Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If there were truly a way to disappear into thin air, Mike would do anything to make it happen in this very moment. Staying still under the blanket, he forces his eyes shut to keep from screaming. There’s no way Will actually heard him, Mike thinks. This doesn’t even make any sense—he made sure Will was asleep. He checked three times. There’s no other explanation for what he heard other than his mind playing cruel, cruel tricks on him. 

He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s unable to look over at Will, in case he’s looking at him, and he can’t just pretend like it never happened—because he heard him. Mike thinks he might throw up and pass out at the same time, wondering what the hell his own issue is. What is he supposed to do? Why did he even do that, when Will is less than five feet away from him? Why the hell was he thinking of Will when finishing? 

“Mike?” Will’s voice is a little louder now, echoing off the four walls of his bedroom and muffled slightly by the covers Mike is hiding under. The mere sound of his voice, the confirmation that this isn’t some… mind game, makes his heart almost stop beating entirely. Mike can tell that Will’s voice is shaking, tentative as he speaks once more: “Mike, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t have many options: he can either pretend to be asleep, sealing his fate and staying under the blanket for the foreseeable future (or at least, until Will falls back asleep), or he can leave the room and never look back. Preferably, he would leave Lenora altogether and find a way back to Indiana that doesn’t require buying an overpriced plane ticket, or the cost of his pride—never speaking about this, or to Will, ever again. 

Yet, there he is: still in Lenora, stuck in Will’s room, and underneath the blanket. He knows that the second he gets up, he’ll be forced to deal with whatever Will heard him do and to admit out loud that there is, indeed, something seriously wrong with him. 

And there’s nothing he can do about it.

Will heard him. He heard him moan his name—heard him finish. What the fuck is he even supposed to say to that? To him? What is Will going to say? Is he going to tell the others? Maybe Jonathan? Joyce? Arguably, a million times worse: Hopper? He needs to go back home to Indiana, because he has no idea how he’ll be able to face Will without jumping out of the nearest window and hoping the fall is big enough to put him out of his misery. 

This is bad. This is really, really bad. Actually, the more Mike thinks about it, still under the blanket, the more he realizes it might be worse than bad. It’s detrimental. It’s terrifying. 

Suddenly overwhelmed by his inability to breathe, he needs to get out of Will’s room. His hands begin to shake as he reaches forward, lifting his hips and pulling his pajama pants back up, snug against his hips. His abdomen aches, but no longer with pleasure. Now, unfortunately, it’s aching with shame. 

He can’t face Will. God, he feels so fucking embarassed, stupid and reckless. He lets himself go for one second, and he accidentally moans Will’s name? Less than two feet away from him? In what world is that a normal thing to do? Thinking about someone else, a boy, is bad enough. But why… Will? Why is he completely and utterly consumed by the thought of him? He doesn’t like Will. He doesn’t like him in that way, and yet he can’t stop thinking about him. 

Still, even in this second, all he can think about is Will. How his voice shook slightly, how he has a tattoo on the side of his ribcage that he wasn’t quite able to make out, and how his cheeks flush whenever he’s nervous. Shit, Mike thinks, placing a hand over his heart as though that would stop the way it’s manically beating. Why does Will make him feel this way?

Maybe getting off of the air mattress is worth the risk, he thinks. Maybe if he gets up and moves fast enough, Will won’t notice him, or try to speak to him, and he’ll just pretend like this didn’t happen. All he needs to do is get out of this room. 

Pushing the blanket off of his body, he’s hit by a waft of warm air—the air conditioning still not working, but he doubts that’s why he’s feeling so warm, the embarrassment heating his skin—but it’s much too late to back down now. He needs to commit to sneaking out, knowing better than to risk even looking in Will’s direction. He can’t, he shouldn’t, and he won’t.

Almost tripping over his blanket as he tries to stand, he lets out a small yelp. Great, he thinks, all attempts at a smooth escape from this room are now useless, as his hands grasp hold of the dresser in order to steady himself. He lets out a shaky breath. Jesus, he thinks. Why can’t he ever do anything right? It takes all of his self-restraint not to look at Will, who he can feel is watching him from the bed. Mike tries his best to force down the blush that spreads on his cheeks. 

Unfortunately for Mike, he can’t help but send a quick look in Will’s direction, no matter how hard he tries not to. He can see Will out of the corner of his eye, sitting up in his bed, hair messy and comforter bunched around his lap. Don’t look at him, Mike reminds himself. He can’t.

“Mike,” Will tries for a third time, “I can literally see you. Can’t we just talk for a second—”

Mike doesn’t have it in him to listen to whatever Will is about to say, so he grabs his pillow, wrapping his arms around it as though it’s a shield in battle. Stepping over his air mattress, he heads for the door. It doesn’t matter if Will is trying to talk to him, it doesn’t matter if his chest tightens at the sound of Will pleading, he doesn’t have a choice but to ignore him—he wouldn’t even know what to say even if he tried. He’s embarrassed, mortified, and wants nothing more than the ground to swallow him whole and never face Will again. 

Refusing to turn around, he bolts out of the room, not even bothering to close the door on the way out. 

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

Mike wakes with a sharp pain radiating from the base of his neck and a pounding headache that makes it hard to think straight. 

As his eyes adjust to the sunlight filtering through the small window, it takes him a handful of seconds to realize that he is not in Will’s room, but rather: in the bathroom, lying in the bathtub.

He doesn’t necessarily fit; his legs dangle over the edge of the ceramic tub, the pillow he brought with him settled at the base of his back, no longer underneath his head. His head is directly under the faucet, and his bangs are slightly damp from the droplets that fell throughout the night. Still, he doesn’t regret his decision to spend the night there, knowing that he would choose it all over again rather than face Will. 

The thought of Will sends yet another wave of embarrassment washing over him. He can't believe it really happened, and this time it wasn’t a dream that he could push to the back of his mind and pretend doesn’t exist. He wonders if avoiding Will is making everything a million times worse, but he doesn’t have the energy to begin yet another spiral.

Sure, he thinks Will is objectively attractive; he would do anything to see what Will’s tattoo looks like or to see him shirtless—but he can’t say that out loud. If he does, it’ll change everything. He won’t be able to just take it back, or pretend like he didn’t say it. It will follow him for the rest of his life. So maybe, he thinks, it’s better if he doesn’t do anything about it. Hide it deep in his chest, bury it beneath the layers of anger, annoyance and frustration—because that’s all he knows how to do.

“Mike?” A knock on the bathroom door pulls Mike from his thoughts, his heart dropping back down to his knees. He looks down at his body, still stuck in the bathtub, a pain beginning to spread in his lower back. Shit, he thinks. “Mike! Come on, man. I need to brush my teeth.”

Mike forces himself out of the bathtub, sparing a second to look at himself in the mirror. Though the bruises on his face are beginning to fade, they’re still prominent—almost as prominent as the bags underneath his eyes. He managed to fall asleep, albeit very lightly, but he looks and feels like a complete and utter mess. 

Another knock at the door. “Dude, come on! You’ve been in there, like, forever—”

“I’m coming!” Mike manages to push through his teeth, his voice hoarse. 

He reaches for a brush, not bothering to check whose it is, and quickly runs it through his hair. His curls are slightly out of control, his hair now falls just past his shoulders, the ends beginning to wisp. Despite not being able to play anymore, he can’t bring himself to cut it. If he cuts it, that means it’s final—he won’t be able to play, because he won’t be able to go on the ice with his new haircut. It’ll mess up his flow, his ability to skate, and his mental. 

He shuts his eyes for a second, taking in a deep breath. He reaches forward, turning the faucet on and quickly running his hands underneath the cold water. A pit in his stomach grows at the thought of having to face Will. It’s going to be hard to avoid him in his own house, but he’s going to need to figure out a way to do it, because he refuses to look, speak; or think about Will. 

Wiping his hands on the side of his pajama pants, he reaches for the lock of the bathroom, twisting it and opening the door. He doesn’t give Jonathan the chance to say anything to him, slipping between the doorway and his body. There is no way in Hell that he’s going to Will’s room, so he continues to speed walk down the hallway until he makes it to the kitchen.

He says nothing, quickly reaching for one of the empty glasses on the table and filling it with the orange juice from the jug beside it. He instantly downs the juice, the tartness making him wince, but he doesn’t care. He needs a distraction, even if that comes in the form of Tropicana, without pulp.

“Oh, good morning, Mike!” Joyce smiles, standing in front of the oven, spatula in hand. Hopper sits on the end of the table, a cup full of steaming coffee in one hand and the ‘Lenora Times’ open in the other. “It’s about time you woke up. You and Will must’ve gone to bed late last night. He also slept in today.”

Mike instantly begins to cough, the juice going down the wrong pipe. He places the cup down, trying his best to catch his breath. “We didn’t.”

“What, honey?” Joyce asks, placing her spatula down and walking toward Mike. “Jeez, you’re coughing up a lung. Do you want water instead of juice, maybe?”

“No,” Mike manages to push out, breath shaking. “I’m um, fine. Thanks.”

“Sit down,” Hopper sighs, tilting the newspaper down the smallest bit, so Mike can see his eyes. “Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?”

“I didn’t see a ghost,” Mike mumbles, moving the chair in front of him just enough to squeeze through the gap between the table. “I’m fine.” 

“You confuse me,” Hopper sighs, taking another sip from his mug. Mike doesn’t answer, filling his cup with more orange juice. He doesn’t even want any more, but he’s anxious. “Leave some for the rest of us, kid.”

Mike immediately stops pouring, the juice only fills a quarter of his cup. He brings it to his lips, drinking it all.

Joyce is back in front of the stove, adjusting the strings of her apron. “Honey, do you want some waffles, or should I make you some pancakes?”

Mike’s cheeks begin to warm. “Whichever is, uh, easier for you, Mrs. Byers.” 

The thought of a homemade breakfast makes Mike’s heart ache. He can’t remember the last time he had pancakes or waffles before he arrived in Lenora—his dad telling him it’s too many carbs, and that he should focus on protein before a game. The longer he stays in this house, the more he realizes that neither Joyce nor Hopper care about the same things his parents do. They don’t… hound him when he wants a snack or tell him he’s wasting perfectly good training time by taking a nap. It’s nice, he thinks. 

“Please, you know better than to call me that. Joyce is fine, no matter how many years it’s been.” 

“Right,” Mike clears his throat, trying to push back a smile as he plays with the fabric of the sleeves of his sweater. 

“Morning,” Will walks into the kitchen, his voice groggy and hair messy. He’s wearing the same oversized David Bowie shirt. Will yawns, and Mike’s eyes can’t help but gravitate toward the small patch of bare skin just above the waistband of his black shorts. 

Mike feels an overwhelming urge to walk over to Will and flatten his hair, maybe run his fingers through it. What the hell is he thinking? Why would he even want to do that? 

“Morning sleepyhead,” Joyce laughs, too busy focusing on trying to flip the pancake on the hot pan to look up toward her son. “You want pancakes?”

“Of course,” He all but yawns a second time, walking to the chair and sitting in the spot directly beside Mike. Mike tenses, suddenly acutely aware that they’re sitting so close to each other. “Do they have blueberries in them?”

“Even better,” Joyce smiles, “chocolate chips.”

As if on cue, Mike’s stomach begins to rumble. He shuts his eyes, praying to whatever figure is up there for the ground to swallow him whole in this very moment. Unlucky for him, his prayers go unanswered.

“No cup of coffee?” Hopper asks, folding the newspaper into fourths. “Never thought I’d see the day Will didn’t immediately reach for the coffee machine when he walks in here.”

“Give me a second,” Will sighs, hands rubbing his eyes as though to get rid of the fatigue. “I’m still not fully awake.” He gets up from his seat and walks over to the cupboard, pulling out a blue mug. He hesitates, before saying: “Mike? Do you want some?”

“Oh,” Mike feels his heart race at the mere question. He doesn’t even like coffee, finding the taste bitter and bland. He would much prefer another glass of orange juice, but his lips move before he can stop them. “Yeah, um, actually… That’d be nice.”

“Do you want milk or cream in it?” Will asks, nonchalantly. Mike, on the other hand, thinks he might explode on the spot. “Or sugar?”

“No thanks,” Mike barely manages to say, earning a strange look from Hopper. “Plain is fine.”

“Since when do you drink coffee?” Hopper asks, eyes narrowing, still fixed on Mike. He feels heat travel to his face, and he clears his throat. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure of what to say. “You used to hate it.”

“Times change,” Mike settles on, shrugging his shoulders and hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels. “People change.”

“Stop interrogating him, Hopper.” Joyce sighs, rolling her eyes and waving the spatula in the air. “He’s in college. Most college kids develop an addiction, like Will.”

“I don’t have an addiction.” Will scoffs lightheartedly. “I just like the taste. There’s a difference.”

“Nobody likes the taste,” Joyce laughs. “Well, maybe with the amount of sugar you put in it helps…”

“Mom,” Will groans as he begins to pour the coffee into two separate mugs. “I don’t put in that much sugar. Just, you know, enough to make it less bitter.”

“I’m with your mom on that one, kid.” Hopper says, “All that sugar isn’t good for you.”

“Is this breakfast, or an intervention?” Will rolls his eyes, and Mike suppresses a smile at the comment. He hasn’t heard Will crack a joke in literal years, and until this very moment, he’d forgotten how witty Will can be. “Here,” Will reaches forward, chest lightly brushing against Mike’s shoulder as he hands Mike a steaming cup of coffee, in a pale yellow mug. “Careful. It’s still really hot, so wait a bit or you’ll burn your lips.”

“Thanks,” Mike mumbles, reaching for the mug, hand cradling it to seek warmth. He’s right, the cup is steaming—a sure temperature to burn his lips if he tried to drink it. He tries his very best not to look at Will as he settles back into the chair right beside him. 

“You better not waste that,” Hopper mutters underneath his breath. 

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

“So,” Joyce smiles, clapping her hands together as she carries another box from the attic. Mike watches from the couch, fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie and nose scrunching from the dust. “The majority of the important ornaments are here. Well, some are missing from last year because someone,” she shoots a harmless look at Jonathan, “didn’t properly lay the bottom row down. Some of them are cracked, but it’ll be fine for this year.”

A groan is heard from the other end of the room, where Hopper walks in with another cardboard box. “How many of these do we have now? I doubt we need to replace any of them.”

“Enough to fill, like, three Christmas trees easily,” Jonathan replies, letting out a small sigh. “Mom, I really think we should go through these boxes and throw out the ones we don’t use anymore. Make some room for new ones.”

“Why would I throw any of them out?” She questions, sending a glare in the direction of her oldest son. “I still don’t think we have enough,” Joyce sighs, standing before the empty tree. “Besides, we can’t break the tradition.”

Mike winces. Why does the mention of a Byers’ family tradition make his heart hurt? He used to know everything about Will, everything about all of them, and now he feels like he barely does. He wants to ask, wants to know, but he isn’t sure he can.

“If we get rid of any ornaments, then our tree will look so… naked.”

“Naked?” Will repeats, shaking his head as a small laugh escapes his lips. “Mom, nobody says that. You can just say it looks empty.”

“Fine,” she rolls her eyes, throwing her hands up in mock self-defense. “Empty. It looks empty.”

Mike watches as they continue to bicker lightly among themselves while pulling the ornaments from the boxes and hanging them on the branches of the Christmas tree. Joyce assigned the task of ornament hanging to her sons, squeezing through them with a broom to sweep the fallen needles into a pile in the corner.  

This tree is bigger than the one his own family has back in Hawkins. Memories of his childhood flash through his mind as he thinks about how his dad said buying a real tree for their living room makes no sense for only one day a year. So, the Wheeler version of a Christmas tree is an unnatural, bright green, three-foot-tall plastic tree, small enough to put on the table by the window—not an ornament in sight. As his eyes drift back to the tree in front of him, he feels a gnawing sense of jealousy consume him at just how… natural this feels. They’re able to get along and work together, without it ending in a screaming match.

Must be nice, he thinks bitterly. 

“What are we putting on top of the tree this year?” Hopper asks, pulling out two tree toppers that are vastly different from the bottom of one of the boxes—one a golden star, the other a silver angel. They’re both eye-catching, the sparkles catching the light from the window. Do people actually buy tree toppers? “Last year we did the star, didn’t we?”

“We did,” Joyce nods, eagerly. “Will loves that one.”

Mike’s eyes drift toward Will, whose face turns a light pink. “Mom, I don’t care which one we choose. I’m fine with either.”

“You’re only saying that ‘cause Mike’s here,” Jonathan huffs knowingly, sending a small smile in his younger brother’s direction before turning toward Mike. “If you weren’t here, he would throw a fit about making sure we use the star. Trust me.”

Mike forces back a smile at the thought of Will fighting his family to make sure they use the tree topper he wants. 

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Will mumbles, though no longer making eye contact. “I don’t throw fits.”

“We know,” Joyce lets out a small laugh. “I mean, look at you—”

“Mom,” Will tilts his head back, shutting his eyes and groaning. “Stop!”

“How can I?” Walking over to Will, she places her hand on his shoulder. “Every time you come back home, you just look so… different.” 

“I do not.” Will replies, laughing nervously. “I look the exact same.”

“You do…” she marvels, looking toward Mike. “Well, Mike, what do you think?”

“Huh?” Mike’s head begins to spin. What are they asking him? Why are they asking him this?

Joyce looks at him, expectantly. “Do you think Will looks different?”

His eyes shift in between Joyce, and Jonathan. “What are you guys talking about?” 

“Will,” Joyce presses, not noticing that Mike is growing increasingly uncomfortable with the line of questioning. “Since you last saw him, has he changed?”

Everyone in the room turns to face him, and Mike thinks he might pass out. He can’t say anything—not after what happened the night before. What if Will says something? What if Will told Joyce, and that’s why she’s asking him? Is that what it is? His eyes linger on Will, who is looking at him curiously, which, for the record, Mike thinks is a million times worse. 

“I mean, yeah? I guess? The last time I saw him, he was, um… a kid?”

“And now he’s a man!” Joyce marvels.

Mike can feel the blush spread across his cheeks at the thought. Joyce isn’t wrong, not in the slightest—Will looks much different than he did back in Hawkins. Will’s taller, for starters. Still not as tall as Mike, but that doesn’t matter. The bowl cut is gone and he’s grown into his features. He swallows at the thought of how Will looks so different, yet all the same. He still has his bunny-like teeth, and his eyes still crinkle when he smiles. The beauty mark above his lip is still there, and Mike can’t stop thinking about the lips beneath it. What does it mean that he can’t help but notice all of the… details about him? Why is there a small part of him that doesn’t want to stop?

A man. Will Byers is a man. 

A very objectively attractive man, he thinks. 

“Mom, seriously?” Will turns around, grabbing a pillow from the couch and using it to cover his face. Mike can see the tips of his ears a bright shade of red. “Can you stop?”

“It’s my job to embarrass you, honey.” Joyce replies, “Besides, it’s Mike. He’s your best friend. He should know me well enough to tell when I’m joking.”

Mike cringes at the word, the air around him becoming stale. Best friends. He hasn’t considered himself friends at all with Will since he left for Lenora. Not since they stopped talking. But still, the familiarity of the two words makes his stomach hurt. The familiarity of the phrase being used to describe them makes him want to cry. 

What if everything had been different? What if Will had never done that, and they had stayed friends? Sure, he would’ve still moved to Lenora, but Mike would’ve found a way to stay in contact with him, as he always does. As he wanted to do. But that isn’t reality, and Mike needs to remember that. It doesn’t matter what he wants–or  wanted–because Will ruined it all. 

In a strange, indescribable way, Mike misses Will. He misses ranting to him about anything and everything. He misses the comfort of finding him outside of the arena after every game, after every practice gone wrong, when he knew better than to go home and face the scrutiny of his parents.

“Whatever,” Will mumbles, clearly bothered about his mom’s choice of words. Mike doesn’t have it in himself to say anything more. 

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

“Honey,” Joyce quickly walks into the room, Mike’s ringing cell phone in her hand. He doesn’t need her to tell him who’s calling—he knows exactly who it must be. “Your phone is ringing.”

“Oh,” Mike swallows, taking it from her. “Thanks.”

Glancing down at the screen, he feels all the blood drain from his face at the contact name. Ted Wheeler. He’s been waiting for his dad to call him, and to be honest, he’s slightly surprised it took him this long. Should he stay in the room? Should he go outside? Should he go lock himself in the bathroom? But something about being in the room with other people makes him feel more secure, like his dad can’t reach for him through the phone.

He presses ‘answer,’ despite every ounce of his body telling him it isn’t a good idea. He knows exactly what his dad is going to tell him, and nothing good can come from the conversation he’s about to have. 

“When were you going to tell me you’re in California?” His dad’s rough voice is slightly muffled through the phone, but it doesn’t make it any less stressful—Mike thinks he might throw up. “What? Do you think just because you ruined your future that you don’t get to tell us things anymore?”

Mike winces slightly, clearing his throat. “Sorry” is the only word he manages to push out, and he hesitantly eyes the couch, where Will is sitting, a couple of feet away. Will is no longer paying attention to the cheesy holiday movie on their television screen—focusing solely on him. Why does that feel worse?

“Have you no shame?”

He can hear the snap in his dad’s voice, and he can see Hopper’s eyes beginning to focus on him. Just get through it, he tells himself. Just let him get his anger out, and then it’ll all be over. All he needs to do is let the phone call happen, and then he can hang up. He can turn off his phone, and his dad won’t be able to call him anymore. He won’t be able to reach him. He can’t come all the way to Lenora. He won’t. 

 “Dad, come on—”

“You get suspended, completely fucking suspended, and you go to someone else’s house? To burden someone else during the fucking holidays? As if they don’t have enough to worry about? You bother the Byers?” 

The words hit him like a slap across the face, and he tries his best not to get choked up, sitting on the same couch that has been more comforting than his at home ever has been. 

Mike makes the mistake of looking at Will for a second time, to which he’s looking at him with tear-filled eyes, and he feels like he’s transported back to when they were kids—when he would bike to Will’s house after an argument with his dad and spend the night in Will’s room. How Will would do anything and everything to take his mind off the argument: sketch small, silly portraits of comic book characters he’d been reading lately, or of his favorite hockey players. Mike kept every single one of them in a box, underneath his bed. It’s still in his Hawkins bedroom. They’d play tic-tac-toe, and Will would insist he wasn’t letting Mike win (though Mike knew he was, but never had the energy to argue with him over it). 

“Dad, no…” His voice cracks. “I’m not—”

“You are!” Ted continues, “Who the hell would want someone with your reputation in their house? Do you not have any ounce of respect? Are you that selfish? They don’t want you there. I don’t know what pity party you threw, but I can assure you, you’re only there because they feel like you need to be.” A sarcastic laugh echoes, and Mike can already feel the tears well up in his eyes. Don’t cry in front of anyone, he reminds himself. Especially not in front of them. “Do you know how many sports channels have tried to call me? Do you know the amount of stupid NHL prospect podcasts won’t leave me alone?” 

“How many?” Mike asks, his voice wavering and breath quickening. “Dad. I asked you a question. How many?”

Dizziness takes over his senses at the thought of people reaching out to his family members. How many news columns want to write a story about him? How many scouts? How many people want to know what happened to him? Did they speak to his teammates? To Kinley? His head continues to spin. God, if they spoke to Kinley, then they know. They know about him, they know what he is, and his career will be ruined, if it isn’t already. Everyone knows what happened, that he’s suspended, that everything is his fault. How many articles have already been published? How many are about to be? His reputation is ruined. Absolutely, one hundred percent, ruined.

“Mike?” Will asks, voice hesitant. “Mike, are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer Will, hands gripping his phone hard enough for his knuckles to turn a bright shade of white. They know. His dad knows. 

“What the hell does it even matter how many of them are asking about you?” He continues, disbelief lacing his tone. Mike shuts his eyes to force the tears back. Don’t cry, he thinks, harnessing every single ounce of self-control in his body. “Do I have to remind you that you’re the one who ruined everything? Your future, your career, Christmas? I can’t even look at pictures of you, Michael! I made your mother turn the frames around, because I can’t stand looking at your face right now. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” 

Mike quickly glances at the others. None of them are paying attention to the movie anymore. Will is staring at him, eyes wide. Mike can tell he wants to intervene, but doesn’t know how. Hopper, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to snatch the phone from Mike’s hand and hang up, but he doesn’t move from his reclining chair. Joyce is pacing back and forth, hands clasped together as though she’s trying to control herself, too. Mike doesn’t even want to look at Jonathan.

There’s no way he can deal with this right now. Not on the couch, not in front of them and especially not in front of Will. He needs to find a way out of the house, get some fresh air, and maybe a place where he can smash his phone against the concrete. 

How did his dad even find out that he’s in Lenora? He knows Nancy wouldn’t tell his parents, not after she said she wouldn’t. He trusts her enough to stick to her word. Did someone see him at the airport with Will? Did they take a picture? Is it circulating all over the IU campus, and is everyone laughing at him? Is everyone laughing at Will?

That, for some reason, makes him feel infinitely worse. 

He can’t deal with this. Not right now—not on the couch, not in front of them. He needs to get out of the house, he needs fresh air. His dad hasn’t been this mad at him since high school. His hands are shaking now, his breath caught in his throat. How the hell is he supposed to fix this?

“I know,” He tilts his head down, hair covering his face. He’s barely able to push the words past his lips. “I know dad. I’m sorry, I really am. I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” His dad scoffs. “How many times are you going to stand there and apologize to me? To your mother? To your team? To Kinley? Do you think that it means anything to any of us anymore? Don’t you think that maybe everyone is sick of the shit you pull?” 

Forcing himself to leave the room, the tears that he’s been trying to push back are falling freely, and he feels terrible. He slightly stumbles over himself as he turns the corner, head shaking. 

This is bad. This is really bad. 

“Dad—”

“Don’t call me that.” He snaps, pausing for a second. Before hanging up, he makes sure to add: “Actually, don’t call me at all. Not until you find a way to get back on that damn ice.”

Mike’s blood runs cold. He knows his dad well enough to know what he’s implying: that he belongs on the ice, and nowhere else. That he doesn’t belong in Indiana, or in Hawkins. He doesn’t belong in the Wheeler family; he doesn’t belong on the Hoosiers hockey team. He doesn’t belong anywhere if he has no worth—and if he isn’t playing hockey, he doesn’t have any worth at all. 

He lets out a sob before running out the front door. 

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

Mike doesn’t know where he’s going. He hasn’t spent much time outside the Byers’ house—and what little he has had been with the others. Still, he keeps wandering the streets. Who cares if he gets lost, anyway? Who cares if he continues to walk aimlessly down unfamiliar streets and never finds his way back? Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll end up at the beach, he thinks. As much as he hates the sand (and the beach in general), the thought of being anywhere but in that house is very, very tempting. 

He turns the corner of another residential street, and all the houses begin to look the same. Their doorways are covered in shades of blue, red, and green Christmas lights, and fake snow-covered reefs with obnoxious red bows on them. Mini snowmen figurines hang from practically every windowsill; the lights reflected onto the pavement of their driveways.

What is he even supposed to do?

He can’t play for the rest of the season—the suspension is confirmed, and it’s been announced. Everything is over, and it’s all his fault. He’s the reason he’s even in this position. If he had controlled himself, he wouldn’t be in this position to begin with. If Kinley hadn’t crossed the line and brought Will into it, Mike wouldn’t have lost control. Mike would’ve been able to contain his anger; he would still be on the team, home for the holidays and playing in the playoffs. 

He can handle people calling him names. He can deal with it. He can bottle it up and play alongside Kinley just fine—but something about him mentioning Will makes Mike want to lose control. What the fuck was his issue? Why did he think involving Will was okay at all? He doesn’t know him—not like Mike does. 

He stops walking when his feet start to hurt. It’s a dull ache, one that usually wouldn’t bother him, but he blames his intolerance on the immediate fatigue that settles over his body whenever he speaks to his dad. His eyes burn, sore from crying. He’s thankful that, at the very least, his bruising and swelling have gone down since leaving for Lenora. 

Still, the first thing he thinks of when sitting on the light-blue bench is: why can’t anything work out for him the way it’s supposed to? Why is everything so fucking hard? Despite being in California, when the sun is setting and the weather is much better than it is back in Hawkins, he should, at the very least, be able to enjoy himself. Have fun, even. He should be able to come here without the anxiety pressing down on his chest every single time he takes a breath. 

But, he wonders, for a fleeting moment—does he deserve to be happy? Does he deserve not to have to constantly worry all the time? Does he deserve to be here, in Lenora, in the first place? Maybe he should’ve stayed in Indiana, in a shitty motel room, alone with his thoughts. At least, that way, he wouldn’t be bothering anyone; his dad would’ve still yelled at him, but maybe he would’ve let him come home.

“Stupid,” he mumbles to himself, his hands clenching into fists. “Why do I keep doing this?”

The worst part of this is how lonely he feels. He doesn’t have anyone to talk to, not really. Wyatt is with his family, probably too busy  to answer the phone; he can’t call Lucas or Dustin because they don’t know he’s here, and he refuses to call Nancy. As much as it pains him to admit it and try to avoid it, a small part of him wants to speak to Will. Someone who, despite what he’s done—understands everything that’s going on with his dad, his family, and, to some degree, even hockey. 

But he knows better than to give in to the small moment of weakness. He can’t speak to him. He shouldn’t, especially about what happened the night before. A wave of embarrassment washes over him, trying to block it from his memory but to no avail. Maybe his dad is right, he thinks. Maybe he doesn’t have any shame. Maybe he is a burden—someone who doesn’t deserve to be here. Does Will think he’s some kind of joke? Does he look at him and wish that they never met? Does he regret bringing him to Lenora? Would he take it back, if he could?

“Do you have a minute, kid?” a voice calls from behind him, pulling Mike from his thoughts. Despite the warm evening wind gusting against Mike’s skin, he feels colder than ever. Hopper stands a couple of feet from the bench; his hands shoved into his jean pockets and flannel shirt buttoned to the top. What is he doing here? “It’s about time I found you. Joyce has been worried sick. How’d you manage to get this far without a car?”

Mike doesn’t answer, his hands still shaking. He can still hear his dad’s voice echoing in his head, and it won’t go away—no matter how hard he tries. His dad was very clear: he doesn’t want Mike to call him dad nor does he want him to go home. Boy, how lucky is he? 

Why did Hopper follow him all the way here, anyway? Why does he even care? Quickly, he lifts his hands to his eyes, wiping away whatever tears he has left, staining his skin. Maybe if he doesn’t answer, Hopper will take the hint and leave him alone. His legs are pulled up the bench, his arms wrapped around them, hugging them closer to his chest. Mike takes in a shaky breath, he rests his head on his knees, not wanting to look over at him.

“Ted called, didn’t he?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Mike huffs, knowing he’s being stubborn. He doesn’t want to remember—even hearing his dad’s name makes his heart ache. He bites the inside of his cheek as a distraction, hard enough to draw blood. Is he even his dad anymore? “I really don’t want to.”

He’s embarrassed—mortified that he had to run out of their house in an attempt to control his emotions. Everything anyone has ever said about him, including everything Coach Scott told him about his inability to manage both his emotions and reactions, is undoubtedly true—and only then does he realize that he doesn’t actually know how to deal with himself. He doesn’t know how to calm himself down, or reframe his emotions in a way so they aren’t solely expressed as screaming, crying, fighting, or isolating himself. 

That’s all he knows, and that’s all he’s done. 

There’s nothing he wishes more than to be able to just take it. He wants to be able to deal with things normally, in a way that doesn’t make him feel like the world is ending every time something happens to him. But why is that so hard? Why is that so difficult for him?

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Hopper sighs, sitting down on the other end of the bench, a couple of feet apart from him. Mike doesn’t want to look at him. “What’d he say to you?”

“I just told you, I don’t want to talk about it,” Mike snaps, voice harsh. Annoyance begins to fester in his stomach, muddled with anxiety. Why doesn’t anyone leave him alone when he asks them to? Why can’t anyone take the hint that he might want to be left alone? He’s dealt with this for years, for as long as he can remember—he will be fine. He’s been fine. Totally fine. Like he’s always been.

“We need to talk about it, Mike.” Hopper answers gruffly, though Mike can tell there is no real venom in his words. Not looking at Mike, he continues to speak: “Whatever it is you’re holding in… I don’t think you can hold it in, anymore. I think it might do you some good to talk about it. I know I may not be your first choice, by any means, but… I’m here to listen to you, kid. Always have.”

The words themselves make Mike’s chest tighten, and as much as he tries to deny it, he can’t. He knows that it’s likely obvious that all of this is becoming much too heavy to handle on his own, that he’s drowning, but what else is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to get past this when hockey haunts every corner of his life, every corner of his mind? What is he supposed to do when the one thing that made him feel better, isn’t?

He can’t play hockey anymore because it was taken away from him. He can’t go home because they don’t want him there. He’s only in Lenora because Will, despite everything, feels bad for him. What is there left to discuss that Mike doesn’t know already? Does Hopper want Mike to tell him that he doesn’t think he’s ruined every single chance at having a successful future? He wouldn’t be able to tell Hopper that at all, knowing that he doesn’t feel like Mike unless he’s holding a hockey stick. 

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Mike mumbles underneath his breath. “I can handle myself just fine. Besides, it doesn’t even matter, does it? There’s literally nothing to talk about.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Hopper replies, head slightly shaking. His persistence is something that Mike always disliked about him, especially when he was his coach back in Hawkins. “Are things bad again? With Ted?”

“Have they ever been good?” Mike asks, meekly—his arms still wrapped around his legs. 

For a minute, Hopper doesn’t say anything more. Mike knows it’s because they both know the answer, so they don’t need to say it out loud. 

So they sit on the bench in silence. Mike doesn’t have the energy to even acknowledge or tell Hopper what his dad just told him over the phone—what is there even to say? ‘Yeah, Hopper, actually my dad just told me that he doesn’t want me to call him dad anymore until I start playing hockey again?’ That he’s some sort of… burden? That his dad has to turn around what little pictures they have of him, because they can’t bear to look at his face? What is there to even say about that?

“Will and Jonathan went to the Christmas market a couple streets down. You know the one, right? It’s the one by the park, where they have the overpriced 3D-printed tree toppers and those stupid nutcracker statues?”

Mike furrows his eyebrows, confused as to why he’s telling him any of this. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Hopper shrugs his shoulders, pursing his lips. “Said he wanted to get you an ornament.”

Faltering, Mike finally turns to face him. “What?”

“You didn’t decorate the tree.” Hopper clears his throat. “Will wanted to get you one of your own, and Jonathan offered to take him.”

Mike pushes down the redness that threatens to take control of his face. “Yeah, I didn’t hang one because I’m not part of this family.” 

Hopper finally turns toward him, a sad look on his face. “You’ll always be part of our family, kid. That’s never changed.”

“Don’t say that,” Mike pushes back, tightening his grip around his legs. Tears blur his vision. He isn’t a part of the Byers Family. He never will be. “You know that’s not true.”

“We care about you. Will cares about you.” He says slowly, the emphasis on Will’s name makes Mike’s heart beat a little faster and break at the same time. “He brought you here for a reason. You mean a lot to him. He wanted to come looking for you, you know. When you left the house. Joyce had to tell him that maybe it’s best if you cool off a little bit before.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Mike huffs, trying not to over analyze Hopper’s words. Will doesn’t care about him. He’s only in Lenora because he pities him. There’s a difference. A big one. “You don’t know him.”

“I know him very well, Mike.” That earns a small laugh from Hopper, though Mike doesn’t find anything to be particularly funny. “He’s my son.”

“If you know him so well, then you’d also know what he did to me.” Mike snaps, the anger making his chest tighten. How many times is he going to have to spell it out for him to understand? “Actually, I don’t even know why I’m telling you any of this. You were literally involved with it too—”

“Mike, what are you talking about?” Hopper asks, eyebrows lifting. If Mike didn’t know any better, he might’ve believed him. Another wave of frustration ripples through him. How long is he going to feign innocence? Does Hopper think he’s stupid? Is that why he’s acting like he has no idea what’s going on? Because Mike knows he does—he knows that Hopper knows, he knows that Will knows, too. 

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know about it.” He’s trying to hide the hurt that lingers underneath his skin, but he’s sure Hopper can see it peek through. “I know for a fact that you do.”

“Mike,” Hopper sighs, running a hand over his face. “I have no idea what you think Will did—”

Why doesn’t Hopper get it? The insinuation that Mike isn’t sure or that he could’ve misunderstood what happened makes Mike’s skin crawl. Hopper might’ve forgotten, but Mike sure as hell didn’t–he can’t.

“I know what he did.” Mike clarifies, hoping Hopper would get the hint. “I don’t think anything.”

“Well,” Hopper sighs. “Whatever it was that you think he did, it’s been years, Mike. Can’t you look past it? Don’t you think it’s time maybe that you… grow up, a little bit?”

Look past it? Grow up? After everything he’s been through, Hopper wants him to just… ignore it? Pretend like it never happened? High school was arguably the most stressful point of his life—worrying about constant meetings with scouts, trying to play well enough on the ice so coaches would give him a chance and his dad would be satisfied with his on-ice play enough to acknowledge his presence at dinner. 

“No,” Mike replies sharply. “I can’t look past it. Why would I? Do I have to remind you that what he did literally almost cost me my scholarship? I almost didn’t get to play hockey in college because of him.” Mike lets out a shaky breath. “He fucked me over, Hopper. You know that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hopper pauses, spreading his legs as he leans back on the bench. “When did Will even get involved in anything to do with your hockey career? He was smart, honestly, to stay out of it. All he did was come watch your games. That’s hardly fucking you over, Mike.”

Mike tries his best to remember that they’re in public. Don’t lose control, he reminds himself. Breathe in, breathe out. 

“Why are you pretending like you don’t know what happened?” Mike scoffs, “You literally benched me for one of the most important games of my career over it because Will told you to.” 

Hopper rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mike—”

“The game where the scouts were coming to see me. Minnesota? Wisconsin? You of all people know that they’re, like, two of the most important teams in college hockey. Do you know how hard it was to get them to notice me? To… to come to fucking Hawkins to watch me play? Two of the most important coaches of my career were there, and you didn’t even let me play. You… you benched me, because Will told you we got into a fight. He fucking told you, and then you did your stupid ‘protecting him’ bullshit.”

“Mike…” Hopper lets out a shaky breath. Mike can’t look at him. He doesn’t want to. “I’m not protecting him—”

“And I spent the rest of the fucking season trying to get the attention of literally any other coach. My dad… my dad blamed me. I’ve never seen him so mad before. He said I must’ve done something to be benched, but I didn’t even do anything.” Dark spots begin to form in his line of vision, and he feels dangerously close to another panic attack. “I tried to explain to him that I didn’t do anything, that… it was all Will, because he told you about our fight, but he didn’t care. He… I couldn’t go home. I… I had to sleep on Lucas’s couch for a week. You both must’ve found it so funny to keep me on the bench. Isn’t this what you wanted? Now I can’t play hockey at all anymore. Now… everything is gone.” He’s heaving, hands moving from around his legs to the edge of the bench, as though he’s worried about falling forward. “All because of Will.”

“Mike,” Hopper repeats, “That’s not what happened—”

Mike isn’t listening to him, his mind already spiraling. “I did everything right. I… did the same drills every day at practice, and I made sure to do them perfectly every single time. I wore the same laces every time we played a game, and changed them when we lost. I… I didn’t change the tape of my stick until I went a game without scoring a goal.” Mike is crying again, breath hiccuping. Just thinking about it makes him sick to his stomach. He’s put so much time, so much energy into this sport, and got nothing back. He has nothing left to show for it. “I made sure that I always kept my necklace on and I didn’t switch out my elbow pads until they were literally unwearable because I didn’t want to break my no injury streak. I did everything I had to do on the ice. I even kept my skates next to my bed every night. Why wasn’t that enough?”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Hopper clears his throat. “Trust me when I say that you probably couldn’t have done more.”

“That’s a lie,” Mike laughs, bitterly. “There’s always more I could’ve done. I could’ve made more plays, scored more goals, and I could’ve made sure that I was the league leader in points per game, or… I don’t know, maybe if my defensive rating was a bit higher—”

“None of that matters, Mike.” Hopper presses. “You were a child on a high school team. Stats shouldn’t be the only thing you think about. You shouldn’t worry about that stuff.”

Mike can’t believe the words coming out of Hopper’s mouth. He, of all people, should understand the importance of what Mike’s saying. He was literally a former coach—Mike’s coach—and he’s trying to tell him that none of that matters?

“And that’s supposed to matter? My future was on the line—”

“You shouldn’t be worrying about this stuff in high school. You should be having fun. You should be playing a sport you actually enjoy, not one your parents tell you to play.” Hopper pushes, “Have you ever even tried literally any other sport?”

“Right, fun.” Mike can’t help but let out a bitter laugh. “As if I had time to think about having fun when my entire fucking hockey career was on the line. Yeah, ‘cause that makes total sense.”

“Listen,” Hopper sighs. Mike can tell that Hopper is trying to level with him, namely by the lack of concern about the swear words he’s saying. “I need you to understand that how you were treated—how you are being treated—by your parents’ isn’t right.” 

“Well, that doesn’t even matter anymore. Look how I turned out. I guess my dad was right all along, wasn’t he? I don’t have what it takes to play professional hockey. I never have, and I never will. I’m a big fucking failure, to no one’s surprise.”

“Mike…” 

Tears begin to form in his eyes. “What? Am I wrong? Will probably thinks so, too. Maybe Joyce. Fuck, maybe all of Indiana University thinks that.”

“Nobody thinks that way about you.” Hopper sighs, moving closer to Mike on the bench. Despite wanting to create more distance between them, he doesn’t have it in himself to move. “Why would anyone think that?”

“Remember how I told you I got suspended for fighting?” Mike finally pushes out, unable to look at Hopper. “I… it wasn’t from, like, a scrimmage or anything during practice. One of my teammates… he pushes my buttons so fucking much, and in practice, he said something to me… something about me, and I just started punching. I didn’t know what else to do. I just got so mad, so scared, that I don’t even know what the hell I did it for.” Mike’s hands cover his face, forcing himself to remember to breathe.

Breathe in, breathe out. Everything will be okay. It has to be. 

Hopper nods silently. “So that’s how you got those bruises on your face, then.”

“Yeah,” Mike licks his lips. Is Hopper going to get mad at him for not telling the whole truth? “He got a couple of punches in, too.”

“So, no fight with the zamboni?”

“No fight with the zamboni,” Mike forces down a smile. “Not this time. I’m sure it’ll happen eventually, though.”

A small silence spreads between them, and Mike doesn’t know what to say. There’s anger that still lingers at the fact that Hopper is pretending not to know what happened, but at the same time—there is comfort in sitting next to him. 

“Do you want to talk about what that kid said to you?” Hopper questions. “Doesn’t have to be in specific detail, but, like I said, it might be helpful to talk about things.”

“No,” Mike nods his head, “I don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Can I tell you something?” Hopper sighs, now fully facing Mike. “You’ve been under such a crazy amount of pressure since you were a kid. I know I wasn’t there when you were little, but Joyce told me that from even before Kindergarten, you were forced to start training.” 

“That’s normal,” Mike shrugs his shoulders. “A lot of people start sports when they’re a kid. That’s like, total prime time.”

“Yeah, they play sports. Maybe, like, once a week, twice if they could afford it. But you… you went to the rink every day before school, every day after school, and on the weekends. It might feel like it’s normal, but it isn’t.”

“That’s the only way I’m able to get better,” Mike furrows his eyebrows. “Why does this even matter? I don’t know what Will told you but that was when I was a kid; I have a training schedule now at IU—”

“Will didn’t tell me anything, Mike.” Hopper states calmly. “He had nothing to do with it.”

It takes a couple of seconds for Mike to process the words coming from Hopper’s mouth, and Mike’s blood runs cold. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know what you think Will told you, or did to you, but it wasn’t him.” Hopper explains, a voice slightly strained against his throat. “He never spoke to me about any of your hockey stuff. Refused to, actually.”

“That’s impossible,” Mike splutters, shaking his head. He forces himself to focus on his breathing, trying to avoid yet another panic attack. God, why can’t he control himself? Why is this so fucking hard? “He literally got mad at me, told me that all I care about is hockey—”

“Is that not true?”

“What does that even matter? You want me to believe that right after he tells me he thinks I need to get over myself I just happen to be benched for no good fucking reason and you had nothing to do with it?” 

“I’m telling you right now, Mike. He had nothing to do with it.”

“Bullshit,” Mike snaps. “You’re doing it again. You’re trying to save his ass.”

“I’m not trying to save anything,” Hopper lets out a sharp breath. “I benched you. It was my decision. Nobody else’s.’”

Is he being serious right now? “Why do you keep lying to me?” Mike shakes his head. He doesn’t believe Hopper, he refuses to. “Why do you keep lying for him?”

“I’m not lying, Mike.”

“Give me one good reason for benching me.” Mike pushes, when Hopper doesn’t answer right away, a wave of satisfaction rushes through his body. “See? That’s a trick question, Hopper, because there was no reason—” 

“Your father, Mike.” He finally answers, rubbing his eyes. “The reason I benched you is because of Ted.”

Mike’s voice falters, not following. “What? What does he have anything to do with this?”

“Before the game, do you remember when he grabbed you from the locker room? When he found out the scouts were in the audience?” Hopper asks. “I saw him drag you out by your neck guard.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Mike splutters, eyes beginning to water. “He did that all the time, what’s the problem with that? It’s… it’s normal—”

“Here’s the thing, kid.” Hopper clears his throat. “You didn’t deserve that pressure. You still don’t.”

“I deserved to be prepared.” Mike shakes his head, “The pressure is something that comes with the territory. My dad was just preparing me for the real world. How is that a bad thing? Coaches act like that in the NHL. He was doing me a favor.”

“Not while you’re on my team,” Hopper states, voice sharp. “No grown man gets to scare the living daylights out of a kid for playing hockey, doesn’t matter who is at the game to watch you play.”

“So… then what?” Mike blinks, unable to believe the words coming from Hopper’s mouth. “You benched me to prove a point to my dad? That makes no fucking sense.” 

“I chose to bench you because you needed a break. You realize that when your father speaks to you, you hunch over? You start to shake, Mike. In all of my years of coaching, I haven’t seen that before. That isn’t normal.” Hopper crosses his arms. “Every time you spoke to him before going on the ice, you threw up in the garbage by the showers. I witnessed it. You were a wreck, Mike. One mistake away from losing your mind.”

“A break?” Mike feels the anger spread into every inch of his body. Goosebumps cover his skin, and Mike is almost afraid to ask. “Don’t tell me that you benched me for one of the biggest games of my fucking career because you think my dad was being too hard on me?” 

“I benched you because this isn’t healthy.” Hopper says, “I benched you, because you need to remember that you aren’t just a hockey player, that it isn’t the end of the world if you’re not the best at everything at all times.” 

“You don’t get to decide that!” Mike shakes his head, his chest tightening. He’s trying his best to control himself, hands clenching into fists. What kind of bullshit excuse is that? What’s wrong with him? “You don’t get to tell me who I am!” 

Hopper licks his lips. “You’re right, I don’t. But if I feel like the game is affecting your mental state, I get to make that call. That’s my responsibility as your coach. I wouldn’t take back my decision. I would do the same thing if it were to happen today.” 

“Now you care?” Mike replies, voice thick with sarcasm. “Yeah, you really cared about my mental state by choosing to bench me for that game. Do you hear yourself?”

“Do you?”

“You thought you were doing me a favor? You made everything a hundred times worse!” Mike tries his best to sound angry, but his voice comes out hoarse. 

“Look at you now, kid.” Hopper says, voice breaking. “Even after all of these years, you… you’re still a shell. I know you. I know you. It’s not this. You don’t get into fights, you’re not supposed to feel like you’re on edge all of the time. You’re young, Mike. You shouldn’t feel like hockey is a matter of life or death.”

Honestly, Mike is exhausted. He’s tired of fighting, tired of constantly having to prove himself, and tired of trying to convince everyone that he deserves to be there just as much as they do. 

“You know who knew you best?” Mike doesn’t answer, shutting his eyes. His heart aches, his head hurts, and he wants to scream.“Will.”

“Will?” Mike echoes, the name causing goosebumps to spread across his entire body. Memories flood back into his stream of consciousness, remembering how Will told him that he needs to take a break, that he’s too consumed—but Will didn’t get it. He didn’t get that Mike had no choice but to submerge himself in it head first, or else he would get left behind. “He doesn’t know me at all. Not anymore.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Not mine,” Mike snaps, ignoring how his ears begin to warm. He doesn’t believe Hopper, not one bit—Will knew him, past tense. He knew the version of him in high school, the one where Mike was losing sleep over trying to get three points a game, the same Mike where he was failing calculus because he never got enough sleep. He doesn’t know Mike. “Stop trying to make it seem like he didn’t have anything to do with it. It was his idea. Stop taking the fall for him.”

“I’m not sure how many more times I’m going to need to tell you this, son.” Hopper sighs, “He has no involvement in this, none at all.”

“You’re lying.” Mike shakes his head, not wanting to believe it.

He can’t believe it, because if that’s the truth, then all of this was for nothing. All of this was because Mike didn’t have the courage to talk to Will, because he has his head so far up his own ass that he can’t acknowledge when something is wrong. 

“Why don’t you ask him yourself if you’re not going to believe me?” Hopper presses. “Why don’t you ask him about the nights when he couldn’t sleep because you wouldn’t answer his calls? Or what about when he tried to come visit you after the loss in the playoffs, your last high school game, and you didn’t even give him the time of day? What about when he got on the plane to Lenora and started crying? He had nobody, Mike. No one left. Thankfully, when he got to Lenora, he made a ton of friends. He flourished here, Mike. Why don’t you think about why that is?”

Mike feels like his heart is about to get ripped from his chest. It shouldn’t bother him, but it does. The image of Will crying plagues his mind, the thought of Will crying because of him makes everything worse. 

 “What are you talking about—”

“I don’t know what exactly happened between you two. What I do know is that you’re not the only one hurting, Mike, even if you don’t see it. I also know that Will did not have anything to do with you being benched. He didn’t know.”

Mike can feel his breath catch in his throat. How does any of this make sense? There’s no way this is happening. There’s no way that Will didn’t know, that he wasn’t involved. Dizziness begins to overtake his senses. This is bad. This is really bad. Did Mike completely cut him off for nothing? 

“Hopper,” Mike’s voice shakes, voice lowering. “What… what are you talking about? Of course he was involved, he knew the entire time—”

“Just speak to him,” Hopper urges, gently. “Please.” 

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

The ride back to the Byers’ house is quiet. 

Sitting in the passenger seat of Hopper’s pickup truck with the windows rolled down and the wind hitting his face, Mike doesn’t know what to do. Is he as big of an asshole as he feels? Does Hopper think he’s an asshole? Is he mad at Mike for being mad at Will? What the fuck was he talking about? Why did Will cry? 

Mike knows that Will was involved in getting benched. It’s the only rational explanation—the only logical one—but why is his gut telling him that he needs to ask? Why, after all these years of believing Will did everything in his power to ruin his chances at playing professionally, is he starting to doubt himself now? He told Lucas and Dustin that Will wanted him to fail, that if they supported him in his hockey career—in their hockey career—they couldn’t be friends with someone who was praying for his downfall. What the fuck is he supposed to do if that isn’t true?

The terrifying thought begins to echo through his mind: what if Mike is wrong? What if, after all of these years, Will had nothing to do with it? What if all the hostility, all the anger he’s directed at him since high school isn’t deserved? What if all of this is another example of his inability to get himself together, to look at things objectively, or to control himself? What if Will didn’t deserve any of it? What if… what if this is all Mike’s fault?

He tries to hold back his sobs, but he can no longer: facing the window, the wind in his face, the cries echoing through the empty streets as the sun sets. 

Walking through the front door, the first thing Mike notices is that neither Will nor Jonathan are back from the market. Letting out a small, relieved sigh at the thought of not having to face Will just yet, Mike realizes he doesn’t know where to go or what to do with himself. His thoughts move into overdrive. As much as he wants to, he can’t avoid it forever: he needs to speak to will.

“Mike?” Joyce’s voice comes from down the hallway. She’s walking over quickly, wiping her hands on the fabric of her pants. Not giving Mike time to speak or process anything that’s happening, she reaches forward and pulls him into a hug. “Mike, you’re here. I’m so glad you’re okay. I was worried sick!” 

“I’m okay,” Mike mumbles, voice muffled against the fabric of her shirt. His eyes water, hugging her back. For a second, he stays there, in her arms—gripping her shirt for something to hold onto. Would she still be holding him if she knew what he did?

Hopper, still standing by the door, sends Joyce a quick look before heading toward the kitchen. In any other normal circumstance, he would feel embarrassed—mortified, even—that this is happening in front of them. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to think about that right now. 

“Are you sure?” She asks, hands firm against his shoulders. Mike can feel his bottom lip trembling. “Because I’m here, Mike. I’m here if you need to talk about anything at all. You’re my baby, too.”

That’s the thing; he isn’t sure. He knows he isn’t okay, he knows that everything he’s been trying to hold together is about to completely shatter in front of him, and there isn’t anything he’s able to do about it. 

Those words are enough to make Mike cry. He loves Joyce. He loves her so fucking much, and he hasn’t seen her in years. She was all the way out here, in Lenora. Will was all the way out here.

With his voice trembling, he manages to push out the words through his tears: “I think… I think I made a mistake.”

“Oh, honey…” Joyce mumbles, pulling Mike into another hug, walking him to the couch. She pushes aside the three boxes of ornaments, haphazardly stacking them on top of each other—a stark difference to how careful she was with them while decorating the tree.  “Come here. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“I… I don’t know.” Mike shakes his head, and Joyce reaches forward, using her fingers to push back the hair blocking his face. “I… I don’t think I’m a good person.”

“Of course you are,” Joyce pushes, “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“No, you don’t… you don’t get it. I’m… mean, I’m stupid, I’m… fucking selfish—”

“Michael Wheeler,” Her voice now stern, though still kind. “You are not a bad person. We both know you aren’t.” 

Mike shakes his head, knowing she could stay literally anything to him at this moment, and he wouldn’t believe it. What if Hopper is right? What if Will had nothing to do with it?

“Why does it feel like I am?” Mike’s voice breaks. “What if… what if all of this is happening because I deserve it? I deserve to be unhappy, that I deserve everything that’s happening to me because I’m not a good person?”

“Can I tell you something?” Joyce asks, hands now wrapped around Mike’s. He nods, and Joyce takes that as a sign to continue speaking. “You know, Mike, I watched Will grow up way too fast,” she sighs, pulling the glasses from her face, rubbing one of her hands over her eyes. “Lonnie, you remember how he was, don’t you?” Mike nods, more tears streaming down his cheeks at the memories he had of Lonnie—none of them good, none of them pleasant. “He used to be so adamant about making Will play baseball. In the summer, he’d force him to go to the park every night after dinner, to practice his pitches, his batting… but I could tell Will hated it. I could tell that he was only doing it to impress his father. To feel… accepted. When we moved to Lenora, we were lucky enough that Will was finally able to explore the things he liked. The things he wanted to do. When he came back one night and told me that he loved figure skating, I was worried, Mike. I was scared, because you know how mean kids are, especially teenagers.”

Mike is crying, head in between his knees. He can’t even look at her right now. He can’t look at her, knowing all he’s done. 

“But, I knew. I knew from the moment Will stepped on that ice that that’s where he belongs. That it didn’t matter if Lonnie wanted him to turn out… differently, because my baby is perfect the way he is.” Mike can barely hear her, his strangled sobs echoing throughout the room. “I don’t know what Ted told you, or what your parents make you believe, but Mike….” Placing an arm around Mike, she pulls him closer. “Mike, you’re more than just a hockey player, or whatever they want you to be.”

“I don’t think I am,” Mike mumbles, head spinning. “I… I don’t even know who I am anymore, and I fucked everything up. I fucked everything up with my team, with my family, with Will… and it’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“Oh, honey…” Joyce sighs, pulling him into a hug. “That’s not true, I’m sure… whatever happened, Will understands. You’ve both been through so much over the past couple of years, but you’ve got each other, now.”

“Would he even want me?” Mike asks, afraid of the answer. “After all I’ve done and I’ve said, why would he even give me a chance?”

“You’re here, Mike.” Joyce smiles, softly. “You’re here, in Lenora.”

Mike digs his head into her shoulder. He doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve being coddled by Joyce. He deserves to be kicked out of the house, forced to live on the streets of Lenora until he’s able to get back to Indiana. He doesn’t deserve anything more. 

“No,” Mike refutes, “I’m only here because he felt bad for me—”

“Because he cares,” she tightens her grip on him, hand brushing through his curls. “There’s a difference, Mike.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

Mike doesn’t know what to do. 

He continues to pace back and forth in Will’s room, head spinning. He needs to talk to Will, the guilt eating at his stomach. If he didn’t tell Hopper about their fight, if he didn’t tell him anything, then what the fuck did Mike do? What is he even supposed to say to him when he walks through the bedroom door? That he’s sorry? That… that he thought everything happened because of him, and he didn’t even give him the chance to explain himself?

“Hey,” Will says tentatively, hand around the doorknob. “You okay?”

“Not really,” Mike answers honestly, his resolve on the edge of breaking. Keep it together, he tells himself. Don’t cry.

“Can I come in?” Will asks, and Mike’s eyes gravitate to the small bag in his grip. 

“It’s your room,” Mike swallows. He’s stuck in place, standing in front of the air mattress, a couple feet from the door where Will is standing. “Why wouldn’t you be allowed to?”

“Right,” Will nods, slowly making his way past Mike and placing the bag on his desk. He pulls off his sweater, leaving him in a short sleeve shirt that rises slightly. Mike catches a glimpse of his tattoo, but not enough to see it clearly. “I, um… heard some of the phone call. With your dad.” Mike can tell Will is choosing his words carefully, and that makes Mike want to cry even more. He turns around, and though the light in Will’s room is dim enough that Mike can barely make out his features. Maybe it’s better this way, he thinks. He won’t be able to look at him now. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Mike repeats, because he doesn’t even know where to begin. His hands begin to wrap around strands of his hair in a desperate attempt to distract himself. “Can we just go to bed?”

“Of course.” Will nods his head slowly, and Mike forces back tears. “Yeah, that’s no problem. Want me to turn off the light?”

Despite everything, despite the way Mike treated him, and the anger and distance between them—he’s always been willing to extend the olive branch. Will’s always been willing to put things aside, and Mike has always denied it, constantly pushing back. What kind of person does that make him? How could he not believe his best friend? How could he sit there, for over five years, and not even hear him out? 

 “Yeah,” Mike barely manages to push out, quickly lifting his hands to wipe away the tears. He turns around briskly, back now facing Will. “Please.”

Both boys settle in—Will on his bed, Mike on the air mattress—and Mike can’t stop tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Will is here, less than five feet away, and doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore. Sure, he’s nice—but he doesn’t like Mike. They’re not friends, they’re not… anything, really.

“Mike?” Will says, voice barely above a whisper. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it. I’m here for you.”

“I don’t think we can,” Mike says, voice hiccuping. He doesn’t know what to say, or where to start. “I just…”

For once, he’s grateful that he’s on the air mattress, grateful that Will can’t see him from where he’s lying down. The worst part, Mike quickly realizes, is that he wants to talk about it. He wants to ask Will, he wants to know. Is he a coward? Is that what it is? He doesn’t have the courage to ask, because what if he’s been wrong about Will this entire time?

“Why not?” Will’s voice is shaking. “Why can’t we?”

“Will…” Mike’s crying again—and he’s not hiding it anymore. His cries are loud and guttural, and he can’t catch his breath. He curls up into a ball on the plastic mattress, wrapping his hands around his pillow, pressing it flush against his body, as though holding it as tight as he is will make things easier for him. It doesn’t. “I…”

Before he can say anything more, he hears a loud pop from underneath him. 

Mike thinks the universe must be playing a cruel, cruel joke on him. There’s no way this is happening to him right now. 

“You have to be kidding,” Mike manages to push out, between sobs. He can barely think straight—his nose blocked, eyes puffy and the air mattress now pressed flush to the bedroom floor. “This has to be a joke. A fucking joke.” He shuts his eyes, running a shaking hand through his hair. 

“Mike?” Will’s voice comes from the top of the bed, hesitant. “Are you okay?”

Mike falters for a second, because how the hell is he even supposed to explain this? 

“The air mattress just fucking popped,” Mike shakes his head, hiccuping. Why do these things keep happening to him? “I’m literally on the floor.” He focuses on his breathing, trying his best to calm down, his heart feeling like it might beat out of his chest.

“How did that even happen?” Will asks, though not moving from where he’s lying down. Mike doesn’t blame Will for not turning over to check on him. 

“I don’t know,” Mike mumbles, finally able to get himself together. God, does everyone in this house think he’s a disaster? What’s next, Jonathan coming into the room to ask if he’s okay? “I’ll probably have to sleep in the bathtub again.”

Will pauses, breath hitching. “You slept in the bathtub?”

Mike grimaces, hoping he wouldn’t be asked about the reason why he had to sleep there. Still staring at the ceiling, he lets out a small: “Yeah.” 

Another silence. “Was that even comfortable?”

“No,” Mike replies, honestly. “Not at all.”

“Oh,” Will clears his throat, and Mike is already starting to feel the consequences of lying on the floor, his back beginning to ache. “So why would you want to sleep there, again?”

“I don’t know,” Mike sighs, head beginning to hurt, trying not to think about how embarrassed he feels. “The couch in the living room is full of ornaments, and there’s only enough space to sit down.”

“Right,” Will pauses, a silence spreading between them. “The ornaments.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Mike clears his throat. 

“Do you…” Will’s voice trails off. After a couple of seconds, he lets out a soft sigh. “Would you want to come up here?”

Mike feels like his heart is caught in his throat. “What?”

“It isn’t good to sleep on the floor.” Will mumbles, low enough that Mike almost missed it. “You’ll wreck your back.”

“I deserve to be down here,” Mike pushes the words through his clenched teeth. “I deserve to sleep on the floor, I deserve to have stupid back pain for the rest of my life, actually.”

“You know that’s not true.” Will says, shifting in his bed. “Why would you say that?”

“It is.” Mike shakes his head, trying to hold back—not wanting to cry again. “I… deserve this, Will. Don’t you get it? I… I did this. It’s all on me.”

“Mike,” Will’s voice is on the edge of begging. “Please. Come up here.”

“It’s my fault. Everything.” Mike’s voice breaks. This doesn’t make sense. Will should be mad at him. Will should hate him for everything he’s done, not… offer half of his bed. “Will, I don’t get it. Why do you keep being nice to me?”

“Please, Mike.” Mike can hear Will sniffle. Is he crying? Something about the way Will is asking, something about the way his voice is trembling feels worse than being stabbed directly into the heart. 

So, Mike listens: hesitantly standing, pushing himself off of the floor, still holding his pillow. A wave of dizziness washes over him as he looks over at Will, who has moved to the left side of his bed. His chest tightens—when they were younger, Will always took the left side, too. 

He doesn’t know what to do, standing at the edge of the bed. Will is under the covers, but sitting up. He taps his hand against the right side, and Mike thinks he might throw up. He feels a bit ridiculous, unsure of what to do—is he supposed to sit on top of the covers? Is Will just being polite? Should he go to the foot of the bed and sleep there? Should he run out of the room, like he did the last time?

“Mike,” Will pushes gently. “Come.”

“Are you sure?” is the only thing that Mike can ask, as though he needs to make sure Will isn’t going to regret this. He turns his head, and Will is looking at him—eyebrows furrowed. 

Though it’s dark, he can see Will. He can see the streaks of tears on Will’s cheeks—he’s been crying, and that makes Mike feel like he needs to cry for the hundredth time, too. Hopper and Joyce’s voices echo in his mind, reminding him that they need to talk about it. The elephant-sized misunderstanding between them is there—Mike can feel it, and he’s sure Will can, too. Mike wants to tell Will how sorry he is, that he didn’t know that he didn’t have anything to do with it, but he doesn’t know how. 

“Yes, Mike.” Will shakes his head, lips quivering. “I’m sure.”

Mike slowly sits on top of the bed, back against the headboard. He’s on top of the covers, guilt consuming his insides. He needs to say something. This is all his fault. Everything is his fault. 

Yet, there he is—beside Will again. He’s sitting on Will’s bed in Lenora, in Will’s home, knowing damn well that he doesn’t deserve to be here. That, if Will were anyone else, he wouldn’t have been given a second look, let alone a place to stay over the holidays. Again, the thought that Will is doing all of this, despite how Mike treated him, makes his heart hurt. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike manages to blurt out, every inch of his body aching. 

“What?” Will asks, turning his head toward him. His eyes widen, as though he doesn’t believe what’s being said to him—and Mike doesn’t blame him, not one bit. “What did you just say?”

“I’m sorry.” Mike repeats, taking the pillow from underneath him, and placing it on his lap. He begins to play with the fabric of the pillowcase, face heating up from a mixture of embarrassment and guilt. 

Mike can see Will’s body tense from the corner of his eye. “For what?”

“Everything,” Mike turns his head toward him, biting the inside of his cheek and eyes watering. “I… I thought it was you.” Mike shakes his head, hand wiping away the tears, “I thought you were the one who ruined it. I thought… I’m so fucking sorry—”

Mike doesn’t have the chance to finish his sentence, Will moves closer and pulls him into a hug. 

It takes him by surprise, but Mike’s resolve immediately begins to crumble. The familiar grip, the familiar smell of Will’s shampoo all become too much for Mike to handle. Overwhelmed with a mixture of guilt, sadness and anger towards himself, he knows he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to have Will’s hands wrap around his neck, pulling him as close as possible. He doesn’t deserve to wrap his arms around Will’s waist, his head resting on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike repeats for the fourth time, tears staining the fabric of Will’s shirt. “God, Will, fuck, I…”

“Mike,” Will’s voice trembles with his cries, “Let’s talk about this tomorrow, okay? Today has been… a lot for you.”

“Will—” Mike shakes his head, gently pulling away from Will. He doesn’t want to talk about this tomorrow; he needs to get this off his chest now. Why is Will always so selfless? Will, on the other hand, pulls him right back to his chest. “This… this isn’t about me. I want to talk about it now. You… this isn’t fair.”

“Please, Mike.” Will tilts back slightly. His hair is messy, his eyes bloodshot and red. Mike feels his heart breaking, knowing he’s the reason that Will is this upset, that he’s crying. With his arms still wrapped around Mike’s neck, Will lets out a shaky breath. “Tomorrow.”