Chapter Text
New York City. September, 1990.
The radiator in room 007 hissed like a dying beast, it had become the playlist to Mike Wheeler’s insomnia.
Outside, the noises of Manhattan, the distant wail of a siren, the muffled shouts, the city that never learned to shut up, filtered through the window of Mike Wheeler’s room, he missed Hawkins, and nothing could bring him back to the town, Manhattan has nothing alike.
Mike sat hunched over a second-hand desk that smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap and old cigarettes. He wasn't sleeping. He didn't sleep much these days.
It’s New York, it’s not the same. Instead, he was staring at his Smith-Corona typewriter, the keys glowing faintly under the yellow pool of a desk lamp.
He had moved to New York under the guise of "pursuing a degree in English Literature at NYU." That’s what he told his parents. And it was bullshit.
He told them Hawkins was too small, that the memories of 1983 through 1986 were suffocating the life out of him. And that was true. But the real reason, the reason that sat like a heavy stone in his gut, was a series of letters he’d received over the summer. Letters from a Brooklyn address. Will’s.
He hadn't told Will he was coming. He hadn't told anyone. He even told his mom and dad to shut up about it.
He had just... followed the pull. Like a compass needle pointing North, Mike Wheeler always eventually pointed toward Will Byers.
The door to the dorm room swung open, hitting the stopper with a loud thud.
"Jesus, Wheeler. It’s three in the morning. Are you writing the Great American Novel ?"
Mike didn't turn around. He didn't have to. The smell of cheap cologne and damp pavement announced Carlton before he even spoke.
Carlton was a film major from Chicago. He was tall, nearly as tall as Mike, with dark, curly hair that he constantly pushed out of his eyes in a gesture that made Mike’s stomach do a weird, uncomfortable flip. Because it was a gesture Mike used to do. Carlton was charismatic, loud, and possessed a reckless confidence that Mike both envied and loathed.
"It’s called a deadline, Carlton." muttered, finally turning in his chair.
Carlton tossed a damp leather jacket onto his bed. He looked energized, his cheeks flushed from the New York chill. "Deadline? You’re a freshman. Your only deadline is not failing Comp 101." He leaned over Mike’s shoulder, squinting at the paper. "‘The boy in the dark’... dark stuff, man. Very Poe. Very brooding. You need to get out more. Join the living."
"I am out." Mike said.
"No, you’re in a cave" Carlton countered, grabbing a cigarette from a pack on his nightstand and tucking it behind his ear, a strictly forbidden habit in the dorms. "Listen, I met this guy. He’s an artist. Real talent, Michael. Not like the pretentious hacks in the Fine arts building."
Mike felt a sharp, inexplicable prick of jealousy. Not because of the guy, Mike was still firmly telling himself he was straight, despite the crushing weight of his own denial, but because of the ease with which Carlton lived his life.
"Cool" Mike said flatly, turning back to his typewriter. "Does he have a name?"
"Yeah. But he’s a bit private. Very tortured soul vibe" Carlton chuckled, kicking off his boots. "I’ve been helping him with some references for his sketches. He’s got this obsession with shadows. Says the world looks better when you can’t see everything clearly."
Mike’s fingers hovered over the keys. Obsession with shadows.
"Anyway man." Carlton continued, oblivious to Mike’s sudden stillness. "I think I’m gonna bring him by this weekend. He’s been dying to see what a real NYU dorm looks like, even if it is a dump. Especially your side of the room. You should be here. You’d like him. He’s... he’s different. He’s not like the people here."
"I have plans" Mike lied instantly.
"Liar. You have a date with a bottle of ink and your own misery" Carlton laughed, flopping onto his bed. "Or maybe you’ve got a secret girlfriend..impossible…I’m telling you, Wheeler. You spend so much time looking for the right words that you’re missing the actual story happening right in front of you."
"Thank god you’re not a writer, you’re so…so cliché" answered Mike.
Carlon reached over and clicked off his own lamp, leaving the room half-submerged in darkness.
Mike stayed seated. He looked at the typewriter. He thought about the letters in his desk drawer, tucked under a stack of blank paper. He hadn't replied to the last one. Will had mentioned in another letter that he was starting to make friends in the city, that the art scene was "opening him up."
Mike had felt a surge of pride when he read it, followed immediately by a suffocating fear that he was being left behind. That the Will Byers who needed Mike to protect him from the world was gone, replaced by someone Mike didn't know how to talk to anymore.
He looked at Carlton, who was already snoring lightly. Carlton, who walked through the world without looking back. Carlton, who had a boyfriend he was proud of.
Mike turned back to his page and typed one single sentence at the bottom:
I am a coward, and the ink knows it.
The following days were a blur of gray slush and caffeine. Mike spent his afternoons in the back of a dim coffee shop on Bleecker Street, a notebook open in front of him, trying to capture the "essence" of the city.
How can a city full of life be this boring? It was like another world, sometimes he looked at it from very far away and told himself : they don’t know I saved the world. Well it was not in this city, but Hawkins was so small that around 20 pour-cent of the population knew about the Upside Down and even the monsters. Sometimes he wished he could tell the world about it, about his friend or ex girlfriend that sacrificed her life to save the future of the party, nobody knows and ever will.
Now, he was just people-watching, looking for a specific gait, a specific tilt of the head. He was looking for Will in every crowd, even though he told himself he wasn't. New York is too big, chances are slim.
It was now Friday, Carlton was excited and couldn’t stop checking himself in the mirror, he smelled perfume, too much…perfume like his boyfriend would come this night and not the day after.
"I’m telling you, Wheeler, wear something that doesn't scream 'Hey, I haven't slept since the Reagan administration !'" Carlton joked, splashing water on his face at the communal sinks. "We’re going to that dive bar near the piers after they drop by here. You’re coming. No excuses."
"I have a lot of reading, Carlton." Mike sighed, leaning against the doorframe. He watched Carlton fix his hair, pushing it back in that familiar, agonizing way.
"The books will be there tomorrow. Ask a second year to tell you all about them so you won’t have to read them!" Carlton countered, flashing a grin.
"What’s the point of university then ? Give me a good reason to stay at least, and don’t say you."
"Because you will finally get another friend than me soon ! You heard me dude, I told him about you. He thinks it’s cool I have a roommate who’s a writer. He said writers are the architects of memory something like that… Pretty deep, right?"
Mike felt a sharp pang in his chest. Architects of memory. Fuck, why does it sounded like something Will would say. It sounded like a line from one of the letters tucked away in Mike’s desk the letters he had read so many times that he forgot to answer.
It was the same music all over again, even Max Mayfield doesn’t know Running Up That Hill lyrics that much.
Dear Mike,
The city is loud, but it’s a different kind of loud than the party or the Upside Down, ahah. It’s a noise that makes you feel like you can disappear. Sometimes I want to disappear. But don’t worry, it’s just…the changes…I’ve started painting again, really painting. Not just stupid sketches. I’m trying to capture what it feels like to be between places. I wish you were here to see them. I think you’re the only one who would truly see what’s behind the paint. Like you always do. I miss Hawkins, I miss the party, I miss you.
Will, or the sorcerer :)
Mike closed his eyes. He had moved to the same city, but he hadn't called or sent ANY letters. He hadn't visited. He was a coward, paralyzed by the fear that if he saw Will, the fragile wall he’d built around his heart would crumble. He was terrified that the "internalized" part of his struggle was becoming impossible to contain.
Saturday. The rain lashed against the window of room 007, blurring the city lights into smears of neon amber and red.
Mike was sitting on his bed, pretending to read The Great Gatsby, but his eyes hadn't moved past the first paragraph in twenty minutes. He was listening to the hallway. Wishing Carlton’s boyfriend would come faster so he can stop pretending to read.
"He is late." Mike said.
"Relax, he’s coming from the G-train. The rain probably stalled everything" Carlton said, pacing the small room.
"It’s just water mate. I know he is not a fish but still…"
Carlton didn’t pay attention to what Mike just said. He looked nervous, which was rare. He kept adjusting a small sketchpad on his desk, a gift he’d mentioned getting from his boyfriend.
Then, there was a knock. Three rhythmic taps.
Mike’s heart did a violent somersault. He knew that knock. It was the same rhythm they used to use on the door of the Wheeler basement. One-two, three. No it’s a shitty coincidence, shut up Mike, he told himself.
"That’s him!" Carlton beamed, practically leaping toward the door.
Mike stood up slowly, his legs feeling like lead. He felt a cold sweat break out at the base of his neck. It’s just a guy, he told himself. It’s just Carlton’s boyfriend. You’re just being paranoid. You’re just obsessed because you’re lonely…and because you miss that boy more than your own house…
Carlton pulled the door open. "You made it! You’re soaked, man, come in"
The figure standing in the doorway was wrapped in a heavy, dark coat. He was shaking an umbrella, his head down as he stepped into the light of the room.
"Sorry Carl" the voice said, soft, carrying the unmistakable lilt of a boy who had grown up in a house in the woods of Indiana. "The subway was a nightmare. I think I left half my soul at the Atlantic Avenue station, never again !"
The boy looked up, wiping a stray droplet of rain from his cheek. They kissed.
The book slipped from Mike’s hand, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
It was Will.
But it wasn't just Will. It was a version of Will that looked... happy. His eyes lit up when he saw Carlton, a genuine, warm light that Mike hadn't seen directed at anyone in years.
"Will, this is my roommate, Mike" Carlton said, stepping back to introduce them, his hand coming to rest on Will's shoulder in a casual, intimate gesture. "Mike, this is-"
"Will?" Mike’s voice was a ghost of a sound. Oh shit, it’s really him.
Will froze. The smile didn't disappear, but it faltered. His eyes locked onto Mike’s, and for a heartbeat, the 1990s dissolved. They weren't in a dorm in New York. They were in a field, in the rain, with a van and a painting between them. Everywhere only they could know.
"Mike?" Will whispered.
Carlton looked between them, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Wait... you-young guys know each other?"
The silence that followed was louder than the NYC traffic, louder than the rain, and louder than the truth Mike Wheeler had spent his whole life trying to outrun. What. The. Hell. Is actually happening?