Chapter Text
His table was scattered with remains of dinner nobody had touched. The four boys sat in unbreathable silence. The kitchen air was fragile; it’d crack if a word slipped out.
Mike sat, fists clenched tight on his lap. An exhausted Lucas sat across from him. He looked like he’d cried every last bit of energy out of his drooping eyes. Hollow, as if the cavity in his chest held nothing but fragments.
Mike's eyes fixed on the grain of the table; it looked like an eye, watching, waiting for him to crack. He bit down on his cheek. He was too old for this. Too old to cry in front of his friends. His gut twisted; something was trying to tear out of his insides. But he couldn’t let it. Not here, not right now. He remembered it all too well. Her face was as pale as candle wax, drained of any warmth that once existed. The veins surrounding her eyes burst into thin, spidering roots beneath a barren landscape of skin. Her heart beat in slow and steady pulses, but there was nothing left of her. It stung, even now, that he was home.
“It’s going to be hard,” Lucas gulped, “without both of them.” His whisper breaks the silence, voice raw and small.
Mike's eyes darted toward him. His stomach churned in confusion. He knew about Max but…
“Both of them?” It came out wrong -- a plea for information.
Dustin’s breath hitched, his eyes shimmered in the light with what remained. “Oh”, Dustin said gingerly, a sigh almost. “You don’t... you don’t know about Eddie?” It came out nasal and shaky.
“Wha... what about Eddie?” Mike stuttered, mouth dry. "What happened to Eddie?"
Mike held his breath. Dustin pressed his lips together tightly, in a pale, trembling line. “Mike…" he swallowed "Eddie... he never made it back,” he said it quietly, as if that way, it would hurt the two of them less.
His heart hammered in his chest loud, unsteady: like he'd ran a mile. His throat tightened. Don’t cry. He can’t cry. Not here. Not with everyone watching. His eyes stung regardless. A tear ran down his cheek, followed by another and another and--
He pushed the chair out from beneath him. It was so hard that he thought he marked the floor. The sound was sharp and painful in the still room.
from the corner of his eye, Will raised in his seat. Mike bolted toward the stairs. Dustin and Lucas mumbled to Will, something about space. The sound of their voices became faint. His vision blurred. His legs couldn’t carry him much longer, ready to buckle at any second. He dragged himself just enough to make it to the bathroom.
He locked the door. He collapsed as hands latched onto the sink; it creaked under his weight. Mike's body folded on itself. His grip on the basin edge turned his knuckles ghastly. sobs tore out of him -- painful, shuddering gasps. He hated it bad, the way his face crumpled, how his breath stuttered, the way itchy streams burned his cheeks.
Eddie and Max -- both so young. Too young. So much ahead of them. So much interest and talent to bring to the world. And it was torn brutally, unnecessarily. Stolen by some weird fucking interdimensional wretch!
Mike had so much planned. So many promises abandoned. unfulfilled. That awful salty taste seeps into his mouth. evidence of his failure.
Mike's eyes wandered around the increasingly crowded space. They land on a pair of scissors; he’d noticed them earlier, sharp and gleaming in the pale bathroom light. His fingers fumbled at first. He grasped the scissors in a tight grip. What were his intentions?
What did he want to do?
There was an unbearable feeling in his chest. He could hardly stand the weight of gravity, dragging at his shoulders.
Before he could think, he stared into his eyes -- swollen and red. Mike brought the scissors to his hair.
He tousled it once before chopping pieces in large, spontaneous clumps. Dark curls fell to the ground -- ones grown out in an attempt to be like Eddie. He had falsely believed that if he grew out his hair, found his own style, he’d be cool. maybe even confident like Eddie. It didn’t work. He was a coward. Mike Wheeler wasn't brave. He'd always been terrified of everything.
Awhile back, even his very own thoughts had started to haunt him. God, he was unbearable.
He got carried away, chopping at his hair, unaware of how time was dragging on around him. he needed it gone.
Though the ache didn’t fade, no matter how much hair fell into the basin, his pain stayed rooted.
He almost missed the knock on the door. “Sweetheart! Who is that? Are you alright in there?”
oh god, Mrs Byers!
He dropped the scissors. They fell against the porcelain with a loud clank. He winced at the sound and swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. Shame flushed Mike as he caught a glimpse of the mess he made, reflecting from the glass. His hair was jagged and uneven. His face was red and puffy. He acted irrationally. a man with the mind of a senseless toddler. He was naive, incapable of regulating his emotions. God, he might actually be six.
If it were Mom or Dad or hell, even if it were Nancy, they’d leave him alone. but it was Joyce. Joyce was always the worried and persistent kind, which really wasn’t what he needed right now, despite her genuine concern. Mike hesitated for a moment, weighing his options.
A knock came again, a little firmer this time.“Hey, honey?” Joyce’s voice muffled, yet care still bled through. “I’m right here. You don't have to open the door right now. You can talk to me, you know, when you're ready."
He sniffled hard, wiping away his tears, and braced himself.
The door creaked open the moment he unlocked it. He stepped back, and Joyce slowly entered.
Her eyes softened, a pitiful frown settling on her face as she took in the sight of him.
“Oh Mike, sweetie…” she whispered, almost to herself. A small frown dawned on her usual brightness. She stepped past and collected the scissors from the sink. It was covered in strands and sticky clusters of black hair. She wiped the scissors off the bottom of her cardigan.
“Can I?” she asked, her voice low and careful, making a slight gesture.
It was like moving too fast would scare him off, as if he were a wounded animal. The idea only made him feel more helpless. Mike nodded; the words couldn’t escape his closing throat. Her eyes examined the uneven mess for a moment.
He tried to hold back tears, but they came trickling quietly down his face anyway as his teeth gnawed on the inside of his lip.
“I used to cut my boys' hair all the time, you know, I learned a few tricks from these old magazines. I found them lying around.” Joyce smiled at the memory. It was small, sad maybe, but still nurturing.
Mike remembered how money had been tight over the years; she’d quietly learned to improvise.
She gently reached as she began to cut his hair. Her hands were a comforting warmth against his scalp. She pinched sections between her fingers and brushed away loose strands.
With a twinge of guilt, Mike found himself wishing Joyce had been his own mother.
Not that he didn't love his mom. Joyce was so understanding. She took her time, not just to listen, but really listen.
He stared back at himself. A broken and misplaced Mike in the very place he should feel most at home.
He hadn’t cried like this in a long time, not since, well, people he cared about “died”.
He had mastered the art of swallowing back tears and muffling sobs. But this time, it'd been loud and ugly, and there was nothing he could've done to stop. Everything that had happened in the last few days was too much. He cracked, shattered like a window pane under too much pressure. Soon, everyone left would abandon him again, just like they did last year.
This was all his fault in a way. Maybe if he hadn’t gone to Lenora, he could’ve helped; he could’ve done something. anything. Maybe then Max...and Eddie... Maybe they would still be here.
It was so late now, the sun had practically set. What happened when everyone had to go home?
He’d just go back to being alone in the basement. Would Will go back to Cali? No, to somewhere safer? So, 001 couldn't use him to hurt again? They’d go back to not talking, not writing. Will would think he didn’t care again, that these last few days meant nothing to Mike, just more bullshit lies.
And Eleven… she hadn’t properly spoken to him since his speech-profession thing, say a couple of words here and there. words she strung weakly into sentences about how Papa was right.
Mike said what she wanted. What he was supposed to. Yet everything was still wrong.
El was in danger. She was being hunted down now, too. He couldn’t help.
She had her powers now. If there were a way he could help, she wouldn't want him to. wouldn't need him to. Not anymore. El gets stronger. Mike can only watch from the sidelines. He becomes more and more useless by the minute. He stills, helpless at their increasing distance.
His tears had well faded out now. A hollow ache was left. A growing worry in his chest. Not even tears stayed long enough to watch him disintegrate; they'd had enough of his bullshit, too. Mike tried to mask his pain as she cut away.
She smoothed her hands gently over his hair. “There,” she said, softly admiring her work, offering a pleasant smile. “Not so bad, right?”
He took in his hair for a moment, and he offered a small smile of gratitude. Mike stepped forward and twisted the faucet -- a weak attempt to wash the hair down the drain. to hide the disgrace.
“Mike, Honey, I can handle it,” she gently placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“You sure?’ he barely manages.
She steps toward him, turning him around and wraps him tightly in her arms.
“Mike,” she said softly. “You know you don’t have to go through this alone, okay?” She sighed, "We’re all stuck in this mess together.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, collapsing into her embrace. Her words settle into the ache.
He remembered when he was little, whenever Joyce saw them trying to hold it in. She'd say, “If people weren’t supposed to cry, we wouldn’t be able to.” Mike always clung to that. He wanted to believe it. But believing got harder and harder. His father belittled him. The world screamed, “Man up.” He was supposed to be strong. Feelings made you weak. They made you “worthless.” It was stupid, really, but it was so deeply ingrained. Somewhere, Mike gave up trying to fight it. Though maybe he didn’t.
Maybe he just learned to fight himself instead.
After a quiet moment of breathing in her comfort, she let go. She gave him a sweet smile, a it’s all gonna be okay. Maybe if she still believed it, he could too.
Joyce ruffled his hair one last time; he couldn’t help the soft and broken laugh that escaped. Maybe not a laugh, maybe a huff or a sigh. He wasn’t sure. But her smile was infectious.
He quietly crossed the room to the soft bath mat by the tub, drawing his knees in. He watched Joyce leave for a moment and return with the kitchen brush. She began sweeping the fallen hair from the floor.
A familiar voice drifted in quietly from the hallway. “Hey mom, um… is …. Is Mike okay? Can I-“ Mike caught a glimpse of Wil's fingers curling around the wooden frame
Joyce stood and wiped her hands off her jeans. “Maybe give him a little minute, sweetie.” She said, gently guiding Will away.
“No! uhh Will.. Will can stay,” Mike broke in, voice quiet.
Joyce gave a small nod, smiling between both of them. she she slipped out with a soft click of the door.
He hated how his face was still pale and covered in red splotches while Will stepped toward him. It was so obvious he’d been crying and crying badly at that. He must think he was weird for running off like that. he should've just held on a little longer. excused himself to his basement like a normal person.
Will hovered awkwardly for a moment before lowering himself beside Mike. He avoided meeting Will's eyes, keeping his gaze on the tiles. Maybe if Mike didn’t look at him, Will wouldn’t see through him the way he usually did. It felt like his eyes were windows to a home, a small broken one -- one only Will cared to notice. A home, Will was the only one who had a key to. He was close enough that their knees just about touched. He felt small. exposed. Will didn’t seem to mind. He sat there, close and steady, like this was normal-
Will reached out and lightly touched his hair, smoothing down a jagged piece. Mike tilted his head, facing him. Somehow, he fell straight into his hazel eyes, like they were already waiting for him. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. A flower of warmth bloomed in his chest, soft and sudden and impossible to stop; no matter how hard he tried not to feed it, not to let it grow to hide it. He couldn't give in, especially not now.
“It suits you.” Will’s voice was soft and sincere in a way that made his heart stumble.
Heat was an important factor in photosynthesis, and unfortunately, the flush on Mike’s cheeks was providing just that. He turned his head away and smiled at the ground a little. Pretending the compliment didn’t make his stomach twist in a way he could never tell anyone.
A silent moment stretches, and both boys stare at the ground. He felt like Will's presence was enough. Mike glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He’d forgotten how to look away. despite the supposed 6 months of doing so. Mike needed to speak, just say anything. he had to distract himself from how soft Will looked despite his day-old clothes and unwashed hair.
Mike exhaled softly, the words barely climbing his throat, “You would’ve loved him, Will. Really loved him.”
“Yeah?” Will's smile was soft, a little sad. There was some curiosity; it quietly glowed behind his nice eyes.
“Yeah. He was the best dm ever. like ever, ever. even better than me”
Will raised his eyebrows, the softest of smiles growing. He nudges Mike with his elbow “Oh, really?”
“I mean it, Will, honestly. He was just on a whole other plane." Mike played along, allowing a flicker of arrogance slip in. "I thought I was good, but damn, Eddie made you feel like you were really there. And his voices? I thought mine were decent, but they don’t even compare.”
Will smiled, listening carefully as he spoke.
“He used to call us ‘little sheep’ in this dumb voice. and his guitar, God. He’d just bring it to the table sometimes and start shredding mid-session. It was SOOO stupid. like really so stupid. But like... it was so Eddie. It was perfect. He just -- got it. You know?” Mike yapped on; the words were light on his tongue, but his throat caught. Deep down, he knew this hurt. He knew he was just distracting himself.
Eventually, though, it caught up and began tripping Mike's words. He sat for a moment. Reality was stealing the air from his already overexerted lungs.
He swallowed hard. “I just… I thought we’d have more time, you know? Like… I was going to ask him for this big campaign, I’d been planning it for a while now… You know, for when you came home, I mean, maybe El would’ve wanted to play too, but…” He trailed off. The words just felt wrong.
They sat in silence again briefly. Mike startled. Will’s knee lay fully against his own. He tried to play it off, staying perfectly still. The longer they stayed, the more aware he became of the warmth and the pressure. He felt exposed again; his new short hair gave way to the redness of his cheeks.
“Mike” Will’s quietly breaks through his thoughts. Will sounded almost... hesitant. Mike noticed as Will fidgeted with his hands. He was bracing himself to tell Mike something. maybe something Will didn’t want him to hear. He couldn’t do this. Not again. Not today.
“I was going to tell you later, but…” he sighed. “You know, with everything going on, and with the government and our house… Mom thought it’d be better if we stayed here. for a couple of weeks somewhere in Hawkins… you know, just for now” Will gulped, his eyes fixed on a spot on the ground.
“Will that’s amazing!” Mike smiled.
“Really?” Will looked a little shocked, but his expression brightened as he held Mike’s gaze.
“Of course! I mean, we can have sleepovers every weekend and watch movies and hang out at the arcade, and maybe we can all play D&D again together. We can build a campaign, and you could draw everything, and -- God, Will, it’ll be like it used to!” Mike rambled before he could think. A genuine delight found a small home on his otherwise grief-stained face.
god. It was like a second hug. a big warm Will-shaped hug.
Something went right, for once.
Will let out a small breath; he’d been holding it back. “I thought maybe you’d like… you’d want space, with everything, you know?” he admitted, his voice low, though that loveable smile of his pulled at his mouth.
Mike shook his head at him, smiling sheepishly like an idiot.
“I missed you guys… a lot, you know,” Will continued.
“We missed you, too,” Mike whispered. He rested his head on Will’s shoulder despite his heart’s protests. If he had to die from heart palpitations, Will’s shoulder was the nicest place to be.
Their words faded into the dusk-lit bathroom. They sat in the house's quiet hum, the adults’ mumbles carried upstairs. It was the first time in a long time that Mike didn’t feel entirely alone.
They really were all stuck in this mess together.