Chapter Text
It was getting late.
They had been out searching the Upside Down for the last 3 hours to no avail. Still no sign of Vecna — Still no sign of hope. The only thing Mike had been left with was the overwhelming sensation of the spores in the air weighing on his skin.
Not so much on his lungs though. The blue bandana El had given him, which was wrapped tightly around his airways, had ensured as much protection as possible from the toxicity.
To be honest, Mike hadn't even wanted to accept the bandana. He never did, always making up excuses as to why he didn't need one.
"I’ve built up a tolerance"
"I’ll just zip my jacket all the way up"
"I don't like the color."
The last excuse had been a petty one. One that had made El give him that look she always gave him when she knew he knew how unreasonable he was being. So they'd just stared at each other for a minute, until he relented — just like he always did.
He grabbed the bandana from her hand, with way more force than needed, before stomping his way to the mirror and tying it around his neck with as much drama as one possibly could manage when tying a knot, all while she watched him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
Mike felt like an idiot.
"Happy?!" He scoffed as he pushed past her, but he made sure not to actually hurt her. He didn't want to hurt her — didn't want to hurt anyone. He just wanted her to snap at him.
To tell him to get his act together.
To stop acting like a baby.
To stop making a scene over a stupid, fucking bandana and instead use some of that energy on what truly mattered, saving the fucking world.
But she didn't. Instead, she just hummed in response as she followed him out from The Squawk.
El was smart. She knew not to give Mike any more leverage he could further use for his sudden temper tantrum. Mike wished Hopper was the one handing him the bandana instead. He wouldn't have wasted a mere second before he'd start yelling at him. Then Mike could fight back, could yell as loud as he wanted and get some kind of release.
However, lately Mike felt like Hopper was trying his best to avoid just that — removing himself from situations in which Mike could get under his skin, and if such situations ever occurred Mike would watch as he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and physically forced his body to walk away from him.
He was sure it was because Joyce had caught on to what Mike was trying to do.
She had most likely told Hopper that Mike wanted to make him angry, something he was sure angered him even more. But if there was one thing they had in common, it was their stubbornness, and Mike was sure Hopper would rather eat raw Demogorgon meat before he'd let Mike get what he wanted.
Whatever.
Mike was sure he'd find a way to reverse this whole meditation journey Hopper was on eventually.
He looked around for a second, glancing at the people sitting in the vehicle with him.
Nancy stood by the back doors on lockout duty, fingers tightly clenched around her shotgun. She looked as if she was waiting — almost hoping — for something to shoot. El stood across from her. Her arms crossed the same way she had crossed them towards Mike earlier that day with her brows furrowed together in a mix of concentration and frustration.
Mike knew that look. He'd seen it way too much lately.
She was most likely rearranging whatever information she had gathered from today to try and improve for the next crawl. Mike wished he could say something to make her feel better, but then again, he'd never been the best at that.
Mike turned to look towards the front of the car instead.
Steve was driving — his shoulders stiff, both hands gripping the steering wheel way harder than necessary — and Hopper sat beside him in the passenger seat, one hand resting on top of his gun. Neither of them were speaking to one another.
They were all driving in silence.
All stuck inside their own heads.
All too busy with themselves to pay any attention to Mike.
Carefully, he lifted his hand to rest his head on it, his hand covering his mouth. He gently stuck his pinky and ring finger past the edge of the bandana and pulled it down ever so gently, just enough for it to slip past his nose. Then he leaned closer towards the cracked window.
The opening had been caused by damage from past excursions, and coincidentally, it was big enough for Mike to stick half his face through.
Mike breathed in.
Closed his eyes as he felt spores fill his lungs as it took everything in him not to immediately cough. The burn hit sharp and violent, clawing its way down Mike's throat before spreading throughout his chest. He tried his best to swallow — to force the coughs back down.
He breathed out.
Then back in again.
It burned.
His lungs felt like they were on fire and despite having done this same routine at least 20 times now, he most definitely had not built any kind of tolerance.
He could feel tears threatening to spill out from his eyes as he took his third and final breath, this one shakier than the others. This was as far as he could go before he'd reach his limit.
Three breaths.
Three pathetic breaths. That was it. That was Mike's limit.
It made him sick to his stomach how weak he was. He couldn't even last three deep inhales before he started coughing like crazy. It always made him wonder how on earth someone as small and young as Will-
"Mike what are you doing?"
Shit.
Mike yanked his fingers out from beneath the bandana and leaned back from the window as fast as he could. He turned to look at Nancy, blinking hard to try and remove any remaining proof of the current burn in his chest as he cleared his throat to the best of his ability.
"What?" He asked, trying to keep his voice as innocent as possible. Nancy's eye narrowed and her eyebrows furrowed in annoyance at her younger brother's attempt of feigning innocence.
"Why were you breathing in spores?"
"I wasn't?"
Mike tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible, but he could feel the previous coughs he had swallowed before tickling his throat again. He prayed his sister — for once — would just let him be.
Her eyebrows lifted slowly. "I saw you."
Mike looked away from her and over to Eleven, hoping for an escape. Instead, he was met with that same knowing look.
For how long had she been looking at him?
"I don't know." Mike muttered, turning back towards the window.
"Don't I don't know me Mike," Nancy snapped. "Answer the question." Nancys poor impression of him — in which she had greatly exaggerated the teenage angst and deepness in his voice — felt amusing enough to warrant a quiet snort from the front seat.
Steve.
"Shut up Steve." Mike blurted out before he could stop himself.
"WOAH! What the hell did I do?!" Steve shot back. He sounded more irritated than usual. It was probably the lack of sleep getting to him — Getting to all of them. Mike knew he wasn't helping, but he hadn't been helping for a long time.
"You were laughing at Nancys stupid impression!" Mike shot back. "Because it was funny and accurate?" Steve replied, confusion and annoyance mixed in his voice. "It wasn't funny nor accurate!" Mike tried mocking Steves tone.
It was a horrible impression, way worse than Nancys. He didn't really care though; he just wanted to get under Steves skin.
"You know what Wheeler?!" Steve said, turning slightly in his seat.
"Eyes on the road." Hopper grumbled as he dragged an annoyed hand over his face.
"What?!" Mike barked back, standing up to make a point. He could hear Nancy mutter words of disbelief under her breath, but she had clearly given up on trying to get through to Mike.
"You can be such a little shithead sometimes!" Steve snapped, slamming a hand against the steering wheel. The van jerked slightly as the speed increased.
Mike should stop — he knew he had to stop — but it was too late.
The Micheal Wheeler train had already left the station, and it was heading full speed towards a cliff.
"IM the shithead?!" Mike laughed dryly.
"Mike..." Eleven warned quietly, stepping closer. "YEAH!" Steve yelled out, twisting halfway around in his seat. "You are!"
"Steve. Road" Hopper said again, sharper this time. Steve ignored him.
"You're constantly acting like a jerk," he continued. "Snapping at people, saying rude shit- it's like you WANT us to get pissed off!"
Mike said nothing.
"Seriously," Steve continued his tangent. "I mean you've always been a little annoying, but you get like ten times worse whenever we're in the upside down! And like sure, I understand, no one wants to be down here except you do! You literally do!"
Steves hands were spending less and less time holding the steering wheel and more so flailing around the air trying to further his point. "You're always volunteering to come down here. You throw a damn tantrum if we say no-"
"Steve." Nancy warned.
"-but then the second were actually down here?!" Steve continued, louder than before. "You BARELY help with the mission! You just stumble around in your own little world and then freak out the second someone talks to you!"
The van swerved slightly. "Steve!" Hopper barked. Steve finally glanced forward, only for a moment, before he immediately looked back again.
"What is your deal, man?!"
Mike just stood there silently, fists clenched at his side, trying his best not to fall with the sways made by Steves now not-so-smooth driving.
"Steve that's enough." Nancy said firmly. "No! I want him to answer!" His eyes locked on Mike, eyes glaring through him.
"For once," Steve continued. "Without the sarcasm, without the attitude."
Mike stared back.
"You're not twelve anymore Mike." His eyes narrowed.
"Grow up."
The van fell silent.
Mike didn't answer — He was never going to, because what did they want him to say? That they were right? That he was trying to rile them up?
That every time someone got angry at him it felt a little bit closer to what he deserved?
That if Mike pushed them hard enough, then they'd eventually hate him, eventually leave him behind.
Then maybe Mike wouldn't have to keep pretending he belonged with them.
Because he didn't.
Not when every second he spent down here, all he could think about was how this place — this horrible, rotten place — was where Will had died.
Will — who had been so full of life he might as well have been the sun itself — died here.
He died in a place void of laughter and comfort and safeness.
He had died alone.
The thought alone made Mike feel as if he was going to throw up.
Mike hadn't moved on — hadn't "gotten over it", not really. He still blamed himself for letting Will bike home that night.
He could've insisted he stayed longer, could've ridden his bike back to his house, could've cut his stupid campaign short instead of letting it drag on too late at night.
He could've saved him, but he didn't.
So even though he hates being down here, he knows Will hated it too.
And if Will — sweet, kind, wonderful Will — hadn't been given the option of just "staying home", then why on earth should Mike?
Why should someone as cold and cruel as him get that luxury?
If anyone belonged down here, it was him.
"WELL?!" Steve shouted, snapping Mike out of his head. He swallowed and immediately regretted it as the spores in his lungs clawed at his throat again. "I-"
Mikes answer was interrupted by a screech. A sound so horrible yet so familiar.
Everyone had been so busy entertaining and watching the Mike Wheeler show, it was like they somehow forgot where they currently were.
All their heads turned in unison to look at the road where they were met with a demo-dog charging full speed towards the windshield. It cracked on impact as Steve screamed, grabbing the steering wheel with both hands again.
He swerved trying to get it to fall off but it just continued to climb up to the top of the van.
The swerving caused Mike to come crashing to the right side of the van — pain shooting through his shoulder. He groaned, hearing the sound of gunshots coming from where Hopper was sitting. Then he heard more screeching.
Screeching that was getting closer by the second.
He quickly turned around, grabbing his backpack trying frantically to get a hold of the pocketknife he had packed with him.
Another swerve sent him crashing back to the ground, the sound of gunshots and grunting coming from behind him. Eleven and Nancy were both fighting off the swarm of demo-dogs and Demogorgon’s making their way towards the van, two of them Eleven had to spend all her attention on as they got closer.
Mike stood up, yet again, only to hear Steve yell out a "HOLD ON!" , only Mike wasn't holding on, he had barely made it back on his feet.
Steve pressed the speed pedal, sending the monster on the roof flying off and Mike flying out with it.
He could hear Nancy and Eleven screaming his name as he crash-landed onto the ground.
He rolled a little further, feeling the grainy terrain rip open his jeans and scratch into his skin. The bandana fell of his face, barely holding on to his neck as he felt a sharp pain twist at his ankle before the rolling came to a stop. The pocketknife had slipped from his grasp, and his backpack had fallen off his shoulder beside him.
His head hurt — His ears were ringing and his vision was blurring.
He pushed himself up panting looking around, trying to get the world to stop spinning, only to see the demo-dog he had tumbled out with already making its way to its feet.
Mike scrambled to get back up as he looked for his knife, but it was too far out of reach. The demo-dog screeched in his face, revealing the horrible, disgusting, bloody mess hidden behind its petals, before it charged at him, leaving Mike no choice but to sprint towards his backpack, swoop it up, and then keep running into the woods.
Away from the demo-dog.
Away from his friends.
Thankfully for Mike, it seemed like he wasn't the only one affected by the fall.
The demo-dog had spent a good minute gathering himself enough to stop running without tumbling and falling back down, seemingly as dizzy as Mike was.
Despite the minor head start and Mike running as fast as he possibly could, the demo-dog was gaining on him and there was only so much Mikes adrenaline could help with keeping his legs working beneath him before they'd collapse.
He had to hide.
His eyes scanned the terrain until he spotted a giant tree and decided it would be his best shot — at least for a little while. He just needed to catch his breath.
He quickly ducked behind it. His hands gripped at the bark on the slimy tree behind him as he gasped, desperate to get oxygen back into his lungs, ignoring the toxins to the best of his ability.
He could hear the screeching sound from the monster as it sprinted past him. Mike held his breath, trying to keep as quiet as possible as it passed by.
Slowly but surely, he began feeling that familiar tickling at the bottom of his throat. He took another breath which only helped worsen it.
He needed to cough — had been needing to cough for a while now. Cursed himself for not just having let it happen back in that stupid van while Steve was busy with his stupid monologue.
He raised a hand over his face, pressing it tight against his mouth, desperately trying to trap the sound before it could escape.
Then he coughed.
Just a tiny one.
Still, once he had started, it seemed impossible to stop.
Another cough forced its way out, then another, and another. Each cough became louder, more aggressive. Mike dropped to his knees, curling himself into a ball as he held both his hands desperately tight around his mouth, trying to smother the sound.
It didn't work.
Each cough tore the air from his lungs, and every time he dragged in a breath, the air burned. The spores scratched down his throat, filling his lungs with poison, only making him cough harder. It felt like his lungs were tearing apart.
Then Mike heard it — The sound of clicking.
It was listening.
Mike froze, hands still pressed hopelessly tight over his mouth. Tears slid down his face as he tried to swallow the next cough before it could escape.
A heavy thump shook the ground in front of him. Mike slowly lifted his head, hands falling from his mouth to his sides.
This is it.
This is how I die.
The demo-dog stood only a few feet away. It flared its petals as it growled at Mike.
Mike couldn't move.
Another cough fell out of him, weak and helpless.
He supposes this is fair — His life ending like this. Mauled to death by some horrible, other worldly monster.
Mike began wondering if it was the same way Will had died. Did it hunt him down the same way, had Will tried to hide as well?
He closed his eyes as the monster screeched yet again. Thought of Nancy and El, Steve and Hopper. He hoped they'd made it out. Wondered what they would tell everyone else. Wondered if they'd really care or if —deep down — they'd be relieved.
He wouldn't blame them.
The ground shifted — the demo-dog lunged. Mike braced for the impact.
Impact that never came.
Instead there was a wet, tearing squelch, followed by the creature letting out a sharp, ear-piercing shriek of pain.
Mikes eyes snapped open and for a second, Mike couldn't believe what he was seeing.
The demo-dog was on the ground — Pinned, struggling, spear through its throat.
Someone was standing over it.
The person held it pinned to the ground by their foot, as said person continued stabbing it with the spear — which looked less like a spear and more like a knife tied to the end of a stick.
With each pull and each puncture, the squelching sounds worsened as the demo-dog struggled to get out of the person’s grasp. It screeched at them, but with its mouth open, the person slung the shotgun that was resting on their shoulder into their hands and began firing until the creature’s body finally went limp.
Mike took in a shaky breath, shocked that he was still alive.
A familiar feeling spread through his chest. A feeling of emptiness, like something he had been longing for had just been held out in front of him only to be ripped away when he was a mere arms reach away from it.
He'd deal with those feelings later, the more pressing matter at hand was thanking his supposed savior.
He removed his eyes from the dead demo-dog in front of him and instead looked up at them — at him.
Took in his camo boots that were tightly tied, seemingly to keep them from falling off, continued to look over at the dirty clothes he wore — Mis-matched set of sweats. His sweatpants black, the sweatshirt dark green, hood over his head hiding his face as he was too busy...cutting the demo-dog open?!
"Um, I'm uh...I'm pretty sure it's already dead." Mike tried to joke, to ease the sudden tension he could feel falling over them. The person ignored him, seemingly too busy storing pieces of muscle into the same kind of container one would use to store leftovers.
The smell was horrid and Mike couldn't help but gag at the sight of blood — At the way the person in front of him didn't even flinch as he cut through nerve endings and organs, bodily fluids splashing onto his gloved hands.
When the person seemed satisfied with his capture, he put the container back into the backpack he had left on the ground before flinging it back onto his shoulders and picking back up the shotgun while standing up.
For the first time, Mike finally was able to get a good look at the persons face.
His hair was short and uneven, cut almost like some kind of shag and he looked sickly pale. His eyes felt as if they were boring a hole through Mike although they remained completely void of even a hint of emotion.
The eye to the right was white and Mike noticed a scar tracing from his eyebrow, through his eye, continuing down his cheek for just a bit before it abruptly stopped in a line that looked too straight to have been coincidental.
His other eye held a sense of familiarity to Mike — The color a soft green. He looked at his nose, at his mouth, at the mole over it.
Wait.
...What?
He looked back up into his eyes — The same eyes he had looked into on their last day together.
Mike's stomach dropped. He was going to be sick.
He traced his face yet again as his mind simultaneously remembered every picture of Will — Pictures Mike had been studying meticulously ever since he died.
That’s right, Will died.
Will is dead.
Maybe he was dead too.
The demo-dog was currently eating away at his flesh right now and he was merely hallucinating to ease the pain. Still, everything felt too real.
The smell of blood, the ringing in his ears from the sounds of gunshots, the pain in his foot and the ground underneath him that he was currently clenching onto, it was all real, but that had to make him real as well.
Will is dead.
He's supposed to be dead.
He kept repeating the sentiment in his head, but it didn't matter. All the details matched. Sure, his features had become older, but it was still him. It was still-
"...Will?" Mike whispered, terrified the sound of his voice would somehow make him disappear, make this not real. Instead, it appeared as if Mike speaking awoke something in Will as Will’s emotionless eyes suddenly shot up along with the shotgun flying back up into his hands, shooting right past Mikes head, straight through the tree he was still leaned against.
Mikes eyes widened as he slowly glanced beside himself, watching as the smoke gently flew out from the bullet wound in the tree.
He looked back in shock, only to see the barrel of the gun was now not only closer, but pointing directly between his brows. "Will! Will it’s me! It's Mike!" Mike begged as he put his hands up. His voice had started shaking as he tried to ignore the gun and instead focus on the boy in front of him.
Mike watched Will gritting his teeth together before he barked out "Up!" Mike furrowed his brows, confused on what was going on.
"...what?"
"GET UP!" He yelled again, and although it sent a short sense of relief that it was indeed Wills voice yelling at him right now, he wasn't so sure Will was having the same revelation in recognizing him.
Mike slowly rose to his feet, feeling the pain he had been trying to ignore in his ankle sparkle back up again. His legs felt shaky but he tried to keep his breathing steady, to not freak out.
Will was alive.
He was alive and he was standing right in front of him.
Sure, he did have a gun pointed to his head but it didn't really matter. Mike was so overwhelmed with emotions — emotions he hadn't properly felt in ages, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He felt a smile crawl its way up his face.
Bad idea. Will did not seem to appreciate that.
Before he knew it, Mike felt Wills leg kick him in his stomach hard as his back slammed against the tree. The air in his lungs forced its way out of him when he hit it.
Before he had a chance to collect himself, he was turned around, right side of his face slammed into the slimy tree as his hands were grabbed.
"Woah, woah, woah!" Mike said as he realized what was happening. He felt rough rope tie its way around his wrists — tight enough that it was most definitely cutting off circulation to his fingers. "Will calm down!" He tried, but the mention of his name seemed to only agitate him further as Mike felt something slam against his ribs. He groaned out in pain.
Then he felt the bandana El had been so insistent on him wearing being tied around him again, now reused to cover his mouth. Mike understood it was an attempt to get him to shut up.
Although he most definitely could still talk, he wasn't sure how much farther he could push before Will decided to pull the trigger. He wasn't going to risk it.
Wasn't going to let his stupid mouth ruin whatever heaven-sent gift had just fallen before him.
He felt Will pull him back from the tree by the wrists, guiding him in front of him, before he felt something poking at his back. He turned around to see Will pointing the gun at him.
His eyes were filled with such anger and fear.
It made Mike understand he wasn’t going to get through to Will any time soon and decided it was instead best to just prove to him he wasn’t a threat.
A further nudge caused by the gun told Mike it was probably for the best if he started walking. So he began to walk — despite the pain each step caused him thanks to his ankle that was most certainly ruined by now — hoping wherever they ended up would be a place they could talk.
Oh, how Mike had so much he wanted to tell Will.
He just hoped Will would be willing to listen.