Chapter Text
The clock behind Mike ticked, in a sirupy, constant pace. An incessant Tick-Tock that had him twitching in a mixture of annoyance and anxiety. Tick-Tock, the coffee mug he held with both hands warmed his clammy palms, Tick-Tock, his hair felt stiff and sticky from the wax he had applied before coming to the cafe.
“So,” His publisher began, thumbing at his own tea mug from his seat across the table, “You’ve been dealing with a creative block.”
Mike blinked, now that he thought about it…yes he had been struggling more than usual with his current novel. Hadn’t he? It wasn’t like he was in a mad hurry to finish it. His previous work had been doing pretty well, and Mike’s bills were comfortably paid for for another couple of years minimum.
But there had been an itch in the back of his mind. The strange feeling of absolutely needing to be doing something, like he had left the stove on before leaving his apartment, or not flipped the calendar page at the beginning of a new month. Yes, his book. He really wanted to finish it.
“It’s been killing me.”
Mike groaned, and ran his hands through his waxy hair. There was no longer a risk of him disrupting any curls.
“You should maybe take a break Michael,” a pause as his publicist adjusted his glasses, “You really don’t want to burn out right before the Holliday season.”
“I guess.”
He muttered. With the first week of November, a frigid air had settled all over town, and soon, his mother would be calling for Thanksgiving. Mike, of course, would dutifully go, if only to make sure Holly wouldn't be too lonely. He couldn’t remember the last time Nancy had actually spent Thanksgiving with them.
His frustration must have bled into his voice, because his publicist tutted gently, nudging their mugs together in a near affectionate gesture. The corners of Mike’s lips twitched up against his will.
“Come on now, it’s alright. Everyone gets stuck sometimes.”
Mike scoffed.
“I know. I just- I don’t know, I feel like I need to finish it as fast as possible.”
His publicist’s blue eyes twinkled.
“Well, I do know of one thing that might help.”
Mike raised an eyebrow, skeptical, and his publicist raised one back. He seemed more amused than offended, and yeah, fair, he had never led Mike astray in the years they’ve worked together.
He nudged his teacup against the coffee mug again, forcefully enough that Mike’s coffee sloshed dangerously in his cup. A startled chuckle left his mouth.
“Okay! Okay, what is it?”
His publicist stopped his playful nudging, settling back with a victorious little smirk. He took another sip of his tea, ignoring Mike’s impatient eyes, before setting his cup down.
“It’s called Existential Hide and Seek,” he began, “It’s a thinking exercise. If one of my authors is stuck, we play a few rounds and they manage to get some new ideas for their stories.”
“Existential Hide and Seek?”
Mike repeated skeptically, trying the words on his tongue, and his publisher raised a hand, asking him to wait.
“You pick a hiding place. Any place. It can be real or not real, as big or small as you want it to be. One time, my hiding place was inside a cluster of spider eggs.”
“Oh dude, gross!”
Mike immediately sputtered, wrinkling his nose in disgust. His publicist flushed a little, clearly embarrassed.
“Well, I was a strange child, alright?” he huffed, smoothing his shirt before continuing pointedly, “you pick a place to hide, anywhere at all. Think of one.”
At his prompting, Mike thought for a minute. If he was asked for a place to hide…well he couldn’t think of anything but his basement. Still air, soft blankets. El.
Mike’s eyes burned.
“Yeah okay, I picked one.”
“Alright, then I ask some questions. Try to find you. You only give me yes or no answers.”
Mike shifted in his seat, “Okay.”
“The idea is to delve in where your brain goes when it wants to hide,” he explained, “what it finds safe, familiar or innovative.”
His publisher smiled, coaxing.
“Wanna try playing a round then?
“Yeah… yeah okay, hit me.”
“Let’s start simple. Is it a place that exists?”
“Yes.”
“Does it exist right now?”
“Yes.” even though he hadn’t visited it in months, and it was never the same after he left.
“Is it an outside space?”
Mike’s lips quirked up. The first mistake his publisher had made. He found himself enjoying the game.
“No.”
His publicist leaned over the table a bit, clearly starting to enjoy himself as well.
“Inside then, okay. Is it a public building? Like a museum or a library?”
“Nope.” his smile was widening a bit.
“Is it in your-?”
He was cut off by a loud ringing sound, and for a split second, his eyes narrowed in clear annoyance. Mike watched, smile falling, stunned as he fished out a large mobile phone from his coat pocket.
The mental exercise seemed to be working at least. He felt stimulated. Less sluggish than he had before.
“Hello, this is Henry speaking.”
His publicist offered Mike an apologetic smile, as if saying “what can I do?”. Mike waved his hand dismissively, smiling back, and taking a sip of his drink.
“I’m sorry, I already said Michael is unavailable for the foreseeable future. He’s not taking any interviews.”
Henry huffed at the phone, his tone forcefully cheerful and polite. Mike shook his head, still smiling. The media had been bothering him lately, hadn’t it? About the release of his new book. Of course he couldn’t speak to anyone until the book was completed. He had been grateful to Henry for keeping his privacy.
“Being rude to me will not make Michael any more available than he is now.”
Henry said, frowning at the phone. Above them, the lightbulb flickered, and Mike’s gut twisted in familiar anxiety.
He blinked. When had his eyes become so dry? His gaze focused on his coffee mug, full and steaming. Perfectly fresh. The sun coming through the window was lower than before. Had he zoned out? Once he looked back up at Henry, he was no longer on the phone, and was watching him carefully.
“Were they being rude to you?”, he asked, worried.
Henry smiled soothingly, wiping at his nose and adjusting his glasses.
“They’re quite insistent on reaching you.”
Oh, Mike felt a bit bad for zoning out while Henry warded off the worst of the media.
“Well screw that. I don’t wanna talk to anyone that’s giving you any shit.”
Henry’s eyes softened a bit. He nodded, grateful.
“Thank you Michael, that’s very sweet of you.”
“Want me to yell at them?”
He offered, fully ready to draw from the bitchiness that protected him throughout his teenagehood. Henry shook his head, still smiling.
“I’d rather you wouldn’t contact them at all. If not for your safety, then for my own peace of mind.”
Mike wanted to protest. It didn’t feel fair to have Henry fight all his battles. He was done letting people protect him all the time. Henry must have seen the defiance in his face, because he reached with his cold hands and covered Mike’s own where they rested on the coffee mug.
“Really Michael, I’d rather we focused on your book. Let’s keep the game going, yes? No need to worry about those people.”
Mike nodded, appeased.
“Alright,” Henry said, drawing his hands back, “Let’s get back to the game.”
Mike nodded, getting comfortable in his seat. Across from him, Henry’s eyes narrowed in focus. The light above them flickered once again.
“Where are you hiding Michael?”
—--
The basement smelled like stale air and bleach, and Mike looked at the neatly organized shelves with a small pang in his heart.
The DnD memorabilia that Holly hadn’t claimed as hers had been neatly packed into a box that would go to the attic. Their folders, Will’s drawings and all of Mike’s campaign notes had been carefully folded and tucked away in the box for safekeeping.
In a separate box, was all of Mike’s childhood. Toys, soft sweaters, posters. All the things his mother had deemed not worth keeping now that Mike was moving to Boston for his publishing internship.
The blankets he had used to make forts with El had long been donated. Mike couldn’t bear to look at them since The Abyss. The Christmas lights he and Lucas had set up after Will had been found had been safely removed until the next holidays.
It was only fair, with The Party gone, there was no reason for the basement to be set as their basecamp.
“Of course you’re hiding in this fucking armpit.”
Mike blinked in surprise, turning to face the stairs. Sitting on the upper steps, with her hair a mess and an angry expression, was Max Mayfield.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He couldn’t help but exclaim. Max and Lucas had left for Nevada weeks ago, Lucas with a hefty basketball scholarship and Max with a gym trainer position waiting in a local boxing gym waiting for them. The goodbye dinner at Melvald’s had them ordering a different flavor of milkshake each.
“I’m rescuing your ass Wheeler, come on. Before he finds us.”
She said, already climbing up the stairs. Mike didn’t move to follow her.
“Come on, I don’t know how much time we have! We need to find what’s not right.”
She urged.
“Rescue me? Max You’re not making any sense!”
She turned sharply, her eyes suddenly more analytical than before.
“Wheeler,” she said, gone was the forced carelessness from her previous sentences, “Tell me you know where you are.”
“...in my basement?”
Her eyes widened in understanding shock.
“You dont-!”
“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Nevada! Is everything okay with Lucas?”
“Nevada? Why the hell would I be in Nevada?”
“You and Lucas moved there? For college?”
Mike said, loudly in his surprise, wrapping his fingers around Max’s wrist and pulling her back further in the basement where it was safer.
“College?”
Max repeated, her face rapidly paling.
“Mike, what year do you think it is?”, she asked urgently.
“What are you-?”
“What year?!”
He shook his head. He felt dizzy, above him, the lightbulb flickered, and Max’s eyes snapped to it in panic.
“1989. We graduated.”
He answered softly, and Max’s scared eyes returned to him, frantic.
“Mike, listen to me,” she said, suddenly serious, her hand coming up to clutch his shoulders, “Henry, he got you, and we’re trying to pull you out. We need to find our way to the next memory.”
“My literary agent!?”
He exclaimed, and the sentence felt wrong in his tongue. He…he hadn’t met Henry yet. He would only meet Henry mid 1990. Who was Henry?
“Literary agent?”
She asked, and sudden realization fell on her eyes.
“Literary agent,” she repeated now, understanding, “you’re not available for any interviews.”
Mike found himself nodding along, even though he wasn’t fully sure of what was going on. New memory? (this wasn’t a memory at all, it was all fake, down to the packing boxes and his mom’s orders-)
“This isn't real okay? Focus. We’re trying to get you out,” Max said, and the lights flickered again, more violently this time, “El and Will, they’re trying to pull you out, you gotta find what doesn’t fit, okay?”
Mike’s stomach sank like a stone. Slowly, mournfully, he raised his hands to cradle Max’s shoulders, mirroring her hold on him. Oh Max. She could get so lost sometimes, after the coma.
“Max,” he began carefully, heartbroken, “El died a year ago, remember?”
Max’s eyes widened, and she looked absolutely crestfallen.
“He lied to you,” she shook his shoulders lightly, “El’s okay and we’re getting you out of here, you hear me Wheeler?!”
“El died Max! After The Abyss! Who lied? Hopper?”
“She’s alive! She’s alive and we’re getting you out of here!”
Mike opened his mouth, to argue. To plead. The basement door opened loudly, and Max turned to face it, both afraid and ferocious.
“I see. So this is where you hide.”
Henry hummed, making his way down the steps. Mike moved suddenly, tucking Max safely behind his own body. From behind him, she let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
“But…what I’m looking for isn’t here. I should have figured, this is too obvious Michael, we both must keep looking.”
He tutted, almost fatherly in his tenderness. Mike felt frozen in place.
“...looking for?” Max whispered behind him, as confused as Mike himself felt.
“Ah, Maxine.”
Henry spoke suddenly, blue eyes snapping to her, predatory. Mike reached a hand behind himself, gripping her wrist, moving her so he could shield her better.
“Mike…!”, she gasped.
“If I remember correctly, I told you Michael was unavailable for the foreseeable future.”
He said. Oh- his eyes weren’t blue anymore. Instead they were a murky red, like old blood.
Vecna.
Mike’s eyes bounced around the room, panicked. Max had told him to find what didn't fit. What wasn’t right.
From the corner of his eye, he caught it. A familiar striped sheet of fabric hung between two bookshelves like a curtain.
A sheet of fabric that was never there. He hadn’t seen it since 1985.
Vecna stepped forward, the pleasant smile never leaving his lips, the lightbulb flickered threateningly.
It was 1987 and he had been taken. This wasn’t real. Vecna had taken him and El and Will were trying to get him out.
He tightened his hold on Max’s wrist. Committed her to memory. The smell of her mango body spray and medical grade wound cleaner.
He turned to face her as Vecna lunged. Saw her scared eyes. Mike refused to let her know how scared he himself was. With a yank, he launched her towards the curtain, the exit.
“Run!”
He exclaimed, as cold fingers wrapped around his throat. Vecna pulled him away, and Max stumbled, into the curtain, safe. Away from his hold.
“Mike!”
She screamed. Behind him, Vecna growled in frustration.
The light bulb shattered in an explosion of sparks. The walls trembled, the wallpaper was the wrong color.
Mike closed his eyes, trying to smash his head back against Vecna’s face-
—--
- his office’s door was made out of old wood, and groaned painfully as Henry opened it. He had, wisely, brought an offering of coffee and a plain bagel. There was a tired quality to his face, slight bags under his eyes.
“You okay? You know you don’t have to keep checking on me if you need some rest.”
Mike said, reaching for the food and drink. Henry plopped, ungracefully in Mike’s couch, pushing away one of the many piles of notes before sitting. He took off his glasses, undid his tie and let out an exhausted huff.
“It’s fine. Just the media.”
“Still?”
“Yes. I’m beginning to think the only time I get some rest is when I’m here with you.”
Mike’s lips curved into a small smile. Ever since The Party had gone its separate ways, Henry felt like the one true friend he had.
“You should really let me at them. I don’t like how mean they’re being to you.”
He hissed, and Henry chuckled, reaching to playfully mess with Mike’s hair in a way he could only describe as brotherly.
“You’d defend my honor Michael?”
Mike nodded vehemently.
“Of course I would. We’re friends aren’t we?”
Something shifted in Henry’s expression, first pensive, then, unbearably soft.
“Really? You think so?”
Mike blushed a little.
“...Yeah?”
“Oh,” Henry seemed oddly shy, and pleased, “Yes, I suppose we are.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Mike let him take his time to compose his thoughts.
“If,” he began carefully, “I had done something you might…dissaprove of. Would we remain friends?”
“What, did you kill someone?”
Mike laughed, but Henry didn’t laugh along.
Oh.
Well.
Mike thought of dead soldiers and torn apart scientists. He had seen more death than anyone should at his age, and had only felt bad about a select few of them.
He hadn’t managed to cry about any of them at all.
“If you did…did you have any choice?”
He tried imagining it. A situation that would have pushed Henry to the edge. Bad men. Will’s dad. It wasn’t hard to picture a younger, thinner, more frail Henry, pushed to the corner like an animal, and finally snapping.
Henry’s eyes widened, and after a pause, the slightest bit of moisture gathered in his lash line.
“I really didn’t.”
Mike pressed his lips together tightly.
“Well, then of course we would still be friends.” He said resolutely, “if you had done something bad that is.” he finished with a smile.
Henry’s lips trembled a bit, and he took a bite of Mike’s bagel to mask it.
“Hey man, come on!”
He whined playfully, yanking at the bagel and taking a bite himself. Henry was smiling now, warmer than he ever had before.
“How’s the book doing?”
He asked, nodding at the mess of drafts and notes scattered on Mike’s table. Mike sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Blow dried straight, but clean of the wax he had taken to wearing.
“I got a bit more done since last time, but it feels like it’s missing something.”
Henry hummed sympathetically.
“Missing something?”
“Yeah! The story is all there but it’s like-”
A beat, Mike’s chest felt twisted.
“-like it doesn’t-”
He stuttered, uncertain, trying to voice a feeling that had been haunting him for months. Henry’s eyes twinkled.
“Like it doesn’t have a heart?”
He completed it for Mike, and Mike snapped his fingers in agreement.
“Yes, exactly! It’s missing a heart!”
Henry nodded, smiling.
“Wanna try Existential Hide and Seek again? I think it will help.”
Mike considered it. He had gotten a lot of work done after their initial session.
“I mean, sure? If you think it will help.”
Henry snatched the bagel back, biting into it.
“I do. But this time let’s do it a bit differently.”
Mike moved to grab the bagel, huffing in playful frustration as Henry expertly dodged him.
“Differently?”
“Yes. Instead of you hiding from me, I want you to imagine where you would hide…well, The Heart.”
Mike stopped his snatching, and stared at Henry in mild confusion.
“The Heart?,” He asked, and Henry leaned forward. Mike had the feeling they were edging into something too important.
“Yes, The Heart.,” Henry set down the bagel, and reached out to hold Mike’s hands. A familiar, soothing gesture, “The emotional core. The thematic purpose. The underlying truth to your story. Something so deeply yours that will bleed into anything you create.”
Henry leaned closer. Close enough Mike could smell the burnt-almond scent of his breath. His heart quickened, prey scared.
“Your fear. Your anger. Your love.”
Mike froze. When was it the last time he had truly allowed himself to feel any of it?
“Something so precious Michael. Where would you be hiding it?”
Mike thought about it for a long second. Where does one hide his love? His truth? He pictured wooden walls and the wet smell of autumn soil. A familiar striped fabric hung like a curtain for the door. (We need to find our way to the next memory - find what doesn’t fit-)
“Let’s start simple then. Is it a real place?
—--
Castle Byers felt small now that Mike had grown so tall.
(get out get out getoutgetout)
He found himself curled up, hugging his knees to his chest, on top of the pile of blankets he and Will had napped on too many times as small children. The air smelled moist, mossy, in a fresh way it hadn’t since Hawkins split in four.
(It’s all fake I need to get out I-)
He… he had been looking for something, hadn’t he? He couldn't quite remember what it was but…it was important. That he knew.
Mike nodded, forehead against his knees, yes, it made sense then, that he would be in castle Byers. Anything precious enough for him to hide, for him to look for, could have been here.
Mike missed Will like a lost limb. Over the course of the last few months, as his first novel took shape, he found himself more than once looking over his shoulder and beginning to throw out ideas to the empty seat in his couch, where Will would have been sitting and drawing.
If Mike truly allowed himself to think about it, he knew he had loved Will for as long as he could remember. Since being small. Since the swingsets.
And then there was El. And later on Lucas and Max got together, and Mike had known exactly what a relationship should be. What he should be. Love would never be swingsets and blanket forts and softness. He had seen his mother and father. Love would be turbulent and difficult. If he didn’t suffer for it, it wasn’t the right way to love.
And then somewhere along the way…slowly, it was like he couldn’t love anything at all. Like everything was dull, distant. Reacting to the world around him was difficult when all of it felt muffled.
(Where is your heart Michael? We need to find your heart.)
Yes, he was looking for something important. And it was probably here, in castle Byers. Slowly, with herculean effort, Mike uncurled himself and scanned his surroundings: damp wood, damp blankets. All of it covered in a fine layer of dew and lit in a cold autumn sun.
He reached for the nearest pile of trinkets. D&D figurines. A broken radio and its subsequent parts. None were the things he was looking for.
A small picture frame, in it, the photo of the original party, happily holding their science fair award. Mike’s own younger face stared at him, his small face serious, urging. He was drowning in a sweater with large blue stripes.
Strange. Mike remembered smiling for that photo.
(Find the things that are off- you need to go to the next memory-)
Mike blinked. Stared at his younger self a bit longer. The yellow flannel really was too big on him, but the happy color looked like something that would have made his mother happy to see him wearing…
“Holy Shit!”
Mike startled, dropping the picture. His head snapped in the direction of the voice and sure enough-
“Dustin?”
His friend stared at him, his eyes wide and wet. There was a mottle of familiar bruises all over his face (he had been cornered remember, by the fuckass basketball team-)
“Mike oh god!”
Dustin stumbled forward, wrapping his arms around Mike tightly.
“Oh you beautiful genius, of course you’re hiding here! Max said you pushed her through a curtain, so I thought it might be here-”
Something clicked in Mike’s brain, like he suddenly remembered the answer to a test.
“I’m not hiding.”
He said before he could stop himself. Dustin’s arms tightened around him, before he pushed Mike away, just enough that he could look at him in confusion.
Mike blinked, mind suddenly clearer, what was he saying-
“I’m not hiding, I’m looking for something.”
He clarified, somehow to both himself and Dustin.
“Looking for something? Like- oh, are you looking for the exit?,” Dustin asked, eyes bouncing, trying to keep eye contact with Mike as he scanned castle Byers.
“No, not that,” he huffed, pushing Dustin fully away so he could continue his search (The emotional core. The thematic purpose. The underlying truth to your story, where is it where is it where is it-).
Mike felt slightly drunk as he looked, frantic, in the piles of trinkets, ignoring the way Dustin tried to pull him by the shoulders. This was important. He knew it. Somehow, deep in his chest, he knew it.
“Mike, buddy, you’re not making any sense. We need to get you out of here.”
The back of Mike’s throat tasted like the coffee from his favorite coffee shop. The one Henry (he’s not supposed to know him yet, they only meet in 1990-) always insisted on paying for.
“But I need to find it!”
“Find what?!,” Dustin snapped, managing to look both extremely annoyed and horrified. Mike’s eyes finally fully focused on him. He found himself frozen.
“Find my-”
(Where is it, I need it, where where wherewherewhere-)
“I need it! We need it!”
He exclaimed, defensively, almost as if explaining himself in court. Dustin’s expression shifted to fully horrified.
“We need it? Mike, who's we?”
Dustin snapped into action, once again gripping his shoulders in a painful, desperate hold.
“We need it!”
Mike repeated, and this time, he could hear the distortion in his own voice, as if two other people were speaking at the same time as him, one a deeper male voice, the other, a near animal shriek.
“Mike,” Dustin said, voice trembling, “Vecna’s messing with you okay? He’s messing with your brain, we need to get out of here!”
(get out, find it, get out, find it, not here not here not here notherenotherenothere)
Mike’s mind snapped back in place, clarity hitting him like cold water in the face.
“I need to find what doesn’t fit and get to the next memory.”
He breathed out, and Dustin let out a wet sob of relief.
“Only you’d be this stubborn Mike.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Stubborn enough to get out from under Vecna.”
Mike smiled, leaning a bit in Dustin’s too tight hold. He blinked.
“How long have I been gone?”
To him it had been two years.
“Thirty hours.”
Dustin replied, suddenly looking exhausted. Mike took a second to truly look at him. There were bags under his eyes, and the bruising on his face had settled in an ugly shade of greenish purple.
“We were loading the truck to invade the Mack Z when the demo grabbed you,” He ran a hand through his face, “Nancy wanted to carry on with the plan, but it seemed too risky.”
Mike’s chest ached a bit. Nancy…well she was angry enough to risk her life recklessly. He had hoped she wasn’t angry enough to risk his.
“Is El…?”
Mike’s voice broke a bit, and Dustin’s face shifted in stone hard seriousness.
“She’s alive Mike. Alive and pissed. She and Will are doing everything they can to get you back.”
Mike let out a sob. The usual veil of apathy that seemed to separate him from his feelings thinned, allowing a moment of soul crushing relief. A single tear ran down his cheek and Dustin seemed more startled by it than anything else.
“What? What is it?”
“Nothing, it’s just…I don’t think I’ve seen you cry in years.”
Dustin spoke with a strange reverence, and Mike hurried to wipe the tear away.
(Your fear, your anger, your love. Close, but not here, we need it, we need it)
“Dustin,” Mike said, suddenly alert, “He’s coming now.”
Dustin’s face paled, but Mike was already moving. He already knew what was off. The photograph, his serious face. A yellow flannel that he himself never owned, but had been worn by Will on the day they-
“I can see why you thought it would be here.”
Henry spoke, calmly walking from between the woods. Dustin, loyally, placed himself between him and Mike. It wouldn’t change anything.
“What the hell is ‘it’ you fucking freak?!”
Dustin snarled, picking up the broken radio and chucking it at Henry, who dodged. He wasn’t looking at Dustin, and instead held Mike’s gaze.
“But this is the wrong hiding spot. We must keep looking.”
His voice sounded as brotherly and nice as he had in the coffee shop. In Mike’s office, playfully stealing his bagel. Mike had only been taken for thirty hours, but he and Henry had spent months together, in the strange jumble his memories had become.
His chest ached dully.
“Dustin,” he said, never breaking eye contact with Henry, “Tell Will I’m in the place he said yes. He’ll understand.”
Dustin looked at him from over his shoulder, horrified, understanding dawning in his eyes.
“Mike-!”
“I’ll meet you there!”
He exclaimed, forcing himself to smile. He threw the picture frame, as hard as he could at Dustin’s trusting, exposed back, and the world tilted, with a horrible shattering sound-
—--
Mike was laying in the meadow on the back of Henry’s country house.
It was a charming little red house situated deep in the woods of Oregon. He remembered (false, fabricated, made up) coming there multiple times to quietly work on his novels.
The sun was just starting to set, turning the sky a soft powdery pink. It was the end of summer, and a balmy heat left Mike’s skin tacky with just enough sweat to not be too uncomfortable. His curls had become a mess, wild and overgrown to the point he had hastily pulled them in a ponytail before laying down to sunbathe like a cat.
Henry had made a beautiful day for him.
“Hello.”
Henry spoke, almost shyly, before sitting down next to Mike. They were surrounded by daisies.
“Is this what you looked like, before you became-”
Mike cut himself off, turning to fully look at Henry. At the perfect waxy hairstyle Mike had been subconsciously copying in this made up reality. The starched shirt. His big, sad eyes.
“Before I became a monster?”
Henry replied, sounding strangely defeated. Mike didn’t respond.
“I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”
Mike could only nod.
Henry looked down. He had been holding a tin of butter biscuits. He opened it, and then offered it to Mike. Without knowing what else to do, he picked one.
“I am sorry for taking your sister,” he began softly, “but I had run out of options.”
“Maybe you should just stop looking for options.”
Mike hissed, viciously biting into the cookie. Henry simply placed the cookie tin down.
They were silent for a long time.
“Why am I here, Henry?”
Henry blinked up at him. There was something strangely sad in his eyes.
“Because it was almost you.”
Mike’s stomach sank.
“What?”
Henry smiled, joyless, and inched a bit closer.
“Two kids cast out by society. Strange. Different. Sensitive. Two kids whose parents wouldn’t notice they were missing until it was far too late.
Mike's eyes widened so much they hurt.
“Will and I.”
Henry nodded, “Will and you.”
“Then why him?,” Mike asked weakly, thinking of all the times Will had cried and bled over that fateful night, “If it could have been me, why did you take him?”
“Because,” Henry continued, devastatingly gentle, “he left to go home alone in the dark, and you went inside where there were too many people for me to snatch you.”
Behind the usual curtain of apathy, Mike felt the strange hollowness he’d come to understand as devastation.
“He said it was a seven. And then you said goodbye, and then the light in your front door…”
“Flickered.” Mike breathed out.
A tear ran down his cheek, and Henry wiped it. Mike, strangely, didn’t have it in him to stop him.
“But you were always there. Always a good second option in case things went wrong.”
“I-”
“Haven’t you ever found it curious?,” Henry interrupted, eyes a bit too wide, “how my new world shapes around you?”
“What?”
“You say William is a sorcerer, so he must be. You say Eleven can fly, and so she can. You believe fire can harm my creatures to the point of damaging the whole hivemind, so it does. But also, deep in your soul, you hope no man in uniform can kill them, so they cannot.”
Henry got too close again, Mike could once more smell burnt almonds.
“Everything from my new world is made up ever so slightly of what you believe to be true. Of what you will it to be. Have you never wondered? Why I never came after you when you are so clearly Eleven and William’s one true weakness? Why didn't William Hargrove kill you when he had a chance in that shopping mall?”
Mike’s breath stuttered. A sudden clarity overtook his brain.
“You use children to amplify your powers,” He said, and Henry’s eyes twinkled with an odd, sickening pride.
“Yes. And I feed off fear.”
Henry’s large hands reached up to cup Mike’s face in a too tight, possessive hold. Mike struggled, for a split second, against it, only to find himself to be held perfectly in place.
“You were a perfect little battery. William dug my tunnels. He was my eyes. But you? You gave me the power to re-enter this world.”
Henry’s face fell.
“And suddenly, it was gone.”
“What was gone?” Mike asked, even though deep down he already knew the answer.
“Oh Michael,” Henry sounded truly mournful, “Your heart.”