Chapter Text
Mike pushes the last box into the back of Joyce’s overflowing car, slamming the trunk shut and hoping that none of Will’s things have been crushed in the process. He comes around to the front where Will is sitting on the hood, twirling the keys in his hand.
“You ready to take on New York?” Mike asks, taking his own place on the hood.
“Yeah,” Will nods, still staring down at the keys. “Yeah, I think so.”
He turns his head and looks at Mike, flashing him a grin. “Not like I haven’t had to handle worse.”
Mike nods, expression grim. “You’re right. Putting all those boxes in the car was a bitch.”
Will shoves him, laughing. “Oh my god, you carried, like, two boxes.”
“The last two boxes. Planning battles against Vecna was a way easier puzzle than what you’ve got going on in your mom’s trunk right now.”
“Just wait until it’s your turn to move, you’ll see what it’s like.”
Mike turns away then, staring back out at the trees around the cabin. “You’re right, though.”
“About moving?” Will asks, trying to keep up with Mike’s sudden change in tone.
“No, I mean about New York. You’re going to do great there.”
Before Mike can stop himself, he reaches out and grabs Will’s hand, meaning to just give it a squeeze. Something encouraging, something comforting. Only, he doesn’t let go after. Can’t let go.
Will squeezes his hand back, and doesn’t let go either.
“I’m excited for it,” Will admits, looking into the woods as well. “I just wish…”
“What?”
Will turns fully then, bringing one leg up and tucking it under himself so he can really face Mike.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Will sighs. “What’s your plan? I’m leaving, Dustin’s leaving, even my mom and Hop are moving. Max and Lucas are talking about moving out to California. What about you?”
Mike shrugs, trying to put on a joking grin. “Hey, I heard Steve’s buying a place in Forest Hills. Maybe we can be neighbors.”
“I’m serious, Mike. You’re so smart, and you’re so talented, and you could go anywhere, and I hate the idea that you’re going to be alone.”
“I can’t just leave, Will. My family’s here,” Mike frowns.
“Nancy isn’t.”
“Nancy isn’t going to want me following after her and moving in.”
“Why not? I’m following after Jonathan and moving in with him.”
“That’s different.”
Will lets go of Mike’s hand and jumps off the hood of the car, crossing his arms and starting to pace. Mike wants to interrupt him, to ask him what he’s thinking, ask why he cares so goddamn much. But he waits instead.
Finally, Will takes a deep breath and stops in front of Mike.
“So follow me then,” he says, the solution whooshing out quietly with his breath.
Mike hears him perfectly, and he can’t believe it at all. “What?”
“Follow me. Come with me.”
“Like, now?”
“Yes, Mike! Right now. We’ll come back for your stuff some other time. You can just wear my clothes or we’ll stop and buy some somewhere and you’ll come to New York with me and you’ll be out of this town and maybe you’ll be able to figure out what it is you want.”
This time, Mike admits it: “That’s what I want. That’s exactly what I want.”
This time, Mike says: “Okay.”
This time, Mike jumps into the passenger seat of the car.
The dream ends before Will can even slide behind the wheel.
Mike wakes up, alone, in his bed in Hopper’s old cabin. Hopper gave it to him after he and Joyce moved, told him to do whatever the hell he wanted with it. So Mike had taken everything that they had left, everything that had once belonged to El or Will, or any remnant from Hopper’s old life. The things that had been forgotten in the scramble as everyone else got out of town. He took all of that, wrapped each individual drawing or t-shirt or cassette tape or random knickknack in tissue paper, laid them in boxes and taped the boxes shut. He put the boxes in the little cellar in the floor, closed the hatch, and spent an hour dragging the couch to rest directly on top of it. Four years later, and he still pretends not to notice the gouges that couch left in the floor as he moved it. He pretends he didn’t give up and just start screaming at one point. That he didn’t lay on top of the couch and waste the rest of the day crying when he had finally moved it.
The house was really his, now. Not “Hopper’s old place” anymore, but Mike’s place. He’d taken Hop’s bed out of the living room and replaced it with his own from his parents’ house. He’d spent his first check from the Radio Shack on the Word Processor in El’s old room.
His office.
Writing room.
Whatever. Not El’s old room. His room.
Mike finally reaches over and turns off the alarm clock alerting him that he’s made it to another nine o’clock in the morning, but he doesn’t move beyond that. Just lays there and watches the dust swirling in the sunlight streaming in through the blinds.
He should get some nice curtains, he thinks.
He won’t.
There are tear tracks still on his face. Crying in his sleep again, apparently.
Must have had a nightmare he can’t remember. PTSD. Max had told him about it the last time they talked, something she’d learned in her psychology program.
When was the last time they had talked?
Mike knows it wasn’t a nightmare, of course. Or maybe it was, depending on your definition. He’d read once about The Nightmare. It was in some book about ghosts and monsters he’d gotten from the library in a half-hearted attempt to work on one of his own unfinished novels. The Nightmare had been some form of demon. A ghost. Something that came in the night while you were sleeping and sat on your chest. Pushed down with all its weight until you couldn’t breath, until all you felt was this agonizing weight pressing and pressing on you as you struggled and gasped and tried to live.
And then you die.
So maybe it was a nightmare.
It was a stupid dream anyway. That conversation with Will hadn’t even happened when he was getting ready to move. It had happened on the beach in Montauk, after Joyce and Hop’s wedding. While everyone else had been partying and celebrating, Mike had brought a beer out to the beach and sat in the sand drinking it and thinking about the drive he’d be making back to Hawkins tomorrow.
Will had followed him out.
And that conversation hadn’t been nice. They hadn’t used nice words, and they definitely hadn’t held hands. And Will had not asked him to come to New York. And Mike still pretended he hadn’t wanted him too.
The dream was ridiculous, because Mike hadn’t even been there when Will left. He hadn’t carried any boxes. Didn’t give Will a hug and see him off like everyone else did.
He was supposed to. They had all agreed on a time and everything, so everyone would get the chance to say goodbye.
But when nine o’clock had rolled around, Mike was still sitting in the town square, staring at the same stupid memorial.
Ten o’clock.
Eleven o’clock.
Twelve.
One.
Two.
It had started to rain.
Three.
Steve had found him. Drove him home. Didn’t say a word about it.
Mike had showered, put on dry clothes, put on a smile, and was sitting at the table with his family by the time dinner rolled around.
This Mike, the now-Mike, the four-years-later Mike, looks over at the alarm clock again.
It’s eleven now.
Two hours gone. Staring at the dust.
Mike groans and crawls out of the bed. Drags himself into El’s old room. Plops down in his writing chair.
Stares at the word processor.
Twelve.
One.