Chapter Text
March 21, 1986
Dear Mike,
Today is day 185. Feels more like ten years! Joyce says time is funny like that. Emotions can make it speed up or slow down.
We are all time travelers, if you think about it.
For example, this week is going very fast. I think because I am so busy! I have to make something called a “visual aid.” I hope Mrs. Gracey will give me an A.
Some exciting news—Joyce got an AMAZING new job. She gets to work at home! She says she loves the freedom.
Will is painting a lot. But he won’t show me what he’s working on. Maybe it is for a girl! I think there is someone he likes, because he has been acting… weird.
Jonathan is acting wierd weird also. I think he is just nervous about college. He is still waiting for his big letter. I hope he and Nancy get to go together.
But I don’t know how he will ever get to college, because his car is still broken. His funny friend Argyle has been taking us to school. His hair is longer than mine! And he and Jonathan like to smoke smelly plants together. Jonathan says the plants are super safe because they come from the erth Earth, but to not tell Joyce.
Me? I am twice as happy now. You were right—it just takes time. I think I have finally adapted.
At first, I missed all the spring flowers, but now I find it pretee pretty here too. I even like school now! I am still best at math, but my grammar is getting good now also. It helps that everyone is so nice here. I have made LOTS of freinds friends.
Even so, I am ready for spring break—mostly because I get to see you. I am so excited to see you, it is hard to brethe breathe! Are you excited too?
I think you will love it here, like me. I think we will have the best spring break EVER!
I hope my spelling was better this time. Miss you!
Love,
El.
Mike roves over the letter, taking in all its components—visual aid, smoking, flowers, new friends—then skips right back up to the fifth paragraph. He stays there for a long time, hardly breathing.
Will is painting a lot. I think there is someone he likes.
Mike scans the page another time, just to be sure, but that’s the only mention of Will. Nothing else. Not even a hint.
Maybe it is for a girl!
It makes sense, why El would assume that. Right? Because she doesn’t know Will inside and out, like Mike does, and he knows that there’s no way in hell he’d be pining away after some girl, but… the Will he knew wasn’t much of a painter, either. He always stuck to drawing.
Maybe, after six months of distance, Mike doesn’t know Will anymore. Maybe he doesn’t know him at all.
His door clatters, loud and obnoxious. Nancy’s presence, equally loud and obnoxious, with an extra degree of pissed off, follows.
“What the hell are you doing? It’s ten after.”
“Oh, shit,” Mike hisses, dropping the letter and struggling to sit up. He’s not even dressed.
Stupid, he chides himself, like he always does, eyes flicking back to the cheery rainbow-print of El’s stationary. A whole letter from his girlfriend, talking about how well she’s been doing in California, and all he can focus on is three fucking sentences.
Pathetic.
“Thirty seconds, or I’m leaving without you,” Nancy snaps, pointing at him. She doesn’t seem to care that Mike’s in his underwear. That’s fine, though, because he’s too frazzled to be embarrassed.
“Uhhh,” Mike stalls, desperately casting his gaze around the room. He’s gotta have clean pants somewhere. And—shit, he has Hellfire tonight. Where’s his shirt?
“Thirty seconds!” Nancy repeats, and turns on her heel.
“Okay!” Mike calls after her. “I have to find my pants!”
There’s no reply, but he didn’t expect one. Knowing Nancy, she really will leave without him. She’s done it before. But Mike’s not in the mood to bike, and she’s probably already starting up the car, so he hops around his room as fast as he can, pulling on some jeans that vaguely pass the sniff test, his Hellfire shirt (which was hiding under his bed), and some black Converse. He looks… decent. He thinks.
One of the best things about high school (not that there’s been many), Mike thinks, is his change in style. His ripped jeans and band tees are a far cry from last summer, when his wardrobe consisted entirely of revolving polos and cargo shorts. Eddie’s helped a lot with that.
He wonders if Will would be impressed. If he’d approve of the new style. Mike wonders if Will’s style has changed. He wonders if he’s different now, like Mike is. More grown-up.
I think there is someone he likes.
Mike groans internally, trying to steer his thoughts in the right direction. El, he reminds himself, taking a hard left turn on the stairs, rushing down two at a time. Think of El.
El, with her improving grammar, her misspelled words, her new friends and her class projects. El, adapting to California. Of course she is. She’s one of the most adaptable people Mike knows.
El, who loves him, and tells him so every chance she gets.
He grabs his backpack from the dining room nook, where he’d stashed it last night, and Mom whirls around at the sound of his footsteps, holding a hand out in that way that means she wants something from him. Ugh.
“Michael,” she starts, and Mike buries his head in the pantry, trying to find something edible. He’s starving. “I know your D&D club is tonight.”
“Hellfire,” he corrects absently, and starts rummaging through the top shelf. A-ha! Bread.
Mom follows him to the toaster, raising her voice as he takes out two slices. “I want you home no later than nine tonight.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mike agrees, pressing the lever down. “I’ll try.”
“No, no trying,” she insists. “You need to go to bed early.”
Mike pulls a face. “Why?”
Dad’s voice, incredulous, floats from behind him. “It’s a six-thirty flight, Michael.”
Yeah, and it’s also a five hour flight. Mike’s sure he can sleep on the plane, if it’s that important. If he’s even able to sleep at all.
All that aside, he’s surprised Dad even remembers. Probably just because he had to pay for it. Even though it’s technically Mike’s money anyway, earned from mowing lawns and doing chores for the last six months. He even scrubbed the toilet. Worth it, though.
“Yeah, I know, but—”
“No buts!” Mom insists, hands on her hips. “Nine, or no California.”
“And no sweetie-pie,” Dad says, condescending. Mike grimaces. Gross.
It’s an empty threat, anyway. For all Mike’s heard about how expensive and complicated this plane ticket was to get, he’s sure his parents would never waste it. Mike bets they’d rather leave him stranded in California than run the risk of him missing that plane.
“Mike!” Nancy, fuming at the door, jingles her keys insistently. “Let’s go.”
Gladly.
“Jesus,” he grumbles, eyeing the toaster. “How am I gonna survive a whole week without you guys?”
With that, he cuts the toaster off early, grabs his slightly-warmed bread, and heads out the door.
“Nine!” Mom calls after him, and he rolls his eyes. As he passes Nancy, she cuffs him on the shoulder—annoyed, but not upset. Nice.
As they strap into the car, Nancy blathering on about some stupid pep rally she has to go cover for the school paper, Mike checks his watch. Seven-fifteen.
Four-fifteen in California. Will and El probably aren’t even awake yet.
He hopes that they have a better morning than he did. So far, this day blows.
Only one more.
Mike rests his head against the window, nerves buzzing in his stomach, and tries not to think about California. About the Byers. About the fact that in twenty-four hours, he’ll be seeing his best friend—and his girlfriend—for the first time since last summer.
Naturally, it’s all he can think about.
***
Will can’t stop thinking about Mike.
You’d think, after six months, that he would have a better handle on this. Especially given the fact that he can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually spoken to Mike in those six months, but—that’s besides the point right now.
The point is, that unfortunately for Will, it’s true what they say. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.
He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know if it’s the way El lights up after getting yet another letter from Mike, or if it’s the way that his prolonged absence has left Will’s brain trying to fill in the gaps, romanticizing memory after memory until Will’s red in the cheeks and fuzzy in the head, or if it’s just the raging onset of late-blooming puberty.
He doesn’t know if it’s the fact that everyone’s coupling up for prom season, or if it’s the fact that some boys are together here, the fact that last week, Will saw Reggie and Logan from first period history kissing under the bleachers, and he ached.
He wants that. Worse yet, he wants it with Mike. He doesn’t feel that way about anyone else, not even a little.
Will knows it’s wrong. Not just because Mike’s a boy—he’s actually gotten a little better about that, here in California. It’s not… normalized, exactly, but it’s more acceptable, and the only homophobic people are assholes who no one likes, and there’s an actual club for gay people that Will’s been scoping out all year. He doesn’t exactly have the courage to go, not yet, but… Maybe next year. There’s a couple club members in his classes. They’re nice.
Living in California has made him realize that Hawkins, Indiana doesn’t represent the whole world. Boys can date other boys here, and it’s okay. Girls can date other girls. All anyone cares about is if you’re a decent person or not, and if you’re more of a surfer or a skateboarder. So far, Will’s neither. But that’s okay too, because the kids in his art classes are all really cool.
No, liking Mike is wrong for a different reason. It’s wrong because Mike is El’s boyfriend. Because she’s in love with him, and he’s in love with her, and Will is supposed to be their friend— hell, he’s practically El’s brother now—and he feels like he’s betraying them both, just by thinking about Mike like that. No matter how hard he tries to stop.
But— but. He’s come up with a workaround. With a way to make everything okay. Will’s decided, in a very mature fashion, to just channel all the love he has for Mike—all the goopy, messy overpouring that he doesn’t know what to do with—and funnel it all into their friendship. He doesn’t need to love Mike less. He just needs to love him differently. Platonically. And he’s going to start with this spring break.
He’s going to start with this painting.
There’s a few setbacks. Namely, that he’s a little… worried. He thought he and Mike left on a good note, but the last six months have placed so much doubt in his mind that he’s practically back at square one. Square zero, even. And he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by… By pouring out all this love out on someone who doesn’t love him back. Not even as a friend.
Because friends stay in touch, right? They talk to each other. They write. They call. Will knows this, because Lucas and Dustin and Max write all the time. They send plenty of letters. Will’s updated on pretty much every detail of their lives—Lucas joined the basketball team, and Dustin built a new radio tower in his bedroom, and Max is seeing the school counselor three times a week. It doesn’t really help, she said, as much as music has. Will relates to that.
Dustin, Lucas, and Mike have all joined the D&D club at school. Hellfire, Dustin said. Will’s happy for them. Really, he is. He’s glad they’re able to play again, even if he’s a little jealous that he’s not there to join in.
To be fair, it’s not like Mike hasn’t called at all. He’s called exactly three times—once for Thanksgiving, once at Christmas, and once on Valentine’s Day, which made Will’s stomach flutter with nerves until he realized that Mike had probably just been calling for El, and he passed the phone off accordingly. Each time, though, it was a little stilted. Surface-level. Full of small talk, like class assignments and mean teachers and even the weather, which is a topic that Will never imagined they’d stoop to. The verdict: California doesn’t get nearly as cold as Hawkins. Who would’ve thought?
He hasn’t written. Not once.
And Will’s tried to excuse it—Mike’s busy, he knows, and maybe he doesn’t like writing letters, or maybe he just doesn’t have anything to say—except none of that’s true, because El’s gotten her letters like clockwork. One every two weeks. She keeps them in a box in her room, along with a plethora of pictures and cards. It’s like a little Mike shrine.
Will’s not jealous. He’s not.
It’s just… It’s like there’s two Mikes in his head. There’s the one from the past six months, the one from the past year, who’s ignored Will at every turn, who’s gone all stiff and cold and distant. The Mike who skipped Party meetings to make out with his girlfriend. The Mike who moped in his basement and yelled in his garage and broke Will’s heart, over and over and over again.
Then there’s the real Mike. The Mike that Will’s known his entire life. The Mike who held his hand and promised they’d go crazy together. The Mike who guarded him with his life, who never gave up looking, who stood against monsters even when he had no chance of winning. The Mike who said being Will’s friend was the best thing he’d ever done, who tapped out morse-code apologies into Will’s skin. The Mike who bravely led the Party into battle, over and over and over again.
That’s the Mike that Will’s painting. That’s the Mike that Will wants back, more than anything in the entire world.
He knows he’s in there somewhere. He’s seen him. And maybe, with this painting, Mike can see himself, too. He can see himself the way Will sees him.
It’s a start. He hopes.
Last Christmas had been kind of a bust—Mike’s nana got sick, for real this time, and plane tickets were too expensive, and everyone else in the Party was so busy that it just didn’t end up working out. Mike sent over some money, and Will sent over some drawings. Nothing too intricate, just sketches, really. But this will make up for it.
Will’s really been enjoying his art classes. He’s taking two different ones as electives—2D Art and Art History—and in 2D Art, they’ve been working on different types of painting all semester. Will’s getting used to working with acrylics, with the pressure of the brush and the stain of paint, and he’s finally putting his skills to the test.
He wants it to be perfect. He needs it to be perfect.
There’s only one day left though, which is enough of a stressor on its own, so Will’s up early this morning. He has to finish. He has to finish, because Mike’s coming tomorrow, and Will finally gets to see him in person for the first time in six months, the best and most nerve-wracking birthday present of all time, and—
He just wants them to be friends again. He wants Mike to want to be his friend again. And maybe if he sees how much effort Will put into this, if he sees that Will’s forgiven everything that happened last summer, that he’s ready to wipe the slate and start over, then… Maybe Will can get the real Mike back.
It’s worth a shot.
It’s been hard to hide it from El, though. She’s sweet, but she’s so nosy, and Will’s really her only friend right now, so she’s been poking into his room all the time, always trying to catch up on his day and ask about his life, ask if there’s anyone new, and sometimes, Will just wants to put a lock on his door and rip all his hair out. First of all, he doesn’t want her blabbing to Mike, because the concept of secrets still eludes her a little bit, and second of all… He just. He just doesn’t want her to see, that’s all. It feels like more of a Will-and-Mike thing. Plus, he’d have to explain the whole backstory to her, all the D&D lore that she wasn’t there for, that she’d need lessons upon lessons to understand, and in the end, it’s just not worth it.
Will dapples more green over the bushes, softly working the paint into the canvas. This is another reason he likes painting, he’s discovered. It’s peaceful. When he paints, his head goes quiet. Still.
The painting’s nearly done, but he finds himself picking on miniscule details, anyway, tidying up lines and layering shades of blue. Everywhere he looks, he sees a new flaw. And that won’t do. Not for Mike.
His radio hums softly by his bed, The Cure’s new album playing on a loop. He’s really been getting into them, lately. Jonathan showed him a couple songs.
As he works, and the minutes tick away, he starts to rehearse his class presentation in his head. They’re doing a report in history; a five-minute speech on a historical figure they find inspiring. A hero. El’s picked Hopper, Will knows, which is really big for her. He’s proud of her. She’s been working hard on her diorama, and Will even helped her paint a few of the figurines.
Will picked Alan Turing, who he found in a book about gay history in the school library. Before coming to Lenora, he wouldn’t have even known that books like that existed. But just after winter break, he braved the tiny section on sexuality, then squirreled away in the back corner to read it, taking notes in his notebook until his fingers cramped. He’d had a permanent blush on his cheeks as he walked home, but it was worth it. It made him feel less alone. Less messed-up.
Anyway, it’s not like he’s going to get up in front of the class and talk all about Turing’s sexuality, or anything, but—it can be a signal, maybe. To the people that know. To the people that get it. Reggie and Logan definitely will.
It’s a good step. A brave step. It’s the kind of stuff Will’s trying to do more often, now that it’s safe.
“Turing helped create techniques that sped up the breaking of German ciphers,” Will practices under his breath, sharpening the point of the thessalhydra’s wing. “He was instrumental in defeating the Axis powers.”
Soon enough, the sun’s shining bright through his window, and Argyle’s honking from the driveway, loud and sustained, like he does every single day. Will sighs, then sets his brush in a stray water cup.
He’ll finish it later.
He grabs his poster from where it’s leaning against his bed, checking to make sure everything’s glued on correctly, then shrugs his backpack on and leaves his room, closing the door behind him. As he does, he almost smacks right into El, who’s holding her diorama protectively in front of her face.
“Oh!” Will says, steadying himself. “Sorry. Is that—did you get everything finished?”
“Yes,” El confirms, turning the box around to show him. It looks nice. Homemade, but nice. Will hopes her presentation goes okay. “What about you?”
“All good,” Will says, holding up his poster for emphasis. El nods, then peers behind him, at his closed door, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Will sighs, waiting.
“Were you painting?” El says finally.
“A little bit,” Will mumbles, beginning the trek up the stairs. “It’s—it’s not ready yet.”
“Well, can I see it when it’s done?” she asks insistently, following after him.
“I dunno,” Will says. “Maybe.”
“You are too modest, Will,” El says kindly, falling into step with him as they walk into the kitchen. “I’m sure it’s great.”
“Thanks,” Will replies, hefting his poster under his arm. He tries not to look as uncomfortable as he feels.
Mom pokes her head out from the dining room as they pass, a towering stack of encyclopedias on the table in front of her, the phone tucked to her ear. “Have a good day!” she calls, covering the receiver with her free hand.
“You too, Mom,” Will calls, and El and Jonathan echo their own goodbyes.
Finally, they’re piling into Argyle’s van, which is bright yellow and smells overwhelmingly of weed. Will’s gotten so used to the smell, actually, that he hardly notices it anymore. He pulls the door open for El, then tucks his project away in the trunk. Jonathan jumps into the passenger seat, eyes rimmed red.
“Alright,” Argyle says, twisting around to grin at them. “Hold onto your butts, brochachos.”
El looks a little miffed, but she buckles up. Will follows suit.
Just in time, too, because a second later Argyle’s peeling out of the driveway, ignoring Mom’s shouts from the front stoop, her frantic warnings to slow down. Argyle’s not much of a listener. Will doubts he even hears her.
Automatically, his hand shoots up to grab onto the roof handle. Argyle takes corners fast.
The drive is short enough, though, with El staring distractedly out the window, and Will trying to focus on his speech in his head. His thoughts keep wandering, though.
He wonders if she’s thinking of Mike, too.
God, he can’t believe there’s only a day left. Will barely has anything to go off of, just the memory of Mike’s voice over the phone, growing deeper and less familiar, and the awkward pictures that he’s sent El, the ones that Mrs. Wheeler definitely forced him into taking. He’s taller, now. He’s grown his hair out.
It suits him.
But seeing him in person— shit, Will really doesn’t know if he’s prepared. It’s been so long.
He’s still thinking of Mike as Argyle braves the wilderness of the Lenora High parking lot, as they unbuckle and hop out, one after the other, as he walks side-by-side with El through the manicured lawns and brightly-paved pathways. He’s still thinking of Mike as the first bell rings, as they make it into their hallway, as El shoots him a nervous smile and he nods back at her. After that, he figures it’s probably time to stop thinking about Mike. After all, he does have a presentation to get ready for.
El’s visibly trying to keep her hopes up, just like she does every other morning, before the general horrible-ness of high school beats her back down again.
Mom was partly right, when she said there’d be less bullying in California. The thing is, though, she was only right about Will not being bullied. He doesn’t have friends, not really, but people generally like him. Nobody knows the name Zombie Boy here.
Will’s quiet and artsy, and he knows how to fit into a crowd. Everyone’s pretty nice to him, even though half the school probably suspects that he’s gay. People have always been able to tell, even before Will knew, and Lenora is no different. If anything, it’s more obvious here, because there’s a lot more gay kids.
Still, though, nobody gives him shit for it.
El, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.
El’s bullied for just about everything. Her failing grades. Her stilted grammar. Her unfamiliarity with social conventions. She’s bullied for being a hick, for wearing mismatched clothes, for tripping in the hallways. Angela Grace and her band of followers have, for some reason, set out to make El’s life a living hell.
It’s horrible. She should have been homeschooled, really, but they all know Mom doesn’t have that kind of time on her hands, and besides, El insisted on going to normal school, on being a normal girl. So she’s here, for better or worse, and Will tries to have her back as much as he can.
Case in point: as they’re walking, Macy Williams gives a big wave, and El, immediately excited, waves back at her. But Macy wasn’t waving to her—she was waving to someone behind them, and her face sours at the sight of El. El’s expression droops, disappointed, and Will nudges her shoulder in solidarity, shooting her a small smile.
Yeah. High school kind of sucks.
Will gets it. He’s been bullied his whole life, and it’s honestly so surprising to not be bullied this year that he hardly knows what to do with himself. If he can use that extra energy to protect El, though, maybe it’s not a waste. Maybe he can use what he went through to help her. It’s the only thing he can think to do.
Everyone files into history, jostling around posterboards and cardboard boxes, and Will slides into his seat as gracefully as he can, setting his tri-fold by his desk. A second later, Logan’s sitting behind him, eyes falling to Will’s project almost immediately. When Will glances back at him, he gives him a little smile of approval, and a discreet thumbs-up.
Tentatively, Will smiles back, then turns back to the front. He breathes a sigh of relief.
The first step. He’s totally got this. And then—maybe he can talk to Logan and Reggie after school, and ask about the GSA, and then… Something, presumably. He doesn’t really know what the next steps are after that.
He could find out, though.
His thoughts are interrupted by a loud thwack, and El’s hand flying up to her cheek, eyes widening with hurt. Angela’s already cackling, her awful boyfriend twirling a straw in his hands, looking way too pleased with himself. El wipes the spit off her face, eyes reddening with the threat of tears.
Like Will said. Horrible.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs, leaning across the aisle, and El nods tightly, barely even looking back at him. Will sighs again, then leans down for his bag, silently pulling out a bandana. She takes it, wipes her cheek, and passes it back.
“Thank you,” she whispers, staring down at her desk in shame.
“Anytime,” Will replies, tucking the cloth back into the front of his bag. He’ll wash it later.
It’s fine.
It’s all totally, completely fine.
Totally.
***
Mike doesn’t get the point of pep rallies.
No, really. He’s never felt an ounce of pep in his life, and he’s definitely not going to start feeling it at seven-thirty in the morning, with brass music blaring in his eardrums, cheerleaders doing backflips across the court, and a bunch of muscley douchebags standing in a line and slapping each other on the back.
He claps along half-heartedly, though, because Principal Higgins is already giving him the stink eye, and he doesn’t need another detention for not being peppy enough, or whatever shit he tries to pull this time. Last time, it was because he was loitering in the hallway. What the hell is that about? Since when are people not allowed to stand?
Mike fucking hates high school.
“Look, I’m not saying that my girlfriend is better than yours,” Dustin says loudly, raising his voice above the music. He’s been bragging about Suzie all morning, telling Mike and Max all about how she hacked into the school system and changed his failing Latin grade, the one he swears he only got because Mr. Keene is an absolute ass-hat. And—listen, if Mike can get a detention for standing, then he thinks maybe Dustin should be more careful with that shit. But it’s Dustin, and they all know he won’t get in trouble, because he never does. So it goes. Life isn’t fucking fair.
“It’s just that Suzie’s, like, a certified genius,” Dustin finishes proudly. Mike rolls his eyes.
“You do realize that El saved the world twice, right?” he says flatly.
Dustin considers this, tilting his head to the side. “And yet you still have a C in Spanish.”
Mike huffs, turning his eyes back to the court. Yeah, because he’s not sending El letters begging her to change his grades, that would just be embarrassing. Also, he’s not really sure how that would even work. So—maybe Dustin has a point. But Mike also has a point, because girlfriends aren’t just there to fix your mistakes. They’re there to…
Honestly, at this point, Mike doesn’t know. He doesn’t know because, realistically, he should have broken up with El a long time ago. Or he should have never gotten back together with her, but it’s too late now, and it’s not something he can do over the phone, or in a letter, but it’s also not something he can do on his special spring break trip, on Will’s birthday, and he just… He’s kind of trapped, to be honest. Maybe that sounds pathetic, or like he’s just making excuses.
And maybe, on some level, he is.
Because at the same time, if he’s honest with himself, it’s kind of convenient to have a long-distance girlfriend. He doesn’t have to kiss her anymore, and he doesn’t have to spend a whole lot of time with her, and he doesn’t even have to say anything romantic, really. He can write letters about his day and not mention the L-word a single time. He can get Valentine’s cards that say I like you and not feel like an asshole because technically, he does like El. He likes her a lot.
Just not like that.
But maybe, for one week, he can pretend. He can say and do all the right things. He can make El happy, and then they can go back to their bi-weekly letters, and eventually… Well, he doesn’t know what’ll happen after that. It’s a problem for future Mike, he thinks.
Besides, the other upside to dating El is that he has a perfect cover. Any time someone looks a little suspiciously at his long hair and his ripped jeans and his stacked rings, any time some friend of a friend of a friend knows someone who wants to ask Mike out, any time someone snickers at him in the hallway, he can say: Actually, I have a girlfriend. Yeah, she doesn’t go here. We’re long-distance.
And it works. People leave him alone. Maybe they don’t believe him, sometimes, but they do leave him alone.
Maybe he’s a shitty person for that.
But maybe that’s just who he is. An asshole. Maybe that’s who he’s always been, and now he’s just accepting it.
Like an echo of Mike’s depressing thoughts, the band’s music peters out. Someone in the horn section is off-key, lingering on a flat note for three beats longer than everyone else. Mike winces.
“Let’s hear it for your Tigers!” Principal Higgins shouts, beaming at the crowd, and Jason Carver bursts through the basketball banner, grinning ear-to-ear. He looks, as he always does, like a living Ken doll.
Mike hates him.
He hates all of them, these basketball jerks with no brains in their head, nothing but muscles to prop them up; guys who fling homophobic insults at random passers-by and talk shit about Eddie and the rest of Hellfire in full view of the entire school. The Troys of the world, if Troy hadn’t been scared off by El in middle school, hadn’t transferred to some fancy private school just so he never had to show his face again.
Even after six months, Mike still can’t figure out why Lucas wants to hang out with them so badly. Why he wants to be one of them so badly.
He doesn’t belong with those guys. He belongs with the Party.
Even if the Party’s kind of nonexistent now, split across state lines and distanced by emotional strain, even if they’re all dysfunctional and fucked-up, even if Mike and Lucas and Dustin have a new Party, technically, but it’s not—it’s not the same. It’s not a replacement. It couldn’t be.
Anyway. All the more reason to stick together.
“Good morning, Hawkins High!” Jason beams, and Mike swears his teeth sparkle. What, does he bleach them or something?
“First off,” Jason continues, grabbing the mic and taking a few steps towards the crowd. “First off, I’d like to thank each and every one of you. Without your support, we wouldn’t be here. Give yourself a big hand!”
Well aware of Principal Higgins eyeballing him, Mike gives a few unenthused claps.
“And of course,” Jason says, grinning down at the cheerleaders. “Of course, I have to give a special shoutout to the best and the prettiest fans of all time—the Tiger Cheer Squad!”
Shrill screeching sounds from the front row. Mike fights the urge to grimace. Next to him, Max rolls her eyes.
“Chrissy,” Jason says, patting his heart dramatically. “Chrissy, I love you, babe.”
This time, Max actually turns to Mike, sticking a finger down her throat to mimic gagging. Mike snorts in amusement. Of course, the no PDA rule is nonexistent when it comes to the star basketball player and his cheerleader girlfriend. Predictable.
A couple girls in the crowd aww, giggling and swooning. Mike contemplates flinging himself off the bleachers.
Jason’s expression grows more serious, then, and a hush falls over the gym. “You know,” he says, stepping back a bit. “I think I can speak for all of us when I say… it’s been a tough year for Hawkins.”
Midway through the sentence, Mike’s blood goes cold. He swallows over the sudden lump in his throat.
“So much loss,” Jason says quietly. A chorus of nods and sympathetic frowns goes around the crowd. But—they don’t even know what really happened. They weren’t there. They didn’t lose anyone. They didn’t see…
Yeah. They don’t know the half of it.
“And sometimes I wonder, how much loss can one community take?” Jason asks. Mike stiffens. If he’s going with this where Mike thinks he’s going… Oh, what an asshole.
“In dark days like this, we need something to believe in,” Jason enthuses. “So last night, when we were down by ten points at half to Christian Academy—”
Fuck. Mike wants to scream.
His jaw’s clenched so hard he thinks he might shatter his molars. He can’t believe this fucking dickwad is taking something so important, so tragic, something Mike and the entire Party still has nightmares from—and he’s making it about basketball.
“I looked at my team,” Jason continues, and Mike’s eyes linger on Lucas. His smile’s grown strained, his eyes haunted. Mike doesn’t know how he can stomach it, standing there with the rest of them. Taking orders from a guy who uses their trauma for a pep talk. It feels—it feels almost like betrayal, even though Mike knows that’s not fair.
“And I said—think of Jack. Think of Melissa. Think of Heather.” Jason gazes meaningfully out at the crowd. “Think of Billy.”
At his side, Max is stiff as a board. Mike’s not even sure she’s here. Mentally, that is. Her eyes are rimmed red, threatening to spill over with tears, and—fuck, this isn’t fair. She shouldn’t have to sit through this bullshit. None of them should.
“Think about our heroic police chief, Jim Hopper,” Jason says. Mike sucks in a sharp breath. Now his eyes are stinging, too. Shit.
“Think about each and every one of our friends who perished in that fire,” Jason concludes. “What did they die for? For us to lose to some—some crap school?”
“No,” the crowd echoes, a little tentative. Mike stays silent.
“For us to return home with our heads hung low in defeat?”
“No!”
“No,” Jason repeats, strong as ever. “Let’s win this game! Let’s win this game for them. And that’s exactly what we did!”
The crowd goes nuts.
Yeah, Mike thinks. Because Hopper would really care about some shitty high school basketball game.
It’s just—it’s ridiculous, all of it. Hopper and Billy and Heather and everyone else—they’re dead. They’re dead because of the Mind Flayer. Because of some fucking evil Russians, and none of it makes sense, none of it’s fair, but Jason doesn’t get to turn their deaths into some kind of fucking inspirational speech. He doesn’t have the right.
Mike hates him even more now. He doesn’t feel bad about it, either.
“We embarrassed those candy-asses in their own house!” Jason roars. “And now tonight— tonight— we’re gonna bring home the championship trophy!”
Finally, everyone’s revved up, clapping and whooping and jumping around, and Mike snaps out of his loathing long enough to register the words. “Tonight?” he asks Dustin. They told Lucas they would come to his big game, just like they came to all the others, but tonight is Eddie’s big campaign, which Lucas is also supposed to be at, and Mike’s supposed to be home at nine tonight, apparently, like he’s a goddamn toddler, and then tomorrow is the flight, and California, and Will’s birthday, and Will, and El, and—yeah, tonight’s no good. It’s no good at all.
Dustin stares off into the distance, distressed. “How is that possible?” he groans. And Mike gets it—they were just at a game yesterday. There can’t be another one already.
“They call it a tournament,” Max explains, leaning over to look at them, her voice only a little condescending. “You win one game, you go on to play the next, until there’s only one team left.”
Shit.
Down on the court, Lucas is grinning in earnest, high-fiving all his dude-bro basketball friends.
Mike doesn’t know how he stands it. He doesn’t know how he’s smiling, after that speech. He doesn’t know how he’s cool with just ditching them, ditching Hellfire, like that’s not the one thing they have left as a Party, like it’s not the last night they’re getting together before spring break. Mike doesn’t know anything at all, apparently.
Whatever. It’s fine. It’s nothing new, after all.
***
“I don’t get the big deal,” Lucas says, brow furrowed. “Just talk to Eddie. Get him to move Hellfire to another night.”
“Just talk to Eddie,” Dustin repeats, incredulous, and Mike instantly agrees.
Talk to Eddie. What a ridiculous idea. There’s so many things wrong with it that Mike doesn’t even know where to start. First of all, why do they have to talk to Eddie? It’s Lucas’s game! Second of all, this is the last day before spring break. If they push it back, they’ll have to wait weeks to finish, and it would totally screw everything up. Lastly—and most importantly—one doesn’t simply talk to Eddie Munson.
Talking to Eddie is like—trying to get an audience with a king, or something. Mike and Dustin and Lucas are just lowly worms at Eddie’s feet. Making a request, especially for something this big, is almost unthinkable. And whether they make it out with their heads intact completely depends on the day, and what type of mood Eddie’s in. If it goes sideways…
Talk to Eddie. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Why don’t you just talk to your coach and get him to move the game?” Mike shoots back. Surely Lucas sees how ridiculous of a suggestion it is. There’s gotta be something else they can do.
Dustin snorts. “I think that’s a great idea, Mike.”
“Thank you, Dustin,” Mike says magnanimously.
Lucas groans. “This is the championship game!”
“And this is the end of Eddie’s campaign,” Dustin argues, looking about five seconds from ripping all his hair out. “A semester of adventuring has led to this moment, and we need you.”
“Yeah, and the Tigers don’t,” Mike points out, shrugging apologetically. “You’ve been on the bench all year.”
It’s harsh, maybe, but it’s true. Mike and Dustin have gone to every game, staunch in their support, even though Lucas has done nothing all season, except for zip his jacket up and down and bounce his heels against the floor. Mike can’t imagine that would change for the final game.
“That’s not the point,” Lucas says, frowning.
“Please, arrive at the point,” Dustin grumbles. They pass the door into their first-period hallway, ducking from the outside sunshine into the cold dim lighting of the hall.
“If I get in good with these guys, I’ll be in the popular crowd,” Lucas tries, his tone optimistic. “And then you guys will be, too.”
Mike thinks of Jason. Of his Ken-doll smile. Of his blown kisses to his girlfriend, his impassioned shouting about candy-asses and trophies.
Yeah, no thanks.
“Has it ever occurred to you that we don’t want to be popular?” Mike says incredulously. Really, he’s not even sure why Lucas is still on this. Can’t he see through all that bullshit? Doesn’t he want to have real friends? People like Eddie and Gareth, people who are actually cool? It doesn’t matter how popular they are—they have substance. And Mike would take that over stupid Jason any day.
Lucas whirls around. “So you wanna be stuck with the nerds and freaks for three more years?” he demands.
Automatically, Mike flinches. Is that what Lucas thinks of Hellfire? Of Eddie? Has he been sitting in sessions all year long, just pretending to have fun? Has he been secretly judging them this whole time?
Dustin scoffs. “We are nerds and freaks,” he replies easily, and—he sounds proud of it. Mike relaxes a little bit, nodding in agreement.
“Yeah, but maybe we don’t have to be,” Lucas pleads, eyes wide. Mike and Dustin exchange a helpless look, and Lucas softens a little. “Look. I’m tired of being bullied. I’m tired of girls laughing at us. I’m tired of feeling like a loser.”
Mike—he gets it, really, but he doesn’t know why Lucas can’t see the truth. He doesn’t know why Lucas doesn’t understand. Him, Mike, and Dustin—they’ll be bullied either way. They’ll be bullied no matter what. No matter how well they fit into the crowd, no matter who they hang out with, no matter how much of themselves they try to twist and change and re-make.
The three of them are singled out for things they can’t change. Even if the outright bullying dies down, it’ll still live on in hushed conversations and locker-room gossip. They can’t outrun it.
Not even Mike.
“We came to high school wanting things to be different, right?” Lucas asks them. Mike shrugs, staring down at the toe of his Converse, because—he honestly doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he came into high school expecting. He just felt… lost.
But Dustin nods, so Mike nods along with him, pursing his lips uncomfortably.
“So now we have that chance,” Lucas says. “I skip tonight, that’s all out the window. So I’m asking you guys, as a friend. Just talk to Eddie. Get him to move Hellfire. Come to my game.” He takes a deep breath, the school crest of his varsity jacket rising and falling with the motion. “Please.”
Mike can’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say.
The first bell rings, with still no reply from Mike or Dustin, and Lucas’s expression goes from pleading to disappointed, in a way that makes Mike’s stomach sink with regret. Without another word, he turns towards the doorway, leaving them behind for his class.
Mike turns to Dustin, raising an eyebrow. What are we gonna do?
Dustin stares after Lucas, expression cycling through a myriad of emotions, finally landing somewhere around exasperated. “Shit,” he hisses, then turns on his heel. Mike sighs, then moves to follow him. They’ve got first-period algebra together.
Looks like they’re getting an audience with the king, after all.
***
“After learning to speak, she traveled the world to spread her message. And along the way, changed how the world perceived those like her with disabilities.”
Somehow, Angela manages to make that sound like a dirty word. Will shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his lips tugging down into a slight frown.
The projector clicks. Angela smiles beatifically out at the class. “And that is why I have chosen Helen Keller as my hero.”
Everyone claps politely. Will joins in, a little distracted, still trying to run his lines in his head. He hates this random order thing Mrs. Gracey’s doing. His stomach’s been jolting with nerves all period, and he jumps every time she pulls a name from the fishbowl.
“That was wonderful, Angela,” Mrs. Gracey says approvingly, moving to flick the lightswitch on. “Truly wonderful. What an inspiring story!”
Angela giggles at the praise, rolling her projector down and heading back to her seat.
“Okay,” Mrs. Gracey continues, and Will’s heart pounds double-time in his chest. “Now let’s see who has to follow that.” She fixes her glasses, then reaches into the bowl, digging around for a scrap of paper.
After what seems like ages, she unfolds a name. “Jane,” she reads aloud, smiling encouragingly at El. El jumps a little in her seat, and a couple half-hearted claps echo around the room.
Will tries to put extra effort into his own clap, nodding over at El when she turns to him, eyes wide and scared. You’ve got this, he mouths, and she gives him a wobbly smile in return.
El holds her diorama close to her chest, slowly making her way to the front of the room. Once she’s there, she just stands there for a second, stock-still. “Hi,” she starts, uncertain.
The silence is deafening. Shit, Will’s nervous for her.
El takes a deep breath. “For my hero,” she says, raising her voice a bit. “I…” Her eyes are already a little watery. “I chose my dad.”
To Will’s horror, a couple people start to give each other looks, raised eyebrows and incredulous grins. El, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice.
“And for my visual aid,” she continues, turning her cardboard box around. “I made a di-rey-ama of our cabin.”
“Diorama,” Angela’s boyfriend corrects loudly, popping his bubblegum, and the class breaks into light laughter. Will tenses.
El smiles hesitantly, eyes still glossy with the threat of tears. “Diorama,” she repeats, with a nervous, self-deprecating laugh. “Yes.”
After Angela’s fancy powerpoint slide-show, El’s diorama practically looks like an elementary school arts-and-crafts project. It had looked fine at home, Will thought, but now… His heart pangs in sympathy.
El picks up the tiny Hopper figurine, holding it up next to her head. “This is my dad,” she says, voice steady. “His name is Hopper. He made the best Eggos, and…”
Will feels a light tap at his ankle, and he looks over in surprise. Kendra Baker, in the desk next to him, is trying to get his attention. She smiles hopefully, tapping her foot to his again, and Will awkwardly slides his shoe away. Rumor has it, Kendra’s been eyeing him for prom. He just—he didn’t think it was actually true.
He shoots her an apologetic smile, a little guilty at the way her face falls in disappointment, then tunes back into El’s speech.
“This is Mister Fibbly,” El says, tone light-hearted, picking up her next figurine. “He is a squirrel.”
This time, the laughter’s louder. More obvious.
“Settle down, please,” Mrs. Gracey says, though she seems a little confused, too. “Let’s be respectful.”
El’s expression shutters, nerves creeping into her features, and she looks out at the room, meeting Will’s eye with desperation. He shoots her a thumbs-up, nodding encouragingly.
Just like they practiced. She’s got this, if she keeps going.
God, it’s torture, though. Will’s always hated school presentations.
El puts Mr. Fibbly back in the box, pointing to the little twine trip-wire in front of the cabin. “And this is the alarm that my dad made,” she says.
In the front row, Angela raises her hand. Proud, insistent, right up to the ceiling. Will’s stomach bottoms out.
El’s eyes dart to Angela, then away. She tries to keep going. “Um, I—I was never scared, because—” she trails off, looking uncertainly at Mrs. Gracey. “Be—because—”
Mrs. Gracey tuts nervously. “Angela, let’s save questions until the end of Jane’s presentation,” she says, with a strained smile.
Angela puts her hand down, expression overly-apologetic. “Yeah, sorry,” she says sweetly. “I’m just, like… confused? I thought this was a presentation about a historical hero.”
El blinks rapidly. “My dad was in the newspaper,” she says.
Angela raises an eyebrow. “Your local paper?” She laughs, like she can’t help herself, and the rest of the class joins in.
Assholes.
Will sinks down further in his seat. This isn’t really boding well for him, he thinks. Maybe he won’t mention the part about Turing’s sexuality.
His throat bobs, and El meets his eye again, frantic. Her tears are really about to spill over, now that Angela’s pushed her to the edge. Her mouth twitches with the force of trying not to cry. She stays silent.
“I just don’t think that’s what Mrs. Gracey meant by historical,” Angela simpers. She furrows her brow, like she’s genuinely puzzled. “This is supposed to be about famous people.”
“My dad is famous,” El says quietly. Her face is turning red and blotchy. “He—he saved lots of lives. In a mall fire.”
The class falls awkwardly silent. El’s expression twists, something between outrage and devastation crossing her features. “He was a hero for people,” she insists, staring straight at Angela. “And he was my hero, too.”
Will steeples his hands in front of his face, breathing out harshly. Shit, now he’s about to cry.
Angela pouts at El. “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” she insists, even though it totally is. “But it’s okay.” Her voice is saccharine-sweet, like she’s talking to a toddler. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Gracey. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just… wanted clarity on the rules of the assignment.”
She smiles politely, a self-satisfied air hanging around her head. She’s won, and she knows it.
Mrs. Gracy tilts her head, considering. “Well—technically, you’re correct,” she allows. “But Jane has decided to do her father. So, please—continue with your presentation, Jane.”
First of all, Will doesn’t think that’s fair at all. He and El went over the rubric at home, and she’s right—Hopper was in tons of newspaper articles. He was one of the most significant people to ever live in Hawkins. By all standards, he should totally count.
Second of all, Will already knows El’s not gonna be able to finish. Her bottom lip is trembling, eyes spilling over with tears. One rolls down her cheek, hot and fast, and she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Actually, Mrs. Gracey,” she says, voice trembling. “Can I try again after break? I think… I think I need more time to prepare.”
Mrs. Gracey smiles sympathetically. “Of course, Jane,” she allows. “I appreciate you asking.”
There’s a couple scattered claps as El returns to her seat, diorama shamefully tucked to her chest, and a few people cough awkwardly. Will tries to catch her eye, but she doesn’t look in his direction.
“Let’s see,” Mrs. Gracey murmurs. “We have time for one more. How about…” She plucks a name out of the bowl. “Ah. Will, would you like to present?”
No.
“Of course,” Will says, a little stilted, and makes his way out of his seat. He can’t stop looking at El—she’s nearly shaking with tears, trying to wipe her face with the sleeve of her flannel. His heart squeezes in his chest.
Still, he has a presentation to do, so he turns his board around. Logan’s eyes scan over the title, and he shoots Will a supportive smile.
Will takes a deep breath. And—well, to be honest, it’s not like he can do any worse than El did.
“Alan Turing helped create techniques that sped up the breaking of German ciphers,” Will starts, voice practiced and steady. “He was instrumental in defeating the Axis powers.”
In the middle of the room, El sniffles. She’s completely zoned out, Will can tell.
He plants his feet, forcing himself to look out at the class. His gaze passes over Logan, then Reggie. Finally, Kendra, who’s eyeing him with dawning realization.
“Turing was a homosexual,” he says, and his voice doesn’t shake.
In the third row, Reggie smiles.
***
Will’s still riding the high of a successful presentation, and the secret little thrill of exhilaration, like he got away with something, but he needs to stay focused. El’s pushing out of the classroom, still sniffling, holding to her diorama like a lifeline.
Will tosses a last, sidelong look at Logan and Reggie. It’s fine. He’ll talk to them later.
“El, come on,” he blurts, jogging to catch up with her. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Friends don’t lie,” she spits, speed-walking ahead of him.
Will throws out his hands. “I’m not lying!”
And he’s not, technically. He’s just… stretching the truth. He’s sure there’s lots of things that could have gone worse. El’s still alive, for one.
She speeds up even more.
“El!” he calls, but she’s already moving too fast. He’s losing her. People jostle and bump by the both of them, and before Will knows it, El’s disappearing into a sea of backpacks and skateboards.
Shit.
Will slows to a stop, leaning against the lockers. He drags a hand over his face, suppressing a groan.
That probably could have gone better.
“Hey, man, is your sister alright?”
Will blinks up at Reggie in surprise. He didn’t realize him and Logan had stuck around. They have a few minutes until the next bell, sure, but Will doesn’t really talk to either of them, except for passing pleasantries.
“Um,” Will starts, looking off in the direction El disappeared. It’s always weird to hear people call her his sister. Even though he guesses that’s what she is now, basically. “Well,” he says. “Her dad died last year, so that was… really hard for her, you know? She’s still struggling with it.” He bites his lip, looking down at his shoes. “He was a really good guy,” he says quietly.
“Aw, shit,” Reggie mutters. “Fucking Angela. What a bitch.”
Will huffs lightly in agreement, still looking down. There’s a paint stain on his shoe, he’s realizing. Must have gotten there this morning.
“Well, hey,” Logan says, catching his attention. “We just wanted to compliment your presentation, dude. It was great.”
Will flushes, glancing up nervously. He hadn’t realized anyone would actually talk to him about it. Maybe he should have, though.
“Seriously,” Reggie agrees, meeting his eye. He smiles, an easy-going sort of expression. “I mean, I basically did mine overnight. It wasn’t nearly as good.”
“I liked it,” Will says without thinking, then flushes even further. Reggie’s presentation was on Walt Whitman, and everyone knows about him.
“Yeah?” Reggie says, smile widening. “Thanks, man.” He glances over at Logan. Their arms are brushing, their fingers just millimeters apart. It’s an instinctual sort of closeness. The kind he used to have with—
Anyway.
“Anytime,” Will says, still feeling a little nervous. “Thanks, guys.”
“Of course,” Logan says, then pulls a folded-up sheet of paper out of his back pocket. “Well—hey, I know the bell’s about to ring, and it’s the last day before break and all, but we wanted to invite you to the GSA meeting tonight. If you wanna come, that is.”
Will stares at the paper like it’s a bomb. His feet are suddenly frozen to the spot. As are his arms.
Reggie seems to catch his look, and sends another peace-making smile his way. “It’s for everyone,” he says, holding his hands up. “It’s not—it’s not anything intimidating, I promise. We don’t bite.”
Logan winks at him. “Most of the time.”
“Logan,” Reggie reprimands, but he’s laughing. Their shoulders jostle together.
Will stares at the point of contact, something aching low in his stomach. Then he realizes he’s staring, and quickly pulls his eyes away, focusing on the offered flier instead. With a raging blush, he takes it from Logan, stuffing it neatly into his own pocket. “Um. Thanks,” he says again. “I’ll think about it.”
“Cool,” Logan says, no trace of pressure or disapproval in his tone. “Hope we’ll see you there.”
“Yeah,” Will replies, ducking his head shyly. “Yeah, okay. Um—bye, guys.”
They wave him off, still smiling, still so close to each other that Will’s surprised they don’t get in trouble, but—nobody really cares, here. No one’s even paying attention to them.
Alone in the hallway, now, except for a few stragglers, he pulls out the folded flier. Unfolds it, carefully, until it’s laid out and creased in his hands. It’s brightly-colored, with rainbow stripes at the corners. Gay-straight alliance, the bubbly font reads. Every Friday after school in room 304.
Come as you are.
A shuddering breath shakes out of Will, and he re-folds the poster quickly, eyes darting around the hallway, suddenly paranoid that someone’s watching. But no one is, and no one cares, and Will… Will’s been invited to the GSA.
Will turns fifteen tomorrow, and, surprisingly, things are looking up. He’s going to see Mike again, and they’re going to fix their friendship, once and for all, and he’s going to be a good brother to El. He’s going to make new friends, people like him that’ll finally understand what he’s going through. He’s… he’s going to get better. He thinks he really has a shot this time. He’s had a hard go of it, a shitty hand dealt, but maybe fifteen is his year. Finally.
The bell rings again, a last warning, and Will heads off to second period, smiling the whole while.