Chapter Text
August 1989
Hawkins had never felt small to Mike before, but watching Will pack his last things, the town suddenly felt like a claustrophobic cage around him that someone had forgotten to unlock.
It wasn't just Will. The whole Party had gone, scattering like the wind. Lucas had his sports scholarship, and Max had gone with him to discover what to do next; Dustin was off to early admission at MIT, and Will—who had delayed his departure as long as possible—was now about to leave.
Mike was the only one staying, anchored to a town built of bad memories and ghosts. I'm the epilogue, he thought, while sitting on the edge of Will's mattress, stripped bare of sheets now. I'm the storyteller who stays in his hometown to sweep up the ashes after the heroes ride off into their happy endings.
The grief for El was still there, of course. It was a monolith—enormous, dark, and so damn heavy—he could feel it in every step he took. Losing her had been like a sudden amputation; she was just gone, vanished. And for as much as he wanted to believe in a better ending, deep in his heart he knew, just knew.
Losing Will, however, felt different. It wasn't a sudden break; it was a slow burn, a Chronicle of a Death Foretold, he thought. It was the quiet, terrifying realization that the person who knew him best, his best friend, was choosing a future that didn't include him.
"You're the last one to go, you know," Mike said softly—as if it wasn't obvious—trying to make it sound like a joke.
Will paused, a shirt half-folded in his hands. "You could leave too, Mike. Nothing's keeping you here."
Everything is keeping me here, Mike's mind countered. The guilt is keeping me here, the story keeps me here. If I leave, who will remember her? If I leave, who will remember you? If I leave…who will remember us?
"Someone has to keep an eye on this place," Mike replied instead, shrugging with a casualness he didn't feel. Will didn’t argue. He just offered Mike a small, tight smile—the kind that apologized without actually saying sorry.
"Okay then..."
The words were barely out before they collided. It wasn't a polite goodbye; it was a crash. They lunged into an embrace, their ribcages crushed together as if trying to intertwine their hearts. It was strong, clinging, pathetic—greedy for time, yet tragically short on it.
Don't go yet. Mike wanted to say it. He wanted to scream it. But his lips felt welded shut, a desperate seal against the threat of tears stinging his eyes. If he opened his mouth, he wouldn't speak; he would break.
"Take care of Hawkins, Mike," Will whispered, his voice trembling as he pulled away from the hug. He wiped a single, stray tear from his cheek, composing himself with a terrifying speed. He turned and picked up the box, the cardboard scratching harshly against his shirt.
"Yeah. You too," Mike said. The words tasted like ash. "Take care of... yourself... out there." The sentence came out sounding more like a funeral rite than a farewell.
Will just looked at him for a few seconds—his body angled toward the door, ready to leave, but his eyes screaming don't let me go yet. Those seconds stretched into hours. Then, with one final, fragile smile, he turned and left.
He watched Will walk out the door. He didn’t follow him to the driveway. He couldn’t. If he watched the car pull away, if he saw the taillights fade around the corner, it would become real. So Mike stayed in the now-empty room, listening to the crunch of tires rolling over dry leaves and the fading hum of an engine, until the silence rushed back in to fill the space Will had left behind.
It was deafening.
Mike looked around. Without the posters, without the drawings, without Will, it was just four empty walls and a window.
He sat back down on the bare mattress, the springs creaking under his weight. A memory washed over him—the first time he had been in this room, it was with El. They were so small back then, so idiotic, blissfully unaware of the horror waiting for them.
After defeating Vecna and the Mind Flayer, Mike hadn’t been able to step foot in this cabin for months. Not without her. It wasn't until Will invited him over to plan a new D&D campaign that Mike finally found the courage to return.
He remembered walking in and seeing El’s things still there—frozen in time, but shifted to a smaller space to make room for Will. It had hurt. He had felt the weight of the world drop into his stomach. But Will’s smile, and his unique way of distracting Mike, had made the experience bearable. Even pleasant. Will had made the room breathe again.
But now, looking at the empty corner where Will’s desk used to be, the realization hit him.
He’s gone.
November 1990
The sound of the typewriter had replaced the roll of dice in Mike’s room. It was a rhythmic, steady clacking that drowned out the silence of his loneliness.
Mike was getting better—or at least, that’s what he told his therapist—-He was channeling the anger, the grief for El, into characters that lived and died on the page so he didn’t have to carry them in his chest. He was healing…He was trying.
Until the holidays.
During the festivities, Hawkins had become a revolving door. Lucas and Max came back for spring break, loud and full of stories about city life. Dustin returned for a week in the summer, rambling about engineering classes that Mike pretended to understand. For a few days, the basement felt alive again, vibrating with laughter and the echo of old memories.
But there was one person who hadn't set foot in Hawkins since the day he left. Or at least, not that Mike knew of.
Communication with Will had become complicated, to say the least. At first, the calls were long—conversations about nothing and everything at the same time–There were letters filled with things that didn't fit in a phone call, always reassuring each other that they were still there.
Mike knew the Byers were spending Thanksgiving and Christmas in New York, so he didn't hold his breath for those dates. But the whole Party had decided to spend New Year's Eve in Hawkins, "to keep the memories alive."
It was something Mike waited for with a strange anxiety, wishing the days would move faster. Perhaps because, deep down, he knew he would finally see Will. Until the moment arrived. Lucas, Max, and Dustin were all there. Everyone, except Will.
Mike received a vague apology delivered by Dustin. "Will said he couldn't come because his family is going to watch the ball drop in Times Square this year... but he said he'll definitely come next year."
Okay. I can deal with this. Mike told himself. I can do this, swallowing a sour disappointment inside his ribs that he definitely didn't expect to feel so strongly.
After that, the calls didn't end with a bang; they just... faded. The letters—once long testaments that Mike used to read with devout enthusiasm—had shrunk. Now, they were three lines, max.
Happy New Year, Mike.
With love, Will.
P.S. I’m sorry.
But now, it was Thanksgiving, and the energy was different. The house was full again.
Joyce and Hopper were back in town, but not just for the celebration. Their wedding, originally planned for the summer, had been indefinitely postponed. "Too much chaos with the move," Joyce had said, waving a hand as if she could brush away the stress. Yet, in some way, she seemed happy—radiant—in a way Mike hadn't seen before. "We need to settle down before we can think about a wedding."
They are closing chapters, Mike couldn't help but think. Specifically, they were here to sign papers.
Mrs. Wheeler had insisted on hosting dinner and invited everyone—even Robin and Steve were there, squeezed between Nancy and Jonathan. The table was full, the air thick with the smell of turkey and cranberry sauce, and the noise was almost comforting. Almost.
Mike sat at his usual spot, his eyes drifting inevitably to the empty chair next to Joyce.
"Will is so sorry he couldn't make it," Joyce said. Her voice was soft, laced with a specific kind of sadness. "He has finals coming up, and this art project... he said he just couldn't lose the momentum."
Mike smiled in agreement. Something inside him ached, though he couldn't name exactly what it was.
"It's fine," he said, cutting into his turkey with surgical precision. "School comes first."
Liar, his inner voice whispered. He just didn't want to come back.
It hurt. Clearly, it hurt. But what happened next hurt in a different way.
Joyce reached across the table to place her hand over Mike’s. "I brought the deed, by the way. It’s all ready for you to sign tomorrow."
The table went horrifically quiet.
The Cabin.
Since the Byers left, it had been sitting empty, decaying in the woods. When Hopper announced he was selling it, everyone assumed it would be bulldozed. But Mike had stepped in. He had poured all of his savings—the money from the short stories he’d published in small papers—to make an offer, a very low offer.
"Are you sure about this, kid?" Hopper grunted, looking at him with a mixture of concern and a heavy sort of respect. "It’s not an easy job. This place is... heavy."
"I’m sure," Mike replied, his voice steady.
It’s a tomb, he thought. But it’s my tomb.
Around the table, the others drifted back into indistinct conversations, though Mike could feel the weight of their attention still lingering on him, listening.
"I’m just glad it’s going to be you, sweetie," Joyce smiled sadly. "Hopper won't admit it, but he is too. This place belongs to the family. It belongs to... memories."
Mike nodded, feeling the phantom weight of keys in his pocket. He was officially the keeper of the ashes now. While Will was out there creating a future, painting over the past, Mike was literally buying the ruins of their history, ensuring that nothing—and no one—was ever forgotten.
Except, perhaps, for him.