He doesn't know who he's saying it to—maybe to himself, maybe to the reflection he can't see, maybe to Nancy, who's probably in her room trying not to cry if he knows her well enough. “I’m here.”