Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Mike should not be at school in July.

July is meant for playing long D&D campaigns in his basement, watching Star-Wars marathons at Will’s, and, in past years, fighting mind-manipulating, bone breaking creatures from an alternate dimension. July is not meant for attempting to do calculus when he hasn’t had a coherent thought about math in months.

What can he do about it though? After Vecna had finally been killed, and Hawkins was mainly rubble and ruins, the government immediately vowed to turn it back in time, back to 1980, before all the madness. They rebuilt the schools as fast as they could, promising the restoration of a normal life for all Hawkins residents and newcomers.

Now, the forests are empty fields of yellowed, dried grass, the lab has moved to a place less inconspicuous (Mike hasn’t really been jumping at the chance to find out more about that place), houses have been built and rebuilt, churches placed at the corner of practically every block, and a new sign at the entrance of town has been installed with a cheery new saying of “Welcome to Hawkins! Where great times await you.”

It’s all bullshit.

He remembers a few years ago, when he wasn’t yet so angry with the world, they’d been at their designated Hellfire Club table in the cafeteria. People had no idea of the impending doom creeping up behind them, all they knew was that Mike Wheeler and Eddie Munson and Dustin Henderson and Jeff and Garrett and everyone else from the Hellfire club were a bunch of satanic freaks. Troy and his gaggle of goons were saying their regularly scheduled bullshit—which, Mike can admit, Eddie did provoke—and Eddie flipped them off and patronized them until they fucked off.

“They’re all a bunch of mindless idiots,” Eddie sank into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “It must get tiring, being stuck in a bubble.” He made a popping noise with his mouth and flicked his fingers.

Mike presses his pencil so hard into his paper that the lead snaps. Infinite limits can wait another day.

No one really bothers him at school, not like they did back then. Some of the idiots from middle school laugh and whisper about him (literally) behind his back. There’s weird stares sometimes, but it’s all bearable. According to Lucas’s words, which he doesn’t believe whatsoever, it’s because he “Looks intimidating as hell, dude!”

Max had immediately countered that by snorting and asking if Mike was wearing a Star Wars shirt. (He was.) She says, even though her vision isn't the most reliable, she can always tell when Mike's being a nerd—which, why that's one of her proudest abilities, he's not sure.

So, for once, he agrees with Max. A leather jacket, unruly hair and a deadpan look can only be so much of a shield. It only did so much for the Hellfire club back in ‘86. Whatever. Maybe he should be happier about it working out for him now.

Spoiler alert: he isn’t.

He’d lost many of his belongings when the sinkhole opened up in his neighborhood, and returning to his house was a task far too dangerous. He’d been living with the clothes he’d brought to California which, evidently, were fit for the desert, and not for the midwest. Nancy and him were sorting through bins at the shelter when the jacket fell into his lap. Nancy pulled it out of one of the bins and offered it out to him, and didn’t say much other than pointing out his lack of appropriate clothing for the middle of April. He took it, of course. It beat his flimsy windbreaker. Up to that point, he’d been struggling along by borrowing a rotation of his friends’ coats when he needed one.

Mike continued wearing the jacket, even through the summer, because it pissed his dad off. His dad claimed he looked like a hoodlum.

His dad hates his ‘new look’—as he calls it. He also hates that El broke up with him and that he's been single ever since. He hates that Mike’s never home, but hates when he is. He hates that Mike won’t humor him when he badgers him about college. He hates his music, and he hates his hobbies. Both of his parents hate that he won’t go to church with them.

That’s probably the worst part of this all. Vecna, the upside-down, the literal war they fought—it was all just a test from God. No one believes the earthquake story that’s been sold across the country, but no one wants to face it. In 'don't ask, don't tell' Hawkins, the red and fiery pits opening up around town were just a regular part of an earthquake! Everything will be fine and dandy if we all go to church every Sunday and never bring up the bodies buried under the rubble! Max losing part of her vision and being unable to walk, and all of Will’s new nightmares, and Eddie turning out dead—it was all God’s plan, his punishment for their lack of devotion. Thank God for sparing our lives!

“School is such bullshit,” Mike grumbles over lunch.

“You seem to love that word right now,” Max muses. “How chipper!”

He's not in the mood for her teasing today. He wants to throw a carrot at her, so he does. She throws it back at him, and somehow, it smacks him square in the forehead. Lucas cheers at his offended expression. “Bullseye!”

“Where is literally anyone else? You two have zero empathy,” Mike scoffs and crosses his arms. Lucas pats his shoulder faux comfortingly. “I was already in a bad mood, but you guys are now eighty-percent responsible.”

“I know we’re not Byers, but you could at least stop pouting about it,” Max crunches on a carrot that hadn’t been used as a projectile. Mike glares at her even though she can’t see him. “Be happy with what you get, Wheeler.”

“What I was saying,” Mike whines and ignores her. Her sarcastic quips have been coming more frequently since the beginning of school. “Is that everyone acts like all this shit is normal. Like nothing fucking happened. Everything’s wrong.”

They don’t say anything more, he knows Max and Lucas get what he’s saying. Look at them now; he’s not sure exactly where El and Will are, but odds are that they’re together. He has an inkling for where they could be, but he’s not confident. Dustin’s at some kind of SAT prep session, as he is most days, saying that he has to take it in August and score at least a 1550 to have even a chance of getting into MIT.

“School meatloaf is gross.” And suddenly, El’s at the table, sitting down with an almost empty tray of food, and no Will.

The silence is broken, and Max and El start talking about something that Jennifer Hayes said—or maybe it was Jennifer Wiens. He doesn’t know, he isn't really paying attention to them. The two of them are so tightly knit that he can’t tell them apart anymore. Mike dumbly pokes the meatloaf in front of him. He has to agree with El on this one: gross. He’s not sure how most of the food in the Hawkins High cafeteria is legally allowed to be served.

“—not know why she asked me,” El says plainly and eats a singular Skittle. “She did not even listen to my advice.”

“You’re his sister, she probably thinks you’d know things,” Max shrugs.

“Things?” She curls an eyebrow in confusion.

“Like, if she was his type,” Max explains. El gives her a disturbed look.

“What are we talking about?” Mike finally decides to participate again because they must be talking about Will, and if anyone would indulge Mike’s anger, it’s Will—who’s evidently not here right now.

“Jennifer,” El points over to the cafeteria doors. Will and one of the Jennifers (Mike still doesn’t know which one) are talking. Well, it mainly looks like Jennifer is talking. Will seems to be awkwardly laughing a little bit, but not saying much back. Jennifer gently shoves his arm and laughs loud enough for their table to hear her, but not what Will says.

“Girls have really been digging the mysterious artist thing that Will’s got going on,” Lucas leans over to Mike and speaks as if it were a secret. As if he hadn’t noticed it already.

That’s another thing that’s different. In the past few weeks, the ladies of Hawkins have all fallen in love with Will Byers. Which should go without saying, like, Jesus, it’s Will Byers; he’s probably the best person Mike has ever met. It’s just different, strange. Will Byers has grown taller and broader. His voice is deeper, he let his hair grow a bit longer so it just looks shaggier than his old bowlcut, and the new definition in his arms shows through the tight shirts he's been wearing more often. The girls who called him names not even five years ago are now groveling at his feet and feeling up his arms, and it happens like, all the time. Whatever.

Mike stabs his meatloaf with his plastic fork, and the prongs in the middle bend backwards. July sucks.

Back during that fun period in their lives when they'd been hiding from an interdimensional being who was trying to end the world, Dustin had, for some reason, been attempting to explain a physics concept to him. It was mostly going over his head with the talks of warped spacetime and inertial frames of reference, but with Star Trek and his tenth grade physics knowledge, Mike understood the gist of it.

In lame-man's terms (or more recognizably, in Mike's terms) special relativity explains that time can be stretched and manipulated; time is not defined as an absolute. For example, take Mike who may or may not currently be sitting lonely in his bedroom, staring out the window. Say, outside, there's a car driving by at a speed that's inconceivably fast. Time, for Mike and for the driver, will not pass the same way. Mike could sit depressingly in his bedroom for, hypothetically, three hours, and only a second would have passed for the driver of the car. Mike, seemingly stationary, will have experienced a longer time than the car traveling at, say, the speed of light.

But, in reality, Mike is not stationary, he physically can't be. The earth continues to rotate even though he can't feel it move beneath him, and while he may wish he could slow time down, it's impossible for him to travel at the speed of light. There is no absolute frame of reference. There is nothing that can travel as fast as light. Time ticks on.

He tosses his pencil across his desk and crumples up his paper, freshly ripped from his notebook. Physics metaphors probably aren't his forte. He groans.

Sometimes, he writes letters to himself. They’re kind of dumb; sometimes he writes poems in them, sometimes he pretends that he’s writing to an old friend, sometimes he jots down D&D campaign ideas, sometimes he writes as though he’s writing to an advice columnist. It’s like journaling, or whatever, but it’s less conspicuous. Whatever it is, once he’s done writing, he’ll fold it up, tape the edge, and put it into a shoebox in his bottom desk drawer.

He has things he could be doing—things he should be doing. He has a novel that he should be 150 pages into already. He has a few SAT preparation textbooks stacked on his floor. He has that stupid calculus homework to do. He has a US history test on Monday and he has no idea who the host of the Boston Tea Party was.

He's hoping, if the government did decide to flub their school records, that they'd bless him with at least a couple A's. If they’re really trying to sell this ‘Just an earthquake, not a supernatural disaster!’ thing, It's really the least they could do. Otherwise, Mike's definitely not a top choice candidate for any school he applies to; he'll score a (wishful) 950 on his SATs and they'll look at his blank transcript and say 'beautiful, come on in!'. Yeah, nope, he doesn't think so. He's not sure who thought that two extra months of 'supplementary classes' would be enough to compensate for nearly two whole years without real school—he'd like to punch them in the nose.

Sure, once the schools had been deemed mostly unsafe for lessons, classes were set up in the shelter and Hawkins Community Center. Students still had to learn, obviously, but if he’s being honest, Mike didn’t learn fuck all in those lessons. Excuse him for mentally being preoccupied while an interdimensional mind-manipulator wrecks havoc on his town!

His dad’s been telling him to get his ass into gear and apply anywhere for a business degree since it’s a “respectable choice.” It's been in the back of his mind for a while now, and he does think it'll end up being his future, even though Mike would rather get Vecna’d than to do a business degree. The mental torture would probably be comparable. Since when has his dad done anything ‘respectable’? Ted Wheeler’s life consists of going to work just to come home to berate his family and fall asleep while watching the news.

Mike scoffs. His dad probably listens to Reagan's voice more than he talks to his own family.

Sometimes, on days like this, he wonders if Nancy would pick up the phone if he’d called. When he thinks about it, he knows she’d probably pester him about his homework, and make fun of him for being so sour—but she's the only one in his family who hasn’t asked him why he’s rejecting God from his life or why him and El broke up, and she hasn’t told him to get a goddamn business degree.

He needs music. It’s so quiet he can hear his head pounding. It’s like his brain was thrown into a blender and someone hit the puree setting.

He swears that he left a cassette in the player last night, so he just presses down the play button, and sure enough, the familiar baseline of a Bowie song is plucked out. He forgoes his weak attempt of productivity and flops down onto his bed.

His music collection has definitely grown since the beginning of this whole… whatever people want to call it. He never minded the sound of silence, until silence became synonymous with vulnerability. Until silence meant finding his best friend’s body in a lake. Until silence meant that time was passing him by without waiting for him to catch up.

So, his music taste grew to include more than just the ABBA songs his mom played while she was cleaning. Back in middle school, Will would hound him that his music taste was in need of some serious intervention. Mike couldn't blame him for that. Now, Will says his taste has definitely improved, but he says it in that way where Mike knows he’s holding in a joke he wants to make. It’s easy to recognize; he speaks in a sort of jolted way, like he’s stopping himself from laughing. There's a certain closed-lip grin he has when he's attempting to hide his sarcasm.

“Michael Wheeler!” Punctuated by the banging of fists on the wall, Mike jumps out of bed.

“What?” He yells back, and swings his door open. As he takes the stairs two at a time, he can see his mom, one hand on her hip, the other hand over the landline. Whoops.

“Turn that darn music down, I’ve been calling your name for ages, child,” She huffs and holds the phone out. “It’s Will.”

Mike offers a weak apology. He reaches for the phone just as fast as she drops it into his hand. "Will?"

“Sounds like you were having fun,” Will laughs and it crackles like static through the phone line. ”Was I interrupting something important?”

"No," Mike sighs. "Not unless you count my imminent demise as important."

Will hums like he's pondering the thought. "Probably not."

"Asshole," He mutters into the phone with an amused scoff, peering over his shoulder, and hoping his mom's already gone back to the kitchen. "So, what's up then?"

"My imminent demise."

Mike scoffs, but he's smiling. "History?"

"Precisely." The line's quiet for a moment. "Which is why I was wondering if you'd be willing to come over tomorrow night and help me study."

Will had never hated history until this year. Mike knows this because he'd been the recipient of many rants centered around how much Will didn't care about remembering "names of the twenty-four boats they brought in to America in seventeen-sixty-whatever." Mike had also been, many years ago, the recipient of many rambles about the "genius writing system" that was Cuneiform and its clay tablet preservation. Mike's put two and two together.

"Jennifer didn't offer to help you out?" Mike quips. He twirls the rubber of the phone cord around his finger absentmindedly, the ringlets springing back into place.

"Oh my God," Will groans. "None of you are letting me live that down.

As soon as Will had sat down at their table yesterday, the questions were shot out in rapid-fire succession, mainly from Lucas and El. Max just took her chances to butt in and laugh at his oblivion. All that he told them—which he swore is all that happened—was that Jennifer asked if he'd help her out in math some time, since she'd seen him in class. He told her that he'd probably be able to help her get a lower grade, and she laughed, and that was (apparently) the end of it. None of them bought that.

"She was obviously just trying to hit on you, dude," Lucas emphasized with unnecessarily flailing hand movements. "You're, like, a huge chick-magnet now."

Mike echoes that sentiment now. None of them can pass up the opportunity to tease Will about his newfound popularity with the ladies. He just gets so embarrassed about it, like he can’t possibly understand why there’s a sudden influx of girls lining up at his feet. He’s always been too modest for his own good.

"I wouldn't really say that." Just like that—Will's definitely blushing, Mike can hear it in his voice. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"I gotta tell my mom," Mike looks back over his shoulder. She probably won't even care. "But I'll be there."

"Awesome, thank you."

"Why are you thanking me?" Mike shakes his head even though he knows Will can't see him. "I'm just as lost as you are."

"We'll suffer together?"

"Great plan, can't wait."

It's quiet for a moment, but then Will says something about having to help El with a project or something. He can hear a chittering whisper through the line, and before Mike can say his goodbye, the end tone rings out.

He stands there dumbly with the phone in hand. He could easily take those steps back up to his safe place, sprawl back out on his bed and drown out everything in his head. From down the hall, he can hear the titter and clangs of metal pots, as if reminding him of his fate if he ran away. He’d rather avoid a fight with his mom if he can. He huffs and smacks the phone back on the holder. "Mom!"

When he steps into the kitchen, his mom's in the middle of stirring a pot on the stove. She doesn't make any signs of recognition.

He leans against the doorframe. "I'm going over to Will's after school tomorrow. To study."

"Oh, that's good, dear." She moves to start rummaging through their spice drawer, picking up a few bottles, reading the labels, and then putting some back. "I'm glad Will’s rubbing off on you a little bit. He’s always been a good influence."

Mike almost laughs at that. Will decidedly is not the best influence. He just knows how to get away with things. Increasingly so now, because of El’s influence on him. Schemers, the two of them. It’s also incredibly funny to Mike that his mom still treats Will as if he’s a new friend of Mike’s, overly kind and welcoming. When he thinks about it, she’s kind of like that to all of his friends. Mainly Will though, but Mike knows that he’s her favourite out of them all.

The radio on their counter is playing quietly, so quietly that Mike has to stare at it in order to hear the words. It's just that one power ballad he’s been hearing a lot recently. His dad prefers radio broadcasts over any types of music, so his mom never plays the radio much above a whisper. Sometimes, even when Mike hates the song she’s playing, he wants to crank the volume all the way up. He can’t imagine that his dad’s reaction would be anything satisfying, so he’s never dared to turn the volume to maximum. He’s not even home right now, so really, there's no point.

"Have you been reading up for the SATs?" His mom glances over her shoulder at him, now engrossed in chopping something on their wooden cutting board. He knows it's the wooden one because it makes a certain clack, clack, clack sound against the knife.

"Yeah, a little bit," He lies. Things are calm. Things are fine. He's not a child, he can handle a civilized conversation. "I've been looking at the books dad gave me."

"Oh, good," She sighs. "I told him those would do you well."

The radio still murmurs on and the pot on the stove bubbles, but the two of them stand in silence. He still wants to run back upstairs and blast his music on his own stereo, but his mom turns around first, resting her hip against the cabinet.

"You know," She says it offhandedly, like the idea just occurred to her. "I think you should start writing your entrance papers. Early admission opens soon."

"Maybe," He scratches his head. He doesn’t know how to tell her that there’s no way he’s getting accepted for early admission, so he doesn’t. He doesn’t like lying to his friends, but lying to his parents is fair game. Particularly his mom. He can’t deal with the pitying look he’d receive from her if he told the truth.

When they were kids and their biggest issue was the fictional Demogorgon on a D&D board, life seemed way more black and white. Dustin already knew by ten years old that he was going to become a physicist and discover something great. On Monday, he wanted to create satellites, Tuesday he wanted to create a super-machine, Wednesday he wanted to discover the secrets of the universe. They’d call him ‘Dr. Henderson’ to tease him, but he’d grin and blush about it. Some things never change.

At ten years old, Mike thought his future was to be the writer of a successful epic fantasy trilogy. One of those trilogies which get adaptations upon adaptations. Movies, comics, the works. A trilogy which had such recognizable characters that children would dress up as them for Halloween, and the elderly ladies handing out candy wouldn’t have to ask Who are you dressed as? Will, of course, would make the cover art and draw the map included on the front page since—in Mike’s professional ten-year-old opinion—Will was the best artist in the world. In Mike’s professional seventeen-year-old opinion, he still thinks that.

They’d talk about it at their sleepovers all the time. It was certain for both of them that their college years would be spent just like this; sharing a room, staying up much too late playing video games, begging the other to help with his homework. They’d live together, of course, since Mike’s life has been intrinsically intertwined with Will’s since the day they met on that swingset. They’d apply to some university in Bloomington or Fort Wayne—anywhere else in Indiana but Indianapolis or Hakwins. Anywhere that no one knew them. All night, they’d giggle and tell stories of how their lives would play out; they’d drive out to see Dustin every weekend, Lucas would live in a dorm just down the hall, their party would stay as one. That’s the way things were going to play out, they thought. There was no other way things could go.

Most things do change. Mike’s grown up, he’s seen some real shit—he’s seen a real Demogorgon, seen real bloodshed. He can’t afford to put all his faith in some faraway fantasy. God knows where that landed him last time. At the moment, it’s easier to tell a half-truth.

"Dad said commerce would be 'the sensible option’, but the more I think about it, I don’t think that’s what I want to do." He tries to keep the sarcasm out of his words, but his mom huffs a small laugh.

"Don't make fun of your father, but I agree with you. You don't have to do commerce if you'll hate it."

She turns back to the stove, cursing under her breath as the sauce bubbles over. She fiddles with some of the knobs on the stove and grabs a cloth from one of the drawers. Sometimes he wonders if his mom feels like time is passing her by too. He probably gets it from one of his parents, right?

He knows the moment's over, so he turns and walks out without another word. As he takes the stairs, he hears the rhythmic clack, clack, clack echo through the hall.

He does feel a bit guilty about lying to his mom, so after their conversation, he ends up grabbing one of the SAT prep books at random, and setting it down on his desk. He flips through the evidence-based readings—and not to be too cocky—but he finds them elementary compared to, you know, cracking Soviet military codes over the past few years. He was told that they were nothing to fuss about, but that’s from Dustin “Inventor/Strategist extraordinaire” Henderson’s perspective. Dustin said the same about the math section, and Mike had to disagree on that part—he looked at the first three questions, and when they required him to actually attempt the problems, he closed the textbook.

Apologies go out to his mother, but Mike Wheeler will be spending a minimal amount of time on SAT preparation. He instead picks up his guitar to pluck around and blasts his stereo loud enough to cover up the sound. He prefers to keep the volume of his strumming just loud enough for himself to hear—it’s his little secret in a way. It’s a way for him to be mindlessly alive. Wipe away the chalk of his mental blackboard, feel the steel cut into the pads of his fingers, and just exist.

God, Eddie would make fun of him so hard if he heard Mike playing—what Eddie would call—'that Simon & Garfunkel type of shit.'

There’s this fine crack in the wall between the kind of music Mike feels like he’s allowed to play. It’s like his brain has cornered things off into a neat little box labeled ‘Do not touch!’. At the bottom of the box is one Black Sabbath song that he allows himself to listen to, but never to play. There’s one riff Eddie walked him through years ago when Mike had been early to Hellfire. The table was already set up, board and pieces assembled carefully. Eddie had been sitting on the floor, head leaned against the wall. He didn’t notice Mike at first, lost in the twang of the unamplified strings. When he did notice Mike, he made a surprise expression and plucked out a rapid run up and down the fretboard, finishing off with a jolting slide back down.

“Wheeler! I’m bored, let me teach you something,” Eddie gestured him over with his pointer fingers and that usual crazed glint in his eyes.

It was strange, of course, since Mike had never touched a guitar before that in his life. Eddie made fun of him for his complaints about the roughness of the strings and the awkward posture Mike held, but he was encouraging enough. Mike had the basics of the riff down in twenty minutes, even if he muted some notes unconsciously and couldn’t mimic the way Eddie could get that vibrato thing to work. Mike thinks he’s improved at least a little since then.

He’s definitely nowhere near maestro level, he doesn’t think he’ll ever even get to an ‘intermediate performer’ level. It feels like an injustice for Mike to take Eddie’s Thing, even though there’s a tickling feeling in his heart that tells him that Eddie would be psyched about it. 'Mini Munson' carrying on in his footsteps or whatever. It’s a feeling so cringe and sappy that Mike doesn’t like to think about it too hard. For now, he’ll just pluck his stupid little melodies out in the quiet of his bedroom as a pseudo palate cleanser.

His father must have a tracking device or something attached to those SAT books since as soon as Mike sits down at the dinner table, his dad’s hounding him. He could probably dupe Dustin into checking the books out for a tracker under false premises that Mike needs study help. It seems like difficult calculus questions are the only thing that Dustin’s been around to talk to him about.

Mike pushes his dinner around with his fork. Not that he isn’t hungry or that he doesn’t like his mom’s cooking, there’s just a bit of a pit in his stomach that’s making eating seem impossible.

“Your sister got a 1450 on the SATs when she took ‘em.” His dad doesn’t even look up from his newspaper. The headline says something about a US Navy ship. “You need at least a 1350 to get into Indiana. Good business program they got. Richard’s son goes there.”

His dad hates Richard. He’s been at the office for less than half of how long his dad’s been and gets more recognition. Honestly, that’s the only thing he knows about his dad’s job; his dad “does it better than that bastard Richard.”

Mike nods at his dad’s comments, but keeps his mouth shut. He never usually shies away from an argument. Everyone knows Mike’s the first to start yelling. When it comes to his father though, Mike sees no point in arguing without reason. He used to find it fun to rile him up, but now all he gets is a blank stare and an unimpressed warning of his name.

His mom doesn’t say anything either, just scoops out pasta onto his dad’s plate as he hides behind his newspaper. His mom’s lipstick is slightly smudged in the corners of her lips. He notices it when she gives him a tense smile across the table. In the silence, he hears the clock tick, tick, tick.

Mike definitely doesn’t get it from his dad.

Mike is used to waking up before the sun. He doesn't enjoy it, but like many things in his life, he can't change it.

Even though Vecna's been dead for months, a piece of him is still stuck in Mike's brain, twisting and morphing into new terrifying shapes. The nightmares come more often than not these days. Most of the time, he immediately forgets them after he jolts awake. The dreams he does remember though find a strange balance between horrifyingly new and horrifyingly repetitive.

Sometimes they're about Nancy. She's lifted in the air and her bones crack backwards and her face loses all signs of his sister. The nightmare doesn't end until her lifeless body is close enough for him to see the violence that Vecna imposed; her skin far too pale, dried blood on the corner of her mouth, her eyes wide and unblinking.

Sometimes they're about El. Her body thrashing in a bath of salt water, his own voice playing in the background. She comes back to consciousness, eyes bloodshot, heaving, hands placed firmly over her pounding heart. She asks him weakly why he’s still lying to her, and he doesn't have a chance to say, because her eyes close and the pounding of her chest slows to nothing. Sometimes they don’t find El in Nevada. Sometimes she’s not angry at him—she’s just so, so sad.

Usually they're about Will. Sometimes they pull his body out of the lake, and depending on the night, he's twelve, he's fourteen, he's seventeen. Sometimes they’re thirteen and arguing in the rain, but he doesn’t get the chance to apologize. The Mind Flayer doubles down, and Will’s nowhere to be seen, even if he’s physically present. Sometimes they're at the roller rink, Will's yelling at him, and Mike gets defensive, says things he’d never dare to say, and Will looks terrified that Mike could say something so cruel. Sometimes they're in the forest near Castle Byers, just walking through the field, but suddenly, Will is overcome by dark spindly vines and pulled far, far, far.

Sometimes they're about Max, sometimes Lucas, sometimes Dustin, sometimes his mom or Holly. Mike can only watch from the sidelines as the people he loves are torn apart because of him.

Maybe it's stupid to get so worked up over them; they're just nightmares, not real. Him and Nancy now have the best relationship they've probably ever had. He's talked to Will about the roller rink, about their fight in the rain, they've said what they needed to say. Mike apologized, and Will tried to apologize as well, but Mike didn't let him. El and him broke up ages ago; she knew he was lying, and it didn't kill her.

"Friends don't lie, but boyfriends lie all the time," She shrugged. "So that's why I dump your ass."

And it was true. He can't remember the last time he lied to her since their breakup.

He sits up in bed, since there's no way he'll be able to fall back asleep. His room is still mostly dark, but the moonlight flits in through his blinds and casts a few rays on his wall. The clock reads four-seventeen in the morning. After his nightmares became more common, he hung up a few different things on the wall opposite his bed as some kind of calming method. It works sometimes, giving his brain something else to focus on.

He has a few posters of his favourite movies; Conan the Barbarian, Rocky, The Empire Strikes Back. He’s not a big fan of photographs of himself, but he has a few pictures of him and his friends; them in their ghostbusters costumes from middle school and a photo strip of the six of them attempting to squeeze into a photobooth. He has some of Will’s drawings up, and his painting up as well.

He’s never exactly told Will that painting was the catalyst that broke him and El up—which isn’t a bad thing! He’s glad they did, and he knows El’s happier too.

After they'd returned to Hawkins in ‘86, they'd been sitting in the rubble of Hopper's cabin. El's room was empty except for a mattress on the floor. The two of them were at a standstill of sorts; things were fine, but they were quiet, tense. After seeing Max in the hospital, Mike tried to ask El if she was okay, but before he could say anything, she yelled at him in a way he'd never heard before. He had no idea what to say back, but it didn't matter since she was leaving the room before he could get her name off his tongue. El had been avoiding him ever since, anyone could tell. She’d been leaving the room whenever he’d walk in. In the odd times that she didn’t, they’d sit in opposite corners. She’d give him strange looks, and it was almost scarier than if she’d just yell at him again. It's like they were both hiding something, and neither one knew how to break the door down.

A few things were made certain to Mike over their impromptu road trip. Firstly, Mike didn't know a single true thing about El's new life in Lenora. Secondly, he didn't know a single true thing about Will's new life in Lenora. Thirdly, none of them knew how to tell the truth anymore.

“I have a question,” He cracked the door open. She allowed him to. She just stared at him from her floor mattress with that distant look in her eyes.

Why would she avoid him like this after telling her what she wanted to hear? Why would she say she needed him and then act as if she didn't? Why would El ask Will to make a painting that she wasn’t in? If she's the one who commissioned it, then why are things still wrong between them? He had a good idea of why.

“Will’s painting—did you ask him to make it?.”

She looked confused. Eyebrows furrowed, head slightly tilted. “I never asked him to paint anything.”

Mike held his head in his hands and huffed a laugh. The gears in his head slowly started to turn. “Of course not.”

And they talked. They talked a ton, way more than they ever had. He told her about Will’s painting, the meaning of it, and she looked even more lost. She told him about how bad the bullies at school were. She told him about missing her dad and how glad she was to have him home. They joked about Argyle’s strange tendencies, they laughed about how fucked up Angela’s nose must be, and they laughed about things Mike can’t remember. They laughed a ton.

“Mike,” She said plainly, staring up at the ceiling. “I know you do not love me like a boyfriend should. You love me like you love Lucas or Dustin or Max.”

"El—" He wanted to argue, say she was wrong. He wanted to say that of course he loved her like a boyfriend should. She looked at him, gaze tired, and he cut himself off. She took his hand in hers, and the argument unsaid had settled into his stomach like a rock. They laid side by side on the old floor mattress, tracing their eyes over the cobwebs on the ceiling.

“I have been angry at you.” El’s voice was flat, tired, accepting. “When I moved, I felt like I lost you. Your letters were nice, but I did not feel like you were writing to me as your girlfriend. So, then I thought things would be better when you came to Lenora, but they were worse. I was angry. I'm still a bit angry. I think you are a real mouth breather for how you acted.”

“I deserve that.” There was nothing for him to argue with. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

“It is done,” She stated. “But thank you. I should not have lied to you either.”

“What’s done is done,” He repeated, and a small smile bloomed on her face too.

“After we left Lenora, I was happy we were apart. I did not become a superhero, I was just... me—El. I did not have to be someone I was not. With you, I was not myself,” She squeezed his hand. “I realized I don't love you either. Not how a girlfriend should.”

Mike thinks that Will tried harder to keep the two of them together than either of them had. Even though they all lied like dogs and hurt each other, Mike thought he was doing the right thing. Maybe, deep down, he and El knew their fate from the beginning. Sometimes, Mike thinks, those things are the hardest to accept.

There’s just a little fizzle of guilt in his stomach every time he catches sight of the piece. Friends don’t lie. Yeah, right.

He doesn’t know what Will would say if he told him about the role of the painting, the truth about the breakup beyond saying “we’re better off as friends.” Telling Will that he knows El never said any of the words that Will had relayed to him. Would Will take all the words back? Say that he lied to make Mike stop moping around? Mike doesn't want to know why Will felt the need to lie to him. If they weren't El's words, whose were they? Are they still?

There’s no reason to be thinking about this right now. He rips the blankets off of him and gets out of bed so he no longer has to look his guilt in the eye.

Even though he was up hours ago, he still manages to be late for school.

First, they ran out of milk, so he couldn’t eat cereal, which meant he spent forever trying to figure out what else to eat. Holly needed help with tying her shoes, and then she had to show him a bug outside (“Because it looks cool!”) Then, his calculus homework that he’d finally finished had disappeared from the world, and he had to spend another eternity trying to find it. When he finally left the house, his car wouldn’t start. It’d just sputter at him.

Fortunately, Mr Paulson seemed to be in a good mood. When he burst through the door late and everyone’s eyes turned to him, instead of dying of embarrassment, he could at least be happy he didn’t have detention in his near future.

English is usually fine, there’s just something about Lord of the Flies that pisses him off. He’s read it before, and hated it so much that he’s pushed most of the ‘important’ literary elements out of his brain. There’s a crudely drawn picture of a pig’s head on the chalkboard and a bunch of words in cursive surrounding it.

“There isn’t anyone to help you. Only me. And I’m the Beast,” Mr Paulson reads and paces in front of the class. He hums and nods. “Disturbing isn’t it?”

Mike leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Another book about good people suffering for no reason. Why do English teachers love books about agony?

Mr. Paulson’s not that bad of a teacher, really. He’s middle-aged, and dresses how one would assume an English teacher would dress. Tweed jacket, light khakis, plaid button-up shirt. He likes class discussions, which Mike usually doesn’t mind, unless the book is the epitome of defeatist thought. At this point, he’s definitely not on Mike’s list of favourite teachers. He’s usually a big stickler on punctuality, so unfortunately, Mike has not been on his teacher’s list of favourite students either.

“Especially this next line here,” Mr Paulson clears his throat and pushes his glasses up. “You knew, didn’t you? I’m part of you? Close, close, close! I’m the reason why it’s no go? Why things are what they are?’ I’m curious. What did you all think the pig head’s significance here was? And why does this interaction happen with Simon instead of one of the other boys?”

As Mike’s not trying to test his luck today, he keeps in a massive sigh. If he were more willing to suffer through detention on a Friday after school, he’d say that Golding was a lazy, nihilistic piece of shit who couldn’t write characters with any depth. Some girl in his class answers, and she clearly says what Mr. Paulson wants to hear. Mike doesn’t pay attention to what she says, but he assumes that she’s not saying what Mike’s thinking.

Obviously, Simon dies, since he’s the only character with any semblance of a soul.

Compared to English, the rest of his morning actually moves quite quickly. He hands in his calculus homework on time and doesn’t pay attention to the lesson. In chemistry, his teacher drops a couple different metals into hydrochloric acid and they all watch in awe as it bubbles over.

When he sits at their usual lunch table, it’s extra barren. Only El sits in her spot, poking at a pile of mystery green mush with her fork.

“Where is everyone?” He skips over a greeting as he sits down, but El doesn’t say anything about it.

“Will’s working on something in the art room,” She drops her fork on the plate and begins to peel the mandarin on her tray. “I don’t know where Lucas and Max are. Dustin might be studying.”

“Boring,” He mutters. He’s not sure of the last time all of them had eaten lunch together. Maybe not since their first day back. “What’s Will working on?”

El shrugs. “He doesn’t show me his work, but he has been painting a lot recently.”

Mike knows this. He’d gone over to the Byers’ just before the hellish beginning of senior year. They didn't have any concrete plans for the day, Mike may have just shown up at his door. Will said he didn't mind, but his hands were covered in shades of red, purple, yellow, and his easel was purposefully turned to face the wall so any onlookers couldn't catch a glimpse of the piece.

Mike told him to keep painting, and flopped down on his bed. "I'll just bother you from here."

He'd always loved Will's room, but ever since he'd moved back to Hawkins, it was like a whole new space. His art was everywhere. He had paintings and sketches and posters taped across the walls. It seemed like the conglomerate of art was ever growing, and Mike was always finding something new. There was always some kind of music playing, usually The Cure or The Clash. Sometimes there'd be a song that Will had put on his mixtape, and he'd jibe at Mike for actually listening to it.

He pleaded semi-jokingly for Will to let him see his current piece, and every time, Will shook his head and laughed. He’d flail his hands around and go on about how it wasn’t done, and 'it looks terrible.' He's not sure if Will knows, but it's always his left hand on the middle knuckle that he manages to get paint on.

He's not sure if Will knows, but Mike likes to watch him paint. It's like all of the tension leaves his body and he's just Will, with nothing attached; his frown softens and the furrow between his brows disappears, he mumbles along to the music, but it's like he does it without realizing. It’s almost like Will's in his own world—one that only Mike's allowed to visit him in. He doesn't know why the thought makes his stomach flutter.

He knows he has a weird savior complex, okay? He has some kind of self-centered need to be needed. Will might just indulge him a bit in that sometimes—but Mike's never wanted someone to need him as much as he wants Will to. It's since they're close friends, of course. It's probably, like, some kind of subconscious mourning of Mike's childhood. If Will doesn't need him anymore, then they've officially grown up and apart, and everything they faced together was for nothing. It's something like that. He doesn't want to grow up without Will.

“Mike?” El waves her hand in front of his face. He blinks a few times and straightens up. “I need help with my essay. I asked Will yesterday, but he said he didn't know how to fix it."

“I can help you with it tonight, I’m studying with Will at your place,” He pokes the green mush on his own plate. His face feels warm, and he hopes his hair does a good enough job covering the blaring red hue that’s probably overtaking his face.

“I’m going to Max’s tonight,” El frowns at him. “Tomorrow, please?”

He says yes, of course, because he has no reason to say otherwise. She thanks him, but she doesn’t say much else. She just stares at him oddly. He’ll take that over conversation. Honestly, his head kind of feels all over the place. He needs to take a second to reassess. His heart’s racing in his chest, and he feels like everyone can hear it.

It's still a bit strange not to see Jonathan's car in the driveway when he pulls up to the Byers' house that night. There’s about a fifty-fifty chance for Joyce’s car to be parked in front of the house, but today it’s only Mike’s. More often than not now it’s been that way; it's Mike's car in what used to be Jonathan's designated parking spot.

(Technically, it's not Mike's car. It's his and Nancy's shared car, but she's back in Boston, therefore nullifying her ownership of the vehicle.)

He may have sped a bit on the way over to Will’s. He’s nervous about their test on Monday, it’s normal. He’s a bit paranoid that the pang of nerves he felt earlier today will return to him, as they always seem to when he’s alone with Will. They’ve both been busy recently; Will’s been studying, working, painting, and Mike’s been spending his time questioning his entire existence. Yeah, so, he hasn’t talked to Will for a few days一like, really talked. Not just passing notes across their desk in history class or nodding at him in the hall when he’s got Jennifer latched onto his arm一he’s excited to see his friend, it’s normal.

Mike slams his car door closed with a bit more force than he means to. He's being chill and completely normal. Will gives him a strange look, and Mike pretends not to notice.

They throw their bags on the armchair in the living room. He feels antsy, like all of the hair on his arms is sticking up from static. The jitters crawl up his neck, and his head feels fuzzy. As they grab drinks from the kitchen without another word, he still pretends to not notice Will’s gaze on him.

Then, their books are strewn across the floor and the coffee table. They’ve been going back and forth asking random quiz questions. Mike hasn’t gotten a single one correct, but Will’s averaging out at about an eighty percent success rate.

Mike has a can of Sprite on the coaster nearest to him, and Will has a glass of water on his. Mike's laying on the couch, book on his chest, staring at the ceiling, but he hears Will flipping the pages of his textbook. He can’t focus on the questions. He knows none of the answers. The flipping of pages feels too loud in the quiet room. He can’t tell if Will’s actually learning anything or if he’s just as lost as Mike is.

He wants to say something because he knows he’s been quiet all afternoon. Will’s definitely noticed, and though he hasn’t said anything, Mike can still feel questioning eyes on the back of his head every so often.

"What are your college plans?" Mike’s not sure why he asks it. It’s just in the forefront of his mind that he doesn’t know the answer to it either, and he used to know everything about Will.

Maybe he’s felt it to be too taboo of a topic before. In a way, it feels like a mockery to ask your friend who’s been through literal hell such a mundane question. As he thinks about it though, if Will asked him, he wouldn’t think twice about it. It's a bit of a loaded question, but he’d tell the truth.

"Art school, hopefully." Will says it as if he was mentioning what he ate for breakfast that morning or as if he was talking about the weather.

"Where?"

The flipping of the pages comes to a stop. Mike turns his head to look at Will who has a slight frown. He toys with his bottom lip between his teeth, mulling the words over in his head, Mike assumes.

"I don't know exactly," He taps his fingers against his textbook absentmindedly. "New York, Chicago, Seattle. Maybe San José. I dunno. But I want to be in a big city."

And it makes sense. Everyone knows Will’s been working hours upon hours to pay for college. At least Mike knew that about Will. When he’s not at school or at home, Mike knows that Will’s taken up another shift at Melvald’s.

Mike has seen with his own eyes the way that Will's been beaten down by this town. The whispers are inescapable here. Forced conformity, as Eddie would say. They poke and prod and pull away the layers of you until there's nothing left but a white picket fence and a practiced smile.

Will was never meant for Hawkins—no, he was meant for so much more. He deserves more than what this tiny, conservative town has to offer him. Will deserves the best things一he deserves anything he wants. If Mike knows Will, then he knows that Will doesn’t believe that. He knows by the way Will says the names of those cities: New york, with an exclamation mark. Chicago, Seattle as if they’re one word—as if they’re an afterthought.

Mike just guesses he never thought that Will would leave on his own accord, because he’s stubborn in that way. There’s a force of righteousness Will has within him. Will takes life in stride. He complains, but he doesn’t change himself for it. Mike admires him for it, since Mike’s always been one to hide when things go awry for him. Will used to take what he was given and wouldn’t beg for much more, even when he deserved the world—he’s glad Will’s realizing he can ask for more than he gets.

"Mike?"

He blinks a few times, until Will's face is clear in his vision. "Sorry?"

Will puts his hands down on the floor and pushes himself up. He walks over to Mike, pats his calves in an attempt to get him to sit up. He doesn't. He just moves his legs enough for Will to sit down, and then kicks his legs back up to rest across Will's lap.

"What's your plan?"

"Would you believe me if I said I didn't have one?" Mike raises an eyebrow.

"No, that's unlike you," Will teases.

"Figures," Mike clicks his teeth. "But seriously, I'm kind of screwed here. My dad's convinced that my future lies in commerce at Indiana, and it seems like that's my only option at this point."

Will makes a face. His lips purse to stifle a laugh and he raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

"See, everyone finds it funny!" Mike exclaims and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“I’d hate to see the state of Wall Street if Michael Wheeler went into finance,” Will shakes his head sorrowfully. Mike kicks him gently in the stomach. “Sorry, sorry, I’m kidding!”

“No, you’re not,” Mike groans dramatically. “You know I don’t have a brain like Dustin, and I’m not athletic like Lucas.”

It’s true; it’s not like he can just waltz up to any school and secure a spot. He’s just average ol’ Mike. As a kid, it’s easy to assume that your future is certain. There’s a school that you’ll go to, a job that you’ll get, a specific woman out there you’ll marry. All of life is black and white as a kid. By some miracle, you’ll get into that specific school that seventeen-year-old you obsesses over, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. You’ll get a job you love, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. You’ll marry a lovely lady who you love, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Growing up sucks majorly when you realize how untrue that is. Life has way more gray areas than children can see. There’s no point in believing in a pipe dream. There’s no certain future for mediocrity.

He can’t do math anymore, though he used to have somewhat of a grasp on it, and that rules out many things. No to engineering, to computer programming, to med school. Not that any of those things really interested him in the first place. He definitely doesn't have a place in sports; he can’t run a single lap without dry heaving. He’s definitely not skilled enough at guitar for that to take him anywhere outside those late nights in his bedroom—nevermind the insane embarrassment he feels even just when Holly overhears him playing. Besides, that's completely out in left field. There's one other option he's barely been able to consider for the exact same reason. He’s not believing in a childhood illusion. He’d rather not get his hopes up.

“You know how to write a good story,” He mentions it like everyone knows it as fact. Will must be able to read his mind. That Bastard. “What happened to wanting to write a kick-ass fantasy novel?”

Will, as always, sees right through him as if he were a screen of plexiglass. It's unnerving to know that Will always has the ability to call him out on his bullshit.

“Well, I…” He trails off. What's he supposed to say to that? To tell him that becoming a novelist isn't a reasonable option? To say that Mike's not meant for the extraordinary? To say that's a childish dream? Will would laugh and say he sounds like his dad. "I haven't really... I'm not that good at writing."

"You know that’s not true," Will snorts. "Don’t be all self-deprecating, it’s weird."

Mike can't argue with that. He just gives him a dirty look. That other part’s true though一Mike’s not some author extraordinaire. Will has some real skill with a paintbrush, with a pencil, with creating any kind of art. And Mike? Well, he’d just say his ten-year-old self definitely would not be impressed by his writing prowess. How could he dive head first into something that probably won’t pay off?

"Just… look into it. An English degree." Will looks away from him. "It's something to consider."

It's silent for a moment. Neither of them say anything, and the TV's off since Will claimed it'd be a distraction to their studying. Mike knows it would have been, he just likes arguing with Will. It’s comforting for Mike, in some odd way. It would also be comforting to pass his history test though and that certainly doesn’t seem to be in his future.

Without Will flipping through their textbooks, the room feels even louder somehow. It’s like his ears are ringing and just telling him to stop being such a hardass.

He sighs. Will’s right; there’s no harm in consideration. He’s right a lot of the time, which Mike doesn’t like to give him the privilege of knowing. Will probably knows already.

"I will," Mike speaks again. Will’s insisting on it, so Mike must have some kind of potential here, right? Will doesn't lie to him except about the painting, ironically enough. "I'll consider it."

"Good." There's a small smile on his face, and Mike’s certain that it’s not from whatever's on the textbook in front of him. It’s not the smug grin that he wears whenever Mike finally gives in to whatever idea Will has. It’s gentle. Mike has to look away.

"Can you imagine my dad's reaction if I don't go to business school?" Mike snickers. "He'd flip."

"I mean, we can always run away to New York together," Will jokes as if it’s an outlandish idea. And, maybe sometimes, Mike thinks he can see through Will just as well. He wonders if Will finds the idea as right as Mike does.

"You know, I'll probably have to take you up on that offer, Byers." Mike doesn't want to delve into the return of that fluttery feeling in his stomach at the thought of it—considering the idea as something real, like Will might want the same thing as him. "I'll become a starving artist, start performing slam poetry, and you'll have to support me with your fancy-shmancy commission money."

"Why do you assume I won't also be a starving artist?" Will rolls his eyes. "Maybe we'll both be."

Mike’s, like, catching a cold or something. Oh, maybe the stomach flu. Yeah, that's it. "Don't be a dick, you know you're talented."

He doesn’t have to sit with the feeling for too long since Will then asks Mike if he'd like to take a break and look at his newest painting. Something about constructive feedback and choosing pieces for his college applications. Mike accepts as soon as the offer's given.

Will fiddles with his stereo when they get into his room. He has a stack of tapes on his bedside table, a few scattered on his bookshelf, and an entire drawer dedicated to more. Mike’s honestly a bit intimidated by all of the music Will collects. Mike only recognizes so many of the band names because Will listens to them so often. He likes to pretend like he's some huge music snob, but Mike's seen the Madonna and Wham! tapes in the bottom of Will's desk drawer. He swears they're El's, but Mike knows.

“Have you heard of Keith Haring?” Will asks, and Mike shakes his head. Will's pressing the play button, and then making his way over to his easel. “I saw some of his pieces in a magazine a while ago, and I thought his style was kind of cool. He said it’s inspired by the graffiti of New York City.”

He picks up the canvas and spins it around so Mike can see it. It’s small enough for Mike to hold in both hands, but too big to be held in one. It’s a somewhat cartoonish depiction of the arcade. Front and center, but slightly angled, is the old Pac-Man machine they’d always play as kids. The outlines are a crisp black, which only emphasizes the vibrancy of the colours.

“This piece is very roughly inspired by what I saw of his,” Will sits down on the bed beside him. “It’s different from what I normally do, but I thought my portfolio needed more diversity.”

“Woah, it’s colourful,” Mike notes. He’s still taking it all in. It’s so sappy, and he’ll deny this until the end of time, but it feels like an honour to be the first to see Will’s finished pieces. Will gives him a lot of his sketches, but he says they’re just doodles, nothing to write home over—Mike thinks they’re everything—but Will’s paintings, they’re something different all together.

“Yeah, I’ve been playing around a bit,” Will sheepishly scratches his neck. “I’m not sure how I feel about it though.”

Will’s just playing around. He says his drawings from middle school are awful and always asks Mike why he still keeps them. He says his paintings aren’t anything special, they’re nothing groundbreaking. It’s like that for Will. Mike disagrees.

"It's The Palace, right? It’s cool—really cool!” He looks over at Will and smiles. “Really, anywhere you apply would be lucky.”

“You really like it?” Will asks as though it were ever an option for Mike not to.

“Obviously!” He elbows Will in the side. "You're crazy good at this kind of shit."

Will doesn't say anything to that. There's a bit of a flush over his face and he's biting his lip to suppress a smile. Mike feels a blush of his own creeping up his neck. Will moves to take the painting back, but Mike pulls away before he can.

"I'm not done looking at it!"

"You're embarrassing," Will tiredly flops back on the mattress, giving up on putting away the painting.

There's just something so fascinating about it all; the way Will can see such vivid, like, beauty in their everyday places. It's like he can really see the beauty in anything. 'The glass is half full' type of shit. Will's made rough sketches of Mike before, and he's always been awestruck for a few moments. The drawings of him are always so authentically him, but he doesn't look so angry. Will captures the curve of his nose and the uneven line of his mouth, but Mike feels as though he's never seen himself before.

The arcade painting is, as Will said, different from what he usually paints; it's lighter. Not the colours, those are as bright as could be, but the emotion. It's nostalgic, it's mundane, it's new—it's many conflicting things all at once. There's no people present in the drawing, but it doesn't feel sad or lonely. It's that feeling of being in a dark movie theatre, when the previews have yet to start and the lights have just dimmed. Everyone's quiet in anticipation. The only reminder of the people living in that moment with you is in the crackle of popcorn bags.

The arcade hasn't been rebuilt yet. It's definitely not a top priority when there's things next in line like grocery stores, libraries, public amenities—but man, does Mike miss that arcade.

When Mike glances over his shoulder, he notices Will's closed his eyes, singing softly along with the song playing on the stereo. He traces his eyes across the few freckles scattered on Will's face. They don't stand out too much, but if you knew they were there, they're impossible to miss.

Mike knows the song playing is one of Will's favourites. He has a poster of the album on his wall, he put the song on Mike's mixtape, and his lips form the lyrics as if it were muscle memory.

Mike's not sure if Will knows he does it, but it's only when he's deep in thought that he'll hum along to the music instead of singing the words. It's all familiar, it's routine, whatever you want to call it. His life plays to the soundtrack of Will singing under his breath and the smell of oil paint.

The pit returns to his stomach. He freezes, and his heart doesn't get the memo, because it starts beating faster. He turns back to the painting, and stares at the loopy signature in the bottom corner.

"Should we, uh," Mike swallows, but his mouth is dry. Boys don’t cry, the stereo croons. "Should we get back to studying?"

“I think we deserve a break." Will groans. He’s laying sideways on his bed, feet dangling off one end. The longer pieces of his hair splay out against the duvet. He’s wearing a short sleeve shirt, which shows off his biceps more plainly than the bulky button ups he normally wears. One of his forearms is rested over his eyes, blocking out the light trickling in through the window. The refracted light creates perpendicular stripes over the stripes on his shirt.

Will makes no effort to move, but Mike jumps to his feet and puts the painting back in its place on the easel. He stops his eyes from drifting back over to Will just to prove to himself that he can, and presses the stop button on the stereo. They barely listened to three songs.

"Come on," Mike's already walking to the door, still not looking back. "I already forgot what year it was when they threw all the tea into the sea."

His face is definitely red. Why would it be red? Maybe he just stood up too fast. It’s normal. He’s catching a cold, the flu. It’s fine. Nothing of concern. Will calls his name as Mike walks down the hall, but he pretends not to hear.

Soon, they’re back in the living room, both of them sitting cross legged on the carpet. The remainder of Mike’s can of Sprite has gone warm. The room is nearly silent, so Mike takes it upon himself to rhythmically tap his pen against his book.

Truly, he’d love to study, but all of the words in front of him are morphing into a big blob of nothing. He rereads the same line three times, but it makes no sense. It’s like he sees the words, but they run the other way before they get to his brain. He huffs and turns to the next page.

"Why are you being weird?" Will flicks his forehead. Mike makes a noise of distress. “I wasn’t going to say anything before, but it’s getting really creepy now.”

"I'm not being weird," He mumbles. It’s obvious that he’s arguing just to argue; something to buy him time while he comes up with an excuse. Any time there's something plaguing Mike's mind, Will seems to catch on immediately. Usually, he asks an innocent "What's going on up there?" and pokes Mike's forehead, and there's nothing Mike can do to stop himself from serving up his worries on a silver platter.

“Mike, you've been acting jittery since we got here” Will narrows his eyes at him. “You’re studying right now. And you suggested it."

Busted.

Of course, if he told Will that he didn’t wanna talk about it, then he’d leave him alone and things would be fine. Will would continue to stare at him from the corner of his eye because he fusses over Mike the way Mike fusses over him, but he wouldn’t verbally say anything. The problem lies here: after enough side eye glances, Mike will just offer up everything on his mind without a second thought, and Mike Wheeler should never do anything without a second thought.

He thinks back to this morning. Maybe that’s why he’s feeling weird. It’s, like, lingering guilt or something. It’s not something he wants to talk about, but it’s something that he’ll be able to bring up. Whatever it is that's causing this pit in his stomach, he wants it gone. Again, Mike shouldn’t do anything without a second thought—but that doesn’t mean that he thinks everything through.

“Remember that painting you gave me?” Mike stares at a picture of some British governor in his textbook. “I know El didn’t commission it.”

He can hear Will breathing, but he doesn’t say anything. Mike tries his best to gather enough confidence to look up at him, and when he does, Will’s eyes are huge.

“Oh,” He says dumbly. He picks at a loose string on his shirt sleeve. “I.. I’m so sorry for lying, I just一”

“No, no, I'm not mad,” Mike waves him off. “Just let me talk first.”

He looks unsure about it, and Mike can see him swallow. Will nods jerkily.

“We talked about it when we came back to Hawkins.” He looks back at the governor. “I was just wondering, like, ‘why would El commission a D&D painting?’ So, I just asked her. She said she didn’t commission anything.”

“I’m一”

“Will,” Mike raises his eyebrows and gives him a look. Will just nods. ”So we talked about the painting, and she told me the truth about everything in Lenora, and she said she knew I didn’t love her.”

Will opens his mouth again to say something, but decides against it. He presses his lips shut and hangs his head. Mike can’t see his expression, so he just keeps talking.

“She was right, I didn’t love her like a boyfriend should, so we broke up. I think we realized when we were talking that we were just happier to be friends.”

The memory of their conversation hits Mike like a train. He loves El like he loves Dustin, Lucas, Max. He takes a shaky breath. God, did El really say that?

They’ve been friends for longer than everyone else. That’s why, right? Things are just different with them. He has to keep talking一not the time. Don’t think about the implications behind a name purposefully withheld. She probably didn't mean anything by it.

“I think I knew the whole time that it was from you. Like, everything about it was so Will, you know? You were right, I just一I didn’t want to lose El, but I also didn’t…” He swallows another dry swallow. “I didn’t want to lose you either. Which is why I didn’t say anything about this. We knew you were trying, like, so hard to keep us together, but it just wasn’t meant to be.”

Will opens his mouth to speak again, but Mike continues to ramble on. “And I knew that you’d feel guilty for breaking us up, but you don’t have to, because we’re so much happier as friends. I just didn't want to mess things up between us. I’m sorry for lying or just, like, not telling you for so long.”

He presses his lips together to stop himself from saying anything more. He’s toeing the line between acceptable and too far. He stares at his crossed legs.

“Hey, stop freaking out. I’m not mad at you,” Will nudges his leg with his foot. “I mean, I lied to you too. It’d be really shitty of me to be mad. I just feel一”

“If you say guilty, I’m going to leave,” Mike warns.

Will abruptly closes his mouth for a moment. “I was, but I won’t now.”

“Good, because I just told you that there’s no reason to.” Mike flips his textbook closed, and pushes it under the coffee table. He finds himself back on the couch, rests his head on one armrest, and feet on the other. He can relax now, in not-so-close quarters with Will, pretending that he’s talked about everything on his mind. He might be trying to convince himself more of it than he’s trying to convince Will.

"I, um," Will stammers out. Mike finds the popcorn ceiling incredibly interesting. "I meant everything I said. Even though I was lying to you about, um—you know. The message still stands. I…"

Will doesn’t finish that last sentence, though Mike can feel Will’s eyes on him.

"I never thought otherwise.” Mike chooses to keep his gaze away from Will, a bit uncomfortable with the honest words. He immediately needs to do damage control. “I know you too well, Byers. I always know when you’re lying.”

It's silent for a few moments, and Mike can feel eyes on him. Will snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

“Hey!” Mike scoffs. “Why’s that so funny? You hiding something from me, William?”

Mike’s a hypocrite, but he’s never claimed to not be one. Will’s gaze rests on him for a moment, studying his expression. The fizzle in Mike’s heart starts back up.

“Shut up,” Will tosses an eraser at him. It misses by about two inches, and flies behind the couch somewhere. Neither of them move to find it.

Will asks him another quiz question, and between remembering useless information about the Boston Tea Party and studying the quirks and curves of Will's lips as he talks, he doesn’t press Will on whatever he’s hiding.

To be fair, he also has some skeletons in his closet.

After faking sleep through the knocks on his bedroom door, he drives out to Lovers Lake—alone, obviously. It’s not exactly a weekly tradition, but maybe every three weeks or so he’ll take those two free hours while his family sings and prays their way through Sunday service.

If he thinks about it enough, it’s not really Lover’s Lake anymore at this point. The signature heart shape is actually more of an oval now. The green grass around the lake is yellowed and dead, and Mike’s not sure of the last time he’s ever seen a sign of life swimming under the water. He wouldn’t call it gross though. He wouldn’t even call it ugly. Everyone else has discarded any love they used to have for the lake, but Mike finds a new charm in it.

Hawkins is a stuffy place. Small towns tend to be that way. The seasons bring new sights, new waters, but the people never change. It’s suffocating sometimes, but he’ll always have places like this to come to when things feel a bit too much.

He always brings his walkman with him, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he uses it every time. Sometimes it’s enough to hear the chirps of the sparrows and splash of the water as he tosses stones across. He can’t say that he loves pondering existential conundrums such as why he exists or what the purpose of life is一but he can say that he’s comforted by the fact that he’s not fully alone. The breeze brushes the trees and the woodpeckers peck against the bark. The sun shines across the lake, and the lake waves back. He’s not going to say something stupid and sappy like ‘everything happens for a reason’ or any bullshit like that. At this moment, he just feels calmer than he usually does.

Sometimes, when he comes here, he wonders if he’s been jumping the gun on all his hate for Hawkins. Like, it’s his hometown and there’s beauty in nature and blah blah. It only takes him a few minutes to realize, no, Hawkins is still full of conservative Reaganites who think he’s a sacrificial devil worshipper for wearing a leather jacket and playing D&D. The cons far outweigh the pros, and it thrusts him back into the question一can he really stay here forever? Would he survive a life like his parents’?

Obviously, no matter where he goes to school, it won’t dictate whether he returns to Hawkins or not. It feels like a big step away though. It’s the butterfly effect; if he goes to school in Bloomington, gets a business degree, is that dooming him to a dull life in Hawkins? Is that what adulthood is? Is he just playing puppet for his father? He grimaces at the thought.

Then again, what would he do otherwise? Like he told Will the other day, it’s not like he has a bucketload of options that aren't either incredibly unreasonable or incredibly unfit for him. He knows he said he’d consider the whole English major thing一no, he didn’t just say it to get Will off his back一and he has considered it! He’s thought about it a little when sitting in silence in his room, after his dad says his curt words about business school. Yeah, he’s considered it, and it’s still unrealistic. Mike doesn’t want to get his hopes up. It’ll be this big devastating crash once he argues and argues just for a chance that never pays off. Exceptionally good things don't happen in Hawkins.

He skips a stone across the lake, and it jumps one, two, three times before sinking.

He knows he’s just been giving excuse after excuse, and he could easily see one of the guidance counselors at school and beg for direction. Ask them to confirm or deny whether he’s losing his mind. At the same time, what do they know? Maybe it’s just his stubborn nature, but he doesn’t think they’d be any help. Guidance counselors have this head-in-the-clouds ditziness to them. Sell the kids a dream, run away when it bursts in front of them. It’s like this strange act where they pretend to care, but they're actually just telling students anything to get them to leave.

Whatever, things don’t always work out the way you plan. He knows that. The world is unfair, as his dad likes to say.

When he’d gone over yesterday to help El with her essay, Joyce had opened the door for him. She smelled like her usual cigarettes and held a cup of coffee in one hand.

“Oh, Mike!” She ushered him in, and he greeted her back. “I didn’t know you were coming over this morning.”

It was funny for her to say, since Mike’s at the Byers’ house nearly every Saturday, whether that be in the morning or in the evening. He’s usually there earlier than she gets home from work, and she’s never surprised to see his face. Mike doesn’t know where she’s working exactly, but she’s always wearing nice button up blouses with dark slacks when she returns. Will says she's a secretary now. She looks happier, he’s realized, with the worry lines in her forehead smoothed out and the easy way she smiles now. Even though she still smokes at least three cigarettes a day, there’s a noticeable change.

Joyce welcomed him to have a cup of coffee, which he’d unconsciously given a disgusted look to, and she’d laughed at him. El was already waiting at the kitchen table, a plate of Eggos in front of her, and a stack of books and papers just off to the left of her. She waved at him and gestured for him to read through her paper.

Things had been fine. After correcting some of her grammatical errors and helping her formulate some arguments, she told him he was a good teacher. He’s heard it before, though mainly in a semi-joking way from Lucas and Dustin. Mike’s always the friend the party calls when they don't know how to finish their short story or a paper or whatever else for English class.

El told him that Will was awake already, just working on a painting in his room. Mike told himself the reason he didn’t disturb Will was because he didn’t want to distract him from his work. He knew then, and he knows now, that that wasn’t completely true. He can’t lie to Will again一God knows how that worked out for him last time. He’d say hi and then tell him that he’s considering that whole English thing, and he's terrified of it, and Will would know exactly what to say, and how to call him out on his bullshit, which means Mike wouldn’t be able to live in ignorant bliss about his whole future just working out for him.

Plus, Will would’ve come out of his room to talk to Mike if he’d wanted to, right? Will had his reasons to stay hidden away. It’s not a matter of avoiding Will. He was busy with his painting, and Mike didn’t want to disturb him. That was that.

Mike leaves the lake in a worse mood than he’d had when he’d arrived.

The following days feel like purgatory.

His body's internal schedule repeats as follows: Wake up at six in the morning, finish his procrastinated homework, fight with his car, eat lunch with the party sans Dustin, fall asleep in history class, eat dinner and make awkward, stunted conversation with his parents. What a life.

He’s not sure why the nightmares have been coming so frequently these days. They’re not his usual dreams, they’re not quite so gorey一if that’s the right way to put it. The best way to describe his new dreams is to say they’ve been odd. They’re incredibly realistic, but there’s always something just a little bit off. He’ll have a dream about a D&D game with the entire party, but Lucas will be missing, and no one will mention it. He’ll have a dream about their impromptu Lenora road trip, but Will will be missing, and no one will mention it. He’ll have a dream where he’s just sitting at home with his parents, but all the pictures of Holly and Nancy will be missing, and一you guessed it一no one will mention it.

Okay, sure, they’re not really nightmares anymore. They’re just regular dreams at this point. He’s not, like, a wizard or a divinator or whatever the fuck they’re called. He doesn’t know what dreams of specific things mean. Like, seeing a demon in a dream is representative of grief or something. He doesn’t know, and he’d really rather stay ignorant in case he has some grand and unpleasant revelation. It’s fine, honestly. They’re not scary like his Vecna nightmares, just unsettling. He always wakes up abruptly and a bit disorientated.

His friends clearly know something’s up, but none of them have said anything verbally yet. They’re all just a little bit nicer to him than they usually are, even Max, and it’s jarring, but not unwelcome. It’s especially surprising since Mike, admittedly, has been being even more of an asshole than usual. It’s not that he’s trying to be! He’s just tired and irritable, and all the grumpily muttered words fall out of his mouth before he can even think about how mean they sound.

They’ve been leaving him to stew in misery today. Lunch was eerily quiet. Max and El had no gossip, and Lucas had no imperative contrarian opinions to share. They talked quietly about random shit that Mike didn’t pay attention to, and none of them questioned him. Will passed him a note in history class asking if Mike also thinks that Randall Madden is hiding something under his baseball cap. He drew a doodle of Randall with his camouflage patterned hat lengthened to twice the height and just sitting on top of his head. He never wears it how someone should wear a hat, he always wears it in a way that it could fall off if he turned his head too fast. Mike drew a terrible doodle of a frog on a stick figure's head. That was all they said, and after the bell rang, Will left without saying goodbye.

It’s when he’s walking up to his locker after the day’s finally over that he’s being interrogated. Lucas waits, leaning up against Mike’s locker with a duffel bag in hand.

“What are you doing?” Mike taps his shoulder in a ‘move out of my way’ type gesture. Lucas jerks his head to look over, but moves out of the way.

“You’re right on time, Wheeler,” Lucas crosses his arms over his chest.

“I wasn’t aware that you scheduled a meeting with me,” Mike mutters as he spins his combination into the lock. “I’m a busy guy, Sinclair.”

‘Busy’ meaning that Mike has plans to drive home and rot away in his bedroom until his body finally allows him to get some sleep. Today has felt like seven days rolled into one.

“Okay, smartass,” Lucas huffs exasperatedly. “I just wanted to check in with you.”

Mike frowns, but doesn’t look over. He pulls his textbooks from the top shelf of his locker. “Did someone die?”

“Jesus Christ一no, Mike,” Lucas sticks a waving hand out in front of Mike. He sighs, and looks over at Lucas with an unimpressed glare. “Did you and Will have a fight?”

“Huh? No?” Mike furrows his brow. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Lucas lies and toys with his lip. Mike knows Lucas can explain exactly why he had that assumption. He blinks at him until he opens his mouth again. “Will hasn’t been coming to lunch this week, and you always get really mopey when he’s mad at you.”

“I don’t mope,” Mike lies, since that’s something they do now. He turns back to attempting to zip open his backpack. Yeah, sure, Mike’s being mopey. Whatever that means. Mike’s just irritable and sleep deprived. Lucas is freaking out over nothing. “一and Will’s not purposefully avoiding our table. You’ve seen him with Jennifer.”

“Mike,” Lucas doesn’t sound mad. He doesn’t seem particularly happy either. “Seriously, dude.”

“What?” Mike gives him a tired look.

“You know you’ve always been a bit…” Lucas trails off. “I don’t know. You’ve always acted differently with Will一like, you’ve always fussed over him. Even before all the shit with the Upside Down. You two have always been crazy in sync.”

Mike slams his locker shut with more strength than he means to. It clangs and a few people in the hall look over at his outburst. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lucas hums unconvincingly. “I’ll lay off if you don’t wanna talk, but I’m just saying that I know how you get sometimes一”

“Everything’s fine! I don’t need you to worry about me,” Mike throws his bag over one shoulder even though it definitely does not help with his exhaustion.

“Okay, okay,” Lucas relents, and shakes his head. “I’ll leave you alone, but you know you can always talk to一”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mike cuts him off pointedly. There’s nothing to talk about. Mike has strange dreams. His certainty in his future hasn’t existed for a long time. Will’s keeping a secret from him. Mike doesn't know how to act around Will anymore. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

“You’re gonna be late to practice.” Mike grumbles, even though he doesn’t know if that’s true.

Mike wonders if everyone is purposefully trying not to spend time with him. They'd be well in their right to.

Okay, that's dramatic, but it's true! They haven't eaten lunch together—like, completely, all together—all six of them, since the beginning of the month. There's only so many days he can take without having a conversation with Lucas that's longer than two words and not full of pitying looks or without Max making fun of him and throwing shit at him. Yes, he knows, it’s his fault that Lucas and Max are choosing not to spend time with him. He doesn’t know how to call them up and give them an explanation for his shitty attitude when he can’t even wrap his own head around why he has it.

Sure, he can’t really say the two of them are avoiding him. Lucas has a meeting today with his coach, and Max is out for a doctor's visit. El too, she’s just putting time into her future and figuring shit out. She’s seeing the guidance counselor about options for post graduation, which Mike can’t say sounds like much of an excuse. Besides, El would just tell him straight out if she was mad at him.

Will is… somewhere. Maybe in the art room. And, well, Mike's not ignoring Will—he’s just been impossible to catch alone recently. Besides when he'd gone to the Byers' the last weekend, he's only been seeing Will in small greetings and goodbyes in the hallways, scrawled notes on looseleaf paper and limited conversations before history class. Usually there’s a Jennifer or a Stacy or a Michelle attached to his side. Besides, even if he was ignoring Will, his best friend seems to have a second sense for these things, and he’d definitely confront him about it. Plus, Mike isn’t even being that weird! He just hasn’t been begging Will to hang out every day he has free time like he used to. So, it's not on Mike. They’re both just busy. Yep, that's it.

Whatever. He can't justifiably be mad at his friends for having lives一and he can’t blame them for avoiding him. He’s been, arguably, a huge dickhead recently.

Surprisingly enough, his company for today's lunch is Dustin. Mike swears his eyes almost bulged out of his skull when Dustin sat down in front of him. It's like a solar eclipse or something. He said the supervising teacher was sick and everyone else didn't show—which, ouch, nice to know Mike's a second choice. Whatever though, Dustin's a smart guy, he'll accomplish great things, it's just a small hiccup in their group dynamic, things will go back to how they were once Dustin gets that damn acceptance letter, blah blah.

Is he crazy for wanting that? He's always going on and on about how irritating everyone is for living in denial; everyone acts like nothing’s wrong, Hawkins is a normal little town in Indiana which had been destroyed by an earthquake. At the same time, Mike wishes things were normal. Would it be easier just to pretend, as everyone else does, like everything is? He doesn't think so. It doesn't seem fair.

He should be happy that Dustin's here, right? His good friend is taking time out of his busy day to spend time with Mike. Mike avoids a lonely lunch hour, and gets to catch up with Dustin—he should be happy. So, then why would he prefer to be alone? He has a new campaign he’s been writing the past few days, and he’d quite honestly prefer to be working on that right now.

God, why is he so bitter all the time? He can’t kid himself and say it’s just the sleep deprivation.

Dustin's talking his ear off about some girl in his study group. Mike doesn't hear her name, and he doesn't ask Dustin what it is. He insists that he's never met anyone as smart—as if Dustin hasn't said that before.

"Every girl you're interested in can't be the smartest girl in the world," Mike narrows his eyes at him.

"I'm serious this time!" Dustin's hands are palms down on the table and he's leaning forward to make a point. "We were talking about the laws of thermodynamics because there was this problem on our practice test and—"

Mike does not think he can relate to Dustin's story. He's trying not to be an asshole, but it may just be in Mike's nature, because his attention is immediately drawn away from Dustin's blabbering. Jennifer still-doesn't-know-her-last-name walks into the cafeteria with two other girls. Mike thinks one of them is named Rachel. It doesn't matter—what Mike's paying attention to is that she walks in without Will.

He's not sure why this is such a big deal to him. There's no reasonable explanation behind it. Like, Jennifer has a crush on Will, why should Mike care about that? He shouldn't. If Will had a crush on Jennifer too? Mike still shouldn’t care. Will can date whoever he wants, and Mike should not be bothered by it.

It's just… irritating. That's the word. Because Jennifer would call Will 'zombie boy' in middle school, and she laughed with her friends when he went missing, and she'd just stand there when her friends called Will all sorts of other names. Has she ever apologized to him for any of that? Why does she get to pretend none of that happened?

Plus, if Will’s secret is that he likes Jennifer, Mike doesn’t understand why Will would keep it from him. Obviously Will was going to start liking girls at some point, right? Mike wouldn't be all annoying and badger him into confessing to her. Mike doesn’t even know what he’d do. Probably just say something like ‘cool’ and move on, even though Mike doesn’t think it’s cool.

"Oh my god, dude!" Dustin laughs so loud it takes Mike out of his thoughts.

"What?" Mike straightens up in his seat. Is Dustin a mind reader? He watches as Dustin leans backwards to survey their surroundings, and then looks back at Mike.

"You've got it bad," Dustin leans forward and speaks quieter.

"What are you talking about?" Mike's eyebrows furrow. Dustin's saying absolute nonsense.

"For Jennifer Wiens!" He whisper-shouts, and cups a hand around his mouth as if protecting it from any lip readers seeking out juicy secrets at this very moment. "You were staring at her for, like, five minutes straight!"

"That is—what?" Mike rubs his face with his hands. He groans. "I do not 'have it bad'—" He makes finger quotations. "—for Jennifer Wiens."

"Dude, I just saw you—"

"I don't know what you saw, but you're wrong," Mike stresses. That simmering in his stomach is picking up. He’s going to blow over. "That's not what this is."

"Mike, dude," Dustin pushes his arm in what's supposed to be a playful manner. It pisses Mike off. It shouldn't. He's being such an asshole. "I won't make fun of you, you don't have to deny—"

"Dustin, just drop it," Mike speaks through his teeth. "I don't like her like that."

"Why else would you be staring at her like that!"

"Drop it! I'm serious!" He’s balling his fists on his lap, and he’s trying his hardest to keep his mouth shut. Mike just has to say nothing more. Can Dustin just listen to him?

"Mike, I know you, you're—"

Oh, Mike's going to say something he'll regret as soon as it comes out of his mouth.

"Do you?" Mike blurts. He can't stop the words from falling out. "You're never around anymore! You haven't eaten lunch with us in over a month, and you didn't come over to Lucas's last Thursday when we watched The Outsiders, and you called off our campaign on the ninth, and you barely answer the phone when we call you! You’re not even part of the party at this point!"

"Dude, I've just been busy—"

"Bullshit!" Mike speaks louder than he means to, and the tables beside them all look over at him. He deflates a little at all the eyes on him, and he takes a deep breath. It sure looks cool to blow your fuse in the middle of a public place. Way to go, Mike!

"I don't like Jennifer Wiens," Mike mutters but keeps eye contact with Dustin. "I'm not in a good mood. Drop it."

He stares down at his lunch tray, and busies himself with twisting the apple stem until it comes out. He presses his thumbnail into the top of the red flesh and listens to the gentle crunch of the skin breaking. He hears Dustin fumbling with his water bottle. It crinkles loudly between them.

Why does Dustin think he can just sit down and pretend like he hasn’t been blowing off the party for weeks? Why should Mike have to be nice when he told Dustin multiple times to lay off him? Why is no one else angry like he is? Why does he have to be the asshole? Why can’t Dustin yell back at him?

He takes a bite from his apple and it crunches loudly. He stares at the clock on the far wall of the cafeteria, he can’t make out whether it says twelve thirty or twelve forty. Either way, it wouldn’t make a difference. There’s no magnetic pull that’s forcing him to leave his seat.

"Um, you're right, honestly," Dustin breaks the silence. "I think I've been getting carried away."

Mike raises his eyebrows and takes another bite out of his apple. He didn’t expect an acquiesce so quickly. Like, yeah, Mike was pointing out the obvious, but he didn’t think Dustin would actually listen! He expected a bit of push back, a bit more of a fight.

"I think I've been caught up in the fact that we've, like," He clicks his teeth and lowers his voice. "We lost so much time, because of Vecna and the upside down and everything. And trying to get my life back on track is like, well, everyone's smarter than me, and has learned more, and just… I dunno."

Obviously it’s not like Dustin’s been running away to meet up with some chick he’s hiding from them. It’s not like he’s found some new party to play D&D with. He’s just geeky ol’ Dustin. Mike looks away and stares down at his feet, embarrassed by his outburst.

"You're a smart guy, give yourself some credit, yeah?" Mike huffs. "Plus, I'm sure all that community service at the shelter will look pretty sick on a college application."

Flattery will get him everywhere when attempting to make up for an unprovoked confrontation.

Dustin meets his eyes and they both share a grin. "You may or may not be correct about that, and I won't tell you which one it is."

Mike lets out a mock gasp and an exaggerated hurt expression. “Prick.”

"Really though," Dustin throws a balled up napkin at him, and Mike sticks his tongue out when he catches it with one hand. "Everyone else out there from better schools, bigger cities—places that haven't been attacked in interdimensional warfare—they've all been preparing for college, and I've fallen behind. I can't compete with them."

If Dustin Henderson—physics mastermind—is dealing with a bad case of imposter syndrome, what does that say about Mike? He’s absolutely hopeless, that’s what. And though he was mad a few moments ago, he can’t sit around and let Dustin be all self-pitying. Not when Dustin’s going to do amazing things with his life and all Mike can do is be mad that he’s not as much of a genius as his friend is. How selfish of him.

"Maybe I'm biased, but none of those assholes have done half of the shit that you have," Mike says with his mouth full, and Dustin makes an uncomfortable face. Mike swallows his bite and keeps talking. "Seriously! Like, all that shit you did with Cerebro? Cracking secret Russian codes? The way you completely figured out the way the Upside-Down worked? Come on, you've got all those losers beat."

"You don't have to go AWOL on us, dude," Mike takes another bite of his apple and speaks through it. "Trust yourself a little bit."

"Gross, dude," Dustin cringes. "But, ah一thank you. I might've needed someone to yell some sense into me."

"I do love to yell," Mike fakes a pensive look, and Dustin snorts. "But, um, I'm sorry for being a dick. You’re still part of the party, I shouldn't have said that. I know school’s, like, important or whatever. Truce?”

"Truce," Dustin holds out his pinky. Mike wraps their pinkies together and they nod to each other. Water under the bridge. "So, are you gonna—I mean, I'm sorry for assuming and shit, but, what’s up with Jennifer Wiens?”

Either Mike can tell the truth or he can lie, as are his choices in basically every scenario. To be fair though, he doesn’t know how to stick to only one in this case—so he doesn’t only have two choices. There’s that pesky third option where he fibs a little bit about the things he doesn’t quite understand himself, and tells the truth about the concrete things. It’s better than straight up lying, that’s for sure.

"There's nothing to tell," Mike pokes another crescent into the apple skin. "She's been all over Will recently. I thought he'd be with her when she came in."

"Wait, seriously?" Dustin gapes. His disappearance is evident by his reaction. Who hasn’t heard of Will’s newfound popularity with women?

"See," Mike retorts. "If you'd hadn't been off being a brainiac, you would've noticed that women have been just falling at Will's feet recently. Michelle, Stacy, both of the Jennifers."

"Holy shit," Dustin closes his eyes for a moment and holds his head in his hands. "What God has he been praying to?"

Mike shrugs. Will's probably off with another one of his many admirers right now. Mike doesn't want to keep talking about it. His stomach feels like a boiling pot of water. Honestly, he feels kind of nauseous. Probably the cafeteria sandwiches. It's some kind of mystery tuna-like meat, but it's much too gray to be tuna.

"So he rejected her and she's still trying to get with him? Like, dude, what's been happening?" Dustin looks like his mind has been absolutely beaten to a pulp.

"Why are you so shocked about this?" He furrows his eyebrows. Really, is it that shocking that girls would like Will? Mike feels offended on his behalf.

"No, dude, I'm jealous!" Dustin complains. "Are you not?"

Mike wants to say 'not really', but it'd also be equal parts true and false, and he doesn't want to delve into that. Somehow, Dustin would understand exactly what's running through Mike's brain and accuse him of something much worse than 'having it bad for Jennifer Wiens', and he can't have that. Mike has been exerting as much force as he can on that closet door, but man, skeletons are heavy. He mentally turns the lock and it clicks into place.

Mike shrugs. "I mean, yeah, I guess so."

If he has to sit through another awkwardly quiet family dinner, Mike thinks he's going to lose it.

His dad talks monotonously about whatever bullshit he heard on the news that day, he hounds Mike some more about his certain future in commerce until Mike hums in response enough times. Holly talks about school until his parents stop responding to her, then she stays silent for the rest of the meal. When she runs up to her room for the rest of the night, Mike sneaks a popsicle from the freezer and offers it to her without a word.

He's never really realized how strange his house is until recently. Like, as a kid, he knew people thought it was strange that his dad was always late to pick him up from his extracurriculars, and people said his mom wore too much makeup, and outside of their house his parents were rarely ever in the same space at the same time. Whatever, he'd thought, because that's how his family is, and that's how it'll always be.

Now, at seventeen, he's noticed the cracks in the walls. His mom rarely sits down. She's always cleaning, even if she'd cleaned that room yesterday. If she's not cleaning, then she's working out. She always looks like she hasn't slept properly in days. He sees the eyebags under her eyes first thing in the morning when she still has rollers in her hair, but within an hour, she's prim and proper and ready to take on the day. The only times she sits down, aside from eating, are to watch her favourite soap opera; Mike thinks it’s depressing to see the housewives fighting on the TV, but she seems to find it therapeutic.

His dad never fully listens to the things his mom says. He doesn't like listening to the music on the radio, he says it's pointless noise. He forgets Max's name all the time, even though they've been friends for nearly five years now. Mike really doesn’t know much about his dad even though he’s known him his whole life.

Things are civil right now, and it feels wrong. That may fall on Mike in a way, since he can admit he's usually the one picking a fight. He's been retreating further into himself recently; Mike has nothing to stand on. He’s going to bring up his hopes and dreams just for his dad to shoot them down, and all of the anger Mike’s been trying not to let out will simmer over the top. Like it had with Dustin the other day. His dad's going to complain about the same things every evening, his mom's going to smile tightly at his words, and nothing will change if Mike yells about it—except maybe being grounded for a week or two.

Honestly, Mike kind of misses the screaming fights he used to have with Nancy. That used to be one of the normal things about his family. Teasing Nancy about Steve or Jonathan, or getting on her nerves for being so stuck up, those used to make dinners somewhat entertaining.

No, he does not miss his sister. That would be ridiculous.

"Hello?" The voice is tinny and crackles through the phone line.

"Nancy, it's Mike," He nearly mumbles his greeting.

"Oh, Mike!" She sounds far away, like she's staring at the phone, unsure if she's hearing him correctly. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"What? Why do you—" He cuts himself off. "Yes, Nance, everything's fine."

What did he think was going to happen? He’d call his sister just to tell her that he doesn't miss her? They don't do this—talk just for talking's sake. Like, obviously he does have a motive, but he feels a bit bad about never talking to her unless he needs something.

"Um, so," Nancy speaks hesitantly. The words are choppy, like she knows it too. "What's up then?"

"How's the job?" He asks just because he doesn't want her to hang up. He winces at his words. Since when has Mike Wheeler initiated small talk?

"Well, um, firstly, it's not a job, it's just an internship," She corrects. Classic Nancy. "And it's… Nothing major, I guess. Grabbing coffees, running files around—you know, the usual."

"Are you telling me that Nancy Wheeler isn't already running the place? And you've been there how long? Six weeks?" Mike lets out a dramatic gasp. "I can't believe it!"

"Jesus, did you call me just to piss me off?" Nancy groans.

"Yep," Mike pops the 'p' on the word. "Dinner was too quiet today, I had to argue with somebody."

He listens to the crackle of the static for a few beats. He moves the phone away from his ear and looks at it, as if he'd be able to tell that Nancy hung up on him by staring at it, but then moves it back. The end tone isn't ringing through though, so she probably didn't hang up on him.

"Oh," Nancy croons. Oh, that's what this is. Shit. "You miss me! I never thought I'd live to see the day."

His mouth hangs open for a second. He almost hangs up on the spot. He, very pointedly, does not miss his sister. He’s honestly offended that she’d come to that conclusion.

"Hey!" Mike retorts and tries not to absolutely blubber over his words. "I never said that!"

"I don't know, you basically did," She sing-songs.

He kind of did call Nancy searching for an argument, so maybe he can't be mad that this is what he gets. Still, it makes him antsy. He stutters through more denial.

"Come on, Mikey, ask your big sister for whatever sage advice you need," She teases him. Is he that obvious?

"I'm hanging up on you," He lies.

"Mike!" She drags out the vowel, and he says nothing in response. "I know you miss me, you don't have to be so broody."

"I don't brood," He complains just for the sake of complaining. He’s probably the broodiest person alive, and yes, that’s including Max. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Okay, okay," She sighs. "I'll let it go. You called me because you definitely do not miss me at all, and you need no advice from me."

"Exactly, glad we cleared this up," Mike affirms. Now, was that so hard?

"You're so full of shit," She mutters. "But whatever."

He doesn't dignify that with a response.

"So," Mike drags out the word because he feels awkward and doesn't know how to make this not weird. It's his sister, like, it's fine. "How did you approach dad about, like, college and stuff?"

"What's he trying to make you go into?"

"Commerce," He says with distaste. Nancy laughs loudly.

"Everyone I've told laughs at the idea," He whines. Sure, send Mike Wheeler into a huge marketing discussion and expect his classic charm to woo everybody. Something tells him that he'd make zero deals. Something tells him he’d never be able to keep a job. He starts laughing too. It is pretty laughable.

"Sorry, sorry," She brushes him off. "Your voice, it just sounded like you'd rather shoot yourself in the head than to do commerce."

She pulls an impression of him on that last word, and it makes her cackle loudly again. He thinks her impression is wildly inaccurate.

"Honestly, it’s in consideration," Mike makes a humming noise, like he's pondering the idea. "But, dad—he just, like, assumed that's what I'd be doing, and I thought, eh, what the hell, what other options do I have? Then, I was thinking about it, and I thought, holy shit, I'll be so miserable, and now I've dug myself into a hole because I've never really argued with him over it."

"Seriously?" He can hear her surprise. "When have you ever let dad make decisions for you? You've never had a problem starting fights with him."

"Wow, flattering," He notes dryly.

"Oh, shut up, you're an argumentative little shit," She retorts. "You just have to bring it up with him first, and you'll probably have to fight it for a while, but you've never had an issue with that either. Don't settle for his bullshit."

"Language!" Mike imitates their dad's monotone. Nancy's silent for a second at the impression, and then they both burst into laughter. "But, yeah, thank you, Nance."

"Any time," She offers. "Oh, and Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure you don't have my—" He already knows what she's about to ask. He has to do some major damage control, and fast.

"Nope! Bye Nance!" He hears his sister’s crackly complaints until he slams the phone into the holder. His parents will probably get mad at him for making a long distance call without telling them, but he’s not really in the mood to care right now.

God, Nancy's right. Confrontation fears Mike Wheeler, not the other way around.

“Michael,” Mr Paulson calls as Mike’s packing his books away. “Can we chat for a bit?”

From Mike’s experience, the phrase can we chat usually signifies that you’re about to hear some bad news. Especially from the mouth of a teacher who Mike has been unintentionally irritating since he’d first stepped foot in his classroom. He also knows from experience that even if he were to run the other way, he wouldn’t be able to put it off for very long. He'll face it head on right now.

Mr. Paulson pulls a second chair up beside his desk and motions for Mike to take a seat. They both do, and his teacher begins to rifle through one of his desk drawers.

“I won’t keep you for too long, I’ll even write you a note to bring to your next class,” He mentions. He finally finds what he was searching for, and pulls out a stack of papers.

Mike fiddles with his fingers in his lap. He’s bracing himself for whatever he could’ve done一he doesn’t even know what he did this time! He’s racking his brain for anything. Has Mr. Paulson finally got fed up with him coming in late every morning? Is he about to tell him that he’s already failing AP Literature?

“You don’t have to look so scared there, Wheeler,” Mr. Paulson chuckles. “This is not an interrogation.”

He flips through the stack and pulls out a thinner stack, stapled together in the top corner. He tosses down on the table in front of Mike, and gestures for him to look.

It’s his last literature assignment, a short story. Usually he doesn’t spend too much time on assignments like this, but because of the themes he could choose from this time, he saw potential. He may hate the novel, but the themes of Lord of the Flies are definitely interesting一Golding’s just a nihilist who thinks he knows everything. Like, seriously? Why do people still love that book? Has no one else heard the real story about the Tongan castaways who were trapped on an island together一just like that damn novel一and, you know, didn’t kill each other?

Whatever, he’s getting off topic.

Mike wrote about the nature of mankind in his story. As Golding wrote how mankind was inherently evil and developed the story through the boys foregoing the rules of society, thus showing their true colours一Mike wrote a bit of a twist on that. A little bit sci-fi, a little bit inspired by his own life in the face of Vecna, he argued for the opposite of Golding一mankind is stifled by societal expectations in a negative way. His idea may have been a little bit pretentious, and maybe he was getting a bit ahead of what he could fit into six pages, but he was proud of it in the end.

Mr. Paulson must have thought it was pretty good too; on the top right corner in bright red ink lies an A-plus. He lifts the papers up, and shows the graded side to his teacher.

“Really?”

“Really,” Mr. Paulson gives what Mike thinks is a grin. “I see a real talent in you. It’s not very often I come across students who can pull something like this together. Not to dismiss your classmates, of course.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Mike nods, and his eyes come back to the grade on his page.

“Have you ever considered a future in writing?” It feels solid coming from Mr. Paulson. Mike feels two feet tall in front of him, like he’s been placed under a microscope.

“Well, I didn’t think it was very practical,” Mike scratches the back of his head and looks away. “But my friend told me I should think about it. I thought he was just being generous or something, I dunno.”

Mr. Paulson hums, and Mike watches as he scribbles across a late slip. “Smart friend you have. I think you could go places.”

He tears the slip from the pad and offers it out to Mike. “If you need any help with your entrance essays, feel free to stop by my classroom. I’d be happy to help.”

After that conversation yesterday, he thought that, just maybe, the pieces were falling into place. He should've realized that things will never work out smoothly for him一honestly, he should’ve accepted that a long time ago. He wants to take back that whole "being civil with his dad" thing. It was a phase. He was somehow keeping his angsty teenage phase under wraps, and was instead in his quiet and brooding teenager phase, like Nancy says.

His dad wasn’t even being that awful, honestly. He was acting like he does on any average day. Just nagging. Mike should be used to it by now. He’s just been having such a shitty day一as he has been recently. No, he did not absolutely bomb his calculus quiz that morning. And no, Troy did not jeer a few choice words when Mike walked into him in the hallway. And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that Jennifer was stealing Will away from their lunch table again. Why would you even suggest that? He just woke up on the wrong side of the bed or whatever.

Whatever it was that caused his mood, Mike probably shouldn’t have been so quick to blow his fuse. He should've just sat there and taken the hits. He should've stuck to the plan that he wrote.

It starts the same way all of their arguments start; they’re sitting at the dinner table. His dad reads his newspaper as Holly and his mom talk about school. He's not really listening to any of them, just picking at the food in front of him. When he tunes back in, his dad's going on about something he read in the paper.

Whatever. Nothing for Mike to argue with his dad over.

“This is why you need to do something dependable, Michael,” His dad suddenly makes it his problem. He angles the paper towards Mike and gestures with his hand at one of the articles. Mike’s not sure which one he’s referring to. “See? Commerce always has good job prospects.”

There’s no time like the present. Bring it up lightly, Mike.

“I don’t think I really want to do commerce,” He mutters and picks at his peas with his fork. “I think it’ll make me miserable.”

That’s as light as he can get. He winces as soon as the words come out of his mouth.

“Huh, this is the first I’m hearing of this,” His dad rolls his paper up and puts it down. He looks over at Mike from above his glasses, and shovels dinner into his mouth. “So what’s your other option here then?”

He says it in that way that Mike knows that he’s already discarding anything Mike says. As usual. Mike immediately drops any semblance of his plan. Fuck.

“Well, I want to do an English degree,” Mike says, maybe with a bit too much venom in his voice already. “I think it wouldn’t be so soul-sucking as business school.”

“Oh,” His dad takes a bite of porkchop and nods fake-thoughtfully. Forks scrape against the plates in the quiet. “So, you think being unemployed won’t be miserable?”

“Ted,” His mom puts a hand on his shoulder, and he brushes her off.

“No, no, tell me son,” His dad rests one fist on the table holding his fork, and points a finger at him with his other hand. He still keeps his voice flat and emotionless. “What really do you think you can accomplish with a degree like that?”

It’s that faux inquisitive voice he does. Someone who’s just met his dad would read him as truly curious, but Mike knows his dad well. It’s condescending. He’s saying he knows better than you do because you’re a child and he’s your father, and that’s the way life goes.

“I don’t know. I could work in publishing, journalism, I could be an author一you’re brushing me off without giving me a chance here!” Mike drops his fork onto his plate and they collide with a clang.

His dad just chuckles at him and continues taking bites of his food. His dad thinks yelling is for people who are overly emotional. He stares back over at Mike, probably expecting him to back down, but Mike keeps his eyes strong on his dad.

“You’re setting yourself up for failure, Michael,” His dad shakes his head. “Which one of your friends put this stupid little fantasy in your head, huh? Byers? The chief’s daughter?”

Mike expects his mom to speak up again, but when he looks over, she’s consoling Holly in her seat. Mike hates himself more than usual. He wonders if Holly, at nine years old, sees through the reckless paint job. He wonders if she can see her future through him, as he did Nancy. He can’t let this go.

“Why do you think I can’t make my own choices?” The table cloth gets caught on his chair and the plates rustle as Mike stands up. “I’ve always wanted this, I just knew you’d be difficult about it!”

“I’m not the one being difficult here, son,” His dad laughs darkly. “You think I’m being a real hardass, but I’m just being realistic.”

“Michael, just sit back down,” His mom speaks through her teeth and gives him a pointed look. “And, Ted, that’s enough!”

Mike sends a glare her way. What happened to ‘don’t do commerce if it’ll make you unhappy’? He’d really thought he had some support on his side. What’s the point in staying neutral?

“No, Karen, he needs to hear this,” His dad bristles, and drops his knife against his plate with a clank. “You kids think you can live by just doing what makes you happy and everything will magically just work itself out. Well, tough luck kid, ‘cause the world isn’t fair. I'm just looking out for you.”

Mike knows the world is unfair一but it doesn’t have to stay that way. He’s lived seventeen years in this shitty town where everyone runs away from things that they find uncomfortable. Is that really a way to live? Is that not reason enough to be angry? He doesn’t want to stay unhappy just to please this stupid town.

“That’s bullshit!”

“Language!” His dad doesn’t even look up at him. He takes another bite of his food. Mike’s eye twitches. “Don’t talk to me like that, I'm your father.”

“You sure don’t fucking act like it.”

“Michael!”

Holly runs out of the room soon after, and the rest is a bit of a blur. His mom runs out after her, and his dad says more scathing words to him. His dad makes a few comments about his "little friends" that Mike yells at him for. Mike yells a few things in the heat of the moment that he immediately regrets. His dad continues to keep his voice level after that. He asks Mike why he decided to ruin what could’ve been a nice dinner.

Mike doesn't know how to respond to that, so he just runs out of the dining room.