Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ten o’clock, the Wheeler house finally settles. There’s no TV babble as Mrs. Byers retreats to the basement for the night, Holly’s white noise machine whirring to a timed stop. At five after, Nancy stops padding around her room, her mattress creaks as she gets into bed.  

It’s not the first time Mike is sneaking out. It’s not even the first time this month. It’s the first time, since he was twelve, that he’s doing it alone.  

He doesn’t feel guilty. He’s not afraid of the consequences for getting found out—Will has helped him sneak out enough times over the last eight months that he’s sure nobody will even notice he’s gone; this time, Will has ditched him. As politely as he possibly could, I just kinda wanna sleep tonight. Actually sleep. Y’know? Like he thought Mike would be mad. Mike is mad, unfairly. Or maybe inconvenienced is the better word. It was never Will’s obligation to help Mike navigate the tunnels, and Mike supposes he’s always had more to lose, if his mom found out, so he should be grateful regardless. Just, like—of all the nights he could have flaked out on, he chose the most important one.  

Important. Too important for Mike to pussy out. He doesn’t need a chaperone. He can grow a pair and navigate the quiet night on his own, not startle at the sound of a stray cat, or what he thinks is shoes against asphalt but actually just… isn’t.  

How his parents will react if they catch him is the least of his worries; He’s preoccupied, wondering if redeveloping a fear of the dark at sixteen is more or less pathetic, considering his life’s circumstances. 

Hawkins is eerily still at night, now that there’s a curfew. Nightlife wasn’t exactly bustling before—but there might be a car passing through, a late-night runner, the occasional backyard kegger. Since the gates opened, since quarantine, it’s become nonexistent. Makes Mike feel a bit like he’s the only person on earth, the only living soul in Indiana. 

He has to take the long way to the tunnels, through the train tracks into the junkyard. Another wild inconvenience—but a safety measure, nonetheless. He’s extremely aware of how screwed he would be if he got caught, how screwed she would be—if Hopper knew just how often he did this, Mike would be dead before their next crawl—it's selfish. Mike never said that he wasn’t; but he’s been trying to put his selfish desire aside a lot more now. What had once been venturing into the tunnels every night had become every other night, every two nights. Now, Mike can survive off of once a week alone with her, with difficulty. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, evidently. It throws it on the ground and stomps on it first. 

When he steps out of the shed, she is standing there, on the porch, cloaked in moonlight. Her hair is curled at her chin, and one of Hopper’s old flannels hangs open around her pajamas, a white tank top and clashing flannel shorts. She looks perfect, entirely her, and Mike trips over a rock on his way to her, shivers at her bell-like laughter. 

“What are you doing here?” She asks, hushed as Mike carefully joins her, her cold hands finding his bare forearms, sticky with June heat. 

“How did you know I was coming?” He counters. His eyes rove over her like it’s been five months since the last time he saw her, and not five hours, like he can’t help himself, and El looks back, like she can’t either, wide eyed and leaning in. 

“I know everything,” she says plainly, taps her temple. Then, “I watched you. Why do you always hold your breath in the tunnels?” 

Mike thanks God she can’t see him go red. “You saw that? Um, I’m superstitious,” he lies. Not claustrophobic. “I wanted to see you.” 

El notices the lie; is kind, merciful enough not to say so. She cradles Mike’s face in her frigid little hands and leans up to kiss him, soft, warm lips brushing against his feather-light, until she tugs him down to kiss her properly—and for a minute, that’s all there is. Time stops, the moon gets brighter, Mike’s brain starts to play Spandau Ballet. There are few things in life better than El Hopper, than her mouth pressed against his, her teeth pressing gently into the swell of his lower lip. 

Mike doesn’t have the slightest idea how long they stay like this, just that El pulls away since he won’t, knocks her forehead against his as they each catch their mingling breath. 

Mike grins, wets his kiss-bitten lips. “Happy Birthday,” he whispers. 

“You came… just to say Happy Birthday?” She asks slowly, her face pinched like she wants to be strict about it—her quiet disapproval had been the only thing to make Mike reconsider and conclude that he was possibly going overboard with his nightly visits, after his reasons for biking across town in the middle of the night grew increasingly unimportant, and after Dustin, ever the snitch, let it slip that he was falling asleep during class—it gives away to a smile, timid, when Mike shrugs. 

“Among other things,” he says coyly. 

“You shouldn’t have.” At Mike’s sportive ‘aw’, she rolls her eyes. “Not like that. You shouldn’t have come; you have school in the morning.” She steps back so she can look at Mike properly, give him the unimpressed, I think you’re being stupid face that Mike loves so much, loves maybe even more than the face she makes when she’s happy with him. 

Mike sidles forward. “I have school every day,” he dismisses. “Your Birthday only happens once a year.” 

“Mike —” 

“I just— I have something for you. Two things,” Mike says, not above dropping to his knees and begging. “Two things, and I’ll go home. I’ll go to bed... get eight hours of sleep, since you care so much—” 

El scoffs, beaming. She pushes gently at Mike’s chest and he takes her hand in between both of his, leans closer, magnetic.  

“I won’t fall asleep in class,” he tells her. “I promise.” 

El raises her eyebrows, gazes deeply into Mike’s eyes. There’s a fifty-percent chance she’ll still tell him to go the fuck home, and it wouldn’t be the first time, disciplined and self-abnegating in a way Mike has never been in his life; he can’t tell which way she’s leaning, her poker face is good like that. He stares back, gets lost in it, a bit, and almost forgets what he’s fighting for. Then she looks away, twists her lips up towards her cheek, stares back up at Mike through her eyelashes. 

“What do you have?” She asks quietly. Mike grins. 

El’s knee knocks against his as they lower onto the steps of the porch, waiting patiently as Mike roots around the mess that is his seventh-grade backpack. While he does, he over explains himself, feeling increasingly nervous and increasingly stupid. “I know it’s not- you know, like—oh, man—I mean, with all the shops closed, and all... I sort of had to improvise? If you hate it, don’t tell me. Actually—! I mean, I want you to be honest, of course, so if that’s what it takes... You can say you hate it. If you want. I’ll be like really embarrassed but—” 

El’s hand slides over his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, which is her way of telling Mike he really doesn’t need to say anything either. She presses her thigh more insistently against his bouncing knee and he hands her a tiny box with a card underneath, lips pursed and cheeks pink. She doesn’t say anything about the shoddy wrapping paper job. Because she’s perfect, Mike thinks. She goes to tear open the card first, and he stops her. 

“That’s like, doubly embarrassing,” he chuckles to offset the near-concerning thump in his chest, ears going hot. “Don’t read it ‘til I’m gone, please.” 

El, still perfect, sets the envelope aside easily, smiling politely in a way that only Mike can tell means she’s endlessly amused by his waffling, and it soothes him all the same. Her clumsy fingers tear at the paper and Mike stuffs the remnants back into his backpack for something to do other than stare as she pries open the box. He knows she’s seen it when he hears the soft gasp, nervous anticipation brings his gaze back to her. 

It’s a necklace, swaying back and forth in her hand, strung with small yellow, orange, and lavender beads. Dangling in the center, there’s a golden charm, the shape of a star. El blinks at it. 

Mike lets out a breath, a squeaky half-laugh cough sort of thing. “I made it... for you,” he says, the over-explanation rising back up his throat like bile. “Holly wanted to take half the credit for it because she let me use her beads—but, like, I did all the actual work. I know you said you really like orange now, so I added that, too, and I also know it’s like- super lame for a birthday gift, but everywhere is basically shut down and we can’t go out of town—which I would’ve, by the way, to get you something—and the thought of you not getting anything for your birthday made me really sad, so I-” 

“I love it, Mike,” El whispers, with feeling, fixing her shining eyes onto him. Mike volleys between being flattered and vaguely panicked, because it hadn’t been his intention to make her cry—but she was going to, now, her eyelashes wet and her bottom lip wobbling dangerously.  

“I wasn’t expecting you to like it this much,” Mike murmurs, eyes wide, and wants to punch himself in the stupid face a million times. Then El laughs, her real, whole-bodied laugh, like she forgot they were trying to be quiet. The urge to hit himself dissipates, slightly.  

She lets him put the necklace on her, his sweaty, shaking hands fumbling with the clasp over and over again before he finally gets it. He brushes the pads of his fingers over the soft hair at the back of her neck, a curious afterthought, and her responding shiver makes him shiver, too, snapping out of it. 

“It’s on,” he says roughly. 

When El turns back towards him, her face is pensive again, brow pinched, and she’s silent as she curls her fingers around the charm. 

“Are you okay?” Mike asks carefully. 

“I have to take it off,” she answers, looking at him. “In the morning, when I train. Jewelry... Hop said that it’s dangerous… and that it’ll slow me down.” She holds out her hand, braided blue hair tie snug around her wrist, the ring Mike gave her for Christmas ‘85 on her first finger.  

“These were our compromise,” she says. 

Mike wants to kick himself, because he knew that. Well, some part of him had known, assumed that it probably isn’t wise to wear accessories during training. He’s only seen her train once—Hopper forbade him from coming ever again. He was too much of an anxious back-seat driver, too distracting. Watching her run and leap and roll through various obstacles, of course a necklace was inconvenient, downright unsafe for the work she was doing. 

And Mike could tell her Hopper is right, that she’s right—but he thinks she must know already. She looks devastated about it, resigned in a way she often is, in a way they all are, when they remember that this is what their life is, now. With El, it is infinitely more depressing, when she so seldom gets the reprieve that the rest of them do, has never been able to enjoy it for as long. It’s unfair, and it’s her Birthday, and Mike can’t stand to see her like this, so different than a few minutes ago, so defeated. 

He tries his best. “That’s okay! You won’t have training forever. When this is over, you can wear whatever you want.” 

El smiles wistfully; Mike is just glad to see her smile, at all, wants to keep it that way. And then her eyebrows knit, and she looks down at her lap before her face crumbles, asks, “Do you think it’ll be over soon?” 

“I hope so,” Mike answers honestly. 

“Do you think...” El whispers, toying nervously with her own fingers, bending them back and forth, picking at her already scabbing cuticles. Mike covers her hands with one of his own, she takes a breath, shaky on the exhale. She’s quiet for longer after that—Mike waits, patient, warming her hands in his, watching her profile. Usually when she speaks, El is purposeful, hardly ever stutters, doesn’t ramble like Mike is prone to; right now Mike sees her struggle, not about finding the words—wondering if she should say them. 

Finally, she presses her lips together, looks at Mike with wet eyes. “Do you think that everyone will still be here?” 

It comes out so easily that Mike is sure it’s not what she was actually going to say. He clings to it anyway, because understanding what she might have wanted to say makes his heart clench sharply in his chest. It makes him want to cry, too. 

“In Hawkins?” He asks. She shrugs, confirmation. “I don’t know—but, I know we’ll always be... here, here. Here for each other, you know? No matter where we end up.” He sounds like a greeting card. His face flames. “Sorry, that—sounded so cheesy. It’s stupid.” 

“No it’s not,” Says El. “It’s perfect.” 

“I think about it a lot,” Mike admits. “And it makes me feel better. I know I’m like, not that good at pep-talks, but—” 

“I’m pepped.”

Mike watches her lip quirk, and then they both dissolve into hushed laughter, curling into each other. El’s fingers slot subtly between his in the middle of it, like an attempt to keep Mike close, still, after he moves away—only he stays, leaned in, and rests his chin on top of her head. 

They sit there, who knows for how long, in comfortable silence. Mike stays very still, acutely aware of the minutes ticking by and hoping, desperately, that she is not. That she’s dozed off against his shoulder, and Mike can stay until the sun rises, until he has to go, and she can get mad, playfully disappointed, but still let him kiss her before he leaves. Like so many times before. He misses it. 

But something like three minutes later, her fingers flex against his. “You should go,” she whispers, breaking Mike’s heart a little. “Don’t tell me what time it is—” 

“It’s please-let-me-stay-fifteen,” Mike replies. “I think what I should be asking is if you want me to go—” 

“Mike-” 

“Because I’ll go, if that’s what you want. I just, y’know, I’ve gotta hear you say it. You’re holding my hand like you want me to stay. Do you want me to stay?” 

They’re both grinning. “I want you alive, tomorrow.” El says. “If you stay here tonight, Hopper will kill you.” 

He can hardly convince her of anything she hasn’t already decided—but he can stall for a few more minutes with her. Devastatingly, she slides her fingers out from between Mike’s, and he knows she means it. One by one, each little point of contact is severed; she unhooks her ankle from around his, and her kneecap stops pressing against his own. Not for the first time—but suddenly, and this time for one selfish reason only, Mike wishes this was all over now. Wishes she didn’t have to train, wishes he didn’t have to sit through Algebra, wishes there wasn’t the looming storm cloud of loss that was easy to ignore, sometimes, but there nonetheless. A constant reminder. 

He looks at El and knows she feels the same, knows her reasons aren’t selfish at all.  

He stands up. El rises with him, restores one small bit of contact. A hand on his collar, thumb brushing up his throat. 

“Thank you for the necklace,” she murmurs. “When you leave I’ll read the card.” 

“It’s not good,” Mike rushes to inform. “Or anything. Just... me saying Happy Birthday. In fact I don’t know why I told you not to read it—you could’ve, I was embarrassed but I think it probably would’ve been-” 

El squeezes his shoulder, presses her thumb against his jumping pulse. She leans in and kisses him silent. “Go home,” she says when she pulls away, uses the same thumb to swipe across Mike’s lower lip. 

“I’m going,” Mike whispers, and doesn’t move. 

El turns around, stepping back up onto the porch, when she looks over her shoulder, Mike finds himself again, snatching his backpack off the ground and throwing it over his shoulder, tripping down the stairs. The white-hot pain that shoots up his ankle is worth it for the way El snorts, hiding her smile behind a purple envelope. 

“Happy Birthday,” Mike says again, walking backwards towards the shed. He trips again; El turns to face the door, shoulders shaking.  

“Goodnight, Mike,” she bids, opening the front door carefully, and Mike watches her disappear behind it. He stands there for a minute, in the middle of the forest, smiling like an idiot. Afterwards he goes the way he came: into the shed, down the ladder.  

This time, walking back through the tunnels, Mike feels the lack of heavy loneliness and knows she is watching, and he remembers to breathe. 

El, 

For some reason, years of writing campaigns and months of letters didn’t make this any easier. I’m kinda nervous still. Happy Birthday. I know it’s not anything to write home about (haha). Not nearly as much as you deserve. When the MAC Z finally gets packed up and this is over, all of it, I’ll go to the store and get you a real birthday gift. Whatever you want. We can have a cake, and we can sing happy birthday, and we can go to the beach or visit your mom or go to the movies. Or we can do all three, if you want, since it’s your birthday and all. Next year, don’t be afraid to ask, please.  

There’s nothing I can write in a card that I haven’t said to you already, but I’d write it all again a thousand times to make sure you never forget. Your laugh, your bravery, your selflessness, the way you talk… all of you. Knowing you makes me the luckiest person in the world. 

This card is way smaller than I thought or I accidentally wrote too big so I’m going to shut up now. Thank you for saving us like, all the time. Thanks for saving me. I know you’re not crazy about your birthday but I hope this makes you like it a little more, makes you more excited. Another year around the sun is a big deal. Sixteen is a big deal.  

I love you. I’m happy you were born. 

Mike 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELLE!!!!!  

  - HOLLY