Work Text:
Mike Wheeler clacking on his typewriter. Center-frame, morbidly symmetrical. The sound of the keys: cannot see his hands, except his knuckles popping into frame, high and frivolous. Gives the impression of a dubbed actor playing the piano.
Rips the paper with a ding. Crumples and throws it without comment or change in body language, wrist flicks.
His room, wide. Crumpled paper fills it nearly to the ceiling. A long pause, before crinkly movement from his roommate’s bed. Argyle sits up; long silky hair, pastel shirt buttoned to the collar. Paper sloughs off. He doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s wearing identical Ted-Wheeler glasses. “How’s your book coming?” he asks.
Mike turns in his chair. He stares at Argyle. The shot is held in silence. Then, Wheeler’s eyes flit to the camera. His head dips, and we zoom. He says, “Bad.”
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Mountains. A singular figure in a long wool coat, hair and scarf delirious from the wind. We only see his back. Yellow text above his thick brown hair.
#conformitygate
It holds until you sweat. You think he might have an earring. The text blinks out. We are framed again, closer. A second man walking up the mountain. There is a switchback path, we watch him in real time. He is easily winded. It takes four minutes.
Will Byers staring over the hilltops, a Byronic hero. Mike in the background, out of focus, panting as he crests the hill. Holding his side, limping until he’s beside Will.
Yellow cursive: DIRECTED BY WES ANDERSON
Facing forward, the two men stare slightly off-center. Their expressions shift from peaceful, to curious, to confused. No eye contact, but responses in perfect synchronicity.
A paper airplane: from the paper’s point of view, as if the camera’s on its back. The airplane flies over Hawkins (everyone we pass in town is fluffy stop-motion), then the mountains, and lands in Will’s outstretched hand. “A message.”
Will and Mike look at each for the first time, and nod together. Byers unfolds the paper airplane. “Eleven has graduated college; opened a small bakery, the bakery has suffered financial hardship due to competition from a rival patisserie; opened a stamp-licking business, the stamp-licking business has suffered emotional hardship due to competition from a paper folding co-op; opened a psychic help line, the psychic help line has suffered mental hardship from extra-planar monsters; opened a smaller bakery, and it is doing well.” He kneels to write a response.
“Anything for me?” Wheeler asks. Cleans his glasses on his shirt.
Byers flips the paper over. It is covered in stamps. “Yes.”
“Is it cordial?”
“Anyways, same as it always is.”
Mike holds out his hand. Makes a give-it motion when Byers hesitates. Mike reads, holds it to his chest. “Eat a dick.”
“Eat a dick.”
Wheeler folds the paper sharply, hands it back. “I never told her I loved her.” We hear his words with only his hand in frame and Will’s face. Will has a thousand-yard stare. Blinks. Reaches blindly to take back the letter.
The pencil squeaking on his knee, Byers finishes his letter. “Anything to add?”
Mike sighs, squints, shakes his head. He’s smoking a cigarette, dips awkwardly to snuff it on a rock. “Wouldn’t know what to say-”
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What a Dungeon Master needs:
Each items shown on a mint background, maybe a laminate kitchen counter. Labelled in yellow text.
1. dice (thrown, they clatter on the vinyl)
2. a notebook of bad ideas (adult fingers, male, wristwatch, flip it quickly; the last page lingers, in cursive: ESCAPE!)
3. minis
4. Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Dungeon Master’s Guide
5. a shotgun
6. friends (nothing shown here)
Mike says, “Nance, I don’t think we need a shotgun.” He’s smoking again.
Nancy opens the door to the basement, letting it swing. She’s wearing a beret and a military vest. Balances the shotgun on her knee to load it. Aims at Mike.
Michael holds up his hands. “Good morning to you too.”
The gun fires and recoils, Nancy is knocked backwards. There’s an egregious amount of smoke. We see Nance, head thrown back on the kitchen tile. The basement is flush with smoke, smog, a fog machine. Mike looks at his chest. “Anyways, that’s going to sting.”
There’s a hole where his heart is.
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We see only Mike’s closed eyelids. Eyes back and forth, darting underneath. The shot is uncomfortably close. It’s different than the previous bit of film. The quality of sound, light. There is natural sound, fuller, Mike is choking, cat-noises. We can’t see his mouth, only his eyes. Eyelashes flutter, tremor.
Door creaking open, a slash of molten-yellow light in a rectangle over Mike’s left eye. Just the bottom of his iris as his lashes flutter; and the light carves his brown-gold eye, so you can see the depth, liquid-y.
The shot is zooming out, but slow, so it’s a feeling in your stomach rather than a visual. By the time we see Mike’s full face, he’s ripped the vine out of his mouth. We only see the viscera left on his lips, up his cheek. He’s panting. Eyelashes spasming, but finally, his fingers wipe his mouth, shaking, and his eyes open. They’re white. He blinks hard. Again. Tries. Again. Then his iris roll back down.
Voice is hoarse, “Will?”
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A hand out of the white fog. Byers lifts him off the shag carpet. The Wheeler basement, as if it’s exploded. One of the walls has blown out. It’s obviously a set. Tendrils of smoke seeping as if there’s grates in the floor. Dice embedded in a poster like bullets.
Lucas and Max on the sofa eating popcorn. “Good campaign,” Max says, throwing a piece in the air. Lucas bobs to catch the kernel in his mouth.
Mike raises his finger, squinting. “You’d never say that.”
“Ending could be better,” she says. Sinclair raises his eyebrows.
Mike nods, “Good. Ok.”
“It kind of sucked.”
He claps. “Yes. Yes!” Hesitates, “It could use more, uh, honesty.”
“Mmmmmmmm,” Max tilts her head. Tucks hair behind her ear. “Not that.”
“No,” he says. “Exactly that.” He steps from the blown-out basement, through the wall, into Hawkins. Bright, bright light. Shields his eyes. He’s wearing a blue corduroy three-piece suit. His dad’s glasses. He’s caught between cosplaying an English professor and an eccentric children’s TV host.
Will nudges his shoulder. “What are we planning?”
Hand carefully, delicately on Byers’ shoulder. “I have something you need to hear. No, everyone. I have something everyone needs to hear.”
Strutting, Wheeler begins his journey to the radio station. The sound of his heeled boots on the pavement. Lucas and Max crawling out of the basement, hesitant but following. Waving to his neighbours. A man watering his lawn. A woman walking her dog. Along the way, gestures, loosening as he goes, sharp elbows, arms bigger and bigger. “You need to hear this.”
A parade gathers behind him. Some of the people are fuzzy claymation. “You!” he gestures wide. “You need to hear this!” An animated bluebird settles on his shoulder.
Bursting open the doors of the Squawk. Steve dings a triangle.
“Robin! Broadcast!”
Scooting her wheelie-chair, she flings opens the booth. “And we have one very special guest. You know him, and some of you don’t love him: our storyteller, little Mikey Wheeler. Maybe he’s starting his apology tour? Michael, how are you feeling?”
The citizens of Hawkins have squealed chairs in a circle around him. He’s lit in slats from the closed blinds. Half his face in shadow. Sitting, hands clasps between his knees. “Hey. Everyone. Mr. Clarke. Murray. You, I’ve seen you before at Family Video. And, maybe, maybe you’re in the year above me? I’m glad you’re all here. I haven’t told you this, because not all of you are going to like it.”
He straightens. “It’s going to make you view me differently. And, uh, maybe, not all of you deserve to hear it. Because, I’ve spent most of my life wanting to be good. Good at things. Good at doing. Good at writing. And, this isn’t good for other people. It’s awkward, and personal, and god I don’t want to say it.” He shakes his hands as if throwing off drops of water.
Scuffs his boot, it squeaks. “Not all of you have thought about what you want, who you are, you’re just, willing to be told. I’m not saying we all have to take a Gender Studies course, but actually, maybe I am saying that. Think. Think! For me, I want, I like guys. I like that one.” He freezes, looking at Will. Caught. Softens, top lip rising, grimacing, painful. “I like him.”
Will stands. The recording booth hums. Steve’s hands frozen on a penny whistle. Mike isn’t sure how to read Will’s expression. Takes a steps towards him.
“You needed everyone, to say that?” Byers whispers.
One side of Wheeler’s mouth tugs up. He nods. “Full town.”
Will steps closer, still quiet. “But he heard too.” And he zips up the blinds.
Outside is no longer the blue skies of Hawkins. Ash, red cracks of lightning. Except for Mike and Will, the Squawk is empty. Vacant chairs in a circle. A laugh track running and skipping.
Will chokes, sobs once, covers his mouth. Hugs Mike in a burst. “You’re out.”
“You actually have an earring?”
Byers thumps his back.
The metal swings against his nose, tickling. Mumbling into his sweatshirt. “It’s nice! I just, uh, thought it was, one of the many things I imagined.”
Stepping back, Will looks older. Not much, just tired, maybe. “There’s five of us, now. It could be enough.”
“I’m not the first. Or second, to?”
Byers scoffs. “No.” Touches Mike’s hair, like he’s going to ruffle it playfully, then pulls back. Breathes in. “You wish.”
“Who else?”