Chapter Text
By the time Hawkins finished healing, by the time the earth stitched its cracked, bleeding red wounds shut and the last echoes of the Upside Down faded into nothing, everyone knew it was time to move on.
Hopper took back his badge in a town that still needed him, settling into a quiet life with Joyce and Will. He learned, slowly and painfully, how to stitch his own shattered heart back together after losing yet another daughter. Joyce let herself breathe for the first time in years, relieved beyond words that her son could finally live a life untouched by monsters, possession, and fear.
Lucas had Max back, no longer having to visit the hospital everyday wondering if she would ever wake up. Dustin no longer had to watch his best friends die in front of him. And Will… Will was happy. Happier than Mike had ever seen him.
Free from the shadows that once stalked him. Free from being used as a weapon. Free to accept himself, surrounded by the people who loved him, safe in a way he’d never been before.
Completely. Totally. Safe.
Everyone, it seemed, found peace. Everyone except Mike.
Mike was stuck in the past, tangled in grief he didn’t know how to loosen. He had lost Eleven. Whatever they had been before she left didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was a part of him, woven into his bones, and there was nothing he could do to save her. The bomb he helped build. The music he chose. The plan that ended with her gone without him even knowing.
Everyone thought she was dead; they had watched it happen with their own eyes. But Mike refused to believe it.
He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
He knew, knew, she was still out there somewhere. That she’d faked it, sacrificed herself for everyone’s safety. In his mind, she was living somewhere quiet and beautiful, with three waterfalls just like he promised her once.
Time, unfortunately, did not care about what Mike believed.
It kept moving without him.
His friends moved on. They grew up. They graduated. Mike sat through a ceremony he never wanted, clapping when everyone else clapped, smiling when everyone else smiled. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t understand how they were doing it, how they were letting go so easily.
Caps flew into the air. Dustin gave a speech that got people riled with hope. Everyone cried, but it wasn’t a goodbye to them; it was the beginning of a new life. Mike refused to participate.
When Mike suggested one last game of D&D, he didn’t realize how final it would be. Didn’t realize that would be the last time his childhood friends played a game that brought them back to their past.
The summer passed in a blur. Everyone was busy preparing for lives Mike couldn’t imagine for himself: college, dorm rooms, new cities. Learning how to be adults before they’d ever been allowed to just be kids.
It was what they wanted. Not Mike.
He didn’t apply to colleges. Didn’t write essays. Didn’t plan on leaving Hawkins or his parents’ house. He needed time, needed space to breathe, and a year off felt like the only thing keeping him afloat. At least that’s what he told himself. He spent that entire summer locked in his room, questioning whether time itself even existed, and before he knew it, fall was approaching and his friends were moving.
Lucas and Max left first. They always planned to go to the same college, and Lucas’s full basketball scholarship made it feel almost inevitable. Their goodbye was happy, one last movie night, laughter mixed with nostalgia, before Mike helped load the car and watched them drive away.
Dustin left a few days later. Of course it was MIT. That goodbye hit harder than Mike expected. Harder because it made everything real. Harder because Hawkins suddenly felt emptier than it ever had.
But nothing compared to Will.
Mike barely spoke the day Will left. He helped pack in silence, folding clothes, organizing books, avoiding eye contact like it might undo him. Joyce hovered nearby, trying to keep things light, trying to pretend this wasn’t breaking her heart too.
Will talked enough for both of them — telling stories, cracking jokes, anything to soften the weight in the room. Mike could only nod. Shrug. He was terrified that if he opened his mouth, the sobs lodged in his throat would finally break free.
When Will loaded the last suitcase into the trunk, he brushed his hands on his jeans like the job was done. Mike’s legs shook like he no longer had control of his body.
This was real. This was happening. Will, his Will, was growing up and leaving him behind.
Will stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face into Mike’s shoulder. Mike hugged him back loosely, afraid that if he held on too tight, he’d never let go. He felt Will stiffen as quiet tears soaked into his shirt, felt the small, broken sounds he tried to hide.
Mike bit down hard on his tongue until he swore he tasted blood. He couldn’t let Will see him cry. Couldn’t let him see the way this was undoing him.
Eventually, Will pulled away. He promised to write. Promised to call. Promised to visit every break he got. Then he got into the car and waved as Joyce turned the ignition and put the car in drive.
Mike stood there long after it drove away, watching until it turned the corner and vanished from sight. Only then did his body start moving, feet carrying him somewhere without his mind telling him where they were taking him.
Eventually he ended up in the woods, collapsed against a tree, and the moment he stopped holding himself together, everything spilled out. Loud, violent sobs tore from his chest. Tears burned down his cheeks leaving wet, hot streaks in their path. His body folded in on itself as if he could make the pain smaller by squeezing it tight.
He cried until his chest hurt. He cried until his stomach twisted in tight, painful knots. He cried until he couldn’t breathe, until the world blurred and spun, until he thought he might be sick.
His body’s reaction to Will's departure terrified him. He hadn’t cried when Lucas and Max left. He hadn’t cried when Dustin did.
But Will. Not Will.
This felt like losing him all over again. Except this time, Will hadn’t disappeared, kidnapped by some monster from another dimension. This time, he chose to leave.
At first, Mike thought staying felt noble. Somebody had to stay. Somebody had to keep the house standing, keep the memories from collapsing in on themselves. He told himself he needed the quiet. Needed the same streets, the same creaking stairs, the same bedroom walls that had once been covered in maps and strings and frantic notes written in Sharpie. He told himself Hawkins was good for writing.
It wasn’t.
The town was too small for the stories he wanted to tell. Too familiar. Every sentence felt like it had already been lived in, worn thin by memory. He wrote anyway, short stories, then a novel, then another. He mailed manuscripts to agents who never responded or responded with the kind of politeness that still managed to feel like a slap in the face. Not a good fit. Lacking market appeal. Encouraging voice, but —
Years passed like that. Quiet, stagnant years. His one year off had turned into two, and then three, and then he stopped counting. Mike had grown, his younger face sharpening at the edges. Cheeks hollowing with age, and when his 22nd birthday passed, he realized how wasted his younger years were starting to feel.
Holly was getting older and with her friends always being over, house grew louder and he couldn’t focus. At least he wanted to blame it on her, but really Hawkins just lost its light. He lost his inspiration. And frankly, he was tired and bored and he finally knew it was his time to move on. Living with his parents at 22 was something he never wanted for himself, and the day he looked in the mirror and saw his father, he knew he needed grow up.
New York wasn’t a dream so much as a last option.
He arrived with two suitcases, a computer that overheated if he pushed it too hard, and a belief so fragile it felt embarrassing to admit he still had it. The apartment he found was barely an apartment at all — technically a loft, technically legal, technically large enough to stretch his arms without hitting both walls if he angled himself just right. The radiator screamed all night. The window looked directly into another building’s brick wall, close enough that Mike sometimes wondered if he could climb across if he really wanted to.
He pitched his writing anywhere that would listen. Indie publishers, literary offices tucked above delis, readings where no one made eye contact. He learned how rejection sounded in a hundred different voices. And learned how rude New Yorkers really are. But he was going to do exactly what he set his mind to. He is not his father.
And months later, rejection after rejection after rejection, he stayed. Still, he wrote. And he really started to believe this is where he belongs. He started working in a small bookstore on the corner of a street, shelving books, ringing people up, recommending sci-fi and fantasy, and writing during slow hours mini stories of overheard conversations throughout the day. The weather had shifted, spring turned into summer, summer into fall. Fall in New York really was beautiful.
Sometimes, sitting in Central Park with a coffee and his notebook that held all his ideas, he would watch as the leaves fell onto the dying grass below. The gray skies above covering the sunshine and somehow, he felt right at home.
It felt weird and yet freeing that no one here knew who he was. Yeah, he came here for the purpose of recognition, but no one knew. Hawkins, everyone knew everyone and yet even though everyone knew him, they didn’t know his story. And it felt crushing living in a town with people associating you with a childhood you didn’t even get to live.
Here, no one knew him as the boy who was once in that “cult D&D” group without actually knowing what happened. He didn’t have to look down at his feet and remember what type of world was once beneath him. He didn’t have to walk down familiar roads, familiar spots and associate them with people who didn’t talk to him anymore.
Lucas used to call Mike sometimes with Max in the background, but one day the calls stopped, and they grew apart, like friends do. Dustin still called sometimes, well, he did before Mike moved and decided not to tell him. He felt like Dustin was calling out of sympathy; he could hear it in his voice every time, and he wanted to give him the freedom to let go of his past. And if that included Mike, then so be it.
Will… he wrote, like he said he would. And he came down to visit. Years ago. Mike hadn’t seen Will since he was 20. Hadn’t heard from him either. But that’s okay, Mike's okay. Really. He just didn’t expect it was all…
Well, anyway, the city is great, and Mike loves it. He promises he does. He really, really does.
The subway had become Mike’s second home, whether he liked it or not.
He stood near the pole of the car located closest to the window, one hand wrapped tightly around the cool metal, the other clutching the worn canvas bag that held his manuscript. The strap dug into his shoulder, familiar and grounding, like a reminder that the world he’d created still existed even when the real world seemed intent on pretending it didn’t. He’d memorized this route by now — the stops, the lurch of the train as it curved too sharply, the way the lights dimmed for half a second between stations. It was muscle memory, the kind that settled into your bones when disappointment became routine.
He was on his way to another meeting that wasn’t really a meeting. A “drop-in consultation,” they’d called it. Fifteen minutes, no guarantees, no promises. Just enough time for someone to skim the first page of his book and decide whether his voice was worth remembering. Mike had rewritten the opening paragraph that morning for the hundredth time, pacing the length of his cramped apartment while the radiator hissed like it disapproved. He’d nearly missed the train, had run down the steps two at a time, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with hope anymore.
The car smelled like metal and damp wool and cheap coffee. People swayed with the motion of the train, faces slack with exhaustion or absorbed in their own private worlds. Mike leaned his head back against the window and watched his reflection blur into the darkness outside, his face pale and older than he remembered it being. He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to give up.
He reached his hand down into the bag hanging loosely against his waist, brushing his fingers against the pages, and told himself again that this mattered. That if he could just get the book into the right hands, everything would change. That this was all temporary.
The train jolted suddenly, and Mike steadied himself, breath fogging the glass for a brief second before fading away. He stared at the smear it left behind, thinking about how easy it was to disappear in a city like this. How no one knew who he used to be. How no one here knew about the end of the world, or the boy who’d once saved it with nothing but loyalty and love and a stubborn refusal to let go.
His breath continued to fog the glass with each quiet exhale, a soft cloud that bloomed and vanished in seconds, over and over again. Mike watched it disappear, watched his own reflection blur and sharpen as the train rattled forward, and felt that familiar pull settle in his chest. He loved this part, the in-between moments, when the city slipped by too fast to hold and strangers became nothing more than fragments. Faces layered over faces in the glass, and Mike would make up some crazy stories about them in his head, It was easier than thinking about himself. Easier than thinking about where he was going. At this angle, he could see the benches lining the car, distorted slightly by the window, and his attention drifted to a woman seated a few feet away. She wore a crisp black suit and narrow tie, her heels strapped tight around her feet, head tipped back against the tiled wall with her eyes closed like she was bracing herself for something. Mike decided she worked for some powerful company that treated her like she was disposable. They talked over her in meetings, took credit for her ideas. He imagined she came to New York chasing something brighter, something bigger. Acting, maybe. Broadway. At night, she slipped into disguises and performed in dim bars downtown, the kind with sticky floors and cheap lights, where the audience didn’t know how lucky they were to watch her.
His gaze slid to the teenager next to her, barely old enough to look so certain of herself. Her blonde perm was loud and wild, almost defiant, and she wore a hot pink leather dress like she was daring the world to say something about it. Mike imagined her report cards filled with red ink, teachers shaking their heads, parents constantly on her back about grades and responsibility. None of it mattered. School was just background noise. She was going to be famous. Huge. A pop star with stadium tours and interviews where she laughed about how no one believed in her at first. Mike liked that version of her better than the quiet, anonymous truth. He was just starting to move on to the next person, already winding up another story in his head, when everything inside him dropped so suddenly it felt like the floor vanished beneath his feet.
No.
His eyes snapped down to his shoes, heart slamming so hard it made him dizzy. That wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. His brain did what it always did and dismissed it immediately, shoved the possibility away like a bad reflex. He’d seen Will in places before. In crowds. In reflections. In the empty space beside him on the train. But it was always his imagination. This was just a trick, a cruel misfire of hope. But when Mike forced himself to look up again, slower this time, bracing for disappointment, the universe didn’t correct itself. He did a sharp, disoriented turn, nearly losing his balance as the train lurched, hands gripping the pole beside him as his eyes strained, focused on the boy in disbelief. His mind screamed that it was a mistake even as his chest tightened painfully around a truth he wasn’t ready for.
Will Byers sat three benches down.
He was half-turned toward the window, tunnel lights rushing past behind him in blurred streaks of shadow and neon light, his reflection fractured across the glass. Mike didn’t recognize him all at once. His brain rejected him on instinct, the same way it always did in dreams. That’s not possible. But recognition came anyway, slow and merciless, piece by piece. The curve of his shoulder. The way he leaned forward just slightly, like he was listening for something. The familiar line of his jaw, older now, sharper, but undeniably Will. It hit Mike with the weight of gravity returning after a long suspension, settled deep in his chest until breathing felt optional. This wasn’t a memory. This wasn’t a story he made up to survive the ride. Will was real. Will was here. And Mike had no idea what to do with the way his entire world seemed to snap back into place around him.
Will looked older in ways Mike hadn’t prepared for.
Not just taller or broader, though there was more of him now — longer limbs, shoulders that carried themselves with quiet certainty — but changed in subtler, crueler ways. His face had grown into itself. The softness of boyhood had sharpened into something thoughtful and deliberate. His eyes were the same brown Mike had memorized years ago, but there was depth there now, a city-worn steadiness, like he’d learned how to exist without fear. His hair fell into his face in loose waves, dark and unkempt in a way that looked intentional, like he’d stopped letting anyone tell him how it should be cut.
Mike’s breath caught painfully in his throat.
Will wore a thick sweater, dark and heavy, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his wrists. Paint smudges faintly visible on his fingers, graphite dust worked into the lines of his skin. There was something achingly beautiful about how absorbed he was, hunched slightly forward, pencil moving fast and sure across the page of a sketchbook balanced on his knee. He had his Walkman on and the sight of it felt like a hand reaching back through time and closing around Mike’s heart.
Mike’s mind betrayed him instantly, dragging him backward in time. He was thirteen again, sitting on his bed with Will pressed close beside him, sharing headphones and listening to whatever music Johnathan had gotten Will into recently. He could smell the laundry soap from Joyce’s house, hear Will’s soft laugh when the tape clicked and had to be rewound with a pencil. He remembered the way Will used to draw without looking up, Mike watching in awe as has hands moved effortlessly across the page creating some masterpiece a boy his age shouldn’t be capable of.
Mike stared helplessly now.
The train swayed, metal groaning as it curved through the tunnel. Mike tightened his grip on the pole, knuckles whitening, afraid that if he let go of something — anything — he might drift apart, dissolve into the moment. His manuscript bag hung forgotten at his side. The world had narrowed to Will’s hands, the steady rhythm of his pencil, the faint bounce of his knee in time with music Mike couldn’t hear.
Will looked so alive it hurt.
Not fragile. Not afraid. Not the boy Mike had once held together with whispered promises and trembling hands after a nightmare. This Will belonged to the city, to motion and momentum and forward movement. And suddenly Mike was acutely aware of himself. Unkempt, tired, living in a box of an apartment, chasing a dream that refused to look back at him. He felt small. Unfinished.
The train began to slow.
The change in motion was subtle but unmistakable, the screech of brakes echoing through the car. Will finally looked up from his sketchbook, blinking like he was surfacing from underwater. He tucked the pencil in his pocket and closed the book carefully, reverently, as if the drawing mattered more than the rest of the world.
The doors slid open with a sharp hiss, the sound cutting through the low hum of the train like a held breath finally released. Will stood immediately, moving on instinct, fingers curling around the strap of his bag as he slung it lazily over one shoulder. He looked different standing like that, taller, surer, like someone who belonged to the city instead of being swallowed by it. His eyes flicked across the car as his feet carried him forward, scanning faces without really seeing them, and then briefly, devastatingly, they brushed over Mike. It was barely a glance, fleeting and unfocused, the kind you give a stranger without meaning to. Will stepped onto the platform, swallowed by the fluorescent lights and echoing space beyond the doors.
For one suspended heartbeat, nothing happened.
Mike’s lungs burned as he realized he’d been holding his breath. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe Will hadn’t really looked at him. Maybe Mike was just another blur in the glass, another face that didn’t register. Maybe Will didn’t recognize him anymore. The thought hollowed him out so fast it almost hurt more than the hope had. But then Will stopped short, like something invisible had yanked him backward. His head snapped around so fast it was almost violent, eyes wide and searching, panic written plainly across his face. The doors began to slide shut, their warning chime too loud, too final, as Will’s gaze locked fiercely onto Mike’s through the narrowing gap.
Will frowned, just slightly at first, confusion pulling his brows together as if he were trying to solve a puzzle that didn’t make sense. His eyes widened. His breath caught. His mouth parted in a silent, stunned exhale. Mike watched the exact moment recognition hit him. Saw it ripple through Will’s expression like a wave breaking, disbelief collapsing inward until there was nothing left but certainty. Like the world had just rearranged itself around one impossible truth. Mike’s own mouth fell open, the shock knocking the air clean out of him.
Will stood there, frozen on instinct, still staring, still not looking away. Panic flared sharp and sudden in Mike’s chest, not fear exactly, but exposure. Like he wasn’t supposed to be seen. Like he was supposed to be secret. He moved without thinking, body surging forward as the doors slid together, his hand slamming against the glass just as it sealed between them. The sting shot up his palm, bright and real, and he welcomed it. Proof that this wasn’t another cruel trick of memory. Proof that Will was real. That he was here.
They stood there, inches apart and impossibly far away, separated by cold glass and bad timing and years that had stretched too long between them. Will’s face was still caught in shock, something fragile and horrified all at once flickering across his features. His hand twitched, tightening around the spine of the notebook he held, knuckles whitening as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored. In the glass, Mike saw his own reflection layered over Will’s face; two versions of themselves overlapping, blurred together, divided by distance and time and words that had never been sent.
Then the train jerked forward. The moment snapped.
Will slipped out of frame, left standing on the platform, growing smaller as the subway carried Mike away. Mike pressed his forehead to the glass, heart pounding violently, watching until Will was nothing but a blur of dark coat and stunned eyes. Until the tunnel swallowed Will whole.
Mike sagged back against the door, chest aching, lungs burning like he’d just surfaced from deep water. His hands trembled. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or cry or scream at the ceiling of the train for being so unforgivably cruel.
Will and Mike used to be so close. Back then, a meeting like this wouldn’t have been shocking or painful. They would’ve run into each other’s arms, laughing, excited to be reunited. But somewhere along the way, they stopped talking.
At first, they’d written constantly, letters stuffed with sketches and stories, Mike’s handwriting sprawling messily across the page, Will’s neat and careful in return. Then the letters had grown shorter. Less frequent. Mike’s last few had gone unanswered, words floating out into the void between Indiana and New York until even hope got tired of waiting.
Eventually, Mike had stopped writing too.
The subway roared on, uncaring, and Mike closed his eyes, realizing that no matter how many miles he put between himself and Hawkins, no matter how many drafts he wrote and rewrote, the most important story of his life was still unfinished.