Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mike Wheeler had been spiraling for years.

It all started with El.

After her death, he spent months—no, longer than months—replaying everything over and over again, like if he turned it enough times in his head, the truth might shift. He tried to reconstruct the moment she was gone, tried to find cracks in it. Explanations. Loopholes. Ways out.

Maybe she’d survived.

Maybe she really was somewhere far away. A place with three waterfalls. Alive.

He clung to that thought like a lifeline. He had never seen a body, right? And El—El was powerful. More than powerful. She was a superhero. His superhero. She had saved his life more than once. She had taught him what love was before he even had words for it.

There was no way she was really gone.

She had to have found a way. She always did.

But no one else seemed to believe that.

Mike tried anyway. He tried to make them see it the way he did. He offered theories, possibilities, ideas—desperate, frantic ideas about how she could have escaped, how she could still be alive somewhere out there, waiting to come home.

At first, it worked.

People listened. They smiled sadly, indulgently. They nodded, found comfort in his certainty. For a while, Mike thought he’d convinced not just them—but himself—that El was still out there.

Then time passed.

And time, cruel and unrelenting, kept moving.

Everyone else moved on with it.

Hopper. Will. Max. Lucas. Dustin. One by one, they let go of Mike’s theories, stopped asking questions, stopped hoping. They accepted the reality for what it was: El was gone, and there was nothing left to be done.

It took Mike years longer than it took anyone else.

Even after everyone had moved away. Even after they started new lives, new routines, new futures that no longer revolved around Hawkins or monsters or grief.

And when Mike finally did it—when he finally let himself accept it, mourn her, bury her—

Will moved away.

And left him behind.

Left him alone with the slow, creeping realization that settled into his chest like rot. The kind that hollowed him out from the inside. The kind that woke him in the middle of the night, heart racing, skin slick with sweat. The kind that had him reaching blindly across the bed for someone who wasn’t there.

Mike Wheeler was in love with Will Byers.

And Will Byers had moved on.

The realization didn’t come all at once. It was a thousand small cuts. Watching Will’s U-Haul disappear down the street. That first phone call after Will settled into his dorm at NYU, his voice brighter, freer. The night Mike spent sitting on his bedroom floor, shuffling through Will’s old drawings, tracing familiar lines and wishing—aching—for more.

Then the second phone call came.

The one that broke him.

Will had found someone.

Someone who wasn’t him.

Mike hated himself for how it made him feel.

He tried to brush it off. Told himself it was just concern—concern that Will might be rushing into something, that maybe this Carlton guy was just a fling from Will’s first few weeks in New York. A phase. Nothing serious.

But the feeling didn’t go away.

It festered.

It grew teeth.

Mike told himself he should be happy. Happy that his best friend had found love. Happy that Will had accepted himself enough to find someone like him.

But Carlton wasn’t like him.

Carlton didn’t know Will. Not the way Mike did. He never could.

Carlton hadn’t grown up with him. Hadn’t held him through shaking nightmares, whispering reassurances until Will’s breathing evened out. Hadn’t watched him disappear into himself during possession, terrified of losing him for good. Hadn’t squeezed his hand and promised—we’ll go crazy together—because that was the only thing that kept them sane.

And the worst part?

Mike had met him at a bar.

A bar. Not on the kindergarten playground when they were kids.

The realization hit him all at once then—sharp and merciless.

He was in love with Will Byers.

And when it finally sank in, Mike cried.

He remembered that night with brutal clarity.

Rain hammered against his bedroom window. The world outside was dark and blurred, matching the way his chest felt. He had just gotten off the phone with Will, who’d been rambling excitedly about something Carlton had bought him after dinner—a shiny silver ring.

“Yeah,” Will had said, voice warm and fond. “He got me this really nice ring, Mike. I wish you could see it. It’s silver, with these little carvings of—”

“Wait.” Mike had cut him off, shooting upright in bed. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs. “I thought you hated rings. You said they made your fingers feel heavy when you paint.” 

The line went quiet.

Just for a second.

“Well, yeah,” Will said slowly. “But—”

The conversation dragged on for a while after that.

Mike barely spoke. He let Will fill the silence, let him ramble about how good Carlton was to him—how kind, how patient. How, in this new city, Will felt better. More accepted. Freer.

Every word landed like a small, careful knife.

Will sounded happy.

Happy without him.

When they finally said goodbye, Mike hung up and stared at the phone for a long moment, his hands shaking. Then he hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull crack and slid to the floor.

And then he cried.

He cried until his chest hurt. Until his throat burned. Until the rain outside masked the sound of it.

That was one of the last times they really talked.

After that, the distance grew slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. Calls went unanswered. Eventually, Mike stopped trying so hard. He started hesitating whenever Will’s name lit up on his phone, his stomach twisting with dread. He was terrified of what he’d feel if he heard Will’s voice again—terrified that it would undo him all over.

And now, here he was.

Still in Hawkins. Still stuck.

Living in a cramped, shitty apartment. Bagging groceries just to make minimum payments on his student debt. Going home every night to silence.

Everyone else had moved on.

Lucas and Max were in California now. Lucas had gone pro—signed onto the Los Angeles Lakers after years of college basketball. Max was still in school, studying child psychology. They sent postcards sometimes. Bright pictures. Smiling faces. Proof that they were doing okay.

Dustin had gone off to the University of Notre Dame, studying something science-related—something complicated and impressive. Mike rolled his eyes whenever Dustin launched into one of his over-explained rants about physics or the space-time continuum. Secretly, though, Mike was jealous. Dustin had direction. Purpose. A future that made sense.

Jonathan was at NYU with Will, studying film. He graduated recently, and was now an independent director. Joyce mailed some of Jonathan’s early projects once, and Mike had watched them alone in his room. Jonathan hadn’t been kidding about the cannibalism-as-a-metaphor-for-capitalism thing.

Robin was at Smith College. Mike wished he could call her, but he’d lost her number years ago. He wanted to talk to her—wanted to ask how she did it. How she accepted herself without drowning in guilt. How she managed to live openly, honestly, without tearing herself apart.

And Will.

God, Will.

Will was in New York City. New York fucking City.

Mike had laughed when he first heard. Will Byers—the boy who used to squeeze his hand during crowded pep rallies—living in the loudest, most overwhelming city in North America? It didn’t make sense. The noise. The crowds. The constant press of people.

Mike had been terrified for him.

Now, he didn’t know what to feel.

He still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Will was grown. Twenty-four years old. A man who didn’t need his best friend’s hand to hold anymore.

Will was an art major, to absolutely no one’s surprise. He had mailed Mike a pamphlet once, showing off his portfolio. Mike had pinned it above his bed without really thinking.

It shouldn’t be there.

Every time Mike looked at it, it split him clean in half.

He hated all of it. Hated how everyone else seemed to glide forward, building normal lives while he stayed frozen in place—still in Hawkins, still bitter, still searching for answers that never came.

He had tried, once, to move on.

He’d gotten into a decent college not far from home, studying literature and creative writing. It had felt right at the time. He’d lived in a dorm, made friends, gone to parties, tried to pretend he was just another normal guy figuring things out.

But halfway through his second semester, he dropped out.

He never told anyone.

It had been too much. The weight of El’s death. The slow, suffocating realization that he might like men. The constant pressure of classes and exams piling on top of grief that never healed.

Eventually, something in him just… gave.

And Mike Wheeler stayed behind.

Nancy was in Boston now, working as a trainee reporter for the Boston Herald.

Mike remembered one Christmas in particular—the first time the Wheeler house had been full in years. Nancy had come home for the holidays, her suitcase by the stairs, her laugh filling spaces that had long been quiet. Everything felt briefly, painfully normal.

At some point during the evening, she pulled him aside into the hallway.

Nancy noticed things. She always had.

She noticed the way his clothes hung looser than they used to, fabric draping off his shoulders like he hadn’t quite filled himself out anymore. The dark circles carved permanently beneath his eyes. The way he dodged every question about his future, brushed off concern with tired jokes and half-shrugs.

She thought he was depressed.

Mike denied it, of course. He scoffed, rolled his eyes, told her she was reading too much into things. Nancy didn’t push—not then. She just looked at him for a long moment, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her eyes too knowing.

A couple weeks later, after she’d gone back to Boston—

A letter arrived.

There was no handwritten note. No clippings of her articles. No proud big-sister commentary about her work.

Just a small pamphlet.

Inside were paragraphs of information. Phone numbers. Resources.

The title was printed in bold, unmistakable letters:

SUICIDE PREVENTION RESOURCES — There is help, there is hope.

Mike stared at it for a long time.

Thinking.

He thought about throwing it away. Thought she was being dramatic. Thought she didn’t understand—that he would never do something that drastic.

He wasn’t like that.

But deep down, in the quiet parts of himself he tried not to look at too closely, Mike knew why she’d sent it.

So he kept it.

Tucked carefully into his nightstand drawer, beneath old receipts and loose change. Somewhere close. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to look at it every day—but close enough that, if he ever needed it, it would be there.

Waiting.

Because deep down, he knew.

Now, Mike lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment in central Hawkins.

It was part of the new developments that had sprung up after the end of the fucking world—cheap, rushed construction meant to prove that life went on. The walls were too thin. The floors creaked. The place never quite felt lived in, no matter how long he stayed.

He wasn’t completely alone.

Sometimes he went to parties with the friends he’d made back in college, before he dropped out. They drank too much. Got high. Snorted lines of drugs that came in strangely unmarked little baggies, passed hand to hand without questions. And sometimes, Mike brought girls home.

Hookups. One-night stands. Anything that might dull the ache. Anything that might fill the hollow space Will Byers had left behind.

It never worked.

He remembered one morning in particular—closing his eyes against the harsh daylight after an especially brutal night. His head throbbed. His mouth tasted metallic. There was a body beside him in bed, warm and unfamiliar.

Some girl from a house party. He remembered pieces of her. Soft brown hair. Hazel eyes. Doing coke off her back in a bathroom that smelled like mildew and beer. She smelled faintly of paint and cigarettes now, pressed close to him as he shifted beneath the blankets.

Her hand brushed his arm.

Still half-asleep, sunlight flooding the room so brightly he couldn’t make out her face, Mike murmured, barely audible—

“Will?”

The name slipped out before he could stop it.

He blinked, eyes slowly adjusting, just in time to see her sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. She didn’t look back at him.

And it wasn’t Will.

It never was.

It never could be.

Mike felt terrible all the time. The feeling clung to him, followed him into the most mundane moments—laundry spinning uselessly in the washer, dirty dishes stacked in the sink, aimless trips down grocery aisles. Guilt gnawed at him constantly.

And no matter how hard he tried to deny it, the truth remained.

He was depressed.

He wished he’d realized sooner. Wished he’d understood what was happening to him before that horrible fucking day on the radio tower. Before everything fell apart.

Friends—no.

Best friends.

The word made his stomach twist. He cringed every time he thought about it.

Will had loved him.

And Mike had been too stupid to realize he loved him back.

He hadn’t understood it then, but that day had ruined his life for good. They had defeated Vecna. They had saved the world.

Everyone else got to move on because of it.

But not Mike.

He had lost El. His superhero. The person who taught him what love was in the first place.

And he had lost Will. His sorcerer. The person who could have given him that love again.

And now, all Mike Wheeler had left were memories, regrets, and a life that felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

In all honesty, he had been thinking about killing himself for a while.

He remembered the first time the thought slipped into his mind—quiet and unwelcome. It came after a brutal hangover, waking up in a stranger’s bed with his head pounding and Will still lingering in his dreams. He lay there staring at the ceiling, hollowed out by the overwhelming sense that he deserved… nothing.

The thought made him feel sick.

He shoved it down immediately, guilt flooding him for even allowing it to exist. He told himself to think about his family—his mom, his dad, Nancy, Holly. Holly, for God’s sake. His little sister who still believed in him. And his friends. Dustin. Lucas. Max.

Will.

That should have been enough.

But weeks passed.

His phone stayed silent. No calls. No texts. No one checking in—except his dealer.

And that was when the thought returned, heavier this time, harder to ignore.

Maybe no one would actually miss him if he was gone.

He’d cut almost everyone off anyway. He never reached out. He let messages go unanswered until people stopped trying. They probably thought he hated them. Maybe they’d already learned how to live without him.

His mind spiraled from there.

People probably did hate him. He hadn’t exactly been kind growing up. He’d lashed out. He’d hurt people without thinking. And now all of it was coming back to him at once.

Especially when it came to Will.

He thought about that spring break years ago—back when Will and El had moved to Lenora. How he’d ignored Will. Snapped at him. Yelled at him. Been cruel in ways he hadn’t been able to name at the time.

He knew now why he’d done it.

And knowing made everything worse.

Mike had been pushing Will away because of something he was too afraid to face. Something he didn’t understand yet. Something that made him hate himself in retrospect.

He had been so selfish, so consumed by his own fear and confusion that he never stopped to think about how Will must have felt.

The realization hit him weeks later, sharp and unforgiving: that awful day at the roller rink—that had been Will’s birthday.

We’re friends, Will. We’re friends.

His own words echoed endlessly in his head, cruel in their ignorance.

Sometimes Mike thought—wrongly, destructively—that if he disappeared, it might finally free Will completely. That if the person who had made him feel unwanted and insecure for years simply stopped existing, Will wouldn’t have to carry that weight anymore.

And that thought scared him most of all.

Mike bought a gun.

He told himself he didn’t intend to use it. Not like that, at least. He said it was practical—necessary, even. Everyone in rural America owned one these days, right? It was just for emergencies. Protection. In case his crappy, lower-class apartment ever got broken into.

That was the story he stuck to.

He remembered one cold winter night when sleep refused to come. When thoughts of Will—and every other regret he carried—looped endlessly in his head. 

He pulled the gun out then, sitting on the edge of his bed, the room dark and silent. The metal was cold in his hands. He noticed the weight of it, heavier than he expected.

He didn’t know why he did it.

The thought came suddenly, cruel and intrusive, slipping into his mind without permission.

 He lifted it under his jaw. 

Just to feel it there, to understand what it meant to hold something like that. To know what it would feel like if, one day, he stopped changing his mind.

It wasn’t loaded. There was nothing in it. He knew that. He knew he couldn’t do anything irreversible with an empty gun.

Still, his hands shook.

His finger curled reflexively around the trigger, and then—panic surged through him all at once.

He shoved it back into the drawer, heart pounding, guilt twisting violently in his stomach. He slammed it shut like it could erase the moment entirely, like he could lock the thought away with it. Then he crawled back into bed and stared at the ceiling until morning.

How could he be so selfish?

It spiraled quick. And bad. 

He wrote a couple of notes.

He didn’t know why he felt like he had to do this. Maybe it was because he felt like his life was happening too fast, slipping past his eyes. Maybe it was because he knew his impulses would probably act before he could talk himself out of them. Or maybe it was because the people he might be leaving behind deserved closure.

Just in case.

Just in case his family found him dead and wanted answers.

He started with Nancy.

Nancy.

Hey, Nance. I hope you know that you did your best. I appreciated the pamphlet. You were probably the only person who noticed—and that’s my fault. I shut everyone out before they had a chance to notice. You’re my big sister, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I know we didn’t really get along growing up, but I hope you know you were the best big sister a guy could ask for.

And I’m sorry I almost ratted you out to Mom and Dad about Steve Harrington climbing through your window that one night. I’m also sorry that I didn’t fight harder. I’m sorry I didn’t call the number on that pamphlet.

I never say it, but you’re probably the person I look up to the most. You’re so brave. Resilient. Totally badass.

You did the best you could.

Love,

Mike.

Mike didn’t realize his lip was quivering when he finished writing the note. He took his glasses off and set them on the table, rubbing his tired eyes hard.

Then he wrote one to Lucas.

Lucas.

Hey, man. You know I’m not a big sports fan, and I’d probably never admit this out loud, but I watch all your games. Congrats on making it to the playoffs. I’m so proud of you. You’ve grown so much since we were kids. I don’t know why you didn’t drop my lame ass when we got to high school, haha. If anyone deserved to be popular, it was you.

You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and I don’t want you to feel any blame for this. You were always so real when I needed it the most. You always let me know when I was in the wrong. I appreciate that.I should’ve reached out. And I appreciate the postcards—even though I never write back.

And since I’m here, I just want to admit something. I sold all the tickets you mailed me. I’m sorry. I was too stuck up and thought I was too good for that sports stuff. I should’ve realized how much it meant to you. You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve me.

Let’s go Lakers.

Love,

Mike.

He took a sharp breath, folded the page, and started another.

Dustin.

Hey, Dustin. How was Notre Dame? You’ve probably graduated by now, but I know how much you love learning about nerdy science stuff or whatever, and I hope university was good to you.

I’m sorry I didn’t reach out. I guess I was scared—or jealous—or whatever. Watching you accomplish so much while I was stuck here, still in Hawkins. Don’t feel bad for not calling. I didn’t make it easy for anyone. I was a dick.

I remember seeing your name in the paper once. Something about a national honor for young scientists? That’s fucking sick.

Eddie would be proud. Hellfire lives on.

Love,

Mike.

He wrote one to Max.

Max.

Mad Max. I remember when I first met you. I was so confused—confused about how Lucas could fall in love with someone so rude, sarcastic, and angsty. But now I realize the only reason I wasn’t fascinated by a girl who played video games and skateboarded was probably because I didn’t like girls at all. You’re probably not surprised.

Thanks for helping El when she was here. I know I seemed annoyed about you “stealing” my girlfriend at the time, but looking back, I’m glad you did. You helped her figure out who she was outside of other people. Even if it was only for a few days.

And I heard you’re studying child psychology? That’s weird. The Max I know would probably smack a kid if they looked at you funny. But I get it. For kids like you in high school. For kids like El.

Thanks for being shitty to me in the past. I probably deserved it.

Love,

Mike.

Then came Holly. 

Holly.

Hey, sis. I’m proud of you. Sixteen now? That’s crazy. I’m sorry I don’t visit more often. I feel bad about it sometimes—leaving you alone with Mom and Dad. Not that they’re terrible, but I always wish I’d spent more time with you growing up. I wish I’d been there to guide you more.

You’re a sophomore, right? Advice for the rest of high school: don’t lose touch with your old friends. I know people grow apart naturally, but try your best to find your people. Don’t try to fit in or conform.

And keep all my D&D stuff. I want you to have it.

There’s also a box hidden under the bookcase in the basement. It’s a new set of D&D figurines. I bought it a couple months before I moved out, but I was too scared to open it—I was afraid they wouldn’t feel special anymore if I did. I was saving them for a special occasion. Enjoy.

I’m sorry if this scares you. I know none of this is gonna make sense to you. Just please know that none of this, absolutely none of it is your fault.

Love,

Mike.

By the end, his hand was shaking—a mixture of exhaustion from writing a million words and pure, crushing sadness.

There was still one more he had to write.

Will’s.

He didn’t think he could do it.

Will.

I just need to say it now: I love you. I’m in love with you. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. I wish I had. Maybe if I’d known who I was sooner, I wouldn’t be here writing this.

I want to know how you did it—how you were able to come out in front of so many people. I wish I’d told you I loved you back then. It’s probably my biggest regret. I’m not your Tammy or whatever you said. I’m here for you, and I think I always will be—waiting for you.

I feel pathetic. You’ve moved on. Carlton—he seems nice. I’m glad he treats you well. That’s probably what you deserve. Someone who can accept themselves. Someone who’s never been afraid to love you. Not like me.

I’m a coward, Will.

And you’re still my sorcerer.

I think about you all the time.

Love,

Mike.

Mike didn’t realize he’d been crying until his tears began soaking into the paper, leaving dark, uneven spots on Will’s letter. He dropped his pencil and leaned back in his chair, wiping tears and snot from his face with the back of his hand.

His back ached from being hunched over for so long.

His fingers throbbed.

And his heart felt completely, terrifyingly empty.

The letters sat on his desk for weeks. Neatly folded. Names written on the outside. Purposeful. Just in case that day came sooner than he expected.

The day crept in like any other.

It wasn’t dramatic. There wasn’t a single event that triggered it. There were no tears at first. He barely reacted when he decided—yeah. Tonight.

He thought he should feel something more. He thought it should be climactic, dramatic—because ending your own life was always portrayed as some kind of tragedy, some scene from a sad movie.

But no.

Mike felt the same as he did every other day.

Sick. Empty. Disgusting.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He had just gotten out of the shower, but he’d thrown on a wool sweater quickly—he never liked seeing how skinny he’d gotten.

He finished brushing his teeth, the taste of mint still clinging to his tongue as he slid his glasses back on. These days, he could barely see without them.

He dragged his hand across the fogged mirror. Again. And again. Just enough to make out his upper body.

He looked like his dad.

It was in that moment that Mike realized it—really realized. His worst fear had come true.

He was alone. Completely. Painfully alone.

There was nothing keeping him going anymore except a faint glimmer of hope still lodged in his chest, lingering despite all these years. Hope that maybe Will hadn’t moved on. Hope that maybe Will still needed him the way Mike needed Will.

But he knew that thought was ridiculous.

He left the bathroom slowly, every limb feeling ten times heavier as he trudged toward his dresser.

That’s where he kept it.

Mike slid the drawer open and stared down at it for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed. The steel gleamed in the moonlight spilling through the window.

The apartment was silent except for the faint rush of cars passing outside and the low hum of the refrigerator in the other room.

After a long while, he looked away from the gun. It felt too heavy just to look at. He wasn’t going to chicken out—not yet—but a brief realization hit him anyway.

This was it.

Then—

He glanced at his phone.

Then back at the gun.

He didn’t know why he did it. He shouldn’t have. It was delusional and stupid and self-absorbed—but Mike reached for the phone.

He knew Will probably wouldn’t pick up.

But something deep inside him whispered that maybe this was the time. Maybe, by some miracle, hearing Will’s voice for the first time in years would pull him back. Stop him.

And Mike wasn’t entirely sure whether he wanted to be stopped.

Mike dialed Will’s number quickly. He knew it by heart.

He sat on the edge of the bed, sweat slicking his skin. His sweater itched against his arms, suddenly unbearable. His palms were damp as he pressed the phone to his ear, fingers trembling.

He swallowed hard.

Don’t do this.

He hates you.

He’s moved on.

Get over yourself.

His mind screamed at him, vicious and relentless—but he couldn’t listen. Not now. Because Will was the only thing that had ever felt right. Will had always been what felt right. Will was always there, whether Mike wanted him to be or not—his voice echoing in his head, that constant, aching pull in his chest, the desperate plea Mike had whispered to any god listening to take these feelings out of his filthy, traitorous heart.

He could barely hear the ringing over the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and frantic in his ears. Sweat trickled down his spine as his gaze drifted to the gun on the dresser, the dull shape of it catching the low light while the ringing buzzed on.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four times.

Five.

And just as Mike blinked back tears, just as he felt himself give in—accepting it, losing the last fragile thread of hope—

The line clicked.

His breath caught painfully in his throat.

“Hello?”

Mike nearly collapsed when Will’s voice came through the speaker.

He froze mid-step.

“Mike?”

It was Will.

It was really him.

Mike would have known that voice anywhere. Soft, familiar, unmistakable.

His Will.

Mike blinked rapidly, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“Will? Will—oh my god, I’m so glad you’re here. Will, you—you’re… oh, god, I—” His voice cracked, words tumbling over each other. “I’m just… I’m really glad you picked up. I’m so glad you did.”

Silence stretched on the other end of the line, thick and heavy. The longer it went on, the more Mike regretted how desperate he must sound.

“Mike…” Will finally said. “Why—what’s going on?”

His tone was flat. Confused. Distant. Like he was talking to someone he barely knew.

“I—I wanted to… to call you,” Mike said, wincing at how small his voice sounded, stung by the confusion in Will’s.

“Why?”

The question landed hard.

Because in a few hours I won’t be here.

Because I needed to hear your voice.

Because I’m in love with you and I don’t know how to stop.

“Will, I—it’s me,” Mike said quickly, forcing out a laugh that sounded wrong even to his own ears. “Mike. I just wanted to talk to you. You know—see how you’re doing.”

Will didn’t answer.

“So… um. How’s—how’s school?” Mike added, grasping for something safe.

He heard Will sniff quietly. “I, uh… I graduated a few years ago.” A pause. “I sent you a letter about it. It was the last one I sent.”

“Really?” Mike said, throat tight. “That’s—that’s great.” He tried to sound normal, tried to sound like he wasn’t on the verge of falling apart. “How’s New York?”

Another long silence.

“It’s good,” Will said finally. “My boyfriend and I—we bought a new studio. It’s bigger. More room for my projects.”

Boyfriend.

The word twisted painfully in Mike’s stomach.

“Your—your boyfriend?” he echoed weakly. “Wow. That’s… huh. You have a boyfriend.” He winced at how stupid he sounded.

“Mike,” Will said sharply, “cut the shit. Why the hell are you calling me?”

There was an edge to his voice Mike had never heard before—hard, stern. It scared him.

“I—I just wanted to know how you were doing,” Mike said, barely above a whisper.

He heard Will scoff.

“Seriously?” Will snapped. “You ghost me for years, and then you call like this in the middle of the fucking night? Are you high or something?”

Mike shook his head instinctively, even though Will couldn’t see him. His palms were slick with sweat again, his chest tight.

Will was right.

He had every reason to be angry.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Will. I—I just…” Mike trailed off, biting hard into the inside of his cheek.

He might as well be honest. It wasn’t like he planned on sticking around long enough to deal with the consequences anyway.

“I… I miss you,” Mike breathed. The words slipped out of him like a confession, like something heavy finally being set down.

The line went quiet.

“What?” Will said.

“I—I said I miss you, Will.”

Will scoffed. Mike could hear footsteps, then the sharp click of a door slamming—probably him ducking into somewhere more private.

“Will?” Mike said quickly, panic creeping into his voice as the line went silent again.

“No—no, yeah,” Will said at last, his voice edged with bitter sarcasm. “I missed you too. But you—you never called me, Mike.”

Mike froze, the words hitting him square in the chest. He didn’t know how to answer.

Then Will spoke again, quieter this time. Softer. Sadder.

“I wanted you to call me.”

Mike’s eyes burned. Will sounded so tired. So defeated. And it was his fault—every bit of it.

“It’s been years, Mike,” Will continued before Mike could find his voice. “Why—why didn’t you call me then? Why now?”

For years, Mike had been too scared. Scared that hearing Will’s voice would rip the wound back open, make everything hurt worse, make it impossible to keep shoving those feelings down.

But now the boy he’d been in love with for most of his life was right there, breathing into his ear.

Mike couldn’t lie anymore.

“I… I know,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “And—and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I just… I was…” His words tangled in his throat, choking him. He felt pathetic. Small. Disgusting.

“I was just struggling.”

Will scoffed again. God—he really needed to stop doing that.

“Yeah, Mike,” Will said flatly. “I think we all have been.”

“I—I know that,” Mike rushed out. “It’s just… I—”

I’m in love with you.

And I’m terrified of loving you.

He couldn’t say it.

It was too real. Too honest. Too frightening.

Mike took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He had to say something—anything—to keep Will from hanging up.

“Will… I—” Mike sucked in a shaky breath. There was no point in lying anymore. If he didn’t say it now, he’d be buried with it forever. “I still look at your old pictures. Your drawings.”

“…Yeah?” Will said, hesitant.

Mike nodded even though Will couldn’t see him, sniffing hard. “Yeah. Yeah—I have a whole folder of them. I’ve had it ever since we met.”

A beat of silence.

“You should send me more,” Mike whispered. “I haven’t seen any new art from you in ages. I want to see it.”

He heard Will sigh on the other end of the line.

“Maybe someday, Mike.”

“Someday?” Mike squeaked, his voice cracking.

“Someday,” Will said quietly, like a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Silence fell again. Neither of them seemed to know how to fill it.

“I wish you were still here,” Mike said finally. “Sometimes I… sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly stand it.”

It felt like ripping a bandage off an open wound.

He wanted to groan. It felt so good to finally say it—and so horrible at the same time.

“Mike—” Will tried to interrupt, but Mike couldn’t stop himself now.

“I—I wake up at night and I wish you were here,” Mike rushed on. “I know—I know you have a boyfriend, but I just— I wish you were next to me. I wish… I wish I had realized that you— that you liked me sooner. Maybe then— maybe I would’ve—”

“Mike. No. Stop,” Will cut in sharply. “You’re drunk. Or—high. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Mike swallowed hard, his throat burning.

“Yes, I do.”

“No. No, you don’t…” Mike heard Will inhale shakily. “Please, Mike. You’re drunk. Go to bed. Call me when you’re sober. We can— we can catch up then, okay?”

“No,” Mike said, the word tearing out of him.

“No?” Will echoed.

“No—no, Will. I can’t,” Mike said, his voice breaking. “I miss you. I miss you.” He exhaled shakily. “I wish things had been different. I wish I— I wish I’d treated you better. I wish I’d seen what it was. I wish I knew that I was—” He cut himself off, the rest dissolving on his tongue.

“Mike—” Will tried again.

“I wish you were here,” Mike pressed on, barely breathing between words. “I wish we could play D&D like we used to. I wish— I wish I could see your face when I wake up in the morning. I wish I could watch you paint, and— and I don’t know how to live without you, Will. I never have.” Mike sniffed, his voice thick with tears.

Silence stretched between them. Mike could hear his own heart pounding in his ears.

“Mike…” Will said softly. “What… what are you trying to say?”

Oh my god.

Did he really not get it?

“Will… do you remember when—back at the sqawk, before we left to defeat Vecna—you said something about… about someone you liked?” Mike asked, his voice shaking. “You said they were your Tammy. What did that mean?”

He already knew the answer. That didn’t stop him from asking.

Mike heard Will suck in a sharp breath on the other end of the line.

“Mike, that was so long ago. I don’t remember—”

“Was… was that me?” Mike cut in, barely breathing. “Was I Tammy?”

A beat passed.

“Yes, Mike,” Will said quietly. “But I—I found someone else. I don’t…” He paused, searching for words. “I don’t like you like that anymore. You said it yourself. We’re friends.”

It felt like something inside Mike cracked clean in half.

He didn’t know why it hurt this much. He’d known this for years, hadn’t he? He’d told himself he’d accepted it. But hearing it said out loud—hearing Will confirm it—made it real in a way that hollowed him out.

“So… so you don’t—” Mike stammered, his lip quivering.

“Mike, I’m going to hang up—”

“No!” Mike blurted. “No, no, no—please don’t hang up, Will. I—I need this…”

He tightened his grip on the phone, knuckles aching.

“I need you.”

The words slipped out, barely louder than a whisper. Mike hadn’t meant to say them. He hadn’t meant to say anything like that.

But Will heard it.

“I need you too,” Will said softly.

Hope flared in Mike’s chest—bright and fragile.

“But…” Will continued, his voice dropping, “it’s too late for that now.”

“No. No, Will, it’s not too late,” Mike rushed, panic flooding his voice. “I’m—I’m still here. You could come back to Hawkins. Or I could come to New York—just say the word and I’ll be there. I promise. I promise I’ll come—”

He heard Will’s breath hitch on the other end of the line.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Mike could almost feel Will breaking.

“Why, Mike?” Will finally snapped, his voice cracking as static buzzed faintly through the call. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?” He let out a shaky breath. “I loved you for years, and you just— you brushed me off. You said you only wanted to be friends. Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“Because—because I didn’t realize it then,” Mike said desperately, trying to answer as the questions came faster than he could handle.

“Why?” Will demanded. “Why couldn’t you have loved me when I loved you?”

Mike closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, shoving the sobs back down his throat.

“I—I have a boyfriend, for fuck’s sake,” Will continued, his voice breaking completely. “I can’t—what, you just expect me to leave my life behind because you finally called? Because you finally figured it out? You expected me to just wait for you?” He swallowed hard. “I loved you, Mike. And you weren’t there to see it.”

I loved you, Mike.

Mike inhaled shakily, his chest trembling as the words echoed in his head.

“C—could you say it again?”

Will paused.

“Say what?”

“That you love me.”

…

Mike heard him breathe.

He knew the way that man breathed. He knew it down to the rhythm, the soft hitch in his chest.

“I love you.”

It felt like Mike’s heart shriveled inside his chest. God—it felt so good. Too good. Like those words, like the sound of Will’s breath through the phone, were being injected straight into his veins, flooding his lungs, filling every hollow space inside him until he couldn’t breathe.

Then—through the phone—he heard something else.

A sniffle. A shaky, broken breath.

Mike’s heart burst.

They were both crying now. Both drowning. The walls closing in around them, tighter and tighter, with no way out.

Except one.

Mike’s eyes drifted to the gun sitting on the nightstand. Tears streamed down his cheeks, blurring everything.

His legs finally gave out. He couldn’t stand anymore. His knees buckled, and he staggered back until his spine hit the bedroom wall. He slid down slowly, crumpling in on himself, clutching the phone to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

He wanted to take all of Will’s pain with him. Rip it out of his body, absorb it into his own, and then—end it. Kill Will’s pain and his own with the simple pull of a trigger.

But only one of them would make it out that way.

And Mike would be okay with that.

Ending his own life if it meant saving Will’s.

“Will,” Mike gasped, his voice shaking so badly he could barely breathe. “Please don’t… please don’t cry, okay?”

“I—I’m not…” Will’s voice cracked just as hard on the other end.

“I—I’m sorry,” Mike rushed. “I w—I wish I’d realized sooner. I was just so stupid. Stupid for not admitting it. I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t want to make you cry. Please don’t cry, Will.” His voice squeaked as he folded in on himself, knees pulling tight to his chest.

Mike sucked in a trembling breath, trying to hold the sobs back as they clawed up his throat.

“Please don’t cry.”

He inhaled again—and lost the fight.

“I love you.”

That was all it took.

Mike broke completely. He sobbed into the phone, forehead pressed hard against his knees, tears soaking into his jeans. He heard the sickening crunch of his glasses beneath him. His free hand fisted painfully in his hair, tugging at his curls like he could rip the hurt out by force.

“Mi—Mike… Mike…” Will’s voice repeated in his ear, growing shakier each time he said his name.

“Wi—Will,” Mike cried. “Will, Will. I love you and I don’t know what to do. Pl—please forgive me. I’m so—so sorry.”

His nails dug into his scalp. He felt skin break, something warm gathering at his fingertips, but he didn’t care.

“I love you. I love you, Will. I love you, Will Byers.”

Every time he said it, it sent a rush through him—better than any cigarette he’d smoked, any line he’d snorted, any shot he’d taken. Loving Will, saying his name, confessing it out loud—it was a drug he couldn’t quit.

“Please,” Mike begged. “Please say it again. Just—just one more time, Will. Please.”

He forced himself to breathe, holding the phone tight as he listened. His sobs caught painfully in his throat as he waited.

He could hear Will crying on the other end. Soft, broken sobs that tore Mike in half.

“I love you.” Will whispered. “I just wish you’d known when I was still there.”

Mike nodded weakly, lifting his gaze from his tear-soaked jeans.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Will. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I—I never have. I was horrible to you.” His breath hitched violently. “But.. but Will.. please,I—”

“I’m ready now, Will,” Mike sobbed. “Please.”

On the other end of the line, he heard Will sniffle, a wet, broken sound that made Mike’s chest ache.

“Maybe,” Will said softly, his voice trembling, “maybe in another universe, Mike.”

Mike’s heart shattered—cleanly, completely, like it had been waiting for the final blow.

“Why can’t it be this one?” Mike whimpered. His voice came out small, wrecked. “Why can’t it just be this one?”

Will didn’t answer right away. All Mike could hear was his unsteady breathing, a shuddering inhale that sounded like it hurt.

“Will?” Mike cried, panic flooding back in. “Please… please say something.”

“I’m sorry,” Will whispered at last. “I’m so sorry this couldn’t work out, Mike. I wish—god, I wish it could have.”

“Will,” Mike begged, his words tumbling over each other. “Will, please don’t hang up. Please. I can’t—I don’t know what I’m—” He gasped for air, lungs burning as he struggled to breathe. “I don’t know what I’m going to do to myself if you hang up.”

He hated himself for saying it. Hated that it had come to this—begging, pleading, clinging to Will like this. But it was the truth. He knew it. If Will hung up, if Will left him alone like this—

Mike’s stomach twisted violently.

The line went dead.

Will had hung up.

Mike didn’t move. He just sat there, frozen in place, the phone still pressed to his ear as if maybe—maybe—Will would come back.

His ears rang, a sharp, hollow noise drowning out everything else. He stared blankly across the room, eyes wide and unfocused, shell-shocked as the weight of the call crashed down on him.

He couldn’t do this.

Will’s voice was gone.

No breathing. No soft murmurs. No warmth bleeding through the speaker.

Just silence.

Mike didn’t think. He just reached for the gun that was resting on his bedside table.

He cocked it once before he pressed the muzzle hard under his jaw, the barrel cold and steel, angling it for a clean shot. 

But just as Mike's finger tightened around the trigger— 

His phone rang again. Will's number flashed across the screen. 

But Mike had already doubled down on the trigger.

——— BANG ———

It was too late. 

A sharp, hot flash of pain flushed all over Mike's body. 

His body fell limp over the mattress.

Then everything went black.

in another universe.