Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Don’t you see, William?”

Will could hear the voice echoing, bouncing between the walls that enclosed him, but could not see his face. He didn’t need to. He knew who was addressing him. He knew what it was after. The disembodied voice sent a shiver through his body, but he didn’t think he was as scared as he perhaps should have been. Though his heart pounded in his chest, it was the only warning he had that something was wrong; he felt an odd calmness shrouding him, the shadows loitering in the darkness beckoning him closer, offering him a comfort that nothing else could bring him. He didn’t feel taunted by them, didn’t feel the coldness that he expected as they embraced him, drawing him in, further and further, deeper and deeper. A vine curled its way up his leg, twisting, slithering, until it reached his neck. Others joined it, forcing his body against the wall, pinning him in place as the shadows crept nearer. 

He stopped resisting, no longer seeing a need to. 

This was right. 

This was how it always was supposed to be. This was how it was always supposed to end. 

“They have all forgotten you, William, you mean nothing to them. They do not even notice your absence,” he paused. “Let me show you.”

Will did not respond. Did he want to see? See his friends, his family, Mike, unaware that he was missing, or maybe not unaware. Just uncaring. Apathetic. 

He meant nothing to them. He felt no ache in his chest at the thought, the all too familiar sensation no longer seeping its way through his veins, taking ahold of his mind and sending him spiralling. No, instead, his mind was empty, his vision clear, seeing the truth presented to him at long last. 

He did not need them. They did not need him. 

His vision swarmed then, the sight he was promised to be shown presented to him, everyone who had ever meant something to him unaffected by his disappearance. His mother, brother, and sister sat side by side, laughing, without him, Will’s absence entirely unnoticed, as if he wasn’t real, as if he never existed, or as if he never made it back to them as a child, but they moved on, time forcing him to fade into the distant past, a ghost of a memory. Lucas and Max smiled at one another, their hands entwined in plain sight, and Will was reminded that he could never have such a love, such a visible display of his affection, so open, so carefree. He watched as Mike and Dustin cracked jokes, with nothing uncomfortable sitting between them. No tension, no unspoken words begging to be let out, no feelings threatening to get in the way. Will would bring discomfort wherever he went, would let it bleed into the crevices of his friendships, staining what little love he had left to take. 

“You do not have to fight it anymore, William. You do not have to be afraid. You belong here. With us, not them.”

He was better without them. They were better without him. 

The shadows drew closer still. 

Will felt nothing. 

He opened his mind. 

A flicker of anger trickled through the cracks. He let it. 

He stared at the shadows, head on, breathing deeply. 

A glimmer of something else, a beacon of light, some indecipherable feeling, bubbled up from his chest. He pushed it down. It was foreign. It was all he knew. It would set him free. It was the very thing keeping him trapped. He didn’t need it. Not now, not anymore. 

The shadows whispered to him, voices overlapping, incomprehensible individually, but, blended together in the darkness, Will knew what they were saying, what they wanted from him. Their hissing and snarling put him at ease, providing him with the solace he had always sought. They knew what he wanted from them, as they encircled him, caged him. He was drowning in them. He could feel them inside and out. They clouded his vision, his mind, but he had never seen, never known, anything so clearly. He had never witnessed such unmistakable truth. He did not beg for mercy. He did not ask them stop. They did not have to ask for permission. 

He let them in. 

~

“Mike? Mike, wake up, shit, shit, shit, MIKE?” 

Mike was being shaken wildly back and forth, panic surrounding him from all sides as his friends realised what was happening to him. He felt nothing as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his mind was taken ahold of, snatching away any tether to reality as he was dragged from body. He heard nothing. Saw nothing. 

Just darkness. 

An endless sea of blackness surrounded him from all sides, pulling him in, until he felt himself fall, landing hard. His vision flooded, and he found himself opening his eyes to the sight of the Mac-Z, soldiers shouting around him, restraining his arms, and he heard the shouts of his friends who, too, were being held captive. Ahead of him stood the gate, the opening to the looming destruction crashing down on their lives, with the shadow of a figure, tiny compared to the size of the gate, hovering in the entrance. He knew who it was immediately. 

In a second, he realised with a gasp what was going to happen. What she was going to do. 

“EL!” he yelled, but to no avail; she could not hear, nor was her mind going to be changed. A surge of pity ran through him, realising that she genuinely believed she had no other choice. That it had to end like it began, destroying the creation that she had opened a door to and taking her life along with it. It wasn’t fair, he thought. She deserved to make a life for herself just as much as the rest of them. She deserved to get to make her own decisions for what she wanted to do. She deserved to get to love and be loved, to break free of the constraints that held her captive, to grow old with her friends and the family that she had found for herself. She deserved more than to die at sixteen, nothing more than the superhero that he had decided she was, not even her own person. 

He was yanked then, from his own body, surrounded once again by a vast darkness, though this time, he was not alone. El, dressed in a wetsuit, her hair pulled back tightly, was suddenly in front of him, tears in her eyes as she frantically explained to him what she was doing and why. Why she wanted to die. Why she wanted to rid the world of people like her. 

He tried to argue, begged her not to do the inevitable, but it was no use. She had already made up her mind. She had already made her choice, her sacrifice. 

Then, she told him everything he had wanted to hear. 

That he understood her better than anyone. That he always had. Nobody knew her like he did. Nobody needed him like she did. 

It should have been music to his ears, being told by El that he was loved in the precise way he desperately wanted to be, but it just seemed to fall flat. He wasn’t sure it rang true. His stomach churned, and he felt a twinge of guilt in his chest. 

“I love you,” she told him desperately, and he knew it was the end. 

El pulled him into a kiss, and he tried. He tried to kiss her back, to pour into it all the love he felt, all the words he couldn’t say, but he wasn’t sure the words were there at all. He couldn’t find any as he wracked his brain for a feeling, a hint of emotion, but all he could dig up was a deep rooted sadness. 

He supposed it was grief. 

As he spiralled out of the void and back into his body, watching once again, the figure in the gate, as the bomb he had built with his own hands exploded, bringing destruction upon the world that had haunted the last four years of their lives. He was helpless to watch as El disappeared in a blink, taken cruelly, too soon, in an entirely avoidable death that Mike knew deep in his bones would be mourned for years to come, by all of them. The love they all felt for her would be left with nowhere for them to put it anymore, and he wasn’t sure how they would all continue. There would forever be a gap, a gaping hole, nothing to fill the space in which she should have been. 

Given no time to process this loss, Mike was suddenly yanked from his body once again, though he wasn’t submerged in darkness for long, finding himself landing in a familiar room. 

He stood in his childhood bedroom, looking exactly as it always had, books nestled in the cluttered shelves, blue walls plastered with posters from comics and movies he loved, art dotted around the room, one of the more recent additions depicting him and his friends fighting a giant three-headed dragon, Mike leading the party on their quest to defeat the monster, to rid the world of evil. He felt a twinge in his chest, but brushed it aside, as he often found himself doing, ignoring the distant sensation of pain threatening to draw closer. Perched upon the desk sat a framed photograph of El, smiling up at him, a rushed yet perfect pencil sketch of Mike the Brave, sword and shield in hand, placed next to her. The Paladin and the Mage. He felt sick. He didn’t know why. 

Looking in the mirror, he saw himself, only, not quite. He looked different, but it was difficult to pinpoint exactly what had changed; his eyes were the same, if a lacking a little light, the shine usually reflected in them subdued, and there was not a freckle out of place. Older, perhaps. His curls were straighter, parted neatly to one side, with a pair of round glasses placed atop his nose. The blue shirt he wore looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Panic rose in his chest as he stared at this distorted version of himself, realising, perhaps somewhat belatedly, that this figure looked, not like him, but just like his father. His father, who he wanted nothing less than to become. His apathetic, uncaring, useless excuse for a father stood before him, staring back at him, trapped in a body that Mike wished he didn’t have to recognise. 

Mike wanted to run, but he was glued in place, stuck. 

Lying on the floor next to the desk was a scrunched up piece of paper, which he bent down to pick up, opening it to find what appeared to be the first line of a letter he had attempted to write, before discarding. 

El,

I hope you’re okay out there, on your own. 

He frowned, eyebrows furrowing and forehead creasing as he stared at the note. Had she died? Had she not? He didn’t understand. 

Turning to the notebook that lay open on the desk, he saw simply a name sitting heavily atop the first line. 

Will,

It seemed that he hadn’t found the heart to continue. 

He felt a distant stab in his chest, but couldn’t find reason for it as he stared at the name written in a distorted version of his own handwriting. 

On the next page sat Will’s name again, but crossed out and replaced with El’s, getting further, this time, but only just. It was a short letter, and left him with a multitude of questions, but it felt empty, meaningless, as if his heart wasn’t in it. It was impersonal, even, as though it could’ve been written by anybody. 

El,

I miss you. It’s been eighteen months and I still think about you everyday. I hope the three waterfalls are treating you well. I hope you’re happy. I hope the sun shines down on you and it rains to keep your flowers alive. 

I’m doing okay. The party are all okay, I think. We all miss you, though. It feels strange without you here. I still think you’ll come back one day, even though I know it’s unlikely. I still have hope. I still believe. 

From, 

Mike. 

He frowned, the words sinking in as he considered El’s death that he had just witnessed, unsure how much of it was real. It had felt real. It still did, the grief, the weight of his bereavement. He remembered being told that Vecna had shown Nancy his plans for her, for their family, for Hawkins, and most of it had come true. Would this? Would El die, leaving the rest of them at a loss without her? 

He knew, after having seen this, that he would do everything in his power to keep El safe. It was not that he wasn’t already attempting to do that, or that he was unaware of the dangers they faced day in, day out, but, ever the idealist, he had not been able to fathom a world without those most dear to him. Now, seeing the reality presented to him, he felt sick to his stomach, and seeing himself like he did was just a further punch to his guts that threatened to spill. 

He didn’t want to even entertain the thought of losing anybody in his life, and he wondered instead why this version of him had tried and failed to write to Will, but a wall seemed to have been built in his memory, blocking him from seeing why that could possibly have happened. Why would he be making such a big deal about writing a letter to him, when it was only Will?

His mind was clouded with questions he had no answers to, and he looked up, glancing around the room to see if anything else was different in this downright depressing alternate reality that he prayed desperately wasn’t a vision of the future. Aside from the horrifying version of himself in the mirror, and the general sense of impending doom that seemed to cloud the room, suffocating him — though he supposed that wasn’t new — nothing appeared out of place, nothing was different, and he thought that might have made it worse, adding to his unease. It was too normal, yet still off, like the uncanny valley of bedrooms, tilted, askew, but barely. 

Mike’s focus turned then, noticing that his door was backwards to how it should be, the hinges on the right, the handle on the left. His stomach dropped, but he couldn’t help himself as he walked towards it gingerly, eyeing it cautiously, anxious to know what he would find on the other side, unsure if he even wanted to know. He reached his hand out to touch the cold metal of the handle, twisting it slowly, wincing, not daring to open it. He took a breath, trying to remind himself that it wasn’t real, that it was all happening in his head, ignoring the voice yelling out the dangers to him. 

But, as he pushed the door open, he was greeted with the familiar, uncomfortably bright lighting of the school corridors in Hawkins High, only, it wasn’t quite right. It looked older, but newer, cleaner, less graffiti on the lockers, different posters plastering the walls, echoing another time. Everyone was dressed strangely, too. His eyes darted around in confusion as he tried to cling onto something familiar, something that was right about this distorted version of a place he thought he knew well. 

“I’d better see you there, Harrington!” called a voice he knew like the back of his hand. Joyce Byers, only different. Younger. Lighter.  

He followed the voice to see a teenage version of her, handing out flyers to passing students for what appeared to be a play. He caught a brief glimpse at the date written neatly below the title, November 6th 1959, feeling a tug in his chest, but couldn’t find a reason why. There was something important about that day, he was sure, but in that moment, nothing came to mind. He couldn’t recall anything significant, and brushed it aside, deciding to focus more on the year than the date, wondering how he had managed to travel to almost thirty years in the past, especially given that he had been in the future mere minutes prior. 

Pacing down the hallway, he searched desperately for a way out of the past, out of this nightmare, but every door led to a classroom stuck in time, which led to… well. Nowhere. Trapped. He was trapped. He was trapped in the past with no clear exit and not a single idea of where to start looking.  

He ached everywhere, not physically, but with the relentless sensation that he was missing something, that something was close, only just out of his grasp, but he couldn’t find it. He didn’t even know what he was looking for, let alone where to start his search. It was as if a piece of him had been taken, brutally ripped away from him, like he was missing his hands, perhaps his eyes, or his heart. 

His heart. 

His chest felt hollow. Desolate. 

It was definitely his heart. 

But where to find it?

He could hardly go rooting around in his own chest, clawing at his skin until he opened himself up to find it missing. Or worse, rotten. Blackened. Still. It would explain a lot, he thought. It would explain the incomprehensible emptiness, the unmistakable agony that something was wrong, but his inability to decipher the meaning. 

He had always been told to follow his heart, but how could he follow it if he didn’t know where it was, let alone where it was trying to lead him to? Where would it be? Who would have it? Where would he have left it? Did he leave it somewhere or was it stolen from him? If it was, did he put up a fight? Did it? He had no answers, only questions, as he continued scavenging around the school on a quest to find something useful, a clue, a missing piece of the puzzle, anything. 

He reached a door at the end of the corridor, but caught a glimpse of something before he pushed it open. Through the window of the door, he could see inside, but it was not leading towards the cafeteria like it ought to, like the door really did. No, it led to something more distant in his memory, but unmistakable. Not daring to open it straight away, he peered through the glass, taking in the sight before him, barely believing it to be real. 

It was like a scene depicted in one of his earliest memories, his kindergarten playground, the same roundabout and climbing frame, the same toys strewn across the concrete, the same teacher with the wacky hair and brightly coloured clothes, the same children chasing each other excitedly, or sat playing in the sandpit, or building neat towers of bricks, guarding them protectively, lest they get knocked over. It was like a dream he could only just remember. 

But there was something missing. 

He couldn’t find himself amongst the chaos. 

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open, immediately being greeted by the noise of twenty five hyperactive children. He stepped in to get a better look, letting the door slam behind him, but it didn’t make a sound. His eyes wandered around the playground, finding faces that he recognised distantly from a window in his memory, but not who he was looking for. He was certain he must’ve been there, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

Glancing across the scene before him, his eyes caught, reached a snag, inexplicably drawn to a location that made his chest ache, something bubbling up inside of him, that he was still unable to place. 

The swing set. 

The familiar yellow and blue frame sat in the corner of the playground, bathed in sunlight, a little boy perched on one of the swings, barely moving backwards and forwards, his shoulders hunched as he curled in on himself, as if he were trying to hide. If he was, he was doing a good job of it; none of the other children paid him any attention, as if he wasn’t even there. Mike’s heart ached for the child, who looked so forlorn, so isolated. He wandered closer to get a better look, to see who it was, perhaps to see why he was alone. As he drew closer, so did another figure. Someone he recognised. Someone he knew all too well, but felt uncomfortably disconnected from. 

The small boy, though not quite as small as the boy on the swings, came skipping towards him, black curls flopping up and down as he bounded up to the two of them, full of energy, full of life. Mike hadn’t felt like that in a long time. He missed it, that childhood innocence, that feeling that time was never going to end, and revelling in that thought, getting to be infinite, day in, day out, living a thousand lifetimes all at once, snatching up all the limitless possibilities of life and refusing to let any of them go. 

Mike had let go a long time ago. He wasn’t sure when, or why, or how, but it had happened, and he was yet to pick any of them up, leaving them discarded before him, none of them enticing enough for him to give in and take them. 

Mike watched himself hop onto the swing next to the brown haired boy with an adorable bowl cut and a hand-me-down shirt, turning towards him. 

“Do you want to be friends?” little Mike asked, and the other boy nodded enthusiastically, and began to swing in earnest, kicking his legs with joy, both grinning widely at each other. 

Friends. 

Will. 

Will. 

It was Will. His friend. Will. 

The realisation at what he was witnessing made Mike’s breath catch in his throat. His friend, Will. He didn’t stop to wonder why he suddenly felt sick, or why the thought of Will being his friend made something deep inside of him let out a blood-curdling shriek. He kept watching as little Mike introduced himself, and Will beamed at him as if he hand hung the moon in the sky, then gone back to put the stars in place, too. If he had, then Will had been the one to add the sun, Mike was sure, but he had no idea where that thought had arisen from. 

The bell rang, breaking Mike out of the trance he was in as he stared at this younger version of himself, of Will, and the two of them jumped off the swings to run inside. On their way to the classroom, Mike bumped closer to Will and threw an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close, so casually, so innocently, and Will let himself be dragged into his orbit. 

Mike was frozen in place. 

His whole body ached, screaming that something was wrong, something was very very wrong, something was missing, something had been inexplicably taken from him, something that was once buried deep inside of his chest, never to see the light of day, was gone, and Mike didn’t know what to do without it. 

His vision blurred, and he barely noticed. 

He couldn’t bear to follow them into the classroom, but his feet led him that way anyway, drawn to that very thing made him feel lost. 

The classroom doors shut behind them, slamming in Mike’s face, cutting him away from the little version of himself that he yearned to wrap in a warm embrace and protect, but also to badger for his secrets, wondering how to keep holding onto that joy, that freedom that he once felt. 

He peered through the window of the door to get one more glimpse of himself like that, of him and Will so carefree and small, but he didn’t see the classroom anymore. No, his vision was flooded with the view of somewhere entirely different, more familiar, more special. 

He pushed open the door leading to his basement, and crept down the stairs, wiping his sweating palms on his jeans, breathing heavily, unsure what to expect. The first thing he noticed was the distinct lack of art decorating the walls; the usual depictions of monsters and superheroes no longer appeared to exist. Or perhaps they just didn’t exist yet, Mike realised, as he saw the same two little boys pressed together on the sofa bed, eyes glued to the television in front of them, a cartoon alien in a spaceship on the screen. 

Will jumped in surprise as another alien, this time seemingly an evil one, flashed onto the screen, frightening the protagonist. Upon sensing Will’s distress, Mike turned to him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder until he relaxed, smiling warmly at his friend. Mike didn’t say anything, but his eyes conveyed every question he needed to ask, and Will nodded silently, before looking back to the television, calmer. Mike’s hand drifted down from his shoulder to his hand, where he rested it, offering a gentle squeeze, a slice of comfort. 

They couldn’t have been older than seven, but Mike was sure that they knew more in that moment than he had ever known in all his sixteen years. The sensation that something was wrong was growing stronger by the second as he watched with all the love in the world, with hot, bitter envy, as they existed so peacefully in each other’s space. 

As Mike’s thoughts turned to Will, his friend, as he knew him now, he came back empty handed, finding nothing but the knowledge that he was his friend, nothing more, nothing less. There was a distant cry inside of him, calling out from somewhere that he was wrong, but he had no proof, no evidence. 

His friend. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Will was merely his friend who he was sure he had almost lost, though it was foggy. 

He heard a shout from above him. 

He couldn’t decipher what was being said, or who was saying it, but the gravelly voice sent a shiver down his spine. 

There was a second voice, more familiar, but still incomprehensible from where he stood at the bottom of the staircase. 

Curiosity getting the better of him, he followed the argument up the stairs, twisting the doorknob and holding his breath. 

When he opened the door, he was not at his own house, but at the Byers’. Misplaced nostalgia ran through him as his eyes darted, glancing around him at the house that he was sure should have been like a second home to him, that he felt such an emotional pull towards, but could find no reason why he felt this way. It was so familiar, so safe, but he didn’t remember the last time he had been there, or the first, or hardly any of the times in between. Unsettled, he continued to follow the voices, leading him to the kitchen, where Lonnie Byers towered over Joyce, who was standing her ground nonetheless, glaring up at him as he yelled. 

“That pathetic excuse for a son has-”

“He’s seven, Lonnie! Seven!” 

“He’s weak is what he is, and the more you coddle him, the worse it’ll get!” Lonnie screamed, jabbing a finger at Joyce, whose eyes grew all the more furious, angry tears brewing in her eyes. 

“I’m his mother!” 

“And I’m his father! Next time I tell him to man up, he’d better start listening to me! I’m not having a fucking fag for a son!” Lonnie spat, that word making Mike’s blood run cold.

“Don’t you dare call him that!”

“I won’t have it! That Michael boy- it’s his doing. And if it’s not his doing, then it’s yours. No wonder the boys at school all bully him, he’s like a little girl! All he does is cry, and you let him. He doesn’t even speak!”

“Lonnie, he’s just a child, he’s my child, and I love him. I love him. You should try it sometime.”

As Lonnie conjured up some bullshit response that Mike didn’t care to listen to, he heard a noise, barely audible between the shouts, but it was enough for him to pick out, allowing him to tune out the argument before him, though not enough to miss the way that Lonnie hissed out the accusation that Will was ‘queer’. Hearing it felt like a sword had been stabbed right through his chest, and his eyes welled with unexplainable tears. For who, Mike wasn’t sure, but he brushed it aside, as he so frequently did.  

He heard the noise again. 

Little sniffles came from the staircase. He recognised the sound better than he would recognise his own voice. He rushed towards the noise to find a tiny Will curled up in a little ball, listening to his parents argue over him, over how they thought he should be, over words he didn’t yet understand, but would, one day. Tears streamed down his face as he hugged his legs for comfort, crying as silently as he could, muffling his sobs with his knees. 

Mike had never felt such an urge to protect, to shelter, to shield from the dangers of the world, from the horrors he was facing and the horrors that were yet to come. He needed nothing more than to scoop this tiny version of his friend in his arms and tell him that everything would be alright, that nothing could ever hurt him. But that wasn’t true, he reminded himself as his world began to crumble around him. He could never protect Will and he never would be able to. He still didn’t know why that hurt as much as it did, but he could feel the pieces appearing before him as he ached, feeling such pure sadness he didn’t think he had ever experienced. 

Will choked on a sob, hiccupping, before letting out a little squeak, “Mike,” he whimpered pitifully,  sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve. 

Tears that matched Will’s began to fall from Mike’s eyes as his heart broke in his chest. 

Oh. 

There it was. 

He had found it. 

His heart. 

It was beating steadily, but aching, aching for something inexplicable, something distant, but so painfully close, he could almost reach out and touch it. 

More pieces of the puzzle seemed to materialise before him, almost in his grasp, but he couldn’t put them together. Not yet. Not until he had them all. Not until they were all there in front of him. 

A memory began to form in the back of his mind, a little him, a little Will, playing, laughing, whispering secrets and shouting from the rooftops. He didn’t know where it was coming from, but he knew it was real, and he was certain he would never let it go. Not again. 

With every passing minute, with each memory he was forced to bear witness to, he felt himself getting closer to the truth, to finding the remaining pieces and placing them together. He just had to follow them. 

He wondered distantly what was even happening to him, considering for a moment that he was on the brink of insanity. No answer came to him when he questioned why was he even here, watching back the past like a film reel. He had assumed that he was witnessing his own memories, but here he was, watching something he hadn’t even been present for. 

Mike didn’t have the time to question how this was possible, before he heard footsteps from upstairs, getting closer. 

“Will? Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, come here,” a younger version of Jonathan approached Will, tugging him up to his feet and leading him upstairs, pulling him close into a firm but gentle embrace, shielding him from the world. Though, Will had asked not for him, but for Mike. Did that mean something? Mike followed, but could get no further than Will’s bedroom — a memory of which was slowly coming back to him as he focused all his energy on rooting around in his mind for it — yet again, the door slammed in his face, and Mike knew this was it. When he opened that door, something new would materialise, he was certain. Part of him was grateful that at least he didn’t have to see his friend falling to pieces again.

He pushed it open gently nonetheless, poking his head around to see, much to his surprise, Will’s childhood bedroom, just as he remembered it, yellow paint on the walls, colourful drawings of dragons and spaceships and make-believe monsters decorating the empty space. Will and Mike were sprawled out on the bed, limbs overlapping, giggling about something only the two of them understood. 

Their laughter faded, the silence they fell into offering comfort and warmth, their smiles not fully leaving their faces. 

They were slightly older here, Mike noted, maybe nine. Still small, still innocent enough to not be too afraid of the world around them, but with enough knowledge that perhaps they should be, and  that maybe they would be, one day. 

“Will,” Mike heard himself say, trying to ignore how jarring it was to hear a tiny version of himself speak.

“Yeah?” Will asked, huge, wide eyes glancing up at his friend, watching delicately. 

“I love you.”

Mike’s eyebrows shot up, but his surprise soon dimmed, depleting as quickly as it had arrived, because of course he loved Will. That had always been true, and, he realised in a moment of certain clarity, would always continue to be true. 

He loved Will. 

He was his best friend. Of course he loved him. 

His nine year old self had more sense, clearly, than his sixteen year old self, who seemed to have lost knowledge of that along the way. 

Will was his best friend. 

Something slotted into place in his mind, but it didn’t quite fit. So close, yet so far. 

The missing puzzle piece was still yet to be found, but he was drawing closer. 

Will was his best friend. 

Memories of their childhood came flooding back to him at this admission, that Will was his best friend and Mike loved him. 

Will loved Mike too, he was sure. 

He remembered their first game of Dungeons and Dragons, Mike deciding he wanted to be a

paladin so that he could protect Will, who wanted to be a cleric so that he could heal people, Mike especially. He was always so kind, so gentle, so delicate, Mike remembered warmly, welcoming the sudden rush of nostalgia, the recollection of what was once lost. 

He recalled them sharing secrets in hushed voices, Mike’s mother scolding them for whispering at the dinner table, Nancy rolling her eyes at them, ever superior to her little brother. He remembered spending what felt like hours in the toy shop on a quest to choose the perfect gift for Will’s birthday and finally finding a tiger plushie, knowing instantly that it was the one — he had been right, Will had loved it and had named it Brave, an ode to his best friend. He remembered coming home from school one day, excitedly declaring that he was going to marry Will when he grew up. He hadn’t understood why his father had shaken his head, tutting, and muttering something undecipherable under his breath, nor had he noticed the pitying look his mother had given him as she considered explaining to him that he couldn’t do that, but thought better of it, allowing him to continue living in his fantasy world, at least for a couple of years more. He remembered watching Will draw, gazing in awe as his best friend produced masterpiece after masterpiece, and gifted most of them to him. Mike kept them like a promise, safely tucking them away in a folder, just for his eyes, or plastering his walls in them to show them off to the world, he didn’t mind either way, as long as he had them. As long as he had a part of Will with him, always. 

He remembered when they were really small, and Will barely talked. Mike had hardly noticed back then, being able to read him so easily that he didn’t need to speak, and Mike’s mouth was big enough for the both of them, anyway, never letting there be a silent moment between them. The first time Mike had heard him speak, Will had simply said his name amidst a fit of giggles, and Mike had only realised later that day, after he had gone home, that it was out of the ordinary. He gradually began to talk more and more after that, eventually reaching a time where, when they were together, Will would speak just as much as Mike did, sometimes more. 

He remembered them getting bullied at school, Mike often trying to stand up for them, and always lashing out if they hit or pushed Will, ever the protector, ever the paladin. Will had even called him that once, my paladin, both of them blushing a deep scarlet, and Mike had sworn a Paladin’s Oath there and then to always shield him from harm. 

Flashes of laughter, of joy, of tears met with comfort appeared before him as it all came to the forefront of his mind. His love for Will. Undying. Eternal. His best friend. 

He remembered the worst things, too. The week when Will went missing, the emptiness he had felt when they found his body in the quarry. He had felt like his life had ended alongside Will’s, that nothing was important anymore, nothing else was worth keeping because he had lost the thing most precious to him. But then he was found, he was home, and so was their love. Until he was almost taken from him again. 

Mike remembered swearing for the two of them to go crazy together. Always together. He remembered Will forgetting everybody except Mike and Joyce. He remembered attempting to bring back his memories, talking and crying until he was numb. He remembered staying with him, day in day out, until Will was safe again, safe from harm’s way, where nothing could hurt him, nothing could get him anymore. He wanted nothing more than to make sure nobody ever hurt his best friend ever again. 

That was where he reached a block in his mind. 

He couldn’t see past it, past Will being his only priority, the main thing he cared about above anyone else. The person he wanted to protect with his life. 

There had been a shift. He could feel it. But he couldn’t reach it. It was out of sight, and nowhere to be found as he dug around in his memories. All he could feel was love for his best friend, but there was more, he was sure. He gritted his teeth with frustration, his hands balling into fists, nails digging into his palms. Something was still wrong. Something was still missing. He opened Will’s bedroom door, but found the same corridor that was always there. No new scenes, nothing to jog his memory, nothing to remind him of what had gone wrong, or what he was lost. 

Suppressing the urge to go back into Will’s old room and spy on their younger selves, mourning what he had yet to find, he was determined to uncover the next memory, to figure out what had happened next in the story of his own life. He was unsure if he even wanted to know the truth, but forced himself to continue. Besides, he was stuck here, as far as he knew, so he resigned himself to using it to his advantage, use it to hunt for what he was missing. Perhaps finding it would be his escape. 

He didn’t have to wander far, being greeted by his fourteen year old self as soon as he opened the front door. Instead of seeing the Byers’ road, they were in his own garden, the birds chirping and the faint hum of the sprinklers soundtracking the summer’s day that Mike could almost taste, the air thick and sweltering. A huddle of teenagers sat on the grass, glasses of ice cold lemonade in hand as they complained about the heat. 

This younger, but not quite so young Mike was turned to El, who was clutching ahold of his hand, whispering in his ear, the two of them giggling, in their own little world, oblivious to everyone else around them. Mike couldn’t recall what they had been talking about, couldn’t really recall anything they ever talked about, but it felt different to his lost memories of Will. It didn’t seem like he was missing anything at all, instead he got the feeling more along the lines that these conversations weren’t important, or maybe barely even happened. Rationally, looking back, he knew the two of them had nothing in common, so it was no surprise that they found it hard to converse. They simply had nothing to talk about. They still didn’t, even now. 

Lucas and Max were sat very close together, too, though not as close as Mike and El, nor as obnoxiously. Max rolled her eyes at the couple, before looking first to Lucas and then to Will, who was on the other side of them, staring. 

Will’s eyes bore into the side of Mike’s head, eyes glistening with misery, a flash of envy crossing his face when Mike planted an awkward looking kiss on El’s cheek. His eyebrows furrowed as he tore his gaze away with what looked like a great deal of effort, and he stared at the ground, picking up a piece of grass and tearing it to shreds, hands starting to shake, bottom lip quivering with quiet desperation. 

Mike frowned as he watched his best friend fixate on him, unable to comprehend such an expression as Will hurriedly wiped a singular tear from his cheek, unnoticed by the rest of the party. His heart ached as he struggled to understand what was going through Will’s head, what could possibly have caused such a response to something so harmless. Regardless of the cause, Mike yearned to wrap his best friend up in a hug and reassure him, even if he had no idea what was bothering him. He had always wanted to protect Will, and now he was watching as he unknowingly caused him pain, and he didn’t even know what he had done wrong. 

He felt a raindrop on his nose. The sun still shone brightly above the group, and he figured this was his cue to leave, to abandon his hurting best friend and find the next memory, this one hopefully giving him a clue. 

He followed the rain, reaching some trees that he was certain weren’t supposed to be there, as the night came all too fast, the sun seeming to blink shut, rather than setting gradually, no hues of orange and pink in the sky, bright blue being replaced with a deep grey in mere moments. Mike sheltered from the rain beneath a tree for a minute, taking a breath, before realising that he recognised where he was, where the rain had led him. Consciously, he had no idea where he was supposed to go from here to get to where he was sure he had to be, but his subconscious knew the way like the back of his hand. It was muscle memory. A right at the once tall tree, struck by lightning in ‘81. A left at the tree with growths that looked like faces. Straight on. And on. Until. 

There it was. 

It had been Will’s safe space, a place to hide from bullies and fear, a place to just be himself. Mike had always been the only person allowed in without needing a password, and it became a haven for him, too, where the two of them could exist in each others’ space without a care in the world. Just Will and Mike. They didn’t have to pretend, in there. They didn’t have to hide. No monsters lurked around the corners waiting to bite or throw punches and words that stung because they were true. 

Mike barely felt the cold rain pounding down on him as he walked towards Castle Byers, which was smaller than he remembered, only stopping once he saw Will, still fourteen, running towards the entrance, his tears indistinguishable from the droplets on his cheeks, his clothes soaked through and his hair flat to his head. He watched as he choked with sobs, muttering to himself as he all but fell into the crooked fort, looking around him desperately, taking in everything around him, drawings of the party fighting evil, photographs of them as kids, dressed in costumes for DnD campaigns, winning science awards, or proudly showing off their meticulously crafted pillow forts. He found a picture of the four of them wearing Ghostbusters costumes for Halloween in ’84, gripping it tightly in trembling hands, pausing for only a brief moment, before mumbling, “stupid, so stupid,” under his breath, and ripping it in two, right between Mike and Will, severing them, separating them for the first time — but was it the first? Mike wondered. 

He grabbed at everything in sight, the nearest drawing pinned to a branch, more photographs, comic books, everything that he held most dear, and tore them to shreads, tearing himself to pieces in the process. Will turned then to a baseball bat that lay on the floor, grabbing it and crawling out of the entrance, holding the bat in both hands as he hit the structure over and over again, watching it all fall apart, wood splintering, staring at his childhood disintegrating before his eyes, chest heaving with heavy sobs that ripped out of him, clawing at Mike’s heart as he forced himself to stand and look, silent tears running down his cheeks as Castle Byers fell. Will was relentless, taking swing after swing as it tumbled to the ground. He screamed, too, and Mike had never heard such sounds come from his best friend, who yelled in anguish as he tore apart his sanctuary.

Mike heard an echo from the past in his head, then, a flash of something he’d never been proud of. He still didn’t know why he had said it, not having meant it towards Will at all, saying his own fears aloud, targeted at the wrong person, shielding himself from at the monster that hunted him, that he desperately ran from, but he still couldn’t fathom how such cruelty had come from within him. 

It’s not my fault you don’t like girls. 

He was reminded then of something Will had said mere hours ago, just before Mike had found himself here, telling everybody, I don’t like girls. 

The world came crashing down. 

The mere idea of hurting Will made his stomach churn, but in reality, the act of doing so was all too easy. He had done it before. He was terrified to ever make such a mistake again. It occurred to Mike then that perhaps it came naturally to him. 

Mike had always been so careful, so protective, so gentle around his best friend, had promised to keep him safe, to never hurt him, to do everything in his power to adore him. Yet, he had caused him just as much pain as everyone else in his life who had ever wronged him, and the realisation crushed him. He was no different, he knew now, to everyone who had gossiped behind his back about the clothes he wore or his delicate nature, no different to Will’s father shouting hateful words at him, using him as an emotional punching bag to let out his frustrations on. Even Vecna had taunted him for who he loved, and Mike realised as bile rose in his throat that he had, too. Because that was exactly what Mike had done; he had seen in Will a mirror for everything he hated about himself, fearing the reflection that stared back at him, and taken it out on the wrong person. Will was the last person who deserved such a hateful acknowledgment of truth, least of all from his best friend, from the person he was supposed to trust the most. Mike had broken that trust, broken that Paladin’s Oath from all those years ago, and sank to his knees, falling apart with bitter regret, wanting nothing more than to find that damaged part of him and rip it out, ridding his body of it for good. 

More flashes of memories came flooding back to him in waves that he wished desperately to outrun, a tsunami of hurt and shame, as he thought back to that summer when all he did was cause Will pain, torturing himself simultaneously, forcing himself to want something he could never truly desire. He tried desperately to enjoy every second of the relationship he had dragged himself into, never having realised that he wasn’t supposed to feel so uncomfortable, so confused. It was supposed to be easy in a way that it never was with El. He truly did love her. It just wasn’t right. It didn’t fit in the way he knew it was meant to, no matter how hard he willed it to. This was the first time he ever let himself acknowledge that it wasn’t what he wanted, and the admission, though silent and secret, made him claw at his chest as his heart ached and his lungs ran out of air. He hadn’t wanted it. He still didn’t want it. 

It wasn’t just Will. 

It was him. It was Mike, too. 

Echoes of Will’s words came to him, over and over, I don’t like girls, I don’t like girls, I don’t like girls. 

He had never liked girls. He had liked Will. Just Will, he realised abruptly, the reality surging through him with a burst of energy, clarity and confusion settling in his mind both at once as he recalled every moment he had shared with Will over that fateful summer, and every moment they had existed in together prior to that.  

Violent sobs forced their way out of Mike’s throat as hot tears streamed from his eyes, his rain soaked body trembling as he curled in on himself, trying to make himself as small as possible, Will’s sniffles still audible through the storm, matching Mike’s own tears as they weeped in synchrony, in perfect harmony. He suddenly had, all at once, the truth, so many truths, presented to him right in front of his eyes, with such unavoidable, obvious transparency, certainty, after having known, deep down for as long as he could remember, but spent all of his energy on pushing it down, on hiding from that monster that lurked within him, chasing him as he snuck around corner after corner to run from it. But he couldn’t. Not forever. No, because that monster inside of him that he tried so desperately to outrun wasn’t a monster, not really. It was just him. Just Mike. And he couldn’t hide from himself for all eternity, he knew he’d catch up eventually, it was just a matter of time. It seemed that now was that time, under a blanket of rain and beside the only boy who would truly understand him — except, he wasn’t really beside him, was he? No, Mike was stuck in a window to the past, having realisations far too late, solitary and isolated, with no way home, no way back to Will, who he wanted nothing more than to apologise to, and to explain that he got it now. He got it. He understood, and nothing could take that away from him anymore, not even himself, his own self loathing, or his own terror. 

He watched his fourteen year old self running towards Will with desperation in his voice, and he ached as his own memories of that day came flooding back, his confusion and anxiety over El breaking up with him, because he was supposed to be devastated and why wasn’t he remotely upset? Was there something wrong with him? Was he fundamentally broken? And then he had hurt Will, and had felt a tenebrous hole open up in his chest, a hole that he didn’t think had ever been filled, not fully, and there was nothing he could do to fix it, as he cycled to find his best friend in the pouring rain, not caring how drenched he was, just caring about getting Will back, El entirely forgotten. 

Reflecting back on everything he had relearnt about his childhood, it made a great deal of sense. Mike and Will always been attached at the hip and Mike had driven himself crazy trying to protect him from harm, and he supposed their friendship had always been a little different to their other friends. He had always been able to brush Will off as just being his best friend, so of course they were that bit closer, that bit more entwined in each other, but it was never just that, not really. It seemed obvious now, seeing himself push Will away in favour of El, because of course he’d want to force out his fears, making room in their place for something normal. A girl, rather than a boy. A safety net, not a risk. Conformity masking queerness. But he had always gone back to Will anyway, helpless when it involved him, unable to find a balance when both of them were in his life at once. 

Guilt bubbled up inside his stomach for Will, for El, seeing only pain and lies laid out before him, all the consequences of his own actions, of his own hopeless insistence on self destruction. Yes, he’d hurt himself in the process, but that wasn’t who he was worried about, realising that it wasn’t just Will who he owed an apology, but El, too. El, who had found herself in a relationship with him before properly learning what it meant to have and to be a friend. El, who he tried to teach about the world around her, but really only retaught her what it meant to be let down time and time again. El, who hadn’t yet had a chance to learn who she was, and who he never even tried to understand. 

As memory Mike, Will, and Lucas left, the rain came to a sudden halt, alerting Mike that it was over. The next was to come once he went looking for it, but he didn’t have it in him to stand up and go searching. He didn’t want to see what was next, what hurt he was going to cause now. There was still a barrier up in his mind, where he knew that he and Will had fought, he knew that there had been a strain in their friendship, entirely caused by Mike, but still couldn’t recall anything past Will and El moving to California, everything beyond that a blur. He knew that they had come back to Hawkins, that Will had lived with him, that they were friends, but that wasn’t new information. He wondered what had happened between them in those few months in which they were apart. He presumed his crush must have faded, the depletion of their childhoods causing him to outgrow such silly feelings. No longer tied to each others’ sides, it was inevitable for such a thing to gradually dissolve into nothing. 

An unexplainable tug in his chest begged for his attention, but his heart was already heavy with new revelations and realisations; he didn’t have room for more devastation, so he chose the easy option of believing his head, his rational thoughts, rather than the still gaping pit inside of him. It came naturally to him after so long, and he welcomed the comforting familiarity of it. 

Slowly dragging himself up off the floor, Mike traipsed back to the Byers’ old house for no reason except nostalgia, his feet leading the way as he got lost in thought about Will, about their lost past, and whether he would ever get it all back. 

The front door was unlocked, so he pushed it open and stepped over the threshold, this time free of the screaming match he had to bear witness to before, a serene silence washing over the house instead as he let himself wander. Mike found himself yet again outside Will’s room, this time with more of an understanding of why he was there. He kept finding flickers of light amongst his memories, where occasionally he would get a flash of something from the past, almost in his grasp, before he lost it again. A glimpse of Will’s eyes or his smile here and there, perhaps a half finished drawing, or the sensation of a knee brushing against his, an elbow bumping into his own, the electricity of a look shared between the two of them. But they were fleeting, and he couldn’t hold onto them for long enough to make sense of any of them, together or individually. He couldn’t paint the bigger picture with just the details. He needed everything. The final piece of the puzzle. 

He pushed open the door. 

The sight that greeted him was Will’s bedroom, but not the bedroom he grew up in, the room he knew like the back of his hand. Instead it was the room that Will had resided in for six months, and that Mike had stepped foot in merely once. It felt wrong that Will had experienced such a long time without Mike’s presence, that the room was cluttered with pieces of him that Mike would never know or understand, not properly. It felt like the first space that they didn’t get to share, and the thought put a crease between his eyebrows as he glanced around, as if entering for the first time. 

In the middle of the room stood Will behind an easel, paintbrush in hand, eyes casting over the piece he was working on, a small frown on his face, but his eyes told a different story. He gazed with such reverence, such tender care as the paintbrush flicked over the paper gently. Mike wandered closer, over to the other side to see what Will was working on. As he peered over his shoulder, Mike swore his heart stopped. His breath caught in his throat as he watched the familiar painting. It was almost completed, he was just adding extra details here and there, adding a touch more green to the grass, or painting over a stray cloud, changing the ranger’s shield to a neat blue and yellow, the colours coming together perfectly. He added a little heart with a crown atop it to the paladin’s shield, and continued outlining the three-headed dragon. Just small additions to make it even more beautiful, Mike smiled to himself. 

The memory of receiving the painting reached him, and he grabbed it before it could slip from him again, not letting it get away. That day in the back of the pizza van, looking for El, and searching for something else pushed away deep inside his chest. He remembered rambling endlessly about his crumbling relationship, a voice in the back of his mind praying that Will would just tell him to end things, that it clearly wasn’t working, but Will wasn’t like that, and he knew it. Will just wanted to make him happy, and if that meant fixing his relationship with El, then he was determined, Mike’s incessant and definitely irritating monologuing be damned. In presenting him with his painting from El, his reassurance had confused Mike. Deep down, he had known he didn’t love El how he was supposed to, and he had begun to get the feeling that she didn’t need him in the way that he wanted her to; he knew they weren’t right for each other. Even when Will had told him everything he had wanted to hear from El and more, shutting down his fear that she felt differently to how he wanted her to, it had felt wrong, uneasy. 

El did need him, she was afraid of losing him, he made her feel better about her insecurities, Mike had learnt, believing every word that Will had told him, clinging onto his every syllable, because he had never lied to him, had never given him any reason to distrust him, and that had been the push he needed to profess his love. The words he had heard made him feel more seen, more loved, than he ever had, and yet his response fell flat. It felt like lying. It was lying, as he told her everything he thought she wanted to hear, no matter how sick it made him feel. No matter how much guilt he felt, he had to tell her, he had to make things right, because the alternative was infinitely worse, he had been certain. 

Now, looking back, he wasn’t so sure. 

Will placed down his paintbrush and took a step back to look at his handiwork, no doubt critiquing every brushstroke, entirely needlessly. As his eyes flicked across the page, they began to well up, and he backed away until he reached his bed, which he collapsed into, curling into a ball, clenching his fists in his pillow as sobs wracked out of his body helplessly. Hitting his pillow with a shaky fist, he hissed out a frustrated, barely audible, “fuck,” through clenched teeth, tears falling freely onto the bed beneath him. Mike had had enough of watching Will cry. It seemed to be all he was witnessing in these memories, and all he wanted was to see him happy. 

He wondered what could possibly be the cause — it couldn’t be him again, could it? Why would he be crying over a painting El had commissioned? It didn’t make sense. 

Something was screaming at him in the back of his mind, then, that it hadn’t made sense in the first place, and he had simply ignored it. He allowed himself for the first time to question why El would have commissioned it at all, especially when she shut down every conversation he ever tried to have with her about his favourite game, about the vast fantasy worlds that resided in his imagination. The simple answer was that she wouldn’t. 

But that would mean- 

Will. 

He had painted it of his own accord, just for him, and lied to spare Mike’s feelings, whilst hiding his own, using El as a mirror for himself. 

But that would mean-

No. 

Those words spoken so carefully in the back of the van, with warm yellow beams shining down on him, illuminating him in front of the window, painting him to be the sun that Mike had always seen him as, they all belonged to Will. Those words that had made his stomach flutter and his heart sing, putting his mind at rest that he was loved exactly how he wanted to be, all came from his best friend. 

That’s what holds this whole party together: heart. Because without heart, we’d all fall apart, even me. Especially me. 

I feel so lost without you. 

When you’re different, sometimes you feel like a mistake. But you make me feel like I’m not a mistake at all, like I’m better for being different. 

I’m scared of losing you. 

I need you, Mike, and I always will. 

Everything Mike had ever known turned on its head. 

It became crystal clear there and then, in that moment, that he had loved Will then, and he loved him now. The way Will spoke about him, the way Will needed him, was exactly what Mike wanted, was exactly how Mike needed to be loved. Knowing now that those words were not El’s feelings at all, but his best friend’s, Will’s, he felt a piece of the puzzle fall into place, and he knew it was the final one. 

Will loved him precisely how Mike wanted to be loved, not El. 

He thought back to those words spoken by Will and attempted to relate them to El in any way, but he simply couldn’t, because El didn’t need him, and probably never had. He didn’t make her feel like she wasn’t a mistake, he made her feel like a monster. She didn’t feel lost without him, in fact she needed to experience life free of him, where he wasn’t trapping the both of them in his own tower of forced conformity. 

Strangely, loving Will in this way didn’t feel like such a huge revelation. It felt like common sense. Realising it felt as easy as breathing, just as loving him did. He didn’t have to try to love him, he just loved him. There was no mask, no hiding, nothing to cower behind, there was just love. Nothing had ever felt so right. 

There was a sense of shame and despair pressing at the forefront of his mind, which he was sure would linger for time to come, but in that moment, he understood exactly what Will had meant when he had told him that Mike made him feel like he was better for being different. It was exactly that. He was different, and, if he got to have Will, then he could learn to be okay with that. Maybe he wasn’t yet, but the mere knowledge that Will would be there with him was enough to put him at ease. It wasn’t simple, not by any means, but it didn’t have to be as hard if he had his best friend, who he loved with all his heart. 

Something inside of him settled at that admission. The monster that still lurked came to a halt, letting him rest, be free of it, even just for a few moments. He felt, for the first time in a long while, at peace with himself. He could love, and be loved, and he could be okay. Maybe he would be. He began to consider it as a possibility as his heart soared with all the love he hadn’t been able to express for many years, needing to let it out and share it as soon as he could. 

He needed to get out of here, wherever here was. 

He needed to find Will, apologise, and kiss him. 

The mere thought of it made him giddy. 

Again, he cast his mind back to the most recent new memory of Will he had, of Will having the bravery to tell his friends and family who he really was, and pride swelled in his chest for the boy he loved so dearly. Mike wasn’t sure he would ever have the courage to do such a thing, but wondered if maybe Will could lend him some of his. 

I had this crush.

Wait- had?

It was then, Mike came to a sickening realisation. He was watching fourteen year old Will bear his soul, weep tears of such harrowing sorrow over Mike, but that was not to say that sixteen year old Will still felt the same. He had talked about the past when discussing this mystery boy, who Mike was sure was him, and expressed having learnt to get over it, having come to the realisation that it was never about this boy. It was just about Will. Will had got over him. Will had loved him. Loved. In the past, not the present. 

Mike was too late. 

He was always too late. 

He had his chance, and had wasted it trying to hide from who he really was, instead of seeing and taking what was right in front of him. Bile rose in his throat and he choked out a sob, but no tears fell. 

Mike stared at this slightly younger version of his best friend as both of their hearts shattered in their chests, and he didn’t know if they would ever get to put them back together. Perhaps Will already had, but Mike swore there and then that he never would. If not Will, then nobody. Nobody understood him like Will, nobody made him feel as loved as he did. He couldn’t imagine his life without him, and he still could barely recall the last eighteen months. 

Had something happened to make Will change his mind?

Had Mike realised his feelings already, and was just now relearning them, or was he always this oblivious, this stupid? He predicted it to be the latter, but he couldn’t be sure, the wall built up in his memory too sturdy for him to break through, no matter how hard he tried. There was simply nothing there to find. 

He had to go on, he realised, he had to find out what he had done to stop Will from loving him. Perhaps he could fix things once he made it back — if he made it back. He could reverse the clock, take back everything he had ever said and done, start afresh, knowing everything he now knew. He could get his best friend back, again and again, just like he had promised. 

Mike moved on before he let the world disintegrate around him, before he drowned in a sea of his own despair, awaiting the next memory with equal parts anxiety and anticipation, opening every door in the house, finding nothing. He wasn’t sure why these would be more difficult to unlock, more difficult to find, and he briefly entertained the thought that this was it, that he had witnessed everything there was to see, and now he was trapped in the past with no exit and his burning heart in his hand. 

When he opened the front door, expecting to see the Byers’ street in California, unnervingly unfamiliar, he instead was greeted with the Byers’ old street in Hawkins, and he welcomed the sight of it, of Mirkwood, stepping into the daylight and shutting the door behind him. He wasn’t sure where in time he was, but he presumed it must have been after Will and El had returned, so he figured he wasn’t going to find any memories in the old house. The most likely place was his own home, but he was unsure it was necessary to go all the way there, given how the previous memories seemed to materialise from nowhere behind a closed door. That being said, he thought he could do with a few moments to breathe, so he grabbed a bike that leant against the front porch, unsure who it belonged to, ignoring how small it was, and cycled the familiar route home, through the empty streets of Hawkins in the midst of the apocalypse, thick smoke billowing in the distance and the occasional white speck landing on his hair. 

Arriving outside his own house, he clambered off the bike, dropping it in the front garden and headed inside, making a beeline for the basement, with nothing but innate intuition to go on, his feet and his subconscious guiding his way, leading him exactly where he needed to go. When he opened the door, his ears flooded with music, and a dozen or more memories materialised along with it. Making his way down the stairs, he already knew what he was going to see, and he wasn’t wrong. 

Will lay on his front atop his makeshift bed, holding a pencil, sketching, looking deep in thought as Mike sat on a chair not too far away, comic book in hand, The Cure playing through a tinny speaker. Mike tapped along to the beat absentmindedly, while Will occasionally hummed along to the melodies, looking up at Mike surreptitiously every few moments, before tearing his eyes away to continue his drawing. Mike kept doing the same, he noticed, stealing glances every so often, and they missed each other every time, never once catching one another in the act. As another song began, a riff he had heard time and time again started to play, and Mike realised once again how stupid he really was.

Will’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he stared at his drawing, lightly drumming along to the beat with his left hand, entirely immersed. 

Why won’t you ever know that I’m in love with you?

Will hummed along to that line in particular, his face flushing, and Mike noticed how obvious Will was, and he kicked himself for his own obliviousness. 

At that moment, Will and Mike finally stole glances at the same time, both their eyes widening like deer in the headlights as they simply stared at each other for several seconds, neither of them daring to be the one to break the eye contact. Mike’s heart hammered in his chest at the memory, as he watched himself unable to tear his eyes away from Will. He let himself, then, admire his best friend, who still lay on his front, propped up on his forearms, gazing up at him. His hair was slightly damp and Mike wanted nothing more than to run his hands through it, to find out if it was as soft as it looked, to mess it up and know that it was him who had done it. His eyes glimmered in the low light, flecks of green hiding amongst the light brown hues, pupils wide as he drank in the view before him. Mike wanted to count every mole on his skin and draw lines between them all, connecting the dots, mapping out the constellations that made up his body. He was transfixed specifically on the mole that resided above his lip, realising belatedly that he had probably wanted to kiss it since he was about nine years old. 

Mike spoke, then, but the moment wasn’t shattered, the tension still brewed, still thick in the air. 

“What’re you drawing?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, cocking his head to one side to try and get a look at the sketchbook that Will tilted away from him, out of sight. 

“Nothing, just doodling, really,” Will mumbled, sitting up on his bed, pulling his knees and sketchbook to his chest. 

“No, let me see,” Mike persisted, “I always love your art.”

“No, Mike, really, it’s not that good,” Will shook his head, fiddling with his pencil nervously. 

Ignoring him entirely, Mike discarded his comic on the floor and flopped himself down onto the bed next to Will, sat so close that their knees knocked against each others’, as he leaned over him to get a look at the sketchbook that Will was still hiding from view. In the position he had sat on the bed, he was lower down than Will, and had to look up to see him, rather than down, the changing view making his head spin. 

“Mike, seriously, I swear it’s nothing good.”

“All your art is amazing, Will. Please?” 

And Will, helpless to say no to his best friend, sighed heavily, before handing over the sketchbook, flushing a deep shade of ruby. 

It was a portrait of Mike, sprawled out on the chair, comic book in hand, hair falling over his eyes. Every line had an endless amount of love and care etched into it, and Mike remembered almost having an epiphany there and then, but had, as usual, forced it away, though he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind the feeling of being so seen, and not being afraid of it. Will had captured him so beautifully, and Mike wanted nothing more than to be perceived in the way that Will did. 

His breath caught in this throat, “Will- Will, this is…” he trailed off, unable to find the words to express how he felt. 

“Sorry, I know it’s weird, I should’ve asked or-” Will started to apologise, head hanging, lost in the depths of his own shame, his own embarrassment. 

“No, no, it’s not weird at all. I like it. I really like it,” Mike reassured him, bumping his elbow with Will’s. “Can I have it once it’s finished?” 

“What?” Will’s head snapped back at once to look at him, their eyes locking as Will registered the sincerity in Mike’s tone and in his eyes. 

“I mean it. I love all your art, Will,” Mike told him softly, in that voice he reserved only for Will.

“Oh. Yeah, I mean, I guess you can have it, if you want it,” he replied, and Mike now registered how nervous he looked, trying to come across as casual, but failing miserably. 

Mike wasn’t fairing much better. 

“Thanks, Will. I really love the way you’ve drawn me. You made me look-” he paused, struggling to describe it, “good,” was all he could muster. 

“I just drew what I saw,” Will mumbled, shrugging it off, but Mike could see now the way he looked at him, the way he saw him. Truly, deeply, knowing. The feeling in Mike’s chest was all consuming. 

Hindsight was a wonderful thing. He wanted to throttle the version of him that sat before him on the sofa, in disbelief at how he could possibly have been so ridiculously stupid to not notice. 

Neither could look away, their hearts pounding in their chests as they stared deep into each others’ eyes, each others’ souls, the points of contact between them burning through their clothes as Mike ached to touch him properly, to not just brush Will’s knee with his own but to reach out and touch his face, his neck, his hair, anywhere Will would let him, to lean across, close the short distance between them that felt simultaneously like mere millimetres and thousands of miles, and kiss him. 

At the time, Mike had been so wrapped up in the moment that he hadn’t even been able to push away the thought until much later, once he was safely tucked in bed, alone in the dark with just the monsters in his chest for company. But in the basement, the monster didn’t rear its head, and it didn’t feel like a monster at all. Not with Will, never with Will. 

Mike’s eyes flicked down for a moment to Will’s lips, to the mole that sat above them, and he watched as Will’s breath hitched in his throat, looking back and forth between Mike’s eyes, searching, questioning, before giving in and staring at Mike’s lips, too, mirroring the boy in front of him, both of them entirely on the same page, if just for a second. 

From where he was watching, Mike could feel the electricity between them, could hear their racing hearts as the moment seemed to last a lifetime. 

Mike swore he watched himself lean that bit closer, as if he was about to risk it all, to cross the line he hadn’t before dared himself to approach, and Will’s eyes widened in shock as he registered the minuscule shift, hanging on his every movement. 

“Boys, dinner’s ready!” his mother opened the basement door and called down the stairs, shattering the moment into a thousand pieces. 

They jumped away from each other as if they had just been burnt, limbs flying as they ended up on opposite ends of the bed, as far from each other as possible, not even looking at one another, even redder than they already had been. 

Mike’s face burned with shame, and he took a short, scared glance at Will, who was staring pointedly at the floor, refusing to cast his gaze in his direction. He stood up to go upstairs, pausing on the first step to turn back to Will, who was fiddling anxiously with his fingers, “you coming?” 

“Yeah, I’ll be up in a minute,” Will murmured, not making indication that he was going to move, blinking repeatedly, breathing deeply. 

Mike ignored it. 

“Sure,” he shrugged robotically, unable to act casual, but needing to escape as quickly as he could. 

Mike watched himself walk up the stairs, stopping to take a breath before he opened the basement door, taking one look back down at his best friend, before leaving him behind. Will stood up on shaky legs a few dizzyingly long minutes later, leaving the music playing to the empty room, almost as if he knew Mike was there watching, listening. 

Once he had left, shutting the door behind him, Mike lay down on Will’s makeshift bed, still warm from where the two of them had been sitting. He breathed in Will’s scent, letting a tear slip down his cheek at what he could have had, if he just been that little bit more brave, if he only had the courage to understand how he felt. And now he had missed his chance. Somehow, despite the glaringly obvious display of love he had just witnessed play out before his eyes, it was over now. Will had changed, and now the only one left to suffer the consequences was Mike and his bleeding heart. His heart that he thought had belonged to Will — Will had surely thought so, too. He didn’t know what had changed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

He lay there long after the album had played all the way through, thinking of all that time he and Will had spent down in the basement listening to music together, often not even really talking, just enjoying each others’ silent company, letting the songs speak the words they didn’t dare to. Remembering this, or perhaps the music surrounding him, seemed to trigger the wall to come crashing down, the final blockage destroyed, brick by brick, as memory after memory bubbled to the surface, those final eighteen months no longer a mystery, certain stray moments from before then that he seemed to have missed coming along with them. 

Breakfasts with Will every morning, sleep in his eyes and messy bed hair that Mike wanted to reach out and flatten. The pounding in his chest and the flush on his cheeks when Will had found his binder of art that he had given him over the years, every piece kept safe, after all this time. Playing DnD and spending too much time staring at Will, who cast spells with a deeper, scratchy voice that must’ve created some kind of real magic if the butterflies in Mike’s stomach were anything to go by. Will coming up to his room after a particularly bad nightmare, letting him hold him, before disappearing in the morning, neither bringing it up again. Will’s not so secret crush on Robert Smith that Mike definitely wasn’t remotely jealous of. Movie nights with the party, where he and Will sat just that little bit closer than they needed to, hands brushing in the popcorn bowl, both pretending they didn’t notice, ignoring the slow reddening of their faces. The day that Will had let El give him a makeover, and Mike was unexpectedly greeted by the sight of him wearing eyeliner at ten in the morning and had promptly walked face first into a doorframe. He blamed the thoughts wreaking havoc on him for the rest of the week on his concussion. Will trying to convince Mike that The Smiths weren’t as depressing as he thought, and failing miserably. Talking late into the night, Will reluctant to go down to the basement to bed, and Mike unwilling to turn out the light. That one night when he stayed. Will’s 16th birthday, when they had cycled out to Lover’s Lake together, and-  

His memory snagged on something. Will’s birthday? Mike realised, then, that in amongst all of this, not only had he lost memories of his best friend, but those lost memories had caused him to forget normal, everyday things about him that he ought not to forget. He may have been there for his 16th, but memories of Will’s 15th birthday came flooding back to him as he realised that he had forgotten. How could he possibly forget his birthday? He cast his mind back to that day, where he fought with both El and Will, and, yet again, forced his insecurities onto Will so that he didn’t have to bear the brunt of his own self loathing. The guilt just kept piling up. There was too much of it to keep track of, too much of it to absolve, too much to confess to. 

Too much shame. Too much to push away to the other side of his consciousness, where he could ignore it and pretend it didn’t exist. 

It was no wonder Will had grown tired of waiting for him. 

He heard a blood-curdling scream from upstairs. He recognised the voice immediately. 

Despite all of his own memories having returned to him, slowly but surely, it seemed that Will’s memories weren’t yet over. He was still trapped within them. Upstairs lay the next, and he prayed it was the last. He needed a way out, a way home, a way back to Will, but the yelling wasn’t stopping, and Mike raced up the stairs to reach him. 

When he opened the door, he found himself in the last place he expected to be in, halting him in his tracks. The church pews sat in neat rows, not one out of place. Perfectly in the middle of them, right at the front, kneeling before the altar, was a figure, hands trembling, breathing deeply. Will. 

The wails had stopped, now, turning to muffled sobs, and the occasional, “please,” or “no,” or “stop.”

He sounded weak, fragile, like he was about to give in. To what, exactly, Mike wasn’t sure. 

He hurried over to him, to see his face, to see if there were any signs as to what was happening, or who was hurting him, if anyone. When he reached him, his heart sank the moment he got a glimpse at his face in the darkness, the moon casting a sliver of light through the window, illuminating him. His usually kind hazel eyes looked blank and unseeing, pupils blown so wide that the now dark brown irises were barely visible, hardly there. There was a small frown on his face, a hint of an expression, of Will, a sign that he was still in there somewhere, if only very deep within him. He hadn’t fully given in yet, Mike was certain. But perhaps he was going to. 

It was then that he noticed that Will was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing earlier that very same day. That rust coloured jumper, a sunset orange, was darker in the dim lighting, but still recognisable. This was a recent memory. A very recent memory. 

His hands shook as he tried to reach out to Will, but couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get in, couldn’t get through to him. He couldn’t touch him. He wasn’t really there, helpless to merely watch as Will slipped further and further away from his own consciousness, becoming less of himself by the second, getting closer to evil, to the darkness that threatened to take him, to the echoes of the shadows that haunted his past, and now his present. 

Mike was frantic, shouting Will’s name as if he would be able to hear him, screaming into the emptiness around him, hoping, praying, that, by some miracle, someone would hear him, find him, let him go, let him save Will before it was too late. 

Before he was taken from him one last time. 

Then, through the sound of his own wailing, he heard a noise that couldn’t possibly have been in this memory. The distant echo of music. It was coming from the basement door that still stood in the place of the church door, the white a stark contrast to the dark brown wood surrounding it. Outlining the door was a strange red glow emanating through the darkness, guiding his way. Reluctant to leave Will, Mike slowly stood up and made his way towards it, following the music, following the light, ignoring the instinct to stay with Will and protect him for all time. The only way to really save Will was to find a way out, he reminded himself as he pushed the door open and left his best friend behind for what he hoped was the final time. 

Mike’s breath was ripped from his lungs as he laid eyes on the sight behind the door. A vast landscape bathed in deep red stood before him, rocks covering the damp ground, huge crimson clouds casting great shadows across the land, vines twisting and turning, snaking their way through the expanse, a dark fog worming its way through the great wide open. Mike wondered if he was in hell. It made sense, he supposed, with his recent revelations, that this was where he would inevitably end up. He just thought he might have a little more time, first. 

You leave in the morning with everything you own in a little black case,

Alone on a platform, the wind and rain on a sad and lonely face.

Drowning in the voice that sang to him, Mike looked ahead to see a white light opening up, growing wider and wider, brighter and brighter, until he could see what it was depicting. 

Himself. 

It was him, in a trance, eyes white and overcast, surrounded by his friends, by love and warmth, all shouting his name, shaking him, trying everything they could to wake him up, headphones atop his head, blasting a song into his ears, reminding him of all those hours down in the basement with Will, listening to music and sneaking glances, their love brimming to the surface, threatening to burst out all at once. He was transfixed for a moment on the scene before him, watching his friends all desperately attempting to bring him back to them, when he noticed that somebody was absent. Perhaps the most important of them all. Will. Will was missing. And Mike knew exactly where he needed to go to find him. 

Paying attention to the song that was being played for him, the song that he had told them to play just in case such a situation occurred, he realised why Robin had side-eyed his decision, shooting him a knowing look, making him squirm under her gaze that seemed to see right through him and his facade. It was evident to him now, why the lyrics of this particular song had always torn a rip in his chest, making his heart clench, tugging on it in ways he didn’t understand, or perhaps simply didn’t want to understand. It was yet another thing he ran away from, he thought with a humourless laugh, seeing the irony all too clearly. 

Mother will never understand why you had to leave,

But the answers you seek will never be found at home,

The love you need will never be found at home.

Bracing himself, he began to run, dodging the rocks and the vines as best he could, racing with all his might towards the scene before him, running back to his body, back to his friends, back to Will, music egging him on further, as he got closer and closer. His mind flashed with images of Will, of memories of his best friend, and scenes from his worst nightmares, imaginary depictions of him in pain, of him wailing and suffering, or him possessed again, no longer himself, no longer recognisable as his best friend, as Will, as the gentle, kind, sweet boy that he knew and loved. 

Because he did. 

He loved him. It didn’t matter, suddenly, if Will still held love for him in the same way, just as long as he was safe. 

He loved him and he was going to bring him home. 

The thought made his legs power faster than he knew was possible, as he charged towards his own consciousness, towards the light. 

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away, turn away, 

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away, turn away. 

And he did. He ran. And he didn’t stop, chasing the beacon before him, chasing his own life, his own freedom, his own love. 

Darkness. 

He felt himself falling. 

Mike could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. 

And as hard as they would try, they’d hurt to make you cry,

But you never cried to them, just to your soul

No, you never cried to them, just to your soul

He thought of Will. 

Mike wondered if he was dying. 

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away, turn away,

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away, turn away. 

He thought of Will. 

Mike wondered if anyone else would go and save his boy for him. 

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away, turn away,

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away, turn away. 

He thought of Will. 

Mike felt his body get yanked backwards and forwards, side to side, uncontrollably. 

Cry, boy, cry,

Cry, boy, cry.

He thought of Will. 

Mike didn’t know how long he’d been falling for, just that he didn’t think it would ever end. 

Cry, boy, cry, boy, cry,

Cry, boy, cry, boy, cry,

Cry, boy, cry, boy, cry.

He thought of Will. 

A bright white light shone, as Mike felt himself land, hard, back in his body. 

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away, turn away,

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away, turn away. 

He thought of Will. 

He loved Will. 

He loved Will.