Chapter Text
Wednesday
August 23rd 1989
Mike Wheeler wakes up at about 11:45 in the morning, to the sound of car horns blaring outside his window. Peeling open his eyes he's met with a golden slit of sunlight stretched over his bed, creeping through his curtains, haphazardly thrown shut. He rolls over on his side, groaning at a dull pain ripping through his neck; he’s not used to this new bed; which is barely long enough to hold, feet pressed against the wooden foot-board every time he straightens out. Upon sitting up he tries to shove the weight of sleep off his body, only for it to cling to him like a second skin. He stands up and shuffles over to the window, drawing the curtains open and wincing at the flash of daylight slapping his face. Blinded, craning his neck to look at his clock, he reads: 11:47. Time to wake up.
He straightens his hunched frame and stretches his arms over his head, dropping them down when an immense yawn escapes him. The man is exhausted despite having been in bed since early last night, however, broken bouts of sleep and startling awake from unfamiliar city noises doesn't exactly count as rest. He longs to be back in his childhood bed in Hawkins, far away from the babbling city.
He never thought he’d miss home, not this much. That old house which once felt suffocating now seems a snug refuge from the unfamiliar buzz that surrounds him now. But he knows he can't go back, he's outgrown those walls, that whole town. Now he has to start anew, and do right by his ambition of becoming a writer, he won't let himself down this time.
Mike grunts, massaging the pain in his neck with his fingers as he navigates his room, aiming for the bathroom to splash himself awake; he trips over the handle of his backpack en route, which he had thrown carelessly next to his bed the night before, and he regrets it in that moment as he stumbles forward a few feet.
After washing up and grabbing his backpack, he finds a half empty box of Peanut Butter Boppers. Steve gave him a pack of them when saying goodbye yesterday, he could tell he was feeling emotional watching one of his kids fly the nest, but instead of puddling into a blubbing mess like his mother, he choked them back, trying to remain cool. Part of Mike wanted to see him let loose for a change. He snacks on the bopper as he walks to his suitcase, ready to throw on a clean outfit, freeing him from the clothes he's had on since yesterday, which now feel cold with the sweat from sleep having cooled down in the noon air.
Mike tears open the beaten old leather suitcase, revealing the flattened contents: two shirts, two pants, two pairs of socks and a beat up pair of sneakers. He purposefully packed as little as possible, that way he had more room to pack his books, DnD stuff and typewriter, which were all squashed up against his clothes. He decided he could buy more clothes when he got to Indianapolis, with the money he had been gifted from his family, so long as he was able to take his essentials as well as all he’d need to entertain himself.
He throws on a red and blue striped t-shirt, black corduroy pants and some yellow socks with tiny bees on them, a gift from Holly. He paces over to his desk, slouching into the creaky office chair wheeled next to it. He grabs the stack of papers sitting in front of him and begins to flick through them, stopping at a list of texts he was instructed he would need upon arriving at class. Mike grabs a notepad and lists all the books he’d need to borrow from the campus library later that day: about 9 books, ranging from biographies to non fiction novels. He tears the page from his notes, stuffing the list into his pockets, where he feels around to find an old snickers wrapper; dis-coloured from being run through the laundry.
Mike scans his room, searching for his jacket, when his eyes land on an open cardboard box at the corner of his room. His eyes linger on a familiar muddle of green and red poking out from stacks of VHS tapes and empty notepads. He crosses the room and crouches before the box, gently pulling the rolled up paper out from the small space it was squeezed into. Turning around to rest his back against the box and crossing his legs, he carefully unravels the painting. He watches as his prying hands unveil that familiar painting, the one Will had gifted him that spring break in Lenora when the world had been thrown into chaos once again.
A bright red three headed dragon looming over four armour clad figures: Mike, bearing a shield decorated with a red heart, sword directed to one of the dragons many necks; Dustin, boasting a huge axe and a signature Viking horn helmet; Lucas, riding a tall white horse, sword and shield in hand; and Will. Mike traces his thumb over the small figure of his best friend, adorned in a silver robe, holding a wooden staff in his left hand and casting a glowing spell in his right. He feels the ridges left behind by the brush on the paint as he lingers there, thinking of home.
Mike replays the day before in his head, loading his belongings into the trunk of his fathers car, turning around to find his mother watching him, red eyed and sniffling. He hugs her tight as she sobs into his shoulder, stroking her head and feeling her hair end at the nape of her neck - he's not used to that yet. He assures her he's going to be fine, that she doesn’t have to worry. She only half believes him, nodding while tracing the open front of his jacket with her fingers.
He turns to his friends, giving Lucas a rough but earnest hug, patting his back and giggling when Lucas ruffles (ruins) his hair playfully. Next he turns to Dustin, leaning down just enough to rest his chin on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around him, then unravelling himself and squeezing his shoulder. Then it's Max's turn, he was expecting her to be cool about it but she wastes no time in throwing her arms around his shoulders, throwing him off balance for a moment. She makes a comment about how he's totally bragging on everyone else by getting into such a sought after college before patting him on the back and saying he deserves it.
Mike straightens up and is met with a firm grip on his back, wrestling him into a hug. Steve scolds him for leaving everyone behind, trying to conceal a half sob in his voice. Nancy wraps her arms around his torso once he tears himself from Steve’s unwilling grasp, holding his sister's head against his chest (the farthest she can reach). A small hand tugs at the hem of his shirt, once pried away from Nancy, Mike turns to find Holly standing next to him, crying and holding a small, brightly wrapped box in her little hands. He kneels down and quickly wraps her in a warm embrace, before leaning away and feeling the little box land in his open hand. She wraps his fingers around it tightly and tells him to open in when he’s feeling sad, to which Mike gratefully pats her head.
When he stands up, he sees Hopper approach him, a humble smile stretched out beneath his beard. He gives him a hearty but quick hug of the shoulders, before stepping back to let Joyce do the same, congratulating him as she does. Once free from the queue of people waiting for a hug, he looks around, a heavy feeling pinching his gut. Will is not there.
That hurt the most, not being able to say goodbye to Will, who moved out of Hawkins two months ago without so much as a warning. He remembers that call he got near the end of June, hearing hoppers hefty voice through the speaker,
“Will’s leaving for Fishers now, come say goodbye, kid”
Mike was dumbfounded. He had heard word from Will about moving away, but no mention of a place or date. He threw on his shoes and biked as fast as he could down to that cabin, scared that he’d miss him if he didn’t make it in time. Throwing his bike into the dirt and sprinting up the patio, he burst through the front door, panting hard. He was met with a swarm of bodies, dressed in bright summer shirts and shorts, and there in the middle was Will, tear stained and smiling, face red from likely having sobbed the whole afternoon. Mike had no idea, he couldn’t be there for him, he wasn’t there.
Everyone's heads had whipped around to see Mike standing at the door. He stumbled forward, finding his footing and letting the door swing shut behind him.
“You’re leaving?” he spoke only to Will, as if no one else was there.
“Yeah” Will sighed carefully walking up to him, noting how wobbly and out of breath he was; and stopped barely a foot away, so close Mike could see his harsh breath shifting his hair.
“You… you never told me” mike remarked between breaths, his voice tiny and defeated.
Will looked up at him, hazel eyes full of guilt, “I’m so sorry, Mike. I just sealed the deal on an apartment yesterday and I thought I should head up to make the most out of my rent. I tried to call you last night but your mom said you were busy helping Holly with her campaign”
“Shit” Mike sighed hard. He remembered hearing the phone ring and thinking it was only Lucas or Dustin when Karen dismissed them. Doesn’t she know Will’s more important?
Mike watched as Will’s expression shifted from sorry to sorrowful, and unable to stand seeing him like that, he pulled him into a hug by his shoulders, wrapping his arms around his ribcage and squeezing him tight. He felt Will drape his arms across his back, tracing tiny circles on his shoulder blades with gentle fingers. A tear escaped his eye and a small sob tore through his chest to which Will responded by squeezing him even tighter, whispering into the side of his head,
“I’m so sorry, Mike”
“No, don’t be sorry, you haven't done anything wrong” Mike pleads into Will’s now slightly damp shoulder.
He pulled away to look at Will, hating that he had to realize then, all at once, he was saying goodbye, the big kind of goodbye where you can't be sure when you'll see someone again, but you can be sure that it won't be for a long time.
Mike felt a part of him leave that day in June, part of his childhood, part of everything they've been through, part of him, absolutely. Standing, surrounded by his friends and family, he still feels alone somehow, like there's a Will shaped hole in the surrounding atmosphere that no amount of loved ones can fill.
He tries to fill that hole, imagining Will standing there with everyone else, in front of him, where he should be. But the hole is still empty when he comes to, and the only thing that can fill it is halfway across the state, living a separate life and moving on from Hawkins.
Once having said his final goodbyes, he turns, climbing into the passenger seat of the car, followed by his dad, thumping into the driver's seat, only half ready for the longest, most awkward drive of his life.
Mike sucks in a sharp breath as he comes back to the present, gripping the painting and staring hard at it, as if focusing all of his energy into it would somehow make him feel less lonely. Sighing deeply, he stands up and crosses the tiny distance to the desk, reaching for a pack of thumb tacks. He holds the painting against the wall, just below eye level, and sticks down the corners and edges, he doesn’t care that it damages the walls, he doesn’t want to wait to get a frame and the means to stick it to the wall with those flimsy wall stickers. Once he’s smoothed out the painting against the wall, tacking the longer edges to keep them from curling out, he stands back and observes his prized possession, like a sacred artefact. If he needs one thing to make a room feel like home, it's that painting. Everything else can be bare for all he cares.
Mike left his dorm fully intending to head straight to the library that afternoon, until he comes across a grocery store en route; picturing the almost empty box of peanut butter boppers, the only sustenance left in his dorm. The store seemed to have a midweek sale on, getting rid of all produce near their use by date. Rummaging through his jacket he makes sure he has his wallet, he strolls through the open doors of the store, a hundred different fruit and vegetable smells hitting him in the face all at once.
He skims through each section, from fresh fruits and veg to instant foods and sauces, realising he really doesn't know what would count as a true meal, while also being simple enough for him to figure out on his own - cooking seems such an immense task to him now. In that moment he is immensely grateful to his mother having cooked for him all his life, and equally pissed she didn't kick his ass in gear and teach him how to cook growing up.
Mike manages to fill a basket just over halfway with a promising but nutrition less haul: frozen pizza, a sack of apples, an instant curry pack, a bag of rice, ketchup, a half loaf of bread, butter, a six pack of lemon soda, a sack of carrots and a Hershey's bar. Enough to last him into next week, if he rations his rice well enough.
Standing in the short line to the checkout, Mike perks up at a sound crackling through the radio blasting behind the counter. His breath catches at the familiar sound of The Clash, throwing him back to late 1984, when all seemed lost, when everyone - including him - thought Will was dead. He recounts in his head, the sound of Will's voice singing weakly through the Walkman held in El’s hands. The sudden jump of his heart as he threw down his stash of Will’s drawings and bolted over to her. He was truly grateful to her in that moment, that she held onto hope when everyone else had abandoned it at the lake.
“Dude! Keep moving!” an agitated voice pipes up behind him.
Mike snaps back to the present, profusely apologising once he realised he had been standing in place, holding up the queue for god knows how long. Jogging up to the counter he shakes his head forcefully, trying to shake himself from the daze that has been following him around all day. He thumps his basket on the counter and the cashier raises an eyebrow at him. She croaks through a cloud of cigarette smoke, emanating from her lips,
“Party too hard last night kid?” her voice is cracked from years of smoking.
“Something like that” Mike chokes, nodding, embarrassed now everyone seemed to have noticed him spacing out.
The cashier slowly processes his items, “hangovers a bitch huh?”
Arms now full of groceries, Mike decides to head back to his dorm to put them away, only to be stopped by the bright yellow sign standing outside a thrift store a few feet away: “CLOSING SOON!!! EVERYTHING 80% OFF WHILE STOCKS LAST”. The depressing image of his barren suitcase flashes across his mind. He knows what he must do.
Upon marching into the shop, he is met with the divine sight of rows upon rows of shirts, jeans, jackets and vintage band tees. Mike is in college student heaven. He aims for the men's shirt section, flipping through the rows of hangers when he finds a green sweater with a wide yellow band across its centre, as well as brown cuffs and a faux shirt collar. The fabric is wonderfully soft from many years of wear, he hangs it over his arm, declaring in his head that green is now his thing. He collects a few more shirts, including a black tee with a faded Fleetwood Mac print adorning the front.
Now the tricky part, pants. Mike had shot up a whole foot in the past few years, now nearly as tall as his father, meaning most pants don't fit right. He can always tell just by holding the pants against his frame, checking the length of the inseam. Still, emerges victorious with 2 pairs of pants that actually fit him, a dark wash pair of jeans and some brown cotton suit trousers, with magnificently deep pockets. He sighs triumphantly, a conflicting scent of washing powder and mildew sweeping through his lungs. He turns to the jacket section, noting a nip in the air now autumn is drawing near.
Skimming over the hanger, bending with the immense weight of corduroy and leather, he stops at a brown zip up. A familiar feeling nips him in the gut as he takes it down from the hanger. Upon taking a closer look at the jacket, he notes a few patches sewn onto the front, a yellow star and the Rolling Stones logo. He unzips the jacket to expose the lining, it's a familiar yellow plaid cotton, pilling from years of wear. Feeling the fabric with his fingertips, Mike's mind is drawn immediately back to that spring in Lenora, being stuck in that stuffy van for days while cruising through barren drylands, next to his best friend, who sported a shirt in this exact fabric. That exact pattern had been burned into his memory over those few days, watching as Will sat patiently next to him, or napping when the drive made them drowsy.
Good god.
Missing this boy is eating him alive.
Mike finally makes it back to his dorm, dumping bags of food and clothes onto his bed, as a signal to future him that if he wants to sleep he has to tidy everything away. He spins around and hops over to his desk, leaning down to read his clock. 16:45. The library doesn't close till 10 pm, he contemplates napping instead of going to the library. He leans on his mattress, uncomfortable as it is, it's calling to him, promising the most mediocre but needed sleep of his life. But that thought is shaken away by the sudden image of class tomorrow, getting scolded on the first day, in front of everyone, for not having his texts. He shudders as he bounces up to grab his jacket once more, glancing over at the painting one last time before heading out.
The campus Library is a huge, ancient looking building. It's clearly a few stories tall, sporting tall windows with the occasional stained glass detail. He marvels at the size of the thing, it's much bigger than Hawkins library, and probably holds a nauseating quantity of books. It's only a building, it's not gonna eat you, he tells himself as he jogs up the chipped concrete steps and plunges into the glass foyer, softly glowing gold with with various lamps and small, dull chandeliers; which feels a comforting contrast from the steely grey evening air that had been settling around him until then.
The interior of the building is just as impressive as the exterior, perhaps even more so. Wooden shelves, all coated in a dark lacquer and stretched over every wall, rows of them filling the spaces between them. They reach up all the way to the ceiling, ladders situated along them on railings as the only means of reaching the higher up books. The whole building feels elegantly old, tastefully decorated with old European style paintings on the few strips of wall not claimed by books, and a unique smell, a mixture of wood and dusty books swirling through the atmosphere.
Mike gulps and wanders over to the reception desk, eyes anywhere but the floor as he tries to take in his tremendous surroundings. He bumps the desk with his stomach, whipping his head forward and throwing his arms out to steady himself. He is met with the curious eyes of a woman sitting on the other side of the desk, they seem to be asking, why is this kid so stunned, has he never seen a library before?
“May I help you?” The woman asks cautiously, rising from her seat and standing before him.
“Oh! Yes- yeah I'm- I'm looking for…” Mike rummages frantically through his pockets, fishing out the now crumpled list and straightening it out against the top of the desk, “just these books.”
The woman peers over at the list, the question in her expression fading upon scanning the list, she looks up and smiles at him, before reaching behind the desk and revealing a notepad and pen,
“IU Lit?” she asks.
“Oh, yeah… how'd you know?” Mike responds timidly.
“Theres about 50 of you lot that wander in here at the start of each year, all looking the same texts. You seem especially lost, you from out of town?”
“Yeah, I’m from Hawkins”
“Oh wow, Hawkins? You poor thing”
Mike chuckles, “I mean yeah, we're doing a lot better now though.”
He forgot for the longest while what the rest of Indiana must think of Hawkins after the military operations and the “mall fire” that made headlines, people probably have all sorts of tales and superstitions about it.
“Well that's good to hear. We don't get many Hawkins kids up this way, been a few years since I saw one” she is scribbling what looks to be directions to find the books on her notepad.
“Yeah, we usually don't make it too far out, home keeps some of us there forever.”
As Mike says this he thinks of his friends, how they're all probably happier than he is despite not making it to some fancy university. Flashy achievements feel so pointless now that that's what he's pursuing.
The lady nods and tears the page from her notes, sliding the yellowed paper across the desk to him along with his crumpled list,
“I’ve listed each section you'll need to look in for what texts, Non fiction is downstairs, right behind you” mike whips his head around as she points a finger towards a brass sign hanging above the entrance to a huge book filled room, “poetry is over there, behind the stairs,” she points to a smaller section nestled behind the magnificent marble and wood staircase across from reception, “fiction is up the stairs to your left, in the east wing, and biographies, autobiographies and diaries are in the west wing, just right from the stairs. Everything's organised alphabetically by author and then by title,” she dismisses him with a smile.
“Thank you so much, that's a huge help” Mike takes the notes, beaming at the lady as he shuffles towards the non fiction section, feeling all fuzzy; the kind of buzz that tickles you when a complete stranger extends kindness to you, like someone holding a door open or giving you their parking ticket with a few extra hours on it. He gets to work gathering his books.
Now weighed down by a stack of books, Mike makes his way to the west wing, in pursuit of a biography on Oscar Wilde. He skims over the ends of the rows of shelves, watching out for a sign reading the letter R, for Richard Ellmann. Upon finding the right shelf, he begins to skim over the titles on the spines, watching for the letter O, Oq, Or, Os - got it. He sets his pile down on the ground next to him, stretching out his arms and shaking the strain out of his wrists. He plucks the book from the shelf and drops it at the top of the pile, dust jackets slapping together. Raising his hands up and cupping his sore neck, he sighs triumphantly. Finally done.
Carefully peeling the stack off the floor and straightening up, falling backwards a bit at the cumbersome weight now punching into his chest. He leans his chin down to examine the cover of the book top of the pile as he starts down the passage of shelves, careful not to step too forcefully, fearing the books will topple forward and crush his feet. He isn't paying attention to the path in front of him, the library is practically empty with it being evening now, so he isn't looking out for any potential tripping hazards.
As he turns the corner towards the stairs, he feels a sudden weight crash into him, causing his books to momentarily stab his ribs and collarbone, before falling out of his grasp as his hands give way from the shock. The books tumble over his shoes, accompanied by a second stash, crushing his toes. Mike knows in a split second exactly what just happened, he nearly kicks himself for ignoring the path in front of him.
“Shit! I'm so sorry” Mike frantically apologizes, craning his neck down to look at the mess of scattered books, “here ill- ill fix this. Shit shit.”
He doesn't want to look at who he's crashed into, knowing he'll only be met with the pissed off face of another student, but when he realises the poor person he's ploughed straight into isn't responding, he's tempted to take a glance. He's sure he looks like an idiot standing there, panicking, with his eyes plastered to his shoes.
Mike sees a hand reaching and resting on top of his arm, stopping him from bending down to pick up the texts. Mike freezes. The hand is pale, sporting a digital watch and dressed from the wrist in what seems to be a brown sweater with yellow stripes on it. Gulping, Mike slowly cranes his neck to his right, preparing to be met with the steely glare of an uptight English major, moments away from tearing into him for wandering absently in a public establishment… However, he is instead met with something else.
“Mike?” a soft, concerned voice races through his senses, knocking the air out of him.
Holy shit.
“Will?”
“Hey” Will beams up at him, smiling brightly, so bright Mike swears he's blinded for a second. He gets his bearings and stares hard at Will's face, squinting in an attempt to figure out if it's really him or if he's finally lost it,
“Is that really you?”
“Yes of course, it's me” Will's tone is gentle and concerned, he seems worried by Mike's incredulous reaction.
“How are- I mean, what are you doing here?” Mike is exasperated.
Will furrows his brow and scuffs his shoes on the tacky, varnished wood, "well… It's a long story.”
“I have time,” Mike blurts out.
Will laughs, “Hey come on, lets get these off the floor”
Will ducks down to pick up the books, separating them into piles of his and Mikes. Mike drops down to help him, feeling his legs practically evaporate beneath him. He's shaking. From the shock? That must be it. He focuses on grabbing the texts he recognises, fishing them out from what seems to be collections of artists' portfolios, art history novels and biographies. He stacks up a few of his books before stopping to catch his breath, trying to realise what's happening.
Mike looks at Will, taking in every last detail of his best friend, who has been haunting him all day. He notices the moles, above and below the corner of his mouth, which is drawn tightly shut as he focuses on the task at hand, chewing the inside of his cheek. His hazel eyes gleam golden brown in the dim yellow light of the library, framed by long brown lashes, fluttering back and forth, open and shut, studying the book covers. His hair is longer now, it seems it hasn't been cut since he left, now covering the back of his neck in thick waves and draping over his face. Will tucks a few curls behind his ear to see properly. When did his hair get so curly? A few strands stand out here and there, catching the light and glowing golden blonde. Mike notices Will's neck next, he seems bony compared to before. A pang of dread fills his stomach. Why does he seem so thin? Has he been eating properly? What on earth has happened since June? Is he alright?
“Mike, you alright?” Will asks gently, as if speaking too abruptly would frighten him.
“Huh?”
“You were staring, did you space out?”
Mike is immediately embarrassed, crude red blush creeping across his cheeks, “Oh, sorry- I just…” he can't think of an explanation.
Will slides Mike's pile of books towards him, then tries to pick up his own, to no avail. His fingers can't seem to peel the books from the wood,
“Hey, I’ll get that” Mike offers.
“Oh, thank you, so much” Will beams. That smile almost blinds Mike as he shifts on his knees towards him, needing to look away briefly, as if looking at Will for too long would make him explode.
He picks up the stack of books and stands up, Will following suit, fidgeting with his fingers together across his chest, or that's what Mike thinks is happening. As he carefully extends the stack towards will, he watches as his hands reach out to take them from his grasp. That's when he notices. He's shaking too. As Will takes the books, Mike is surprised to feel him lift them from his hands no problem, despite having trembling fingers, he's gotten strong, huh. Mike picks his books up, standing up and peering over the top of the pile to see Will.
“You here for college?” Will asks him, running his eyes over the spines making up Mike's stack of texts.
“Yeah, literature here at IU”
“Awesome! That was your first choice!” Will grins excitedly.
“Yeah it was!” he remembered, of course he did.
“Well, how have you been?”
Mike sighs hard. Honestly, not great. I've been missing you like crazy and it makes me miserable and no matter where I go I’m haunted by reminders of you and remembering you up and leaving all of a sudden with no way of contacting you. I’m lonely as hell, I can't cook, and my foot just had about 10 books dropped onto it and it feels like its about to swell twice the size of my shoe-
“I’ve been… ok, I guess ” is what he decides to say instead.
Will shoots him a knowing glance, reading the true meaning behind his words, “yeah, I've been the same.”
There's that pang of dread again.
“We’ll have to catch up then, now we're both living in the city” Will offers, trying to cheer the mood, “here, I'll give you my number.”
He crosses over to a nearby table to set his books down, hanging slightly over the edge to make it easier to pick up again. Reaching into the pocket of his pants he pulls out a small notebook and a pencil, it looks like one of those notepads waiters use to take orders at restaurants. He neatly writes out his mobile number, rips it from the book and hands it to Mike, who has also rested his books on the edge of the table and is now leaning on it, steadying himself from his shaking legs.
“Call me when you have spare time, we’ll go do something, ok?”
“Yeah, ‘course” Mike holds the paper, trying to burn the number into his memory.
Will pick up his books and leans away, “see you 'round Mike”
“Sure”
Will starts to walk away.
No, shit no he cant go like this, mike thinks, you've been pining over this boy all day and you're just letting him walk away? You really think you'll be able to sleep tonight, or ever if you let this happen?
“Will!”
Will spins around. Mike's voice feels deafening in the evening quiet of the library, but he doesn't give a shit.
“Yeah?”
“Do you wanna grab dinner?”