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Mike sat at his desk, staring at his hands. He didn’t know where to put them, he didn’t know what to do. There was nothing to do. He could go for a walk, he guessed, but he didn’t think he could be in the cold right now.
New York was cold. New York was where he lived. Where he lived, where he went to college, where he played his first show- all of which were with him. Every single memory he had of New York was filled with him.
But even worse, every single atom in this apartment lived, and breathed and sang the memory of Will Byers. The coffee pot in the kitchen where Will had taught him to brew “real” coffee. The spot in the carpet where Will had split deep purple ink and spent hours dabbing at it. The framed painting right above the bed (oh god, the painting).
The balcony where they’d had their first real fight, drunk and out of sorts. The front door where they’d kissed and made up, both in tears. The kitchen counter, where Will would wrap his arms around Mike’s waist from behind on the days he was scheduled to cook dinner, which was not often due to his “horrible taste buds.” The pile of VHS in the corner. Will’s blocky red record player and collection of beloved vinyl, some of which they’d dance to in the living room, arms draped around each other, laughing into each other’s shoulders.
A half finished painting of a man in a sunflower field, up against an easel. Will’s art. It was everywhere. Every wall was covered in it, and it was all Mike’s fault. He’d insisted. He’d-
He needed to stop. He needed to get out of here. He really did. It had been two days. two days and four hours since he’d gotten The Call.
He’d ruin himself if he stayed in this apartment.
But he couldn’t bring himself to stand up.
Mike reached subconsciously across the desk for his cell phone. It was a new Ericsson model he’d bought almost three months ago, but who gave a shit now. He dialed his voicemail, feeling faint, as if in some sort of trance.
The last seven voicemails had been from Mike’s family. His friends. Will’s family.
He didn’t care about those.
Will Byers’ last message had been exactly twenty seven minutes before the accident.
Mike Wheeler had been doing his homework, headphones clamped over his ears. He hadn’t heard Will’s call.
“Hey, do you need anything at the store? I’m heading home in about twenty minutes, I’m gonna stop on the way. If you need anything, just call me back, okay?”
The sound of Will’s voice made something rise in Mike’s throat.
“I think I’m gonna make some orange chicken for dinner and I’ll get you that peach soda you like, so you’re welcome in advance.”
Mike loved that peach soda. His throat felt dry.
“We can finish watching that show later too, if you’re up for it. Anyways, I’ll see you in forty five minutes, tops! I love you. To the moon and back.” A sound like a little half chuckle. “I’m gonna kiss you so hard when I get home, beware, Mike. Love you.”
The message ended and Mike raised a shaky hand to his lips, hot regret pouring from his stomach. He’d been doing homework, but Will- Will was a thousand, a million times more important than some dumb creative writing.
Maybe, if Mike had answered the phone, Will would’ve taken longer to leave school, even just a few minutes, maybe he would’ve been with Mike right now, and maybe they would’ve been at some stupid brunch restaurant making stupid jokes and holding hands beneath the table.
At least Mike would’ve been able to say goodbye.
He wasn’t able to say goodbye.
Will had had an early class and let Mike sleep in, so Mike had texted him a quick good morning when he’d woken up. Will’s response- morning, pretty :) , had produced a hot blush from Mike. He’d put down his phone after that, and went to work on one of his writing assignments at a nearby coffee shop, not having any classes he needed to actually go to.
Mike couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said to Will. Verbally, he meant. It might’ve been “goodnight”, it could’ve been “I love you,” But either way, he hoped to god that it was the latter.
More importantly, he couldn’t remember the last thing Will had said to him.
Fuck, he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember, he couldn’t fucking remember- Mike gave the side of his head a hit with the side of his fist, grinding his teeth into his jaw.
Mike, just remember, remember REMEMBER HOW HIS VOICE SOUNDED- REMEMBER HOW HE LAUGHED, REMEMBER HIM DON’T FORGET- YOU CAN’T FORGET. IF YOU’D JUST PICKED UP THE GODAMN PHONE, MIKE- FUCK YOU FUCKING NEW YORK TAXI DRIVERS, BECUASE OF YOU MY BOYFRIEND’S-
BECAUSE OF YOU-
Because of you my boyfriend’s dead.
William Byers had died on March 18th of 1994 in a car accident in midtown New York. Four days before his birthday. He’d never reached twenty three. He’d flirted with Death one time too many.
Mike’s entire body slumped against the desk. In a clouded panic, he dialed the oh-so-familiar number. He didn’t even think about it, his fingers just flew across the keys. You fucking idiot why would he pick up you fucking idiot he’s dead he’s fucking gone, like poof, he’s gone you fucking-
Mike clicked the green call button in the upper right, and held his breath as it rang. Once, twice, three times, four, five, six-
“Heyy,” Will’s voice came loud and clear through the phone. Mike’s entire body tensed. “Whoever this is, you better not be calling about anything homework related, cause that would suck for all of us. If you’re Mike, sorry I missed your call bro, just text me. Or leave a message or whatever. Have a good one, and I’ll try to get back to you as soon as possible!”
Mike felt a sob building in his throat. The blood rushed in his ears. He remembered arguing against Will for calling him bro in his voicemail, but he’d just laughed and never changed it.
“At the tone, please record your message. When you finish recording, you may hang up, or, press one for one options.” A loud beep sounded and Mike found himself missing Will’s voice with an intense pull in his stomach. Mike’s body felt weak. He dropped his forehead to the table and swallowed.
“Will.” Mike muttered, voice thick. “Will, I miss you.” His voice cracked, hard and he felt tears building up from behind his eyes. They spilled out, finally, and he pressed a hand to his eyes, pressing down on his eyelids and pushing his nails into the skin of his temples. It stung nicely. “Please come back.” Mike felt a sob pushing through his throat, and it hurt. It actually hurt.
“I… I don’t know how to- to go on without you. I don’t know how to get through school or work or anything without knowing I’ll be coming home to you. I- Will- I can’t - I don’t know how to live without you.” He choked on a sob, pulling a hand through his hair. He tugged at it, almost relishing the discomfort. He needed something to do with his hands because they were shaking miserably.
“Please, Will. I can’t. Come back. Please . Come home . I’d listen to you talk for hours. I’d do anything, I promise. I’d give you the motherfucking moon, If you just came back. Please. Please.”
There was a thick silence, and Mike felt like flies were infesting his every surface. He felt like he was being eaten alive, like his skin was going to begin to peel off in thick chunks at any minute. It was itchy, burning. Horrible.
And then Mike screamed.
It was a wretched sound.
Mike screamed so loud that his ears popped against the rushing in his head. He screamed so loud that his lips split at the edges from the pressure, spilling hot blood over his chin. He screamed so loud and hard that the tendons in his throat tore, producing a burning pain, and he couldn’t scream anymore because his vocal cords were completely and utterly destroyed.
A long, whining sound was still pried from his mouth, continuous and torturous as hot, sticky blood dripped down his throat, coating the insides in the almost glue-like liquid.
He choked.
Mike watched, horrified, from an outside perspective as his own body twisted and convulsed, trying to breath in again, eyeballs rolled back. He watched as he dug his fingernails into his face, dragging them down his cheeks, his throat, gouging them into his eyes. It was repulsive.
Mike felt almost numb.
His body finally collapsed, head hitting the desk with a thump.
The last thing Mike saw of his own dreaded remains was a black slime dripping from his body’s mouth, his nose, his blown out eyes.
He blacked out.
-
He woke in a void, not unlike Eleven’s. It was completely silent, completely dark, the only thing in the entire vicinity being a mirror. Mike began to walk towards it, wondering if it was the entrance to heaven. But heaven didn’t exist, did it? Mike must’ve screamed himself to death. It was almost laughable.
He came up upon the mirror, stopping abruptly as he saw his reflection. He raised a shaky hand to his face. His left eye was nothing but a pocket of deep red flesh settled in the socket, complimented by a series of deep gashes cutting over his cheeks and forehead in what would’ve been a very painful way, but Mike couldn’t feel a thing.
He felt dizzy. So dizzy. His throat had very obviously collapsed- it was swollen and bruised and Mike couldn’t breath again, oh fuck Mike couldn’t breath, Mike couldn’t BREATH-
A figure appeared behind Mike in the mirror. It was Will. “Good morning, Mike.” It said.
Mike felt sick. Will’s head was bashed in, spilling deep yellow blood from a cracked skull where a piece of shrapnel had embedded itself. The yellow blood dripped over Will’s face like molten gold, over his shattered cheekbone and dropping eye and disconfigured lip. And though Will looked almost ethereal there, like a picasso painting, dripping in gold, Mike was scared. He was so, so scared. That wasn’t Will. No.
Mike wanted nothing more than to run away, but his feet were glued to the floor and now he could feel everything, his gouged out eye, the gashes across his skin, and this creature that looked like the love of his life was reaching out for Mike’s throat and oh no, no, it’d already collapsed and oh that hurt too much and no don’t touch me, don’t-
The gold-dripping fingers curled around Mike’s neck and he screamed.
-
Mike shot up in bed. What the fuck what the fuck what the- a hysteric feeling rose in his throat as he looked around, line of sight finally finding Will, heart beating painfully against his ribs. Will was looking at him with those big, soft brown eyes, and he looked so worried and Mike hated when Will was worried and-
Will.
Mike froze.
No no no that couldn't have all been a dream that was so real it was so real-
But Will was there . Will was right there and Mike’s face felt fine and his eyes were intact and he was breathing, albeit a bit painfully. He felt relief seep through his bones. The room was here and everything was here and oh thank fuck-
“Mike, are you-”
MIke interrupted him by collapsing against him with a strangled sob. “Are you real?” He asked, voice cracking thickly. “ Please Will, are you real?”
Will wrapped his arms around Mike’s shaking form, rocking him back and forth. “I’m real, I’m right here. I’m right here.” He pressed a hand through Mike’s hair, and his arms were so strong and sturdy that Mike felt himself relax with relief, even if it was just the tiniest bit. “Hey, hey it’s okay Mike. What happened?” Will asked and Mike held onto him tighter.
“A dream. I had- I had a dream. You- I- Will.” Mike sobbed his name, not being able to finish. He pulled away to look at Will, and oh, he was real, his tan skin and deep brown eyes and that mole on his throat and his soft brown hair.
Will reached forward to brush his hand against Mike’s jaw. “Nightmare?”
MIke nodded miserably. “You- you were… gone. You were dead . And my eyes- my throat- It was so real, Will. So vivid.”
Will furrowed his eyebrows. “Was it… was it like when you were Vecna-ed? Did it feel like that? Like a made-up vision?”
Mike hadn’t thought of that. “I… I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “It didn’t feel like a vision, but I can’t- I can’t be sure. Oh shit, Will. It was terrible.”
Will reached for him again and Mike fell against him, pressing their lips together in a comforting kiss. His lips felt soft, so familiar, and a few tears of relief leaked out, slipping down Mike’s cheeks. “It’s okay, Mike.” Will muttered against his lips. “I’m here. I’m here.”
"Sometimes I feel like I'm going insane, Will." Mike mumbled.
"If you're going crazy we'll go crazy together. Remember?"
"Yeah. I do." The traces of a shaky smile pulled at Mike’s lips and he pulled back to look at Will again.
Will smiled back at him, but it was just a bit too crooked and just a little too wide and oh- blood dripped from where Will’s head had been bashed in, red this time, not gold. The same long piece of shrapnel extended from the disfigurement. Will smile grew, his eyes dark.
And Micheal Wheeler screamed.