Chapter Text
In the 18 months before the final battle, Mike does some stupid things. To which, he chalks it all up to being some sort of teenage angst ritual– complete with lots of New Coke and trips to gas stations in hopes he can pass as an 18-year-old. In the end, he was too lanky and awkward to fully grasp the complexities of what being a legal adult fully meant. He was too unsure of himself, his height doing absolutely nothing to combat the fear of growing up.
In the 18 months before the final battle, he tells El– Jane that he wants to break up.
It’s a conversation long overdue, and from the look on her face when he says it, she feels the same way. And, god, Jane was always so much stronger and braver than Mike was. There was something about that fearlessness that attracted him to her in the first place. Firstly, that desperation to cling to something greater than himself, like how his dad only ever prayed when the prices of his stock began going down. Secondly, he wanted to be her, he thinks. Walking out of hell, defeating the devil, and being a hero to his best friend.
He wanted to be Mike the Brave.
When they do break up, he talks to her much more easily than when they were together. In the lightness of it all, Mike also notices how much she smiled when talking about anything else other than their relationship– he could physically see the tension on her shoulders slip into nothingness at the prospect of no longer becoming this ideal hero for him. That she was no longer Eleven, El, but Jane– beautiful Jane, who deserves a life outside being a hero. Who loved Eggos, dressing up, and Mike Wheeler. Not as a boyfriend, but a friend she could rely on.
It felt good, he felt needed, and he rode that high for days.
That was until the Byers’ unofficially moved into their home, and Mike realized that he had more than one conversation that was overdue. Towards one Will Byers. His best– his friend. His… castle. The one who fortifies him. The one he forgot.
“Are– are you using that?” he stutters out one summer night, clad in his hellfire shirt and a pair of old pajamas that he hadn’t worn forever, “I was just– y’know, because… because mom said that you could always ask for supplies whenever you needed.”
Mike keeps his finger uselessly pointing at the old toothbrush Will held.
“It works fine, thanks,” Will smiles. Foamy, slightly disgusting if it weren’t for the fact that it was Will.
The silence was only occupied by the hum of the lights above the mirror and the faint sounds of Will brushing his teeth. Mike hated silence. Hated it especially when it was between him and Will. To him, that silence between them was a confirmation, a little PSA that he fucked shit up before he even got to grow old with him.
(Of course, he wants to grow old with him, who the fuck else could keep up with his mind? No one– no one but Will Byers.)
“Do you want to eat dinner in my room?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe and attempting casualness and failing miserably.
“Why?”
Why? Why? Mike wants to die. He didn’t think that far ahead into this conversation.
“Holly’s probably just gonna throw peas at you and I again, so I figured–”
Will smiles again, “I’m good, Mike, thanks though.”
He’s good, of course, he’s good. The silence stretches on until Will awkwardly shuffles out of his way and out of the bathroom, heading downstairs with light footsteps completely unlike how Mike and the rest of his siblings stomp until they feel as if the floor’s about to give in. Because Will is considerate, he’s good. He’s so good and Mike won’t get a wink of sleep tonight in hopes of rewriting this entire conversation in his head to make him seem like less of a stranger who just happened to know Will for practically his whole life and more like his best friend. Best friend– a best friend who doesn’t act like one.
Mike picks up the toothbrush and starts brushing his teeth before dinner.
‘Best friend’ tastes like ash on his tongue. Like a name he has no right to say anymore.
–
In the 18 months before the final battle, Mike does some stupid things. The thing is, with Jonathan, he’s not exactly sure what stupid thing he did. Like, severely clueless. It hurts how much he doesn’t know what he did wrong.
It’s 2:36 AM, and he’s eating cereal on the counter, flipping through the pages of The Binder– containing all of the art Will’s given him over the years. His fingers linger on the most recent one, of the Party fighting off a hydra– of him as the heart. His fingers trace every ridge of the page, as if it were braille and a message hid itself in the crevices the paint nudged itself into. A message of hope, an explanation, telling him what to do and how to fix the tattered remains of what he once had with Will. It’s very telling that the most recent painting that Will had given him was almost a year and a half ago– and it was a commission. He didn’t even know Will did commissions.
Mike sighs, rubbing his hands on his face as he attempts to rub away the sleep from his eyes.
When he opens them, he comes face-to-face with Jonathan.
“Jesus–!” he scrambles backward, only to catch himself just before the barstool fell over, “dude? Dude?’
Jonathan raises his hands in faux surrender, “Sorry, man, didn’t think you were so,” he eyes The Binder, “busy.”
His face flushes, though he blames the poor ventilation around the house, “I’m not. I’m not.”
“Right.”
“Really,” Mike glowers, “what are you even doing here? Nancy’s snoring keeping you up?”
He doesn’t hide the fact that he knows Jonathan’s been sneaking up to Nancy’s room from the basement every night, Mike feels like being petty for that snide comment about The Binder. Jonathan doesn’t even scare him all that much, sure, he doesn’t.
The older boy sighs, tense, “I went to check on Will.”
That catches his attention, bitterness gone.
“Will? What’s wrong with him– is he okay? Did Vec–” before Jonathan could even answer, Mike was already out of his seat, his socks causing him to slip embarrassingly on the kitchen floor.
“No, no, nothing like that,” Jonathan whispers, “just– just nightmares. Everybody has them, but he’s… he’s especially vulnerable when he does get them.”
Yeah, he understands. Of course he does, he’s Will’s– friend. They’re friends, so of course he understands. But what he doesn’t understand is why–
“He didn’t tell me,” Mike whispers, slowly getting back on the seat, cereal forgotten. “Why doesn’t he tell me anything anymore?”
He looks up, only to wish he hadn’t. Jonathan’s face was pinched in an expression he could barely understand, something in between regret and… pity. He hates that– being pitied. Mike understands even less about the situation from Jonathan’s expression. But what he does feel is that Jonathan is communicating something, like that hidden message he wanted to find in The Binder. But Mike wasn’t Mike the Wise– that was Will. And so, he sits there for a few seconds, griping a feeling he knows he should understand but just doesn’t. Mike sits, and Jonathan stands, idle.
The silence is broken at 2:50 AM, and Jonathan looks almost asleep on his feet.
Mike mumbles, “He doesn’t want to tell me or– or he can’t?”
He looks up at the older boy in hopes of getting confirmation, only to see a soft, you’re-getting-there smile, “Go to sleep, Wheeler.”
Mike goes back to his room, The Binder in one arm, and does exactly the opposite.
–
One night, he passes by the door to the basement on his way to the broom closet and hears the sound of faint sobbing.
Scared, Mike the Brave wills his feet to keep moving despite being frozen on the hardwood floor. He has a broom closet to get to. And Will is–
Mike opens the door to the basement and carefully makes his way down, the old wooden steps creaking as the sobs grow clearer and more devastating. Jonathan’s blanket haphazardly lays on the couch, indicating that the older boy had probably planned to sleep there tonight– though judging from the lack of his presence, Mike infers that Will probably assured him well enough to sleep in Nancy’s room instead. Though as Will’s body shakes underneath the flimsy quilted blanket, he knows his friend is full of shit. Full of shit and scared to death.
The basement isn’t as cold as he figured it would be, but Will’s body shivers all the same. Then, Mike remembers, ‘He likes it cold’.
Will is older than he was when he was first taken, but looking at him– really looking at him, he’s still just a kid. All of them are.
And so, like the kids they once were– are– Mike huddles close to Will and places an unsure arm over his waist, over the blanket. Mike isn’t as cold as Will is, and so the close proximity and the body heat causes him to be slightly more aware of his own body. His sweat, his breath, his– his trembling lips. Pressing tightly shut and centimeters away from Will’s own. The other boy seems to have stilled, breathing evened out as his body instinctively adjusts to the body next to him; seemingly saying, ‘I know you’ over and over again. Because they’ve done this a million times before when they were kids, hushed laughter beneath this very same quilted blanket, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness surrounding them.
But they’ve never done this before. At least, not the way they’re inches apart, quiet air charged in a way that makes Mike fear for his life. For what they have.
The space in between them is dangerous; it’s tempting. It shouldn’t be there.
‘I know you’ is what Will Byers’ body seems to say as he unconsciously moves closer to Mike. ‘I’ve known you forever’.
It feels like sin, the fact that they’ve known each other forever, and are now… cuddling on Mike’s basement floor. They’re inches away, and the space is dangerously calling to him. Will’s face looks peaceful from where Mike’s squinting at him through the darkness, and while the cold sweat on his skin clings, there’s a quiet feeling that settles in Mike’s chest that he did that. He was useful to his suffering friend; he helped him. In a way, he was a hero to him. Will’s eyelashes are long and slightly damp with tears, fluttering on his flushed cheeks, and Mike wants.
He leans in, breath fanning onto Will’s face. And he–
“Mike?”
Will’s soft, sleep-clad voice pierces through the silence, through Mike’s chest.
“Shit, shit, sorry,” despite his words, Mike still doesn't move, inches away from the other boy’s face– his lips. Dangerously close. Dangerously unapologetic.
“Mike, what’re you–“ Will whispers, sitting up and swinging an arm to feel for the lamp next to the mattress on the floor. For a brief moment, the warmth of Will’s waist burns through Mike’s hand, and he flinches away, as if scalded, “It’s, what is– what time is it? God, it’s 11:44– what’re you doing here?”
Mike scrambles onto the couch, “Nancy, she– she asked me to– broom closet. And, wait, she, well, I heard you crying in here and… well…”
Will blinks, slow, and he mumbles, “Really articulate, Michael.”
“No, really, I was just… I heard you and I, I guess my feet moved before my mind did,” he finally finds it in himself to feel apologetic, only for him to let out a full-body shiver at the sound of his full name being spoken from Will’s mouth.
The moments of his actual name being spoken are few and far between, and most of the time, it’s said in utter exasperation and annoyance. When Will says it, Mike thinks it sounds like a prayer. Said in fondness and so much adoration that Mike forgets to breathe.
His heart stutters, and he breathes out a sigh, “Sorry, I– sorry.”
“For what?” Will asks.
“Everything.”
“Again– Mike– words, please,” Will rolls his eyes in faux annoyance. In one hand, he holds the lamp as it casts a warm orange glow onto his face. As if he weren’t shivering just moments before, body trembling against Mike’s embrace- in Mike’s arms. “You’re… sorry about ditching whatever Nancy’s asked you to do– to what, have a sleepover with me here?” he continues, an uncertain smile on his face.
Mike's face does a weird thing where he’s on the verge of letting out an awkward laugh and screaming out of the top of his lungs. The compromise is: “Mfhm.”
“Right,” Will’s own face stays politely smiling.
In a rare moment of bravery, he mumbles after a quick silence, “What do you dream about, to make you…” he pauses, unsure of what to say, “do that when you sleep?” is what comes out.
At that, Will sits cross-legged on the mattress, “The upside down, and… and the fact that he’s still out there. Like, I sometimes overthink and overanalyze what I dream of. What if whatever I’m dreaming of is his way of communicating or– or trying to find my location, or something. It’s like,” he takes a breath, continuing in a much quieter voice, “I’m still his spy. And because of that, it’s like he knows my secrets. All of them. All of– all of it. Every dirty, untold thing. All of it, Mike. All of me.”
Shit, Mike’s feeling way too homicidal about a lab demon that could literally smite him if he dared to even do something.
“Imagine being, what, 12? When you get taken into an evil dimension, and you’re constantly running for your life, I mean, that– that stays with you,” Will says, “it will stay with me. The cold, I think. Him.”
“It won’t, he won’t.” He says in a firm tone, resolute in a way that scares even himself into believing everything coming out of his mouth, “When we kill him, you and Jane will come out of it. We will kill him. I promise. I know that we will.”
“And how are you so sure, Michael?” There’s a playful lilt to Will’s voice even as fear seeps into the edges.
Mike, emboldened by his own words– Will, in general– moves to close the physical distance in between them so that they’re both sitting cross-legged on the mattress, heads hung low and foreheads nearly brushing as they speak in hushed tones. He ducks down so that he can meet Will’s averted gaze, and he speaks, the air between them hot as he does, “Because you’re still here, aren’t you?”
Will’s eyes dart between Mike’s own, a flush spreading onto his cheeks, “What?”
“If anyone’s gonna beat that son of a bitch it would be you, Will,” he continues, “I mean, Jane, Hopper, the Party– we’ll all help, fucking obviously– but you. He chose you for a reason. That asshole thought he would, what, take a weak-looking 12-year-old with the coolest bowl cut for miles–”
Will lets out a choked laugh.
“And– and intimidate him in Hell, but what he didn’t know was that Will Byers is braver than all of us combined. Jane said it herself, didn’t she? You survived there– alone, for a week.”
“I guess, but–”
Mike shakes his head, holding Will’s hands firmly in his own, “No buts. Call me crazy for saying all of this shit in our dingy-ass basement, but I know that the winner of this campaign isn’t some bald-headed demon. It’s us– it’s you.”
By the time he finishes pouring his heart out, they’re both panting and flushed with a fervor that Mike knows will make it hard for him to sleep tonight. Yet, he can’t find it in himself to care when Will is looking at him like that– wide-eyed and hopeful. Utterly mesmerized by the shit Mike pulled out of his ass in the heat of the moment. A speech that could put his previous D&D campaigns to shame. Will looks– he looks so fucking relieved, Mike can’t even begin to take back all the words he said. He won’t if he was even given the chance.
The lamp flickers beside them, that same orange hue drowning Mike, too.
It feels like they’re on fire; their mingling breaths burn ever hotter as the silence blankets them both.
Will’s eyes, hazel-green, shine as they look at him. As if… he knows.
Mike’s not sure what he knows, exactly, but all he knows is that it scares the shit out of him. The basement was supposed to be slightly chillier in the fall, and yet, warmth flows through every crevice of his bones as his hands turn clammy, holding Will’s own. Their proximity is what Mike notices next– mere inches from each other. Close enough to do something stupid.
He tenses, letting go of Will’s hands as he abruptly stands up, wiping the sweat from his palms onto his pajamas as he looks everywhere but Will’s eyes. (He’s scared he might drown)
Mike clears his throat, “I, uh– I gotta get back upstairs. To– closet. Broom. Broom closet.”
“Right, yes, of course,” Will breathes out as he rearranges the quilted blanket.
“Mhm, yeah.”
“Uh, thank you for doing this–” Will makes a vague gesture to where Mike was sitting on the mattress, “...saying those things. They– they mean a lot. They do.”
Mike’s eyes soften, and so does his voice when he speaks, taking slow, dragged-out steps to the stairs, “Anytime. Always.”
He turns to the door fully and doesn’t look back. It’s at least 30 minutes after Nancy’s made her request for Mike to grab her old ice skates from the broom closet that she finally sees the aforementioned pair, being held by a trembling Michael Wheeler.
“What took you so long?” She groans, “Jonathan fell asleep while we were waiting.”
“I got lost.” That's all he says.
“Mike, this is your house–”
He whisper-yells, “Lost!”
Judging from the way he stood at her doorway, body slightly shaking– from the cold or whatever else, he had clearly gotten more than side-tracked.
“Mike, what the fuck did you do?”
True to Wheeler-sibling fashion, Mike lets out an inhuman sound before shuffling back to his own room, and Nancy forgets all about the ordeal not even 5 minutes later.
–
They don’t talk about that stupid thing, ever. And thank goodness, too, because he doesn’t think he can explain what he did that night.
However, ever since that semi-pep talk in his basement, he and Will have obviously gotten closer. Not as close as before everything happened, but a noticeable vibe had shifted between the two of them.
Mike’s full of shit if he says that most of it wasn’t initiated by him.
Shoulder-brushes, lingering– knowing stares as the Party and Co. discuss their next crawls; all of it, well, most of it, done by Mike Wheeler. At lunch, before Will had arrived to sit with them, Lucas brought it up first. There was relief and understanding in his voice when he did so, as if it were the most natural thing; him and Will, Will and him. A package deal. You couldn’t get one without the other.
“Like, dude, no one said it, so I will: I’m so freaking glad that you got 50% of your brain back.” Lucas smiles, patting him on the back as if he hadn’t just dissed Mike and complimented him all the same. “No offense, but you hadn’t really been the greatest friend to Will, you know? I mean, I get that the rest of us were dealing with our own stuff, but you and Will– man, you know?”
Mike, begrudgingly, does know. And because he does, he feels like a total asshole. Nowadays, though, he feels as if he’s been taking small baby steps towards making it up to the other boy. Cautious, wary, yes, but movement all the same. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dustin nodding along.
“There’s no point to being an asshole when the world’s about to end,” Dustin mumbles, “...when people are dying.”
“Yeah.”
There’s nothing to be heard from their table for a moment until Lucas speaks up, crushing up a milk carton, “El’s been busy, hasn’t she? Training with Hopper? Looks like you two are going steady, though. Happier, even.”
“Yeah, Joyce keeps asking me to fix up their radio–”
“We’re not together,” Mike blurts out, much to the utter shock of his two friends. “Jane and… and me. We aren’t together. Not anymore.”
“What?”
All three of their heads dart to the sound of Will’s voice. He’s standing on the left side of their table– where Lucas is– holding a sketchbook in one hand and a juicebox in the other, “What do you mean not together?” he continues. “Like– like you broke her heart, not-together or– or both of you wanted to not be together.”
For a brief second, Will almost looks… hurt, on the verge of having a panic attack in front of the Hawkins High student body. Though it was mostly reasonable on his part, Mike thinks. Jane’s basically his sister, and Mike is his– his friend.
As Will sits down next to Lucas, Dustin stares at him seriously before mumbling, “Explain, Wheeler.”
“I was getting to that–”
“Get to it faster, there’s only, like, 15 minutes of lunch left!” Lucas shrieks.
Mike carefully curates his words amidst the piercing, questioning gazes of his friends– of Will. He smiles as he remembers the moment, “Jane was– is– one of the greatest people I’ve ever met. She’s unique and– and funny and…” They look at him with matching fond smiles, “... and the world is far too big for her to be tethered to me. If anything, it was mutual. We love each other, yeah– but… but not that way anymore.”
Lucas and Dustin pat him on the back, laughing as they recall their own moments as the Party and how much time changes– or doesn’t change things. Mike looks at Will and how the other grips his unopened juice box as his face morphs into a complicated expression. Not angry or– or disappointed. Just confused. Will eventually notices his gaze and lets out a small smile, “I’m glad you told us.”
“Of course,” he replies, gripping Dustin’s hand where it’s resting on his shoulder, “Always.”
–
Robin Buckley is an enigma, Mike thinks as he watches her and Will on the couch looking at the backside of a David Bowie vinyl (Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, he squints). They giggle as their voices intertwine in hushed tones, talking about god knows what– lyrics, Bowie, or… or when their next date’s gonna be.
Mike thinks he ought to move to the washroom before he pukes.
On the way to school, the WSQK morning Squawk played during their bike ride. And, it just happens to be when Rockin’ Robin mentions having a date this evening– Is This Love by Whitesnake is playing just moments after. He just so happened to notice the almost embarrassed smile on Will’s face, the other boy’s control of his bike slipping slightly before he corrected himself. That expression, an expression that Mike had once thought was reserved only for the Party– for him, crawled its way onto Will’s face. As if he were in on some big secret, a secret that Mike couldn’t be told.
So, in the present, Mike schools his own expression before he does something stupid– again.
And, as he’s about to pretend to clean off the dust from Smalltown Boy for the nth time, Jane bursts through the door and takes off her hood. She waves at Mike before going off to hug Will as she recounts her training. Thankfully, her presence allows Robin to lay off Will for a moment before Jane looks back at Mike– beckoning him towards one of the storage rooms. Then, the two are back to sitting side by side on the couch– recreating that irritating scene.
They shut the door before she pulls out an old bandana from her backpack, the one Lucas dropped during one of their crawls.
“Thanks,” he breathes out, “sorry we had to trouble you.”
“It is okay, Mike,” Jane smiles, unbothered, “I am sorry for dragging you inside of this smelly room.”
The station’s storage room was notoriously the home of a pungent odour that no amount of scrubbing done by Steve or Robin could fix. Which makes Mike even more confused as to why Jane would drag him into this hellhole– an Upside Down in the Rightside Up– just to give him Lucas’ bandana, “Why–”
“Because, I will be honest, I was standing outside for some minutes before going in,” she starts, “and I noticed you looking at Robin as if you could blow her up with your mind. Why do you hate her?”
Yeah, leave it to Jane to be brutally honest.
“Not hate–”
“Yes, hate. She is our friend– Will’s friend.”
Mike braces both his hands on his hips as he takes a deep breath, regretting it instantly as the odour wafts into his nostrils, “Do you even know when, whatever that is outside, happened? Did he– did he talk to you about it?”
Something in him aches at the prospect of Will hiding something from him, that he couldn’t tell Mike about his cool, older girlfriend. And– and he understands if Will told Jane; I mean, they were the youngest siblings in the Hopper-Byers household so surely the level of trust and understanding between the two of them differed from what Will and Mike had. But just the thought of being left in the dark about something related to Will sickened him, almost made him nauseous as he dreaded Jane's answer.
“Of course, he talks about her at home,” she says, as if she hadn’t just punched Mike in the face.
Mike wants to cry.
He takes another deep breath of the disgusting storage room air before whispering, “Did Will tell you how they… y’know. Like, maybe she commissioned a painting from him, too, and–”
She tilts her head, “Commissioned?” The word rolls off her tongue slowly.
Mike nods frantically, “Mhm, did they get closer when he made it for her?”
“What does ‘commissioned’ mean?” she asks.
Huh.
“What? Oh, like, I guess when you asked Will to paint that painting for me,” Mike whispers.
Jane shakes her head, crossing her arms, “I do not tell Will what to paint; he paints what he wants to. Remember? Of that painting he was making for that girl?”
Okay, for his sanity, Mike is going to ignore the last bit of what she just said. He’s utterly terrified that if he unpacks that load, he’d end up in the hospital over a cardiac arrest at 16.
“The painting of– of the Party with the hydra and.. and I was the heart…” Mike’s voice drops, and so does his own heart, as he watches Jane shake her head, “did– did you really never ask him to paint it?”
“I am sorry, Mike,” she frowns, as if feeling the emotional turmoil she unknowingly led him to experience in a span of a minute, “I really do not know what you are talking about.”
“Jane, you’re serious?” He asks for good measure, even though he’s on the verge of crying into her arms as he rethinks everything he’s ever known up until that moment.
“Serious.”
Shit.