Chapter Text
“And I was catching my breath
Barefoot in the wildest winter
Catching my death
And I couldn't be sure
I had a feeling so peculiar
That this pain would be for
Evermore”
Winter has rolled around in Hawkins and the entire town is buried under a blanket of snow.
One month has passed since the fateful events at the MAC-Z. One month since everything changed.
The party has tried to settle back into a fragile normalcy. They have to fight for it everyday, while Hawkins is slowly being rebuilt from the ashes.
The quarantine has been lifted.
The military is gone.
The headlines have moved on.
Now only the cracks in the ground, the destroyed town center and the unease that still lingers in people’s eyes, remind of the horrible things the town had to endure over the past years.
But life moves forward. It always does.
Even when some of them don’t want it to.
When Mike opens his eyes, for a moment he doesn’t remember what day it is.
The room around him is grey, just like one of those winter mornings, where the sun rises, but doesn’t quite make it through the thick clouds in the sky.
He tries to take a deep breath, but it feels like there’s an invisible weight sitting on his chest. As if the snow that fell overnight didn’t just cover Hawkins' streets, but also his entire body.
He forces himself to sit upright and when he gets out of bed, he can feel a cold clinging to his skin that has nothing to do with the icy temperatures outside.
He moves toward the window and pushes the curtain aside.
Everything is white. The street. The sidewalks.
Even the ruined stretch of road down the block where the asphalt split open. It’s like the snow is trying to smooth it over, pretending like it isn’t broken underneath.
Across the street, Mike spots a couple neighborhood kids. They’re yelling and laughing so loud Mike can hear it despite the closed windows.
One of them gets hit square in the back with a snowball and collapses dramatically. Another is trying to stack uneven snow into something vaguely human-shaped. They look so small from up where he stands.
Mike can barely remember ever being that young.
Back then, being outside in the winter had been fun. They’d spend hours outside, until their noses were red and their fingers numb. His mother would call him inside with the promise of a hot chocolate topped with marshmallows.
It was a time when the worst thing that could’ve happened was losing your scarf and your mother being mad at you for being so careless.
He tries to picture any of it, but it feels more like he’s trying to remember someone else’s life.
There’s a soft knock on the door. He doesn’t answer. After a few moments the door opens anyway.
“Mike?”
Will’s voice is careful.
“We should leave in about thirty minutes.”
Mike doesn’t turn around but keeps staring out the window. The kids are seemingly arguing about something now, maybe about the question whether the snowman needs a scarf.
“Okay,”, he says. His voice sounds flat.
There’s a pause behind him, then he can hear some fabric rustling, as if Will is shifting his weight.
“You should eat something,”, Will adds, voice quieter now. “Before we leave.”
Mike swallows. The thought of food makes his stomach churn.
“I’ll get dressed.”
He lets the curtain fall back into place and turns toward his closet.
Will hasn’t left, he’s still standing in the doorway, watching Mike’s every move. Mike tries not to look back at him.
He opens his closet and finds the same mess that always greets him inside. He just stares at the piles of clothing, asking himself: what does one wear to a funeral that’s not really a funeral?
After all, they don’t have a body to bury. There will be no casket. It won’t be a real funeral service in a graveyard. They’ll be just a group of people pretending that saying goodbye makes it real enough to move on.
He stares at the clothes but they blur together in front of his eyes.
What does someone wear to bury a ghost?
Eventually he forces his hand to move and reaches for the first sweater his hand lands on. It might not even be clean, but he doesn’t check.
When he turns around, Will is still there.
He looks... wrong. Paler than usual, and his hair is messier than he would usually allow it.
The worst are his eyes - they are rimmed red. Not because he’d been crying recently, Mike figures. It’s the kind of red that comes from not sleeping properly.
Something twists in his chest from the sight, and he has to look away fast.
He cannot handle this, Will’s grief. Not when he can barely contain his own.
He takes a pair of jeans and then moves toward the door.
As he passes him, Will suddenly reaches out and catches his sleeve. Mike stops. Will’s hand feels warm.
“It’s going to be okay,” Will says.
He smiles. It’s a good attempt, Mike has to leave him that. It’s technically convincing, but Mike knows him too long and too well. It doesn’t even reach his eyes.
Okay, he repeats in his head.
The word feels foreign, like it’s from a language he doesn’t speak. It’s the kind of thing people say when they don’t have anything else to offer.
Mike just nods, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.
He pulls away gently and walks down the hall to the bathroom. He locks the door behind him, then moves to the sink and braces his hands on the rim. He looks up and stares at his reflection.
He barely recognizes himself anymore. He looks older, somehow. As if the past month has taken years off his life.
He turns on the shower and lets the water run until steam fills the room. The air is thick and hot within a minute, but he doesn’t mind.
Anything is better than the numbness he’s been feeling for weeks now.
Anything is better than feeling like he’s buried under snow that no one else can see.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs the smell of bacon and pancakes lingers in the air. The next thing he detects are the other’s voices. They sound warm, normal.
For a second, Mike just stands there with his hand on the banister, staring at the dining room like he doesn’t belong here.
Everyone is already at the table as if this just any other day.
His dad is reading the newspaper, while his mother is handing out bacon and slices of toast to everyone. Nancy and Jonathan are talking quietly, while Will just sits there, unmoving.
The Byers are still living with them, because they haven’t been able to find another place yet. Mike knows his father hates it, but he mostly keeps it to himself. His mother does her best to make them feel at home, but it certainly is a straining situation for everyone involved. The house is too small for that many people, but they manage somehow. Joyce keeps saying that it’s only going to be a few more weeks, her and Hopper are trying to figure something out, maybe move into one of the new places that are being build near the town center.
Mike doesn’t know what to think about that. They’ve been living like this for almost two years now and he can’t remember what it was like before. He’s gotten used to it, in a way. And he’s afraid once everyone leaves the house it will become too quiet.
They’ll all go back to their own lives, keep moving forward. Nancy will leave for college soon. Jonathan too. Their acceptance letters have been sitting on the counter like quiet promises.
Life is continuing around him, like it’s supposed to. Like the world didn’t stop turning only a month ago.
His mother is the first to notice him.
“Mike, honey, come here. I made pancakes.”
Her voice is bright. Too bright.
She gestures to the empty chair at the table. His chair.
“Some of them are still warm.”
Mike nods and walks over, sits down because it seems like the thing he’s supposed to do. The chair scrapes louder than it should.
“I’m not really hungry,” he says.
It comes out automatic. He can’t remember the last time he actually ate because he felt like it. He’s been doing it because he has to, because it keeps him alive. Not because he really enjoys it.
There’s a pause after Mike’s words. He doesn’t even need to look up to know that they’re all exchanging worried glances.
They’ve been doing that a lot lately.
As if he doesn’t notice.
His mom presses her lips together. “You should try to eat something.”
“I’m fine,” he insists quietly.
He reaches for a fork and places one pancake on his plate just to end the conversation.
Beside him, Will sits close enough that their elbows almost touch.
Will’s plate looks just as untouched.
He picks at the edge of a pancake, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces without actually eating them. Every few seconds, Mike can feel his eyes flick toward him. It feels like he’s making sure that Mike’s still there.
Mike keeps his gaze fixed on the table. He doesn’t want to see that look.
It makes him feel fragile. Everyone has been treating him like glass, as if one wrong look or one unwisely chosen word could shatter him.
When everyone’s done, Mike knows there’s no way to avoid it any longer.
He stands and drifts toward the front door, pulling his jacket on without really feeling the weight of it.
His mom follows him and before he can do anything, she wraps her arms around him. Tight. Too tight.
“Oh, honey,” she says gently as she holds him.
He stiffens automatically. His arms hover for half a second before he lets them fall around her back, barely returning it. He can feel her inhale sharply, like she’s holding herself together by force.
“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers into his hair.
There’s that word again.
Okay.
When she pulls away, her eyes are shiny. Before he can step back, there’s a small tug at his sleeve.
Holly.
She’s standing there in a pink sweater. Her hair is tied back unevenly. She looks up at him like she used to when she wanted help reaching something on a high shelf.
“I made this,” she says, and extends her small hand to him. Inside it lies a bracelet. Thread woven clumsily but carefully. Blue and yellow. A few uneven beads strung between the knots.
Mike just stares at it, but doesn’t move.
It feels like the room around him tilts slightly.
“I thought…” Holly swallows. “I thought you could put it there. At the memorial.”
His fingers twitch, but they don’t reach out.
He can’t take it, because taking it would make it real, final.
If he carries something there to leave behind, then he’s admitting she’s not coming back for it.
The silence stretches too long. Holly looks up at him, her hand wavering.
Suddenly, Will steps forward, Mike hadn’t even noticed he was there.
“I’ll take it,” he says gently and smiles at Holly, as he takes the bracelet from her. He holds it carefully in his hand, as if it’s something sacred.
“I’ll make sure it gets there.”
Holly gives him a small, sad smile. “Okay. Thank you”
She looks at Mike one more time, almost disappointed and the sight of it makes his chest ache. Then she turns and disappears down the hallway.
He can feel Will’s gaze on him again, while Mike’s eyes land on the bracelet in his hand.
Something about it feels unbearably intimate. Too symbolic. Too much.
Will doesn’t comment the situation. He doesn’t ask why Mike couldn’t take it.
He just slips it carefully into his coat pocket.
“Ready?” He asks him.
Mike nods, even though he’s not. He’ll never be ready for this.
When they step outside the house, the cold hits his face instantly. It doesn’t sting. His body feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.
Will doesn’t say anything as they walk to the front yard. Their bikes are half-dusted in snow. Mike brushes the seat off with the side of his hand without really looking at it.
They mount up in silence. The tires crunch against frozen pavement as they start down the street.
Hawkins looks almost peaceful like this. It’s like the snow is hiding all evidence of the terrible things that happened here.
The wind cuts harder once they leave the neighborhood and head toward the forest. It claws at Mike’s cheeks, and he’s sure he should feel something, just anything, by now.
But he just feels numb. There’s no shiver running down his spine, no tremor in his exposed hands.
Will rides slightly behind him, then slightly ahead, then beside him. It’s like he’s adjusting himself to Mike’s pace, without making it too obvious.
Once they’ve reached the forest, the trees grow thicker the closer they get. The branches around them are heavy with snow, bending inward and narrowing the path.
It’s almost completely silent around them, like the forest and everything inside of it is holding its breath.
When the outline of the clearing begins to form ahead, both of them slow down at the same time. Mike’s stomach twists violently and before he can even think about it, he slams the brakes and comes to an abrupt stop.
The silence of the forest presses in.
Will stops a second later, and turns around, his eyes worried.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
Mike doesn’t answer him. He just look straight ahead to where he knows the cabin will appear any second now.
“Do you need a minute?”
A minute. Mike almost laughs. As if a minute would fix any of this, as if it could undo anything. A minute won’t bring her back.
For a second the words are close to stumbling out. He wants to tell Will that he doesn’t need a minute – he needs to leave and never come back.
Instead of answering, he pushes off again and starts moving as if nothing ever happened. Will follows him.
They have to get off their bikes after a few moments though, because the path is too narrow and uneven. They step off simultaneously and walk the last stretch, pushing their bikes beside them.
The cabin comes into view. It looks smaller than Mike remembers, and familiar in a way that makes his stomach drop so suddenly he almost stumbles.
Mike forces his legs to keep moving, because he knows that if he stops now, he’s not sure he’ll start again.
They lean their bikes against a tree near the cabin and Mike can already hear the other’s voices drift over softly.
They round the side of the cabin. Everyone’s already there.
Max sits near the front, her wheelchair pressed into the snow. A thick blanket is wrapped around her legs, tucked carefully under her knees. Her hair moves slightly in the wind, but her face is still.
Lucas stands behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder. It’s a normal gesture, but Mike can’t tell if he’s trying to steady her, or himself.
Dustin is standing in front of them, talking in a voice that’s almost a whisper. Like if he speaks too loudly, he might shatter something.
When they notice Mike and Will, the conversation dies down completely.
Before anyone can speak up, the back door of the cabin creaks open.
Hopper steps out first, with Joyce right behind him. For a moment no one moves. But then Joyce’s gaze lands on Will and she hurries down the wooden steps and pulls her son into a hug so tight, it draws a quiet yelp out of Will.
“Mom,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-breathless. “You’re crushing me.”
She lets out a shaky sound that might be a laugh. Or a sob. Or both.
When she pulls back, her hands linger on his shoulders like she’s making sure he’s solid.
There are tears in her eyes.
Her gaze shifts and lands on Mike. Something in her expression softens further.
She steps forward again and wraps her arms around him without hesitation.
Mike doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t lean in either. He just lets it happen.
After a second, she releases him too.
Hopper hasn’t moved from where he stepped out. He still stands on the small front porch, and Mike thinks how he looks different than he’s remembered him. He’s still huge, but the invisible weight that’s resting on his shoulders makes him seem smaller, less commanding and formidable.
He gives Mike a single nod. The expression on his face is that of a man who is trying his best to keep it together but fails miserably at the attempt.
Mike nods back. Because what else is there to do?
Hopper clears his throat. The sound cuts through the quiet like a knife.
“We should… get started,” he says, his voice rough. “Weather report says more snow’s coming in soon. Best we’re all back before it hits.”
No one argues. They move together, slowly, a few meters away from the cabin. Snow crunches beneath their boots.
Then Mike sees it: beneath the low branches of an old fir tree sits a small statue.
An angel. Its stone wings are spread wide, hands folded together in silent prayer. In front of the statue someone has dug a small hole into the frozen ground. The dirt piled beside it is dark and wet against the snow.
There’s a few candles around it, flickering from the cold breeze. The small bouquet of flowers is already wilting.
And for the first time since he woke up, the numbness that has cloaked him for weeks, cracks slightly. Just enough to hurt.
His steps falter.
This feels wrong.
He stops walking before the others do. The group gathers slowly around the memorial.
Dustin wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, sniffing quietly. His shoulders shake once before he forces them still.
Will is already crying, and he’s not holding it back. Silent tears slip down his face while he bites hard into his lower lip, trying to choke back a sob that keeps threatening to break free.
Joyce notices and wraps an arm around him immediately, pulling him against her side.
Max’s lips tremble. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twisting into the blanket around her legs. Lucas’ hand still sits on her shoulder, steady and warm.
For a long moment, no one speaks.
The wind moves softly through the trees.
Then Hopper clears his throat again and steps forward.
“I uh…” Hopper starts, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
He stops, and takes a moment to take a deep breath before he starts again.
“Jane was… she was a kid who never got much of a chance to be one.”
His voice breaks almost immediately. He pushes through it anyway.
“She fought harder than anyone I’ve ever known. Harder than any adult I ever worked with, that’s for sure.”
Mike’s mind drifts, while Hopper’s words blur together. He still hears him talking, but the meaning behind it slips past him like he’s watching it all through water.
Instead, another memory pushes forward.
El standing in front of him, the darkness of the Void surrounds them.
I need you to help them understand my choice.
Her voice echoes in his head so clearly, even a month later.
But he doesn’t understand then and he sure as hell doesn’t understand now.
How is he or anyone else supposed to understand this?
She was acting like she was doing the right thing.
Mike stares at the hole in the ground.
There is nothing right about this.
Hopper’s voice pulls him back.
“…I’m proud of you, kid,” he finishes quietly.
His hand disappears into his coat pocket. When it comes back out, there’s a bracelet wrapped around his fingers.
Mike recognizes it. It’s the one Hopper gave her and she gave it back to him during their final fight.
Hopper looks at it for a long moment before he lets it fall. It lands softly in the hole.
Hopper steps back immediately, like standing too close to it burns.
Lucas gently pushes Max’s wheelchair forward. Max reaches into her lap and pulls out her walkman from under the blanket.
Her fingers linger on it for a moment. Her voice shakes when she speaks.
“You came back for me.”
A tear slips down her cheek.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do the same for you.”
With Lucas’s help she places the walkman into the hole.
Lucas steps forward next, his slingshot is dangling from his right hand.
He holds it tightly for a moment before dropping it in.
“I was wrong about you,” he says quietly.
His voice cracks.
“You were always one of us.”
He steps back quickly, returning to Max’s side. His hands tremble now.
Dustin wipes his face again before stepping forward.
In his hand is a compass. It’s the same one they used when they were trying to find Will all those years ago. El had manipulated it to keep them safe.
Dustin kneels and sets it carefully in the dirt.
“It stopped working the day the gate first opened,” he says, voice thick. “Needle just kept spinning.”
He lets out a small, broken laugh.
“Guess that makes sense. You were the only one who ever really knew which way was right.”
He steps back, shoulders hunched.
Will slowly pulls away from Joyce’s arm. For a moment he just stands there, breathing unevenly. When he’s walked forward and stands next to the hole, he places Holly’s friendship bracelet inside of it first. Then his hand goes into his jacket and he pulls something else out. It’s a folded piece of paper.
His fingers shake as he unfolds it. Mike catches a glimpse before he can stop himself.
It’s a drawing of their party. All of them.
He looks away immediately.
Will doesn’t say a word. He just lays the drawing on top of the other things in the hole and steps back quietly, returning to Joyce’s side.
Then his eyes drift toward Mike. And so do the other’s. They’re waiting for him to step forward, to claim this moment for himself.
Joyce’s voice is gentle when she speaks.
“Mike… do you want to say something?”
Mike looks down at the angel statue. At the hole in the ground. At the objects they’ve all thrown in there like pieces of her life being buried one by one.
Something inside him finally snaps.
“This is bullshit.”
The words tumble out before he can fully understand them himself.
For a second no one moves.
Dustin blinks at him. Lucas straightens. Joyce’s arm tightens around Will.
But now that the dam is open, he can’t stop it all from spilling out.
“This-” he gestures violently toward the memorial, toward the angel, the candles, the hole in the ground “This isn’t a burial.”
His laugh is hollow.
“It’s a joke.”
The shock on all of their faces only feeds the fire burning in his chest.
He takes another step toward the memorial and points at it like it personally offended him.
“This is ridiculous. You really think this makes anything better?”
“Mike,” Will speaks up, his voice breaking, tears still streaming down his face. “Please, stop.”
But Mike just ignores him. He opens his mouth to keep going, but then it’s Max who interrupts him.
“Shut up, Wheeler,” she snaps.
Her voice is raw with anger.
“You’re ruining it.”
Mike whips around toward her.
“Ruining it?” he spits. “There’s nothing to ruin!”
His voice echoes through the trees now.
“Everything’s already ruined!”
There’s a voice inside of his head that tells him to stop, but he’s lost all control. Everything that has been building up for weeks now wants to claw its way out.
“And you’re all standing here acting like this,” he gestures again, wildly this time “Like this is enough!”
His chest heaves, his eyes sting with unshed tears.
“It’s sick!”
He turns in a slow circle, looking at all of them.
“It’s sick how you’re all just… moving on. As if she didn’t matter!” He’s shouting now, up above them some birds fly out of the trees.
Hopper steps forward now, holding up a hand as if the gesture itself could deescalate the situation.
“That’s not what we’re doing,” he says firmly. “Kid, you need to calm down.”
But Mike is too far gone.
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” he yells. His voice cracks under the strain.
“You think throwing your old junk in a hole fixes this? You think saying a few words makes it okay that she’s gone?”
He points at Hopper now.
“You’re her dad! And you’re standing here like this is some kind of closure!”
Hopper flinches.
“You all just get to keep going! College. School. Your stupid lives!”
His voice breaks completely now.
“But she doesn’t!”
Silence crashes down around the clearing. Mike’s chest rises and falls too fast.
His hands are shaking.
And then his eyes land on Will and the next words die in his throat. He is staring at him like Mike just broke something beyond repair. His lips tremble like he’s trying to say something but can’t force the words out.
The devastation in his eyes hits Mike like a punch to the ribs. All the anger drains out of him in one brutal instant.
His lungs suddenly refuse to cooperate. Air catches halfway down his throat.
He can’t breathe. He can’t stay here.
Mike turns around abruptly. Before anyone can say anything else, he runs.
“Mike!” Dustin calls.
“No, Mike, stay here,” Joyce’s voice follows.
Mike doesn’t look back. He just runs. Away from them, from the memorial.
Branches scrape against his jacket. His feet struggle for footing on the frozen ground.
But he doesn’t slow down even when his lungs are burning.
He keeps running with no direction, just the desperate need to get as far away as possible.
The trees eventually thin out. At first he doesn’t even notice.
He’s still moving fast, his breath coming in ragged bursts, until suddenly there are no more trees. He stumbles to a stop on the edge of a quiet street.
For a second he just stands there, breathing hard, trying to steady himself. The world feels strange and distant. When he looks up, he recognizes where his feet have led him.
The quarry stretches out in front of him.
Gray rock walls carved into the earth, steep and jagged, dropping down into the still.
Mike walks toward it without really thinking. Like his body already knows where it’s going.
The wind is stronger here, sweeping across the open space and tugging at his jacket as he approaches the edge.
When he finally reaches it, he stops.
The drop opens beneath him.
The water is frozen, the icy surface covered in snow.
Mike stares down into it.
This place used to terrify him.
He remembers standing here years ago with his heart pounding so hard against his ribs, that he thought it might burst through. He remembers how scared he was, standing at the edge. He knew he’d die if he jumped. And he did it anyway.
Back then the cliff had seemed impossibly high. Now that he’s standing here again, it doesn’t feel the same.
Mike’s hands rest loosely at his sides. The wind brushes against his face, cold enough that it should sting. He barely notices.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there. At least long enough for his breathing to slow.
Long enough for the numbness in his chest to settle back in.
“Mike.”
The voice behind him is soft, but Mike flinches anyway.
He slowly turns around and finds Will standing a few feet behind him. He hadn’t heard him approach.
Of course Will is the one to follow him here.
His hair is messy from the wind, small flakes of snow caught in the dark strands. His cheeks are flushed red from the cold and from running. His eyes are still rimmed with red, his lashes damp.
For a moment neither of them says anything.
Will approaches carefully, almost like Mike might be a skittish animal, where one wrong move would send him running.
Mike watches him come closer. He doesn’t ask how Will found him. He already knows the answer.
Will stops beside him at the edge of the quarry. They’re standing close enough that their shoulders almost touch and they both look down at the frozen water.
Mike exhales slowly.
“I remember when I jumped, all those years ago, because of that jerk Troy,” he says after a while. “I was terrified.”
Will’s head turns slightly toward him, but he doesn’t interrupt.
Mike lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, though there’s no humor in it.
“I thought it was the highest place in the world.”
He looks down again.
“But now…” he murmurs. “It doesn’t even seem that high. I can’t even remember why I was scared.”
The words linger in the cold air between them.
Will doesn’t answer right away. Mike expects him to say something. He expects Will to argue, to tell him not to talk like that.
Instead, Will slowly reaches for his hand. He gently slides his fingers around Mike’s, fitting them together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Mike goes still.
For the first time in days, he feels something break through the numbness that’s been sitting inside his chest like packed snow. It’s warmth.
His fingers tighten slightly around Will’s before he even realizes he’s doing it.
And then they just stand there together at the edge of the quarry, their hands linked between them, staring out into the nothingness.
Snow begins to fall again. Right now it’s only just a few flakes that drift lazily through the air.
Will tilts his head up, watching them for a moment.
“We should probably head back,” he says quietly.
Mike nods.
He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.
Will slowly lets go of his hand, and Mike feels the absence in his whole body.
Cold air rushes back into the space where warmth had been only seconds before.
They step away from the edge together, and walk back through the forest.
When the clearing finally comes back into view, Mike keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead.
He doesn’t look toward the memorial.
Everyone else has left already. Mike and Will retrieve their bikes from the tree where they left them. They mount up and begin the ride back toward town.
Snowflakes swirl around them as they move through the darkening afternoon.
By the time they reach the Wheeler house, the sky has turned the dull gray color that comes before a snowstorm.
The wind has picked up too. It sweeps across the quiet street and pushes loose snow along the pavement in thin white ribbons.
As Mike and Will roll their bikes up the driveway, they hear a voice from the front yard.
“Mike!”
Holly stands knee-deep in snow near the fence, bundled in a bright red coat that makes her look even smaller against the white landscape. Beside her stands a snowman, or at least the beginning of one.
The bottom sphere is wide but uneven, the middle section slightly too small, and the head perched on top leans to one side like it might topple over at any moment.
Holly beams when she sees them.
“Do you want to help?” she asks excitedly. “I’m making it bigger than the neighbors’!”
Mike follows her gaze across the street.
Sure enough, there’s a snowman in the Johnsons’ yard. It’s tall and perfectly round, with a scarf and stick arms already attached. It’s the one Mike saw them built this morning.
Holly points at it with determination.
“Ours is going to be taller.”
Will glances sideways at Mike. He doesn’t need to say anything, the questions he’s asking are clear in the look he gives him.
Mike hesitates.
For a moment, the quiet normalcy of it all feels surreal. But then he nods slightly.
Will smiles faintly and steps over to Holly.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Holly immediately grabs a clump of snow and presses it into the middle section with exaggerated effort.
Will laughs softly.
“Careful,” he says, crouching beside her. “You’re going to knock the whole thing over.”
“I’m not!” she insists, though the snowman wobbles slightly under her enthusiastic attack.
Mike stands a few steps away, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He just watches them.
Holly’s laughter rings out across the yard as the snowman tilts dangerously to one side.
“Oh no!” she giggles.
Will steadies it quickly, packing snow against the base to keep it upright.
“There,” he says. “See? Crisis averted.”
Holly grins up at him like he just performed a miracle.
For a moment, the scene feels almost warm. But Mike can’t bring himself to be a part of it.
“Mike!” Holly calls suddenly.
He looks up.
“Come help us!”
She pats the snowman’s side enthusiastically. “It needs bigger arms.”
Mike shakes his head slightly.
“I’m good.”
Holly frowns.
“Pleeease?”
She trudges a few steps toward him, her lips forming an exaggerated pout.
“We need three people if we want it to be bigger than the Johnson’s.”
“I said no, Hol.”
She tugs lightly at his sleeve.
“Just a little bit-”
And that’s when he can’t hold it back anymore.
“There are more important things than your stupid snowman!”
The words burst out sharper than he intends.
Holly freezes and her eyes widen. For a moment she just stares at him like she doesn’t recognize the person standing in front of her.
Then her face crumples.
Without another word, she turns and runs toward the house, her boots kicking up little sprays of snow as she disappears through the front door.
The yard falls quiet.
Mike exhales harshly, staring at the ground. He knows he messed up, but he can’t bring himself to go after her and apologize.
When he looks up again, Will is watching him.
There’s disappointment written clearly across his face.
“That was uncalled for,” Will says.
His voice isn’t loud. But there’s a firmness to it Mike hasn’t heard in a while.
“She was just trying to cheer you up.”
Mike rolls his eyes at that.
“I don’t need someone to cheer me up.”
For a second Will doesn’t respond. Mike almost expects him to just follow Holly inside.
Then something shifts in his expression. It’s like something silently breaking behind his eyes.
Then he lets out a short, incredulous laugh.
“You know what?” he says quietly. “I’ve had enough of this.”
Mike frowns slightly.
Will’s eyes are bright again, tears gathering along his lashes.
“I tried to be understanding, Mike,” he continues. “I really did.”
His voice shakes, but he pushes through it.
“I let you pull away from everyone. From me. I figured you just needed time.”
He makes a step forward.
“And when you exploded at the memorial earlier,” Will goes on, “I thought that was it. I thought maybe you’d finally let it out. That once you stopped bottling everything up, you’d realize how much worse you were making things.”
Mike opens his mouth.
“I-”
But Will barely lets him get the word out.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Will says, his voice cracking. “You don’t have a monopoly on pain.”
The words land like a punch.
“We are all hurting,” Will continues, gesturing vaguely toward the street behind them. “Hopper lost his daughter. I lost my sister.”
His voice breaks on the word sister.
“We all lost a friend.”
Snow is falling harder now, flakes spinning wildly in the wind.
“Today was supposed to be about El,” Will says. “About remembering her. But somehow you managed to make it all about you. I guess I shouldn’t even be surprised.”
Silence follows the words. The regret settles in Mike’s chest like a stone.
He knows Will is right. He shouldn’t have lashed out at his friends earlier, he shouldn’t have lashed out at Holly.
It isn’t their fault he doesn’t know how to deal with the hollow ache inside his chest. With all the regret and the guilt that has been suffocating him for weeks.
He opens his mouth, scrambling for something to say.
“Will, I didn’t-”
But the words feel useless before they even leave his mouth. He knows that nothing he says will fix this. Nothing will undo the look on Will’s face.
Will wipes roughly at his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.
“I’m going inside,” he mutters.
He doesn’t wait for Mike to respond. He turns and walks quickly toward the house, following the path Holly took moments earlier.
The door slams shut behind him.
Mike is left standing alone in the yard.
The crooked snowman leans slightly to one side beside him.
Mike stares at it for a long time, until he can finally force himself to move.
When he steps inside the house, warm air rushes over him immediately.
The difference is almost shocking. His cheeks sting as feeling slowly creeps back into them.
For a moment he just stands in the entryway, letting the warmth wash over him.
The house is quiet. Too quiet for his liking.
He pulls off his jacket, hangs it on the hooks by the door without even looking, and heads upstairs.
Each step feels heavier than the last.
When he reaches his room, he doesn’t bother turning on the light.
The gray winter sky filtering through the window is enough.
Mike closes the door behind him and collapses onto the bed face-first. The familiar smell of his room surrounds him.
For a while he just lies there, face pressed into the pillow, as his mind keeps replaying the scene outside.
The way Will looked at him.
The anger in his voice.
You don’t have a monopoly on pain.
Mike presses his face deeper into the pillow.
Will was right. He knows he was. And somehow that makes everything worse.
And slowly but relentlessly, the guilt presses down on him. Not just because of what happened today, but because he realizes he’s been doing it for weeks already.
These past weeks… Will had done nothing but try, even if it must’ve seemed pointless.
The days right after it happened, Mike hadn’t left his room once. He hadn’t eaten and he’d barely moved.
He’d just laid in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling like the world had stopped turning while everyone else kept pretending it hadn’t.
But Will had come in anyway.
Every morning.
Every evening.
The door would open quietly, and Will would step inside, carrying a plate or a tray with food.
“Hey,” he would say softly.
Mike had never answered.
Will would set the plate down on the nightstand anyway. Sometimes it was just a couple of cookies on a napkin, or a piece of cake.
Mike had never touched any of it.
Still, Will kept bringing it.
He would sit on the edge of the bed beside him, careful not to crowd him, his hands folded loosely in his lap.
And he would talk. About nothing important, really. Just about… things.
He told Mike how weird it felt to be back at school, especially without Mike being there with them. How Dustin was already complaining about homework again, when only a few short days ago they’d faced an interdimensional monster.
Sometimes he talked about Max.
“The doctors think the therapy’s going well,” he’d said once, his voice hopeful in that careful way he had when he didn’t want to sound too optimistic. “They think she might get full movement back eventually.”
Mike had listened, but he hadn’t said a single word. He hadn’t even looked at him.
He’d just stared at the ceiling while Will’s voice filled the quiet room.
Eventually Will would stand again.
“Okay,” he’d say gently.
“I’ll… come back later.”
And he would leave.
Taking the untouched plate with him.
The next day he would return. And he’d do it all again.
He never once let it show how Mike’s silence must’ve hurt him. He just kept trying.
Mike swallows hard.
A sharp pain spreads through his chest so suddenly it almost steals the air from his lungs.
Will had been hurting too. Mike knew that, but he never really thought about it until now. He was too busy dealing with his own stuff.
But El had been Will’s sister. He lost her that day, just like Mike had. He didn’t even get a goodbye, no chance to see her again, even if just for a minute.
And still… he’d come here everyday. He’d sat beside Mike and tried to hold the world together for both of them.
The guilt twists inside him, sharp and unbearable.
Will had tried so hard to be strong – for him. When Mike couldn’t even manage to get out of bed, Will had been the one who still kept going.
Mike turns around slowly and looks around his room. It feels too small all of a sudden, with all of these thoughts pressing in from every side of it.
He pushes himself upright so quickly the bed creaks under him. Once he’s standing, he doesn’t move for a moment. Then he turns toward the door.
He needs to find Will.
He needs to… He doesn’t even know what he needs to say. He only knows that he can’t leave things the way they are.
And that he can’t sit here another second pretending none of it matters.
So he reaches for the door and pulls it open.
When he’s made it to the first floor, he stops beside the basement door that sits slightly ajar.
Will and Jonathan have been sleeping down there ever since the Byers moved in, so Mike hasn’t been there for a while.
Mike leans his shoulder against the doorframe and listens, but there’s nothing. No voices, no music.
His fingers curl loosely around the edge of the door. He stops and considers turning around for a second. He could pretend he never came down here at all.
But instead, he pushes the door open and steps inside.
The familiar staircase stretches down in front of him.
Each step creaks softly under his weight as he descends, the sound echoing faintly through the basement.
The air down here smells the same as it always has.
It’s strange how little the room itself has changed and yet it feels completely different. Or maybe it’s him who’s different now.
This place used to be full of noise.
Their dice clattering across the table. Dustin arguing about rules. Lucas insisted he rolled a twenty when everyone else clearly saw a fourteen. Will hunched over a notebook sketching maps for their next campaign.
Mike used to feel safe down here. It was like their own small refuge where they were safe from the cruel world upstairs.
Now all of those memories sit heavy in the air. It’s almost unbearable.
He reaches the bottom of the stairs and sees them. Will sits at the same table where they used to play D&D for hours. Now it’s covered in art supplies instead of game boards and rulebooks.
Jonathan is on the couch that’s been doubling as his bed these past months. He’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, a walkman resting in his lap.
Both of them look up when Mike appears.
Jonathan’s expression is neutral.
Will’s isn’t.
For a split second their eyes meet, but then Will looks away. Too fast, like just the sight of Mike hurts him.
Mike swallows.
The basement suddenly feels smaller than it used to.
“Jonathan,” he says quietly.
Jonathan looks at him expectantly.
“Can you… give us a minute?”
Jonathan doesn’t answer right away. He glances at his brother subtly. Almost like he’s silently asking “Are you okay with this?”
Will doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even look back at him.
His gaze stays fixed stubbornly on the table in front of him, his fingers absently turning a pencil between them.
After a moment Jonathan lets out a small sigh and puts his walkman aside.
“Yeah,” he says, standing up from the couch.
“I was meaning to talk to Mom anyway.”
He walks past Mike toward the stairs, pausing briefly as he passes him.
There’s a small nod. Then he heads upstairs.
The door at the top of the staircase clicks shut behind him.
And suddenly the air down here feels too heavy.
Mike stays where he is, barely one step away from the bottom of the stairs. As if a part of him hasn’t fully committed to being here yet.
Will hasn’t moved.
He’s bent over the table, his pencil moving steadily across the paper in front of him. The overhead lamp casts a warm circle of light around the table, leaving the rest of the basement in softer shadows.
Will’s hand moves quickly but carefully. His expression is focused. It’s the same look he’s always had when he’s drawing. His brow is slightly furrowed, lips pressed together in quiet concentration. In these moments it looks like he’s shut out the entire world.
Mike watches him for a second.
“What are you working on?” he asks after another beat of silence.
The forced neutrality makes his voice sound all wrong.
Will doesn’t answer. He keeps moving the pencil across the page, as if he didn’t even hear Mike.
Mike waits.
The seconds stretch out.
Finally, after another minute, Will stops.
He sets the pencil down carefully beside the paper, like he’s finishing a thought before allowing the interruption.
Then he looks up and his expression is blank and cold in a way that Mike has never seen before.
“Just say what you came here to say, Mike.”
The words are flat and they create a distance between them that feels impossible to cross.
Mike hesitates, but he’s come so far, he will not just leave without trying.
“I’m sorry.”
The words feel small in the quiet basement.
He shifts his weight slightly, hands fidgeting uselessly at his sides.
“Not just for… today,” he adds. “For everything.”
Will raises his eyebrows slightly. It looks like he’s already decided that Mike’s apology won’t change a thing.
Mike forces himself to keep going anyway.
“I was just…” His voice falters. “I was grieving.”
The chair legs scrape sharply against the floor, as Will suddenly stands up. He folds his arms across his chest, shoulders tight.
“So was I.”
The words land like a slap.
Mike nods quickly.
“I know that. I do. But it’s just… it’s different for me. El was… she was-”
The words tangle in his throat. He doesn’t know how to say it without making it worse.
But apparently Will doesn’t want to hear it anyway.
“Did you ever once think about me?”
Mike blinks.
Will looks at him with anger in his eyes now.
“In all those weeks,” Will continues, his voice rising slightly, “did it ever cross your mind to wonder how I was doing? How I was dealing with it?”
Mike opens his mouth. But Will doesn’t intend to let him speak.
“I was alone with it, Mike.”
The words shake as they come out.
“Back on that tower, you said we were best friends.”
Mike feels something tighten painfully in his chest as the memory of that day comes rushing back.
“But I didn’t see any of that these past weeks,” Will says.
Mike shakes his head slightly.
“I know I messed up, but-”
“You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
Will’s voice cracks. Mike steps forward instinctively, even though he doesn’t know what he could do. His hand hovers uselessly in the air for a second.
“I know how much El meant to you-”
“That’s not what I mean!”
The words echo off the basement walls and Mike looks at Will with wide eyes. It barely happens that Will gets this loud, this mad. Mike couldn’t mention a single time he saw him like this.
“It wasn’t just that,” Will keeps going on and Mike freezes in his spot.
“Did you ever stop and think about what I’ve been through?” he asks quietly. “Even before she died?”
Mike doesn’t answer. Because he knows the truth – no, he didn’t.
“I was Vecna’s vessel,” Will continues.
His voice is shaking now, but the words keep coming.
“He used me. Over and over again. For his plans. For everything he wanted to do.”
Mike feels his stomach twist.
“Yeah,” Will says bitterly, “figuring out I was connected to the hive mind helped us. It helped end all of this. But do you know what it felt like for me?”
Mike can’t look away, even though every fiber of his body tells him to run, to stop this. He doesn’t want to hear another word. And yet, he stands still.
“It made me feel like I was responsible for it in the first place.”
The words fall heavy in the room.
“And then,” Will continues, his voice dropping lower, “he forced me to spill my darkest secret in front of everyone.”
Mike’s breath catches.
“Yes,” Will says quickly, wiping angrily at his eyes, “I’m grateful everyone accepted me. I really am. But that’s not how I wanted it to happen. It was taken from me, Mike. Just like she was taken from me.”
The words hang in the air between them. Will’s chest rises and falls unevenly now.
“So if you only came down here to defend yourself,” he says quietly, “I don’t want to hear it.”
His eyes are glassy with tears again, but he blinks them away.
“I’m done giving everything and getting nothing back. Because I’ve been doing it for years.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Will’s words cracked something open inside Mike’s chest. They’ve made him see a truth he tried his hardest to ignore.
He hasn’t really cried once since that night. He couldn’t. His body just wouldn’t do it.
But now the tears come all at once, hot and unstoppable. Mike’s shoulders shake as the first sob breaks out of him.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps.
The words tumble out between ragged breaths.
“I’m so sorry.”
His voice collapses under the weight of it. He presses a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to contain it, but the sobs keep coming anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats desperately.
Again and again.
He barely manages to get the last apology out before something changes.
A moment ago he was standing there, choking on the words, and now Will is suddenly right in front of him.
His hands rest firmly on Mike’s shoulders.
“Mike,“ his voice cuts through the blur in Mike’s head. “Mike, you need to breathe.”
Mike tries. He really does.
But the tears have already taken over. Now that they’ve started, they won’t stop. His chest tightens painfully, like something is squeezing his lungs from the inside. Every attempt to inhale ends in another broken gasp. The harder he tries to control it, the worse it gets.
“Hey... hey, it’s okay,” Will says quickly, his tone shifting from anger to concern in an instant. “Just slow down. Try to breathe.”
But Mike can’t slow down.
The sobs keep forcing their way out of him, violent and uncontrollable. His shoulders shake so hard it makes him dizzy. His lungs feel too small, like there isn’t enough room for the air he’s desperately trying to pull in.
“I-I can’t-” he gasps.
Will doesn’t hesitate.
He moves closer and slides one arm around Mike’s waist, steadying him before his legs can give out. Mike barely notices the movement, his mind too fogged with panic to process what’s happening.
“Come on,” Will murmurs softly.
He gently guides Mike backward across the basement floor.
“I’ve got you. Just try to breathe with me.”
The couch presses against the back of Mike’s legs before he even realizes they’ve crossed the room. Will carefully lowers him down onto the cushions, keeping his arm around him the entire time.
Mike doesn’t remember sitting down. He only knows that suddenly he’s there, hunched forward, struggling to catch his breath while the sobs keep tearing their way out of his chest.
Will stays beside him.
His arm remains wrapped around Mike’s side, holding him steady while his other hand presses lightly against Mike’s shoulder.
“Slow breaths,” Will says quietly. “It’ll be okay.“
Mike shakes his head weakly.
His chest aches, every breath scraping painfully against his throat.
“Nothing’s okay,” he finally manages to choke out between sobs. “Nothing will ever be okay again.”
Will doesn’t argue. He doesn’t try to correct him or tell him he’s wrong.
Instead, he pulls Mike closer.
The movement is gentle but firm, and Mike doesn’t resist. The last bit of strength he had been using to hold himself upright disappears all at once, and he collapses forward against Will.
His face presses into the fabric of Will’s shirt.
The sob that escapes him then is deeper, even more desperate than the ones before.
He grips the front of Will’s shirt tightly, fingers bunching the fabric as he cries into his shoulder.
Will just holds him. He doesn’t tell him to stop crying.
He just stays with him, steady and patient, waiting for the storm to pass.
Mike cries until his voice grows hoarse and his chest feels hollowed out from the effort. Eventually the sobs begin to weaken. It’s not because the grief has lessened, but because his body simply runs out of energy.
His breathing still hitches every few seconds, uneven and shaky.
Will’s shirt is damp beneath Mike’s cheek where the tears have soaked through the fabric.
After a long while, Mike slowly pulls back.
Will lets him move away without protest, but his hand immediately finds Mike’s again. His fingers wrap gently around Mike’s, as if letting go completely might cause him to fall apart again.
Mike glances up at him and sees that Will is watching him. The anger from before has left his expression. There’s no tension in his shoulders now and Mike sees something familiar instead.
It’s that quiet affection Will has always carried so easily. Seeing it makes Mike’s chest tighten all over again and he can already feel another wave of tears pricking at his eyes.
“Stop that,” he says hoarsely.
Will frowns slightly.
“Stop what?”
Mike looks down at their joined hands before meeting Will’s eyes again.
“Looking at me like I deserve your sympathy. I know I don’t.”
Will doesn’t respond right away, but Mike keeps talking before he can.
“You were right about everything,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry. Even if saying that doesn’t actually fix anything.”
Will shakes his head faintly.
“I shouldn’t have said all that.”
“But it was the truth,” Mike says quickly.
The admission comes easier now that the words have started.
“I’ve been a shitty friend. Not just recently. Even before all of this. I should’ve been there for you after everything you went through.”
Mike hesitates before continuing.
“When you told everyone at the Squawk… about yourself,” he says carefully, “I kept wondering why you never told me before.”
His fingers tighten slightly around Will’s hand.
“Friends are supposed to tell each other things like that.”
A weak, humorless smile flickers across his face.
“But I think I knew why, even if I never would’ve admitted it out loud. I hadn’t been the kind of friend someone would trust with something like that. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for letting you down.”
After his words are out, the basement is quiet except for the faint creaking of the house above them and Mike’s uneven breathing.
When Will finally speaks, his voice is soft.
“Maybe you can’t forgive yourself,” he says. “But I can.”
Mike looks up at him, almost expecting to find that this is just a joke. But Will is smiling and there’s no sign of him not meaning it.
“And maybe that’s enough for now.”
Mike blinks, wiping the last dampness from his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.
A small, fragile smile appears on his face as well.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
They sit in silence for a while after that, the storm inside of Mike slowly settling into something quieter.
They’ve shifted slightly on the couch, both leaning back a little, while Will’s hand is still wrapped around Mike’s. Neither of them has tried to pull away.
Mike doesn’t say anything at first. The warmth of Will’s hand grounds him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed, something steady beneath the chaos that has been tearing through him for weeks.
Eventually Mike exhales slowly. Now that they’re here, and he’s finally managed to stop bottling it all up, he wants to get it all out.
“I just feel so... angry all the time.”
His voice is still rough from all the crying.
Will doesn’t interrupt. He just shifts slightly so he’s facing Mike more fully, giving him the space to continue.
Mike stares down at their hands for a moment before speaking again.
“At everything,” he continues. “At the world, what happened that day.”
He hesitates before saying the next words, because he already feels guilty saying them in his head.
“And at her.”
The confession hangs between them and a part of him wants to take it back. But it’s too late now and maybe this is what he should’ve done from the beginning.
“I hate that I do,” he adds. “I shouldn’t feel like that. I should just be sad. I should just miss her. But the anger is always there.”
He swallows hard.
“I keep blaming her for leaving us,” he admits. “For deciding that on her own. Like… like she didn’t think about what it would do to everyone else.”
The words tumble out faster now, pushed along by weeks of bottled-up thoughts.
“And I know that’s horrible,” Mike says, his voice cracking again. “I know it is.”
He lets out a shaky breath.
“But it’s been stuck in my head for weeks. Every time I think about it, I feel guilty for even thinking that way.”
For a moment he sits there, waiting for Will to react. But instead of showing anger or disappointment, Will just shakes his head slightly.
“I understand,” he says and Mike instantly looks up at him, surprised.
“You’re allowed to be angry,” Will continues. “Anyone would be.”
He pauses, as if he has to think about his next words carefully.
“But you can’t let that anger be the only thing that stays.”
Mike just listens to him.
“She made a decision,” Will says as his gaze drifts toward the stairs. “That’s true. But after everything she went through… it was the first decision in her life that was really hers.”
Mike frowns slightly. He doesn’t really understand where Will is going with this.
“No one was telling her where to go. No one was controlling her. No one was using her powers for their own plans.”
He looks back at Mike.
“For the first time, she got to decide what she wanted to do.”
Mike shifts slightly on the couch, Will’s words spinning in his head.
“That doesn’t mean we have to like it,” Will adds quickly. “I don’t. I wish she had stayed. I wish she had seen that there might have been other ways.”
For a moment his expression tightens with the same quiet grief Mike has seen in him all day.
“But I think she made peace with it,” Will says eventually.
“And maybe someday… we will too.”
The words hang gently in the air.
“Not today,” Will continues. “And probably not tomorrow. But someday.”
He gives Mike’s hand a small squeeze.
“And when that happens, you won’t remember this moment with anger. You’ll remember everything else. All the things you loved about her. The good memories,” he finishes, and silence settles between them again.
Mike really wants to believe him. But right now it seems impossible. His mind still feels like there’s this dark cloud that sits over every thought he tries to hold onto.
The anger and grief are still there, they’ve made themselves a home inside of him and they won’t be leaving anytime soon.
But Will’s words stir something inside him. He wouldn’t go so far as to call it hope, it’s something quieter. Maybe just the certainty that maybe life doesn’t end here.
It will keep going somehow. It will be different, that’s for sure.
But as Mike looks down at their hands, still intertwined, he realizes something else.
Not everything has to change. Some things remain constant, like Will being here with him.
He will always be the one to find him, when everything falls apart.
That’s one thing Mike has always been able to rely on.
And maybe, for now, that has to be enough.
And while they sit there in the basement where they’ve spent so many years of their childhood, the snow is still falling outside.
It settles softly over Hawkins. Over the woods surrounding the small cabin where an angel statue rests silently beneath an old fir tree.
The snow covers everything.
It blankets the ruins, muffles the noise of the town, and smooths the jagged edges of things that were once broken open.
For now, winter holds the world in its quiet grip.
And for now, grief does the same.
But winter never lasts forever.
No matter how thick the snow falls, no matter how deep it piles against the doors and windows, the cold will eventually loosen its hold. The snow will melt.
And beneath it all, hidden beneath the frozen ground, something will still be waiting.
Spring will find its way back to Hawkins.
Eventually.