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Mike aligns the rifle sight carefully, blood rushing in his ears. He can’t afford to miss this shot. Not after last time. He plants his feet as his finger shakily covers the trigger. He breathes in. And out.
He shoots.
“Goddamnit!”
“Language, Wheeler,” Hopper hollers from across the field, where he’s helping Dustin adjust his defensive stance.
Bang! Mike flinches as Lucas’ rifle goes off next to him, the acrid scent of gunpowder filling the air. Their target, a tree 15 yards away with a sloppily painted bullseye, smoulders mockingly - ugh he hit the second ring too. Mike huffs as Lucas blows imaginary smoke from a finger gun like he’s the lone ranger or some shit.
“Well, well, well, that’s 10 to 2, Wheeler,” Lucas smiles smugly, holstering his finger gun and almost dropping his actual rifle in the process.
“Smooth, Sinclair,” Mike rolls his eyes. “Sorry we aren’t all born with your natural sports prowess.”
“It’s a gift,” he says with a humble shrug. “Can’t help that I’m a killing machine.”
“Ohhhh, is that how it is?” Mike's voice climbs in indignation as he tries (and fails) to keep a straight face. “Well if this was Virtua Cop I would have totally kicked your ass by now!”
“Are you kidding?” Lucas scoffs as he reloads. “You barely made it past level seven and that was with Max-”
And just like that, the fragile happiness of the moment is shattered. The silence is deafening.
Lucas has a haunted look on his face. His ammunition litters the ground at his feet, glinting innocently in the sunlight. The unfairness of it all is crushing, because Max is gone (not dead, just…not here). A shadow of the vibrant, infuriating girl Mike used to pretend to hate, who could have beaten both their asses in just about anything she set her mind to.
Mike slowly puts hand on Lucas’s shoulder. “Go take five,” he says gently, his chest tightening at the vacant look in his friend’s eyes. Lucas nods numbly. He stumbles to a log at the edge of the clearing, Walkman at the ready with his favorite song like acoustic armor. It can’t hurt to be too careful.
Mike sighs, rubbing his face and feeling far older than fifteen. They’ve all had their moments. Last week Mike was helping the Red Cross sort donated clothes and found a leather jacket that looked so much like Eddie’s that he couldn’t help but start sobbing in the middle of the Hawkins High gym. Jonathan was the one who led him away, helped him breathe and feel like a person again and not a hollow well of grief. The vague smell of pine and pot was surprisingly grounding.
So yeah, they’re all grieving in their own ways, in little stolen moments when they can afford it. Sometimes it feels like Hawkins itself is in mourning. Almost all the animals have left due to the gateway to hell that opened up down 8th and Main and Mike can’t really blame them. It’s like a scene straight out of Silent Spring. Mr. Clarke once assigned a reading from it, but Mike never considered how terrifying it would be until he experienced it firsthand. How your mind starts to play tricks on you when the only sounds you can hear are the rumble of lighting, the ring of gunfire, and the crunch of your own footsteps…I guess this really is the beginning of the end, he thinks numbly.
“You boys alright?” Mike jumps about three feet before he realizes it’s just Hopper. Unfortunately, his heart did not get the memo, as it attempts to forcibly evict itself from his chest.
“Y-yeah, fine. Lucas needed a breather,” Mike wheezes out, trying to discreetly rub his chest. He looks over and sees Dustin sitting next to Lucas, in quiet conversation. His heart settles behind his ribs again.
Hopper nods in understanding, because that’s all they can really do. Max will wake up or she won’t, but the apocalypse waits for no one.
“Your aim needs work,” Hop says offhandedly, crouching down to pick up Lucas’s ammunition with a grunt. Okay old man, Mike thinks petulantly (yes, he’s learned some self restraint, don’t act so surprised).
“Does it?” Mike says, aiming for indifference and missing by about a mile. Figures.
Look, it's not his fault his sister is some Ellen Ripley gun prodigy, okay? He just happened to inherit the nerd gene. And the gangly gene. And basically every other uncool gene because he apparently lost the genetic lottery.
Hopper swats the back of his head gently (believe it or not this is progress for them).
“Alright wise guy, now show me your stance. Go on,” he pokes and prods Mike's posture - he’s such a mother hen, it’s kind of embarrassing. “Left foot up. Other left… There. Was that so hard?”
“Excruciating,” Mike says, just to be contrary. That earns him another thwack, which he probably deserves. "Why can't I just train with a sword? Clearly I'm not getting anywhere with this," he complains, shaking the rifle for emphasis.
Hopper arches a brow, as if daring Mike to continue that line of thought. It's a well-worn argument between them - ever since Mike heard he defeated a demogorgon with one in Russia he's been begging Hopper to teach him because 1. it sounds cool as hell and 2. it could be really useful!
"I'll teach you when I'm certain you won't stab yourself," Hopper deadpans which Mike takes to mean never. Ugh. Killjoy. Still, a boy can dream - he can imagine it so clearly, him and Will in the heat of battle, covering each other's backs as his Will takes out enemies from afar and Mike stabs anything that gets too close to his cleric. Protecting each other like they always do.
A shot rings out across the clearing, distracting him from the fantasy.
Ah. Speak of the devil. Thirty paces away, Will lowers his gun, rolling his shoulder from the recoil.
He's training with Nancy because he's actually experienced with firearms thanks to his abusive asshole of a dad (“The only useful thing he ever taught me,” Will joked, which makes Mike want to shoot Lonnie in the foot). With his careful artist’s eye, broad shoulders, and gentle hands, he’s already a natural, the rifle like an extension of his arm.
He looks…good.
Well, not good good, but just, like, more confident or whatever.
“Eyes over here, lover boy.” Mike whips his head around, mouth opening and closing stupidly - he can practically feel the smoke coming out of his ears and the electronic whine as his mind buffers. Hopper is glowering, but there’s a hint of dangerous amusement in his eye that Mike does not like one bit.
“I wasn’t- I just- You-” Mike gives up, pressing his lips together firmly. He knows protesting will only make him look more guilty. Not that he has anything to be guilty about!
“If you’re done ogling my son, why don’t you aim at the target,” Hopper says with forced casualness, like he’s not actively melting Mike’s brain from embarrassment. He was just admiring his friend! Who has muscles now!! That’s a completely normal guy thing to do, if all the buff men in his dad’s Men’s Club magazines are anything to go by.
“Not. Ogling,” Mike grits out as Hopper pushes his elbows down not-so-gently. “And would you stop manhandling me?” He wishes Will were the one teaching him instead. He wouldn’t mind Will’s hands on-
Alarms blare in his head. ABORT ABORT.
So as he was saying, Will would be a great teacher because he’s kind and patient, unlike this asshat ex police chief. He thought El dumping him for good would be the end of their unspoken feud, but no, apparently it’s just Mike in general that he hates.
“Look, I don’t hate you, kid.” Mike freezes. Oh God. Can Hopper read minds now? Stranger things have happened. He mentally starts an internal mantra of fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, trying to transmit it with all his might.
“Jesus,” Hopper mutters, rubbing his eyes in that way old people love to do when they’re tired of your shit (Mike knows it very well). “Enough with the death glare, and put that thing down - clearly you’re not in any shape to shoot.”
Mike lowers the gun slightly, but doesn't let go. He might not be a good shot, but he could still do some damage with it if this conversation goes south. That ugly feeling of shame and fear and howdoesheknow?? writhes in his stomach like a parasite, eating him from the inside out. Hopper must see something in his eyes that makes him back away, softening his posture like you would approach a wild animal. Which is not inaccurate. Mike feels a little wild, his eyes wide and hands shaking as he clutches the rifle like a lifeline.
“Relax, kid. I’m not gonna hurt you or lecture you or any of the shit that’s going through that little head of yours so let’s just… talk, okay?” Hopper grits out, like just saying that was painful for him - it reminds Mike vividly of that awkward conversation in the cabin (was that only a year ago?) when big, tough guy Hopper suggested they have a mature conversation about their feelings. He would bet anything Joyce put him up to it. Still, it settles the roiling in his chest, the need to bolt. He lowers the gun a little more.
“Talk about what?” Mike says cautiously. Just because he’s complying doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easier on the guy. His stubbornness is rewarded with an extra constipated look.
Hopper takes a deep breath before meeting Mike’s eyes intensely. “Let’s talk about how you’re so goddamn smitten with Will that everyone is dying for you to make a move already. Geez, it's like you could cut the romantic tension with a knife!” He throws his hands up in a childish gesture that would normally make Mike laugh, but right now his stomach is leaking all over the ground and his brain is melting out of his ears and he could be bleeding out for all he knows.
“...everyone knows?” Mike’s voice doesn’t wobble. It does not.
Hopper exhales, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Even Russia, probably. “Why didn’t I just let Joyce handle this,” he mumbles, before gathering whatever patience he has left to deal with the pathetic, quivering puddle of teenager in front of him.
“First off, not everyone knows. Maybe anyone with eyes,” he coughs not-so-subtly, “but we have better things to do than gossip about teenage drama. You may not have realized it yet, but the world doesn’t revolve around you.” Mike deflates even more and Hopper looks almost guilty. He slowly steps closer and Mike doesn't flinch this time.
“Second of all, everyone in this group loves you. Even when you’re being a little punk,” Mike lets out a watery laugh that sounds a bit like a sob. Now that he’s sure Mike won’t bite his head off, Hopper gently pries the gun away and puts both hands on his shoulders. “And if anyone, I mean anyone, has a problem with it, they’ll have to go through me first,” he says, deadly serious - cradling Mike with the calloused hands that have killed men and decapitated demogorgons. Like Mike isn't a freak. Like Mike is someone worth protecting.
He feels the years of hurt start to untangle in his chest - slurs in gym class and snide comments around a dinner table and hateful news reports replaced by this unspoken reassurance that he's okay for being different. It takes everything in him not to rattle apart at this realization, but Hopper holds him together, tugging him into a hug that Mike didn't know he needed until he's sinking into it, letting the smell of cigarettes and old spice envelop him. Hopper murmurs soothing words in his ear (You're okay, kid. I've got you. I won't let them hurt you) and suddenly Mike is thirteen again, even though he has to hunch to fit into Hopper's arms this time. For the first time since the gates opened, Mike feels safe.
Once they've both met their emotional quotas for the day, Mike pulls away with a wobbly smile. Hopper just nods and looks away, giving Mike time to recompose himself, to sweep his mushy insides back into his body and wipe away the tears he doesn’t remember shedding. It’s a little awkward, but not bad awkward, like his dad hiding behind a newspaper shield. Nice awkward, like his mom trying to reach out after he’s pushed her away again and again.
“Hey…Hopper?” Mike asks, once he’s sure he won’t burst into tears again (stupid teenage hormones). Once the man meets his eyes, Mike says a quiet “thanks,” trying to imbue as much into that one word as a spell, supercharged and electric. Thanks for saying what I needed to hear. Thanks for giving a shit, even if you’re pretty bad at talking about it. Thanks for caring.
He’s pretty sure Hopper gets it, because his eyes look a little watery too. Maybe he really can read minds - wouldn’t that be a trip.
“Okay!” Hop claps his hands together, breaking their bubble of sappiness. Mike heaves a sigh of relief. “Now here’s what you’re gonna do.” He leans them down into a huddle like they’re planning a top-secret battle strategy and not trying to fix Mike’s disaster of a love life. It's such a corny, dad-like gesture that it makes Mike ache a little. Doesn't mean he can't poke fun at it, though.
"What's my assignment, chief?" he teases, holding up a two-finger salute. Hopper swats his head for the third time in less than an hour - that might be a record for them, actually.
"Your assignment is to shut up," Hopper glowers, looking like he's already regretting this plan. Mike would feel bad, but he knows it's mostly for show - the tough guy persona sort of falls apart after you've spent the last ten minutes comforting a sniffling teenager.
“Now listen here, you’re going to go over there and ask Will to help with your aim because God knows you’ll never listen to me.” Mike snorts. True. “Then, this is the kicker, you’re going to let him know how you feel because if I have to watch that boy tragically pine over you for one more day I’m going to lose it. Got it?” He shakes Mike’s shoulder until he nods in disbelief, his brain still stuck on tragically pining.
It’s like a switch is flipped in his head. Mike blinks and looks around, senses rushing back into focus.
The forest is still silent, but not dead. Dustin and Lucas are sparring with sticks while they talk quietly, Nancy is yelling at Steve for distracting her again as he hides behind a cackling Robin, Will laughs as he gets caught in their antics. It’s the greatest acoustic armor Mike has ever heard - he wishes he could bottle up this moment, turn it into liquid courage for when things get bad again, because they will. He frowns, anxiety swirling in his stomach like the pressure drop before a storm. He feels stupid for thinking about dating when more people are dying every day, but-
Hop lifts his chin with a knowing look in his eye. “There’s enough tragedy to go around right now. Go be happy.” he says to Mike, painfully earnest.
For the first time ever, Mike wonders who Hopper was when he was younger. Mike wonders if he was a little like him.
He shakes out his stiff limbs, a little lightheaded, but buzzing with this unnamable energy under his skin like fireworks and pop rocks and something that might start with the letter L. He feels taller, somehow. Maybe Hopper is just shrinking again.
With newfound confidence, Mike turns on his heel, off to win over his cleric. Hop calls out one last time.
“Hey, kid?”
“Yeah?” Mike looks back, trying not to beam but it’s quite literally impossible - he feels like the fourth of July. Hopper smiles at him fondly.
“Keep the door open three inches, yeah?” he says sternly, sauntering off before Mike can retaliate.
Aaaaaaand there’s the annoying old geezer he knows and loves. Mike groans good naturedly before bounding over to Will, dappled in sunshine and radiant and beautiful. It’s terrifying to even think, but also exhilarating because now he’s allowed to. It’s like Hopper’s awkward pep talk finally gave him permission to think all the mushy, embarrassing things he had been bottling up for years and now they’re pouring out of him, an ocean of want want want.
“Hey, Will!” Mike calls out, once he’s done hitting three bullseyes in a row, the talented bastard.
Will smiles but his eyes flood with quiet concern as he walks over, clicking the gun's safety on. Mike tries not to wince - he should've expected someone would notice that little display. In his defense, he was sort of busy having a mental breakdown.
"Are you okay?" Will asks intently, eyes flicking between him and Hopper, who's doing a pretty shitty job of pretending he's not watching them. Mike wonders how suspicious it would be if he grabbed Will and dragged him in the woods - considering Robin's not-so-subtle winks and Dustin's curious looks, he thinks he knows the answer already. Shit. Guess he's doing this with an audience.
Mike waves off Will's concern with an awkward laugh. "Yeah! Fine, I'm fine, just- y'know. Dealing with..." he waves his hand in a circle as if to say everything. Nothing like having a sexuality crisis during the end of the world.
Will's eyes soften in understanding - he tilts his head. Do you want to talk about it? Mike shakes his head minutely. Later. And it's as easy as that. He was scared back in Lenora that he would never get this quiet familiarity back, scared he would never be able to read Will like he used to, but he shouldn't have been.
Will steps even closer, making Mike's breath catch. It's unspeakably unfair for him to look this good in baggy, donated clothes, with sweat dampening his hair and gunpowder residue all over his face, but he does.
He can almost hear Hopper grumbling Get a move on, Wheeler and Mike wants to groan because the timing is all wrong and he's sweaty and gross and Will is looking at him with increasing confusion as Mike stands there in silence like an idiot.
But. If he doesn't do it now...Mike's not sure he ever will. He vaguely recalls a quote from Silent Spring, something he scrawled in a journal for safekeeping, now lost to time. Something about Robert Frost and diverging paths - how easy it would be to stay on the road long travelled and how disastrous it would be to continue. Because it would be so easy to just take what he can get, but Mike knows he would always be desperately wishing for more.
Mike swallows down his nerves. "Can- can I ask you something?"
"Anything," Will smiles easily and suddenly Mike sees it.
The thing everyone apparently knows about that he was too scared to acknowledge, too scared to name - terrified it would ruin the comfortable domesticity they’ve been enjoying for the last few weeks. Sharing a room, sharing clothes, sharing thoughts, fears, reassurances - it’s like they’re twelve again, before the Upside Down, before the world tried to poison the best thing that ever happened to him.
Mike was so scared of losing that, of making it awkward and unbearable like he always does, that he never allowed himself to think about what he could gain. Because he was never the heart, not really. It’s always been Will.
Will who is looking back at him with something that can only be described as love.
Mike breathes in. And out. He’s finally ready to take his shot.
And this time, he won’t miss.
Bonus:
What Hopper wouldn’t give for a cold beer and a lawn chair to enjoy the show. But he’ll settle for a lukewarm water and the honor of wearing a smug I-told-you-so expression for the rest of the week (never mind the fact that Joyce was the one who pointed it out first).
Wheeler’s face is like a damn tomato as Will goes for a particularly hands on approach to teaching, practically draping himself over the boy. Hopper snorts at Wheeler’s dumbstruck expression - these crazy kids and their bizarre flirting rituals.
When he was younger things seemed far simpler - you like someone, you ask them out, they say yes or no. Then again, it’ll always be more complicated for people like Mike and Will…in a backwards town like Hawkins, plenty of people would rather see them dead than hold hands in public. Even now, he regrets not punching the fuckers that suggested they stop looking for Will because he might be gay and these things just happen.
Yeah, well not on his watch. Especially not to his kids.
He’s distracted by a bang! followed by cheers across the field.
Huh. Would you look at that.
Wheeler actually hit the target. (Only the edge, but hey, progress).
His very dedicated teacher is shaking him with excitement while his protege covers his face in pleased embarrassment. This seems to give Mike the push he needs as he steels himself with a deep breath, eyes full of determination.
Go get ‘em tiger, Hop thinks fondly.
Wheeler takes Will's hands in his. Hopper’s too far away to hear what they’re saying, which is just fine by him - he doesn't need to be scarred by any more sappy teenage confessions. But he still can make out the words I love you on Mike’s lips, looking so smitten it could give him a goddamn cavity. After a few exchanged words, it seems Will is just as bad as he throws his arms around the stringbean in obvious joy.
Hopper bites down a proud smile. He’s reminded of him and Diane, when they first started dating, and the thought doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Maybe these kids will be alright after all.
The others had stopped to watch the free show, same as him, and as soon as the boys noticed their audience they broke apart with matching looks of fear. Hopper tenses, ready to jump in, but just as he told the little brat, he had nothing to worry about. They might have to deal with a lifetime of teasing, but hey, they had it coming.
Breaking away from their friends, the boys run off into the woods to…talk (Hopper knows what happens when two lovestruck teens are alone but for the love of God do not make him say it).
He sighs, lazy and self-satisfied - another case closed. Guess he hasn’t lost his touch. He wonders what Callahan would think if he saw him playing therapist to a bunch of snot-nosed teens that are also trying to save the world. Probably ask what he’d been drinking last night.
Oh well. Joyce owes him $15.