Chapter Text
“Well, I guess this is it,” says Lucas.
The party minus Dustin has gathered in Mike Wheeler’s garage after a heated game of D&D—for what is most likely going to be the last time, at least in the foreseeable future. Tomorrow, Lucas, Max, and Will are going to hop on the flight to New York, where Lucas and Max will study together at St. John’s University in Brooklyn, and Will will follow his brother’s footsteps and pursue his dreams at NYU. Two months ago, Dustin left early for Boston, invited by some bigshot Astrophysics professor who took notice of Dustin’s exceptional knowledge and skills and decided to not waste any time.
As for Mike, nothing.
He is not leaving. Not yet.
Maybe next semester. Maybe next year. He is not sure, because he somehow can’t picture a future for himself anymore. It’s all dark, all blank.
“This is really our last night, huh?” Will says, eyes shimmering.
“It’s funny ‘cause,” Lucas laughs, “remember when we were kids, we couldn’t wait to get out of this stupid little town, because there were never any big comic cons here, nothing interesting ever happened, no celebrity ever visited. But now, we have every reason to get out of here and never come back, but it’s still . . .”
“It’s still hard,” Max completes.
“Yeah.” Mike slowly nods. “It’s still home.”
The party—or what’s left of it—share a quiet smile among themselves. It’s clear that they are all on the brink of tears, but no one is ready to let go first, especially not Mike.
But then Will says, holding up his arms, “One last group hug?”
“Yes, please.” Lucas puts one arm around Will’s neck and the other around Max’s shoulders. The three of them look at Mike, who is hesitating a little.
One last group hug.
He hates the finality in that sentence. He wanted to be oblivious to the end for as long as he could. Perhaps until the next few days if possible, when he would realize that the reason why none of his friends are coming to his house is because they have all already left Hawkins. But this hug feels too definite. It won’t let him be oblivious.
“Come on, Mike,” Will says, lightly grabbing his arm.
Mike can’t look him in the eye as he puts his arm around Will’s back. He was about to put his other arm around Max when she squirms away.
“Um.” Max scowls, looking disgusted.
Mike rolla hia eyes. “Seriously?”
Max breaks into a smile. “I’m just teasing.” She pulls Mike in. Now that the quartet is complete, the hug tightens, a mesh of arms and hands fitting haphazardly. But it’s warm, it’s nice. It’s home.
It’s his best friends he saved the world with.
“This is really messy, ‘cause Mike is like hella tall,” Lucas complains, his voice coming from somewhere below Mike.
“It’s not me who is hella tall, it’s Max who’s super short,” Mike defends.
As soon as he says that, he feels a kick on the back of his knee and lets out a yelp as the leg involuntarily folds, scrouching him down to Max’s height. Her sharp blue eyes regard him pride. “Could you repeat that, please?”
“That was so hot, Max,” Lucas says, starstruck as usual.
“Thanks, Lucas. I know.”
“Hot? She almost impaled me!”
“Impaled is a bit . . .” Will shrugs.
“You’re taking her side too, Will? Wow.”
“I’m not taking any si- can we just focus on the hug?”
And everyone focuses on the hug again, trying to get back into the emotions, as awkward as that is in this weird position. But Mike wishes they didn’t, because now he is suddenly hyper-aware of Will’s hand around his waist, the grip not tight but also not gentle. Meanwhile, his own hand isn’t even fully touching Will’s back. It’s kind of just hovering over it, the skin of his palm tingling like there are ants dancing on it.
“Okay, how long are we gonna stay like this?” Max breaks the silence that probably lasted like five seconds.
“Ugh, this isn’t working.” Will pulls out of the hug first, hand falling off of Mike’s waist. Even after it’s gone, Mike can still feel the ghostly remnants of the touch. “We were supposed to start crying and comforting each other. You guys are no fun.”
“Okay okay, Will, let’s try again,” Lucas consoles.
“I don’t want to.” Will sulks, turning away from the group.
“Come on, Will.” Lucas grabs his hand and tries to pull him back.
Mike stares at their joined hands and feels his own one jerk a little. He directs the annoyance to the most obvious person. “See, Max? This is your fault. You ruined the vibe.”
Max rolls her eyes, letting out a groan. “Look, it’s not my fault we’ve already done this thing when Dustin left, so it’s not hitting the same anymore.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Will admits. Mike can’t help but notice Lucas’ arm is still around him. He doesn’t know why his mind takes a note of that, and why it doesn’t feel good. “Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe not every farewell needs to be full of tears and snot.”
“It’s because the three of you are gonna be close to each other, so you’re not feeling it much,” Mike says. He meant for it to come out as sarcastic, but his true emotions started peeking through somewhere along the fourth or fifth word.
The three of them exchange sad glances, before Lucas says, “Dude, it’s not like we’re never gonna see each other again. Dustin’s gonna come back here super often. His mom’s still here, Steve’s still here. As for us? There’s Christmas break, summer break, there’s gonna be plenty of chances. Right, guys?”
Max and Will nod. Max says, “And you’re a grown ass man. You can come visit us whenever you want.”
“I don’t know.” Mike's insecurity runs deeper than what he lets on. “What if it’s awkward with your new friends? When you guys join a new party.”
“Not possible,” Will says immediately, smiling at him the same way he did that October afternoon of ’85, when Mike lost Will for the second time. Instead of nostalgia and warmth, he feels a thorny vine of grief wrap around his heart.
Tonight, Mike is going to lose Will for the third time.
“Exactly,” Lucas says. “I mean yeah, maybe we will make new friends. But they won’t be like you guys.”
“Remember when we all went to watch Stand By Me in the theaters last year?” Will asks. “And we all cried at the last scene, when Gordie said-”
“I never had friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve,” Max continues.
And then they all say in unison, “Jesus, does anyone?”
The friends share a laugh. Watching that movie felt like watching their own childhoods play out in the big screen. Or rather, the childhood they could have had if there were no monsters and wormholes and alternate dimensions in the picture. Mike knew, as he was walking out of that cinema hall, that he would never be able to rewatch that movie. It healed something in his friends, but it broke something in him. More than what was already broken.
“So yeah, we’re gonna be fine, okay?” Max says, patting Mike’s arm. It feels weird to be comforted by her of all people.
“Yeah, we’ve been through some craaazy stuff together.” Lucas makes a wriggling gesture with his hands. “We’re kind of stuck with each other for life.”
“True.” Will laughs.
“Especially you two.” Lucas points between Will and Mike. “You guys have been friends since kindergarten. That’s like, more than half of your lives. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Mike and Will share a look. Will offers him a kind smile, but Mike can barely return it, turning his gaze away, afraid he will break down any second now. Instead he forces a smile and nods. “Let’s stay in touch, okay?” he says, though deep in his heart, the words feel like a lie.
“We will, right, Will?” Lucas raises his brows, waiting for a reaction.
Will is the only one who laughs. Max rolls her eyes. “That was so unfunny.”
“Will thought it was funny. Right, Will?”
“It was,” he says, still laughing.
“Okay but, seriously. It’s getting late,” Max reminds everyone, and they all turn to Mike. “Time to say goodbye.”
Mike presses his lips together and nods. “Time to say goodbye.”
“C’mere, man.” Lucas pulls him to a hug, patting his back. A lump forms in Mike’s throat, but he tries to swallow it down. Lucas’ body is now taut and muscular, though he used to be the thinnest among them when they were kids, losing all hints of the baby fat first. “I’m gonna miss you,” he says, and Mike envies how easily he says such things. He envies a lot of things about Lucas. His selflessness, his loyalty, his bravery. His loving parents. And his ability to deal with his complex emotions in a calm way, without ruining everything around him.
If Mike was even half of what Lucas is, maybe tonight would be his last night in Hawkins too.
“Me too,” Mike replies.
Lucas lets go, and Mike looks at Max, raising his brows.
“I’ll pass.” Max throws him her signature passive-aggressive smile.
“Shut up, Mayfield,” Mike says, before bringing a groaning Max to his arms. Her head reaches upto his neck. This is the second time he has hugged her, the first time being at El’s funeral. By that point, Mike had no tears left to cry, but Max was hysterically sobbing, and it felt like she was doing his share of the crying too. He thinks back to how mean he was to her when she first joined the party, thinking she was somehow going to replace El. But he never saw El as happy as she was when she became Max’s friend.
To think that Max would have died if El hadn’t restarted her heart fills Mike with an immense sense of dread.
If losing El feels like this, what would have happened to him if he had lost his other friends too?
They break the hug, and Max looks up at him with an unusual kindness in her eyes. She tells him, “You gotta get out of this God-forsaken town, Wheeler.”
He can’t meet her eyes as he nods and says, “I will.”
Max and Lucas then turn to Will, who looks at Mike once before saying, “Uh, you guys go ahead. I’ll get the car started.”
For one blissful moment, Mike feels glad. Glad that he can say goodbye to Will alone. After all, even among his close friends, Will is the closest of all. Will is special. But the bliss is soon replaced by a strange sense of anxiety. Will is special. It feels like he hasn’t really let himself think about Will in that way for a long time. A ridiculously long time, to the point it feels like a new thought. Something that he never realized before.
But Will is special. For many reasons.
Lucas takes out his bike and mounts it. Max gets on behind him. Both of them turn to Mike, who still can't get used to just how good they look together. “See ya, Paladin,” Lucas says, waving.
Mike smiles, or at least tries. “See ya, Ranger and Zoomer.”
And with a final smile, the two of them bike away. Mike and Will watch them until they disappear from sight.
A sudden silence begins. Despite there being lesser people than before, the garage suddenly feels extra cramped.
Will's footsteps break the silence as he walks over to his car--more like, Hopper's car--and leans back against it. “Are you okay?”
Mike looks at him. It’s strange how frequently Will asks him that lately. It always used to be him asking Will if he was okay.
"Yeah." He nods. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Mike. Friends don't lie."
“No, yeah, I just . . .” Mike takes a deep breath, then walks over to Will, also leaning against his car, keeping a safe distance between them. He spends some time organizing his thoughts, before saying, "You know, whenever I see Holly and her friends . . . all sit down on the same table as us and open the D&D manuals-” He is starting to feel choked up again, like there is a big stone sitting inside his throat, blocking air. “Whenever I see that, it always reminds me of the time we opened it for the first time. The two of us. Do you remember?”
“Of course I do.” Will’s eyes are still twinkling with unshed tears, voice a little raspy. “I more than remember.”
"And then I think of the first time we taught it to Lucas. And then we taught it to Dustin. Then Erica. Then Max. And now it's Holly doing that to her friends. Being the Dungeon Master like me, creating stories. She has her own party now."
Will nods. "A full circle moment, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Mike crosses his arms, nails digging into the side of his ribs. "I guess-" he closes his eyes, “I guess it just didn’t really hit me until now that . . . that it’s over.” His voice breaks at the last word. “Our childhood. It’s over now.”
He gulps, but the lump in his throat doesn’t go away. In fact, it seems to grow only bigger. Even more so, when he feels Will’s hand on his shoulder. He wants to cry. Actually cry, just letting the tears drop uncontrollably and sobbing like the world is ending. He has wanted to do that many times the past 18 months, perhaps even longer than that. But it doesn’t happen. It’s like something has permanently broken within him, and he can’t even figure out where the damage is, let alone think about how to fix it. Maybe the damage is everywhere, in every limb, every vein, every particle. So no matter how desperately he wants to, he cannot cry, he can only suffer at the verge of it, hanging from the edge but never falling.
Will squeezes his shoulder, and Mike looks at him, seeking some understanding that he knows he will get from Will. “We will never be 12 again, Will.” He tries to smile, but his lips only twitch. “Hell, we will never even be 17 again.”
“That’s right, we won’t," Will says, sounding surprisingly more stable than him. "But it’s okay. We don’t need to."
Or maybe not. Maybe Will doesn't understand. Not entirely.
"We already know what it’s like to be 12 and 17. But we don’t know what it’s like to be 20. It could be better or it could be worse, but it’s something new. So we should look forward to it, shouldn't we, Mike?”
Mike rubs his cold arms. Look forward? Look forward to what exactly? What if he doesn’t want to? What happens to people who don’t want to look forward?
But he doesn’t voice these thoughts directly to Will. Instead he says, trying to lighten the mood, “I don’t know, I guess a part of me just wants to be your Dungeon Master forever.”
“You are.” Will lightly punches Mike’s arm. “You always will be. Same way I will always be Will The Wise when we are back in your basement playing D&D. Those things will never change. But,” he pauses, as if carefully choosing his next words, “in the real world? I’m not a wizard, nor a sorcerer. You know?”
“You were a sorcerer,” Mike reminds him. “That did happen in the real world.”
And it was perhaps the most magical moment of Mike’s life--that earth-shattering transition from accepting his death to witnessing Will with his hand stretched out towards him, eyes blown white.
Will lets out a shy giggle. “Okay, but not anymore. And the point is, I don't need to be one anymore. I don’t want to be. I don’t believe that’s where my magic lies.”
And just like that, Will shatters Mike’s illusion, yet once again.
“I want to be . . .” Will scrunches his nose and raises his brows as he thinks. “I want to be Will The Painter. Will the Kind. Will the . . . Will the Lover. All those oridinary, mundane titles. I think they hold all the magic we need in this world.”
The pain in Mike’s chest is so grating that for a second he considers if he might be sick. He should be feeling proud of Will, proud of how far he has come, how he still manages to cling to the hope of a beautiful future despite going through hell and back. But instead of the pride, all he feels is a crushing sense of loss. An impending wave of loneliness. His friends have moved on. They have become stronger, so strong that they no longer need to extract strength from made-up titles for a fantasy role-playing game. They are making titles of their own, titles that hold value in the real world. The real world.
After all, they are not gonna be sitting in his basement all day and play games for the rest of their lives.
“And you, Mike? You will discover that magic too.” Will looks at him with so much certainty in his eyes that for a second Mike almost wants to believe him. “I already know you’re going to be Mike the Writer. And when you leave this town one day and see how big the world beyond it is, you will be so much more. You’ll be okay. We will be okay.”
Mike looks deep into Will’s eyes, because that’s the only place where he can see the reflection of a beautiful life for himself. “We will be okay,” he repeats, more a prayer than an affirmation.
Will nods, a single drop of tear rolling down his cheek, which he hastily wipes. He leans back against the car, and for a moment, the two of them just stand there in the silence of the garage, both looking at two different directions, an unnecessarily wide gap between them. Mike can almost see the unspoken words floating in that gap, but he won’t say them. He won’t ever say them. He is not sure he can even read what they are. Whether he will allow himself to read them.
But he recognizes that this is the last time he gets to talk to Will like this before . . . before things change. And if Will was convinced Mike is okay, he would have started to get ready to leave. Mike decides to steer the focus away from himself. “So, New York,” he begins.
“Mhm?” Will smiles.
“How do you feel about it? About the- the big city, you know? Possibly bigger than we can imagine.”
“I’m . . . intrigued?” He chuckles, the glow returning to his eyes. “Yeah, it’s big, sure. But maybe that’s a good thing. That means it’s more open. Has more possibilities. Maybe I won’t constantly have to feel like I have to hide. Maybe I will find more people like me. People my age.”
More people like him. Mike knows what that means now. He just doesn’t know why it makes his heart ache so much. “I have heard New York is a very diverse place. Not like Indiana.”
“Yeah, I have heard that too. Still a bit scary though. Being from a small town and going to a big one, I wonder if I will manage to fit in. I never managed to make friends in Lenora either. But it was fine because-” He pauses, glancing once at Mike then back ahead. “Because El was there with me.”
He touches the locket around his neck, with two stones hanging from it. One of the stones has the letter W carved on it, the other has E. Jonathan has one with the letter J. Joyce made these for them a few months back, for her three kids. Hopper used to wear El’s one, but he gave it to Will right before their graduation. ‘It will be like both of you are graduating together,’ he had said. Ever since then, Will has kept it. He never takes the locket off.
Mike looks down at his feet, which sometimes feel too big for his body. He tries to ignore the sharp pain shooting through his entire being at the mere mention of El and says, “You’ll make friends, Will. You have changed now. You have become more confident in yourself.”
“I hope so.”
Mike knows Will will make it. He knows it from deep within is heart. Will is so strong. Stronger than he ever will be.
That’s why Will doesn’t need him anymore.
No one does.
“But no matter how many people I find,” Will says, “I don’t think anyone will ever truly understand.” He looks at Mike. “What we have been through.”
Mike slowly nods. This is one thing that no one will be able to take away from them. Not even the cruel passage of time. Their shared trauma.
“So I am sure I will always find my way back to you guys. No matter what. And maybe when we are back in your basement, we will get to be 12 again.”
Mike smiles at Will through his trembling lips. “We will get to be heroes again.”
“Right, we will.” Will smiles back, and the two of them hold each other’s gazes for a second too long. Mike’s breath gets caught and he breaks the moment by sharply looking away. Will stands up straight. “Okay, I think I should go now.”
“Yeah.” Mike moves away from the car as Will opens the door to it. Mike watches him get in. In the back of his mind, he is already imagining a scene where Will doesn’t get in the car. He simply comes back in to the house, and they go back down to the basement to read comic books. The imagination threatens to warp his reality, blurring his vision. The car door shuts loudly, snapping him out. Will rolls down the window, looking up at Mike.
“Come meet me in New York sometimes,” he says, his big, green eyes carrying incredible depth.
Mike can't hold Will's gaze too long, so he looks at his arm slung over the window. “Maybe I will write you letters. Talk about the stories I’m writing. And you could tell me about the paintings you’re working on. The people you meet.”
Will does not respond immediately, and Mike wonders if he is still talking in fantasies. Will takes a deep breath and says, “Maybe.”
His smile this time feels more like that of pity than anything else.
And then Will asks, “Still best friends?”
Mike looks down at him and all he can see is the boy he has known for more than half of his life. When did he grow up so much? That's his first ever friend. Mike can remember the day they met in the swings of their kindergarten's park for the first time. Mike knew, from the moment Will caught his eye, that this boy is going to be his friend. His best friend. But after all these years, does ‘best friend’ truly encapsulate what Will means to him? Does Will even know what he means to Mike? Probably not. Because Mike will never say it. There are a lot of things he will never say. That is his greatest tragedy.
“Yeah, of course.” He smiles, the flesh on his face feeling like rubber. “Best friends. Always.”
A final smile, and Will starts the engine, rolling up the window. Mike stares at him until the second the edge of the glass meets the frame.
And then Will drives away from the garage, and Mike watches him leave, looking at the car until it disappears behind the turn.
A catastrophic quietude penetrates his soul.
He looks up at the singular bulb at the gate of the garage. He stares at the flies spinning and buzzing around it, basking in the glow. If he stares long enough, maybe the light will reach him. But it doesn’t. He feels cold. Empty. Disheveled.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there. Time has lost all meaning. At some point, his body tells him to move because his legs are growing numb. So he moves. He goes back inside and heads straight to the stairs.
“Mike?”
He turns around and finds him mom at the bottom of the starcase. He tries to focus only on her eyes, because the stitches on her neck stings on his own skin. “Yeah?”
“Are you . . . okay, honey?”
Mike nods. “Yeah. Why?”
“You just look . . .” There is so much worry in her eyes. Mike can’t figure out why. How does he look right now? Does he look like someone who has lost everything? “You know you can talk to me, right? I’m right here for you.”
“I know.” He tries to smile. “Thanks, mom.” He doesn’t have anything to talk about. No one's going to understand, not really. So he walks up the stairs and heads to his room. He can hear his little sister and her friends’ laughter from the basement, and wonders if his own laughter with his friends used to echo around the house like this back then.
He enters his room and locks the door. He takes off his sweatshirt and his pants. Now only in his underwear, he lies down on the cold floor. It cuts into his skin like pinpricks. He curls into himself in a fetal position, hugging his bare arms and knees to his chest. He tries to tighten the hug, put more pressure on his body, as if that could somehow distract him from the ache he feels deep in his bones.
For some time in the middle, Mike thought that maybe he is okay now. Maybe he can be okay. Maybe he will get better soon. He will learn to live by carrying this ineffable grief and inexplicable loss and the plethora of regrets piling up. Everything will be okay with time.
But now as he lies here on his cold bedroom floor, he knows with a scary certainty that nothing will be okay. He cannot envision a future for himself where he will be okay, despite what he told Will. Become a writer? How many times has he tried to sit down at his desk and put into words all that he had been feeling ever since that day? At some point he knew he was incapable of doing it. He can tell a story only when it’s fantasy with no relation to the real world. He cannot tell his own story. He cannot narrate his own feelings.
And without an outlet for all these, how can he go on? How can he carry it all through the bumpy road of life without collapsing again and again?
All these thoughts haunt him. The more he thinks about it, the more he wants to forget. Forget everything and everyone and strip himself of every emotion until he becomes nothing more than a breathing lump of flesh and bones. What would he have to do to reach that kind of state?
He would do anything.
He again thinks back to his last exchange with Will. The hesitance in Will’s voice and the pity in his eyes as he said ‘Maybe’. He knows. He knows that this time too, things will be just like they were when he moved to California.
I didn’t hug him, Mike realizes too late.
He hugs himself tighter and lies lifelessly on the floor.