Work Text:
Will,
I want you to know that I’m so glad that I met you.
We’ve been through so much together. You, me, the party. But my struggles didn’t end when the Upside Down went away with El. I don’t know where my place is. I’m alone and scared. And I think I’ve felt that way since you went missing. I knew things would never be the same, no matter how much we lied to ourselves. I just always hoped that you’d come back to me and tell me how you really felt. I was too much of a coward. I still am. I’m sorry. The painting is getting more yellow every day. Your painting. We got older like it did. You painted this for me. I only found out a few years ago. Do you still feel the same?
When I met you, I was lonely. I still am. I’ve known you for so long that you’d think I know everything about you, and you everything about me. But the truth is, I don’t think anyone has ever known anything about me. They don’t know the biggest part of me. They don’t know I Sorry, this letter will have lots of errors. What I mean is that people don’t know the biggest part of me. And now, when I’m about to leave forever, I still can’t say it. I just want you to know that what you felt for me, I felt too. I still do. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. And this is selfish of me. Please don’t feel bad because this is all my fault. If I told you, things could’ve been different. But I didn’t want things to be different I wanted things to be different so bad, Will.
You’re here, in Hawkins, right now. You look happy. Excited for the future. That makes me happy. I haven’t smiled since I last saw you. That was in December. Winter was cold, but my room was even colder. I shivered a lot. I cried a lot. I’ve been crying a lot since I was sixteen. I’ve thought about my future a lot, too. I can’t think of anything. There’s nothing more for me. My life was always meant to come to an end sooner than everyone else’s. Please think about me after I go. I don’t think I can deal with you forgetting me. Well, at least I won’t have to deal with anything else ever again. Feel free to forget me if you want. Please don’t forget me
I need you to understand that I’ve known this would happen since I was 16. This was the ending for the storyteller and I didn’t know how to tell any of you. It’s not a normal conversation to have: hey, I want to kill myself before I turn 30, and you can’t stop me. You would’ve said no, don’t do that, Mike. But it was decided a long, long time ago. All I’ve ever done is give others good endings, but I cant even have one for myself. I just turned 30. There is no other way out for me this is reality and I have to face it and I dont want you all to think its your fault because its not. None of you are to blame. you guys are my life and that has never changed but Im stuck here and I cant ever leave and Im sorry please dont blame yourself please blame me Im sorry Im doing this to you I really am please never forget me please Im sorry for asking you to do that
thank you for everything you were everything
Love,
Mike
Mike wiped the tears away from his cheeks and put the pen down.
He didn’t have any envelopes. He tore the paper out of the notebook and then folded it neatly. He wrote ‘Will’, and put it between the pages of the same notebook he tore the paper from, slotted against the other letters he’d written in the past week. The leather bound notebook would be found eventually, most likely when his mom or Nancy clears out his apartment.
This was destined from the start. Mike would die alone, cold, and afraid. He shivered at the thought. He felt sick. He sent a quick text to Nancy about an hour ago, telling her that they will celebrate his birthday tomorrow, as he was busy with deadlines. There was only one deadline. His death, which was today.
His phone beeped. He ignored it. It was probably Nancy agreeing to those plans.
The notebook was shut with a small thump. He stood up from his chair, the legs dragging against the floor and making a loud, screeching sound. Mike moved the chair back into its original spot. His desk was neat – pens were put away, and books were stacked neatly on top of each other. His manuscripts were hidden in the drawer. He put the notebook underneath them. Nancy and his mom wouldn’t look there first; maybe they would after a while. He hoped they would.
He took one look at his room where he spent his adult life.
So many novels filled the shelves; three were his own. Two novels, a duology, were written about a Paladin and a Cleric who tread on quests together across the land and seas. The third novel, which he published under a pen name that only he knew about, was a queer story about two childhood best friends who grew up and witnessed monsters, destruction, bittersweetness, and death when they should’ve been teens — confessions, sneaking kisses, hiding away from everyone who couldn’t know.
He published it in 1999. It was difficult to find someone who would publish this novel. It worked out in the end. No one would ever know that it was Mike Wheeler who wrote the first draft in a month through tears and heartache as a consolidation of his feelings for his childhood best friend.
He had memorabilia that dated back to ‘83. A photo of Mike and his friends' Ghostbusters Halloween outfits, their Dungeons & Dragons notebooks that haven’t been touched by his friends since ‘89, a polaroid of him and Nancy taken by Jonathan in ‘93, all of these little things that made him think of his childhood.
He had a corkboard on his wall. Usually, it was filled with ideas for his novels. He had no ideas in the past two years. Instead, Will’s art was hung up by yellow and blue pins. Five years ago, Will accidentally left a sketchbook full of his random art – doodles, scribbles that he would eventually make into full pieces, stills of daily life, and a portrait of Mike that Mike didn’t know about. Will saw Mike beautifully through his eyes. It made Mike tear up every time he gazed upon the portrait, as if it was the only piece of art in the world that ever mattered. It was priceless.
He never gave that sketchbook back to Will. It still lives in his drawer. Maybe Will would find it one day, after Mike was gone.
The kitchen was empty. Taking a step onto the black and white tile floor, Mike sighed at the cold feeling of it against his bare feet. It was so cold in his apartment.
He opened the fridge and found nothing but two bottles of champagne that he received from his mom and Holly as an early birthday gift. His mom said that they’d drink it together when she came to visit the day after his birthday. He took one bottle and held it. The cold bottle felt heavy in his hand.
With the cap unscrewed after a minute of struggling, Mike took a swing right from the bottle. It tasted mediocre. Mike realised that this would be the last thing that he would ever drink. He scoffed and took another swing. Maybe this will make the nervous jitter in his hands and the shaky breaths go away.
Digging into his pockets, he pulled out his marlboro reds and his lighter. Maybe a cigarette would cleanse his palette from the taste of the champagne.
He took the cigarette that was flipped upside down – his lucky one, a habit he gained when he was nineteen and he bought his first pack of cigarettes from a shop that didn’t bother to ask for proof of age – and put it between his lips, his hand covering the space above it and flicked the lighter to get the flame to open. He inhaled as the flame pressed against the end of the cigarette, and welcomed the toxic fumes into his lungs.
And so he entered a rhythm – a drag of his cigarette, a sip of the champagne.
Mike regretted this. He really did. His biggest struggle when he was fourteen was how to kiss El. Or why he would kiss El. Why would Mike want to kiss El when Will was right there?
A month before Mike turned seventeen – four months after order was restored in Hawkins and El vanished – he came to the realisation that maybe, he never really loved El.
Loving her was easy yet difficult. It was easy because she was a girl. Mike could hold her hand when he wanted to and the only time they had to sneak around to kiss was at Hopper’s cabin. But it was difficult because El didn’t know what she wanted, or liked, or needed.
Mike knew he wanted one thing. And that was Will’s love. Will’s touch, and his lips against his skin. He wanted to wake up in the same bed as him every morning and fall asleep together at night. He wanted this. But he could never have it.
After Will left for college and found new friends, love, and a new life, Mike knew he would never move past anything. Seeing Will every summer would never be enough for Mike’s greed. He wanted Will. When Mike looked at his back, Will never turned around. He never noticed Mike’s longing stares.
That was something that Mike would always regret.
He sighed and noticed he was halfway through the bottle of champagne. It was a miracle he hadn’t gagged on the taste yet.
Over the past ten years, Mike accomplished close to nothing.
He published three novels in the span of eight years. Had girlfriends in his college years and then a boyfriend when he was 26. He came to terms with his sexuality in ‘95 and wanted to see if it would be any different if it was a man. And it truly was different, but that man was not Will. It would never be Will.
Mike broke up with him after he moaned out ‘Will’ in the midst of making out with him. The guy skipped town not too long after, contacting Mike to tell him he needed to go back to his grandparents, or whatever his reason was. Mike didn’t care.
He hasn't tried to get into a relationship again since then.
As for his friends, he kept in contact with everyone. When he got a phone last year, he got everyone’s phone numbers, and today, his inbox was filled with birthday wishes. He barely read those. His phone was on his desk. He thought he heard it beep again. They texted often, usually about their plans and when they’ll next see each other.
Friendship was still important to Mike at this age. He wouldn’t give it away for anything in this world. Except for one thing. For Will to look at him like he’s his world one last time.
Will and Mike drifted so far apart, people would be shocked to hear that they were best friends from childhood until they were eighteen.
At the age of 16, things became rocky, but they always found their way back to each other. Hushed whispers in the Wheeler’s basement, shared looks and soft spoken promises of not growing apart when they left for college. And yet, they still grew apart because of Mike and his inability to simply admit certain things to himself.
The memories of friendship and his first and last true love were enough to keep Mike going for a while longer.
He felt a bit dizzy as he moved to put the now nearly empty champagne bottle onto the kitchen counter, ready to be thrown away. He took one last drag and lifted up his sleeve with one hand, that same hand reaching to take the cigarette from between his lips, just the butt now, and stared at it for a second before he shoved it onto his wrist, the skin between the two most prominent veins on his scarred wrist. It burnt, but it made Mike feel more alive than he had felt in the past few weeks. He gritted his teeth in pain and pleasure.
He looked at the cigarette butt again.
Smoking became a bad habit. He could go through a pack in two days, mostly out of boredom. It made him more jittery and burnt his throat on some occasions but at least he had an excuse for his shaky hands and bad breath.
His lips parted and in went the rest of the cigarette. It rested against his tongue for a second before he started to chew. He tasted it, tasted the nicotine and the charred tobacco. It stuck to his teeth. It hurt and it burnt. His tongue was burnt.
He chewed more vigorously through the pain of the burn, and the tobacco and paper mixed together with his spit. He tried to swallow it but gagged instead; he held the vomit down. He couldn’t let it escape. He held it down. And down. Until he managed to gulp it back down past his throat and into his stomach.
Desperately, he reached for the bottle of champagne that had two small sips left in it, and chugged it like a man who had been lost in a desert for days. It was close to nothing, but it was all he could get. It was enough.
The weird aftertaste of the champagne was gone now, and instead his mouth tasted of vomit and tobacco. He licked his lips. He felt sick.
Mike could’ve been leaning against the kitchen counter for five minutes or fifty; he didn’t know. It was difficult to focus on time when he was focused on not throwing up again. The urge went away with a few more minutes.
He reached for the second bottle.
With the second bottle in hand, the cap now gone, he slowly moved towards the bathroom. He sluggishly pushed the door by ramming his shoulder into it. The bathroom was clean and smelt like the same cleaning products he had been using for nine years. It was a specific kind of comforting feeling.
When he opened it after setting down the bottle of champagne on the toilet lid, he saw his medicine cabinet was filled to the brim. Prescribed medication such as his high dose of Zoloft and his lower dose of trazodone, aspirin and other pain medication, and melatonin that he bought over-the-counter were squeezed into the tiny compartment.
Mike was diagnosed with major depressive disorder in ‘94 and he had been struggling with insomnia for the past three years. Those two issues in his life seemed small in comparison to every other thing. He knew there was something fundamentally wrong with him. Something that no amount of pills or therapy would ever fix.
He accepted that when he was sixteen, too.
Mike looked through the cabinet more thoroughly. The zoloft, trazodone and melatonin. That was what he needed. The orange bottles were all half-empty. He hoped they were enough.
There was no coming back from this. He truly had written his ending back when he was sixteen. He had attempted to rewrite it with his failed romantic relationships, with rebuilding the bond with his parents and sisters, and with reconnecting with his friends after college. And despite his relationship with family and friends being stable over the past decade, it wasn’t enough.
Mike had been drowning for too long; he couldn’t even move in the water anymore. He accepted it–invited it, almost revelled in it.
He just felt selfish. But that wouldn’t be his problem for much longer.
He unscrewed the white cap on the bottle of zoloft and shook the bottle until all the pills landed in his palm. Mike felt like he was holding the world. He counted the pills; there were seventeen of them.
Maybe he was having second thoughts. He looked around his empty bathroom. Maybe there was another ending for him. But he knew he couldn’t change it now.
Looking in the mirror, he saw how pale he looked. The champagne made his vision swim a little bit. His hair, which he hadn’t gotten cut professional in three years, was choppy and greasy. The long sleeve shirt he was wearing covered his wrists, which had become scarred over the past thirteen years. He didn’t own any short sleeved shirts and hadn’t for ten years. His skin was oily and too dry at the same time. His eyebags, which had become a permanent feature on his face since before he started to take sleeping medication, were more prominent than ever before.
When Max and Lucas saw him two weeks ago, they were worried. If they saw him now, they would probably feel sick just looking at him and what he’d let himself become.
He let out a sigh.
He shuffled his hand and the zoloft ended up back in the bottle, and then screwed the cap back on. He managed to manoeuvre the other two bottles into one hand and the champagne into the other. Mike slowly headed back into his room, his shoulder bumping against the doorframe on his way out of the bathroom.
If he was going to die somewhere, it would be in his own room. A place full of his best memories.
Taking in his room again for the last time, he walked over to one of his bookshelves after setting down the pills and champagne – the one closest to the window – picked up one of the books, and opened it. Inside was a polaroid of him and Will. It was taken in ‘92, when they graduated from college and came back to Hawkins. Will did so only for a while; Mike stayed permanently. Will had his arm slung over Mike’s shoulders and when Jonathan took the photo in that second, a look of shock was evident on Mike’s face. But it was more of a look of comfort. A comfort that Mike missed.
After the photo was taken and Will removed his arm, Mike felt like he was burnt. He still feels it sometimes. It never went away.
He took the polaroid with him and sat on his bed, setting it beside him.
The champagne bottle felt cold in his hold yet again. He took a smaller sip of it this time. He still tasted the cigarette that he swallowed.
Going through the motions of unscrewing the first bottle, his prescribed zoloft, was easier this time. He shook the bottle until all the pills fell out again.
His palm resembled a literal hard-to-swallow truth. The truth being his end, which he was now reaching.
He moved his hand and proceeded to shove all the pills past his lips at once. All seventeen of them. He hurried to take the bottle of champagne and swallow the pills down. It proved to be difficult, but he succeeded, only coughing once and letting some of the champagne, probably mixed with spit, dribble down his chin.
It was too late now. There was no going back. In a few minutes, he would feel drowsy and fall into a peaceful slumber.
He set down the now empty bottle and reached for the next one, the trazodone. There was less of it, but it was what he took for his insomnia. He had restless nights too often. The cap was unscrewed with haste. He swallowed those pills down quicker and chugged the champagne.
Mike went on to dump the remaining twelve melatonin pills from the last bottle into his palm and swallow them as well, with a gulp. The second bottle of champagne was nearly gone, and he felt like he was going to throw up. He couldn’t throw up.
He finished the drink off after a minute of contemplation. He was now leaning against his pillows, his head spinning. Two bottles of champagne made his stomach churn in protest, so he didn’t move. His eyes felt heavy.
Mike felt himself relax a bit.
He thought about Will’s eyes and his lips, how soft his hands always were against his own in the rare moments during their teenage years when they would lock eyes and brush their pinkies together.
Mike Wheeler was thirty years old and constantly daydreaming about what could have been. What he could have had. If only he had the courage.
Now, here he was, lying in his bed and clutching his pill-filled stomach – the champagne sloshing around and threatening to make him gag and empty the mix of medication and alcohol onto his clean hardwood floor. He didn’t want to leave a mess.
Over the past week, Mike cleaned his apartment well and thoroughly. He made sure that there was no dust in the crevices of his apartment. His kitchen was empty – besides the empty champagne bottle, now – and he threw out the spoiled food in his fridge in the morning, after eating his last meal: two pieces of toast with butter along with the remains of his cigarette as a snack. Mediocre. It was a perfect last meal for him.
Will was going to hate him.
It was true, they hadn’t spoken properly since December, but he knew that Will wouldn’t be happy with Mike’s decision to end his life in such a pathetic manner. Mike took some pills and mixed them with alcohol, letting himself fall into a forever sleep. How boring.
He should have slit his wrists more than he already has, or maybe he should’ve hung himself in his bedroom. He could’ve walked into oncoming traffic just outside of Hawkins or crashed his own car into a tree.
Maybe if he shot himself in the head, Will would be happier with his decision. Taking himself out with a gun seemed more serious. It could make him look stronger, more courageous. But the thought of the red, fleshy mess of his brain matter splattering across the four walls of his bedroom and ruining Will’s art, the painting, and his memories, didn’t seem like the best idea. He didn’t want a stranger to sweep away his flesh.
Mike found the idea of it almost romantic – his own portrait hand-drawn by Will, with his blood staining it permanently. A testament for who he once was, a brave sixteen year old in love with his best friend. And now, at thirty years old, in his bed, ready to welcome death, he knew Will most likely moved on years ago.
Will would be mad if his art was ruined like that.
Mike craved to talk to Will one more time. Maybe now – only now, drunk, confused, alone, and slipping away further and further – he could tell him. He wanted to.
A drop of cold sweat rolled down his brow, and he let out a stable breath for the first time in ten minutes. Mike felt cold yet hot at the same time, and it was starting to feel like every blink took too much energy out of him. Yet again, he was in a position where he didn’t know how much time had gone past.
His phone was on his desk about four steps away. Mike moved painfully slowly, holding his stomach. His movement was sluggish. His brain wasn’t sending cues to his limbs. It was sloppy and also terrified Mike at his core; he didn’t let it show.
Standing up as slowly as he could, he braced himself with one hand against the metal bedframe. All he had to do was take four steps, and he would be able to reach his phone.
The first step was the most difficult. He stumbled and felt bile rising in his throat, but he managed to gulp it down. It tasted disgusting; it almost reminded Mike of his ex-boyfriend’s lips. He let out a soft chuckle that ended up coming out a bit choked.
Mike took the second and third steps in quick succession, only thinking about how his limbs wouldn’t cooperate anymore. The fourth step, he collapsed against his desk and braced his elbows against the wood. The upper half of his body was lying against it. He reached for his phone, his grip on it weak. An attempt to push the buttons was made, only managing to open the call function after trying to hit the right one four times. He pushed the same button over and over until he reached ‘Will’, nearing the end of his contact list.
He hit the button on his keyboard when it hovered over Will’s name. He put his phone upright on the desk and hoped that he would be able to hear Will’s voice from where his head was pressed up against the cold surface.
The line started ringing. It kept ringing.
And ringing.
Ringing.
Mike didn’t know how long went by but–
“Mike?”
Oh.
“Hello?”
He’s speaking. Speaking, right now.
“Are you okay? I can’t hear you.”
He sounds worried.
“Mike–”
“Hey. Yeah–Hi. Am alright.” He slurred his words a little bit. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious.
Will paused for a second. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I just drank too much. My birthday, y’know.”
“Happy birthday, Mike. Your 30th, it’s a big one. I think. I don’t feel much difference.” He paused for a second and added, “It’s 1 pm. You’re already drunk?”
Mike closed his eyes. “Yeah, really drunk. Hey, Will. Need to tell you somethin’.” He coughed.
“Yeah? What is it?”
“Hm. I know we haven’... talked much. Recently. I miss ya. Real bad. It’s my birthday. And I rea..lly do not feel any different. I thought things would change, yeah. I thought they would. But they haven’t… and I’m tired now. My eyes are closed…”
Will chuckled a bit. “You should take a nap. You sound drunk and tired.”
“...”
“Mike? You okay?”
“Mmm.. Will.”
“Yeah?”
“Y’know I… Y’know I love you, yeah?”
“What?”
“Like… So… So much, wow. I know I should’ve–I couldn’t tell you… before. I can now, though. I can. I’ve done it. I love you. You should know that before I–I, yeah.”
“Mike? What? Is this a prank? April Fools’ was a few days ago.” Will sounded more alert now, the playful tone in his voice from a minute ago gone. “Hey? Mike?”
“... Hm, no prank. Not a prank. It’s real. Really real. I–I need to go now. It’s time for me to go.”
“Hey–Mike, what–” Will’s voice was cut off after Mike stopped struggling to hit the button to end the call.
Mike let out a shaky breath. He doesn’t think he could make it back to his bed, which now seemed even further away. He slid down his desk and onto the floor, where he leaned against the desk’s leg. It felt stable enough.
He was satisfied with leaving like this. Will knew now.
His eyes felt even heavier. He couldn’t open them anymore. His breathing was shallow and shaky; he heard it. His heartbeat slowed; he couldn’t hear it as much in his ears anymore. His skin was covered in a cold sweat, and he noticed how even though his limbs weren’t responding to what his brain was commanding them to do, he felt his hands twitch and shake.
He thought about Will again. Maybe, there was no heaven or hell. Instead, just maybe, he would see Will and what could’ve been. Maybe he could dream forever, about him and Will.
He hoped so.
He wished he could look at the polaroid of him and Will again, despite not being able to move.
So instead, he imagined it. Imagined Will.
His lips, his eyes, his touch, the smell of his hair and his laundry detergent, the way he wrote the letters of the alphabet with a slight curve to them, how his hair looked in the mornings, the way he held his toothbrush, his nose that Mike always hoped he could kiss, the way their feet would tangle together when they would share the mattress on the basement floor when they were teens, and–
The apartment was silent.
The only sounds heard could be from the open window of Mike’s room, the birds chirping a happy song. The leaves rustling in the cool April air. Kids riding their bicycles and yelling after each other. A couple arguing.
After a while, there was a knock on the door. A heavy, loud knock. That knock carried on; it was persistent.
“Mike? Mike, open the door. Are you home?”
…
“Mike, hey. I’m–Can we talk, please?”
…
“I’m gonna come in if you don’t answer.”
…
And Will stuck true to his word. The door wasn’t locked – Mike barely locked it – so it pushed open with no hesitation.
Will took a look around the apartment; it was pristine clean, other than the champagne bottle on the kitchen counter along with the cigarettes and lighter. He couldn’t remember the last time he was inside Mike’s apartment.
He thought Mike quit smoking.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
There was no sound of Mike furiously typing on his keyboard or the soft humming he sometimes used to produce when he was deep in thought. There was no sound of a pen clicking. No sound of Mike bumping his feet against the hardwood floor. No sound of—
No sound at all, except Will’s small: “Mike?”
He made it further into the apartment and looked into the living room, where he saw the ashtray that hadn’t been used yet. This didn’t add up with the half-empty pack of cigarettes he saw on the counter.
“Mike, are you home?” He called out again.
Silence, except for Will’s breathing.
Will was slightly panicking now. Mike’s door was open, and the phone call twenty five minutes ago made him so alert that he drove over to Mike’s apartment in such a hurry, driving faster than he ever had before. It was worrying – Mike confessing, drunk and slurred, then hanging up? Something was not right. Will wanted to find out what was wrong.
He stepped closer towards Mike’s bedroom; the door was slightly ajar, and he listened for any sounds past the heavy wooden door. There was none.
He pushed the bedroom door open.
Will didn’t know what he was looking at.
Mike was leaning against the desk.
Unmoving.
His eyes closed.
Will ran forward, falling to his knees, grabbing him.
“Mike!” Will yelled out. “Mike, holy shit! What the fuck?” He shook his shoulder with force.
There was no response. Not even a twitch.
“What the fuck? What the fuck, Mike? Mike. Mike! Mike, fuck, wake up. What–What did you do? Mike?”
Silence, except for the sound of Will’s bracelets rattling against the cuff of his jacket.
“What the fuck did you do, Mike?!” Will slapped him across the face. There was no reaction.
Silence, except for the sound of Will’s panicked breathing.
“Mike! Oh, fuck. Oh, my god. Mike. Please.”
Silence.
“Mike! Please!”
Silence.
”Please, fuck! I love you, please, Mike!”
Nothing.
…