Chapter Text
Hawkins, Indiana.
July, 1988.
“Are you leaving?” Will perked up. Mike was standing by the door, pulling his hoodie over his head.
He glanced back. Will was rubbing the sleep out of his eye. His hair was still a mess, sticking up. Mike couldn’t help but smile.
“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, though,” Mike said in that specific voice he reserved only for Will. Will nodded.
“Okay,” he said, softly, looking down at his fingers.
He looked as though he was on the cusp of saying something profound. Something life-changing. Mike’s hand hesitated, clutching onto the hope that Will would say it before he opened the door.
Mike recoiled at the click of the door latch. The moment flickered, almost extinguishing completely.
“Are we okay?” Will finally said, the flame stood up right, pin straight. He was quiet, his voice barely even there. Mike’s eyebrows knotted, dropping his hand from the handle.
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“If it’s what I said, you know… when… can you just forget it?” Will said, shaking his head, “I just got carried away.”
Mike felt something inside pull. A lump appeared in his throat. He tore his eyes away from Will.
“Yeah. Consider it forgotten,” Mike said, quietly.
“I understand if you want to stop,” Will said, “we can just go back to being friends.”
“I don’t want that, though,” Mike said, abruptly, “I don’t want to do that.”
Will nodded. Mike still refused to look at him, scared of what he might read on his face.
“Okay, then I’ll see you tomorrow,” Will said.
Mike let himself be weak. He looked back. Will was smiling, a genuine smile, stretched across his entire face. Mike pleaded with his heart to slow down and tried to return a small, composed smile.
He pushed the handle down and snuck down the hallway, careful not to wake up Hopper or Joyce.
Mike rode home, repeating the way Will’s voice whispered I love you in his head. The way his breath felt against his collarbone, the way tears filled his eyes. Mike felt the same words linger on the tip of his tongue as he looked back down at Will, pausing his movements. Will just shook his head and pulled Mike closer, pleading for him to keep going.
***
Boston, Massachusetts
August, 1991
A thin layer of smoke filled the dorm room. Mike watched it float above his face. His fingers reached out to draw shapes in it. He could feel every breath he drew deep in his lungs. The inflating and deflating, the air circulating. It was sort of silly. It made him laugh. His head lulled on the itchy carpet, his eyes landing on Emma, his friend, lying next to him.
Her fingers twisted the end of a joint she had just rolled, locking the bud in place. She looked back over to him, smiling at him.
“Dude, your eyes,” she said.
“Red?” Mike asked. She nodded.
“Super red,” she said, over eunciating every syllable, making Mike giggle again.
College was supposed to be about making your dreams happen. Gaining independence from your family, discovering yourself. All that coming-of-age crap Mike read in books and watched on TV. And after two years of college, Mike came to the realization that he wasn’t doing it right
He didn’t go to parties like Max and Lucas in New York, or have his eyes set on becoming some prestigious PHD student like Dustin at MIT. He wasn’t like El, who was already interning at a family law firm, taking her future seriously.
He wasn’t like Will- whatever Will was doing. He was probably finding his footing in New York. Will had kept in touch for the first couple of months after they all left Hawkins, but the letters soon stopped. Mike never reached back out.
As for Mike’s college experience, he had almost flunked out of his first major, Econ, so he switched into Creative Writing, which he hadn’t flunked out of. Yet. Suppose there was still time.
He wasn’t exactly an honors student, but people liked his stories, and his professors said he had a good eye for plot structures and world building. All those years of DnD paid off, he guessed. He did enjoy creative writing, but he still felt like every story he wrote was superficial, a copout from writing what he really wanted to write. But he didn’t know what that even was. Whatever he really wanted to write was blocked, locked up in some chest not even he had access to.
He met Emma, though. He liked Emma. She was smart and funny, and she always had weed for him to smoke. They spent most weekends in her dorm, smoking and plotting stories they’ll never write. Emma made him feel normal, or maybe that was the weed. Being with her made him feel like he was doing the college thing right. Like he wasn't a complete failure.
Emma didn’t ask about his life story or about Hawkins, and maybe that's why Mike liked her. He didn’t really have to show any part of himself. All the ugly bits of himself he liked to keep hidden remained exactly that, hidden.
They usually talked about books and movies and asked each other stupid high questions they forgot about when they were sober. Mike didn’t know much about Emma's life as well. He knew her parents sucked, she had a brother in New York, and she had another friend group who hung out downtown at some bar.
She never introduced Mike to her friends and Mike never asked. But he wondered what was so fun about going to some dingy bar. Getting high in her dorm room was fun, way more fun.
“Are you going to throw up if I light this one?” Emma said, wiggling the joint in front of him. Mike scrunched his face.
“No,” he said. Emma scoffed, not really believing him. She reached over to her nightstand anyway, opening the drawer to fish for her lighter. Her hand hesitated for a moment, grabbing a tape. She flipped it over, inspecting it.
“You want to listen to some music?” Emma said, chucking the tape over to him. Mike haphazardly caught it and flipped it over.
Twin Fantasy, Car Seat Headrest.
“I don’t know this band,” Mike said, looking at the track list on the back.
“Yeah, I don’t think they’re signed or anything. They’re just a college band from NYU. My brother sent the tape over. I listened to it last week and thought you might like it,” she asked. Mike got up and made his way to the radio, inserting the tape. He rewound it and then pressed play. It was silent for a moment as Mike made he way back over to Emma, plopping down next to her.
They sat shoulder to shoulder. Their backs pressed against the thin, college issued mattress, the springs digging into their shirts just enough to make them slightly uncomfortable. Mike propped his knee up, slinging his arm over it as he plucked the joint from in between Emma's fingers. He took a long drag, watching as Emma tapped her hand along to the slow, sultry drums crackling through the cassette.
Finally, a low voice breaks through.
My boy, we don’t see each other much.
My boy, we don’t see each other much.
It’ll take some time, but somewhere down the line.
We won’t be alone.
The words repeated as the drums and bass got louder. The singer's voice got more panicked, like he was pleading with the muse. Mike felt a twinge in his chest, somewhere deep inside of him. Something about the voice was warm and familiar. A voice he had memorized from childhood. One who visited him in his dreams. In his nightmares.
The first song finished, and Emma looked over at Mike, trying to catch his glance.
“You like it?” she asked. Mike nodded.
“Very cool,” he said, his voice uneven. He wondered if Emma noticed him fidgeting.
“I know… well, the singer is gay, you know,” Emma said. Mike chuckled.
“I assumed, yeah,” he said.
“Okay, good. You don’t have an issue with that?” Emma said, searching in his eyes.
“No, it’s fine,” Mike said. She nodded her head, taking a small hit of the joint, "my best friend back home is you know. Gay."
A shocked expression passed on Emma's face but disappear quickly. She nodded her head and pinched the joint from his fingers.
Last night I drove down Mirkwood and I thought about you.
There were signs on the road that warned me of stop signs
The speed limit kept decreasing by ten
As we entered a town about halfway there
It was almost raining at the train station
We put our hoods on our heads at the train station
We threw rocks into the river
The river underneath the train tracks
Mike felt his body tense up. His high brain strung out. He couldn't make a comprehensive, rational thought. All that he could conjure was the trees separating his house and Byers' old house and Will's hazel eyes looking at him softly.
It was a coincidence, he managed to whisper against the screeching in his head. Mirkwood wasn't even real, it's just what the Party called the woods in Hawkins. It was a Lord of the Rings reference. A lot of nerds love that shit. And a nerd obviously wrote this song because only a nerd would write something so confronting and heartbreaking. It didn’t mean Will was the nerd who was writing it. Even if his voice sounded similar.
Even if it felt so close to Mike. Maybe it was just a song Mike related to.
Which entailed other questions Mike wasn’t reading to answer.
The song continued. Mike felt like he was getting thrown around in some emotional washing machine. Each new new verse showcasing a different emotion. Each new line more raw and revealing of the singer's fears of coming out. Of being queer.
Mike swallowed the lump in his throat.
Last night I dreamed he was trying to kill you
I woke up and I was trying to kill you
It's been a year since we first met
I don't know if we're boyfriends yet
Do you have any crimes that, that
We can use to pass the time, I am
Running out of drugs to try
He looked over to Emma, who was now looking at him with these eyes like she was reading him, analyzing him.
“Do you– what. What is this guy's name? The singer,” Mike finally said.
“My brother didn’t say,” she said, Mike held the plastic covering again, flipping it over, trying to find any trace of Will on it. Mike sighed, set it beside him, and listened to the next song.
You never lifted your voice.
You never raised your hands.
You never showed me your inhumane.
You understand.
Most people are jokes, but you’re so real.
Most of the time that I use that word “you”
Well, you know that I’m mostly singing about you.
He wasn't sure when it happened but suddenly he felt wetness on his cheeks. He was crying. Not sobbing just passively almost, if that was even possible. His teeth sank into the side of his cheek, trying to push it back down. Maybe Will wanted him to hear this, but why didn’t he reach out to him? Why didn’t he tell him?
In most of the songs, Mike could feel the singers' sadness, but there were moments of joy that made Mike glow. It made Mike remember what it was like in the beginning, before it all fell apart.
But as the album wrapped up, Mike felt the emptiness again. The singer's voice was far away, disappearing, slipping from out of reach.
I can't turn this thing off.
It keeps following me
Used to be so human now it's just a machine
I can't turn this thing off
It keeps following me
When'd you say you were leaving?
When'd you really leave?
And finally. The confirmation. Will’s voice came out as clear as day, in the last song.
“This is the end of the song, and it is just a song. This is a version of me and you that can exist outside of everything else, and if it is just a fantasy, then anything can happen from here. The contract is up. The names have been changed. So pour one out, whoever you are. These are only lyrics.”
He could no longer ignore the wetness on his cheeks. He felt the echo of the man's voice reverberating off the walls of the small dorm room. Each pulse closed around Mike until he couldn’t hear anything except the man's words. He covered his ears and focused on the expanding and deflating of his chest. Over and over again.
In and out. In and out.
“Mike… are you–” he heard Emma’s muffled voice. He looked up and saw Emma kneeling in front of him, her hand pressed against his chest, feeling the muscle inside hammering.
Mike doesn’t remember much else.
***
June, 1988
Hawkins, Indiana.
Cigarette smoke filled Mike's car. The overpowering smell of cheap tobacco completely drowning out the air freshener Nancy had given him. Will was sat in the passenger seat next to Mike, silently rolling the window down. He didn't complain- about the smoke or the smell- he just stuck his head out, filling his lungs with the summer breeze.
They sat, letting whatever song playing on the radio fill the silence. Every once and a while, Mike's eyes faltered back over to Will who was now staring intently at the lake. His eyes danced with the glimmer of moonlight. It made Mike smile. Mindlessly, he reached out, his fingers grazing the bruise above Will’s cheek. It was no longer a menacing purple like when he first got it. It faded to a pale yellow. It still hurt Mike to look at. He wanted nothing more than to throw Chance against the ground and punch him back. To hurt him. He knew that wouldn't solve anything. He knew it would just make Will sad and he never wanted to make Will feel like that.
Will was looking back at Mike, now. His expression unreadable. Maybe he was trying to understand something. To understand Mike.
He pulled away, slowly, sinking deeper into the seat.
"Don't," Will said.
“If he keeps bothering you, you find me. Or Lucas. We can help you–”
“Mike, just forget it, okay?” Will yelled. Mike flinched, “sorry. Just, Chance does not see you as a threat.”
“Still, you shouldn’t have just to take it–”
“I’ve been a punching bag my whole life, what’s one more year? Then we’ll move to New York, and all of this will be over,” Will said firmly. Believing it.
Mike took another drag of his cigarette.
“I just wish a year would hurry up. I hate everyone in this town,” Will said, sniffing, letting a tear fall from his eye. Mike nodded his head.
“Me too,” Mike said, “but not you.”
He caught Will’s lip quirk up in the corner of his eyes.
“Ugh,” Will said, rubbing his eyes, “I hate crying. I’m sorry.”
Mike shook his head.
“No, no, it’s fine. You can cry. You should cry," Mike whispered, “sometimes I wish I could feel anything.”
Will snapped to turn his head to fully look at Mike.
“Sorry, ignore that, it's stupid," Mike chuckled, brushing it off.
“What do you mean?” Will asked.
Mike always found it hard to hide from Will. Will could always understand him in ways no one else could. Even if Mike tried to hide himself from Will, Will could always figure him out with just a look. It scared Mike, but it was also nice. Nice not to have to explain himself to someone. Will could just look at him and understand. Even now, Will asked that question, he knew Will understood. He just wanted to make sure Mike was okay.
Will’s hand reached for Mike's shoulder.
"You can talk to me, you know.”
Mike nodded. “I know.”
“I get it. Sometimes I feel like I’m like sleep walking through life,” Will said, “but you know, if you don't talk about these things, they just eat away at you."
Mike scoffed.
"Oh yeah?" he muttered.
"Yeah. I mean before I told you all about me being you know, gay. I was drowning. Even if you guys don't really understand it, it just nice to know it's out there. I needed to tell you guys because isn't that the whole point? To be honest with people. Like are you really even living if you don't-”
Before Mike could even realize what his body was doing, he was leaning forward and capturing Will’s lips with his own.
And Mike felt everything.
He felt everything.
***
August, 1991.
Boston Massachusetts.
Mike woke to the sun burning his skin. His eyes squinted, adjusting to the light pouring in through the window. His arm flopped over his forehead. He could feel the sweat dripping down the sides of his temple. His whole body stuck to the sheets. His mouth was bone dry, and his throat felt as though a cat had clawed at it for hours.
He considered, for a moment, that he might have died and ended up in Hell.
He looked over to see Emma sitting at her desk. She was chewing the end of the pencil, reading a textbook. Her eyes flicked over, checking on Mike. She straightened up when she realized he was looking back at her.
“You’re awake,” she said, breathless. Mike nodded slightly, stretching his body. Everything ached. His limbs, his jaw, his chest. He felt like he had purged every single substance in his body. His gut split somewhere unknown.
“What happened?” He managed to get out. His voice was hoarse.
She sighed, closing her notepad. She walked over and sat on the bed, pushing Mike’s hair out of his face.
“We listened to a mixtape, and at the end, you looked really scared. Like you were having some episode. I got you to the toilet, and you threw up everywhere.”
Mike shut his eyes, remembering the feeling.
“Sorry, I smoked too much,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“It’s okay,” Emma said, giving him a small, sympathetic smile.
Mike tore the covers back and sat up.
“Thanks for looking after me.”
“Of course.”
Silence fell over them. Mike could see the question on the tip of her tongue. Her mouth was carefully trying to find its way around it.
“Mike… are you–”
He waited for the word.
“Are you okay?”
Mike exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he said, plastering a smile on his face. Emma shrugged her shoulders.
“You were really emotional, more emotional than I’ve ever seen you when we’re high. Sometimes you get sad and nostalgic but you never cry. You were sobbing. Like full-on sobbing. You couldn’t breathe, I thought I had to take you to the hospital,” Emma said.
Mike cringed at himself. He privately hoped a gate would open up underneath him so he could slip back into the Upside Down. Facing interdimensional monsters from his past would be easier than this. At least his dignity would be somewhat intact.
“I said I was sorry. I’m really sorry,” Mike said.
“It’s not that, I’m worried about you. You were–” Emma paused for a second, exhaling. Mike watched her as her face contorted, “You were asking for Will.”
Mike felt tears pricking at his eyes.
“I dunno. Sad album,” Mike shrugged his shoulders. Emma rolled her eyes.
“Okay. You said it was about you. And I don’t think I understand what that-"
“I was high, Emma. I probably wasn’t making any sense. I was hallucinating or something. I’m fine now, I’m going back to my dorm,” he said, standing up abruptly.
“Why don’t you talk to Will?” she blurted out, “or about him?”
“What?”
“I know you don’t talk to him. That night I met your friend Dustin, I overheard you guys. You were fighting about Will. He said you were being an asshole and ignoring him. But every time you get really high, you talk about him like he’s still your best friend.”
“That’s quite literally none of your business, Emma. And I can’t believe you would invade my privacy like that!”
“You were talking loudly. That's hardly an invasion of privacy," Emma scoffed.
"Well, I didn't want you to hear that," Mike muttered. She shook her head, brushing his comment off.
"You never speak about any of your friends. Even Dustin, I met him that one time by accident. But– but you have photos of them all around your room. You have a whole painting of you guys as DnD–”
“Emma, you don’t know these people. Don’t pretend that you do.”
“But that’s weird! You have to admit that’s weird!” Emma said.
“What about your friends? From the bar, I've never met them,” Mike shot back.
“Bernie’s is a gay bar, Mike! There, I’m a lesbian, okay. I wasn’t sure how you would’ve reacted, that's why I played you that mixtape,” she said, “I was still trying to figure you out, okay. I was protecting myself, protecting my friends. So, if that’s weird, then sure.”
Mike averted his gaze. She sighed.
“I’m trying not to judge you or whatever cause shit is complicated, I get it. But I’m scared, Mike. I was really scared last night.”
Mike sniffed.
“People grow apart, it’s not the craziest thing,” Mike huffed, “he was my best friend. He’s not anymore. People change. People grow apart. Sorry if you misread the situation.”
Emma pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Fine. I misread this situation. Go home, Mike,” Emma said, standing up and going back to her desk. She rested her head on her hand and stared at her blank page.
“I was just scared for you. You seemed so sad and afraid,” Emma said, bluntly. Not looking at him, “I thought you were going to.” Mike sighed, his head falling into his hands. He wanted to make sure she didn’t finish this sentence. Mike stood up and grabbed his bag sitting at the foot of the bed.
“Sorry,” he muttered before closing the door.
The hallway was hollow. Empty. Mike pressed his back against the door, his bruised heart bashing itself against his ribcage. A part of his body lurched, reaching for the handle again, waiting for Emma to understand. A part of him wanted that. But no one had understood him for a very long time and there was a reason for that. Emma was getting too close now.
She knew what he was.
Mike retreated to his room. His roommate, Kyle, was lying on his bed reading a book. He nodded at Mike as Mike flopped into his mattress.
“Bad night?” Kyle said, his gaze falling back onto his book
“Yep,” Mike said, bluntly.
“I think that Emma chick is leading you on,” he said offhandedly, “if she hasn’t put out yet, I think you should move on.”
Mike groaned into his pillow.