Chapter Text
29th October, 1987
It’s 1987 and Will doesn’t draw or paint for him anymore.
Mike isn’t sure when he really realizes it for the first time. He thinks he’s known for a while, but it’s different, noticing and actually understanding what it means. The same way a pattern can be recreated by following instructions, without trying to figure out why these instructions are a necessity. Or like puzzle pieces that only really make sense when you gather enough of them to form a picture.
Mike looks down at his binder. It’s old and has a small crack at the bottom, but until time fully erodes the Party’s fading signatures looping in the upper right corner, it will remain irreplaced. He opens it tentatively, and stares at what must be the first puzzle piece of the heartache he has found himself in.
It’s a fully coloured drawing of the Lenora Hills Park, dated 12th October 1985. Will’s signature is penned in white ink at the bottom, and Mike traces over the name with his index finger. The drawing itself is inconspicuous enough, portraying a grainy path that splits into a crossroad at the center, surrounded by trees, lampposts and bushes. The grass is littered with fallen leaves, a mixture of yellow and orange. A woman with a stroller is staring at a couple of laughing children, playing on the swingset. It’s a very mundane scene, but it’s drawn with so much detail and warmth that it’s hard to look away from it.
This is the drawing that was attached to the very last letter Mike had received from Will when the Byers had been in California. A letter that Mike had not replied to, at least not in a way that would reach his best friend, just as he hadn't replied to the four previous ones.
This drawing of Lenora Hills Park is the last piece of art that Will has ever made for him out of his own volition, and it has haunted him for years now.
Mike wonders, if he hadn’t been a coward back then, if he’d allowed himself to send the letters, would this drawing be buried under a pile of masterpieces by now? Swallowed by dozens of newer, equally beautiful pages, instead of standing guard as the most recent gift from the past two years, the painting in his closet notwithstanding? Or would it remain the last, for a wholly different reason?
He can wonder about it, but it's all just hypothetical. It's not like he can turn back time to try and get a different ending. Maybe he can see a glimpse of it if he gets the locked box from his closet, marches down to the basement and hands it to Will. But it's just wishful thinking, really. He’s too much of a coward to go through with it. The insides of the box are too incriminating, and Will is too smart not to connect the dots. Mike got him back after months of gut-wrenching radio silence, and he’s not about to lose him again. Even if it doesn’t feel like Will has ever truly fully returned to him,
“Mike! Dinner!” Holly yells, for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. She's singled him out this time, which must mean everyone else has gathered around the table already.
“Coming!”, he yells back, also for the fifth time. Except unlike the previous four, now he actually gets up, albeit reluctantly. With one last glance at the drawing, he gently closes the binder and pushes it securely under the bed.
When he arrives downstairs, he notes that he is indeed the last one to arrive. Holly, ever the opportunist, has taken advantage of his tardiness and slipped into his usual seat between Mom and Will. It annoys him, but he knows it would be pointless to try and argue when he's late. With an irritated sigh, he sits down on the empty chair between Jonathan and his Dad.
“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, son,” his father says, as sarcastic as always. Mike doesn’t dignify it with a response. He glances across, trying to catch Will’s eyes to express his dissatisfaction in a way that only his best friend understands, but no luck. Will and his little sister are hunched over Holly’s dinner plate, whispering conspiratorially as she draws something in her mashed potatoes with a fork.
“Holly, no playing with your food,” their mother scolds, and the girl straightens with a sheepish smile. She dutifully abandons her mushy masterpiece and scoops it up into her mouth, most likely to avoid apologizing. Not surprisingly, it’s Will that turns to face their mother with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, Mrs. Wheeler. Holly was just excited to share her vision for her school project. We’ll continue after dinner.” As expected, Mike watches his Mom fold under Will’s sincere smile, as she always does. Gone is the frown, replaced by a mirrored softened expression and a fond sigh. Mike cannot even be mad about it, because he knows what it’s like to be on the opposite end of that horrendously cute doe-eyed look.
“It’s okay, dear. Thank you for helping her. Please, help yourself to some beef, I’m quite proud of it this time.”
“It looks delicious, Mrs. Wheeler, as always.”
“Oh, stop!” Mike watches his mom laugh in delight, and he feels his own lips twitch up in amusement.
On one hand, he knows that Will is definitely manipulating his mom into forgetting Holly’s misbehaviour. It’s evident by the shared elbow bump between him and Mike’s younger sister, as well as the grin that Holly’s trying to hide in the sleeve of her sweater. On the other hand, Mike also doesn’t doubt that his best friend is being one hundred percent honest and sincere in his compliment.
Will finally catches his eye when they both reach for the salad, and for a moment, that soft smile is all Mike’s to enjoy.
‘Hi,’ he mouths, because Mrs. Byers chooses this moment to strike up a conversation with Nancy.
‘Hi,’ Will mouths back, and pushes the salad into his hand, letting Mike have the first serving as always. On most days, Mike would accept it without a second thought, but as he observes his best friend settling back down next to Holly, something stops him. A flash of the damn drawing, of Will slipping through his fingers because he thought Mike didn’t care, when that’s all that Mike has done since the Byers had left. That's all he's done since they've come back.
“Pass me the salad if you’re not going to eat it, son.” His father reaches for the bowl, but Mike knocks his hand away as he stands and leans across the table, scooping a hefty portion onto Will’s plate. It gets the hazel eyes back on him, and it feels like victory, even if Will and everyone else around the table look at him with flabbergasted expressions.
“Um,” is all that Will says, glancing between the salad and Mike like he’s trying to make sense of a math equation without a solution.
“It’s your favourite,” Mike shrugs, and leans back with the bowl still in hand. He moves some of it to his own plate, before placing it back at the center of the table. His heart beats like a battle drum as his eyes meet Will’s, but he refuses to back down, lifting the fork with some salad into his mouth. He raises one eyebrow challengingly, and is rewarded with a breathless laughter. He watches in satisfaction as his best friend mimics his action, lifting a fork of his own like he’s returning a salute.
“Yeah. It is. Thanks, Mike.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Dinner is a quick and relatively quiet affair after that, at least in comparison to their usual noisy breakfasts.
Mike's father is the first to leave, excusing himself to the toilet, and it starts movement all around the table. Jonathan and Nancy begin collecting dirty dishes and retreat to the kitchen, while their mothers take the opportunity to relocate to the sofa to gossip about their day. Holly spends the next five minutes complaining about some kid she calls Dipshit Derek in a scandalized whisper, so the adults don’t accidentally overhear her inappropriate language, before she, too, runs off to her room.
“Deserted again,” Mike jokes, and is rewarded with his favourite Will smile. “But I guess at least the company is decent this time.”
“Wow. Just decent, huh?” Will props an elbow on the table and rests his cheek on his open palm. His eyes shimmer in the light, and in a desperate attempt to see them from a lesser distance, Mike crosses his arms on the table and leans forward to lie on them. From this position, he has to look up at Will, a perfect angle to not make it obvious when his traitorous eyes get stuck on his best friend’s lips.
“I mean. I could be convinced to upgrade my rating to outstanding if you don’t abandon me to run off to Holly again.” Will rolls his eyes at the accusation, a soft smile partially hidden by his palm.
“Please, we’re hardly running off. I’m helping her with her art project that’s due next week. You know this. You pester us daily to show it to you.”
“And yet, I am denied, day by day. Betrayed by both of my clerics,” the possessive pronoun slips out on accident, and it shoots an anxious spike through his veins. His eyes lift up to Will’s face in panic, but his best friend’s expression is still amused. For a moment, Mike hopes he hasn’t heard.
“Your clerics might share it with you once it’s finished, Mike the Impatient.”
Oh, he’s heard, alright. But the reception is so much better than anything Mike could have hoped for, and the anxiety is replaced with thrill as he registers the teasing. Banter with Will is always so easy, so fun, so addicting.
“Mike the Brave resents the demotion and the secrecy, I’ll have you know.” He’s rewarded with a fond eye roll, and grins into the sleeve of his shirt. “What’s she making anyway? Every time I try to take a peek, she yells and throws her dolls at me. Their hands are pointy and sharp as hell. I was viciously wounded, but I was real cool about it and didn’t rat her out to Mom. And yet, nothing to show her gratitude.”
Will leans back leisurely in the chair and snorts as his eyes involuntarily glance at the ceiling, as if he can see Holly through the walls. It’s like just the thought of her turns him into the personification of fondness, and Mike would be lying if he said his little sister and best friend bonding didn’t make him pleased beyond reason. Even if it means they gang up on him now.
“Why would she show you gratitude? She beat your ass up with a doll to protect her secret. She won fair and square, Mike.”
“Okay, first of all, she did not beat my ass.”
“Sure.”
“She didn’t. Stop laughing, she didn’t. All she got in was a bruise! That’s like, barely anything. And second of all-,”
“But I heard you were viciously wounded?”
“Second of all-,” he stresses with a playful glare, and Will’s bright eyes are almost enough to derail him. Almost. “-how come she doesn’t mind showing it to you? Hm? Sounds like favouritism to me.”
The deadpan look he receives in return is expected, but not any less amusing.
“Mike. I’m helping her with the project. What, did you think she’d blindfold me so I wouldn’t see it?”
“I mean, maybe? You’re a brilliant artist, I’m sure you’d make it work, blindfold and all.” Mike shrugs, and Will…
Will has that look on his face again, the stupified one, like he’s not quite sure what to do with the compliment. Specifically a compliment from Mike, as if they haven’t been each other’s biggest fans since kindergarten. Except maybe they haven’t been that outspoken about it these days, and maybe that's on Mike.
Briefly, the Lenora Hills Park flashes behind Mike’s eyes, dated 12th October 1985, and he wonders. If he’d been better at saying things that actually matter, would he have hundreds of drawings to distract him from Holly’s projects?
He can be better, even if he’s late. Even if Will doesn’t paint for him anymore.
“I’m serious, Will. You're an amazing artist, probably the best one I know.”
Will clears his throat and shrugs, trying to play it off, but his cheeks are flushed and he looks like he's trying to hold back a smile. Mike wishes he would stop holding back.
“It’s Hawkins, not a lot of compe-”, Mike leans across the table and slams his hand against his best friend’s mouth before he can analyze why that’s the worst idea he’s had in months. He’s not sure whose eyes are wider between the two of them, but he can see the little moles on Will’s neck from this close, and his heart must be audible from the moon, and Will’s cheeks are so warm and soft, and Mike needs to win this argument no matter what.
“The best one,” he whispers insistently, pressing his hand a little harder, until he can make out the shape of Will’s lips against his middle finger, until he can feel the vibration when his best friend swallows nervously, until-
“Willl!” Holly’s yell startles Mike enough to flinch back, and it’s all the opening Will needs.
Before he can even process what is happening, Will flings himself out of his chair, trips, stops himself from falling by grabbing onto the table, all the while avoiding Mike’s eyes like the plague when he finally stutters out, “I’m. Holly, I uh, have to help her.”
“Wait, Will-”
But he doesn’t. He bolts out of the room and up the stairs like a demogorgon is tailing him, and Mike’s stomach feels like it’s plummeted from the cliffs into the rocky bottom. Because it’s 1987, and he’s in love with his male best friend, and it must show enough for Will to be terrified by it.
It’s 1987, and Will doesn’t paint for him anymore.
•—–٠✤٠—–•
27th December, 1985
Mike is ready to be out of the house. He’s been ready, really, but his mother has all but sworn to murder him if he dared to step out of the house while their aunt, uncle and cousin were visiting for the holidays.
“It’s Christmas, Michael, and you will spend it with your family. You can see your friends tomorrow,” she’d stressed, and forced Mike to listen to aunt Mary’s retelling of her Las Vegas trip for the fifth time while his father and uncle talked about golf in the background. Not even his cousin had been interested in him, too preoccupied with catching up Nancy on everything that’s happened in both of their lives since the last family get-together.
So Mike had spent his Christmas switching between sulking, complaining to Lucas and Dustin over the walkie, and trying not to think about the fact that despite the holidays, his call would not go through to California.
“I’m going to hang out with the guys today,” he says during breakfast, breaking the silence. His father doesn’t acknowledge that he’s even heard, too fixed on his newspaper. His mom hums distractedly, too busy trying to wipe out a stain from Holly’s shirt. Nancy has left at the crack of dawn, possibly the only one more desperate than Mike himself to finally be out of the house and back to her usual routine.
He pushes his half-empty plate away from himself and stands up. Neither of his parents seem to notice, and even Holly is too busy with slurping her apple juice to pay him any mind.
Spending time with family… right.
Mike grabs his backpack and the presents he’s bought for Dustin, Lucas and Max all the way back in November, and leaves to their agreed spot.
When he arrives at the junkyard, he can see two of his friends already deep in conversation. There’s a small pile of unopened packages behind them, wrapped in colourful paper with varying degrees of skill, tape and glitter, that stand out like a sore thumb in the greyish-white snow. Noticeably, there is a distinct lack of fiery red hair and a girl-shaped attitude problem, which Mike is both disappointed and unsurprised by. Max has been spending less and less time with them as the weeks went by, bringing the Party count down to a pitiful three.
“Hey,” he greets, and both Dustin and Lucas turn to him with smiles. The latter looks a little more strained once the owner realizes it’s him and not Max. Mike doesn’t take it to heart, because he knows what it’s like to miss someone so much you start imagining them in shadows and reflections. He’d used to think that it couldn’t get worse than that time in 1983 when Will went missing, but he’d heavily underestimated what months of radio silence after years of shared laughter can do to a person.
“Mike, you son of a bitch, you’re free!” Dustin hits him on the shoulder with a joyful laugh. “I really thought they were going to eat you for Christmas, man. They kept you locked.”
“Don’t remind me. At least Nancy had our cousin Joanna to talk to, but me? I think I’ll be hearing the Las Vegas story in my nightmares for at least a year.” His friends snicker at his pained groan, and he takes that moment to drop his presents into the pile with the others. He notices that there’s too many of them.
His eyes land on two yellow packages almost immediately, and he feels his breath hitch. They’re both about the same size as a book, although slightly on a thinner side. There are no creases in the paper, and the person that wrapped them knew what the appropriate amount of duct tape is. Small cards with Lucas and Dustin’s names are attached to the simple, red ribbons. This could only scream Will more if he were here to hand them in person with that soft smile of his.
“Oh man, I feel your pain. Uncle Jack came over on 25th with all of his kids, and if you think Erica is bad, just imagine her multiplied. I’m telling you guys, the triplets have rabies or something, they kept biting everyone until Erica snapped at them, but then they wouldn’t stop crying. And the youngest- Mike, dude, you okay?” Lucas grasps his shoulder, and Mike forces himself to look away from the presents.
“What? Yeah. Fine.” Dustin and Lucas share a glance, clearly not believing his lie, but they don’t call him out on it. “Sorry about your cousins. That sucks.”
For a moment, none of them speak. But Dustin has never handled silence well, and he’s never been one to hold back insensitive questions.
“You think Max is coming? Before the break started she promised me she would, but I haven’t heard back from her since Saturday.”
“Yeah she, uh. She hasn’t really talked with me much after breaking up with me, so. I don’t know.” Lucas’ shoulders drop, and both Mike and Dustin pat his back in solidarity. It wasn’t unusual for the two to break up, but something about the last one felt more real, and all of the boys knew this. Her current absence only acts as further proof that she’d been deathly serious this time around.
“She hasn’t responded on the walkie to me, either. Radio silence.” Mike murmurs, and his eyes involuntarily move to the yellow packages. Make that two. “Have you guys been able to reach Will?”
If possible, Lucas’ shoulders drop even further. He shakes his head with a dejected frown, saying nobody picked up when he’d tried calling yesterday. A terrible, selfish part of Mike is glad that he is not the only one having problems with his calls going through. Which is why, of course, Dustin must take it away from him.
“Yeah, I caught him in the morning on the 24th. Like, at seven, maybe?” Mike’s head snaps to Dustin so quickly that he can almost hear it cracking. Thankfully neither of his friends notice, Lucas also focused on Dustin as he relays the most vital information of the day.
“He said Jonathan’s friend invited them to a trip to see Death Valley and the area. They’re supposed to get back around New Year’s, but he wasn’t sure about the timeline. Joyce didn’t want to go at first, but Will, El and Jonathan talked her into it eventually because it’s not that touristy this time of the year. He sounded happy, you know? Will. And he promised to send pictures and more drawings after he’s back.”
More drawings.
What drawings, Mike wants to ask, because Lenora Hills Park scenery has been mocking him for the past two months, and neither Lucas nor Dustin ever mentioned Will sending them anything other than letters.
And packages apparently, he thinks bitterly, as he eyes the two yellow rectangles one more time. How many secret letters, packages and drawings have been coming into Hawkins from Lenora that he’s not aware of? Does Dustin have a stash of Will’s drawings hidden in his room? Does Lucas? Does Max? Do any of them know that Mike doesn’t? Do any of them know that Mike hasn’t been able to send a single reply to Will because he sounds deranged in all of them, and that it’s too late now anyway, because Will has given up on him?
“Death Valley huh? Sounds cool. Still wish they’d come home, though.” Lucas sighs.
“I bet they will too, once they get there and realize it’s all just sand and rocks.” All three of them turn at the new voice, just in time to see Max placing five packages into the pile. Her nose is red from the cold, matching her hair, and she glares at them challengingly. It’s almost enough to distract Mike from the shadows under her eyes. “Stop staring. I promised I’d come.”
“Max! You made it!” Dustin envelopes her in a hug before she can sidestep.
“Yeah, well. If you idiots are going to spend the afternoon moping, I’m leaving.” Max detaches herself from their friend ten seconds into the embrace, clearly at her limit. Lucas gives her a shaky smile, but she only nods back in response, set at keeping her distance. Mike gets the same treatment despite the fact he’s not the ex, which feels rude.
The fact it’s Dustin that managed to both call Will and hug Max is not lost on him, and Mike is only a little bitter about the rampant favoritism the Universe grants his friend.
Max turns to study the presents, and momentarily whirls to glare at him.
“Let me guess, Wheeler. You’re the one that didn’t take El and Will’s presents with you, huh?” Max crosses her arms over her chest and she’s glaring at him like he’s deprived her of something. Mike feels his own hackles rising in response.
“Oh I’m sorry, nobody told me I was supposed to.” He says defensively. Lucas puts himself in front of him to break their glaring contest, ever the peacemaker.
“Okay guys, don’t argue.” Lucas tries, but Dustin, who has evidently lost his mind, joins in the fray on the opponent's side.
“What? Dude, you didn’t bring Will’s present? That’s-”
“Or El’s,” Max stresses, and Dustin nods in agreement.
“- or El’s? Come on, I wanted to see what he, what they got you.”
Mike wants to scream. Because there’s no he. There’s no they. There’s just El’s package. Wrapped in dotted, purple paper, a little creased at the edge and dusted with pink glitter. It contained a long letter, candy, and something that resembled a pair of handmade socks. It might have been mittens, and he feels like an asshole for not being able to differentiate.
There were no yellow packages delivered to his house, and Mike can't dwell on it, because he' not ready to have a brekdown at the junkyard in front of his friends.
“Dustin, come on man. You know it’s harder for him,” Lucas pleads, and Mike turns to him sharply, trying to decipher what he means by that. “Let’s just open the presents, yeah?”
There’s a murmur of agreement, as both Dustin and Max kneel in the snow to start dividing them up. Mike’s pile is two presents smaller than everyone else’s, which Max glares at him for yet again. A glare he happily returns when he notices the neat, yellow package nestled in her pile. It’s mocking him, like it knows there’s a mixtape wrapped in blue, buried in a box filled with hundreds of unsent letters. It’s mocking him, like it knows Mike is a fraud of a friend.
They go through the presents one by one, unanimously deciding to leave the purple and yellow ones for last, to Mike’s quiet dismay.
It’s not that he isn’t happy or grateful for the stuff his friends give him. He is. The ‘‘free shower’ coupons from Max are even a little funny, loathe as he is to admit it. Lucas gives him the one volume of X-Men that he’s been missing for over two years now, while Dustin’s contains a David Bowie poster and a red hair dye with ‘Don’t let Nancy stop you from following your dreams’ attached to it by a string.
“Absolutely not. Let the mohawk die, man.” Lucas protests as soon as he sees Mike’s last present, taking it out of his hands. Mike lets him. He’s had time to make peace with a mohawk-less life.
“Mike could rock a mohawk.” Dustin objects, and Mike might have believed him if his friend wasn’t shaking with laughter.
The excitement feels more genuine when they get to El’s presents. They’re all wrapped in purple, but the glitter makes them shine with pinks and silvers. The paper is a little creased at the edges, but it’s nowhere near as messy as Dustin’s were. They have the same red ribbons topping them up as Will’s, the only resemblance between them.
“Are these… mug covers?” Dustin voices hesitantly as he stares at his own version of the mitten-socks. Mike’s had been orange, and it looks like El has made them for everyone in different colour variants. Dustin and Lucas get bright green and red respectively.
“No, man, they’re socks.” Lucas turns to him for backup, and Mike nods in agreement. That is also his theory, but unfortunately, while El did go into detail about Jonathan teaching her how to crotchet in her letter, she’d never really clarified what it was that she’s made. Again, Mike feels like a jackass for not knowing, because clearly, El had expected him to get it. Truthfully, he hopes that Lucas and Dustin’s letters have some clues, just in case El asks him for an opinion someday.
“They’re mittens, morons,” Max stresses, already putting the light blue ones she’s received on her hands. Tragically, Mike thinks she’s right. They fit around her wrists too well to be anything but mittens. In his defence, Mike’s had been a little too loose, so it had been harder to connect the dots, and it was his second guess anyway.
“Damn, I didn’t know El knew how to make these kinds of things. That’s pretty cool.” Lucas turns the mittens in his hands, while Dustin and Mike share an eye-roll. It’s not that they disagree, but it’s pretty clear that Lucas is trying to stay on Max’s good side.
“Jonathan’s teaching her.” Mike says, finally able to contribute something to the conversation.
“Well, damn. Will’s teaching her crafts, Jonathan’s crocheting with her, Joyce got her wearing plaid. She’s getting Byers-ed in California.” Dustin mumbles fondly, rolling the mittens between his fingers. “You got a pair too?”
“Yeah,” he nods, not particularly thrilled with this line of questioning. Because if Dustin’s asking about El’s present, he’s going to be insufferable about the non-existent one from Will. “Orange ones. Got candy too. Guess she just likes me better.”
“Fuck you, dude, she’s your girlfriend.”
“I got sweets, too, Wheeler. You’re not special.” Max waves a bar of chocolate in front of his face with a smug smile, much to Lucas and Dustin’s apparent amusement. Mike would have been annoyed about it, except the redhead looks genuinely happy. This must be the first time some spark has returned to her eyes all day, so Mike decides to let her have it, even if it’s at his expense.
“Alright, on to Will. Let’s see if he upstages me from California or if I’m actually getting the best gifter title this year. I’m feeling good about this, lady and gentlemen.” Lucas rubs his hands together, whether in anticipation or to defreeze them, it’s hard to tell.
“There’s no ‘best gifter’ title, dude.” Dustin argues, and Mike wants to shake him to shut him up, because he’s delaying the part Mike has been looking forward to the most. Even if it’s through friends, he’ll finally get a glimpse at a piece of Will’s life after such a long time. El writes one-liners about him, sometimes, but it’s nowhere near as physical, as tangible, as the yellow boxes his friends have received for Christmas.
“There is, man,” Lucas argues, package in hand, and Mike wonders if anyone would notice if he opened it himself. “Will’s just been the sole victor since we were like, nine.”
Five, Mike wants to correct, but doesn’t. Technically, nine is not incorrect if it only includes the time the core members have known each other. But for Mike, the correct number is five. Will has given him wonderful presents every Christmas since they were five years old, and this year, he can’t even hear his voice.
It feels a little too cruel to be real, but it hurts too much to be a bad dream.
“Okay, fair.” Dustin concedes, which satisfies Lucas enough to open the package. Finally.
Mike holds his breath, leaning in closer as his friend tears the yellow paper away carefully. There’s a beat of stillness, and then Lucas lifts the bent corners of the box to reveal what is hiding inside. Mike’s heart drops, because it’s not a drawing like he’d both dreaded and hoped at once.
It’s a painting.
It’s a painting of Lucas in the ridiculous Hawkins High basketball uniform, to be more specific. The scene makes it look like he’s just scored the winning shot and turned to face the metaphorical camera with a grin as radiant as his real life counterpart’s. It’s gorgeous, and it has Will painted into every crevice of the small canvas, so much so that the signature penned in white in the bottom left corner is a formality more than anything else. Anyone that knows Will and has seen his art would know this was created by his hand.
“Holy shit,” both Max and Lucas breathe out at the same time, and they share a glance before looking back at the painting.
“There’s a note. Read it. Read it!” Dustin leans over Mike’s back to jab Lucas in the shoulder like an excited child. This breaks Mike’s intense staring contest with the painting, and possibly also his heart.
The last piece of art he received from Will was the cursed Lenora Hills Park drawing. It has haunted Mike for weeks now. He stared at it every single night before falling into restless sleep. He could probably navigate the damn place if he ever made it there. He could probably recognize the woman and children if he passed them on the streets. And it was a beautiful drawing, but it was Will’s last for him, and it had Will in the shading, in the lineart, in the colouring, but nowhere else.
There’s Will, so clearly, painted into this portrait of Lucas. Because it’s Lucas through Will’s eyes, and maybe his best friend liked the damn park, but this is what his art looks like when he loves. This is what their character sheets had looked like, what countless projects for science fairs looked like, what the silliest doodles for D&D looked like. This is Will’s art at its purest form, and Mike cannot breathe, because he’s started forgetting what it feels like. To be loved by Will Byers.
“Dear Lucas,” Dustin starts reading the attached note, ignoring the annoyed look Lucas gives him, “Congratulations on making the Team! It’s 29th November as I finished painting this, and I don’t think you’ll actually have the confirmation by Christmas when you get it, but there is no doubt in my mind you’ll make it. If there’s anyone that can win the Championships, it’s definitely you. I wish I could be there to see it. Just know that I’m so proud of you :)!!! Merry Christmas. I miss you. Hugs, Will.”
For a moment, none of them say anything. Lucas blinks rapidly, but it does little to make his eyes look less watery. He doesn’t even try to hide the sniffle when he starts talking.
“I got him paints, you know? From that nice brand Robin told us about. He mentioned last month that he was running out of a few colours, and I figured it’d be perfect. I was so proud, too, because I knew he’d love them. I was sure I had the best gifter title in the bag.” Lucas laughs, and it sounds bittersweet as he clutches the painting closer to his chest. “And William fucking Byers smells the competition from California and paints me a masterpiece.”
Max snorts, and immediately tries to muffle it in the blue mittens. Lucas has already heard, though, and he turns to her with a soft grin.
“Okay, I’m going next. For the record, I got him a copy of ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’ so I’m feeling pretty confident he’s not topping that. He’s been moaning about that movie for months.”
Mike smiles, because it’s true. Will had wanted to see that stupid horror long before they’d left Hawkins.
Dustin is not nearly as gentle with the package as Lucas had been, and he rips the paper open with the eagerness of an overexcited child. Mike feels his stomach drop for what must be the millionth time that day, as his friend takes out a similarly sized painting from the box.
It is a lot more silly than Lucas’ had been, which almost makes it worse, because silly art is also Will at his core. He's always loved drawing their characters in over exaggerated ways, and doodling little caricatures of their teachers on the edges of his notebooks when they were younger.
The painting is nearly a one to one recreation of the ‘Day of the Dead’ movie poster that had been plastered all around Hawkins back in July. The only difference to the actual poster is Dustin’s deadpan face staring back at them from the ominously yellow dot, and the title being changed to ‘Day of the Dustin’.
“Holy shit. He’s a mind-reader, I’m telling you, a fucking mind-reader,” Dustin gasps, tracing the outline of his painted counterpart’s face with a silly grin. While he’s distracted, Max reaches around and grabs the small note from the box. She starts reading it out loud.
“Dear Dustin, five weeks ago, I committed theft,” Max snorts, and despite the misery he’s wallowing in, Mike feels himself smiling as well. She continues.
“When I went to my Art Club, there it was. ‘The Day of the Dead’ movie poster. I couldn’t help but remember how much you enjoyed it, and I couldn’t let the opportunity pass me by, so I stole it. Yes, you read that right. I’m a wanted man now. It’s okay, you’re worth it :). I’ll send the original in another package, so it’s less incriminating. Every horror reminds me of you. I hope we can watch ‘The Day of the Dead’ together someday. In the meantime, I hope this painting haunts you as you haunt me. I miss you. Merry Christmas. Hugs, Will.”
They’re all quiet for a moment. Dustin is still tracing the painting and Will’s name with gentleness he seldom shows, and Mike’s heart aches.
“Son of a bitch, trying to make me cry from California. He captured my handsomeness so well,” Dustin says at last, breaking the silence. He sounds choked up, not looking up at any of them. “That’s so unfair. He should be here with us. And El, too.”
“Yeah,” Lucas echoes quietly, staring at his own present. Mike feels acid in his stomach, hopelessly jealous when he has no right to be. The feeling worsens when Max reaches for her own yellow package, and he hates himself for how angry it makes him.
It’s easier to accept it with the guys, because the four of them had always been the original members of the group. But Max? She’s his friend, but somehow, he’s never realized she is Will’s, too. He’s never noticed the two of them growing close enough to warrant what must be a personalized painting, if the pattern of the last two packages holds.
It’s an awful thought to have. They’re both his friends, and he should be happy they get along. But it’s hard to be, when it feels like she got the package that should have been mailed to the Wheeler’s house.
Max seems hesitant as her hands hover over the box. She looks like she’s bracing herself for something.
“Can you guys do me a favour?” She asks as her finger smoothes the little red ribbon, tied neatly around the package.
“Sure, Max. What’s up?” There’s an uncertain expression on her face, so unlike her that Mike feels his eyebrows rise.
“Whatever is in my note, you can’t ask questions.”
Okay, now Mike is alarmed. What could she possibly be expecting to receive from Will to prompt such a reaction? The three of them exchange wide-eyed looks, but she doesn’t give them the time to wonder or ask as she cuts the paper open with her fingernail. It falls apart seamlessly, and in seconds, she’s taking out her present from the box.
It is not a painting.
It’s a mixtape.
Will made a mixtape for Max. Something he hasn’t done for anyone in the Party, ever. Mike thinks about the one he’s made for Will, buried deeply underneath unsent letters, and he wonders if Dustin’s theory of their friend being a mind-reader is that far-fetched. Because what are the odds?
Except, he got that one wrong. Because Mike made a mixtape for Will, but Will sent his to Max. It almost feels cruelly intentional.
The tape’s label has a little skateboard and headphones drawn with a black marker next to a neat ‘For MadMax :)’. Mike feels nauseous just looking at it.
“Oh shit, Will gave you a Jonathan Byers special,” Dustin yells excitedly, reaching for the cassette. Max slaps his wrist away with a glare. “Oh come on!”
“It’s not like you have a walkman on you.” She points out, clutching the tape closer to her chest.
“Yeah, but you do!” All of them turn to look at a pair of black and silver headphones that are peeking out from Max’s backpack. “Come on, Max.”
“I said no, Dustin. It’s private.”
“What? It’s a mixtape! What, are there love songs there or something?”
Mike freezes. This is the kind of theory only Dustin fucking Henderson could come up with. It’s ridiculous, Mike knows, because it’s not like either Will or Max would do that to Lucas. Dating or not, she was Lucas’ ex-girlfriend, and she wouldn’t date anyone else in their Party. It would be disrespectful. Horrible. She wouldn’t. And Will wouldn’t do that to Lucas either. He wouldn’t.
They wouldn’t. Would they?
He glances at the cassette the redhead is cradling close to her heart, like a dragon hoarding a treasure. Music and little doodles on the tape. Tiny headphones and a skateboard. It doesn’t get any more Will and Max than this.
“No, you moron,” Max hisses, glaring at all three of them despite the fact the only offender coming up with ridiculous theories here is Dustin, “Music is personal. There’s probably shit on this tape neither I nor Will want you hearing. And why do you think there’d be any love songs, anyway? Oh, let me guess! Because Will’s a boy and I’m a girl? So we must be in love, right?”
Mike digs his nails into the palm of his hands.
‘Yes’, he thinks, even though the thought of Will and Max becoming WillAndMax tastes like poison, ‘boys and girls should be in love. It’s the norm’.
“I didn’t say that. That is not what I sai- Max! Don’t choose violence! Max!” She ignores the pleas and punches Dustin in the shoulder. His pained cry must be exaggerated, but Mike still winces in sympathy.
Yeah, Mike can’t see her dating Will. She is way too violent for him.
But one day, Will might meet a girl that isn't too violent. One that hasn't dated Lucas. Because it's what boys do. They meet a girl, and they fall in love. And Mike might not even know when it happens, because Will doesn't call back.
“Asshole,” Max huffs, before reaching inside the box again. She takes out a bag of Reese's Pieces, and her expression morphs into smugness. “Heh. Got sweets from Will too. Guess I’m the Wonder Twins’ favourite, after all.”
“That is so not fair,” Lucas grumbles, at the same time as Mike asks, “Wonder Twins?”
Max raises an eyebrow at him, like it’s some obvious piece of knowledge, and he should be ashamed for not knowing.
“Yeah? Argyle calls them that? Both El and Will think it’s funny as hell.”
Who the fuck is Argyle, Mike wants to ask, although the name rings a bell, so he must have heard it at some point.
“Oh shit, yeah, I remember Will dying from laughter on the phone when he told me. Apparently, Joyce thought Argyle knew who El was and that the Government sent him, and the whole time he was just Jonathan’s stoner friend.”
Dustin and Max snicker, while he and Lucas share a bewildered look. He’s glad he’s not the only one out of the loop, but it does little to soothe him.
He can’t believe it has reached a point where Max Mayfield knows stories about Will Byers that he doesn’t.
“So what did you get, Mike? Was it a painting?” Dustin asks him, and Mike jumps at the question, wholly unprepared. “It totally was, wasn’t it? Was it D&D? I bet it was. He always makes the best D&D art for you. You should see the character sheets Will made for us, Max, they’re awesome-”
Dustin keeps going, thankfully not waiting for an answer, too immersed in telling the disinterested redhead all about their old campaigns.
It doesn’t make Mike feel any better, because he knows the topic will resurface at some point, and he’s not sure how to tell the truth without them digging for more. For things that Mike can’t allow himself to say, to think, to feel.
From the corner of his eye, he notices that Max discreetly pushes a note into the pocket of her jacket. She’s never read it out loud, he realizes, and he wonders what other secrets she and Will have that Mike doesn’t know about. Might never know about.
Because it’s December 1985, and Mike hasn’t sent a single letter since September, because he’s unable to sign them with anything other than ‘Love, Mike’ when he can’t even bring himself to write it to El like a normal boy should. His calls never go through, and it took four drawings and one month for Will to give up on him.
Mike is sitting surrounded by his friends, and he has a thoughtful gift from his girlfriend waiting at home, but Lucas knows when Will’s running out of paints, and Dustin heard from Will about the Death Valley trip, and Max shares music and secrets with Will, and Mike.
Mike thinks this is the kind of heartbreak that Nancy wears on her sleeve when she thinks nobody’s watching, as she sorts through Jonathan’s photos and letters in the privacy of the Wheeler’s house at midnight, staining them with tears.
It’s December 1985, and Mike Wheeler hasn’t sent any letters to Will, because he didn’t want to scare and lose him, and yet, he still did.
•—–٠✤٠—–•
29th October, 1987
Mike is hunched over his algebra homework when he hears a single, soft knock. He turns around in his chair and stares at the door, trying to figure out if the sound was real or if it is the beginning symptoms of math-induced psychosis.
He’s leaning towards the latter, when he hears it again. A single, soft knock.
He glances at the clock, reading 11:33 PM, and blinks at the door. It’s too late to be Holly, but Nancy wouldn’t have bothered with knocking, so it must be his younger sister.
“Come in,” he calls quietly, conscious of the fact that most of the household is asleep. The door creeks open, but the person that steps in is very much not the ten year old girl he’s expecting. All remnants of sleepiness are gone in an instant, and Mike straightens in his chair once his brain registers who he’s looking at. “Will. Hey.”
For a beat, Mike’s not sure what to expect, the awkwardness of the after-dinner conversation still on his mind. But then Will smiles softly, and all of his worries melt away.
“Hey,” Will whispers back, trying to close the old door as quietly as possible. He fails spectacularly, and both of them wince at the loud creaking.
“Wow, leave some stealth for the rest of us, James Bond.”
“Oh shut up, Mike,” Will laughs, crossing over the room to sit on the bed. “You should oil your door more often.”
“I could,” he agrees, moving from the chair to sit down next to Will to talk more comfortably, “but it drives Nancy crazy in the mornings. She hogs the bathroom, and the squeaking is the only thing that gets her out of there.”
“Jesus, that was you?” Will glares at him, but the grin on his face betrays his amusement, “I thought you guys had mice. I was trying to track them down before your mom found out. It’s been weeks, Mike. Jonathan and Nancy caught me crouching with cheese at least six times in various places. They must think I’m crazy.”
Mike snorts, imagining the scene in his head.
“Walk me through the plan here. Were you trying to bribe the mice with cheese into leaving our house? Were you trying to set up a diplomatic meeting?” Will hides his face in hands at the questions, but a hint of a grin is still visible through the gaps between his fingers.
“Okay, I think we can move on to other topics now.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re absolutely crazy for thinking it would work, but if anyone could Snow White the mice into relocating, it’s probably you, so. Good try?” Mike bumps their shoulders together to get Will to look at him, which his best friend does with a glare. It doesn’t look the least bit intimidating, because it’s accompanied by rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and the remaining anxiety that had built up in Mike following the after-dinner conversation melts away.
“And hey, loop me in next time, yeah? If there’s any holes in your plan, I’ll help you think of alternatives. Or, if the plan is hopeless, at least I can help you with the stakeout. We’d cover more ground as a duo.”
“Sure, so both of us can look like crazy lunatics,” Will rolls his eyes fondly, and Mike’s grin widens.
Crazy together, he thinks, but doesn’t say.
“Or, you know. I can just oil my door. Scare away the mice forever. I think that’s a tad more reasonable than holding diplomatic meetings with rodents.” Will groans, and he looks like he’s regretting coming up here.
“Hilarious, Mike.”
“I know, it’s a gift,” Mike wiggles his eyebrows, and he can see the moment when Will’s composure begins to crack, and with it, the unimpressed expression he’s been trying to maintain. It’s like watching the sun rise. Slowly, the corners of Will’s lips stretch into a soft grin. His eyes crease at the corners. His shoulders are shaking with silent laughter, and Mike thinks he’d host a World Peace Meeting for Mice if it meant keeping the smile on Will’s face forever.
“So. Not that I’m not happy about the company, trust me, I am. You saved me from algebra-,” Will winces in sympathy, “-yeah, exactly. But uh, it’s pretty late for you, huh? You’re usually out by 10 PM.”
He shouldn’t have said that, he thinks. Will blinks slowly, staring at him, and he looks like he’s about to ask Mike how he knows that. And Mike is not about to admit that sometimes before bed, he peeks into the basement like an abandoned puppy to make sure the Byers brothers are still there and not in California. Or Hopper’s cabin. Or wherever that isn’t home.
“I wanted to apologize for earlier,” Will looks away, troubled. Mike feels himself freeze, hands twitching nervously against the bed. “For, well, for ditching you for Holly, when I specifically said I wouldn’t. And for not telling you what we’re working on. But-”
Oh. Oh, Will needs to learn how to start his sentences better, because Mike’s heart was seconds away from jumping out of his chest at the imminent rejection. Jesus.
“-but she really wants it to be a surprise, you know, and I can’t spoil that for her. We’re not excluding you on purpose, but I know you’re still hurt by it. And I, we, we didn’t want to hurt you, or, or make you feel excluded in any way, and-”
“Will,” he tries to interrupt, lips twitching in amusement, feeling warm all over. But his best friend is on a roll now, and there’s few things that can stop him when he gets like that.
“-and she’s working really hard on it. We’re almost done anyway, I think. Maybe we’ll be able to finish it tomorrow or-” Mike reaches for Will’s hand and squeezes it, once, before letting go. It has the intended effect and his friend trails off, wide hazel eyes staring at Mike.
“Will, you know I was joking, right? I mean, yeah it kind of sucks you spend all your afternoons with Holly when you’re home, because I miss hanging out with you, but I get it. I’m glad Holly has you, and that you’re helping her. She adores you, you know? So it’s kind of a big deal for her.”
Will beams, and Mike almost feels the need to shield away from the brightness. “Yeah?”
Mike snorts, unsure how anyone could ever doubt it. As if Holly hasn’t imprinted herself on Will like a duckling the day the Byers had moved in.
“Yeah. It’s always ‘Will taught me how to draw unicorns’, and ‘Will did my braids today’, and ‘Will likes me better than you, Mike’. Brat. We both know you like me better,” he presses their shoulders together again, but this time, instead of moving away, he lets himself stay in place, just for a moment.
Will doesn’t seem to notice, or at least he doesn’t seem to mind, too caught up in the realization that there’s multiple Wheelers that adore him.
“Well, yeah, obviously,” Will concedes after a moment, and Mike nearly preens at the admission of being the favourite of William Byers’. “You’re my best friend. But I love Holly, too.”
Too. He loves Holly, too.
Mike knows he shouldn’t be reading into this, but his heart still pounds in excitement. This is just Will stating the obvious. That he cares about him and Holly, and, yeah, loves them. Of course he does. He loves them the way that Mike loves Dustin, Lucas, Max and El, the normal way. The friend way. There’s no double meaning here, even if Will looks away in embarrassment, cheeks pink.
Mike wants to be wrong, because he's not ready to be right.
He's not ready, so he doesn’t ask, ‘do you know I don’t love you like a friend?’. Doesn’t ask, ‘do you hate me for feeling this way?’. Doesn’t ask, ‘is that why you won't paint for me anymore?’. Doesn’t ask ‘please, could you love me the way I love you?’.
He does ask, “So. Holly’s project is about me, huh?”
“Forget it. You’re not getting any information out of me, Michael. I will not betray Holly.”
Mike boos, and Will laughs, and their hands brush against one another.
And this feels right, even if Will doesn’t paint for him anymore. Because Will's cheeks are still pink, and he doesn't move his hand away, and he loves Holly too. And maybe, just maybe, Mike can delude himself into believing he has a chance of being wrong. Just for one night.