Chapter Text
The albatross is a literary metaphor used to represent a psychological burden, often associated with a sense of guilt or shame. In “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” a dead albatross is tied around a man's neck as a physical representation of a heavy burden or curse that is difficult to escape.
Mike had a secret. He had a huge secret. It was the kind of secret that he couldn’t share with his family. He couldn’t share it with his friends. He couldn’t possibly share it with his best friend. He wouldn’t even admit it to Russians if they were waterboarding him for information. It was the kind of secret that he wouldn’t even admit out loud to himself as he stared in the mirror in the comfort of his room.
His secret was comparable to a snowball rolling down the hill. It used to be quiet, insignificant, not nearly large enough to cause damage. It manifested in the way that Mike used to be physically affectionate with his friends. It was the way that Mike threw a tantrum at the dinner table when nobody else seemed to care about his best friend in the way he did. It was the way he used to express his emotions so loudly and freely.
The snowball eventually got larger, and it started to take down the trees and shrubs in its path. People started to notice. His father would make the occasional comment about his relationship with Will, looking for some kind of reassurance that it was nothing more than friendship. The bullies at school resorted to harder-hitting insults that got under Mike’s skin and pushed his buttons. Dustin and Lucas would tell him to ignore it, but it cut deeper than he’d like to admit.
This small snowball turned into a goddamn avalanche, as Mike could feel his perfectly built house on the hill shake under the pressure and threaten to give out. The snowball was suddenly there for all to see, threatening to take out all of the stability in Mike’s life. He couldn’t just ignore it anymore. He couldn’t keep suppressing it and shoving it back down his throat, as if everything were okay. He had to do everything in his power to stop it from ruining his life.
Mike’s father was relatively unassuming most of the time. He kept to himself, often lounging around on the couch and interacting very little with his family. It was moments like these that made Mike wonder if his parents ever liked each other in the first place.
But his father was sharp, often muttering some sort of unexpected one-liner that would leave Mike nervous. Undoubtedly, his father was onto him. He always let his knowledge be revealed in subtle ways. Today, however, it was loud and clear.
The radio quietly murmured in the background, tuned into some news channel that filled the silence between the clanking of silverware. Mike briefly wondered if all families had awkward meal times together or if his family just hated each other. Bored, he directed his attention towards the radio, where news reporter Phil had more energy than the whole Wheeler family combined.
“…now onto our top story today: the AIDS epidemic in San Francisco worsens as the numbers grow day by day. We have Dan in front of the hospital most affected by the epidemic. Dan, what is it like over there?”
“You know, Phil—“
“That’s what happens,” a gruff voice interrupted the reporter, followed by the sound of a coffee mug being lifted off a ceramic coaster. Mike was an expert in navigating breakfast time, as his eyes stayed laser-focused on the plate in front of him. All he had to do was ignore his father, and peace would be maintained. The subject would be dropped, and he would be let off the hook. He absolutely, under no circumstances, should take the bait.
“When what happens?” This calculated approach was interrupted by an innocently curious voice. Hook, line, and sinker. Mike moved his head almost robotically in sync with Nancy’s as they both stared at Holly wide-eyed, incredulous at her bravery, fueled by a childish ignorance. Her older siblings have been down this route many times before and knew that any politically-charged conversation with their father was no good, especially if it were 7:14 am. Her eyes were big and full of naivety as she looked towards her father, as if he had all the answers in the world. As if he could say or do no wrong. Because that’s what parents are for, after all. To teach you right from wrong. To correct your ways when you stray.
“When these fags—“
“Ted!” His mother cut him off hastily, running on pure maternal instinct as she leaned across the table to cover Holly’s ears with her hands. The gesture amused Mike slightly, as he found a bit of hilarity in the idea that his mother was trying to protect Holly from something she’s already heard, from an idea she’s already been exposed to. In the same breath, however, Mike felt a sense of dread form in his stomach when he observed the way the topic was treated in the Wheeler household. It was taboo. It was a topic that was never to be brought up. It was an idea that would never be acceptable under this roof. The subject was so inconceivable that his little sister should never be exposed to it. His chest hurt shamefully.
“What?” His father asked crudely with food still in his mouth. He redirected his attention towards his son, pointing a fork in his direction in an accusatory manner. Mike was ballsy enough to make eye contact with his father for a split second, watching the contempt and disgust in his gaze. He felt like he was in an X-ray machine, as if his father could see right through him. As if his father could see all the disgusting things he thought and fantasized about deep down. Mike’s face went red with humiliation as he ripped his eyes away from his father’s, averting his attention to a stain in the tablecloth as the conversation continued, “This is important for your son. You hear me, Michael?”
He hated being called Michael. Every time his full name was called, it was said with such contempt and disdain. Michael was like acid on his father’s tongue, who always spat it out so scornfully. He tried to reinvent himself as Mike to his friends. He tried to hide all the things that made Michael so awful and shameful. But every time he came home, he would be reminded of who he really was.
Desperately, he glanced at his older sister, whose lips were pursed as she awkwardly picked at her food. He bit the inside of his cheek as reality set in. This was an absolutely isolating experience, as he felt all alone in a house occupied by people with the same last name. Every day felt like the world was against Mike, and every one-sided argument he had with his father was a reminder of this struggle, as he always left the conversation broken down, beaten, and, most importantly, incorrect. It was a brutal reminder of how wrong he was and how right everybody else is.
Mike found himself lost, unable to respond to his father, whose eyes burned into the side of his son’s head expectantly. His father sought out a defense—a rebuttal to his accusations. But the lies Mike was expected to regurgitate tasted too foul on his tongue. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap obediently, closing his eyes as if he were in prayer. In his mind, he prayed for a miracle. He prayed that he would be changed. He prayed for forgiveness for the things he thought. His father opened his mouth once more, “That’s wha—”
“Actually—” Mike forced the word out of his scratchy throat, cutting off his father and sparing himself from the rhetoric he already repeated to himself in the mirror every morning. The teenager abruptly stood up from his seat, causing the wooden legs of his chair to scrape against the laminate flooring and evoke an awful sound, startling his family. Four pairs of suddenly attentive eyes locked onto him as he pushed against the resistance of his throat once more, “I just remembered that I—uh—have to go to school early today. You know—project.”
Mike turned on his heel and started marching for the back door, not even bothering to push in his seat. He couldn’t possibly stand to be in that room any longer than necessary, as he felt himself about to explode from the pressure. As he slipped his right shoe on his foot, he heard his mother call after him, “Honey, aren’t you hungry?” She gestured at his untouched plate, her facial expression pinched as she slowly started to lose control of the situation.
“Nope, not hungry! Bye!” Mike was quick to respond superficially, his shoes untied and his backpack half open as he opened the door. He heard a desperate “Michael!” slip through the crack before he slammed it shut.
Parents know best. That’s why they’re your parents, after all.
But… why couldn’t Michael Wheeler behave?
The bad thing about an avalanche is the fact that everyone knew about it. It was no longer something only his father questioned. It was no longer a harmless snowball that only haunted him at home. The avalanche was coming, the mountain was shaking, and it was going to take the things that Mike carefully built down with it. Though he never explicitly informed anybody of his secret, it felt like everyone could tell. All these years, he tried to be as normal as possible, but it was like the people around him could see right through his carefully crafted facade. It was like it was written in big, bold, black ink on his forehead. It was like he was wearing a sticker that read ‘Hello! My name is’ with a derogatory word in the place of Mike.
Troy appeared to be as dimwitted as a stick. Mike knew this better than anyone. However, he was becoming scarily accurate with the insults that he would throw. The things he said hit closer and closer to home. Though Mike was usually quick to encourage his friends to ignore the words of ‘mouth breathers’ like him, he was unable to pursue the same route of indifference when it came to his own personal insecurities.
“What do you want to do tonight?” Mike tilted his head as he coolly leaned against a locker next to Will’s, his arms crossed and his bag hanging lazily from his right arm.
“Oh, about that,” Will began, his tone uncertain as he looked down at his shoes. Anxiously, he began to shove the toe of his sneakers into a dent in the laminate flooring underneath, “It doesn’t have to be just us, you know. It can be the whole party. I know you want to finish the Starsky and Hutch marathon and—”
“Hey. I wanna hang out with you,” Mike interrupted before Will kept rambling in that self-deprecating way he always did. His tone was soft and certain, as his gaze was filled with reassurance. As the party leader, he always tried to find ways to adapt to his friends’ individual personalities and insecurities. This much was true; however, he always felt like he knew exactly what to say in order to appease Will. Mike knew him inside and out, like he had some weird instruction manual about his best friend embedded in his brain.
On the other hand, Mike tried to hold Will at as much emotional distance as possible. He was never really outward with his feelings, preferring to keep them locked up for nobody to see. Their heart-to-hearts were becoming infrequent, as Mike avoided talking about himself like the plague. There was one thing Michael Wheeler feared more than his father. He was so scared of Will, the boy he cherished the most, looking him in the eyes too long and being disgusted with what he saw. The hypothetical scenario in which Will found out about Mike was a recurring nightmare for the latter. So, he locked that part of himself away when puberty began, keeping conversations about himself surface-level. He’d be lying, however, if he denied having wished that somebody understood him in the way he understood Will. If to be loved is to be known, Mike feared he would never be loved.
Today, however, Mike felt impossibly light on his feet and impossibly sure of himself. When Will looked at him so kindly and so sweetly, it pushed him to say the words lingering on his tongue—the words that were constantly stuck in his throat. So, for once, he spoke the truth without overthinking the deeper connotation of his words, looking away shyly, “I’ve been missing you. I feel like we haven’t talked as much recently.”
“We always hang out?” Will’s expression was stuck in that confused half-smirk he always did, though it wasn’t patronizing in any sense of the word, rather a representation of a genuine attempt to understand. There was never anything malicious about the way he looked at Mike, and that made his heart ache. Byers was so gentle and empathetic. That’s what Wheeler adored about him, after all.
“Well, yeah, with the whole party,” Mike explained, playfully annoyed as he rolled his eyes dramatically, “but it hasn’t been just us in a while.”
Mike’s words were bold and as plain as the nose on his face. This time, he didn’t dance around his words. He wasn’t painfully vague about the things he truly wanted to tell Will. In response, his best friend’s expression lit up, a small smile escaping his lips. Will playfully poked Mike’s shoulder with his pointer finger, “Sap.”
This is where he wanted to keep Will. They were close, yet not too close. Will talked to Mike gently and touched him casually. Will was blissfully unaware of who Mike was. As long as his best friend could keep looking at him sincerely, he could learn to swallow his feelings and suppress them until the end of time. Mike doubted he could ever truly get rid of his feelings for Will, but it was slightly easier to deal with the grief of never as long as he was around forever.
Breaking him out of his thoughts, Mike was harshly pushed in the shoulder once more, causing him to lose his footing and stumble into the lockers loudly. The phantom of Will’s soft touch and sweet gesture was replaced by a burning sense of malice, causing Mike’s chest to swell up with an all-too-familiar sense of yearning.
“Aw, it’s not so cute when I do it, is it, Michael Queerler?”
Mike looked up at Troy, dread forming as a pit in his stomach. As the food web goes, Troy was the predator, and Mike was the prey. This dynamic was undeniable. But when he saw Will in his peripheral vision, he felt the need to fight back, to prove that he was something bigger than himself. Like a bird fluffing out its feathers to make itself look formidable to the snake, Mike bit back, “What the hell do you want?”
“Wanted to see what you were up to, Faggot One and Faggot Two,” Troy smirked, his eyes burning daggers into Mike as if he knew. The black-haired boy felt his breath hitch when the word left the other’s mouth. He felt paralyzed and exposed as his previously elated mood was squashed with a cruel reminder of why he was supposed to keep Will at arm's length, a reminder of why he wasn’t supposed to be sincere, and a reminder of what this honesty looked like to everyone else. Because his true self was disgusting.
“Oh, yeah, real fucking original, Dr. Seuss. I’m surprised you can even read his books, you illiterate prick,” Mike spat back, faking feelings of courage, even though his lip quivered. He glanced over at his friend, sending him the strongest smile he could muster, despite the way he shook nervously, “Let’s go, Will.”
The world always had cruel ways to show him why he was wrong and to break his spirit, as he felt a sharp shove in his back, sending him to the ground. Despite the way his body ached, his heart hurt more than anything else, as the condescending symphony of laughter bounced around in the hallway. In his mind, he imagined everyone standing around him and making fun of him—making fun of his secret. His deepest, darkest secret was slowly spilling out of the cracks of this fragile porcelain doll. Derogatory terms echoed in the depths of his brain as he slowly pushed himself up. It was like his identity was leaking all over the floor for everyone to see—for everyone to gawk at—for everyone to mock. It was becoming difficult for Mike to differentiate the real from the fake, as the vivid imagery from his worst nightmare bled into the haunting looks he got from his classmates, their eyes judgmental and their gazes knowing. Was he imagining it all, or did they really know? It was hard to rationalize as his vision became blurry due to his bleary eyes. His lungs felt simultaneously too full and too empty.
“Mike—”
A soft and familiar voice pierced through the cacophony in his brain. Mike’s heart yearned for the comfort of it all, for his struggles to be known and to be shared. But, he couldn’t have it. It could never be his as long as he was alive. He was stuck in a perpetual state of longing and loneliness, a cruel punishment for his sins. Shakily, he got to his feet as the ambient noise from the hallway was drowned out by the thumping in his ears. His breathing was labored as he glanced towards Will one last time, wishing to fall into his arms and hug him tightly like he used to be able to do. But, he knew better as he hiked towards the nearest bathroom, his shoes feeling like cinder blocks.
It took all the strength in Mike’s body to push through the stall door, his fingers shaky as he fumbled around the lock. His backpack dropped with a muted thud as he sank to his knees. He brushed his curls out of his face before sticking his head into the toilet bowl. The obnoxious smell of cleaning supplies assaulted his senses as he threw up, the remains of last night’s dinner floating around in the water. He dry heaved a few more times, tears spilling down his cheeks. His hands desperately clung to the cold toilet seat, hugging it tighter than he could hug any other person. A human wouldn’t accept who he was, but the toilet didn’t know any better.
In the quiet of the Wheeler basement, Will sat complacently on the rug while Mike made a ruckus, digging through the VHS collection he kept in a cardboard box in the corner. The distant conversation of Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler flowed through the small opening under the door, acting as ambient noise for an otherwise awkward environment. Something lingered in the air heavily, a topic waiting to be properly addressed.
“Alright, so, we have—” Mike stuck out his tongue, his eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. The question on the table was what they were going to watch tonight, as he started reading the titles on each box, “Star Trek, Halloween, A Star is—ugh, who put this down here?”
Mike threw the unwanted VHS to the side, as it landed on the floor with a thud. He kept calling out movie names until something caught Will’s attention. However, his friend still hasn’t made a choice, and he was getting increasingly close to the bottom of the cardboard box.
“Hey,” Will began as he always did, weirdly vague about the true topic of conversation. Mike stopped what he was doing to look over his shoulder, catching his best friend’s gaze. The brown-haired boy looked sheepish as he fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve. Though he didn’t explicitly say it, Mike could tell that something serious was on his mind, as he always got a bit antsy. There was just a certain look in his eye that gave it away. Will’s eyes spoke a thousand words, and Mike knew how to translate each and every one.
“I don’t think we have that one,” Mike was quick to joke, pretending to look through the pile for it in an effort to shift the weight of the conversation.
“I… don’t really want to watch a movie,” Byers admitted, his voice quiet. Wheeler felt his shoulders fall a bit as he abandoned the VHS pile. He pushed himself off his knees, his stiff bones cracking a bit as he stood.
“Well—what should we do?” Mike’s voice cracked a bit as he awkwardly scratched his arm, a strange distance away from his friend.
“We could just talk,” Will suggested with a small shrug, scooting across the floor to close the physical gap between them. After getting a better look, Mike could see that Will looked worried.
“Okay…” Wheeler trailed off, uneasy as he broke their prolonged eye contact. He focused on his socks, suddenly realizing that they were from two different pairs.
“Are you okay?” Will asked softly, tugging on the cuff of Mike’s sweatpants as if to demand his attention.
“Yeah…? Why wouldn’t I be?” Mike laughed awkwardly.
“You know—this morning.” Will gestured with his hands, a conversation habit he picked up from his mother.
“What about it?” He feigned ignorance.
“Troy,” Will’s expression grew serious, not buying Mike’s unbothered facade, “you kind of just—left. Ignored me calling after you.”
“I had to use the bathroom before class.”
“I don’t know, Mike. You seemed kind of upse—”
“Can’t be offended by something that isn’t true,” his response was fast, cutthroat, and even a bit defensive.
Will looked taken aback by this reply, surprised by the shift in Mike’s tone. Mike felt a pang of guilt, as he always hated snapping at his friend. He was usually relatively quick to bend over backwards to apologize, but he didn’t this time, as he felt uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. Will, however, didn’t catch the hint as he furrowed his eyebrows and pressed further, “Uh—okay—but, the words are still offensive, even if false.”
“Not if—it is!” Mike shouted unexpectedly, causing his best friend to flinch. His eyes lingered long enough to see Will’s expression become dejected before he averted them to pick at his cuticles. Seeing the look on his best friend’s face made Mike’s stomach churn, as if pushing him away was hurting him in the worst way possible. In the heavy silence, he realized that Will only wanted to help—to shoulder his burden. It wasn’t a curiosity fueled by a hurtful bigotry like his father’s. It was innocent—it was sweet. He hadn’t realized that Will wanted to be let in so badly. Mike kept the other at arm's length to protect himself without considering the fact that it was unfair.
“Will,” he spoke up after a few seconds, not making eye contact, “do you ever wish you weren’t yourself?”
“Huh? I—uh—don’t really think I know what you mean by that?” Byers suddenly sat up, eager to be let back into the conversation.
“I—ughh,” Wheeler let out a frustrated sigh as he threw his body backwards into his bean bag, letting his hesitation dissipate into the air. He stared at the unfinished basement ceiling, his voice low as he murmured, “sometimes… I hate myself.”
“I think everyone—you know—doesn’t like certain parts of themselves,” Will replied, lying down next to his friend, albeit a bit awkwardly given the limited size of the bag, “that’s why stuff like plastic surgery exists.”
“No, but that’s normal. I’m not normal. My insecurities aren’t normal. It’s not natural,” Mike exhaled shakily, choosing his words carefully in an effort not to give too much info, “the only thing I want is to… to be normal. To feel like I can look in the mirror and not cry about myself. I hate myself, Will.”
“But… I like you, Mike,” Will said simply, his voice sweet as their elbows brushed slightly. Mike’s heart swelled at the response, even though he knew the other hardly meant it in the way he hoped.
“You must have poor taste,” Wheeler laughed sourly, hugging himself in an attempt at comfort. He briefly wondered if the other would still be his friend if he knew what he was truly talking about behind these vague words and descriptors.
“Hey, don’t talk about my best friend like that,” Byers joked, turning his body towards the other.
Mike also turned towards his friend, his eyes glossy. He hadn’t even realized he was so close to crying until Will’s image appeared a bit blurry. He blinked away his tears, sighing deeply at the serenity of it all. It’s been a very long time since he opened up like this, even though this was barely the surface of what was truly bothering him deep down. But this is exactly where Will belonged. Close, but not too close. Aware, but not too aware. Because if Mike spilled any more details, he would chase his best friend away.
“Your hands are shaking,” Will noted, his eyes wide as he looked down. Mike’s eyes followed, watching himself tremble. He was scared—goddamn terrified of who he was and what the world thought of him. In the back of his mind, he thought about his first day of kindergarten. He stood with his mother outside the classroom, his body shaking with fright. She pulled him into a tight hug and held him close, comforting him in a way that words never could. An unexpected urge came over Mike as he slowly inched closer to his friend, yearning for physical touch—longing for the same sense of comfort his mother gave him all those years ago.
“Mike, I-” Will swallowed, his expression unusually nervous as he closed his eyes, “I-”
“Will! Your mother is on the phone!” Karen’s voice bellowed from the top of the basement stairs, causing the boys to hastily scramble to their feet. They exchanged a glance, unsure of themselves.
“I should-” Byers motioned to the stairs, causing Wheeler to nod.
“Yeah-” Mike felt himself fall apart as he watched his friend run up the stairs. When the door slammed shut, he fell to his knees, holding his hands to his ears to block out the sound of his sobbing. He shuddered as he tried to catch his elusive breath, panic running through his veins. How could he be so foolish? How could he be so goddamn desperate? He imagined the look in Will’s eyes moments before—how they looked uncomfortable and pained. In every way but words, he practically told his best friend his secret—told him that he was hopelessly and gravely in love with him—and that’s what Will thought. It was gross—disgusting the way Mike tried to touch him. It was all the things that his father warned him about, as his voice echoed in his brain.
That’s what happens to fags, Michael! Do you understand!?
They will never have a place in society.
If I ever find you doing stuff like that, you will no longer have a place in this house.
You and Will are just friends, right? You know you’re not allowed to be anything more.
His father was right. The things he thought—the things he attempted—these things were awful. It was shameful. It was what made him cry every single night. It was what he tried to suppress. It haunted him. It ate at him. It was ruining his life. Why wasn’t he normal? Why couldn’t he behave as he should? What was wrong with him?
Michael Wheeler was a homosexual.
Michael Wheeler was a sinner.
Michael Wheeler was going to burn in hell.
Michael Wheeler was a faggot.
Michael Wheeler was—
“Mike!”
An all-too-familiar voice interrupted his thoughts; it was a voice he couldn’t forget even if he tried. As his senses came back, his body felt shaky, his cheeks wet, his armpits sweaty, and his lungs small. Everything ached.
“Mike! Are you okay!?” Will hurried down the stairs before a comforting hand was placed on Mike’s back, making slow and deliberate circles.
“Will-” Wheeler choked out, looking into the other’s eyes. He still looked so kind—so sincere. Yet, Mike couldn’t get that image out of his head—the image of his friend’s discomfort and distaste moments before. He frequently had nightmares about Will finding out, who would spit slurs at him and call him disgusting. Yet, somehow, when it actually happened, it seemed worse than anything imaginable. It was subtle, not dramatic. It kept Mike guessing—on his toes as he tried to figure out if Will truly knew.
What if I told you the things they say about me are true? What if I told you I was queer? Would you still look at me so kindly? Would you toss me aside like my family? How can I get rid of this?
Those words never left his mouth, however. The only thing that Mike could manage to say was: “M-Maybe you should go home.”