Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler had arrived in New York the previous evening with a knot already sitting heavy in his chest. The city greeted him with blaring horns, flashing lights, and crowds that moved far too fast for his liking. Everything felt loud. Too loud. Even the air felt heavier here, thicker, like it pressed down on his lungs every time he tried to breathe too deeply.
Nancy had been excited, of course. She always was. She talked the entire cab ride from the airport, pointing out buildings, telling him about places she wanted to take him, places she'd already been. Mike nodded along when appropriate, offered quiet responses when expected, but his attention drifted constantly. Every passing street, every unfamiliar face made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
Because Will was here.
Somewhere in this massive city, Will was alive and breathing and moving on with his life — a fact Mike had tried very hard not to think about for the last six years.
When they reached the hotel, Mike barely remembered checking in. He remembered the elevator ride, the faint reflection of himself in the mirrored walls. He remembered thinking he looked older. More tired. Like the years had worn him down in ways he hadn't quite noticed until now.
Nancy left shortly after dropping her bags off, claiming she had plans with coworkers. She told him not to wait up and reminded him — multiple times — about the karaoke bar the next night. Mike agreed, even though the thought of it made his chest feel tight.
As soon as the door closed behind her, the room felt unbearably quiet.
Mike stood there for a long moment, his suitcase still unopened at his feet. Eventually, he kicked it aside and sank down onto the bed, staring at the unfamiliar walls. The silence gave his thoughts too much room to wander.
He tried to distract himself by turning on the TV, flipping through channels without actually watching anything. His mind kept drifting back to the same memories he shared with Will.
By the time he reached for the mini fridge and found it disappointingly empty, the ache in his chest had grown sharper.
That's when he went out and bought the whiskey.
Now, hours later, Mike Wheeler sat on the edge of his hotel room's bed, his head resting against a pillow that was flattened beneath his weight, his gaze fixed blankly on the ceiling above him. The room was quiet aside from the faint hum of traffic outside and the shallow breaths slipping in and out of his nose. His arm slowly extended toward the nightstand, fingers brushing against the cold glass of the whiskey bottle sitting there, waiting.
He hesitated for only a second.
With a quiet click, he popped the lid off using the bottle opener and pressed the mouth of the bottle to his lips. He tilted it upward without hesitation, the burn of the alcohol flooding his throat as he chugged until his eyes squeezed shut. He barely paused to breathe before taking another swallow.
Tonight marked six years since the day he lost his best friend, Will. Six years since everything fell apart.
The anniversary always hit him harder than he expected. Every year, he told himself it wouldn't matter as much. Every year, he was wrong.
Of course, Nancy had insisted on dragging him to New York to visit her. Mike hadn't wanted to come — not when Will lived somewhere in this massive city — but he felt guilty saying no. Nancy had looked so hopeful when she asked, like she needed him here. And Mike had always been bad at disappointing her.
He never once imagined he would actually run into Will. The idea felt ridiculous. New York was too big for that. Too crowded. Too unforgiving.
Still, the thought lingered in the back of his mind, gnawing at him every time he stepped outside.
Mike twisted the cap back onto the bottle and set it down again before sitting upright. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, letting them dangle as the room tilted slightly beneath him. For a moment, he forgot what he'd even sat up to do until the thought finally hit him.
The time.
He reached over and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 8:00 o'clock.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.
Thirty minutes. That was all he had to get to the karaoke bar and meet Nancy — and he wasn't even remotely ready. He slowly pushed himself up and caught sight of his reflection in the dark TV screen across the room.
He looked awful.
His hair stuck out in every direction, his clothes wrinkled and uneven, his eyes dulled and glassy from the alcohol already working its way through his system. He looked like he'd been dragged through the back of a dump truck and tossed into a puddle afterward.
And he was drunk. Drunk as hell.
Mike thought briefly about calling Nancy to cancel. He could say he wasn't feeling well. He could say he was tired from the flight. Any excuse would've worked.
Instead, he reached for the bottle again, took one last swig, and then forced himself to stand.
Calling a cab would've been the smart thing to do. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that. But his thoughts felt slow and disconnected, like they were moving through thick fog. The idea never even crossed his mind.
Mike stumbled into the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast, wincing slightly as cold water hit his skin. He stood there longer than necessary, letting it run over him, hoping it would wash away the heaviness sitting in his chest. It didn't.
He climbed out quickly, drying himself off in a hurry before rummaging through his still-unpacked suitcase. Clothes were shoved aside carelessly until he found the jeans and polo shirt he'd planned on wearing earlier. His fingers fumbled with buttons, his movements rushed and uncoordinated.
Shoes. Jacket. Keys.
The words repeated in his head like a checklist as he staggered toward the door. He nearly lost his balance grabbing the keys off the small table near the entrance. After slipping on his jacket, he paused for just a second, his hand resting on the doorknob.
He didn't know why.
Then he shook his head and pulled the door open, letting it click shut behind him.
The hallway felt longer than it should've been. The carpet beneath his feet seemed uneven, like it shifted every time he stepped forward. His shoulder brushed against the walls more than once, and he knocked into one of the decorative tables lining the hall, mumbling a quiet apology to no one.
By the time he reached the elevator, his vision had begun to blur slightly. The ride down felt endless. When the doors finally opened, the bright lobby lights made his head throb.
Outside, the city felt overwhelming.
Car headlights stretched into glowing lines, streetlights blurring at the edges of his vision. Mike sucked in a shaky breath and shook his head, trying to ground himself as he crossed the lot toward his car. Everything felt distant, unreal, like he was watching himself from somewhere far away.
Once inside the vehicle, he fumbled with the keys before finally shoving one into the ignition and turning it. The engine roared to life, louder than he expected. He winced.
He backed out slowly, gripping the steering wheel tightly. The moment he pressed the gas, the car lurched too hard, swerving across most of the parking lot before he corrected himself and found the driveway.
New York traffic buzzed around him as he drove, horns blaring, lights flashing, the city moving far faster than he could keep up with. His knuckles turned white as he fought to keep a steady grip on the wheel, fighting the dizziness creeping in at the edges of his vision.
His thoughts drifted dangerously.
Will's face flashed in his mind — younger, smiling, alive in a way Mike hadn't let himself remember in years. He swallowed hard and blinked, forcing his eyes back to the road.
"Focus," he muttered.
The word barely left his lips when flashing red and blue lights suddenly filled his rearview mirror.
Mike's heart dropped into his stomach.
He didn't make it far.
.
Will Byers hadn't planned on going out that night.
The idea had been mentioned casually earlier in the evening, tossed into conversation without much weight behind it. Carlton said there was a party. Someone he knew. Nothing big. Just drinks, music, a chance to unwind after a long week. Will had hesitated at first, lingering near the doorway of their apartment while Carlton pulled on his jacket, already half out the door.
"You don't have to come if you don't want to," Carlton had said, but his tone made it clear he expected Will to follow.
So Will did.
The cab ride blurred together quickly. City lights streaked past the windows, neon signs reflecting faintly off the glass. Will sat quietly beside Carlton, hands folded in his lap, listening to him talk about people he didn't know and places he'd never been. Will nodded when he was supposed to, smiled when it felt expected, but his stomach already felt unsettled.
By the time they arrived, the music was loud enough to be heard from the sidewalk.
The house wasn't anything special. Old. Narrow. Too many people packed inside. The air smelled like sweat and alcohol and something else Will couldn't quite place. Someone shoved a red cup into his hand almost immediately after they stepped through the door.
"Drink," Carlton had said, already laughing, already moving toward the kitchen.
Will took a sip. Then another. And another.
At some point, the edges of the night began to soften.
Now, Will Byers was slumped on the couch in the living room of a stranger's house, his unfocused eyes drifting over the sea of bodies around him. People moved past him in blurs of color and noise. Music thumped through the walls, the bass vibrating beneath him, laughter blending with shouting, but none of it felt real. Everything sounded distant, muffled, like it was happening underwater.
He was already deep in a drunken haze and couldn't remember how he'd even gotten there.
His head felt heavy, his thoughts slow and disconnected. He blinked a few times, trying to focus on something — anything — but nothing stayed clear long enough. The ceiling fan spun lazily above him, the light flickering with each rotation.
He tried to stand.
Big mistake.
The moment he pushed himself up, the room tilted violently. His balance disappeared entirely and he stumbled sideways, crashing into a lounge chair that scraped loudly across the floor. The drink in his hand sloshed forward, spilling onto the carpet in a sticky splash of amber liquid.
No one noticed.
Or no one cared.
A few people laughed somewhere nearby, but not at him. Just at something else. Something meaningless. Everyone else was just as drunk, just as lost in themselves.
Will dropped back into the chair, his heart pounding harder now. His stomach churned violently, twisting in on itself. He swallowed thickly and pressed a hand against his abdomen, breathing slowly through his nose.
He felt awful.
His head fell forward briefly before he forced himself to sit upright again. His eyes scanned the room, sluggish and unfocused, searching for a familiar face.
Carlton.
He didn't see him anywhere.
Panic flickered faintly in his chest. Will shifted in his seat, craning his neck to look over the crowd. People leaned against walls, danced poorly in the middle of the room, shouted over the music. He didn't recognize anyone.
His head fell back against the chair as he squeezed his eyes shut, silently begging the nausea to go away. He told himself it would pass if he just stayed still long enough. If he just breathed.
It didn't.
A wave of dizziness rolled through him, stronger than before. Will groaned softly, his fingers curling into the fabric of the chair as his stomach lurched again. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to throw up right there on the floor.
Footsteps approached.
Will barely registered them until someone bumped into his knee. His eyes opened slowly, vision swimming as a familiar shape came into focus.
Carlton.
He looked just as drunk, if not worse. His grin was wide and careless, his eyes unfocused as he laughed at something Will couldn't hear.
"Hey," Carlton slurred, shoving another beer into Will's hand.
Will stared down at it, then back up at him. His throat tightened. "I—I don't think I should," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the music.
Carlton waved him off, already laughing again. "You're fine," he said, tugging Will upright by the arm. "Loosen up."
Will barely managed to stay on his feet. His legs felt weak beneath him, like they might give out at any second. He clutched the beer loosely, his fingers slick with condensation.
Before he could say anything else, someone else stepped closer.
One of Carlton's friends. Will didn't know his name. He didn't even remember seeing him before. The guy leaned in, speaking too close to Will's ear, his breath hot and smelling like alcohol.
"Yo," he said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small packet, pinched between his fingers. "You guys want some?"
Will's gaze locked onto it immediately.
His heart sank.
Even through the haze of alcohol, he knew exactly what it was. His vision swam as he tried to process what was happening, his thoughts lagging several seconds behind the moment. He shook his head faintly, his stomach twisting tighter.
"No," he murmured, though he wasn't sure anyone heard him.
Carlton laughed again, louder this time, and leaned toward his friend. Will couldn't hear what they said to each other. The room felt like it was spinning now, the walls closing in too tightly around him.
He swayed where he stood, barely holding himself upright.
Then, somewhere outside, sirens wailed.
The sound cut through the music sharply, instantly recognizable. Will flinched, his heart jumping into his throat. For a split second, everything froze.
Then panic erupted.
People shouted. Someone cursed loudly. Bodies surged toward the back of the house as police lights flashed through the windows, red and blue washing over the walls. The music cut off abruptly, replaced by chaos.
"Cops!"
Someone shoved past Will hard enough that he nearly fell again. His pulse raced, confusion and fear crashing into him all at once. He turned toward Carlton instinctively, reaching out.
But Carlton was already moving.
In the chaos, Will felt something shoved roughly into his lap. He looked down sluggishly, his vision blurring as he recognized the same small packet from earlier.
His breath caught.
Before he could react, before he could even form a thought, Carlton was gone. He disappeared into the crowd without a single glance back.
Didn't even look back.
Will's chest tightened painfully. "Carlton—" he tried to call out, but his voice was swallowed by the noise.
The front door was kicked in moments later.
Officers flooded the house, shouting commands Will couldn't fully understand. Bright lights blinded him as someone grabbed his arm roughly, yanking him forward. He stumbled, nearly falling as cold hands forced him against the wall.
"Wait— I didn't—" he tried to say, but the words tangled uselessly on his tongue.
Cold metal snapped around his wrists.
The sound echoed in his head.
He barely registered being searched. Barely felt the packet being pulled from his lap. His stomach lurched again, nausea surging violently as his surroundings blurred into streaks of color and noise.
He was pushed forward, guided roughly toward the door. The flashing lights outside made his head throb. He felt dizzy. Sick. Terrified.
Someone read him his rights.
He didn't understand a word.
All he knew was the overwhelming sickness and the crushing weight in his chest as he was shoved into the back of a patrol car. The door slammed shut with a final, hollow sound.
The world went quiet.
Will slumped sideways against the seat, his head spinning as tears burned behind his eyes. His wrists ached from the cuffs. His stomach twisted violently, threatening to give out at any second.
Possession.
That was the word they used.
Will squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing uneven as the car pulled away from the curb, carrying him somewhere he didn't want to go, for something he hadn't done.
.
Mike barely noticed the siren until it was directly behind him.
At first, he thought it was just another sound blending into the noise of the city — another horn, another ambulance, another piece of New York screaming past him. It wasn't until the sound grew louder, sharper, that his chest tightened painfully.
Red and blue lights flashed suddenly in his rearview mirror.
His stomach dropped.
"Oh," Mike muttered quietly, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
For a brief moment, he considered the possibility that the cop was trying to get around him. That maybe if he just kept driving a little farther, the lights would pass him by. But the siren let out a short, unmistakable whoop, and the realization settled in fully.
This was for him.
Mike eased his foot off the gas and pulled over without question, the car jerking slightly as he came to a stop along the side of the road. His heart pounded hard enough that he could feel it in his throat. The flashing lights reflected off the windshield, bouncing harshly against the glass and making his head throb.
He sat there for a second too long, hands frozen in place.
Then he swallowed and forced himself to sit up straighter.
He rolled his shoulders back, adjusted his grip on the wheel, tried to look normal. Tried to look like someone who wasn't drunk out of his mind and spiraling quietly. His movements felt delayed, like his body wasn't responding at the same speed as his thoughts.
The driver's side mirror caught a glimpse of the officer stepping out of the patrol car.
Mike sucked in a breath.
He reached for the window controls, fumbling slightly before managing to roll the window down. Cold night air rushed in immediately, making him shiver. He hoped — irrationally — that it would sober him up. That somehow the smell of pavement and exhaust and city air would snap him back into himself.
It didn't.
The officer approached slowly, boots crunching softly against the pavement. Mike kept his eyes forward until the man stopped beside his door.
"Good evening, sir," the officer said evenly. "Do you know why I pulled you over?"
The words floated in the air for a moment before Mike fully processed them. He blinked slowly, his brow furrowing as he replayed the sentence in his head.
"Uh..." He swallowed. "No... I don't."
His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Too slow. Slightly slurred.
The officer tilted his head just slightly. "You were swerving pretty badly back there. I almost thought you were going to clip another car."
Mike's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Sorry," he murmured, though he wasn't sure if he'd been asked to apologize.
The officer studied him for a moment before continuing. "Name?"
"Mike Wheeler," he replied, a little quicker this time.
The officer nodded once, eyes flicking briefly over Mike's face. Mike could feel himself being evaluated — the unfocused gaze, the faint smell of alcohol lingering in the car, the way his posture didn't quite hold.
"Mr. Wheeler," the officer said slowly, "have you had anything to drink tonight?"
Mike hesitated.
The pause stretched just long enough to be noticeable. His first instinct was to lie. To say no. To brush it off. But the words wouldn't come. His mouth felt dry, his thoughts sluggish and tangled.
He nodded instead, his gaze dropping to his lap. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Whiskey."
The officer sighed, the sound heavy and tired, like he'd heard this answer a thousand times before. "How much whiskey?"
Mike shrugged faintly. "I don't know. A few drinks."
The officer didn't respond right away. He shifted his weight slightly, glancing back toward his patrol car. When he spoke again, his voice was firm but not unkind.
"Alright. I'm going to need to see your license and registration."
Mike nodded, the motion a little too exaggerated. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
He fumbled clumsily through his pockets, his fingers catching on the fabric of his jacket. His wallet slipped from his grasp once and landed on the seat beside him. He cursed quietly under his breath before picking it up and pulling his license free.
The glove box took him longer.
He leaned forward, nearly losing his balance as he popped it open. Papers spilled out onto the floor, scattering around his feet. Mike stared down at them blankly for a moment, trying to remember which one he needed.
Registration. Right.
He grabbed the first folded paper he saw and handed everything over through the window with shaking fingers.
"Here," he said softly.
The officer took the documents, glancing over them briefly before stepping away toward his patrol car. Mike watched him go, his heart racing as the seconds stretched uncomfortably long.
The silence felt suffocating.
He shifted in his seat, his leg bouncing nervously. The flashing lights continued to pulse around him, casting red and blue shadows across the interior of the car. His head started to ache again, a dull throb settling behind his eyes.
Nancy.
The thought hit him suddenly, sharp and unpleasant. He pictured her standing in the karaoke bar, checking her phone, wondering where he was. He imagined the look on her face when she got the call.
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning quietly.
The officer returned a minute later, his expression unchanged.
"Mr. Wheeler," he said, handing the documents back through the window. "I'm going to need you to step out of the vehicle."
Mike's stomach dropped.
"Is... is that necessary?" he asked weakly.
"Yes, sir."
Mike nodded, swallowing hard. He opened the car door and stepped out slowly, the pavement beneath his feet feeling unsteady. The cool air hit him harder now, sending a shiver down his spine. He swayed slightly, catching himself on the edge of the door.
The officer noticed.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Yeah," Mike said quickly, though it was very obviously not true.
The officer gestured for him to step away from the car. Mike complied, his movements stiff and uncoordinated. He stood there awkwardly, hands at his sides, trying very hard to stay upright.
The officer watched him for a long moment.
"Mr. Wheeler," he said finally, "based on your driving and your condition, I'm placing you under arrest for driving under the influence."
Mike let out a quiet groan, his shoulders slumping slightly. "You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered.
"I'm afraid not."
The officer stepped closer, guiding Mike gently but firmly toward the patrol car. Mike didn't resist. He didn't have the energy to argue. The embarrassment burned hotter than anything else, his face flushing as the reality of the situation settled in.
Nancy was definitely going to kill him.
He was guided into the backseat of the patrol car, the door opening with a hollow click. Mike climbed inside clumsily and slumped against the seat. The door shut behind him with a solid thud, sealing him inside.
The exhaustion hit him immediately.
It washed over him all at once, heavy and overwhelming. His head tipped to the side, his eyes fluttering shut despite his efforts to keep them open. The adrenaline drained from his system, leaving him weak and disoriented.
The last thing he remembered was the faint hum of the engine starting.
Then everything went dark.
.
Will woke up with a pounding headache and the unmistakable chill of concrete pressed against his back.
For a few seconds, he didn't move. His eyes stayed shut as he breathed shallowly through the ache behind them, hoping it would fade if he stayed still long enough. His mouth felt dry, his tongue heavy, and his thoughts came sluggishly, like they were wading through thick fog.
He shifted.
Cold metal scraped against his arm.
Will frowned faintly and pushed himself upright, wincing as the room tilted. He reached out to steady himself and took a step forward — only to walk straight into something solid.
The impact jolted through him.
He sucked in a sharp breath and stumbled back, his hands flying up to grip the bars in front of him. They were cold. Unmoving. Real.
His breath hitched.
"What...?" he muttered, his voice hoarse.
Will blinked slowly, his vision adjusting to the dim lighting overhead. The dull buzz of fluorescent lights filled the space. He looked down at the narrow bench behind him, the metal toilet bolted into the corner, the gray walls closing in from every side.
A jail cell.
The realization hit hard, knocking the air from his lungs. His stomach dropped, nausea twisting sharply as memories began to surface in broken flashes — the party, the drinks, the packet shoved into his lap. Sirens. Hands grabbing him. Cold metal snapping around his wrists.
"I didn't..." he whispered, dragging a shaky hand over his face.
His heart raced uncontrollably as he leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he was seated again. The floor was unforgiving beneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing unevenly, trying to make sense of how he ended up here.
A door slammed somewhere nearby.
Will flinched, his head snapping up. Footsteps echoed down the hall, slow and heavy, each one sending a jolt through his chest. He held his breath as the sound passed, then faded.
The cell felt too quiet.
That was when he noticed the other presence.
Someone else was breathing in the space with him.
Will's gaze shifted instinctively, sliding along the length of the cell until it landed on the figure slumped against the opposite wall. A person curled slightly inward, knees drawn up, head tipped to the side.
For a second, Will couldn't place him.
Then the shape sharpened. Dark hair. Familiar posture. A jacket he'd seen a hundred times before.
His heart stopped.
Mike Wheeler.
Right there. In the same cell.
Alive. Breathing. Real.
Will's chest tightened painfully, disbelief flooding through him all at once. He stared, afraid to move, afraid to make a sound in case it shattered whatever this was.
His name slipped out anyway, barely more than air.
"Mike...?"