Chapter Text
Mike cannot write.
He began writing when he was a child because he liked to tell stories. Then he met Will on a swing and Will was an artist. Mike kept writing and refining his work to go with Will’s art. Sometimes Will would make art to accompany Mike’s work. Life was good.
Not so much lately.
He hasn’t been able to write since the third installment of ‘Tale of the Three Mages’. There are two more installments to go. Soon Mark, his agent, only slightly older than him and with glasses barely bigger than Mike’s, would be giving him his weekly ‘just checking in’ call he has been doing for the past 10 months. Mike has time. He can certainly think of progressing the story in the next few hours to sweet talk Mark. He has been doing this for many months, and he knows Mark isn’t convinced. Still, they play their little game every other week where mike tries to convince mark that he is most certainly getting out of the writer’s block and then they shift the conversation to weather and sports. Sometimes Karen Wheeler would take the phone from Mike and invite Mark to dinner. Sometimes Mark would come and the dinner table in the Wheeler house would be brighter.
Mike has come to terms with his past, his losses, his hurt and his continued existence with the help of his stories. His agreements with the government do not let him write about his own tales, but that hasn’t stopped him from deriving stories from 1980s Hawkins and all that conspired and put them in his collection of writings. But that solace has been slipping away lately. If he can’t write, what else is he supposed to do?
The phone rang and broke his trance. Mike heard his mom pick it up. And got up from his desk.
‘Hello Mark, how is everything? Janice? The kids?’ he heard Karen sweetly talking.
‘Oh, yes sure. I was going to ask you myself. It’s been a while.’ ‘’I’ll get Mike’ Karen said handing over the phone to Mike.
Mike took the phone, wondering if his mom had invited Mark to dinner this week. He wasn’t too keen on it.
‘Hi Mark.’ Mike said rubbing his forehead.
‘Mikey Mike! How are you, my boy? Any progress?’ Mark asks in his usual tone, but he seems to be in a hurry.
‘Yes, yes, definitely. I’m working out the structure, and I got some more paragraphs…’’
‘Paragraphs?’ Mark says in disbelief. Mike regrets being truthful.
‘I mean, more, of course.’ It is late to course correct but he can try at least.
Mike heard his agent sigh.
‘I talked to Karen. She has invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. We should talk face to face Mike. This has been going on long enough. I’ll see you soon, in a hurry right now.’ Mark hung up the phone before Mike could completely process whatever had happened. He knew this was coming. 10 months and absolute zero progress is a sign of concern. Mark has been very kind already.
Mike hung up the phone and turned around to see his mom waiting with a raised eyebrow. Mike shook his head and walked back to his room. His mom followed him, much to his chagrin. He sat down at his desk and started writing…something. He heard his mom sit down in the corner of his bed. He hates silence like these, full of questions.
‘Moving out for a while could be good for your writing, Mike.’
Mike doesn’t respond but tears away the page he was currently on. He appreciates his mom’s concern, but she needs him. Why does she not understand that? She needs him to take care of her, Ted, the house, the pies when Holly comes back from college. He usually listens to her, and she is quiet after a few minutes. They would then exchange a smile, and mike would go on to tell her about his new story ideas, stories from the life of his friends living away. She would be patient and offer critique and humour and adoration. They would then miss Holly and Nancy and then would go back to their respective tasks. But today wasn’t so lucky. Today, Karen wheeler was pacing around and seemed determined to make Mike talk. He knows he won’t. He knows halfway why.
‘Mike, I need you to understand that life is more than mourning the loss. It’s also about celebrating what exists.’
Mike says nothing. Mom is right. But she does not understand everything, not like Mike does at the very least.
She touches Mike’s hair softly like she used to when he was little. ‘You know that you can talk to me, right? About anything?’ she looked at him expectedly and with the kindest eyes. A glimpse was enough for mike to know that looking into his mom’s eyes right now would make him sob. And he is not a child anymore. His friend hasn’t died or moved out along with his girlfriend to justify him crying right now. He must be strong. He needs to take care of things here and Mom must know this. Hawkins has plenty of stories. He will find more stories here and honor them. He will find more stories in his past and fortify them against the flow of time. Everyone has left. Someone should remain here. Someone must remain here. To remember. To write. And who has more regrets than Mike? It is rather indulgent to think so, but everyone has seemingly moved on and moved so far away. It’s on him. It used to be him and …Will. But Will is not here and hasn’t been for a long time.
Mike’s mind starts floating along tangents. What would it take for him to call Mike? His illustrator job seems to keep him occupied but certainly he could talk to Mike every once a while! But Mike knows why. Will’s annual letter to the party tells him about every going on in his life. Perhaps that’s all Will wants to share with him, his best friend of two decades. Really? Mike is not so sure about the timelines and their official status at this point. He remembers the last time Will was in Hawkins two years ago. They had felt.. distant. The most distant they had ever been. And Mike could see that Will was a new boy. A new man. More of himself. Like Hawkins was inhibiting him. And as much as Mike had once positioned himself as the protector of Will, he too was still a part of Hawkins, one very stubborn part of Hawkins that remains immovable. Now the wonder boy was finally free. Why must Mike remain his same old self and remind his once best friend of all the terrible things they’ve been through- alone and together. He has earned his freedom. But Mike has not. And he will probably never earn it. The loss is simply too much to mourn away in this lifetime.
Karen is still looking at her son who suddenly seems so far away. He does this a lot more than usual lately. She wishes she could share her concerns with Ted. But that is not happening. She will call Nancy. Yes. She messes up Mike’s hair to bring him back from wherever his mind has taken him this time and smiles at him. Her son smiles back but it’s clear he won’t say anything still. She decides to leave.
‘I’ll see if everything is in order for tomorrow’s dinner’.
Mike nods as his mom leaves the room and goes back to scribbling on another page. Words have abandoned him just like his party.
Party.
Something stirs in Mike and he heads towards the basement. Ever since Holly left for college and no longer uses the basement as a base for her D&D campaigns, Mike has moved his old things to the basement again. It’s a shrine - of Mike Wheeler’s lost childhood, past and regrets.
The basement is the same as he had left it a month ago. He heads straight to the collection of letters from El. He has kept them in a beautiful box. He regrets not preserving her letters before. He opens the box and takes out a letter.
‘Will has been painting a lot. Although he won’t show me. maybe it is for a girl…..’
Mike reads it again. A girl.
‘Love,
El’
Love.
All the ‘love’ to Mike’s straightforwardness. Mike had been unfair. Unfair and terrible. And this is why he deserves this. This is why he must be the one to carry the weight of the past, remember it, honor it and do it all in Hawkin’s soil.
Reading El’s old letters was a regular ritual, a trial and a penance.
In his deepest moments of guilt and regret, he had tried writing to El, even though she cannot read it, but no words ever came. His words had always failed him when he needed them the most. They are failing him again. The thought makes Mike’s head dizzy and his breath- shaky. Good thing his mom isn’t here. She would worry. She should not worry-It’ll pass. It always does. Mike puts the letter’s box down and settles down on the sofa waiting for the storm in his brain and heart to calm down. His breath feels more labored this time. Is this getting worse? His eyes start to tear up.
‘What do I do what do I do what do I do what do I do…..’
Mike starts pacing, his hands shaking, his head going haywire but held firmly in place by anger alone. He finds himself in front of an old box that he only vaguely remembers putting there. He reaches out and brings it down from the shelf and decides to distract himself with whatever content the box holds. He will soon regret it.
He removes the lid of the box and he is 10 again. Old comic strips, his old writings, Dustin’s notes from god knows which hyper fixation, Lucas’s missing walkie talkie (that he had left at Wheeler’s to hide from Erica and subsequently forgotten) and a binder of….drawings. Will’s drawings. Mike’s most cherished possession up until…
Mike does not want to finish that train of thought.
But he takes out the binder, nonetheless. His erratic head and stubborn heart are nostalgia baited and he is certain that he will get some moments of peace.
He opens the binder.
Mike is woken up from his nostalgia coma when his mom calls him for dinner.
It’s night already. Mike forgot to help his mom with dinner tonight. She did not ask him either. She should have. She needs to take care of her health and not do everything by herself. He will talk to her.
For some reason he decides that the better place for that binder is his room and takes it with him.
Mark arrived earlier than expected the next day. Mike knew it was serious now. Mark was a happy go lucky guy. Professional but rarely under pressure. Mike does not know how to approach the subject. Mark already knows, of course. He insists on seeing Mike’s old notes. And they discuss his initial plans for the story until they are called for dinner.
‘Are you liking the new place, Mark?’ Ted Wheeler is more gracious than he once used to be, as evident from his cordiality with Mike’s agent but Mike knows that his father is disappointed in him. Is it his profession? His decision to not leave Hawkins and find his footing? His reluctance to settle down in ways that Mike finds blasphemous after his failure to keep El safe and his party close? He cannot riddle these now.
‘It’s a good place, Mr. Wheeler. Janice really loves it. The kids are missing their friends but c’est la vie, am I right?’ Mark responded, clinking his glass with Ted’s. Ted seems to have found more of a relationship with Mark than with Mike. Mike doesn’t mind. Mark is a successful man, with a beautiful wife and kids. He has a good house, a good car, and good clients. He is everything a man is supposed to be. Ted must love all this and put this side to side with Mike, who still lives in his childhood hideout, writing silly fantasies catered to nerds. No wonder Ted has a favourite. But besides the usuals, Mark is simply good man and has been a life saver ever since he was forced to read Mike’s work by Nancy. If not for Nancy and her editorial connections, Mike wouldn’t have met Mark and if not for Mark, Mike would not have the book deal he has right now.
He waits patiently for Mark to give him a stern big brotherly talk like Steve sometimes used to. But Mark isn’t stern. His voice is truly full of concern when he looks at Mike.
‘Michael, I will be short and honest. We cannot keep going like this. In 6 months, publishers will ask for a draft. And you have writer’s block. You see the asymmetry?’ He quirks up an eyebrow to Mike, his tone still calm, which Mike appreciates.
‘How do we fix this-- I will do all I can to get you more time because you need it. But I cannot fix your block. I don’t care how you fix it- smoke, drink, fall in love, move to a new city..a country? Anything. Really. But write.’ Mark pauses for a second.
‘You have a beautiful story man. Don’t make your characters wait on you for so long.’
Mike nods and feels his mother’s eyes on him.
Rest of the time is spent in polite conversation about family and money and politics. Mike is zoned out and only wants to return to his bed and stare at that old binder and reminisce about his time with his party.
‘Nancy is in New York, right? Good for her.’ Mark and Karen seem to be talking now.
‘Yes. She likes it.’ Karen and Mark finish their catching up and as if suddenly remembering something, Karen continues but towards Mike this time.
‘Will also works with her, by the way. Did you know that, Mike?’
His old friend’s name is enough to drag his mind back to the dinner table.
‘Will?’ the name feels strange on his tongue. Mike cannot remember the last time he spoke Will’s name out loud.
‘Will Byers, yes? What does he do exactly?’ Ted also decides to jump in. His tone stingy as always, whenever talking about Will. Even after all he went through saving Ted’s family. Mike hates his father for this unjust cruelty; he feels an old familiar anger rising in him.
‘He’s an illustrator, Dad.’ He manages through downcast eyes and gritted teeth.
‘So, what, he draws cartoons for a living? Still a kid, that boy.’ Ted scoffs.
Mike feels his mom’s eyes follow him as he gets up from his place.
‘Excuse me.’ And Mike is on a quest back to his room.
Had he been a kid, he would’ve screamed at his dad for talking about Will like that. But Mike is older now.
‘So, who’s Will?’ Mike hears Mark asking Karen.
‘Oh, he’s Mike’s best friend. They were inseparable in childhood. Teenage too I’d say.’ Karen seems to be lost in thought at the last sentence.
‘Really?’ Mark speaks, seemingly too curious.
Mike cannot stand them and speeds up to get to his room.
He sits on his bed and finds his old/new treasure and decides to stare at it. They feel warm. He must have lost track of time when he hears a knock on the door and then hears Mark’s voice.
‘It’s me- Mark.’
‘Come in’, says Mike and puts his binder down on his desk and starts rearranging his notes in case Mark wants to see his notes again.
Mark stands in the door frame.
‘I think you need to be away from Hawkins for a while. It will really do you good.’
Mike knows this was his mom’s idea. It wasn’t bad but she doesn’t understand Mike’s reasons to be the way he is, and he does not have the heart to explain it all to her.
‘I think I’m fine here, Mark.’ Mike tries.
‘No, you’re not.’ Mark states matter of fact-ly before continuing.
‘Writers need to explore and live more. That’s how they find more stories to tell- to dumbasses like us who lack imagination! You have a gift, Mikey. But your gift will only take you so far. You will have to live if you want to tell good stories.’ Mark is a bit dramatic for sure, but Mike knows he is earnest and seems to be waiting for a reply, an agreement or rebuttal. Nothing comes.
‘I could try to…work..on your advance, fast track it, if money is a problem’. Mark tries to offer solutions.
‘No, no Mark. Thank you. But that is not the problem.’ Mike was getting frustrated now. It had been a long day full of nothings and nostalgia and an ache he could not quite understand. But exploding is not something Mike does anymore. So, he stands there.
Mark was now going through Mike’s notes waiting for him to form a thought.
‘Where would I even go?’ at last this is the only excuse Mike’s exhausted mind could muster.
‘Go to New York. Meet your sister.’ Mark said like no brainer.
Mike stops, realization dawning on him as to what going to New York could mean.
‘You could meet your best friend too.’ Mark has a curious twist on the corner of his mouth. ‘Will, right? Tell him he draws really well’.
Mike’s jaw hangs open, unable to form a thought as he sees Mark holding the binder. He is astonished by his agent’s deftness in obtaining the binder.
As if amused by Mike’s astonishment, Mark chuckles and puts the binder back in Mike’s hand. Mike still has no idea when Mark got it and went through it.
‘Go. Live a little. You’ve lived in this quiet for so long, some noise would jog up your brain. Go live. And find me stories that I can sell and make us some more money. My youngest wants to see Japan.’
Mike gives a polite chuckle. Mark slaps Mike’s shoulder as his au revoir and leaves. Mike stands there, grateful and amused. He carefully puts the binder down and gets ready for bed. Mark had talked sense. But Mike has his reasons for staying and he will. He promises himself as he tries to fall asleep.
Sleep won’t come. This has been going on for years now. So, he decides to revel in nostalgia again today and finds the binder on his desk and brings it to the bedside table.
It's morning and for some inexplicable reason, the sun is shinier(?) today. Could be the clouds. Mike has no idea when he fell asleep last night, but he does not feel as miserable this morning so he must have slept early. Mike also knows that he’s going to New York. The resolve from last night is nonexistent. He can only think of New York now.
He will live. A little. He needs to be alive so that he can mourn. So, he will go to New York. He will meet his sister. He will see Will. And he will live.