Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Chapter Text
Morning in New York never arrived quietly.
It came in layers—sirens weaving through the streets below, a car horn held too long out of impatience, the muffled argument of neighbors bleeding through thin walls. Someone upstairs dropped something heavy. Somewhere nearby, a radio played a song Will didn’t recognize, the bass vibrating faintly through the floor.
The apartment was small, barely holding the two of them, but it was theirs. A secondhand couch pushed against the wall. A coffee table scarred with old rings. Sunlight fought its way through the grimy window, catching dust in the air and turning it golden.
Will sat cross-legged on the floor with a mug warming his hands, steam curling up toward his face. Across from him, Ryan leaned against the couch, book open in his lap, one ankle hooked casually over the other. A cassette played softly from the tape deck by the window—something mellow, guitar-heavy, the kind of music that didn’t demand attention.
Will didn’t have class that day. Ryan didn’t either. It was one of those rare mornings with nowhere to be.
“I swear,” Ryan said without looking up, “if Mrs. Klein upstairs vacuums one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Will smiled faintly. “At least she does it during the day now.”
“That’s growth.”
Ryan glanced up then, smiling back, eyes warm and easy. Will returned it, automatically. He liked Ryan’s smile. He liked the way mornings like this felt safe, uncomplicated.
Still—
his chest ached with something he didn’t have a name for.
His gaze drifted to the window. The street below was already crowded, people weaving past one another like they were all late for something important. A bus hissed as it pulled away from the curb. Somewhere, a dog barked endlessly.
Too loud, a part of him thought.
He missed the quiet.
Back in Hawkins, mornings had been gentle. Mist clinging to the trees. Crickets still chirping even after sunrise. The creak of the porch steps. His mom humming in the kitchen. The woods behind the house breathing slow and steady, like they’d always be there.
Sometimes he missed it so sharply it startled him.
Will took a sip of coffee, eyes unfocusing as memory crept in the way it always did—uninvited, persistent. Hawkins wasn’t just a place. It was faces. Voices. Laughter echoing through basements and fields.
Mike.
The thought came the way it usually did—soft, sudden, unavoidable.
Every now and then, without warning, Will found himself wondering what Mike was doing. If he still talked with his hands when he got excited. If his voice still cracked when he was nervous. If he still stayed up too late thinking about things he couldn’t fix.
Will had told himself he was over it. Over him. He had moved across the country, built a life, fallen into something new and steady. He was supposed to be past that version of himself—the boy who waited too long, who loved too quietly.
And yet.
Ryan didn’t know Mike. Didn’t know any of it, really. He knew about Hawkins in the vaguest way—small town, weird stuff, trauma Will didn’t like talking about. Ryan knew Will liked to draw, liked early mornings, hated hospitals.
He didn’t know about the way Will still felt hollow when October came around.
Will’s eyes drifted to the phone on the kitchen counter.
The beige landline sat there innocently, its cord coiled neatly beside it. It hadn’t made a sound. It wasn’t doing anything.
Still, Will looked at it longer than necessary.
Eleven flickered across his thoughts then, sharp and sudden—the last image burned into his memory. Her standing at the edge of the gate as everything collapsed behind her. The sky tearing. The world ending. And then—
Gone.
No body. No goodbye. Just absence.
His fingers tightened around the mug.
The phone rang.
The sound was loud, abrupt, wrong—cutting through the music, the city noise, the quiet safety of the room. Will startled so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.
For a second, he just stared at it.
Ryan looked up immediately. “You want me to get that?”
Will blinked. His heart was beating too fast. “Um—” He swallowed. “No. I— It’s probably my mom.”
That wasn’t entirely a lie. Joyce did call sometimes from wherever she and Hopper had decided to roam that month.
Will stood, legs unsteady, and crossed the room. He lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
There was a pause. Just long enough for his breath to catch.
“Hey.”
The voice hit him like muscle memory.
Mike.
Mike Wheeler.
Will’s mind flooded with him—dark hair falling into his eyes, the way he chewed on his lip when he was thinking, the sound of his laugh echoing in the basement. Bike rides. Walkie-talkies. Shared looks that said everything and nothing at the same time.
“Hi,” Will said, voice barely steady.
“Will. It’s Mike.”
As if Will wouldn’t know.
As if there was any version of reality where he wouldn’t.
“Yeah,” Will said softly. “I know.”
Another pause. Awkward. Familiar.
“How—uh. How are you?” Mike asked.
“I’m… good. Yeah. Doing good.” Will glanced back at Ryan, who had returned to his book but was clearly listening anyway. “How about you?”
“Fine. I mean—yeah. Fine.”
They filled the space with nothing. College. Work. Weather. Mike mentioned Hawkins like it was just another town, not a place soaked in memory. Will told him he was in New York, that it was loud, that he was adjusting.
Then Mike cleared his throat.
“So,” he said. “I was thinking… this Halloween. Um.” He hesitated. “You could come to Hawkins. Like—like the old days.”
Will closed his eyes.
“I called everyone,” Mike continued, a little rushed now. “Dustin, Lucas, Max—they’re all coming. Steve too. I just thought—maybe we could all be together again. Just for a bit.”
Will felt something crack open in his chest.
Two years. Two years of telling himself he’d moved on. Two years of building something new on top of old foundations that never quite stopped shifting.
Ryan looked up then. Met his eyes. Silently mouthed, Who is it?
Will covered the receiver with his hand. “Old friend,” he mouthed back.
Mike was still talking, explaining, filling the silence like he always did when he was nervous.
“—I mean, you don’t have to, obviously. I just thought I’d ask.”
Will stared at the wall, at a crack in the paint shaped vaguely like a lightning bolt.
He knew this feeling. The pull. The way Mike always managed to reach him without trying.
“Yeah,” Will heard himself say. “I’ll come.”
The word echoed.
“Really?” Mike sounded lighter instantly, relief bleeding through. “Okay. Okay, great.”
Will hung up a minute later, heart still racing.
He stayed where he was for a moment after hanging up, the phone still warm in his hand. He didn’t put it down immediately. He just stood there, staring at the wall like it might explain what had just happened.
Behind him, the cassette clicked softly as the song ended and rewound itself.
Ryan turned the page of his book.
“Will?” he said, not looking up yet. “You okay?”
Will set the receiver back in its place very carefully, like if he did it wrong, the phone might ring again. He walked back to the couch and sat down, this time closer to the edge, knees pulled up slightly, shoulders tight.
“I’m… yeah,” he said.
Ryan finally looked up.
That’s when his expression changed.
“You’re not,” Ryan said, gentle but certain.
Will exhaled through his nose and rubbed his palms together. The city outside felt louder now.
“I’m not going to make it to the Halloween party,” Will said.
Ryan frowned. “What?”
“The one at Sam's,” Will added quickly. “Next week.”
Ryan stared at him. “But—we’ve been planning that for, like, a month.”
“I know.” Will’s voice dropped. “I’m really sorry.”
They had planned it carefully. Not loudly. Not in a way that would make people talk.
They hadn’t wanted matching costumes or anything obvious. Just something subtle. Something only people who already knew would notice.
They’d spent hours walking through thrift stores, debating fabrics and colors. Laughing when something looked ridiculous. Sitting on the floor of the apartment later, surrounded by discarded ideas.
They’d finally settled on it last night.
Two students from Dead Poets Society. Nothing labeled. Nothing explained. Just the same world, the same era. Blazers that looked borrowed, ties loosened, notebooks tucked under arms like they mattered. To anyone else, it would look like coincidence—two college guys dressed vaguely academic, vaguely old-fashioned.
At the time, it had felt important. Almost urgent.
Now it felt… distant. Like something that belonged to a different timeline.
Ryan closed his book and placed it on the coffee table. “Why?”
Will hesitated.
“A friend called,” he said.
Ryan waited.
“From back home.”
Ryan nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Will kept staring at his hands. He could feel Ryan watching him, but he didn’t look up.
“Is everything okay there?” Ryan asked.
“I think so,” Will said. Then, after a beat, “I mean—maybe. I don’t know.”
Ryan shifted closer, their knees brushing. “Do you want to go?”
That question lodged itself in Will’s chest.
“I don’t know,” he said again. “But I think I have to.”
Ryan studied his face, searching for something Will wasn’t giving him. Then he leaned back, exhaling quietly.
“Okay,” he said.
No anger. No demand for explanation.
That somehow made Will feel worse.
---
The rest of the day passed strangely.
They made lunch but barely ate. Ryan talked about a class he was behind in. Will nodded in the right places, smiled when expected. Inside, his thoughts kept circling back.
Will nodded again when Ryan paused, like he was waiting for a response, but Will hadn’t heard the last sentence. Or the one before that. His mind kept slipping, drifting backward, replaying the same moment over and over.
Mike called.
The words still didn’t feel real.
He could still hear the way Mike had said his name. Not rushed. Not casual. Like he’d been holding it in his mouth for a second before letting it go. Will pressed his thumb into the edge of his plate until it left a faint white mark, grounding himself.
Will liked Ryan. He really did. Liked the way he listened, the way he didn’t demand explanations Will wasn’t ready to give. And that made everything worse, somehow. Because he didn’t know what to do with the feeling sitting in his chest now—this mix of guilt and longing and something unresolved that refused to stay buried.
He told himself it was nostalgia.
That once he actually saw Mike—once they talked like normal people, like adults—it would fade. That he’d been projecting something old onto something that didn’t exist anymore.
But the thought of seeing him made his stomach twist.
Three and a half years ago.
The Squawk.
His voice shaking, hands cold, heart in his throat as he tried to explain something he barely understood himself. Saying too much and not enough at the same time.
I don't like girls
He’s just my Tammy.
Even now, the memory made heat crawl up his neck. He remembered how quiet everyone had gone. How Mike had looked at him—confused, then apologetic later at the tower, saying he hadn’t seen it, hadn’t understood, had been too wrapped up in himself.
Best friends, they’d said.
And then there was the painting.
God.
The painting in the van, on the way to rescue El. The lie he’d told about it. How he’d never corrected it. How Mike had believed him.
The embarrassment hit him fresh, sharp enough that he looked away from Ryan, blinking hard.
He hadn’t talked to Mike about any of that. Not then. Not later. And somehow, years had passed anyway.
Will had stopped measuring closeness by frequency a long time ago.
There had been a time—right after everything ended—when he thought staying connected meant constant proof. Calling more. Writing more. Checking in, just to hear someone breathe on the other end of the line and know they were still there. But life didn’t work that way. It never had.
There were long stretches where he didn’t hear Dustin’s voice at all. Weeks where Lucas existed only as someone he thought about in passing. Max lived entirely in memory now—unchanged, frozen in the last moment he’d seen her. Letters went unwritten. Calls were postponed. Postcards arrived late, if they arrived at all. Birthdays were remembered days after, followed by apologies that didn’t need explaining.
And still—nothing broke.
As a wise man once said, they’d all got shared trauma.
It was true. Surviving something like that together changed the shape of things. It made distance irrelevant. It made time small.
They didn’t need to talk every day to stay close. Silence didn’t mean distance. Time didn’t mean loss.
Because when Dustin did call, Will never had to remember how to be his friend. Lucas still sounded like Lucas. Max, even absent, still existed in him exactly as she always had. They all are still felt solid—like someone who would show up if it mattered, without needing to be asked.
What held them together wasn’t effort. It wasn’t maintenance.
It was survival.
Family. Not friends.
That’s what Will told himself, anyway.
He thought about how little he had really talked to them since Hawkins, how lives had spread out like ribbons in every direction, and yet… somehow, some unspoken thread remained.
One thought after another collided in his mind until, without realizing it, his hand was on the phone. Fingers hovering over the buttons. He took a breath. One, two. Finally, he pressed them, letting the connection bridge the miles.
The line crackled once before it connected.
“Hey.”
There was a half-second pause on the other end, like the word had landed unexpectedly.
“Will?” Dustin’s voice lifted immediately, bright and disbelieving. “Oh my god—hi. Hi. What the hell, man. What’ve you been up to?”
Will smiled despite himself, fingers tightening around the receiver. “Uh… nothing. Just… you know. Stuff.” A beat. “What about you?”
Dustin huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, well—remember that thing I told you about? The thing Steve and I were talking about?”
“The… thing?” Will said, already knowing.
“Yeah. That.” Dustin rushed on, excitement tumbling over itself. “Not like—nothing weird. Not detectives or anything.” He lowered his voice instinctively, like someone might be listening. “More like… a facility. A place people can come to when something’s wrong and nobody believes them. When things don’t make sense.”
Will’s chest tightened. Of course that’s what they’d build.
“We’re calling it the Outreach Center. For now,” Dustin added. “We’re still figuring it out. But yeah—we’re looking at places. Offices. Like, real ones.”
“Wow,” Will breathed. “That’s… that’s huge.”
“Yeah,” Dustin said, quieter now, like the reality of it had just caught up. Then, almost carefully, “So… I’m guessing that’s not why you called.”
Will swallowed. “I got a call from—”
“Mike,” Dustin said immediately.
Will exhaled. “Yeah.”
There it was. The name that sat heavy between them.
“I got it too,” Dustin said. “And honestly?” His voice dipped. “I was relieved. Like—actually relieved. I’ve been worried about him, Will. For a while.”
Will’s brow furrowed. “Worried how?”
“He dropped out,” Dustin said. “College. A year ago.”
“What?” Will sat up straighter. “Why? He liked it. I thought he—”
“Yeah. Me too.” Dustin sighed. “He didn’t really say much. And we don’t… talk that often anymore. But still. You can hear it in his voice, you know? Something’s off.”
Will stared at the wall across from him. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly.
“That’s why this felt like… I don’t know. An opening,” Dustin continued. “Like maybe this is the excuse. Halloween. Everyone in one place. I can talk to him without it being weird.”
“Are you staying long?” Will asked.
“Probably not,” Dustin admitted. “I’ve got too much going on here. The Center, paperwork, Steve breathing down my neck.” A faint laugh. “But at least I can talk to him. Face to face.”
“Yeah,” Will said. “Same. I’ve got classes. I don’t think I’ll stay after dinner either.”
“So you’re coming,” Dustin said, like he needed to hear it out loud.
“Yeah. Lucas and Max too, right?”
“Yeah. And Steve. He lives there, so—kind of unavoidable.”
Will hesitated. “What about the others? Nancy? Robin?”
“I don’t think so,” Dustin said. “Mike didn’t mention them. And Jonathan—”
“—he’s touring,” Will finished softly. “With that band. He’s their videographer or something.”
“Yeah,” Dustin said, smiling into the phone.
“Music, cameras. Guy’s living his dream.”
“We all deserve that,” Will said after a moment. “After everything.”
“Yeah,” Dustin agreed. Then, more honestly,
“It’s just… Mike. He’s the one I’m worried about. Feels like he never really got a happy ending.”
Will closed his eyes. Mike’s laugh. Mike’s anger. Mike standing between them and everything terrible like it was instinct, not courage.
“Yeah,” he said again, but this time it hurt.
“I don’t think Nancy or Robin will make it,” Dustin added. “But… we’ll see.”
“Yeah,” Will said. “We’ll see in a few days.”
“Yeah, man,” Dustin replied. “See you there.”
“Bye, Dustin.”
“Bye, Will.”
The line went dead with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.
He let his arm drop, the phone resting loosely in his hand. The room felt too quiet again. His thoughts weren’t sharp — just crowded. Dustin’s voice. Mike’s name. Hawkins. Halloween. All of it sitting in his chest at once, heavy and unmoving.
He didn’t hear Ryan approach.
He only felt him.
Warmth at his back. Arms sliding around his waist, slow and familiar, like Ryan already knew Will wasn’t going to turn around. His chin rested lightly against Will’s shoulder, breath warm through the fabric of his sweater.
“Hey,” Ryan said softly. Not questioning yet. Just present.
Will exhaled, the kind of breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“You okay?”
The question wasn’t careful, but it wasn’t invasive either. Ryan never pried. He just noticed. Always noticed.
Will nodded, even though Ryan couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” he said. The word came out automatically. Too quickly.
Ryan didn’t move away. His arms tightened, just slightly — not to trap, not to demand. Just to remind.
“You don’t have to be,” Ryan said. “But… if you are, that’s okay too.”
Will swallowed.
He leaned back into the hold without thinking, letting himself be held fully this time. It surprised him, how much he needed it. How easily his body gave in, like it recognized safety before his mind could catch up.
Ryan’s hand traced small, absent circles against his stomach. Grounding. Patient.
“I know something’s wrong,” Ryan murmured. Not accusing. Just honest. “You don’t go that quiet unless it is.”
Will closed his eyes.
This — this — was the part that hurt the most. The gentleness. The way Ryan didn’t push but still stayed. The way affection was offered without conditions. Will craved it in a way that scared him, because it made everything else feel sharper by comparison.
“I’m really okay,” Will said again, softer this time. Less convincing.
Ryan pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, brief and unassuming.
“Okay,” he said, like he believed Will had the right to choose silence. “But I’m here. If you want to talk. Now, later. Whenever.”
Will nodded again. His throat felt tight.
Ryan rested his forehead against Will’s shoulder for a moment longer, then loosened his hold — not pulling away completely, just enough to give Will space without leaving it empty.
---
A few days later, Will packed anyway.
He told himself he didn’t need to. It was just Hawkins. Just dinner. Just a weekend, maybe not even that. He wasn’t staying. He knew that. He’d already decided.
Still, he pulled his duffel out from under the bed.
He folded clothes slowly, more carefully than necessary. A sweater he probably wouldn’t wear. An extra shirt he definitely wouldn’t need. Socks rolled and unrolled again, like the decision might change if he touched them long enough.
He didn’t name the hope while it sat there, quiet and unreasonable.
Maybe Mike would ask him to stay. Maybe just one more day. Maybe two.
The thought settled somewhere in his chest, fragile and embarrassing. He packed anyway.
Before he zipped the bag, he opened the desk drawer and took out the envelope he’d been pretending not to think about. Cash, folded and refolded. A few bills tucked behind a check he hadn’t cashed yet. Money he’d been saving carefully, meant for rent buffers and emergencies — not last-minute trips back to a town he swore he’d outgrown.
He counted it once. Then again.
It would be enough. Barely.
Ryan leaned against the doorway, watching without commenting at first.
After a moment, Ryan said, “I’m coming with you.”
Will paused, a sweater halfway folded in his hands. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Ryan said easily. “I want to.”
Will looked up then. “It’s just… Indiana.”
Ryan smiled, small and fond. “Yeah. And you shouldn’t have to go back there alone.”
That did something to him.
“I don’t really have anything going on here,” Ryan continued, like it was an afterthought.
“I’ll get a return ticket. Same dates as you. We’ll come back together.”
Will hesitated. He didn’t say what flickered through his mind — how complicated that made things. How grateful he was. How part of him wanted to be alone with his thoughts and another part was terrified of exactly that.
“Okay,” he said instead.
Ryan crossed the room and kissed his temple, brief and familiar. “Good.”
The airport was loud in that dull, constant way that made thinking harder and easier at the same time.
They’d bought the tickets the old way — a phone call, a wait on hold, then a stop at the counter with IDs slid across scuffed laminate. Will had handed over most of the cash from the envelope without looking at it too closely, like if he didn’t watch it leave his hands, it wouldn’t feel real.
They flew out of New York early — too early for real conversations, too early for emotions to surface properly. Will watched the city shrink beneath the plane, all steel and glass dissolving into gray lines. He wondered, not for the first time, how many versions of himself he’d lived here without realizing it.
Ryan slept most of the flight, shoulder pressed lightly into Will’s arm. Will didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, hands folded, thoughts drifting where they always did when he tried not to guide them.
Hawkins.
Mike.
That phone call that still hadn’t settled into memory yet — still sharp around the edges, like it could cut him again if he thought about it too directly.
By the time they landed in Indianapolis, Will felt like he’d already crossed something invisible.
The bus ride was quieter.
Flat roads. Open sky. Cornfields stretching endlessly, the landscape changing in a way that felt both unfamiliar and painfully known. Will watched it all pass, heart doing that strange, uneven thing it always did when Indiana came into view — not fear exactly, not nostalgia either. Something heavier. Something layered.
Ryan reached over at one point and laced their fingers together without looking. No commentary. No questions.
Will let it happen.
The Hawkins sign appeared suddenly, small and unassuming, like it hadn’t once been the center of the universe.
“There it is,” Ryan said softly.
Will nodded.
The bus hissed as it pulled to a stop.
For a second, Will didn’t move.
Hawkins was right there — smaller than he remembered, quieter than the city he’d learned to survive in, but heavy in a way New York had never been. The air felt different. Thicker. Like it remembered him.
Ryan stood first, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“This is it,” he said gently, like he wasn’t sure whether to sound excited or careful.
Will nodded and followed him down the steps.
The station was barely a station at all. A bench. A sign. A road stretching out into a town that had raised him and broken him and somehow let him leave anyway. He took a breath that felt like it reached somewhere deep in his chest, somewhere old.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had.
“Byers!”
The shout cut through his thoughts, loud and unmistakable.
Will looked up just in time to see Dustin barreling toward him, arms already halfway out like he’d decided hugging was non-negotiable.
Steve’s car was pulled over nearby, engine still running, Steve leaning against the hood like he belonged there — older, broader, but unmistakably Steve.
Before Will could fully brace himself, Dustin was there.
“Oh my god,” Dustin said, gripping him tight. “You’re real. You’re actually here.”
Will laughed, breathless, arms coming up automatically. “Hi to you too.”
Steve pushed off the car and walked over, grin softening when he reached them. “Look at you,” he said, giving Will a quick, firm hug. “College looks good on you, bud.”
Will felt something loosen in his chest. “Yeah. You look good too.”
Then there was that brief, awkward half-second — the moment where Ryan was still standing just behind him, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Oh,” Will said quickly, stepping aside. “This is Ryan. My—”
He paused, then said it plainly. “My boyfriend.”
Dustin’s eyebrows shot up. Then his face broke into the widest smile. “Nice. Hi. I’m Dustin.”
Steve nodded, warm and easy. “Steve. Welcome to Hawkins. Sorry in advance.”
Ryan laughed, shaking their hands. “I’ve heard… some things.”
“Only the good ones, I hope,” Dustin said, already reaching for Will’s bag. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”
The car ride felt surreal.
Will sat in the back, Ryan beside him, watching familiar streets slide past the window. Houses he remembered biking past. Trees that looked the same, like time had skipped right over them. Others felt different — repainted, rebuilt, subtly altered in ways that made his chest ache.
“How long you staying?” Dustin asked, glancing at him through the rearview mirror.
“Just for Halloween,” Will said. “Probably.”
Steve hummed. “Probably’s doing a lot of work there.”
Will didn’t answer.
They passed the school. The old arcade building. Roads that still felt mapped into his bones. And then — without warning — the library came into view.
Will’s breath caught.
The car slowed at the intersection, just long enough for the building to settle into his vision. Brick. Windows. Ordinary. Too ordinary.
His eyes burned before he could stop it.
Ryan shifted beside him, noticing immediately. “Will?”
He shook his head, staring hard at the floor of the car, blinking fast. His throat closed around the memory — Eleven standing there, bloodied and shaking. The gate. The light. The way she had disappeared like the world had swallowed her whole.
He shut his eyes tight, like that might push it away.
Steve glanced back, his expression changing when he saw Will’s face. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, like he understood more than words could cover.
Will opened his eyes again, forcing himself to breathe.
Not now, he told himself. Not yet.
As they turned onto Mike’s street, his nerves finally caught up with him.
His hands curled into his sleeves. His heartbeat felt loud in his ears.
He hadn’t seen everyone yet. Hadn’t seen him.
The house came into view — painfully familiar, unchanged in that way that felt unfair. The driveway. The porch. The place where so much of his childhood still lived, untouched by time.
Dustin pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.
“We’re here,” he said, softer now.
Will swallowed.
He wasn’t sure what he was walking into — old friends, old truths, old feelings he wasn’t convinced had ever really gone away.
And somewhere inside that house was Mike.
The thought settled heavy and electric in his chest as he reached for the door handle.
Will stepped out of the car slowly. The air felt tighter here, like it carried memory instead of oxygen. He could almost hear the echo of bikes skidding to a stop, the slam of the basement door, Mike yelling for snacks upstairs.
The front door opened before anyone knocked.
“Oh my—Will?”
Mrs. Wheeler’s voice broke in the middle, like she hadn’t expected him to be real.
Then she was there, arms around him, hugging him hard enough that it knocked the breath out of his chest. He froze for half a second before hugging her back, the familiar scent of laundry detergent and something warm and domestic wrapping around him.
“Look at you,” she said, pulling back just enough to cup his face. “You’ve grown so much. You’re—oh, you’re so thin. Are you eating properly?”
Will laughed softly. “I am. I promise.”
She noticed Ryan then, standing just behind him, uncertain but polite.
“Oh,” Will said, heart skipping once. “This is Ryan. He’s my—”
He swallowed. “My boyfriend.”
Something gentle settled over Mrs. Wheeler’s face. No surprise. No hesitation. Just warmth.
“Well,” she said, smiling at Ryan, “we’re very happy to have you here.”
Ryan nodded, visibly relieved. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Before Will could say anything else, someone barreled into his side.
“Will!”
Holly wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing tight. Will blinked, then laughed as he hugged her back.
“Holly,” he said, stunned. “You’re—wow. You’re tall.”
She pulled back, hands on her hips. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
He smiled. “Middle school treating you okay?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m in high school.”
That stopped him.
“Oh,” he said, genuinely startled. Then, quieter, “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”
Time had moved on without asking him.
Lucas and Max appeared next, both smiling in that familiar, easy way that made his chest ache. Hugs followed — solid, grounding, real. The kind that reminded him these people still existed outside memory.
“You look good,” Max said.
“Yeah,” Lucas added. “Different. But good.”
Will nodded, unsure how to explain that he felt both at once.
They stepped inside.
The living room looked untouched by time. The same couch. The same framed photos. And then — just past the stairs — the door to the basement.
Will’s gaze lingered there.
He could see it all so clearly. Mike sprawled on the floor. Dustin shouting rules. Himself, sitting close to Mike without realizing why it felt important.
His chest tightened.
“Mike’s upstairs,” Mrs. Wheeler said casually, like she hadn’t just detonated something inside him.
Will’s breath caught.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
He turned.
Mike stood there, one hand on the railing.
The room seemed to fade, voices dulling into nothing but noise, because suddenly there was only this: the boy who had been his best friend, his almost, his always.
Chapter Text
Mike was just standing there.
That was the strangest part of it — how still he was. How the room seemed to thin around him, like the walls had quietly stepped back, like the noise of everyone else had drained away without Will noticing. Voices blurred. Movement dulled. It felt as if the world had narrowed itself down to a single point, and that point was Mike Wheeler, a few feet away.
He looked tired.
Not the dramatic kind of tired, not the kind that begged for concern — just the kind that settled into a person slowly, over years. There were glasses perched on his nose, thin-framed, practical. Reading glasses, Will realized dimly, because a second later Mike lifted them off, folded them with absent care, and tucked them into the pocket of his shirt like it was a habit he didn’t think about anymore.
That hurt more than it should have.
His hair was still curly. Shorter than it used to be, combed loosely to the side, like he’d tried to tame it and given up halfway. If you looked hard enough — and Will did — you could see his dad in him now. The slope of his shoulders. The way he stood, weight uneven, like he was always bracing himself for something. Mr. Wheeler, softened and reshaped by time.
But beneath all of that — beneath the tired eyes and the grown-up posture and the glasses and the quiet — it was still Mike.
Still the boy who used to sit cross-legged on a basement floor, hands moving wildly as he told stories about other worlds and impossible heroes.
Still the boy who once said we’ll go crazy together like it was a promise, not a joke.
Still the boy who wrapped his arms around Will without hesitation whenever the dark got too close, whenever fear crept in and refused to leave.
Still the boy Will loved.
The realization landed gently and then all at once, like something he’d known forever but had never let himself say out loud.
Loved.
He’d called it a crush. He’d buried it under that word, worn it down until it felt smaller, safer. Something temporary. Something he could outgrow. Something he could leave behind when he left Hawkins.
But standing here now, with Mike only a few steps away, Will knew how badly he’d lied to himself.
You don’t avoid something for years if it’s small.
Mike looked up then.
Their eyes met.
And for a heartbeat — just one — Will had the impossible, aching sense that Mike saw all of it. Not just the version of Will standing in front of him now, older and quieter and holding himself together with careful hands, but the boy he used to be. The one who painted feelings he couldn’t say. The one who loved too much and learned how to survive anyway.
Mike’s expression shifted — surprise first, then something softer, something almost unguarded.
“Hey,” Mike said.
Just that. Just hey.
And Will felt it everywhere.
Mike cleared his throat.
“Hey,” he said again, like the first one hadn’t been enough. Like saying it twice might make it real.
Will swallowed. His voice took a second to come back to him. “Hey.”
It sounded smaller than he wanted it to. Or maybe it sounded exactly right.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Mike shifted his weight, hands slipping into his pockets and then back out again, like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. He glanced over Will’s shoulder once — probably checking where everyone else was — and then his eyes came back, steady this time.
“You—” Mike started, then stopped. He let out a short breath and tried again.
“You made it.”
Will nodded. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Not awkward exactly. Just… full.
Mike smiled, just barely. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I almost didn’t,” Will said before he could stop himself.
Mike’s eyebrows lifted, curiosity soft but careful. “Oh.”
“Not because I didn’t want to,” Will added quickly. “I mean— I did. Want to. I just…” He trailed off, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. “It’s been a while.”
Mike huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
Silence settled again, but this one felt different — heavier, closer. Like they were circling something neither of them wanted to name yet.
“You look…” Mike began, then hesitated. His eyes flicked over Will, taking him in properly now. Taller. Older. Softer around the edges. Still unmistakably him. “Different,” he finished.
Will smiled faintly. “You too.”
Mike glanced down, self-conscious, adjusting the glasses still tucked into his pocket. “Yeah. Guess that happens.”
“Guess it does.”
Another beat.
“So,” Mike said, rocking slightly on his heels. “New York.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it like?”
Will thought about the noise. The crowds. The way the city never really slept. The way he sometimes missed the quiet so badly it felt physical.
“Loud,” he said honestly. “All the time.”
Mike smiled at that, small and knowing. “Figures.”
“But good,” Will added. “Mostly.”
Mike nodded. He looked like he wanted to ask more — about college, about life, about who you are now — but something held him back.
“I’m glad you came,” Mike said instead. His voice was softer now. “Really.”
Will felt that settle somewhere deep in his chest. “Me too.”
They stood there, suspended, until Mike finally glanced toward the hallway.
That was when the world eased back in.
Not loudly. Not all at once. Just enough to remind them they weren’t alone.
Voices drifted from behind them — low, overlapping. Someone laughed, then stopped too quickly. A chair scraped. Someone pretended to cough. They were giving them time. Too much time. And not enough.
Everyone was talking without talking. Listening without listening.
Will felt it immediately — the pressure of being seen again.
He shifted slightly, the movement breaking whatever fragile thing had formed between him and Mike. The air changed. Less intimate. More careful.
“I—” Will started, then paused.
Mike followed his gaze this time, understanding flickering across his face. He straightened a little, like he was bracing himself. Like he knew what was coming and couldn’t stop it.
“I should… introduce you,” Will said quietly.
Mike nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
Will turned.
Ryan was standing a few steps away, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, giving Will that familiar look — gentle, patient, unassuming. He wasn’t intruding. He never did. He was just there.
“Hey,” Ryan said softly.
Will swallowed. “Um— Mike, this is Ryan. My boyfriend.”
The words landed heavier than he expected.
Mike didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked like he’d been expecting them — like he’d rehearsed hearing them in his head and still wasn’t ready.
He stepped forward anyway. Held out his hand. Polite. Steady.
“Hi,” Mike said. “I’m Mike.”
Ryan shook it easily. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” Mike replied. “You too.”
The handshake lingered half a second longer than necessary — not awkward, just… weighted. Will watched it like he was watching something slip through his fingers without knowing why.
“Will’s told me a lot about you,” Ryan said, offering a small, polite smile.
Will felt his chest tighten.
Mike’s smile faltered — just for a second, brief enough that anyone else might’ve missed it.
“Yeah?” he said, lightly. “Good things, I hope,” Mike said.
“Always,” Ryan replied, easy and sincere.
Mike's eyes flicked to Will without meaning to, searching his face like he used to — like the answer might be there. Then he caught himself and looked back at Ryan.
“He… he tends to remember things better than I do,” Mike added, almost apologetic.
“Especially the important parts.”
There was a pause.
Ryan shifted closer to Will, resting a hand lightly at his back. It was casual. Familiar. Protective without trying to be. Will leaned into it without thinking — muscle memory more than choice.
Mike noticed.
He didn’t comment. He just nodded once, like he was filing the information away somewhere he didn’t want to look at yet.
“You came from New York?” Mike asked.
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Long trip.”
Mike glanced at Will. “You must be exhausted.”
“I’m okay,” Will said. The words came automatically. Then, softer, “It wasn’t that bad.”
Another pause.
From behind them, someone — probably Dustin — said something too loudly, then immediately corrected their tone. Lucas murmured a response. Max laughed under her breath.
Still pretending.
“Well,” Ryan said gently, sensing the moment thinning, “I’ll let you two—”
“No,” Will said quickly. Too quickly. He shook his head. “It’s— it’s fine.”
Mike looked at him then. Really looked at him.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “It’s fine.”
The word didn’t mean what it used to.
They stood there together — all three of them now — surrounded by voices and movement and memory, the space between them crowded with everything that hadn’t been said.
Ryan didn’t know.
Mike knew too much.
And Will stood in the middle, heart aching in that quiet, unbearable way that only came from wanting two things that could never exist in the same moment.
Dustin was the one who finally broke it.
“So,” he said, clapping his hands together a little too loudly, grinning like he always did when he sensed a silence getting dangerous, “look at us. All grown up. No bikes. No walkie-talkies. No one bleeding.”
Lucas snorted. “Give it time.”
Max, leaning back against the arm of the sofa, smirked. “You say that like it’s not tempting fate.”
That earned a real laugh — brief, but genuine — and some of the tightness eased.
They drifted toward the sofas after that, settling in a way that felt almost staged. Knees angled forward. Hands folded. Everyone leaving just enough space between each other to be polite.
Will sat down carefully, Ryan beside him.
The formality of it hit him all at once.
He remembered the living room floor — remembered sitting cross-legged with Mike and Dustin and Lucas, bags of chips ripped open, crumbs ground into the carpet without a second thought. Soda cans sweating rings into the wood. Mrs. Wheeler standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, sighing like she’d given up trying to save anything in this house.
None of them had cared then.
Now, no one leaned back. No one kicked off their shoes. No crumbs. No mess.
It had never felt this uncomfortable before.
“So,” Max said, breaking the quiet again, eyes flicking between Will and Mike with that sharp, observant look she’d always had, “New York. You hate it yet?”
Will smiled despite himself. “Not… all of it.”
“That’s a yes,” she said.
Ryan laughed softly. “It grows on you. Eventually.”
Mike was sitting across from them, posture rigid, hands wrapped around a mug he hadn’t touched. Will could feel his gaze without looking — the weight of it, familiar and unsettling. When Will finally glanced up, their eyes met for half a second too long before Mike looked away, jaw tightening slightly like he hadn’t meant to.
“College treating you okay?” Lucas asked.
“It’s… fine,” Will said. It was still the safest word he had.
“Art stuff, right?” Max added.
Will nodded. “Yeah.”
“That tracks,” she said. “You always were the talented one.”
Ryan shifted closer then, his knee brushing Will’s, his hand finding Will’s almost absentmindedly. He laced their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Will didn’t pull away.
Max noticed.
She didn’t comment — just raised an eyebrow slightly, the smallest acknowledgment, then looked away again. Not judgment. Not surprise. Just awareness.
Across the room, Mike’s fingers flexed around the mug.
He didn’t look at their hands — not directly. Just stared at the table for a beat longer than necessary, like he was recalibrating. When he looked up again, his expression was neutral. Careful.
“So,” Mike said finally, voice steady but tired around the edges, “uh… how long are you staying?”
Will hesitated. “I— I don’t know. Not long.”
Ryan squeezed his hand lightly, grounding.
“Just for the weekend,” Ryan said easily.
Mike nodded once. “Right.”
The conversation drifted — small updates, half-stories, catching up without touching anything that mattered too much. Dustin talked about school. Lucas mentioned classes. Max complained about early mornings like she always had.
Then Mrs. Wheeler appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Okay,” she said brightly, like she could sense the tension and was determined to outmaneuver it, “dinner’s ready. You all look like you could use it.”
Max stood first. “Definitely. Before we all start overthinking.”
There was a collective murmur of agreement — chairs scraping back, people standing too quickly, grateful for the interruption.
As they moved toward the dining room, Will glanced back once.
Mike lingered for a second longer than the rest, watching him.
Not smiling.
Not frowning.
Just looking — like he was trying to remember something he wasn’t ready to name yet.
After dinner, the room didn’t empty so much as rearrange itself.
Plates were cleared. Chairs shifted. Voices lowered into something quieter, more private. Will noticed it only because Mike was suddenly no longer where he’d been a moment ago.
He stood near the doorway instead — shoulders tense, hands shoved into his pockets — talking in a tight circle with Dustin, Lucas, Max, and Steve. Their heads were angled inward, like they were trying to fold themselves around whatever Mike was saying. No laughter. No teasing. Just serious, clipped murmurs.
Will wasn’t part of it.
Ryan leaned closer to him on the couch, voice easy. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Will said automatically.
Ryan glanced toward the group by the doorway. “Looks intense.”
Will followed his gaze, pretending he hadn’t been watching already. “That’s… kind of their default mode.”
Ryan smiled. “Still. Feels like something big.”
Will shrugged, careful. “Mike gets like that.”
He hated how defensive it sounded.
Ryan shifted slightly, his knee brushing Will’s. “So,” he said gently, “you grew up here, right? All of you?”
“Yeah,” Will said. “Pretty much lived in this house.”
Ryan hummed. “Hard to imagine you as a menace to Mrs. Wheeler’s living room.”
Will smiled despite himself. “We were very much a menace.”
Across the room, Mike’s voice cut through the low hum — not loud, but urgent.
“I’ll talk to him,” he said.
Will stilled.
“I promise,” Mike added. “Just — go. Please.”
Ryan kept talking, unaware. “You think we’ll have time to check out that old arcade you mentioned? The one that shut down?”
“Maybe,” Will said, distracted.
Mike glanced up then.
Just once.
His eyes flicked across the room — over the couch, over Ryan — and landed on Will. Something passed between them. Too fast to name. Too heavy to ignore.
Then Mike looked away.
Dustin nodded reluctantly. Lucas sighed. Max hesitated, then turned toward the stairs. Steve followed, clapping Mike once on the shoulder as he passed.
One by one, they disappeared down into the basement.
Will watched until the last footstep vanished.
From the hallway, Mike’s voice drifted back up — just one last fragment, like an echo that refused to settle.
“I’ll explain. I promise.”
Then the basement door closed.
And Will sat there, next to the person holding his hand, feeling like he’d just been left behind.
Mike didn’t come back right away.
There was a stretch of time where Will tried to pretend nothing was wrong — where he nodded at something Ryan said,let his fingers stay laced with his boyfriend’s like everything was normal.
Then footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Will felt it before he saw him.
Mike stopped at the edge of the living room, hands clasped together like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His gaze flicked to Ryan first — polite, distant — and then settled on Will.
“Can I talk to you?” Mike asked.
It wasn’t abrupt. It wasn’t rude.
It was careful.
Will hesitated, just for a beat. “About what?”
Mike swallowed. “Just… something important.”
Ryan shifted beside him, already reading the room. “I can step out if you want.”
Mike didn’t say yes.
He didn’t say no either.
He just looked at Will, and there it was — that quiet insistence that had always undone him. The please hidden under everything else.
Will turned to Ryan. “Is that okay?”
Ryan smiled softly, thumb brushing Will’s knuckle. “Of course it is.”
There was no resentment in his voice. No tension. Just trust — offered freely, without conditions.
Mike looked away.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” Ryan added, already standing. “You guys probably need some space.”
Will stood too, suddenly unsure where to put his hands. “You don’t have to go far.”
Ryan shrugged into his jacket. “I was thinking of walking to the store anyway. Grab a pack. Clear my head.”
He paused, then smiled at Will again — gentler this time. “You want anything?”
Will shook his head. “No. I’m good.”
Ryan leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and deliberate. “I’ll be right outside.”
Then, quietly — for Will alone — “Take your time.”
And just like that, he was gone.
The front door closed with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.
Mike stood there, frozen, eyes fixed on the spot where Ryan had been.
“I didn’t mean—” he started, then stopped. Reran it. “I just thought it’d be easier. Without… him.”
Will folded his arms, protective without meaning to be. “Ryan didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know,” Mike said quickly. “I know. This isn’t about him.”
Will waited.
Mike exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck — a habit Will remembered from years ago, from moments right before something big was said.
“Can we go downstairs?” Mike asked. “Please.”
Will nodded.
And as Mike turned toward the basement door, Will followed — heart heavy, chest tight — already feeling the past pressing in from below.
The door creaked open.
The house seemed to hold its breath.
And Will stepped after him, knowing something was about to change — whether he was ready or not.
Mike went first.
He didn’t look back.He started down the steps like he’d done it a thousand times before. Will followed, one hand grazing the railing, the other clenched tight at his side — bracing himself without fully knowing why.
The basement hit him all at once.
The ceiling still felt too low. The air still carried that faint, familiar mix of dust and old paper and something electric, like the room remembered things it wasn’t supposed to. Will’s chest tightened as he stepped onto the concrete floor, the sound of it echoing softly beneath his shoes.
Too small.
It had always been too small.
As a kid, it had felt like a refuge — cramped but safe, a place where the world couldn’t reach them. Now it felt like it was closing in, walls pressing gently but insistently against his ribs.
Nothing had moved much.
That was the worst part.
His eyes caught on things without permission. The old couch. The folding table. The shelves along the wall — still cluttered, still familiar. And then—
His breath caught.
Paintings.
Some of them were his.
Not all of them, but enough that it made his throat ache. Corners curled slightly with age, colors dulled but unmistakably his hand. A storm cloud here. A half-finished field there. Things he’d painted when he didn’t know how else to speak.
And then he saw it.
The painting.
The one from the van.
The one he’d held so carefully in his lap, knuckles white, heart pounding — the one he’d given Mike and lied about, said El had commissioned it because it was easier than telling the truth.
It was leaned carefully against the wall, framed now. Treated like something important.
Will’s chest tightened painfully.
Mike had kept it.
On the table beside it sat a single photograph.
Eleven.
Will stopped walking.
For a moment, his mind refused to place her — like she was a word he hadn’t spoken in so long it had lost its shape. He realized with a quiet, aching shock that he’d almost forgotten her face.
Not because she wasn’t important.
But because there had never been photos.
Just memory.
Just the way she’d laughed, a little unsure at first. The way she’d furrowed her brow when she concentrated. The way she’d leaned into him on that California couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His sister.
He remembered late nights in Lenora Hills — quiet conversations, shared snacks, the way they’d existed side by side without needing words. How protective he’d felt of her. How safe she’d made him feel in return.
And then she was gone.
Again.
The ache came sharp and sudden, lodging itself behind his eyes. He swallowed hard, blinking fast, but it didn’t help much. Missing her was a different kind of pain — softer than fear, heavier than grief.
Permanent.
He wondered if she’d recognize him now. If she’d laugh at his hair. If she’d still call him her brother.
Behind him, the basement filled quietly — footsteps, shifting bodies, familiar presences slipping into place. But for a moment, Will stayed still, caught between the boy he’d been and the people they’d lost.
Mike stood near the table, staring down at the photo like it might move if he watched long enough.
Will finally stepped closer, heart aching in that deep, old way.
He missed her.
And standing there, surrounded by ghosts and memories and things that refused to stay buried, he had the sudden, undeniable feeling that this room wasn’t done with them yet.
For a while, no one spoke.
It was like the room itself had asked for silence.
Everyone drifted in different directions, pulled by memory more than intention. Dustin and Lucas ended up by the shelves, shoulders almost touching as they scanned the spines and boxes stacked there. Old folders sat neatly in a row — their names written on them.
Dustin.
Lucas.
Mike.
Will.
D&D.
Dustin reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the edge of one folder like it might bite him. He let out a quiet, broken laugh that didn’t sound amused at all.
“God,” he muttered. “We took this so seriously.”
Lucas smiled, but it wobbled. “You still do.”
“Yeah,” Dustin said softly. “Guess I do.”
Below the shelf were newer things — brightly colored dice, mismatched notebooks, little figurines clearly not from their era. Holly’s. Her friends’. The next generation, unknowingly inheriting a battlefield disguised as a basement.
Under the table, half-hidden in shadow, was a sleeping bag.
Will saw it at the same time Dustin did.
The same blue. Folded the same careless way. Like someone might crawl back into it any second.
Eleven.
Dustin’s breath hitched.
He turned away fast, but it was too late. A tear slipped free, tracking down his cheek before he could stop it. Steve noticed immediately — of course he did — and stepped in without a word, slinging an arm around Dustin’s shoulders and pulling him in close.
“It’s okay,” Steve murmured, voice low and steady. “I got you.”
Dustin nodded against his chest, wiping his face with the heel of his hand, embarrassed and grateful all at once.
Nearby, Max had gone quiet. Her arms were crossed tight around herself, shoulders shaking just enough to give her away. Lucas stood beside her, pressed close, one arm wrapped around her waist, his forehead resting against her temple. He was crying too — silently, stubbornly, like he didn’t want the room to hear.
Will felt it then — the collective weight of it.
The remembering.
His own tears came quietly, blurring the edges of everything. He didn’t wipe them away. He didn’t have the energy to pretend this didn’t hurt.
Mike cleared his throat.
Once. Then again.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Hey. C’mere. Sit. Please.”
Slowly, reluctantly, they gathered — on the couch, on folding chairs, on the floor like old times but not quite. The air felt thick, charged, like it did before a storm.
Mike stood for a second, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes darting to the floor, the walls, anywhere but them.
“I didn’t just ask you all to come for Halloween dinner,” he said finally.
Everyone stilled.
“There’s… there’s something I need to talk about.”
Will’s stomach twisted.
Mike swallowed hard. “This past year — you guys know I dropped out. And I know I didn’t explain. Not really.” He let out a shaky breath. “But there was a reason.”
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the photo on the table, then away.
"Something happened. About a year ago. I didn't know what to do with it at first. I thought maybe I was just... losing it. Or projecting. Or wishing too hard."
His fingers curled into fists.
"But I felt something," he said quietly. "The same way I used to. The same kind of pull. The same... pressure."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
"I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want to be wrong," Mike said. "Because I didn't want to get your hopes up. Because I didn't want to get mine up."
Will felt dizzy.
Mike lifted his head, eyes shining, voice barely steady as he said, "It was El."
Silence fell thick, electric, unbearable.
And just like that, everything changed.
Notes:
If this chapter made your chest ache even a little, you’re not alone. I’d love to know how it felt for you — please feel free to comment.
Chapter Text
The room went quiet for a second.
No one spoke. No one shifted.
They all just looked at Mike.
And in that stillness, it became painfully obvious how much he was carrying.
Dustin swallowed hard, his mouth opening and closing once before he managed to speak.
“Man…” he said quietly. “What do you mean?”
The word mean hung there, fragile and desperate.
Max frowned, her arms folding tighter across her chest. Her voice was sharp, but there was something underneath it — fear, maybe. Or hope she didn’t want to admit to.
“What do you mean it’s El?”
Mike didn’t answer right away.
Steve took a step forward without thinking, then stopped himself. His voice came out gentler than usual, stripped of jokes, stripped of bravado.
“Buddy,” he said carefully, “we all saw she—”
He faltered, cleared his throat. “I mean… she was gone.”
Lucas shook his head slowly, like he was trying to reason with something that didn’t make sense.
“Yeah,” he said, not unkindly. “Mike… maybe— maybe it’s time to let her go.”
That one landed hard.
Mike’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He nodded once, like he’d heard it before. Like he’d rehearsed hearing it.
Will stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
Mike noticed immediately.
He always did.
His eyes flicked toward Will — just briefly at first, then longer — searching his face, waiting for something. Agreement. Understanding. A voice to anchor him the way it used to.
But Will didn’t speak.
He couldn’t.
Because the moment Mike said her name, the room dissolved around him.
He was back there.
Back at the gate.
The memory hit with brutal clarity — the blinding light tearing open the sky, the scream of metal bending where it shouldn’t, the way the air had felt wrong, vibrating like it was alive. The sound — sharp, electric, almost screaming — that horrible, piercing hum as the Upside Down began to collapse in on itself.
And El.
Standing there.
So small against something so massive.
The look on her face — determined, terrified, brave in that quiet way that had always broken his heart.
Then the sound.
Then nothing.
Will’s fingers curled slowly into fists at his sides.
He remembered the emptiness afterward — the silence that followed the noise, the way it felt like the world had lost its balance. He remembered Mike screaming her name until his voice gave out.
Mike shifted, the movement pulling Will back into the room.
Mike was still looking at him.
Waiting.
As if Will might be the one person who could say something that would make this make sense.
Will swallowed, throat tight, eyes burning. He shook his head once — not in disagreement, not in dismissal — just… helpless.
Mike looked away.
The silence stretched again, thinner this time, fraying at the edges.
Dustin rubbed at his face with both hands, exhaling hard. “Mike,” he said, not harsh, just tired. “We’re not saying you’re lying. We just—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “We watched her die, man.”
Steve nodded slowly beside him. “Yeah. I mean… if there was even a chance—” He shook his head, swallowing. “We would’ve felt it too. Something. Anything.”
Max shifted on her feet, eyes fixed on the floor. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” she said quietly. “You’ve been stuck there for years.”
Lucas crossed his arms, voice steadier but no less heavy. “You dropped out. You stopped living. You stopped… everything.” He looked at Mike straight on. “At some point, that’s not hope anymore. That’s hurting yourself.”
Mike didn’t respond.
His gaze stayed locked on nothing in particular, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.
“She’s gone,” Max added, softer now. “And I hate saying that. I really do. But you can’t keep chasing ghosts.”
Dustin winced at the word. “Max—”
“No,” she said gently. “He needs to hear it.”
Steve stepped in before it could turn sharp. “We’re worried about you, okay? That’s all this is.”
Lucas nodded. “Yeah. We don’t want to lose you too.”
That did it.
Mike’s breath stuttered, just once. He dragged a hand down his face, eyes glistening but furious — not at them. At the world. At time. At the fact that none of this was fair.
“I’m not crazy,” he said hoarsely.
No one said he was.
Which somehow hurt worse.
Will’s chest felt tight, like something was pressing down on his lungs.
He could feel Mike unraveling in real time — could recognize it, because he’d lived inside that kind of quiet devastation for years. The kind where you stop arguing because you already know no one’s listening.
Mike glanced at him again.
Not hopeful this time.
Just… tired.
Like he was bracing himself for Will to say it too.
To tell him to move on.
Will didn’t.
He couldn’t.
His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Words crowded his throat — memories, belief, doubt, grief — all tangled together and useless. He stared at the floor instead, nails digging into his palms.
Mike held his gaze for a second longer.
Then he nodded once.
Fine.
Message received.
“Okay,” Mike said quietly. Too quietly. “I get it.”
Dustin frowned. “Mike—”
“No, it’s fine,” he cut in, voice flat. “You’re right.”
The words sounded rehearsed. Empty.
Lucas let out a slow breath. “We just want you to move forward.”
Move forward.
As if it were a direction you could point to.
As if the past wasn’t sitting in this room with them — in the walls, in the shelves, in the sleeping bag under the table, in the ache behind their eyes.
Mike turned away from them, shoulders stiff.
And Will realized, with a cold certainty settling in his gut, that even though everyone was standing in the same basement—
Mike had never felt more alone.He drew in a shaky breath.
“I’ll tell you everything,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud — it didn’t need to be. It carried anyway. “Just… just hold on, okay?”
No one interrupted.
But the looks on their faces told him everything.
It wasn’t disbelief, not exactly. It was worse than that.
It was that tired, aching expression — the one that said please don’t make us go back there. The one that said we already buried her once. The one that said hope hurts too much.
Because it hadn’t just been Mike who lost her.
They all had.
Dustin’s shoulders were tight, jaw clenched like he was bracing for impact. Max’s eyes were glassy, fixed somewhere past Mike’s shoulder. Lucas stood rigid, protective instincts warring with exhaustion. Steve looked like he wanted to step in and stop this before it reopened something that never fully healed.
And Will—
Will felt like he was standing on the edge of something he didn’t yet have words for.
Mike swallowed hard.
“Do you remember graduation day?” he asked quietly.
A few of them nodded. Some didn’t move at all.
“I told you then that I had a theory,” Mike continued. “And I know— I know we were all barely holding it together. But I wasn’t just saying things to make myself feel better.”
His hands were shaking now. He clasped them together, grounding himself.
“No one actually saw her go into the Mac-Z gate,” he said. “Not one person.”
Lucas frowned slightly. “Mike—”
“Let me finish,” Mike said gently, but firmly.
He pressed on.
“There were military everywhere. Armed. Holding us. Watching the gate. Watching everything.” His voice cracked slightly. “There’s no way she could’ve walked right past them.Not with the kryptonite still active.”
Steve shifted. “She didn’t look weak.”
Mike nodded immediately. “Exactly.”
He leaned forward slightly, urgency sharpening his voice.
“She should’ve been,” he said. “Those things were still active. We know what they do to her. She shouldn’t have been able to stand straight — let alone walk calmly toward the gate.”
He looked at them — really looked — eyes bright with something dangerously close to certainty.
“But she didn’t stumble,” Mike said. “She didn’t collapse. She didn’t look like she was losing control.”
Silence stretched.
“So tell me how that makes sense,” Mike finished quietly.
No one answered.
Mike took a breath.
“And tell me how she talked to me,” he said, quieter now. “How she reached me. And when they’re active, she can’t connect.she can't use her powers . I know you’ve heard this,” he said finally, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not—” He shook his head once. “I’m not telling you something new.”
No one spoke.
Dustin’s hands were clasped together between his knees. Lucas leaned back against the table, arms crossed but loose, like he didn’t have the energy to brace himself anymore.
“I just…” Mike swallowed. “I need to say it again.”
That got their attention.
Dustin nodded automatically, like his body remembered this conversation even if his heart didn’t want to.
“Back then, it was just… something I couldn’t stop thinking about.”
Steve straightened a little, eyes narrowing — not in doubt, but focus.
“Now,” Mike continued, “it’s the only version of that day that doesn’t fall apart when I think about it.”
Silence.
Thick. Heavy.
Dustin’s voice was quiet. “Mike…”
He hesitated, then added, softer,
“Kali could’ve helped her.”
No one reacted.
No gasps. No arguments.
They’d heard that name before.
“She didn’t need to fight,” Mike said. “Didn’t need to make a scene. Just… not be seen.”
Max stared at the floor. “So she just— left.”
“Yeah,” Mike said.
Lucas exhaled slowly, like the air had been knocked out of him. Steve looked away, jaw working, as if he were holding back a comment he didn’t trust himself to say yet.
“I’m not telling you she’s alive,” Mike said. “I’m telling you… she didn’t vanish the way we saw she did.”
No one rushed to contradict him.
Max finally spoke, voice tight. “We all wanted that to be true.”
“I know,” Mike said. “I wanted it to be true too.”
Dustin glanced up at him. “We believed you,” he said. “We just didn’t know if you still did.”
Mike met his eyes without hesitation.
“I do.”
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just solid.
And somehow, that was worse.
Mike’s gaze drifted — almost unconsciously — to Will.
Will hadn’t spoken. Had barely moved.
But he was watching Mike like this wasn’t new information — like it was something finally being said out loud the right way.
Mike didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t need to.
The theory hadn’t changed.
Only the way he carried it had.
For a moment after Mike finished, no one spoke.
Not because they didn’t understand.
Because they did — and that was the problem.
Finally, someone — Dustin, maybe — broke the silence.
“Mike,” he said carefully, “we know your theory. We all do.”
“But wanting it to be true doesn’t make it real,” Dustin finished, voice small. “We didn’t know for sure back then. We still don’t.”
Mike didn’t flinch.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t say anything for so long.”
He took a step forward, hands clenched at his sides.
“I’m not asking you to believe me just because I want you to,” he said. “I’m saying… I need to explain why I believe it now.”
The room stilled again.
“So,” Mike continued, voice lower, steadier, “just like I told you a year ago… while I was in college, I felt something.”
Max frowned. “Felt… what?”
Mike hesitated. “I don’t know how to explain it without sounding insane.”
No one laughed.
“I’ve felt it before,” he said. “That’s the thing. That’s why I noticed it this time.”
Will’s heart started pounding.
He knew where this was going.
And still —
“When?” Will asked quietly.
Every head turned toward him.
Mike looked at Will like he’d been waiting for that question — like it loosened something in his chest.
“When she went missing the first time,” Mike said.
The air shifted.
“After she disappeared by killing that demogorgon” he continued. “Back then.”
Dustin’s brow furrowed. “At the school.”
Mike nodded. “Yeah.”
He swallowed.
“I talked to her,” he said simply. “Every night. On the walkie. Even when she didn't reply anything. Even when everyone else moved on.”
Will remembered.
God, he remembered.
“She could hear me,” Mike said. “I didn’t know how. I didn’t know why. I just—” His voice wavered. “I knew she was there.I could sense her presence somehow. when she does that mind thing”
Max leaned forward. “You never told us that part.”
“I thought I was losing it,” Mike admitted. “I thought… maybe I was just imagining her because I needed her to be alive.”
His eyes flicked to Will.
“For a while,” Mike said quietly, “I really thought I was going crazy.”
Will felt his chest tighten.
Mike’s gaze lingered on him a second longer.
“And I told Will,” Mike added. “Right here. In this basement.”
Will’s breath caught.
“Remember?” Mike asked softly.
Will nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”
Mike let out a breath, something almost like relief.
“If we were going crazy,” Mike said, barely louder than a whisper, “we’d go crazy together.”
Will’s smile widened just a fraction.
Max’s eyes flicked between them. “Wait,” she said. “When did this actually happen?”
Will answered before Mike could.
“Right before the Mind Flayer,” he said. “That Halloween.”
Max’s eyebrows lifted. “The night you went as Ghostbusters.”
Will nodded. “Yeah.”
He glanced at Mike — brief, loaded, unspoken.
Mike continued, voice steadier now.
“I wasn’t crazy,” he said. “She was there. She used to visit me. In her mind — but I could feel her. Hear her. Sometimes I just knew.”
Dustin’s eyes widened slightly. “Holy shit…”
“So when it happened again,” Mike said, “when I felt it this time — I recognized it.”
Lucas straightened. “In college.”
“Yeah,But it only happened once” Mike said. “I thought maybe it was stress. Or grief. Or my brain replaying things because I never let go.”
He shook his head.
“But it wasn’t the same as imagining,” he said. “It was the same as before.”
Will’s throat tightened.
“I couldn’t focus,” Mike went on. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think about anything else. One minute I was trying to read for class, the next—” He gave a humorless laugh. “I was in the library pulling out geography books.”
Steve blinked. “Geography?”
“Maps,” Mike said. “Borders. Old routes. Places no one would think to look.”
Max stared at him. “You really believe this.”
Mike didn’t hesitate.
“I do,” he said. “With everything I have.”
Mike wasn’t chasing the past.
He was following something he’d never stopped feeling.
Questions came slowly at first.
Like no one wanted to be the one to push.
Lucas broke the tension by leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “Say we believe you felt something again. That doesn’t explain how you knew where to start looking.”
Max nodded. “Yeah. Feelings don’t exactly come with directions.”
Dustin frowned. “Unless it’s, like… nerd intuition,” he added weakly. “Which— I mean — not impossible, but—”
Steve cut him a look. “Dustin.”
“What? I’m just saying.”
Mike listened to all of it without interrupting, eyes fixed on the floor. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.
“Before we went to kill Vecna,” he said, “before everything fell apart…”
That did it.
Everyone stilled.
“El used to ask me something,” Mike continued. “Over and over.”
Will’s breath hitched.
“What happens after?” Mike said. “After the war. After we win. What do we do then? Where do we go?”
Max’s face softened. She remembered that version of El — anxious, hopeful, clinging to the idea of after like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
“She was scared,” Mike said. “Not of dying. Of not having anything left once it was over.”
He swallowed.
“So I told her something stupid.”
Dustin blinked. “Mike—”
“I made it up,” Mike admitted. “On the spot. Because I didn’t want her to think about dying.”
Will felt something twist painfully in his chest.
“I told her we’d go somewhere peaceful,” Mike said. “Somewhere with at least three waterfalls.”
Lucas frowned. “Three?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah. I don’t know why. It just… sounded right.”
Dustin’s voice was gentle. “Like a quest ending.”
Mike let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Exactly. I told her it was what we’d do in D&D after beating the final boss. That the whole party would go somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.”
Max wiped at her eye quickly, annoyed with herself. “That’s not stupid.”
Mike shook his head. “It was a fantasy. I knew it. She knew it. But she smiled.”
Will remembered the way Mike always did that — turned fear into story. Turned endings into after.
“So when she disappeared,” Mike said, voice tightening, “that stupid thing I made up wouldn’t leave my head.”
Dustin leaned back slowly. “You’re telling me… that’s where you started.”
Mike nodded.
“I started looking for places with three waterfalls,” he said. “Just… out of curiosity at first. Like proving to myself it didn’t mean anything.”
Lucas raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of waterfalls.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Turns out there are. I made a list,” Mike continued. “Then I started checking old newspaper archives. Small-town stuff. Power outages. Weird accidents. Missing reports that didn’t make sense.”
Dustin’s eyes lit up despite himself. “That’s… actually really smart.”
“And?” Lucas asked.
Mike lifted his head.
“And I found a place.”
That landed.
Not like an explosion.
Like a drop into deep water.
Will felt his pulse thunder in his ears.
“Something happened there,” Mike said. “Not big enough to make national news. But wrong enough that it didn’t sit right with me.”
Max’s voice was barely a whisper. “You think she’s there.”
Mike didn’t say yes.
He didn’t say no.
“I think,” he said carefully, “that if El survived… that’s where she would go.”
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Fragile.
And Will realized, with a slow, terrifying certainty—
This wasn’t Mike chasing a ghost.
This was Mike following a promise.
Mike stood there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, like if he took them out his hands might start shaking. The room felt too small all of a sudden. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your ears.
He swallowed.
“If she escaped,” he said again, slower this time, like he was choosing each word carefully, “she wouldn’t have flown.”
Lucas shifted slightly on the couch. Not interrupting. Just listening.
“Airports mean IDs,” Mike continued. “Cameras. Records. She knows that.
He glanced at the floor, then back up. “So she’d leave Hawkins by road. Hitchhike. Get rides. Stay off anything that could be traced.”
Dustin frowned faintly. “That’s… a long way.”
“I know,” Mike said. “But New York makes sense. It’s crowded. Easy to disappear. And it’s close to ports.”
That got Steve’s attention.
“Ports,” Steve repeated.
Mike nodded. “Cargo ships.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying she left the country?”
“I’m saying it’s possible,” Mike replied quietly. “Cargo ships don’t track people the way planes do. You can get on at night. No paperwork. No names.”
No one laughed. No one scoffed.
“A sea crossing takes longer,” Mike went on, voice steady now. “But once she’s out of the country, the military can’t just pull her back.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Dustin said, carefully, “Where?”
Mike hesitated — just for a second.
“Iceland.”
The word hung there.
“There’s a place,” he said, “called Þjórsárdalur Valley.”
He stepped forward then, finally pulling his hands from his pockets, gesturing vaguely as if the place existed right there between them.
“It’s not a city. Barely populated. No airport nearby. No heavy tourism. Just open land. Waterfalls.”
He swallowed again.
“Two waterfalls right next to each other,” he added. “And another one a short distance away.”
Max’s breath hitched — so quiet it might’ve been nothing.
“It’s isolated,” Mike said. “You could stay there and no one would notice. Especially someone who doesn’t want to be seen.”
He reached for the cork board leaning against the wall and turned it around.
Maps. Strings. Newspaper clippings. A photograph of cascading water, mist frozen in time.
“I found an article,” he said. “From a local Icelandic paper.”
He tapped one of the clippings.
“Brief disturbance near the valley. Minor landslide. Sudden water surge. Power flicker. Seconds long.”
Lucas leaned forward now.
“No injuries,” Mike continued. “No damage. No follow-up.”
“They blamed natural causes,” Will murmured, reading the print.
Mike nodded. “That’s what convinced me.”
He looked up, eyes glassy but burning with certainty.
“If it was something else,” he said, “it wouldn’t have stopped. There would’ve been investigations. Scientists. Military.”
His voice dropped. “None of that happened.”
“So whatever caused it,” Dustin said slowly, “ended.”
“Yes.”
Mike’s jaw tightened. “I think someone realized what was happening and shut it down.”
A pause.
“And that sounds like her , right?,” he said. “She wouldn’t cause something big. She wouldn’t stay if it drew attention. She’d stop before anyone got hurt.”
He breathed out shakily.
“She’d choose a place where even a mistake would go unnoticed.”
No one interrupted him.
“So if she’s alive,” Mike finished, quieter now, “then she’s there. Not hiding. Just… staying somewhere no one is looking.”
The room felt heavier after that.
Mike turned away from the board. “I dropped out of college not long after.”
Max’s head snapped up.
“I came back here,” he said. “Stayed home. Looked for anything. Everything.”
His voice cracked, just slightly. “Most of the time I was wrong.”
He forced himself to keep going. “But sometimes… sometimes I wasn’t.”
He reached into his jacket pocket.
“I needed proof,” Mike said. “Before I ever went there. To Iceland , I needed a proof of life.”
Then he took something from his pocket and unfolded it carefully, like it might fall apart if he rushed it.
It was a piece of fabric — small, unevenly torn — the edges frayed and softened with age. The material was smooth and dense, not cotton, not something you’d wear every day. It had the faint, elastic give of synthetic fabric, the kind designed to cling close to skin, meant for water or training .
The color was unmistakable.
A muted, pale blue — the kind that didn’t fade easily, even after years underground. It still held its tone, stubbornly intact, as if refusing to disappear.
Part of a sleeve.
Near one corner, a faded yellow patch was still attached. A simple hand symbol was printed on it.
The fabric around the badge was torn more roughly, as if it had caught on something sharp — metal, concrete, maybe rock — and been ripped free in a moment of urgency.
The tear wasn’t clean. It looked like someone had been running. Crawling. Forcing their way through somewhere narrow.
Mike’s thumb brushed over the badge once, reverent.
“It was part of what she was wearing that day,” he said quietly.
No one asked how he knew.
They all knew.
Max broke.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, tears spilling before she could stop them. “Mike,” she whispered, “don’t.”
“I went through the tunnels,” Mike said. “All of them. I went to RadioShack because it’d be the only way she could have escaped. But it was rebuilt. The whole town was. Everyone moved on. But the tunnels didn’t.”
He looked at Max. “She wore this when she had to go into the bath at the lab. Maybe she slipped. Maybe it tore when she was running.”
“I believe it’s hers.”
Dustin shook his head slowly. “It could be anyone’s.”
“How many people knew about the tunnels?” Mike asked softly.
No one said anything.
“How do we get there?” Will asked.
The words weren’t loud. They weren’t dramatic. They were almost… practical. Like he was asking for directions to the grocery store.
The room snapped to attention.
“What?” Dustin said, a little too fast.
Steve turned toward Will, eyebrows drawn together. “Hey, hold on. What are you doing?”
Mike’s head lifted sharply.
For a second, he just stared at Will — like he hadn’t heard right. And then something shifted in his face. Not relief exactly. Something softer. Hope, maybe. Careful. Fragile.
“Wait,” Lucas said. “Are you serious right now?”
Max wiped her eyes, shaking her head. “Will, don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Will asked, still calm. Too calm. “Listen?”
Steve exhaled hard. “You can’t just encourage this.”
Mike swallowed. “I’m not—”
Dustin cut in, frustrated. “This is how it starts. You fuel it. You make it bigger.”
Will finally turned to them.
“You all saw the article,” he said. “Right?”
No one answered.
Will walked back to the cork board slowly. He didn’t touch it at first. Just stood there, reading again. The dates. The fine print.
“This happened a year ago,” he said quietly.
Mike stiffened.
“Around the same time you said you felt something ” Will continued. “When you were still in college.”
Mike’s breath hitched.
Will looked over his shoulder. “Right?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah.”
Dustin frowned. “That doesn’t mean—”
“What if it does?” Will interrupted, not harshly. Just… honestly.
He reached out and tapped the date on the article.
“What if the disturbance was caused by her,” Will said. “And the military recognized it.”
He held the paper tighter, knuckles whitening.
“They’ve always tracked things like that. Power failures. Land shifts. Anything that doesn’t fit. If something like that happened near her, even for a few seconds, they would’ve noticed.”
His eyes lifted to meet theirs.
“And if they noticed, they would’ve tried to find the source.”
Will turned to Mike.
“So what if she contacted you because of that,” he said. “Not to talk. Not to explain anything. Just because she knew they were getting close. Just because she needed help.”
He took a breath.
“It only happened once. And then it stopped. Which makes sense if she realized she’d exposed herself.”
He looked around the room now — at all of them.
“If that disturbance happened around the same time Mike felt her,” Will said, “then it wasn’t random. It was her.”
“And if it was her,” he continued, voice steady but unyielding, “then she’s alive.”
“And if she’s alive,” he said, “then she might be in trouble.”
Mike stared at him — really stared — like Will had just named the one fear he hadn’t let himself think all the way through.
His breath came uneven.
“I never thought—” Mike started, then stopped. “I just thought she was… safe. That she chose quiet.”
He let out a shaky breath, pressing his fingers into his eyes like he could hold himself together that way.
Silence followed.
Will didn’t stop.
“She saved us,” he said. “Every time. She fought when she was scared. She stayed when she could’ve run. She gave up everything so we could be here.”
His voice dipped slightly, but it didn’t break.
“So if there’s even a chance she’s out there,” Will said, “we don’t get to sit here and say it’s too hard or too risky.”
“We owe her more than that.”
He looked at Mike again.
“At the very least,” Will said, “We owe her someone coming for her.”
“And if she needs help,” he finished, “then we help her.”
“No matter what.”
Notes:
Guys did you like it ?
Chapter 4: Chapter 4
Chapter Text
No one spoke after Will finished.
The words didn’t echo. They didn’t need to. They stayed where they were, thick in the air, pressing down on everyone’s chest in different ways — guilt for some, confusion for others, something quieter and sharper for a few.
Mike didn’t look at anyone. He couldn’t. He kept his eyes on the corkboard, on the string lines and yellowed paper, like if he stared long enough they’d explain themselves all over again. Like maybe they’d hurt less.
Lucas sat back against the couch, arms crossed so tightly it looked like he was holding himself together. Max stared at the floor, jaw clenched, blinking a little too hard. Even Steve, who usually filled silences without trying, stayed still — elbows on his knees, hands clasped, thinking.
The house felt too small.
Finally, Dustin broke.
“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, except there was nothing funny in it. “I— I need air. Like… real air.”
No one stopped him.
They listened as his footsteps climbed the stairs, faster than necessary. A moment later, the front door opened, then shut again — too loud in the quiet.
Steve stood slowly. “I should check on him,” he said, already moving, like he didn’t trust himself to sit still any longer. “He’s… yeah.”
And then he was gone too.
Lucas glanced at Max. She didn’t look at him at first. When she finally did, her eyes were glassy, unfocused.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Me too. This is—” She shook her head, unable to finish. “This is a lot.”
Lucas nodded. “We’ll be back,” he added, more to the room than to Mike or Will. “Just… give us a minute.”
They followed the others upstairs, their footsteps softer, heavier somehow.
The house emptied out until only two people were left behind.
Mike and Will.
The silence that settled afterward was different. Thinner. More fragile.
And somehow, heavier than before.
It was just Mike and Will in the basement now.
The silence wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t shared. It sat between them like something unspoken, something alive.
Mike stayed at the table, hunched forward in the chair, staring at the wall as if it might answer him if he looked long enough. The corkboard was still there, strings sagging slightly, papers curling at the edges. He didn’t move.
Will sat on the couch, stiff, hands clasped together so tightly his fingers hurt.
If the others were here, he’d know what to do. He always did. He could speak up, add something thoughtful, deflect attention away from himself. He could be part of the noise.
But alone with Mike—
He didn’t know where to put his hands. Or his eyes. Or his heart.
Minutes passed. Too many.
Will became painfully aware of how quiet it was — the faint hum of the fridge upstairs, the house settling, the sound of Mike breathing. If he didn’t say something soon, the silence would start asking questions. Questions Mike was good at answering.
And worse — questions Mike was good at noticing.
Will stood before he could talk himself out of it.
He crossed the space between them slowly, like his body had decided for him. When he reached the table, he stopped. Opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Instead, his hand lifted.
He didn’t plan it. He didn’t think about it. His palm settled on Mike’s shoulder, light — barely there — like he was afraid the contact might break something.
Mike startled slightly.
He turned in the chair, looking up at Will.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
“Are you okay?” Will asked, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
Mike didn’t answer.
He just looked at him — really looked — like he was trying to memorize something. Like Will was proof of something he wasn’t ready to name.
Mike opened his mouth.
And then—
“Will?”
The voice came from the top of the stairs.
“Babe?”
Will’s hand dropped instantly, like he’d been burned.
The word hit him harder than he expected.
Mike looked down, jaw tightening. He let out a slow breath through his nose, heavy and tired.
Will knew exactly what had just happened.
His heart kicked hard against his ribs, panic flaring, but he forced his face into something neutral. Something normal.
“Yeah,” Will said, turning toward the stairs. “You’re back.”
Ryan stood there, keys still in his hand. “Yeah. I just— it’s getting late. I was wondering if we should, um… head out?”
Mike flicked his eyes up.
Just once.
The look wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate.
It was worse than that.
It was quiet.
A please-don’t-go he didn’t say out loud.
Will felt it anyway.
He swallowed.
“Uh—” Will said, then turned back toward Ryan. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Ryan smiled. “Yeah. What’s up, babe?”
Will flinched at the word "babe".
Not because of Ryan — but because of where they were. Because of who was sitting ten feet away, staring at the floor like it might cave in under him.
Ryan noticed immediately. “Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Will said quickly. Then, almost without thinking, he turned back to Mike.
“I’m not leaving,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Okay? Just— just a minute. We’ll talk.”
Mike looked up.
There was a small smile on his face. Barely there. Like he didn’t trust it to stay.
He nodded once.
And that was enough.
Will took the stairs two at a time, his chest tight, like the air had changed the second he left the basement.
Ryan followed him into the kitchen, closing the distance but not crowding him. He didn’t rush.
Will stopped near the counter, hands braced against the edge like he needed something solid.
“There’s… something going on,” he said finally.
Ryan waited.
“Someone we all thought was gone,” Will continued, words careful, chosen, “maybe isn’t. Or— maybe she is. We don’t know yet. It’s… complicated.”
Ryan’s expression shifted — concern first, then understanding, settling in quietly.
“I can’t talk about it,” Will said, shaking his head. “ Atleast not right now. I’m sorry. I just— I need to talk to them.” He gestured toward the front of the house, where Dustin, Lucas, Max, and Steve stood on the porch, half-silhouetted under the light.
For a moment, Ryan studied him — really studied him — like he was putting something together without asking for the pieces.
Then he smiled. Small. Gentle.
“That’s okay,” Ryan said. “You don’t owe me an explanation right now.”
Will let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Go,” Ryan added. “Deal with whatever this is. We can talk later.”
He paused, then nodded toward the living room. “I’ll hang out here. Maybe keep Mr. Wheeler company. He looks like he’s been watching the same channel for an hour.”
He let out a soft laugh, just enough to lighten the room.
Will smiled back, grateful and a little broken all at once.
“Thank you,” he said.
Ryan squeezed his arm once — brief, reassuring — and let him go.
Will didn’t look back as he opened the door.
The night air hit him as he stepped onto the porch, cool and sharp, grounding.
The others turned toward him.
And whatever was coming next — it was starting now.
Dustin had his arms crossed tight over his chest, rocking slightly on his heels. Steve leaned against the porch railing, one foot hooked around the bottom rung, staring out into the dark like the answers might be hiding in the yard. Lucas paced. Max sat on the steps, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her palm, annoyed that they wouldn’t stop watering.
Steve broke first.
“Right? Like—” He let out a breathy laugh that had no humor in it. “That was… a lot. I mean, dude. A lot. The theory has holes. Big ones. I’m not saying Mike’s wrong, but— I don’t know if I’m ready to say he’s right either.”
Dustin nodded automatically, then stopped himself.
“Yeah, but…” He hesitated. “It’s Mike.”
Lucas scoffed, turning sharply. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” Dustin said, defensive now, “that every time something insane happened, Mike was the one who connected the dots first. Every single time.”
Lucas shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, but this isn’t the same thing. This isn’t a monster or a gate or some upside-down crap we can see and fight. This is—” He gestured vaguely toward the house. “This is grief.”
Dustin opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I’m not saying I fully believe it,” he said. “I’m just saying… maybe she didn’t die the way we thought.”
Lucas stopped pacing.
“Dustin,” he said slowly, carefully, “we watched her disappear. We all did. I miss her too, man. Every day. But there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“That’s the thing,” Dustin snapped, voice breaking just a little. “What if there was something we could’ve done?”
Steve straightened, his jaw tightening.
Dustin’s hands were shaking now, but he didn’t hide it.
“What if he’s right?” Dustin said. “What if this whole time— this entire time — she was alive and we just… moved on?”
No one answered.
“What did we do?” Dustin pressed. “We went to college. We got jobs. We tried to be normal. And if she was out there— captured, hurt, alone—” His voice cracked. “I don’t think I can live with that.”
Max scrubbed at her eyes harder, frustrated tears spilling anyway.
Steve swallowed. “So what are you saying?” he asked quietly. “We just… go out there? Chase a maybe? Because that’s not a plan, Dustin. That’s a hope. And hopes get people killed.”
Dustin looked at him. “What about the sleeve?”
Lucas frowned. “What sleeve?”
“The fabric Mike found,” Dustin said. “From the tunnels.”
Lucas shook his head immediately. “That could’ve belonged to anyone. I don’t even remember what she was wearing that day.”
“I do.”
They all froze.
Max lifted her head slowly.
Lucas blinked. “What?”
“She was wearing something like a surfer’s suit,” Max said, voice rough but steady. “Not exactly swimwear, but close. That tight fabric. I noticed it because—” She swallowed. “Because I’d seen it before. In California. Girls wore stuff like that. Billy too. Sometimes.”
Steve’s brow furrowed. “You’re sure?”
Max nodded. “I don’t remember the exact color. Or the badge. But the fabric?” She closed her eyes briefly. “Yeah. That part stuck with me. I remember thinking it was weird at the time.”
Lucas ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “That still doesn’t prove it’s hers.”
“No,” Max agreed softly. “It doesn’t.”
Dustin looked between them, eyes shining. “But it doesn’t prove it isn’t either.”
Silence settled again — heavier now. Less dismissive. More dangerous.
Steve stared back toward the house.
“And if he’s right,” he said slowly, “then we didn’t just lose her.”
He swallowed.
“We left her.”
No one argued with that.
The porch light hummed quietly above them, and for the first time, the night didn’t feel calm.
It felt like the beginning of something they couldn’t undo.
Will had been quiet for too long.
Too still.
Finally, he stepped forward, hands clenched at his sides, voice tight like it had to fight its way out of his chest.
“I can’t believe you’re even arguing about this.”
They all turned to him.
“This is El,” Will said, disbelief bleeding into anger. “This is the girl who saved us. Over and over again. And you’re standing here talking about logic and proof like that’s ever been the thing that mattered to us.”
His voice shook now.
“What happened to us?” he demanded. “We never made choices because they were easy or made sense. We made them because we loved each other. Because someone needed help.”
He laughed once, sharp and bitter.
“So what is this now?” Will asked. “Life happened? You got older? You got comfortable?”
His eyes swept over them — Lucas, Max, Dustin — and then lingered on Steve.
“You all got your happy endings, so suddenly it’s too much trouble to fight for someone who doesn’t fit into it anymore?”
That was when his voice broke.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just… cracked.
Tears slipped down his face, fueled by anger and grief and something dangerously close to guilt.
Dustin stepped forward instinctively. “Hey— hey, man,” he said softly. “We’re not being selfish. It’s not like that. We’re just— we’re shocked. All of us are.”
He reached out, resting a hand on Will’s shoulder.
Will shook it off immediately.
“No,” he said, wiping at his face roughly. “Don’t.”
His breath came fast now.
“Aren’t you planning to do the exact same thing?” Will shot back. “The fancy job. The office. What was it? The Outreach Center. ??” His gaze flicked to Steve.
Steve flinched.
“So why back down now?” Will asked. “Why now, when it actually matters?”
No one answered.
Dustin and Steve exchanged a look — not defensive this time. Just heavy. Like they both knew he wasn’t wrong.
Will pressed on, voice lower but no less fierce.
“And if you don’t believe him,” he said. “If you don’t believe El is alive— fine.”
He took a shaky breath.
“Then do this for Mike.”
That landed harder than anything else he’d said.
“He’s alone in there,” Will continued. “Sitting in that basement, waiting. Waiting for someone to choose him.”
His voice softened, breaking again.
“Do you have any idea what he’s been through these past years? While we were building lives and moving forward?” Will shook his head. “He didn’t. He stayed right where he lost her.”
Will’s throat tightened.
“And none of us were there,” he said quietly. “Not even me. Not when he needed it most.”
The porch was silent except for his breathing.
“He’s our friend,” Will said. “And we don’t get to abandon him just because this hurts.”
He wiped at his eyes again, looking at each of them in turn.
“If you believe she’s gone,” Will said, “then prove it to him.”
Their heads slowly lifted.
“Mike said it himself,” Will went on. “If she’s alive, that place is the only one she’d go.”
His voice steadied.
“So we go,” he said. “All of us.”
“And if she’s not there,” Will added, barely above a whisper, “then at least he gets the truth. At least he gets to stop carrying this alone.”
He swallowed hard.
“Help him,” Will finished. “Do this for him.”
No one spoke after that.
Lucas stared at the ground, jaw clenched.
Max pressed her hands into her sleeves, shoulders shaking.
Dustin’s eyes were red, his glasses fogged.
Steve dragged a hand down his face, breathing out slowly like he was bracing himself for a fall.
The argument was over.
Not because they had answers.
But because they couldn’t walk away anymore.
Will wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out slowly, trying to steady himself before going back in.
The night air still clung to him when he reached the door.
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then he pushed it open.
The house was quiet in that way that only came after something heavy had been said. The TV murmured faintly somewhere down the hall — ordinary sounds that felt wrong after everything outside.
Will stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him.
And froze.
Mike was standing there.
Right on the other side of the door.
Like he’d been there the whole time.
Listening.
Their eyes met.
Will’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The space between them felt charged, stretched thin with everything that had almost been said and everything that still hadn’t.
Will swallowed.
“I—” Mike started, then stopped, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak yet.
He tried again.
“Thank you,” Mike said quietly. “For… sticking up for me....For believing me.”
The words were simple. Bare.
But they landed hard.
Will shook his head immediately, stepping closer without really thinking about it.
“No,” he said, voice breaking. “Thank you.”
Mike looked up at him, confused.
“For not stopping,” Will said. “For not giving up on her when the rest of us did.”
He hesitated, then pushed on, because if he stopped now he wouldn’t be able to say it at all.
“We all moved on,” Will said softly. “College. Jobs. New lives. And you stayed here. Searching. Believing.”
His chest ached.
“I can’t even imagine how lonely that must’ve been.”
Mike’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped to the floor.
“She was my sister,” Will said suddenly.
The words came out quieter than he expected.
“She was my family. And I still—” His voice cracked. “I forgot. I let myself forget.”
He swallowed hard.
“I should’ve been there, we all should've been ” Will said.
His voice lowered, raw and honest.
“I’m sorry, Mike. For everything.”
Mike didn’t answer.
He stared at the wood grain of the floor like it held the answers he couldn’t say out loud.
Then his shoulders shifted—just slightly.
A tear slipped free, tracing a quiet path down his cheek before he could stop it.
He wiped it away quickly, almost angrily, blinking hard like he could force it back inside.
Like showing it would mean breaking.
Will didn’t reach out this time.
He just stood there, close enough that Mike could feel him.
Not alone.
Not anymore.
And for the first time that night, Mike didn’t step away.
They stepped outside together.
Mike stood there for a moment, unsure where to put his hands, where to look. Finally, he exhaled and broke the silence.
“So…” he said quietly. “What do you think?”
No one answered right away.
Dustin took a step forward. His usual sarcasm was gone, stripped away by something raw and sincere.
“I’m sorry, man,” he said, voice cracking despite his effort to keep it steady. “We all should’ve been there for you.”
Mike blinked, clearly not expecting that — not from Dustin, not said like this.
Before Mike could even respond, Dustin pulled him into a hug.
It was clumsy. Too tight. Desperate.
Lucas didn’t hesitate. He joined in, wrapping his arms around Mike’s back. Max followed a second later, resting her head briefly against Mike’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.
For a moment, Mike stood frozen.
Then his shoulders sagged.
He let himself lean into them.
Will watched from a few steps away.
His chest ached — not with jealousy, not exactly — but with something deeper. Relief. Guilt. Love tangled so tightly it hurt to breathe.
Steve stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together by force alone.
“God,” Steve muttered, voice rough. “I hate feelings”
Will laughed softly through tears he didn’t bother hiding.
The hug finally broke.
Dustin wiped at his face aggressively, trying to recover some version of himself. “Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “Enough. Before I completely lose my reputation.”
He took a breath, then looked around at all of them.
“We’ll go,” he said. “We’ll check the place out. Together. Like always. Right, guys?”
Lucas nodded immediately. “Yeah. Together.”
Max nodded too. “We don’t leave anyone behind.”
Steve let out a shaky breath. “Guess I’m in then.”
Everyone turned to Mike.
Mike looked stunned — like he was afraid to believe this was real. Then his eyes shifted to Will.
Will met his gaze.
Mike smiled at him — soft, grateful, full of something unspoken.
Will felt it settle deep in his chest.
“Yeah,” Mike said finally. “Together.”
Lucas glanced at his watch, then up at the sky. “It’s late,” he said gently. “We’ll talk about the details tomorrow, okay? The trip, the plan — all of it.”
“No one’s going anywhere tonight,” Max added. “We’re all still here.”
Mike nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
There was a quiet agreement among them, unspoken but solid.
One by one, they started heading off toward their parents’ houses. No one rushed. Each goodbye lingered longer than necessary, like letting go felt harder than usual tonight.
Dustin squeezed Mike’s shoulder. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
Lucas nodded. “First thing.”
Steve gave him a crooked smile. “Try to get some sleep, yeah?”
Mike nodded again.
Eventually, the yard emptied.
And when the last footsteps faded—
Mike and Will were left standing there, alone in the glow of the porch light.
It was just the two of them again.
The night had gone quiet in a way that felt intentional, like the world was giving them space it didn’t usually allow. The porch light hummed softly behind them. Somewhere far off, a car passed, then disappeared
Will shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how close Mike was standing.
“I, um…” Will said, clearing his throat. “I don’t really have a place to stay.”
Mike looked at him.
“So.. um...I’ll just—” Will gestured vaguely toward the house. “I’ll get Ryan and we’ll go to a motel.”
He turned toward the door.
He barely made it a step.
Mike reached out.
His hand closed around Will’s wrist—not tight, not forceful. Just enough.
Will froze.
For a split second, everything inside him went painfully quiet.
Mike was standing behind him, close enough that Will could feel his warmth, close enough that the air between them felt charged, fragile. Mike’s hand was steady, familiar in a way that hurt more than it helped.
The contact sent something sharp and electric through Will’s chest. Not excitement—something deeper. Something dangerous. Like a memory his body remembered even when his mind tried to forget.
Will swallowed.
Slowly, he turned around.
Mike was looking at him with an expression Will had seen too many times in his life—soft, unguarded, almost helpless. Like Will was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“You can stay here,” Mike said quietly.
Just that.
No explanation. No justification. As if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Will’s heart clenched.
For one foolish, terrifying second, he wanted to say yes.
Then his eyes flicked past Mike, through the window.
Ryan was inside.
Real life rushed back in all at once.
The warmth in Will’s chest turned sharp, almost unbearable.
This is what you do to yourself, he thought bitterly. You let him pull you in. Every time.
Mike had always been like this. Unintentionally gentle. Unfairly kind.
Even when they were kids, Mike had held onto him differently. Spoke to him differently. Said things to Will he never said to Dustin or Lucas. Touched his shoulder. Pulled him closer. Looked at him like he mattered more than he should.
And Will had carried that with him for years.
Mike still looked at him like that.
Even now.
Even today.
But Mike loved Eleven.
Mike had never stopped loving her. Never stopped searching. Never stopped believing.
Mike would never love Will the way Will loved him.
And knowing that—choosing to stand here anyway—felt like a quiet form of self-destruction.
Will gently took his hand out of Mike’s.
The loss of contact felt immediate. Cold.
“It’d be weird for Ryan,” Will said softly, forcing his voice to stay even. “If I stayed.”
Mike’s face fell, just a little.
“I’ll come back in the morning,” Will added quickly. “Okay? We’ll talk then.”
He tried to smile.
It didn’t quite work.
Mike nodded, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, watching Will like he was slipping through his fingers.
Will turned away before he could change his mind.
Before he could hurt himself more.
He went inside, gathered Ryan, murmured something about the motel. He didn’t look back when they stepped out into the night.
Mike stayed where he was.
He watched them walk away, their silhouettes shrinking as the street stretched out in front of them. At first, there was space between them—just two figures moving in the same direction, nothing more.
Then Ryan’s hand found Will’s.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed. Just… natural. Like it belonged there.
Mike felt it anyway.
He kept his eyes on them, even when he probably shouldn’t have. Even when his chest started to ache in that dull, familiar way he never had words for.
The night air grew colder. Will must have felt it too, because he slowed, shoulders hunching slightly.
Ryan noticed.
Mike saw him shrug off his coat without a word, saw him step closer, drape it around Will’s shoulders, adjusting it carefully like he was afraid Will might slip away if he didn’t do it right.
Will didn’t argue. He just pulled it tighter around himself.
Something in Mike’s throat closed.
He told himself it was fine.
That this was good.
That Will wasn’t alone.
Still, his fingers curled slowly at his sides.
It wasn’t anger he felt—nothing sharp or loud. It was quieter than that. Heavier. The strange, disorienting weight of realizing someone else was doing the things he had always done. The things he had never questioned, never named.
He didn’t know what he was allowed to feel.
Jealousy felt like the wrong word. Grief felt too dramatic. Confusion came closest, but even that didn’t cover it all.
He just knew that watching Ryan’s arm brush Will’s back felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain, especially when everything else in his life already felt like it was falling apart.
Mike stood there until they turned the corner and disappeared from view.
Only then did he look away.
The porch light buzzed softly above him. The house behind him was warm
But he was alone again.
And the emptiness stayed, settling deep in his chest, long after the street went quiet.