Chapter Text
Dust motes spiral throughout the room, drifting through the air to land quietly on the desk before a stray gust of wind from the stuttering ceiling fan blows them afloat again. The room is suffocated in silence. The sun is strong where it peeks through the blinds; it’s a beautiful day. But the room’s only inhabitant is sitting at the desk, eyes resolutely fixed on a blank sheet of paper.
He scribbles down a word, then groans, crossing it out and scowling at the paper as if it offended him.
Love
“Stupid,” he mutters, crumpling the paper up into a ball, “No one starts a story with the word love.”
Truth is, he already knew he wasn’t going to write a story. He’d be lucky if he wrote anything at all. Instead, he tossed the crumpled mess over his shoulder to join the others on the floor. The next sheet stared up at him menacingly. White and expressionless. He stared back, narrowing his eyes. On this one, he wrote his name.
Mike
“Too egotistical,” he mutters, sentencing that sheet to the same fate as the others, “No one names the protagonist of their book after themself. Even if it is technically about them.”
On the next sheet, he doesn’t hesitate before writing.
Fuck you
“I think I’m losing my mind,” he mutters, crossing that one out too. He stares at it for a second longer, before it too is swept off the table.
That morning, he had brought thirty sheets of paper over to his desk, determined.
“In a few hours, these will be the first thirty pages of my book,” he had announced to the empty room. He had developed a habit of talking to himself over the last few years. It was unsurprising, considering that he had always talked a lot; and now, there weren’t exactly many other people to talk to.
Now, seven hours later, floor littered with his failures, he spins himself around in his chair, exhaling despairingly.
When he comes to face the desk again, the last sheet of paper is staring at him. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he just lets it sit there, mocking him.
Eventually he leans in, sighing, and writes on it.
Blank page
“Really helpful,” he mutters to himself under his breath, “At least you labeled it, otherwise nobody could’ve understood what it was.”
If you weren’t such a failure the page wouldn’t be blank, the voice in his head says, but he doesn’t speak that part out loud. Even though there’s no one around, he’s gotten too used to keeping that part silent.
He is good at labeling things, though; that’s what his therapist had told him.
“You’re very good at labeling your emotions, Michael. You know when you’re happy, sad, angry. But I don’t think you quite understand why.”
The first few weeks after they won the war, Karen, Joyce and Hopper had booked two therapy sessions for each of the kids. Mike had forced himself to sit through those two painful meetings for their sake, but when his mother tried to book another one for him, he told her he was fine.
Of course he wasn’t, but there was no point in trying to fix it. Nothing could.
Nothing could fix the guilt of knowing you failed her, lied to her, just like you do to everyone, and now you never get the chance to fix it.
He keeps writing.
Blank page shows its face to me
Expressionless and empty
Unthinking, his gaze wanders upwards to the painting hanging above his desk. It was supposed to be motivation to write his book, seeing the Party in battle. On an adventure. Instead, it just reminded him of that day in the van. As if he could ever forget.
There’s a stab of pain in his chest, and he pretends he doesn’t know why.
If you were here, you’d fill it with something beautiful
Will used to draw on every piece of paper he got his hands on. Every test, assignment, spare corner of Mike’s notebook. Sometimes they’d just sit together on Mike’s bed, each holding one half of the book. Mike would be furiously scribbling notes, or stories, or half-baked song lyrics, as Will would lightly sketch on the other page. Sometimes he would draw objects in the room, or just doodle nonsensical shapes, but most of the time he drew them. Will the Wise and Mike the Brave, in battle together or travelling together or just smiling at each other. After Will went home, Mike would cut all of those pages out of his notebook and transfer them to the binder he kept under his bed. The binder that’s still under his bed, even after all these years.
But everything I make is broken and ugly
Mike doesn’t bother to re-read what he wrote before he stands with a shuddering sigh, kicking aside the crumpled mess of papers on the floor as he makes his way to his bedroom.
The clock on his bedside table reads 3 p.m. He collapses into bed, not bothering to turn off the lights. It’s not like he can sleep much these days anyway, but it’s nice to pretend, at least.
—
“Wheeler!”
Mike awakens with a start to see Max standing over his bed, arms crossed over her chest with an exasperated look on her face.
“I’ve been calling your name for like five minutes,” she huffs, “Come on, time to go.”
“Go?” Mike asks groggily, squinting at the harsh light of the room. “Go where?”
“Out,” she sighs, “I’m not letting you mope around in your bed all evening. Time to have some fun for once.”
Mike groans, burying his face in his hands.
“Hurry up, we don’t have all night. Lucas is waiting in the car.”
“How did you even get in?” Mike asks, voice muffled by his hands.
“After you went no-contact for a month last year, Lucas was worried about you. When you finally let him into your apartment, he stole your spare key so you couldn’t disappear on us again.”
Mike finally peels his hands off his face, his expression equal parts confused, disturbed, and slightly touched.
“Isn’t that illegal?”
Despite himself, he smiles a little.
“Come on, Wheeler, the night is young. Let’s go get shitfaced.”
When Max grabs his wrist to pull him out of bed, he doesn’t protest. He just rises to his feet and follows her out into his living room. As they pass the office door, he can see that someone picked up all the crumpled papers off the floor and shoved them down into the already overflowing garbage can at the foot of his desk.
He doesn’t notice that he’s come to a stop, staring into his empty office, until Max tugs impatiently on his wrist again.
“Let’s go,” she says, but her voice is slightly less irritated, almost understanding.
The two exit the apartment, and the door to Mike Wheeler’s pathetic life slams behind them.
—
After the Party graduated Hawkins High, they’d all moved to the city together. They hadn’t planned it or anything; it was just how things happened to work out. Mike had hoped that meant that nothing would have to change; that they’d still meet up every weekend together and all play D&D together just like they always had. For the first month, they’d all made efforts to see each other, but then the excuses had started. Will was the first to go; of course he was. Mike was the one who had told him they couldn’t spend their whole lives playing games together, so he hardly had the right to be upset. He was, though. Of course he was. Those next few months, Mike had learned that it wasn’t just Hawkins that wasn’t the same without Will; nowhere was. The city isn’t the same without him either. The Party isn’t the same without him. Mike isn’t the same without him.
Dustin was next to go; but he at least seemed genuinely apologetic. He was genuinely swamped in coursework, and always had some kind of major test or assignment to prepare for. They still saw him sometimes, though. Will was just always busy. With what, Mike had no idea. What art major is so swamped in work that he doesn’t have time for his lifelong best friends?
Maybe it wasn’t work, then. Maybe he was just so busy with his new friends, his new boyfriend, that he didn’t have time for them anymore.
The last time that Mike had seen Will (218 days ago, but who’s counting), the Party had gone out for lunch together. Lucas and Max were sitting together, sharing a milkshake with two straws, Dustin was laughing just a little too loudly at a joke that someone had made, and for a moment, Mike could almost pretend that he was still in Hawkins. That he was home.
Will was quiet, but he had always been quiet. Mike could tell that something was different, though. He always knew when something was up with Will, even when the world wasn’t ending and he wasn’t rubbing the back of his neck with fear-filled eyes.
Fifteen minutes into lunch, Will slid his plate away from him and stood up, smiling apologetically.
“I should go.”
He’d almost whispered it, but all four of them still turned to face him, concerned expressions on their faces.
“My boyfriend’s here to pick me up,” he explained, “He wanted to go see a movie that starts in a few minutes. We should do this again sometime, though.”
Everyone else nodded and waved goodbye, but Mike was still, the black hole that constantly lived in his stomach nowadays expanding at an alarming rate. My boyfriend. Mike thought he was going to be sick, and pretended he didn’t know why.
When he didn’t see Will for the next few weeks, he clung to that one piece of hope, that single peace offering.
We should do this again sometime.
They never did.
—
218 days later, Mike is sitting at a bar with Lucas and Max, the remainder of the party, downing an unhealthy amount of shots. They burn like fire going down, but for once, Mike is calm. Not happy; he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be happy again. But at least he isn’t miserable.
“Have you started your book yet, Mike?” Lucas asks as his girlfriend erupts into spontaneous giggles beside him. Mike figures it can’t be very fun being the only sober one out of the three of them, but someone had to be the designated driver. Besides, it’s nice not being the most miserable one in the group for once.
“Nooooope,” Mike drags out the word before taking another shot, “Dunno if I ever will. It was a nice dream when I was a kid, but I’m never gonna amount to anything. I mean like, Dustin’s gonna be some famous scientist, and Will’s gonna be some famous artist, and I’m gonna be like, homeless. Or dead in a ditch.”
“It’s not all about being famous,” Lucas points out, “It’s not like either of us is gonna be famous for anything. I think it’s just about being happy. As happy as we can be, after everything we’ve been through.”
Mike breaks out into laughter.
“Well, I’m more likely to be famous than happy, so,” he raises his glass, not realizing that it’s empty, “Cheers to that.”
Max bursts into laughter again, before noticing the other two looking at her with perplexed expressions.
“Sorry,” she giggles, “I was just thinking about, Lucas, y’know that time last year, when you were working on your campaign, and we went to that nerd store, with all the figurines? And I was looking at that one, and it looked so badass, so I turned it around, only to see that it had the weirdest, ugly little fucking face, and like, it kinda looks like Mike. When he’s all pouty.”
Despite himself, Lucas chuckles.
“You’re not wrong,” he fake whispers to Max, who throws her head back and laughs.
“Hey,” Mike protests drunkenly, “That’s mean.”
“Sorryyyy,” Max giggles in the way that means that she absolutely isn’t sorry, “We should’ve bought that figurine. Then I could’ve shown you how right I am.”
“Wait,” Mike says, eyebrows furrowed as if he’s using all his concentration to follow the conversation, “Lucas, you were writing a campaign?”
Lucas shrugged, eyes trained downward, as if embarrassed.
“I mean, I figured we could’ve used it. We were all drifting apart, and I wanted something that could bring us back together again. Plus, you were busy enough with school and everything that I figured you weren’t writing one, and I knew mine wouldn’t be as good as yours, but I wanted to try.”
“‘M not busy with school anymore,” Mike slurs, “I dropped out.”
Neither of them even seem surprised, they just nod sympathetically.
Suddenly, Mike’s eyes light up, and he slams down the empty glass that he’s been passing between his hands idly for several minutes.
“Lucas, could your campaign be run with two players?”
—
At 2 a.m., Mike stumbles out of Lucas and Max’s apartment, clutching a completed character sheet in his hand. It isn’t nearly as in-depth as the lore he used to spend hours on, but it’s something. And after almost a year of nothing, it feels like he can finally breathe again. Lucas offers to drive him home, and he would usually protest, but he’s too tired, so he just collapses into the passenger seat, smiling slightly.
The drive back to his place doesn’t take too long; when they’d realized that they were all moving to the same city, they’d all tried to live as close together as possible. That plan had inevitably failed when Dustin and Will chose to live in residence on their respective campuses, but at least Mike’s apartment ended up being close to Lucas and Max’s.
The majority of the drive passes in silence, just listening to the radio and watching the lights of the city blur through the window, but when Lucas pulls up outside Mike’s building, Mike speaks.
“Thanks, Lucas.”
“No problem,” Lucas smiles at him, “Wanted to make sure you got home safe.”
“Not just for that,” Mike grins back at him, “Thanks for staying around. For being here for me. For not leaving.”
“Of course, dude,” Lucas says as Mike clumsily unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the car, “The others would, too, if they could.”
“Not all of them,” Mike shakes his head before closing the car door. He waves a half-hearted goodbye, before turning around and walking into the building. The stumble back to his apartment blurs, and before he knows it, he’s pushing open the door, preparing to collapse into his bed and sleep for fourteen hours. Instead, his eyes catch on a piece of paper at his feet as he swings the door shut behind him. A letter.
He bends over to pick it up, turning it in his hands, and then freezes.
Printed in the top left corner, unmistakable, is a name he never thought he’d hear again.
Jane H.
Well, shit.