Chapter Text
The wheels of Mike’s bicycle squeak against the asphalt as they brave the harsh wind. The cold creeps from his fingertips through his skeleton-like fingers, past his stark white knuckles and into his palms. He readjusts his grip on the handlebars in an attempt to bring some life back into his hands.
Hawkins has gotten progressively colder as the winter months approach them, the late October nostalgia settling upon the small town like a thin veil to mask the tragedies of last year. Halloween costumes and jack-o'-lanterns simply can’t make everything go away, and Mike is becoming increasingly aware of it.
To Mike’s left, Will rides on the sidewalk, tires crunching through the autumn leaves. His eyes are glued to the ground in front of him, brows furrowed and chapped lips slightly parted. This concentration-face is an expression Mike is not a stranger to, and he’s always found it endearingly sweet—most often present when Will is drawing.
Although, Will has been pretty secretive about his art recently. Of course, Mike would never berate him for wanting to hide his creations that he would assume are formed from the depths of his emotional turmoil. Will doesn’t owe him anything, especially not something as delicate as emotional vulnerability, but Mike wishes he would share his art with him like he used to. At least he still has the folder of Will’s artwork, always placed in the same spot under his bed. He’ll often skim through, trying to imagine the exact moment Will decided each piece would be better in Mike’s possession.
Mike has now lost all sensation in both hands. He glances to the right and watches as Dustin calmly cycles, protected by a pair of thick gloves wrapped comfortably around the handlebars of his bike. The locks in his curly mullet are mostly covered up by a green woolen hat.
How Mike’s fingers yearn for those goddamn gloves.
From beside Dustin, Lucas calls out to everyone:
“This is me!”
He swiftly turns down an alleyway and disappears into the shadow of an oak tree. Mike watches as his onyx curls merge with the darkness.
“He’s going to the hospital?” Mike asks, recoiling his neck back towards Dustin, and he seems to physically deflate at the question.
“Mhm. Almost every day now.” Dustin replies, a certain pity in his tone.
Although Lucas puts on a brave face, everyone knows that he’s on the brink of shattering. Every day that his lover lays motionless in a hospital bed is another shred of hope lost, and hope is running helplessly thin lately.
They turn another corner, now approaching the road where Dustin lives, which means they’re seven minutes away from the Wheeler house. Mike wouldn’t dare to say it out loud, but he loves having the Byers’ company—especially Will’s, and he’s dreading the day they eventually move out. He struggles to imagine a world where he and Will don’t bump into each other while heading to the bathroom to brush their teeth every morning, or where they don’t have dinner together every night and listen to his dad go on about useless topics that they will definitely make fun of later. Will Byers has become a routine, and it’s a habit that Mike would very much like to keep.
“Shit- I’m late”, Dustin mutters, hissing like a snake as he curses while looking down at the watch on his wrist. His pedaling quickens until he’s close enough to abandon his bike and race inside without looking back or saying goodbye. With a turn of a key and a flash of brown curls, he’s gone.
The road slowly begins to rise, and Mike's bicycle stiffens as though it has been turned to stone. He's always hated this part of the journey home from school; no matter how many times he rides uphill, it always seems to take the strength and willpower straight out of him. His stamina appears to stay stagnant even after taking this road more times than he can count.
“I got the new Spider-Man comic”, Mike says breathlessly, his muscles aching as he strains to pedal.
“Huh?”
Will sounds half asleep, but his saggy eyes brighten slightly as he turns towards Mike. His wind-whipped hair falls across his face in straggly waves, looking like washed up seaweed on his sandy colored face.
“Web of Spider-Man. I bought it last week—wanna read it when we get home?”.
“Oh. Yeah, sure. When we get home.” Will echoes absentmindedly.
Mike revels in the feeling he gets whenever Will refers to his house as “home”. He can’t pinpoint exactly why he gets this warm sensation in his chest at the thought of an eternal sleepover with his childhood best friend… all Mike knows is that he wants to hold onto this feeling as long as he can before his routine is broken like a bludgeon to a glass window and everything returns to normal.
Whatever “normal” is.
“Hey, you okay? You look tired”, Mike asks, his calves continuing to burn.
He imagines Will is probably exhausted from all the late-night drawing.
Inspiration seems to strike in the middle of the night for Will. Mike knows this to be true because the last few times he’s gone downstairs for his 12AM glass of water, he would always hear the scratchy sounds of pencils on paper.
At first, Mike barely heard it. Then, four nights ago, when his brain finally acknowledged the abnormal sounds coming from the basement, his mind went straight to rats. Eventually he decided to open the door just a crack to check if it really was a repeat of the flayed rat situation from a few years back.
The prospect of diseased rats inhabiting his basement, exploding, and turning their monstrous insides into a weapon to attack Will and Jonathan turned out to be a lot scarier than his fear of the dark, and if he hadn’t worked up the courage to open that door, he wouldn’t have found Will sat at his makeshift desk, sketching figures on paper.
Now, every few nights, Mike sneaks downstairs to sit at the top step of the basement staircase, silently watching Will draw, and strangely, he never notices. Even when Mike places his foot on the wrong step and the rickety wood creaks, Will quietly continues with his artistry.
He’s always had a knack for that—blocking the world out and directing every inch of his focus onto one thing. Mike wishes he had that ability.
Will mumbles out a brief "I'm fine" and they continue to pedal in silence, broken only by the howling of the crisp fall wind and the humming of four wheels meandering across a small stretch of Hawkins. The bleak sky only grows grayer and Mike prays that they'll arrive home before the torrential rain blankets them in damp.
-
“Hi sweetie”
They both enter the kitchen to find Mike’s mom stood at the chopping board, her recently bleached hair tied up in a bun and stood in her favorite apron.
“How was school?” she asks while carefully dicing carrots for what appears to be homemade soup. The quiet hum of the TV travels into the kitchen, and by the sound of it, Nancy and Jonathan are sat on the couch with Mike’s father in the La-Z-Boy next to them. His newspaper rustles and he clears his throat. It’s a sharp sound that seems to be intentional, perhaps directed at Nancy and Jonathan.
Mike is pretty sure his parents still don’t know about their relationship, and he’d like to keep it that way. Ted’s strong opinions on other people’s business is not something he cares to hear about while trying to get through dinner.
Mike mutters some sort of vague answer to his mom’s question and races upstairs.
“Hi Mrs Wheeler”, Will squeaks out, giving her a small wave then following Mike up the staircase.
“Hasn’t my mom told you a million times to call her by her first name?”
Mike opens the door, pushing aside some discarded laundry on the floor. The familiar scent of his bedroom eases up his aching body, and he lets out an exhale that had apparently been building for a while.
“Yeah… but it just feels weird. Calling an adult by their first name. I mean, could you ever imagine calling Hopper Jim?” Will grimaces, spitting out the name like it’s a slur.
“That’s entirely different” Mike argues in return.
Will sighs and sets his backpack down on Mike’s bed. He fishes out a neatly organized binder containing his homework schedule for the week, then flips through until he finds the right page and quickly scans it.
“Ugh”
“What subject?”
“Physics. Kaminsky.”
Will throws his head back and groans, his Adam’s apple making itself known in the process. Mike watches as it drops and bounces. Accompanied by the grooves in his neck, it makes for a fascinating pattern.
“Yeah, can’t help you with that one” Mike chuckles. He sorts through his own backpack and pulls out the comic he had promised to read with Will. He waves it in the air. “Thought we were supposed to read this, anyway.”
“Later?” Will asks politely, “I’m seriously behind on this”.
“When have you ever been behind on schoolwork?”
Mike stares at Will in perplexity.
Even when he was skipping school all the time to see Dr. Owens back in eighth grade, he never missed a day of homework. Then, after he had that episode in the school field, Will still managed to ace Mr. Clarke’s insanely hard test the following morning.
There is no room for error in Will’s mind, and Mike is starting to believe he actually enjoys homework.
He’s never been behind.
Not until now.
Instead of questioning him any further, Mike decides to read the last Spider-Man comic to jog his memory before he picks up the new one. Will sits quietly at Mike’s desk, papers and textbooks splayed out in front of him and eyebrows tugged together while Mike sits on the carpet with his knees pulled to his chest, immersed in the comic book resting on his exposed skin from the rips in his black jeans.
Ten minutes go by and Mike’s carefully curated focus is shattered by the aggressive squeaking of Will’s pen scribbling all over his paper. Mike can hear the frustration in the way it drags across the page like nails on a chalkboard.
“I can’t- ugh, I can’t get this”, he says through gritted teeth.
Mike peels his eyes away from his comic to see Will with his hands over his face. He drags them downwards, pulling the skin on his face into a strangely contorted version of itself.
“Want some help?”
Mike and Will’s differences in intelligence vary from twin flame to polar opposites. Physics seems to be an area where their capacities for knowledge definitely do not align. Logically, there is nothing Mike could do to assist Will but it’s the thought that counts, right?
“Can I study here instead?” Will flops onto Mike’s bed, wrinkling the blue bed sheets and making the mattress squeal like a pig under his weight.
“Go ahead”, Mike replies, as if Will isn’t already wrapping a blanket around his neck and sinking into the comforter as the words come out of his mouth.
Will sets his book down in front of him, resting his elbows on the bed and cupping his face with his hand. He exhales and the furrowed brows return. Mike studies Will’s face as his lips begin to part, subtly mouthing the words he’s reading. Only his two front teeth are visible through the small gap in his mouth—another detail that Mike has always lov- liked about Will.
Will grew up hating his teeth; an insecurity that seems to be deep rooted into his soul thanks to years of bullying. Mike curses Troy for ever talking bad about any of his friends. Insults could be boiled down to meaningless words of an unhappy child, but the steam of lingering words condenses and leaves stains. Some stains Mike is still unable to rinse out. Will too, it seems.
Bunny teeth, he thinks to himself.
They’re cute like bunny teeth.
Will’s eye bags are even more prominent from this angle. They’re dark and blue and sink into his cheeks like footprints in sand. Just beyond his head is a David Bowie calendar hooked to the wall—one of the few artists he and Mike both like. Will certainly harbors a lot more enthusiasm when it comes to Bowie; he was actually the one that got Mike hooked. This month’s picture is from the cover of “Heroes”, and the shadows surrounding his face make Bowie look like he’s leaping off of the paper, his gaze landing on Mike’s laundry basket.
Mike’s eyes fall when they land on today’s date—he hadn’t realized how far through the month they are.
October 27th.
10 days until November 6th.
This time of year has never done Will any favors, at least not since they were little. Halloween has become a sickening reminder of everything he endured three years ago, when mere months before Will became “zombie boy”, it was their favorite holiday. Flashbacks play on an insufferable loop all throughout November like a hamster on a wheel, unable to escape, and Mike can do nothing but watch Will crumble under the weight of his trauma. He wishes he could just reach into Will’s mind, wind each memory out like a film reel, and set it all on fire. Watch as the memories turn to ash, their corruptive power over everyone disintegrating into nothing.
Mike decides to return to his comic before he spirals any further. He always has this uncontrollable tightness in his chest whenever he thinks back to the night Will went missing.
Or the following Halloween,
Or even that summer Will spent in Lenora.
Mike ached for Will that summer. He missed their phone calls, renting movies with Dustin and Lucas and arguing over whose house they should watch it at, Will’s familiar scent that Mike would lap up like a dog every time they hugged.
Now Mike can’t remember the last time he hugged Will.
It’s not like they grew apart—in fact, Mike would argue that they’re closer than ever. It just suddenly became weird to hug your guy friends once they entered high school.
The words on the page, although scarce and simple, become too difficult for Mike to read, and the images lurch out at him like every memory his stupid brain just dredged up. He jumps up and paces to the door, almost involuntarily, and his legs quiver ever so slightly at the sudden change in movement as he walks away.
“Gonna grab some water. You want a glass too?”
Will’s head, somehow still low and unbothered by the sudden jolt of the floor, tilts upwards and he mumbles a response.
Mike attempts to acknowledge whatever Will says, but, as he realizes the second his foot hits the bottom step, he fails to do so.
His mother has abandoned the kitchen, leaving the large pot of soup bubbling away on the stove all by its lonesome. He hastily fills up two glasses of water, staring at his reflection in the window above the kitchen sink as the water ricochets against the inside of the cup.
He takes in a breath.
Then another.
And with a final exhale, his brain has settled.
He bolts back upstairs into the safety of his bedroom and passes a glass to Will, still unaware of whether he actually requested it or not.
“Thanks”
Will takes a large gulp. Apparently Mike made the right decision.
“You know what? I give up.” He slams his textbook closed. “Let’s read.”
Mike is slightly taken aback by Will’s patience, which usually doesn’t run quite so thin. However, he’s glad to finally get some time with Will away from his physics book.
He grabs the comic from where he’d discarded it on top of his dresser, then places a hand on the bed and uses it to propel himself onto the mattress, landing right next to Will and laying flat on his stomach.
Will opens the first page and every word is perfectly clear. This time Mike reads with ease, his eyes floating from page to page and taking in every image with eager anticipation. Mike and Will have always had the same reading speed, so there’s never any need to check with the other before turning a page. Their slow, deep breaths even start to synchronize as they reach the end of the comic. After finishing, they discuss the plot, vocalizing each thought with thorough coverage. Will has some very passionate opinions on the art style and background details, pointing out intricacies that Mike hadn’t even noticed, and he just watches as Will rambles on, his smile growing the more he speaks.
-
“Dinner!” Holly screeches from downstairs, and Mike can hear the banister squeak as she jumps up on it.
Mike stretches his arms as if he’s just woken up and reluctantly peels himself off the bed. Will does the same, letting out a low sigh which makes Mike briefly reminisce about the slow mornings after sleepovers—something he misses, which is silly really, as they literally live together now, but he misses sleeping in the same room, the silence filled with the hum of Will’s deep-sleep breathing.
They both head downstairs.
“Will, honey”, Joyce softly calls out as his left foot meets the wooden floor. “We’re going to have to eat quick, okay? They want us there for six.”
Another viewing, Mike expects. Every time Joyce takes Will and his brother to look at a potential house, Mike’s stomach twists with stabbing dread and he prays that it isn’t the one. He hopes that one of the bedrooms will have mold creeping up the walls, something that the landlord somehow missed but Joyce catches onto, or the backyard won’t be big enough, or the rent is too expensive.
Anything to get the Byers to stay a little longer.
Joyce is gentle and warm and Mike likes having two moms in the house; they almost make up for his father’s lack of parenting. He isn’t super close with Jonathan but Nancy seems a lot happier with him around, and pissed off Nancy is not something Mike enjoys, so he’s grateful for Jonathan’s presence.
…and then there’s Will. His best friend who has become Mike’s favorite person in the entire world since he moved in. If Will moves away again (granted it won’t be away away but still), Mike fears that history will repeat itself and they’ll grow apart like they did last summer, and now that he knows what it’s like to lose Will, he never wants to let go of him for even a second.
Mike sits at his regular place at the dining table and takes his first mouthful.
Ouch.
“Shit”, he mumbles as white hot pain travels through his tongue.
“Language”, Ted exclaims. “Karen, did you put celery in this?” he says, frowning at the bowl of soup in front of him.
“You okay?” Will whispers from across the table.
Mike nods floppily then sticks his tongue out like a panting dog and points to it.
“Burned my tongue”, he replies.
Will chuckles to himself and Mike gives him a gentle kick under the table in return. After they all finish, Joyce, Will, and Jonathan rush out the door and the air grows dull and stagnant in their absence. Mike decides to play with Holly to take his mind off of the impending dread he’s beginning to feel. He makes one last wish before forcibly pushing the thought of having to live without his best friend out of his mind.
-
Silence hangs heavy in the midnight air and it’s suffocating. Mike is wide awake, the sound of his own blood pounding behind his ears piercing the quiet and twisting his already loud brain into something he could only describe as an inescapable spiral.
Sleeping has never been easy for Mike. His mind will often race, overcome with anxiety about the past, what that could mean for the future, every curve ball that could possibly be thrown at him—anything and everything. He thinks and thinks until his brain is too tired to continue.
Mike prides himself on being able to suppress his true feelings. It’s what keeps him safe, and he has mastered the art to a tee.
…except when the moon rises and suddenly the whole world is asleep. Now he has no one but himself to talk to, nothing but the torturous thoughts in his brain screaming at him.
Through every spiral, he simply has to remind himself that by morning, every thought will be tucked back neatly inside of their boxes, and Mike can go about his day without his own mind trying to beat the life out of him.
The Byers came back at around 7PM, a whisper of disappointment woven across each of their faces. Mike's stomach had twisted in that familiar way as he attempted to read Joyce's expression, searching for any clue that they hadn't found their dream home. Then, his gut settled. "The carpet had a funny smell" is all the detail that Mike had gotten but it was more than enough, because it meant that they were staying. They are staying. At least for a little while longer.
The spiral came at 11:58PM when Mike settled into bed, disappointed because Will was asleep. His habit of secretly watching Will draw has become an addiction, it seems. He's been thinking about the prospect of living without the Byers for weeks now, but tonight is when he finally let the thought settle, encompassing him and hitting Mike in every spot that could possibly hurt.
He's always hated change, and this kind of change is the worst of them all. It's his entire life. His day to day. Will is the cornerstone of Mike's existence and as dramatic as it sounds, he feels as though he might cease to breathe the second Will is no longer an intrinsic part of his routine.
And so, he lays here, spiraling.
His ears perk up when he hears a rustle from downstairs.
Then a thud that sounds almost like…
Was that the front door opening and closing?
Maybe it’s Joyce going outside for a late night cigarette, but didn’t she say she quit?
Mike searches for answer in the abyss that is his brain, and the only one that consistently circles his mind is the worst he can think of.
He’s in a weird head-space. Logically, he knows its probably nothing, but the frightful images making laps around his brain make him think otherwise. He abandons his spiral as his conscious mind latches onto the thought of something much graver.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Mike tries to imagine the sunlight pouring through the curtains and the warmth caressing his face with its touch of pure comfort. If it was the morning, Mike wouldn’t be as petrified as he is right now. His hands wouldn’t be shaking as he lifts the duvet, he wouldn’t jump at the sound of his own feet hitting the ground, and he certainly wouldn’t be hyperventilating as he descends the staircase in his pajamas, thinking about the fact that he could die wearing Garfield underwear.
At first, the front door appears to be closed, but as he approaches it, Mike notices it’s slightly ajar. He swiftly grabs a candlestick from the side table and holds it up as if it’s a sword.
He closes his eyes, thinking back to the painting Will made for him; how he strode into battle with nothing but confidence, the big red heart splayed across his metal chest piece, and the rest of the party behind him as he led them to victory. Pursing his lips and pressing his eyelids together until he feels a strain, he imagines himself as that Mike—The Heart.
Mike The Brave, stepping into battle. He opens his eyes, barely needing to adjust to the difference in light.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
He cautiously steps into the living room, candlestick in front of him, ready to defend himself from any intruder that could leap out from behind the couch and attack him.
Another rustle.
This time, Mike can’t tell where it’s coming from.
“You’re the heart. Okay? Remember, you’re the heart!”
Will’s voice echoes in Mike’s mind, reverberating against his skull and sending small waves of courage to be instilled in his subconscious. He reassures himself and steps further towards the couch. It’s pitch black and Mike can barely see a thing, only vague silhouettes of furniture and the yellowish glow of streetlamps outside of the living room window.
Maybe it’s one of my parents having an affair.
The thought is oddly comforting, and would certainly be a whole lot better than a burglar or a kidnapper or a murderer coming for Mike, or worse—Holly, or even Will.
A creak from the front porch.
Shit. Okay. Don’t be a pussy. You’ve got this.
Mike anxiously inches towards the front door, weapon at the ready. He exhales before biting the bullet and swinging the door wide open. The wind catches against it and it makes a swoosh sound as it moves.
A mass of brown hair, pale yellow and white striped pajamas, and the familiar sound of shivering breaths that Mike knows all too well.
It’s a boy curled up on the front porch steps.
“Will?”