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𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙣𝙚: "𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 / 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙄 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙮 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙"
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𝙈𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙧⋆·˚ ༘ *
Mike Wheeler didn’t know what to do with himself.
It always showed.
Awkward silences. Half-words. Eyes darting anywhere but forward.
The 90s hit like a fucking truck.
The party scattered, college dreams in backpacks and bus tickets out of Hawkins, except Mike.
He stayed.
Wrote stories instead of applying.
Knights who never made it home.
Monsters that looked like people he used to love.
Blood on the pages where his heart should’ve been.
At first? He liked being alone.
No school is full of noise.
No expectations hanging off his wrists like handcuffs too heavy to wear anymore.
But then… it got quiet, too quiet.
Something was missing.
Someone was missing.
Summers were worse, empty halls echoing memories he couldn’t shake: bike rides, long conversations, and campaigns he thought would never end.
laughter tangled in fear.
A hand brushes his just once, accidental? Maybe, but
felt like fate anyway.
Will Byers left, but didn’t really go anywhere far in Mike’s head.
That boy lived rent-free behind his eyelids every waking hour since the 5th grade.
And now? Nothing but awkward reunions every couple of years, heavy eyes avoiding each other over cheap beer bottles, clinking at backyard barbecues where El got too wine drunk and Lucas told jokes no one cared about.
Mike couldn’t speak much anymore anyway, not really words that mattered, and god forbid he say anything true. Nothing was true to him anymore.
Then Thursday came in rain smells: rusted metal + wet dirt, something sour underneath it all. the kind of day where thoughts walk louder than normal things do.
Michael's alarm screamed; he slapped it to silence fast.
In the same way, he killed feelings before he thought.
The Fleetwood Mac shirt still smelled like his blunt from last week, or maybe even yesterday.
He didn't wash anything lately anyway — who would notice?
Jeans stiff from a spilled can or Coors several days ago, or tears dried into the fabric, maybe both?
Stairs creaked under doodled cons too tight for these hours of the morning; his body moved automatically while his brain or maybe even his heart wandered elsewhere, faraway places only exist inside heads full of words never spoken.
“Michael, honey,” Karen called from the couch, not looking up. "Could you stop at the store?"
She braided Holly’s hair slowly, fingers gentle, careful, and loving. All things Mike forgot how to be now that he’s gone.
“Mhm,” he said once again.
Same answer as always.
the same half-ass reply forever.
Why does she notice him? Who cares?
Last summer broke him clean open. One bad night bled into another until pills and whiskey became just another step in his super-tight schedule. It was so tight he just couldnt bother to sleep any longer. so sleep wouldn't bring dreams filled with brown eyes and a soft voice. “crazy together”.
He wasn’t proud of any of it.
Just… tired.
Tired is dangerous when you don't care enough not be reckless.
Mike's car smelled horrible, I mean, like, really bad. from ash trapped in the cup holder, a moldy Twinkie, a rotting floor mat, and a couple bottles of Tito's from the pregame that nobody attended.
Other then mike, of course.
Cigarette burns on the carpet near pedal remnants. a panic attack gone wrong mid-drive, trying not think about unsent letters stuffed in the glovebox. folded, creased, tear-stained edges peeling apart. all signed “love mike”, not quite a lie, Michael wouldn't lie to him, at least not now.
Mike remembers. That lighter sat there painted, a gift from Will a couple of years prior. Flame flickering, a beautiful, dim reminder of past happiness so real once, burns to the touch but blisters after a while. A spark between hands, pass it back and forth, a stupid fucking game meant nothing, probably. Why can’t I stop looking at this stupid lighter? Except it actually meant something, it meant everything. Everything ever important, gone. not broken or forgotten, but lost, so god damn lost.
A cologne bottle half-empty, a cracked label peeling, a slow death metaphor if ever saw one.
Then, the letter again
Unsent, still resting.
Front seat, passenger side, corner peeking up under a pile of socks. Stubborn, refusing to disappear even though it belongs buried, or perhaps burned. tossed into the ocean miles and miles away. Maybe it needs to be in the hands of that beautiful boy, the only one who would receive it if it ever got out. Until then, it's all his, collecting dust, a reminder of his cowardice. So fucking pathetic.
Can’t keep going on like this.
The engine spun awake, the CD player whirred, old habit, fingers cracked, muscle memory, pressed play, hit hard, familiar ache spread in the chest before the sound even began.
The first note played: hit like a fucking brick to the head,
Bowie’s “Heroes.”
One note: the whole world cracked open.
“Holy fucking shit.” Mike’s voice broke somewhere deep, shattered glass, lungs flaming inward, tears welled fast, uncontrollable reflex, trauma response, involuntary surrender, body betraying, mind telling truth, finally FINALLY saying what mouth refuses to scream aloud:
I think I need him, no— I know I need him.
The road blurred yellow, the mirror smeared. his double vision, water-filled eyes blinking, tears rolling. fail, fail, fail, failed again. He’s weak, trembling hands, reaching brake, he misses and slams into the wheel, instead swerved hard. right curb rose fast, sky tilted, wrong, wrong, wrong way, FUC—
The substantial impact exploded the airbag.
bursted face, snapped forward, skull split, sharp crack, pain, the brightest of whites, then black. Blood dripped down his temple steadily. warm forehead, tears dried down cheeks, the mingling of salt and sweet iron.
If only I told him
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𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝘽𝙮𝙚𝙧𝙨˙⋆✮
Will Byers didn’t talk much.
Not like Mike.
He drew instead.
Fingers smudged charcoal across paper late in the dead of night. quiet shapes forming: a boy’s profile under dim bedroom light, dark curls and freckles.
a hand hovering near another but never touching,
Castle byers at dusk, where nothing waits inside for him anymore,
and the boy he swore he lost feelings for.
NYU was loud.
Too loud, all of the time.
Too much color.
Too many people who thought they belonged.
He lived in a tiny apartment off campus with Carlton, a writer who loved blues and greens and bold stories that didn’t really make sense.
Sounds familar huh?
Will liked warm hues. The kind of colors that lived between heartbeats—the pause before something between a panic attack and love at first sight.
Had they been together two years now?
Maybe three?
Time blurred since the city became home, and Hawkins turned into postcards sent once a year around Christmas, signed "I hope to see you soon,”unsigned "I still love you."
Carlton knew about Mike.
But he didn’t know about him.
Of course, he didn’t
Will would never.
Why would he?
“You ever think about breaking up with me so you can finally be honest william?” Carlton joked once, but his eyes weren’t laughing when Will looked up from sketching some nameless face again for the tenth time that week. “Don't call me that carlton” Will looked scared, in a way his boyfriend had never seen before. “I don’t understand..” “Seriously, please.”
They didn’t speak the rest of the night.
Will called him Mike.
Just once—it slipped out when they were kissing, just once:
“Mike…”
Low voice, thick, dark room, only candles lit.
Carlton froze,
He didn’t ask then.
He waited hours before saying anything.
“You do realize I’m not him,” he whispered later from bed, back turned, stiff spine, rigid and hurt.
“I know,” Will said quietly, pencil still moving across page, shadows growing longer, “It just… happened.”
“It happens too much.”
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Morning started slow, sunlight leaking through blinds half-covered by unfinished canvases leaning against the wall like spirits waiting to be seen only by those meant to see them.
The coffee brewed bitter, and the smell filled the kitchen. small space, tight, cozy, maybe suffocating, depending on the mood, which changed hourly. sometimes minute-to-minute if a dream involved bikes or monsters. Maybe someone is letting their hand linger on top of his too long and letting go too fast.
Carlton painted in the corner studio; they shared space, crowded, colors overwhelming, loud even when silent.
“Your mom called yesterday,” Carlton said flatly, stirring coffee, black, no sugar, the same way every morning, the same voice used when bringing news expected but unwanted. “Left voicemail.”
Will paused pen mid-line, an eyebrow twitch. A slight reaction, barely visible unless watched closely—which Carlton always did now lately. searching, catching everything. trying find proof live inside, suspicion building slowly over the years, named Mike Wheeler.
“No message?”
“She said… something happened, she had gotten a call from some Karen.” His voice lowered slightly, cautious, measuring words carefully around broken glass. “Car crash. He’s alive, but bleeding badly. A head injury, something about airbags, trapped him, he couldn’t move, ambulance took twenty minutes, long enough make her cry twice already today, she sounded wrecked.”
Pen dropped, ink splattered, page spreading outward like a blood pool, center chest stopped beating a moment ago, or longer.
“I should go.” Voice quiet, firm, immediate instinct deeper than thought, older than memory, reflex, muscle memory, soul-level pull, nothing explains nor tries.
“No.”
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