Chapter Text
Superheroes were safe.
It was the first thought Mike remembers having with his father during a summer vacation to a far-off town in California. They had squeezed through crowded streets in search of a souvenir shop and instead stumbled upon a vendor selling paintings. He remembers his dad's disapproving drone when questioning the vendor. No doubt judging them from head to toe because god forbid Ted Wheeler chose to be welcoming. Anything close to amiable or neutral would be better than the scowl that sat primly on his face as the vendor showed them the options. They could not turn up empty-handed. Mike's mom would throw a fit. And at the age of ten years old, Mike had learnt quickly, you should never show up empty-handed when a woman expects something of you, which is how Mike ends up with his first poster of Clark Kent.
It was nothing officially stamped. A simple sketch of Superman ascending. The sun painted his body, softening the rugged edges beneath the suit. Mike remembers his heart sticking to his throat and reverberating through his voice box as he snatched it from the vendor, absolutely enamoured. His father had hummed in approval. Because men wanting to be strong was good. The pat on Mike's back felt like a silent well-done. It meant he was safe. He made the right choice, and his heart slid back to his rib cage, where he hoped it would stay. As he grew older, Mike came to realise safety was not security. The pats on the back turned foreboding, like nails on a crucifix, the crucifix that was himself, Mike Wheeler.
Mike Wheeler was not safe. He wished he had an answer for why. An answer for why Will's coming out made him feel both petrified and liberated. Will Byers, his best friend since kindergarten. Kind and gentle Will Byers, reduced to tears over his nature. A nature so resolutely his, Mike couldn't fathom Will being anything else. No, Mike never believed the insults or hateful slurs tossed at them. Never. And yet, once the words hung in the air, brittle yet unavoidable, it had felt right. Will was– Will is gay.
With Vecna looming his psychopathic claws over Hawkins, Mike had fumbled his way through a makeshift apology and feeble encouragement, at best. It was horrendous. His palms were sweaty and sliding along the rusty railings, tinting them bronze and leaving behind grime. The familiar sensation of his heart sticking to his throat left him bumbling like an idiot.
He needed to shut up. To rephrase. To do anything but whatever this was. Because, what was it? The disheartened droop of Will's shoulders and that look. A cross between fond and exasperated that made Mike want to toss himself off the tower as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He had said the wrong words. Again. As he always did, Mike was uncertain when he'd ever get them right. So, he focused on defeating Vecna. He planned and planned till all he could think about was ensuring everyone made it out alive. Victory took many things from them. It took El.
Mike was no stranger to grief. However, he was a stranger to processing it. He was never good at letting things go. Not when Will went missing. Not when El disappeared the first time or second time. It could have been his internalisation of Mike the Brave, the protector. The leader, the paladin who never gives up and by extension, he had to be him. The party needed Mike the Brave. They needed their leader until they didn't. Mike wanted to be needed, especially by his party. He wanted to be present for all their emotional coasters. He wanted to be their shield and their sword because they were his. He needed to, else what was he? Surely, not Mike the Brave or the Paladin or the leader or anyone at all.
When grief took Max, in spite of their fiery dynamic, Mike tried to be present. But he wasn't Lucas or El, and by the time he had outlined his approach on a singular sheet of paper, Lucas had saved the day. When grief took Dustin, Mike thought he needed to act faster, and he did. A little too quickly. Dustin lashed out, and Mike couldn't find a reason to blame him. It was his fault for pushing too hard. By the time Mike attempted to tackle it again, after slaving over some pamphlet about “helping a loved one process grief” that he'd stolen from the guidance counsellor's office, Steve had already smoothed it over. And so, it became two for two.
Will was the third. He'd failed Will several times between now and the night Will went missing. Mike knew he failed without getting a chance to attempt or realise that Will needed help. Mike hated himself a little more as he compiled these scenes, making up the kaleidoscope of his life, finding only the resounding truth. He is a shitty ass paladin. And even worse, a terrible everything else.
He couldn't protect anyone. He couldn't protect El Jane. Jane, who deserved the world. And surely, deserved better than him. Jane, who had spent her life as a thing fulfilling mission quotas and never knew the pains of a stomachache after stuffing her face with mountains of grease and sugar. Who'd never learn to drive, like he and Will had this summer. Never get to choose a university, though Mike doubted she would want to go, but that was hardly the point. The point was she deserved a choice. She deserved to have all the choices in the world and instead was dealt two: survive or don't.
And now, she is gone. She never got to play D&D. He never taught her how to build a character. She'd never get to pick a dress for prom or take embarrassing pictures with her dad. It all bred guilt in Mike. He let her die like that. Without knowing someone loves her. Without knowing, someone would miss her. Yeah, shitty ass paladin.
The night after graduation, the party had decided to spend the entire summer basking in their youth, both missed and yet to be explored. University would split them up- Lucas and Max to California, Dustin to Massachusetts, and he and Will to New York. It took them an entire weekend to outline a list of things to do. At the top, glaring back at Mike was Will's offer:
Go to a gay club.
Mike was frozen throughout the discussion. Like molasses being poured into his lungs, his breaths were heavy and shook his chest. His lack of enthusiasm was noticed by Will. Will always notice Mike. It was the only time he wished the other wouldn't. Then, Mike wouldn't feel guilted. Guilted into saying yes at the sight of Will's shoulders bunched up as if waiting for Mike to burn him on a stake. He never wanted to see Will wear that expression. Not with him. Never with him, he would sooner take another leap into the quarry than have Will doubt Mike's acceptance. He understood the significance of the club. What it would mean to Will to experience it. And so, despite the protests wanting to rip out his skull, he persevered. Plus, what kind of best friend would he be, denying Will a place to belong? To be free?
So, he smiles and listens to Max prattling on about dress codes and times and everything else that Mike cares nothing about. Because even Will's smile cannot stop the impending doom twisting his stomach, threatening to expel bile the longer the discussion persists.
~~
The club lights are blinding. The air smells perspired, heavy and slutty. Music vibrates through his teeth. Nothing Mike has ever listened to. Upon hitting the dancefloor, the party immediately scatters, leaving him next to Will.
Mike contemplates bolting throughout the week leading up to The weekend. The party convincing Steve and Robin to be their chaperones only strengthened this urge. Since Will’s coming out, the dynamic duo had been giving him glares. Mike had no idea why. Everyone had ignored Mike's protests about shopping. Mike had no one to impress, which wasn’t a justifiable reason not to match the atmosphere. With several more protests and well-placed encouragement from Will, Mike conceded and allowed himself to be shoved into a pair of fitted jeans and a button-up layered beneath an oversized shirt. It stuck to his skin, accentuating his hips and long legs. He fought the urge to rip it off, finding it as exposing as Max's miniskirt.
Though his friends claimed he looked fine. Mike did not feel fine. He tugs at the cuffs, sticking close to Will as they weave through the grinding bodies to the bar. Mike did not know where to look, or rather, where he was allowed to look. So, he didn't look at all. His eyes stayed locked onto Will's boots.
“What do you want?” Hot breath caresses his ear as Will leans into his space.
“Wha–” His head snaps up, getting an eyeful of Will, and he chokes on his spit. Yellow flashes over Will's neck, deepening his tan. It gives Mike a proper peek at the sheer shirt under the white denim jacket. His gaze drifts from the defined pecs to the tapered waist, courtesy of Will's recent obsession with health and fitness. Mike can't help thinking Will should go as Spiderman for Halloween. He stomps it down the second he recognises the thought and hopes the lights hide the flush creeping up his neck.
“Mike?” Will raises a brow, his voice carries careful concern, “Are you sure you're okay? You know, you don't–”
Mike cuts Will off. He would not allow Will to go down that road. “No. I promise I want to be here. I'll have a Coke.” He smiles– it pulls tightly at the edges.
“Alright. But if you feel uncomfortable, you can tell me.”
“I promise.”
Will seems to accept the reassurance and leaves Mike to get their drinks. Mike watches him. It is safer than his surroundings. Safer than the lean bodies grinding together or the heated gazes that make him feel hunted or the muffled moans noises mixing with the bass. Mike had always considered Will safe. Uncertainty was an uncommon feeling between them. Yet whilst watching this version of Will, the one flashing a smirk at the bartender, who seems a little young to be manning the bar, Mike feels terribly uncertain.
Will grins at him mid-way through conversing with the bartender. Mike swallows and drops his gaze for a moment before catching himself. Mike did not hide from Will. He had never experienced the urge. His eyes find Will's once more. Will nudges his head, encouraging Mike to come closer. Mike's gaze slides to the bartender, a fit man who's pretty eyes send a confusing flurry of molten desire down his spine, and for the hundredth time tonight, Mike contemplates bolting. The man whispers something to Will. Will laughs and shakes his head. Mike cannot hear it, but he can tell from the way Will's body shakes with joy.
His heart sinks. He wonders what was said. What was so funny? About him? Because it had to be about him. Didn't it? Mike glances down at his clothes. They drag across his skin, sticky like sludge. This wasn't him. Everyone could tell. These clothes. The looks. Mike did not belong here. And finally, since the start of this night. Truly, this week, he bolts. Shoving past bodies with an awful buzzing energy and his heartbeat clawing up his throat.