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Mike wakes to the stench of wet and rot coating his tongue and soiling his throat like mucus, and he struggles not to choke on it.
What happened?
He opens his eyes to floral wallpaper and grey pattern tile, cold like ice beneath him and shivers. It only takes a few moments to realise he’s… home? Mike groans as he wobbles to his feet, his body is tender like a bruise, ribs creaking in protest, and head spinning as if he’s car sick.
He’d just been outside, hadn’t he? Yes. He’d been trying to wake Will up, and then the attack started. Vecna had emerged from hell like the devil rising to earth. He’d ripped flesh and bone with a mere hand movement, wielded fire like a sword, and then…
Mike groans and clutches his head as a zap of pain shoots through it like electricity writhing on a circuit board. Every time he reaches for the memory, the pain scolds him like his mother batting his hand away from the fresh cookies she’s baked.
How did he get home? And where is everyone?
“Hello?” Mike calls, and the echo makes it sound as if the house is empty. They must’ve come back to the Wheelers, but… had Mike slipped and hurt his head?
He starts walking. The kitchen and the living room are empty. It’s not until he goes upstairs that he finds someone.
Entering his room, Mike jumps like a spooked cat when he sees his dad sitting at his desk. “Dad.” Mike clutches his chest. Ted looks at him, and something twists his features like he’s drunk spoiled milk. “What are you doing in my room?” Mike asks, “Did you not hear me?”
Ted picks something up off the desk and stands, making his way over. The days of Ted towering over him have come to a close. While his father still has a few inches on Mike, they can stand eye-to-eye, and Mike no longer has to crane his neck to meet his father's gaze. It’s been a long time since his father could make him feel small, but when Ted pushes what he’s holding into Mike’s chest, the height gap feels larger than ever.
Letters, Mike realises as he takes them. Each one is labelled with Will’s name. Previously, locked away under his bed like keepsakes in a tomb, destined to be hidden away forever just like himself, now, the envelopes are torn open and crinkled like gift wrapping on Christmas.
Mike stumbles, his breath picking up as if he’s coming down from a run, “Dad,” He stammers and meets his father’s gaze. There’s fire in the man’s eyes. Usually so vacant, Ted has never been the father to play catch with him. Mike is used to not seeing love reflected at him when he talks to him; he’s used to seeing nothing, so the fire shakes him to the core.
“You disgust me,” Ted growls through clenched teeth, and it’s only when Mike’s back hits the wall that the boy realises he’s been cowering away.
He looks desperately for a way out, but as if Ted can read his mind, the man’s arms come to trap him against the wall, and Mike chokes on his fear. The grip landing on his shoulders is bruising, burning like flames, like the fire he’s been told his whole life that’ll come to collect its dues.
The flames have plagued his nightmares. They’re always there, thinning the air and shackling him in place, a brand to remind him of his sins.
Mike clutches the letters and bile rolls in his throat at the thought of Ted touching them; of anyone reading his innermost, tender thoughts. The ‘I love yous’ that nearly killed him to write, the begs and the pleas and the nights spent kneeling at the edge of his bed with his hands clasped, begging the deities for a miracle. The nights spent in utter terror and misery, wondering what he'd done to deserve to be this way.
“You’re going to break your mother's heart, don’t you care?!” Ted shouts, and Mike shrinks away and gasps in fright. He has never seen his dad so angry in his life. “What have we done, Mike?! What have we done to deserve this from you?!”
“I’m sorry!” Mike cries, trying and failing to escape his dad’s iron grip. It’s getting so painful, it feels as if his shoulders will break, and he pushes his hands against Ted’s chest desperately, “I’m sorry!”
“You’re a queer?!” Ted shouts, red-faced and mad. Spit drizzles onto Mike’s face, and it mixes with the tears that drench his cheeks, “A fag?!”
Mike flinches. He pushes his face into the wall as hard as he can and closes his eyes, sobbing like a small child.
He’s never been so scared in his life.
“I’m sorry!” He sobs, and as Ted shakes him, the letters flutter to the ground. They land at his feet like a blood-splatter at a crime scene, and Mike knows he’ll be paying for this sin forever. “I didn’t want this, I promise!”
They’re left with only their heaving breaths. Mike trembles as if he’s sick with frostbite, and he imagines everyone finding out. He imagines his mother’s disappointment, El’s betrayal, his friend’s disgust. He imagines Will walking away, and suddenly, he wishes that Vecna had killed him along with the military. Maybe he had, and this is hell.
Is this what he deserves?
Ted brushes his cheek, and Mike flinches as if he’s been slapped, keeping his eyes squeezed shut like a child hiding beneath their covers. His dad’s thumb brushes his cheekbone, his hand coming to cup his face, and Mike shivers as unease trickles down his spine.
“This is what the future holds, Michael.”
Mike snaps his eyes open, feeling as though he’s been shocked with a bolt of lightning. Suddenly, the hand on his face is rough, like leather, but damp, like condensation on windows. The stench of rot returns, stronger than ever, and Mike knows who he’ll see before he even looks.
Henry grins down at him, all brown teeth and charred flesh. It wraps around him like bandages around a skeleton, oddly stringy and sharp at the edges like thorns, and Mike chokes on the terror clogging up his throat as he comes face to face with the devil.
The grotesque hand on his face swipes over his cheek. It’s large like a mascot hand, and Mike whines as he fails to pull away. It’s like he’s encased in chains he can’t see. He writhes and struggles, but his feet refuse to move.
“I’ve wanted to meet you for such a long time, Michael.” Henry says, and his fingers slither through Mike’s hair in a mockery of gentleness, and Mike tries not to throw up at the feeling, “You have always been so fascinating.”
Mike strains as hard as he can against the invisible force pinning him to the wall, but he’s powerless to do anything. He heaves with effort and wonders if this is how he’ll die.
“Fuck you.” He sneers. This is the man who took Will, who killed Bob, Barb, and Max. The hatred is so pungent that Mike’s bathing in it, “Don’t touch me!”
“Always the thorn in my side.” Henry continues as if Mike hadn’t said anything, “I was going to kill you and get it over with, but then, I looked into your head.”
"So much potential. So much to play with." He trails a gnarled claw down from Mike’s temple to his chin, leaving behind a red, sore line where he’s grazed the skin with his nail, “And I knew I couldn’t let you go so easily.”
Mike swirls his tongue around his mouth and then spits. It lands on Henry’s cheek, and the monster flinches, drawing back in shock. The force pinning Mike to the wall vanishes, leaving him to tumble to the ground like a limp doll, and he grunts as he lands in a ball.
He wastes no time in scrambling to his feet. Mike rockets into the hallway so fast he crashes into the wall and sprints down the stairs. Nothing is real, he knows. This is Henry’s realm, a place he’s carved out for himself in Mike’s mind and now his head is no longer his own, but he has to run. Max had found safety in the good memories; maybe Mike can do the same.
As he reaches the front door, a roar shakes the house. Like a hurricane sweeping through, Henry howls his name, and the volume shakes the walls, knocking loose photos that crash to the floor and shatter, and Mike wails and covers his ears. His head swims, his ears ring, and he turns back to see Henry at the top of the stairs.
Fury isn’t enough to describe the look in his eyes. Scorching hot like molten lava. Henry lifts a hand, and Mike screams as he is blown off his feet as if he’s been hit by a car, and he crashes through the front door and out of the house.
He lands hard.
He lands on his dad’s car, parked in the driveway and the windshield splinters beneath him. The impact shreds through his body, and he throws his head back against the metal, his nails scraping along the glass as he gasps for the air robbed from him. For a moment, he lies there, unable to move and staring up at the sky.
The clouds are a deep blue, and angry red lightning crackles between them. The wind thrashes around him, pushing his hair into his eyes and shaking the trees violently. The leaves rustle, the branches clashing together like they’re fighting, and Mike gulps down his horror.
His house is a decrepit version of what it should be. The mask has fallen away, and the warmth has been drained. The bricks are covered in thick black vines, and everything shimmers like there’s a layer of slime coating it.
“Fuck.” Mike groans, coughing and heaving. His lungs feel bruised, and he won’t be surprised if he peels his clothes away later and his entire back is purple and rosy.
He rolls onto his side, breath hitching and arms shaking. He knows he needs to run. He needs to keep going, but it takes everything in him to sit up straight. The wieldshield is shattered into a cobweb of breaks. Mike winces. At least it’s not real. If he’d actually damaged his dad’s car, he’d never hear the end of it.
Glass clinks and jingles as he drags himself onto the hood. He tries to think of happy memories, but he can barely see his hands. His vision blurs in and out of focus like a faulty camera lens, and he’s so weak from the attack that his knees nearly buckle when he shimmies onto the ground.
“I think I’ll take my time with you.” He hears, low and rough like gravel.
Henry walks out of his front door, locked on him like a predator hunting prey. No, not hunting, not anymore. Mike has been hunted, and now he’s in the predator’s territory.
Cats play with their food for hours before they eat it.
Had Henry come for the kids or for him?
Mike clenches his teeth and runs. His legs quiver, and he can’t take a full breath in, but he forces himself to keep going. He runs, and he runs. Past the neighbour’s house and down the street into the woods, he runs until his legs give in and he tumbles to the ground in a heap.
He lands in the dirt and the leaves, his fingers crawling into the earth. His ribs burn like he’s swallowed acid, and Mike sobs as he presses his hands to them. He’s not sure what broken ribs feel like, but he knows what bruised ribs are like, and this feels worse.
Writhing in pain, he crawls to a tree and huddles up against it and hopes that Henry won’t be able to find him. He’s dead if he does. Mike is in no condition to run or fight.
His ribs are in agony, and his breath rattles in his lungs like pennies in a jar. Is his family trying to save him? Can they even save him? Wouldn’t they need music for that?
He imagines Will crying, trying to shake him awake. He imagines wounds forming on his body as he’s attacked in the mindscape, the same way they did with Max and the others.
He thinks of Nancy, losing both her younger siblings. He thinks of her next to their parents at the funeral, and the sob that wrenches through him rips through his torso like a grating knife.
“Mike!”
Will.
Mike snaps his eyes toward the sound. Deep into the forest, the call of his name comes again. Will calls for him, and his voice travels through Mike like a shot of adrenaline. He’s clambering to his feet in seconds despite the fiery pain, and he staggers through the trees, using them to support himself.
“Will!” Mike shouts. Have they opened a portal? Is that what he’s hearing?
Or has Henry taken Will, too?
“Mike! Over here!”
The thought has Mike pushing harder. He staggers over vines and branches blending into each other, even as the exertion tightens his lungs until he can barely suck a breath in. He walks until the trees clear, and his feet land on wet rocks.
Flashes of light blind him. Red and blue rays sweep over the ground, and then Mike realises where he is.
Pain flares up in his knees as they buckle, clashing against the rocky ground. The water of the quarry ripples, too calm for the scene. It should be thrashing. Waves should be shattering against the rocks in rage.
Instead, it trickles serenely. The water looks black at night, and Mike watches Will’s body emerge from the quiet waves, and he folds over in agony.
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.
“What is wrong with you?!” He hears himself, “You said he was alive!”
“Oh god, stop it!” Mike covers his ears. His hands shake so hard his brain feels rattled, and he cries like he did that night. Soon, he can’t tell the difference between his past self and his current self. They both cry, they both mourn.
The horror is sickening, and he can barely hold back the vomit.
“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!”
Mike squeezes his eyes shut and screams. Even as his lungs beg for rest and his ribs ignite with fiery, scorching agony, he can’t stop. He presses his hands down harder, he curls until his head meets his knees, but the horrors keep coming, and he can’t block them out.
“It was a seven.”
“He’s lying! He’s lying!”
What had Max done? She’d thought of her happiest memories, her time with El and Lucas, her time with all of them, and she’d found safety in the Snowball.
Mike wraps his arms around his head, folded in half. Curling up is the only thing keeping his chest from cracking open, and he forces his mind to focus. He thinks of the shimmering decorations, the soft music, and the shuffles of feet as kids danced. He thinks of Max’s rosy red cheeks and how happy she looked, how happy Lucas was to hold her. He thinks of Dustin sauntering in with his ridiculous hairstyle and the putrid cologne he’d worn that nearly suffocated them all. He thinks of them all huddled in his basement after the night was over, curled up on the sofa, the armchair, and the floor, and how safe they’d felt.
How good it had been to still be together after everything.
He thinks of El’s arms around him. The good she sees in him, and he thinks of Will.
Will looks at him, and Mike wants to be what he sees—the paladin, good and pure.
Soft music reaches his ears. Instrumental chimes and festive jingles, and he opens his eyes.
Mike gasps. If he hadn’t already been on his knees, his legs would’ve buckled.
It worked.
The room is bathed in a deep blue light, like he’s sat at the bottom of the ocean. Light glimmers off the disco ball and the metallic streamers, and it looks like water rippling on the walls. Hanging snowflakes flutter, tablecloths quiver, and music sings from the speakers, the same way it had that night.
Mike wobbles to his feet, narrowly avoiding falling over only because he grasps a table for dear life, and he waits for the other shoe to drop, the horrors to come back.
They don’t.
The room remains still. It remains.
He bends over, clutching his stomach and gasps, heaving air as relief courses through him. Now, he has to wait. They’ll save him. They’ll-
“Mike?”
Mike straightens up, his heart plummeting to his feet, and he slowly turns, using the table to help him, but it’s not Henry. It’s not even El.
“Will?” Mike whispers.
“Mike!” Will cries in delight. He surges forward and swallows Mike up in his arms, and Mike knows it's a trick—can’t be anything else. Pain ripples through his ribs as Will's embrace tightens around him. It’s like someone digging into a bruise, but he melts into the hold anyway.
“I’m sorry!” Will hiccups, his fingers clawing at Mike’s back. One hand in his hair, and the other around his waist, Will holds him like he’s the most precious thing in the world, “I’m sorry I was trying to get to you, but he-he was too strong!”
Mike can’t even begin to imagine what Henry is talking about. It’s a convincing illusion, Mike will give him that.
Really convincing.
Mike has never felt more pathetic as his arms wrap around Will’s shoulders, hanging off him and depending on Will to take his weight. His legs wobble, and his breath rattles, and he tucks his face into Will’s neck and breathes him in.
Will’s cinnamon, barky scent cuts through the rot and death, and Mike can’t hold in the sob, “Are you real?” He asks.
Will pauses. His head turns as if he’s trying to see Mike’s face, and it’s a moment before his thumbs start to swipe side to side over Mike’s skin, “I’m real.” He says, “I promise.”
He should pull away, Mike knows. There’s no possibility of Will actually being here, but he can’t make himself do it.
He clings on tighter with the knowledge that if this isn’t real, he has nothing to lose.
Will’s hold on him tightens, too. It hurts.
Mike never wants him to let go.
“What has he done to you?” Will asks, and Mike tries to figure out what Henry’s end goal is with this charade.
“Just get it over with.” Mike hiccups. One way or another, he’ll die in Will’s arms, and there are certainly worse ways to go. He holds on tighter, his arms clutching onto the Grim Reaper like a man with a death wish, and he wonders if this counts as losing his mind.
Under the music, Will’s breath hitches next to his ear and pulls Mike closer until there’s not a hair of space between them, as if he wants to pull Mike into his chest and hide him within his ribs. Mike would go. He'd do anything Will wants.
“I’m real.” He insists again, his voice thick with tears, and Mike can only sniffle and wait for the illusion to fade away. He waits for the hoarse growl and the warm body to dissolve into gnarled flesh.
It doesn’t happen.
Maybe it’s not Henry. Maybe Mike has made Will the same way he made the Snowball.
“The Snowball, huh?” Will asks, and turns to look around, bringing Mike with him as he spins almost as if they’re dancing, “Makes sense. You danced with El that night.”
The words tumble out before Mike can stop them, “I wanted to dance with you.” He whispers into the crook of Will's neck, and it’s only when Will freezes that Mike realises they had been swaying to the music. Why did he stop?
Mike might have a concussion.
Mike clings on tighter and acknowledges the faint possibility that Will might be real. For the first time, he hopes he isn’t.
“What?” Will speaks softer than air.
“Dance if you’re real,” Mike tearfully begs him. Whispering as if they could be overheard. His heart drums in his chest, each beat like a clap of thunder, and his stomach rolls as if he’s on a rollercoaster.
After a long, torturous moment, Will begins to sway again.
His arms lower to Mike’s waist. They wrap around like ribbons around a gift, and his palms feel giant as they curl around his sides. Mike feels small again, but not in the same way he felt around his dad or Henry. He melts into Will's embrace as it swallows him up, encasing him like a shield.
It’s just as Mike had pictured it years ago, when he’d watched Will dance with a girl and dreamed of switching their places. Will tucks his face into Mike’s hair just as he had in the dreams, and his every breath brushes his ear and sends ripples down Mike’s spine.
The nightmares fade, and the pain isn’t so crippling anymore. It’s twisted, but Mike hopes this never ends. Henry can have him if he can keep this moment.
The music stops, and Mike clings to Will, his breath hitching in terror, but Will only shushes him soothingly. The stereo squeaks and the speakers crackle, and then upbeat music gallops into the room.
Will starts to sway quicker, turning them a little as if they’re actually dancing between other people. His thumbs swipe to the beat over Mike’s skin, and each touch feels like a brand, a benediction. Mike will never forget what it feels like to dance with him.
“Do you know this one?” Will asks, referring to the song, and Mike has to focus to listen. His brain is scrambled, his head still swimming as if panic, adrenaline, and pain have reached in their hands and knead his mind like dough.
“Show me, show me,
show me how you do that trick.
The one that makes me scream, she said.”
It’s a good song, but Mike shakes his head.
Will gasps dramatically, “An outrage.” He huffs, “Well, you do now.”
“And threw her arms around my neck.
Show me how you do it, and I promise you,
I promise that I’ll run away with you.”
Somehow, they make it to the centre of the room beneath the disco ball. Mike is still clinging onto Will like a dog with a bone, and Will lets him. If anything, he’s holding Mike just as tight, and as they sway, the rays of light catch them. Glimmers from the disco ball rain down until they look as if they’re glowing.
Mike’s eyes sting. He feels blessed and robbed all at once. Why couldn’t they do this years ago? Why couldn’t they have always done it?
“Why are you so far away, she said.”
“Why won’t you ever know that I’m in love with you?
That I’m in love with you?”
Will hums along. His voice pours into Mike’s ears, and it’s as beautiful as anything. Enchanting like a siren call, like a withered flower being given life.
“You’re actually here?” Mike whispers, and his fingers tremble where they’re white around Will’s clothes.
Will doesn’t answer for a beat, and panic slams into Mike like a train. For that terrible moment, he waits for the music to stop and the world to melt into something darker and sinister.
It doesn’t happen.
“Turns out you had the right idea about me being a sorcerer,” Will says. “When I saw you on the ground, I thought…”
He trails off as if the words are too horrific to utter. To even think.
“Daylight licked me into shape.
I must’ve been asleep for days.”
“I could only get to you when you broke free,” Will continues, “When you escaped here. I can get you out.”
“You-” Mike shudders, “You’re a- you have-”
“Powers.” Will snickers, “I should’ve known never to doubt Mike Wheeler.” He teases.
They keep swaying until the music stops. The song plays again, and whether it’s on a loop or Will did it intentionally, Mike isn’t sure. He forces himself to lean away, but Will keeps him close. His hands clamp down on Mike’s hips, and Mike tries not to crumble as his knees turn to jelly. He keeps his arms wrapped around Will’s neck and looks into his eyes.
“Will.” He says, soft and breathless. He's real, and he's here, and he has his arms around Mike as if he never wants to let go.
What do they do now?
What does this mean?
They haven’t stopped swaying. Their bodies are still huddled together, and Will is barely a breath away from him. He can feel the other boy’s air. Each breath caresses Mike’s lips, and flutters erupt in his stomach like a colony of butterflies has hatched inside of him.
Will’s eyes flick down and up again, and he stares at Mike hard. His gaze is impenetrable and solid as if he’s trying to look inside Mike’s skull and see into his head, and Mike doesn’t have the energy to keep him out.
He’s not sure if he wants to anymore.
“And moving lips to breathe her name,
I opened up my eyes.”
“You wanted to dance with me?” Will asks, “You really did?”
Mike nods, and in the end, he isn’t sure who moves first.
He’s stuck in Henry’s hellscape, and this ballroom is a fragile limbo that could be torn down at any moment. His ribs are definitely broken, and he needs a long nap. Maybe even to hibernate for about a year.
But Will Byers kisses him, and suddenly, none of that matters.
“You, soft and only,
You, lost and lonely,
You, just like heaven.”