Chapter Text
Mike woke up feeling confused.
Actually, he woke up feeling tired.
He had never really slept well. At least, not since everything started a few years ago; when all hell broke loose in Hawkins and everything changed. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then, and his sleep had never been good after.
But his sleeping condition had somehow worsened within the past couple months. He was lucky if he got three or four hours a night, tossing and turning with frantic, endless thoughts. But, no matter how long he spent thinking each night, he couldn’t decipher anything.
So he was tired, but mostly confused.
That was a relatively new development, too. Being so unsure of everything all the time. He'd had to deal with a lot of shit in the past three years, but it had never confused him before. Not really.
A little over a year ago, Mike had everything about himself figured out. He knew who his best friends were, what he liked, what he didn't like. He knew that he would do anything for the people that he loved, and that they would do the same. He knew that, even if they couldn't stop everything; the Upside Down, then the Mind Flayer, then Vecna; he knew that, even then, they would go down protecting each other. He knew that he loved his parents and his sisters and his friends. He knew that he loved El.
At least, he had thought he knew all these things. But even then, it didn’t really feel right.
And then the Byers and El moved to Lenora. And, somehow, everything got worse.
But then it got better. And he had thought, naively, that that was it. That he really had everything figured out this time.
Only for everything to change. Again. But now, he didn't know if things could go back to normal. Or if they ever were.
Mike scrubbed his hands through his hair as he reluctantly sat up in his bed. He tugged frustratedly at his curls, as if, maybe, if he pulled hard enough, he could pull everything—the confusion, the tiredness, the thoughts—right out of his head. The meaningless, jumbled, frustrating, confusing thoughts that only served to keep him up at night.
He let his hands drop defeatedly. It was a Saturday, which meant that it was probably at least ten in the morning. He had finally fallen into restless sleep around when the sun had just started to rise, exhaustion winning out over frustration. He should’ve been glad that it was the weekend, but it also meant no school. No distractions. Just him and his whirlwind brain while he tried to act like everything was fine—was normal around his family.
Well, as normal as things could be when your town had cracked into literal pieces a few months ago and was now under constant military surveillance.
And you and your friends were doing guerrilla investigations of an alternate dimension.
Mike had the fleeting thought that he probably didn’t really know what normal meant anymore.
Rubbing his eyes, he squinted at the sunlight spilling across his bed through his half-shut blinds. But, as though his eyes were being pulled by a magnet, they inevitably slid over to the floor. Or, rather, the empty mattress covering the floor.
Seriously, Mike had dealt with a lot of shit in his life, but the last six months had possibly been the most confusing.
If he was being honest, the last year had been confusing. Everything had really started when the Byers moved to Lenora. That's when Mike started to notice himself becoming less sure about things that he knew—or that he had always thought he knew.
Like loving El.
He had always struggled to say it, even when he first figured it out. But just because he couldn't verbalize it doesn't mean it wasn't true. And besides, he'd said it to El.
Even if it was only in life-or-death moments, he said it.
But when she left for California, it felt like he had just… reverted back again. Like the more that he thought about her, and how he felt, and that stupid word, the less everything seemed to fit together. But he thought—no, he knew he felt it.
Yet, he couldn't even write it. Every time he signed a letter to her, he would stare at the paper thinking It's four letters. That's all. But then he would write From, Mike and wish that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
But that had all changed, or he thought. He had been able to say it that night in California, when El was looking for Max. When Will had told him it was what she needed. And it had worked. It had helped her.
But that was then. Before the last six months had flipped everything on its head, and nothing made sense anymore. Why had he reverted back, unable to say it again? He wanted to kick himself, to scream. It was four letters.
Seeing El's face crumble a little more each time he couldn't give her what she wanted, what she needed—it felt like being stabbed. But no matter what he did, it wouldn't come out.
This was partly what kept him up at night. The guilt of it crawling up his throat and threatening to strangle him to death. Something, deep down, felt broken; wrong.
And then there was Will.
Will, who Mike knew was his best friend.
Until that changed, too.
When Will left for Lenora, something twisted in Mike. Maybe that was why everything was so messed up now. He had been a shitty friend to Will and then Will was gone and Mike felt lost. Like Will had been Mike's last tether to himself and, without him there, Mike wasn't sure of anything.
But he tried to stay normal. He tried so hard. He sent El letters, and he called Will.
He called every day at first, sometimes twice a day. And Will would also pick up, at first. But something just felt wrong; off. Mike would feel weirdly nervous and forget what he wanted to say, and Will would trail off, and they would hang up.
But Mike kept calling Will, kept sending El letters. Kept trying to be normal.
By then, only El responded.
Mike just chalked it up to Will being busy and tried not to think about how much it hurt.
But the worst part was that Mike couldn’t stop thinking. About El, and how he felt about her, and how he wished everything could be normal again.
Mostly, though, he was thinking about Will.
Will, who was supposed to be his best friend. Who he could communicate to without words. Who always knew how to make Mike feel better, or at least knock some sense into him when he was being an asshole.
He kept running every memory through his mind, wondering where he went wrong and when he started treating Will so badly. How he managed to mess up every relationship he had with people who actually cared about him.
Guilt ate at him, but so did something else. Something he couldn’t name. But he felt it, every time he thought about the good memories with Will. Like when they met that first day on the swing-set; or when Will finally, finally woke up in the hospital after he got back from the Upside Down; or when Will said he could never join a different party. He thought about these times—better, simpler times—like a constant highlight reel running in his mind. The memories made that twisted, mangled thing in him feel better. He felt good when he thought about Will.
Will, who he didn’t deserve; who he missed; who he wished he could apologize to and hug and be best friends with again. Will, who he couldn’t stop thinking about.
But Will had made it pretty clear by his silence that he wasn’t thinking about Mike at all.
And then, right before Mike was supposed to go to California, to finally see Will again—there was the girl.
Mike remembered it, clear as day. He had been reading one of El's many letters, right there in his room. It was the day before Spring Break. The day before he saw El—and Will—again. His eyes had skipped to the bottom of the page—Love, El. His heart had lurched, guilt creeping in, but he kept reading.
Then El mentioned the painting. And the girl.
And the thing that had twisted in him when Will left tightened until it nearly snapped.
That's probably when the confusion began, he figured. Because he didn't understand. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t write “love” and he didn’t understand why he was so upset at El's news, just that he was. Nothing made sense anymore.
After running the information through his brain hundreds of times and getting almost no sleep that night—probably when his insomnia started, too—he came to the conclusion that it was because Will had never shown an interest in girls. Ever. Unless you counted that time with the girl at the Snow Ball. But, even then, he hadn’t looked all that enthused.
So, yeah, he’d never shown interest in girls. Let alone made art for them.
Which, in hindsight might have been because he was too busy with other things. Like getting trapped in an alternate dimension or being possessed by monsters.
But still, it was weird.
The more Mike had tried to think about it all, the more confused he got. So he mostly tried not to think about Will at all.
This proved to be a spectacular failure and only made him think about Will more, which made him more confused, and the cycle continued.
And then he had gotten to Lenora and could barely look Will in the eyes.
He also found out that Eleven was lying to him about her friends, and everything had felt like it was falling apart.
Until—until Will knocked some sense into him and they agreed to be friends—best friends—again.
He also learned that El needed him. At least, according to Will she did.
So everything changed. And Mike could say "I love you." And Will was his best friend. And he had everything figured out again.
Until three months ago.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push thoughts of a stupid fight and an empty mattress out of his brain. Rising from his bed, he instead directed his thoughts towards Eleven.
They had made plans to meet up later. If Mike was being honest with himself, he was dreading going. But he had already canceled on El twice in the past month, and he didn’t want to hurt her more than he already knew he was.
Mike was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to feel this way about hanging out with your girlfriend. Dread, guilt, confusion. But he’d stopped trying to figure it out months ago. He figured it was easier to just go through the motions, keep up the facade. El needed him, and he couldn’t let her down again. Even if it all felt wrong.
Shrugging on two-day-old jeans from his bedroomfloor and a t-shirt from his desk chair, he glanced one more time at the mattress. The one that he refused to put away, hoping that maybe… He shook his head, turning away and opening the door.
He quickly used the bathroom, then went downstairs in search of food. He wasn’t meeting with El until later, but he figured he needed something to distract himself until then. Just as he was walking into the kitchen, deciding whether to go on a bike ride or start a new campaign or just stare at the wall in his room all day, he saw the door to the basement opening. Mike froze.
Will, who—similarly to Mike—looked like he had just woken up, emerged from the stairs. His hair was a mess of loose, messy, brown waves. He yawned and stretched his arms, his t-shirt riding up the smallest amount.
Mike’s eyes instantly darted to the exposed stretch of skin, and he felt his neck get hot. He quickly averted his eyes back to Will’s hair. He had a fleeting thought of what it might feel like to run his hands—What?
He pushed the urge down so violently that he almost stumbled backward with the force, bracing himself with a hand on the doorway.
But Will still hadn’t noticed Mike.
Mike couldn’t stop noticing Will.
After Will closed the door to the basement, he finally turned in Mike’s direction. Mike, having still been staring, quickly looked away, willing his eyes to land somewhere—anywhere—but back on the other boy.
“Oh,” Will said, breaking the rather awkward silence. “Hey.”
Casually as ever, Will simply walked to the cupboard and grabbed a glass.
As Mike’s eyes followed him, he realized that he was acting weird. Well, weirder than normal. He should probably say something. Or move.
“So…” Mike started, unsure where he was going but feeling te desperate need to fill the silence. Will didn’t look at him. He just walked over the sink and started filling his glass. That was when Mike noticed the sketchbook under Will’s arm. Mike latched onto it.
“What’re you drawing?” he asked, eyeing the book.
“Oh,” Will said, looking down like he had forgotten he was holding it. He finished filling his glass, then shoved the sketchbook into the back pocket of his pants. “Um. Nothing really. Just… some random sketches.”
Mike frowned, but didn’t want to push it. Not after what happened last time.
He hated this. Hated that things were weird between them, but they pretended that they weren’t.
Shrugging and turning to lean against the counter, Will asked, “What are you up to today?” He was clearly trying to sound casual but landed somewhere far from it.
Mike wanted to scream, but istead he said, “Dunno yet,” he shrugged. “Might… go out or something. Or start a new campaign. But I’m hanging out with El later…” Mike trailed off, scratching the back of his head and looking down.
“Oh,” Will said. “How… How are things?” he asked vaguely.
“We’re good. We’re good,” he said, looking up and forcing a smile that he hoped looked genuine.
Will looked at him skeptically, sipping his water.
“Mike,” Will sighed, looking away. “You know…” he trailed off, breathing in.
Mike stood up straighter, thinking that maybe—finally—they were going to have a genuine conversation. That they would actually talk about this weirdness between them instead of pretending it didn’t exist.
“Yeah?”
Will looked up at him, expression unreadable. He took another deep breath. “Nothing. Nothing, just…” he exhaled, shaking his head. “Have fun with El, okay?”
He gave a small smile and turned away.
Mike just nodded dumbly at him as Will walked back down into the basement.
As soon as he was gone, Mike silently cursed himself and wondered for the hundredth time what was wrong with him. With them. They were best friends but could barely hold a conversation.
Dragging his hands down his face defeatedly, he finally entered the kitchen, stopping only to look at the basement door one more time.
He ached to go down, to just talk to Will. Even though Will lived with him, it sometimes felt like they existed on different planets. He was only a few feet away, but Mike missed him so badly that it hurt to breathe.
Mike just wished he knew how to fix things.
But he didn’t even know what was broken.