Chapter Text
Will Byers received the news in the mail during the fall of 1994. He picked up a stack of letters from his mailbox and flipped through them one by one. Electric bill, water bill, spam letter asking for donations to the New York Ballet, spam letter with an ad for an air conditioning unit—
His fingers ran over an uncharacteristically heavy envelope and pulled it out. It was cream, shiny, and addressed to a Mr. William Byers. The script was loopy and embossed onto the envelope, its golden letters glinting in the light from his small window. Expensive, Will thought. He carefully pulled the letter open and removed one of the pieces of thick paper.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of:
MR. LUCAS SINCLAIR and MS. MAX MAYFIELD
The wedding will take place on June 10, 1995 at the Hawkins Conservatory.
Will grinned from ear to ear as he read the invitation. They made it through college after all, he thought to himself. Not that he’d ever doubted them. If there was any relationship that could survive the worst of the worst, it was theirs.
He flipped through the rest of the inserts in the envelope (directions to the Conservatory, dress code, hotel information for out-of-town guests) before scribbling down the information in his planner. The wedding was ten months out.
Will called his mom and asked if she’d gotten the news. She said that she had.
“It’s really amazing for them,” Joyce answered through the tinny speaker. “And Karen says that the conservatory is lovely. They only built it about two years ago so I haven’t been, obviously, but everything I heard from her was good.”
“It sounds great,” Will said, nestling the phone on his shoulder as he flipped through the rest of his mail. Hopper and his mom had ended up moving to Montauk about a year after he’d left for school for a pay raise and a town that didn’t gossip about how a man that they’d presumed dead for four years was somehow walking around as the reinstated chief of police. They both loved it there much more than Hawkins, and Will visited them whenever he could afford the train ticket. “I’m assuming you’re going too, then?”
“Me and Jim got our invitations a couple of days ago. Mrs. Joyce Byers, cordially invited, very fancy stuff.”
“Do you know if Jonathan is going? I haven’t talked to him yet.”
There was a rustle on the other end of the phone as Joyce readjusted her position. “He told me that he wants to, but he might have to go to some meetings that weekend if his film gets distribution. Which is great for him, but it would mean having to fly out to LA that week instead of Indiana.”
“That’s amazing for him, though,” Will said enthusiastically. “He’s been trying to get a distributor for years! I’m sure Max and Lucas would understand.”
“Oh, I’m sure they would, but—” Joyce broke her sentence off, covered the receiver, and shouted something that Will couldn’t quite make out. She returned, new exasperation in her voice. “Will, I’m so sorry, but I have to go. Jim just burned dinner.”
“Go, go!” Will said, trying to hide his smile from his voice. Jim Hopper was many things, but a cook was not one of them. No matter how hard he tried to learn in order to impress his mother, he never quite figured out how to do it. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Talk soon! I love you!” Joyce said, making a kissing noise.
“I love you, too,” Will said, making a kissing noise back.
Joyce hung up. The phone went quiet, and Will set it back on the wall mount. He walked over to the side of his apartment that he’d carved a makeshift painting studio out of and sat on the floor, staring at his latest canvas.
Ten months. Will had ten months to prepare himself to go back to Hawkins for the first time in four years. Ten months to prepare to endure the stares and dirty looks he knew he’d get now. Ten months to prepare to see everyone in the same room again since that final one-shot in Mike’s basement.
Ten months to prepare to see Mike again.
Will tugged on his right ear and fiddled with his hoop earring. Now, what was he going to wear to the wedding?
***
Mike Wheeler had received the news two days earlier. “You got something in the mail today,” his mom had said at the kitchen counter, brandishing a thick, cream-colored envelope addressed to a Mr. Michael Wheeler. He grabbed it, said a hasty thank-you, and ran back up to his room. He sat at his desk and tore the envelope open, adjusting his glasses to read it better.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of:
MR. LUCAS SINCLAIR and MS. MAX MAYFIELD
The wedding will take place on June 10, 1995 at the Hawkins Conservatory.
He skimmed the rest of the pages before adding them to a pile of papers on his desk. He dug a 1995 calendar out from another stack of papers on the other side of the room and made a note for June 10. He tried to call Lucas, but it went to voicemail.
Mike leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on the desk, narrowly missing a few dirty mugs and his half-finished manuscript. In the hallway, Mike heard Holly’s door shut and the stairs creak as she walked down to the first floor.
A wedding, huh? he thought to himself. Figured that they’d be the first ones. Dustin and Suzie had broken up years ago, and he’d told Mike that he was ‘too devoted to his studies and the prospect of furthering mankind’s technological development’ to have any sort of girlfriend in college. Mike himself was always holed up in his bedroom working on his book and trying not to think about his past. And Will?
The truth was that Mike had no idea what Will was doing or who he was with. If he was even with anyone. Mrs. Byers and his mom still talked, but Mike hadn’t called Will in a long time.
Will was supposed to be in New York City, same as Jonathan. There had been promises to visit, but none of them had much of a reason to come back anymore. Joyce and Hopper had moved out of town after the wedding, never to be seen again. And really, Mike couldn't blame them.
Mike thought about calling Will, maybe even asking how he was doing. The invitation would be a great excuse to reach out. He could ask when he was planning on showing up. They could coordinate a time to meet before any of the events started. Maybe Mike could even offer for his parents to host him again, for old time's sake.
But he didn't do any of that. Mike the Brave had long since put away his armor. Exhaustion had burrowed deep inside his bones alongside the feelings he'd rather not reawaken. Instead, he sighed, took his legs off of the table, and pulled his typewriter toward him. He began to write the next chapter.
Jaston and Ravarn entered the Cave of Lost Souls. Jaston whispered an incantation and a beam of light came up from his palm, illuminating the tight space. Ravarn clutched his sword and shield tightly as the two of them inched through the darkness, praying to the Mother Holy and the Father Tempest that their next step wouldn’t be their last…
***
“So, you’ve got offers for distribution, huh?” Will asked Jonathan over their shared pizza. “That’s amazing!”
“Did Mom tell you that?” Jonathan said exasperated, shaking his head. “I told her not to say anything about it in case it doesn't work out.”
Will put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It will,” he said confidently. “The film is incredible. Everyone should be jumping at the chance to get their hands on it.”
Jonathan smiled, his tired eyes crinkling. Will had been one of the first people to see the final cut of Consumption. “Thanks, man. How’s the painting coming along?”
Will took a bite and shrugged. “Fine. I’m pretty blocked right now, though. I just can’t figure out where I want it to go or what it should say.”
“That’s the toughest part,” Jonathan said, picking at his discarded crusts. “What do you have so far?”
“Not much. It’s more abstract than anything I’ve ever done before. Very Kandinsky.”
Jonathan nodded, pretending like he knew who Kandinsky was. Film school and art school had a few overlaps in the curriculum, but not enough to fully teach either of them the other’s language. Each brother tended to throw out the works of famous people in their respective fields that were completely unknown to the other like they were household names. Jonathan had mentioned wanting to see the new Haynes film with Will a few weeks back and had only been met with a blank stare.
“The piece is pretty big,” Will continued. “It’s mostly just geometric shapes of yellow and teal so far, but I’m trying to incorporate more organic forms. Sort of like a merging of nature and machine, maybe?”
Jonathan continued to nod. “I like that. Maybe you could have it be a commentary on the urban landscape. Like how Central Park is a constructed natural world in the middle of the city. I know that I’m the staunch anti-capitalist here, but maybe you could work a bit of that into it, too.”
Will took a sip of his soda. “I like that. And the abstract shapes could be a placeholder for the abstraction of the mind when someone is surrounded by man-made objects.” Will’s mind was working quickly. He pulled out his journal and wrote a few notes down, already thinking up what he was going to do when he got back to his apartment. “Thanks, Jonathan. I owe you one.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” he replied. “Just know that you’re the first person I’ll bother when I can’t figure out what to do for my next script.”
The brothers laughed. “How could I refuse?” Will said, setting the journal back in his bag.
***
A few days after he received the invitation, Mike sat at the table with his family for dinner. This was unusual for him; he typically took his meals in his room while he wrote. But his mother had insisted that the whole family be together for lasagna night, so he’d made the trek downstairs.
“How was school?” Karen asked Holly, whose nose was buried in a thick book.
“Good. We talked about The Great Gatsby in English.”
“Is that what you’re reading right now?” Karen asked, glancing at the book. “It ? Stephen King? Oh, Holly, is that really appropriate for you?”
Holly shrugged. “The librarian didn’t have a problem with giving it to me. She said it would be 'enriching.'” She pulled the copy up higher and retreated into the story.
Karen sighed and looked over at Mike, who was suddenly very fascinated with the cheese on top of his slice of lasagna. “Mike, how is the book coming along?”
“Fine,” he replied offhandedly. “I’m almost three-quarters through it now.” That was a lie. He’d be well past three-quarters through it by now if he didn’t keep scrapping it before he even reached the halfway point. He just couldn’t seem to get Jaston and Ravarn past the third battle against the Horde.
“Only three-quarters? It’s been four years!” Ted exclaimed. “Where are all of those hours in your room going?”
“Ted, don’t make him feel bad,” Karen said, giving him a dirty look. “These things take time, and we’re more than willing to give it to him.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to start thinking about going back to college?” Ted continued.
Mike’s mouth set in a hard line. “No. I’m not ever going back to college. It was only making my ability to write worse. Imagine trying to write the best fantasy novel since Pawn of Prophecy when you’re stuck writing essays on Shakespeare for two goddamn weeks!”
“Language,” Ted moped halfheartedly.
Mike dropped his fork and let it clatter onto his plate. He stood up, the noise causing Holly to look up from Stephen King. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he said, grabbing his plate and taking it into the kitchen.
Karen got up and followed close behind him. Mike scraped his leftover lasagna into the trash and dropped the plate in the sink. Karen put her hand on his shoulder, Mike flinching at the touch.
“Your father means well,” she said, though her tone wasn’t very convincing. “He supports you in his own way. He’s just…worried about your future.”
“What’s wrong with my future?” Mike said angrily.
“Nothing! We’re just…” Karen sighed. “I mean, you’re cooped up in here all hours of the day. You don’t really go anywhere or see anyone. We—” She cleared her throat. “I don’t want you to feel alone.”
Mike’s blood boiled. “Where am I gonna go? Who the hell am I gonna go see? Everyone’s gone.”
He tore his gaze away from his mother’s stricken face and stormed out of the kitchen. He stomped up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him. Mike panted, his blood roaring in his ears.
“Everyone’s gone,” he choked out softly, his voice cracking on the words. He scrubbed the tears forming in his eyes away with the sleeve of his gray sweater, trying to beat them back before they found their way out. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, before sitting back down at his desk. He needed to write. He needed to finish what he had started. He needed to make it all worth it in the end.
Ravarn brandished his sword above his head and slashed at the Bloodsuckers, their sharp teeth bared like thorns. “Stay back!” he shouted, positioning his shield to cover himself and Jaston. “You’ll never get us alive!”
The Bloodsuckers laughed. “Oh, naive heroes. We’ve already got you.”
With a loud creaking noise, a trapdoor opened below their feet, sending them plummeting into a dark void of emptiness.
***
The Wonder Room was half-full on the windy, wintery night that Will went there. He flashed his ID at the bouncer and walked in without any problems. He sidled up at the bar and sat down, waving and smiling at the bartender.
“Well, well, well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” the bartender said, her cropped hair and muscle tank immediately recognizable to Will. Her nametag read ‘Alyx’ in blocky text and shined under the dim club lights. “The weird and wonderful Will Byers gracing my doorstep. One can only be so lucky!” She lifted the end of the bar and held out her arms for a hug, which Will accepted.
“You’re making it out like I’m a celebrity or something,” Will said, laughing. He pulled away from Alyx, who patted him on the shoulder with a hand full of rings.
“You are to me,” she said before making her way back behind the bar. “The usual?”
Will nodded. Alyx busied herself by making his Shirley Temple. “Any news?” she asked. “Don’t really see you around here these days.” She slid the glass over to Will, its surface already fogging up with condensation.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s been weird coming here without…” he trailed off. “I mean, you know.” He sighed. “Breakups are tough.”
Alyx nodded her understanding. “Especially when they’re with a piece of work like that Carlton was.”
“Hey! He wasn’t that bad,” Will protested. Alyx gave him a look that conveyed her disapproval better than words ever could. “He wasn’t. He was just kinda…boring.”
“And shallow. And rude. And condescending,” she scoffed. “And he didn’t tip. It’s a wonder you put up with him for as long as you did.”
Will shrugged and sipped his drink. “I didn’t want to deal with having to tell him I wanted to break up more than I didn’t want to be with him. Besides, he was my first. It’s hard to let go of your first.”
Alyx shook her head. “Wrong. It took me three weeks to break up with my first girlfriend. You could’ve halved that without any problems.”
“Yeah well, considering you still live with her, I’m not sure if you’re the one I should ask for advice on my love life.”
Alyx whacked him with her towel. “It’s rent controlled! And I like her cats.”
Will laughed and leaned forward. “Anyways, I do actually have news. I sold a painting last month! It covered my groceries and my electric bill!” Will said proudly.
“Hell fucking yes!” Alyx cheered, also leaning on the bar.
“My brother’s film might get distribution by next summer,” Will continued, “And…I found out that two of my childhood friends are getting married in June.”
Alyx grinned. “Nice. Are you going?”
Will nodded. “Yeah. It’ll be weird, though. I haven’t been back since my mom moved out of town. None of them have seen me like…” he gestured vaguely at himself, “this.”
“Like a queer?”
Will rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t like that word.”
Alyx shrugged. “It’s our word. We might as well use it if everyone else is already gonna.”
Will drained his Shirley Temple and tapped the counter a few times. “Hey, I gotta run. Need to get a commission done by tomorrow night.”
"You just don't wanna talk about labels, do you?"
Will ignored her and dug some cash out of his pocket. "Keep the change. I'll be back soon. Promise."
Alyx gave him a mock salute as he got up from his bar chair. “See you around, queer.”
Will smiled and saluted back, turning toward the exit.
***
Mike was running errands for his mom when it happened.
December in Indiana was brutal that year. It had snowed harder than ever before, gotten warm enough to melt it, then cold enough to freeze everything over. The roads were covered in ice that no amount of salt or sun was able to break through, which made even taking a dog out for a walk dangerous. So, naturally, Karen sent Mike out to get groceries.
The trip had gone well enough for the most part. He’d driven successfully, albeit only going a few miles an hour and gripping the steering wheel like a vice, to the grocery store and gotten everything on the list. As he was leaving, he noticed that one of the paper bags was ripping. Mike tried to readjust it so that it wouldn’t get worse, but the rip got bigger. Apples started tumbling out of the bag and onto the icy street, sliding away on the slick surface.
“Shit!” Mike shouted in exasperation, setting the bags down and trying to chase the runaway apples down. He grabbed one, then slid over on his heels toward the second. With the third apple, he went too fast. His foot gave out from under him and he went tumbling down onto the ice. He felt a sharp pain in his forearm and his temple as he landed on his side, his glasses flying off of his face and skittering on the ice. His vision blurred as the lack of correction and slowly growing pain in his temple got worse.
A figure loomed above him, saying words and asking questions that Mike couldn’t quite make out. He was tall over Mike’s prone body, holding an outstretched hand toward him. He looked familiar. He almost looked like–-
“W-Will?” Mike mumbled as his eyes fluttered. “Is that you?”
The figure said something else, but Mike would never know what it was. At that moment, the world went dark.
***
Mike woke up five hours later in a hospital room with a concussion, a fractured right arm, and broken glasses.
“Will! Where’s Will?” he asked as soon as he woke up.
Karen and Holly looked at each other, confused. “Will’s not here, Mike,” Karen said.
“What? But…I saw him. Before I passed out. He was there with me,” Mike said, confused. His head was killing him.
“Chance brought you in,” Holly said. “He was getting off of his shift and found you right after you fell.”
“You’re concussed, Michael,” Karen said, putting her head in her hands. “I never should have sent you out. It’s all my fault.”
Mike shook his head, then regretted it when the pain worsened. “It’s not your fault. It was the stupid apples. They fell out of the bag when it ripped.”
The three of them laughed.
“I guess I can’t really write like this, can I?” Mike asked, already knowing the answer.
Karen shook her head with tears in her eyes. “Nope. You’re lying down in a dark room for the next week and a half, maybe even longer. And you’re not going out when it’s icy ever again. Or even outside, for that matter.”
“If you need someone to write for you, I can do it,” Holly said. “I’m on break next week and I’ve been taking typing classes. You can just tell me what to say and I’ll transcribe it. I will expect an acknowledgement when it gets published, though.”
Mike gave a small smile. “Maybe. The plot is a secret, though.”
Holly shrugged. “That’s fine. I can keep a secret.”
That was true. They were all especially good at keeping secrets.
At some point, Mike fell asleep, dreaming vaguely about the plot for his book and men with bowl cuts.