Chapter Text
For the past three years, Mike had sat up in his tower with his hair down, attempting to rewrite history. Trying, failing over and over to bring himself to go out when the sun was still shining. It was useless, his skin craved the vitamins but he couldn’t bring himself to feel sick enough for it. So he’d wait until night to wander the streets like a ghost.
One night, he tried on old clothes for the first time in years. They fit just right as he looked in the mirror. Then he realized that the hunch in his back resembled his father’s.
“Growing pains,” his mother would say to him later.
But she was wrong. He wasn’t growing anymore, he was just getting weaker to the pull of fate. And the twist? The twist was that he could finally sit back in his father’s Lazy Boy without feeling too young for it. That realization stung harder than the hunch in his back ever had.
As Mike stayed home, his friends spread their webs of aspiration in various big-name cities. There Mike was, still in his room every Summer. Working a job that quite literally paid him a dime every hour.
Even with the comfort of being around his family, he felt as if his story still had holes in it. Holes he could wear like the old clothes in his basement. Holes; gun wounds from a time where he felt most innocent. Where he used to feel like the world was just on the other side of the street and not, now, on the other side of the country. This feeling only festered the more his wound grew into old sores.
He soon found himself drinking until he couldn’t remember what he wrote the night prior, standing in the street, watching the street lamps flicker—as if the flicker meant something other than faulty wiring and the need for a new bulb. Now, crazy was what he felt when his pen would slip into the swooping lines of his signature for his bank account, for his driver’s license, on a receipt. Moments in time flashing beneath his feet.
During the Summer, Mike spent every waking moment inside of his childhood room, rotting in the heat of the night like a bug stuck inside of a cup. Waiting for death—waiting for a force to lift him up out of his blue covers, force him to keep going on. Force him to see the brighter side of all of this.
Whenever he’d bring any of this up to his mom, she’d just tell him all about this “new thing called therapy” and how helpful it was.
And when that didn’t help—he ended with a beer in his basement anyway. On numerous occasions, his little sister had to shake him awake from his slumber.
“It’s embarrassing,” Holly shook her head, she was going into her freshman year already, “You’re either drunk or you’re asleep,” she pushed Mike up the stairs, “Get a life!” Slammed the door and didn’t let him back in.
She was right, he needed to get a life. Needed to get a girlfriend, needed a better Summer Job, needed to study for his education licensure. Needed so much—needed his old friends to want to talk to him again. Their little voices in his head the moment he slipped away into an alcohol induced coma. But he’d wake up with drool all over his coat, and he’d feel worse when the shower sting worked less that same morning, because none of it could wipe away what he had done.
He had to face it, they all had their own lives— none of them wanted to step back into Hawkins. Unlike Mike, who scampered to his hometown the second there was even a hint of breathing room between classes. Slipped into his childhood bed, and stared up at the ceiling. Watched the fire burn in the fireplace, cooked with his mother, walked in on his sister’s DnD campaigns. Wished he was the one she ran to for advice—even when she’d turn her back on him.
Did these holes, did they rip him apart, or was he always this incomplete?
Some nights, he wondered what it would be like without the monsters, without Vecna—what he’d do, who’d he be. If their bonds would split even more, or if they would stick together through it all. Call, every once in a while. Meet up, play DnD, and never wonder what was beyond Hawkins.
Of course people called, but those calls ebbed slowly away, until nobody wanted to talk about it anymore. Stone silent; his phone was stone silent.
Then he’d drive up to the lake one night, sit on the roof of his car, drink a beer, watch the soft waves ripple and flicker with the moonlight. There, he wished he could hear those voices again. There, he watched his reflection in disgust.
He glared down at his reflection. Like he was the one who made this all happen. Like he never stood by the phone and waited. Waited for a call that wouldn’t come, because those types of calls were now reserved only for the holidays. Not a random Tuesday, not even a Friday.
It didn’t take long for phone numbers of out-of-state colleges to slip his mind. A zero turned to a six, turned to never really knowing—if they answered, he’d just hang up. So maybe that was why he was crying on the street that night. Maybe that was why the lamps flickered the way they did— he was living in his own memory. Living just to feel like he didn’t leave his past self behind.
Mike stood outside the bar, wondering if he had a problem when he walked in and the bartender greeted him.
“Hey, Mike! The usual?”
But he nodded anyway, slumping in a seat at the counter. The sound of a baseball game from that morning played in the background. His nostrils filled with the smell of cigarettes, of beer, and a stale-old-people smell that came from the group of blue-collar men in the back booth. They were taking their time-off with the boys. When they caught Mike staring, he’d usually avert his gaze—the sound of his heart, pounding in his ear drums. Its insistence only drove him more mad as the night went on. He’d just let the feeling simmer until it dug more holes in his gangly body, until the hazy hum of vodka numbed his brain just enough to not care.
Mike sipped on his watered down vodka, acting as if it weren’t as stale as it had been the past fifty nights—when he’d wander in at the end of his walks. Maybe he’d wished those walks had ended differently—that maybe he’d end up someplace else.
“Do you like it?” The bartender asked, her smile unwavering.
He nodded his head, smacked his lips together, wiped his nose, no, “Yes, very good tonight.”
Since when did he settle for this bullshit? He had no money to his name, yet, he funneled it all to this ditsy blond that he swore up and down he was attracted to. Well, until they got in the sheets and he backed out. Couldn’t even think about doing it. Not after losing El, not after anything. So now she just stared at him with a smile—hoped he’d tip her extra out of guilt from that night when he ran away.
He slipped her a Dollar and twenty cents, because that’s all he had left in his wallet one night. Now he thought she was purposely watering down his drinks.
“Oh come on, Man, you know how the ladies get,” one of the blue-collar men laughed, his voice the loudest in the bar, “Next time you need a leg up, you call me, k? I’ve got your back, man. Always. Ever since we were eighteen and smoking weed in your basement.”
Middle-aged laughter filled the room again. Mike winced. Since when was his safe space… so loud and obnoxious? Since when did his heart leap like this? Had he lost his way coming down the mountain, had he stumbled into another dimension where everything he felt washed over him like an avalanche? Gone were the days he felt numb to the touch, now he was just a melting pot of unwashed emotion—dirty from his days sleeping with his eyes wide open.
Mike’s eyes bore into his drink on the counter, his fingers gripping the edges. There—he contemplated leaving early.
Just when,
“Hi, can I get… uh, a vodka Cranberry please?”
Jesus, he’d know that voice anywhere.
Mike turned his head just in time to catch Will Byers in the embarrassing action of taking out his driver’s license and showing it to the bartender. Fuck, he felt like he was dying— or running a mile.
He didn’t say anything. Maybe Will didn’t notice him, or recognized him, maybe he was—
Then the man sat right next to him.
“Mike?” Will said, breathless.
“Hi,” Mike stuttered, “I mean… shit, I mean— Will, it’s you!” His heart leapt into the air when Will wrapped his arms around him.
“Oh god,” Will’s laugh was the loudest now, “How long has it been?”
Mike nudged him like it was easy… it wasn’t, “Since last Summer when you came over for a day. Whatever happened to calling me?”
Will scoffed playfully, “I called you…”
“Yeah,” Mike chuckled, it had to be funny or he was going to fall into a hole, “Yeah… maybe…”
“And here is that Vodka Cranberry for you…” the bartender interrupted as she sat Will’s drink against the counter.
“Since when do you drink?” Mike tapped his finger against Will’s glass.
“Since I landed in Hawkins and realized how stupid the idea was—since then,” the man took a sip of his drink and winced.
“What… what brought you back?” Mike wondered, his fingers tapping against the counter, leg bouncing beneath.
“Well,” Will pondered, “Being in San Francisco during the biggest heat wave of the year wasn’t really my cup of tea,” they both laughed, “So yeah, I was going to stay at the Motel six up the road for a couple of days, maybe visit… you.” His eyes met Will’s and his stomach dropped.
“You should’ve told me,” Mike murmured, “I’ve… I’ve missed talking to everybody.”
“Me too,” Will agreed, turning his attention back to his drink. A move Mike took to heart.
This tension, was it ever really dissolved when the years flew past, or was Mike still living in it? In this bar, in this state, in this town—living in the remnants of his rundown friendships. Could he even remember what it felt like to laugh and be heard, or was he plagued with always being on the precipice of okay whenever he caught a glimpse of the past, swirling in his drink?
Mike caught a glimpse of that old lightning strike between him and Will.
“How is your brother, I heard he got his degree,” Mike broke the silence, “In filmmaking?”
“Oh god, that makes me feel so old,” Will shook his head.
“What does that make me?” He laughed, playfully nudging Will.
“You’re right,” and the tension ebbed away with each sip, “Did you hear about Lucas and Max?”
“Shit, yeah,” he soothed his shaking hands against his jeans, “We both knew that was coming, they fell pretty hard after shit went down. I’m actually glad he finally got on one knee and asked—otherwise I would’ve made him do it by now.”
They laughed some more, older voices mixing with younger memories. Sticking like glue, the past mixed into their drinks that night as naturally as Mike raised his hand for another, and another for Will. He’d worry about the overdraft fee once he was sober again. Now, he was staring at the only thing keeping him from completely becoming transparent against the street lamp light. Will Byers, eyes shining like water, hair styled nice and proper—devoid of that childish bowl-cut.
Sooner than Mike anticipated he was chewing on his own bubbly laughter. The two of them, giggling drunkenly in the night. Bar, growing more abandoned the longer they sat in their seats. Not once did they bring up what happened, not once did they acknowledge everything that stood between them. Like the ravine that had sliced their lives into two separate ones two years ago. Across the nation, connected between two wires that never seemed to work right.
“It’s ten past two,” the bartender grumbled, she had already wiped the counter space between their empty glasses, “Are you two going to pay your tabs and get out yet?”
Mike groaned, he tried taking his wallet out but Will beat him to the punch.
“I’ve… I’ve got it,” he pushed Mike’s hand away from the counter and set his card in the girl’s hand, “Thanks and… here’s a tip,” he slipped a ten into the tip jar.
“Okay, Mr. Moneybags,” Mike rolled his eyes as the men leaned on each other outside the bar, heading up the street, “Where’d you get all that money?”
Will threw his head back laughing under the moon, “I told you, I spent half this summer cooped up in a booth at a fair. I drew those caricature portraits for like, fifty dollars a pop—“
“Caricatures? So you over charged people for half-assed portraits of themselves?” Mike laughed, slapping the other man against his back, “I’d never thought you’d end up like that.”
“Like what?” They stopped walking underneath a streetlight.
“Like,” Mike stammered as his eyes caught Will’s, “Y’know, I thought you’d be different.”
“I am. I *am* different,” he said his eyes fluttering in confusion, “I just needed the money—“
“No, I know, it’s just… I thought we’d both be different, is all.”
“And what about you?” Will took one step closer to Mike, an accusatory tone on his tongue, “I thought you’d be some New York bestselling author by now. I mean, when I called you—and I did, I called you— you were always talking about writing this big novel. Whatever happened to that?”
“Those things—they take time,” Mike didn’t like where this was going. They were both slightly drunk and tipping each other over the ravine, threatening to push.
“Of course they do, Mike,” Will shook his head, “But the truth is, you’ve changed— and… and not like the rest of us,” He stepped ever closer, which backed Mike up against his own beating heart, “Do you think I came to the bar just to sit by myself?”
“I—“
“No, I came to your mom’s house first, and she said every night you walk down the street to the bar,” Will laughed at this idea, “And, I thought, what happened to the Mike I know? Did he up and vanish, is he just pretending everything’s fine?”
Mike scoffed, “Pretend.” He said it like it didn’t mean anything to him, because it didn’t. He would rather lay in bed wide awake than pretend like everything went back to normal the second everyone left him.
“Yeah,” Will scoffed, too, “Maybe you do, maybe you like to pretend like you’re fine when you’re on the phone with me, but I know you’re not.”
The late night air felt constricting as he breathed in through his overused lungs. It felt like stepping into his death just a little bit. Just a little bit, the wires connected. But they were quickly severed.
He was so focused that he didn’t notice that Will had started to walk again.
“Hey,” Mike caught up to Will in an instant, grabbing the man’s wrist to stop him, “You’re drunk, I’m drunk—“
“When are you not?” Will stopped walking and stepped to the side.
“W— what?”
“I said, when are you not drunk?” Will’s eyes searched into Mike’s but couldn’t find an answer.
“So that’s it, then?” He said, shaking his head, “You cut everyone off, you isolate yourself in Hawkins, and then you walk the street like a god damn stranger every night?” Will shook his head and kept walking, Mike on his heel.
“I don’t… I don’t understand *you*!” Mike called out as they neared the Wheeler house. When they stopped walking away from each other they landed on the driveway. The porch light casted Mike in Will’s shadow. Even that reminded Mike of how easy it was to be small.
Once they stepped into the driveway, Will fumbled into his pockets for his keys.
“You can’t drive,” he said, but it was like talking to a wall, “Will.”
“Fine!” Will threw his hands in the air, “Fine, you don’t understand me! It’s been three years, Mike, I think it’s time for you to grow up and see the world not how it should be but how it fucking is. Because I think you’re still not over the fact that you’re exactly where you were always going to end up,” he neared Mike, and shoved a finger against the man’s chest, “Stuck in the past, self-medicating, and alone.”
Mike recoiled at each jab to his chest. He felt as if he were going to faint, his mind floating above where he truly wanted to be. That is, present— in the moment. But he couldn’t muster the energy, it was so much easier to live like he never stopped growing—like he still lived next door to his best friends in the entire world.
“Say something,” Will pleaded, “Because I need you to tell me that that isn’t true. That you’re happy, like I’ve been thinking you were this entire time,” his hands gripped Mike’s thin summer jacket as if his life depended on Mike’s simple answer, “Mike— say you’re fine, say I’m a dick. Say anything—“
Well, fuck.
He was drunk, and so was Will and things just got heated.
But maybe that heat was better left severed.
Mike’s fingers wrapped around Will’s wrist, stopping him from jabbing him anymore. Their eyes caught on butterflies, on a worsening political climate outside their periphery. Then, it was like Mike could feel every emotion that he had let go flood right back into his bloodstream. Pump, pump, pump.
And oh fuck, was he alive.
Alive.
Alive when their eyes met like that. When time stood still and he was having visions of their childhood selves. Flickering shadows in his mind‘s eye, reminding him of all he had lost—everything he had given up on. But it wasn’t that deep, no… that ravine between them was deeper. That tension he had felt in the bar; deeper, hotter.
In the matter of seconds, Mike slammed his lips against Will’s in drunken frenzy. Heat and Will and-
“Wait—“ Will pulled back, his breath stuttering on a reply, but even he couldn’t resist the destruction of it all. He pulled Mike back into the kiss and Mike wished he could say it was eye opening.
No.
He had Will up against his bedroom door in the matter of minutes. Hands exploring under shirts and in hair, places he’d never dare think were possible for his hands to find on Will’s body, he found. And it wasn’t just kissing, no, it was everything. The way Will’s breath stuttered against his lips, the way their hands met in the middle—the way they were making a horrible, life altering mistake only they could in that moment.
But Mike didn’t care as much as he should’ve. He didn’t care that he didn’t know exactly what they were doing, or why they were doing it. His head just hurt less when he was exploring the taste, the concept, the peaks, the valleys. All of Will. All of this man.
Man.
Everything that reaches the peak must come down. And that snowball, it headed down the mountain in an avalanche. Freezing over their waters once again with a gut-wrenching slip up. A blip. A stutter in time.
Nothing was as confusing as lying in his childhood bed and turning around to see Will sleeping next to him.