Chapter Text
Mike couldn’t breathe. Not properly at least, each inhale scrambling in his throat, not enough air reaching his lungs, like his lungs couldn’t absorb it. Flashes of blood, of torn flesh and exposed bone, swam behind his eyes, shifting across the shadows of his bedroom like phantoms that he couldn’t escape. He rolled over, gaze falling on the clock next to his bed, the digital display reading back in harsh, red lines 4:32. Too early, always too early nowadays, like the universe didn’t want him sleeping, didn’t want him to enjoy the luxury of rest. He sighed and flopped back into his pillow.
He could go downstairs, get a glass of water, start the coffee machine a couple hours early, but last time he’d done that, breath still hitching in his throat, Jonathan had appeared like he’d been summoned the second he entered the kitchen. The look he’d given Mike had been too knowing, like he could see every thought running through his head. Things hadn’t been the same with Jonathan since California, some unsaid, tense thing hanging in the air between them that made it feel suffocating, dangerous to be around him.
It was stupid, Mike knew that. Jonathan wasn’t dangerous, he wasn’t going to do anything, he’d practically been Mike’s older brother for as long as Mike could remember his life, but– There was something going on. And Mike would rather stay laying in his dark room than risk Jonathan looking at him like that again.
He stared up at the faded—damn near non-functional at this point—glow in the dark stars that he’d stuck to his ceiling when he was seven and loved nothing more than space, the great abyss beyond their world, a place separate from all complications of humanity. They seemed a bit silly now, remnants of a him that no longer existed, snuffed out by monsters and guns and death, but he couldn’t take them down. Taking them down would mean acknowledging that, would mean accepting that who he was four years ago was gone.
Blankets rustled from beside his bed as Will shifted in his sleep, and Mike couldn’t stop himself from rolling over to face him, to watch him. Moonlight streaked into the room through the gaps in his curtains, dimly lighting the pile of blankets atop Will, making the mattress he slept on seem almost as tall as Mike’s bed, washing Will’s face in silver. His eyebrows were scrunched in the middle, lips parted, hands just barely peaking out from under the blankets tucked tight around him. He looked so–
Heat rose from Mike’s chest, warmth, a feeling he shouldn’t have from looking at his sleeping best friend, spreading out, from his chest to his face to his fingers. He pushed himself onto his back again and kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, on the constellations he’d spent hours mapping out across the bare plaster, a book on astronomy open on his bed. Will had gotten him the pack of stars for his birthday, had handed them to him with a small, shy smile that grew into a wide grin full of missing front teeth when Mike had lit up the second he saw them. He squeezed his eyes shut again, wishing he could block it out, make his brain shut off again, but the urge to turn his head again pushed at him, prodded.
He couldn’t though, because if he looked at Will for too long, it meant something. If he looked away, kept his gaze trained elsewhere, it was fine. Will wouldn’t know, wouldn’t have a clue how many hours he spent aching just to look at him. Maybe that was worse.
Guilt gnawed at his insides, pulling at his heart like a snake, and Mike pressed his hands to his eyes. It all just needed to stop. He needed to stop. But his eyes drifted back to Will, to his sleeping figure curled up on the spare mattress they’d just barely managed to fit between his bed and his dresser two months prior, and he couldn’t look away. He looked so young in that moment, fast asleep, like the years the Upside Down, the Mind Flayer, all of it, had added to his appearance were stripped away again, wiped away in sleep.
Mike couldn’t look away from him, from Will. He should. He needed to. But he couldn’t, no matter what he should do, needed to do. So he rolled back onto his side, tucking his arms against his chest, and stayed watching him as the minutes ticked on. The moon lit his face, softened his jawline, outlined the bridge of his nose, blurred his cheekbones, and Mike ached to reach for him. His fingers twitched with the need to feel the soft skin of his cheek, feel the warmth of his breath against the inside of his wrist. He couldn’t do that though, not now, not ever. The only thing he could do was watch him as the silver moonlight shifted to the soft orange of sunrise, light streaming more steadily through the curtains.
Someone rattled something downstairs, shuffling started to echo from different parts of the house, and Mike rolled to the other side of his bed, away from Will. The floorboards were cold beneath his feet as he stood up, taking a second to adapt to the cool air seeping through his pajamas, the first night of the fall that truly felt like fall, cold enough that the heating system should’ve been turned on but hadn’t yet. Then he crept out of the room, pausing in the doorway to look back at the gentle glow starting to illuminate Will’s face, feeling his chest clench at the sight.
Will couldn’t wake up to him staring at him. They’d only just started to get back to how they used to be, before that summer, before Starcourt, before California. He couldn’t risk that again, couldn’t– couldn’t lose Will again.
He slipped out of the room, closing the door as softly as he could behind him, and went downstairs. Nobody else was in the kitchen when he entered, even though he knew somebody was out of bed already, and he let out a small sigh. The sunrise shone through the window, streaks of orange and gold across the room, and Mike paused for a moment in the entrance to it. It seemed too peaceful of a scene to disturb it. But he needed to do something with his hands and he needed coffee, so he went through the now familiar routine of making a pot. For a moment, he could push it down, pretend it wasn’t there. It couldn’t matter, so it didn’t. He had to believe it was that simple, even though he also knew it wasn’t.
It was getting colder, way faster than usual, like the gates into the Upside Down were accelerating the winter, making it settle cold and hard on top of them all. It wasn't something Mike would've generally noticed. The cold normally fell slow and unevenly across Hawkins, not really obvious as a shift until November left the grass frost-covered and the trees barren of leaves. Only, this year, Will was home again, living under the same roof, the same ceiling, and that more than anything was what made Mike notice the sudden bitter chill in the air.
Will shivered under his coat the entire way home from school, hands tucked into his sleeves like they could protect his fingers from the cold metal of his bike, the icy breeze. Mike felt guilt stab at his insides as he rode beside him, gaze trained on the slight tremor of his shoulders and the wobble of his lips, wishing there was anything he could do. He wanted to help, to do something to warm him up, but– if he did, what would it mean? Would Jonathan give him that look again? Would his dad–
They dropped their bikes in the garage, clattering against each other, and clambered inside the warmth of the Wheeler house. It shouldn't matter what anyone thought, none of that should dictate what he did because none of it meant anything, but–
Mike watched Will slip upstairs, trembling hands tucked under his arms in search of warmth, muttering something about finding something warmer to wear. He itched to make him tea, to bring it up to him and wrap him in the knit, thick blanket Mike's grandma had made him when he was a kid that Will adored, just like he'd done when they were little and Will came in shivering from outside. But– but they weren't kids anymore. His dad already gave him looks when he and Will scrambled downstairs together with their elbows bumping, already made comments when they sat to close or looked at each other too long, or Mike said one too many things about Will. It always had Will flinching away from him like he'd been burned. Things were different now. Mike couldn't hold him close like he ached to.
And it was also Tuesday. Another reason he couldn't follow Will upstairs and try to warm him up. Tuesdays meant he had plans with El. Or, well, Tuesdays meant he was supposed to visit the cabin, meant El would be expecting him to arrive in the next hour, maximum. Tuesdays were her day off training, the day Hopper agreed to let Mike come by after school and stay until an hour before curfew. It wasn’t very much time, a few short hours a week to see each other, to catch El up on everything going on in the Party, to act like their relationship was anything but a shell of itself.
Really, it was a measly attempt to keep their relationship going, working in some sense of the word. The entire summer was spent with them trying to act like they still worked, like they hadn’t spent the entire 5 months she was away lying to each other, like they hadn’t fought in California, like his words hadn’t done nothing to help her against Vecna when she needed him, like they were still how they were the summer before. They both knew it was a façade, knew something between them had cracked apart that day in Lenora and nothing could fix it. Mike had been right when he’d told Will it was a fight they couldn’t come back from. But still, they kept acting like they had, like they’d survived that fight and were okay again.
Tuesdays kept the lies they told themselves going, preserved the fragmented relationship they knew was doomed but continued to act like it wasn’t. The world was ending, Hawkins was split in four, occupied by a military force that upped its control over them every week, and somewhere beyond reach, lurking, was Vecna and whatever he had planned for them. Now wasn’t the time to figure out their failing relationship, that would have to wait.
But it was Tuesday, El would be waiting for him, and Mike just wanted to follow Will upstairs instead of leaving again. The sound of his bedroom door clicking shut seemed to echo down the stairs and Mike sighed, forcing himself to turn back around, to drop his backpack and grab his other bag with his walkie, his knife, his flashlight, his walkman, everything he needed to go somewhere alone. Going back out into the cold felt worse, somehow, and Mike shuddered as he stepped outside again, wanting even more to join Will in the comforting warmth of his bedroom.
He’d come back later, told himself he would leave more on time than usual, and it would all be fine. Will would be fine. It wasn’t like he needed Mike for that. Mike could be away from him. It was fine. Mike pushed down the gaping chasm that grew in his chest with every block he rode further away from his house and closer to El’s, shelving it for later, for the silent darkness of his bedroom and the endless spiral of the night.
Getting to Hopper’s cabin was annoying enough before the military entered the scene and they had to use the tunnels left over from the Mind Flayer what felt like a million years ago, now it took nearly an hour, from getting to the most out of sight tunnel entrance near his house to walking all the way through them. And the tunnels were somehow even colder than above ground, like the Upside Down still filled them, freezing them before Halloween even took hold of most people's thoughts.
Mike could only hope Will wouldn’t need to go anywhere through them soon. He didn’t deserve that cruel reminder of everything, especially not with the cold already settling heavy in their bones, the anniversary of it all looming steadily on the horizon.
His nose was numb by the time he emerged in the small shed outside of the cabin, pushing up the trap door and clambering outside to the still dimly lit sky. He barely made it three steps before the front door was swinging open and El emerged, wrapped in what must be one of Hopper’s old sweaters that seemed to swallow her whole, curls disheveled in a way that reminded him of his own when he had it shorter. His heart panged in his chest, guilt twisted his stomach into knots, and he forced his legs to keep moving, to meet her half way and pull her into a tight hug. He tried to absorb the feeling of her arms around him, her lips against his when she pulled back far enough to kiss him, tried to wrap it around everything circling through his mind since that morning and snuff it all out, tried to convince himself that it worked.
El pulled back entirely, fingers framing his face, and then tugged him inside the warmth of the cabin. A fire crackled in the fireplace, filling the entire place with the scent of firewood, the crackle of pine sap popping in the heat, and Mike let the comfort of it wash away some of the ice clinging to his insides. Hopper glanced over at them, giving him a brief nod as the two of them slipped past him and into El’s bedroom, the door left open 3 inches. Not that the 3 inches mattered much nowadays—they didn’t spend much of their time touching, let alone making out like the summer months that had led to the creation of that rule in the first place.
Sinking onto El’s bed, eyes meeting for a second before they looked away again, everything was the same as usual, the same exact routine. Go into her room, talk about school, about El’s training, about the last Crawl and what they thought the next one would bring up, anything but about each other, but their feelings, their relationship. It was a hollow routine, Mike knew, nothing but a desperate attempt at preserving some sense of normalcy, but they did it again, and again, and again, week after week. Something told him it wouldn’t stay that way for long, not with the way his words seemed to catch in his throat as he told her about the math test he had last week, the movie he and Will had watched.
There was a tension in the air, growing every week since school had restarted, and Mike could feel its weight, bearing down on them. It was going to crash down around them, was going to fall apart just like everything else seemed to. He just– Mike just hoped to keep it for a little longer.
But neither of them knew what else to talk about within an hour of hiding away in her room, the air growing heavier until they went silent. Normally, they could at least talk until Hopper came in to drag him back outside, to force him to go home, but– something was different. Mike tried not to think it was him, the ache in his chest, the way his thoughts refused to stay on that moment, on El’s words. The silence hung heavy and thick around them, slowly suffocating them, and Mike pushed himself to his feet, unable to stand it. It was earlier than he usually left, by a long shot, but he couldn’t breathe in her room anymore, couldn’t–
The pit in his stomach was back, sinking, eating him alive, and Mike let out a shaky breath as he forced himself to look at El. Her eyes were a little wide, watching him with a slight twitch in her eyebrows, her lips, something like concern barely concealed in her expression. She could feel the tension too, could feel the disconnect that he wanted to breach but didn't know how to without lying or without exposing every part of himself he couldn’t face. Mike needed to– he needed to–
“I should get going, head home. It’s getting colder, y’know, and the tunnels are already so cold, and my warmer coat is still buried in storage somewhere, so I don’t have it, and–” Mike hated how much he rambled when nerves clawed at his throat, when he felt one wrong breath away from full blown panic. It was stupid, a childish habit that his dad used to scold him for and now just looked at him about until he stopped. El stood up halfway through what was definitely way too long and too flimsy of an excuse for her to not see through it, stepping closer to him, and his mouth snapped shut on instinct.
“Mike, it’s okay. Go home before it gets too cold.” Her hand pressed to his cheek, cupping it gently in her palm, and he wished he could sink into it naturally as he’d seen Nancy do when Jonathan cupped her face the same way. But all he could do was turn his cheek into her hand a bit, return the pressure, and ache with how little it actually made him feel. Something shifted in her eyes, like she could tell what he was thinking, but instead of pulling away she just pressed a quick kiss to his lips, nothing but brief pressure, there and then gone again.
When she stepped back, Mike could almost forget the look that had flickered behind her eyes, the tension that had been steadily choking them both for the last hour. It was brief, and something told him this wouldn’t last, this calm between them. Something was simmering below the surface for them both, dangerously close to bubbling over, and Mike wasn’t sure if he just wanted to get it over with or if he wanted to keep it just below the danger zone as long as possible.
“C’mon.” El led him back out of the room by his hand, tugging him through the cabin and back outside. Mike tried to ignore the long side glance Hopper shot them as they slipped past him, a mix of surprise and worry written into his eyebrows, and let her open the trapdoor for him. She squeezed his hand one last time before stepping back as he descended into the freezing cold tunnel, calling after him just as his feet his the dirt at the bottom, “See you next week. And tell Max I say hi.”
Mike nodded up at her, pulling his flashlight from his backpack to guide him through the tunnels, and tried to stamp down the stab of pain from those words, from the reminder of Max. Maybe it was the spinning spiral of his thoughts, or just the aching cold of the tunnel air, but it felt shorter getting back to the entrance he’d hidden his bike beside, not enough time to even begin to sort out the mess that was his brain, his thoughts. Next time, he didn’t think he could lie, didn’t think the façade he’d built up would work anymore. He felt a bit like he was choking, air thick and stifling despite the way it came out in clouds around his face as he grabbed for his bike, swinging his leg over it and taking off.
He wasn’t heading home. It wasn’t an entirely conscious choice, made more out of the desire to just think a bit longer than anything else, away from everyone and everything else. It didn’t take long for the Quarry to come into view, for the road up to the place he hadn’t gone in months, the place he’d gone more nights than not after that summer, after the Byers left, to form under his tires. The Quarry was cold, the air blowing up from the water below icy and bitter, like winter was creeping in extra early there, and Mike shuddered against it as he let his bike fall at his feet.
He sank to the ground a foot or so from the edge he’d stood on at 12, Troy and James taunting, Dustin screaming, Will’s body flashing behind his eyes. There was a feeble, pointless sign there now, staked into the ground right where he’d stood, the red words already fading from when they’d put it up five years before. It did nothing to prevent someone from taking that step, did nothing at all. It was a cover, an excuse, that was all. Mike didn’t care either way.
Being near the edge felt– it made him feel alive in a way. It was oddly comforting, being close to the edge, to the crumbling cliff, to the drop to hundreds of feet of water, to what he’d once thought had taken Will from him, to what he’d thought would take him too. The wind cut at his face, biting, freezing, but Mike didn’t care, couldn’t get himself to. For just a moment, he needed it, the vivid, harsh reminder of it all—the claws of fear and the waves of relief, of exhilaration.
Max had found him there, once, almost exactly a year ago. It’d been almost a month since the Byers had left, since school had suddenly become near unbearable without Will, and he’d come out there, to the Quarry’s edge, something like desperation in his throat. He still wasn’t sure if she’d followed him that day or how exactly she’d found him, but she’d appeared not even twenty minutes after him, as the sun disappeared below the horizon and the moon rose in the distance, shining off the water below.
Mike had been closer to the edge that time, just standing there, not entirely sure why. Max had walked up to him, stopping a few feet away, and he was sure he wouldn’t have even noticed she was there if she hadn’t muttered his name. He could still remember the slightly broken way she’d said it, the look on her face when he’d looked over at her with wide eyes, heart in his throat like he’d been caught doing something he was forbidden to do. The concern in her eyes. The scrunch of her eyebrows. The downwards, tight curve of her lips. There’d been more emotion on her face than he’d seen from her since she’d said goodbye to El a month before, like finding him there had shocked something in her system, but he couldn’t think about that, not then, not now. Something had shifted in Max since the Byers and El left, like it had in Mike.
Her and Lucas had broken up barely a week after the others left. Lucas hadn’t understood, had come to Mike after with hunched shoulders and hurt eyes. He’d thought they were good again, thought everything was okay between them. Mike hadn’t known what to say, hadn’t known how to say he thought he understood why Max did it, what Max was thinking, feeling.
Max hadn’t said much to him that night, just pulled him back a few feet from the ledge, her hand an anchor on his arm, her eyes dark. They’d sat on a rock a few feet away, silent except for the one thing she said to him besides his name when she stood to leave.
“If you need to talk, I– I get it. I’m here. Don’t do anything stupid, Wheeler. I can’t lose someone else.”
Mike could still remember the ache that had grown in his chest at that, the noose that had tightened around his neck as she walked away, leaving him alone there. He’d never really taken her up on the offer, but he did begin to hang out with her more after that, more even than he had with Lucas or Dustin. Nobody had really known. Not that they lied about it, but– well, everyone always assumed he was doing pretty much anything besides hanging out with Max Mayfield.
He’d spent more of that winter either at Max’s place in relative, understanding silence, or in his basement, than anywhere else. There was an understanding between them, a rough, painful sort of understanding, but one they both knew only each other could really understand—the pressures, the fears, the looks people gave even when they didn’t know what they were giving looks about. Somehow, in those four months between that night and him leaving for Spring Break, Max had become truly one of this best friends. He couldn’t quite explain it, how they got so close. Maybe it was that they understood each other in a way the others simply didn't. Maybe it was just timing. Maybe it was how they’d started as not friends at all. He didn't know. But by the time he’d left for Spring Break, he’d been sure he would miss her the most of everyone in Hawkins.
He’d been right, in a cruel, twisted sort of way. When he’d left for Lenora, he’d not even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t see her again. And now–
Mike squeezed his eyes shut against the tears threatening to spill over. Everything was falling apart again while they all pretended like it was okay, like this was all somehow normal. It reminded him awfully of how it’d felt when Will disappeared. He’d felt like the only person that cared, the only person that was acting normal.
We care, Michael, we care. His father’s words, years past, echoed up from the depths of the Quarry, his own minds tormenting him, and Mike hugged his arms tighter around himself. You see what happens, Michael?
Mike shuddered, wanting the voice to just shut up, even though it rarely really did, always echoing in the back of his mind, bouncing off the words of Troy, of James, of every other person that always had something to say about him, about Will. He just wished they would all shut up. They never did, just whispered in the wind blowing up from below.
Mike shook his head, scrambling to his feet, and forced himself to start the trek back home. Curfew was close now, he was sure, the sun fully beyond the horizon with stars glinting above, and his mother would kill him if he came home later again, assuming the military didn’t catch him first.