Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mike Wheeler has always believed that Will Byers was magical.

It was true right from the start; the world lit up whenever Will was around. Mike felt lighter, happier. Everything was fun, easy, comfortable, simple.

When Mike had shuffled up to Will and asked him to be his friend, that first day of school, he hadn't done it because of sheer dumb luck, or out on a whim. Something had pulled him to Will— the smallest kid on the playground, trying and failing to swing back and forth with his little legs.

Mike had always been a noisy child. He was loud and brash and his mother would always tell him to quiet down. He'd run around in grocery stores and parking lots, his head in the clouds.

His sister could never match him in energy. She'd huff and roll her eyes at him, and Mike would beg his mother to play with him instead.

He grew up fascinated with the concept of a best friend— of a friend who was yours and entirely yours, not something to be shared with anyone else. The bestest friend of them all. Out of all your friends, there could only be one who understood you best, knew you best, loved you best.

He'd ask his mother about it all the time— when did she think he would find his best friend? Did she know what best friends looked like? Did best friends like to play the same games you did, or would he have to learn to like new things? Were best friends all like Nancy and Barb, who would rush into Nancy's room without even saying hi to Mike? Why didn't his mother have a best friend?

His mother stopped answering, after that last one. Told him to pick up his toys before dinner instead.

The first day of school, he'd been full of excitement. Maybe now, he could find a best friend to match his energy, to run around with him with foam swords playing dragons versus knights.

He'd fallen asleep late before his first day at kindergarten, buzzing at the possibilities, at the thought of all the friends he'd make. He'd been so excited to be surrounded by children his age, and he thought it would be so perfect.

The second he'd step foot into school, he'd be surrounded by kids wanting to be his friend. And he would become friends with all of them, coming home with twenty— maybe even thirty friends, which was basically every kid in the whole wide world.

Everyone would adore Mike, and they'd all surround him during lunch, and he would share his snacks with everyone. Even if there wasn't enough for everyone, he'd still find a way. Eventually, his best friend would find him, among all his other friends. And he'd be their favorite.

So he had big expectations. Doesn't everyone?

But reality wasn't as perfect. He immediately felt overwhelmed.

There were so many kids around, like a number bigger than thirty, which he didn't think was possible. The thought of talking to any of them felt so… terrifying. They seemed unwelcoming, even though they were plenty social. There were kids running up to other kids like they'd known them for forever. There were kids like Mike, standing hesitant and waiting for people to talk to them.

But still. It just wasn't like how Mike had imagined. He'd taken one look around, and found himself glued to his mother's leg. He didn't feel ready for this, not one bit.

No one rushed to say hi to him. No one even looked at him, other than the scary teacher his mother told him would look after him. She'd kissed his forehead, and brushed his hair up into a swoop that Mike had never liked. He'd grumbled, letting go of her leg to flatten his hair down again, and she'd taken the opportunity to kneel down to Mike's level.

"Honey," she'd started. "You have to go in now."

Mike shook his head, a pout already forming on his face. His mother glanced back at the teacher, sharing a look with her that Mike didn't know how to read.

"I don't want to," Mike said, stubbornly. Mom nodded.

"Okay," she said, and Mike looked at her suspiciously. No way it was that easy.

"But how will you find your best friend then?" She asked, and Mike frowned, because she was right.

"What if he's not s'posed to be here?" Mike mumbled, not meeting his mother's eyes.

"Well, you won't know if you don't look," his mother said, wisely, and Mike found that he couldn't deny her logic.

He huffed in the way he always did when he realised he couldn't get his way. Mom smiled at him, and tugged him in for a quick hug before letting go.

"Time to go," she whispered, her eyes a little shiny as she gracefully pulled herself back up.

Mike tumbled into the school with his expectations extremely low. He'd huffed and puffed his way through the first few lessons, making sure to show himself not having fun at all.

He hoped if he looked sour enough, the teachers would call his mother and say, "So sorry Mrs. Wheeler, it seems like Michael doesn't belong here after all. Maybe he shouldn't go to school at all, and spend all his time at the park and the library instead."

By recess, Mike had almost fully given up his resolve. No one had walked up to him asking to be his friend. Instead, everyone had run out and formed their own little groups. It was as if his best friend didn't even want to find him.

To be fair, there were still a few kids standing around awkwardly, their eyes flitting around the playground, hoping for someone to approach them.

But Mike's eyes didn't meet theirs. No, Mike's eyes landed directly onto a little boy on the swings. A boy so small, it felt like he shouldn't be here. He had a perfectly round head of hair atop his head, like a mushroom. He wasn't making eye contact with anyone. Instead, his eyes were fixed to the ground as he focused on trying to make his swing go faster.

It wasn't working— Nancy had taught him how to swing on his own a while back, because she'd grown tired of pushing the swing for him. This kid's technique was all wrong. He was all flailing limbs and kicks instead of the proper push and pull Nancy showed him.

Mike found himself walking up to the boy before he'd even realised what he was doing. He stopped right beside the empty swing-seat next to him. Hopping on without asking if he could, Mike looks over at the boy, frowning.

It takes a second for him to look over at Mike. Mike would've assumed he was shy, had he not given Mike a blinding smile as soon as their eyes met.

Mike blinked. Pretty, he thought.

It wasn't the first time he'd found someone pretty. His mother, for one, was very pretty. Nancy could be pretty, sometimes, when she dressed up for dinners at their grandparents house. The people in movies, they were pretty, too.

It was, however, the first time he'd ever thought a boy was pretty. This did not feel odd to him at all; of course a boy could be pretty. There was proof on the swing right next to him.

"D'you wanna be friends?" Mike blurted out without thinking.

It hadn't been his plan at all. It wasn't how he thought he'd meet his best friend. He didn't think he'd be the one looking— he thought all he needed to do was just be, and his best friend would find him.

The boy smiled even wider and nodded, before doing a little wriggle-dance, kicking his legs and swinging wildly. Mike giggled and copied him, the same rush of joy fizzing through him.

"I'm Mike," he said, remembering to introduce himself a few beats later.

"Will," said Will, before jumping off of the swing set. Mike's eyes stayed trained on him— for a second, it looked as though Will was flying.

Mike Wheeler has a ranking system for his friends.

It sounds worse than it is. It's not like he loves any of his friends less than the others. It's just— there's best friends, and then there's Will.

Mike has multiple best friends now; three, which is two more than he'd thought were possible. It feels right though, like maybe all of them were always supposed to meet.

Lucas, Dustin, Mike, and Will. The perfect adventuring party, for D&D and for real life.

Mike feels infinitely lucky whenever he thinks about them, which is often. It's an unspoken thing, the way they let him lead, agreeing to his plans before he's even fully done pitching them. It makes Mike feel special, valued.

It feels like everything else comes second to his friends— school, family, holidays. Whenever he's away from them, Mike thinks about all the things they could be doing together.

Mike loves his friends dearly, but he's not certain he ever really shows it. He's not sure how to show it.

His mother kisses his cheek and cooks his favorite meals for him, and his father grunts and grumbles but caves whenever he asks for extra money for comic books, and Nancy plays along whenever they need an extra adventuring partner, even as she rolls her eyes and complains.

All of this feels like love.

Jonathan helps Nancy babysit Holly, and he hovers around them uncertainly whenever he goes to Mike's house. He pinches Will's cheeks and introduces him to strange songs.

Joyce smokes like a chimney, but she always puts it out whenever she sees Jonathan frowning at her.

Dustin's mother never lets him leave the house without a jacket, and Lucas's parents always send him to the Wheeler's with extra snacks for all his friends.

All of this, too, feels like love.

Mike doesn't know how to show love, but he knows they're surrounded by it, so he learns to see his friends in everything.

He plans new campaigns, and writes helpful instructions in case any of them get the urge to be Dungeon Master instead.

He does his math homework and calls Will right after, to make sure he got his answers right.

He sees plastic weapons and shields at the toy stores and saves all his pocket money for Lucas's birthday. His mother drags him to an appliance store, and Mike looks around and thinks about Dustin.

In the months leading up to Christmas, he begs and pleads with his mother until she agrees, and he presents the party with their first walkie-talkies.

But even with all this, there's something different about Mike and Will than there is about the party as a whole, something he thinks Lucas and Dustin are aware of.

After all, no matter how much time they all spend together, Mike and Will always spend more time together.

Lucas and Dustin don't sleep over as often as Will does, and while he loves poring over comics with all of them, there's something special about doing it with Will.

Sprawling across the floor of Will's room with new and old comic books strewn around them, taking their favorite plot lines and characters and creating something new, something entirely their own; together. Will, illustrating the concepts Mike comes up with, breathing life into his stories with his beautiful art. Even just sitting together in silence, studying together, reading together.

Everything Mike likes to do, he likes to do with Will best. It's just the way of things.

Mike Wheeler knows he's an asshole.

It's undeniable; he'd be the last to defend himself if anyone ever said it. But that's most of his problem, these days; no one says it. No one to call him out on his bullshit.

Will used to. Jane did, once. But ever since she disappeared, and things had finally calmed down, they leave him be. They handle Mike with kid gloves, gentle and soft in a way that makes his skin prickle with self-loathing.

No one says it. Not even Max, which is terrible in and of itself.

That's fine; Mike doesn't need them to. He's well aware of his own shortcomings, has had plenty of time to think about them in depth, to systematically note down each time he's ever let someone down.

He speaks without thinking, lashing out whenever he feels cornered. Shuts down when it matters. Mike can't even bring himself to tell his best friend he's in love with him. Even after everything they've been through, even though Will would understand, he still can't bring himself to do it.

He's hidden behind excuses his whole life. Convinced himself everything he did was out of a twisted sense of duty, pretended like he was being braver than he was. Treated loving a beautiful girl like a chore. Like an inevitability, like a reward for all his suffering.

His life is marked by his worst, lowest moments. There's so much more to hate than there is to love.

He's emerged radically unscathed from the impossible horrors they'd faced, and he still has it in him to mope around and pretend like he'd taken the most damage. Pathetic, small, cowardly, and useless.

Still, he is loved. Tolerated. Kept around, as if there's something in him worth holding on to.

Mike should be grateful, he knows. To be cared for, still. After everything he's done, everything he's kept quiet about. After how he'd treated Jane, for all those years. Referring to her by her number, dehumanising her until the bitter end. And for what? So he could create some emotional distance between them, as if they needed the help.

That bomb should've taken him out, instead.

Mike Wheeler is twelve years old when he learns about cosmic punishment.

Well— not exactly. He doesn't connect the dots that quick. But when he looks back, he can pinpoint the exact day the universe started transmitting its message.

The day Will disappeared wasn't supposed to be a regular day. It was special. They had gathered together for their D&D session, spent all day playing the campaign Mike had planned for them.

It'd taken two weeks for him to come up with the right twists and turns. His longest, most ambitious campaign yet.

Most of his time had been dedicated to fleshing out the background, enriching the world with lore and the NPCs with mundane everyday lives, because Dustin always tried to catch him unprepared.

Lucas was all about strategy and battle, so he'd made sure to include some terrifying monsters and complicated structures that were just powerful and complicated enough to scare the party, but not difficult enough to make the fight impossible. A hard balance to strike, and yet he'd done it.

Will was all about the story, which meant that every story had to be the best possible story Mike was capable of telling. So, no pressure.

His campaign had been special— which is why, when he'd overheard Lucas trying to convince Will to lie to him about his low roll, he'd found himself in a foul mood.

Friends don't lie, that was party rule number one. If they wanted to lie about this, how much had they lied about before? What if Dustin hadn't rolled a nat20 for persuasion at the most tense moment during their last campaign? What if he'd just lied, and Mike hadn't seen because he'd been sitting too far to make out the numbers on the dice?

As he watched his friends bike away with a frown, he wondered how Will would lie to him. He'd lingered back, most probably to deliver the lie to Mike's face. His friends were probably using his inability to be mad at Will, as if that would help.

"It was a seven," Will says, and Mike's head swivels to him so fast he's surprised he doesn't get whiplash.

"Huh?" He says, uselessly.

"The demogorgon. It got me," Will tells him, truthfully. His big hazel eyes look up at Mike, his hair sitting in a perfect circle around his head. Like a helmet. Kids make fun of it sometimes, but Mike thinks it's sweet.

He thinks everything about Will is sweet.

They look at each other in silence for a second, before Will moves to leave. Mike watches him go, and thinks, for the first time in his life, I like you so much.

And then, Will disappears.

Mike learns not to think things like that again.

Mike Wheeler never claimed to be a good person.

It feels like the title was thrust onto him without his knowledge. People around him assumed that just because he cared for his friends, he was good. That, because he hadn't given up on finding Will even after they pulled his body out of the quarry, he was a brave, strong, good kid.

They were wrong.

Mike yearns to be good, though. He aches for it, dreams of it, writes stories just to rip them up about it. He wishes he was good; instead, he is just this.

This being the kind of person who would set off a butterfly effect that would lead to several deaths, the sort of things you'd only see in movies.

This being the kind of person who'd selfishly insist on his friends staying over late to finish his campaign. Endangering their lives for the sake of his own ego. Someone who wouldn't ask his best friend to spend the night on the only night when it mattered, who'd shelter an abused and tormented girl just to use her powers to find his best friend.

Someone who would try to find love while his best friend was being hunted in an alternate dimension. Let his heartbeat pick up from a shy, stolen kiss, right as Will's slowed to a stop.

Who would feel relieved when the girl he claimed to care for disappeared. Use her absence to grow close to his best friend, closer than they'd ever been.

Who would tell himself he was doing the right thing, shuffling down to the basement and pressing the push-to-talk button at the same time each night, swallowing back a strange mix of guilt and relief when there was no response.

Someone who'd thank God for bringing Will back into their lives, even if El had to be the sacrifice.

Joyce ruffles his hair and calls him a good boy. Jonathan thanks him for never giving up on Will. Nancy tells him she's impressed, and she sounds like she means it. Lucas cites his stubbornness, and Dustin tells Will all about the girl who saved them and how much she meant to Mike.

Mike is not a good person; he used El to find Will, and once she did, he let her go. And he hopes, selfishly, that no one notices, that they continue to think of him as good.

He thinks of the Snow Ball, and feels relieved that he won't have a date, just like Will. He basks in the normalcy of having Will back, as if he has any right to.

He ripped apart time and space to find Will, but he can't bring himself to look around the woods for El.

The worst part is this— he thinks he's seen her before, could've sworn it was because of her that Max fell off her skateboard. Hasn't mentioned it to anyone, even though he knows if he did, Dustin and Lucas— even Will —would jump at the chance to find El. To find the girl they're all indebted to, the girl they owe Will's life to.

A lost child for a lost child.

No, Mike Wheeler is not a good person at all.

He's not one of the bad men. But that does little to absolve him.

Mike Wheeler has tried to end his life before.

He doesn't like to tell that part of the story, because it sounds more dramatic than it is.

It starts off simple enough. Troy and James appear at the worst possible moment, they spew some bullshit. Dustin talks back, and Mike watches on in fear.

Except— they're not at school. There's no adult supervision, no split-second hesitation to take advantage of. No, when Troy pulls out a knife and grabs Dustin, there's little else to do but shout.

"Let him go. Let him go!"

It's as useless as Mike feels in the moment. Dustin's eyes fill with terror, a sight Mike's wholly unfamiliar with. Not even in the most terrifying, tense moments during their adventures had such a look crossed Dustin's face. Mike feels sick.

"I'll let him go. Sure," Troy sneers. "But first, it's your turn."

Mike glares at him, the hatred in his body too large for its small frame. "My turn for what?" He spits out.

"Wet yourself."

"What?"

It'd be comical, if Dustin wasn't still struggling against Troy's grasp. If he couldn't feel James standing behind him like a guard dog, waiting for Mike to step out of line.

"Jump." Troy jerks his head toward the cliff. "Or Toothless here gets an early trip to the dentist."

Understanding washes over Mike.

He's dealing with a psychopath.

He looks over to the cliff, then back at Troy. He's frozen again, and he feels so small.

Pathetic.

Who did he think he was, playing a legendary knight in a stupid game with his friends?

Mike the Brave, what a joke. When had he ever been brave?

The one time he'd ever dared to be brave, shoving Troy over when he'd said those awful things about Will, has already come back to bite him.

These are the consequences of his actions. Not El's, and certainly not Dustin's.

No, Mike is all alone in this. His stupidity has landed both of them in this position, and he's not even the one being punished.

Dustin's eyes stay glued onto the knife. He's muttering hysterically; a constant stream of no, no, no. It falls on deaf ears. No one's listening.

Troy keeps the knife trained onto Dustin's mouth as he shuffles them both forward.

He watches Dustin close his eyes and turn away, let out a single sob.

It jolts through him. "Alright, just hold on!"

He turns around to James. "Hold on!"

Mike deserves this, doesn't he?

He steps backwards, keeping his eyes trained on Troy.

"Mike, don't do it," Dustin tries, struggling a little harder against Troy's hold. "I don't need my baby teeth—"

Mike doesn't listen. He turns around, and walks toward the edge.

They'd pulled Will's body from here, last night.

No, that wasn't right. Will was alive; El had proven it to him.

They'd pulled something out, though. And it had Will's jacket, Will's hair. Will's small frame, so familiar and comforting to Mike. His sweet, beautiful friend.

His body had looked bloated. Unnatural. Pale and wrong. Lifeless, in a way Will had never been. Wrong.

Vaguely, Mike registers Dustin begging him to stop. But his voice feels impossibly far away. Muffled.

There was so much wrongness in the world. He hadn't noticed, before Will went missing. Everything felt good and right with Will.

Mike keeps walking, careful and slow, as if that would change what he's about to do.

Even if Will were still alive— he must be, he has to be —they were arranging a funeral for him. To all of Hawkins, it was an open and shut case. Will Byers was dead.

What did Mike have to live for, then?

Reaching the edge, his legs tremble a bit. He kicks a rock by mistake, and watches it as it falls. It takes a while, for it to reach the surface.

Had Will stood here, then? Had something chased him? Is this how he'd ended up in the wrong dimension?

The rock barely causes a ripple before it's gone. Swallowed up so easily. Could anyone have even heard Will, then? As he hit the water?

Did his lungs fill with water quick, or was it a slow, painful drowning?

"Mike, seriously, don't do it man, don't do it, please!"

Dustin's voice pierces through the haze. He turns around, just for a second, but the pull from the lake is too strong.

It's like it's calling to him.It's been calling to him since last night. Ever since he'd watch them pull Will's body out. No, not Will's. Something else.

Something with Will's small frame, with Will's hands. Hands that made the art Mike loved so much, had spent all of last night poring over.

Mike's breath quickens.

He'd been so pale. It's all Mike's sees when he closes his eyes. Will. Bloated, pale, lifeless, and so, so wrong.

Mike's best friend. His favorite person in the whole wide world, the only person he'd ever learned to trust, wholeheartedly. Mike and Will, against the world. Joined at the hip.

Two peas in a pod, Mrs. Byers would say.

Troy begins to count down. Mike steels himself.

5.

Would it be brave? To follow Will, where even El couldn't?

4.

What if this is the only way to reach him?

3.

At least, this way, they would still be two peas in a pod. In a lake.

2.

Mike yearns to be brave.

1.

He jumps.

Mike Wheeler does not like new people.

When Will introduces him to Lucas, Mike is hesitant. He's threatened, really, but he doesn't have the words to identify it just yet.

Mike and Will had been friends for a handful of months then, which was basically eternity to Mike. Will tells Mike that Lucas had seen them playing in the neighborhood before, and that he'd really like to be friends.

He'd seen Lucas before. They were neighbors, but Mike knew very little about him. He hadn't felt the need to go over and introduce himself.

Mike had Will, and he didn't need any other friends. Especially because other kids were mean. Mean to Will, specifically. He was still the smallest kid in class. He was quiet, polite, and beloved by adults.

It made the other kids mad which, in turn, made Mike mad.

Mike would get in trouble with teachers sometimes. They'd scold him for misbehavior, as if it was his fault that kids wouldn't leave Will alone.

They'd make fun of his clothes, his shoes. The doodles he'd color into the margins of his notebooks. After a while, they started making fun of Mike, too. For how defensive he'd get around Will, for being Will's friend in the first place.

It wasn't fair. And what if Lucas started doing the same? Mike had no reason to trust this boy.

Except.

Will thought he was nice. And that he would make a good friend, and if Mike wanted Will as his best friend, maybe he'd have to accept that Will would have other friends, too.

That was fine with him, as long as he was Will's only best friend.

Mike figured it would take him a long, long time to get used to Lucas. A week, or maybe even two weeks. But by the time recess ended, he found himself clambering over Will to tell Lucas to ask his mom if he could join their sleepover over the weekend.

After school, Mike stood next to Lucas and Will, all of them waiting for Joyce to come pick Will up.

It isn't until Will leaves that Mike remembers that Lucas lives just a few houses down his road.

"D'you wanna walk home together?" He asks Lucas, a little hesitant.

He's not sure if Lucas actually likes him without Will around. But Lucas smiles at him and nods, and they start talking about a new game Lucas wanted to bring over for their sleepover.

It usually feels like such a long walk back home. He always complains to Mom about how boring it is, whining and badgering her. Why can't Dad just take me in his car?

But with Lucas, it feels shorter. They reach Mike's house first, and Mike feels a pang of sadness as he waves his new friend goodbye.

Maybe, Mike thinks, you can have more than one best friend.

Mike Wheeler carries a lot of guilt.

At first, it was for little things. For stealing Nancy's pocket money to play more games with Will at the arcade. For pretending to give away his toys when his mother asked, only to sneak them back out of the charity box before she could take them out to the car.

As life became complicated, so did the guilt.

For not protecting Will as much as he could have. For not asking him to sleep over, that night. For fighting with Lucas over a girl he hadn't known at all, for kissing her the same night they found Will. For lying to El about what Hopper had said, for the fight in the rain, for never loving El the way she needed him to.

For the longest time, his worst guilt came in the form of his waning friendship with Will.

For not sending enough letters, for giving up on calling him, for expecting Will to come looking for him for once, when their entire friendship was based on Mike finding Will.

For saying his life started when he found El in the woods.

For never getting the chance to explain that everything ended for him when Will disappeared. That El was the dawning. That El was a chance at a second life. He could never explain it; Will would never understand. So he kept the guilt to himself.

It seeped into everything. Unavoidable and spreading haphazardly, tainting everything Mike's ever known. For all his crimes, all his lies. They weren't lies he'd meant to tell; he had every intention to be honest, to finally be good. But El had needed him, and Will had pushed him, and Mike wants to tell himself he's blameless, but he knows he could've done more. Could've done better.

He'd meant to fix it. He'd tried to fix it, in Lenora, and again when they were back in Hawkins. But El hadn't wanted to talk, focusing on training instead. Almost losing Max changed her. Sharpened the softest sides of her, the sides of her that fit well with Mike's jagged edges. They clashed, now. But it was fine; he figured they had time. They could talk about things after. But after had never come, and Mike lives with the guilt of lying about loving El every day.

Looking back now, Mike can still find some sympathy for his younger self. He'd been trying so, so hard. He'd clung to responsibility so tightly, convinced that he was the only person who could fix things. Convinced it was all his burden to bear, all alone. Mike had truly gone crazy. Without Will.

Crazy together. What a joke.

None of that pain, that fear; none of it could have prepared him for this.

The guilt of taking El's life is not something to be washed away easily. Of not being able to say he'd loved her, even if he'd made the whole conversation up.

There's no easy way around it; he built the bomb that killed her. That destroyed the Upside Down, sealed it off for good. With El still inside.

It's the kind of guilt he hopes never leaves him. He hopes it kills him, sometimes. Eats away at him until there's nothing left behind.

He looks back on it and hates himself with a fervour he hadn't realised was possible. He should have seen it coming. He'd become too complacent, too comfortable in his faith that this time was different, that the universe was done punishing them for once.

That Will and El could handle things, that they didn't need him anymore. Watching Will gain powers, seeing El reunite with a family member; a sister he'd never even heard of before. A sister who demanded they call her Jane, as if El wasn't the name Mike had given her, the shelter he'd promised her. All of a sudden, he'd become useless to them. He'd retreated into his shell, nurturing a crisis of faith when it least mattered.

He should have known— he was always meant to lose one of them. Their fates were interlinked, their lives entwined. Mike had never been able to balance the two of them.

In trying to protect Will, he'd broken his most sacred oath. And these were the consequences. A fallen paladin, a pathetic child.

He should have been the one to die that night. Change the story, switch up the narrative. He'd always liked subverting the genre, loved a good plot twist. But El had been right, even as she'd pushed him further away with her words. Even as she'd confused him so, so terribly. This is not one of your campaigns. You don't get to write the ending.

Sometimes, Mike stares at the painting Will gave him. The painting made from a sentiment El had never, ever expressed to him out loud. The sentiment he'd formed an entire false memory around.

He thinks about all the changes he would make to their story.

This would never have been the ending he'd choose. It was too obvious, too plain. Too repetitive. The story of his life, chock-full of the same tired cliche.

Mike, losing Will. Gaining El. Losing El, gaining Will. Having both of them, but never in the same room for too long. Losing them both, after.

He could have changed things. Rewritten the inevitable. It should have been his turn. He'd been overdue for it.

He thinks about it, often. Lying awake at night.

He should have been the one to die that night.

The ultimate penance. A paladin making a sacrifice for his sorcerer. For the mage he'd wronged from the very beginning.

The perfect story. One that had been written out for him from the start. He should have known. He should've seen it coming. It was supposed to have been his perfect story. But he'd strayed from his path, had he not?

It could have been a cleansing. A rebirth.

Mike wishes, more than anything, that he could turn to Will now. A paladin, falling to his knees, weeping in front of his cleric. Begging to be atoned.

He sees himself as a child, dressed in a suit of armor his mother had bought for him. A sword and a shield made out of foam and cardboad. Kneeling down in front of his cleric, asking to be knighted.

There's an unavoidable pain in his chest at the thought of it.

They'd mixed up plotlines and roles a lot, back then. Will the Wise was a wizard, a prince, a damsel in distress, and the very deity Mike the Brave answered to. Gained power and strength from. Lucas and Dustin, the two-headed creature he'd have to slay to reach his prince. No matter the story, Mike would always save Will.

There had never been any space for a mage, in their stories.

Mike's so full of guilt he could choke on it.

He doesn't, but he hopes he does. Weeps and prays to the cold and vast unfeeling void his father and the mindless folk in town call god. Each night, begging not to wake up tomorrow. Selfish to the core, to the very end. Each night, begging not to open his eyes again.

In his dreams, he sees her. He can never tell if she's real, or if she's yet another illusion. Another vision for his guilt-ridden brain to latch onto. She haunts him, and she does so with a soft, kind smile. Her sharpened edges nowhere to be seen.

She sees his memories and his regrets. She's understanding, but firm. She sees his deepest desire and she shrugs, tells him it was never her space to take up. Even through her anger, she is careful in choosing her words, a kindness he does not deserve.

She hears, when he thinks it. She laughs at him, and tells him no one deserves anything. She tells him people have to find meaning, even if they don't deserve it. She tells him she doesn't care anymore, that she's finding a life for herself, that she might one day return, when things are different and when people have forgotten. She tells him he needs to keep living. That he needs to go to him.

He doesn't meet her eyes. Never does, never could. Because even now, he is a coward. Even now, he's weak. He remembers being seven, itching to grow up. To become something worthy of love.

Mike wakes in the morning, rushes to the bathroom, and clings to the toilet. Hunched over and shivering, he spills his guts out. There stops being much to let out, after a couple weeks of this. Still, he finds himself lurching out of bed every morning, the memory of her burning bright behind his eyelids.

Rise, rinse, repeat.

Mike Wheeler always thought he'd be the one to find Will.

It comes to him as a vision— or at least, that's what he thinks at first. When his eyes adjust to the blinding light of his torch, it looks more like a little kid, probably his age.

His heart skips a beat the second they meet eyes. His first instinct is that it's Will, that he's found Will, and of course it's him to find Will, because it was Mike and Will forever, wasn't it? But that's because Will is the only person Mike really wants to see.

It isn't that easy, though; the longer he looks, the more obvious it is that this isn't Will. The figure is engulfed by a bright yellow T-shirt, with a shaved head and no shoes. In the rain, no less.

It's a girl, is what he realises. He takes in her soft features, so reminiscent of Will that it makes him feel a little sick. He's taking in this little girl, and all of a sudden, her appearance makes his heart clench.

How did she end up here, in the woods, all alone? Was Will lost like this, too, somewhere? Was he drenched in rain and alone, scared? Was he cold?

It's with these thoughts that he brings her back to his home, and gives her a change of clothing.

Mike thinks of Will, and the kindness of strangers.

He sends out a quick prayer that his good deeds would pass onto Will, wherever he could be. He shuts down Dustin and Lucas when they try to ask invasive questions, and introduces her to the concept of privacy.

He builds her a pillow fort in his basement, gives her his name, and hands her one in exchange.

Mike. El.

Something irrational and loud in his head insists that El is the key to finding Will. A lost child for a lost child.

When she points to Will's picture in his room, he thinks, of course.

Mike Wheeler has very good pattern recognition.

It's not a skill people typically brag about; nothing to write home about. But it has helped in a pinch, especially since the world became less about science tests and more about imminent, impending doom.

It helped when Will started acting strange. Then again, even without good pattern recognition, Mike would've noticed anyway. His brain's internal wiring readjusts when it comes to Will. The exception to everything; Mike would know if something were wrong with him any time, at any distance.

He recognised Will's breathing through the crackly sound of a walkie-talkie, noticed his silence when no one else did.

It helped save Will, and it helped save his family. Mike wakes up shivering some nights, Will's screams echoing in his mind.

He's lying! He's lying! He’s lying!

Mike thanks God every day that he'd been right. That they hadn't sedated and knocked out a helpless Will that night, because if they had, Mike would've never forgiven himself. Mike has never been able to forgive himself for any harm caused to Will, direct or indirect.

The pattern recognition helps with every day things.

It helps in video games, it helps with storytelling. Good stories all follow certain arcs, and the best stories subvert your expectations by changing the patterns up a bit. Mike finds comfort in both the uniformity and the unexpected nature of change.

Mike finds comfort thinking about the patterns in life.

The sun rises and falls. The moon cycles through phases, the seasons come and go. Good things happen because bad things happen and nothing exists on an equilibrium. Will Byers has had several bad days, which means there are several good days written in his future, because life follows a structure.

There's a pattern he's noticed that feels a little like Pandora's box.

Once recognised, it could not become unrecognisable; it could not be forgotten, or closed off, or suppressed. No matter how much Mike wishes it could.

He used to think that bad things happened because things happened all the time, and they would continue to happen. But this, this feels too particular, too targeted. Weighted, in a way he doesn’t think he could ever explain.

The pattern is this: Each time Mike Wheeler feels a little bit too much, too strongly about his best friend, something bad happens.

It used to be a different kind of bad— Will's parents arguing, their voices muffled in the back as Will whispered to him on the walkie; bruises above Jonathan's wrist after Mike left Will a little note about their next sleepover.

Lonnie Byers was a cruel man, and he hated Mike's presence in Will's life. As a child, it hadn't made sense to Mike. And he's not very old now, but he understands better than before. Understands, that while his actions were abhorrent, Lonnie had not been wrong to be suspicious of Mike. And because of Mike, he'd tormented his own son.

And then, once Lonnie left, the kids took his place with an eager thirst in their eyes. Will's bullying morphed, changing shape, growing in size. All of a sudden, it wasn't just Troy and James; it was everyone. Circling him like vultures, poking and prodding at the closeness between Mike and Will.

They'd band together then, to make sure Will would never have to be by himself for too long. It didn't change anything, but it took some of the weight off Will's back. It helped them all breathe easy. They learned to care for one another, in a way only children do. Loyal, stubborn, and brave to their core. Practice, as if the world were priming them for the next awful thing that was soon to come.

He hadn't noticed the pattern until it was too late; until he'd already spit out words he could never unsay. After Will was already driving off into the rain, all by himself.

And he'd felt sick to his stomach, telling his best friend to grow up because he couldn't explain how impossible it all felt— clinging to their childhood and the bond they’d always shared, while also holding onto El and the crumbling base of their relationship.

Mike had regretted it immediately, and dragged Lucas with him out in the rain to follow Will, pounding on the door of his house with nausea settling deep in his stomach. And when he hadn't found Will there, he'd followed the feeling in his stomach, letting it lead him to the woods. Finding Will, like always.

Crazy together, they'd said. But there could never be a together, if Mike was right. He had to come to terms with it, even if it meant losing the unnameable thing he had with Will. The thing that set them apart from their other friends.

He’d run to Castle Byers, gawked at the broken foundation of where he’d formed some of his best memories. And he’d wanted to fall to his knees, to plead to his cleric like a devoted knight should.

He’d felt an unnameable tug to Will, something intense and terrifying that felt like it was roaring at the sight of Will’s trembling frame in the rain. And then, Will had turned to them with an intense look in his eyes, and told them he’s back.

The dominoes came tumbling down.

Mike Wheeler has plenty of things to be insecure about.

Even at a young age, he knew this.

His grandmother frets after him whenever they visit, calling him too skinny and too bony, accusing his mother of not feeding him enough. Nancy makes fun of his nose, and complains loudly about how much she doesn't like his hair, as if she has any say in what it looks like.

Teachers, librarians, even his parents hiss at him often, telling him to be quiet. Calm down, Michael. Not that loud, Michael. His mother rolls her eyes whenever she's around him in public, when he gets too excited about a new film or a new game, when he insists on staying at the arcade for one more hour, please, Mom!

Dustin and Lucas tell him to shut up all the time, and teachers reprimand him for passing notes in class. Mike knows he can be too loud, too excited, too much.

Girls don't like him, and they never have. Troy and James call him Frogface, and all the girls in his class laugh. This doesn't bother him as much, because he doesn't like them very much either. It's like Will always says; girls are boring, and they don't like all the kinds of things Will and Mike like.

They don't like going to the arcade, they don't like video games, they definitely don't like comic books. And even if they do, they only like the girly ones. So Mike couldn't care less about that specific flaw.

He knows all of this, but whenever he gets bullied, he can't help but wonder, do I really deserve this?

By the time Dustin joined their party, Mike had learned to be less wary of new people. The bullying hadn't stopped, just morphed. It was tailored now, schoolyard insults becoming pointed targets at their backs.

At least we have each other. It's something Mike says often, to remind the others, to remind himself.

It was much harder to defend Will when it was just Mike. It's easier with Lucas, and easier still with Dustin involved, too. Strength in numbers, or something.

Mike feels guilty sometimes. He doesn't think he has to face all that much. Not like his best friends have to.

The kids at school are cruel. They say things that are unkind. They're aggressive, and they don't hesitate to take things a step too far. Tripping them over. Pushing and shoving and spitting at their feet.

It feels like each of the party has their own way of dealing with it.

Will shuts down. He flinches and steps back. Keeps his eyes fixed to the ground. He makes himself smaller, closes himself off. As if he thinks making himself invisible will make them leave him alone.

Lucas stays deathly quiet. He meets their eyes. He doesn't provoke, but he doesn't look away either. It's like he tries to send them a message. You don't scare me.

Dustin argues back. It's like he can't help himself. Correcting Troy and James whenever they mock him, as if the only issue he takes from being made fun of is the lack of technical accuracy.

Mike… Mike doesn't know what to do.

He looks away. He watches his friends' reactions. He backs Dustin up, whenever he can. He thinks about being brave, the way his friends deserve.

He used to grab Will's arm, lead him away, but then Troy and James started making fun of that, too, so he stopped. He hovers uncertainly, and tries not to feel special when it's him that Will steps behind.

He feels useless, mostly.

Mike's well aware of it. That despite all his insecurities, he comes off relatively unscathed. He isn't targeted in the way that Will, Lucas, and Dustin are.

Sometimes he gets this feeling— and he tries to brush it away whenever he does, because it doesn't feel nice, even if it feels true —that if Mike were to stop hanging out with his friends, he wouldn't be bullied half as much as he is.

It's not right, and it's not fair. But a part of Mike knows that the reasons why he's bullied are different from the reasons his friends are bullied.

There's something cruel and intentional about the things they say to his friends. The things they say to Mike aren't half as hurtful, even if they do affect him.

Mike Wheeler isn't sure when his life started to be defined by inaction.

It's a defense mechanism, of sorts. If I don't do this, you can't say that.

It starts small, as all things do.

If I just sleep in the basement every night, I don't have to clean my bedroom.

That backfires, because then Karen insisted he clean up the basement, and his room.

If I complain and refuse to do the work, I can get Will to be my project partner.

It had worked that time, and Mr Clarke let them form their own groups for all future projects. Easier than arguing with one of his favorite students.

It grew bigger, as all things do.

If I never tell Mom about El, she doesn't have to leave.

If I don't apologise to Lucas, then I don't have to admit I drew first blood.

If I don't tell Nancy what's going on, I won't have to admit I think it's my fault.

If I don't go searching for El, I'm not the reason she can't be found.

If I never ask Will to the Snow Ball, he won't disappear again.

If I spend all summer with El, I don't have to think about how wrong it feels.

If I keep my eyes shut, kissing her will make sense.

If we never talk about anything, I won't think about how different she is from Will.

It grows beyond Mike.

If I never tell El what Hopper said, I don't have to be the reason why we broke up.

If I just listen to Lucas, I don't have to think about the relief.

If I don't play D&D with Will, I won't have to think about how right it feels.

If I let the Upside Down distract us, I won't have to apologise to Will.

If I never explain myself, I won't have to admit anything.

It grows beyond Hawkins.

If I write less letters, Will won't find out.

If he never picks up, then I'm not the only one pulling away.

If I keep talking to El, things will work out.

If I just don't say I love her, maybe it isn't lying.

It goes too far.

If I don't break up with her, everyone stays safe.

Until he has to act.

If I don't tell El I love her, everyone will die.

Mike lies between his teeth.

"I feel like my life started the day we found you in the woods."

Will stands behind him. Mike swallows the truth.

It feels like glass as it slides down his throat.

Mike Wheeler is a paladin, and his best friend is a cleric.

At least, those were the classes they'd chosen for each other, the first time they'd played D&D.

The way they came across the game felt like destiny. Mike and Lucas had snuck into a book shop to hide from some bullies that were chasing them, abandoning their bikes halfway down the road to throw them off the scent. They hadn’t been doing anything to provoke them, other than existing— which was usually more than enough to set them off.

They hadn’t intended to stay long, just until they were sure the coast was clear. But then, Lucas’s eyes had fallen onto the display the shopkeeper had been setting up; onto the shiny miniatures on display, and the big, bold lettering on the box next to them. Dungeons and Dragons. He’d tugged on Mike’s sleeve to point it out to him.

They’d spent the next ten minutes badgering the shopkeeper with questions, and she’d been more than happy to tell them all about it. It sounded so cool, like a board game designed for them.

Once they ran out of questions, both of them turned to each other, and it was clear they were thinking the same thing. They’d raced out of the shop, picked up their bikes, and rushed to Will’s house together.

It hadn’t taken more than a minute of quick, excited rambling for Will to get on board. He was always like that; eager to go along with whatever Lucas and Mike said.

He’d get between them when they fought, coming up with a solution both boys would find acceptable, sure. But he liked it best when all of them got along.

His most recent solution had been something permanent— Will had suggested a new party rule. Whoever drew first blood had to be the first to apologise. It was working well, so far. It did, however, have an unintended consequence— or at least, Mike hopes it was unintended.

Because of the new rule, Mike suddenly became aware of how often he was the one drawing first blood. How quick he was to snap at Lucas, how easy it was to bicker with him.

Lucas, in turn, would only sometimes fight with Mike, and Will never fought with either of them. If drawing attention to this had been Will’s intention, it had been very effective indeed.

Mike hasn’t fought with Lucas in a while now, almost two whole months. And things are awesome. Because of Will, of course.

There's a moment of silence as they scrounge together all the loose change in their pockets; not nearly enough to buy the actual set.

Will frowned, chewing on his bottom lip, and Mike felt a sharp flash of guilt for bringing this to Will. He should have told Lucas to go to his house instead, so they could’ve stolen some of Nancy’s pocket money from her piggybank.

Will would never ask his mom for money, and Mike could never make him. He also knew, for a fact, that Jonathan didn’t have anything along the lines of a piggybank. Even if he did, Will would never take anything from it.

If anything, Mike knows, he’d sneak in whatever allowance Joyce did give him. He’s selfless like that.

But then again, Mike didn’t want to exclude Will; that’s why they came here in the first place.

Lucas had just started to suggest that they could bike over to their neighborhood and ask their parents for some money when Mike saw Will’s face fall. And that couldn’t do at all, so he blurted out the first thing that comes to his head.

“We could ask to trade for it?”

Lucas frowned at him. Will’s eyes met his, and the glimmer of hope in them was enough for Mike to push on.

“It’s a bookstore, right? So maybe we can ask to exchange some of our books for the set.”

Lucas opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it. He shrugs, after a beat. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

But Mike hadn’t been looking at him at all. Lucas’s reaction didn’t matter to him, because he’d been trying to cheer Will up.

Will looks back at him, something soft and open in his eyes. He doesn’t say thank you, but Mike hears it anyway.

“Let’s look around, then,” Mike offered, quirking his eyebrows up at Will.

Will nodded, and they scattered. They pulled out a wagon they’d use to take toys and books into the woods near the Byers’ house, and they crammed it full of books Will insisted he didn’t mind getting rid of.

Mike still asked a third, fourth time. Just to make sure.

They made their way to the shop with their bikes in hand, Mike pulling the wagon along. Halfway there, the bullies found them again.

Looking back at the memory, Mike vividly remembers Lucas pulling out the romance novels Will had blushed and stuttered over owning, flinging them at the gang of kids chasing them, ever the fighter.

Mike remembers accidentally losing grip of the wagon while trying to keep up with Lucas and Will, remembers half the books getting covered in mud. Remembers the muck sticking the pages together, remembers Will’s crestfallen face. Handing the wagon off to Lucas and brushing his hands on his jeans before tugging on Will’s sleeve.

He remembers being a far braver boy back then than he was now. Slipping his hand into Will’s, looking into his big wet eyes. Feeling a mix of rage and worry rumbling in his chest. Wishing he had magic powers, to save Will from ever feeling this way ever again.

“Hey,” he’d said, ever so softly. Will didn’t like sharp voices, loud noises. He’d always flinch.

Mike knew why, even before Will explained.

He’d never liked Lonnie, never liked the way he’d clamp his hand on Will’s shoulder on the handful of times Mike would be around. How he’d look at Mike with barely disguised disgust, the same way his own father would look at him sometimes.

Will had told him one day, months ago, about his father. About how sometimes, he’d come home smelling sour, swaying and mumbling to himself about ungrateful children. How he’d fight with Joyce, and how much it terrified Will to be alone in a room with him.

Mike had made a silent vow to himself, after that; to never hurt or scare Will in that way. To protect him, however he could.

He’d stay awake and think about it, a lot, back then. Of growing older, stronger, and fighting Lonnie the way grown ups fought. Scaring him away forever, so Will would never have to cower and flinch at loud noises.

He couldn’t wait, back then. To grow up. Grow old, with Will by his side.

“It’s okay, we still have a lot of books,” he said, reassuringly.

Will didn’t meet his eyes. Mike could see Lucas in his periphery, gathering and sorting between books that were still salvageable.

He didn’t ask for help; Lucas understood, even then, that Mike was the only person who could really get through to Will sometimes.

“I know,” Will said, quietly. “I just wish I could...”

Mike squeezed his hand. He could feel himself welling up with tears, the way he always did when he felt too much, too strongly, all at once.

He sniffed, and laughed as Will scrambled to place a hand on his cheek. “I’m fine, Will."

“I’m sorry,” Will said, sounding so, so small. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Lucas hovered uncertainly near them, having sorted out the books in record time. Mike wiped away at his tears, conscious of him watching.

“You didn’t. I just want to be stronger.”

Will nodded at him, glancing over at Lucas to smile at him, always making sure he felt included. Will was so, so good.

Mike could never imagine hurting someone like him, could never imagine bullying someone like him. The world was so big, and so unfair, and Mike felt so helpless at the vastness of it all.

Becoming a grown up felt so far away. He wished he could protect Will now, but he’s still a little scared of the dark. How could he fight away monsters?

“You will be,” Will says. “Strong and brave.”

Mike nods at him, turning to Lucas.

“Can I?” He asks, and Lucas nods at him, smiling. He hands the wagon back to Mike, and Will and Lucas move for their abandoned bikes.

“You always know what to say,” Mike says to Will’s retreating frame. He turns around mid-step and laughs, and the pain in Mike’s chest dissipates.

“‘Cause I get better grades,” Will jokes, turning back to pull his bike up. Mike gasps, starting to pull the wagon again. He doesn’t disagree; never would.

They move along, a little more cautious now.

Lucas had hit one of the bullies directly in the eye with the corner of one of the books. They’d probably leave Mike and his friends alone for today, but it was only a matter of time before they’d come around to get back at them for it.

Mike makes a mental note not to leave Lucas alone for too long after school.

By the time they reach the bookstore, Mike’s exhausted, cranky, and his arms hurt terribly.

They spend a good five minutes pleading and begging with the shopkeeper to exchange their muddy books for the starter set. Something about their efforts must have endeared her, because she’d given in, albeit a little begrudgingly. She even refused to take the books, telling them to take them away and stop tracking mud in her store.

Mike tried to take it as a kind gesture, but really, his arm was so sore. He complained all the way to his house, even though Lucas had taken over the wagon for him by then.

As soon as they reached Mike’s home, they rushed for the basement. Will paused to quickly call his mother’s workplace to let her know he was at Mike’s— a formality, really, because where else would he be? And then they pored over the manual, talking loudly over one another.

When it came time to choose their classes, Lucas knew instantly what he’d be— a ranger. It made sense, looking back on the events of the day.

Mike and Will, though, deliberated over theirs for a while. Quietly, while Lucas went upstairs to ask Karen for snacks, Will had turned to Mike.

“D’you wanna choose each other’s classes?” He’d asked, a little hesitant.

“Yeah, o-of course, Will,” Mike replied, surprised. Will doesn’t always ask Mike for things; usually because Mike figures it out before he has to. When he does, though, there’s little doubt that Mike won’t give in. At least, Mike hopes there’s little doubt.

“What are you thinking for me?” Mike asks, curious. Will wouldn’t have asked if something hadn’t crossed his mind.

Will slips the manual out of Mike’s hands and flips a few pages back. He points, a small smile on his face, to a bold title on the page. A fighter sub-class. Paladin.

“A Paladin?” Mike thinks back to his extensive knowledge on all things magical and fantasy related. Even at a young age, he’d been an avid reader. A nerd, through and through. “Like, a knight?”

Will’s eyes sparkle. He nods.

Mike tilts his head. He reads the description on the page Will’s still pointing at. To become a paladin, a character must be human. He opens his mouth, hesitant, but not wanting to outright disagree with Will.

“But… they’re human. Not special at all.”

Will shrugs, his eyes still sparkling. He looks down at the manual in front of them. “You’re human, and you’re special.”

Mike feels his cheeks warm.

“I don’t know,” Will says, and Mike frowns, feeling him pulling back, retreating into his shell. “It’s silly.”

Mike shakes his head emphatically. “No, no, I like it. It’s cool. Like a magical knight.”

Will beams at him. “Yeah. Mike the Brave.”

He thinks back to their conversation earlier today, heart full to bursting at the thought of finally being able to protect Will like he’d always wanted. Even if it were just in a game.

“The Brave?” He asks, and Will giggles at him.

Will really likes listening to music, always sharing Jonathan’s odd music taste with Mike whenever he comes over. He asks Mike’s opinions on each song. Mike doesn’t have much to offer, but he always finds something to say.

Will’s been trying to find him a favorite song, because he thinks everyone should have one. If he were to be honest, though, Mike’s favorite song isn’t a song at all. It’s this; Will’s laughter. Mike’s favorite sound, easily.

“Like we said earlier?” Mike presses, just to hear him say it. Will nods, and Mike grins at him.

“Cool,” he says, right as Lucas comes tumbling down the stairs, a giant tray in his hands.

“Your mom makes the best snacks,” he announces.

He says it each time he comes over. Mike likes how much his friends like spending time to his house. He hopes it’ll stay that way forever.

“I know,” Mike says, pleased. Lucas rolls his eyes at him.

“Have you guys chosen your classes yet? I wanna start playing sometime today, y’know.”

Mike shrugs. “Will chose mine, I have to choose his.”

If Lucas sees the missing person in their plan, he doesn’t mention it.

“Well,” he says. “Hurry up then!”

Mike flips through the manual for a few seconds, thinking. His eyes snag on some of the information under the Paladin sub-class.

Paladins must seek a high-level (7th or above) Cleric of lawful good alignment, confess their sin, and do penance as prescribed by the Cleric.

He flips forward to find the Cleric sub-heading. He feels Will hovering over his shoulder, reading with him. Wonders if Will noticed why he’d chosen it.

“A Cleric?” Will mumbles. Mike nods. His cheeks feel like they’re on fire. They usually do, when Will’s this close.

“Yeah,” he says. “It makes sense. You're magical."

He pauses, thinking. Mike the Brave. And…

"Will the Wise.”

We would be a pair, Mike thinks, but doesn’t say. Even then, he knew some things had to be kept close to his chest.

Lucas pulls the manual from Mike’s hands. Mike scoffs at him, and Lucas sticks out his tongue back at him.

“This is cool!” He says. “We could use a healer, too.”

Mike meets Will’s eye. He raises an eyebrow; a silent question. Do you like it?

Will nods, smiles; a silent confirmation. I like it.

They gather all their supplies together, helping Lucas unload the tray. They scatter all the equipment from their first ever D&D set.

For their first game ever, Will elects Mike to be their Dungeon Master.

Mike Wheeler has been broken up with before.

It didn't feel as bad as the films had promised him. It also didn't feel like something trivial, salveagable, or simple, like Lucas suggested.

It felt like a weight off his shoulders. And it felt like being crushed, for all the wrong reasons. Like losing a safety net. Like having the rug pulled from under your feet. Like having the blanket yanked off of you while you're mid-slumber on a cold December morning.

He doesn't understand why he needs to bother trying to get El back; wasn't a breakup supposed to be something permanent? It's not like it was his fault, anyway. Hopper had gotten in between them, and El had decided to break up with him. But Lucas tells him this is par for the course, and so Mike follows his lead.

Mike thinks more than once, running around the mall with Lucas and Will, that there's no reason for him to follow Lucas's lead. Technically, Mike had been the first of the party to even get a girlfriend. So shouldn't he be the expert? But whatever Max and Lucas have feels different from what he has from El, for reasons he can't put his finger on.

What Max and Lucas has reminds him of Will. Because they go to the movies together, too, their knees brushing and their arms pressed close together. They whisper to each other the same way, and Mike likes making Will laugh just as much Lucas does with Max.

Mike tells himself not to examine the similarities too much, but it's hard not to. It's harder, then, after the fight he has with Will.

The thing is, he knows Will is right. He's been a bad friend, he's stopped caring about their Party, and no, he hadn't known where Dustin was.

But he doesn't have the words to explain it, doesn't know how to tell Will that what he's doing is important. He has to grow up, he has to focus on things with El, has to try to be like Lucas, like Dustin, too, if Suzie were real.

He can't be Mike and Will anymore, because being Mike and Will only hurts the two of them. Being Mike and Will is what dragged Will down into the Upside Down. It's what made him lose El in the first place, it's what started this whole mess.

He can't do it anymore. He shouldn't.

But how could he explain any of that to Will?

He couldn't. Instead, he chose the coward's way out. He did what would come to define the rest of his life; he deflected. Suppressed his feelings, twisted them, and threw them back in Will's face.

Looked Will in the eyes and spat out things he'd never meant. Could never mean.

It's not my fault you don't like girls.

As if Will's the problem, as if Will's the one who's been fighting off the truth about himself for the last few years. As if Will's the one pretending.

And then he'd watched Will bike away in the rain, feeling an awful sense of deja vu. November 6th, all over again. Except this time, it truly is all his fault.

Mike Wheeler has been broken up with before.

But it didn't hurt for a second. Not like losing Will ever did.

Mike Wheeler knows very little.

He's internalised this over the years.

Gone are the days of being children running around at school, badgering Mr Clarke with questions and feeling clever for knowing the answer before he'd even started to speak. Days of joining the annual science fair, taking pride in winning every year, calling bullshit politics when he lost. Of playing around with technical equipment at the AV club, pretending to understand the universe better than he did.

Mike has learned better now.

He doesn't know jack shit. There are alternate universes, extradimensional monsters, and eldritch horrors that target innocent, kind children. Superpowers exist, and they're always exploited, by good people and bad people alike. The government is callous, the military powerful.

The world is blurry and confusing and there is no such thing as moral, objective truth. Boyfriends lie, girlfriends lie, and trust is little more than choosing to believe in things that aren't true anymore. That might have never been true.

There's only one thing Mike Wheeler knows for sure.

He's learned and internalised it over the years; going to church on Sundays and listening to the men on the news and on the radio tout on about the Bible while his father sat in a chair and grunted in agreement.

There is a God.

There is a God out there, somehow. And He's hellbent on keeping things right.

There is a God, and He hates being disobeyed. He hates it so much, He keeps taking things away from Mike, just because Mike can't help the way he feels.

All this time, he’d thought El was penance, for his failure to protect Will. That being with her was atonement, for wanting the wrong things, for feeling the wrong way. But it hadn’t helped— Will kept leaving. And El did, too. Mike keeps losing people, and nothing he does brings them back.

Each time Mike thinks of Will, he feels the weight of cosmic responsibility.

He's doesn't know what he feels for Will anymore. But he knows for certain that it isn't allowed.

Mike Wheeler trusts his best friend blindly.

He's never had cause not to. The one time he'd found himself doubting Will's trustworthiness, he'd turned to Mike and told him the truth, point blank.

It was a seven.

So when Will told him about the painting, Mike had no cause not to believe him.

The whole trip to Lenora had been the complete opposite of what Mike thought it would be. It’d been a disaster even before things went off the rails. A disaster as soon as he landed, even.

He thought he’d get to spend more time with Will, for one.

He’d figured since El was having such a good time settling in, she wouldn’t mind if Mike ended things with her. Would even agree with him, because she’d noticed the lack of excitement in his letters.

Worst case scenario, he’d thought, El would be upset with him, but she’d come around at the end. Will would help him bring her around.

Instead, they’d ended up here. Slowly cooking in a musty van, stinking of weed, day-old pizza, and sour, sweaty clothing.

And all Mike could think about was how much he wished things were different.

(That, and why had Will found that mysterious painting so important to pack amongst the absolute bare necessities?)

At first, when Will had handed it to him, he’d been elated, if not a bit apprehensive.

The significance of a gift like this from Will, after Mike had spent the last couple of months trying to figure out how to end things with El— it was too much; not enough.

Then, Will started to say it was a commission from El, which couldn’t have been true. El had never shown any interest in D&D, never once asking him about Hellfire in her letters— even as he tried to fill up pages with details about campaigns, having little else to say.

And Mike wondered, just for a split second, if Will was trying to tell him something else. Through El, maybe. You're leading the party. That's what holds this whole thing together, the heart.

But then, Will said, you make her feel like she’s not a mistake at all, like she’s better for being different, and things became confusing all over again. Because Will could never be a mistake.

And taking Will’s words at face value made no sense, either.

Why would El say Mike makes her feel like she's not a mistake, when they'd just fought about how he doesn't understand her?

But Will would never lie to Mike, so Mike tried to make it make sense. Maybe El's perspective had shifted since then. Maybe, she'd been upset about Angela and the roller rink, and she hadn't meant what she'd said.

El's words, poured carefully out of Will's mouth, sat sour in Mike's stomach for the rest of their journey. Like curdled milk, bitter, and thick, and wrong.

It wasn’t what Mike had wanted to hear at all, from either of them.

He'd been trying to get Will to agree that they should break up. For him to say it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they did.

For him to confirm, maybe, that it wasn’t all Mike’s responsibility, that the weight of the world didn’t rest on his shoulders.

A part of Mike had hoped, foolishly, that Will would wade through the muck and mud in his mind, and find him, for once.

Mike had always looked for Will, always found him, met him where he’d needed. Even at his worst, his lowest moment, he’d still chased after Will. Tried to make things better.

A part of Mike, then, had hoped that Will would meet him where he was— and tell him it was okay, to not want to be with El anymore.

Instead, all Will had done, for the whole trip, was try to convince him that the right thing to do was to stay with El. To try and patch things up between them.

Will had spent more time with El than Mike had, by then. He understood her on a deeper level than Mike did, called her his sister. And he’d seemed so convinced that their relationship was good for her. Determined, even.

He thinks back to when they were kids. When they first played D&D, how Will had chosen his class for him. Had he told El about that?

Mike had been so confused. But Will would never lie to him, and he could trust Will with anything. The world started the day they met, and it ended the day he disappeared.

And he had told Mike everything he’d ever needed to hear—that he made someone feel worthy. That he was useful, that he was needed. Just not by Will.

For Will, Mike could bear the weight of cosmic responsibility. Divine punishment.

For Will, he could be brave. The heart, the paladin.

But that’s not what Will wanted. Mike had tried, to show Will how lost he was, how badly he needed for Will to reach out for him. How much he'd needed Will to pull him back in.

Will had pushed him into El’s arms instead.

And for El, Mike could never be anything at all.

Mike Wheeler has a complicated relationship with lying.

He's not sure exactly when it started. It's not like he remembers the first time he was lied to. He doesn't remember learning what a lie was, or what it felt like when he told his first lie.

He just knows that he doesn't like it; that lying makes his skin crawl, and being lied to feels even worse.

Being lied to makes Mike feel like he doesn't know who to trust.

Trust is a fickle concept. It's not one Mike fully understands yet. But he knows that trust is something you share. Not 'share' like how his mother forces Nancy to share her toys with Mike.

Trust is something you share, like the way Will gives his toys away when he sees someone upset. Trust is something you give willingly.

It's about choice.

Trust is in the way Mike asked Will to be his friend, in the way Mike knew he'd say yes, before he'd ever even known Will's name.

Mike knows he trusts Will, because he'd give anything to Will if he asked. And he knows that Will would do the same for him, and that feels like what trust should be.

Lying is the opposite of sharing. It's keeping things from someone on purpose, it's being selfish, and it's being untruthful.

Mike does not know a lot of things yet, because he's still little. But this is something already fundamental and true about him.

He likes syrup on his eggs, he wants to be a writer, and while he loves all his friends equally, Will Byers is his best friend.

And he hates being lied to.

It doesn't change the fact that the world seems to be run on lies.

Nancy lies about talking to boys on the phone. His mother lies about having a best friend. His father lies about spending more time with Mike.

Even Mike, a hypocrite, lies. Mostly to his mother. About his report card, about cleaning his room, about how long Will's going to stay over after school. (He's almost always sleeping over.)

With an acute knowledge of this, Mike establishes a single rule for the party early on, clear cut and firm.

Friends don't lie.

No matter how bad a situation is, no matter how difficult it would be to talk about. Friends never lie. Other rules followed after, vetted and approved by each of them unanimously.

There's an unspoken agreement underneath it all. You could break some party rules, and apologise for it later. But never the first rule.

It is, perhaps, the core of what differentiates their party from all the other groups of kids around them. Trust; unwavering and constant.

It's what reassures Mike that his friends don't secretly hate him, or find his passion for everything suffocating. Because whenever he is too much, his friends will tell him.

Dustin will kindly tell him to shut up if he's too loud during a movie. Lucas will tell him to get a move on if he spends too long describing an NPC during a tense mission (even if he spent so long fleshing out the background characters).

Will… Will tells him when he's run a good campaign. Will tells him he's proud of him for choosing to study instead of calling the party over for movie night. Will tells him he thinks Mike could be a writer, and Mike believes him, because friends don't lie.

Especially best friends.

Mike Wheeler has never been wrong a day in his goddamn life.

It's the only thing he can think of, as Will's eyes roll back into place. A trickle of blood slowly makes its way down his cupid's bow, and all Mike can think is, I was right.

Because Mike Wheeler has always known Will Byers had powers. He'd meant what he'd said back in the meadow; Will's powers have always been innate. Mike knew this right from the start; watching him fly off the swing set with a kind of magic he'd never seen anyone else possess before; not even El.

And now, here he stands, having just saved Mike's life. Mike had almost died; lost to the world. But Will— he'd done exactly what Mike had always dreamt of. He'd found Mike.

All these years of wishing, aching for it. For Will's eyes on his, for Will's innate abilities to surround him.

He has it now. Proof. Imperical, undeniable proof.

He rushes to Will, doesn't think twice about throwing his arms around Will. He's ethereal. He's heavensent. And Mike has always, always been devoted.

Will hugs him back without a moment's hesitation, murmuring Mike's name into his shoulder. It's the sound of relief, surprise. To Mike's ears, it's a prayer, a promise. For the first time in his life, Mike hopes.

Mike blacks out a little, after that. Vaguely recalls the smile on Will's face disappearing as he realised their plan had failed. Holds onto his voice echoing in the tunnels, as he explained how he'd saved more than just Mike from the demogorgon; had dealt with the ones that went after Lucas and Robin, as well.

And— that's fine, really.

Mike doesn't feel any which way about it. It's not like his stomach plummets, or his hands get clammy. Because that would be ridiculous; to be the only person Will had saved.

It was never like that, in the campaigns they'd play as kids. The campaigns Mike still writes, foolishly hoping Will would want to play D&D with him again. Clinging to a promise made almost two years ago, now. Not possible.

Will would always try to save as many people as possible. Using his most powerful spell slots for healing the party, as a cleric should. So why would real life be any different?

As they walk through the tunnels back to the Squawk, Mike's mind begins to spiral out of control. There's one thought louder than the rest, playing on repeat like a song designed to torment Mike.

Will doesn't need you anymore.

And it's awfully presumptous of him, to even think Will ever needed him at all. He's been fine, these last few months. Functioning just fine without Mike. Helping Dustin set up the Squawk, making himself useful with Robin and Steve.

Mike, meanwhile, has been hovering uncertainly, quiet and unapproachable outside of planning and strategising for their next crawl. Will hasn't needed him in a long, long time.

Still, the itch is still there. It's been there for longer than Will can ever know; for almost as long as he's known him. A side of Mike that only Will Byers can bring out.

Mike learned how to love on a kindergarten playground. Through the bandaids he'd carry in one pocket, and the colored chalk he'd carry in the other. Will needed someone, and Mike worked hard to try to become that someone.

Will doesn't need Mike anymore. Doesn't need anyone. And the more he thinks about it, the more he emphasises to anyone who'd listen that Will had taken out multiple demogorgons with his mind— three, to be exact —the more he realises… maybe this is a good thing.

If Will no longer needed Mike to be his protector, maybe that was a good thing. Maybe, now, Mike could stop pretending to be something he's not. He's not the answer, he's not the solution. He's not the heart. He's not Mike the Brave.

Maybe, hopefully; he doesn't need to be.

Mike Wheeler does not think the world revolves around him.

He thinks he's quite inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things. A truth he's only just now learned to swallow.

In a way, watching the Byers drive away all those months ago was a kind of awakening for Mike. A realisation, as painful as it was; that there was no cosmic punishment. Nothing otherworldly about it— everything that had happened to them had simply happened because it had to.

And now, having learned about Vecna, he feels stupider than ever. There had always been an inevitability to it all. Will would have been taken, El would've been found in the woods. Maybe they would've been found by different people, but there had always been a tether tying them together.

And that tether wasn't Mike. It had never been Mike.

Because he had done the right thing, that summer. Even it wasn't the good thing to do. He'd cared for El with everything he had, and he'd tried his best to keep his conflicting feelings about Will under wraps. He'd done the right thing.

But bad things had happened anyway. Will almost burned alive. Dozens of people flayed and killed. Hopper, dead. Max's brother, dead.

That last part didn't feel as bad as the rest, but Max hadn't smiled for weeks, after. She'd isolated herself from all of them, and it'd haunted her enough to make her vulnerable to Vecna. So it counted.

As Mike's world had crumbled away that summer— as everything he'd ever known and understood was packed up in a handful of boxes and crammed into a moving van, as the only people he'd ever loved with everything within him drove away — he'd decided it wasn't his fault.

Bad things happened because things happened, all the time.

And Mike had thought, finally. A weight off his shoulders. A reason to step back. To step away.

But then spring break had come around, and he'd found himself in the back of a pizza dough freezer, holding the hand of the girl he'd desperately wanted to end things with, telling her lies between his teeth.

Cosmic responsibility weighing down on him again, this time in the form of the hand on his shoulder, the doe eyes of his best friend begging him to save his sister.

And afterward, when they'd reached Hawkins, when it'd all been for naught, Mike had once again reached the same conclusion.

None of this was his fault. It never had been.

He wishes it were, though. The thought of an unfeeling, cold universe smiting them randomly, repeatedly, was somehow worse than believing it was all his fault.

The helplessness in Mike's body rattles loosely, now. Clunking around in his chest whenever he tries to move, to speak. He learns to stay quiet, keep his head down.

There's no fear of God to hold him down now; perhaps, there had never been any at all.

Perhaps all Mike has been doing is making excuses for himself. Pushing Will away, pulling El close, a ridiculous dance he'd dragged both of them into without any tact whatsoever. For no reason other than his own selfishness. A bloated sense of self-importance that he can no longer rely on.

Will's staying in his home now. Inhabiting his walls. Helping his mother with lunch, doing the dishes with Mike, laughing with Nancy in the living room. Teaching Holly how to draw, politely nodding along to Ted's morning ramblings. Slotting so perfectly into Mike's life, like he was always meant to be there.

After almost a decade of holding himself back, Mike's so, so tired.

There is nothing holding him back, anymore. There never had been. Just Mike himself, all along.

Mike Wheeler is in love with Will Byers.

The acceptance comes easy. As it should have, after everything. As it could have, had he just stepped outside of his head, just once, in the last decade or so.

Of course he loves Will. Of course, he's loved Will all along. There was never any doubt about it. But now, he understands; this isn't love in the same way he loves anyone else. This isn't the kind of love that can be recreated, or sought after anywhere else.

The love he feels for Will is infinite, endless. Permanent, in a way few things truly are.

When Will came out, it felt like an unraveling. Things unfurling in Mike's mind, things that had been buried deep for the better part of a decade. Will had laid out a path for him to follow.

But there had been no time to traverse it, not when the world was ending. So he'd swallowed it all down, for what he hoped was the last time, and stood up to hug his best friend.

There had been no time, so he hadn't really registered the concept of a Tammy, whoever that was. Not until they'd been climbing up the signal tower, not until he'd lagged behind to ask Will for a drink of water.

Not until he'd started to try to explain to Will how sorry he was— try being the key word. Looking back, Mike wonders why he'd even bothered. It wasn't the right time.

But the world felt like it was ending. It felt inevitable, that they wouldn't make it out alive this time. So Mike had tried to explain how self-centred he'd been, how unfair he'd been with Will. Will— sweet, graceful, gentle, kind Will.

Will, who'd been so understanding, and asked for so little. In exchange for Mike's friendship, he'd been willing to forgive all of his faults. Faults he probably hadn't even known about, at the time.

And Mike's heart had clenched.

There was an ember of hope in his chest, placed there by Will's tearful admission. I don't like girls, he'd said, his eyes begging for his friends and family to love him, to understand him regardless of his faults. As if Will could have any faults.

An ember of hope that he'd rushed to smother under layers of dirt and grime; a mix of Mike's regrets and Will's hopes.

Because Will had asked him if they could still be friends.

And suddenly, unbiddingly, Mike remembered. He was just my Tammy.

There had been someone in Lenora, then. Someone Will had painted for, a painting Mike would never get to see. The thought had unsettled him. That there were corners of Will he'd never have access to, now. Things he'd never get to learn of, things he'd wonder about for the rest of his life.

So he'd made a joke of it. The best he could've mustered, as weary as he'd become. Too tired, for someone so young.

"Friends? No."

Will's smile had faltered, as if he'd truly, truly thought Mike would push him away for something like this. As if Mike's whole world wasn't readjusting. As if the very core of everything he believed hadn't been shattered beyond recognition the very second Will had come out.

I don't like girls, he'd said, and Mike, selfish and pathetic as always, had thought of himself. A younger, stupider, crueller self. One that hadn't learned how to stay quiet, just yet.

It's not my fault you don't like girls. There was a part he'd played, then. In helping Will reach that conclusion. Not the kind of part he wished he could've played. The thought made Mike's stomach lurch. He tried to look reassuring. Happy, even. Hoped it would be enough.

"Best friends," he'd said, extending it like it was an olive branch, instead of the plea that it was.

Please, he'd thought, let me keep this. Let me have this, if nothing else. And Will had agreed, but Mike was still so, so greedy. Wishing he could've dared to ask for more.

Later, he'd promised himself. Maybe Will didn't love him just yet, but Mike could convince him. He could try, once this was all over. Once they'd survived.

Mike had been putting so much on the back burner, back then. He had to. Everything had fallen apart so fast.

The eighteen months leading up to November 6th had been busy, and complicated, for certain. But they had also been uneventful, and simple. They'd formed a routine without meaning to.

Waking up every morning, getting dressed for school, having dinner at the same time every evening. Heading to his friends' house, going to the hospital to visit Max, sneaking out to see El. She hadn't talked to him, much, so he'd started dragging Will with him. Then Dustin, to keep him away from trouble. Then Lucas, too, to get him to do something other than watch Max for days; weeks on end.

Summer break had come and gone slowly, lazily. Setting up the Squawk, tuning in to the WSQK broadcasts every morning, waiting for a signal. Lazing around the lake with the party, hovering around secluded corners of town, trying to find ways to sneak El around town without raising Hopper's blood pressure— some missions were always destined to be failures.

Weeks of inactivity, of keeping a close eye on the military encampments to try and figure out when the next burn would be scheduled. Weeks of Will in his home, of movie nights and playing board games, of lingering, meaningful eye-contact that Mike had convinced himself meant something. Meant nothing.

Things sped up too fast. Losing communication with Hopper, El heading into the Upside Down to find him. Will and Robin rushing off to their own adventures, planning to kidnap a child, Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan rushing into the Upside Down right after. Their life devolved from something gritty and real to something ridiculous and terrifying. The fight at Mac-Z, losing the kids, Will using his powers to save Mike. To save them all.

It unraveled just like Lucas said it would— all coming to a head on November 6th, and there had been no time. For anything, at all. Mike's head felt like it was going to explode. His life had been thrown for curveball after curveball in less than 48 hours. He'd found himself paralysed, unable to speak, unable to do anything other than watch.

Watch, as his sister was taken the same way Will had been taken. Watch, as his family was attacked, as the children they'd tried so hard to protect were taken anyway, as Will saved all of them. Watch, as Will used his powers to save Max, as Henry took hold of him again. Watch, as Joyce held vigil around her son for what felt like the hundredth times too many. Watch, as Jane slipped away back into the Upside Down.

As the bomb he'd built went off.

And everything Mike had been holding on to, everything he'd wanted to find the words, the time for… It had all come tumbling down.

Now, things have quietened. It's over, but it doesn't feel like it is. They've been lured into a sense of security several times over the course of the last few years, believing the threat to be dead and gone. Even though, rationally, all of them know for a fact that it truly is over— it isn't.

Mike's not sure they'll ever be free from it. In a way, he thinks, he's still in the throes of the apocalypse. Always will be.

That didn't stop life from continuing, though. The world almost ended, and then it restarted, and all of a sudden, it was time for graduation. In the blink of an eye, the longest, toughest, most gruelling part of Mike's life was over. All of a sudden, he was supposed to be preparing for a new chapter.

At least party doesn't have a headstart on him. They were all on the same page for once; they needed a moment to breathe. Some time before they moved on, forever.

The thought of it makes Mike's gut churn with fear. Of not knowing these people, of losing them to time and distance. They insist it could never happen, but Mike knows by now not to trust anything anyone says when it comes to the future.

You could never lose me, Jonathan had said. Or me, Jane had agreed. And then they had lost her, so what did any of them know?

It's in these handful of months spent lounging together, finding corners of Hawkins that don't carry harrowing memories, and building new ones within them, that Mike and Will find their way back to each other.

It isn't easy; Mike hadn't thought it would be. They're still mourning something Mike's not sure they'll ever be able to stop mourning.

They have a funeral for Jane, in the summer after graduation. It's a gut-wrenching affair. Mike never wants to hear Hopper cry again. Never wants to see Max crumple to the ground, Lucas falling with her. Never wants to see Dustin's nails chewed raw and bloody, the grief something thick and solid in his throat.

The worst of it all is Will. Leaning on Jonathan for support, clutching Joyce's hands like a lifeline. His body wracking with quiet sobs, because he'd never learned how to be loud with his pain. Even after everything, he still makes himself small, hiding his face in Jonathan's shoulder. Mike feels like a wretch, watching them. At the pang of longing overtaking him. He wants to be the person Will leans on. He wants, and he wants, and he wants.

They all say their piece, Will stuttering through a speech more heartfelt, more sincere than anything Mike ever offered Jane when she was alive. Mike folds up when it's his turn. Shakes his head, and tries not to feel like the scum of the earth when Steve's eyes soften in understanding.

They're listless afterward, wandering around town aimlessly. None of them want to part ways, just yet. There's not much to be said. Mike feels hollow and wrung out, already planning to head back when he gets time. He wants to speak to her, to explain everything he'd wanted to, before the world went to shit. Wishes she could speak back.

Will takes his hand, at some point. For once, Mike doesn't let himself think twice about what it all means. What it could cause. The worst already happened. Over, and over again.

He squeezes Will's hand. Meets his eyes. Smiles at him, even if it's a broken, weak thing. Will tries to smile back, but the tears start falling again. He shudders, tries to breathe, but it comes out as a sob. Dustin notices, and brings his arm around Will's shoulder. In a blink, they're all hugging on the side of the street, minutes away from the woods. Mike thinks of Castle Byers, of safety and childhood and magic, and squeezes his friends tighter. Will's shaking, but between the four of them, he's still standing upright. It's enough, for now.

Eventually, they end up where they always do. Mike's basement is warm, welcoming as always. It's hard to pretend it isn't difficult to be here, though. His heart lurches as he thinks of a younger Jane, sleeping on his floor under a makeshift pillow fort. He thinks of sneaking her food, taking the day off from school, showing her around his house. They had no time.

Mike had never learned about her, had never let herself form her own perspective. How could he have known to? He'd been a child. He'd known comfort, and warmth, and friendship. Had offered them to Jane, to the best of his abilities.

But that isn't fully true, now is it? He'd been singleminded in his need to find Will. Had snapped at her, had discovered his sharp edges by cutting through her. He thinks of Jane's wide, scared eyes the first time he'd yelled at her, and feels sick all over again.

He should've listened to Max, when she'd argued for Jane's autonomy. Shouldn't have been so possessive of her, so worried of her leaving him if she found out other, better people existed. And she'd left anyway, hadn't she? Everything Mike has ever done to avoid pain has come back to bite him.

Lucas snaps him out of his thoughts, tugging Mike's arm, his eyes wide and concerned. He pulls him down from where Mike had frozen halfway on the stairs.

"We're going to watch a movie," Lucas says, his voice careful, soft. Mike wonders if it's for his benefit, or for everyone else's.

Mike frowns, tilts his head at Lucas. Something in his eyes makes Lucas reach up to tug at his hair, the way they used to when they were kids.

He winces, but doesn't protest as loudly as he usually would. Doesn't have the energy for it. Lucas grins at him. It's tight, a little strained, but it reaches his eyes.

"'C'mon," he says. "We're all staying over tonight."

Mike's eyes flicker to where Dustin and Will are rearranging pillows, spreading blankets. They already know where everything is; because this is their home, just as much as it is Mike's. More, in some ways.

"We need it," Mike offers, and Lucas nods, absentmindedly.

"Can you two make yourselves useful?" Max asks, lacking her usual bite. "We need more… stuff." She gestures vaguely at the giant pillow fort slowly forming behind her.

They fall asleep in a large pile on the floor, that night.

Will falls asleep before Mike, his legs strewn across Dustin's, his head on Mike's arm. Mike watches him, peaceful and calm in his sleep, and lets himself ache. Wishes Jane were here, tucked in between Max and Will.

He lets himself cry. Quietly, so as to not wake anyone up. Still, Max's hand finds his in the dark, squeezing tight. Mike wonders what he'll do, once they're not all around.

He finds out, eventually. Because everyone has to return home someday, and it isn't Mike's fault that he feels immensely empty at his own home.

He makes good on his word, then. Writes stories upon stories. He holes himself up in his room, and pretends not to notice as his Nancy and his mother begin to grow concerned.

It takes about a week and a half, then, for Will to show up.

At first, Mike wonders if he's only there because Karen asked him to be. And then, he remembers that Will doesn't do things he doesn't want to, anymore.

There's a comfort in that, then. That Will still wants his company, after everything.

When he steps into Mike's room, Mike's head snaps up, a snarky comment on the tip of his tongue. It slithers away as he meets Will's eyes, and Mike blushes as Will wrinkles his nose almost immediately.

"Mike," he starts, and Mike groans.

"Don't."

Will steps into his room, and crosses his arms. "I didn't even say anything."

Mike huffs. "You don't have to. Mom's already nagged me enough for the day."

"Not enough, clearly," Will quips back, but there's no bite to it. He's smiling, and there's a tinge of something in his eyes that makes Mike look away, his cheeks flaming.

Will steps closer to Mike, reaching out to run a hand through Mike's— admittedly —greasy hair. His nose wrinkles again. "Go shower. I'll get started on the room."

Mike opens his mouth to protest, but Will turns away, picking up the clothes on his floor and piling them onto his bed.

"Will," he tries, standing up and stepping closer to Will. "You really don't have to—"

"Mike," Will says, patiently. "I know. I'm doing this for myself."

He's still turned around, flicking a sock over his shoulder. Mike gapes at him. "Go shower," he says, again, still not looking at him. Mike swallows.

He's never felt this loved before in his life. Sure, his mother looks after him, barging into his room in a similar way. But that feels different. Will has no reason to be here. No reason to be helping him, no reason to spending his afternoon helping clean Mike's week-and-a-half old mess. That, perhaps, is what makes it all feel so significant.

"Thank you," he says, hoarsely. He feels overwhelmed. Clenches his hands into fists, relaxes them. Will doesn't respond, tilting his head at a particularly worn shirt. He sniffs it, before immediately tossing it to the pile. Mike rushes out of the room to save himself further embarrassment.

Once he's showered, he peeks out to try and gauge if Will's still in his room. He feels incredibly stupid for not bringing clothes with him, but in all fairness, he'd been distracted by Will. He's always distracted by Will.

Mike finds a shirt and a pair of jeans folded on the rug outside, and almost bursts into tears at the sight. He gets dressed, letting himself shed a tear or two. He's been trying this more often, letting his feelings wash over him. In some ways, he suspects it's why he hasn't left the house in days. In others, it's been good. Healthy, even.

When he enters his room again, it's almost entirely transformed. Shiny wooden floors and everything. Will had dusted, and mopped. Mike feels a little bad for not helping, but Will doesn't seem to mind. He's fussing with the corners of a fresh bedsheet, and he smiles when he sees Mike. The sight of it makes Mike tremble. He stands there, and lets himself stare at Will, unabashedly.

He feels fresh, clean, and alive. It's a miracle. The room, too, smells different. Mike glances around until his eyes land on a candle on his desk.

"Where'd you get that?" Mike asks, pointing at it.

Will glances back, shrugs. "Your mom gave it to me when I brought down the laundry."

It's too sweet. Too simple. Mike's heart squeezes.

"Thank you," he says, again, and Will huffs at him.

"Stop that." He moves to fuss with the pillows, now, even though they're perfectly to Mike's liking.

Mike finds that he likes this; likes the way Will's sorted through his things, likes that he knows the way Mike organises his stationery, that he knows better than to try rifling through the mess of papers on Mike's desk, organising everything around the mess rather than wrangling with it.

"But I mean it," Mike presses. "Really, I mean it. You didn't have to do all this, Will."

Will shrugs, stepping back to observe his masterpiece. The bed looks wonderful, perfect, amazing. Anything Will touches becomes a masterpiece. Mike wants to devour him. Instead, he blinks, clenches his fists, and tries to look as sincere as possible.

"I know that," Will says, turning to smile over at Mike. "But we were starting to worry about you."

We.

Mike brushes away the pang of disappointment. To be loved by anyone is a blessing, and to be loved by so many is a miracle. So what if Will's intentions aren't the same as Mike's? This is enough. It should be enough.

"I'm fine," Mike rolls his eyes. "Just… tired."

There's a flash of something in Will's eyes. Understanding, maybe. The same weariness.

"Yeah," Will nods. He moves to sit down on Mike's bed. "I get that."

There's silence, for a moment. His father's at work, Holly's out with her friends, Nancy's somewhere, and his mother's probably nursing another glass of wine waiting for the laundry to get done.

"Working on something?" Will asks, waving a hand over at Mike's desk.

Mike smiles to himself. Will would never look over anything of Mike's without permission. He's incredibly nosy, a glutton for gossip, but always careful about his sources. He's sweet that way.

"Yeah," Mike says, finally remembering to move and sit back down at his desk. "Just… trying some things out."

"It's not all one story?" Will sounds curious. Mike's usually single-minded about his projects. Fixating on a concept, completing it to perfection before moving onto the next. Homework assignments have always been a problem, then.

He shakes his head, picking up and sorting through the mess in front of him. "No, I can't seem to make my mind up. There's so much to tell, so many ways to do it. I keep getting caught up in the worldbuilding, and I keep losing the plot to the world around it…"

Will seems to absorb more from this than Mike meant to share.

"Maybe you can try to write something today? Something short, for me to read. That way you'll have a finished project, and you won't feel so…"

Mike tilts his head at Will. "So…?"

Will shrugs. "Restless. Aimless. Whatever this is."

Mike considers it.

"What will you do, then?"

He grins at Mike, his eyes sparkling. "I brought my sketchbook."

Mike's face lights up. "Oh! I kept— I mean, we still have the art supplies from when you—"

Lived here, Mike thinks, but it feels stupid to finish. Of course Will remembers.

Will has no such hangups. He nods, eyes still bright and warm. "I was hoping you did."

Mike stands up like he's been possessed. "I'll get them for you!" He exclaims, rushing out his room, taking the stairs two steps at a time.

Karen spots him from the kitchen and gapes at him. "Oh, he's alive!"

She's teasing, he knows, but it lands sour in Mike's stomach. He rolls his eyes as he hurries down to the basement.

"Thank God for Will," she calls after him, chuckling to herself.

Mike rummages through the shelves in the basement until he finds what he's looking for. Carrying the box full of supplies up, he's a little out of breath by the time he reaches the corridor. He places it down on the counter as he pours himself a glass of water and chugs it down in one fell swoop. His mother stands there, watching him, a pleased smile on her face.

She doesn't say anything, just watches, as he pours out another glass of water for Will, and tries to lift both the box and the glass at once. He figures it out eventually, cursing under his breath.

When he's back inside, Will's settled comfortably on Mike's bed, his sketchbook already open in his lap. Mike's heart aches at the sight.

"Here," Mike says, sliding the box over to Will, placing the glass of water onto the bedside table next to him. "For you, my sorcerer."

Will giggles, leaning over to rummage through the supplies. "Oh, I forgot you got me these!" He says, gleefully holding up a pack of charcoals.

Mike wants to do this for the rest of eternity. Bringing Will presents, being the reason for his laughter. Watching him create masterpieces out of little else but his hands and his endless, beautiful imagination.

He has it for the evening, so he sits back at his desk. Thinks about it for a second, and then stands back up, picking up one of his several notebooks and his favorite fountain pen. He settles down next to Will on the bed, pleased at how Will doesn't seem to bat an eye at it.

They work in silence. Mike tries to stay focused, to keep his eyes to himself. It's a herculean task, but Will asked for a story, so Mike intends to deliver.

By the time Karen calls them down for dinner, Mike's almost done writing. It's a short story, a ridiculous little thing about two young actors trying to make it big in Hollywood together. It's completely out of his depth, and nothing like what he'd usually write. But Will had been right. He feels like he's accomplished something.

Will comes back every day after that. Sometimes, with a member of the party, sometimes with all of them. Mostly by himself. He convinces Mike to step out of the house, sometimes. To live a little, even if it's doing all the same things they used to as kids. It helps. It all helps.

One day, Steve picks them up in his car. It's an older, dingier thing than the Beamer, but Steve adores it with all his heart. Calls it vintage, insisting they wipe their shoes before getting in the same way he did before.

It's Dustin's idea.

Will insists on Mike coming along without telling him what it is they're all piling up in Steve's car for. He drives them to the junkyard, and as soon as Mike realises, he starts to clam up. His hands shake as he tries not to throw up. Thinks of Jane spending her last months alive in here, training for a fight she never should have been involved with. Used, over and over again, by all of them.

Will places a hand over his. When Mike meets his eyes, there's a deep understanding them. Trust us, he seems to be saying. Trust me.

Mike swallows the bile back, nods at him.

They get out of the car and Steve moves to rummage around in the trunk. Max trembles in Lucas's arms, and Will's hand is still in Mike's. There's tears in Lucas's eyes, but his jaw is set.

"What are we here for?" Mike asks, finally.

Steve starts arming them with baseball bats. Mike feels something familiar and terrible building up in his stomach. Is he gearing them up for a fight?

"We're here to fuck some shit up," Dustin announces. Mike looks over at Max, incredulous. Max looks back at him, and nods.

Right, Mike thinks, a little hysterically. Fuck shit up.

Max must notice the hesitance in his eyes, because she speaks up. "There's nothing left to let it out on, but I'm so angry some days I feel like I could explode."

Next to Mike, Will nods. This is a surprise to Mike. He's never known Will to be an angry person. Still, if anyone has the right to be, it's him. It's all of them, really.

Mike thinks of things he hasn't let himself think about yet. About Henry. The Upside Down. November 6th. The years he's wasted, trying to grapple with an unfeeling cosmos. Trying to appease an unknowing god.

He feels it then. The kind of anger he used to hold when he was younger, stupider. The rage he'd learned to swallow, to suppress. Alongside everything else.

Will's grip on his hand tightens. Mike turns to look at him, surprised to see Will's eyes already on him.

"Okay?" The concern in Will's voice makes Mike's stomach flip.

He nods, shooting Will a quick smile, trying not to shudder as Will's eyes flick down to his lips. "Okay."

Steve calls them over, and Mike gently slips his hand out of Will's. There's no time to mourn the loss, both of them moving to take the goggles and gloves Steve's handing out.

He gives them a long spiel about being careful, staying safe, trying to avoid hitting any glass.

Mike isn't listening, watching Will instead. There's something intense and familiar about the way he's holding onto the bat, like this isn't the first time he's done this.

Mike thinks back to a fight in the summer. Castle Byers, in the rain. Shakes his head. He's not that kid anymore. He's done running.

Dustin takes the first swing, barely making a dent on the bumper of a car next to him. He laughs, exhilarated.

Lucas swings after him, leaving a deep dent in the same spot. Dustin sticks his tongue out, and Lucas laughs, too. A full, bright sound. Max goes next, aiming for the window, ignoring Steve's squawking behind them. The glass shudders a bit, but doesn't break. She readies herself for another swing, but Steve intercepts her.

"Hey, hey hey! What did I say about the glass? Be careful, kid, I think we've had enough hopsital visits for a lifetime."

Max's grin falls a bit.

Steve swallows.

"I- I just meant—"

Max turns around and swings repeatedly at the car door. It crumples almost immediately. She drops the bat and grabs it, pulling at it until the door fully detaches.They all gawk at her for a second. She looks back at them, a challenge in her eyes. None of them take it; Steve moves back to his car, Lucas and Dustin lift their bats up high.

Mike watches, his fingers itching to join them. But Will hasn't moved yet, so he won't, either. His eyes flit around the junkyard, catching more than once on stray pumpkin-less figures in the distance.

The proximity to Jane is always there. Hawkins was just as much her town as it was theirs. It's just— she got to experience the outskirts of it. It was never home. Mike wonders where home was, for Jane. If home was Hopper's cabin, maybe. If it was in Lenora. The thought doesn't threaten to disarm him; but only just.

"Come on, guys!" Lucas calls in between swings. "I promise it feels good."

Steve's leaning against his car now, watching them with something akin to fondness in his eyes. Mike meets his eyes, and he raises his eyebrows. He tilts his head, encouraging. Mike swallows. Wishes he could ask Jane himself, where home was. If she'd found it yet, wherever she was.

Will moves first. Mike follows his line of sight to another figure, closer by. A metal scarecrow, to the untrained eye. It's still wearing a tattered button-up shirt, pole sticking out of its head. Ready for training.

Will swings his bat, and knocks it straight to the ground. There's a fury in his eyes when he looks up, a fury Mike's never seen before. Mike grabs his bat, and joins him. There's a ladder in the distance. Mike had seen her climb it, sliding down to roll under—

The row of wire traps is still there, too. Mike clenches his jaw. Feels the anger licking up his spine, this time. Max is pummelling the car door to the left of them like it's a demodog. Maybe, in her head, it is.

Mike goes to join Will where he's repeatedly bashing at a car closer to Jane's training ground. The bat's starting to splinter, a bit, and Mike wonders if Steve had accounted for this in his little safety speech.

His first swing is a little pathetic. Mike wobbles with it, miscalculating when to step back. Will laughs at him, and it's so strange, this juxtaposition of fury and joy. But it makes sense, too. This is a kind of healing.

His second swing is better, more precise. It leaves a dent, and it's satisfying, to leave an impact like this. Mike thinks of the demogorgon at the Turnbow's house, of the scars across his mother's neck, of the mattress on Nancy's floor, because Holly can't sleep in her room alone anymore.

He swings, over and over and over again, until his vision's a little blurry, until his shoulders begin to ache, until the tightness in his chest feels like it's finally, finally starting to loosen. He doesn't know how long he spends there, moving on only when Will did. Moving to a bigger target, a bigger car. Swinging wildly, feeling useful for once. Time slips by him, the whoops and laughter from his friends barely registering. 

Will tugs at his shoulder, after a while. Snapping him out of it. They look at each other— Will's face is flushed, he's covered in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. His lips are a little red from where he's been biting down on them between swings.

He's beautiful.

Behind him, Mike hears Lucas, Max, and Dustin pause. He imagines they're looking over at them, curious. Maybe they're planning on leaving, soon.

Mike doesn't spare them a glance. Drinks Will in instead. His damp hair. His eyebrows, the fire in his eyes. The blush on his cheeks, ever-present and endlessly endearing. His perfect nose, his even more perfect lips. Lets his eyes linger on the mole above his lip.

Mike stays there a little longer than necessary, purposeful and intentional. He meets Will's eyes again, and once again, lets himself be.

I love you, Mike thinks, for the first time. Braces, for a second, for the world to implode. For a gate to open up, swallowing them right back into hell again. Nothing happens.

Will's gaze softens, though.

I love you, Mike thinks, louder now. I love you, I love you, I love you.

"Mike," Will breathes. Behind him, he hears his friends walking away. They know, then, that there's something else here. Something Mike doesn't know how to name.

Mike doesn't trust himself to speak just yet. He brings a shaky hand up to brush Will's hair away from his forehead. Will's eyes flutter a bit, his head tilting to lean into the touch. Mike hopes. He hopes, he hopes, and he hopes.

"Mike," Will says, again. Stepping closer, this time. "Tell me I'm… Tell me I'm reading this wrong."

Mike swallows. The world narrows in on Will. Tunnel vision. He still doesn't trust himself.

He shakes his head, instead. Will's eyebrows scrunch together in pain.

"That's not fair," he murmurs, stepping just a little bit closer. "You're not— you can't not say—"

Mike takes his hand. Keeps his eyes fixed on Will, even as he closes his eyes. He doesn't trust himself, but Will does. Will trusts him. That has to count for something.

"I love you," Mike breathes out. Will's face crumples. He looks pained, his eyes still closed.

"Mike," he says, a third time. A prayer, a wish. "You're being mean."

Mike shakes his head, dropping the bat in his other hand. He brings it up to cup Will's cheek. "Will," he says, nudging Will's nose with his. "Look at me. Will, please, look at me."

Will shakes his head, and Mike's heart clenches at him mirroring Mike without realising. Will swallowes tightly. "I can't."

Mike scoffs, incredulous. "You're Will Byers," he says, matter-of-factly. "You can do anything."

That pulls a laugh out of Will. He opens his eyes, his shoulders shaking with it. Hazel-green meeting dark brown. There's tears in Will's eyes, and Mike's so, so tired of being the one to put them there. Never again, if he has a say in it.

"You're so ridiculous," Will says, voice thick with fondness. Mike rubs their noses together again, smiling as it pulls a giggle out of Will.

"I love you," he says, again. "I'm in love with you, Will Byers. A-And I know you're not there yet, but please, just give me a chance, I promise I'll—"

Will leans back, Mike's hand slipping away from his cheek. Mike blinks, terror washing over him. Maybe Will hadn't realised he'd meant in love, and now he'd never—

"What are you talking about?" Will looks astounded. Stunned. Shocked beyond belief. "Mike, what do you mean, not there yet?"

Oh. Okay. I can work with this, Mike thinks.

"I just mean— I know we're— you wanted to be friends, I know you don't see me that way—"

"Mike," Will's laughing again. Will's laughing at him. "I- You- You're everything. You've been everything, all along."

The sound of Will's joy distracts Mike, for a second or two too long. It registers slowly.

Mike's first instinct, naturally, is to argue.

"But— the boy in Lenora— Tommy—"

Will doubles over with laughter. "Mike," he gasps, laughing so hard he's struggling to breathe. There's tears down his cheeks, and Mike isn't even in the right state of mind to be anguished over it. He's so, so confused. "Mike, you're Tammy."

Mike doesn't think he has the capacity to process any of this. He reaches down, pulling Will back up.

"Will," he says, desperate. He feels a little hysterical, a little faint. "Are you saying you— you like me back?"

Will snorts, his hands coming up to clutch Mike's face. "So much, you idiot. Love you, actually."

Mike's heart stutters to a stop. Will's shoulders shake with the effort to not burst out laughing again.

He nods once. Twice. Nods again. "Right. Okay. Okay."

Will takes a deep breath to calm himself down. Nods back, solemnly. Purses his lips to hold himself back. "Right," he repeats, grinning now.

"I'm going to kiss you," Mike announces. Will giggles, before schooling his face back to a relaxed expression.

"Cool."

Mike doesn't move.

A beat.

Another.

"Any day n—"

Mike pulls Will in, capturing his lips with a searing kiss. Will whimpers, immediately melting into Mike's frame. Mike cups his cheek with one hand, the other coming around to hold Will's waist, pawing at him. Mike's mind finally quiets down, empty, sans for a constant chant of Will, Will, Will, and a thrumming, lower, mine, mine, mine.

There's a wolf whistle behind them, and Mike pulls back, reluctantly. He doesn't let go of Will— could never. Not when Mike has finally learned how to have instead of want.

He looks over at where their friends stand in a row, and flips them off.

"Oh, don't be like that, Wheeler!" Dustin calls. Will giggles, hiding his face in the crook of Mike's shoulder. Mike leans down, planting a kiss in Will's hair. Because this is something he gets to do now. Forever, if he's good.

It takes a few days, weeks, months to register. But when it does, it feels right. A fundamental truth of the universe. The sun rises from the East, and sets in the West. Alternate dimensions exist.

And Mike Wheeler is in love with Will Byers.

Will Byers, thankfully, loves him back.