Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a Tuesday. December 2nd, 1984.

What felt like half an hour of driving really only turned out to be about ten minutes, and Maxine Mayfield didn’t think she’d ever been so afraid to see the vibrant Hawkins Clinic reproductive center as she was right then. 

She didn’t even notice she was there at first. She was too busy suppressing the urge to gulp down the remainder of her mother’s Anxiolytics to calm herself down, or maybe die right there in the passenger seat of her stepdad’s run-down Ford. Her eyes were zoning in on the frayed holes at the knees of her jeans, looking anywhere but at her mother, Susan Mayfield’s, shivering form in the driver’s seat. 

Because Max knew what she was thinking, exactly. My daughter’s not a normal girl. My daughter won’t be able to have babies. 

My daughter.

My Maxine.

Susan didn’t seem to notice Max’s internal spiraling, and Max didn’t blame her, based on both the fact that Max had a steady poker face, and the fact that she might also be spiraling, too. Her mother’s auburn locks were hanging heavily in her eyes, unlike always, when it was tied back tightly. You could tell she was getting anxious when she didn’t have her hair up. 

Once Susan parked the Ford, silence ensued.

The silence was so thick Max could feel it, wrapped around her neck like a clenched fist. 

In the midst of that silence, the imaginary grip loosened, and Susan cleared her throat to speak. 

“Maxine —“ she began, her voice registering as nothing but a mere whisper. The sudden need to interrupt whatever her mother was about to say busted out of Max like Gushers. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Max replied weakly, her head tipped back against the window, staring out across the parking lot as snow assaulted its tarry surface. It was a distant noise, light tappings, but Max was certain it had gotten louder as more silence budded, like she was trapped in a wind pipe. “I don’t even act like a girl, it’s not —“

“Maxine.” Susan cut in sharply, fingers still against the leather of the steering wheel cover. When Max forced herself to peer across the console, she thought she might’ve been dead. 

Susan didn’t speak, she wasn’t angry, but nor was she happy, or sad, for that matter. It was that strange in between you rarely saw your parents portray, and when you did, you knew you were in for some heavy shit. She reached for her purse in the back seat and stepped out onto the slush-covered parking lot. Max followed, pulling her coat a bit tighter around herself, thinking, what if I just … left? Maybe to the Palace. That’s the dream, isn’t it?

She could be at the Palace right now. Mashing buttons on Dig Dug. At the Palace, she was Mad Max. She was fuckin’ badass. But here, she was weak, guts literally exposed like she was some science experiment, and only because she hadn’t gotten a period yet. Pathetic.

The door of the Hawkins Clinic opened with a too-joyous bell jingling above them. Max’s bottom lip was already trapped between her teeth, but she felt her front teeth dig a little when she actually entered. The walls were a sickening pink, a shade that made Max want to sink into the linoleum floor. The front desk had a glass dish of butterscotch candies and a stack of sickly-sweet Mommy & Me magazines with wide-eyed toddlers and possible porn advertisements.

Max thought she was going to expel the contents of her empty stomach right then and there. 

The receptionist looked like Ruth McDevitt just a bit — tight platinum perm, silver hoop earrings, turtleneck sweater, name tag that read “SHELLEY”. She smiled a bit too widely when Susan approached, Max reluctantly tailing her. “Maxine Mayfield?”

Max winced. 

Chapter Text

It was March 1st, 1993, and Max was so worried for their surrogate to arrive. It was only from Columbus, but so many what-ifs sprawled out across her mind, reoccurring in a rollercoaster type pattern. Since Rachel Dickson had said over the phone that they needed to talk. And naturally, both Lucas and Max were fretful. For Rachel and their baby.

Max was behind the slate gray exterior of her house, sitting on the hardwood that smelled too much like Pinesol, her back was against the couch, knees drawn up, the sleeves of her sweater were bunched up at her wrists. She was staring at a stuffed gray-furred rabbit in her lap. She looked around, there was a bassinet in the corner, untouched since it was built. A baby monitor stood tall on the coffee table.

Lucas sauntered in from the kitchen, rubbing one eye with his fist like a child. His free hand had a death grip on a can of New Coke. “Hey, uh … you didn’t happen to use Pinesol to mop the floor, did’ja?”

He dropped down beside her, placing the New Coke on the coffee table, Max let out a breathy chuckle. “Sorry. Rachel said Lysol made her puke.” But Max should’ve known Lucas was slightly allergic to Pinesol, or whatever chemical was in it.

Then — three knocks, almost rhythmic.

Lucas squeezed his eyes shut, “I literally just sat down.” But before he got up, Max beat him to it. She practically bolted over to the door, then pulled it open briskly, taking in the sudden blast of lukewarm air. Rachel was standing at the doorstep, looking away shyly, her yellow curls were tied up, her coat was huge and — and —

There was a bundle in her arms.

Their baby. Or … what should have been their baby.

Max stared at the baby — a newborn pink, fraying little duck fluff on her head, wrapped up with meticulous care. “Rachel, I — what — did you real—“

“Yeah,” Rachel’s head bobbed in a teensy nod. “I — I needed to talk to you in person.”

Lucas had stood up, striding over and helping Rachel get situated. They couldn’t believe it. Their child. Their daughter was born. She would be theirs. Finally, Max would be able to start a family with Lucas. Raise a kid, watch a whole new person bloom before her eyes. And she was theirs, finally theirs —

“I’m not going to the hospital tomorrow,” Rachel finally said after the silence.

Max felt a pit suddenly form in her stomach, what did that mean? “Wh… what?”

“I’m not…” Rachel glanced away from Lucas and Max’s gazes. “I’m not signing the paperwork.” She looked like she was holding her breath, then she asked, “I’m sorry.”

“Wait.” Increasingly, Max started to see Lucas unravel. His eyes rounded, his brows furrowed. He looked so much like his father it was almost scary. It wasn’t like Lucas to be this angry. But here he was, looking like Cujo the dog. “What the hell are you talking about.”

“I —“ Rachel gazed down at the baby in her arms. “I didn’t plan this. I swear. Told myself it was temporary and everything,” she adjusted the blanket, and a lump pressed itself against the soft inner flesh of Max’s throat, and her vision became glassy and warped. Choked up. “She was born. And I — I held her, and she looked at me and I just … I couldn’t let her go.”

Max stared at her, heart sinking low, almost to her feet. “I know this isn’t fair. I … I know what I promised you both. But … I don’t think I can do it. She feels like mine.”

“She isn’t yours,” Lucas pushed in, his hand landed in Max’s upturned palm, squeezing a bit.

Rachel had the nerve to flinch.

“We bought the crib. We went to every appointment. We literally picked her name. You don’t get to walk in and —“

”I named her Georgia.” Rachel spoke quietly. She was shivering in her skin, obviously scared of Lucas. But, why? Max thought she would be scared of herself if she was Rachel. And unprompted, Max felt her lungs emit a slow, deep breath. Then she felt like she could say anything and would be justified, “get out.”

Quickly, Lucas tightened his grip on Max’s hand. “Max —“

“Get her out of here.”

Rachel stood slowly, and now she knew she wasn’t welcomed her anymore. And she probably never would be again. “Do you … wanna say goodbye?” She offered the swaddled baby in her arms. Max met her eyes, “no.”

“Max, maybe we should —“ she abruptly cut Lucas off, “you say goodbye if you want. I’m not seeing her.” In one blistering movement, Max shoved past Lucas and Rachel — who squeaked when she did — and exited down the hallway. She vanished into the nursery.

Rachel remained stiff, looking at Lucas, with nothing but guilt and remorse in her eyes but no regrets. “I didn’t come to hurt you.”

”You shouldn’t’ve come at all.” Lucas spoke roughly, like his throat was tainted with whiskey. 

“I just wanted —“

”Could you just … leave?” Lucas asked, fists clenching at his sides. Rachel glanced back down at the baby, then nodded, walked to the door, opened it, and left. Lucas shut the door behind her. 

…

The mobile was still. Max was sitting on the rug, her back to the wall, clutching the neck of her sweater like that might keep her from breaking completely. Lucas stood at the doorway, leaning against it, arms crossed, trying to keep his composure. 

“She looked like you.” He offered gently.

Max didn’t look up.

It was December 2nd, 1994, and Hawkins, Indiana was nearly earthed. 

 
It was snowing hard in the little town and no inch of land went unscathed from the powdery flakes that covered the streets outside. It had been storming for weeks, it seemed. Mike Wheeler’s Nana had actually wondered if it would ever stop, if maybe the town would get buried under seventy feet of pure ice, rock, and water. But the elderly should have known that nothing bad ever stuck in Hawkins.

The table was set like always — napkins folded into soft triangles, mashed potatoes in a glass bowl, chicken roast cooling on a white ceramic plate. A cheap snowflake centerpiece from the dollar store sweating slightly in the heat from the overhead light. Karen was serving everyone carefully, maybe some leftover cautiousness from spilling dinner that one time in ‘84. 

Nancy was home for the weekend — she had moved into Indianapolis two months ago. Ted was where he always was, at the head of the table. Holly was taking a chaser 7-Up, following bites of the chicken roast (Holly despised chicken roast). Nana was visiting again. 

Mike was prodding a soft piece of carrot on the edge of his plate. “Michael.”

Mid prod, Mike’s head jerked up, brows flying up, prompting a nonverbal question, to which Karen said, “if you’re not going to eat the chicken, don’t just move it around.”

Mike shrugged lightly, then leaned back, as though he was lounging in a beach chair. “Apologies, Mom. Does the chicken taste gamey to you, too?” He asked in an unpolished hiss, and he could see Nancy rolling her eyes, Ted just grunted, almost sounding like some lethargic animal. 

Karen’s shoulders squared out in disbelief, but she kept her composure. “Hard day at work?”

This was where Ted gave a teensy chuckle, “more like a hard day at Disneyland.”

Karen cast a glare that was filled with more attitude than anger, “he can have hard days, Ted.”

Ted raised his brows, disbelieving, “sure. It’s so difficult to empty lint traps.”

“I can quit paying rent, you know that?” Mike challenged, frowning as he glared between his parents. Nana whistled, “those are fighting words.” She cooed, almost sounding like a worried mother. “You’re in trouble now, Mama.” She told Karen, who was risking another stern glance at her unruly son. 

Holly, who had been sitting beside him, quietly passed him her roll under the table. She hated rolls, too. Pretty much anything that didn’t say sweet or savory was something she didn’t like. So Mike accepted it with a grainy sigh. Nancy watched the exchange, then turned to Karen and said, “I think the chicken tastes great, Mom.”

“Well, at least someone at this table appreciates the work your mother put into dinner.” Nana added, like she had any part in this. 

“She just wasn’t hungry,” Mike spoke softly, in defense of Holly, who was sitting there shyly. 

“Neither are you, apparently,” Nana replied briskly.

“Do you two want something else? There’s still soup from yesterday.” Karen offered gently.

“M’not five,” Mike mumbled pathetically. Ted wiped his mouth on the napkin, set it down, “you live in our basement.” In the silence that followed, Mike felt like his guts were turned inside out. It was such a teensy little comment, but it was true. He’d created an avalanche for himself. He’d chosen to stay here, because he couldn’t afford anything else. What sort of Dungeon Master wasn’t brave enough to step out into the real world? What sort of leader? … what sort of heart?

Then Mike kicked out a leg so suddenly, shoving his chair back with a scrape, then stood up and brushed his pants off as his family looked on. “Great talk, everyone.” God, why did everyone think they were better than him only because they were better off? Mike was just born with a weird brain and a too-big heart, so what? He thought this as he peeled himself away from the scene.

“Michael —“ Karen called back, and Mike almost bet that she glared at Ted after she’d said that.

Fuckin’ failure, Mike inwardly desired to kick himself in the shin as he shuffled down the stairs. He didn’t really expect those words to hurt that much, maybe because it was true. He had been living with his parents since he turned eighteen. Dustin and Suzie had moved to some ritzy-glitzy two story home on Loch Nora, Max and Lucas were two cities away, Eleven and Will were roommates in some fancy college. 

So … what went wrong with Mike?

Maybe it was because he’d spent too much money on testosterone vials from his drug dealer, Eddie Munson. But he never regretted any of that. Even though he didn’t have enough for T now, he still looked the way he wanted to. He looked like a man now. With a chest binder, individuals called him a man, and Mike didn’t regret it. He’d never regret it.

So what did he regret? He asked himself as he crossed the carpet in his basement that led to the threadbare couch. As soon as he found it, he slumped down on it, gaping a massive yawn and stretching out his arms, resting his feet on the coffee table.

Who knew?

Snow slapped against the window above Mike’s head. He was definitely supposed to be asleep, at the crisp hour of three o’clock in the morning he could hardly register much. His mind was too foggy to really think. All that was within the bounds of his skull was: play Mario Bros till you pass out. So that was exactly what Mike did. The air was freezing, Mike had wrapped a quilt around his shoulders and a grayish-blue sweater on.

It was still cold, though frankly Mike couldn’t really afford heating in there. The controller was blocky, its cable frayed at the edges, through the tiny clunky television, Mike could faintly see that Mario was in the warp zone. He entered number ‘4’, and the noise of the little pixel going down the pipe completely blended in with a light tapping on the window.

Mike didn’t take any notice to it until the tapping came again. This time it startled Mike. His mind escalated to robbers, serial killer, a Demogorgon, but as soon as he stood up on the left cushion and stared into the window, he could see the outline of a familiar face — Lucas Sinclair. Eyes red-rimmed, hair slightly mussed.

Mike shoved the window open with a sharp creak. “Christ. What are you, twelve?” He asked sharply, but he was already helping Lucas get into the basement. Lucas landed with a gentle flop on the couch, dragging in a rush of cold air and snowflakes. Mike shut the window once Lucas was fully in and looked down, still standing.

Lucas was laying there, eyes red-rimmed, coat half-zipped, he looked exhausted.

“Sorry,” Lucas mumbled, sitting up. Mike settled beside him. “Didn’t wanna knock. Your mom scares me.”

Mike shrugged lightly.

Lucas stood awkwardly, brushing snow off his sleeves, then he glanced at the television. “You’re still playing that?” He asked, tone everything except humorous.

“What else would I be doing?” Mike retaliated, tossing him the quilt. Lucas caught it, and wrapped it around his own shoulders.

By now, a Goomba had certainly struck Mario, because the screen flickered with GAME OVER.

“Max cried in the shower today,” Lucas spoke softly, cautiously. 

Mike glanced over, pausing. “Shit. M’sorry.”

“She didn’t think I noticed,” Lucas said helplessly. Mike knew Lucas had a tendency to blame himself.

“You always notice,” Mike commented gently. He didn’t want Lucas to get worked up over something that wasn’t his fault. But he had no idea how to say that without sounding condescending or stupid, or something. Mike didn’t know the hurt of losing a child that was still here. That kid was rightfully Max and Lucas’s. But Max hadn’t made the effort to sue. Lucas had said it was grieving, but Mike knew Lucas also knew that Max wasn’t going to sue. She just no longer felt like she could be a mother.

It had been about a year, but they still weren’t over it. Mike didn’t blame them.

Lucas exhaled softly, and rubbed his hands together before resting them in his lap. “S’been like, a month. Was it?” Mike parted his lips to answer, but Lucas beat him to it. “Doesn’t matter.”

”You talked to her about it?” Mike queried.

“She shuts down,” Lucas said, he looked like he was going to cry. Mike thought he might. Maybe that was why Lucas stood up and started pacing. “She says it’s okay. But I can tell it’s not. She doesn’t eat right anymore, Mike. She stays in the nursery, like, all day. She said she wanted to move yesterday.” Mike noticed his friend’s hands began to tremble, but he scrunched them up into fists and shoved them into his pockets like they were useless luggage.

“I — I keep thinking … what if I’d done something different? Maybe I should’ve … I dunno … bonded with the surrogate. Or — fuck, I dunno!”

Mike looked up at the boy, seeing just how stressed he looked. He looked ten years older than he was. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Mike told him. “What if I —“

”Lucas. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He said again, this time firmer. 

Lucas slumped down beside Mike, half defeated but he continued to ramble. “I was supposed to protect her. I’m her husband, man. It should’ve worked out. She shouldn’t’ve bailed.”

Mike clocked the distraught expression on his friend’s brows. But Mike felt disconnected, detached or maybe plugged in, but like a red cord in a yellow socket. Then he couldn’t bring himself to look at Lucas, to assess the grief that must have still been reflecting on his face, showing in his blackish-brown eyes ripe with a sullen, blue mourn. He only stared blankly at the blinking screen. There wasn’t nothing he could do.

But Mike was terrified to say it, to release it like a child on a bike. Right out into the world. Putting the idea out into the world might risk getting their hopes up again. 

And Mike cared. He truly did. He hated to see his friends fail more times than once. Especially the friends who had gone through the exact same trauma as he did. They got him. Mike got them, too. Had he ever truly expressed that? No.

Not at all.

Maybe it was time to fix that.

“What if we could still give it to her?” Mike sputtered quietly, choking out the first thing he could think to say. Lucas turned to face Mike, brows furrowing slightly. “What?” He asked. “Come again?”

Mike swallowed, the idea’s out. Cat’s outta the bag. What’ve you done, Wheeler?

“I mean, I —“ Mike scratched at the eczema dappling his left leg, trying to keep his composure. “I’m not doing anything with my life. I’m just … here. I could …” he braced himself. “Carry the baby.”

Mike could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage like a freight train going full speed. Fuck. What did he just agree to?

Cat’s outta the bag.

“You’re …” Lucas swiped his tongue over his lips, and Mike suddenly remembered how dry his friend’s skin would get in the wintertime. “You’re serious?”

Almost unconsciously aware of it, Mike felt his head bobbing in a gentle nod. Then something glittered faintly underneath all the regret. Would it really be an awful idea? Lucas deserved to be a father, and Max deserved to be a mother. What could happen? How bad could it be? He still had the parts. Why not put them to use before they went? Why not?

“I guess … I’m not saying it’s not weird. I’m … I’m just saying, if it would help. If it would … maybe, give both of you something.” He sputtered like someone on life support.

“Mike,” Lucas spoke softer but firmer, “you don’t have to fix this.”

“I know,” Mike finally looked at him. “But I want to.”

The screen faded out finally. Fading to black.

Lucas and Mike faced each other. With something heavy yet gentle on their minds.

Chapter Text

Max’s cousin, Mandy, was set to have her baby shower on December 4th, 1994. Max hadn’t really been hesitant, but maybe that was just what she was telling herself to seem less self-centered. Because what good younger cousin bailed out on poor Mandy’s baby shower? Not Max. Lucas had offered to come with her, but Max sort of felt … funny. Because of what had been offered, from Mike, and what had been discussed.

She just needed time to herself.

So she drove herself to Fort Wayne, where apparently it would commence. Her floral dress shirt and pants that were definitely a bit too big on her. When she arrived in Fort Wayne, the first thing she did was buy a pack of Camel’s and smoke one or two cigarettes against the green body of her Ford. Then she entered Cousin Mandy’s fancy, two story with a basement house.

Almost everything was pure pastel.

Soft blue paper streamers taped to the ceiling with curling ribbon, cupcakes topped with nauseating pink frosting, Mandy sitting on the beige chair, wheezing a little as she breathed. The indoors looked a bit industrial — woodsy, spiraling staircases, a full blown library room. Pale winter light streamed in through the window, casting light upon the countertop, where Max’s Aunt Helen was chopping vegetables for some dinner-lunch. The kind of atmosphere that felt so sugarcoated that it made your stomach ache.

Max stood near the left hallway doorway, nursing a sweating can of yeasty beer. It burned on the way down, and she couldn’t drink too much of it, otherwise she would wake up stretched out on the table, using her own drool as a pillow. Someone’s kid — Great-Aunt Kendra — darted past her in a pair of rainbow socks stretched all the way up to her knobby knees. Her and a gaggle of other kids swept past her with little shrieks and theatrical statements that made no sense.

“Oh God, right?” She spotted Mandy gesturing vividly, face splitting in a toothy grin, “I think the only thing I’m scared for is getting my period again, honestly.”

”Oh, you don’t have to worr—“ Kendra was abruptly cut off by a very eager Mandy: “my cramps? Insane. Like needles, I swear. Sixth grade, too! My poor little self!”

“Ugh, Maxine’s lucky,” Kendra cooed. “She doesn’t have to worry about ruining those pretty white jeans.” Max glanced down briefly, and sure enough, her jeans were as white as snow. There was a bubble of laughter that followed, and Max could tell they didn’t mean to sound condescending, they were just women bonding.

And maybe that was worse than condescending. Because Max couldn’t say it was rude of them to say it. They were just being women. Nothing Max could be. To other women, she was just a girl. Red-headed with a broken womb. She took a tense sip from her beer, it tasted less bread-like, and more metallic and watery, like she was drinking swamp water. When she suddenly felt a tug at her jeans.

Max looked down, a little toddler with sparkly barrettes in her brunette hair, the corners of her little mouth were sticky, and her hands were covered in white Cheeto dust — Anniston Mayfield . Max could recall that this was Kendra’s youngest, born three minutes after her twin sister, Tinsley. “Mac!” She couldn’t really pronounce x’s yet, so she said Mac instead of Max. 

Max’s expression visibly softened, this was the only thing she liked about baby showers: the actual babies. “Hey, squirt,” she said, not exactly cooing, but she was close enough. 

“My cow ran away!” The toddler spoke almost urgently, definitely theatric. 

“Your cow?” Max took a tiny glance around the room, and found a white-and-black cow stuffed animal resting by Kendra’s thigh. That must have been what she was talking about. 

“Can you help me find it?”

Almost instinctively, Max knelt down to the child’s level, and used the hem of her shirt to wipe the stickiness from the corner of her mouth. “I think I saw him —“

”She’s a girl-cow!”

”Right, sorry. Her, sitting by your Mom.”

The girl’s eyes went wide. “Mommy took my cow?”

”I wouldn’t doubt it.” Max mumbled under her breath, to which the girl giggled. Kendra was a bit of a spaz sometimes. 

…

About ten minutes later, Max was on the carpet with a gaggle of three kids — Mae-Mae, Tinsley and Anniston — they were watching her build a Jenga tower. Mae squealed in delight when it toppled over, “can we try again, Maxine?” She asked, blue eyes bright. “Okay,” Max gave in quickly, because these kids’ faces were so pleading. “One more time. Then I gotta go.”

There was a chorus of ‘nooo!’s and ‘awww’s’. It was something that made Max’s heart fill with something thick and sticky, love and longing, maybe. But she wasn’t really poetic. Tinsley marched right up and sat on Max’s lap like she belonged there and rested her head right up against her chest. Max’s throat tightened. Would she really never have this? Oh God. Being here made her realize just how much she wanted it. 

But nobody could have what they wanted. How would they learn not to want so hard?

She could feel the other women in the kitchen burning holes into her with their stares, flaming hot with gossip. They were whispering to one another, voices low with sympathy. Max couldn’t hear what they were saying. But at the same thing she knew what they were talking about:

“Poor Maxine.”

“So young.”

”What a shame, right?”

“She lost her baby, didn’t she? Bout a year ago?”

”No.”

“She didn’t lose it. The surrogate changed her mind.”

“Well … same difference, right?”

”Must be why she’s acting weird.”

…

A little while later, Max ducked into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Then she exhaled softly, leaning her hands on the sink. The overhead light flickered slightly, and the hairs on her arms stood up for a moment, then she remembered that the whole Upside Down thing was over. There was a framed quote above the toilet: “Let all that you do be done in love." in cursive lettering. 

Max stared at her own reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were faintly flushed pink, dotted with pale freckles that showed more in the summer, which was kind of the standard for a ginger. Her chest was still flat under the dress shirt, she still looked like a sixteen-year-old. The kind of girl that didn’t know shit about cramps or birth plans or ovulation.

Unconsciously, she pulled her shirt tighter around herself, like maybe she was trying to look for what wasn’t there. 

Someone knocked at the door.

”Is this shitter full?”

“Occupied!” Max called out.

Once the footfalls faded out, Max looked back at her reflection. She was happy for Mandy. She really was. At least, she wanted to be fully happy. But … something was holding her back. Feelings of jealousy that were unfairly placed in her mind. She had to get over this. But why? Why should she?

It was nearly Christmas — December 4th, which wasn’t even close — and Hawkins was warm for the first time in weeks. Even if it wouldn’t last.

It was hardly drizzling that afternoon, but the threat of rain still hung over Hawkins like a nonstop EAS alarm. It never really stopped. Even after winter, the weather was pretty dreary, and the sidewalks often grew slick with ice the moment the temperature dropped below zero Celsius. Not today, though, and Mike was grateful it hadn’t.

That was why Mike thought it was a clever idea to wear nothing but a white tank top and a pair of baggy blue shorts. It was really a poor choice to choose a white tank top with a black chest binder, because that thing showed itself to the world through the thin top fabric. He’d taken the long way home from the comic store, just to browse. Now, he wandered through suburbia like he used to on his bike when he was a kid. But now he was twenty-two and trudging. His brain felt like tar.

What did I agree to? It cycled on and on.

The question had been stalking him since two nights ago. Since Lucas had left the basement with red eyes and false hope. Since Mike had flopped onto the couch with the N64 controller resting beside him like it had something to do with it (fuck you, controller, no you didn’t), his heart was whamming against his ribcage like someone was punching him from the inside.

He hadn’t even really meant to say it. The words just fell out like drool. “I could carry the baby.” Like it was no big deal. Like it didn’t mean turning his life upside down. Like it didn’t mean opening up raw gashes that were still bleeding, or admitting to himself how useless he actually felt.

Mike had no real destination. He just knew he was walking. But it was starting to get colder, and Mike was definitely not prepared for cold weather. He thought about calling Lucas again. Or maybe Max, but she was at a baby shower. He thought about Dustin, for some reason. Dustin would say something stupidly logical, like, “statistically speaking, you’re only cold because those ugly blue shorts.” And then give him a soda and a comic book.

He didn’t think any of them would get it. Not like Will would. Except Mike hadn’t spoken to Will — not really — in a year. That was what made the next thing so ridiculous. He rounded the corner of Elm and Oak, scuffed a chunk of slush with his shoe, and walked straight into someone. Mike stepped back a few paces from the shock of it.

Something fell, or, a few things.

“Shit, sorry —“ Mike bent down automatically to grab what had fallen — a bottle of Pepto Bismol and a few quarters. Not his. Not —

His head jerked up, heart suddenly knocked out.

It was … Will.

Will Byers. Tucked into a thick coat, scarf loosely looped around his neck, his cheeks rosy-red from the burgeoning cold. Hair longer and browner and fluffier than he remembered, lips parted, exposing two slightly prominent front teeth. His eyes were huge, but in a way that made him look older, but not in a bad way. He looked relaxed, gentle, kinder, maybe. He bent down too, their hands nearly knocking before Will gathered the quarters in his palm first.

”Oh!” Will exclaimed first, a smile growing on his face, “hi!”

Mike froze, the Pepto tightening in his grip, knuckles white and bulged. His brain was short-circuiting. He, very cautiously not to touch Will’s hand, gave the Pepto back to him. 

“I — uh. Hi.”

Will’s brows furrowed a bit, “you okay?”

“I — yeah? Why do you ask?” Do I look okay?

Mike stood up a little too fast, dropped the bottle of Pepto, then picked it up again. His thin fingers fumbled with the cap, twisting it once, then again. “Sorry. I wasn’t … watchin’.” He sputtered.

“No, I wasn’t either,” Will spoke, and Mike was already clenching his jaw, trying not to collect Will’s cheeks in his palms and kiss him silly. Mike internally kicked himself. “What’re you — uh — what’re you doing out here?” He asked quickly, voice cracking halfway through like he was still fifteen. “Back in town?” Was this any of his business?”

“Just for, like, a few weeks,” Will replied. “Winter break, y’know. Staying with Mom. El’s here too.”

“Oh!” Mike blinked a little too hard, like he was contemplating whether this was a dream or not, “cool!” He tried not to sound too overjoyed. But he really did need Will in this time of need. As a friend, of course… right?

Will looked at him for a moment or two. Not really judgmental, but not pitying either. Just … watching. Like he was observing something he was about to paint. “What about you?” He asked, thinly, cautiously. “Looking to get hypothermia?” He vaguely gestured at Mike’s tank top and shorts. 

A tiny laugh passed itself from Mike’s lips. “Something like that, yeah.”

Will tilted his head, and his smile only grew, a flash of pearly white teeth, “you still do that.”

Mike lifted his head from where he was watching his scratched up Converse intently, face bursting in imaginary flames, “do what?”

“That thing. When you try to joke but your voice sounds like you’re being strangled.”

”Jesus, okay —“ Mike rubbed the back of his neck, “asshole.”

Will’s smile broke into a full on grin and he let out a playful chuckle. It made Mike unsteady on his already knobby knees. “But, like, seriously,” Will became serious. “You all right?”

Mike glanced away, at the streetlamp, at the telephone wires, anywhere else but the hazel depth of Will’s eyes. He couldn’t lie to Will. God, he could never lie to Will. And he knew Will would never be mad at him unless he really fucked up. But what if this was one of his fuck-ups? It might have been. It probably was. But it was now or never. There was no more lying to Will. He’d done that too much lately.

“I said something, like, two days ago. And I, uh, I don’t think I can take it back,” his regret pushed morphed itself into a wad of sour goop in his stomach, it made him nauseous. He’d said the first thing, and now he had to continue, he didn’t have the opportunity to step back anymore. “Not that I want to take it back. I just — like, offered something. To Lucas. And Max. It’s … personal. You don’t … have to know.”

Will didn’t respond right away, then, after a bit of waiting, he said, “if it’s personal, why’re you telling me?”

Mike stiffened under his gaze, his fingers beginning to tap against the hem of his shorts. “I — cuz — I dunno.”

Will nodded once, “okay.”

They stood in the snow. Somewhere near Maple Street, a truck passed by, tires hissing faintly on the wet asphalt. Mike sniffed, and rubbed one finger under his nose. Will shuffled his boots. Mike scratched at the skin of his stomach, then cleared his throat once, “it’s kinda a big deal,” he admitted.

”Okay,”

“Like, life-changing big.”

“All right. Sounds good to me.”

Mike exhaled softly, “you’re not gonna push me?”

Will shrugged lightly. “You always tell me when you’re ready.”

Mike’s surprise twisted into a gentle, bemused smirk. “That obvious, huh?”

”You were always obvious to me,” Will chuckled gently.

Mike could suddenly feel his heart hammering agaisnt his ribcage like a freight train going full speed, chills crawled up the backs of his upper arms, he was panicking. But it wasn’t the bad kind of panic. It was the kind of panic that came before telling someone something that might break them. Or it might break you. This might be one of Mike’s royal fuck-ups. And he couldn’t bear to see Will get angry.

“I offered to be the surrogate,” Mike said, quickly and all at once. “For Lucas and Max. I just — you know they lost their baby and they — I mean,” Mike took a breath, just breathe, man. Will won’t get mad, sure he won’t! “I dunno what it means yet, okay? I just … know that I meant it.”

Will didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink, like maybe he was trying to escape a weeping angel. He just looked up at Mike, almost like he was wondering what Mike was going to do next. Or, rather, what he was going to say next. Then he parted his lips and said, “and … now you’re scared, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah,” Mike breathed. “Kind of … terrified, actually.”

Will’s voice dropped softer, sweeter like the tiny snowflakes fluttering around them, “you were always brave when it counted.” He said. Mike lifted his head, already having some sort of idea of what he was about to see. His expectation was Will’s face being all red, brows furrowed, asking why he was acting like an idiot again, was he still thirteen, like a fool? But what he saw was Will’s gentleness. A literal embodiment of gentle. Face soft, eyes neutral, blinking now.

“… you’re not mad?” Mike asked pathetically. 

Will’s brows flicked upwards once, “why should I be mad at you?”

”I — uh, I dunno,” Mike shrugged. “Doesn’t it sound kind of stupid at face value?”

”I didn’t think so.”

”Oh. Well, uh, I did.” Mike confessed.

”You don’t have to,” Will told him. “I think it’s important.”

Mike opened his mouth to speak, but Will beat him to it, glancing around at the falling snow, “anyway. It’s cold as shit.”

Mike let out a sputtering laugh, “yeah.”

Will stepped back towards the sidewalk, but before he went, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’m at my mom’s… if you wanna talk anytime,” he said, “I’d like someone to talk to, honestly.” Mike felt a rush of protection, thinking about how Will should never feel alone again. When did someone feel like he was alone? Did I make him feel like he was alone? God, fuck me. But Mike nodded anyway, with a, “see you, Will!”, but once Will was walking near the end of the block, he said another, “see ya, Will.”

It was a Sunday morning, so it was quite obvious that Big Guy would be more empty than usual. Usually, Lucas liked this. Fluorescent lights flickered yellowish as he pushed his cart down the cereal aisle, his steps measured yet bouncing off the spaced-out walls. One hand was tucked into the pocket of his jacket. The wheels squeaked unevenly, at one point he accidentally ran over his toe, and he had to hiss and grumble his way to the other end of the store.

He didn’t know why he came here today. They didn’t need anything. But their home felt too big after Max left for Fort Wayne. It felt suffocating, the silence, like he was going to drown if he didn’t get out of the house. Because stillness was when the grief got loud. When it screamed in your face and begged you to tend to it. Like some fucked-up seed growing into a disastrous crop. 

So he told himself they were out of apples. Out of butter, out of decaf. He wandered the aisles, picked up pancake mix and debated between two brands for five full minutes, and then —

It happened.

A flash of light purple. Tiny purple rain boots — glistening and glittering, stomping through the produce section. She had curls, tight ones, dark and bouncing, almost resembling Lucas’s. She had a little yellow coat on with bear ears on the hood. She was dragging her tiny fingers over a pyramid of oranges. She tugged on her father’s sleeve. 

“Dada!”

Lucas stiffened. His bones had felt like they turned to glaciers. But there was no fresh water within them. There was something rotten. Cold. His chest didn’t tighten all at once. It was a slow thing. A creeping throb that started in his stomach and bled into his ribs. 

That could have been Georgia. She would have been around nine months around this time. Maybe things could have been different if they’d both fought. They wanted to. They wanted to fight for their daughter. But she wasn’t really conceived by them. She didn’t have either of their DNA, Rachel had insisted she and her boyfriend could do it quicker. So was Georgia really supposed to be theirs? Perhaps she was supposed to be Max’s. She looked like her — carrot-colored peach fuzz upon her head. 

He didn’t move for a second. Just watched. His fingers loosely clenched around the cart handle, but he probably wouldn’t’ve cared if it wheeled away. Before he even knew it, tears began to bud at the corners of his eyes.

The girl’s father said something back — a murmur, a laugh — and lifted the girl into the cart. She giggled sweetly and wrapped her arms around his neck, and then they turned the corner and were gone. Lucas exhaled, long and shaky. It took him a bit to notice that his hands were shaking. He reached for a bag of tortilla chips and missed, knocking three off the shelf. They thudded to the floor with a crinkle. A kid nearby laughed.

“Shit,” Lucas muttered softly, and squatted to retrieve them. Get it together, man. 

It wasn’t the first time that this happened, it probably wouldn’t be the last. But that didn’t make it any easier. The thing about almost being a dad was that the almost never left. He carried the fact around, wore it like an invisible jacket, and sometimes it got too heavy. He stood, placed the chip bag into the cart, and pushed the cart onward.

He didn’t make it past the baby aisle.

It wasn’t purposefully, he just turned too early. But suddenly he was surrounded — diapers, tiny pink socks, those weird plastic rings that babies chewed on sometimes. And formula. So much formula. Brands he remembered from the notebook he and Max had put together a year ago. They’d researched everything. The right bottles, the right car seat, the right stroller that folded up with one hand because Max claimed you’d want your other hand free to carry other things.

And none of it mattered. None of it was used.

Lucas stood still in the aisle. A cry suddenly broke out down the row. Another baby, probably three months old, red-faced and furious. Lucas glanced at the mother, it looked like her under-eyes had packed their bags but never left, rocking her child against her chest.

He should’ve looked away.

He didn’t.

That could have been Max.

He took a step back, then another. He left the cart where it was.

By the time he reached the front of the store, the cashier had looked at him, knowing he had been here with a cart. Lucas just mumbled a discreet sorry, and walked back out into the parking lot. He stood there for a while, cold wind rattling his jacket sleeves. Georgia wasn’t here, not really. But she was a name, spread around the Mayfield-Sinclair household like wildfire. And it had migrated into the streets, drifting far. Until it landed in the Wheeler’s household, too.

Mike had offered something huge. He had told Max about it last night. She said she wasn’t sure. Lucas wasn’t, either. But he knew he wanted a future with Max. He knew he wanted to create something with Max. He knew he wanted to take this journey with Max. They’d failed once.

But now they had a possibility. And yet it felt more real than reality could be.

He unlocked the car door, sat behind the wheel and closed his eyes. Max had once said, “we’re gonna be so damn good at this,” and he’d believed her. 

He still did.

But not today.

Chapter Text

It was December 8th, and an overnight whiteout had crusted Hawkins, Indiana with glittering white snow. Will’s mother’s poor old Ford pinto was covered. But before Hopper could order Will or El or even Jonathan to shovel the driveway, Will noticed the worn-down Wheeler’s station wagon pulling into the snow roughly. For a moment, Will thought: dumbass, you’re gonna damage your car, thinking it was Karen or Ted, or even Nancy.

But when Mike Wheeler stepped out, Will gulped down the words. Mike is never a dumbass.

Snagging the first of his jackets he saw hung limply on the back of a chair, Will pulled the coat on with purpose, not bothering to zip it up as he practically bolted to the door. He couldn’t seem to throw his shoes on fast enough, then he shoved the front door open, stepping out into the frigid tundra. He bumped the door shut behind him. He caught Mike at the porch steps, a Tupperware of sugar cookies in hand, his form already trembling a bit.

”You look like shit, Mike,” Will muttered.

A teensy smile crept upon Mike’s lips as he approached, “your wife looked worse when I left her.” He said, his voice almost childlike. 

“I don’t even have a wife, dingus,” Will replied with a short, easy chuckle. And I don’t want a wife. Fuck — I want you.

Will pushed that thought to the back of his head and stood aside to let Mike pass, but Mike looked hesitant. His ebony eyes flicked towards the house. Curtains drawn over the windows, one of Hopper’s records spinning, maybe something like You Don’t Mess Around With Jim, and El sounded like she was doing something in the restroom. Then Mike looked back at Will, cocking his head slightly, looking almost like a curious puppy. “Actually,” he said, “mind if I bum a cigarette first?”

Will paused for a moment, maybe attempting to read Mike, like he always did. But this time, it felt like Mike had put a cinder block behind his eyes. Which was odd, because Mike always let Will read him. “Sure,” Will nodded, a bit of sadness marring his tone as he spoke. He pulled the soft packet from his coat pocket, holding it up. “I’ve been trying to quit.” He said.

“Oh? And how’s that treating you?”

Will let out a soft huff, and that was the only answer Mike needed. They settled on the porch steps, Mike lit both their cigarettes — Will preferred not doing  it himself, and Mike grew up with a smoker-of-a-grandmother — and for a few minutes, they just smoked in the quiet, Mike putting the Tupperware next to him. They watched the trucks trudge by in the thick hardening snow, or the white sky behind the treetops. Will always liked when the sky turned white, it always told you it was a good snowstorm.

Mike tapped ash onto the step. “Max and Lucas agreed to it.”

Will’s head tipped slightly towards Mike, “yeah?”

“Yeah.” There was a smile on Mike’s face, but it wasn’t a real one. It was a cold, almost frightened smile. The smile of someone who wasn’t sure what they agreed to. Then Will noticed that Mike was wearing slippers, a gray windbreaker clinging to his thin torso. He must have come here with the cookies as an excuse, he’d come here because he needed Will.

Will almost gave a bitter laugh, who’d need me? Ha.

“I guess …” Mike sniffed faintly, only because his allergies kicked up in the winter, “y’know, making a baby’s not just … putting in an order at a diner, is it?” Mike leaned forward onto his knees a bit, the light on his face morphing and changing as he did. Will almost choked on the breath he had to take in. Will opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, and tried again a few seconds later, “what are you getting at?”

Mike stared ahead, free hand picking aimlessly at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans, cupped his kneecap like it was kicked. “I’m , like, terrified they’re gonna bail halfway through. Like, yeah, I know they probably won’t. But — y’know — what if?” His face — eyebrows flicking up even more than they already were, lips parting — almost looked sullen, like he was already expecting it to happen. “Like, what if they change their minds? What if I’m stuck raising a kid alone?”

Lifting his head a touch, blinking once and twice, almost robotically — Will scooted a bit closer, “you don’t have to do it, y’know.”

Mike shook his head, curls bouncing as he did, “I’ll do it. I want to. But… it’s me, Will. I’ve fucked up simpler things than this.”

Will could feel a lump building in his throat as he watched Mike. His coal black eyes were completely focused on the sky behind the dark green treetops, watching the icy air pull snow from the clouds. His hair was thick, curly, and tucked behind his ears, pitch black just like Will’s coat. His windbreaker was zipped all the way up, and for a fleeting moment, Will wondered if Mike’s hair would get caught in it. He hoped not.

He was pretty. He’d always been pretty, and maybe that was the problem. Will never knew how to just be his friend anymore without wanting to press his mouth to Mike’s stupid face. But Will was good at hiding things. What was one more little thing to hide?

“You’re not gonna fuck this up,” Will said, trying to sound more matter-of-fact than he already was. “If you do, I mean — you’ve never fucked anything up that you’ve never been able to fix.” He spoke, voice filled with the fragility of a baby bird on the edge of its nest. 

Mike glanced at him sideways, stabbed the end of his smoke on the step like he lost his appetite for it. “You could be a philosopher one day, you know that?”

Will’s already burgeoning blush spread to his ears, he absently itched his thigh, and shrugged lightly, “well, I dunno about that.” He replied weakly.

Mike looked away, eyes flickering down to the snow-covered lawn, ashamed. “Thanks, by the way …” he paused, “for not making it weird.”

Will shrugged, but a pit started growing in his stomach, “what’re friends for?” Friends. That was all they were. Why couldn’t Will get over that? Was he just that selfish?

He didn’t want to ask the next thing, but it slipped out anyway. “You ever … think about havin’ your own?”

Mike blinked. “Kids?”

Will bobbed his head in a nod.

Mike let out a short, airy laugh, “I don’t even know how to keep a conversation alive, man. I don’t think I’m built for that.”

Will didn’t say it — hell, he felt like he had stuck a piece of duct tape upon his lips at twelve and kept it there — but he thought: you’re wrong. You’d be good. You’d be good with me. Will swallowed with difficulty, his mind developing a Polaroid now-memory of Mike cradling a bundle in his arms, gazing down at it, lashes fanning out against his cheeks, completely embracing fatherhood. Will faintly wondered who took the Polaroid. 

Himself?

Suddenly Will found himself speaking before he was even fully aware of it, “you should bring those inside,” he gestured vaguely to the Tupperware, “it’s, like, subzero out here.” Mike stared at Will for a second, like he could register everything that was cycling within Will’s brain. Then he stood, hoisting the container of cookies into his arms. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

Will watched him leave. When the door swung open, Joyce’s voice rung out. “Is that Mike?” After a feeble yeah from Mike, Joyce said, “oh good! You’re here!” Will sat there for a few moments more, feeling the cold sink into his jeans, pressing against his legs, pretending that was why he felt numb.

Chapter Text

Will didn’t usually cut hair, but El had asked. Not directly, but in the way she rubbed her face when her bangs got caught in her lashes, or how she kept brushing her hair back with quick, slightly agitated sweeps. She’d sighed about it over breakfast like she was about to do it herself: “it’s too long again.”

Now she sat backwards in a kitchen chair, her arms folded across the top rung, chin resting just above them. She was wrapped around a towel, looking all snug. The kitchen didn’t smell like it used to. After Hopper and El moved here, it started smelling like thick black coffee (Hopper’s doing, obviously) and Eggo waffles. The radio on the counter hummed softly. It didn’t sound like Hopper’s music taste, like usual, this was something like Madonna.

Will combed his fingers through her hair first, sorting it gently, so careful not to pull too hard. Then he dampened the strands with a mini spray bottle he found from one of his old kitchen sets from when he was a kid. It seemed to be a bit hard for El to stay still, her fingers drumming on the wood. 

“Don’t cut too short,” El warned, her voice soft and crooning. 

“I won’t,” Will assured her, but he measured the first snip carefully, still not sure what too short meant to her, you really couldn’t tell with El sometimes. “You sure you don’t want, like … a barber to do it?”

”They always mess up,” she tilted her head to the left just slightly, “you don’t.”

Will gave a tiny smile, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek as he worked slowly, mindful of the scissors’ movements, mindful of the trust El had in him. It made him nervous, even though he had done this a couple times, because there was something final about every snip. You couldn’t really glue hair back on, could you?

“Mike is coming today?” El asked suddenly, like it was nothing, like she was trying to make conversation. Will’s hand paused for a moment or two before he continued, “probably, yeah. He said he might.”

El hummed lightly, almost a little smugly. Will swallowed hard. She probably knew what he wasn’t saying. “You get weird when Mike comes.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” she insisted, “you’re cutting slower.”

Will let out a breathy chuckle that settled deep in his throat, a little embarrassed but unwilling to argue because she was likely right. He cleared his throat, “maybe I’m just being careful.”

”Careful.” El echoed, like she was tasting the words. She went peacefully quiet after that, letting Will finish the trim without any more slightly difficult to answer commentary. She only spoke again, softly, when he gently swept the last dusting of hair off her shoulders. “Thanks.”

”Course,” Will murmured, almost under his breath. He watched the bits of dark hair on the floor, like a cat shedding.  El twisted in her chair to face him, brushing hair off the sleeves of her undershirt. When she would take a shower later, her hair would go curly since it was cut somewhat shorter than usual. “I’m glad it grows back,” she recalled. Will knew she liked having short hair, but she always seemed to enjoy the process of it curling at her jaw. 

Despite how much he knew his sister, Will didn’t really have a response to that. But he surely thought about it: how things returned, how some things didn’t. He thought about winter break stretching ahead of him like a frozen river. He thought about Mike. About how easy it was to ruin something if you didn’t cut carefully enough. And Will was great at ruining things. 

El glanced toward the snow-fogged front window. “You’ll tell me when Mike is here?”

Will bobbed his head in a gentle nod, “yeah. I’ll tell you.”

 She stood, brushed herself off, and padded  towards the bathroom, mumbling about taking a shower. Will stayed behind in the kitchen, taking a broom and dust pan and cleaning up all the hair. But his thoughts were already out on the porch, smoking a cigarette, with a particular someone. That someone being slender, tall and light on his feet like a spring fox, eyes full and black-brown behind loose, lightly curled black hair. 

By the time Mike showed up, the sky had turned a darkish gray. But on the horizon there was still a little line of yellow, leftovers from dawn. He didn’t call ahead, he didn’t really need to, frankly. He just knocked twice and let himself in. Will supposed that was the thing about Mike, he never asked if it was a good time. He just … showed up. And for some reason, Will always found himself needing Mike at those exact, unexpected times. 

Will met him in the entryway, still in his tube socks and slate gray pajama pants. Mike stood there, stamping snow off his boots, in a thick coat, unzipped at the top, exposing a Smith’s band tee. As he peeled the hood from his head, Will caught sight of Mike’s curls, tousled from the weather. His cheeks were rosy from the cold. His thin hands kept escaping to his jacket pockets like he was checking for something, but he didn’t pull out a cigarette. 

“Hey,” Mike muttered.

“Hey yourself,” Will stood there for a heartbeat or two, shuffled his socks, and surveyed him. Just to make sure he was real, maybe. “Wanna … sit out again?” They had done this last time about a week or two ago, it felt like years, but Will knew better. He’d gotten good at time management in college. It still didn’t make it any easier for Will to be away from Mike. 

Mike shrugged lightly in response, but followed without argument. They settled on the porch steps again, the wood was cold, splintery, and a little damp, but it almost felt like … home. Mike tugged his sleeves over his hands, wringing them out like they were wet. His eyes flicked to Will’s ashy breath like he was trying to measure how long they’d stay. 

Will noticed the lack of cigarette immediately. “Don't feel like smoking?”

Mike shrugged again. “Nah.”

”Trying to quit?” Fuckin’ idiot, of course he’s not trying to quit! 

“Nah. Just … don’t want one.” Will should have known that.

He nodded, mentally kicking himself in the shin. Then he leaned forward on his knees. A few lazy dark clouds rolled in, fuzzing up the sun. A little girl was playing a few blocks down. Trucks rolled by sluggishly on the dirt roads of Mirkwood. Will broke the silence with a bit of difficulty, his fingers relentlessly fidgeting in his lap. “You went to the appointment?”

Will could actively see Mike’s shoulders tightening. Oh no I didn’t mean to make you stres—

“Yeah.” He said simply.

Will waited, swallowing up a breath that should have been taken. “How was it?”

Mike scoffed softly through his nose. “Weird.”

“Weird how?”

Mike rubbed at his pockets. “It’s all, like… ugly lights and forms. They ask you, like, a gazillion questions … then you sit there like you’re being held hostage,” he let out a tiny laugh, “kinda felt like being held hostage.”

Will tilted his head. “They… seminated you, or… whatever, right? Last week, was it?”

”Inseminated.” Mike corrected softly, to which Will nodded in understanding. “And … yeah, they did.”

Will swept his tongue across his suddenly dry lips. “You feel okay?”

Mike sniffed against the cold, eyes hyper aware of the road ahead of him. “Yeah. I feel pretty normal. Like, y’know, I don’t feel pregnant or anything, if that’s what you mean.”

”That’s not … not really what I meant.”

Mike finally glanced at him. His eyes were dark, and … tired, Will could see very pale purple skin underneath, but the corners of his mouth started stretching upwards into a grin. Will returned the smile carefully. But Will could feel his ears begin to heat up, so he looked away again, “do you want it to work?” He asked cautiously.

Mike’s knee gently seized its bouncing. He didn’t really give a verbal answer right away.

“Dunno,” Mike muttered, his eyes grazing the snowed in lawn. “I said I’d do it, so … guess I’m already in it.”

Will hesitated, he wanted to say that’s not an answer, but at the same time, he didn’t want to push. He parted his lips to speak, but Mike beat him to it. “What’d you want me to say? That I’m excited? That I want it to fail? I don’t know, Will. I just don’t know.”

I didn’t even say anything, Will wanted to say. But he knew Mike read him easier than anyone he ever knew. He could tell Will was prompting a nonverbal question without even looking at him. He swallowed down the frustration that threatened to bubble up like a pot boiling. He knew Mike, too. He knew this version of him: the one who folded up his real feelings and tucked them into a drawer like homework until they got too crumpled to read.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now, you know that?” Will spoke calmly. 

“Yeah. Well. Doesn’t feel like there’s time.” But a slight micro-furrow of Mike’s brow told Will that he was secretly clocking his friend’s words. He just didn’t want to explain it.

They didn’t speak for a long while after that. They didn’t want to fight. Will knew they were done with fighting. But they didn’t want to talk either. This really was a strange situation. Will had never expected Mike to carry on with this, and maybe Mike never expected Will to go away to college. Will never actually thought about that. About how Mike would feel if he went away. He only wanted to leave. And when Will asked himself, who can blame you? He would always answer, yourself, Will.

“Did’ja know that fetuses cry in the womb?” Mike asked, so suddenly that Will barked out a laugh. In the right center of it, he puffed out, “Mike, what?” Clutching his stomach, which ached from the … shock of it, maybe. 

Mike nodded, “I read about it. Apparently, they, like, practice crying. Freaky, right?”

”Practice crying?” Will sat upright. 

“Yeah, man. They, like, open their mouths and everything,” he let out a short chuckle, “wonder what they’ve got to cry about.”

“Yeah,” Will breathed easily. “I wonder.”

maybe they feel stuck… huh.

Chapter Text

Mike Wheeler showed up again on the 16th, not on his own terms, but because El had wanted him over for dinner. He knew he wasn’t his usual chipper self. His movements were a bit slower, his eyes a little more tired, and there was this subtle tension in his lanky shoulders that had never been there previously. Joyce spotted him immediately, and waved him over with a small, slightly uptight smile. “Mike! You made it. Come sit before your food gets cold!” She always had a sparing warmth about her, but when that warmth showed up over the anxiety, it was like a hearth fire in Forodwaith.

Mike wasn’t sure if he deserved it.

El was already sitting there, next to Hopper, who was reading the newspaper, ominously silent. Mike and Hopper never really got along. Mike parted his lips, his tongue already developing a snide remark about Hopper’s overgrown beard, but Joyce beat him to it, sliding a plate in front of him. She took her seat on Hopper’s other side. Next to Mike was Will. But for some reason, Will looked a little … distracted.

“So, how’s your writing going?” Joyce asked. “Anything new lately?”

Mike shifted in his seat. God, how long had it been since he wrote something? Way too long. “Not much. Just … some stuff.” His voice was tapering low.

Hopper raised his brow. “He’s never been the quiet type,” he said, mostly to Joyce, who cast him a light glance. Mike cast Hopper a less lenient glare. Then he sighed, fingers drumming on the table. “I’ve been distracted.” He said, his voice almost a hiss. Joyce exchanged another look with Hopper, her brow knitting with a pinch of concern. 

El looked up from her peas, at Mike, thoughtfully. 

Finally, with Hopper’s gentle prod, Mike gave in. “I went to the doctor like, two weeks ago. I’m, well… I got the insemination.”

“that’s very brave of you. Max and Lucas, y’know, they deserve a family.” Joyce replied, a teensy smile pulling at her lips. She had Will’s lips.

Will dipped his head in agreement. El copied Will.

Hopper grunted, but … didn’t seem angry, like usual. “Hell of a thing to do,” he said quietly in tone that was lighter.

Mike felt like he was swallowing bricks instead of casserole. He thought briefly about his parents, about how he hadn’t told them, probably never would until it was painfully obvious he was pregnant. He knew they wouldn’t understand. Not like this family did.

Will wiped his mouth on a napkin, and for a split second, Mike had never wanted to be a napkin more. Which was weird, because why?

But before Mike could think a bit longer on it, Will started speaking, “hey, speaking of changes … I’ve been assigned a new roommate this semester. She’s moving in a few days after I get back.”

El tilted her head. “The art student, right?” She asked. To which Will nodded, and said, “I think I knew her a bit ago. We were in an art class together in Indianapolis.”

”She got a name?” Hopper asked, almost sounding sarcastic.

”Aurora Christen,” Will replied. “She goes by Rory, though.”

How do you know that? Mike wanted to ask, but he kept his big mouth shut. Will didn’t know Mike’s last name until he told him in first grade. How did Will know this Rory’s last name so quick? 

Joyce smiled warmly, “that sounds exciting, Will!”

Hopper was teasing again when he said something again, “she a potential mate?”

Will shook his head, but his cheeks and ears betrayed him, blotching and reddening. But his expression wasn’t really one of the romantic embarrassment, it was just mostly embarrassment in general. Mike would have clocked this if he wasn’t about to blow his top with jealousy.

“Aw, he’s getting so red!” 

“Am not!” Will shot back.

Mike stared at his plate, suddenly feeling a cold churn crawl up his spine. Despite the welcoming atmosphere, Mike stayed quiet the rest of the way through dinner. When it was over, Joyce packed some leftovers for him. Will walked him to the door, and once they were out onto the porch, Mike halted. Will glanced up in surprise. “Hold up,” Mike said, pulling the flannel scarf he was wearing straight from around his neck.

”Here take it.” He said and practically pushed the scarf into Will’s hands. Will looked deathly confused.

”What? But it’s yours,” he frowned. “You should wear it, it’s cold.”

“You’ll probably need it more than me,” for when you leave me. Mike, almost aggressively, buttoned up the buttons of his coat. He felt so ugly because he knew Will knew somehting was up with him.

“Are you … mad at me or something?” Mike’s fingers stopped working on the buttons.

”No. I’m not.” But, even he knew he didn’t sound convincing.

“Really?” Will asked. “I mean, you were fine when you last visited, but … if you were gonna be in a bad mood today , you should’ve told me.”

”I’m fine, really,” Mike pushed in, like a cinder block. “Just… stressed about this whole surrogacy thing.”

Sure, it was true that he was scared of the surrogacy, he was scared of getting maternity clothes, or having to actually take a pregnancy test soon. But that wasn’t all. It was only a chunk of his stress.

“You shouldn’t worry,” Will gently reassured him, and for a moment, Will seemed to reach out to touch Mike’s shoulder before his fingers changed direction a millisecond from his side, darting into his pocket. “You always underestimate yourself. Even when you’ve handled a literal three headed dragon.” Borys, right.

Will’s words made Mike’s chest squeeze tightly. That boy was always so sincere. Mike didn’t deserve him.

Maybe Will did deserve a nice artsy girl, over somebody like Mike.

”See ya, Will,” Mike said, lifting a hand and waving gently.

Will waved back with a gentle smile, his cheeks flushed from the cold. “See you soon, Mike.”

And with that, Mike left. His scarf still in Will’s arms.

Mike hardly knocked when he shouldered his way into Max and Lucas’s home, not that he ever did, really. The door snicked shut behind him, and he stood there for a minute, catching his breath like he had run the entire way. Which, he kind of did. His were curls stuck to the back of his neck, and his cheeks were flushed pink from the cold or whatever the fuck he was feeling.

Lucas looked up from the couch where he’d been half dozing through some cheap rerun, and Max, curled up next to him like a ginger cat, narrowed her eyes. “Jesus, Wheeler. Were you plowed?”

“Yeah, well,” Mike huffed, peeling off his coat, revealing his geeky X-Men shirt Holly once got him for Christmas, “maybe I was.”

Max sat up straighter. “Are you training to run a marathon, or something? Or are you just that out of shape?”

Mike waved her off a bit sharply, “just had to … clear my head. That’s all.”

Lucas blinked blearily. “It’s like midnight, man.”

“Yeah, okay, grandpa,” Mike muttered, kicking off his soaked boots.

Max stared harder, like she had a sixth sense. “What’s up with you?”

Mike scratched the back of his neck, forgot how sharp his black-painted nails were, and winced. Then he flopped into the armchair across from him like he’d been pushed into it. His fingers drummed his thighs. He looked, for all the world, like he was about to ask to borrow money or confess to a crime.

“I took a test,“ he said, suddenly, sleepy black-brown eyes tracing the figures on the television screen.

“What test?” Lucas asked, even though it was painfully obvious.

Mike’s freckled face stayed blank, but his voice cracked down the middle of what he said: “a pregnancy test.”

That made Lucas and Max both sit up fully, eyes snapping to him. Max’s lips parted, but no noise sounded out like usual.

“And?” Lucas breathed, like it was too good to be true.

Mike sniffed, tilting his head back against the chair. He couldn’t believe it, either, but: “positive. All three of ‘em.”

He pulled out the test from his right pocket and exposed it to Max and Lucas. Two lines, as pink as his own cheeks right now. Max and Lucas just stared at it. Mike knew he was smiling, maybe, or … he didn’t know what his face was doing. “So, uh. Congratulations, I guess. You’re having a baby.”

Lucas let out something that was a hybrid between a laugh and a sob. “You serious?”

Mike finally truly looked at them, expression caught somewhere between smug and scared shitless. “No, I’m just fucking with you for fun.”

Then Lucas was up, crossing the space between them, suddenly pulling Mike up by the arms, then hauled him into a standing hug, nearly knocking Mike backwards. Max followed, throwing herself into the mess of limbs and lank and love, and Mike, with his stubbornness, didn’t hug back at first. But he thought of Will blushing, and the thought of how much better Rory might be for Will, and his eyes got wet. His fingers finally gripped the back of Lucas’s shirt.

Max’s voice was muffled, and strangely, uncharacteristically whimpering, as she whispered, “you should’ve told us sooner.”

Mike didn’t reply, his throat was too tight.

They stood like that for a moment. Mike surrounded, small between them, still pretending this was all no big deal, like it wasn’t the scariest shit he’d ever done. Like he might not’ve lost his best friend and crush to a girl named Rory.

Chapter Text

Christmas had come and gone like a storm that never quite made landfall: loud, cold, but ultimately more jabbing than devastating. New Year’s Eve wasn’t much better.

Mike hadn’t been home when the fireworks started cracking through the sky over Hawkins. He’d been curled up at Max and Lucas’s place, in the big ugly blue armchair that swallowed him whole, nursing a lukewarm 7-Up like it was beer. Not drinking, obviously. He wasn’t allowed, and even if he had been, he didn’t trust himself to do anything reckless lately.

He was wearing that deep blue sweater Max had handed him off the laundry pile a few weeks ago. Chunky, a little pilled, but soft. It had a little sun embroidered on the chest, right over where one of the scars from his top surgery was beneath the fabric. Sometimes he forgot the scar was even there. Then it would itch. Or twinge. Or catch on the way someone looked at him.

Lucas had brought up the baby twice that evening. Once to ask if Mike had picked out vitamins, and once—quietly—when Max was in the kitchen:

“She’s not trying to be cold. She’s just…”

“Scared,” Mike had said.

Lucas nodded. “Still. She trusts you more than she lets on.”

Mike didn’t believe that for a second, but he appreciated the effort.

He couldn’t blame Max, either. She’d been through too much. The Georgia Incident had made her understandably wary of anything even close to surrogacy. And Mike—well, Mike wasn’t exactly the picture of emotional stability right now. He wouldn’t trust him, either.

Around eleven o’clock, the phone rang. It almost didn’t register, at first, just another piece of noise, like the flickering static from the television left unwatched.

Lucas glanced over from where he was draped across the couch, Max’s legs over his lap. Max was out like a light, snoring lightly through her nose. Lucas had claimed she always snored with a teensy chuckle.

“That’s weird,” he said. “We never get calls this late.”

Then, a lazy nudge: “Mike, you mind?”

Mike groaned like it was the greatest burden ever, cracked his back as he stood up, and shuffled to the phone in his slippers. He answered without thinking:

“Sinclair-Mayfield residence, Michael speaking.”

A thick silence. Then:

“Mike!”

Joyce’s voice came through warm and bright, like a shot of hot cider dumped directly into his nervous system. Usually, that kind of warmth would’ve made his shoulders fall and relax. Tonight it made every muscle seize and freeze up like a frozen river.

He didn’t think. Just slammed the receiver back onto the hook, too hard. The base rattled against the wall. Max’s snores faded slightly, one eye peeked open. Lucas blinked.

Mike stood still for a second. Then he exhaled, as sharp as needles.

“Wrong number,” he said, tone too flat to be convincing.

Nobody corrected him.

The thing was, he wasn’t trying avoiding Joyce. Or El. Or Hopper. Or even Will.

Except, yeah, he was.

Ever since the insemination, Mike had felt like he was living inside someone else’s skin. Or worse, inside a science experiment. He didn’t want Will and El to see him like that. It felt too personal. Too much like an exposed wire. Like they were walking in on him changing clothes. Or weeping in the shitty school bathroom.

He couldn’t explain it. He just knew he didn’t want to see Will’s face if Will noticed.

Lately, he cried way too easily. Not even for big reasons. A slightly ragged-looking cat on the street. The news. A pair of blue baby socks with ducklings on them at the pharmacy. He’d broken down yesterday because he had that one itch he couldn’t scratch on his back.

And his skin—god. His forehead had erupted in these small, angry zits for no reason. His chest, thankfully flat now, thanks to surgery, still felt funny sometimes. The thought of having to wear a bra again—if he hadn’t gotten that surgery—made his stomach turn.

He was grateful, in a weird way. For the pain. For the scars. For the version of himself that had fought hard enough to make it happen, even when his parents tried everything to stop him.

That version of Mike felt very far away right now.

He had to go to the Byers’ tomorrow. Had to say goodbye. El and Will were heading back to Indianapolis for the spring semester. He hadn’t seen either of them in a month, not since everything started. Not since he began hiding out in Max and Lucas’s spare room, pretending it was temporary.

Max had offered to drive him, which was uncharacteristically sweet. But Mike had refused, equally not-so uncharacteristically stubborn. He didn’t want anyone to see him cry over something as stupid as Will leaving for college again.

He’d already cried about it. Alone. In the shower. Where nobody could hear. It was cut short when he got shampoo in his eyes.

The next morning, the Byers house looked exactly the same as it always had. Slightly crooked mailbox. Faded wind chimes, a mourning dove cooing somewhere. A chalk drawing on the driveway El must’ve done for fun: it looked like a depiction of the sunset yesterday — gray, murky, but it still looked pretty in El’s drawing.

Mike stared at it longer than he meant to.

Then he stepped up onto the dooryard carefully and knocked.

There were soft footfalls on the other side of the door, and then the knob turned with a quiet click. The door swung open.

Joyce Byers stood there, wrapped in a thick green sweater, her hair swept back haphazardly. A strand of silver, sharp and stubborn, showed where it was tucked behind her ear.

Mike blinked.

She’s getting older.

The thought hit him stupidly, like a sock in the jaw. He hadn’t seen her in a months and suddenly she looked… softer. Tireder. Her laugh lines were deeper, and the skin around her eyes had crinkled like parchment paper.

He pushed the thought away. That wasn’t what he came here for.

“Mike!” Joyce’s face lit up as she looked up at him. She didn’t hesitate, and didn’t even seem to notice the awkward way he was hugging his coat around himself. “Look at you, come in, come in—it’s freezing.”

“Hey, Mrs. Byers,” he managed. “Sorry about the—uh—phone thing last night.”

She waved it off like swatting a mosquito. “Water under the bridge. How are you? How’s the baby doing?”

Mike froze a little, like the word baby still registered as an EAS alarm instead of a natural process.

“We’re… fine,” he said eventually, his voice rough from disuse. “I’ve just been… sleeping a lot.” And crying, and thinking about what I should’ve done.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Something about Joyce’s gaze made him feel ten years old again, like he’d broken a vase and was waiting to be yelled at.

“Will’s still here, right?” he asked, glancing past her into the dim saturation of the quaint home.

“Of course,” she said brightly, stepping aside. “He’s upstairs, packing with El. Come in, honey—you’ll catch cold standing there like that.”

Mike hesitated, just for a beat—like maybe stepping over the threshold meant stepping back into a version of himself he didn’t quite recognize. But then he nodded and stepped inside, shrugging the snow off his shoulders, arms crossed tight against his chest.

The house smelled like cinnamon and thick lotion, maybe something El was using. Or maybe it was piney, Mike thought as he stepped further inside.

Joyce walked ahead, calling up the stairs as she cupped a hand around her mouth, her voice warm and cheerful:

“Will! El! Someone popped in for a visit!”

Mike stood there awkwardly, snow melting on his boots, arms still crossed tight over his chest.

There was a pause. A weirdly long one. Like maybe they weren’t going to come down. Like maybe Will didn’t want to see him.

Then came footsteps. Mike’s heart gave a leap.

El rounded the corner first, her thick hair curled slightly at the ends from the Hawkins humidity, framing her face in a way that felt so purposeful. She was wearing a pink patterned sweater vest, tucked into high-waisted jeans, with crisp white sleeves puffing out beneath. She looked cool. Really cool. The kind of outfit Mike could never pull off, not without looking like a thrift store shat on him.

She looked great. Which meant Will probably helped her pick it out.

And then—then—Will came into view.

Mike’s brain short-circuited a little.

Will looked like a memory of someone Mike had dreamed up and then forgotten he ever dreamed. Soft yellow sweater. A neatly pressed white collar peeking through the neck. And his glasses, thin steel frames he only ever wore for reading, which meant he’d probably been packing books or sketching something. Will always looked a little like he’d stepped out of another world, but now he looked… untouched. Like he hadn’t had a hard day in his life. Like he didn’t even know what anxiety felt like.

The glasses were criminally unfair. He looked like someone you’d trust with your deepest secrets and your backup house key.

Mike felt suddenly, crushingly underdressed.

He was wrapped in a chunky blue sweater he’d swiped from Dustin back in October (it still smelled vaguely like body odor), his scarf oversized and awkwardly tucked, and the sweatpants—Jesus.

These were the ones he’d probably bled through when he was eighteen. He should have thrown them out, into a bonfire, into the garbage disposal. But they were soft and didn’t dig into his hips and whatever, it’s not like anyone cared what he wore to say goodbye.

He curled his fingers tightly into his palms, resisting the urge to chew at his nails. They were painted black and he didn’t want to be caught biting them like some anxious cartoon character. Not in front of Will, who looked like a walking daydream. Not in front of El, who looked like she ran an advocacy about girls who save the world.

Mike felt like something someone had left out in the rain, soggy and sweaty.

But he smiled anyway, thin-lipped, a little crooked, the best he could manage without his face betraying as much as he was feeling right now.

El was already moving toward him, arms open in that now-familiar way. Mike blinked, slightly startled still, even after all these years of knowing this girl. There’d been a time when she’d flinched from any form of physical touch, used to startle when someone reached for her sleeve. Now she hugged people like it was a second language. Like she’d caught up on a lifetime of softness and was making up for lost time.

Mike accepted it, stiff at first, but only for a breath. El wrapped her arms around his middle like she meant it, and he surprised himself by returning it, his arms coming up in a slow, uneven motion, resting lightly across her back. For a second, he just let himself be held.

She was smaller than him, but her hugs always felt strong. Like she knew Mike was in rock bottom at the moment. And maybe she did. Who knew?

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said as she pulled back, her voice low and sincere. She looked up at him with big, pleased eyes, then glanced over her shoulder as if to say see? I told you it’d be okay.

Mike barely had time to respond before Will appeared beside her, practically glowing.

“Hey!” Will grinned, wide enough that his cheeks puffed slightly, his whole face bright with it, like the sight of Mike actually meant something to him.

Mike felt it in his stomach: hot, electric, devastating.

“Hey yourself,” he managed, voice scratchy, a little breathless. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and rocked slightly on his heels, like his body didn’t know what to do now that Will was in front of him, looking at him like that.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing here. Not really.

On the bus ride over, it had felt like something. A kind of ritual, maybe. But standing here now, coat still on, cheeks still stung from the cold, it didn’t feel like good-bye. Not even close.

It felt more like… one of the appointments Max and Lucas had scheduled. Something he was supposed to do. Something you show up to because someone else put it on the calendar. Sit down, feet in the stirrups, breathe. Check the box, go home.

He’d seen the little thing a week ago. Floating inside him like an alien curled in sleep, caught in the black-and-white blur of a sonogram. Surreal, but unimpressive. Not some shining epiphany. Just… a blob in the dark. The nurse had smiled and pointed things out—“there’s the heartbeat,” she’d said like she was showing off a school project and Mike was the teacher, nodding like he understood.

It was weird, not sacred. And definitely not his.

That was the only part that felt solid:

It wasn’t his.

Not in the way people meant when they said stuff like you’re having a baby. He wasn’t. Max and Lucas were. Mike was just… holding it for now.

Mike had finally scrolled through his mental Rolodex—past a dozen too-sincere options, a few deflective jokes, and one or two outright lies—and just as he opened his mouth to say something, Joyce jumped in instead.

“Will,” she said, her voice gentle but nudging. “Didn’t you have something you wanted to ask Mike?”

She moved closer, her hand briefly brushing Mike’s sleeve.

Will, across the room, suddenly looked very interested in the hem of his sweater. He rubbed his palms against the thighs of his jeans and cleared his throat.

“Yeah. Right.”

He stepped closer, eyes flicking up to Mike’s and then away again. There was this beat of hesitation, like something enormous was passing between them, but maybe that was just Mike. Just the way his heart always thudded too loud when Will got that soft, sweet-as-pie look on his face.

“Um. I was wondering if—”

(If you wanted to be my mate for life. That’s what Mike wished he’d say. Something insane like that.)

“—if you wanted El and me to take you to our campus. Just to, you know… look around. Show you where we hang out. It’s not far.”

He said it like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t a big deal. But his voice was light and careful, and Mike could see the little flutter of nerves in his hands, almost like it was moving in his veins. But Mike was definitely looking too close

He nodded too fast.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. That sounds—yeah.”

He didn’t even try to hide the flicker of disappointment this time. But maybe no one noticed. Or maybe they were being kind and pretending not to.

Will gave this kind of bashful half-smile, pleased and unsure at the same time.

“Cool.”

Mike bobbed his head. Hands in his coat pockets. Eyes on the ground.

“Cool.”

For a second, no one said anything. El was smiling faintly in the background, like she could read the whole conversation with her eyes shut. Joyce turned and walked into the kitchen like she’d just set up two shy, introverted kids on a playdate.

Mike rocked slightly on his heels and stared at Will’s shoes.

He was going, apparently.

And Will still didn’t know that Mike had cried about him last week just from hearing his voice in a dream.

Mike was slouched as far as the seatbelt would allow in the passenger seat of Will’s bulky old VW, which sounded like it was clearing its throat of phlegm every few miles. The engine wheezed and coughed up the hills outside Hawkins like it was trying to die discreetly.

Out the window, thin gray trees passed like a procession of bones, upright, unbending, leafless and lifeless. Mike watched them in silence, his cheek leaning against the cold glass. His head throbbed, dull and pulsing, like someone had wrapped a thick band around his skull.

He didn’t say anything about it. He was trying to look okay. Like a guy who could handle a headache. But he knew he had that drawn, pinched look about him. He caught Will’s eyes flicking toward him a few times, careful glances between red lights. It made Mike want to both cry and laugh.

El was in the backseat, cross-legged and barefoot despite the cold, a thick calculus textbook balanced on her knees. Occasionally, she muttered something about derivatives under her breath, and Mike wondered how the hell she could read and ride at the same time without throwing up. The very idea of looking at small text while in motion made his stomach coil.

Not that nausea was new these days.

But that wasn’t what he was zoning in on.

It was the fact that Will kept looking at him. Gently. Thoughtfully. Like he might say something. Like he wanted to.

Then he finally spoke.

“So… um. I know you probably get this question a lot, but… how’re you feeling?”

It was soft, almost casual enough to sound normal. But it made something fizz up in Mike’s chest. Like carbonation under his ribs. Not joy exactly—something closer to relief. Will wasn’t afraid to talk to him. Will still wanted to ask. Still cared enough to check.

Maybe he doesn’t want to lose me after all, Mike thought, and immediately hated himself for it.

Don’t get excited. It’s just small talk.

“Um. Good, yeah.”

He cleared his throat like he was lying to a doctor, even though he wasn’t sick.

“I’m good.”

Will made a soft hum in reply, barely audible over the VW’s rattle. But Mike knew that sound. It was Will’s way of leaving a space. He was waiting for more.

So Mike gave it a try.

“I’ve been sleeping a lot. Which is… weird. Lucas said the kid’s the size of a poppy seed right now, which is like … kinda gnarly, if I’m being honest.”

He let out a tight little laugh.

“Like. I’m already this tired over that?”

He paused for a moment.

“Guess I’m bad at the whole ‘enjoy the process’ thing,” he added, quieter.

Will glanced at him again— almost like he was looking at buried treasure. It startled Mike a little, because Mike didn’t look like buried treasure. He wasn’t sparkling, he wasn’t glowing, he was sweaty and would be all lumpy in a few months. How could someone like Will look at Mike like he was treasure?

Maybe that was just Will being Will.

Because Mike knew Will. Will’s first instinct was to care, to give voice to something that felt wrong and try to make it better. It was only instinct. Not love. Not whatever funny fantasy Mike thought it entailed.

That was just Mike being Mike.

Will and El’s college was smaller than Mike expected.

Not that he’d have liked it if it were bigger, exactly. He didn’t like colleges, period. But still, he thought they deserved more than this. Something grand. A big, ivy-draped institution with fancy cafeterias and fridges full of Ginseng Coolers. A place with iron staircases and chandeliers and huge dorm rooms where people did acid and talked about Sartre.

Instead, what greeted him was… average.

A small-town college with buildings that looked like they were built for tax breaks.

Inside, it wasn’t any better. The hallways were dim and scuffed. The floors were a faded checkerboard tile, warped slightly near the edges. The baseboards had dust collected in the corners, and some of the wooden wall panels looked like they’d been peeled and reglued a few too many times.

It wasn’t bad, exactly. Just tired. Like the place had been trying for too long and no one had given it a break.

But even with the wear and tear, there was something… warm about it.

The afternoon light poured in through the high, narrow windows like honey, gathering in lazy, golden puddles along the walls. The overhead lights hung low on chains and glowed like little moons. Mike could imagine what it looked like at night: dim and cozy, the wind whining just outside while someone made tea in a shared kitchen, or painted something, or played quiet music through the walls.

“I missed this,” El said simply, turning a slow circle on the tile, her face split with a grin.

Mike blinked at her, then at Will, who looked just as pleased to be home.

They like it here.

That didn’t surprise him one bit.

They stopped by the main office first, where a bored student worker peeled a sticker from a roll and slapped it on Mike’s chest. It was crooked, of course. The bright red letters read:

GUEST

in blocky, overly-friendly font. Right above his scar.

He didn’t bother adjusting it.

The three of them started down the hall, and Will nudged him gently with his elbow, just enough to make Mike sway slightly. “Wanna come see me and El’s dorm?” he asked, bright-eyed.

Mike almost said no. His lungs were already pulling double-duty just from walking around. But instead of voicing any of that, he gave a quick nod.

It was worth it immediately.

Will beamed, like he’d just been given a gold star. The kind of grin that said I want to show you my new drawing, or I saved you the last cookie.

It was so stupidly sweet that Mike nearly forgot the sticker stuck to his chest, or how weirdly damp his lower back was getting from the heat of the building.

He followed them down the hallway.

Once they reached the dorm, El slowed, then stopped. Her expression softened into something bright and surprised. “Rory! You’re here.”

Mike froze like someone had pulled the fire alarm behind his eyes. Because there, standing right at the dorm entrance, was a girl about his age — maybe a bit younger — holding a paper schedule in one hand, the other tugging the hem of her plaid skirt like she was trying to will it longer. Her round glasses were sliding down her nose a little, and her hair was a sharp, unnatural platinum blonde,  the kind that looked like it smelled like bleach. Her eyebrows were dark.

Rory lifted an eyebrow, glancing between the three of them. “Do I know you?” she asked, her tone unreadable.

“Um,” El hesitated, taking a tiny half-step forward, “I think we met before? The, um… the dining hall?”

Rory blinked, then her face shifted. “Oh! Right.” She stepped forward and stuck out her hand fast, like she was rushing through a pop quiz. El reached for it with a brief, delayed smile, clearly still trying to place her.

“Sorry,” Rory said, shaking El’s hand once, “I’m terrible with names.”

Then her gaze flicked past El, like an invisible rope pulled it. Straight to Will.

It was subtle at first, but then it wasn’t.

Her face went crimson. Not flushed. Crimson. Like someone lit a match under her skin. She wasn’t even looking at Mike, and he still felt weirdly exposed.

Will offered a small, polite smile, but didn’t say anything yet.

Mike resisted the urge to adjust his scarf or pull his sweatshirt tighter. His stomach tightened. 

“What are you doing here?” Rory asked, her voice tight in that way people get when they’re trying not to trip over their words. Still playing it casual, but Mike could see the effort. Her fingers were still twitching at the hem of her skirt like they had a mind of their own.

“We’re just… showing our friend Mike around,” Will said, all easy and breezy.

Mike fought not to react when he said friend. That word felt like a door slamming shut.

Rory blinked. “Is he new here?”

“He’s not a student,” El jumped in, cutting Will off before he could answer. She was trying to be helpful, but Mike felt the tiniest pinch of shame regardless — like he’d been mistaken for something he couldn’t measure up to.

Rory nodded slowly, but her eyes didn’t flick back to Mike. Not once. She was still locked on Will. “What are you doing here?” Will asked her, his tone polite but more distant now.

“I’m just…” Rory tilted her schedule a little like it was part of her explanation. “Locating my classes. And my dorm. I’m pretty new here.”

Yeah, clearly, Mike thought. New enough to look lost, but not too lost to play the bashful ingenue.

“What’s your major?” El asked, ever the friendly one.

Rory smiled then. It wasn’t big — more like a secret, like she was letting them in on something special. “Art.”

Of course it was.

Mike bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough that he tasted blood.

He could feel the ache spreading behind his eyes, a migraine creeping up — whether from hormones, exhaustion, or whatever this suddenly was, he wasn’t sure. Rory was practically glowing under the hallway lights now, staring at Will like he’d hung the moon, the stars, and maybe hand-painted the sky too.

And Will — Mike didn’t even want to look. He wasn’t sure if Will was returning that look, or just being Will. Just kind. Too kind.

The worst part was that Mike knew how it felt. That raw sort of awe. He used to look at Will like that too. Hell — he still did. He just didn’t know if he was allowed to anymore.

And standing here, stomach tight, face warm, in a sweater he didn’t own and sweatpants with uncertain stains — Mike had never felt less like the person Will would pick.

He wasn’t sure Rory was competition, but she was… something.

And Mike hated that he cared so much.

Chapter Text

“These are the vending machines,” El announced proudly, gesturing like she was showing off a crown jewel.

Rory let out a short, amused chuckle. A soft ha.

Mike’s head whipped slightly in her direction.

The fuck is she laughing at?

“They have Crystal Pepsi,” El added.

Will wrinkled his nose. “I’d give a kiss to whoever tries that and likes it.”

Mike blinked. The words barely had time to settle before he was already patting down his pockets. He found a crumpled dollar and a few coins and marched up to the machine like it owed him something.

He fed the dollar into the slot with more force than necessary, hit B12, and stood back as the bottle tumbled down with a ka-thunk. It wasn’t cold. The label was faded. He was pretty sure it might be expired.

He cracked it open and took a deep, defiant swig.

It tasted pale.

Like someone had filtered old Pepsi through printer paper.

Mike coughed once, slightly.

“How’s it?” Rory called from behind him, curious and teasing. “You gonna puke?”

Mike wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, turned on his heel, and locked eyes with Will.

“Where’s my kiss?”

Will’s eyes shot wide. His brows arched like he hadn’t expected Mike to call the bluff.

His hands went up, palms out, a half-laugh in his voice.

“Not here!”

Rory snorted. El just blinked, like she wasn’t sure if this was a bit or a breakdown.

Mike shrugged like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t boiling inside.

“Fine,” he said, screwing the cap back on the lukewarm bottle. “You owe me one.”

“Maybe if you drink the whole thing,” Will joked, nodding toward the Crystal Pepsi.

Mike just smirked and kept the bottle clutched in his hand like a trophy. He wasn’t letting go of that leverage.

Their next stop was the cafeteria. El led the way like a proud tour guide, but Mike lagged a few steps behind, mostly just trying to keep his back from sweating through Dustin’s borrowed sweater. The hallway smelled faintly of Lysol and the Target on Main Street. He glanced around, pretending to admire the vintage student artwork pinned to the corkboards—but his eyes caught, magnetically, on the conversation happening a few feet ahead of him.

Rory had angled herself toward Will, shoulder turned, the paper schedule clutched at her side like it was just an accessory.

“Yeah, man! I love the Clash,” she said, all teeth and warmth. “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out is so… beautiful.”

Will blinked. Then gently, kindly:

“That’s a Smiths song.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Rory laughed, short and sheepish. “Oh, fuck,” she groaned. “Silly me, right? I haven’t gotten much sleep lately.”

Mike watched her glance down, and sure enough, her face was burning. She looked like she’d just tried to swallow a whole jalapeño. And then that smile: slow, sly, curling at the edge.

Like God, he’s so hot. Like she liked being corrected.

Mike felt something slicing and slow press behind his ribs.

He wanted to pour the Crystal Pepsi on her shoes.

Instead, he popped the cap off again and took another big gulp. It was warm now. Even worse than before. But he chugged it like he was in the Olympics.

“That’s embarrassing,” he muttered to no one in particular, loud enough to maybe not be unheard.

El glanced back at him. Will didn’t.

And Rory? Rory was still smiling at Will like she was in a tampon commercial.

“Okay. This is the cafeteria,” El announced, her voice bright as she swept her arm toward the wide double-door opening.

They passed into the room, and Mike blinked at the sheer wood of it. Everything was wood-paneled: the walls, the long heavy tables, even the weird antelope head mounted above one of them like it was a warning. The place was totally empty, too. Which made it feel … freaky, like walking into a church after the congregation had fled.

Mike muttered under his breath, “Looks like a hunting lodge.”

Rory trailed in behind, ponytail bouncing slightly. “Is the food here yummy?” she asked Will, voice pitched all sweet and curious.

Mike made a face. His lip twitched like something sour hit his mouth.

Who the hell says ‘yummy’ ?

What was she, five?

Will didn’t flinch. “S’pretty good,” he said, shrugging lightly. “Could be better. I just pack my own.”

“Oh,” Rory replied, her eyes flicking sideways, either flustered or trying to pivot. “Uh, yeah. Me too.”

Mike narrowed his eyes slightly. That lie was so transparent he could practically see the Hot Cheetos in her future. No way Rory “meal-prepped.” Not like Will did.

He drifted a little closer to El, clutching his Crystal Pepsi bottle like it was keeping him grounded. She hadn’t said anything since they entered the cafeteria. Probably knew it was weird too. Or maybe she could just feel his mood souring by the minute.

He didn’t know what bugged him more: Rory talking like a boomer theater kid, or Will acting like he didn’t notice she was obviously drooling over him.

They’d stopped by a few classrooms, said quick hellos to a couple of professors, Will was charming, El was chipper, Rory kept trailing behind Will like she was waiting for him to ask her opinion on the color of the walls.

Mike was trying to focus, he really was. But then it hit him like a brick to the skull.

Shit. The appointment.

His stomach dropped so hard it felt like it knocked into his knees. He had an ultrasound today.

How the hell had he forgotten that?

Oh, right — because he’d been too busy pretending he wasn’t going to expel the Crystal Pepsi he’d swallowed every time Rory smiled at Will.

His hand gripped the now half-warm Crystal Pepsi bottle tighter, knuckles bulging white.

He couldn’t not go. Max and Lucas would kill him.

But how was he supposed to bring it up?

“Hey Will! I gotta go get some medical-grade jelly smeared across my pelvis and stare at the grainy alien growing in my torso — wanna drive me to that?”

No. Absolutely fucking not.

El couldn’t drive. Rory was not an option. He’d rather walk or fucking army-crawl!

Which left… Will.

As they entered the student lounge, a lukewarm but weirdly drafty room with pilled couches and a vending machine that only half-worked, Mike suddenly stiffened.

His brain was screaming say something, but his throat was locked up like a jammed cassette.

It had to be Will.

He hated that. He hated needing.

And yet… he turned, throat dry.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Will, can I — uh. Talk to you for a sec?”

Will paused mid-sentence with Rory, looking over immediately. “Yeah, of course.”

Mike didn’t even glance at Rory—like if he did, he might turn to a weeping statue made of stone and tears. Or worse, throw up.

But Will… Will was another problem entirely.

It was like he was quantum-locked to Mike. If Mike looked away, Will would disappear. If he kept looking, Will might close the distance between them, collapse that gap with a single touch or a too-soft word. So Mike just… stared. Like his life depended on it.

And Will leaned in.

He was so close Mike could smell him. Deodorant. A musky, clean whiff that didn’t belong.

Old Spice.

Mike blinked. No way …

Will never used Old Spice. He used the all-natural stuff. The lavender one, or the citrusy one that claimed it didn’t use aluminum. He used to say that he smelled like the taste of sweet red wine.

He’d once told Mike:

“I just… I don’t like the idea of toxic masculinity, y’know? I used to have it a little, I think. Because of him.”

Him meaning Lonnie, of course.

So why was Will wearing Old Spice now?

Why? 

Who was he trying to impress?

Mike didn’t let himself look sideways. He didn’t want to turn into stone.

Rory.

“I’ve got… an appointment,” Mike muttered, barely above a whisper. His hand twitched at his side. He wasn’t looking at anyone in particular, just the floor. But of course, Rory heard him. Her brow arched slightly. El, standing off to the side, was smoothing down the collar of her vest — definitely pretending she hadn’t heard anything.

Will furrowed his brow, a flicker of something, annoyance, confusion, crossing his face. “An appointment?” he repeated, his tone flat. “What, are you trying to bail now?”

“What? No!” Mike looked up fast, too fast, eyes wide like he’d been accused of a crime. “It’s an ultrasound. Y’know. For the—” he made a vague circle gesture at his torso. “For the thing.”

Will stared. “You told me you didn’t have anything today,” he said quietly, like he was trying not to make it a scene, but the edge was definitely there. “But now that Rory’s here, suddenly you remember something?”

Mike flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” Will pushed. “You’ve been acting weird all day.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “You have. You’ve been moping around, rolling your eyes every time I said anything. Just—what’s going on with you?”

Mike opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself:

“Maybe I was having contractions.”

Will’s whole soul froze. “WHAT.”

Mike blanched. “No! No—I didn’t mean that! God!” He ran a hand down his face. “I don’t even know why I said that.”

El let out a little surprised noise. Half snort, half concern. Rory looked like she wanted to disappear, like maybe she was internally blaming herself. Mike felt a flicker of guilt before it vanished.

Mike groaned. “Forget it. I’ll call Max. She’ll take me.”

But Will’s voice cut through the air, softer now:

“Don’t be like that.”

Mike paused, hand hovering near his coat.

“…I’m not being like anything.”

Will looked at him. Really looked. “Yes, you are.” Will glanced back at El and Rory, who were exchanging uncertain looks: the kind that said should we give them space? but also do we want to know what’s going on? “I’ll be back in like…” Will started, then hesitated. “An hour. Or two.”

The or two came out like he’d just swallowed sour milk.

Mike opened his mouth, ready to argue — he didn’t need a babysitter, he could figure it out, really — but Will just shook his head. That small, sharp shake. No.

Then, calmly but firmly, Will said, “Are we going to this thing? Or are you just gonna stand there?”

It was like being punched in the gut with a pillow full of cinderblocks.

Mike flinched. His hand went to the back of his neck, scratching like he had fleas. The scarf he’d wrapped earlier now felt too tight.

He fucked up.

Again.

He didn’t even know how, not exactly: just that it was probably somewhere between the eye-rolling, the tense shoulders, the way he couldn’t stop tracking Rory like a threat.

Why did he always do this? Just—say shit. Act like he didn’t care, when he so clearly did. Especially with Will. Always with Will.

Will probably hated him now.

And honestly? Mike wouldn’t blame him. Rory seemed… really nice. Sweet, even. Like the kind of girl who’d actually listen. Who’d laugh at the right parts of his stories. Who wouldn’t flinch when someone tried to care about her.

Will deserved someone like that.

Not… whatever Mike was turning into.

But still, when Will opened the door and gestured out like well?, Mike’s feet followed. His mind really didn’t, though. His mind was still stuck in a few minutes ago. In ‘85, ‘86, and now. But he always came back, always followed.

Because it was Will. And Mike would follow him anywhere, even now, bloated with feelings he didn’t know what to do with, hormones making him think about contractions and car crashes in the same breath, this alien thing growing inside him like it was watching the whole ordeal (that felt more like some sad melodrama) in a front row seat.

Mike sat slouched in the passenger seat of Will’s rattling VW, the heater wheezing like it had asthma. Outside, the sky was the kind of winter gray that made the trees look brittle. Inside, it was quiet. Silence wrapping around Mike’s throat like a clenched fist.

Will didn’t look concerned this time.

He looked disappointed.

Which was worse. So much worse than any kind of concern Mike had previously tried to push away.

Mike stared straight ahead, his legs jittering beneath his oversized sweater. He felt like absolute shit. Because he was acting like a total asshole. He always did this:  sabotaged himself, lashed out sideways, clammed up until it was too late and the silence was thicker than whatever words he could’ve said.

God. Sometimes he wished someone would just draft him into the military or something. Some twisted version of punishment. Maybe if he got yelled at enough, dragged through the dirt, bruised up and rebuilt,  then maybe he’d learn how to stop hurting people like Will.

Maybe that would finally make him “a real man,” like his dad used to say, back when he was trying to wrap his head around the fact that Mike wasn’t a girl going through a phase. That Mike had never been a girl. Just a kid with scraped knees who wanted to be called he more than he wanted to breathe.

The silence stretched. Will’s hands were tight on the wheel, eyes on the road.

Mike opened his mouth. Closed it.

There were words stuck in his throat,  sharp, stupid, messy words, jammed in there like a watermelon rind, impossible to swallow without choking.

He wanted to say, I’m sorry.

He wanted to say, I don’t want to lose you.

He wanted to say, Please don’t like her. Please still like me. Don’t move on yet without me.

But all that came out was a shaky sigh and the faint sound of his nails tapping against the glass.

His mind was as loud as a horse’s desperate neigh.

I don’t blame him, man, the judgy old guy in his head sneered, clear as a bell. Yeah, I’d hate me too.

Mike didn’t argue. Not out loud. Just nodded silently to the windshield, like, Yep. Fair enough.

I’m a liar. I’m a bitch.

The voice laughed: loud and stupid and huge, like it came from the barrel chest of someone who’d never been scared a day in his life. Like the version of Mike who never flinched at locker room stares, or cried himself hoarse the first time someone called him a girl in public after he’d cut his hair.

The voice barked with glee. You always do this. You push, then you pout. Real mature, Wheeler. Real brave. Real Paladin-ish of you

Mike clenched his jaw. He wanted to punch the guy in the face, but unfortunately, that guy was him: maybe the Mike he’d been before the surgery. The one with smaller shoulders and a voice that cracked with nerves instead of hormones. The one who wore two sports bras and still felt disgusting.

He didn’t know. He never really knew who that guy was, only that he never shut up.

And right now, he was winning.

You made a promise to protect Will with your heart. Where’d that go?

Mike shook his head to himself, as if that might shut the voice up.

The promise was still there. Always had been. Ever since he saw Will in that hospital bed, pale and breathing like it hurt just to exist, Mike had made a vow: one as serious and invisible as the dysphoria that used to knot his stomach daily. He’d protect Will. No matter what. Even if Mike was carrying cargo now, even if his body was shifting in ways he wasn’t ready for, that vow hadn’t changed.

He wasn’t supposed to fight with Will. Not him. Never him.

Mike opened his mouth to say something — maybe I’m sorry, maybe Rory doesn’t talk like a boomer theater kid, maybe please still like me — but before he could get a word out, a low rumble rolled across the sky, long and sharp and angry.

He paused. “Was that thunder or your stomach?”

Will didn’t smile. He just rolled his eyes, barely turning his head. “Thunder.”

That hit harder than the sound outside.

Will always laughed at those jokes.

Even when they weren’t funny. Even when they were stupid.

He always gave Mike something. A chuckle. A grin. A little fake groan like ugh, you’re so annoying, but he smiled when he said it.

Now? Just a dry eye roll and nothing else.

As soon as the thunder groaned overhead, a jagged flicker of lightning slashed across the sky like a cracked whip, white-hot and feral. Not even a second later, the rain came, fast and slanted, like it had been waiting for its cue.

And then came the hail.

Tiny pellets at first, like someone dumping a jar of marbles onto the windshield. They pinged off the roof, bounced off the hood, hit the windows with soft, chaotic thuds. Will’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. Mike could see the tension in his forearms. “Fuck,” Will mouthed under his breath, barely audible above the sudden roar of the storm. “Like this couldn’t get any worse.”

The windshield wipers slapped uselessly, barely able to keep up. Each swipe just smeared the wet blur sideways before it returned again. Visibility was going to hell.

Mike turned his head toward the passenger window. The rain was coming down in sheets now, slamming against the glass so hard it felt like the car might crack apart from the pressure. It sounded like someone shaking gravel in a tin can.

He swallowed, uneasily. “Should we … pull o—”

“No,” Will cut in, sharp and definite.

Mike blinked. “No?”

“We’ll lose heat if we stop. And reception. And we’re not that far from the clinic.” Will’s eyes were fixed on the slick, flooded road, knuckles pale on the wheel. “I’ve driven in worse.”

Mike didn’t argue. But his heart thudded in his throat. Not just from the storm, but because Will sounded angry again. Angry and distant and so not-him.

Outside, the sky cracked again with lightning, closer now. It lit up the car like a camera flash, just for a moment. In that instant, Mike could see Will’s face clearly. Jaw tight. Eyes focused. Lips thin.

Then Mike remembered — Will was terrified of thunderstorms.

Not just didn’t-like-them, but bone-deep afraid. The kind of afraid that made you freeze in place while the world cracked open above you.

Another fork of lightning split the sky, raw and jagged like a fractured bone, and the sound that followed was a snarl. It wasn’t even thunder anymore. It was something personal. Low and guttural, like a disappointed father stomping through the hall, fists clenched. Or worse — an angry one, one that didn’t just shout but made you feel it.

Mike’s whole body snapped upright. “Will…”

“Please, Mike,” Will bit out. “I need to focus.” His voice cracked right down the middle, splintered like glass under a boot. He sounded young — not teenage-young, but kid-young. Scared-young.

The car lurched sharply into the next lane.

“Will,” Mike said louder this time. “Stop.”

But Will didn’t. Or couldn’t. “No, I—” He sucked in a breath just as a semi roared past them on the left, drenching the windshield with a tsunami of runoff. Will swerved again, hard, and the whole car tilted, tires screeching as they hugged the slick edge of the road.

Mike’s stomach turned over completely, like he’d been flipped inside out. He gripped the dash, knuckles white, bile rising at the back of his throat. Doggy bag, his brain whispered stupidly. You’re gonna need a fucking doggy bag.

“Will, stop the car!” Mike barked, louder this time, louder than he meant to. He sounded like his own father, which scared him.

Will’s eyes were wild now, like a trapped animal’s. His breathing had gone ragged. His shoulders hunched up around his ears like he was expecting to be hit. Like he’d been here before, just not behind the wheel.

Outside, the storm kept screaming. Another crack, closer this time, so close Mike swore he saw the earth itself recoil. It echoed through Will’s bones like an old bruise. Like something he’d survived, but never escaped.

But Mike saw through the white-knuckled focus, saw right through Will’s shaking hands and tight jaw and glassy eyes. Panic thudded in his chest like a second heartbeat.

“Will, stop!” Mike shouted, voice cracking. “I can’t lose you, okay? Please. Just stop— please!”

Will made a sound. Something low and awful — a strangled grunt that cracked into a whimper, like it got stuck in his throat trying to decide if it wanted to be angry or just break. It was the kind of sound Mike had only ever heard once — maybe twice — before. In 1984. In a hospital room. From a kid too small for the pain he was holding.

“Please, Will,” Mike begged, quieter now. “Pull over. You’re scaring me.”

That finally seemed to reach him.

The car veered, but slower this time, cautious, deliberate. Like Will had suddenly remembered: Mike wasn’t just some passenger. Mike was carrying Max and Lucas’s baby. Someone’s future was sitting right there, flinching every time the tires hit a slick patch.

Will’s hands were trembling as he pulled onto a scenic turnout that overlooked the blurred, wind-warped trees. The rain came down like it was trying to beat the paint off the roof. The wipers clicked once, then again, but Will didn’t seem to see any of it.

His breath came shallow and fast, like he’d just run a mile. Mike watched him in silence, pulse still racing in his ears.

“Are you okay?” Mike asked softly.

No reply.

Will’s fingers moved in a dazed rhythm. He unbuckled slowly, like he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing, hips twisting free. Then he dropped forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to gravity.

His hands crept up until they were over his ears. It said —

Too loud.

Too much.

Mike could see it clear as day. This wasn’t just fear of the road. This was something older. Something from a living room in 1981 or ‘82, with a belt hanging off the doorknob and footsteps pounding on hardwood like a goddamn storm.

And Will wasn’t in the car anymore. Not really.

Mike sat there, still. He let the silence thicken.

He didn’t reach out. He wasn’t sure if Will wanted to be touched, or if he needed distance.

But he stayed.

He stayed right there, breathing through the panic in his own lungs. Because Will had once held Mike’s hand through worse — and Mike would do the same now, even if it meant saying nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Mike didn’t remember the exact moment Will fell asleep , just that he did. Slumped there with his forehead pressed to the steering wheel, arms limp, breathing gone soft and even. Not a proper snore, just these quiet little grunts that barely made it out of his nose.

Mike stayed awake, even though every part of him wanted to crash.

Because someone had to keep watch.

Around five in the morning, as the sun started leaking in through the fogged windshield in dim, watered-down streaks, Will jerked awake. A sharp gasp cracked through the quiet, and Mike snapped to attention.

Will’s glasses tumbled into his lap. His hand flew to the nape of his neck like he’d been grabbed there. The other gripped the front of his sweater like he was trying to shield himself from something that wasn’t even in the car.

“Will, hey!” Mike scrambled, finally unbuckling. He slid over the console and hooked his arm around Will’s shoulders without even thinking, like muscle memory — like something ancient in his bones had activated.

Will was panting, chest stuttering up and down, hands twitching.

“Shhh,” Mike murmured, pressing his forehead lightly to the side of Will’s head. “S’okay. It’s okay. Shh, shhh …” His voice was low, almost embarrassed, but steady. His thumb found Will’s collarbone and traced slow, grounding circles.

Will was trembling all over. His skin was cold and clammy through the thin knit of his sweater. Mike reached up and rubbed his fingers against the back of Will’s neck, where sweat had risen and goosebumps peppered the skin.

“You’re okay,” Mike said again, quieter this time. “It was just a dream.”

Will didn’t say anything. He didn’t even nod. But his breathing started to slow a little, like the sound of Mike’s voice was latching onto something in his chest, pulling him back into the real world.

Mike felt a hot wave of relief flood his stomach when he finally heard Will take a deep, even breath. Then another. Slow. Measured. Mike blinked and found Will blinking too, hazel eyes glossy, lashes wet, but alive.

Will opened his mouth like he was going to say something, maybe even apologize, but Mike got there first.

“Oh. You dropped your glasses.”

He bent forward and grabbed them from the floor, fingers brushing grit and crumbs by the pedals. When he straightened, Will was still looking at him like he wasn’t sure if this was real.

Without even thinking about it, Mike reached out, careful and deliberate, and slid the glasses onto Will’s face. Will’s hair had fallen into his eyes again, soft and messy and a little damp at the edges. Mike gently swept it aside, tucking it behind both ears.

Will didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word.

And Mike just stared for a second — really stared — the weight of the moment pressing gently into his chest. The condensation on the windows blurred the outside world, and for once, Mike didn’t feel like a moving target. Not in this quiet space. Not with Will.

He still looked beautiful.

Even after all that. Maybe especially after all that.

Then, finally, Will spoke — voice low, still scratchy from sleep. “Are you okay?”

Mike blinked, thrown by the question. “I’m fine… why’re you worried about me?”

Will didn’t answer that. He just looked at him, tired but focused, like he saw right through him.

“Is the baby okay?” he asked instead, gently.

Mike nodded before he could even think. “Of course. Yeah.” His hand moved unconsciously to his sweater. “I think it liked the ride, actually.”

That got a quiet laugh out of Will, just a small exhale through his nose, but it curled into a smile. A small one.

Mike felt it in his chest immediately, warm and fluttery like something alive had taken flight in his gut. Stupid butterflies. Always showing up at the worst times.

He let out a breath and leaned his head back against the seat, still watching Will from the corner of his eye.

“What time is it?” Will mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.

They both checked their watches, the same matching black Casios they’d gotten for Christmas in eighth grade because they’d agreed digital watches were cooler than analog.

“5:31,” they said in near unison.

Will squinted at Mike, his brows pulling together. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“Don’t be,” Mike shook his head, voice rough. “I wasn’t even sleeping.”

“You need sleep, Mike.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “You sound like my mom.”

Will smirked. “Good. Someone’s gotta be responsible. Also, uh — you smell awful.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

He leaned over, cautiously sniffed his own pit, and recoiled a bit. “Okay… maybe you’re not wrong. I swear I put on deodorant before we left.”

Will gave a little shrug, casual. “Must be the hormones.”

Mike groaned. “Thanks, dude.”

Will reached down and rummaged around in the center console before holding something out. “Here. It’s mine — the citrus one.”

Mike recognized it immediately. Will had been wearing that same kind since freshman year. “You still use this? I thought you got tired of the fruity smell.”

“I did. But it reminds me of summer, so…”

Mike unscrewed the cap and tilted the container. A little splash of liquid deodorant sloshed at the top. “Did this melt?”

“Yeah. I put it in front of the heater. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Mike murmured, tugging his sweatshirt up with one hand and swiping the stick under each arm with practiced, half-awake clumsiness. “Thanks.”

He handed it back, and Will just pocketed it without saying anything. It was the kind of quiet exchange they’d always had,  ever since elementary school, when Will used to pass him notes under the lunch table that said you okay? without any punctuation, and Mike would just nod once, and they didn’t have to say anything else.

“You think any food place is open right now?” Will asked, glancing out the windshield at the dim gray-blue horizon. “I could eat.”

Mike let out a sigh like it had been building in his chest all night. “God, yeah. Eating sounds amazing.” He let his head fall back against the seat. “I haven’t eaten since… I dunno, yesterday? Maybe earlier.”

Will shot him a look. “Mike.”

“I know,” Mike groaned, hands raised in defeat. “I know, okay? I’m literally growing a human being, I should probably be doing the ‘basic needs’ shit.”

Will didn’t even tease him. He just said, “You need to eat. Like, for real. It’s not just you anymore, y’know?”

Mike nodded quickly, eyes soft. “Yeah. I know.” A pause. “Sorry.”

Will shook his head. “Don’t be.” 

Mike turned around in his seat, craning his neck to peek out the rear window. Nothing but winding mountain road and a faint streak of where they’d come from. No signs. No gas stations. No clue.

“You couldn’t’ve driven this far,” Mike said, half-accusatory.

Will let out a breath that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You’d be surprised. I kind of go autopilot when I panic.”

“Right. Your trauma makes you efficient,” Mike muttered, but not meanly. He reached for the Crystal Pepsi bottle again—now warm and tragically flat—just to have something to do with his hands.

They both sat there for a beat, letting the moment breathe.

“Well,” Mike finally said, clearing his throat, “we’ll be fine. Just gotta drive back down and… see where the hell we end up.”

Will glanced over, one hand still resting on the steering wheel. “You really think so?”

Mike met Will’s eyes and nodded once. “Yeah. I mean—worst-case scenario, we catch chipmunks and roast them on a spit.”

Will turned to look at him, deadpan. “I’ll roast you on a spit. Don’t touch chipmunks.”

Then he giggled, quick and sudden, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

Mike grinned faintly. That sound made his chest feel warm in a weird, hormonal way.

Then Will sobered a little, thumb tapping the steering wheel. “We should find a pay phone. You gotta tell Max and Lucas you’ll be a while.”

“Yeah…” Mike sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “They’ll kill me.”

“No, they won’t,” Will said, shaking his head. “Lucas doesn’t have the heart to do that.”

“Max might,” Mike muttered.

Will laughed again, quieter this time, but it stuck around longer.

They sat there for a moment, the cab quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the wind pushing against the glass. Mike kept glancing at Will every few seconds, catching the shadow of exhaustion hanging under his eyes. Then he said, “Could you let me take the wheel?”

Will didn’t answer right away. “I’ve… I’ve got it. You rest. I—”

“No.” Mike cut in gently but firmly. “I think you need more rest than I do.”

Will blinked at him, like he was ready to argue, but Mike kept going.

“But you’ve got—”

“The baby’s fine. Swear.” And before Will could interject again, Mike lifted his hand, spat into his palm, and held it out.

Will’s eyes widened slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he might protest on a normal day. But instead, he just stared at the spit-slick hand for a beat, then—hesitating only slightly—reached up and did the same.

Their hands slapped together, slick and childish, sealing the promise.

Mike gave him a look. “Let me take care of you, just for a bit. Okay?”

Will looked at him—really looked at him—then nodded. His voice was low. “Okay.”

They swapped seats quickly, Will slumping into the passenger side like he was finally letting himself exhale for the first time all night. Mike buckled in, tugging the strap snug over his shoulder, and looked over to make sure Will was doing the same.

Will was still in the middle of it, fumbling with the belt like his hands were underwater. Mike didn’t say anything, just waited with a soft, tired look until he heard the seatbelt click into place.

Then Will reached into the console, grabbed the half-warm Crystal Pepsi, and passed it wordlessly to Mike. “Here. Take this, too.”

Mike took it with both hands, nodding like he’d just been handed a sacred artifact. He settled it gently in the cupholder, right in front of the heater where it would stay questionably warm. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Will passed him the keys next, brushing Mike’s fingers as he did. “Be careful with her,” he said, meaning the car, but his voice had a softness like maybe he meant more than just that.

Mike turned the key in the ignition. The old VW coughed, spat, then caught. The headlights flickered once, as if trying to steady themselves, and Mike eased the car forward. The tires crunched over slick gravel as they found their way back to the main road, the sky still bruised with storm.

Will had already gone quiet beside him, head leaned against the window, eyelids falling heavy.

Mike drove slow.

He checked on Will—kept glancing over every few seconds to make sure the speed wasn’t making him nervous. It wasn’t. Will had his head leaned against the window, his breath leaving the faintest fog on the glass. His eyes were half-lidded, but not shut. He wasn’t sleeping. He was just… watching. Watching the trees blur past like they were part of some story he’d forgotten the plot of. Mike could see it all in his expression, that quiet, sweet sort of wonder Will always carried when no one else was looking.

And for a second it felt like 1984 again.

That hospital. That first time Mike realized protecting someone didn’t have to be loud or brave or life-threatening. It could be a promise made silently, standing beside a bed. It could be something as small as knowing, this is my person.

And maybe Will had made that same promise about him.

Mike looked back at the road. His grip on the wheel tightened. His chest felt too full.

It wasn’t just about protecting Will anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time. Will protected him just as much. Had been, quietly, for years. And it was so rare—so stupidly rare—that two people got to hold something like that together and not ruin it.

It was something beautiful. If they’d just admit it was.

“Hey, stop,” Will said suddenly, voice cutting through the quiet.

Mike flinched, panic flickering through his chest. “What? What’s wrong?” His eyes darted to the mirrors, the road, Will’s face.

Will just pointed across the road, calm as ever. “Gas station. Next lane.”

Mike blinked. His heart was still beating like it was trying to escape. “You scared the shit outta me.”

“How’d you not see that?” Will asked, voice dry, finger still lazily outstretched.

Mike exhaled hard, rubbing his palm against his thigh to ground himself. “I’m tired,” he muttered, voice trailing off as he flipped on the turn signal and merged carefully into the next lane. “Sorry.”

Will didn’t say anything at first, but Mike could feel him watching again, watching the way Mike’s hands shook just a little on the wheel, how carefully he was trying to move, not rattle him. Like Mike wasn’t exhausted.

Then finally, Will said softly, “You’re doing fine.”

And Mike didn’t answer, but his throat tightened in a way that meant he heard it.

“Is this the parking?” Mike asked, mostly to himself, squinting at the gravel turnout sloping weirdly into a hill.

Will glanced around. “Um. Looks like it.”

Mike slowed the car and muttered under his breath, “Why’s there a fucking dune here even?” He put it in park, leaning forward to stare up the incline like it had personally offended him. “Can I even climb up there?”

Will shrugged, unbothered. “I dunno. Can you?”

Mike hesitated, then said, “Well… my aunt told me once that one of her twins blew up in the womb because she had to pick up her son after he fell down the stairs.”

Will blinked. “What?”

“I don’t know if it’s true or not,” Mike admitted, turning off the ignition, “but, like… we should probably be careful. I mean, apparently I’m carrying a baby now. A baby that could spontaneously combust if I try to climb anything steeper than a sidewalk curb.”

Will let out a breath—half a laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus.”

Mike rubbed his face, then rested his head against the wheel. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are,” Will said gently. “That’s the problem.”

They sat there a beat longer. Then Will unbuckled and said, “Come on. We’ll take it slow. You’re not climbing Everest. Just a shitty parking lot dune.”

But once they were fully out of the car and standing in the gravel lot, Mike’s earlier bravado started to evaporate like fog off the windshield.

“I don’t think I wanna take any chances,” he muttered, eyeing the incline like it might bite him. “I mean… Lucas and Max are literally paying for this. And, like… I dunno. It’d be kind of sad if the little guy just… exploded, y’know?”

Will snorted softly, turning to look at him. “I mean, yeah. That’s valid. But…” he gestured loosely at himself, “what do you want me to do about it?”

Mike shifted his weight. Looked down at his scratched up Converse. Then up at the dune. Then sort of half-shrugged, as if even his bones were embarrassed to ask.

Mike blinked.

“I can carry you up,” Will offered, deadpan. Like it was nothing.

Mike blinked again. “What, like… in your arms?”

“Well I’m not giving you a piggyback ride in a parking lot,” Will said, completely serious. “This isn’t a carnival.”

Mike made a face. “That’s worse.”

Will just held his gaze. “You want up or not?”

Mike stared at him a moment longer, lips twitching between a protest and a thank-you.

“…Yeah,” he finally mumbled. 

It was awkward as fuck.

Mike was all limbs — too tall, too gangly — and Will, shorter by at least a few inches, was doing his best not to drop him. It felt backwards. Stupid. Like Mike was some oversized, long-legged baby and Will was the small-in-size and weight, determined parent. Mike’s Converse dangled helplessly, shoelaces untied. His hands didn’t know where to go, so he just crossed them tight over his sweater.

He absolutely felt like a bride.

But … God. Kill him now.

He wondered, fleetingly, stupidly, if Will felt like the groom. That thought was quickly incinerated.

“Okay,” Mike said stiffly, trying not to make eye contact. “Don’t fall.”

“Yeah, thanks, Professor,” Will muttered, sarcastic, breath hitching just slightly as he adjusted Mike’s weight in his arms. “Real helpful advice. Try not to wriggle, maybe.”

“I’m not—” Mike started, then shut up, his ears already hot. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“You kinda did,” Will grunted. “With your whole, ‘baby might explode’ thing.” He did a stupidly low voice when mocking Mike.

Mike huffed. “That could be a  real medical condition.”

“It’s not,” Will said.

“It might be.”

They climbed higher — or rather, Will did all the climbing while Mike tried not to accidentally knee him in the ribs. Somewhere between the fifth and sixth step in the loose gravel incline, Will let out a breathy, frustrated laugh.

“What?” Mike asked, panicked. “Are you gonna drop me?”

“No,” Will said, “you’re just really bad at being carried.”

“Well maybe I’ve never been carried by a guy before!”

Will blinked, visibly struggling not to laugh harder. “Okay, okay,” he wheezed. “Just—hold still. I’m almost at the top.”

Mike didn’t say anything after that. He just stayed quiet, heart pounding, arms still crossed over his chest.

But secretly?

He didn’t mind it. 

They reached the top.

But Will didn’t set him down. Not right away.

They were just there, the wind nudging at their hair and sleeves, caught in a silence that wasn’t heavy,  just full. Will’s arms remained wrapped under Mike’s thighs and shoulders, like setting him down might undo something delicate.

Their eyes met.

And suddenly, Mike felt breathless. Not from the altitude, not from the cold. Just from him. From Will.

Will’s eyes, Mike hadn’t really looked in a while, not like this. Not vulnerably. And now, standing here in Will’s arms, Mike saw it: they were so soft behind the glasses. Gentle. Not glassy or cold or unreadable like he feared they might’ve become after all his disappearing acts. They were warm and tired and open.

They looked like autumn, he thought hazily. Like soft dying grass and wind-shaken leaves. They were hazel, but not the boring kind — they were golden at the edges, and heavy in the center, like they could see things Mike hadn’t even admitted to himself yet. He flinched, barely, at how strong they were. Not threatening — just powerful.

Stronger than anything that had ever tried to destroy them. Stronger than Vecna. Stronger than fear.

On the flip side, Will was just standing there, holding Mike, heart pounding so loud he was sure Mike could hear it.

Mike’s eyes… God.

They were ridiculous.

Not just big, huge. Framed by those stupidly long lashes he’d always had. And they were dark, like upturned wine glasses, filled to the brim with something Will had never been able to put into words. Not quite sadness. Not just intelligence. It was care, too. And hurt. And loyalty, even when Mike messed everything up, even when he didn’t know how to say sorry. Even when he pretended he didn’t care just to protect himself.

Will had thought, for a while, maybe Mike didn’t see him anymore. Not like that. But now, Mike was looking at him like he did. Like he always had.

And something was blooming between them, not like fireworks, not like lightning.

Like the quiet swell of spring, creeping in when you weren’t looking. Like the thaw after a long, unbearable winter.

Mike’s voice, when it came, was small. Soft. “You gonna put me down, or…?”

Will tried to swallow, but his throat was dust. His arms ached with the weight of Mike — not because Mike was heavy, but because he wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet. Not ever, maybe. The thought alone made his chest tighten.

Mike was staring at him, and Will could feel it , not just in the weight of his gaze, but in the way his breath changed, like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted him to move. And Will… God, Will didn’t think. His body just leaned forward, like something had tugged at his collarbone.

Fuck. He was going to do it.

Mike’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly, but Will felt it. And then — like a match finally catching — Mike craned forward, and their lips met.

It wasn’t perfect. It was clumsy. Tilted, unsure, trembling. Will didn’t even know who moved first, or if it even mattered. The moment swallowed them whole, so quickly, so deeply, that Will didn’t realize he’d started to lower Mike until their feet were back on solid ground.

And even then, the touch didn’t stop.

It wasn’t frantic — not really — but it was hungry. Mike’s hands found Will’s face like they’d been starved of contact, calloused thumbs grazing over cheekbones like he was memorizing the texture. Will’s hands shook as they found Mike’s waist, fingers pressing in just enough to feel him there, real and solid. There was a palm on the nape of Will’s neck. There was a forehead press, a nose brush, a quiet breath shared.

It wasn’t their first touch. Not technically. But it felt like it.

They had waited. Waited so long they forgot what it was like to imagine a world where this wasn’t just a dream. Will used to sit by the window in Jonathan’s room, curled in his brother’s lap, wishing on falling stars with all the hope his body could hold. And Mike, Mike had bowed his head in the back of church pews, whispering prayers not even God could judge, begging for the courage to love Will.

And now they were here. Touching. Kissing. Shaking.

No stars. No altars. Just them. Mike and Will.

Chapter Text

At eight o’clock on Thursday morning, Lucas Sinclair woke up feeling like someone had stuffed his skull with cotton. His eyes blinked open like rusty blinds, barely catching the light. He sat up slow, grimacing at the sharp angle of sunlight slicing through his blinds like it had a personal vendetta.

He shuffled across the room in his socks (mismatched) and cracked open the window. Outside: one lumpy Volkswagen squatting on the curb like it belonged there. Lucas squinted at it. Suspicious. That was definitely Will’s beat-up car. He made a mental note to investigate further once he was fully conscious.

Slippers located. Bathroom located. He stomped down the hall like a grumpy bear with bedhead, toothbrush already jammed in his mouth like he was mad at it. Foam. Spit. Rinse. He squinted at the shaving mirror, which was, for some reason, aiming directly at the ceiling. “Great,” he muttered, and adjusted it with a clack. For one second, it flashed a reflection of that damn Volkswagen through the bathroom window, like it was haunting him.

When the mirror finally landed on his own face, he winced. Bristle city. He sighed, grabbed his razor, and scraped off the stubble like it owed him money.

Face washed. Hair flattened. Mood still terrible.

He stomped to the kitchen to find something edible.

Kettle. Plug. Fridge. Milk. Coffee. Yawn.

Lucas moved like he was completing a quest on autopilot, his brain booting up one sluggish step at a time. He poured the milk like it was a science experiment and blinked hard at the cup like that might help the caffeine work faster.

Somewhere in the back of his half-functioning mind, the word Volkswagen floated by. Bumping into the edges of his consciousness like it was looking for something to stick to.

Then it did.

Volkswagen. Green. Parked outside. That’s Will’s stupid car.

He paused mid-stir. The spoon clinked lazily against the mug. He padded over to the window, narrowed his eyes like a detective in a Saturday morning cartoon, and frowned at the lump of metal squatting at the curb. Big. Probably secondhand. Definitely not supposed to be here at 8:12 in the goddamn morning.

“…Weird,” he muttered.

Still yawning, Lucas wandered back toward his room to find a shirt that didn’t smell like sweat. But halfway there, he stopped.

The guest room.

He turned toward it like it had just coughed. He stared at the door.

He remembered being worried about something involving that room last night. Something serious.

But now the memory sat on the edge of his brain like a goldfish on the edge of a bowl — flickering, elusive, just out of reach. He stood there, blinking at the guest room door like it might jog something loose.

Then it hit him.

Mike. Mike had been in there. Probably curled like a pretzel on top of the guest blanket, snoring all soft and pitiful the way he always did when he was pretending not to be vulnerable.

And then another thread tugged loose — Max. Max, half-dressed for work, mumbling to herself as she leaned down and kissed Lucas on the forehead. “I want to trust him,” she’d whispered, more to the walls than to him, “but I just — I dunno how.”

Lucas had still been half-asleep, one sock on, brain foggy with dreams, but he’d heard it. Because earlier, they had fought about it.

It hadn’t been loud. Not full-on yelling. Just clipped words and quiet sighs that sounded abnormally like their own parents.

It was about Georgia. About whether Max had really moved on, or if she was just pretending. Lucas wasn’t over it, not really. But he wanted to be. He was ready to trust again, not blindly, but on purpose. The kind of trust you chose, even if it scared you. He just didn’t know if Max was there yet.

It was a simple misunderstanding.

Except it wasn’t.

And now he stood outside the guest room door, memories surfacing like bubbles in a shaken soda can, and decided he needed to talk to Mike about it. Like they used to.

Normally, Lucas might’ve picked up the telephone and dialed Dustin, reliable Dustin, who always had a spreadsheet or theory or weird analogy to throw in. But lately, Dustin had been in emotional quicksand with Suzie, and Lucas didn’t want to be the guy who added more weight to that mess. So he went with the second-best option: talk to Mike.

He stood in front of the guest room door, raised a knuckle, and knocked.

Nothing.

He waited. Then knocked again, a little louder.

Still nothing.

Lucas leaned in, voice lower now, almost gentle.

“Mike…? You awake?”

He waited again, hand resting against the door like he was holding back more than just noise.

No answer.

Panic surged up his throat like rising floodwater.

“Mike?” he called again, sharper now. He didn’t like how thin his own voice sounded. Was he still not back from the college thing? That couldn’t be right — he’d promised he’d be back last night.

Max was gonna freak. Like really freak.

Shit.

Lucas didn’t wait this time. He shoved the door open with his whole palm, breath snagging in his chest.

Wine-colored walls. Boxy old TV with the coat hanger antenna. That massive, secondhand mattress they’d wrestled up the stairs. Nothing. No Mike. No lump in the sheets pretending to be a person. Not even an open window.

His stomach flipped.

He bailed.

He bailed, Lucas’s brain screamed.

He bailed and took the baby with him.

Because he wanted to keep it.

Because Max said she didn’t trust him.

Because none of this ever felt real enough to stick.

Lucas stood frozen in the doorway, fists clenched at his sides like he could hold the situation together by force alone.

Then — the doorbell rang.

Lucas’s heart practically leapt out of his chest and body-checked his ribs. His eyes darted toward the front of the house. No one rang the bell like that unless they were trying to sell something or. He stayed frozen in place in front of the guest room door and shouted, voice cracking halfway:

“M’not home!”

Ding-dong. Again.

Then, muffled but unmistakable:

“Lucas, I know it’s you.”

His head whipped around.

That was Mike.

Mike??

So what the hell was he doing ringing the doorbell like a stranger after vanishing for the night? Did he forget he was incubating Max and Lucas’s actual child?!

Lucas stormed to the front door with the full velocity of a linebacker, yanked it open, and there was Mike, standing sheepish and red-cheeked like a kid who’d just knocked over a crystal vase.

His mouth opened to speak, but Lucas cut him off with surgical precision.

“So. Where the hell were you?”

Mike didn’t answer fast enough.

Behind him, Will’s noisy old VW made a wet coughing sound and turned the corner, peeling off like it definitely didn’t want to be seen.

Lucas blinked. Once.

Then he looked back at Mike.

His flushed cheeks. His mussed hair. That sort of dazed, post-storm look.

Lucas narrowed his eyes.

“Oh my god,” he said slowly. “What the fuck happened.”

Mike didn’t say anything at first, just shifted his weight, eyes darting like they were trying to find a safe exit.

Then Lucas saw it.

His eyes narrowed, and his hand darted up in accusation.

“Oh my god. Is that—”

His finger flailed vaguely toward Mike’s pocket, where a rounded pink cap was peeking out. A roller-ball lip gloss. Watermelon.

The kind Will used. Exclusively.

Because, quote: “It smells like summer when I was a kid.”

Even though it really just smelled like artificial sweetening.

Mike jumped like he’d been caught with a cigarette in church.

“Why are you looking at it!?” he blurted, scrambling to shove it deeper into his pocket like it hadn’t just betrayed him.

“Because it was gonna fall out! Duh!” Lucas barked back.

“You should’ve asked!” Mike snapped, clearly flustered.

“‘You should’ve asked!’” Lucas mimicked with a dramatic head wobble. Then:

“Did you seriously—seriously—hook up with Will while carrying our kid?!”

Mike didn’t say anything for a while.

Lucas looked staggered.

Like someone had slapped him with a fish.

“Mike. Are you for real right now?!”

Mike looked like he wanted to dissolve into the floor. “I—I didn’t hook up with him. I just—” Mike trailed off, mouth still open like the words might catch up if he gave them a second. But they didn’t.

Lucas blinked. Once. Twice.

Then his whole face twitched like he was trying to reboot.

Jesus Christ.

He’d known. He’d known Will had something for Mike — everybody knew — the way he looked at him like he was a movie ending. But Lucas hadn’t expected it to stick.

Not for this long. Not past puberty. Not past Vecna. Not past everything.

But apparently it had.

And now it was real. Not just wistful drawings and slow glances.

It happened.

Lucas felt his heart thudding like it was knocking on his ribcage for answers.

He thought of the way Mike looked at Will’s mouth. Like it held every word he ever wanted to hear.

He’d seen it. He’d seen it. But still—

“You didn’t hook up with him,” Lucas repeated flatly, “but you’ve got his lip gloss in your pocket and his car dropping you off at dawn?”

Mike didn’t answer.

“Right,” Lucas said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Max is gonna kill you.”

Mike looked up again, sheepish. “Can you let me in?” He tugged his sweater tighter around himself, like it might make him disappear if he just cinched it hard enough.

“You could’ve come in a long time ago,” Lucas muttered, stepping aside.

Mike shuffled in, shoulders high like he was expecting to get hit with a flying pillow or a frying pan. He paused just past the doorway and looked back over his shoulder.

“Um. I didn’t do anything that could, like… hurt the little thing. Just so you know.”

“I hope you didn’t,” Lucas said, then softened, the edge on his voice dulling. “But… thanks.”

There was a beat. Mike uncurled his scarf from his neck.

“Is Max here?”

“No, she’s working late. She’s trying to rack up extra time off for when… y’know.”

“When the extraterrestrial arrives?” Mike wiggled his fingers for emphasis.

Lucas gave him a flat look. “The baby, Mike.”

Mike coughed into his sleeve. “Right. I hear they’re a massive time suck.”

Lucas led him into the kitchen and gestured toward the counter. Mike settled at the end of it, sitting low on the stool like a kid who’d just gotten out of time-out. He manspread instinctively, legs swinging, until Lucas gave him a look and he tucked them in just enough to let him pass.

“You want anything to drink?” Lucas asked, opening the fridge. “We’ve got… red Sunny D, 7-Up, and… skim milk for some reason.”

Mike crinkled his nose. “I’ll just take the 7-Up.”

Lucas grabbed it and tossed it to him without looking, then leaned back against the fridge door, arms crossed. Mike cracked open the can with a sharp hiss and took a sip just to have something to do with his hands.

Lucas let it breathe for a second, then dropped the bomb. “You know you missed your first ultrasound, right?”

Mike winced, eyes darting up. “Technically, yes. But technically, I also rescheduled. Last-minute. With, uh… Will.”

“Oh, really?” Lucas raised a brow, unconvinced.

“Swear.” Mike said, already reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled slip of paper and thrust it toward him like a peace offering. Lucas caught it awkwardly and blinked at him, then carefully unfolded it.

“I would’ve gone to the appointment you literally paid for,” Mike went on quickly, “but Will and I got stuck in the storm. And then… he had kind of a panic episode, and—like, it just went downhill. We didn’t mean to miss it. I swear, Lucas.”

Lucas smoothed the paper with his thumbs. It looked like static at first—waves of light and grainy nothing. But in the center, tucked into all that cosmic ink, was a small shape. A bean. A shadow. A little… something.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just stared at it.

He had seen ultrasound pictures before, on TV, in movies, in the pamphlets Max kept hidden in the drawer. But this was theirs. His and Max’s. That little speck was real. It wasn’t just theoretical anymore. It was there. And even though it looked like the tiniest stormcloud floating in an ocean of static, something in Lucas’s chest wound tight.

Something fatherly.

Like this speck, this barely-formed thing, needed him. Trusted him. And maybe he didn’t feel ready for that responsibility—not entirely—but damn if he didn’t want to protect it. Keep it safe. Make it laugh one day. Put them on his shoulders at a basketball game.

The feeling hit so fast, it startled him.

Mike was still talking, but Lucas didn’t respond. He just kept staring, heart ticking like a stopwatch that had suddenly been wound too tight.

This was their baby — Lucas and Max’s.

Right now, it was just a speck. But someday, it would be a person. A real, whole, living person that he and Max would get the chance to raise, — to laugh with, teach, embarrass, protect. And Lucas suddenly realized: there was nothing in the world he wanted more than that. Nothing that felt more important.

To settle down with Max.

To raise a little nugget together.

To have a family that wasn’t perfect, maybe, but theirs.

For the first time, he understood what his dad had meant — during one of those rare, quiet moments when Charles Sinclair wasn’t being cold or toughening — when he said being a father was the greatest gift he’d ever been given.

Lucas used to think it was corny. Or just something people said to sound wise.

But now?

Now he knew.

He hadn’t realized it was possible to love something this tiny — this abstract — this quickly.

But he did.

He loved it.

Chapter Text

“I need to wash some clothes.”

Mike’s head popped up from beneath the front desk. Max was standing at the counter, headphones looped around her neck, a cassette player half-jammed into her hoodie pocket. Her face lit up when she saw him — just barely — before she wiped it off like it had never been there.

“Oh,” Mike said, straightening. “Hey.”

He glanced back at his manager, who was in the middle of scolding someone about a broken dryer. Max didn’t know how Mike lasted more than two minutes in this place. The whole laundromat stank like mildew, wet socks, and somebody’s very specific brand of B.O. (probably Mike’s). It was loud, humid, and gross.

Still, Mike stepped forward. “What d’you need help with?”

“I’ve got a few things,” Max said casually, plunking a plastic grocery bag on the counter. “But it’s kinda packed in here, so … you got a lunch break soon?”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Why?”

Max looked down at her other bag, then back up. “I might’ve brought something.”

Mike’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Uh — okay.”

He glanced back toward his manager, who sighed dramatically and gave a lazy wave of permission, like she was already sick of dealing with him today.

Mike shot her a quick thumbs up, then stepped carefully around the counter, flashing a grin.

“Hey,” he said.

Max ignored him. “I’m going outside. You can follow.”

“Cool.”

She led the way toward the front door, and Mike hurried to catch up. They pushed through the glass doors and took their usual spots on the splintered bench beside the laundromat, facing the parking lot and the dry, flickering light above the sign.

“What’d you get?” Mike asked, after a small beat of silence.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so… it’s kinda basic.” Max fished through the bag on her lap. “Got it from some burger place. Hope you like burgers.”

It was weird, she thought — how little she knew about him. She knew Dustin inside out — every habit, every allergy, even that brief, awkward crush he’d had on her in seventh grade. She knew Lucas’s favorite songs, his exact laundry routine, and yeah, even what kind of underwear he wore (Superman boxers, most of the time — sue her). She and El had known each other since ‘84, and Will was one of her favorite people to nerd out with over comics. She’d known Will liked Mike before Mike even had the first clue.

But Mike?

Mike had always been a mystery, even when he was right there. Maybe it was because they were so different. Or because they’d butted heads for years. Maybe because she’d been bitter — irrationally, deeply bitter — when Mike got his first period in eighth grade and she still hadn’t gotten hers.

They’d hated each other for years, on and off. And yet now — here he was, carrying their child.

Max thought of all that when she handed Mike a burger — lettuce, tomato, onions. She sort of knew Mike didn’t like any of that. But it wasn’t really for him. It was for the baby.

Mike took it with a quiet, awkward thanks. Max unwrapped her own and started eating. She noticed Mike was eating a little faster than usual — not desperate, just… like he hadn’t eaten yet today. She wondered if he’d even had breakfast.

The February air felt almost mild for once, a lukewarm breeze whisking past and tugging at the wrappers in their laps. Cars rolled by. Downtown Hawkins moved like it was congested, like it had allergies — sluggish and stuffed, dragging itself forward.

Max cleared her throat after swallowing a bite, pawing absently at the hem of her jeans where her left leg stiffened. It still didn’t move right after the whole Upside Down thing. Her arms were slow. Her joints ached if it got too cold. Her vision wasn’t what it used to be either — and even though she was grateful it had come back at all, she still wore sunglasses most days just to keep things bearable.

Mike hadn’t come out of it clean either. He’d broken his nose — it healed crooked, like it had decided not to try too hard. And under all those layers he wore, Max knew, there were scars. Long ones, stitched and faded, running along his chest and stomach. That, at least, she shared with him.

But not much else.

Max cleared her throat again. “So. How’re you?”

Mike shrugged, chewing. “Could be better.” He swallowed. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” Max said, trying not to sound like she was prying — or worse, like she was checking in just to check a box.

“How’s the baby?”

Mike wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing down instinctively. He wasn’t crashing at Max and Lucas’s place anymore — had gone back to his mom’s, mostly out of guilt and fear that she’d have a full-blown aneurysm if he stayed away too long. Which meant Max hadn’t had any recent updates on the little extraterrestrial currently stowed under Mike’s shirt — the one who, technically, was hers and Lucas’s.

“They’re good,” Mike said after a beat. “Growing, I think.”

“Do they know you’re doing this?” Max asked, trying to sound casual. “Your family, I mean.”

Mike shook his head. “No.”

“Oh.” Max raised her eyebrows. “That’s not… a good idea.”

“Well… I will,” Mike added quickly, like that made it better.

“You probably should soon,” Max said, a little more gently this time.

Mike shrugged. “I’m not… y’know. Lumpy yet. I probably won’t be until like, month five.”

“You never know.” Max could feel the air tightening between them — like maybe this was about to become a whole thing. So she pivoted. “How’s your burger? I didn’t know if you liked them or not.”

Mike gave a quick nod. “Good. I like burgers. Um. Don’t worry.”

He wiped his mouth again, his feet drumming lightly against the concrete below. “Have you guys thought of names yet?”

Max shrugged. “Kinda, I guess. We thought of Kate for a girl.”

“Kate Bush?” Mike guessed.

“Yeah.” Max gave a teensy smile. “Or… Charlie, if it’s a boy.”

Mike made a face — unreadable at first — and Max braced herself for judgment.

But instead, he said, “Those are really nice.” He smiled a little.

Max picked at a spot on the burger bun, her thumb brushing crumbs aside as she scanned for stray hairs. It wasn’t paranoia — just instinct, the product of too many meals at grimy diners and biting into something she shouldn’t have. Her voice was casual when she finally spoke, but not her eyes. They stayed trained on the sandwich.

“So,” she said. “What’s this thing between you and Will?”

Mike paused mid-chew, then lowered the burger into its crinkly paper cradle. “What thing?” he asked, a little too gently.

Max flicked her gaze up at him, squinting slightly in the sunlight. “When he rode you home. Before you got in the house. You… um—”

“Kissed him?”

A beat.

“Yeah. What was that?”

Mike’s expression shifted — not surprised, but quiet. His eyes dropped to the burger in his lap like it might help him find the right answer. “I thought you already knew.”

“That you guys are…”

“Friends,” Mike said, voice dry.

Max deadpanned. “No way.”

“I’m kidding!” He lifted his hands like he was surrendering to the truth, palms open and tilted upward, grinning despite himself. “In all honesty… yeah. We’ve, um… gone on a few dates.”

Max blinked, surprised at the simple confession. “So you guys are… dating?”

Mike nodded once, then scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Technically.”

Max hummed, the sound low in her throat, then sniffed and wiped at her nose with the edge of her sleeve. “I’ve kind of always known.”

Mike glanced over at her, brows lifting. “It wasn’t obvious.”

“It kind of was,” Max replied, shrugging as she picked at the corner of her napkin. “Dustin and I bet money on whether you’d ever confess or not. Even when you guys were, like, thirteen? We’d say, ‘this is a classic, shitty romance movie playing right in front of us.’”

She smirked without looking at him, flicking a crumb off her knee.

“Shitty?” Mike echoed, brows arching higher. “I think not.”

“Yeah, well.” Max finally met his gaze, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Whatever, Sappy.”

Mike huffed a laugh, nudging her boot lightly with the toe of his sneaker. “You’re lucky I’m pregnant and can’t kick you.”

Max’s grin widened. “No, I’m lucky you’re a big softie now.”

“Am not!”

“Will made you all soft-hearted—”

Mike crumpled the wrapper from his burger and chucked it at her. Max didn’t flinch — she retaliated instantly by lobbing the whole greasy paper bag at his chest. “He melted your icy heart!” she shouted triumphantly as it bounced off him.

The laughter came fast and surprised, hiccuping out of both of them. It was one of those rare, stupid bursts that made them feel like kids again — and neither tried to stop it.

Feeling bold, Max slung an arm around Mike’s bony shoulders and pulled him into a rough side-hug, dragging her knuckles hard over his scalp in a noogie.

“She’s assaulting me!” Mike yelped, twisting in mock betrayal.

“Shut up, dude!” Max snorted, releasing him and leaning back, both of them breathless and grinning like idiots, like they were watching a sitcom that only they found hilarious.

For a second, they just sat there in the breeze, the noise of town slowing around them, still catching their breath.

A few minutes later, the metal door to the laundromat creaked open. A couple of customers stepped out, arms full of warm clothes and plastic bags, and the breeze that followed them out seemed to nudge the mood back to reality. Mike cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck like he’d forgotten where they were.

“You can probably wash those clothes now, if you wanted,” he said, his voice a little more composed — like he hadn’t been cackling five minutes ago.

Max looked down at the plastic bag crumpled in her lap. “Yeah. Okay.” She stood, stretching out her legs. “You done with your—?”

She trailed off when she saw Mike had finished his burger already. Just the empty paper sat in his lap, neatly folded. His hands rested over his stomach. Jesus. Mike had never eaten like this before.

She chewed the last bite of her own food quickly, brushed the crumbs off her jeans, and together they pushed back into the fluorescent light of the laundromat.

The warmth of outside fell away quickly, replaced by that familiar mix of detergent, coin metal, and stale socks. Max moved toward the first available washer, her sneakers squeaking against the tile. Mike followed closely behind — closer than necessary, like a little brother who wasn’t quite ready to be on his own again.

She settled the bag on top of the machine, pulling a few coins from her pocket. The machine clanked softly as she fed it.

Then, without comment, Max unzipped the bag and started pulling out tiny garments — soft, neutral baby clothes. Custard-yellow onesies, pale green shirts, oatmeal-colored shorts. One of them had a row of stitched animals across the chest. There was even a bonnet.

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Lucas’s mom insisted,” Max muttered, unfolding a onesie with the same kind of cautious respect someone might give an ancient relic. “She says it keeps the sun off the baby’s fontanel.”

“The what?”

“The soft spot.”

Mike made a face. “That’s horrifying.”

Max chuckled quietly, but something flickered behind her eyes. She looked down at the little pile of clothes and smoothed one out with her palm.

“So,” Mike said, leaning against the side of the washing machine, watching Max load the last of the tiny clothes. “You guys thinking of doing a baby shower, or something?”

Max wrinkled her nose like she smelled something weird. “I really don’t know yet,” she admitted, tugging out a pastel-green onesie and giving it a quick shake before stuffing it inside. “Last time I went to a baby shower, I was the babysitter.”

She hesitated. “But, like, obviously — that was my own family.”

Mike nodded, arms crossed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, no. I get it. They make me babysit, too.”

Max scoffed a little. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ll let anyone but me babysit my kid.”

She paused, then laughed softly, tossing in a pair of tiny socks.

“Except you, maybe. Right now.”

Mike blinked, startled. “Me?” He straightened slightly, eyebrows lifting.

“I mean, yeah.” Max glanced over at him as she closed the washer lid with a solid clunk. “You are technically babysitting. Or… housing.”

Mike barked a laugh, stepping forward to twist the dial and help her start the wash cycle. “Sure,” he said.

A beat passed. The machine sputtered to life with a low mechanical hum. Max leaned back on her heels, arms braced behind her on the edge of the washer. Mike mirrored her on the next one over.

Lucas hadn’t seen his family in a month. Which, in his own opinion, was a long time. His mother had always insisted he pay them a visit whenever he passed through. Today happened to be one of those days — he’d dropped Max off at the laundromat to see Mike, and found himself a few blocks from home with no excuses left.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his family. He did. A lot. But visiting them always came with… baggage. Familiar, cozy, suffocating baggage.

The Sinclair household hadn’t changed. The screen door still wheezed when he pushed it open, and the scent of his mom’s lavender cleaner was like a slap of memory. He could hear the murmur of the boxy old TV drifting from the living room — reruns of M*A*S*H, probably. The same show it had been playing since he was nine. There were no new electronics there. Just that one ancient TV set, a cracked photo frame of his kindergarten class still sitting on the mantel, and a rotary phone mounted on the wall like an antique.

The moment Lucas stepped out of his and Max’s old Ford, he barely had time to shut the door before the screen door of the Sinclair house flung open.

“Lu! My baby!”

Sue Sinclair was already halfway down the concrete steps, heels tapping against the cracked sidewalk, arms wide like she’d been waiting for this exact moment all week. Her blouse fluttered in the mild breeze, her gold hoop earrings bouncing as she closed the distance with surprising speed.

Lucas barely got out a breath before he was swept into a bear hug — firm, warm, just a little too tight.

“My goodness, you’ve grown! And look at that little mustache coming in!” she beamed, tilting his chin up to examine him like a proud sculptor. “You’re startin’ to look just like your daddy, you know that?”

“Hi, Mom,” Lucas said, muffled into her shoulder. He patted her back gently, like he wasn’t sure if this was going to end anytime soon.

Sue finally pulled away, still glowing. “Oh,” she let out a short, tinkling laugh, “sorry, baby. It’s just been a while. You hardly call, you hardly visit…”

She tutted as she reached up to smooth his collar, dusting something invisible off his button-down like it had personally offended her.

“You hungry? You better be hungry. I made sweet tea and there’s leftover mac and cheese from church dinner. And your sister left your favorite mug in the freezer like you like it. Come on now.”

Lucas gave her a small smile — tired, but genuine. He was already being ushered toward the house like he hadn’t just spent the past twenty minutes preparing for this exact ambush.

Now Lucas sat quietly on the familiar, cushiony couch of his childhood living room, nursing a mug of slightly-too-sweet, lukewarm tea. The ceiling fan above creaked faintly, circulating the faint scent of lemon cleaner and fabric softener. His legs were stretched out in front of him, toes nudging the old coffee table that still had a tiny Sharpie stain from when Erica had been a toddler.

Sue Sinclair sat close, her knees tucked neatly, glasses perched low on her nose as she gazed down at the sonogram photos Mike had handed Lucas earlier that week. Her expression was soft — the kind of wonder only mothers could have — and her fingers traced the black-and-white print like it was sacred.

“Oh, they’re so beautiful,” she whispered, showing them to Erica beside her. “Already.”

Erica squinted at the grainy image, unimpressed. “It definitely looks like Lucas,” she muttered, nose wrinkled. “Bald and amorphous.”

“Erica,” Sue said, voice laced with both reprimand and amusement.

Lucas huffed a laugh behind the rim of his mug.

A few feet away, his father sat in his usual spot — the worn recliner angled just slightly toward the television, which now sat blank and muted. Charles Sinclair held a newspaper in his lap but hadn’t turned a page in minutes. His eyes weren’t on the sonogram. Not entirely. They were on Lucas.

Not judging. Not questioning. Just watching.

Lucas could feel it. That quiet kind of pride. The kind Charles rarely put into words.

He wasn’t smiling. Charles didn’t really do that unless it was a barbecue or a game day. But his posture was relaxed, hands loose in his lap, his head tilted like he was memorizing something. Lucas knew his dad wasn’t just proud of the baby — he was proud of him.

For getting here. For growing up. For making a family in the wake of a town that had nearly eaten them alive.

Charles had grown up somewhere even smaller than Hawkins — Columbus. A town with even fewer options, where boys were taught not to cry, and to hold ambition close to the chest. He’d played quarterback. He’d been tough. He’d hidden the soft parts of himself behind gravel and grease and faith.

But Lucas didn’t have to do that. And Charles — miraculously — was fine with it.

Lucas didn’t need to prove anything. Not manhood, not toughness. Not anymore.

He was just Lucas.

And Charles looked at him like that was more than enough.

The two of them didn’t say anything, but they didn’t need to. Lucas took another sip of tea, and Charles finally flipped the page in his newspaper — like he’d just received the confirmation he was waiting for.

They read each other like twins.

Lucas would endlessly appreciate his father. Until the day he took his last breath.

Charles had been the first to show up for him — really show up — when Lucas had first been teased in elementary school for having “ugly hair.” It was one of those stupid, shameful things you didn’t know how to name at that age, but still felt like a scar. Lucas had tried to comb his jet-black curls flat, parting them, tugging at them, trying to look more like the kids in his class. White, straight-haired, easy to like. He’d done it in the mirror of their old house’s upstairs bathroom, the one with the flickering lightbulb and foggy edges around the glass.

Sue had been busy with Erica, still a baby then, screaming her lungs out somewhere downstairs. So Lucas had snuck into the cabinet and pulled out Charles’s expensive working hands cream — the thick kind that smelled like pine tar and coffee — and had slathered it into his hair, trying to slick it down.

That’s where Charles found him.

He had come in with the quiet intention of shaving — his electric razor in one hand, humming slightly — and stopped short when he saw his son. Eight years old. Eyes glassy. Hair glossy and matted in all the wrong ways. Hands trembling with the lid of the cream still loose on the counter.

And instead of laughing, or lecturing, Charles had set down the razor and crouched to Lucas’s level. He looked at his son like he was full of dignity. Not weakness.

He’d said:

“Lucas Charles Sinclair. You don’t need to change anything about yourself to appeal to morons.”

And Lucas — despite his watery eyes and messy hands — had believed him. He’d swallowed it like a commandment. Like scripture. And to this day, he carried that moment like it was stitched under his skin.

That was why he didn’t kill the curls.

He styled them instead. Shaped them. Let them grow.

He wore them proud.

Chapter Text

“You’re cute,” Mike said from across the table, a thick rosy blush spreading across his cheeks and a little on his nose. 

God, that boy was so pathetic. But it was enough to spark up the little love-bug in Will’s stomach, it made him smile stupidly. “You’re cute too.” Will sputtered gently. God, Mike made him so flustered. He really should’ve said something smoother, like ‘you’re cuter’ or something corny like that.

Mike had dressed up for this little drive-in diner date. He wore a stolen tux (from his father), and he’d slicked his curls back, tucked them behind his ears. He’d even trimmed down the little chin whiskers he was so proud of. Will felt underdressed compared to him. He was wearing a smoothed-down borrowed shirt, the yellow popping against his winter pale skin in a way that stretched just outside of his comfort zone. But it was okay, because along with being a maybe-boyfriend, Mike was also his best friend. Who cared what they wore? They’d seen it all, the two of them.

Will absently prodded a soft fry on the edge of his plate. He really didn’t know what to say without fumbling it entirely. He knew Mike wouldn’t laugh at him fumble, though. But what if he did? What if Mike suddenly thought it was cute to laugh at Will stuttering and stammering over his words only because they were practically boyfriends now? But when he looked ahead, he only saw Mike.

The guy he knew since kindergarten, who only laughed at Will when Will was looking. That face, despite the fact that it was turned down to his now slightly-burgeoned baby bump, would never laugh at something Will deemed embarrassing for him. This guy had self-control, based on what Will saw.

So it didn’t matter what Will said or did. If Will didn’t want Mike to laugh, Mike wouldn’t laugh. Simple as that.

Will’s jaw ticked as he searched for something to say, but Mike didn’t give him the chance.

“So... technically, tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Technically.” Will nodded, glancing down at his plate. Valentine’s Day had never meant much to them. It was always too mushy, too forced, in a way that just felt fake. Mike hated the color pink, and Will didn’t care for it much either.

(unless it was something like blush or cerise, something that barely counted as pink.)

What they really disliked, though, was how people used the day to pick apart relationships, as if being single gave them some free pass to throw shade at people who weren’t. That kind of bitterness was what Will couldn’t stand.

So, Will wasn’t sure where Mike was going with this.

“You wanna... do something, or something?” Will ventured, his voice a little unsure. Mike shook his head, almost smiling at the awkwardness.

“No. But my mom does.”

“Oh.” Will blinked, surprise flickering in his chest. There was a sharp sting there, something unexpected. Disappointment? Was that what that was? He quickly pushed it away.

“She wanted you to come,” Mike added, his voice a little quieter, like he wasn’t sure how Will would take it.

“Where?” Will asked, a bit too quickly, but the question had been bubbling up inside him since Mike mentioned it.

Mike sighed, letting the weight of it hang in the air. “Her little Valentine’s party she does every year. The one where she always makes me wear pink.”

Will couldn’t help but grin. “You look hot in pink.”

Mike’s smile was slow, a little shy at first, then it spread wider, his face turning the exact color of a sunset. Will’s heart skipped. He loved how obvious it was when Mike blushed

. He was so pretty.

Mike chuckled softly, shaking his head, and then his finger began tracing the rim of his glass, like he was trying to distract himself from whatever had just passed between them. “So,” he said, voice suddenly quieter, “you thinkin' of going? It’s okay if no—”

“I’d love to,” Will interrupted, his smile warm, almost like a secret. He could already picture Mike’s face, how it’d light up with that same blush. It was worth it, just for that.

Mike’s grin stretched wider. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Will’s voice softened, a quiet promise.

They leaned forward, sharing a quick peck on the lips. It felt strange at first, like crossing a line they never realized existed. But soon, that strange feeling faded, replaced by something else, a flutter in his chest, something almost euphoric.

“That was…” Mike pulled back slowly, his eyes still a little wide, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Jubilant.”

“Jubilant?” Will let out a small, surprised laugh, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

Mike’s smile deepened, mischief sparking in his eyes. “Great happiness. I’d call you Jubilant if you didn’t already have a name, Will.” His tone was light, cheeky, but there was a warmth behind it that made Will’s heart skip.

Chapter Text

The Wheeler house party wasn’t really in the Wheeler house at all, but in Connie’s condo. A neat little mausoleum of money she bought when she turned fifty, like some people buy themselves a sports car or a facelift. Nobody went to visit Connie Wheeler unless they had to. She made sure of that.

She’d been done with being a mother for years now, washed her hands off the whole job. But grandmothering? That she held onto with both fists. And if you happened to be one of Ted Wheeler’s golden brood from his first marriage, then you were the kind of grandchild worth fussing over.

Ted Wheeler, two marriages under his belt, and still carrying a torch for Wife Number One like some middle-aged fool in a Springsteen song. Alessandra Reynolds: blonde, bulletproof, and smug as a cat with cream on its whiskers. The Reynolds kids turned out picture-perfect, too, because of course they did. Lucy, round and glowing with her first pregnancy, like she’d invented the whole miracle herself. And Diane, though she went by Jackie now, polished into something razor-covered yet shiny.

Mike hated them. He hated the whole goddamn pageant of it, the way his half-sisters’ lives lined up like pearls on a string while his felt like something tangled at the bottom of a drawer. He knew what was waiting for him at this party: the small talk, the cloying smiles, Alessandra’s particular brand of lunacy that everyone else mistook for charm.

So maybe that’s why he wanted Will there. He wasn’t sure if it was fair to drag Will into the Wheeler-Reynolds carnival, but Will said he wanted to come. At least Mike hoped he did. God, he hoped he did.

Mike wasn’t jealous. But he couldn’t help staring at Lucy’s glow, wondering what it even was. Some kind of trick of the light? Hormones? Or maybe she’d just had the sense to powder her nose before showing up. Whatever it was, Mike didn’t have it. He pushed his bangs back once in the bathroom mirror and there it was: a spray of acne like a constellation across his forehead and his Converse pinched his swelled feet.

And he wasn’t even carrying his own kid. That thought festered, ugly as a bruise.

Will, bless him, was trying. Wearing pink of all things. A sweater vest too tight across his chest, the crisp white collar underneath making him look like he’d wandered out of some prep school yearbook. Mike had made his own effort too, sweater tucked in, belt cinched tight. but it didn’t matter. Nobody looked at them. They were just background noise to the Reynolds Show.

Nancy was sitting quietly, giving discreet dirty looks. And Holly, poor kid, had given up entirely, her small head drooping heavier and heavier against Mike’s shoulder, as if she knew better than anyone what a farce the whole evening was. 

Mike was about to stand, grab a cracker, a toothpick of cheese, anything to get him away from the couch, when Lucy’s voice yanked him back down. He dropped into the seat with a grunt, dragging a hand down his aching back.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, not having caught her the first time.

“I said,” Lucy repeated, with a smile sharp enough to cut glass, “were you able to buy a home yet?”

Mike gave a shrug. “If you count a basement as a home.”

Lucy made a face: mock sympathy, like a sitcom actress playing dumb. “Oh, honey. You really should start looking. Especially with the little bundle of joy you’ve got cooking.” Her eyes dropped to his stomach and stayed there, heavy as a spotlight.

Mike felt the heat crawl up his neck. “No. I’m just fat.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Oh, I didn’t mean-“

“I’m joking.” His voice was stone-flat, not even a twitch of a smile. Beside him, Will stifled a chuckle, and Holly snored against his shoulder, oblivious. “But it’s not mine.”

Lucy hummed like she didn’t believe a word, then turned, eyes glittering as they landed on Will at the other end of the couch. Holly’s socked feet kicked gently at his thigh. “So? Byers boy? Is he being sarcastic?”

Will blinked, caught between cornered and weary. He raised his brows, then shook his head.

Lucy sighed, a big theatrical thing, like she was auditioning for one of those glossy rom-coms Nancy used to watch on endless repeat. Mike had never cared for them, but he recognized the performance when he saw it.

“All right. If you insist.” She leaned back, humming to herself, then tilted her head sweetly. “So… how far along are you?”

Mike flicked a glance at Will. He honestly wasn’t sure anymore. He had stopped counting, maybe on purpose.

“Um.”

Will leaned in just enough to murmur, “I think… seventeen?”

Mike nodded and looked back at Lucy. “Seventeen. I think.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes dropped, deliberate and slow. “You look more like twenty to me.”

Mike gave a short, humorless laugh. “Kinda what I am. Seventeen’s pretty damn close to twenty, in case you didn’t know.”

Lucy didn’t take the bait. She just smoothed her dress over her stomach and posed, hands perched there like she was on a magazine cover. “Guess how far along I am.”

Mike squinted at her. “Seven weeks.”

Her face lit up. “Ohh! Thank you, dear!” she cooed.

“I was joking,” Mike said, his voice flat as a hammer. “You’re like twenty-four.”

The smile faltered, just for a second, before she pasted it back on. “Must be your hormones.”

Mike rolled his eyes and made another half-hearted attempt to stand, but his body wasn’t having it. He flopped back down with a grunt. God, his back was killing him. And Holly was slumped warm and heavy against his shoulder, dead asleep. No moving now.

So he turned to Will. “You mind grabbing me something from the snack table?”

Will arched a brow. “What’s in it for me?”

Mike smirked. “I’ll give you a kiss.”

Will was on his feet before the words had even settled, weaving through the crowd with muttered apologies whenever his shoulder brushed someone. Mike watched him go, lips twitching, before Holly stirred. She yawned so wide it looked like her face might split in two, then burrowed tighter against his side with a little sigh, pinning him there all over again.

When Will came back, balancing two pathetic-looking moon pies and grinning like he’d pulled off some great heist, Mike got an idea. His eyes had been drifting to that door all night, the one tucked under the stairs. Not really a closet, more like a cramped little game room, but to Mike it might as well have been the goddamn Batcave. The condo itself was huge and overstuffed, like Connie had ordered it out of a catalog titled For the Well-to-Do and Terminally Lonely, but at least the weird little door promised refuge. Refuge for misfits. Refuge for him. It practically spelled out Michael William Wheeler like some whispered prophecy.

So, being the responsible older brother he was, Mike gave Holly a nudge. Just a soft one at first.

She grunted and curled tighter into his side.

Mike tried again, this time with a little more shove behind it. “Holly.”

A long, theatrical sigh. “What.” Her arms folded around her stomach like she was protecting herself from a sucker punch. Her first period had been hitting her like a freight train lately, cramps and all, and she wanted everyone to know it.

“C’mon,” Mike said. “We’re going somewhere.”

Will gave him a look, eyebrows drawn. “What? Where?”

“Just—c’mon.” Mike reached out, caught his hand, and pressed a quick kiss against his knuckles like it was a promise he couldn’t quite say out loud here.

Holly groaned but stood, dragging her feet, and together they threaded their way past the gaggle of aunts and uncles, the perfume-cloud of Connie’s kingdom. Nobody even noticed. Of course they didn’t.

Mike pulled open the little door and stood aside, letting Will duck in first. He couldn’t resist brushing his palm against the small of Will’s back, giving him a teasing tap on the ass.

Will turned, swatted at him with mock indignation. “Away, fly!”

Holly snorted: an honest giggle she tried to smother with her hand, before slipping inside, her eyes darting around with the curiosity only a kid her age could still get away with.

Mike followed last. He cast one final glance over his shoulder at the family mess, the polished Reynolds smiles, the forced small talk, the whole goddamn charade, and then shut the door behind him. The sigh that slipped out was softer than he meant, like air leaking from a balloon he’d been holding too long.

Mike tugged the belt loose and let it fall beside him, and for a second he felt like some bloated fifty-year-old dad exposing his beer gut at a barbecue. Only it wasn’t beer and it wasn’t funny. He untucked his sweater, sagged into himself, and finally, finally, let his body relax.

“No way, dude!” Holly’s voice rang out from the front of the room, pure delight. “There’s an Atari in here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mike said, dead serious. “Been sneaking in here since I was your age.”

He sank down beside Will, who was watching Holly with that quiet little smile he saved just for her, like she was the best thing in the room. She crouched over the battered console, already fiddling with the cords like she’d done it a hundred times before.

The place was barely a room, more like a box shoved under the stairs. It smelled of old carpet and stale air, the kind of mustiness that clung to basements and forgotten closets. Dust lined the floor, and the walls were half-finished plaster. Above them the staircase groaned with every step, like the house itself was listening in. Still, it was the closest thing to a Mike-Wheeler sanctuary: hidden, dingy, a little pathetic.

“Watch me play Pac-Man!” Holly squealed, already hunched in front of the flickering box TV. Her knees dug into the carpet, her little body leaning forward, intent. She looked lighter now, freer, like shaking off the sticky hands of the family circus out there had given her back her skin.

Mike and Will turned their eyes to the screen, but it was impossible not to watch Holly herself, her face lit in neon as the ghosts chased their endless chase.

“How’ve you been doing lately?” Will asked, his voice low and even.

That was what Mike loved about him. Will didn’t hover, didn’t come at his feelings with kid gloves, didn’t make it sound like every crack in his voice was a crisis. He just asked. Like it was normal. Like Mike was normal.

“Um. Okay. I guess.” Mike shifted, wincing. “They’ve been… moving??”

And right on cue, the kid gave a lazy roll, like they were turning in their sleep, or something. Mike wasn’t really a professional.

“That’s good,” Will said, nodding like it was simple fact. “I heard that means they’re growing.”

“Yeah. It is good.” Mike let the words hang there, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

He was glad, though. Glad Lucas and Max’s kid was healthy. Glad he could do at least one thing right, even if it left him feeling like a busted balloon most days. For once in his life, he was carrying something that wasn’t a screw-up.

And it felt good.

Chapter Text

The thrift shop looked like it had been run over and then left for dead. It was uptown, sort of near Mirkwood, which made it feel even sketchier. Max called it a “lost gem,” which was weird because Max didn’t usually say corny stuff like that. But apparently she did now.

Mike had been doing something actually important before she called. He had the last sad tortilla chips in the bag and was grating cheddar directly on top of them. He was about to watch He-Man. Not that there were new episodes or anything, he just wanted to watch anything besides Holly’s Care Bears.

Instead, he was now stuck in the backseat, while Max drove and Lucas sat shotgun. Lucas had entered his “chatty” mode, which was basically gossip mode. He asked about the Valentine’s Day Party, but Mike wasn’t exactly a treasure chest of information. He mentioned something about his dad’s “first family,” which ended up being enough to keep Lucas busy until they rolled into the parking lot.

Now they were inside, wandering down aisles of junk that smelled faintly like mothballs. Max was on a mission. She was looking for baby stuff.

“So … we should do something gender neutral, shouldn’t we?” Lucas asked. It came out kind of nervous, but you could tell he meant it in a nice way.

“Yeah,” Max said, shrugging. “But, like, if you see anything you actually like—boy or girl—just grab it.”

Lucas nodded all serious, like he was making an oath. Meanwhile, Mike was across the store by the snack aisle, staring at Big League Chew like it was treasure. He dug around in his pocket, found a crumpled dollar, and did a quiet fist pump. Then he jogged back to the others, who were in the baby section.

Max had staked out the boys’ side. Lucas had drifted toward the girls’. Mike slid in next to him and stared at the shelf of tiny frilly dresses and bonnets. He thought there’d be more variety. Apparently, baby fashion was stuck in the 1800s.

“You find anything good?” Max called over from the boys’ rack.

Lucas held up a hanger, grim. “A lotta… dresses.”

Max made a frustrated noise. “We could just get, like, overalls or something. The boys’ side has tons of those.”

“Do you guys even know the baby’s size?” Mike asked out of nowhere.

Max smirked and grabbed a Rugrats shirt off the rack. Without warning, she pressed it flat against Mike’s stomach.

Mike looked down at it. “That’s… not how that works,” he said, flat.

Max smacked his arm. “Yeah, no kidding. It’s a joke, Wheeler.”

Mike blinked. “…Oh.”

Max rolled her eyes and pulled the shirt back up. “Anyway. This one’s solid. Rugrats are cute, right?”

Lucas shrugged. “Erica watches it. Couldn’t tell you what’s going on though.”

Max pointed at Tommy Pickles. “This one kinda looks like you, Mike.”

Mike squinted at her, then jabbed a finger at Chuckie. “And you look like that guy.”

Max barked a laugh. “Okay, that’s actually fair.” She flipped the shirt over and held it up. “Yeah, this one wins.”

Indianapolis was colder than Mike remembered. Rain hammered the city, an endless sheet of water that seemed to drown every street. Will said it had been coming down for weeks, like the whole place was stuck under a permanent gray shroud.

Inside the thick brick walls of the college, though, it was warmer. Mike lay curled on his side on Will’s bed, bare feet poking out from beneath the comforter. From there he watched Will at the foot of the bed, bent over his ceramics work.

Will’s fingers were streaked with clay, and he wiped them on the front of a floral apron with a grunt. Underneath, he was wearing one of Mike’s sweaters, the blue one he’d stolen. Mike himself had on a Smiths concert tee, despite the fact he’d never actually been to a Smiths concert. In his pocket sat a mixtape, wrapped and waiting, a gift for Will. A late Valentine’s Day gift. A few days after Valentine’s Day itself.

“So… where’s Rory and El?” Mike asked. He was sprawled across the bed like it was a lawn chair, arms thrown above his head, eyes half-lidded as he watched Will’s shoulders move with each careful press of clay.

“They went to get coffee. Why?” Will finally turned, his face warm with sleepiness, brown-green eyes dulled by the rainy afternoon, hair a frizzed mess.

Mike lifted an eyebrow. “Together?”

“Yeah. People do that, y’know.”

“Yes, William, I’m aware,” Mike muttered, rolling onto his side. He almost flopped onto his stomach, remembered why that wasn’t happening, and settled back with a hand dragging through his hair. His voice softened. “Y’know… I read it can suck its thumb now.”

Will blinked. “What?”

“Yeah. Pretty wild, right? I’ve been looking at those maternity books.” He said the word maternity like it tasted sour in his mouth. “Apparently it’s the size of a sweet potato.”

Will frowned. “Why a sweet potato?”

Mike shrugged. Will gave a small huff. “Weirdly specific.”

“Yeah, well… it might have hair now too. Which explains why my heartburn’s been insane.”

Will answered with a grunt, the kind that meant he was too focused to bother with words. He was hunched over a pinch pot, working stubbornly without the bowl of water he’d forgotten. Instead, he kept wetting his fingers with a bottle and rubbing them over the clay. Mike knew Will could make art out of anything, but not without burning himself out first.

So Mike sat up, legs stretched long, and patted the empty space beside him.

“C’mere. It’s comfy.”

Will glanced over, then turned back to the clay. “Uh… in a minute.”

“Hey.” Mike scooted forward on the mattress, voice gentle. “You need a break, love.”

Will’s shoulders loosened, the tension giving way to a quiet eye roll Mike could practically feel from across the room. “Fine.”

Mike smiled, small and satisfied. “That’s all I ask. Come sit with me.”

Will finally pushed back from his chair, his spine cracking with a sound that made Mike wince. He shuffled over, movements slow, exhaustion written in every small gesture. “I’m sorry,” Will murmured as he climbed onto the bed, settling beside him. “I know I can be stubborn.”

“Forget about it,” Mike said, soft and simple. “Just lay with me.”

Will gave in, stretching out beside him. Mike wasn’t sure he’d meant the words until he found himself staring into Will’s quiet, heavy-lidded face. It still wasn’t enough. He slipped an arm around Will’s side, just as Will reached over to flick the lamp off.

Darkness fell, and Mike pulled him closer, arms winding around his waist until Will’s body was pressed warm against his chest. He felt Will’s head tip into the crook of his neck, forehead resting on his shoulder, while the rain and gloom folded around them.

Without really thinking, Mike slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out the mixtape he’d made, and tucked it quietly into Will’s. Will shifted beneath his chin, arms curling around Mike’s shoulders. Mike bent down, pressed a kiss to the top of Will’s hair, and breathed him in, the faint lavender of his conditioner, the fluff of it brushing against his lips.

Still, he noticed how careful Will was being. His body angled just enough to avoid pressing against Mike’s stomach. Somehow that small act made Mike’s chest ache even more, love swelling sick and heavy inside him. He let out a soft laugh. “Sorry about my gut.”

Will exhaled through his nose, a smile hidden in the sound. “I don’t care,” he murmured. “We’ve just got a visitor.”

Mike kissed his hair again. “Little creep, huh?”

Will chuckled—or maybe not. A second later it deepened into a soft snore. Mike’s smile tugged wider. He gave another kiss, a gentle nuzzle, and melted back into the pillows, a Wheeler-shaped puddle. “Goodnight, love.”

A beat passed before Will mumbled, half-asleep, “S’not night.”

“So what,” Mike breathed, eyes falling shut.

Chapter Text

— 1984

Claiming Maxine Mayfield had been a grumpy kid would have been understating it. She walked, talked, and gawked like she was a firecracker — with a readiness to snap and explode at any given time. 

And the fact that she was diagnosed with something incurable made her even crabbier. Mostly, this crabbiness was thrown deep into a prickle within her mind. Somebody just had to try and slip into that prickle to make her snap— that prickle being her own nerves.

Somehow, Michael William had almost always found himself in that prickle, whether it was his fault or not. 

(She used to know Michael William as Morgan Jannett, but that name was never mentioned after Mike came out)

She and Mike had little fights here and there, but that was all right. That was normal. That didn’t mean Max didn’t like him. Well, she surely would never do anything to hurt Mike. But Mike was Lucas Sinclair’s best friend. And if Max loved him, she had to love Mike. 

But there was something about Mike today. Generally, something about the day was ruffling Max’s stress feathers. 

That was why she was giving both Eleven and Mike the silent treatment, only slightly acknowledging Lucas and Dustin’s existence. Mike was unbothered by Max’s childish revenge, aggressively twisting his Atari Joystick, but Eleven was beside herself with guilt.

”This is awkward,” Dustin looked back and forth between Max, Mike, and El.

Mike rolled his eyes, halting in his twisting for a moment, and reached over and poked Max in the ribs. “Hey, quit acting like a baby. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“What’s the deal?” Lucas questioned, raising his eyebrows. He was the only one who was willing to listen to Max’s side of the story, it seemed. 

El sighed deeply, arms crossed, “me and Morgan synced up.”

Will, from his spot beside Mike on the couch, looked hugely at them. “Um. What’s that mean?”

”When you get your period the same time as your friend,” El explained.

“Oh.” Will looked away, knowing he probably shouldn’t be part of this conversation, then.

Max was scooted to the far end of the couch. Usually, she would have been right up against Lucas like an imprinting duckling. Not today, though. She didn’t want to talk to anyone today. The whole day was spent with El and Mike trading ibuprofen and checking their pads and exchanging heating pads and talking shit about their periods. Something Max had to be left out of. Because she was the periodless freak show.

El and Mike had to wear bras now. El had only just promoted from a training bra, but Mike had been wearing them since he was twelve. And even though big baggy shirts hid his growing figure, it still felt like being stabbed right where her chest would be whenever Mike wore something that showed them.

“Don't be too mad, Max,” Dustin offered gently, pulling his own shirt back. “I’m flat as a board. Lucas too!”

Yeah. But they were boys. Max was left unimpressed. 

Lucas exchanged a tiny glance with Dustin. “We can leave if you guys wanna set—“

”Wait. No. Don’t go,” Mike stopped them immediately, standing up. “You guys go and pick a game to play. I can talk to Max.”

“I’d rather die.” Max said, out of the blue.

“Oh, come on!” Mike went over and stood above the broody Max. “Come with me to the bathroom. I won’t be annoying. Swear.” When Max didn’t reply, Mike sighed. “Please?”

“Fine.” Max finally spoke and followed Mike into the basement bathroom.

Max went and sat on the toilet seat, Mike settled on the bathmat, knobby knees pulled up to his chest, hands braced behind him. Max was sitting tightly, rigidly, with her arms crossed like she tied a wire around herself and couldn’t escape. “Don’t be like that. It’s not like I tried to grow up faster than you.”

“I know.” Max hissed, slyly, like a fox.

“I know you want your period, I get it. But you’re gonna get it soon. Right?” Although Mike did not look very sure, and it occurred newly to Max that Mike didn’t know about her condition. Nobody did.

”You don’t understand,” Max said, softly, with a grunt.

“Okay,” his tone was thin and cautious. “What don’t I understand?”

“I can’t get periods.” Max replied smoothly, leaning back against the toilet as she watched the rain dribble down the window many inches above Mike’s head.

“You … you can’t?” Mike asked nervously, voice low like he was trying to keep his words sheltered from the others outside. “Why not?”

“There’s something wrong with my uterus.” Max answered after a moment, crossing the silence between them out as they met eyes. “Doctor said I couldn’t get periods. Or have kids, if I wanted to later on.”

”Can you …” Mike hummed softly. “Can you fix it?”

”No.”

Mike’s eyes finally peeled away from Max as his gaze darted towards the door and back down towards his beat-up Puma sneakers. Max knew this was something very adult for kids like them — kids who turned thirty instead of thirteen. This condition didn’t just affect what happened in the meantime, it affected Max’s life as a whole. Her femininity, her ability to have children of her own, her self-esteem especially.

And Mike seemed to understand that now. His ebony eyes were round with sympathy, it was an expression Max had never seen on him before. He was always a bratty kid with her. Always someone she didn’t want to speak with. But seeing him now, seeing him harbor so much care in his heart, made Max realize why the Party considered him a leader.

“If I could trade places with you, I would.” Mike told Max, picking at a loose seam at the end of his jeans. “I don’t want these,” he lifted his free hand to gesture at one of his breasts. “I don’t want a period. I don’t want curves… “ he paused for a moment, and Max saw his chest rise in a gentle, but sucking breath. “I don’t want my voice to sound like this. I don’t - … I don’t want to look like a girl… “ he hesitated, lips tight. “Sorry. I — I don’t know what came over me.”

”No.” Max, in an act of friendship, gently took Mike’s wrist and settled his hand in hers. “I understand. If we could trade bodies, I’d like that, okay?”

Mike sucked in another breath, and nodded softly. “You don’t think that’s … strange, though?”

Max shook her head. “I’ve seen stranger things.”

Over the course of the next silence, they sat in the goopy silence — both feeling stupidly sappy for individuals who used to hate each other’s guts. The sounds of Sonic the Hedgehog blared fuzzily in the basement next to them. Mike was sitting there, fingers drumming lightly against the knee of his jeans, while Max sat back, feeling like she’d just cut herself open and took something rotten out. A boulder of some sort, went rolling off her chest.

”I’m sorry I act like a bitch sometimes,” Mike apologized, eyes huge with remorse.

”You mean a dick?”

”What?”

”A dick. You act like a dick sometimes. Not a bitch.”

— February 17th, 1994

It happened when everything was quiet. Rain dotted against the windows of the Mayfield-Sinclair residence, steady and soft, like a metronome only the house could hear.

The TV hummed in the background, flickering with the bleary reruns of last night’s Night Flight.

Mike and Max were sunk into the couch cushions, the glow of the screen painting their faces in pale blues.

Lucas was in the bathroom—Max had sent him off with a too-casual, “I’m gonna come with you, baby, we’re gonna make out,” which was clearly a joke, though it made Lucas walk a little faster, embarrassed. His footsteps faded down the hall, and the house settled into a hush.

Mike shifted in his seat, restless, shoulders pulling back against the couch. That was when it hit him. Not a flutter this time, not some ghosty little ripple. A solid thump. Firm, deliberate. An unmistakable sucker punch from the inside. His breath caught short in his chest. One hand flew to his stomach, fingers pressing through the fabric as if to confirm the reality of it.

Max’s eyes cut over immediately. Her brow lifted, suspicious. “What?”

Mike looked at her, face tightening with something halfway between wonder and sheepishness. He angled his head, almost shy, and said quietly, “It’s him. Kicking.”

The words hung in the air, strange and enormous.

Max blinked, her mouth parting. For a second she didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

Then she scooted closer, her whole posture softening. A tenderness spilled across her face so suddenly it was almost awkward, like she didn’t know what to do with it.

Her hand hovered in midair, trembling, as though she were about to touch something glowing and holy.

Not wanting to leave her hanging, Mike reached over and caught her wrist, guiding her palm down onto the swell of his stomach. They both stilled. They waited. Max’s features shifted, expectant, then doubtful, then a little crestfallen. “I can’t… feel anything.”

She started to pull away, embarrassed, but Mike shook his head quickly. “Try talking to him,” he said. His voice was low, urging. “They say he can hear speech in there. Probably sounds like it’s coming from ten thousand leagues under the sea, but… he listens.”

Max hesitated. Then, with a crooked little smile, she slid off the couch and knelt beside him, her knees pressed into the worn carpet. Her face hovered near his stomach as though she were crouching over a secret.

“Hey,” she said, clearing her throat. She gave a little knock with her knuckle, almost joking, like tapping on a fish tank. “Anyone in there?”

Her face screwed up immediately.

She shot Mike a horrified look, as if she’d just caught herself doing the cheesiest, most mortifying thing imaginable. “God, I sound like an idiot.”

But then it happened. A shift beneath her hand. A push, firm and sudden. Max’s eyes flew wide, her whole body jolting. “Oh my god! He moved! I felt him!”

Mike just nodded, his throat too tight for words, watching her light up like he hadn’t seen in ages. Her happiness—raw, startled, unguarded—poured through the room, and he couldn’t stop looking at her. She deserved this. She deserved every ounce of it.

Her hand stayed planted against him, fingers spread wide, as if trying to cover as much ground as possible. For once, Max didn’t undercut it with a wisecrack, didn’t flinch away from how much she cared.

She just stayed there, breath quick, feeling the tiny revolutions of her and Lucas’s son beneath the curve of Mike’s skin.

Another kick rippled up under her palm, and this time she laughed—loud, shaky, disbelieving.

“He’s already kicking the shit out of you,” she said, voice breaking with giddiness. She leaned her head against Mike’s arm, still laughing. “Definitely my kid.”

Chapter Text

March 1st, 1994,

Mike was visiting Will’s dormitory again this weekend. For once, Will didn’t have any looming deadlines, which meant he could actually relax. But the coin had flipped.

This time, it was Mike who was stressed. And honestly, Will would’ve preferred to lug that weight around himself.

Mike lay sprawled across Will’s bed, arms tucked behind his head, face wearing a mask of calm.

But his body language told a vastly different story.

“They were actually doing… pretty good, y’know?” Mike mumbled, a half-eaten bag of Doritos balanced on his chest. He shoved another handful into his mouth and kept talking, crumbs trailing his words. “Like… why’d they give up so fast?”

“Maybe they wanted to do other things,” El offered from across the room, curled up on her own bed.

“I mean, yeah, but…” Mike hesitated. “They should really think about their employees, y’know?”

“It might be for the best,” Rory said with a shrug, fiddling with the plug on her bulky old television. “You’re… kind of immobile right now.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mike replied, raising a brow with mock enthusiasm. “I’ve been lugging this thing around for, like, three months. I’m used to it.”

“Um. It’s been five,” El corrected gently.

“Well. Five. I’m… halfway there, I guess.”

“Don’t you get, like… maternity leave? Or paternity leave? Whatever it’s called?” Rory asked.

Mike scratched absentmindedly at the scars from his top surgery, tucked away under his Clash tee, eyes flicking away. “Does it even count, though? I’m not the one raising it.”

Rory arched a brow and glanced at El, who quickly looked away, cheeks flushed.

“I’m just saying, I’ve heard it gets worse near the end,” El said.

“Well, I don’t feel worse,” Mike replied.

“You will,” she added, matter-of-fact.

Mike chuckled, brushing it off.

Will, sensing the tension, pivoted. He wasn’t in the mood for another debate. “You thinking about getting a new job?”

“Maybe. I dunno,” Mike said, stretching out. “I might hit up Dustin, he’s always talking about those random little start-ups I could probably work at.”

“Might not be your best call,” Rory shrugged. “Just saying.”

Mike gave her a flat look, then dropped his head back against the pillow, hands folded over his stomach like he was trying to keep himself grounded.

“Dustin doesn’t actually know half the crap he talks about,” Will said. “He just says stuff to impress Suzie.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Mike muttered. “She’s already obsessed with him.”

“I think it’s cute,” El put in, kind of shy.

She glanced around when nobody answered, then added, “Well… speaking of Suzie, I heard she’s doing that daycare gig. You could maybe volunteer there. They pay a little.”

Mike tilted his head, considering. “Not the worst idea.”

Rory snorted. “Yeah? You, chasing toddlers around while you’re waddling with that soccer ball under your shirt?”

Mike’s hand went to his stomach automatically. “It’s not that bad.”

Rory just lifted her brows like, sure, whatever you say.

“Well, whatever. I’ll just go talk to her. She’s not that far.”

“They live in Bloomington…” Will squinted at him. “I can drive you.”

“Yes.” Mike nodded like his life depended on it, then went pink. “Please.”

Will glanced out the window at the light drizzle, then back at him. “We should probably bounce soon. Sun’s going down.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mike crumpled up his Doritos bag and jammed it into his pocket like that was a normal trash can. “If you wanna drive—”

“Michael.” Will cut him off, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I already said yes. Chill.”

Mike looked up at Will like a lost hamster, then nodded slowly. “Kay.” He replied.

Will drove slower these days, extra careful with Mike in the passenger seat, four months from having to push a whole baby out. Mike didn’t love the overprotective driving, but he didn’t argue either. He just shoved a cassette into the deck, let the tape hiss fill the silence, and leaned back.

“How close are you to locking down an apartment?” Will asked, eyes flicking from the window back to the road.

“Pretty close,” Mike said, like it was no big deal.

Will nodded, though he knew the money was coming from Lucas and Max paying Mike to carry their kid. It was more than enough, but Mike still insisted on working, staying busy. He always needed to stay busy. Because when he wasn’t, the old ghosts came back.

Those nights in the basement, wrestling with sports bras that dug into his ribs, trying duct tape when nothing else worked. Till his dad caught him once.

Will didn’t even want to think about what Mike might do if he was stuck alone with that kind of silence again.

Which is why it still floored him that Mike had agreed to this at all, to carry a baby. Will couldn’t tell if it was bravery, desperation, or something deeper within himself that made him say yes.

“I feel like we haven’t seen Dustin in forever,” Mike sighed, all dramatic.

“We saw him last week,” Will laughed softly. “Dork.”

Mike grinned, and on the surface he seemed fine. Always fine.

But sometimes Will wished he could dive under that surface, sift through the deepest corners of him, gather up all the sharp, heavy pieces, and smash them to dust.

Just so that when Mike said he was okay, it could finally be the whole truth.

Chapter Text

They hit Bloomington in what Mike called a “short” thirty minutes. Which really meant two bathroom stops at the gas station because Mike’s bladder had zero patience, plus a detour naming every single sheep outside Hawkins like they were quadruplets.

Suzie and Dustin clearly hadn’t been expecting company. The place was a mess. Dustin didn’t care, of course, but Suzie looked like she wanted to melt through the floor.

Thing was, Dustin was technically loaded. In Party terms, he was the Jedi and the rest of them were droids. The guy had a jacuzzi—a jacuzzi!—the kind of thing they used to joke only existed in those McMansion houses in glossy magazines. And in the fridge? Fancy seltzers. The kind in glass bottles.

Mike figured it all traced back to Steve Harrington hooking Dustin up with some cushy starter job.

Here they were, shoes kicked off, settled on Suzie’s too-white couches, sitting shoulder to shoulder. Mike had his head tipped against Will’s, not caring that he was taller and probably cramping his neck. Suzie kept muttering about the muddy footprints on her clean floor, while Dustin had claimed the La-Z-Boy but was turned around, locked in on them.

“So… you’re really sure you wanna start working again? Y’know, like that?” Dustin asked.

“I already asked him,” Will said, quietly but firm, like that settled it. And of course, coming from him, it kinda did.

Mike gave a little shrug. “I mean… look at everybody else. You and Suzie are basically swimming in cash, Will and El are in college, Max and Lucas are having a kid. And me? I’m… still living in a basement. It’s kinda embarrassing.”

“You’re literally growing a person,” Dustin shot back. “That’s not nothing. That’s huge. Way harder than anything I’m doing.”

Mike pressed his lips together, then shrugged again, softer this time. “I don’t feel that different, though.”

Suzie finally gave up on fussing over the floor and perched herself on the coffee table like it didn’t count as real furniture. Their cat, Yoda, batted at the loose string hanging from her jeans.

“If you’re serious about working, you could try the gardening project,” she said brightly.

“Gardening project?” Mike repeated, eyebrows climbing as he straightened up a little.

“Yeah. My friend runs it. It’s this program where kids learn how to grow stuff. Veggies, flowers, all that. They’re actually paying volunteers right now.” She gave a hopeful shrug, like she wasn’t sure if Mike would roll his eyes or not.

Thankfully, Mike didn’t roll his eyes. He tapped his fingers against his knee, then gave a short nod. “Can’t be that hard. Where’s it at?”

“Well, it’s near that old barn off Neibolt.”

Mike frowned, shifting like he was trying to picture the map in his head. “I don’t live here, remember? Where?”

“A few blocks from here,” Suzie clarified, brushing Yoda off her lap when the cat tried to climb higher. “I can walk you over, if you’re feeling up for it.”

That got Mike moving. He pushed himself off the couch with a grunt, one hand braced at his lower back, the other smoothing his shirt down over his stomach. “Course. Yeah. Let’s go now.”

While Mike and Suzie headed out toward Neibolt, Will stayed behind with Dustin to help throw together dinner. The rhythm of it pulled him back to his own home. Joyce stumbling in from a long shift, tossing together something quick, and the Byers kids eating at four o’clock sharp.

Dustin, meanwhile, didn’t even start cooking until six. A whopping six. Not that Will was shocked. Dustin lived by his own clock, he always had.

His whole life was a schedule, neatly mapped out and taped in bold letters to the fridge like some kind of manifesto. Will had his routines too, but Dustin’s were on another level, like if NASA had designed a meal plan.

Will helped Dustin with the prep, carefully sliding the chopped vegetables into the pot of broth. He wiped his hands on a dish towel and leaned against the counter, watching Dustin wrestle with the chicken like it had a vendetta against him. The boiling water hissed and popped, steam curling against Dustin’s glasses, which he kept shoving back up his nose with the back of his wrist.

“You think Mike’s gonna push himself too far?” Dustin asked finally, breaking the lull in the kitchen.

Will rolled a shoulder in a quiet shrug, eyes fixed on the bubbling pot. “I hope not. But… maybe.”

Dustin sighed, loud and dramatic, like the steam cloud had personally wronged him. “Yeah. Classic Mike. He’s got this thing where he thinks he has to do everything, all the time.”

Will’s lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close. He stirred the pot slowly, thoughtful. “It’s not that he thinks he has to… it’s that he doesn’t know how not to.”

Dustin gave him a sideways look, impressed despite himself. “Deep. You sound like the old guidance counselor.” He jabbed a wooden spoon toward Will. “But you’re right. He’s gonna run himself into the ground unless somebody makes him stop.”

Will didn’t answer right away, just adjusted the heat on the stove. He didn’t need to say it out loud. He already knew he was the one who’d have to be that somebody.

Three days later, Mike had actually gone to check out the gardening project and, shockingly, signed himself up to volunteer. But that wasn’t starting till the following week, which meant he had to survive the dead space in between. And of course, that was when his body decided to betray him.

He’d already been through the whole morning sickness routine, the headaches, the bone-deep exhaustion. He thought he’d gotten used to it. But stress had a way of cranking everything up, like someone twisting a radio dial until the static drowned out the song.

He only puked once, but it wiped him out.

And naturally, Holly had to walk in on the scene, scream like he was dying, and go running to their parents. Next thing he knew, they were dragging him to the doctor, who acted like Mike was about to collapse into dust. Bed rest. Official orders.

Mike scowled just remembering it. Stupid doctor.

Mike lay flat on his back, arms crossed tight over his chest, sulking like some overgrown housecat. Not that anyone was around to notice. When Karen drifted by his door to peek in, he muttered, deadpan, “Can I call Will?”

“You can’t, honey. Bed rest,” Karen reminded him in that overly-soft voice she used when she thought he might snap. “Do you need anything? Something to eat? Pickles? Yogurt?”

“Pickles?” Mike wrinkled his nose. “That’s disgusting.”

Karen smiled knowingly. “You sure? I craved pickles the whole time I was pregnant with you.” Instead of leaving, she came to perch on the end of his bed, smoothing her skirt beneath her. She looked at him like he was six years old again, freshly home from school. “You’re carrying beautifully, just so you know.”

Mike groaned and pulled a pillow over his face.

Karen’s voice softened. “Do you know the gender yet?”

“He’s a boy,” Mike muttered into the pillow.

His voice came out muffled.

For some reason, saying it aloud made him feel protective.

Maybe it was just because it was quiet. No Will here, no noise in the house.

Just him and the kid.

He could feel him differently now. Not just as a weird lump hitching a ride inside him, but as something he was actually sheltering. Housing. A whole little weight pressing down on him.

And the strangest part was that this boy wasn’t doing anything. Just lying there. Existing. And somehow that felt… safe. Comforting, even.

“Have you thought of having a baby of your own?” Karen asked, tilting her head.

Mike dragged the pillow off his face and shook his head. “No.”

“You sure? The Byers boy might wanna be a papa.”

“I don’t think he does. And even if he did, we’re not ready.” He gave a half-shrug. “Besides, I’m never doing this again.”

Karen chuckled, soft and amused. “Well. At least you’ve experienced it, right? I went through it three times. You were the hardest.”

“Me? Why?” Mike frowned at her, genuine curiosity cutting through his sulk.

“You kicked a lot,” Karen said with a small laugh. “You were ready to get out the moment you had legs, apparently. I could always tell it was you by the way you moved.” Her smile faltered, her lips pressing together. “It’s strange. I feel like I hardly know you now.”

Mike froze for a moment, caught between defensiveness and something softer.

He knew this kid inside him by the way he kicked. Hell, he was kicking right now.

Probably wanted to hear Max and Lucas’s voices again, not Uncle Mike’s endless groaning.

But still. The fact that he was once the same, tiny, restless, kicking toward the light, sparked the faintest flicker of respect for his mom. More than he usually allowed himself.

“I’m still me, Mom…” His voice was quiet, cautious. “You know that, yeah?”

Karen tilted her head, considering him. “Sometimes,” she admitted softly. “Sometimes I still see the kid I raised. Especially right now.”

“Well. I’m technically still the kid you raised. Just… bigger, I guess,” Mike said slowly.

“Oh, I know that, baby. You’ll always be my son.” Karen scooted closer, raising her palm gently on to his hand. “Can I?”

Mike gave a small nod, and she pressed her hand over his, warm and grounding.

“You should rest, though,” she murmured. “When I look at you right now, I don’t see my son—I see someone who’s overworked and stretched thin. You need a break, yeah?”

Mike shrugged, restless even lying flat. “I mean… sure? But I’m volunteering next week.”

“I know that,” Karen said softly, smoothing her thumb against his knuckles. “But for today, tomorrow—for this whole week—I want you right here. You’re unwell.”

“But I’m fine!” Mike protested, his voice pitching higher with irritation, almost childish.

Karen didn’t flinch. “You’re sick, Michael. That’s it. Doesn’t matter if you’re pregnant, or dysphoric, or however you want to frame it. If you’re sick, you stop and you rest. That’s what I want for you. Okay?”

Mike hesitated, but a light wave of nausea told him he should listen to his mother. She knew what being pregnant was like, three times over. She was a professional, and if a professional was telling him to take a break and lay down. He probably should. So he nodded wordlessly, obeying for the first time in years. 

He was just sick. There was no framing it as pregnancy or dysphoria. Just sickness. He could look at it that way and feel better. He was sure of that.

Chapter Text

The barnhouse loomed like a forgotten relic on a low rise at the edge of Bloomington, its silhouette hunched against a sky the color of wet cement.

It stood alone, surveying the sprawl of West Country farmland.

But there was nothing quaint or rustic about it.

 The place was a blocky carcass.

 The red paint had long since bled out into a sickly, mottled pink, peeling in jagged strips that clung to the wood like scabs. The windows were sealed shut with warped boards, giving the impression of eyes gouged out and left to rot. Shingles clung to the roof in desperate patches, most having surrendered to time and wind. Weeds had overtaken the sides of the house, thick and wild, like nature was trying to erase the structure altogether. The lawn was a battlefield of dandelions, their yellow heads bobbing like smug little soldiers in the breeze.

The counselors had no choice but to operate outside, in the open. It was the asscrack of March. Not cold, but not warm either.

The kind of day that made you feel like you were waiting for something to happen, something ugly. Mike wore his coat anyway.

He hadn’t expected this to be a real job. He definitely hadn’t expected Jackie Reynolds.

She stood in the middle of the yard like she was the mayor of a town she built herself.

Bright blue vest, backwards baseball cap, arms crossed with the kind of smugness that made Mike’s teeth itch.

She looked like she’d just stepped out of a catalog for “Youth Leadership Excellence” and was ready to give a TED Talk on how to be better than everyone else. Which, like, fine, she kind of was better.

She had the camp counselor title, the clipboard, the kids swirling around her. But it was the way she did it. That was the part that made Mike want to scream into a pillow.

Jackie had always been the golden girl. Not just to her dad, Ted, but to Mike’s own mother, who once drunkenly admitted that Jackie and her sisters were “just so photogenic.” Mike had never been photogenic.

He was the kind of kid who blinked in every picture and had a permanent cowlick. 

His stepsisters were like porcelain dolls. Pink dresses, golden hair, voices like sugar water.

They were obedient, sweet, and always knew when to smile. Mike, by contrast, was a mutt.

A sheepdog with burrs in his fur.

So when he saw Jackie standing there, clipboard in hand, surrounded by a clowder of cats that seemed to worship her, he clenched his jaw so hard it clicked.

“Ah,” Jackie turned, her voice syrupy and fake. “Michael. What’re you doing here?”

“Mike,” he said flatly.

“Excuse me?” She raised an eyebrow, the kind of eyebrow raise that implied she was already writing him off.

“Nobody calls me Michael,” he repeated, his tone like gravel.

Jackie blinked slowly, then cleared her throat with theatrical precision. “Okay, Mike,” she said, dragging the name out like it tasted bad. He could practically hear her eyeballs rolling in their sockets.

“Did you sign up to volunteer?”

“Yup.”

She hummed a little tune, like she was trying to decide whether to pat him on the head or send him home.

Then she turned her attention back to the kids, who stood in a loose cluster, backpacks sagging, knees knocking together like they were about to be drafted into war.

“Go stand by Clementine,” Jackie said, pointing to a girl who looked like she’d been forgotten by the group.

She wore a yellow polka-dotted dress and had two Afro puffs braided tight against her scalp. Her knees were ashy and scabbed, like she’d fallen more times than she’d been caught. Mike didn’t know why no one was talking to her, but he didn’t need a reason to go stand beside her.

She looked like she could use someone.

The garden they were stationed near was a mess. Tangled, overgrown, and a not-so-vague tripping hazard. Mike figured it was intentional. A lesson in hard work or whatever.

Jackie clapped her hands like a kindergarten teacher on a power trip. “Okay, tots! Let’s get started!”

Mike watched her, the way she moved, the way she spoke like she was auditioning for a role she’d already been cast in. He thought of the word: priss. It fit her like a glove.

She asked a question. Mike didn’t catch it. That was bad.

Jackie was the type to file away every mistake like she was building a case.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

Jackie gasped, clutching her chest like he’d just confessed to murder.

“Aw, silly Michael!” she cooed, almost sounding like a worried mother. “Let’s ask him again, yeah?”

She turned to the kids, who screamed “yes!” like they were being promised candy. Mike felt his stomach drop.

“Michael!” Jackie and the kids chorused. “Have you been gardening before?”

Mike nodded, trying to sound upbeat. “Yeah,” he said, but it came out dry and crumbly, like stale bread. “I actually know a lot about plants and stuff.”

Jackie tilted her head, unimpressed. “Okay, then,” she said, her tone suggesting he’d failed a test he didn’t know he was taking. “How about we start off with a little tour? Tots, come follow Miss Jackie!”

She clapped again, leading the parade toward the garden like she was Moses parting the weeds.

Mike and Clementine trailed behind, the gray sky pressing down like a lid on a pot about to boil.

While Jackie paraded the other kids around the garden like a tour guide on a power trip, Clementine lingered behind, a few hesitant steps removed from the group.

She clutched the straps of her bookbag like they were something she was passionate about, her fingers twitching with nervous energy. 

Mike stood beside her, tall and awkward, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat.

The air was crisp, not biting, but sharp enough to make you wish for gloves. The sky hung low and colorless, emitting cold-ish air. 

Mike glanced down at her, then out toward the garden where Jackie was gesturing dramatically at a patch of overgrown mint.

Without much thought, he leaned slightly towards Clementine and said, “Pretty cold out today, yeah?”

She didn’t respond. Not even a flinch. But Mike didn’t take it personally.

He’d seen this before. Will used to do the same thing, tuning out the world until someone spoke loud enough to pierce the fog.

Quiet kids weren’t ignoring you. They were just somewhere else right now. 

“Your name’s Clementine, right?” he tried again, gentler this time.

That got her attention. She looked up, and Mike was struck by the depth of her eyes.

Dark, wide, and impossibly solemn for someone so small. Something in him shifted.

A strange, protective instinct surged up from nowhere, like a reflex. She was just a kid, but something about her made him feel like he needed to stand guard. 

He blinked, confused by the sudden rush of emotion.

Must’ve been hormones. Or maybe just the way she looked at him like she wasn’t sure if he was safe.

“No one calls me Clementine,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Can you call me Tish?”

“Tish,” Mike repeated, nodding. “Sorry. Good to meet you.”

He hesitated, then thought better of offering a handshake.

They weren’t there yet. She didn’t seem like the type who liked sudden gestures or too much touch. Her shoulders were still tense, her grip on the bookbag hadn’t loosened. So he just stood there, quiet. 

“Clementine,” Jackie cooed, her voice dipped in fake sugary honey as she approached with that trademark tilt of her head, the one that made her look like she was auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. “Is Michael bothering you?”

Tish flinched at the sound of her full name, then quickly shook her head, her braids bouncing slightly.

She edged closer to Mike, just a small shuffle, but enough to make it clear where she felt safer.

Jackie’s smile twitched, faltered for a split second before she turned her gaze upward to Mike, her eyes narrowing like she was inspecting a stain.

“We’re supposed to be at the water pumps,” she said, her tone now clipped and managerial. “Why are you so far behind?”

Mike bit back a sigh, resisting the urge to mutter sheesh under his breath. “Alright, alright,” he said, motioning gently to Tish. “C’mon.”

Tish hesitated, then followed, her steps reluctant but trusting. Jackie had already turned her back, striding ahead like she was leading a parade of imaginary cameras.

The distance between them grew, and Mike leaned down slightly, voice low.

“She’s my stepsister,” he murmured. “Say something about her hair and she’ll go absolutely ballistic. Just in case you ever need a quick escape.”

Tish blinked, then let out the tiniest giggle. A soft, breathy sound like a secret escaping.

Mike cracked a grin. God, making kids laugh would never not make him smile.

Chapter Text

It had been a long day at camp. The kind of long that sticks to your skin like mosquito bites and regret. Lucas could tell because Mike was in full Wheeler meltdown mode. In the backseat, he was grumbling under his breath, knees jammed against the seat in front of him, sounding like a guy who’d just found out summer vacation was a government conspiracy.

Lucas caught Max’s eye in the passenger seat. That look said it all: Now or never.

They both knew they had to tell him.

That there was another stop before home. Another appointment. And Mike didn’t get to opt out, because.. well… he was sort of the key ingredient. The guy holding the baby, so to speak.

Max gave Lucas a pointed look, the kind that could strip paint. “You tell him,” it said loud as a bullhorn. Lucas gave her one right back, his own silent nope, your funeral.

Finally, Max sighed like someone about to defuse a bomb with a pair of scissors. She twisted around in her seat. “Mike,” she said carefully, “hate to break it to you, but we kinda… forgot we had another appointment today. We were gonna reschedule, but—”

Mike didn’t even look up. “So reschedule,” he muttered, all venomously.

Lucas jumped in fast. “We’ll just do it and get it over with, man. I’ll grab you food after. Promise.”

Mike slumped deeper into the seat, arms crossed like armor. “You guys hate me,” he mumbled.

Max snorted, trying, and failing, not to laugh. “When did we ever say that?”

Mike’s reply came low and deadly serious. “You implied it.”

“What’s wrong?” Lucas asked, voice low, the way you talk to a stray dog that might bite or bolt. Mike didn’t answer—just let out a frustrated grunt, the sound rough enough to cut the air. Then he shifted, unzipping his jeans with a sharp motion, freeing the small swell pressing against the fabric.

Lucas blinked. Oh. Well… that explained a lot. No wonder he’d been grouchier than a Demodog in daylight. His clothes were strangling him.

“Hey,” Lucas started carefully, trying to keep the peace, “you need better clothes? Maybe, uh, mater—”

“I don’t need maternity clothes.” Mike’s voice cracked through the car like a whip. Sharp. Final.

“Yeah,” Max muttered, turning halfway in her seat, a smirk twitching at her mouth. “I believe that.”

Mike groaned, rubbing at his face. “I don’t!” he snapped, half whining, half miserable.

Lucas exchanged a glance with Max—go easy on him—and leaned forward a bit, keeping his voice gentle. “How about we just get you some… comfier clothes after your appointment. That sound good?”

Mike looked up, eyes pleading in that quick, boyish way that said he hated asking for anything. “No maternity clothes?”

“Of course not,” Lucas said. 

Mike nodded, a little deflated now, sinking back against the seat. The road hummed beneath them, the evening light sliding through the trees like slow fire.

The ultrasound room smelled the same as always: antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, and that faint layer of dust no janitor ever quite caught. It wasn’t a bad smell. Just the kind that got under your skin, made you feel like you were trespassing somewhere sterile and sacred.

Mike hated it more every time he came. Not that he had any real grudge against the place. It just did something to him—made his stomach twist, made the air too sharp. He liked seeing Lucas and Max light up when they got a glimpse of theirbaby. That part made it worth it. But the rest. The screen, the gel, the reminder of what was inside him. It all left him hollowed out, wrong-footed.

He couldn’t look at the monitor. Never could. He’d tried once, and the image had scared him in a way he couldn’t explain.

He felt like a stranger in his own skin. Like some weird, gender-bent reflection of himself in a funhouse mirror: the most feminine female girl daughter kid sister you could ever think of. He hated that thought, hated that it wasn’t even untrue.

The other expecting mothers in the waiting room never knew where to look. They stared sometimes, and when they did, Mike stared right back until they stopped. Now he sat wedged between Max and Lucas, knee bouncing like a nervous metronome.

Max reached over, her hand resting lightly on that jittering knee. She didn’t try to still it. Just touched it, a quiet sort of grounding.

“You good?” she asked.

Mike lifted one shoulder. “I never really feel good here.” The words came out small, honest, and he felt bad the second he said them.

“I’m sorry,” Max said. There was no teasing in her tone this time. “Could I make it up to you?”

Mike gave a dry, crooked smile. “Dunno if there’s a way to make me like this place.” Another shrug. “It’s all right, though. It’s better seeing you happy.”

And he meant it. Every word. Even if the room still smelled like disinfectant and fear, even if his skin still didn’t feel like it fit right. Max smiled, Lucas reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Michael Wheeler?”

The ultrasound tech stood in the doorway, her voice soft, professional, and somehow apologetic. Her scrubs were bubblegum pink. The kind that looked too cheerful for a place that smelled like bleach and anxiety. Mike never liked pink. It reminded him of stuff that wasn’t him.

God, he wished Will were here. Will would’ve known what to say. He would’ve taken his hand, brushed his thumb over the knuckles, maybe whispered something corny that actually worked. It’s okay, Mike. You’re okay.

But Will wasn’t here. Just Max and Lucas, who were already standing, already ushering him forward before he could open his mouth. Before he could even say Can I call him?

The tech led them down the hallway. Dim lights, scuffed linoleum floors, the air humming with the low buzz of old machinery. She opened the door to the same room as always. Same dark walls, same tired monitor, same faint smell of cold gel and sterilizer.

Mike let out a sigh that felt too big for his chest. He’d been here before. Too many times. But somehow it felt worse tonight. Like the walls were closing in a little more, the shadows a little deeper.

Still, he went through the motions. Sat down on the chair that crinkled under him, leaned back, and lifted his shirt. “Go ahead,” he muttered.

The tech gave a practiced chuckle, like she’d done this a hundred times and meant none of it. “Well,” she said, reaching for the tray, “first I’ve gotta prepare it. I’ll be back in a sec, you can get yourself adjusted there.”

The tech slipped out of the room, the door clicking shut like the end of a sentence. The sound left a vacuum behind it. The kind that makes you suddenly aware of your own breathing.

Mike sat on the table under the harsh fluorescent light, the kind that made everything too bright, too exposed.

Lucas and Max were over in the corner on those hard plastic chairs that squeaked when you shifted your weight. Almost at the same time, they scooted closer, like there was some invisible tether pulling all three of them together.

Lucas tried to sound casual. “So… where you thinking of going after this? There’s a clothing store near here. We could swing by, get you something less hospital-y.”

Mike folded his arms tight across his chest, the way you do when you’re trying not to shake. “I’m not a child,” he muttered. “I don’t need to be distracted.”

That earned him one of those Max-and-Lucas looks. A silent exchange of eyebrows and sighs. Lucas leaned in a little, his voice softer now. “Okay. Then what do you need right now, man? We just… wanna help.”

It started as a small ache, right behind Mike’s nose. Then it burned up into his eyes, and before he could stop it, tears were spilling over. Hot, humiliating, and way too fast. His throat cinched tight. His whole face folded in on itself.

“I need Will, Lucas!” he choked out, voice cracking like a kid’s. “I want Will!”

Max’s expression shifted. The sarcasm gone, replaced by something softer, quieter. “Oh, Mike…” she said. “Do you want us to call him? Have him come here?”

Mike sniffled hard, swiping his palms over his face like he could erase the tears. “No,” he mumbled. “He’s in Indianapolis. He’d have to drive hours just to see me cry in a stupid doctor’s office.”

The words hung there. No one said anything for a long moment. The machine hummed in the background; the air conditioner clicked on with a sigh. Max reached over, set a hand on Mike’s shoulder, and squeezed once. Her hand was very warm.

“I’m sure he’d do it for you,” Lucas said quietly. His voice had that steady warmth to it. The kind that could smooth out rough edges, even when the world felt too sharp.

Mike sniffled, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s a short appointment,” he murmured. “No way he’d get here in time.”

“We can call him after,” Max said, leaning forward in her chair. “Go clothes shopping with him. Make a whole thing of it.”

Mike shrugged, a small movement, but it meant something — his version of okay. I can live with that.

“Okay. Good,” Lucas said, smiling just a little. It wasn’t forced, just tired and kind. “I’m sorry it’s been a rough day.”

Mike gave another shrug. “Happens,” he said, voice soft but steady.

That was when the tech came back, rolling in the machine like a ghost dragging chains. The thing clattered and hummed, a mess of wires and knobs that looked one bad fuse away from catching fire.

“All right,” she said, the words too chipper for the room. “Let’s see your baby.”

Mike wiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to erase the evidence of crying. He sat back, stomach bare under the too-bright light. The cold gel hit him and he flinched. It was always colder than you thought it’d be.

The tech worked in quiet efficiency, drawing slow circles with the probe, her eyes flicking between the screen and Mike’s stomach. The machine made a low, watery sound as it searched.

Usually, Mike didn’t look. He never looked. But this time, for some reason. Perhaps because he’d already cried, maybe because he was too tired to hide, he turned his head.

And he saw it.

It wasn’t much, not at first. Just static, gray shapes, the dull flicker of movement. But then he realized it was moving. Not still, not abstract… alive.

His breath hitched.

He’d seen pictures before, sure. Other people’s. Blurry snapshots that barely looked human. But this was different. This was his. It — he — moved like he was curious, testing his boundaries. Little shifts, tiny experiments in motion. Like something trying to understand the world it hadn’t been born into yet.

It was freaky as hell. And that was saying something, coming from a kid who’d fought monsters from another dimension before freshman year.

Mike couldn’t look away. The image shimmered and pulsed, each flicker translating into something he’d only ever felt. The odd, fluttering sensations he’d mistaken for nerves, for fear, for maybe even guilt. It hadn’t felt real until now.

He thought of how it usually felt. Like falling leaves stirring deep in his stomach, or waves hitting the shore. Sometimes like the soft, rhythmic beating of a drum. Never like the light, dizzy feeling he got when Will smiled at him.

This wasn’t like that at all. This was stranger. Heavier. Beautiful and horrifying in equal measure.

And for the first time, he didn’t look away.

For the first time, Mike actually saw them. Max and Lucas, sitting close on either side, their faces bathed in the soft glow of the monitor. They were cooing and laughing in that awkward, self-conscious way people do when joy catches them off guard. Lucas especially. His usual cool cracked wide open, his grin full and stupid and real.

Max, for her part, kept it together. Mostly. She made these little comments, “seems to be fine,” “everything looks good”,  but her voice wobbled just enough to give her away. There was something underneath the sarcasm, something raw and tender that she probably thought she’d buried a long time ago.

Love, maybe. The real kind. The kind that scared her.

“Pretty baby, isn’t he?” the tech said softly, eyes still on the screen. “Certainly active. Who’s that from?”

“Dad, definitely,” Max said without missing a beat.

Something shifted then. A small, beautiful thing.

Lucas blinked, like the word Dad had just struck him right between the eyes. For a heartbeat, it was like he was seeing himself from the outside. The kid from Hawkins who used to ride his bike past curfew, now sitting in a dim, antiseptic room watching his own child flicker to life in black and white.

And damned if it wasn’t beautiful.

Lucas’s face softened, every guarded edge smoothing out. That practical, level-headed part of him — the one that always had to keep it together — finally gave way to something luminous. Awe, maybe. Or just plain love.

Mike felt it, too. Watching them, he felt his chest ache and swell at the same time. Like his heart was too big for his ribs.

He didn’t know what the hell to call the feeling, only that it was real. And it was beautiful.

Mike felt lighter after the appointment. Not fixed, exactly, but like he could breathe again. Max and Lucas took him down to the little strip mall near the clinic, and Will was already waiting outside the store, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, smiling in that soft, unsure way that always made Mike’s chest ache.

Max and Lucas didn’t stick around. They were absolutely wiped. Wrung out from all the emotions they pretended not to feel. After a round of hugs and tired jokes, they headed off, leaving Mike and Will standing in front of the store’s glass doors, the early-evening light spilling around them.

Just the two of them now. Romantic.

But Mike, of course, botched it. He was too eager, too wired. Like someone who’d been running on empty for days and suddenly remembered what happiness felt like. The first fifteen minutes of shopping were just Mike glued to Will’s side, fingers brushing his sleeve every chance he got, orbiting him like gravity had a personal vendetta.

By the middle of it, things had evened out. Mike had found a rack of oversized shirts and was rifling through them, half looking, half thinking. Will was on the other side of the aisle, quiet and focused, flipping through hangers with that patient concentration he had for everything. Art, music, people.

And Mike, God help him, couldn’t stop watching.

Because Will Byers was beautiful today. Not in some movie-star way, but in the kind that sneaks up on you and kills you slow. His hair was soft and a little wild, haloed by the fluorescent lights. His eyes were hazel, warm, the color of autumn leaves caught in sunlight. For some reason, they looked brighter than usual. His lips had that pale, peachy-pink flush that made Mike’s stomach turn inside out.

He knew every inch of Will’s face by heart, but today it all seemed sharper, more alive. Maybe it was just the light. Maybe Will was finally shaking off his allergies. Or maybe — and this was the thought that made Mike blush — maybe it was just him.

Maybe it was the hormones talking. Mike wasn’t usually this corny.

Either way, Mike didn’t mind losing his head a little. Not when Will was standing there, looking like that.

Will finally caught him staring. He looked up from the shirts with a tiny grin, the kind that curved at just one corner of his mouth. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

Mike froze for half a second before his own smile slipped through. Small, crooked, helpless. A faint blush colored his cheeks. “Nothin’,” he said, a little too quickly. “You’re just cute, that’s all.”

Will rolled his eyes, but his face betrayed him — that squiggly, lovesick smile he always tried to hide took over anyway. “Shut up,” he muttered, cheeks pinking. “You’re cute too.”

“Yeah,” Mike chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, “if you squint.”

Will circled the rack and came right up to him, closing the distance like it was nothing. He took Mike’s hands, firm but gentle, the kind of grip that said I’m here. “I mean it, Michael,” he said quietly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Mike gave a half-shrug, eyes darting down. “You still think I’m gonna be cute when I’m huge?” he asked, voice light but teasing.

Will rolled his eyes again, but softer this time. “What do you think?” he said, and before Mike could answer, he added, “Of course I will. I always think you’re cute. I think you’re beautiful.”

Oh, dear God. What a tease.

Mike could feel the warmth climbing up his neck again, that familiar embarrassment that somehow always felt good when it came from Will. “Jeez, Will,” he murmured, grinning despite himself. “Sweet-talker. So corny.”

Will only smiled wider, and Mike leaned closer, whispering like it was a secret meant just for them.

“I love it.”