Chapter Text
SIDE B
Mike groans as he wakes up. The first thing he feels is the little electric shocks of pain raging in his joints. The second is the floor beneath him. Has he fallen out of bed? Where there should be a plush mattress and soft sheets, there are hard floorboards. As more awareness filters in, Mike hears the distant hum of car engines and the rustling of leaves.
He shifts a little, and the ground beneath him grazes his skin like rough concrete as cold sets in, like he’s trapped in wet clothes.
Mike snaps his blind eyes open reflexively, his heart plummeting to his feet. He drags his hands over the floor around him, too alarmed to be stopped by the pain in his joints, and feels wet concrete scratch against his palms.
What? Mike pushes himself to sit, quivering like a leaf in the wind as the cold takes bites of his sensitive skin, digging in deep to his joints and making them burn as if its teeth have venom.
The rustling leaves sound closer now, as does the hum of car engines. As realisation sinks in, Mike’s breath speeds up. How is he outside? He’d fallen asleep in his bed, in his boyfriend’s arms. Had he had an episode and walked himself into the road? Surely not.
His bare toes are numb, and his fingers are stiff and frigid. His sweater is sticky with rain, and his sweatpants cling to him uncomfortably. It’s drizzling rain, a light mist, but Mike must have been lying in it for a while because his hair is dripping damp, and the road beneath him is wet.
The rumble of a car engine catches his attention. The static sound of wet tyres on wet road approaches him, and Mike stumbles to stand, his legs wobbling and protesting against it.
The concrete is like ice under his bare feet. He brings his hands to his chest, walking nervously through the dark in search of anything familiar. A street sign, a neighbour's car he recognises, anything, but when his feet land in mud, he realises he might be further from home than he thought.
A choir of rustling trees sit in front of him. Branches creak, and birds sing. Wind kisses his cheeks, and rain spits down at him, and Mike racks his brain for answers as to where he could be. There’s a forest near the Byers' house; had he tried walking there? But why would he do that? Will was in bed with him.
He doesn’t get much time to ponder. A car approaches, wet tyres spitting as they race over the road, and Mike stumbles away, sticks digging into his feet and sharp rocks piercing his skin as he does. As the car gets closer, the sound of the tyres softens as it slows, and Mike hears the car click and creak like his mom’s worn hips when she stands up. The car stops on the road beside him, and Mike can only pray that a familiar voice shows up.
He hears a window roll down and the clink and clack of a stack of bracelets as someone moves around inside, “You need help?” A kind, feminine voice appears.
Mike nods, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. If only he had his cane; without it to scan side to side as he walks, he feels like he’ll walk right into a wall or off a cliff.
“I-I don’t know how I got here.” Mike stammers, his teeth chattering. It isn't winter anymore, but spring’s cold can be just as unforgiving.
The following response takes a while to come. The car creaks as the woman moves around some more, the leather seats squeaking a little. Mike hears her car door open, and her heeled boots hit the ground, clip-clopping as she approaches him. She smells like cheap perfume, and she stops a few steps from him.
“Honey, can you see?” She asks, most likely staring hard at him, while Mike’s grey eyes are fixed on the floor.
Mike shakes his head, used to the question.
The lady comes closer, and Mike tries not to shy away. The moment people realise he’s disabled, they treat him like an infant made of glass. As annoying as it is, that can be useful right now for getting home.
“Okay, I’ll drive you home.” The lady offers kindly, her hands landing on his arms, “Here, I’ll help you to the car.”
“Thank you.”
She lowers him into the seat, and Mike sighs in relief as the car’s warmth swallows him up. The car shakes as the lady gets in, and he hears the crank of a dial followed by a surge of warmth.
“You look frozen.” She laughs sadly, “Where do you live, honey? What’s your name?”
Mike rubs his cold hands over his knees as if he can massage the pain away, “Maple Street.” He answers, “The Wheelers. I’m Mike.”
The car jolts as if she’d stepped abruptly on the brakes. The seatbelt digs into Mike’s neck as he yelps in surprise.
“Sorry!” The lady chuckles, but it sounded fake, too stiff and put on, “Sorry. Sorry. Just–”
Mike frowns, listening to her stumble over her words. He shakes his head. He’ll be home soon, “W-What time is it?” He asks. His mom is probably throwing a fit.
“Erm,” The lady’s voice quivers as if she's afraid, “Just before nine.”
Mike sighs. His mom wakes up at eight and always pops her head into her kid’s rooms to check on them. Nancy has gone to college with Jonathan, and since she left, Karen’s protective instincts have been kicked into overdrive with more than enough to go around. Mike almost doesn't want to go home; he’ll never hear the end of it.
Just how had he gotten out of the house?
“Where am I?” Mike asks, “–Like, what road?”
“You were on the road just outside of Hawkins.” The lady answers, and Mike’s jaw opens in shock.
Outside of Hawkins? How had he walked that far without knowing it? No. There was no way. Not with his joints. A sick feeling churns in his stomach.
The drive lasts just a few minutes. Mike barely notices the time going by, too caught up in his bewilderment. Once the car stops, Mike unbuckles his seat belt. “Thank you.” He says, “I-I can make it to the front door myself.”
Probably. Fire rages in his joints. By now, he would’ve usually had his painkillers, but luckily, it isn't a bad day. He could still walk, if only short distances. He just has to make it to the front door.
“I’m sorry.” The lady says, a hand on his arm stopping him from opening the door, “I didn’t take you home.”
Mike pauses, cowering away a little, “Where did you take me?”
“The police station, Mike.”
If he were less polite and shaken up, Mike would’ve dropped his head and groaned. If he weren’t blind and pitiful, the lady would’ve just taken him home, assuming he was a troublemaker who snuck out. The strange thing about being disabled is that everyone agrees you need help, but nobody allows you to have input on what help you actually need. Like parenting a child, they assume they know your life better than you do,
At least Hopper would be here. He’s usually on shift by now, right? Hopper will take him home.
“Your parents have been missing you.” The woman speaks softly, her voice thin like how Karen’s gets when a sad advert comes on the TV, “For years now, your loved ones have been grieving.”
Mike frowns. What? What is she talking about?
“M-My parents?” Mike stammers. He doesn't have parents. Plural. He has a mom who tries her best and a dad who stepped out when he was in a coma, fighting for his life.
There's the sound of dry hair rubbing together, and Mike assumes she's was nodding, “I don’t know what hell you’ve been through,” She says, “But your family is gonna be so happy that you’re home.”
Just how much fuss had they kicked up in less than an hour?
He’s missing something. Mike swallows around a dry tongue, tasting like sleep and fails to come up with an answer for what this woman has been saying.
“Come on,” She nudges him, “I’m sorry I don’t have any shoes for you to wear.”
She leaves the car, and her clip-cloppy heels click and clack around till they are outside Mike’s window. The cold rushes in, gathering him up in its unpleasant embrace, and he shivers harder than he already is, the movements prodding his tender joints, and Mike dreads standing up.
“Here we go, honey.” The woman wraps an arm around him and helps him out of the car. Mike holds in his whimpers and groans of pain and takes small steps on bare feet and wobbling legs, “Just a little further.”
The closer he gets to the police station, the more he can hear. Shoes squeak on tiles, keyboards clack, and there is a low hum of chatter.
The lady pushes open the heavy metal door with a low creak, “Um, hi.” She says to someone, “I-I need the chief.”
Yes. Bring me Hopper. Mike thinks. He's so ready to be home with his boyfriend and heating pads on his joints, even if they’ll come with a lecture. Karen will probably put extra locks on the door, and Will will hold him even tighter at night–well, that part won't be so bad.
“What’s the problem?” Hopper’s voice comes, but there's something off. His footsteps are heavier than usual, more clumsy, and his voice is softer–the way it had been before Russia. Mike shrugs it off. He is confused and disoriented, and maybe Hopper had just had a great cup of coffee.
“Mike.” The lady shakes him, and Mike chokes on a whimper as the pain in his legs worsens. He can't stand much longer; either he sits down, or his legs buckle. “Can you talk to the chief?”
The room hushes suddenly to an eerily still quiet. As if the room had frozen and time had stilled. The silence is broken by a clack, something light hitting the ground, a pen, maybe.
“...Mike?” Hopper breathes. He sounds amazed. He sounds terrified.
Something is wrong.
“H-Hopper?” Mike stammers, limping forward. His feet are tender, sore with grazes, and seriously, he needs to sit down.
Meeting him halfway, Hopper steps forward. He's wearing the wrong cologne. Mike had gotten him a new one. It was woodsy, like their old cabin, but sweet with vanilla, like the festive scents that always swarmed the Byers' house. This smells too much like a generic man’s perfume, like the one that Dustin had bought for the Snowball and nearly suffocated them all with.
“Okay, kid.” Hopper murmurs, “Let’s take this to a private room.”
Hopper wraps an arm around him, and their sides brush together, but his–it doesn't feel like Hopper. Hopper’s embraces are firm. Russia had sculpted him into one of Mike’s action figures. He's all muscles and soft touches that should've been irreparably destroyed by the Russians. This isn't Hopper. It isn't his Hopper.
This Hopper still has his belly, still has his soft edges and stinky cologne.
Mike stops moving, stops letting Hopper guide him.
…Just where has he woken up?
SIDE A
“What do you mean you can’t find him?”
Will paces back and forth. He’d woken up in an empty bed, his boyfriend missing and no signs of how he’d disappeared. The locks on the door aren't undone, the keys haven't been moved, and even the sheets haven’t been ruffled. It's like he vanished into a cloud of smoke right there in Will’s arms.
El sniffles, blood seeping from her nose, “I can’t find him.” She says again.
Karen runs her hands through her hair. Frizzed and dry as if she’s been shocked with static, “How does Mike make it out of the house on his own?” She cries.
Will stops pacing. El had checked the Upside Down, and Mike isn't there, and he can't be because Henry is dead.
But things aren't adding up.
Will shakes his head. “He doesn’t.”