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The flu season of 1987 gets progressively worse as they lead into March. So far, at least half of the Party has come down with it, including Will.
The fever really hadn’t been good, but just when El thinks it’s over and she’s done with influenza, the phone rings on a rainy Sunday morning.
It’s not even ten yet, but she’s already finished reading the assigned chapter of Moby Dick for class and written up all of her notes. She’s on a progressive high, halfway through cleaning out the underneath of her bed (since when does she have so many shoes?), when she hears it.
No one else is home. So of course, El has to drop what she’s doing and run down the hall to get it, banging her hip against the wall and hissing in pain.
“Byers-Hopper residence, El speaking.”
“Hey, shortstack,” croaks a voice. “How’s your day going?”
“Mike?”
“It’s so cute that you can recognise me just by my voice,” he says. “Like, people should be envious of us—”
“Why do you sound like you just got run over by a truck?”
Please don’t have the flu, please don’t have the flu—
“’Got the flu,” he sighs.
El leans her head against the wall, relishing in the cool touch of the floral patterned paper. The spread had been one of those stupid things that Hop and Joyce has bickered about for weeks before deciding upon, and then Hop had ‘relented’—even though, secretly, he’d been fine with it the whole time; he just liked seeing Joyce get all fired up.
“No kidding?”
“I wish,” there’s some sort of creaking sound, like he’s rolling over in bed. “Are you busy?”
El thinks of her bedroom—of all of the stuff scattered across her floor and the bag of trash just sitting there.
“I guess not,” she decides, because it’s not like she can’t do it later.
Mike is more important, anyway.
“Good,” he audibly perks up, “’cuz mom left me here all alone to go to some stupid PTA meeting, and I’m so sick of staring at my wall.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d much rather stare at you.”
She smiles, cheeks warming. He can actually make her weak-kneed from across town.
“Okay,” El bites her lip. “I’ll be over in a bit.”
‘A bit’ turns into ‘a while’.
After she shoves all of her stuff back out of sight and retrieves her shoes and jacket, the rain has picked up considerably. It pours down in thick sheets of water, hammering down with the force of the wind. Water slaps over the road as tires roll over it, pooling and flooding the storm drains.
She ends up stopping by the station to let Hop know where she’ll be, only she gets caught up helping Flo organise a filing cabinet while Steve jabbers on about Dustin.
“He’s just been so down lately,” Steve mutters, throwing a ball toward the ceiling and catching it as it falls. “’Cuz of his dad, y’know?”
“Yeah,” El agrees. Dustin’s been so subdued the last couple of weeks, just like every March, as they slowly creep to the anniversary of his father’s death.
She really doesn’t know what to do about it. Talking hasn’t seemed to help.
Steve cocks his head. “Like, I was over there for dinner last night, and he didn’t say one word to me for like an hour. Then we were doing the dishes and—El, are you listening?”
El jerks her head up. “Yes,” she says. “I’m listening, I promise.”
“He started crying, El,” Steve confides, voice low. “I think it’s hitting him really hard this year.”
“It’s been ten years,” she informs him. “He said... he said it hurts more because he’s been without him for longer than he ever had him.”
Steve turns away quickly at that, refocusing his gaze upward. El catches the way his eyes start to glisten. “Shit.”
She busies herself by tucking a few loose papers back where they belong. “I know.”
“Think I should talk to him?”
El, who has a great understanding of pain—at least the internal type—shakes her head. She knows this kind; the kind that makes you want to ball up and scream and cry and tear everything apart because of how unfair it all is, how unjust. Talking doesn’t help.
“Just be there,” she advises, rising shakily from her spot on the floor. “Don’t make him think about it too much.”
Steve nods. “Yeah,” he shifts the ball from hand to hand, considering. “Yeah, okay. Thanks Ellie Jane.”
“Anytime, Steve.” El studies his distressed form. Unexpectedly, she feels a strange rush of gratitude toward him. She reaches out and squeezes his hand before she passes by.
Family.
The Wheeler residence seems totally empty when El arrives.
There’s a sort of solemn silence filling the cracks of the house, which have probably been building for a long time, but only seem more prevalent as the years pass. It overlays everything like a blanket, still and rife.
El breaks that supernatural quiet as her bag drops the floor and she kicks off her shoes. Her jacket is thrown over one of the stools at the kitchen island, and then she’s running up the stairs.
Mike’s door is cracked open. Through it, she can just see a pile of dirty clothes and his dresser.
El pushes it open all the way.
Mike is sprawled out over his mattress, curled up with a blanket over his shoulders, shivering.
He looks paler than usual, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat visible on his brow.
“You said soon,” he whines, the minute he sees her.
“Oh, Mike,” El steps in, walking over. How could Karen just leave him like this?
El mentally scolds herself for taking so long at the station, but her irritation at Karen is just a little greater. If there’s one thing El has learned since Hopper, it’s that good parents prioritise their kids. Karen’s supposed to be here when he’s like this, and it only worries El because it’s not like Karen is bad. She’s just... lost.
“I’m fine,” Mike burrows deeper in his cocoon, until just his eyes and a curly tuft of hair is visible. “What took you so long?”
“You are not fine,” El gently works the blanket out of his grip and peels it back. “You’re sick.”
“No,” he claws for it, “cold.”
She feels for his temperature. “You’re burning up, Mike.”
“Only ’cuz you’re here,” he grins, all stupid and expectant.
“Sit up,” El directs, rolling her eyes. “C’mon.”
Mike does as she asks, pouting a little. El takes his pillowcases and his sheets, balling them up and throwing them in the nearest unused laundry basket.
“Shirt,” El says.
“Oh?” Mike raises his eyebrows, before sneezing. Wow, cute. “You’re so using me for my body.”
“You’re an idiot,” she says, grinning like an idiot. “Just put your arms up.”
El works the ratty, hand-me-down band shirt off of him. His hair, no longer matted to his brow, falls into his eyes, fluffy and dark. Mike’s nose is inches from her own. He gives her a small smile—the one he knows drives her absolutely crazy. “Hi.”
El smiles back. She touches his freckled cheek. “Hi.”
“I love you,” he says, leaning forward to rest his head against her shoulder.
“You’re gonna get me sick, Stringy.”
“Mmm,” he wraps an arm around her waist. “But then you could lay in bed with me all day.”
She wrinkles her nose at the thought of them in one bed, all clammy and gross. “Sounds tubular.”
El worms her way out of his grip, which isn’t hard considering he’s so weak. Mike grumbles in protest, trying to paw her back toward him. “Why?”
“How do you feel? Okay enough to stand?”
“I guess,” he decides.
“Then you should shower,” El starts rifling through his dresser, retrieving fresh clothes. Her mind is already elsewhere; on soups and how he managed to use so many tissues in one day.
Mike throws himself back against his uncovered pillow. “Don’t wanna.”
“Mike,” she gives him her best ‘Listen-To-Me-Or-Else’ expression, “you need to take a cold shower.”
“Cold?” He looks like someone just slapped him. “No. Uh-uh.”
“You have to.”
“No.”
“Mike,” El sits down on the edge of the bed, “please? For me?”
He eyes her, like he’s deciding whether or not she’s worth it. “I guess.”
She grins in triumph, handing off the clean clothes. “Thank you, Stringy.”
“Only ’cuz it’s you,” he gripes, taking them and shuffling off the bed. As soon as he stands, his eyes close tightly and he winces.
“You okay?”
“Dizzy,” he says. “It’s fine. Passing.”
Then he stumbles out. After a few minutes, El hears the sound of the shower running. She busies herself by picking up all of his strewn clothing and throwing away his disgusting used tissues. When she’s done, the room looks at least habitable, which loosens the knot of stress in her stomach considerably.
Food, she thinks.
By the time the soup steams, she’s already replaced his sheets and levitated the old TV and VCR system upstairs to his room.
El pours a small amount of broth into a bowl and then trudges her way upstairs, socks static against the plush carpet.
She reaches the room just as Mike does; he’s towelling off his hair, shirt stretched up to reveal the small patch of skin above his waistline, and really this is not the time for looking—but he really is so pretty. Especially with all the sweat and sickness washed off. He smells like Old Spice and laundry detergent.
El leans up and presses a safe kiss to his jawline. “Thank you.”
Mike grins. “Anything for you, Shorty.”
He isn’t better, though. He sounds awful, his eyes are a little shot in the corners, and his face looks like all the blood was drained from it. She reaches up and feels his forehead, relieved that it’s significantly less warm, at least.
“C’mon,” El takes his hand with her free one, “you need to lie back down.”
Mike follows obediently. His face lights up when he sees his made bed and the stacks of movies she’d brought up. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “I love you.”
“Uh huh,” El sets the bowl on his nightstand.
Mike crawls under his covers. “No, really,” he says, “you’re like, beyond perfect.”
“Eat,” she says, trying her absolute hardest not to smile.
He diligently takes the bowl. “Wait—where are you going?”
“Downstairs,” she says, “I’m gonna make you some tea.”
“No,” he whines, “stay.”
She almost considers, but then he doubles over in a coughing fit.
“You need tea,” she affirms, “with honey, for your throat.”
“No, I need you—” more coughing, “please?”
“I’m making you tea.”
“El! Ugh.”
She hurries down to the kitchen, retrieving the tea bags from the cupboard.
Are you almost done?
El almost drops the mug in her hands, but saves it from shattering in the nick of time. It hovers about three inches above the tile before shooting back into her open palm.
Michael.
I miss you.
She bites her lip to suppress a smile. He’s so dumb sometimes.
Are you eating the soup?
A pause. I’m not hungry.
El stops. You don’t have an appetite?
Guess not.
She doesn’t like that, but she’s not too worried yet. At least his fever broke, right?
Are you done yet?
El sets the kettle on the stove. Mike.
I need you, he whines. I’m dying. I’m lying here in agony and I’m all alone, and it’s raining, and I’m depressed—
Put on the movie.
Cinema can’t fill the chasmic silence your absence creates.
El’s grin widens. You had that one prepared for a while, huh?
Come back, he pleads, ignoring her question. Don’t you love me?
I do.
If you loved me, you’d come back upstairs.
I’m almost done, stringy.
He’s silent for a good minute or so, allowing her to tidy up around the house—which really isn’t messy at all, but she needs something to do with her hands; with all this pent up nervous energy.
Tylenol, he says suddenly. Please, I have a headache.
How bad?
Like, bad.
El swallows, hurrying upstairs to the bathroom. The cabinet is loaded with all sorts of different bottles. El finds the one that reads Tylenol and shakes out a couple for him.
Mike perks up when she slips inside his room. He’s also sweating again. She hates the stupid flu.
There’s a thermometer on his dresser that Mrs. Wheeler must have used to take his temperature earlier. El snatches that up.
“Open,” she says.
They wait in silence for a minute while it reads. Mike pouts.
101.
“Is it high?”
“Uh-huh,” she settles on the edge of the bed, frowning. “Do you have water?”
He gestures to a glass on the nightstand. El grabs it and hands him the capsules, which he downs after hacking a few awful-sounding coughs. “Ugh,” he breathes.
“Hey,” El puts her hand on his shoulder, “scoot forward, okay?”
Mike just does, which worries her even more. El clambers up behind him, criss-crossing her legs. “Put your head on my lap.”
He does that, too. El’s fingers find his hair, interweaving with his disheveled curls. His eyes flutter closed almost immediately, the weight of him growing a little heavier as his tension bleeds away.
His hair is soft. His head is too warm. She starts to hum some Paul Anka song, gently brushing her fingers over his forehead.
It’s odd how randomly it dawns on her, how much she loves him. He can be doing the stupidest things, like rambling on about computer motherboards or sleeping, but the feeling will overload her anyway. She just loves him. She loves the way he trusts her, loves the way he breathes. She loves how he burrows deeper against her, like he’s relishing in her presence.
The kettle whistles, high and piercing. El jumps.
“Mike,” she nudges him, “I gotta get that.”
“Stay,” he whispers, so weakly and softly she almost falls apart.
“I’ll be right back,” she says. “I promise.”
He cracks an eye open before folding into a sneeze. “Okay.”
She squeezes honey into the steeped, light brown liquid, and stirs.
It’s a tremulous late afternoon; the rain hasn’t tapered off, any. As a matter of fact, it’s only gotten worse. Her sweater feels almost insufficient with the chill of the house—but she can’t turn on the heat, of course.
El sighs. She shakes off the spoon and makes her way upstairs once again.
He’s coughing; loudly, awfully. Between each one he draws in a desperate gasping breath only to curl into himself once more, moaning.
How can she help this? Cough medicine? She hadn’t seen any in the bathroom. What about—
Ah.
El retrieves what she’s looking for as swiftly as possible and then returns to him.
“Tea,” she offers.
Mike takes it, sips it, and sniffles. “Thanks, Shortstack.”
“Mhmm,” El is already distracted, unscrewing the cap from the jar. “Shirt off, again, please.”
“I knew you couldn’t resist my chiseled one-hundred degree charm,” he says.
El raises an eyebrow. “Chiseled?”
“Yeah,” the flimsy white shirt is thrown elsewhere. “You see? Six-pack.”
“No, sorry,” El shakes her head, smirking. “Lie back.”
He does, huffing in mock irritation as he goes.
El sits down on the right side of his bed; the one he never really sleeps on. She starts spreading the Vaporub over his chest. After a couple of minutes, his breathing deepens. “Good?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
Relief floods her. She finds herself able to concentrate on other stuff; like the way his chest rises and falls, the tone of his abdominal muscles visible with each inhale—not that he’s anything close to chiseled—how soft his skin feels, or how the tendons in his neck jump as he tilts his head.
Mike considers her, dark eyes and freckles and some stupid(ly endearing) lopsided grin.
“Something on your mind?”
El rolls her eyes. “No.”
“Uh-huh,” he sniffs, “You got a little drool on your chin.”
“I do not,” El scoops up more Vaporub and slaps it on his chest a little too hard.
Mike pouts. It’s the most adorable thing she’s ever seen in her whole life. “Why won’t you just love me?”
“Because.”
He sneezes.
“Of that.”
Mike settles again, sniffing some more. He smiles imprudently at her. “Can I do your chest, now?”
El laughs. “Oh my god.”
His face softens, cheeks flushing, going from teasing to enamored in seconds. “I like making you laugh,” he says, grabbing her hand. “It makes me feel better.”
Oh.
El’s cheeks feel warm. She swipes a finger coated in excess Vicks down his nose, making it wrinkle. “Rude,” he complains.
He doesn’t let go of her hand, though. Instead he curls her fingers inward and kisses her knuckles, never breaking eye contact, making her heart stop.
“Lie down with me,” he says.
He’s sick, her thoughts whisper.
But who cares, really, when he’s looking at her like that? Like she gave him everything he ever wanted just by existing. Like she can’t ever do anything wrong. Like he loves her.
And so she caps the jar and sets it aside, curling up against his body. Mike’s feverishly warm lips press against the crown of her head.
El puts her hand on his dry, bare stomach. She watches as the muscles jump and fall. It’s mesmerising, she decides, running her fingers up and down his skin, watching goosebumps erupt under her touch.
She’s absolutely gonna get the flu. It’s totally inevitable at this point.
So why not?
El leans up and kisses him, feeling his lips part in surprise against her own. He hesitates a little before kissing her back.
El draws away, satisfied.
“I’m sick,” Mike protests.
“I know,” she says, laying a hand on his cheek.
“But now you’ll get sick.”
“Huh,” she kisses his chin, and his lower lip. “Guess you’ll have to take care of me.”
“I can’t breathe,” he adds, still dazed. “Out of my nose, I mean—”
“That’s fine,” El kisses him there, and then works her way to his ear, grazing her lips over it and making him shiver.
Mike’s eyelids close. His head shifts, exposing more of his neck to her.
It’s soft. It’s not rushed or needy or heated, really. It’s just... love. I love you, against his collarbone. I love you, higher, against his jawline. I love you, sweet and adoring, against his forehead. She pushes his hair away, leaves him breathless and swept up so easily.
His gaze locks onto her own, full of a swirling intensity, blown with emotion. It doesn’t need to be said. It’s just felt.
His lips.
Lingering, electric. She pulls away after a few seconds, cradling his face in her hands.
Mike reaches up and tucks a loose curl behind her ear. “Thank you.”
Her brow furrows. “For what?”
“Just... being you, I guess.”
“Anytime,” she grins. “Wanna watch Star Wars?”
“It must’ve really hurt when you fell from heaven, huh?”
El laughs. She squirms into a more comfortable spot, twitching her head. The TV turns on.
Here, in the dim light, with him, with his arm coiled around her waist and his stupid fever dying away, with his hand in her own, it’s good. It’s perfect.
A few days later, she wakes up to a splitting headache and a high fever.
Hopper looms over her, smirking ominously. “I wonder how this happened. Don’t you, kid?”
El rolls over, groaning.
It’s worth it when Mike shows up carrying a bag of VHS tapes and a bowl of soup from Benny’s, though.
So, so worth it.