Chapter Text
November 4th, 1988
Mike Wheeler has always been a bit of an asshole. He’s always known it, ever since he was a kid.
Once, when he was around ten, Will called him out on it. Mike can’t remember what the fight was even about, so many years removed, but he remembers the look on Will’s face. He remembers how his mouth had twisted around the words as he told him “You’re an asshole, Mike.” It hit harder given that Will had never been the type to swear.
Mike can’t remember if that argument ever got resolved. He thinks about it often. Thinks about Will. He’s the focal point of most of Mike’s thoughts these days. Not that that’s anything new. Will had been the highlight of his life even when he was still around, it was a given that that would stick.
Mrs. Evans is droning on about something. Rhetoric. Mike hates rhetoric. He’s enough of an overthinker already. He doesn’t need to focus on it intentionally. It’s easier to keep digging lines into the wood of his desk with his pencil. The groove is deep enough now, after several months, that it’s easy to see. Easier to follow the path and make it deeper.
Mike pauses in his work at the feeling of eyes on him. He looks up, unsurprised to see Max Mayfield watching him. She always does that when she thinks he’s not acting like himself. As though she’s ever known who Mike is supposed to be. She didn’t come to Hawkins until 1984, when Mike was already a shell of his former self.
He makes a face at her and she rolls her eyes, jerking her chin back up at Mrs. Evans to tell him to pay attention, damn it. Mike has absolutely no desire to do so. He’s perfectly content to stay right where he is. Never progressing, never moving forward. There’s a metaphor in there, maybe. One that Mike might be able to interpret if he ever paid attention in English class. He shivers in his seat. It’s cold today. That makes sense, really. They’re four days into November and Mike didn’t bring a jacket. It was fine in first period, but Mrs. Evans never turns the damn heater on in her classroom.
The bell is sharp, layered ringing. It’s different than the bell at Hawkins Middle School. That one was a bit sharper, enough that Will always made a face when it rang, scrunching his nose in discomfort. Mike isn’t sure he ever knew that he did that. He’ll never get the chance to ask.
It’s quick work to put away his things. He didn’t even bother opening his notebook, and it gets tossed loosely in his bag alongside his pencil.
“Mike,” Mrs. Evans says, as he throws his backpack over his shoulder. “Come here for a second.”
“Is everything alright?” Mike asks, like he doesn’t know exactly what she wants from him.
She sighs, adjusting the frame of her glasses on her face. The pity in her eyes makes Mike want to take the coffee mug on her desk and throw it. He doesn’t need pity. He needs answers.
“Your essay,” she says.
Mike scoffs, shoulders slumping. Seriously? That’s what this is about?
“I already told you, I’ll get it in soon,” he says, too harsh. She doesn’t react to his biting tone.
“Soon isn’t good enough. You’re three weeks behind, Mike. I’m assigning the rhetoric essay next Wednesday and you haven’t even turned in your argumentative essay.”
“I’m getting there,” Mike says, lying. He hasn’t even touched the assignment. He’s not even sure he knows where it is. Either in the mess of pages on his desk at home or buried in his backpack. “I’ll have it in soon.”
“Monday,” she says firmly. “You’ll have it in by Monday or you’re getting a zero.”
Mike’s scowl hardens. “Seriously?” he snaps.
“I’ve given you more than enough leeway,” she says firmly. “I know you have your… extenuating circumstances, but I can’t give you everything. Monday by the end of the day or you fail the assignment.”
“It’s worth a quarter of the grade in the class,” Mike reminds her, as though she’s forgotten. Maybe she has. It’s not like Mike’s grade is high enough that he could pass the class with a missing 25%. “My parents will kill me if I fail.”
“Then get me that essay,” she says, before sighing. “You’re a good writer, Mike. You just lack focus.”
Focus. Mike wants to scream. He has plenty of focus, it’s just geared towards more important things than a stupid English essay.
“Now get going before you’re late to your next class. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Whatever,” he grumbles, happy to get out of the room before the next class starts pouring in.
When he leaves the classroom, Max is waiting outside the door.
“What the hell do you want?” he sighs. He’s too tired to deal with all of this. He ignores the fact that he has less than five minutes to get to class and makes a beeline towards the vending machine to grab a can of Coke. Hopefully it’ll be enough to get him through four more hours of this stupid fucking day.
“You’re out of it today,” she says, trailing behind him as he walks. Max has always been a no nonsense sort of person. When he was thirteen, it drove him insane. His best friend was missing, presumed dead, his other friends were acting like it hadn’t happened, and suddenly this new girl was here and asking him stupid fucking questions. Now, Mike has learned to appreciate it. She’s the only one who will let him know when he’s pushed too far.
Sometimes, though, he just wants to tell her to shut the hell up.
“Shut the hell up.”
“Dustin and Lucas are acting strange too,” she says, more gentle than he’s used to. She’s always like this around November, ever since that first year. “They’d be happy to talk to you.”
Mike stuffs his crumpled dollar in the vending machine, cursing when it spits it back out. He has to try twice more before it finally works.
“That’s not my problem,” he tells Max, grabbing his can. It’s not as cold as he would like, but the caffeine should make his headache a little more bearable.
“You’re being a douchebag,” she says. The bell rings, making them both late to class, and Mike gestures for her to leave. She doesn’t. Typical.
“I’m cold,” he says, like a dumb excuse. It is. He doesn’t want to talk to her. He wants to break into his friend’s locker in the hopes of finding a jacket. “What’s Lucas’s locker combination again?”
“7675,” she says without hesitation, and Mike grins when it pops open. His own locker is across the school, not to mention does not have a jacket. Lucas’s is a thick, blue fabric that is warm to the touch. Surely, he won’t mind.
“I’m just saying, there’s no harm in talking to someone.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Mike snaps. Even as he says it he knows it’s too far.
Max stills. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He wants to apologize. Max may have hated her step-brother, but she’s been different since he died. Mike knows she blames herself for that car accident the same way he blames himself for letting Will bike away that fateful night.
“You know exactly what it means,” Mike says. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He wants to go home. He wants to leave. Max’s concern is the only thing stopping him, so he has to get rid of it.
“You can be a real dick,” she says, before stomping away, red braids swinging behind her as she leaves.
A part of Mike wants to feel guilty. He knows he shouldn’t have done that. But at the moment, he really doesn’t care.
After all, he’s always been an asshole.
Mike stuffs Lucas’s jacket to the bottom of his backpack before he goes to lunch. The chances of him actually insisting that Mike give it back are low, but Mike’s still not willing to take them. And as annoyed as she may be, Max won’t rat him out.
He eats maybe four bites of the sandwich his mom forced him to bring this morning, the taste like sandpaper on his tongue. He would believe that he was alone in it if it weren’t for how clearly he can see the toll it’s taking on his friends.
Jane looks lost, like she has no idea what or how to help. Her eyes keep darting between the three boys, fingers fiddling with her bracelets. Max is quiet, but she’s pressed arm to arm beside Lucas, a subtle attempt at comfort. Lucas and Dustin look exactly how Mike feels: drained.
Jane opens her mouth, hesitant, like she wants to speak, and Mike’s eyes latch onto her. He feels like a predator, waiting for her to say anything wrong so he has an excuse to strike. It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong. It doesn’t make him less likely to do it.
Her mouth shuts with an audible click, and it goes back to silence.
Dustin and Lucas don’t eat much either, and a part of Mike wants to reach out to them. To invite them in to suffer with him. Or at least allow them all to suffer together. It’s not enough for him to actually do it.
“I’m going to the cemetery on Sunday,” Lucas says, and the muscles in Mike’s back freeze up.
“Yeah?” Dustin asks.
Lucas nods. “It was my mom’s idea. We’re gonna have a picnic. If you guys… wanted to come. You’re welcome to it.”
“That sounds fun,” Dustin says, a soft smile on his lips. “I’ll bring Reese’s.”
Lucas laughs. “He would love that.”
“It’ll be the first time we actually get to eat any without him stealing them all.”
Max and Jane smile, relieved at the lighter mood. Mike doesn’t feel light at all.
“Mike?” Lucas asks. “Do you want to come?”
Mike gets up out of his seat and leaves. He spends the rest of his lunch period alone in a bathroom stall, staring at the graffiti around him.
The cold reminds Mike of Will.
It feels disingenuous, almost, that it does, given how much Will always hated the cold. But now, when Mike feels cold, he thinks of standing in his garage, watching Will leave. Silent. Never saying enough. Never saying anything. Why didn’t he say anything?
He replays that night in his head over and over and over again. Hundreds of thousands of times. Every day. Every night. It’s all he thinks about. What he might have done differently. What he might have fixed. What he might have stopped.
He thinks about stopping by the Byers house on his way home, but he doesn’t. Jane would be mad at him, since he hid from them during lunch, and he’s in a bad mood already. He doesn’t want to infect Joyce with it. She’s got enough going on without adding him to the mix.
“Michael? Is that you?” his mom calls from the kitchen as he walks inside, inhaling sharply at the relief of the warmth. It smells like lasagna. The oven has heated the house up enough that it melts the stress from his bones.
“Yeah,” he calls, though it should be obvious. It’s only 3:30, and Dad won’t be home until after 5:00.
“Come here, please?”
Mike tosses his backpack aside, curious as to what his mother wants from him. She usually doesn’t like company while she works on dinner. It distracts her, and she hates multiple bodies in the kitchen while she cooks. Then again, if the lasagna is already in the oven she might not mind.
She gives him a knowing look as she dries her hands on a towel. “I got a call from your school today.”
Oh fuck. “Okay,” he says sarcastically. “What about?”
“Did you skip math?” She doesn’t look angry, and it’s almost worse. He wants her to be angry. To give him a reason to be angry in return. If she maintains her composure, then it just makes Mike look like an idiot when he inevitably loses his own.
“I was already going to be late,” he mutters. “He makes such a big deal out of tardiness. I didn’t want to deal with it.”
“You can’t keep skipping class, Michael.”
“Why not? I’m not failing. Why should it matter?” He sounds bitter. He feels it. He doesn’t want to deal with any of this shit. Not ever, but not now especially.
“Is that so? What about your English essay?”
Mike scowls. “She called home about that?”
“You’re three weeks behind, Michael. That’s well past the point of calling home. Why haven’t you done it?”
“I’ve been busy. Why does it matter?”
“Because this is your future! If you don’t pull it together and do the work now, you aren’t going to have one. Your father and I have spent years doing everything we can to make sure you kids have a better life, and you’re throwing that all away.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you to do that,” Mike snaps.
“I’m your mother. It’s my job.”
“Then don’t make it my problem.”
This part is easy for Mike. It’s like breathing for him to start a fight, even one he knows he can’t win.
“Go to your room,” his mother says firmly, voice shaking. She looks about to cry. Mike is such an asshole.
“I’m going for a walk,” he says.
“No. You’re going to go finish that essay. Do you hear me, Michael?”
Her voice goes quieter as he stomps back down the hall, zipping up Lucas’s jacket and throwing the hood on.
“Can’t hear you, be back later.”
“Michael!”
“I promise not to kill myself,” he jokes, and then he’s back in the front yard, slamming the door shut behind him.
He takes a moment to breathe the crisp November air. He hates it.
He doesn’t realize where he’s walking until he’s halfway down Mirkwood, at which point he veers off path towards the quarry. He’s already made a promise to himself not to bother the Byers today. He’s not going to break that so soon, especially not in the mood he’s in.
It feels like all he does these days is break things. People, relationships. His quote unquote “future”. None of it seems to matter.
He sits at the edge of the quarry, feet propped up on the rocks. It’s not as scary as it was when he was younger, when he thought about jumping and meant it. Mike doesn’t want to jump anymore, despite what everyone around him seems to think of him.
He doesn’t want to die. He wants to live. He just doesn’t know how to live in a world without Will. Isn’t that pathetic? Five years and he still hasn’t learned how to be his own person.
He turns his head away from the drop before him, back to the grassy stone. There are flowers growing. Strange. Mike has never seen flowers here before. The ground is so rough and rocky, he always thought it impossible.
Stranger still, the flowers are arranged in what appears to be a perfect circle. Mike struggles to his feet, careful not to stumble as he looks at the strange flowers, dancing in the breeze.
Only Mike can’t feel a breeze. The air is still. Alarmingly so. Unnaturally so.
Something feels off about it, as he stares at the circle. The grass within is too green, too lush, too perfect. Unlike the messy weeds around it. It doesn’t make any sense. He wants to reach out. He wants to touch it.
Mike steps back, away from the cliff and the circle. What the fuck is wrong with him right now? He’s acting weird. Maybe Max was right.
“Jesus, I need sleep,” he groans, rubbing his eyes. The circle is still there when he reopens them.
Surely there’s no harm in checking in out, right? How much damage can it realistically do if all he does is touch?
He reaches out, hand hovering over the grass. It’s warm. Like a summer day. Completely detached from the gray November they’re in.
He leans over the grass, looking at the flowers. They’re small and white, unfamiliar. Mike isn’t exactly an expert when it comes to flowers, but he would think that he would at least recognize them, if they’re native to the Hawkins area. He doesn’t know that he’s ever seen these before in his life.
He steps into the circle, prepared to take a closer look, to appreciate the warmth he’s felt, when the world fractures around him.
He collapses to the ground in agonizing pain, an awful scream tearing from his throat as chokes, fingers digging into the rough dirt. He looks down, only to see open sky ahead of him. Like he’s floating. It doesn’t make sense. He’s in too much pain to care that it doesn’t make sense. His vision goes in and out, spots covering his sight and ears ringing.
“Mike?” a voice calls, but it’s far away, floaty through the ringing in his ears. He feels like the empty can he had crushed earlier. Compressed into a space far too small to fit him. He wouldn’t be surprised to look up and see blood. Surely, something is broken. He’s never felt pain like this in his life.
His eyelids flutter open as a flash of light makes the open sky beneath him disappear, replaced by the dirt he can feel under his nails. What happened to the lush grass?
He sobs in pain, and he can feel the faintest hint of touch as arms wrap around his chest, pulling him onto someone’s lap. Comforting him.
A person? But he had been alone. The quarry isn’t exactly a place where someone can pop out from around a corner. Mike doesn’t understand where this person could have come from.
“It’s okay,” says the person, voice trembling as they run gentle fingers through Mike’s hair. It feels nice. Even through the pain, it feels nice.
Then again, Mike isn’t used to casual touch. He has spent the past five years pushing it away.
He opens his eyes weakly, grimacing at the sunlight pouring through. It’s blocked by a head, the person he’s sitting on. From this angle, their features are upside down, obscured by the light behind them.
But he can make out some. It’s a young man, maybe around Mike’s age, with brown hair, soft eyes, soft features. He looks kind. He looks gentle.
Truthfully, he looks a lot like—
“Will?” Mike mumbles, blinking wearily.
Will lets out a choked laugh. “Mike,” he says, breath hitching. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
It’s the last thing Mike hears before consciousness flees him.