Chapter Text
“What about this one?” Will asks, holding up a cyan-blue button-up shirt.
“Nah, I don’t think it’s really my style anymore,” Mike answers, barely glancing up. Will tosses it onto the donate pile.
“Do you want this?” Mike holds up an action figure.
“Mike, come on, you know I already have that one. Why don’t you just keep it here? It’s not like your mom is going to completely clear out your room.”
“Yeah—no. You’re right.” Mike sets the figure back on the desk he’s supposed to be clearing off. “How are you already packed? This is so boring.”
It wasn’t actually that boring. Going through the pieces of his life, one by one, was strangely cathartic. There were so many memories in this little blue room. The walls were a collage of eighteen years of life, the desk drawers a memory box. One drawer stuck when he pulled it open, swollen with old notebooks—campaign notes that drifted into stories, margins crowded with crossed-out sentences he never finished. He closed it again without looking too closely. It felt like closing the door on his childhood all over again, and the thought made his eyes prick with tears.
He was instantly back in his basement three months earlier, playing one last campaign with the party—or what was left of the party. The truth was, Mike still hadn’t moved on. Hopper’s talk on graduation day might have encouraged him to walk the stage, to pretend to his friends that he’d found closure, but Mike still woke in the night screaming El’s name. Losing El felt like losing the future—every plan abruptly erased. The image of her being sucked away by a collapsing wormhole, eyes closed in resignation, would haunt him forever.
So would their last conversation. He’d been a pathetic mess, crying and saying all the wrong things. Why could I never say the right thing to her? She’d been standing in front of him, telling him she was going to die, telling him she loved him. And he’d just stood there. He’d barely kissed her back.
You really are pathetic.
“Mike?”
Will’s voice cut through the spiral. He was holding up an old crewneck, one Mike had gotten on a family vacation a few years back. The blue had faded to a soft gray, the wrist hems frayed, the letters worn thin. Mike didn’t remember when he’d stopped wearing it—only that at some point, it had stopped feeling like his.
Mike took a breath. “Yeah, I—sorry. Got lost in my head for a second.” He swallowed. “That can be thrown out. It’s basically unwearable at this point.”
Will’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, like he was filing the moment away. Whatever he saw there passed quickly, replaced with a small chuckle. “You definitely wore this one out.” He tossed it onto the pile of hole-filled socks and underwear.
“Do you think I should bring my copy of Dragons of Autumn Twilight?” Mike asked, grasping for normalcy, for proof that he was fine.
Will scoffed. “Is that a real question? Duh.”
A few days later, Mike helped Mrs. Byers load the rest of her belongings into Hopper’s truck. Will and Hopper were maneuvering a particularly heavy dresser into the U-Haul.
“Just a little to the left—no, my left—okay,” Hopper grunted as the dresser thudded into place.
“Please tell me that was the last of it,” Will panted, wiping sweat from his brow. Early August in Hawkins was brutal, and today was no exception.
“Just one more table,” Hopper assured him, giving Will a pat on the shoulder.
“Ugh. Okay.” Will was whining, which meant he was exhausted. Mike knew he’d be out like a light as soon as they hit the road.
“Anything else?” Mike asked Mrs. Byers.
She shook her head, and they stood there together, leaning against the truck, looking at the little cabin.
“It feels weird just…” Mike trailed off.
Mrs. Byers gave him a knowing look. “It’s okay if you need a second to say goodbye, Mike.”
“Yeah. I’ll, uh—I’ll be back in a minute.” He didn’t want anyone to see him cry, so he went straight to El’s bedroom.
That was a mistake.
The room was empty. No trace of her, like she’d never existed at all. The realization hit him all at once, and he sank to the floor, head in his hands, sobbing. He didn’t know how long he stayed like that—long enough for someone to come looking.
“Mike, honey,” Mrs. Byers called gently through the door. “It’s almost time to leave. Your parents are expecting you in about twenty minutes.” A pause. “Do you need anything?”
Shit.
If his mom saw he’d been crying, she’d never let him leave. And if his dad could tell—well, he didn’t want to think about that.
“I’ll be right out!” he called back.
Breathe. In and out. In and out.
Be strong. Don’t worry Mom and Holly.
Hopper closed the back of the U-Haul as Mike stepped out of the cabin for the last time. He didn’t look back.
The drive to New York was mostly uneventful. As Mike had predicted, Will slept through the first two hours. Mike didn’t mind. Driving Hopper’s truck with Will in the passenger seat felt… nice. Quiet, but the comfortable kind.
Will had made a few mixtapes for the trip, and when he was awake, Mike loved listening to him talk—explaining each song, each band, with such care and precision that Mike almost forgot they were driving away from everything he’d ever known.
It wasn’t that Mike wasn’t excited for college. When he’d gotten his acceptance letter to Columbia, he’d been ecstatic. One of the best creative writing programs in the country. Intimidating, sure, but exciting. His dad hadn’t loved the major, but an Ivy League school was apparently good enough. His mom, at least, had been supportive.
Being eleven hours from home was terrifying. He wasn’t sure he was ready to leave Hawkins and all its memories behind. But then Will got into NYU, and suddenly, he wouldn’t be leaving his best friend. Not really. Same city, different schools. A place with room for Mike’s writing and Will’s art. A place where Will didn’t have to hide who he was.
It almost felt like the universe was paying them back for the childhood it stole.
Mike would live in the dorms at Columbia. Will would stay with Jonathan. They’d study together, explore the city, and try to relearn the friendship that had taken a hard hit over the years.
It hadn’t been intentional. At least, Mike didn’t think so.
Everything had changed after the summer of 1985. Will recovered from the Upside Down and the Mind Flayer. Mike threw himself into El. Then there’d been the fight.
It’s not my fault you don’t like girls.
Mike winced at the memory. At thirteen, he’d thought he was helping. He hadn’t understood how deeply those words would cut. One sentence—eight words—had cracked the strongest friendship he’d ever known. He would never forget the look on Will’s face.
He hadn’t known then. He hadn’t known Will didn’t like girls until years later. How was he supposed to understand the damage at thirteen?
Then Will moved away, and as much as Mike hated admitting it, Will—and El—seemed better off without him. That year had been miserable. Eddie was a great guy, but he and Dustin were closer to each other. Mike felt like a third wheel. Lucas had new basketball friends. El told Mike how great things were for Will in Lenora—friends, a girlfriend, a whole new life. Will seemed confident, happy. Thriving.
Thinking about Will felt different than thinking about El. El was a wound that refused to close. Will was something else entirely—something he couldn’t categorize, something he never learned how to name.
When he saw Will at the airport that spring, one look was enough. Will was outgrowing him.
That confidence followed Will back to Hawkins, and it was intimidating. Mike had been used to being the leader, the heart. Now he followed Will around instead, relying on him more than he liked to admit. Will found the words Mike couldn’t. He steadied him when everything felt like it was falling apart.
It scared him—how much he needed Will.
So Mike forced himself back into the role he understood. He made plans. Volunteered first for Crawls. Stayed strong. Even when Will came out, even when everything clicked into place and Mike realized just how badly he’d messed up, he held it together.
And then El—
Stop.
You’re driving. You can’t cry.
The voice in his head shut the thought down completely.
Hopper insisted on doing the eleven-hour drive in one go, but Joyce convinced him to stop at a motel a couple of hours out. The next morning, she joined the boys for the ride into the city. Hopper would take the U-Haul to Montauk—apparently, driving it through New York was a terrible idea.
Watching Joyce navigate the crowded streets, white-knuckled and tense, made Mike’s chest tighten.
“Mrs. Byers?” he said gently.
“I’ve got it, Mike,” she snapped.
Okay. New approach.
“When you get married,” he asked, “what should I call you?”
It worked. Her shoulders relaxed with a sigh, though her grip on the wheel stayed tight.
“Well,” she said, smiling, “Mrs. Hopper would be fine.” Will pulled a disgusted face that had Mike hiding a smile. “Or just Joyce. You’re an adult now. We’ve been through too much together for formalities.”
She glanced at him, warm and sincere.
Mike smiled back—and realized that missing someone didn’t mean he was moving backward. It just meant he was leaving something that mattered.