Chapter Text
It’s the end of the world, and Mike’s building a bomb.
It’s easier than he expects. And after one crash course with Mr. Clarke, he finds ease in molding the C-4 and rigging it to the turntable.
It’s like modeling clay, the explosive material, easily adaptable in Mike’s hands. He smoothes the C-4 like it’s Harbutt’s Plasticine, like the bomb’s some twisted art project rather than an explosive meant to destroy the Upside Down.
He connects wires like they’re pipe cleaners and uses one of his miniatures as a demo, some silver knight from his collection of D&D figurines. It sits on the top of a spinning record. Round and round it goes, and Mike keeps the wires far away from it.
Right now, the worst that could happen would be a small spark. A charge of electricity that would only mildly scorch the miniature, but he’s wary anyway.
Like he always is with his figurines.
A rudimentary precaution, he assures himself, and goes back to slathering the C-4.
Weren’t explosives supposed to be complicated? They were supposed to be all science jargon only rocket scientists could figure out, ones with equations and formulas, in order to deter the average Joe looking to blow something up.
But this stuff was malleable and looked too much like a colorless Play-Doh.
Maybe that’s why it was illegal.
Mike’s creation, the C-4 turntable, would’ve been an A+ diorama in any measly art class. That was if it didn’t have the ability to wipe out an 8,000-mile area in a second.
Nonetheless, he has a deadly bomb on his hands. Even if it’s an elementary-looking one.
“Okay, Wheeler, how’s it going over here?”
Robin’s jogging over to the desk Mike’s working at. She’s in the middle of pulling on a makeshift, chainmail vest, weaving through the chaos of the Squawk to get to him. Nancy and Jonathan, busy raiding gun cabinets, practically crash into her as she runs past. She looks at the turntable, slightly out of breath, and wearing that cool but slapdash expression she always has.
Mike secures a red wire to the detonator trigger. “All it needs is activation.”
“Activation how, precisely?” Robin lowers herself to the table’s level. “I mean, we don’t wanna accidentally drop it and blow up the Squawk or something.”
“That’s why we’re using C-4.”
“Right, of course.”
Mike looks up when Robin doesn’t continue. He catches the furrowed knot on her brow as she stares daggers at the bomb. Like if she looked hard enough, the answers would come naturally.
But she’s clueless. Mike can tell.
And rightfully so. Even he didn’t know how C-4 worked five minutes ago. How would any normal person know how to handle a highly dangerous explosive that was only operable by the military?
“Clarification, please. I don’t speak demolitions expert.”
A small, irrepressible flare of irritation burns through his blood.
“C-4 only denotes with a shockwave, like electricity or a fuse. It won’t blow up if we shoot at it.”
Mike takes the bomb and slams it hard onto the desk.
“Or if we accidentally drop it.”
Robin blinks. “Point taken.”
Mike doesn’t know why he feels so pissed off. Robin never did anything to personally offend him. Most of the time, they barely talked. But lately, he can’t help but feel that scorching annoyance whenever she’s nearby.
It never used to be like this, either. Only then, Robin hadn’t started to wriggle her way closer to Will.
It’s the end of the world. Shouldn’t she be focused on trying to stay alive rather than romance? Hell, even Nancy and Jonathan were concentrated on loading guns and gearing up. Why couldn’t Robin put aside her estranged infatuation for Will and focus?
He knows it’s stupid to be annoyed at the girl trying to infiltrate her way closer to his best friend, but Mike wasn’t one to break from grudges easily.
“There’s just one thing.”
“What?”
“The Butthole Surfers.”
“What about them?”
“I mean, Locust Abortion Technician?” Robin stands and gestures to where the vinyl spins on the turntable. “Not really stopping-the-end-of-the-world-with-a-highly-explosive-bomb kind of music.”
“It’s the perfect type of music! ‘Human Cannonball’ is, like, the song for that kind of scenario.”
“Is it though?”
Mike scoffs. “I built the bomb. I should be able to pick the record.”
“You can pick the record. You just have to pick a good record.”
“It is a good record!”
“Half the songs on here sound like nonsense,” Robin reaches for the record jacket. “‘The O-Men’? ‘U.S.S.A.’? Are we going for headache-inducing or ear-splitting?”
Mike gives her a glare as he snatches the jacket back.
“I’m just saying. We can’t really be heroes if we can’t focus.”
“What album would you pick?”
She’s nonchalant, like the answer is obvious, and proclaims, “The Replacements. I can’t think of better records. ‘Bastards of Young’?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Hey, Paul Westerberg is a national treasure.”
“Okay, enough, Lester Bangs, okay?” Mike grumbles.
“Har, har, har. Very funny, Wheeler.”
Mike flashes a forced, unpleasant smile.
“Pick something else,” Robin clasps her hands together like she’s praying. “Literally anything else, we beg of you.”
“Jesus Christ, fine!”
Mike removes the knight figurine and lifts the needle, practically shoving the record back into the jacket just to spite Robin.
Let it scratch, let it warp. It wasn’t his property.
Technically, it’d be her fault if Squawk records got damaged.
But Robin was already jogging away, calling past her shoulder, “Something that won’t wanna make us gouge our eyes out!”
Mike stares daggers into her back as she scampers away. Something about how casually dismissive she is grates on his nerves, how she shoots down his suggestions with that aggravatingly soft voice of hers.
It should be his call. He built the bomb. The whole thing’s rigged to the turntable. His bomb. His record.
But it’s the end of the world. Or, at the least, possibly the end of the world, and Mike knows he can’t be a jerk about something like a record. Even if he wants to.
Even if he really wants to.
He reluctantly slides Locust Abortion Technician back on the wall with the rest of the B’s and starts looking for a replacement that isn’t Robin’s counteroffer. Too mellow. Too boring. Really, does she expect to fight Demos to the sound of a gentle guitar? They needed something metal. Something that wouldn’t make ears bleed but still had a kick to it.
Frontiers from Journey calls out to him, sitting in a sea of other Steve Perry records that take up most of the J section. Who doesn’t love Journey? They’re the white bread of rock n’ roll. A staple. And Mike would’ve pulled the record down if it weren’t for a few of their sleepier songs, songs like ‘Faithfully’ and ‘After the Fall’ that were more ballad-heavy.
Stay Hungry from Twisted Sister is another option. True rock n’ roll that had some of that edge the Butthole Surfers had. But again, it bordered on the jarring side. The last thing they needed was to get distracted because the music was too intense.
“Oh, my God, are you still trying to pick out a record?”
When Mike turns, Nancy, standing nearby, gives him that no-nonsense look. Wide eyes and a mouth pulled into a tight line. It practically drips with impatience. She has a shotgun slung over her shoulder, already geared up in a thick jacket and combat gloves. Jonathan, in a similar getup, stands a few steps behind her.
“Jesus, Mike, it’s not rocket science.”
“Finding one that Robin likes might as well be,” he retorts.
“It doesn’t matter what Robin likes. Just pick something.”
“It matters to Robin what Robin likes.”
“I don’t care about that right now,” Nancy says. “We’ve gotta get moving soon. Pick something.”
“I don’t know what to pick.”
“Well, what do you listen to?”
He shrugs.
“You don’t know what you listen to?”
“No, Nance, of course I know what I listen to.”
“Mike, I don’t have time to argue with you.”
“Who said I was arguing?”
“Jesus Christ!” Jonathan moves past both of them to the wall of records, scanning the selection, before pulling a vinyl and shoving it into Mike’s chest. “Here.”
Mike looks down at the black-and-white cover. “David Bowie?”
Nancy grimaces. “David Bowie, really?”
“What?” Jonathan looks between them. “You guys don’t like Bowie?”
Mike shrugs. “No, I mean, it’s fine, it’s just…”
“He’s artsy,” Nancy finishes.
“Exactly why it’s perfect. He takes underground stuff and makes it cool. He’s strange. He’s the unofficial freak of rock n’ roll.”
Both Mike and Nancy look at him like he’s crazy.
Jonathan gestures to the cover. “The record’s literally called Heroes. Isn’t that what we’re doing right now? Trying to be heroes?”
Nancy sighs, “Look, I don’t care what the record is at this point. Bowie’s fine. We have to get a move on.”
She’s storming off before Mike can protest, and Jonathan follows close behind.
Mike doesn’t try to hide the aggravated look that threatens to surface now that he’s alone. Just his luck getting stuck with some record Jonathan Byers suggested, the same Jonathan Byers who listens to sad, sappy, alternative shit. And what bothers him is that it’s not a bad record. Not inherently.
It’s the fact that he knows Robin will love it.
A part of him doesn’t know why he’s so bent out of shape over her.
And the other part knows exactly why.
He just doesn’t want to admit it, because admitting it would unravel a bunch of things he’s been confused about for a while now. The burning protective feeling that comes with watching his best friend writhe in pain on the floor, and the way his feet are pulling him closer before his brain can react. Of being needed. Of being there.
Of being replaced.
And Mike knows he’s being petty. He doesn’t have a special claim on his best friend. He’s allowed to have other people in his life. It wasn’t until Robin became the one Will confided in and found guidance in that Mike started to care.
Mike noticed he was being replaced.
That used to be him, the one he was honest with, even if it hurt. Exchanging secrets and confessions that stayed just between the two of them. Maybe it was part of growing up. Maybe it was the distance Lenora put between them. But he’s caught them sneaking off just the two of them, whispering and laughing and touching.
And he knows it’s different. Because Will’s never shown interest in a girl until Robin.
Mike’s not stupid. Oblivious as all hell, but not when it comes to this.
Mike doesn’t know why it hurts so much. He should be happy for him, the same when Lucas got Max, or Dustin shared the news of Suzie. He should be happy.
But it hurts.
So, he does what he does best and pushes that aching feeling deep down, grabs the C-4 turntable, and hurries outside.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Steve and Murray are still working on modifying the inside of the Big Buy truck, taking saws to make gunner holes and handholds to stabilize. Mike exits the radio station just as Nancy and Jonathan start to haul cartons of magazines and ammo into the back of the truck. Dustin, Lucas, El, and Kali all help pass up supplies. There are makeshift weapons and shields, a surplus of guns, food and water, camouflage, and bulletproof armor.
Preparing for the final war.
“Finally decide on our world-ending anthems, Wheeler?” Robin is two steps behind him with a crate in her hands, and when she spots the record, she nearly drops it.
“David Bowie? I didn’t know you had taste.”
“Technically, it’s Jonathan’s pick.”
“Well, that makes sense. Someone like you isn’t ready for the eclectic style of Bowie.”
Mike can tell she’s teasing by the way she’s smiling, but it doesn’t do anything to soothe the wave of infuriation rearing it’s ugly head. It’s patronizing. It’s a blow at his taste.
And another reason to resent.
“Glad you’re satisfied.”
Mike moves past and loads the turntable with the rest of the supplies.
And thankfully, Robin gets the hint that he’s in no mood to talk. She stays clear of him and doesn’t bring up the record again. But he can overhear her talking to Jonathan about it.
“God, you know how many times I’ve listened to that record? I had to go and buy another one because I wore out the first one so much. ‘Beauty and the Beast’ changed my life. Like, literally, changed my life. I’d leave that record on the air for hours if I could.”
And that’s enough for Mike to wish Robin had an off button to that mouth of hers.
Seriously, does she ever stop talking?
Her rambling acts as an agitating background noise that Mike tries to tune out. Just focus on loading the truck. Ignore her. They’ll be on the road soon enough.
The sun begins to dip over the horizon when the truck’s finally loaded. It’s cluttered inside. Mike can tell it’ll be a tight fight with all of them and their supplies. Plus, no seats. They’ve got the handholds for stability, but if anything else happens, they’ll have to pray for a safe landing.
“Hopefully, you babies still bounce,” Murray quips.
Dustin doesn’t seem impressed. “We’re not 4 months old.”
“Well, I don’t notice a difference.”
“Is everyone here? Hopper’s fifteen minutes away, and we really need to get a move on.”
Lucas and Dustin are already climbing inside, and Mike does a quick glance at the group. It’s hard to keep a tally with their growing posse. They’ve now got Kali and this candy striper Mike can’t remember the name of. But with their expanded party, it still feels small.
Not complete. Not yet.
Will’s missing.
“They’re inside,” El says. “I saw him head in with Joyce.”
“Head in? Do you know why?”
El shakes her head, then says, “To talk? He looked nervous.”
And of course, Robin pipes up, “I can go get them.”
“No, I got it. I was heading back in anyway to get something.”
“Really, Wheeler, it’s no biggie—”
“I said I got it.”
Mike doesn’t mean to snap at Robin, but he can’t help the edge in his voice. The bite to his insistence causes her hands shoot up in defense. She takes a step away and back to the truck, officially backing down.
Mike will take any victory, even the small ones.
With everyone outside, the inside of the Squawk is almost eerie. It’s quiet and vacant. Growing dark, too, with the setting sun outside. The usual yelling and talking over one another and the blare of music are replaced with silence, only the gentle tap of Mike’s shoes on linoleum.
Strangely enough, it’s the first stretch of silence he’s had in a while. From the chaos at the MAC-Z, the gunfire and the shouting, to the electric zap when they went Dr. Frankenstein on a dead Demo, he hasn’t had a chance to just relax. None of them has. So, while the silence is unnatural, it’s appreciated by Mike.
And it helps him detect Will faster, the low rumble of his hushed voice carrying from the main lobby of the station.
He almost calls his name.
Almost.
Until he recognizes the vulnerability underneath the hush, the way his voice carries gently and delicately, and Mike knows he’s about to stumble on something private. Mike tucks himself against the wall of the lobby, in a secluded corner, making sure to quiet his steps and his breathing.
Mike can sense the conversation is a tender thing, so he doesn’t barge in to retrieve them just yet. But he also doesn’t leave.
Because if there was one flaw to Mike, one trait that still stuck with him from childhood, it was his tendency to be nosy.
“He showed me things, Mom. He showed me the most awful things.”
“No, listen. Whatever he showed you, it’s not real. He plays tricks. He lies.”
“No, he doesn’t. What he showed me didn’t come from him. It came from me. He sees everything, Mom.”
A beat of silence.
“He sees my thoughts, he sees my memories,” Will’s voice dipped into something unstable. “And he sees my secrets. And if we want to defeat him, I think you need to know the truth.”
The truth? What truth? Will’s the most honest person Mike knows.
“The truth?”
“Something I haven’t told anyone because I…I don’t…I don’t want anyone to see me differently.”
There’s a shudder in Will’s voice and a gentle tapping that sounds like the bounce of his knee. The tap feels deafening in the silent station, but Mike can pick up a few more things.
The sift of shifting fabric. Is he playing with his sleeves?
The way his voice catches on certain words. He’s stuttering a lot.
And an underlying nervousness Mike hasn’t heard in years.
“But…but I’m afraid if I don’t tell anyone, he’s just going to use it against me like some weak point or something. And I don’t…I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Honey, you’re not going to hurt anyone.”
“You don’t know that, Mom, I saw…”
His voice cracks, wavers, and returns quieter.
“I don’t want to be scared anymore. I don’t want to do this just because some vision told me I had to. Showed me what would happen if I didn’t tell anyone. And I…I’m not ready for everyone to know just yet, but you…I don’t have to be scared with you.”
Mike knows she shouldn’t be spying. This was private. This was something Will wanted only Joyce to hear. But if he walked now, the click of his shoes would give him away. Besides, part of him didn’t want to leave at all.
He cranes his head a little closer when they start whispering. Joyce murmurs something Mike can’t pick up, and Will replies with a broken whimper.
“I promise, Will. Nothing. You know how many times I’ve had to tell you that?”
There’s a broken laugh, a sniffle, and another blurb Mike can’t catch.
But he definitely hears the next part.
“I don’t like girls.”
And the silence is now charged instead of a breath of fresh air. Mike stands a little straighter. He can hear the labored way Will is breathing, the tears no doubt building behind his eyes, and more shifting fabric. All those things, the vulnerability from his best friend that he hasn’t seen in years, are only background noise to the racing thump of Mike’s heart in his ears.
“I mean…I do like girls, just not the way that…that…”
That Lucas does with Max.
That Dustin does with Suzie.
That Mike…
“And…I had this crush on someone…even though I know he’s not like me not matter how much I try to convince myself he might because he has a…he’s not…”
A hiccup breaks Will’s sentence short. He sniffles, exhales, and tries again, “I just don’t want you to hate me. I don’t want anyone to. I don’t want him to…”
“Will, I could never hate you. Nothing will change that. This doesn’t change that.”
“I just…I don’t…I mean, I’ve read things about people like me, seen the things that happen when…when people do this, and I…I don’t…”
He’s hysterical.
“Will.”
“I don’t want to be alone anymore.”
“Honey, you’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
A sob pushes past Will’s lips, and he says something else, but it’s muffled and despondent. Mike doesn’t have to see to tell that Joyce is hugging him, soothing the way he’s crying harshly. And just the sound alone makes Mike’s heart spike.
His right hand comes across his chest. It clutches and tries to will the beat to calm. But Will’s crying, and Mike’s so close that he can practically hear the way his breath hitches or when he’s gasping for air.
It’s intrusive to hear him like this, and it hurts like hell.
“You’re okay, baby. You’re alright. Shh…”
For a while, it’s just the sound of Joyce and Will’s sobs, but they eventually give way to something more calm. A spell of hiccups and the sniffles.
“I’m glad you told me, honey,” Joyce says. “I’m proud of you. So proud.”
She plants a loud kiss somewhere against Will's head and murmurs an ‘I love you’ that he reciprocates tearily.
“I’m glad I told you, too.”
“Good. That’s good, baby.”
Another beat of silence until Joyce adds:
“And I always had my suspicions…”
“Mom.”
“You’re my boy, Will. Of course, I could tell something was different.”
“…”
“Jesus, not different, but…it was always something I was ready for you to tell me about. When you were ready. And with how you acted around Mike.”
Mike flinches at the sound of his own name. His heart kicks back up.
And there’s more of the torturous kind of silence.
“It’s just wishful thinking.”
“You don’t know that, honey.”
Will sniffles, “Mom, please.”
“He could be like you. Afraid to tell someone. Afraid he’s the only one like him.”
“I don’t know. I mean, he has El. And I couldn’t…”
“I know. And I’m not telling you to tell him. Not until you’re ready. But he might be more receptive than you think.”
Mike feels dizzy. There’s something burning in his blood that makes his clothes feel itchy and his skin feel hot. His heart feels like it’s seconds from jumping straight from his chest, from growing legs and getting the heck out of dodge.
He could be like you.
Afraid he’s the only one like him
He might be more receptive than you think.
And there are all these emotions swirling in Mike’s head, memories he’s repressed out of pure confusion. When he’d get so angry over Troy calling Will such hateful names, digs, and slurs, and condescending shit from his dad when the rumors of Will’s disappearance started to circulate.
He thought it was defending Will’s honor. That’s what best friends do, right? But something was cracking open. Something deeper, and something that terrified Mike.
The kind of thing that any Republican, middle-class father would shun. The kind of things he saw his own father ridicule when he read the morning paper or overheard something in church.
And why had Mike felt so personally offended at something that didn’t affect him?
He was still figuring that out.
So, he does what he does best and pushes that aching feeling deep down, heads back outside, focusing on making his footsteps as quiet as possible.
“I thought you were going to get Will,” Nancy huffs when Mike returns alone.
“They’ll be out soon.”
“Soon? We leave in five.”
“I said they’ll be out soon.”
Nancy doesn’t have any fight left in her and lets Mike drag himself over to the open trunk of the truck, where he sits, legs dangling.
He doesn’t know what to feel, but guilt’s a big one weighing heavily on his conscience.
For overhearing such a private conversation.
For not leaving when he sensed the tension.
For not being the best friend Will could confide in.
It was no secret that they were more distant than they were three years ago, and part of that, Mike wonders, is because of these feelings Will had for him. Because it’s always easier to avoid. It’s easier to deny, deny, deny, to ignore phone calls and letters that came in the mail and then slowly stopped coming.
But Will wasn’t entirely at fault. Mike, too, had avoided him. To the point that Will didn’t feel safe telling him something so…important. Something that was important to him, too.
That gnawed at him something awful.
And it hurt even worse when Will rounds the corner and appears in front of him like nothing’s happened with a gentle, “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Robin said you settled on a record?”
Mike doesn’t even have the energy to feel jealous about the mention of Robin, given how awful Will looks.
He can tell just how hard he’s been crying by the redness in his eyes and how puffy they are. His face is red like he’s scrubbed at it hard, and a lingering sadness persists that makes Mike’s stomach turn. He wants to ask him if he’s okay. He wants to say something, anything.
It used to be so easy to ask how you were doing.
“Uh, yeah. It’s over by the turntable.”
Will pulls himself into the truck and kneels by the detonator. He picks up the empty record jacket, and Mike swears he hears his breath hitch.
“David Bowie?”
“It’s, y’know, not my first choice exactly, but—”
And then Mike turns and catches that faint grin on Will’s face, and all words seem to shortcut in the Merriam-Webster’s dictionary of his mind.
“I love David Bowie,” he says. “Jonathan and I used to listen to this album all the time.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was the first tape I owned.”
Suddenly, Mike doesn’t feel too bad about the music.
“Yeah, umm, I thought it was fitting. The whole heroes thing going on.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
Will lifts his gaze over to Mike. “This is a good choice.”
“The unofficial freak of rock n’ roll.”
Mike doesn’t care if he’s taking all the credit for Jonathan’s choice or that he’s technically lying. He couldn’t care one bit, not with how Will is finally looking at him with that subtle smile, like a best friend rather than a stranger. Someone familiar.
Someone who used to like you, Mike.
Used to.
Will sets the record back down when Joyce starts calling his name, and he’s climbing out of the truck again. Mike’s head spins. His hand comes back to his heart. Maybe it’s just the nerves of the mission, about the possible end of the world, but this is different.
He’s never been nervous around Will. This feeling, the way it stings just to look at him, is new. And it confuses the hell out of him. Because he knows the truth? Because he’s replaying every little moment in his life and trying to find the signs, find what minuscule moment that made Will feel like he couldn’t tell him.
That alienating feeling flutters in his chest. The feeling of being replaced.
At least the record doesn’t seem too bad, now that he knows Will approves. Besides, there are a few Bowie songs Mike doesn’t mind, like that one with Freddie Mercury off of Hot Space.
And if Will liked the music, actually listened to it, it couldn’t be bad at all.