Chapter Text
It's 1995, and it’s snowing in Hawkins. The trees are coated in white fluff, the pavements slippery and wet. A mountain of powdery dust sits on every drive way, drawing people inside, to return to their fireplaces, sit quietly. It is solemn and silent in the streets tonight, cars stranded and plans abandoned. There is an air of gloom seeping into Max Mayfield again. Maybe into them all. The cigarette she is smoking on Mike Wheeler’s front porch is down to the orange, and she sniffs and stubs it out roughly. She knows what she has to do.
Will Byers is unaware of this. He had glanced, momentarily, out of his high apartment window, and saw the fresh New York snow tunnelling down, like it always seems to be doing these days. This snow smells of opportunity and tastes of the future. He does not think of home.
What a strange word.
“Home”.
They say it’s where you lay your hat, and this registers as funny to him, in an absurd way. Because his hat has been laid here, in this tiny apartment, for the better part of 5 years, and it is where he lives, it’s his house, but it’s not home. But where is home? It’s not Hawkins, not anymore. His family no longer lives there, his childhood home forgotten, Hopper’s cabin covered in a thick layer of dust. He can barely remember the shape of his old house, the layout, what his brothers laugh sounds like coming in from the kitchen as he makes breakfast. Sometimes his heart painfully wretches when he remembers the grave of his childhood dog, in those stretching woods, forgotten in time. But tonight the apartment is warm, and as he climbs into his empty bed the pillow feels like a hug from his mother, the blanket a warm smile from his friends, and as his eyes close it almost feels like home, the real thing that no longer exists. He falls into sleep untethered from the world and those in it.
The phone in the kitchen rings loudly, pulling him roughly out of sleep. Will stumbles, not fully awake, into the dim half-light and moves to pick it up. Something stops him, a feeling, a notion that something is about to be set into motion, something he won’t come back from. It’s like deja-vu, only not, because it’s not a repeated situation, just a sickly feeling. A shaky, innate feeling, clawing at him. But it’s the middle of the night, he reasons with himself, that’s why it feels so strange. Someone could be dead, or seriously injured, because who else would be calling at this hour? It might be his mom, or Jonathan. He shakes himself and picks the phone up from the receiver, breath stuck in his throat.
“Hello?” He utters, cringing at his tired voice.
“Will?” Says a voice from the abyss. He would know that voice anywhere.
“Max?” He questions, fully alert now, feet planted firmly on the cold floor. He reaches out for the wall and almost misses.
A beat. No one makes a sound, only their intermingled breathing. God, he missed that voice, the gentle timbre, lilting on his name. He can almost hear her, 10 years ago, 7 years ago, all those endless summers, calling out for him to bring more snacks, or yelling at Lucas, or making a stupid joke. There is no joking in her voice, not now.
He hears her take a sharp breath, “You have to come home.”
His head starts to spin, disoriented in his own house, and he starts to whisper that he can’t, he has work due, he has responsibilities, a million tiny excuses just waiting to pour out of his mouth. He hasn’t been back in 5 years, and he’s not about to change that. Not for anything, not even if his favourite friend is calling him at 4am and asking him.
She interrupts him, stern now, and he’s shocked at how broken she sounds. How long has she sounded like that?
“You have to come home. I’m not asking for nothing. It’s-”
“You’re scaring me.” He warns her, pointlessly.
The next words she speaks truly decentre Will, and he physically feels his heart start hammering, the sweat beginning to build despite the cold, a wrecking ball to the fragile, beautiful life he has built for himself here in this bustling city.
“It’s Mike.”
He can’t breathe.
“You have to come home.”
The phone goes dead, but he wouldn’t have been able to respond anyway. Mike. Something is wrong, badly. They don’t speak about Mike. Not anymore. Shock seeps into him quickly, like a speeding train, and slowly drips away. Just hearing his name is painful, like pulling at a scab that you refuse to let heal. He is rooted to the spot, and suddenly he can see it all again, all the times Mike had touched him, so carefully, like he would break. His body remembers the last time Mike allowed himself to hug Will, hands placed firmly on his back, fire burning around them in the Mac-Z, three dead demogorgans scattered around Hawkins. Fuck. He has to go back. He has to come home.
*
It’s after 6 when he drives past the Welcome to Hawkins sign, eyes burning and body frigid from the cold. He swears the air starts to feel different, heavier, when he speeds past it. It feels like going back in time, travelling from the here and now to the then. He’s really doing this. Driving into this town now is harder than it was driving away from it. Going back. To the school, the woods, Melvald’s, Max and Lucas, who are surely here, going back to everything. All the little places he had left behind so easily, like walking slowly away from a house on fire. But back then, the whole world had seemed like a house on fire. To Will, it seemed the smoke would follow him anywhere, leaving a trail back to here, to these houses, bulging with memories.
Driving back to Mike, who at one point, he would have followed anywhere. He had forgotten the overwhelming need to have him in his line of sight, and he feels it twinge now. A few more minutes. He could still turn around. But he won’t. He was destined to be here from the minute he picked up the phone. Even when saying he couldn’t, he had known he’d be on this drive, was mentally planning what to pack. In the end, he had walked out with only his car keys.
The snow is thicker than he expected, and his car protests with every turn of the wheel. He doesn’t even know where they are. How stupid, to not realise that things have changed, no one would be where they used to be, people picked up by an unseen god and dropped somewhere new. It’s eerie in Hawkins. Has it always been this way? Or is it just because he knows what happened here, the things covered up, the people gone with no explanation? There seems to be no light except the bright glare of his headlights, cutting through the fog.
He makes up his mind to go to the Wheeler’s house, even though he knows that Mike no longer lives there. He can’t drive around in the snow forever.
When he parks, he sits for a second, looking at the house. It seems to be looking back. Once upon a time, this house was everything. A second home. Karen would wake them up from sleepovers with waffles, and the Wheeler’s had the good syrup, and the basement was so cosy and warm, the heaters roaring to life in the winter, their little DnD table constantly covered with maps and figurines and comics. It had been close to paradise. Now it is just a house. Smaller than he remembers. Or maybe it’s just that he’s grown.
Ted answers when he knocks, and doesn’t even do a double take at seeing Will for the first time in five years.
“Hey, do you know Mike’s address?” Will forces out, taken aback by the grey hair and frail frame. It seems that he wasn’t the only one getting older.
Ted grunts and walks away without a word, leaving the door open.
He reappears a second later with a page torn out of a notebook, letters scrawled on it. He looks at Will now, up and down, taking in the shaggy haircut, baggy jeans. His eyes linger on the earring disapprovingly, and Will feels that sense of unease that he has always experienced around this man. He had always known, the same way Lonnie had. From the first time he saw them, Will and his precious boy, he had labelled him in his mind. Watched them holding hands as kids, running around the backyard and then lying down to watch the clouds. Will was, to him, an unfortunate best friend, a stain, someone he didn’t approve of. Will hates that he still feels the mental strain, hates that, despite it all, he still wants to be liked.
Back in the car, he forgets all about Ted fucking Wheeler. He has to get there, now. He wishes that he asked more questions, because if this is related to the Upside Down he would’ve got on the next plane instead of driving 12 hours in the sleet and snow and rain. He had forgotten that was an option until the first time he had to stop for gas, staring blankly into the distance as his strong arms pumped the fuel into his old, banged up car.
He knows the street. It’s out on the edge of town, beside the tall trees that encapsulate the woods. Away from the town centre, isolated. Not somewhere he would have ever placed Mike. But things have changed. Maybe this is who he is now, someone who likes to be alone. Neither of them had ever liked being alone, and here in adulthood, they both find themselves more alone than ever.
He can see Lucas’s car as soon as he turns onto the street. He unintentionally speeds up, flying down the stretch of snow-covered road until he comes to a stop right outside, and slams hard on the brakes. His hands are shaking. It’s been two years since he has seen them, and five since he has seen any sign of Mike Wheeler. He always thought it would reach a point where he would have missed Mike for as long as he’d known him. And oh, how ferociously he had missed him. Those early days in New York were clouded by a Mike shaped fog, looming over him, hanging around street corners and jumping out at him from gutters. It was a kind of grief, a mourning of someone who was still alive. But he had promised himself - no more. It was the only way to move on, to live the rest of his life.
The house is in darkness, but Will clambers out anyway, and strides up to the door. Once he knocks, there will be no going back. This is the last time he won’t know what Mike’s face looks like now, the last time he won’t know what his expression will be when he sees him again.
He raises his hand and does a solid 3 knocks, and waits.
The door swings slowly open, and the only thing he takes in is red hair before he feels arms around him, a head buried in his neck. He can feel her breathing, coming in short, dangerous rasps. Tears stupidly fill his traitorous eyes. She still smells the same. Not everything has to change.
“You came.” Whispers Max, voice muffled.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” He responds, cursing himself for the choked way it comes out.
She pulls back but keeps him in her arms, not wanting to let go, making sure he’s real. She hasn’t aged a day, still those same sweet eyes.
“We weren’t sure.” She admits, taking him in. She stares at his face, no longer the boyish, soft featured cherub she remembers. He’s a man now, almost twenty five. His face still has this horrible open and honest quality, so endearing it makes her want to cry.
“I couldn’t call you back, the power cut off, the snow, and-”
“I got in the car right away.” He reassures her, rubbing a comforting circle on her arm. The power. Right. That’s why it was so dark tonight in Hawkins. And now he has to ask, has to know why he just drove all day and all night, why the terror is still encasing his heart.
“What’s wrong, Max? I’m really…You scared the shit out of me.”
She steps forwards and he follows her, already falling back into old patterns. He pulls out the pack of cigarettes that he keeps in the glove box and offers her one. They light them, and she takes one shaky drag, blowing smoke that mingles with the heavy fog.
“Mike… Mike hasn’t been… well. Mike hasn’t been well for a while.” She gets out, the weight of the words hanging in the air.
“What do you mean? So this has nothing to do with The Upside Down, or Vecna, or-”
She stops him, “Will.” Her eyes are impossibly soft, shimmering.
“Mike, as far as we can tell, has not slept in months. He walks the streets, or the woods, or he writes, but he doesn’t sleep. He talks himself in circles. He leaves us voicemails on the answering machine at all hours of the night, and won’t answer the door to Karen or Holly.”
She takes another deep draw and lets it hit the back of her throat.
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Will chokes out, feeling like he might throw up. He wants nothing more than to get in that car and turn around. He wants to run.
“Because you asked me not to.” Max responds, drawn and monotone. And she’s right, he had. No Mike talk allowed.
But he can’t understand why she chose to call him now. He had been 11 hours, states, days, a lifetime away. Just the way he thought he liked it.
She stubs out the cigarette and rubs her eyes. She has never looked more young. She has never looked more old and worn.
“Last night, he sent a message. It was different. Weird. He sounded… drugged. Is the only way I can put it. Slurring and not making any sense. When I called him back, there was no answer.”
Max turns to stare at him. “He always answers.”
Will is definitely going to throw up. There is a split second where he realises that Mike must be dead, his best friend in the whole world, gone. All those facts and little Will-isms that only he knows, gone, lost forever.
“He was passed out when we got here. Lucas nearly fucking crashed the car, speed limits be damned. Alive, but fucked up.” She finishes, staring blankly out into the woods, into the place where all this hurt had originated. Into the dark. Will can’t speak. His throat is all closed up, and an all-encompassing fear that he has not felt since Henry had tortured him so harshly that his eyes filled with blood begins to circle around his lungs, puncturing his breath.
“We took him to the hospital, and they did all the shit they’re supposed to do. Not sure if he meant to do it. Too many sleeping pills. We should have…Fuck. We should have been here. Not an hour away. Not-”
When she suddenly starts to cry, Will steps forward and wraps his arms around her. She fits right under his chin. They used to be at eye-level.
“Lucas is inside with him.” She mumbles into his coat, letting herself be held. His arms are so safe, their sensitive friend.
“He asked for you.” Max states, her head pulling away, angry tears pooling. “When he woke up, just for a few minutes, he said ‘Will’. So clearly. And I knew I had no choice.” She puts her head back into his chest, like she’s trying to hide.
“We didn’t know what else to do.” She cries, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Will whispers, reeling with all this information. “I’m here.”
“We need to-”
“We will.” He’s shaking so badly, they both are. He can’t help himself, and he places a kiss right on top of her head. The guilt is eating him alive. He’s so angry. Fucking furious at everything and everyone. Maybe that’s just his default setting these days. He never used to be like that, so rageful at the world. He was sweet and he was good and he cared too much. That Will would never have let this happen. That old feeling of love for Mike swoops down over him, and he lets it. It could never be stopped anyway, not really. Not fully. That was just the way of things.