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On Mike Wheeler’s 20th birthday, he bought his own cake.
It was small, no icing—he didn’t bother with candles. He never cut it, never took it back out, it was put in the freezer and forgot about for the rest of the month.
He was busy anyway…writing. Always. Writing. But it was frustrating. The characters would glitch and form into people he had once known. Past friends, past monsters. The stress of seeing his life laid out bare made him want to rip his own hair out. Letters came, phone calls too. A belated gift in the mail from Lucas, a postcard from Nancy, and a painting…a painting from Will.
A sunset.
It was pretty—yellows, reds, and blues mixing into hues of purple and orange. Tall black buildings and bright lights on in the darkness. Clubs. Maybe apartments? It was probably painted from Will’s own window. And in the sky…in the distance, just detailed enough to make out. Was a wizard in the dark clouds. A girl flying beside him. And there…clutched on to them both. Was a familiar, lanky boy, holding both tightly.
Letting go would mean death, of course. But that boy. That stupid boy. He was clinging to more than just that. Not just to life. But to the people he loved most. Keeping them together.
Will understood him like that, so much so that he could paint it. Maybe Will didn’t intend to make Mike look pathetic and desperate. But…that’s what it was. He painted the truth, even if it wasn’t intentional. Will had always been blind to the worst of him. Even after everything.
He mourned Eleven. But Mike couldn’t help but mourn Will Byers too.
The end of the world had…you know? Ended. His ‘girlfriend’ had died so quickly, so awfully, that Mike had hallucinated a goodbye. He’d always imagined it to be in the void. An embrace, a kiss. A whispered confession. The ground was wet. The place had nothing in it but them. She would thank him for being there. She would fade out as music played.
But, in all honesty, it was pure fantasy. Because Mike had never really been there for her, and never truly understood her. It's not like she was any better in that department, Eleven never understood him either. It’s like they were completely different species, and speaking in different, unlearnable languages. Doomed to never truly know what the other was. And never able to explain themselves.
They could kiss, and Mike would feel nothing at all. She could lie to him, and he would never know. Eleven was a fantasy he watched die before his eyes. The perfect girl who never asked anything of him, because she had never been told what to expect. Her hair buzzed, her voice low. She didn’t talk much. And if he closed his eyes. She wasn’t a person at all. She was just something that loved him. And if he closed every part of himself and only let himself feel eyes on him. Well…she wasn’t exactly a girl either.
A tearful goodbye that never happened. That was the ending to a story he'd been writing. And it sucked. It didn't sound right.
Will had never said goodbye. Not properly, at least. They still spoke over the phone. But there was distance again. Life was a constant battle of trying to keep Will by his side, whether that meant by finding him in the cold, wet dark, or at the top of a radio tower, holding out a hand for him to grab.
But after he came out, after he left Hawkins. The war had been lost.
Maybe Eleven had never needed Mike.
Okay: Mike Wheeler Truth Bomb: Eleven had definitely never needed Mike. But Will did, once. When they were smaller—easier to break. But they’d grown up. The D&D game had come to a final, bittersweet conclusion. Hats were thrown and bags were packed.
Will didn’t need him anymore. He hadn’t needed Mike in a long time.
He noticed the smell in his apartment around May. It was getting hot in New York, and the AC had stopped working. Mike assumed that the freezer had broken, or something to that effect. So Mike pulled one of the trays out...and yeah, that was the smell. His now crushed 20th birthday cake. He put it on the table, and just…looked at it for a while. He didn’t touch it, didn’t dare eat something that had rotted. Like most things in Mike Wheeler’s life, he hadn’t noticed something good, until there was nothing left to do. Until it was gone.
He threw it into the trash.
It was hot in June, too hot, the smog making the city humid. Classes were far too long, and the broken elevator made Mike grateful that he only lived on the second floor. He still ended up winded, sweating. Opening his door and wafting the slightly colder air into his face.
It must be even warmer in San Francisco.
That’s where Will was. Now. After graduation. It was where all the gays went. Well…they also went to NYC. Which was where Mike was. Which…okay, yeah that sounded like a confession. But it wasn’t. He wasn’t. Okay...
Mike had been confused for years. He’d been an asshole for years.
Mike Wheeler: Confused Asshole. If he died prematurely, that’s what would be on his gravestone. And if it wasn’t, he’d better draft a letter to Will—or even Nancy. To ask that they at least write it on there in marker or something. At least tell the truth about what he was. Because he certainly couldn’t.
He hadn’t requested that in his real letters. They were a little more—sentimental than that. A couple confessions, and a dozen apologies. The story hadn’t gotten past the tenth page. He’d abandoned it a few weeks ago…he’d never need to finish it now anyway.
Maybe that was an overreaction. Maybe grief had made Mike miserable, and mean, and quiet. Maybe he’d never be the same again.
The top floor of his apartment building led to a roof. It wasn’t that high. Really. But it was sunset, it was nice. The cake was probably in the landfill by now, and the July heat was unbearable.
Five floors up. The light from the sky dwindled, as blue turned to yellow—soon to fade to black. He took a small break after every few steps. Partially out of fear. Maybe he’d turn back, go back to writing his story. Ring Will again. But with every rest. Mike came to another realisation. Another reason to take another step.
He’d never really known Eleven—She’d never really known herself—He had built the bomb that killed her—He had pushed Will away—He’d pushed everyone away—He’d packed his bags and ran to New York—Finding comfort in misery—Love through pain. Because he deserved it—He deserved to suffer.
Would it be cowardice if he ended it right there? Jumping out into the sky. Would he be able to touch the cloak of Will the Wise up there? Would the girl who could fly find him again?
Buzzed hair and no voice. An alien from a different world. Genderless until pronounced female. Wearing Will’s clothes and living in Will’s house and—
Mike was so fucking stupid.
So…he stepped off, not a jump—nor a leap, just a sad fall forward. Giving up. He watched as the blue at the top of the sky dipped to purple, to yellow and orange—to blue, again—and suddenly buildings were passing him by, and the world was ending, finally, as it always was meant to…and
“Do you want to be friends?”
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The other boy nods.
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Holding hands during recess, board games and hopscotch.
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“Crazy together, right?”
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Being boys together. Will Byers kissing his scabbed knee after he fell out of a tree.
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“I’ll always need you, Mike.”
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The wonderful feeling of being known by another person. Laughing at Mike’s dumb antics.
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“You’re the heart."
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Everything. It’s everything. It went away years ago. But he had it once—
In NYC, it was dusk. But here it was night. No stars. Only blackness. And in that darkness, Mike felt a familiar presence. The floor was wet, and the void around him was silent.
“Hi Mike.”
Will Byers unravelled months of planning. In only two words. To hear that voice again. He would...he would live. Fuck. Why did he? Time still moved outside the emptiness. Distance could have meant nothing, if Mike had braved it.
He could have driven to Will’s house, and just—said something, anything. But now, it was too late, and he’d fucked it all up again, and…
He moved, crawling towards that wonderful boy...water shifting past his knees, “Will! I’m glad you’re here. I’m—I did something stupid, and I don’t. I don’t know if I regret it. But I’m now just realising that if I die, I’m gonna hurt you again. And—you need to pull me out Will. You need to—”
Will kneeled down, their bodies level, his face: crumpled in concern “Mike…”, he whispered, “this isn’t real.”
It's not real.
Fear. Panic. Acceptance. His brain was lying to him again. This was another void...and another person he loved was there. But now, it was his death. This was his goodbye. He couldn’t repress anything anymore. This was who he wanted there. Not the person he felt like had to be. This was Will...and god, it was always going to be Will just past that darkness. The light.
“Yeah”, Mike swallowed, “It’s not—I know.”
Will sat with him, legs crossing, “I’m in San Francisco.”
As if he needed to be reminded of how far apart they were.
“I know”, he mumbled, eyes never leaving Will’s.
“I’m happy now.”
Ouch.
Something awful brewed in his chest, a lump forming in Mike's throat, “I’m...glad.”
“No.”, Will shook his head, “no you aren’t.”
Will knew him so well.
“Yeah.”
“You wish I would have stayed.”
“-with me. Stay with me.”
Mike nodded, not knowing how else to confirm it, “We could have been something…together.”
Will frowned, “You never told me that.”
“I should have.”
And suddenly Will didn't seem glad to see him anymore.
“You knew I’d say yes”, he whispered, “You knew.”
And shit, yeah. Mike knew. He’d always known. And he’d ruined it. God. He’d fucked it all up.
“Fuck”, he swore, hand coming up to pull at his scalp, “Fuck-fuck.”
And Will was crying again, and Mike was awful. Jesus, he’d even made the Will in his dreams cry, “we could have had a life together Mike.”
You didn’t want that!” Mike shouted, knowing that it was just…bullshit, “You couldn’t—you just…”
“Didn’t I?", Will shuffled back, hurt, "You knew. You always knew. Don’t act like you didn’t.”
Mike was sobbing now, tears dripping onto the wet floor. Ripples across eternity, spread out--extending. The void of nothing. A light was fading.
“I’m sorry Will. Just…", he paused, swallowing, "can you stay here. With me?”
Will looked to the blackness around them, the nothing that was slowly taking them both, “You’re dying.”
“Yeah, yeah—I know”, Mike said, holding his arms out in a pathetic, final plea, “But...until then. While we’re here--just, hold me."
Will still looked conflicted. So Mike shuffled closer, "It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask. I just…I need you.”
In hearing those words, something changed in Will. He smiled again. The fantasy took hold of reality. His arms wrapped around Mike's body, a head placed to his cold chest. And Mike swore he could see a halo form around that stupid haircut. Light emanating from Will's very core. He glowed in the darkness. A bright gold. The heart Mike had...now settled in his chest. Once strong, but now only beating quietly. A beaten old thing that Will Byers had owned for longer than Mike could remember.
“I’ll always need you Mike. Always.”
The blackness crumbled around them, sticky goo and fading breath. But Will was there. He was there. Burning gold and letting Mike die in his light.
“Wake up. Please. Wake up.”
The light around wrapped him and fed him life. His eyes opened, and a girl…a woman—looked at him for a moment. She looked older. Not something anymore. She looked like…somebody. No longer a concept. Nor project. Long hair, kind eyes, alabaster skin. And before Mike could call her, before he could ask her anything.
She vanished. Again.
Mike was alive and alone.
So he called the only person who would understand.
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“Hello?”
“Hi Will.”