Chapter Text
It's 1993 now. Five years since they drove a stake through the heart of the Upside Down. Five years since Vecna crumbled at their feet.
The Party hasn't been together in over a year. And honestly? Mike Wheeler didn't care about that as much as he probably should have. Sure, he missed them—the chaotic D&D campaigns, the late-night talks, the way they all fit together like puzzle pieces. But there was only one person he actually craved to see. Only one face that haunted the edges of his vision, that slipped into his dreams uninvited and refused to leave.
Will Byers. Who'd been gone from Hawkins for so long now that Mike felt like he was slowly unraveling, thread by thread.
It was hell. Beautiful, torturous hell.
Every night, without fail, Mike's mind would conjure him: Will's eyes, dark and warm, locking onto his across some imagined distance. The constellation of moles scattered across his neck, begging to be traced. His voice—that soft, careful way he said Mike's name, like it meant something. Like Mike meant something.
Once—okay, more than once—Mike had woken up gasping, sheets twisted around his legs, the ghost of a dream still burning behind his eyelids. A dream about Will. About them. The embarrassment would crash over him like a cold wave afterward, but God. He loved that dream. Loved it with a desperation that should have frightened him. He'd do every single thing he'd dreamed about, given half a chance. Given any chance.
Mike was going insane. He didn't bother denying it anymore.
He wrote poetry now—shitty, embarrassing poetry that he'd never show another living soul. Verses about the shape of Will's smile, about the way sunlight caught in his hair, about wanting someone so badly it felt like drowning. He thought about Will through every class, every meal, every hollow hour of the night. Fantasized about him before falling asleep, and yes—masturbated with Will's name caught silently in his throat, with the fantasy of Will right there, warm and real and his.
This wasn't going well for Mike. He was getting obsessed. The word sat heavy in his chest, but he couldn't deny it. He didn't even want to.
He still had the painting.
He'd figured out the truth months ago—that El had never commissioned it, that the whole thing had been Will's lie from start to finish. Mike didn't understand why, not really, but somewhere beneath the confusion was something else. Something that made his heart stutter every time he looked at those watercolor strokes. The fact that it came from Will—that Will had made this for him, had poured himself onto canvas and handed it over like it was nothing—made it one of the most precious things Mike owned.
Of course, Will himself was infinitely better. The real thing. But without that drawing? Without those painted dragons and that stupid, perfect knights? Mike would have lost his mind completely.
He'd lifted the painting to his face so many times, breathing in deep, that it had crossed well past "freaky" into something else entirely. He knew Will's smell now the way he knew his own heartbeat. Faint cedar, maybe. Something warm underneath. Something that made Mike's eyes flutter closed and his chest ache with longing.
He'd memorized it. Every note of it. And that was terrifying.
Months of this. Months of pining and dreaming and slowly coming apart at the seams.
Then one day—a Tuesday, gray and ordinary, the kind of day that didn't deserve to be remembered—Mike reached his limit. He couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't sit in his room another night, surrounded by Will's absence, drowning in it. He had to see him. Had to hear his voice, had to exist in the same space, had to breathe the same air. He needed Will Byers like he needed oxygen, and the realization sat heavy and undeniable in his gut.
He didn't think. He just moved.
Out of his room, down the hall, into the kitchen where the phone waited on the wall like an accusation. His heart slammed against his ribs. His hands shook as he grabbed the receiver.
"God..." The word came out breathless, barely a whisper. He stared at the rotary dial, at the numbers that would connect him across state lines, across the impossible distance that had grown between them.
What do I even say?
The question rattled through his skull as his finger found the first number. What could he say? Hey, Will. I've been going crazy without you. I think about you constantly. I've been writing poetry about your eyes and jerking off to the thought of you. Also, I figured out you lied about the painting, and I don't know why, but I haven't stopped thinking about that either.
No. No, he couldn't say any of that.
But he could say something. He could hear Will's voice, and maybe—maybe that would be enough to keep him sane for a little while longer.
His finger spun the dial. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Pick up," he murmured, the receiver pressed tight to his ear. "Pick up, pick up, pick up..."
Mike's finger trembled as it completed the final rotation. One ring. Two. His stomach dropped with each unanswered pulse of sound, a sickening lurch that made him grip the receiver tighter, knuckles going white.
Three rings. Four.
He's not gonna pick up. He's never gonna pick up, and you're gonna stand here like an idiot listening to—
Click.
"Hello?"
Oh, fuck.
The word detonated in Mike's skull, wiping out every coherent thought he'd ever had. Will's voice—slightly scratchy, a little distant, like he'd just woken up or maybe hadn't used it in a while—poured through the line and straight into Mike's chest. It settled there, warm and electric, making his heart stutter into some new, desperate rhythm.
He couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. His mouth opened, but nothing came out except a soft, embarrassing exhale that he prayed Will couldn't hear.
On the other end of the line, three states away, Will Byers was probably standing in his own kitchen. Or maybe his room. Mike's brain supplied images unbidden—Will in rumpled pajamas, hair sticking up in seventeen directions, blinking sleepily at the phone with those eyes, those impossibly dark eyes that Mike had dreamed about just last night. Had woken up from just last night with his heart pounding and his sheets tangled and Will's name caught in his throat.
Was he messy? Was he as cute as he was? Of course he was. Will was always cute. Will was cute when he was crying, when he was angry, when he was sick—Mike had catalogued extensive evidence over the years, not that he'd ever admit it.
"Hello?" Will said again, and there was a note of confusion now, a little crease in his voice that Mike could picture perfectly. "Is anyone there?"
Say something, you idiot. Say literally anything before he hangs up.
Mike cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet kitchen. He could feel heat crawling up his neck, could feel his face going red like a goddamn tomato, and Will wasn't even here. This was pathetic. This was so, so pathetic.
"Uhm... hey Will." His voice cracked on the hey. Actually cracked, like he was thirteen again and going through puberty for the second time. "It's me... Mike."
God that sounded awful. Stilted. Weird. Like he was some kind of robot learning to mimic human speech. He squeezed his eyes shut, forehead pressing against the cool kitchen wall, and wished desperately for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
There was a pause on the other end. A beat of silence that stretched like taffy, pulling thin and dangerous.
Then, "Mike?"
Just his name. Just two syllables. But the way Will said it—soft, surprised, like Mike was the last person he'd expected to hear from but maybe, maybe the person he'd wanted to hear from most—made something in Mike's chest crack wide open.
"Yeah," he managed, voice still doing that embarrassing wobble. "Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I just—" He swallowed hard, tried to gather the scattered remains of his composure. "How's it been going for you? I've miss— I mean... uh, yeah."
Kill me. Kill me now. Put me out of my misery.
The words had tumbled out wrong, all tangled up with the truth he'd been trying to bury for months. I've missed you. That's what he'd almost said. That's what his stupid, traitorous mouth had been about to confess, right there on the phone like some kind of lovesick idiot.
His face burned. His heart hammered. He pressed the receiver harder against his ear, desperate to hear Will's response, terrified of what it might be.
Another pause. Another stretch of silence that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Then, so quiet Mike almost missed it: "Mike... are you okay? You sound—" A small, nervous laugh. "You sound weird."
Yeah, because I'm in love with you and I haven't seen you in over a year and I've been slowly losing my mind and I called you without any plan because I couldn't go another second without hearing your voice.
"I'm fine," Mike lied, the words coming out too fast, too high. "I'm totally fine. Just—" He dragged a hand through his hair, gripped the curls tight, pulled. "Just wanted to hear your voice, I guess. It's been... it's been a while."
There. That was honest, at least. Honest and terrifying and maybe, hopefully, not too revealing.
On the other end of the line, three states away, Will Byers was probably standing in his own kitchen. Or maybe his room. Mike could picture it—the slight furrow between his brows, the way he'd bite his lip when he was thinking, the soft exhale of breath that meant he was trying to figure something out.
"I've missed you too, Mike."
The words hung in the air between them, fragile and electric. Mike's breath caught, his heart doing something painful and beautiful in his chest. For a moment—just a moment—he let himself imagine what those words might mean. That Will had been lying awake too. That Will had been thinking about him, dreaming about him, wanting him the same desperate way Mike did.
The painting.
The thought surfaced unbidden, sharp and confusing. Why lie about the painting? Why pretend El had commissioned it when she clearly hadn't? Mike had turned the question over in his mind a thousand times, had examined it from every angle, and he still couldn't make sense of it. Will had looked at him so strangely that day, handing over those watercolor dragons with something fragile and hopeful in his eyes. Like he was waiting for Mike to understand something. Like he was offering more than just paper and paint.
Mike had been too stupid, too wrapped up in El, to see it then. But now? Now he wondered.
"Mike? You still there?"
Will's voice pulled him back, and Mike realized he'd been silent too long. Way too long. Shit.
"Yeah," he said quickly, too loud. "Yeah, I'm here. Sorry, I just—" He laughed, a nervous, breathless sound. "I just wasn't expecting you to say that. The missing me part, I mean."
Smooth, Wheeler. Really smooth.
Another pause. Then, softer: "Why wouldn't I miss you? You're my..." A beat. "You're Mike."
You're my Mike. That's what it sounded like. That's what Mike's desperate, lovesick brain heard. He knew it wasn't real, knew he was reading into things that weren't there, but God. It made his chest ache anyway.
"your Mike," he repeated without thinking, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His eyes went wide. His face went nuclear. "I mean—no, that's not—I didn't mean—fuck, Will, I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that—"
But Will was laughing on the other end of the line. A real laugh, warm and surprised, and Mike forgot how to breathe entirely. He'd heard Will laugh a thousand times over the years, but this was different. This was just for him. Just for this stupid, awkward phone call in the middle of a Tuesday.
"It's okay, Mike." Will's voice was still warm with amusement. "God, you haven't changed at all."
"Is that good or bad?" Mike asked, and he hated how hopeful he sounded.
"Good," Will said quietly. "It's good."
The word settled into Mike's chest like a coal, burning and precious. He gripped the phone tighter, pressed it closer, wished he could crawl through the line and find himself standing right next to Will. Wished he could see his face, read his expression, figure out if there was anything behind those words besides friendship.
Stop it. Stop hoping. You're going to destroy yourself.
"Okay, so," Mike said, forcing himself to focus, to remember why he'd called in the first place. "So um... Will, I—" He swallowed hard. "Well, it's been so long since we've seen each other. And I just thought that uh... you—I mean we could meet up."
At my place would be perfect. I'd devour you. God you sound perfect and I would—
He cut the thought off brutally, squeezing his eyes shut. Not now. Not while Will could hear every pause, every shaky breath.
"Like, you could come to Hawkins for a weekend or something? I don't know, we could hang out. Like old times." He laughed nervously. "Better than old times. Whatever you want. We could do whatever you want."
Whatever you want. I'd give you whatever you want. I'd give you everything.
There was a pause on Will's end. Mike held his breath.
"Well... sure, why not?" Will said, and Mike's heart soared. "It's been forever. I'd love to see everyone—Dustin, Lucas, Max..."
Everyone. Right. Of course Will wanted to see everyone. It wasn't just about Mike. It was never just about Mike.
But still. Will had said yes. Will was coming back to Hawkins. Will would be here, in the same town, breathing the same air, existing in the same space. Mike could work with that. He could be patient. He could—
"Can I bring Carlton with me?"
The words hit Mike like a physical blow.
He felt them land—sharp and cold, right in the center of his chest. For a moment, he couldn't process them. Couldn't make sense of the sounds, the syllables, the meaning. They just hung there in the air, incomprehensible, while his brain scrambled to catch up.
Carlton.
Carlton.
Will's boyfriend. The one he'd mentioned in passing during their last phone call months ago. The one Mike had deliberately, viciously erased from his memory because thinking about him made something dark and ugly twist in his gut. Carlton, with his stupid name and his stupid face that Mike had never even seen but already hated with every fiber of his being.
Right.
Right.
Will has a boyfriend. Of course he does. Will is perfect. Will is kind and talented and beautiful, and people probably line up to date him. Why wouldn't he have someone? Why wouldn't he be happy?
Mike stands there, phone pressed to his ear, and feels the world tilt slightly sideways. His breath stops. His heart stops. Everything stops.
"Oh."
The sound comes out small. Smaller than he intended. He can hear it—the crack in his voice, the way the single syllable carries the weight of everything crumbling inside him.
Will is waiting on the other end. Probably confused. Probably wondering why Mike has gone suddenly, terrifyingly silent.
"Mike?" Will's voice is uncertain now. "Is that okay? I mean, if it's weird, he doesn't have to—"
"No!" The word bursts out of Mike, too loud, too fast. "No, it's fine. It's totally fine. Bring whoever you want. Bring—" He swallows hard against the lump in his throat. "Bring Carlton. Sure. Yeah."
Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
His hand is shaking. The receiver feels slippery in his grip. He stares at the kitchen wall, at the faded yellow paint, at the phone cord curling toward the floor, and tries desperately to reassemble the shattered pieces of himself.
"Mike?" Will's voice is softer now, concerned. "Are you sure? You sound—"
"I'm fine." The words are automatic, hollow. "I'm totally fine. I just—" He laughs, and it sounds wrong even to his own ears. "I forgot you had a boyfriend, I guess. That's all. It just surprised me."
Liar. You didn't forget. You've been trying to forget for months, and now you can't anymore, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—
"Oh." Will's voice is strange now. Hard to read. "Yeah. Carlton. We've been together for... I don't know, like eight months now? It's not—" A pause. Will sounded somehow… distressed? "It's not super serious or anything."
Not super serious. The words echo in Mike's skull, and some small, pathetic part of him latches onto them. Not super serious. That means something, right? That means there's still a chance? That means—
Stop it. Just stop.
"That's great," Mike hears himself say. "That's really great, Will. I'm happy for you."
The lie tastes like ash in his mouth.
On the other end of the line, three states away, Will Byers is probably standing in his own kitchen. Or maybe his room. Mike can't picture it anymore—can't see anything except the vague, imagined shape of this Carlton person, this stranger who gets to be near Will every day, who gets to hear his voice and see his smile and touch his—
"Mike?" Will's voice cuts through the darkness. "You still there?"
"Yeah." Mike's voice is steadier now. Hollow, but steady. "Yeah, I'm here. So—" He forces brightness into his tone, forces himself to sound normal, fine, okay. "So you'll come? Both of you? When were you thinking?"
He doesn't want Carlton here. He wants to burn every bridge between Hawkins and wherever the hell Carlton lives. He wants to reach through the phone and grab Will and hold on and never let go.
But he can't have that. So he'll take whatever he can get.
"Maybe next weekend?" Will suggests. "If that works for you. I'll have to check with my mom, and Carlton's got some thing with his family, but—"
"Next weekend's perfect." Mike cuts him off because he can't listen to another word about Carlton, can't hear Will make plans around this other person, this intruder, this thief who's stolen something Mike never even had. "Just let me know. Whenever. I'll be here."
I'll always be here, Will. Waiting. Hoping. Dying by inches.
"Okay." Will sounds pleased. Relieved, maybe. "Okay, cool. I'll call you when I know for sure."
"Cool," Mike echoes. "Yeah. Cool."
Silence stretches between them. Mike should hang up. He knows he should hang up. Every second he stays on the line is another second he might say something he can't take back, another second his voice might crack and reveal everything he's trying so desperately to hide.
But he can't. He can't be the one to end this. Can't be the one to let Will go.
"Mike?" Will's voice is quiet now. Intimate. Like they're sharing a secret. "I'm really glad you called. I mean it."
Mike's eyes sting. He blinks rapidly, stares at the ceiling, refuses to let the tears fall.
"Me too," he whispers. "I'm really glad too."
Another pause. Then, so soft Mike almost misses it: "I'll see you soon."
"Yeah." Mike's voice breaks on the word, just slightly. Just enough that he hopes Will didn't notice. "See you soon, Will."
Click.
The line goes dead.
Mike stands there for a long moment, receiver still pressed to his ear, listening to nothing. Then slowly, carefully, he lowers it back onto the cradle. His hands are shaking. His whole body is shaking.
He turns around, slides down the kitchen wall until he's sitting on the linoleum floor, and presses his face into his hands.
Carlton.
Will has a boyfriend named Carlton.
Will is bringing him here. To Hawkins. To Mike's house probably, because of course Will will want to stay here, and Mike will have to watch them together, will have to see Will smile at someone else, touch someone else, love someone else—
A sound escapes him. Not quite a sob. Not quite a laugh. Something in between, broken and ugly.
He thinks about the painting upstairs, hidden under his bed where no one can find it. Thinks about all those nights he spent breathing it in, memorizing Will's scent, pretending it meant something. Thinks about the dreams, the fantasies, the desperate, lonely hope that had kept him going for months.
All of it. Wasted.
Mike sits on his kitchen floor, surrounded by the ordinary sounds of his ordinary house, and lets himself fall apart.
Upstairs, under his bed, the painting waits. Dragons and knights and a boy who loved someone enough to lie for them.
Mike doesn't know any of that. Not yet.
But he will.