Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler, above all else, is a terrible, horrible person.
He's selfish, and clingy, and stupid and reckless and careless and he can't even fucking be there for his friends when it really matters.
Honestly he's half-sure Eleven would have broken up with him after all this if she hadn't—
If she—
…
. . .
It would have been deserved.
And he kicks himself near-constantly, because they never really talked things out, never really patched things up. And he realizes now that simply saying I love you wouldn't have fixed everything between them in the long run, and that's.
Knowing what he knows now, in the absence of her—in the absence of everyone and everything he's known.
He almost wishes the end of the world would happen a sixth time.
…He does, actually.
Because then, maybe, if the entirety of humanity is dead, they won't have to see him fuck up again.
It's a selfish thought.
But…
It keeps him steady. Kind of. Maybe.
Not really, he just—
He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Will Byers moved back to California today.
That's all. That's literally all that had happened—normal and fine and there's nothing wrong with it because stars, Will deserves a fucking break, and if that's out of Hawkins entirely then so be it.
…And, if it's out of Mike's life entirely too, then, that's…
. . .
He doesn't blame him.
He doesn't, and the thing is, he doesn't write or call him either. Just like with Lenora, and that whole shitshow, except this time it's because he knows Will hates him, not just because he thinks he might.
…Well. That's only sort of true.
When Will had first moved to Lenora, he'd tried writing him. And then couldn't. And then because he couldn't, he stopped trying altogether, because it'd been too long by then, and Will hadn't written or called back, and that meant he'd fucked up.
And yet, there's still hundreds of unsent letters in his closet, and he can't bring himself to acknlowedge their existence because then he'll have to acknlowedge why they're in there at all.
And Will's gone back to California.
(A different town, probably. Or maybe it's the same. He can't remember.)
And Mike can always start new letters. All starting with Dear Will, all ending up back in his closet. And then he'll spend minutes, hours, days playing scenarios in his head of calling him, of hearing Will's voice, only to stare at the phone too long until Holly gives him a weird look, until she hogs the phone all to herself and calls her best friends.
It puts perspective onto how much of an idiot Mike Wheeler has been, and continues to be. Because he's talked to his other friends. Even fucking Max Mayfield, who's with Lucas Sinclair in Fort Wayne and relentlessly snarks to him about how he could literally be doing anything else and he agrees but he calls her anyway.
They all ask about his book. (Of course they do. They're good friends.) How progress is going.
He lies and says it's going. He lies and says he has the full story planned out already. He lies, and says he's proud of what it is so far.
He can't be proud, because Will's not a part of it anymore.
And that's his own fault.
*
Mike Wheeler, other than being a horrible person, is also objectively a loser.
He knows this, and he still doesn't do a single thing about it because why would he? That's just out of his skillset as a person. And that's more than evident when Holly has her friends over for D&D and all he seems to focus on, instead of his actual writing assignments for college, is the fact they're playing D&D to begin with.
The last time he'd played D&D…
. . .
That was the last time all of his friends had been together in one spot, having met up for one last session before adulthood properly buried its roots in all of them. It's been months since then, months since Will Byers told him in the Wheeler driveway that he was going to be moving back to California, along with Jonathan, his mom and Hopper. Come to think of it, Mike's not so sure he even said where in California. He should've asked. He should've asked, for some amount of closure, for his own sanity, so even if they never talked again, he knew Will was safe in some shitty town in another state halfway across the country.
That was the last time they talked.
Because Mike is an idiot.
(That's a given though.)
The shittiest—or, one of the shittiest parts of this, is that Dustin Henderson the only one who remains in Hawkins, and makes it a point to check in on him everyday. It makes Mike feel fucking guilty, but he doesn't want to say that because Dustin will just give him one of those sad, sad looks, like he always does, and Mike has half the mind that he's also part of the reason Dustin stays in Hawkins at all but he doesn't say that either.
"I miss her, too," Dustin says, always empathetic, always sharing in his issues, and Mike shoves down the urge to snap at him because he's heard it so many times, too many times. Because that's part of it, it always is—everyday, he wakes up and thinks of her. But he thinks about Will, too. He's not sure how to say either of those things without his throat feeling full of cotton, and Dustin never presses him.
Maybe he should. Maybe Dustin should be meaner. Mike wouldn't really mind it. He'd be angry for a second but he'd get over it, like he always does, and he always, always deserves it, so it'd be okay.
Tomorrow is Halloween. Dustin invited him to Steve's party tomorrow night, because of course he did, of course he's going, of course.
Mike is bitter, and he knows that. He's petty and he knows that. But the idea of going to a party of all things is the very last thing he wants to do on a Sunday night, especially if it's Steve Harrington's. If you ask him, he'd fucked to know why Steve's still friends with Nancy, let alone Dustin.
And, that's just it. That's where it comes in.
The selfishness. The clinginess, the possessiveness.
The hold he, of all people, thinks he has over everyone who's ever known him.
He's still here, still thinking he has any right to be a friend to anyone anymore. He's still here, when he failed El, when he failed Will, when he failed everyone that truly mattered.
…And yep, of course, now, he's just feeling sorry for himself.
Idiot.
He should be using this time to write. He should, and yet.
And yet…
…
*
There's a knock on his bedroom door.
Mike jolts up from his desk, where he definitely hadn't been dosing off. He doesn't need to see to know who it is by the knock. "Come in," he calls.
Hair long, blonde and unkept, Holly steps through the door. She looks sheepish, and she wastes no time in asking, "Do you have an extra dice?" The smile she tries to placate with him is kinda pathetic, if he's being completely honest. "We kinda, uh… Lost one?"
Mike sighs, then rolls his eyes for good measure. Nonetheless he goes to stand, pushing his desk chair back into place, since it seems like he's getting shit done tonight.
"It's die, and yeah, hold on," he says, walking over to the closet. He plies the doors open, and grabs a tiny box from the top shelf, pointedly ignoring what's next to it. "Which one?"
"Twenty-sided," Holly answers, and Mike rolls his eyes again. He ignores her as she steps into the closet next to him, his focus on the box. "Are you flunking or something?"
"What?" Mike shoots her a withering glare. "No! Why—"
"Why do you have so many balls of paper up there?" Holly retorts right back. "'Cause it looks a lot like you were given homework and didn't do it."
"It's not— That's— Get out."
"I'm just saying!"
"Out!"
She huffs, but backs off and away, before going over to his bed and flopping herself on it. "How does it take you so long to find one dice," she instead pesters.
"Die."
"Okay, rude."
Holy shit Mike was about to kick her out of his life altogether.
He finally finds a twenty-sided die in the mess that is the box full of extra dice, and tosses it to her without looking, not minding her indignant, "Hey!" as he shoves the box back onto the shelf and shuts the closet doors closed once more.
"You're mean," Holly says, when he turns back to face her. "I'm gonna tell all my friends you're a jerk."
"Go ahead."
"Maybe I will."
"I thought you said you were going to?"
She sticks her tongue out at him, before springing up from the bed and practically skipping towards the door to the hallway.
Before pausing in front of it. "You should do something about all that paper," she states matter-of-factly, then steps out and slams the door behind her before Mike can yell at her.
Well, he does anyway. "Screw you!" he screams, because she's not old enough to hear the f-word.
Is it childish? Yes, but so is Holly, and that's the last time he does his little sister a favor.
Ugh.
He can't wait 'til he moves out.
…
. . .
He trudges back to his desk, robotically tugging the chair out again, and all but falling into it, sighing. He grabs a new sheet of paper, and a pen, because he doesn't like pencils. He's never liked pencils.
Regrettably, he considers Holly's words, and scoffs, because he should really just throw those half-assed letters away finally. He's not sure why he keeps them.
…
He lies to himself, and tries to convince his head that he's not sure why he begins scratching out a Dear followed by a W.
He stops, staring blankly at the mostly-blank page.
He crumples the paper into a ball, and tosses it over his shoulder.