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Lucas claps his hands as he breezes into the studio one morning. “Guess what?”
“You got laid?” Mike guesses without looking up from his guitar.
Lucas snorts, walking over. “That’s funny, bro, but no.” He fishes out an orange soda from his bag. Waves it in front of Mike. “It’s some good news.”
Mike sets his guitar down and happily snatches the cold can, cracking it open. “You finally beat Max at video games?” he tries again.
Lucas shakes his head grimly. “No, but I will soon.”
Mike takes a long sip. “Uh huh.”
“But anyway—“ Lucas’ doomsday face vanishes and he grins, clapping his hands together again. “I found you a roommate. Do you still need one?”
“This better not be another opera singer, man, I’m nothing without my eardrums.”
“It’s not another opera singer,” Lucas clarifies. “It’s the perfect roommate.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
Lucas rolls his eyes and takes a seat next to Mike. “I swear it’s different this time. You guys have a lot in common,” he says, grinning wider. “It’s someone you know, too.”
Mike groans. “I’m not rooming with Dustin. I love the guy, but—“
“It’s Will.”
Mike’s fingers twitch around the can and he nearly drops it. He’s not sure if he heard that right. “Who?”
Lucas makes a face. “Do you know any other Will?”
No, Mike doesn’t. He’s only ever known one Will his entire life, and it’s a cruel, tasteless joke that the first person to cross Mike’s mind is the same one he’s been trying to avoid thinking about for the past four years.
But there’s only so much Mike can do, especially as an aspiring writer and musician. He can never truly avoid him. He sees his name in songs, his favorite books, everywhere. And hell, he even uses it from time to time.
Will.
Mike thinks it’s stupid that a seemingly simple four-letter word is the reason for the pit in his stomach. An even bigger joke that it’s one of the most important words in the English language. It’s a noun that can mean many things. It’s a verb you use to imply future actions.
But to Mike, it’s someone he met in kindergarten back in Hawkins. Someone he grew up with. Someone he once called his best friend. Someone he spent every waking hour with during the warm summers of their small childhood town.
And eventually, someone who left him without so much as a goodbye.
Lucas nudges Mike in the arm. “Mike?”
Mike blinks. “Uh,” he says cleverly. “Sorry, I just didn’t sleep well last night,” he laughs, “so I guess I’m kinda, you know. Kinda tired. And I still have a lot of things to do later.”
Not really a lie. Mike does have a lot of things to do, and lately he’s been feeling like twenty four hours isn’t enough time to get shit done in a single day. He’s been holed up at the studio since five in the morning, practicing and failing to perfect the band’s set opener for tonight’s open mic. His fingers are now cramping up, raw and sore from playing for the last two hours, and with barely an hour left before his shift at work, he’s still nowhere near satisfied.
Lucas frowns. “You need to take a breather, man. You keep overworking yourself.” He props his feet up the table and sighs. “Just chill, you know what I mean? Like this.” He sighs again, long and loud.
“Just chill,” Mike repeats with a scowl, kicking Lucas’ feet off. “Oh yeah, sure buddy, chill. That’s easy for you to say. Some of us actually have jobs that pay below the minimum.”
“That’s not what I meant,” says Lucas. “I meant this.” He gestures at Mike’s precious Fender guitar. “It’s not going anywhere, Mike. The band’s always going to be here. You do this every single time we have a performance. Just, I don’t know, take a break. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Yeah, well.” Mike takes another sip of his soda to compose himself. “I need to make this month’s rent. Paycheck isn’t gonna cut it.”
“Which is exactly why you need the perfect roommate,” Lucas pipes up, and then shrugs with a smug smile. “And hey, would you look at that? It just so happens… I have one in mind.”
Mike shifts around uncomfortably. “Who again?” he asks.
“Already told you. Come on, man. Will?”
“Yeah, dunno who that is.” Mike tries not to choke on another sip. He quickly sets the can down on the table in case his trembling hands give him away.
Lucas nudges Mike’s shin with a foot. “Come on, man. Will Byers? Will the Wise? Ring any bell?”
It rings all the bells, yes. The bells need to stop ringing, please and thank you.
“I know you’re forgetful as shit, but not that forgetful,” Lucas adds.
Mike widens his eyes and makes a whole show of dropping his jaw open and going ooohhh while snapping his fingers. “Righttt, him.” He scratches his head. “But didn’t you say he’s in art school? How is he here?”
Lucas shoots him a weird sideways glance. “You’re acting so weird right now. Shouldn’t you be happier?”
Mike shrugs. “I mean, I just don’t understand,” he says. “Can’t he get his own place? Go back to Joyce? What’s he even doing here in New York?”
“Yeah, you’re definitely acting weird,” says Lucas. “Why wouldn’t he be here in New York? It’s New York. Everything happens in New York.”
“Stop saying New York,” Mike scoffs. “And let me clarify. Why is he back? Like, back in our lives? Why now?”
Lucas gives Mike’s shin a harder shove. “Who cares? We’re gonna have Will back! He already finished art school like, a couple months ago if I’m correct.”
“Well, good for him.”
Lucas groans. “Don’t be an asshole, Mike. He’s still your best friend. Still our friend, by the way. Think about it! We can even go back to Hawkins for vacation. Isn’t it exciting? We can start a new campaign, we can ride our bikes again, we can—“ he stops suddenly, looking at Mike’s constipated face.
Lucas lets out an exasperated sigh. “Wow, seriously, Mike, what’s your problem?”
“Whatever,” Mike huffs, turning away. “I don’t think I have space for his art shit anyway.”
“Ugh, don’t tell me you’re still mad about that.” Lucas drags a hand over his face. “It’s been four years, Mike. Four. Get over it already.”
Mike ignores him, picking up his laptop from the table and pulling it onto his lap. “I’m sure he’s all grown up and happy without us,” he says. “He can get his own place. Why make it my problem?”
“It’s not really a problem. It’s a solution,” Lucas presses. “You’re struggling with rent, he needs a place, you guys are best friends. Boom. The perfect roommate. Plus, you don’t have to worry about a complete stranger hogging the bathroom.”
Mike snorts. “Sure. I doubt he can help me with rent. He went to what, art school? I need someone with a stable job.”
“You don’t even have a stable job.”
“Two dudes with no stable income living under the same roof.” Mike clucks his tongue. “You’re right. It sounds like a brilliant setup.”
“Nah, dude, he’s good good,” Lucas says hurriedly. “He’s always got loyal collectors lined up for commissions and stuff. You don’t have to worry about money. You guys can even do a 60/40 split. He handles the sixty.”
“Okay, let him move in with you then.”
“I live with Max.”
“So?”
“So?” Lucas throws his hands. “It’s a one bedroom apartment, Mike. Where’s he gonna sleep? I’m not sharing me and my girl’s bed with him,” he says with a shudder. “That’s weird.”
“Sure it is,” says Mike, not really paying attention anymore, because this is just ridiculous. He switches his laptop on and waits for it to whir to life, then fiddles with the lid because the old little shit won’t turn on unless it’s angled right. He makes a mental note to get it fixed once he isn’t struggling with money anymore.
“C’mon, Mike,” Lucas insists. “Are you still mad about that?”
“About what?”
“You know what.”
Mike finally finds the perfect angle and the screen stops flickering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh my God, you’re so petty. You’re still mad about that?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Look, I get it. Will left for art school and abandoned us all, waa waa waa, your forsaken heart now lies here broken.” Lucas places a hand over his chest like he’s been shot, then sighs. “Really, I get it. I mean, Will is literally our friend. My friend. So I was just upset as you were back then. But it’s been four years. I thought you guys were best friends.”
Mike thought so too. “That’s not why I’m upset,” he mumbles absently, frowning at the many emails already bombarding his screen. He clicks the most recent one from his boss and frowns even harder.
“Why are you upset then?” Lucas asks.
Mike blinks at him. “What do you mean?”
“You said that’s not why you’re upset, so that means you’re upset about something. Why?”
Mike closes his laptop then, and stares at the floor instead. He doesn’t really have the mental capacity to deal with two disasters right now, and if Lucas keeps prodding like this, he’ll go insane.
Plus, he’s never thought about it personally, either. He doesn’t know why he’s upset.
Okay, that’s a lie. Maybe he does know, but he’d rather slam his dick in a car door before he ever admits to being upset. Lucas is right. Mike’s being petty about this.
The truth is, Mike was very hurt when Will left. Who wouldn’t be? They were the best of fucking friends. They had plans to go to college together. Mike had been under this stupid impression that Will wanted the same things, that they’d follow each other wherever they went. He thought they had the kind of friendship that was inseparable. The kind people got jealous over because they wished they had one, too.
But it was all a grand delusion, of course. Mike had just deluded himself into thinking that Will wanted this friendship as much as he did. He got that message loud and fucking clear when Will left without even letting him know, wrapped up his life in Hawkins and never even bothered to say goodbye; much less stay in touch.
Though, if he was being completely honest, while the initial pain of getting ghosted by his best friend was absolute shit, it could never compare to the exhausting mental gymnastics he played in his head years after that.
And it made Mike feel stupid for ever thinking that Will cared. Some days he’d think that maybe Will did care. Maybe he just got tired of caring. Maybe there was something that Mike did, that made Will stop caring altogether. He would’ve fixed it without hesitation if only Will had given him the chance, but Will ripped that away too. Mike wondered most nights what it was about him that made him so disposable and easy to forget.
He must’ve done something, right? He must have done something truly appalling to make Will decide that losing Mike was worth it, that it was going to make him happier.
And Mike… God, he felt selfish. He felt so selfish for harboring so much anger. He felt selfish for being miserable and furious and broken. Will’s world doesn’t revolve around him, so Mike shouldn’t act entitled to a place in it. If leaving made him happier, then Mike should be glad, even if that happiness cost their friendship. And—
“Earth to Mike Wheeler, hello?” Lucas snaps his fingers right in front of Mike’s face. “Why do you keep doing that?”
Mike swats his hand away. “What? Doing what?”
“That,” says Lucas, making some vague gestures with narrowed eyes. “Stop stonewalling me. Lock in, come on. I asked you why you’re upset.”
Mike swallows the sandpaper in his throat, slumping back into the couch with a heavy sigh. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. He really doesn’t want to deal with this. He’s already getting so worked up and it’s not even eight a.m. yet. “Look, I’ll think about it, Lucas. You said he’ll shoulder sixty percent?”
Lucas grins, already standing up and dusting his pants for no real reason. “That’s a yes, right?”
“Were you dropped on your head?”
“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just insult me,” says Lucas as he opens the door. “Oh, and by the way, Eddie says he broke his strings and needs it fixed if you want him to come tonight.”
“What?” Mike sits up straight. “Again? Are you kidding me?”
“I wish,” Lucas says darkly. “He’s broke and shit, so I fronted him some cash. You owe me, Mike,” he says with a shit-eating grin, shooting him a fingergun before turning on his heel. “Oh yeah, I’m gonna give Will a copy of your keys.”
“Wait, what? I never—”
“Cool. You should get the apartment ready by tonight.”
“Tonight? Lucas we have a show—”
The door clicks shut.
Mike stares at it for like ten uninterrupted seconds, his eye twitching. Then he lets his head fall back in his palms. He sighs.
Of course.
***
Mike realizes his misfortune has only grown in size when he gets to work and finds his desk overflowing with papers.
Looking at it, he knows he can probably smash through it in just a little over five hours.
Then Steve appears and perches on Mike’s cubicle, grinning.
Okay, maybe six hours.
“What’s up, Wheeler?” Steve says, then winces when he sees Mike’s desk. “Ooh, yikes. That sucks. You sure you can still make it to the show tonight?”
Mike takes a deep breath and sits down. “You know,” he says, switching the computer on. “The sky could fall and I’d still find a way to push through. A piece of paper isn’t going to stop me.”
“Pieces of paper,” Steve points out, just because he can.
“Eh. Same thing.”
Steve laughs. “You’re losing it, Mike. I can’t imagine doing what you do. I’d probably go insane.”
“Your hair already looks insane,” Mike deadpans. The computer finally flickers open and his mouse makes a beeline for the Excel icon. He gingerly picks up one of the papers, squinting at it. “Jesus, does anyone actually know how to write anymore? I can barely read this abomination.”
“Nothing you can’t handle.” Steve offers him a sympathetic smile, then thumps the cubicle wall. “Anyway, will you be busy two weeks from now?”
Mike shoots him a cautious look. “Why? What’s gonna happen two weeks from now?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Steve smirks. “Maybe I need a certain band for the party I’m hosting. Do you know anyone who’d be down for two grand?”
Mike thumps the cubicle back with his foot, eyes widening. “Don’t shit me, Steve. Are you for real?”
“I know you need it, Mike. It’s a great opportunity to get more exposure.”
“Yeah but I mean…” Mike hesitates, turning back to his computer. “I don’t want you to do it just because we’re friends. I want people to book us because they actually like our music, you know? Not ‘cause of—”
Steve cuts him off with, “Don’t be stupid. You take your shit seriously, you’ve got hunger and grit. You actually sound like you want to be on stage. I can’t imagine how far that’ll take you, man.”
Mike can’t help a grin. “You serious about two grand? If you screw me over, I’m going for your hair, Harrington.”
Steve rolls his eyes, but he has a pleased smile that’s hard to ignore. “You have two weeks,” he reminds him. “Play anything you want. Charm the crowd, whatever. Just show up. Don’t waste my money, all right?”
Mike practically leaps up from his seat and latches onto Steve to kiss his cheek. “You’re amazing, Harrington.”
Steve grumbles and shakes him off, tells him to go back to work before stalking off across the office, back to his own cubicle.
Mike beams and spins around in his chair. He decides that maybe there is some good in the world after all, and sometimes it comes in the form of Steve Harrington. Surprisingly. Mike doesn’t even roll his eyes when Outlook pops up and gives him more work—no big deal, he’s not going to let anything else spoil his mood before tonight’s show. He also doesn’t even think about his conversation with Lucas earlier this morning, he’s just too happy.
Mike blasts through the remaining papers with a stupid smirk, not minding for one second that he’s in grey hell, doing a job he hates, in a building he hates, occupying a position where the only people he talks to are Steve and the mail guy. He manages to temporarily convince himself that anyone would be lucky to earn money while doing something like staring at data sheets or faxing papers. At least he doesn’t have to worry about dying in an oil rig; not that he’s qualified, anyway.
Within an hour, his fingers are already moving on autopilot, and with no need to watch the keys, he lets himself get lost in fantasies of being on the stage with his band, The Hellfire, singing his heart out while the crowd roars for them.
Sure, tonight’s show might not have roaring crowds. It’s a humble bar at best, but it’s a truth universally acknowledged that many iconic bands started small. It’s the perfect launchpad, and Mike doesn’t doubt himself anymore. He knows he’s meant to be more.
He can already picture everyone’s faces when they see him up on the billboards: The Hellfire in big bold letters, maybe featuring the band’s new album, Forget Me Too. It wouldn’t kill to have Mike’s face up there, too, so anybody who’s ever ghosted him can see him there. Take that.
His mind is locked onto a single track, and that’s hauling The Hellfire into success. That’s why he left Hawkins behind in the first place. Nothing else.
“Nothing else,” he tells the desk, feeling a wave of sadness. He shakes it off.
By the time he finishes the last stack, the sun has already sunk into the bustling skylines of New York City.
He gets to his building in record time, buzzing with excitement, and when he goes through the apartment door he nearly trips over a box.
Boxes, more accurately. Mike flicks the lights on and frowns at the stacks of boxes strewn all over the goddamn hallway. There’s a yellow Jansport backpack on top of Mike’s amp—he frowns even harder—and about a dozen empty canvases leaning on the sofa. He walks over and unsticks a note from one of the canvases, and as if his frown cannot get any worse, it actually does.
‘Hi! Sorry! I was in a rush =( I’ll fix it later, promise. - Will’
There’s a dumb doodle of a duck smiling sadly in the top corner, with an arrow pointing to it. ‘(me being sorry)’
Scowling, Mike crumples the paper and stuffs it in his pocket, because he doesn’t believe in littering in the privacy of his own apartment. He’ll throw the note later, when he gets out, of course. Fucking Lucas. He will never hear the end of Mike’s wrath. He didn’t even agree to this.
The questions manage to sneak into Mike’s head without his consent and he catches himself wondering where the hell Will has gone anyway. Apparently it’s so much of a rush for Will to think it’s remotely acceptable to just leave his boxes and shit.
But Mike doesn’t let himself linger on the thoughts. Whatever. He needs to force himself out of his head, because he’s getting angry. He’s getting furious at the fact that Will thinks he can casually stroll his way back into his life after four fucking years of nothing. He’s fuming that he even holds the capacity to be curious; part of Mike wants to see Will. It’s only natural that he does, because they used to be best friends. Mike is curious about what Will looks like now, how much his voice has changed, if he still likes comic books, if his favorite song has changed.
Whatever. This is pathetic. Mike kicks at one of the boxes on the floor, then yelps and hops painfully on one leg. What the hell is Will smuggling into these boxes? Fucking bricks?
He leans against the wall, waiting for the throb to go away. Jesus. He really doesn’t have time for this; he’s got a show tonight and things are going to go well. Things are going to go his way for once. He’s not going to let his new roommate spoil his mood. They’re just roommates now, not friends, no need to get this worked up over a roommate.
Slipping out of his work clothes, Mike opts for a loose black button-down, tucked neatly into matching black trousers. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, unbuttons his top halfway, and douses himself in cologne.
He yanks the yellow bag off the amp and places it somewhere on the floor, then spends the last twenty minutes rehearsing the opener and futzing with his gear.
When Eddie’s name flashes on his phone, he wastes no time slinging his guitar over, because it’s time to go.
***
Dustin slams his hands on the table. “Alright, gentlemen. Real talk. Who’s the most likely to get laid after this?”
Mike casts a wary glance around the bar, in case somebody’s listening. He swears to fuck the band’s gonna get cancelled before it even makes it to MTV, but thankfully, the other band on stage seems to have everyone’s undivided attention.
Well, save for the elderly man at the next table, who keeps glaring at Mike and shaking his head disapprovingly.
Hopefully he doesn’t take his grievances to MySpace.
Eddie tips his beer bottle toward Dustin. “My vote’s on Lucas. He’s definitely getting laid.”
“Yeah, duh,” says Dustin. “Lucas doesn’t count. He’s got Max. I meant between us virgins.”
“Hey, why’re you assuming I’m a virgin?” Eddie asks, offended. “What if I’m not?”
“Well, are you?” Mike raises a brow.
Eddie grunts and sips on his beer. “Assholes.”
Lucas, who’s sitting next to Mike, just drops his head into his hands and groans. “Guys, can we please talk about something more interesting? I don’t want to talk about anybody’s sex life. Nobody’s getting lucky.”
“Speak for yourself,” Dustin says, pushing a plate of chicken tenders over the table to Mike. “Tonight’s the night, boys. I can feel it.” He juts his chin towards the stage. “We’re gonna have a meet-cute.”
“A what?” Lucas frowns, then decides he doesn’t care and goes back to groaning.
“A meet-cute,” Dustin repeats, sighing dreamily. “Like, when two people meet in a cutesy way. A meet-cute.”
“I know what that is. You need to stop watching chick flicks, bro,” Lucas tells him, straightening up. “Besides, I think we need to address the elephant in the room.”
Eddie suddenly stands up and whips his head left and right, his long hair bobbing crazily. “Where?” he says too loudly. “What elephant? Where is it? I can’t see it.”
The elderly man at the next table makes another series of disapproving noises. Mike winces, helping himself to his third beer, which is already almost empty.
Dustin yanks Eddie back down, then turns to Lucas. “What is it?”
Lucas leans across the table and clasps his hands, leveling Mike with a triumphant grin. “Will’s going to crash with Mike.”
Mike feels his face heat up with mortification. He’s been avoiding thinking about it the entire day, since he didn’t want to spoil his mood. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone burst his bubble.
Eddie’s eyes bug out. “Will? Will Byers?”
Mike snatches a chicken tender and stabs his ketchup with it, ignoring them. People really need to stop saying his name.
“Yes, Eddie. That Will,” says Lucas airily, then turns to Mike with a disappointed look. “See? At least Eddie remembers him, of all people. The guy never even met him, Jesus.”
Mike narrows his eyes as he chews on the chicken. “I never said I didn’t remember him,” he says after swallowing. “I just—I don’t think it’s a good idea to have him as my roommate.”
“What?” Dustin gapes, looking at Mike like he’s lost his mind. “Are you okay? In what universe do you not want to be close to Will? It used to annoy us how much you guys were attached at the hip. Does anyone remember that? Tell me you guys remember that.”
“Remember what?” says Steve, suddenly appearing. He shrugs his jacket off and slides into the stool next to Dustin.
“Will and Mike’s impenetrable friendship,” Dustin fills in, gesturing towards Mike with a fry.
Impenetrable.
Mike does not appreciate Dustin’s word choice.
“Now he’s saying he doesn’t want to play roomies with Will,” Dustin continues. He bites into his fry, shaking his head darkly. “So weird, right?”
Lucas nods fervently. “That’s what I’m saying.”
Mike yanks Eddie’s beer bottle and gulps everything down. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “We were literally kids, alright, let it go.”
“Stop with the drinks, dude,” Eddie grumbles, snatching it back. “We still have a show to worry about.”
Steve nods thoughtfully. “I mean, I kind of understand where Mike is coming from. If some guy I haven’t seen since what, high school? If he just shows up out of nowhere after four years, I’d be kinda weirded out too.”
“Thank you!” Mike throws his hands in the air. “See? Finally, someone with some sense here.”
Lucas lets out an exasperated sigh, crossing his arms. “I can’t believe this,” he says. “If only you’d seen them, you wouldn’t think that.”
“…alright, thank you! Amazing work, wow,” a guy’s voice booms over the speakers, and everyone’s attention snaps to the stage. Behind the guy, the previous band is already packing up their gear. “Up next, we’ve got another four-piece that will melt your faces! Let’s see those horns, people! Make some noise for The Hellfire!”
“Oh shit.” Mike jumps from his stool, nearly falling over as he grabs his guitar from under the table. He’d almost forgotten about the fucking show. “Guys, come on! Let’s go!” he urges, slipping the guitar strap over his shoulder.
The table instantly springs into action. Lucas snatches his bass and tosses Eddie his Gibson guitar, which he catches with a wild grin. Dustin frantically digs through his bag to fish out his drumsticks.
Steve firmly pats Mike on the shoulder. “Good luck, Mike. Go fucking crazy.”
Mike cracks a smile and mouths him a quick thank you. He turns and jogs after the group as they stride onto the stage, the crowd erupting into a chorus of cheers and whistles the moment they make it there.
Stepping into the stage lights, Mike feels his body bubble up with unbounded excitement. There’s not a lick of anxiety in his bones, thank the fucking beer. He can hear his pulse roaring in his ears, mingling with the crowd’s applause. He plugs his guitar in and nods at Eddie, then walks over to the mic.
“Alright, how are we feeling tonight? Are you guys ready to have fun with The Hellfire?”
The crowd hollers their approval, raising bottles. One drunk guy even removes his fucking shirt and starts spinning it wildly above his head.
Mike laughs into the mic. “Come on, let me hear you!”
The crowd roars back, loud and raucous in the best way possible, and Mike gets that familiar rush he only gets at gigs when he’s performing, like he can rule the damn world. There’s nothing bad inside his head because he’s not thinking about his shitty job anymore or the fact that he doesn’t know how he’ll deal with his new roommate. He jumps in place, feeling fucking electric and unstoppable. “We’re gonna start with a classic! If you know this song, scream with the Hellfire, you beautiful heathens!”
Dustin ticks out a one two three, and Eddie breaks into the opening notes of Mr. Brightside, banging his head to the beat, his hair flying crazily.
The bar goes fucking ballistic, and Mike drinks in the blissful noises as he starts singing. Being up on the stage has always sparked a high Mike has constantly craved ever since his first gig. It’s addictive; the motions, the burning lights, the feeling of sweat on his skin. This is what he’s always imagined freedom felt like.
And Mike’s not stopping. He’s on a goddamn roll now, blazing through more songs, mostly from the band’s debut album, Forget Me Too. It’s the first and only record The Hellfire has released so far.
Mike fondly remembers writing one of the first tracks back in Hawkins, in the basement where everything started and ended. He had this raw fury he didn’t yet understand at the time, and it drove him forward, sent him to the hectic grounds of NYC. He never did like change, but this was something he could accept, because Hawkins hurt too much.
He has changed a lot in the last four years; no longer the scrawny boy that sulked in his basement. Yet some days, he feels as though he hasn’t changed at all; that he’s still the same kid dragging around the same problems and emotions he’s always had, and that he’s just stuck in a bigger adult body, bogged down by adult responsibilities with solutions still nowhere in sight.
He’s never been good with his emotions. It was always easier for him to sing his heart out or write a story than say how he felt, and for years, these emotions only sat and rotted in his chest until the first time he picked up a guitar.
The lights bleed against his face, hot and bright, and he takes it in, remembering where he is now.
This is home, he thinks to himself.
The room howls when Eddie’s final strum fades to a stop. Mike’s drenched in sweat, chest heaving, his button down sticking to his skin, but he loves the feeling. Grinning, Mike looks over his shoulder and nods at the guys. Eddie and Lucas are already fiddling with the dials on the amp while Mike grabs a bottle of water from the stage floor. He takes a long swig before walking to the mic again.
“We’re gonna try something a little different,” Mike says into the mic, catching his breath. “End this with a classic tonight. How’s that sound?”
The crowd hums approvingly.
Mike’s hand finds purchase on the neck of his own guitar, his fingers hovering over the strings. He takes one steadying breath before strumming the beginning of a song so deeply wired in his brain.
He’s listened to this very frequently, played it in the comfort of his own room regardless of how he felt. He could be too sad, too mad, too happy; it didn’t matter.
Mike closes his eyes, feeling the music. Every single letter that lives under his skin comes rushing out his throat.
When he opens his eyes, eager, captivated faces look up at him. Steve flashes a supportive smile while holding a camera. That one drunk dude is slumped over a stool, amazingly unconscious now. Some couples are huddled together, leaning and swaying into the song.
The bar has fully mellowed down now, and Mike finds that he likes this too. His gaze sweeps through the crowd, taking in every detail, only to collide with another pair of eyes.
Mike’s grip tightens around the guitar. He blinks rapidly, trying to see past the glare of stage lights to confirm what he just saw.
Or who.
A sharp twist of recognition nestles into his stomach. Mike stops singing, his mouth going dry as he stares at the man sitting at the bar counter.
Will stares back, eyes widened just a little, lips parted.
Mike furrows his eyebrows.
It’s only when someone nudges him on the shoulder that he gets yanked out of his stupor. He spins around, meeting the guys’ worried faces.
“Mike? You okay?” Lucas asks, his eyes darting around nervously.
Mike whirls back to the crowd, stumbling back a little. People are exchanging confused glances, murmuring to each other about fuck knows what, and Mike swallows, trying to laugh it off because God he’s being so stupid right now.
He reaches for the mic again, but this time he keeps his eyes closed until the band finishes Purple Rain.
***
Once they're done with the set, the band wraps up their gear and steps off the stage, and on the way back to the table Mike violently yanks Lucas backward to walk beside him. “Did you do this?” Mike hisses.
Lucas elbows Mike away. “Stop with the violence,” he scowls. “And did what? What did I do?”
Mike tries to subtly tilt his head in Will’s direction, who’s still sitting at the bar counter clutching a cola bottle. Mike is pretty sure that’s Will. He’s very sure. And he’s also very sure that Will is staring at them.
Lucas doesn’t seem to get it though, so Mike does a sharper head-tilt and even tries to motion with his hand.
Lucas narrows his eyes. “What? Are you having a seizure?”
Mike just glares at him. The gang reaches the table and he throws his guitar back under, slumping into one of the seats. “This day, I swear to God.”
“Holy cow, Wheeler, you killed it,” Steve crows, giving Mike’s shoulder a hearty smack. “I got everything recorded too!” He thrusts the camera into Dustin’s face. “See? You guys nailed it.”
Mike shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, trying to angle himself away so that the people at the bar counter can’t see him. “Uh, thanks,” he says as he stares at the table. “Listen, guys, I think I need to go home, I feel wiped out—“
Dustin suddenly squeals and basically launches himself off his seat. “Holy shit!”
Someone laughs. “Um, hi,” comes the familiar voice.
Mike’s eyes snap up and he digs his fingers into the edge of his seat.
Will is pulling Dustin closer into a hug, laughing again. “Wow… I can’t believe it, you guys. You’re like actual rockstars now, wow.”
Steve swears under his breath and also springs up, yanking Will into a tight hug. “You crazy idiot, don’t ever leave us for that long again.”
Lucas soon joins them, and they all just stand there in front of the table, crowding around Will and giggling like crazy, throwing him a thousand questions and even more hugs. Eddie squints his eyes at them, then at Mike like ‘what the hell’s going on?’ and Mike, well, he doesn’t know either, so he just shrugs as nonchalantly as possible.
Eventually, Lucas drags Will into a seat—which so happens to be the empty one right across from Mike—and says, “Eddie, man, this is Will,” he gestures proudly, “You missed him back in the day because he went to Lenora with his family.”
Eddie’s eyes widen. “You’re the Will Byers!” His face breaks out into a grin and he nudges him. “I thought I’d never meet you, my dude, I’ve heard so much about you from these boys over here.”
“Hey,” says Will, waving shyly.
Mike feels a surge of heat and he fights the urge to leave the table. He feels so conflicted right now; he wants to dash off, but at the same time, he can’t look away. Instead, he’s frozen in his seat, stunned, staring at Will’s face like an idiot.
Mike just can’t wrap his head around it, can’t seem to understand how someone could look so different yet familiar at the same time. Will’s hair is a little ruffled, a little soft, maybe even a little wild, the loose strands falling over his forehead. It’s different, and it opens up his face, draws more attention to his eyes.
Mike can’t deny the difference; anyone who’s known Will can take one look and note that he is different. But when Will laughs, his eyes crinkle at the corners like they’ve always done, and the bridge of his nose goes slightly pink like it’s always done. He still bites his lip whenever he’s thinking of what to say, like he’s always done.
It’s almost as if someone just pressed the unpause button, the four years between them oddly shrinking to a thin line. Will looks just like he always had, and it doesn’t matter where or when; whether four years ago or now, under the basement lights or the bar’s dim lights. He’s still Will. To Mike, Will is completely untouched by time and it makes him dizzy.
Will’s eyes flick up to meet his. They soften a little, and he smiles a small smile.
Mike feels himself smile back without meaning to.
“Does anyone want more drinks?” Eddie chips in.
The hour drags on for a long time. Everyone spends it immersing themselves and reminiscing about old times and old campaigns and filling each other in on everything they’d missed. Everyone except Mike, because he can’t think of anything useful to add, and he’s too busy playing eye-tag with the goddamn table.
The gang takes it to the sidewalk, and after some time, Steve excuses himself, grumbling something about needing to wake up early for work. Lucas tags along behind him after freaking out over ten missed calls from Max. Mike has also been raring to go home, so he promptly releases himself from the group and is already halfway to leaving when Eddie calls out.
“Hey, don’t you two live together now?”
Mike stops in his tracks. He turns around slowly.
Eddie is eyeing him expectantly, his arms crossed, one foot bouncing up and down.
“I guess we do,” Will answers for him, shifting around awkwardly.
Eddie grins, slinging an arm around Dustin. “Okay, cool,” he says. “Man, you guys are lucky, at least you get to save money.”
Mike furrows his brows in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Eddie snorts. “Are you guys not heading back to the same place? You guys get to split the fare, obviously. Perks of being roommates.” He hops impatiently. “Ciao, bitches, I gotta go. This guitar’s hurting my shoulder.” He offers everyone a two finger salute and starts walking the opposite way, hauling Dustin with him.
Mike just stands there, watching Eddie drag Dustin away. His stomach is doing uncomfortable flips, but he forces himself to look at Will.
Will is already busy playing eye-tag with the concrete, his lower lip caught in his teeth, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. There’s a pink flush across his cheeks that Mike can see even under the hazy night.
It’s clear Will isn’t going to say anything, and Mike surprises himself by thinking that it would be ridiculous not to at least try to communicate with his new roommate, so he clears his throat and says, “I can pay for the cab.”
Will looks up, startled, and the sudden eye contact sends a jolt through Mike’s spine.
“Um,” says Will. “It’s okay, I um, I have money. Actually, I can pay for the cab, if you want.”
“It’s okay, we got enough tips from the show earlier,” Mike says, fiddling with the strap of his guitar. He forces a confident grin. “Besides, let me do the honors. I don’t wanna be a bad roommate.”
Will looks away, laughing a little. “Right, um. Okay, if you’re sure.”
Mike says, “Okay.”
“Okay.”
They stand there in awkward silence for what feels like forever.
“I don’t think you’ll be a bad roommate.”
Mike blinks, surprised. He isn’t expecting that. It takes him a few seconds to find his voice. “Yeah? You think so?”
Will steals a quick glance, meeting Mike’s eyes for a moment before resuming his eye-tag with the concrete. He offers a noncommittal shrug. “I mean, are you going to play the guitar at three in the morning?” he asks, smiling at his shoes.
Mike chuckles at that, feeling the tension leave his body. He leans against the wall. “Maybe I won't, if you'll paint me."
Apparently it’s the wrong thing to say, because Will visibly stiffens and widens his eyes at Mike. Mike isn’t exactly well-versed in what you can and can’t say to artists, even though he’s a musician himself, so maybe he’s just offended him.
“It’s a joke,” Mike says quickly. “Like, if I wanted you to paint something, I would pay you, you know? I’m not gonna rip you off just because uh, just because you’re my roommate now.”
Will stares at him, and then he bursts into laughter, loud and hysterical. He shakes his head, smiling at Mike. A genuine smile, not the awkward ones he’s been doing, and the sight sparks a strange flutter in Mike’s chest. It must be embarrassment.
“What?” Mike asks, confused.
“I know it’s a joke, Mike,” Will says, still smiling, his shoulders slightly shaking. “But if you ever did want me to paint something, you just have let me know and I’ll do it. You’re such an idiot.”
An idiot. Mike bites his lip to suppress a smile. Being called an idiot feels good, somehow. Familiar. He can’t help it, though. He supposes nostalgia is just one of those things you can’t avoid. It reminds Mike of all the times he’d accidentally laughed at something he shouldn’t have. Mike has always struggled with not laughing during dire moments, it’s stupid, and Will would just roll his eyes and call him an idiot while smiling.
Mike is really losing his mind. He must’ve had too much beer.
“Okay,” says Mike finally. “And if you want me to play a song, you’d tell me?”
“Hmm.” Will crinkles his nose, thinking. “Does it matter what song it is?”
“Not really,” Mike says. “I can learn anything for you.”
Will’s eyebrows shoot up, his smile fading, the bridge of his nose flushing pink. He looks away, tipping his head back to the sky instead. “Okay,” he mutters. “Anything? Are you sure?”
Mike shrugs. He’s about to say yes when a loud honk makes them both jump.
They both climb into the yellow cab in silence, and neither of them speaks another word on the way to the apartment. Will stays on his own side of the seat, curled into himself as he stares out the window.
Intrigued by the passing city lights, Mike watches the colors sweep across Will’s features.