Chapter Text
ACT I - THE ECHO
CHAPTER I
Six in the morning had a specific kind of silence in the Byers household, a fragile thing that usually smelled like stale coffee and rain. Today, however, it smelled like burning butter and acetone, and the silence was being actively murdered by Mike Wheeler.
"The thing about the opening track," Mike said, his voice carrying from the kitchen with zero regard for the fact that Joyce was asleep three doors down. "Is that it sets the tone. If we open with Mr. Brightside, everyone knows exactly what kind of night it is. It’s a ‘we are getting wasted and crying in the bathroom’ night. But if we open with something heavier? It’s a statement."
There was the distinct clang of a metal spatula hitting a ceramic bowl.
"El? Thoughts? Will?"
On the living room floor, El didn't look up. She was sitting cross-legged on the rug, a bottle of dark red nail polish balanced precariously on her knee. She was focused on her left pinky with the intensity of a surgeon, the sharp chemical scent of polish remover warring with the pancake batter sizzling in the kitchen. She seemed perfectly content to let Mike’s voice be just another layer of white noise, like the refrigerator humming.
Will, however, wasn't looking at either of them.
He was standing on the small balcony, the sliding glass door cracked open just enough to let the chill of the early autumn morning seep into his hoodie. The sky was that bruised shade of purple that happens right before sunrise, and down on the street, the city was waking up. A garbage truck groaned its way down the block; a lone jogger in neon yellow ran past a flickering streetlight. It was peaceful out here. It was the only place the static in his head quieted down.
"I swear to god," Mike’s voice pitched up, impatient now. "Am I talking to the drywall? Will!"
The sharp invocation of his name snapped the tether. Will sighed, a small puff of white breath vanishing in the cold air, and slid the glass door shut, locking the noise of the city out and trapping himself back inside the noise of Mike.
"I'm listening," Will said, stepping into the warmth of the living room.
"You were staring at the traffic," Mike accused, appearing in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing an apron that said KISS THE COOK—a gag gift from Dustin that Mike wore with zero irony—and holding a whisk like a weapon. His hair was a mess of bedhead curls, his eyes bright and manic despite the hour. "I need opinions. Pancakes are a high-stakes breakfast, Will. They require focus."
"I was focusing," Will lied smoothly. He moved to the sofa, sitting on the edge of the cushion near El’s feet, careful not to jostle her arm. "I think Mr. Brightside is fine, Mike. People like it. It gets them jumping."
"Fine is the enemy of great," Mike muttered, retreating back to the stove. "You’re placating me. I can hear it in your voice. You’re doing the 'calm down Mike' voice."
"I am doing the 'Mom is sleeping' voice," Will corrected, keeping his tone soft, appeasing. He glanced down at El. "That color looks good."
El finally looked up, blowing gently on her wet nails. She offered Will a small, tired smile—the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes but felt comfortable, lived-in. "It's called 'Vampire Blood'," she whispered. "Do you think it's too much for the gig?"
"No," Will said, relaxing slightly now that he was acting as the buffer. This was his role. The peacekeeper. The roadie. The listener. "It’s cool. Matches the vibe."
"See?" Mike shouted from the kitchen, the sizzle of batter hitting the pan drowning out his volume control. "Will gets it! The vibe! That's what I'm talking about! We need a vibe tonight, not just a playlist!"
Will shared a look with El—an eye roll that was fond, exasperated, and terrified all at once.
Mike flipped a pancake onto a plate with a little too much wrist, sending it sliding dangerously close to the edge. He caught it with his thumb, swore, and licked the batter off his skin.
"Okay, so Mr. Brightside stays," Mike decided, abandoning the spatula to lean against the counter. He gestured at Will with a fork. "But we speed up the tempo. Like, ten percent faster. I want it to sound like we’re having a panic attack, not a karaoke session."
"You always want it faster," Will said, accepting the fork Mike thrust at him. He didn't even look up as he held the fork out to El.
El, without breaking her concentration on her ring finger, leaned forward and took the bite. It was a fluid, practiced motion—a routine built on years of shared spaces and silent understandings.
"Because adrenaline is the currency of the night, William," Mike retorted as he flipped the last pancake, catching it with a flourish that was entirely unnecessary for an audience of two.
"Breakfast is served," Mike announced, abandoning the stove to ferry two steaming plates to the coffee table. He slid the first one in front of El with a proud grin. "Blueberry explosion. I put extra in the batter."
He slid the second plate toward Will. "And for the rhythm section: sugar and cinnamon. Easy on the syrup, just how you like it."
Mike hopped onto the counter, looking pleased with himself. "So, about the setlist—"
He didn't notice the way El froze. She stared down at the stack of pancakes, the dark purple berries bursting from the edges. Her hands, still wet with polish, hovered uselessly over her lap. She didn't say anything—she never wanted to be the one to ruin Mike's mood when he was on a roll—but her shoulders slumped.
Will saw it instantly. Blueberries.
Mike had forgotten. Again.
Without a word, Will reached over. He took the plate of sugar and cinnamon—his favorite, the smell of it already making his stomach grow—and slid it in front of El. In the same motion, he pulled the blueberry stack toward himself.
"Swap," Will said simply.
El looked up at him, eyes wide. "Will, that's your favorite."
"I'm feeling fruity today," Will lied, spearing a blueberry pancake he had absolutely no intention of enjoying. He saw the hesitation in El’s face, the way she looked from the cinnamon stack back to him.
"Eat it, El," Will murmured, low enough that Mike wouldn't hear over his own monologue about tempo changes. "I’m not about to let my sister starve because of some stack of pancakes. I can always make some more for me later."
El offered him a small, grateful smile and took a bite of the cinnamon stack.
"Wait," Mike said, pausing mid-sentence. He squinted at them from the counter. "Did you guys just switch? Will, you hate cooked fruit. You call it 'mushy texture hell'."
"People change, Mike," Will said, forcing a bite into his mouth and trying not to grimace. "Just keep talking about the tempo. You said ten percent faster?"
Mike narrowed his eyes, clearly sensing something was off but too distracted to chase it. "Right. Ten percent. Because adrenaline is the currency of the night. And speaking of currency—where is my denim jacket?"
He looked directly at Will. Not at El, who was eating the breakfast he made for Will. Not at the pile of laundry. At Will.
Will sighed, swallowing the blueberry mush. "It’s not at the studio. You left it in the backseat of Steve’s car on Tuesday after the movies. I told you to grab it, and you said, and I quote, 'I don't need a jacket, I have the warmth of my own genius.'"
El snorted softly.
"I did not say that," Mike scoffed, though his ears turned pink.
"You did," Will said, pointing his fork at him. "And then you shivered for twenty minutes while we waited for the pizza. Text Steve. He probably tossed it in his trunk."
Mike grumbled something unintelligible, shoving a massive bite of pancake into his mouth to avoid arguing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, thumbing a text to Steve immediately. He didn't even question Will’s memory. He just accepted it as an external hard drive for his own life.
"We need to be there by five for soundcheck," Mike said around the food. "El, are you coming with us or meeting us there?"
"Meeting," El said, finally capping the nail polish. She held her hand out, admiring the deep red color. "Max is picking me up. We are going to..." She paused, searching for the word. "Thrift."
"Thrifting," Mike corrected absently. "Cool. Just don't be late. I need you front row. If I look down and I just see random frat guys, I’m gonna lose it."
"I'll be there," El promised. She blew on her nails again, then looked at Will. "You go with him?"
"Yeah," Will said, scraping the last of the syrup from the plate. "Someone has to make sure he doesn't forget his guitar."
"I forgot it one time!" Mike shouted as he strutted around the apartment, getting their things together.
The peace of the blueberry-cinnamon swap lasted exactly four minutes.
"Okay, crisis," Mike announced, kicking Will's bedroom door open. He dragged a cardboard box into the living room with his foot, the cardboard scraping loudly against the hardwood. "I forgot to fold the new merch. And if we just dump a pile of wrinkled shirts on the table, we look like amateurs. People buy the lifestyle, not just the cotton."
He stopped in the center of the room, looking at El, who was carefully blowing on her nails again to speed up the drying process.
"El, babe," Mike said, gesturing to the box. "Can you handle this? Just the stack of larges. I have to go find my pedals and shower. We leave in fifteen."
El paused, her breath hitching mid-exhale. She looked from her wet, glossy red nails to the dusty cardboard box full of cheap black cotton.
"Mike," she said softly, holding up her hands like a surgeon scrubbed in for an operation. "My nails. They are wet."
"Just use your knuckles," Mike dismissed, already turning toward the bathroom, pulling his t-shirt over his head. "Or be careful. I trust you. Just make them look crisp, okay? Sharp edges."
He didn't wait for a yes. He didn't even look back to see the flash of irritation that tightened El’s jaw. He just walked into the bathroom and slammed the door. A second later, the shower turned on, the pipes groaning.
The silence in the living room was heavy.
El stared at the bathroom door, then down at the box. She looked small, sitting there on the rug. The "Vampire Blood" polish was perfect, unsmudged. If she touched those rough, lint-covered shirts, she would ruin it instantly.
"He is..." El started, then stopped. She couldn't find the word that wasn't mean.
"Focused," Will supplied automatically, though the word tasted like ash in his mouth.
"Loud," El corrected.
She sighed, shifting her weight as if to get up and do it anyway. Because that’s what they did. They helped Mike. That was the rule of the universe.
"Don't," Will said.
He stood up from the sofa, abandoning his half-eaten blueberry pancakes. He walked over to the box, knelt down, and pulled the first shirt out. It smelled like screen-printing chemicals and basement storage.
"I'll do it," Will said, snapping the shirt into a crisp fold with a practiced motion. "Your nails look good. Don't mess them up for a gig at a frat house."
"He asked me," El whispered, guilt flickering in her eyes. "He needs it."
"He needs to learn time management," Will muttered, grabbing another shirt. "And he won't know the difference. Just... sit there. Look pretty. Let dry."
El watched him for a moment—watched the efficient way Will’s hands moved, folding Mike’s name, Mike’s band, Mike’s dream, over and over again.
"You spoil him," El said quietly. It wasn't an accusation. It was a fact.
"Someone has to," Will said, tossing a folded shirt onto the 'Done' pile. "Or he'll go on stage looking like he slept in a dumpster."
In the bathroom, Mike started singing—loud, off-key, and confident. Unbothered that Will was doing his chores and El was staring at the back of Will's head with a look that was starting to decode the equation.
--------------------------
The heater in Mike’s beat-up sedan rattled like a dying lung, blasting air that smelled faintly of burnt dust and stale french fries.
"I hate this car," Mike announced, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He slammed on the brakes as a taxi cut them off. "And I hate that intersection. And I specifically hate the Phi Delta house."
"You loved the Phi Delt house last month," Will pointed out from the passenger seat. He had his knees pressed against the glovebox, scrolling through the band’s group chat on his phone. "You said the acoustics in their basement were 'surprisingly cavernous'."
"That was before Chad—or Brad, or Thad, whatever his name is—requested Wonderwall four times in a row," Mike grumbled. He merged lanes aggressively. "We’re supposed to be artists, Will. We have original songs. Good ones! 'Midnight City' rips! But no, everyone just wants covers. I feel like a jukebox with a pulse."
"It's a paycheck, Mike," Will said, his voice calm, leveling out Mike’s frequency. "And exposure. Besides, you love the attention. Don't pretend you don't."
Mike shot him a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "I like appreciation. There's a difference. Drunk frat guys spilling beer on my monitors isn't appreciation. It's a hazard."
Will chuckled, locking his phone. He looked out the window at the passing campus buildings. "Just get through tonight. Steve said he might have a lead on a venue downtown. A real one. With a stage that isn't made of plywood."
"Steve says a lot of things," Mike sighed, but the tension in his shoulders dropped an inch. He reached over without looking, turning the radio volume down instead of up.
"Hey," Mike said, softer now. The manic energy of the apartment was gone, replaced by something tired. "Thanks for doing the shirts back there. I know I kinda... sprinted out."
Will turned to look at him, surprised. He hadn't thought Mike noticed. "It's fine. El didn't want to ruin her nails."
"Yeah," Mike said, his eyes fixed on the road. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, a nervous rhythm against the leather. "You're a good brother, Byers."
"And you're a terrible driver, Wheeler," Will deflected, looking away before Mike could see the way that compliment stung. "Watch the light."
The venue was less of a "venue" and more of a basement with a structural integrity problem. The Phi Delta house smelled of stale beer and lemon pledge, a combination that made Will’s nose twitch as he hauled the first amp down the stairs.
"Careful with that!" Dustin’s voice echoed from the bottom of the steps. "That amp is older than my dad. If you drop it, the tone goes from 'vintage crunch' to 'broken toaster'."
Dustin was kneeling on the sticky concrete floor, duct-taped to a mess of cables like a frantic spider. Beside him, Lucas was methodically tuning the snare drum, looking like the only person in the room who had found inner peace.
"I got it, Henderson," Will grunted, maneuvering the heavy box onto the makeshift stage.
"Time check!" Steve Harrington clapped his hands, looking stressed. He was wearing a polo shirt that was arguably too nice for a frat basement and holding a clipboard that Will was 90% sure was just a prop. "We’re on in forty. Sound check needs to happen now. Where is the talent?"
"I'm right here, Steve," Mike announced, descending the stairs with his guitar case slung over his shoulder like a rifle. "And don't call me 'the talent'. It makes me sound like a show pony."
"You are a show pony," Max’s voice cut through the noise.
She kicked the basement door open, holding two coffees and looking unimpressed. El was right behind her, wearing the thrifted jacket they’d apparently just bought. El looked softer now, more at ease than she had in the apartment, clearly recharged by her time with Max.
"Got your chai, Sinclair," Max said, tossing a cup at Lucas, who caught it with a drummer’s reflexes. She looked at Mike. "And El is here. So you can stop vibrating.”
"I'm not vibrating," Mike snapped, though he immediately moved toward El. He adjusted the collar of her new jacket—a proprietary gesture, checking she was there, that she was his. Then he whirled on Steve. "Harrington. My denim jacket. Will said it's in your trunk."
"It's on the drum riser," Steve said, rolling his eyes. "I washed it for you. You're welcome."
"You washed the patch?" Mike looked horrified, darting toward the stage. "Steve, you can't wash the Bowie patch, it ruins the structural integrity of the threads!"
Will watched him go, shaking his head. He felt a tap on his shoulder.
Robin Buckley was leaning against her keyboard rig, watching the scene with narrowed eyes. She was wearing an oversized vest and chewing gum with aggressive rhythm.
"You look like you need a drink," Robin murmured to Will, her voice low enough that Mike wouldn't hear. "And I don't mean water."
"I'm fine," Will said, his standard reflex.
"Uh-huh," Robin popped a bubble. She tilted her head toward Mike, who was now arguing with Dustin about cable management while keeping one hand on El’s shoulder, effectively trapping her in his orbit. "He’s in 'Commander' mode. Just a warning. He’s gonna be unbearable until the first set is over."
"I know," Will said, picking up a coil of XLR cable. "I’m used to it."
"That," Robin said, tapping a key on her synth that let out a low, ominous drone, "is exactly the problem, Byers."
"Can we kill the drone, Buckley?" Dustin shouted from the floor, his head currently buried inside the back of his amplifier. "I’m trying to isolate a ground loop buzz and you’re messing with my frequency!"
"I'm setting the mood," Robin deadpanned, though she cut the sound. She turned to Will, popping another bubble. "It’s called 'Industrial Dread'. I think it really speaks to the smell of this basement. Which is seventy percent mold and thirty percent regret."
"It’s sixty hertz of electrical failure, is what it is," Dustin emerged from the amp, his hat crooked and a smudge of grease on his cheek. He looked manic, waving a multimeter like a holy symbol. "Okay, bad news. The wiring in this frat house is vintage 1970s fire hazard. The outlet on the north wall is ungrounded, and the one on the south wall is fluctuating voltage. If Mike hits the distortion pedal at the same time Max slaps the E-string, we might trip the breaker for the entire block. We go dark. Silence. Anarchy."
"So fix it," Mike said, distracted. He was kneeling by his pedalboard, aggressively plugging and unplugging his patch cables, creating loud pop-hiss-pop sounds through the PA speakers.
"I can't fix the American power grid, Mike! I'm a physics major, not a wizard!" Dustin threw his hands up. "We need to run the amps on separate circuits to distribute the load. We need to run a hundred-foot extension cord to the kitchen upstairs. That’s the only clean power source."
Dustin looked around the room. "Lucas. You’re closest to the gear bag. Grab the orange cable."
Lucas, who was peacefully tightening his snare drum with a drum key, didn't even look up. "I am the drummer, Dustin. I hit things with sticks. I keep the time. I do not run cables. That is a roadie job. Union rules."
"We don't have a union!" Dustin shrieked. "We barely have a gas fund!"
"Steve!" Mike shouted over the noise of his own feedback. "Manager! Manage this! Tell the drummer to move his ass!"
Steve Harrington sighed, running a hand through his hair. He stepped into the center of the chaos, holding his clipboard against his chest like a shield.
"Okay, look," Steve started, trying to project authority. "We are on a tight schedule. Doors open in thirty. We haven't sound-checked vocals. I need synergy, people! Synergy!"
"What is on that clipboard, Steve?" Max asked from the corner, where she was tuning her bass. She leaned forward, squinting. "Is that... a drawing of a duck?"
Steve hastily flipped the clipboard over against his chest. "It’s a schematic. Of the... stage plot. Shut up, Max. The point is, Lucas, go run the cable. Mike, stop making that popping noise, it's giving me a seizure."
"I’m not running the cable," Lucas insisted, checking the tension on his hi-hat. "I need to be Zen. You want a tight pocket on 'Mr. Brightside', right? You want that rhythmic precision? Then I cannot be crawling through frat house grime. It messes with my chi."
"I'll show you chi," Max muttered. "If you guys don't shut up and plug in, I’m going to start playing jazz fusion. I learned a twelve-minute bass solo in 7/8 time signature yesterday. Don't test me."
"Don't you dare," Mike pointed a warning finger at her, looking genuinely terrified. "No jazz. We have a brand."
Will watched them bicker, a small, genuine smile touching his face. This was the part he actually liked. The chaos before the storm. When they were just friends arguing about circuits and drum fills, before the lights went down and the "personas" came out. It was familiar. It was safe.
He walked over to the cable crate, pushing past Steve, who was currently arguing with Max about whether a duck could technically be considered a "stage plot mascot."
"I'll do it," Will said quietly, grabbing the heavy coil of orange extension cord.
Dustin looked at him with sheer reverence. "You're an angel, Will. A saint. When we're famous, I'm buying you an island. A non-extradition island."
"Just buy me a new roll of gaffer tape," Will said. "This one is empty because Mike used it to fix his sneaker."
"It was a structural emergency!" Mike defended from the floor.
Will shook his head, slinging the cable over his shoulder. He caught Robin’s eye again. She was leaning against her keyboard, watching the boys scream at each other about voltage.
"They're idiots," Robin mouthed to Will.
"They're our idiots," Will whispered back, though the smile didn't quite reach his eyes this time.
"Dustin, just watch the breaker box," Will called out, weaving through the clutter of the stage toward the stairs. "If it sparks, scream. If it catches fire... well, grab the guitars first."
"Priorities!" Mike yelled approvingly, finally hitting a chord that rang out clean and distorted, shaking the floorboards. "That’s why he’s the best!"
Will ducked into the stairwell to hide the blush, dragging the lifeline of power behind him, leaving the noise of the argument—and the compliment—behind.
The confrontation happened over a microphone stand.
Will was kneeling center stage, taping down a loose coil of cable that looked like a tripping hazard waiting to happen. He was moving fast, trying to get out of the way before the house lights cut, when a pair of boat shoes stopped inches from his hands.
"Hey, cable boy," a voice sneered. It was the rush chair, a guy named Kyle who was wearing a backwards hat and holding a red solo cup that was dangerously full. "Move the stand back two feet. The brothers in the front need room to mosh without hitting the gear."
"I can't," Will said, not looking up as he ripped a strip of gaffer tape with his teeth. "If I move it back, the feedback from the monitors will scream every time the mic is open. It has to stay here." Will didn't budge as Kyle glared at him.
"I didn't ask for a physics lesson," Kyle snapped. He kicked the base of the mic stand, shoving it back—and in the process, catching Will’s shoulder with the toe of his shoe. It wasn't a hard kick, but it was dismissive. Like kicking a dog out of the way. "I said move it."
The air on stage vanished.
"Hey!"
The shout didn't come from Will. It came from the amp stack.
Mike Wheeler crossed the stage in three long strides, his guitar neck gripped in his hand like a baseball bat. He didn't look like a musician anymore; he looked like a raw nerve. He stepped directly between Will and Kyle, chest heaving, his height suddenly looming over the frat guy.
"Did you just kick him?" Mike’s voice was dangerously low, vibrating with a frequency that cut through the background chatter.
Kyle blinked, stepping back. "Chill, Wheeler. I was just telling the roadie to—"
"He’s not a roadie," Mike snarled, stepping into Kyle's personal space. "He is the only reason you’re getting music tonight instead of ninety minutes of silence. You touch him again, or you talk to him like that again, and we walk. And you can explain to your three hundred drunk friends why the band left. Do we understand each other?"
Kyle held up his hands, laughing nervously. "Whoa, okay. Touchy. Relax, man. It’s handled."
He backed off, disappearing into the swelling crowd.
Mike didn't move until Kyle was gone. Then he spun around, dropping to a crouch beside Will. His hands hovered over Will’s shoulder, frantic and hovering, as if checking for broken bones.
"You okay?" Mike demanded, his eyes wide. "Did he hurt you? I swear to god, Will, I’ll unplug the amps right now. Say the word."
"I'm fine, Mike," Will said quietly, though his pulse was hammering. Not from the kick, but from the terrifying intensity of Mike’s defense. It was too much. It was always too much. "He barely touched me. Just... get up. You have a show to play."
Mike stared at him for a second longer, searching for a lie, then nodded sharply. He stood up, adjusted his strap, and stalked back to his mic, the adrenaline clearly not going anywhere but into the music.
Will scrambled off stage, his face burning. He needed distance. He needed a drink.
He wove through the crush of bodies, finding the keg in the corner. He poured a foaming, lukewarm beer into a plastic cup, downed half of it in one swallow to steady his hands, and then pushed his way to the front.
El was there, right against the barrier. She looked small in the sea of oversized polo shirts, but she held her ground with a silent, steely glare that made people give her space.
"He yelled at Kyle," El said as Will slid into the empty spot beside her. She didn't look at Will; she was watching Mike tune his guitar.
"Kyle was being a jerk," Will muttered, sipping his beer.
"Mike looked..." El tilted her head, searching for the word. "Scary."
"He's just focused," Will lied, settling into his spot.
On stage, the house lights died. A single spotlight hit center stage.
Mike stepped into it. He grabbed the mic stand—the one Will had fought for—and leaned into it, his posture shifting from defensive boyfriend to arrogant rockstar in a split second. He smirked, a crooked, dangerous thing that made the girls in the front row scream.
"We are The Party," Mike growled into the mic, his voice distorted by gain "This is for the disasters," Mike murmured into the mic.
The band kicked in, loud and fast.
Mike snapped his head up, eyes wild, and launched into the verse. He wasn't singing pretty; he was shouting the melody, punching every syllable.
"She makes my heart beat a little faster / Her life is perfect, mine's a disaster..."
He prowled the edge of the stage, gesturing vaguely at the VIP section of the frat house, mocking the "perfection" he saw there.
"She wouldn't call me even if I asked her / That's why I wrote this song on a black Telecaster!"
Mike slammed his hand down on his guitar (which was, in fact, a beat-up black Telecaster), emphasizing the line with a jagged chord. The crowd surged forward, eating up the self-deprecation.
Will watched from the barrier, shoulder pressed against El’s. He saw El smiling, swaying to the beat. To her, this was just Mike being Mike—dramatic and loud. But Will heard the genuine fear in the lyrics. Mine's a disaster.
Mike moved to the second verse, his voice dropping lower, sneering at himself.
"She watches movies on her big screen / She got a Beamer when she was sixteen..."
He pointed his guitar neck at a group of sorority girls in the front, playing up the "us vs. them" narrative.
"Man I'm a loser and she's the prom queen / Yeah she only hangs out with the kids in the cool scene!"
El laughed when he sang "Prom Queen," clearly thinking it was a joke about her. But Mike’s eyes didn't stay on El. As the chorus hit, the energy shifted. Mike stopped prowling. He planted his feet center stage, gripping the mic stand with both hands until his knuckles turned white.
"She's the only girl I see..."
Mike looked directly at El in the front row. For a split second, the connection was there—the "perfect girl" he was supposed to be with. But then, his gaze slid.
Just an inch.
Just enough to bypass El and land squarely on the boy standing next to her.
"She don't wanna be with a boy like me / A boy like me / A boy like me..."
Mike screamed the last line, staring right at Will.
She don't wanna be with a boy like me.
The gender in the song didn't matter. The sentiment did. Mike was looking at Will and shouting that he was unworthy, that he was a "boy like this"—a mess, a disaster, a fraud.
"I don't wanna live another day like this / In a world where she don't even know that I exist!"
The irony hit Will like a physical blow. Mike was singing about being invisible, while being the loudest thing in the room. And he was singing it to Will, the only person who truly saw him, while refusing to acknowledge what that look actually meant.
tMike tore his eyes away as the final breakdown hit, thrashing around the stage, lost in the noise. He ended the song on his knees, feedback screaming from the amp, chest heaving as the sweat dripped down his face. The blue spotlight caught the sheen of it, making him glow against the dark of the basement.
In that moment, he didn't look like Will's best friend. He didn't look like the guy who panicked about pancakes or forgot jackets.
He looked celestial.
Will stared up at him, the plastic cup crushing in his grip. It was an old ache, this realization. Mike was a star—a burning, violent ball of gas and light. He was spectacular to look at. He pulled everyone into his orbit, trapping them in his gravity field until they had no choice but to rotate around him.
But Will knew the rules of astronomy. You were supposed to look. You were supposed to admire the brightness and navigate by the light.
But you were never, ever supposed to touch.
To get too close to a star was to be incinerated. To reach out was to burn.
"He's amazing," El yelled over the roaring applause, grabbing Will’s arm and shaking him, face lit up with pure, uncompromised pride.
"Yeah," Will whispered, the word lost in the noise. He watched Mike stand up and wipe his forehead, flashing that untouchable grin at the crowd. "He's something else."
Just look, Will told himself, forcing his hand to let go of the crushed cup. Just gaze. Don't reach. But the night didn't end there. That was just the opener.
For the next forty minutes, the basement dissolved into a blur of heat, noise, and kinetic energy. The air grew heavy with the smell of spilled beer, cheap body spray, and the ozone tang of overdriven amplifiers. It was a sauna of three hundred people jumping in unison, and Will didn't have a second to breathe.
He was the invisible tether keeping the whole operation from flying off the rails.
During the third song—a high-speed, aggressive cover of 'Sugar, We're Goin Down'—the humidity in the room started to wreak havoc on the gear. The condensation was making the stage floor slick, and Mike was sliding around in his Converse like he was on ice.
Then, the crisis hit.
Mike grabbed the microphone for the chorus, putting his full weight on the stand as he leaned out over the crowd. The clutch, worn out from years of abuse, gave up the ghost. The stand collapsed downward with a metallic screech, threatening to send the mic crashing into the monitors.
Mike caught it halfway, wrestling with the hardware while trying to keep singing, his face twisting in frustration as he missed a chord change.
Without waiting to be asked, Will was moving.
He army-crawled behind the wedge monitors, keeping low so the crowd wouldn't see him. He felt the bass drum thumping against his ribs—Lucas was playing like an animal tonight, driving the beat so hard the floorboards were vibrating against Will’s chest.
Will popped up beside the drum riser, right next to Mike’s leg. He grabbed the stand, his hands moving with practiced speed. He produced a roll of black gaffer tape from his back pocket, ripped a strip with his teeth, and lashed the failing clutch in place, tightening the screw until his knuckles popped.
He caught Mike’s eye between verses. Mike didn't stop playing—he couldn't—but he stepped back, giving Will the three seconds he needed to lock the height in place. Mike looked down, sweat dripping from his nose, his chest heaving. He flashed a quick, breathless grin—a flash of the real Mike, the boy who liked cinnamon pancakes—before the mask slammed back down.
Thanks, Mike mouthed.
Then he spun around and dove back into the bridge, kicking the stand to test Will's work. It held.
Will slipped back into the shadows of the wings, wiping his palms on his jeans. His heart was racing, syncing up with the frenetic bass line Max was laying down. She was locked in with Lucas, the two of them acting as the engine that allowed Mike to be the erratic, soaring kite.
"They're killing it," a voice yelled in Will’s ear.
It was Steve. The manager was standing by the side of the stage, clutching his clipboard like a lifeline. He looked stressed, his hair frizzed from the humidity, but his eyes were shining with undeniable pride. He was shouting to be heard over the roar of the crowd.
"I think the kegs are gonna run dry before the setlist ends!" Steve yelled. "Look at the bar line! It’s backed up to the stairs!"
"Mike's pushing the tempo!" Will yelled back, checking his watch against the setlist taped to the floor. "He’s rushing! He skipped the ballad!"
"Of course he did!" Steve rolled his eyes, gesturing to the stage. "He's riding the high! He feeds off it like a vampire! Look at him!"
Will looked.
Mike had abandoned the guitar for the finale. He was standing on top of the monitors now, towering over the front row, his arms spread wide like he was trying to hug the entire room—or conquer it. He was conducting the crowd like a manic preacher, sweat soaking his shirt, his curls plastered to his forehead.
The opening riff of 'Mr. Brightside' started—the anthem of every college party in existence—and the room exploded.
"Coming out of my cage and I've been doing just fine..."
Mike didn't even have to sing. Three hundred people were screaming the lyrics for him. He just held the mic out, basking in the sound, drinking in the adoration. He looked invincible. He looked like a god made of feedback and adrenaline.
And for a moment, watching him bathed in the strobe lights, Will forgot about the jealousy. He forgot about the cruel lyrics of the first song. He just felt that overwhelming, crushing pride of seeing the person you love do exactly what they were born to do.
"He's a monster!" Steve shouted, shaking his head in disbelief. "A total ego-maniacal monster!"
"Yeah," Will whispered, watching Mike smirk at the crowd.
The final chord of Mr. Brightside didn't just end; it decayed into a wall of feedback as Mike let go of the guitar neck, raising both hands in victory. The basement roared. It was a deafening, physical sound—three hundred people screaming for an encore they weren't going to get because the house manager was already flashing the lights to signal the kegs were open.
Mike unstrapped his Telecaster. He didn't put it in the case. He didn't even put it on the stand. He just leaned it precariously against the vibrating amp stack, right on the edge of the riser, and jumped down into the crowd.
"Jesus," Will hissed, abandoning his spot in the wings.
He sprinted onto the stage, dodging Lucas—who was throwing his drumsticks into the crowd like shrapnel—and grabbed the neck of Mike’s guitar a split second before it could slide off the amp and hit the concrete.
"I got it!" Will yelled to no one, cradling the instrument. He quickly killed the standby switch on the amp to stop the buzzing.
When he looked up, the stage was already being invaded. The barrier between "band" and "crowd" had dissolved. A wave of people washed over the front row, swallowing the band members whole.
Will quickly shoved the guitar into its hard case, snapping the latches shut. He needed to get the gear to safety before a frat brother spilled a rum and coke into the pedalboard. He stood up, case in hand, looking for Mike.
He found him near the edge of the stage. Mike was surrounded. People were patting his back, grabbing his shoulders, screaming in his face. He looked disoriented but ecstatic, spinning in circles to acknowledge everyone at once.
"Mike!" Will shouted, trying to be heard over the noise. "The pedals! We need to clear the stage!"
Mike didn't hear him. Or if he did, he didn't care. He was already moving toward the bar, swept away by the current of the crowd.
Will sighed, grabbing the pedalboard case in his other hand. He was about to start the load-out alone when a hand shot out of the mass of bodies.
It wasn't a fan. It was Mike.
He had reached back, blindly searching the air behind him. He wasn't looking for El. He wasn't looking for Steve. His hand swept through the empty space until his fingers brushed Will’s hoodie.
Mike grabbed Will’s arm—not his shoulder this time, but his wrist—and pulled. Will stumbled after him, dragged once again into the center of the gravity well, his sneakers squeaking against the sticky floor.
The transition from "Stage Mike" to "Party Mike" was seamless, almost terrifyingly so. He didn't even wipe the sweat off his face or put his guitar case down before someone shoved a red solo cup into his free hand.
"Wheeler! You legend!"
A group of guys Will vaguely recognized from Mike’s poli-sci classes swarmed them near the makeshift bar. They were a wall of oversized polo shirts, backward hats, and cologne that smelled like desperate confidence. Someone slapped Mike on the back hard enough to leave a bruise, spilling a darker liquid onto the floor.
"That set was insane," one guy—a tall blonde named Brad—yelled, leaning in too close. "You guys sounded like a studio record. Seriously, that opening track? Wicked. Drink!"
Mike laughed, tipping his head back to down the cheap beer in one impressive, practiced swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glittering under the strobe lights. He looked electric. He looked high on something stronger than alcohol—he was high on validation.
And he still hadn't let go of Will’s wrist.
"It's all about the rhythm section," Mike shouted back, finally releasing Will’s wrist only to immediately throw a heavy, sweaty arm around Will's neck, pulling him into a headlock that was half-affectionate, half-possessive. "And the crew. This is Will. Best ears in the state. He's the reason we didn't blow the breakers tonight when I stomped on the fuzz pedal. He practically re-wired the stage five minutes before doors opened."
Brad looked at Will. It was that polite, glassy-eyed acknowledgment drunk people give to sober ones—looking through him rather than at him. He looked Will up and down, noting the plain hoodie, the lack of a drink, the stiff posture.
"Nice," Brad said, clearly unimpressed. "Does he talk? Or does he just fix stuff?"
Will bristled, opening his mouth to speak, but Mike squeezed him tighter, answering for him.
"He's the strong, silent type, Brad! Keep up!" Mike beamed, shaking Will a little like a ragdoll. "He's mysterious. The ladies love it. He’s the brooding genius behind the operation. I’m the face, he’s the brains. It’s a symbiotic ecosystem!"
Will felt his face burn. He wasn't a genius. He was a guy who knew how to use gaffer tape. And being called "mysterious" by the guy who had known him since kindergarten felt like a cheap parlor trick. Mike was turning him into a character to entertain his friends.
"Right," Brad snorted, turning back to the table. "Well, 'Brains', grab a cup. We need a fourth for pong. Chad passed out in the laundry room."
"Oh, I'm not—" Will started, stepping back, trying to duck out from under the weight of Mike’s arm. "I'm not really playing tonight."
"He's in!" Mike shouted over him, tightening his grip, refusing to let Will retreat. "Will’s a sniper. Left-handed advantage. You guys are screwed. I’ve seen him throw wads of paper into a trash can from three rooms away. It’s terrifying. We’re a team. The Dream Team!"
"Mike," Will hissed, his voice lost in the thumping bass of a remix that was rattling his teeth. The smell of stale beer, body heat, and Mike’s deodorant was overwhelming. He felt trapped—physically by Mike’s arm, and socially by the expectation to perform. "I don't want to play. I have to pack the merch. The cash box is just sitting there."
"The merch is fine," Mike insisted, leaning his full weight on Will. He was tipsy now, his boundaries dissolving into a messy, tactile need for connection. He looked down at Will, his eyes wide and frantic, a crack showing in the 'Party God' mask. "Just one game. Come on. Don't leave me with these guys. El is sitting over by the stairs, she’s fine for ten minutes. I need my wingman."
Wingman.
The word grated on Will’s nerves like a dissonant chord. It reduced him to a function. A sidekick. A prop designed to make the main character look better. Mike was ignoring his exhausted girlfriend sitting on the stairs just to keep Will here as a buffer against his own insecurities.
"I'm not your wingman, Mike," Will muttered, though he knew Mike couldn't hear him—or wouldn't listen if he did.
"What?" Mike shouted, already distracted by someone handing him another beer. He looked down at Will, beaming with a smile that was wide, dazzling, and completely empty of understanding. "Just one round! Then we can go get tacos. My treat. Come on, Byers. Don't be a ghost."
Don't be a ghost.
That was rich, coming from the guy who looked right through him.
"I'm gonna get a refill," Will lied, shoving Mike’s heavy arm off his shoulders with more force than necessary. The loss of contact made his skin tingle, a phantom weight lingering there.
"Hurry back!" Mike yelled, not even noticing the shove, already turning to high-five Brad. "We start in two minutes! If you’re not back, I’m subbing in Dustin!"
Will backed away, forcing a tight, polite smile until he hit the edge of the crowd. As soon as he was clear, the smile dropped like a stone. He watched Mike for a second longer—watched him laugh at a joke he probably didn't hear, throw his head back, and own the room.
Mike belonged here. In the noise. In the center. And he treated Will like a dimmer switch he could turn on and off whenever he needed some mood lighting.
Will turned and pushed through the crush of bodies, heading not for the keg, but for the back door. The air in the room was suddenly too thin to breathe. He needed silence. He needed the cold. He needed to be anywhere but in the orbit of a star that didn't know it was burning him alive.
The air outside the Phi Delta house tasted like wet concrete and menthols, but it was blissfully quiet compared to the sonic assault of the basement.
Will leaned against the brick wall near the back exit, exhaling a long plume of white breath into the chill. He wasn't smoking—he just needed his ears to stop ringing. The heavy bass of the after-party was just a muffled thud out here, a heartbeat under the floorboards.
"Got a light?"
Will stiffened, pulling his hands out of his hoodie pocket. A guy had stepped out of the shadows near the dumpster. It was Mark—the guy with the vintage denim jacket who had been eyeing him earlier.
"I don't smoke," Will said, shifting his weight. "Sorry."
"That's probably smart," Mark grinned, stepping closer. He didn't seem interested in a cigarette. He leaned one hand on the brick wall, effectively boxing Will in. "You looked stressed in there. Roadie life too hard?"
"It's just loud," Will said, sliding a half-step to the right, trying to find an exit vector. "And I should get back. I have to start packing the—"
"The gear isn't going anywhere," Mark interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. "You're cute when you worry, though. Has anyone ever told you that?"
Will opened his mouth to answer, to politely excuse himself, to run—but the back door slammed open with the force of a gunshot.
Mike Wheeler stomped onto the concrete patio like he was looking for a fight. He had a cigarette unlit in his hand, but the moment he saw Mark leaning over Will, the cigarette was crushed in his fist.
"He's busy," Mike snarled.
He didn't walk; he prowled. In two strides, he was between them, his shoulder slamming hard into Mark’s chest—not enough to knock him down, but enough to shove him back three feet.
Mark stumbled, blinking. "Whoa, easy, man. I was just talking to—"
"I don't care what you were doing," Mike stepped forward again, invading Mark’s personal space with terrifying intensity. He looked manic, his hair wild from the show, eyes dark and dangerous. "You're crowding him. He doesn't want to talk to you. Walk away. Now."
Mark looked at Mike, then at Will, and decided the crazy guitarist wasn't worth the trouble. He held up his hands and retreated into the darkness of the alley.
Mike didn't watch him go. He spun on his heel to face Will, the crushed cigarette falling from his hand. "Are you okay? Did he touch you?"
"I'm fine, Mike," Will let out a shaky breath, his heart racing. "He was just talking. You didn't have to body check him."
"He was cornering you," Mike insisted, his hands twitching like he wanted to grab Will’s shoulders but was restraining himself. "I saw him. I was right there. If I hadn't come out..."
"Mike."
The voice was sharp. Tired. Final.
El was standing in the open doorway. She had her arms crossed over her new jacket, shivering slightly in the cold. She didn't look at Will. She looked directly at Mike, her expression devoid of the usual patience she carried for him.
"I want to go home," El said. It wasn't a request. "Now."
"El, hang on," Mike turned to her, frantic. "I just—I have to deal with this. Mark was bugging Will, and the gear is still downstairs, and—"
"Steve can handle the gear," El cut him off. Her voice cracked, just a little. "I have a migraine, Mike. The bass was too loud. Take. Me. Home."
Mike looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the exhaustion etched into her face. The guilt hit him visibly. His shoulders slumped.
"Okay," Mike whispered. "Okay. I'll take you."
He turned back to Will. “Let’s go, Will. I'll drop El off, and then we can—I don't know, get food? Debrief the show? I don't want to end the night yet." Mike said confidently, as if there was no room for discussion.
Will looked at Mike—sweaty, desperate, vibrating with energy. Then he looked at El—pale, hurting, and waiting.
"I’m not going," Will said softly.
Mike blinked, stunned. "What?"
"I'm not coming," Will said, louder, taking a step back toward the door, drawing the line in the sand. "I'm going to help Steve and Robin load out. We have to take the amps back to the house."
"Steve can do it," Mike argued, reaching for Will’s arm. "Will, come on. Don't be—"
"Be what?" Will dodged the touch, crossing his arms. "I'm going to the house, Mike. It’s secluded. It’s better for the gear. And Robin needs help lifting the synth."
"I'll help," Mike offered, stepping toward him.
"You're taking your girlfriend home," Will said, his voice hard. He nodded toward El, who was watching them with sad, knowing eyes. "Go, Mike. Be a boyfriend."
The words struck Mike like a slap. He froze, his mouth opening and closing. He looked torn—physically torn—between the duty to El and the magnetic pull to Will.
"Fine," Mike spat out, hurt flashing across his face. "Fine. Do whatever you want."
He marched over to El, putting a stiff arm around her waist. They walked toward the parking lot without looking at each other.
At the edge of the light, Mike stopped. He turned around. He looked back at the patio, searching for Will in the shadows, waiting for Will to wave, to smile, to give him something.
But Will was already gone. He had turned his back, staring resolutely at the brick wall, refusing to spare a single glance for the star he was leaving behind.
-————————-
Steve’s BMW pulled into the gravel driveway of the secluded rental house, the headlights cutting through the dense line of trees that separated them from civilization. It was pitch black out here, the kind of heavy, rural darkness that swallowed sound.
The moment the engine cut, the silence rushed in to fill the void.
"Shotgun on the bathroom!" Robin shouted, unbuckling her seatbelt with violent speed.
"No way," Steve argued, fumbling with the door handle. "I drove. Driver gets bladder priority. It’s in the Geneva Convention!"
"I have a tiny bladder, Steve! It’s a medical emergency!"
"You had three Red Bulls, that’s a self-inflicted wound!"
They scrambled out of the car, a blur of elbows and insults, racing toward the front porch. The front door slammed shut behind them, leaving Will standing alone in the driveway, the red taillights of the car fading into the dark.
Will sighed, his breath ghosting in the cold air. He looked at the back of the station wagon, packed to the brim with amps, cable crates, and the drum kit.
"Guess I got it," Will murmured to no one.
He spent the next twenty minutes in a rhythm of solitary labor. He hauled the heavy bass cabinet first, dragging it into the garage that served as their permanent rehearsal space. Then the snare case. Then the tangle of mic stands. His muscles burned, aching from the day, from the tension of the gig, from the way he had stood rigidly next to El while Mike sang about disasters.
When the last crate was stacked against the wall, Will didn't go inside.
He stood in the center of the garage, surrounded by the silent instruments. The space smelled like old gasoline, sawdust, and the metallic tang of guitar strings. It was a sanctuary. No frat guys. No screaming fans. No Mike looking at him with eyes that asked for everything and gave nothing.
Just silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
Will sat down on the edge of the low stage they had built from pallets. He rubbed his face with his hands, feeling the exhaustion settle deep in his bones.
His eyes drifted to the corner, where Robin’s old gear was piled. Leaning against a stack of milk crates was a guitar Will hadn't seen in months. It was a beat-up acoustic, painted a matte black that was chipping away to show the wood underneath. It was missing a tuning peg cap and had a Sticker that said 'PUNK ISN'T DEAD, IT'S JUST TIRED' peeling off the body.
Without really thinking about it, Will reached out.
He pulled the guitar onto his lap. It was lighter than Mike’s electrics, colder to the touch. He strummed a G chord. It was slightly out of tune, sharp and biting.
Will twisted the pegs, finding the harmony by ear, his fingers moving over the fretboard with a memory he rarely let himself use. He didn't play like Mike. Mike attacked the guitar; Will coaxed it.
He settled into a slow, melancholic progression.
The melody filled the empty garage, bouncing off the concrete floor. It was lonely. It sounded like the drive home.
Will closed his eyes. The lyrics rose in his throat, unbidden, pressing against his teeth until he couldn't hold them back.
"On a cobweb afternoon..."
His voice was quiet, raspy from the smoke of the party, but steady. It didn't have Mike’s grit. It had a haunting clarity, a tremor of pure, unfiltered hurt.
"In a room full of emptiness / By a freeway I confess / I was lost in the pages / Of a book full of death..."
He leaned over the wood, letting the vibration of the strings hum against his chest. He wasn't performing. He was bleeding out, letting the pressure valve release.
"Reading how we'll die alone / And if we're good, we'll lay to rest / Anywhere we want to go..."
He thought of Mike’s hand on his wrist. He thought of El’s sad eyes. He thought of the star burning bright on stage, and the cold, dark orbit where Will was stuck.
Will strummed harder, the volume rising as the chorus hit, his voice cracking on the high note.
"In your house, I long to be / Room by room, patiently..."
He squeezed his eyes shut tight, tears pricking at the corners.
"I'll wait for you there... like a stone. I'll wait for you there... alone."
He let the final chord ring out. It hung in the air, trembling, until it faded into the absolute silence of the garage.
Will sat there, head bowed over the black guitar, listening to his own heart hammer in the quiet. He felt lighter, and heavier, all at once.
Then, he heard the sound.
It was faint—the scuff of a sneaker against concrete. A sharp intake of breath.
Will froze. His blood turned to ice. He lifted his head, turning slowly toward the door that connected the garage to the house.
It was cracked open just a few inches. And in the sliver of light from the hallway, a single wide eye was staring directly at him.
Robin.
She pushed the door open, stepping into the dim garage. She wasn't holding a toothbrush. She wasn't making a joke. She was wearing her oversized vest, her arms crossed tight against her chest, and she was looking at Will as if she had just seen a ghost.
"I..." Will stammered, his hands gripping the neck of the guitar so hard his knuckles turned white. "I was just—tuning it. It was out of..."
"Shut up, Byers," Robin whispered. Her voice lacked its usual bite. It sounded stunned.
She took a step closer, into the circle of moonlight filtering through the garage window. She looked at the beat-up guitar in his lap, then up at his face, her eyes searching him, decoding him.
"How long?" Robin asked.
"How long what?" Will breathed.
"How long have you been able to do that?"