Chapter Text
If you were to ask Mike Wheeler if he thought his life had turned out to be what he expected— lengthy, unrealistic question, he knows— he would probably say yes. Maybe. Not really. Kind of? No. Yes. Can he change his answer multiple times?
Look— it wasn’t as if he hated his life, come on— he moved out of Hawkins, graduated college and started a (somewhat) successful writing career! He’s published three books and all three have been dubbed ‘The New York Times Bestseller’! The public definitely thought those titles went to every book ever published, but he digressed. Atleast he was successful! Sort of.
Despite the three books he had published, Mike wouldn’t call himself a millionaire. He lived in a shabby apartment somewhere in New York, and his typewriter was currently collecting dust. So was his clunky computer. Mike never understood those things, why replace a classic typewriter with an unnecessarily large piece of metal— plastic— whatever it is! Mike didn’t like it. Not one bit. But his publisher convinced him to get one after relentless begging.
Overall, Mike would say he turned out to be a pretty decent, well functioning adult. Well, how decent and well functioning a twenty-five year old should be. His parents say he’s doing well, that’s something! Nancy comes and visits him sometimes, and she said he’s getting by well, that’s also something! She also said Mike needs to make some new friends or settle down with someone sometime soon. That wasn’t something. Mike hadn’t talked to most of his friends in years. And by years, he means about two years after they graduated and all settled into college. The last he had heard, Lucas and Max were settling in well at college, Dustin was doing pretty well in his studies, and Will…
Well. He hasn’t spoken to Will since they graduated. Albeit, Mike never reached out. He thought now, he didn’t deserve to speak to Will anymore. He was grief-stricken by Elevens’ sudden sacrifice and ultimate death, he stopped speaking to anyone for a long while. Will tried to reach out, he really did. But Mike does what he always does. Push him away. He didn’t need Will to comfort him or tell him everything was going to be okay, he didn’t need to hear some bullshit pitiful excuse of advice on how to deal with grief from Will— from any of them, infact.
By God does he regret that. He regrets not reaching out to Will after they had all settled into college, after those two years passed and barely any of them ever spoke— well, atleast from what he had heard. Heaven forbid they all still hang out and willingly choose to leave Mike out. He wouldn’t be surprised though, given his previous track record of how he treated them after El’s death.
All of this culminated to what brings him here today, in his shabby, damp apartment that smelt like cigarettes and cheap alcohol. Just how Mike liked it. Nancy always says he needs to sort his apartment out, rid of the smell and to stop smoking so much. Mike disagrees, smoking is possibly one of the only things that’s keeping him sane at this point. It helps him to relax, loosen his limbs and not think about the rent due in a week— to which he has no money to pay towards. Being a writer is hard in this economy, nobody has the drive to read fantasy books anymore— and that’s always been Mike's expertise. Fantasy writing. Will used to say that he was an amazing storytell—
Enough about Will.
Mike hazily opened his eyes to the— frankly blurry— ceiling infront of him. The room stunk of cigarettes, Mike felt like he was about to throw up. He dug the heel of his palm into his eye and sat up, stretching and letting out a loud groan in the process. He fumbled around on his bedside table, trying to grasp for his glasses when eventually— to his outstanding luck— they fell onto the floor, clattering against the empty beer bottle from last night.
“…Shit.” Mike groaned, reaching down to pick up his glasses and adjusting them on his face, he squinted his eyes a couple times and looked around the room, spotting the window.
Mike got up, clumsily stumbling around his room like a drunk homeless guy— which was about to be his future if he didn’t pay off that damn rent— and reached the window, flinging it open and breathing in the fresh, somewhat polluted air of New York. He inhaled, exhaled, and then promptly shut the window. Breathing in the same old smokey, damp air that filled his apartment. Mike let out a heavy groan as he heard his stomach rumble, bile rising up to his throat, threatening to escape. Mike stumbled towards his bathroom and almost vomited onto his floor save the couple steps he took with his hand desperately clinging onto his mouth. He bent over the toilet and threw up, shamefully getting bits of puke onto his glasses, gross.
Mike slumped over the toilet, heaving and gagging. His head hammered into his skull so hard he thought it might explode, he was most definitely hungover.
This was going to be a long, long day.
Mike impatiently tapped his foot on the wooden tiles of his apartment, staring daggers into the coffee machine as if it did something personal to him. Nancy once commented he’ll end up killing himself soon enough if he always insists on drinking coffee to cure his hangover— it had always worked for Mike, so he never listened to his worried older sister.
The coffee machine made an annoyingly loud beep that reverberated through Mike’s— already painful— head, which caused him to clutch his head and hiss. He grabbed the mug off of the coffee machine by the handle and walked towards his crappy workspace, which was quite literally a desk, a typewriter, a computer and scattered plans for the novel he had definitely not started.
He set his mug of coffee on his desk, sat down at his desk and groaned into his hands.
“…Come on Michael, think, think, think…” He miserably encouraged himself, the only ideas he had right now was a story set in an old time where knights and wizards existed, bards of alike stumbled in the streets playing their jolly tunes and happy couples wandered the streets, checking out markets which displayed plenty of goods alike— fruit, vegetables— you name it. The centre of the story was going to be something centre around a Knight and a Wizard.
And no, before you ask— it has nothing to do with Will. Frankly, he’s not even sure why you would think this stupid idea of his would have anything to do with that guy. They haven’t spoken for five years, and Mike couldn’t give less of a shit how he is. Maybe he’s happy at his stupid college on his stupid art course with his stupid friends, and he probably has a stupid boyfriend who caters to his every need and always follows him around like some sort of dog, who always comforts him when he needs it and looks absolutely nothing like Mike because Will deserves better in life than whatever Mike Wheeler is— and despite that, Mike would still give up every limb on his body to see Will Byers and his stupidly pretty face with his stupidly pretty pink lips and maybe he’d hold his stupidly pink lips close to his, and maybe, just maybe Mike wouldn’t feel so useless and feel like he could finally be. Be something with Will Byers.
Mike burned holes into his typewriter with how hard he was staring at it. He groaned for the nth time that day and slumped into his chair, glancing at the framed picture of his desk. It was the picture of the party at their Middle School Science Fair. The way they all stood, goofy smiles on their faces, not a care in the world. Mike smiled fondly, he wished he could be like that with them again. But he knew the very concept of that was futile and unrealistic to think about it. Mike would kill to see them all again. Maybe he’d tell them he’s sorry— sorry for everything. Pushing them away, how rude he used to be as a teenager, and especially how he fell out of contact with them once they transitioned into their adult years, and how incredibly depressed he was without them.
Unfortunately, Mike started to understand why he got no work done the very second he sits at his desk. All he does is lament on the past, the past that had already happened right before his eyes, the past he can’t go back and relive.
Breaking Mike out of his incredibly depressing trance rang the loud noise of the telephone, Mike turned around in a very expressive manner— by that, he means he scowled at the telephone and stumbled towards it, picking it up and deeply exhaling, trying to put on his best ‘I’m not hungover, what do you mean?’ voice.
“…Hello?” Mike managed, the tone of his voice made it sound like he had been chain smoking for seventeen years, as the gravelly, inhumane nature of his voice made the other voice on the line sigh in disappointment.
“Mike,” His publisher began to speak, and Mike had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, even though she couldn’t even see him. “Do you know what today is?” No. He didn’t. He honestly, truly didn’t. So he told the truth.
“Yup,” Mike struggled out, pursing his lips and squinting his eyes in thought, “Uh— It’s like—“ He struggled, and he could tell his publisher was exhausted by the deafening, obvious silence on the other side of the phone. “…October 3rd, or something.” He then heard his publisher let out a loud groan. “What?! Did I do something wrong?” Mike exclaimed incredulously, the unwavering sound of his voice almost definitely gave away that he was hungover.
“…Mike.” His publisher started, pausing for a while as if she was contemplating why she ever picked him up as an author. Mike wasn’t sure either. “It’s November. It’s the 3rd of November.” Mike widened his eyes, jaw slightly hung open in shock. Mike could’ve sworn it said October the last time he checked his calendar. Mike also conveniently seemed to remember that his first draft was meant to be due in three days. That must be why his publishers calling him. Not for a friendly chat, he supposed.
“Ah.” Mike spoke up after a couple beats of silence, nodding slowly. “Uh— Yeah. Of course. It’s November. Listen— I swear I’m working on that first draft, it’ll be done by tomorrow, at least." Mike exaggerated, he knew it wouldn’t be done tomorrow, it wouldn’t even be done on the deadline.
“Well I recommend you get it done, Michael. I’m sick of waiting for you.” His publisher seethed into the phone, then immediately hung up. It sounded as if she had slammed the phone down out of irritation, and Mike’s not surprised. He’d be sick of himself too, he pretty much already is.
Mike put the phone down and took a deep breath in, then out. Nancy taught him that this helps you to calm down, so he’s recently been trying it everytime he’s wanted to throw something at his wall— which would explain the dent in his bedroom wall. Mike knew it, he was absolutely screwed. His career and his living situation would be done for in a couple of days, and there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe he’d live his life out on the streets begging for someone to take him up as a writer, maybe he’d be a hireable Dungeon Master— those exist, right?
Upon realising his life would be over in a couple of days, Mike did what he did best. He picked up the pack of cigarettes from the counter and lit one, puffing out a large cloud of smoke. His rigid posture instantly relaxed. He felt like he had nothing to worry about anymore.
That was, until a piece of paper slipped through the slit in his door. Mike noticed it almost immediately, and got up, hesitantly walking towards the mysterious card-shaped letter. Upon picking it up, his name was delicately written in neat handwriting. Mike figured it must be spam, until he opened it.
‘Dear Mike,’ It began, the card was decorated in gorgeous white lace, and upon opening it Mike almost threw up in his mouth for the second time that day at how unoriginally tacky it was. Nevertheless, he kept reading.
‘You are cordially invited to :
Lucas Sinclair + Max Mayfields Wedding
Located at xxxx xxxx xxxx , New York’
Mike grimaced at the card in his hand, Max? And Lucas? Were getting married? In New York? As if Mike hadn’t just read the letter, he glanced over it a first time, then a second time, then a third time. Meticulously studying every syllable and letter as he paced around his apartment in a nightmarish sort of loop. Read, pace, think, read, pace, think.
Mike eventually stopped pacing, and collapsed onto his couch, clutching the card in one hand. Does he go? Would he be welcome there? Well— if Max and Lucas took the time out of their day to even consider inviting Mike, he’d be grateful. But that means he’d have to face all of his other friends, and by that he means Dustin, and Will. He shivered at the thought of meeting Will. Maybe Will would bring his cool art school friends, and gloat to Mike about how amazing and talented they are, whilst subtly dumbing Mike down to a literary failure who still writes fantasy books at the age of twenty-five. He can’t have that! That’s it. He’s not going. End of story.
Mike would kill to see Will again. He imagined if Will had grown into his features, if he still had a baby face, if he still had rosy cheeks that reddened when you complimented him, if he still had that tan complexion from staying in the sun for too long— which he would always boast to Mike about as Mike stared down at his freckled, pale skin. He wondered if Will was still single, or maybe even looking for somebody. Could Mike fill that role? Could Mike give him the love he would need?
Mike bit the inside of his cheek, looking at the invitation in his hand and turning his nose up at it. He truly, truly didn’t want to show his face there. But the thought of Will drove him further to sway his opinion, that was Will’s effect. He always used to convince Mike to change his mind when they were kids, and now as twenty-five year olds, the effect was still lasting.
Mike bit his lip.
Screw it. He’ll go.
…Does he even own a suit?