Chapter Text
MONDAY
“I don’t care if Monday is blue.”
The notebook lay open on the first page, empty, waiting for him to write in it. Waiting for him to tidy up the mess in his head, to put into words the thoughts that had been torturing him for the last couple of months. Max had assured him it would help, that writing would clarify things. But for the past hour, the only thing he had managed to do was stare at the stupid blank page with such intensity as if he expected the notebook to combust at any moment, and with it, his problems to go away.
That wasn’t the case, of course.
This shouldn’t be happening. He was a writer, for Christ’s sake. But it seemed that writing fictional D&D stories had nothing to do with writing about his feelings.
Who would’ve thought that Mike Wheeler would have a writer’s block about his own damn life?
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, which now reached his shoulders again, not because of a conscious decision to grow it back, but because paying for a haircut was one of the last concerns he had at the moment. The little money he made at his part-time job, which filled the precious hours of the day he didn’t spend at uni or studying, barely covered the rent and living costs in New York, even when he shared all the expenses with Will. So in November, when he had noticed that his hair was a little too long for the hairstyle he was going for at the moment, he had to decide between using part of his savings to cut it, cutting it himself, or letting it be. He leaned towards the last option, being the one that required less effort.
This is not happening, he told himself, giving up on the task for the night.
He sat up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water, making as little noise as possible. The clock in the kitchen marked 2:07 am, and the city, as well as himself, was far from being asleep. That was one of the main things that bothered him about New York. He was glad to be more than 600 miles away from Hawkins, away from the streets and faces that constantly reminded him of those four traumatic years, but the city was something else. In the first weeks, he barely slept because of the street noise that managed to climb five floors and get into his eardrums, torturing him till sunrise, when he would curse the universe and prepare an insanely strong coffee to be able to get through the day without fainting. With time, he got used to it, but the insomnia didn’t go away. Now, the noise that kept him awake didn’t come from outside but from his own thoughts. Which led to the new notebook standing on his desk, meant to capture all these thoughts and see if he could, for once and for all, get more than five hours of sleep.
He reached for a glass in the top cabinet, filled it with tap water and opened the fridge out of habit, to find something worthy of a late-night snack. A plate of spaghetti, two unripe bananas and a portion of lasagna didn’t seem to fit his expectations, so he closed the fridge again and headed back to his bedroom, but light dripping out from Will’s room made him stop and change his mind. He found himself lightly knocking on Will’s door, electricity twitching at his knuckles.
He took a sip from the glass, and a couple of seconds later, he saw his best friend appear through the cracked door. The view made his heart drop.
Will’s hair was messed up and his swollen eyes were still wet even though Mike could tell he had tried to dry them off. His bottom lip was chewed up, red, and his gaze intentionally avoided Mike’s. The void in his chest felt bottomless.
“Hey, are you okay?” Mike asked, reaching for Will’s face with his free hand, gently running his thumb through his cheek to wash off the new tear that started falling. “What happened?”
Will closed his eyes and brushed off his hand, making Mike's heart twist in his chest, hurt. “Nothing… It's nothing. Do you need something?”
Mike hated it when that happened—Will being avoidant and closing himself off. It had been happening more often than he would like to. Mike was worried. He knew something was going on, and Will wouldn't tell him what it was, even when he could tell it was hurting him so much.
“I know it’s not nothing, Will. You think I don't see it, but I do. I know that when you lock yourself in your bedroom, you're hiding to cry. This apartment has very thin walls, Will. I can hear it. I know you wake up in the middle of the night with nightmares. I can hear you talking in your sleep. I don't know what is happening, but I know it’s killing you,” he took Will’s chin with his index and middle finger, tilting it up to finally make eye contact, Will’s hazel eyes darting between his own, “and I hate seeing it. I hate that you don’t let me help. So please, tell me what's going on, Will. I want to help.”
Will sighed and seemed to hesitate for a second, but finally opened the door, inviting Mike in. Mike entered the room, slightly illuminated by the lamp next to the unmade bed, taking care not to step over a paint tube or a lost marker—he had learned that the hard way. Will was way more organised than he was, of course. Still, with the amount of artistic supplies he had to store and the little space that the tiny cabinet in the corner next to the window offered him, some ended up not fitting and lying on his desk, nightstand, or, without him realising, the floor.
Beyond the art supplies lying everywhere, Will’s room undoubtedly belonged to an artist, as evidenced by the canvases piled next to the dresser, some already displaying his works, and others waiting to be used; shown in the dozens of drawings that hung on the wall, overlapping, creating a detailed collage of Will’s imagination; revealed by the mix of notebooks, sketchpads and textbooks spread across his desk and every available surface.
Mike sat on the little stool next to the easel that held the painting Will was currently working on—some kind of fruit bowl painted four times under different lightings—and left his now half-empty glass on the desk at his side. He looked as Will sat on the bed cross-legged, fidgeting with the drawstring of his sweatpants.
“Will, what's wrong?” He asked. He reached for Will’s hands, crossing the little gap between his seat and the place where his friend was. They were cold, and he took them between his own to warm them up.
He could see the struggle in Will’s face, debating whether to tell him about it or not. He should. He should, because Mike would die seeing him like this another day.
“It's just… I don't know.” He sniffed. “The finals season is around the corner, and the teachers are pressuring us too much, and I think it's getting to me.” A tremor ran through Will’s body, making him flinch. “I—, I have been having nightmares again.”
And he didn’t come to you for help, Mike’s mind triggered.
Shaking the thought, he squeezed Will’s hands as support. “And it's not only during the night. Sometimes, when I close my eyes for a little more than two seconds… I see him. And I know he's dead, I know he can't hurt me. But it scares me. And I don't know what to do. I know it's stupid and that this is happening because of the stress and whatever, but… I should be able to manage it.” He sighed and took one of his hands out of Mike's embrace to clean the new tears that were falling down his face. “I'm sorry.”
Mike beheld Will’s face, wanting to capture every detail, every sign of pain, to erase them from his expression forever.
“You don't have to be sorry about anything.” He took back Will’s hand, which was lying at his side, and caressed it, placing it back between his own. “I'm glad you told me. To be honest, I thought someone was hurting you. It killed me not knowing who it was to go and hit the shit out of them.”
Will laughed softly at that and Mike crooked a smile.
“To be honest, I can't see you hitting the shit out of anyone, Mike. Let alone… actually winning.”
Mike gasped, surprised, and pretended to be offended by the comment. “William, you think I can't win a fight? Bold of you to assume I wouldn't make a guy cry for mercy if they hurt you.” Will smiled sadly and Mike changed his sitting spot to be at his side, his knee brushing against his friend's. “Joking aside, thank you for telling me. I know how things can get into your head. Is there something, anything, I can do to help?”
Will closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if he were gathering strength.
“I, I thought that after defeating Vecna and moving out from Hawkins, the fear would be gone, you know? He isn't here anymore to torment me and take advantage of my worst fears. I am safe. But he had done that in the past, he got in my head and, Mike, the things he showed me…” Will’s voice cracked and he shrugged. “For the past two years, I've been fighting it, I've been trying to convince myself that it isn't real, that it can't hurt me. But when things get hard, when I don't get enough sleep, or I'm stressed, the visions come back and… I can't make them go away.” His voice faded into a whisper.
Mike let his hands drop Will’s and wrapped his arms around his body, hugging him tightly. He could smell the coconut scent of his shampoo in his hair.
“I fear I'll never get away from him.”
“He’s gone, Will. He can't hurt you anymore.” He softened the embrace to search Will’s gaze. “And I'm here for you, I'll always be. I can help. I want to help.”
Will paused, and Mike could see his thoughts gathering in his head.
“I wasn't able to get the nightmares to go away even back then, but… It helped having you by my side.” He paused, looking at Mike and crooking a smile. “I know it’s not the same and that no monsters are waiting for us around the corner, but can you stay here tonight? I know there's not much space,” he said, signaling the gap next to the bed, “but I could gather some blankets and make a mattress. You can go back to your room when I'm asleep if you want and…”
“Hey, hey,” Mike interrupted him, ”I'm staying. The whole night.” He squeezed him as reassurance. “And it's okay, I can sit at the desk—I don't think I'm getting any sleep anyway, so.” He said, shrugging.
Will’s room was small, as was everything in the apartment, but the distribution of the furniture made it seem not so microscopic. The easel was placed between the dresser and the desk, with the stool working as a sitting spot for both, changing its function according to convenience. It was on the corner opposite to the window, beside the single bed, close to Will. The placement was perfect. He could bring his lantern and take the notebook waiting on his own desk here and see if he could finally write something in it. Or he could keep working on the next project for his creative writing class—that was actually a better idea. And meanwhile, he could keep an eye on Will, make sure he's okay.
“Mike, there's no way I'll let you stay awake the whole night sitting on a stool. It is uncomfortable even for me, and I barely spend two hours a day sitting on it."
“Really, it is okay. If I go back to my room, I'll end up doing the same anyway, believe me. And my chair isn't the most comfortable either.”
Will sighed as if he were giving up. He stood up and gestured to Mike to do the same, and started to make the bed. Mike stood there looking again at the halfway-painted picture on the easel, paying attention to the careful strokes that made the bowl come to life in the four boxes in which the canvas was divided. He wondered how the trace of the brush in Will’s hands would feel if he were the piece of fabric attached to the frame.
“You can sleep with me.” Will offered after a moment, without looking at him, still focused on his task. “I can squeeze myself against the wall and we'll have plenty of space for both. You also need to rest. I know you haven't been sleeping well either. Maybe this could help you too.”
Mike's swallowed, slowly. He couldn't understand what that wriggling of his stomach meant, always related to Will.
“It is okay, Will, I don't want to bother.”
“Mike, I'm okay with it. I am the one who brought it up. I wouldn't have if I didn't want to.” He said, now facing Mike directly.
Mike nodded and stood silent until Will was finished. He looked at the now-made bed, knowing that there wasn't going to be plenty of space, as Will had assured, but they could both fit in there. He reached for the glass on the table and swallowed the rest of the water in one gulp—for some reason, his throat had gone dry.
“Okay. It is done. I would recommend you to put on some pyjamas,” Will said, gesturing to Mike's jeans and the Butthole Surfers t-shirt he had been wearing all weekend. Will already had his pyjamas on—that blue pair of sweatpants and the baggy striped t-shirt—, which made Mike think he had been sleeping before and woke up from a nightmare. From there, the reason for his earlier tears and swollen eyes, “and to bring your pillow, cause mine can't take us both.” He laughed, pointing at the small pillow resting on top of Will’s bed.
Mike nodded again and left for his bedroom, watching his steps again, even though he knew the coast was clear. He crossed the little hallway—if a twenty square feet area that divided the two bedrooms and connected them to the bathroom could be called that—and softly closed his bedroom door behind him.
He went to his dresser and opened the top drawer, destined for his underwear and any piece of clothing that wouldn't still qualify to wear regularly—his so-called pyjamas. He took a way too big cotton red t-shirt, which he didn't know exactly where it came from, and a pair of sports shorts ruined by a bleach stain on the rim. He didn't know either how the stain got there, but it had been his most reliable pair of pyjama shorts since senior year, so he didn't question it.
He undressed himself, throwing the dirty clothes in a pile he noted to take to the laundry basket in the bathroom when he got out, and put on the pyjamas. He also changed his pair of socks, now dirty due to his habit of walking barefoot through the apartment. He took a white pair with yellow stripes at the top.
Once changed, he went to reach for the pillow on the bed and glanced at the notebook sitting on his desk, mocking him.
Not this shit again.
He exhaled, and dropping the pillow again on the mattress, went to the desk. He reached for a pen in the pencil box and bent down over the notebook, pulled by an unknown force and a tickle in his fingers.
He wrote a single sentence at the top of the blank page. Just for the sake of doing it, he said to himself.
Once finished, he threw the pen on the desk, not caring to put it back where he had taken it from, grabbed the pillow with a fist, and got out of his bedroom in three big steps. He crossed the hallway and entered Will's room.
He was met with the sight of Will already in bed, sitting against the headboard. His eyes were now back to normal and his hair was parted as usual. He had a heavy book open between his hands, probably reading for a class, lit by the lamp on the nightstand.
He looked up at Mike, noticing his presence, and smiled. He slightly patted the space in the bed next to him. His right shoulder was pressed against the wall, intending to leave enough space for Mike to fit in comfortably. There was no way both of them got to keep enough personal space for themselves.
Mike approached the bed and sat slowly on the mattress that sank with his weight. He adjusted himself against the headboard, using his pillow as a backrest, and his elbow bumped Will on his side with the movement. He glanced at him and mumbled a ‘sorry’ and rolled his legs to get them under the bedcover, trying not to completely unmake Will’s previous work. Once he managed to get his lower body into the duvet, he turned to Will and smiled.
The silence felt heavy. It wasn't a bad silence—there wasn't such a thing as a bad silence when it was shared with Will—, but he could feel it in the skin of his arm that brushed Will's sleeve so slightly he probably wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't so conscious of his own body all of a sudden. He could feel it in the slow pace of Will's breathing that made his chest move, and he found himself unconsciously matching his rhythm. He could feel it in the warmth that Will’s body spread under the blankets, reaching his bare legs. He could feel it in the rising volume and the overlapping of thoughts inside his head, overwhelming him.
“What are you reading?” He blurted, trying to divert his attention from the meltdown threatening to reach him. He pointed at the thick book in Will’s lap, now closed. The cover read The Story Of Art in silver capital letters that were barely distinguishable from the grey background. The author was someone with the initials E. H, surnamed Gombrich.
“A chapter about Japanese Art for my Art History class tomorrow. Not as boring as I thought it would be. But that's enough.” He said and reached over Mike's lap to leave the book on the nightstand. “I'm dead tired.” He turned off the lamp, pushing the switch with his index finger, and bent back to his place. “We should sleep.”
Mike nodded, surrounded by darkness, his eyes still open, trying to get used to the lack of light. He felt Will slide himself under the bedcover and turn his back to the wall, occupying as little space as possible, facing Mike's direction. He decided to follow him, but instead of turning on either of his sides, he stood with his back pressed against the mattress, his hands over his stomach and his gaze fixed at some dead spot on the ceiling.
He was tense.
“Are you comfortable?” Will whispered. Mike felt how the air brushed on his cheek, milliseconds after the words left Will’s lips.
Mike swallowed. “Yeah, thanks. And you? Do you have enough space? I can move if you need.” The words came out anxiously, his heart pounding in his ears.
“I'm okay, don't worry.” He could feel Will smiling somehow. “Thank you for staying.”
“Whenever.” He answered and finally forced himself to close his eyes. He let out the air he didn't know was captured in his lungs, and with it, his body suddenly released all the tension it had accumulated.
In the darkness of his eyelids he didn't see Vecna or his worst fears come true.
He saw nothing.
And he heard… nothing.
There was silence.
The only sounds he managed to hear were Will’s and his own breath. And his heart, bumping.
The voices were gone.
The city was silent.
He knew silence in New York wasn't a thing, as well as he knew that the next day the voices would come back, but he let himself delight in the feeling, in the peace.
He turned on his side, facing the room, and he felt Will’s body adjusting behind him.
Whenever, he said to himself as he finally felt his body go limp and sleep take him in.
—
April 16th, 1990
I might get some sleep tonight.