Chapter Text
It’s 7:00 am on a Saturday morning and the quiet town of Hawkins is resting.
Unless you count the occasional rustle of leaves stirring on the cul-de-sac or the faint sound of a helicopter whirring violently in the distance, all is as calm as it can be -especially for a town that got attacked by inter-dimensional monsters, and not to mention a creepy and very ugly, wrinkly, burnt, slimy, human with telekinesis.
The list of adjectives to describe such a morbidly disgusting being could go on forever.
A chill breeze wafts through the thin cracks within the bedroom walls where a Demogorgon had previously raked it’s claws through a couple of years prior, still not patched up or even touched for that matter, instead completely ignored and pretended that it doesn’t exist. Which is fine, sure, but nevertheless a massive nuisance during mid-winter.
Mike stirs, beginning to turn his body over, his too-short blanket that barely covers his feet, follows along with his abrupt movement. The corners of the fabric lifting slightly at the waft of glacial air penetrating through the house.
Mike presses his eyes shut in an attempt to sleep, as the sun begins to ever so kindly blind him peeking out from behind his ‘blackout’ curtains; flecks of random colours and shapes encapsulate his vison, before he promptly has to stop when his head and ears start ringing.
He sinks deeper under his blanket, its old ends now frayed and ripping -and dangerously close to disintegrating- a true miracle it’s made it a whole 10 years and only probably survived for so long because Mike loves to neglect it and leave it most nights in the corner of his room. Mainly because it feels like the devil’s own torturous concoction of sandpaper and a whole ass sauna, but also because Mike is weird and sees the beauty in only very highly unconventional circumstances.
It’s no use.
Mike can’t sleep; he hasn’t been able to for a while, and he can’t really place his finger on why.
Aside from his strange sleeping habits -which actually do work very well if you must know- maybe it could’ve been the fact that he still has to complete his exceedingly imminent project for school that he has been putting off, and hasn’t even laid a finger on, for a grand total of 5 weeks? Or maybe how he owes Lucas money, after the bet he stupidly lost, during that awful, God-forsaken lunch time, seeing if he could outrun the fucking canteen lady, of all people, after stealing a chocolate pudding?
That didn’t end well for him, he was eventually flattened by her -he bets- 700-pound mass of pure fat. Grim.
Lucas swears that Mike didn’t ‘cross the line’ in time before Doris caught on, which is absolute bullshit by the way, because never once did Lucas say anything regarding there having to be a ‘line’. He got the pudding and he sort of got away, so Mike will be rightfully keeping his 5 dollars thank you very much.
He groans in annoyance, pathetically wishing he will receive a sudden epiphany in the next 10 seconds to solve this self-inflicted continually growing to-do list.
Mike smears a sweaty palm across his face, his long bony fingers fiddling briefly with the dark coils of his hair that are balancing themselves on his forehead, twining then loosening them between a soft grasp of his palm.
Why does he always put these things off for so long?
He really needs to work on his time management. And at this point it’s beginning to be a problem –his grades have drastically plummeted because he can’t screw his head right when it comes to times of the day, he’s got a whole book that might as well consist of three consecutive volumes of unsubmitted assignments sentenced to his ‘let’s pretend it doesn’t exist pile’ because it’s way too late now to hand them in (ranging from around 1-3 months old), and even calling his bloody dentist, because god knows when he did that last.
Okay, but can you really blame him? Surviving the whole ‘upside-down fiasco’ took a toll on his, um- cognitive skills or whatever. Give him some sort of leeway here.
Mike’s eyes and mind begin to drift, scanning his room, a strange softness settling in his gaze. He could never hate his room it was something that represented him, that truly showed him past the expectations of people, and that’s why he loved it. Because it was the only place Mike thought of himself as Mike. Not some made up ‘proper boy’, good grades, good family, good life. It leaves an acrid taste in his mouth when he thinks about it too much.
So many major events happened in his room, things that kinda made him Mike; The party’s old sleepovers here, nights upon nights in a row; hiding Jane in the closet all those years ago -which he still shudders to think about- the look on her broken face, her eyes swollen and puffy, that’s not something a child wants to see; and finally, those nights when he was young, the best nights, the nights spent with Will Byers.
When they would talk for what felt like an eternity to young children, promising each other that they would be best friends for a lifetime, forever. Giggling about some stupid ideas and dreams, making comics together -It was always Mike as the author and Will as his artist, that’s how it was, the natural order of things, like a puzzle slotting perfectly into place, like it was just right, no need to question it in the slightest- and then trying to keep themselves awake until midnight, holding each other tight with fear at the slightest creak of the wooden stairs.
The same Will Byers who was taken.
The same Will Byers who Mike hates more than anything in the world.
Or does he? In all honesty he isn’t all that sure himself. He’ll sleep on it. Not as if he can sleep anyway.
A moment passes, Mike blinks realising he’s been staring at the wall, however, unfortunately at a very specific place on the wall, for far too long than he should’ve especially when thinking about Will.
He manages to, somehow, pry his pupils away from staring at the painting Will had given him that day, that day in the van.
The painting he had been revolving his entire life around for the past 2 years, the one that was the very building block and pinnacle for every decision or every thought he could conjure.
Why was that even hung there anyway?
The thing is, Mike knows the truth about the painting, at least he thinks he does. Putting heavy emphasis on the thinks part.
He thinks that, yes, the painting was commissioned from Jane, that Will ended up painting. But Mike can’t shake the feeling that, something, somewhere, or someone was lying about it, and every different hundreds of scenarios he creates in his thick skull, every single road, it all leads back to Will, in some way or another.
There is something special about the painting, and it has to do with Will, he just can’t prove it.
And yet, deep down, a part of him wishes, wishes that the picture was from Will, that those words he told Mike were Jane’s, were Will’s words instead.
That Will meant them. And for some short moments Mike would allow himself to dream that they were. It’s sappy, it’s stupid, and he should stop thinking of his best friend –if he can call him that anymore- like that cause it’s gross. But once in a while Mike will let himself dream.
And if Mike had had the courage to say something, anything, instead of doing a dumb smirk –because what else was Mike meant to do? - rather than saying words in that van.
What Mike would give, what he would give for that day to have a different outcome.
Somewhere deep down morphed within his bones, beneath all these layers of hate that buries itself far within his flesh, Mike loves Will. That's something Mike will never admit, not even to himself.
Mike’s not even sure whether he should or does know it himself either. Because he has spent so long trying to repress these feelings over some fucking painting and over Will too.
And the cherry on top is that Mike has absolutely no one else to confide in, no one to talk to, and no one to relive this pain, and it’s fucking intense. I mean yeah, there’s the Party sure, but they won’t get it -it’s too personal. And he obviously doesn’t want to make his silly little day dream their problem –especially not when Will’s sister is like right there for the summer. There’s also Nancy, but he’s afraid that she’ll pull the usual crap everyone does of ‘seeking therapy’ or ‘reaching out’ whenever he reveals a milligram of what he’s thinking.
The problem is no one could ever come to understand, how much he has dreamt and reimagined that day over and over, pretending to this time say the right words, to not screw up again and again. Maybe at least how much he wishes he spoke his mind.
Is that he just can’t love, he can’t love how he’s supposed to, he can’t love like the world has told him to. Not in a way that would make your stomach flutter with butterflies, or in a way that makes your legs all wobbly and your brain all woozy. Not in a way that he truly can ever love, love a girl, or in a way that he felt he was coming home. Mike’s not fooled that anyone could understand it.
So, for now, rather than trying to figure out what is socially and morally acceptable, he, at the very least tries to, convince himself and others that he despises Will, that he never wants to see him again and that he doesn’t even know him. Which works for the most part.
Regardless, guilt still comes back to bite him, the red dragon now feels as if it’s staring deep into his soul, as if it were ripping his truth from the inside out. All the feelings he had pushed away into a dark chasm within his soul for so many years can’t come back now? Not when he literally just assured himself that he hates the boy.
He wishes now more than anything, that the sword he, the paladin, holds, is meant for his horrid heart instead. So that maybe it would wound him so much, so much so that the pain is sore enough, that loving someone won’t hurt again.
Because, though this is a very sudden revelation Mike has recently had, the ache that bears itself within him is not.
He isn’t meant to feel these things.
Mike is just confused.
His eyelids manage to fall heavy.
He’s asleep again.
---
The door to Mike’s bedroom lurches opens with an unpleasant creak as a soft voice drifts its way into his room, innocently slurring inaudible words together and haphazardly adding brief breathes every so often throughout the sentence -obviously too young to realise that knocking was usually an essential step before entering a teenage boy's room.
There in the doorway stands Holly’s little figure. Her auburn hair done up in messy, uneven plaits, the right ever so slightly lopsided with a couple little hairs sticking out in random places, the left however, seemingly looking tidier. Finally, both tied with oddly coloured hairbands, vomit green and some blinding neon yellow.
Not that Mike should be the one to judge, as he has had some questionable fashion choices himself, but Holly really needs to buy some new hairbands.
He internally winces with embarrassment as he remembers his ungodly obsession with wanting to spontaneously get a thick Mohawke in a sickly bright orange with his sides shaved, reminding himself to thank Max for somehow convincing him otherwise whilst the rest of the party were having a panic attack and Will seemed on the verge of tears.
Which, Mike admits, was a very reasonable reaction.
Wait- are you kidding me? Not Will again??
Why is everything always reminding him of that stupid face he had tried blocking out of his life for years?
Mike readjusts his thoughts and manages to convince himself that it’s simply because of their used-to-be ‘best friend’ friendship.
He must just be in a lot of memories; that’s all. He dismisses.
Another hushed squeak of his sister snapped him back to reality, assuming whatever jumbled slur of words she had been trying to communicate earlier, was something to do with breakfast.
“Yeah, yeah I’m coming now now” Mike croaks in a disgruntled tone whilst checking the new time.
9:03 am
Still way too early for a weekend but there’s no shot he’s falling asleep again.
Mike hesitates, rubbing his eyes once more before actually having to keep his word and get up before his mum enters his room. That’s the last thing he wants; a lecture on how lazy he is, or how he never ‘gets out’ these days, he is not in the mood right now to say the least.
After a painfully long pause, he somehow hauls himself up, the bed creaking under his weight, casting his blanket aside as a blast of the brisk cold envelopes him.
He quickly tiptoes over to his door still open ajar to where Holly failed to close it when giving up on reaching for, then pulling the door handle closed.
Continuing his strange tiptoe ordeal, Mike somehow accomplishes reaching the stairs instead of crawling back beneath the comfort of his warm bed, a marvel for Mike these days his, willpower seems to be so strong.
He trudges down the stairs, making his way to the dining room, his mother perched in a far too-orderly fashion at the head of the table, with his father probably dozing somewhere off on the La-Z-Boy.
Not that Mike could care in the slightest.
Mike’s dad was never the best. He never seemed to care or pay any attention to his children or even family in general for that matter. For Mike, an absent father in his life rarely served him any good, and when he was younger, he longed for that ephemeral bliss of his father’s recognition.
Yet that never came.
So now, Mike’s stopped trying, stopped caring at all.
Maybe that’s the reason Mike is so shit with his emotions, because it was simply how he was taught they had to be shown; locked away or not present at all.
Luck was never on his side when it came to family connections.
His mum, always tried too hard, tried too hard to please, tried too hard to be doing everything right for her kids. But by doing that, adopted the views of every single nuclear family’s mother in the goddamn neighbourhood. Too proper, too formal, too perfect. Too much. It ruined the family and caused everyone to drift apart from fear of doing something wrong.
However, she was somewhat good, besides the alcohol, drunkenness, or if the judgment of the other mums was not on her, when she was alone with her kids, she was good, great even. Attentive, loving, and present. She listened, and for that short amount of time, life was ideal. Just as much as her children needed it to be.
So, Mike makes do. It's not like he speaks with them an awful lot anyway.
Carelessly, he throws back the wooden chair -which is so old that it is dangerously close to splinting- amidst his mass of thoughts he chucks himself down on the weary stool with a rapid thud which causes the chair to rattle and scrape against the tacky linoleum flooring.
“Micheal Richard Wheeler!” Karen spits, now obviously marginally irritated with the unnecessary use of Mike’s full ass legal name.
Mike lets out a grunt of acknowledgement, preparing to grab the closest jar of maple syrup to absolutely drown his eggs with, before devouring them as if they are the first piece of food he has had in a long while.
He knows it's a weird combo, but trust him in this one, it tastes great.
His mum coughs, trying to noticeably, quickly usher Nancy and Holly over, who still are moping at snail-pace down the stairs. Quickening their pace at the hint, the sisters go and sit beside their mum, a change in their demeanour appears on their features betraying their formal act.
Karen clears her throat, not-so discreetly glaring daggers at her inattentive husband zoned out and unbothered across the room.
Mike tries to read her expression, but it is entirely deadpan, not a trace of emotion is displayed except for that irritating tight smile she puts on when the topic is mildly uncomfortable or inconvenient.
He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for probably some sort of telling off to do with them all being unhelpful around the house, or another round of yapping about some apparently obligatory standard that they will soon have to fulfil.
But no. This appears to be different-
Not something Mike has ever seen-
“We’re moving to Lenora” Karen finally spits out.
Sorry what.
Nope that’s it, Mike has now officially decided that it’s time to run away and become a hermit, completely cut off from society for the rest of his awful life, before he must run into...
Will.
Shit.
This cannot be happening at nine fucking AM in the morning. Mornings are for coffee contemplation; Mike does not want to be hearing such atrocities when he’s already had to half kill himself just trying to get out of bed already.
A moment of absolute silence befalls the dining room, the air thick and suffocating with an unwanted tension, feeling as if it’s seeping beneath everyone’s skin, like little holes forcing themselves in, puncturing it.
Tick
Tick
Tick
The infamous black cat clock, they retrieved from Ms. Driscoll after she died, keeps a steady quiet hum of clacks as its pendulum plunges back and forth with a lulling rhythm, stuffing the hollow chasm created by their collective shock.
It’s a looming presence, a constant reminder of the moving time, like it doesn’t care to continue, like the world won’t fall apart if anyone breathes too loudly, it’s a comfortingly haunting tune.
This can’t be happening. Mikes already had a break down at 7 in the morning, it’s 9 now and he just wants to eat his eggs in peace. Is that so much to ask for?
“What? We can’t just, move to- to Lenora?!” Nancy somehow stammers though a daze of thoughts, her pitch continually climbing as reality sets in.
Mike remains, staring at his half-masticated eggs pushed around his plate, not at all sure what to do.
“Look, I know how this all seems so... So sudden” Karen carries on cautiously, taking a deep breath she continues slowly as if not to frighten anyone “but we really needed to get out of here! And... I found a lovely job and large house! Oh, and Nancy and Mike don’t those two friends of yours live there? Was it Jonathan and-”
Plop
Nancy had just spat her milk that she was formerly drinking to distract herself all over the table. Holly retracts pulling a face of disgust, letting out a little whine for the couple of splotches that had gotten on her new dress.
Mike braces himself for what he knows his mum is about to say, squinting his eyes shut attempting to see those same compiling whirls of colours, he had depicted earlier that morning.
“Will!”
There. Now it’s been said, Mike can’t help but crumple down into his seat, his head, very noticeably hitting against the waxed mahogany table with an indisputable thud.
Now it’s been said it makes it real, as if the universe had finally said times up. Cause shit, this is really happening. There’s no way out of this, no ask for extension, or a ‘dog ate my homework’ excuse, it’s just happening.
Karen lets out a small chuckle of triumph, appearing bizarrely pleased with her remembrance of Mike’s long time childhood best friend.
Mike stares on.
Tick
Tick
Tick
The clock booms again in mocking rhythm, filling the feeling-full yet empty air with long, painful thumps. Or is that just Mike’s heart? Slamming through his chest, he feels exposed, seen, too seen, as burning eyes penetrate his scalp. And he hates it.
The mixture of Holly’s faultless laughs in the background, messing about with her food, and the constant blood now rushing in his ears, creates a suffocating atmosphere. The thoughts in his mind, now rough, agonising ,It grips and claws at his throat, ripping at his flesh in sharp, painful tugs -it makes him want to vomit, to puke and to spit- because only now does he realise, incredibly, that Will actually exists. And he has to confront that. He has to confront Will.
But Mikes not ready. He’s not sure he ever will be.
Because Mike is a coward.
And that’s becoming much more immensely evident now than ever before.
---
Mike sits on the frost-bitten concrete stairs outside that lead to his basement, contemplating how exactly he wishes to go about this ordeal.
He sniffs, nose now numb from the freezing wind hitting him directly in the face, his propped-up hood supplying him only minor protection -but it helps him think- the numbness seeps all over his skin, like the petals of a dying flower, spreading in an almost angelic way.
The cold helps him focus, losing sense of all unsought after distractions.
Mike used to do this a lot as a kid. When he was scared or frightened, especially during those torturous sleepiness nights he had to endure when his best friend was missing. He’d creep down into the basement, the windows covered in the snow, taking in the scents, colours, and stillness. Untouched and preserved, pretending as if Will were still there, standing tall; begging for Mike to tell him when the next campaign would begin, or just sitting there with him in comfortable unbothered silence. Mike would sit there in the cold, it helped to remind him, it helped him believe in the things he needed to as a little child in those fleeting seconds; that there was some hope that Will was still out there and alive.
He was afraid, and this was his chance out of it. Undeniably strange, but reassuring, comforting.
But now it is for none of that. As you can imagine, it’s quite the opposite. Mike has is, losing his mind over fucking Will. Are we deadass.
Mike has been pacing up and down the stairs, around the house, his room, hell, even tried to get on the roof for more space to think for 3 hours straight, like a total rejected fool. And now what? He is sitting on the freezing steps scared out of his mind, struggling to find any solution too, honestly between you and I, a minor problem.
I mean, who wouldn’t be freaking out when they are being forced to come in contact with someone they have neglected for years talking and thinking about because they are very much so in love with them for basically their entire life? No, not love... he means umm, ew that’s gross right? Right? Mike can’t love boys that... that’s...
Mike doesn’t know. All he knows is that he thinks, believes -whatever you want- is that he hates William Jacob Byers. And now he’s going to have to face that, he’s not ready to, not quite yet.
Anyhow, there are more important duties to be done. He’s got to tell his friends since childhood, mind you, that he is, you know, just casually moving all the way across the country without tearing up, because that’s 100% on his top-10 bucketlist items, saying goodbye, and packing already because his mum swore it was a great idea to tell them the news only 4 fucking days before they are on the plane leaving.
Might as well just go now
Mike thinks before hurriedly standing up, brushing the non-existent dirt of his coat with a swipe of his hand. He makes his way over to the garage, stubbornly lumbering over to the rusted metal so-called ‘door’ -more like a flimsy metal sheet- which shelters it from the weather outside.
Stubbornness clearly runs within the Wheeler household, no exceptions, not even for Holly. Mike has, throughout his entire life, not only been told how he is in fact incredibly stubborn, but also how much alike he is to his parents. If put side-by-side, the dim face, the pale skin, everything is the same to a point where everyone is undeniably related.
Mike hauls the surprisingly heavy door up, heaving as it squeaks with ghastly, ear-piercing sounds. Mike clambers his way inside to retrieve his bike. The air inside is damp and stale as he navigates through the wreckage of old wrenches as well as bits & bobs, many of which are now covered in piles of dust and cobwebs.
He squeezes the jumble of metal beams and wires through the shed, carefully trying to not scrape the car which is placed irrationally close to the wall for whatever reason...
Screech!
What. Was. That.
That was surely the umm, the uhhh...
He glances down his bike’s gears positioned against the convertible, the tip of one of the gear heads disappeared within the metal near the side mirror, undoubtedly leaving a deep large scar across its side.
No, this is great! This is exactly what Mike was intending to happen all along! Especially during the minimal time, he has left to complete his mountain of tasks! Hooray! This day really couldn’t be going any better for him. First with him being unable to sleep, then the frankly, abominable news of moving to all the way to California, and now he created an extremely noticeable gash alongside the $60,000 car. Perfect! Hooray yet again! This day is just full of surprises!
Mike might actually just buckle over and cry at this point, heavily debating the possibilities of if anyone were to find him if he managed to escape to Iceland or somewhere off in a distant land.
He runs his finger gently on the edge of the machine, where he can just about make out a thick white line of a dent the gears of his bloody decrepit bike made on the car in the dim musty lighting. The paint is mildly chipped around the score. If Mike’s willing to be truthful this time; it doesn’t matter and he’ll deal with it later, probably never if he’s being completely honest.
Afterall, his parents are too oblivious and don’t care enough to notice their own children, let alone a scratch on a car. And besides, they were never going to sell the piece of junk anyway. What did he say? Stubbornness really does run in the family.
Mike scrambles out of the gap, carelessly tugging his bike behind, not at all concerned with the very likely chance of it scraping against the car for a second time.
He places it on the ground, lowering himself above it as he sets of immediately, nearly tipping himself over the handlebars as he drives down the steep bricked driveway. Mike pushes his feet hard on the pedals, accelerating down the desolate road.
The gust bellows in his face, pushing his hair backwards as he travels faster, the wet road from where it had rained earlier was lifting in little muddy sprays, clinging to the weathered grey Demin of his jeans.
He squints in a struggle to avoid that same mud from reaching his eyes, already now accumulated at the base of his shoes.
Mike will there arrive soon.
---
Knock, Knock, Knock
The front door to Lucas’s house bangs as Lucas runs down the corridor, nearly slipping on the red patterned carpet leading to the entrance of the house. He yanks the door open, huffing in annoyance, as the heavy knocking had just begun to subside.
He peers around the crack of the open door; the chain lock still loosely attached to the box on the opposite side. There stands a lanky-looking man, out of breath, hunched over with sweat drenching the upper half of his torso. The man glances up meeting eyes with Lucas who was subconsciously grimacing already.
It is Mike.
What is Mike doing here? At Lucas’s house?
Ok, in the scheme of things, especially with his very, and I do mean very lenient friend group, it’s actually not at all random, but still, cut Lucas some slack here, whenever anyone for that matter, rocks up to his house unannounced that’s always a gonna be a shock.
“Mike! Umm... Hi! Nice to see you?” Lucas stutters in surprise, by the high-key very random appearance of Mike Wheeler on his doorstep.
A pause of silence.
“Sooo...” Lucas continues, trying to regather his thoughts. “What- I mean- Umm- Why are you here again?” He asks in case he has missed anything when he was opening the door a minute ago.
Mike looks like he’s seen a ghost, and even after what they have been through, it’s nonetheless terrifying.
“Mike? Mike? Are you okay? What happened?” Lucas presses, most definitely overreacting but, in his logic, the bigger the better, or however the saying goes again, you know what he means. He’s not really up to date with literary terms or whatever.
“Hi” Mike breathes, his eyes blurred as he seems in a far-off land of thought, still catching up on the rest of the dialog Lucas had just said.
“Can- Can I come in?” Mike asks.
“Yeah! Sure, of course, yeah no!” Lucas replies.
“Is everyone here? Can we get everyone here, the party?” Mike continues rambling, stumbling over his whispered words. He seems spaced-out, different, like he’s seen a murder happen or something, which isn’t all that out of the ordinary.
‘Oh fuck’
Lucas thinks briefly before he puts his mouth where his mind is;
“Shit, Is he back? The Mind Flayer? Did something happen? Is there a new gate? Mike? Earth to Mike?”
Mike flinches as Lucas’s voice climbs louder, living most of his childhood filled with death and unearthly monsters does that to people, ok?
“No, no” Mike reassures with a lopsided smile, “Sorry I was just, thinking of something” he says awkwardly, realising his tone might have come off as extremely dazed.
“But it’s still important... you know, of course like not as important as monsters infiltrating people's minds and trying to take over the world, but like, normal people important?” He rushes, rubbing his palm on the back of his neck. “So, I don’t know...
... you were like the first person I could think of to come to right now” he admits sheepishly, Lucas is one of his best friends after all.
“Oh” Lucas sighs, relief washing over him, yeah, no, he can do this, this here is a manageable task to solve. “Yeah, sure come in, come in” Lucas repeats, as he steps aside to make space for Mike to pass through.
They hobble over to the couch as Lucas picks up his battered walkie-talkie setting himself down, Mike following suit as he plops down right beside him.
“Dustin, Jane? Do you copy? Over.” Lucas says into the walkie, before releasing the button on the side, only to be met with the all too familiar sound of radio static. Lucas tries once more; “Hello? Anyone there? I swear if you two are making out again or something stupid...” he releases the button once more ,purposely because –embarrassingly- he wants that really cool effect that happens in movies where they immediately cut in whilst your speaking, but unfortunately that's not how walkie-talkies work. Lucas will never in his entire life admit that. He nearly did once to Max, before promptly understanding that Max would never, under any circumstances, let him live that down. So, for once in his life, Lucas learned to shut up.
To his luck -and credit if he has any of that left- a crackle of a distorted noise breaks through the walkie’s speaker, a raspy voice erupts out of the talkie, growing clearer by the second.
“Shut up Lucas, what do you want now?” Dustin replies, a noticeable grin to his tone, in that sort of childish and innocent way that one would put on when they were gladly caught doing something they shouldn’t, it has that essence of a playfulness that was once thought to have been lost during the whole chaos of the world, quite literally, turning upside down.
But now, the party, everyone, has found order in life again, a reason to keep going, and in most of the cases it was love. Everyone, except for Mike has found their someone. Dustin and Jane have one and other, Max and Lucas, Nancy and Jonathon, hell, even Steve is miraculously going out with someone -once in a lifetime experience to witness by the way. And if he’s being honest, Mike hates this whole being alone thing, who would’ve guessed? Yes, even though him and Jane didn’t love each other like that, and it was mutually agreed upon between the pair to stop the ridiculous show they were putting on display, it was still nice for the company, still nice for that feeling of simply being close to someone, it was nice for what it was worth. And Mike, yes Mike Wheeler who is incapable of expressing an ounce of emotion to a single human being (all except for Will), misses that feeling so so much.
Another blurt of noise from the walkie clenched firmly in Lucas’s hand snaps Mike out one of his various ,objectively tragic, trances he spends his days wandering aimlessly through.
“Wait, what? Sorry Lucas what did you say I couldn’t hear you?” Dustin asks much to Mike’s luck because he has not been paying any attention for the past five minutes.
Lucas turns away from his walkie, craning his neck around to glance at Mike.
“Yeah, so I think...” Lucas begins into the walkie in a rather mocking tone, putting way too much unnecessary emphasis on the ‘k’ “that you and Jane will be here in a couple of minutes for whatever reason Mike wants, which he still hasn’t told me and that’s about it!”
He releases his finger of the trigger, glaring at Mike with a familiar smirk.
He is so dead after this.
“You also still haven’t told be why you are spaced out and shit, just saying! Oh, and Max is upstairs so I can go grab her real quick.”
Lucas runs off before he can reply as Mike makes a strange gushing noise, trying to find the words to say but stopping himself before they make their way out.
He now sits there, on the couch, left alone with his thoughts once again.
Great.
---
The party perches around Mike, all waiting in eager anticipation, which (according to Lucas) he made a massive deal about. He fumbles with his hands, fidgeting with the hem of his blue and yellow striped shirt that's far too old, the fabric thinning where the seams meet on the edges, a soft frizz of loosening cotton compiling thickly in balls.
Mike attempts to swallow, preparing to speak, but rather met with a distasteful dryness in his throat. He opens his mouth ajar, forcing himself to speak the words that he can’t, and won’t ever be able to.
Mike can’t say it. He just can’t. He can’t break the news to them like this; it’s not fair.
Tears begin to sting the side of his eyes, because it genuinely is not fair. Nothing they’ve ever had to go through is, they were just kids, so why the fuck is he having to leave them and why must it be him after everything?
His eyes begin to well up as Mike widens them to prevent the flow of salty tear from streaking down his sullen face.
And that’s when something inside of him breaks.
He just breaks, and Mike has no clue why.
Because Mike never cries, never in front of anyone at the very least. Which is rather funny, he would've never imagined crying to his friends at the very least, this is a phenomenon.
Over what? Moving away? It’s not that big of a deal, right? But to Mike, it’s his whole entire world collapsing in front of him. His home his everything, right here in Hawkins, his entire fucking life about to be left behind.
He can’t do that. Mike can’t just shrug it off and give in to the supposed normalcy of it all, because it’s not normal, at all.
Maybe he’s afraid of leaving, maybe afraid of the new unknown, or maybe... guess what! Those are all true and he is too much of a single-minded prick to change. Mike is scared, and so terrified of this change, and change in general, that he can only see the world in shades of fucking grey. Because he is afraid, that when the world changes, changes into a world he is incapable of controlling, people will realise that Mike, surprisingly, isn’t all he’s cracked up to be, isn’t that ‘sure of himself leader’ he once was, when he was small, when the world appeared to be so easy and straightforward. So black and white.
And this now, this might just be it, the final hit that was too strong, with too much pressure for Mike to withstand, with just too many colours. And now he’s cracking.
He can’t leave all of this behind, because to Mike. Hawkins is his everything, it how he works, operates, exists. It’s his only way of understanding the world; his only chance, he believes, at living.
He cups his hands in his face, standing up to leave before the worst. This is always how it goes, always showing is true ugly self behind a closed door, locked in his own self-pitying closet, threatening to shut everybody else off for good this time.
“I forgot something” he mumbles, his voice breaking betraying him.
He staggers of past them to the closest bathroom, a mess of tangled limbs.
The door locks with a click. Mike folds onto the floor, his back sliding down the off-white paint, supressing a choke into his sleeve as he lets out a plethora of guttural sobs, his body jolting forward. He gasps for breathes between each sob, like his body has just been allowed to be human for the first time in a while. An echo of a cry breaks out, is quiet wails are filled with profound and gut-wrenching pain, full of a weight he’s been carrying for far too long. Full of a feeling he can never name.
Mike can’t bite back his muffled cries anymore, his chest lurching as a discomforting mass of tears continually stream across his quivering skin. The sensation intense as every touch placed on him, feels like abrasive agony.
He stays sat against the door for what feels like hours, stopping every so often to gulp down some air.
Mike’s head is pounding in an indescribable pulse, sharp, intense, and intrusive, like someone drilling a hole straight to his brain. It’s carving him out pulling at his thoughts as his stomach flexes preparing to regurgitate the contents from his bowl. His eyes feel as if they are being torn from his skull, blood vessels on the brink of popping.
Yet still, somehow, his rapid breathes slow, as he remains curled up and a broken mess. Mike shifts his head, revealing his mottled mess of hair and water plastered to his forehead. His eyes are swollen and raw as they stay frozen in place, blurred, dull and eerily unalive. Staring into oblivion, an endless void.
A ceaseless silence exists between only him and the bathroom, like nowhere and nothing else was ever real, like he has only ever been contained to an infinitely small point, as if no one would hear him if he screamed.
Tick
Tick
Tick
That fucking clock again... and it’s not even Mike’s! Why the fuck does everyone have the same stupid clock in the same stupid living room... he can hear this through the wall. Okay Mike needs to tone down on how many times he says the word fuck in his subconscious...
“Are you alright?”
Someone croaks on the other side of the door.
Well, there go his plans for never being seen by anyone outside ever again.
Mike doesn’t even stir to acknowledge the shift in tone, too caught up in his flurry of overwhelming emotions as the cool air clings to the residing dampness of his face.
His mind begins to clear up, removing the storm of blur that crowded his thoughts a second ago.
Maybe he would be doing the world a favour if he became a hermit after all.
---
Mike wakes, his head throbbing with an indescribable bluntness to it, he lifts it gently, his cheek plastered flat against his face, noticeable dents imprinted from the couch fabric he is currently sprawled quite unnaturally across. Mike’s long and awkward looking limbs are contorted into gnarly shapes, looking as if they are bending back on themselves.
He raises an arm that rested beside his body, using his elbow as a support for his head as his muscles crack and ache in pain as pins and needles appear within his stiff joints.
How long was he here for, wait where is he?
It takes a couple moments before his brain can catch up, through drowsy eyes he begins to take in his surroundings. Oh, bloody hell, he’s in Lucas’s house, in Lucas’s living room, on Lucas’s couch. Great.
His head feels like it’s been run over by a car, how did he even get on the couch? Last he remembered he was on the oh- yeah, the bathroom floor. Yeah, that’s right. That’s too much of a minor mystery to solve right now, his first one is how to stop such a nuisance of a headache.
He scans the room once more, stealing a brief minute to admire the nik naks Lucas’s family likes to display- it makes their house feel lived in, like a home.
The Sinclair’s were often quite good at that, making places feel warm. Contrary to popular belief, Mike is -mind-blowingly- extremely observant. He takes in every minor detail and facts that many either just miss, or don’t care all that much to notice them. It goes without saying that his, very unobservant and uninquisitive, parents most likely encouraged his knack for attentiveness, because in a world that never provided that attention to him, he instead decided to provide what he had left to everything and everybody else. So, growing up between him and his friends’ families, Mike noticed the loving and caring nature the Sinclair’s always carried with them, wherever they went.
Mike, ensuring no one is near, makes a run for it, he will not be seen dead here after what happened last night, not a chance, that might just drive him over the edge. Because who can live with having to see your friends after they dragged you out of the bathroom whilst you were ‘sleeping’? Well, not Mike, that’s for sure.
He lazily casts aside the thin woollen throw someone had kindly placed on him -he has a hinting suspicion it was Jane, after all she was arguably the nicest one in the party.
Mike makes sure to tiptoe across the landing next to the stairs, his toes probably breaking as he sprint in an uncoordinated fashion though the entrance hall comically reaching for his shoes that were strangely neatly placed up alongside the wall rather than the unbothered way he had left them there the day before. Another one of Jane’s doings.
Mike tries to pry his shoe on with two fingers, whilst simultaneously attempting the seemingly impossible task of yanking his coat off of the rack it’s carefully hung on. He begins hopping on one leg as silently as humanly possible as to not attract any unwanted attention, to say the least, flaying his arm like a lunatic to get the jacket to budge even an inch. Just to his luck -because Mike has clearly had a lot of that recently- he hears a defending crack echo from the direction of the coat rack. At this point, he thinks he's deserving of a gold medal for the number of wrongs that happen to him in less than 24 hours.
And before Mike and his thick skull, can begin to even process what the sound that was just made was... it starts to pummel right towards him. One of the branches attached to the hanger’s rickety frame is directly facing Mike’s chest with, it seems, very purposeful intent to kill him – and as we’ve discovered, the universe loves Mike Wheeler.
Thud
A resounding boom reverberates through the corridor as the jutting pole collides with Mike square in the face, knocking him right off his feet in a dazzled swirl. A mountain of bags and coats topple across his splayed and squashed body, temporarily removing any sort of liberty he once had with his movement.
Whelp, so much for to staying hidden.
He lets out a rather pathetic little wheeze since his lunges are in fact being absolutely crushed under the complied weight of everything –it might also be the fact that he smokes way too much pot for his own good and other shit he finds in his spare time, but that’s beside the point. A guy’s allowed to have his hobbies.
Mike knows what this entails, that his idiotic rush to get out of here to avoid the inevitable will cause it to come much much sooner than he wants. It’s no use trying to even try untangling himself from this mess -it would simply embarrass him even more.
Just on cue as he predicts, Mike can already hear a mass of whispering hushed voices escaping from the second floor, miserably failing at their so-called inconspicuous act of staying silent going down the stairs which moan in an untimely rhythm.
He can hear a mixture of quiet giggles, as if they were from little kids in year 2, how annoying. A pair of eyes dart around the corner catching Mike’s eye before ducking away from his view once again as strands of fiery red hair still poke out from behind the wall. Mike knows who that is. He can tell who that over-confident, relationship ruining, girl is from a mile away. Max.
I’m going to kill that leprechaun
He thinks briefly before continuing to stare at the edge, expressionless and tired, like he just wants this hell to be done and over with, Mike internally face-palms at his impulsivity once more as he slowly accepts his fate of interrogation his friends will most definitely force him to undergo.
Of course he had to pick this group of friends, of course he did. They are good and all but in Mike’s very humble opinion, the party at the end of the day are just big fat twats.
A couple of beats pass as Mike hears shuffling emerge around the edge, He rolls his eyes, Mike can just about catch a glimpse of a foot and an arm from the corner of his eye.
Dead silence, once again. Okay seriously what the fuck are his friends doing? It very surprising, and even more concerning, that his friends could consensually agree to stay quiet for this long.
Whap
In case Mike hasn't been hit on the head enough times today -or hit enough times at all- a roll or rock-hard toilet paper is hurdling towards him, hitting him directly in the eye as a swarm or bodies rush up to his side. That’s gonna leave a bruise.
A hand is jabbed underneath Mike’s back as it forcefully pokes a finger into his spine, causing Mike to jolt in surprise. They prop him up against the opposing wall, making no effort to remove the coat rack incase Mike dares to make a run for it again.
He blinks, trying to part his eye from when his eyelids got stuck together when the toilet paper was thrown at him. The bright light of the morning seeps into the hallway as it is casted over his eyes, blinding him for the umpteenth time.
“Soooo...” the annoyingly cheery voice of Max begins.
“Why did you cry and what was it you were going to tell us” Jane finishes, her tone covered with mild concern yet also curiosity. That’s something Mike loves about Jane how she always gets straight to the point, doesn’t dilly dally or waste time trying to soften a fall. She’s blunt and direct, but careful and knows when to draw the line most of the time. She’s good at reason. And one of everybody's most favoured aspects; not afraid to tell Mike when he’s being a little shit.
“I-” Mike stutters, recollecting his thoughts. “I’m not sure, look it’s not a big deal”
“But then why were you crying?” She continues, not at all carefully this time as usual.
He sort of stills, his jaw wide open in shock. Mike’s eyebrows furrow, how did she know? His lie about forgetting something always seems to work right? Right? It’s no use in lying anymore, Jane can just investigate his thoughts if she really wants to anyway.
“It doesn’t matter- I think I’m just shaken up or something from everything that's happened, we don’t know what could be next and- yeah, with everything going on I’m just not fully sure that the Mindflayer is dead, and we don’t even have- Will here to tell us anything, so I guess it’s just everything happening" Mike rambles on, saying the first things that come to mind. It might be very clear that he, is in fact, pulling strings out of his ass right about here, but it’s for the greater good, right?
So yeah, he lied about moving and all the other shit that he was really crying about, but he wasn’t fully lying about being afraid of Vecna, so in Mike’s mind, they cancel out.
He lets out a half-hearted grin; his eyebrows raised in a way that screams ‘get me out of here if you actually want to see me ever again’, his entire expression practically dripping with sarcasm.
Lucas raises un eyebrow utterly unimpressed with Mike “Mike” he says folding his arms “if you don’t tell us why” his eyes glint, as mischief enters his smile “then I’m going to tell everyone what I found under your bed.”
Mike’s face drops.
“No, you wouldn’t”
“Oh! But yes! I would!” Lucas grins.
“Lucas, don’t you dare”
“5...”
“I’m going to fucking kill you I swear”
“4... 3...”
“Sinclair...”
Mike takes a deep breath, not sure which outcome is worse or better. They are both the exact definition of hell to him.
“Fine” he sighs defeated; it had to be in the end the better pick, if his friends found out what was under his bed they might -no will- never see him the same again.
Once more, the party falls into an unbelievable concentration to hear, he needs to get them to visit a doctor this is not normal behaviour for any of them. Mike’s clammy hands clench as he pulls on each of his fingers, eyes darting nervously across the hallway’s adornments.
“I’m moving to Lenora”
Mike exhales a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding, and it feels like one he has had for years. It feels like much more than simply explaining a new housing arrangement or destination, but it feels as though he is admitting to his plethora of other concerning thoughts, the pains that burrow themselves deep in his heart, and the way he hates himself because of them.
No one says a word, oh shit, is it really that bad? Did he do something wrong? Are they going to hate him for lying? What- no that’s stupid, it’s not his fault he’s moving to Lenora there is literally-
“Is that seriously it?” Dustin replies, half cackling at the outright absurdity of ‘the news’.
“Uh, yeah?” Mike gapes, slightly appalled. What do you mean he technically just admitted to something that had been eating away at him for years and that is the reaction he got? He needs to get new friends; this is just ridiculous.
“That was like, so anticlimactic dude. I thought you were gonna tell us you were dying or something” Dustin snickers, pretending to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes.
Before Mike can scoff and add a –in his mind- sly remark, the crushing weight is lifted off of him as arms gather round his frame in a warm embrace. He feels tiny droplets of water seep through his shirt as Jane mumbles something sincere into his shoulder.
“you’re going to finally be with me and Will also.” she sighs through a wet slobber of tears.
She leans back checking if Mike still exists, her hands still keeping a strong grip against his arms as if he were going to magically disappear.
As if on cue, the remainder of the party piles on, wrapping their own arms around him clumsily, but warm, inviting. Though they are at times the most irritating people to exist, he knows he chose the right friends.
“It’s going to be okay Mike” a soft whisper of Jane’s voice resides pleasantly in his ear as if it belongs there, like a sister’s love.
And for now, without the constant consuming worry of what’s to come eating him away, Mike feels safe, at least for this little moment.