#there’s going to be a lot of homophobia and claims byler only happened bc of fan service

[chirpsythismorning]

The way they framed surfer boy pizza with Mike in s4 makes me optimistic about the prospects of smalltown boy agenda actually

[love-kurdt]

This is Me Trying (byler): 1

word count: 6,469

warnings for this chapter: lots of sexual content!! underage drinking, mentions of drug use, roofie mention bc college, internalized homophobia, maaaajooorrrr depression. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

If someone were to ask Mike Wheeler what time it was, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, he would look down at his watch and realize that said watch was not on his wrist. He would then ask himself why his watch was not on his wrist, then he would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and he was dead to Will, so he didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, he’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” He was drunk, though, so he was allowed.

Mike was at some frat party, spending what was his last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. He was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between his legs and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He’d given up some time ago on trying to pace himself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and Mike could feel the bass reverberating in his bones, which would normally make him want to get up and dance, but he wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; he was only halfway through his sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this coming. Mike had been spiraling for a long time. It all started over summer break between his senior year of high school and his freshman year of college. Mike never even wanted to go to college in the first place. What was the point of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a creative writing degree when he could just freelance and eventually get published? But Ted insisted on Mike at least attending a state school with cheaper tuition, claiming, “You can’t run on ink and espresso, son. You have to put in the work and have the credentials to show for it.” On the bright side, it was a miracle that Ted had enough confidence in his son to allow Mike to pursue writing at all. But he was on thin ice with his father, had been for years, so he agreed to at least think about college.

Mike’s friends chose their respective schools fairly quickly; Dustin had gotten in with a full ride scholarship to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Max and Lucas went to UCLA as sports science and physical therapy double majors, El went to Vanderbilt University in Nashville to pursue a degree in therapy, and Will… Will went to Chicago. Which school he went to, or if he went to college at all, Mike didn’t know. To study what, he had no clue. Where he lived within the city, he hadn’t the slightest idea. That’s what happens when your ex-best friend up and leaves without so much as a “goodbye.” Mike considered the day Will left to be the day his world stopped turning and time froze. So he took off his watch and hid it in a shoebox under his bed with the rest of his mini-shrine.

Dr. Owens and his team had arranged government-mandated counseling for all of those involved in the Vecnapocalypse. A year in, though, Mike didn’t see a point in going anymore. He was healed. He was fine. He was ready to move on with his life. Well, everyone else in the Party was ready to move on. Why wouldn’t he be? It probably hadn’t been the best decision on Mike’s part to stop going to therapy, but without Will in his life, Mike didn’t have much of a reason to stay in Hawkins at all, and he really didn’t feel like dredging up his past once a week to pick apart as if he were in an anatomy lab practical. Besides, he didn’t feel like arguing anymore with his dad. So, he begrudgingly packed his bags and headed to Indianapolis, killing two birds with one stone.

When he got to campus, he was assigned to dorm with this guy named Elvis (yes, as in Presley). Aside from his stupid ass name, Elvis Kuiken was a good roommate. He was a senior who kept to himself most days, when he wasn’t working. He was clean, by Mike’s standards (which were on the floor, literally and figuratively speaking), and he was also part of a fraternity. He’d always bring Mike along to parties, all in the name of the formative freshman experience. What this “experience” primarily entailed, Mike came to find out, was alcohol. Weed, too, no doubt… but extra emphasis on alcohol.

Mike didn’t want to admit it, at least not to others, but he became a lot more withdrawn since his falling out with Will. He wasn’t as outgoing, as daring, or as extroverted as he used to be. He was used to being an outcast of sorts, so not much changed there. Except now, where he used to have the confidence to at least approach people and introduce himself– “Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes.”– he couldn’t do that anymore. It was like his communicational skills had completely disappeared. But during his first party, he took a shot of tequila and must’ve made at least ten acquaintances within the three hours he was there. If only Troy could see how popular he was now. He’d piss his pants… again. It was like a light flickered on in his head; the more he drank, the more sociable he’d become. Mike took this epiphany and ran with it.

One time back in— September?— or something, Mike had been at a party for a few hours, and came up with the idea to try every single type of liquor to ever exist. He picked up a shot glass and stood at the counter for a good fifteen minutes, downing shot after shot. He woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache, unsure of how he even got back to his dorm room. But then he looked to his right and saw Elvis’s head resting on his very shirtless, hickey-covered chest. Oh. That’s how he got home. Mike wasn’t able to wear any shirts with collars below his clavicle for days. He didn’t hate it, though. In fact, that wasn’t the last time Mike and his roommate hooked up. Stumbling through the door, making out in the dark, and whispering each other’s names into otherwise complete silence until the sun came up became a regular occurrence.

Christmas break arrived, and most of Mike’s time back in Hawkins was spent trying to avoid Will. And from the way Mike saw it, Will was everywhere. He was the art on his bedroom wall. He was the yellow sweater that hung in Mike’s closet, probably the only colorful item in his entire wardrobe that Mike hadn’t thrown out, because it was Will’s sweater. He was the shea butter soap on the bathroom counter. He was the hot cocoa mix in the kitchen cabinet. He was the D&D box buried underneath his bed that Mike neglected since Eddie’s death in 1986. He was the Party. So Mike didn’t leave his basement for the entirety of mid-December to the beginning of January, with the exceptions of family dinners and sleep. He wouldn’t lie, he was a little bit ashamed of how he’d handled things with the Party. He definitely shouldn’t have iced everyone out. His friends made various attempts to get the Party back together, and always invited Mike, but he’d always have some kind of excuse as to why he couldn’t hang out with them. They eventually stopped calling.

One Saturday afternoon, he was sprawled out on the couch watching Star Wars: Episode VI– Return of the Jedi, and Nancy and Jonathan came barrelling in through the basement entrance, practically swallowing each other whole. Mike missed the feeling of being in love. He’d cleared his throat when it started to get a bit too steamy, causing the couple to jump apart in shock. Nancy smoothed her skirt while Jonathan lifted a hand into the air to greet Mike. He nodded back in acknowledgement. This silent interaction had Mike wanting to crawl out of his skin. All he wanted to do was ask Jonathan about Will; how Will was, what Will was doing, if Will had met anyone, if Will remembered him. It was like Jonathan could read his mind, because he said, completely unprompted, “He still thinks about you, Mike. He hasn’t forgotten you.” Mike actively committed those words to memory.

Mike ran into Joyce during a last minute school supplies shopping trip to Melvald’s on his way out of town. It was bound to happen at some point, what with Joyce owning Melvald’s now. He’d expected it to be awkward, but was proven wrong when Joyce practically jumped the counter to engulf her honorary third son in a hug. She’d pulled him all the way down to her level, so he was bent at almost a 90 degree angle, but he didn’t care.

“How’ve you been, sweetheart? How’s Indy treating you?” she asked. That was a loaded question. It would be spectacular if your son hadn’t left, but whatever.

“It’s treating me well, I’m mostly taking my gen eds right now, but I’m always writing my own material when I’m not in class,” he grinned, trying his best to not let it look fake or forced. Joyce seemed to buy it.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I always knew you were going to become a writer,” Joyce smiled, and Mike nodded, staying as neutral as possible. He knew where she was going with this. “I remember it as if it were yesterday,” bingo, “that in the mornings after your sleepovers, you and Will would sit at the dining room table with your eggs and maple syrup and work on your comics for hours. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” Mike replied wistfully, “I do.” He glanced down at his shoes, trying not to let any tears escape. The amount of crying over Will that he’d done just within the time he was back home was pathetic. But Joyce didn’t seem to mind in the least, because she reached up and ran her thumbs over his cheeks, where a few stray tears had traveled down against his will. 

“Oh, honey,” Joyce held Mike’s face in her hands, eyes filled with compassion, and pulled him into another hug, holding him close. Mike had always loved Joyce, but this mutual understanding led Mike to reserve a special place in his heart for her.

They engaged in a little more small talk before she personally walked (dragged) him through the store with his shopping list to retrieve the items he needed. When she checked out his items at the counter, she grabbed a pen and post-it note, wrote something on it, and handed it to Mike. He held it up to eye level with a shaky hand.

“That’s Will’s phone number, he’s at the American Academy of Art,” she whispered. Mike’s eyes widened, and he breathed, “Thank you, Ms. Byers. So much,” before heading out the door to his car. He sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes, causing himself to fall behind schedule, but he had Will’s phone number. That was a good enough reason to be late, in his book.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, Mike was finally able to return to campus. He’d set his suitcase down next to his bed, and took a minute to collect his thoughts prior to unpacking. All of a sudden, Elvis clumsily tripped over his own feet through the door, sheepishly grinning at a startled Mike. Mike felt a blush rise to his cheeks, followed by a quiet, “hi.” Seconds later, they were all over each other.

It was around this time that Mike finally came to terms with the undeniable fact that he was exclusively attracted to men. He’d always believed his sexual preferences existed as a strict ratio of 70:30, with 70% being women and 30% being men. He’d always been aware of his attraction to guys (Will); he’d been sure of that for as long as he could remember. The confusing part about it all was when El came into the picture, and everyone and their mother expected them to start dating. Mike was, like, twelve at the time, so of course he went along with what everyone else wanted. That backfired majorly when El confronted Mike with tears in her eyes, asking, “But… you don’t love me anymore?” and his impulse response was, “I don’t even think I loved you romantically to begin with.” It took a long time for Mike and El to repair their friendship following that conversation, and to help him bullshit his parents into falling for some half-baked reason as to why he and his “sweetie pie” broke up so suddenly.

When he started his… situationship with Elvis, though, he began to question his 70:30 ratio. Elvis, to put it simply, was hot. He was taller than Mike, just by an inch, but it didn’t stop him from calling Mike “short.” Mike found that hilarious, as he himself stood at a staggering six foot three. Elvis had tanned skin, blonde hair which he kept in a preppy side part, and bright eyes that captured the essence of the bluest sky. He had full lips, a chiseled jawline, and a lean yet muscular build with the likeness of a Greek statue. Elvis had the most gorgeous hands. Mike particularly liked when those hands pinned his wrists above his head. He also liked when those blue eyes bore into his soul in the way that only one other pair of eyes had ever been able to do within his mere eighteen years of life. And he loved when that chiseled jawline, rough from lack of shaving, rubbed abrasively against his neck.

Elvis was adamant on there being no strings attached. He made sure to remind Mike every time they did anything remotely sexual, but over time, those words began to lose their potency, like watering down vodka to make it go down smoother. Mike’s wide eyes and “yes, of course, I understand”s were slowly replaced with absentminded “mmhmm”s. He figured that as long as Elvis never picked up on Mike’s social cues (or lack thereof), and as long as he never knew about Mike secretly developing more-than-fuck-buddies feelings for him, Mike would be in the clear. But eventually, something in Elvis had melted away, and he started calling Mike “my boy,” “love,” and “sweetheart,” amongst other gross (sweet) pet names. Mike assumed that Elvis had caved and given up on whatever rules he’d set for himself.

Regardless of the apparent stability in his situationship, Mike’s mind dwelled in a constant state of disarray. He knew he was not straight. He wasn’t even sure if he was bisexual. He became more conscious of who caught his eye in public, and what he wanted out of the people he interacted with. He discovered he didn’t feel the same way about curves, boobs, or soft lips as he felt when he saw a pair of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, or a tapered waist. He felt different.

Part of Mike resented himself for being different. He hated the idea of being a target, whether it be for his family, the government, or society as a whole. He’d tried to change. He hooked up with a few girls over the course of a week, “just to see something,” but he’d spent the entire time wondering when it would be over so he could go home. All of those girls either got bored, weren’t satisfied, or got mad that Mike couldn’t get it up— if not a combination of all three— and left. Mike scared himself a little when he didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

When his encounter with the last girl fell through, he decided he didn’t want to live his life in sexuality limbo anymore. He ran all the way back to his dorm hall, hauled ass up the stairwell, and let himself into his room. Elvis spun around from where he sat at his desk, and could barely get out a “Hey, man,” before Mike was ripping Elvis from his chair and pulling him in, kissing him with all his might. It didn’t take long for Elvis to reciprocate Mike’s advances, kissing back with equal intensity and pushing Mike back until they hit the side of Elvis’s raised bed frame. Mike huffed a laugh against Elvis’s lips before hoisting himself up backwards and onto the mattress, watching as Elvis chased after him. He pushed his knee between Mike’s legs, and Mike took the hint, wrapping his ankles around Elvis’s hips. “I want to be with you, baby. With strings, all the strings,” Mike had told Elvis before pulling him down for another searing kiss, and… that was when his memory cut out for the evening.

Mike woke up the next morning, hangover hitting him like a truck, to see Elvis already awake and dressed, lifting boxes onto a trolley that was stationed in the middle of the room. Through squinted eyes, he noticed Elvis’s side of the room was essentially bare, save for the dorm furniture, which belonged to the school.

“What’s happening?” he croaked out, and Elvis dropped the box he was holding onto the pile with a loud thump. “Too loud. Headache,” he whispered sharply through gritted teeth.

“It always is too loud, isn’t it?” his roommate laughed wryly to himself, not making any effort to be any quieter. Mike sat up, rubbing his eyes and ignoring the fact that he was naked and in Elvis’s bed, the only thing that hadn’t been packed up yet.

“What the fuck, Elvis? What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out today, remember?” The two young men finally gained eye contact, and Mike felt his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. “I’m graduating in a few days and need my stuff out by this afternoon.”

Move out was today? Vecna must have been back with a vengeance, because how else would time move so quickly on its own? Sure, Elvis mentioned in passing, like, a few weeks ago, at most, that he was leaving soon. But it still didn’t make sense, because it was only… What, March? No, The Phone Call™ was a while ago. Was it April? Mike’s mom called him at least a few weeks prior to wish him a happy nineteenth birthday. Plus, weren’t commencement ceremonies scheduled for the weekend of– “What’s today’s date?”

Mike watched the blonde in front of him unsubtly scoff with impatience. “It’s May 1st, Mike.” He could only blink back at Elvis in response for a few seconds while he tried to process the fact that his brain was capable of skipping over whole months of his life. There was no way it was May 1st already. 

“No,” was the only word Mike was capable of saying.

“Yet here we are, baby,” Elvis sneered as he whipped his comforter off of Mike, leaving him exposed and humiliated. “Time flies when you’re blackout drunk. I suggest you try and get your drinking under control, before you end up having to drop out.”

It was like Elvis was a completely different person, completely different from the man who had fucked him senseless the night before. What did Mike do to deserve this? He didn’t do or… say anything? Oh no. Now Mike knew what was going on. He drank too much, opened up, and blurted out loud that he wanted to be in a relationship with Elvis, who didn’t feel the same. Mike’s face was on fire with embarrassment.

Mike scrambled off the bed and ran to get dressed while Elvis pulled the last of his sheets off the cheap university mattress. He didn’t fold them, and instead balled them up and shoved them in the trash. Mike could barely breathe. He merely stood there and watched as his gorgeous Greek (actually Dutch) god of a roommate left their shared room for the last time. Well, Mike seemingly dodged a bullet. What an asshole.

Mike was sad that Elvis was gone, but it didn’t completely destroy him the way Will leaving did. What it most likely came down to, in Elvis’s instance, was a horrible case of internalized homophobia. Mike was very familiar with this mindset; he’d fought a gory, gruesome battle with his own mind for his entire adolescence, at war with himself to prevent acting upon his ever-growing romantic love for Will. But one day, his feelings finally retaliated, and his life immediately went to shit.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

Comparing the two inevitably led to some old memories resurfacing to haunt him, but Mike felt strangely lucky. He’d been let off easily. Despite the way he stood completely stupefied in his dorm room, he knew this was temporary, and had full confidence that he’d be able to recover from this pretty quickly. Said confidence was probably the only thing that saved Mike from losing his mind. Well, that, and the pressure to pass his classes distracted him for a few days. Without having done much studying at all, Mike army crawled through his finals and barely made it out alive.

About a week later, Mike moved out of his dorm hall and into an apartment about two miles away from campus. It was a pretty nice place, considering the rent he (his father) paid for it. He got a job at the local coffee shop… which he lost before the month was up, because he never showed up to his shifts. He’d been shocked when Ted insisted upon co-signing the lease, because he didn’t think his dad would be willing to help Mike stay away from Hawkins. On the other hand, though, it made sense when Ted told him flat out that he wanted Mike out of the house. Mike didn’t blame him; he’d been referred to by his father as a “leech” on multiple occasions during his stay over Christmas break, which pretty much tracked. He felt a little guilty about that one.

Mike appreciated the independence, he truly did. It was a great feeling to have his own room again, to have a more comfortable desk chair to sit at while he drew up plans for a new fantasy novel starring a gay protagonist, to have a bathroom to himself, and most importantly, to have a full-sized refrigerator to fill with all the alcohol he could ever want. But sometimes, late at night, he would catch himself getting a bit too sad.

The entire summer was an endless cycle. Mike would wake up and make a pot of coffee. He’d sit down and write a chapter or two of his book, and stick to doing that for a few hours. He would check the time (on his wall clock, of course) and take a lunch break, which was usually a box of Annie’s shells and white cheddar. After he’d haphazardly tossed his singular bowl and fork into the sink to be washed later, he’d go back to writing. This wouldn’t last long, because he’d get distracted after smoking a joint, and probably end up staring at that one photo of himself and Will from senior year (Jonathan captured the moment: Mike had, by some miracle, perched himself up on Will’s handlebars, and Will struggled to hold his bike steady because he was laughing too hard) that sat framed on his desk. He’d snap out of his trance ten minutes later and mentally kick himself for staring for so long, which led to grabbing some form of alcohol and getting wasted, like all his potential. He would make one last attempt at writing and fail miserably. He’d stumble into the shower, and drag himself through his apartment until he found his bed. Most nights, he would end up crying himself to sleep, staring at The Painting™, which he’d tacked up on his bedroom ceiling as a form of self-punishment. It was a sad way to live, really. So Mike vowed that when the school year started up again, things would be different.

That was how Mike ended up at the library in late July, browsing the mythology section, squinting at titles printed on spines while his lips formed a straight, thin line. He knew he was officially a hermit when even the library gave him social anxiety. He’d just pulled a rather old looking book off the shelf when a tenor voice behind him caught him off guard.

“Never thought I’d see the day that book would leave the shelf. You must’ve had to brush off, like, a hundred years’ worth of dust just to get to the cover.” Mike twisted around to put a face to a voice, and was pleasantly surprised when he met eyes with a short guy (well, to Mike he was short; he was probably, like, 5’9”) with dyed, firetruck red hair that fell over his forehead in a sweeping motion. Mike liked how he wasn’t afraid to be bold.

“You’re definitely right about that,” Mike smirked, setting the book down and watching as the growing pile teetered from side to side on the table’s surface. He couldn’t decide where he wanted his story to go next, let alone if he wanted to continue with his current plot at all, so he’d planned on taking a bit of inspiration from… well, everything.

“So you’re into mythology?” the guy asked, and Mike shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the bookshelf as he focused his gaze down. He had pretty eyes. They were hazel, but not too green, not like–

“Yeah, I’m a creative writing major, and I’m trying to expand my horizons a little,” Mike replied, sitting down at the table. “Like, not to discount the genius of Tolkein, because he literally founded my childhood, but sometimes it’s good to go back to the basics and draw inspiration from there.”

The guy shrugged, and sat across the table from Mike. “Nothing wrong with that. I think it’s really smart, actually. Or else stories end up getting repetitive and dull.”

“Exactly!” Mike pointed both index fingers in the guy’s direction, as if to say, “Finally, someone who understands!” Mike struggled with this concept lately; the uniqueness factor. It turned out that having a male protagonist who just so happened to be romantically attracted to other males wasn’t enough reason to get a book to sell. He needed something else, something of substance, and something that wouldn’t remind readers of other books they’d previously read. “Are you into writing as well?”

“No,” the guy shyly smiled, “I’m just into guys who write about mythology.” Pardon? Was this masculine male-dude-man hitting on him? In public? Mike wasn’t complaining, but he hadn’t necessarily picked up on any hints. Although, the dyed hair should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Oh. Um, I– wow, okay,” Mike stuttered, diverting his eyes to his books for a few seconds to process what was being said before returning to an expectant pair of hazel eyes still looking right at him. “I’m Mike, Mike Wheeler.”

“Wyatt Bowman.”

Mike cleared his throat. “Are you free in an hour, Wyatt?”

“Yeah, why?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, causing Mike to huff a nervous laugh, tapping his Ticonderoga pencil against his spiral-bound notebook at the same speed his knee bounced up and down underneath the table.

“I just gotta take some notes from here, then I was thinking we could… hang out, or something?” Mike glanced up hopefully at Wyatt.

The corners of Wyatt’s mouth curved upwards as he repeated, “Or something?”

Mike nodded, confirming their silent sub-conversation.

“Cool. That sounds like a good plan,” Wyatt said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he rose out of the seat and headed for the exit.

“Cool,” Mike whispered back, reminiscent of a certain afternoon in a certain town in California in a certain room with a certain boy that made him feel a certain way. But that was the past, and Mike believed he was ready for the future. 

When Mike started seeing Wyatt Bowman, they established that their relationship would not be serious. They were, in a small amount of words, friends with benefits. And they were actually friends. They could hang out without getting all hot and heavy. And Mike didn’t have any objections; he actually preferred the idea of friends who sometimes had sex over the label-less, no strings arrangement that he and Elvis had. It left less room for loopholes of chronic insecurity and self sabotage. It also, in turn, left more room for exploration.

Mike met Wes Butler in August at his first ever visit to an actual bar. He’d been sitting at the counter with a few of his female friends (Ruby, Alexis, and Julia), and had just received one of the fruitiest cocktails he’d ever tasted when a piece of eye candy, who might as well have been dressed in nothing, lightly tapped his shoulder and asked him to dance. Of course the girls encouraged him, not really giving him an option in the matter, but hey, good dick was good dick. It didn’t really turn into much else; once they’d had a few rounds of unnecessarily loud sex in a supply closet (ironic, but typical), Mike bid goodbye to his friends, tossing his condom wrappers in the trash on the way out.

He met another guy, Walker Brooks, in September at an off-campus nerd rave. He looked a lot like Eddie Munson, which may or may not have been coincidental. They left the party not even an hour after it began to go to Walker’s dorm. They fucked in between Lord of the Rings themed bedsheets, and Mike had to endure an excruciating hour and a half of Walker speaking Elvish rather than English. Afterwards, he invited Mike to join the University of Indy D&D Club, of which he was, of course, the Dungeon Master. Mike politely declined.

On a particularly difficult October night following being roofied followed by some unwanted advances, Mike slapped himself awake with one hand as he unsteadily held his handlebars with the other, biking back to his apartment. His grip slipped, and the front wheel hit the curb, which sent the bike to come to a screeching halt and throw Mike over the handlebars, tumbling onto the concrete. Warren Blakely, one of his classmates in English 101, watched Mike fall, stopped him from biking again before he hurt himself even more, and asked him what exactly had happened. Once he told Warren what had gone down, he wouldn’t let Mike out of his sight. Over the next two months or so, Warren kept Mike safe and let him take control back over his own life. Mike and Warren had a special bond. If Mike didn’t still love Will, and if he didn’t have such extreme trust issues, he would have absolutely dated Warren if provided the chance. But he couldn’t, not until he got over Will, so he ended things with Warren. This specific relationship put things into perspective for him. In the end, none of these men he slept with would ever be Will Byers. So he’d either have to get over Will, or find someone better.

On the nights he wasn’t at parties, he was at his desk, writing letters to Will. It was kind of cathartic, honestly. He’d rip a piece of college ruled paper out of his notebook, just like old times, and write letter after letter saying things along the lines of:

Dear Will, I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry that I love you. I’m sorry I did what I did to you. And I’m sorry I can’t take it back. I wish we could be best friends again. I wish we could have late night walkie conversations like we used to. I want nothing more than to play D&D in the basement with you for the rest of our lives. Love, Mike

These occasional letters became a part of his nightly routine… whenever he wasn’t too fucked up to focus his eyes on his own handwriting. And recently, it was more often than not that he couldn’t actually fall asleep without drinking. Mike wasn’t even of legal age yet, and wouldn’t be for another two years.

Mike stopped attending his classes halfway through the semester, so it wasn’t a surprise when his grades plummeted. His mailbox became inundated with letters from the registrar’s office, advising him to withdraw from the classes he was failing before the pass/fail deadline, but Mike couldn’t care less; so, not only did he fail out of his classes, but he couldn’t even retake the classes even if he wanted to, because his record forced him into the red zone. And the entire time, he couldn’t feel a thing.

If someone were to ask Mike Wheeler what time it was, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, he would look down at his watch and realize that said watch was not on his wrist. He would then ask himself why his watch was not on his wrist, then he would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and he was dead to Will, so he didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, he’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” He was drunk, though, so he was allowed.

Mike was at some frat party, spending what was his last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. He was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between his legs and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He’d given up some time ago on trying to pace himself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and Mike could feel the bass reverberating in his bones, which would normally make him want to get up and dance, but he wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; he was only halfway through his sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

“Hey, by any chance do you know the time?” a deep voice asked, and Mike lifted his gaze up from his lap to a muscular brunette. He blinked a few times in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

“I, uh– I don’t—” Mike stuttered, lifting his bare, watch-less wrist up to show to the guy, who merely lifted an unserious eyebrow and chuckled. He took Mike’s hand in his and let it down gently before sitting next to him on the couch.

“It’s all good, man. I was just using that as a reason to talk to you.”

Mike was surprised someone clocked him that quickly. But then again, he was wearing insanely tight jeans that he’d cut right above the knee paired with a floral print shirt. He wasn’t exactly being subtle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” the guy laughed, extending a rough, calloused hand. Did he lift weights? Or play guitar? Or both? “I’m Carter, by the way.” At least his name didn’t begin with a W. Or maybe it did, but the W was silent. Wcarter. Ouah-carter. Wah-carter. Double-you-carter. Dub-yuh-Carter. Cart… Chart… Astrological chart. Mike made a mental note to check his horoscope. What was he thinking about originally? He couldn’t remember.

Jesus. Mike was hammered.

“I’m Mike,” he replied, taking the guy’s— Carter’s— hand, but Carter didn’t shake it. He instead let their fingers intertwine, anticipatorily slow. Okay. Mike could be good with this.

“Do you maybe want to get out of here, Mike?” Carter asked, and Mike felt a blush rising to his face.

“Sure, yeah,” he breathed, and let Carter pull him up out of his sunken spot on the couch, down some hallway, and into an empty bedroom. Mike scoped out the place and noticed a photo of Carter with a dog framed on the desk; this was his room. Mike exhaled in relief. He didn’t want to have sex in someone else’s bed. Never again.

Carter pulled the door closed and locked it, turning around to face Mike before looking him up and down. Mike gulped. He hadn’t realized before, because it was so dark, but in the lamplight, Carter’s resemblance to Will was uncanny. He was a few inches shorter than Mike, and had a muscular build– that much he knew already. Thank god he didn’t have a bowl cut. He had a strong jawline but a subtle softness to his features. His lips were a light pink, the upper one a bit thinner than the lower one. The most similar feature they shared, though, was their bright green eyes, full of life, and something else Mike couldn’t name… intention? Vulnerability? Yearning?

In his inebriated state, Mike didn’t notice how close Carter had gotten until he felt two hands snaking their way up his shoulders and joining behind his neck, pulling him down until their lips met. He couldn’t move fast enough, lifting his shaking hands to rest on Carter’s waist, pulling him into his chest and deepening the kiss immediately. Carter was more languid in his movements, while Mike was more firm and calculated; this felt strangely antithetical. It probably had to do something with his increased tolerance. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but if there was one person who knew how to repress his feelings with a series of bad decisions, it was Mike Wheeler. His life was already on fire, what more could possibly happen to exacerbate the flame?

The two young men made their way over to Carter’s bed, where they quickly undressed. Carter kissed down Mike’s body, and Mike ran his hands through Carter’s hair. Then he went down on Mike without warning.

“Ah!” Mike yelped in surprise, his exclamation becoming a moan almost instantaneously. This was good. This felt nice. This is exactly what he’d imagine–

“Will…”

“Excuse me?”

And with that, the night was over. Carter stopped what he was doing, got up, muttered a “fuck you,” and left without another word. Mike felt the world zeroing in on him. He could just picture what he’d write in his next letter:

Dear Will, I said your name while another guy had my dick in his mouth. Do you believe me now? Love, Mike

next part

homepage

[demadogs]

It's weird how Byler fandom (of all people!) mostly ignores "It's not my fault you don't like girls!" Sure, some homophobes deny it and claim Will is "a slow bloomer" but for most fans, that line is seen as the show confirming Will is gay - and Mike KNOWS it. Personally I think Mike is gay too and too repressed to admit it - I think he is being a jerk here, because of his own issues. But so many fans ignore that and act like Mike thinks Will is straight, or doesn't even know gay people exist

I don't get it, because Mike has seen Will bullied for this since season one. And the scene - and Mike's behavior - is way more interesting to analyze when you know Will's sexuality is this unspoken thing between them. Because Will refusing to pretend shows up Mike. And it makes Will an option. Always there. There is no girlfriend to make him off limits. Looking at Will, Mike has to admit his own fear - and choice to date El - is the biggest obstacle to what he wants. No wonder he can't deal

To be clear, I'm not trying to shame other Byler shippers for their interpretation. But it just makes no sense to me. Mike knows he crossed a line when he says that. Like, that is the expression of someone who is afraid he basically outed his friend. And he looks like he's only starting to figure out his own feelings in the finale. If Will got a girlfriend and started faking it too, then maybe Mike would think he was wrong. But right now, it's set up that he at least SUSPECTS Will is gay.

It's hard to make your point clear in asks and I know people will misinterpret me and think I'm being an ass. But I genuinely do think the fandom is just ignoring this element of their relationship right now, and we're missing out on so many conversations that could be had about it. Because it's a way more complex and interesting headspace for Mike to be in than NOT knowing Will is probably gay. You know? There is so much more to explore there

no youre right. no one really talks about the fact that mike knows will is gay and it is an interesting thing to think about. i think mike was subconsciously projecting his internalized homophobia onto will bc he knows/suspects hes gay which is a DICK MOVE MIKE!!!

based on this i wonder how will would come out to mike if we get that scene. he might not at all. he might wait until one of then admits their feelings. im not sure, but if he does come out to him i have a feeling he’d say it or imply it pretty nonchalantly because he knows mike already knows. and that would intimidate mike a lot because he doesnt know how to be chill and accepting about sexuality like will and maybe his reaction would be mistaken for homophobia against will and thats what triggers all the angst this season. something more than just making will third wheel has to trigger the angst bc el leaves so early in the season. theres no reason for will to hold a grudge just over that the whole time.

maybe it happens at the roller rink? will could be telling him how theyve had trouble making friends at school and maybe if his alan turning project didnt go over well he’d bring that up and that would lead to him casually coming out. or heavily implying it by explaining that alan turning was gay and thats one of the reasons he did it on him. and then el’s bully encounter would distract them before mike could give a real response.

but i would also like it to continue to be this unspoken thing between them like you said. but something makes it more heavily implied that mikes knows and will knows that mike knows. it would provide a good reason to show mike thinking more about sexuality which leads to his realization of his own feelings.

[love-kurdt]

This is Me Trying (Mike's Version) (byler): 1

word count: 6,469

warnings for this chapter: lots of sexual content!! underage drinking, mentions of drug use, roofie mention bc college, internalized homophobia, maaaajooorrrr depression. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I’d given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen this coming. I had been spiraling for a long time. It all started over summer break between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. I never even wanted to go to college in the first place. What was the point of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a creative writing degree when I could just freelance and eventually get published? But my father insisted that I at least attend a state school with cheaper tuition, claiming, “You can’t run on ink and espresso, son. You have to put in the work and have the credentials to show for it.” On the bright side, it was a miracle that Dad had enough confidence in me to allow me to pursue writing at all. But I was on thin ice with my father, had been for years, so I agreed to at least think about college.

My friends chose their respective schools fairly quickly; Dustin had gotten in with a full ride scholarship to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Max and Lucas went to UCLA as sports science and physical therapy double majors, El went to Vanderbilt University in Nashville to pursue a degree in therapy, and Will… Will went to Chicago. Which school he went to, or if he went to college at all, I didn’t know. To study what, I had no clue. Where he lived within the city, I hadn’t the slightest idea. That’s what happens when your ex-best friend up and leaves without so much as a “goodbye.” I considered the day Will left to be the day my world stopped turning and time froze. So I took off my watch and hid it in a shoebox under my bed with the rest of my mini-shrine.

Dr. Owens and his team had arranged government-mandated counseling for all of those involved in the Vecnapocalypse. A year in, though, I didn’t see a point in going anymore. I was healed. I was fine. I was ready to move on with my life. Well, everyone else in the Party was ready to move on. Why wouldn’t I be? It probably hadn’t been the best decision on my part to stop going to therapy, but without Will in my life, I didn’t have much of a reason to stay in Hawkins at all, and I really didn’t feel like dredging up my past once a week to pick apart as if I were in an anatomy lab practical. Besides, I didn’t feel like arguing anymore with my dad. So, I begrudgingly packed my bags and headed to Indianapolis, killing two birds with one stone.

When I got to campus, I was assigned to dorm with this guy named Elvis (yes, as in Presley). Aside from his stupid ass name, Elvis Kuiken was a good roommate. He was a senior who kept to himself most days, when he wasn’t working. He was clean, at least by my standards (which were on the floor, literally and figuratively speaking), and he was also part of a fraternity. He’d always bring me along to parties, all in the name of the formative freshman experience. What this “experience” primarily entailed, I came to find out, was alcohol. Weed, too, no doubt… but extra emphasis on alcohol.

I didn’t want to admit it, at least not to others, but I became a lot more withdrawn since my falling out with Will. I wasn’t as outgoing, as daring, or as extroverted as I used to be. I was used to being an outcast of sorts, so not much changed there. Except now, where I used to have the confidence to at least approach people and introduce myself– “Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes.”– I couldn’t do that anymore. It was like my communicational skills had completely disappeared. But during my first party, I took a shot of tequila and must’ve made at least ten acquaintances within the three hours I was there. If only Troy could see how popular I was now. He’d piss his pants… again. It was like a light flickered on in my head; the more I drank, the more sociable I’d become. I took this epiphany and ran with it.

One time back in— September?— or something, I had been at a party for a few hours, and came up with the idea to try every single type of liquor to ever exist. I picked up a shot glass and stood at the counter for a good fifteen minutes, downing shot after shot. I woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache, unsure of how I even got back to my dorm room. But then I looked to my right and saw Elvis’s head resting on my very shirtless, hickey-covered chest. Oh. That’s how I got home. I wasn’t able to wear any shirts with collars below my clavicle for days. I didn’t hate it, though. In fact, that wasn’t the last time my roommate and I hooked up. Stumbling through the door, making out in the dark, and whispering each other’s names into otherwise complete silence until the sun came up became a regular occurrence.

Christmas break arrived, and most of my time back in Hawkins was spent trying to avoid Will. And from the way I saw it, Will was everywhere. He was the art on my bedroom wall. He was the yellow sweater that hung in my closet, probably the only colorful item in my entire wardrobe that I hadn’t thrown out, because it was Will’s sweater. He was the shea butter soap on the bathroom counter. He was the hot cocoa mix in the kitchen cabinet. He was the D&D box buried underneath my bed that I neglected since Eddie’s death in 1986. He was the Party. So I didn’t leave my basement for the entirety of mid-December to the beginning of January, with the exceptions of family dinners and sleep. I won’t lie, I was a little bit ashamed of how I’d handled things with the Party. I definitely shouldn’t have iced everyone out. My friends made various attempts to get the Party back together, and always invited me, but I’d always have some kind of excuse as to why I couldn’t hang out with them. They eventually stopped calling.

One Saturday afternoon, I was sprawled out on the couch watching Star Wars: Episode VI– Return of the Jedi, and Nancy and Jonathan came barrelling in through the basement entrance, practically swallowing each other whole. I missed the feeling of being in love. I’d cleared my throat when it started to get a bit too steamy, causing the lovebirds to jump apart in shock. Nancy smoothed her skirt while Jonathan lifted a hand into the air to greet me. I nodded back in acknowledgement. This silent interaction had me wanting to crawl out of my skin. All I wanted to do was ask Jonathan about Will; how Will was, what Will was doing, if Will had met anyone, if Will remembered me. It was like Jonathan could read my mind, because he said, completely unprompted, “He still thinks about you, Mike. He hasn’t forgotten you.” I actively committed those words to memory.

I ran into Joyce during a last minute school supplies shopping trip to Melvald’s on my way out of town. It was bound to happen at some point, what with Joyce owning Melvald’s now. I’d expected it to be awkward, but was proven wrong when Joyce practically jumped the counter to engulf me, her honorary third son, in a hug. She’d pulled me all the way down to her level, so I was bent at almost a 90 degree angle, but I didn’t care.

“How’ve you been, sweetheart? How’s Indy treating you?” she asked. That was a loaded question. It would be spectacular if your son hadn’t left, but whatever.

“It’s treating me well, I’m mostly taking my gen eds right now, but I’m always writing my own material when I’m not in class,” I grinned, trying my best to not let it look fake or forced. Joyce seemed to buy it.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I always knew you were going to become a writer,” Joyce smiled, and I nodded, staying as neutral as possible. I knew where she was going with this. “I remember it as if it were yesterday,” bingo, “that in the mornings after your sleepovers, you and Will would sit at the dining room table with your eggs and maple syrup and work on your comics for hours. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” I replied wistfully, “I do.” I glanced down at my shoes, trying not to let any tears escape. The amount of crying over Will that I’d done just within the time I was back home was pathetic. But Joyce didn’t seem to mind in the least, because she reached up and ran her thumbs over my cheeks, where a few stray tears had traveled down against my will. 

“Oh, honey,” Joyce held my face in her hands, eyes filled with compassion, and pulled me into another hug, holding me close. I had always loved Joyce, but this mutual understanding led me to reserve a special place in my heart for her.

We engaged in a little more small talk before she personally walked (dragged) me through the store with my shopping list to retrieve the items I needed. When she checked out my items at the counter, she grabbed a pen and post-it note, wrote something on it, and handed it to me. I held it up to eye level with a shaky hand.

“That’s Will’s phone number, he’s at the American Academy of Art,” she whispered. My eyes widened, and I breathed, “Thank you, Ms. Byers. So much,” before heading out the door to my car. I sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes, causing myself to fall behind schedule, but I had Will’s phone number. That was a good enough reason to be late, in my book.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, I was finally able to return to campus. I’d set my suitcase down next to my bed, and took a minute to collect my thoughts prior to unpacking. All of a sudden, Elvis clumsily tripped over his own feet through the door, sheepishly grinning at me, having just been startled. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, followed by a quiet, “hi.” Seconds later, we were all over each other.

It was around this time that I finally came to terms with the undeniable fact that I was exclusively attracted to men. I’d always believed my sexual preferences existed as a strict ratio of 70:30, with 70% being women and 30% being men. I’d always been aware of my attraction to guys (Will); I’d been sure of that for as long as I could remember. The confusing part about it all was when El came into the picture, and everyone and their mother expected us to start dating. I was, like, twelve at the time, so of course I went along with what everyone else wanted. That backfired majorly when El confronted me with tears in her eyes, asking, “But… you don’t love me anymore?” and my impulse response was, “I don’t even think I loved you romantically to begin with.” It took a long time for me and El to repair our friendship following that conversation, and to help me bullshit my parents into falling for some half-baked reason as to why my “sweetie pie” and I broke up so suddenly.

When I started my… situationship with Elvis, though, I began to question my 70:30 ratio. Elvis, to put it simply, was hot. He was taller than me, just by an inch, but it didn’t stop him from calling me “short.” I found that hilarious, as I stood at a staggering six foot three. Elvis had tanned skin, blonde hair which he kept in a preppy side part, and bright eyes that captured the essence of the bluest sky. He had full lips, a chiseled jawline, and a lean yet muscular build with the likeness of a Greek statue. Elvis had the most gorgeous hands. I particularly liked when those hands pinned my wrists above my head. I also liked when those blue eyes bore into my soul in the way that only one other pair of eyes had ever been able to do within my mere eighteen years of life. And I loved when that chiseled jawline, rough from lack of shaving, rubbed abrasively against my neck.

Elvis was adamant on there being no strings attached. He made sure to remind me every time we did anything remotely sexual, but over time, those words began to lose their potency, like watering down vodka to make it go down smoother. My wide eyes and “yes, of course, I understand”s were slowly replaced with absentminded “mmhmm”s. I figured that as long as Elvis never picked up on my social cues (or lack thereof), and as long as he never knew about me secretly developing more-than-fuck-buddies feelings for him, I would be in the clear. But eventually, something in Elvis had melted away, and he started calling me “my boy,” “love,” and “sweetheart,” amongst other gross (sweet) pet names. I assumed that Elvis had caved and given up on whatever rules he’d set for himself.

Regardless of the apparent stability in our situationship, my mind dwelled in a constant state of disarray. I knew I was not straight. I wasn’t even sure if I was bisexual. I became more conscious of who caught my eye in public, and what I wanted out of the people I interacted with. I discovered I didn’t feel the same way about curves, boobs, or soft lips as I felt when I saw a pair of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, or a tapered waistI felt different.

Part of me resented  myself for being different. I hated the idea of being a target, whether it be for my family, the government, or society as a whole. I'd tried to change. I hooked up with a few girls over the course of a week, “just to see something,” but I'd spent the entire time wondering when it would be over so I could go home. All of those girls either got bored, weren’t satisfied, or got mad that I couldn’t get it up— if not a combination of all three— and left. I scared myself a little when I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

When my encounter with the last girl fell through, I decided I didn’t want to live my life in sexuality limbo anymore. I ran all the way back to my dorm hall, hauled ass up the stairwell, and let myself into my room. Elvis spun around from where he sat at his desk, and could barely get out a “Hey, man,” before I was ripping Elvis from his chair and pulling him in, kissing him with all my might. It didn’t take long for Elvis to reciprocate my advances, kissing back with equal intensity and pushing me back until we hit the side of Elvis’s raised bed frame. I huffed a laugh against Elvis’s lips before hoisting myself up backwards and onto the mattress, watching as Elvis chased after me. He pushed his knee between my legs, and I took the hint, wrapping my ankles around Elvis’s hips. “I want to be with you, baby. With strings, all the strings,” I had told Elvis before pulling him down for another searing kiss, and… that was when my memory cut out for the evening.

I woke up the next morning, hangover hitting me like a truck, to see Elvis already awake and dressed, lifting boxes onto a trolley that was stationed in the middle of the room. Through squinted eyes, I noticed Elvis’s side of the room was essentially bare, save for the dorm furniture, which belonged to the school.

“What’s happening?” I croaked out, and Elvis dropped the box he was holding onto the pile with a loud thump. “Too loud. Headache,” I whispered sharply through gritted teeth.

“It always is too loud, isn’t it?” my roommate laughed wryly to himself, not making any effort to be any quieter. I sat up, rubbing my eyes and ignoring the fact that I was naked and in Elvis’s bed, the only thing that hadn’t been packed up yet.

“What the fuck, Elvis? What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out today, remember?” The two young men finally gained eye contact, and I felt my stomach drop like I was on a roller coaster. “I’m graduating in a few days and need my stuff out by this afternoon.”

Move out was today? Vecna must have been back with a vengeance, because how else would time move so quickly on its own? Sure, Elvis mentioned in passing, like, a few weeks ago, at most, that he was leaving soon. But it still didn’t make sense, because it was only… What, March? No, The Phone Call™ was a while ago. Was it April? My mom called me at least a few weeks prior to wish me a happy nineteenth birthday. Plus, weren’t commencement ceremonies scheduled for the weekend of– “What’s today’s date?”

I watched the blonde in front of me unsubtly scoff with impatience. “It’s May 1st, Mike.” I could only blink back at Elvis in response for a few seconds while I tried to process the fact that my brain was capable of skipping over whole months of my life. There was no way it was May 1st already. 

“No,” was the only word I was capable of saying.

“Yet here we are, baby,” Elvis sneered as he whipped his comforter off of me, leaving me exposed and humiliated. “Time flies when you’re blackout drunk. I suggest you try and get your drinking under control, before you end up having to drop out.”

It was like Elvis was a completely different person, completely different from the man who had fucked me senseless the night before. What did I do to deserve this? I didn’t do or… say anything? Oh no. Now I knew what was going on. I drank too much, opened up, and blurted out loud that I wanted to be in a relationship with Elvis, who didn’t feel the same. my face was on fire with embarrassment.

I scrambled off the bed and ran to get dressed while Elvis pulled the last of his sheets off the cheap university mattress. He didn’t fold them, and instead balled them up and shoved them in the trash. I could barely breathe. I merely stood there and watched as my gorgeous Greek (actually Dutch) god of a roommate left our shared room for the last time. Well, I seemingly dodged a bullet. What an asshole.

I was sad that Elvis was gone, but it didn’t completely destroy me the way Will leaving did. What it most likely came down to, in Elvis’s instance, was a horrible case of internalized homophobia. I was very familiar with this mindset; I'd fought a gory, gruesome battle with my own mind for my entire adolescence, at war with myself to prevent acting upon my ever-growing romantic love for Will. But one day, my feelings finally retaliated, and my life immediately went to shit.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

Comparing the two inevitably led to some old memories resurfacing to haunt me, but I felt strangely lucky. I'd been let off easily. Despite the way I stood completely stupefied in my dorm room, I knew this was temporary, and had full confidence that I'd be able to recover from this pretty quickly. Said confidence was probably the only thing that saved me from losing my mind. Well, that, and the pressure to pass my classes distracted me for a few days. Without having done much studying at all, I army crawled through my finals and barely made it out alive.

About a week later, I moved out of my dorm hall and into an apartment about two miles away from campus. It was a pretty nice place, considering the rent he (my father) paid for it. I got a job at the local coffee shop… which I lost before the month was up, because he never showed up to my shifts. I'd been shocked when Ted insisted upon co-signing the lease, because I didn’t think my dad would be willing to help me stay away from Hawkins. On the other hand, though, it made sense when Ted told me flat out that he wanted me out of the house. I didn’t blame him; I'd been referred to by my father as a “leech” on multiple occasions during my stay over Christmas break, which pretty much tracked. I felt a little guilty about that one.

I appreciated the independence, I truly did. It was a great feeling to have my own room again, to have a more comfortable desk chair to sit at while I drew up plans for a new fantasy novel starring a gay protagonist, to have a bathroom to myself, and most importantly, to have a full-sized refrigerator to fill with all the alcohol I could ever want. But sometimes, late at night, I would catch myself getting a bit too sad.

The entire summer was an endless cycle. I would wake up and make a pot of coffee. I'd sit down and write a chapter or two of my book, and stick to doing that for a few hours. I would check the time (on my wall clock, of course) and take a lunch break, which was usually a box of Annie’s shells and white cheddar. After I'd haphazardly tossed my singular bowl and fork into the sink to be washed later, I'd go back to writing. This wouldn’t last long, because I'd get distracted after smoking a joint, and probably end up staring at that one photo of myself and Will from senior year (Jonathan captured the moment: I had, by some miracle, perched myself up on Will’s handlebars, and Will struggled to hold his bike steady because I was laughing too hard) that sat framed on my desk. I'd snap out of my trance ten minutes later and mentally kick myself for staring for so long, which led to grabbing some form of alcohol and getting wasted, like all my potential. I would make one last attempt at writing and fail miserably. I'd stumble into the shower, and drag myself through my apartment until I found my bed. Most nights, I would end up crying myself to sleep, staring at The Painting™, which I'd tacked up on my bedroom ceiling as a form of self-punishment. It was a sad way to live, really. So I vowed that when the school year started up again, things would be different.

That was how I ended up at the library in late July, browsing the mythology section, squinting at titles printed on spines while my lips formed a straight, thin line. I knew I was officially a hermit when even the library gave me social anxiety. I'd just pulled a rather old looking book off the shelf when a tenor voice behind me caught me off guard.

“Never thought I’d see the day that book would leave the shelf. You must’ve had to brush off, like, a hundred years’ worth of dust just to get to the cover.” I twisted around to put a face to a voice, and was pleasantly surprised when I met eyes with a short guy (well, to me he was short; he was probably, like, 5’9”) with dyed, firetruck red hair that fell over his forehead in a sweeping motion. I liked how he wasn’t afraid to be bold.

“You’re definitely right about that,” I smirked, setting the book down and watching as the growing pile teetered from side to side on the table’s surface. I couldn’t decide where I wanted my story to go next, let alone if I wanted to continue with my current plot at all, so I'd planned on taking a bit of inspiration from… well, everything.

“So you’re into mythology?” the guy asked, and I shoved my hands in my pockets, leaning against the bookshelf as I focused my gaze down. He had pretty eyes. They were hazel, but not too green, not like–

“Yeah, I’m a creative writing major, and I’m trying to expand my horizons a little,” I replied, sitting down at the table. “Like, not to discount the genius of Tolkein, because he literally founded my childhood, but sometimes it’s good to go back to the basics and draw inspiration from there.”

The guy shrugged, and sat across the table from me. “Nothing wrong with that. I think it’s really smart, actually. Or else stories end up getting repetitive and dull.”

“Exactly!” I pointed both index fingers in the guy’s direction, as if to say, “Finally, someone who understands!” I struggled with this concept lately; the uniqueness factor. It turned out that having a male protagonist who just so happened to be romantically attracted to other males wasn’t enough reason to get a book to sell. I needed something else, something of substance, and something that wouldn’t remind readers of other books they’d previously read. “Are you into writing as well?”

“No,” the guy shyly smiled, “I’m just into guys who write about mythology.” Pardon? Was this masculine male-dude-man hitting on me? In public? I wasn’t complaining, but I hadn’t necessarily picked up on any hints. Although, the dyed hair should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Oh. Um, I– wow, okay,” I stuttered, diverting my eyes to my books for a few seconds to process what was being said before returning to an expectant pair of hazel eyes still looking right at me. “I’m Mike, Mike Wheeler.”

“Wyatt Bowman.”

I cleared my throat. “Are you free in an hour, Wyatt?”

“Yeah, why?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, causing me to huff a nervous laugh, tapping my Ticonderoga pencil against my spiral-bound notebook at the same speed my knee bounced up and down underneath the table.

“I just gotta take some notes from here, then I was thinking we could… hang out, or something?” I glanced up hopefully at Wyatt.

The corners of Wyatt’s mouth curved upwards as he repeated, “Or something?”

I nodded, confirming our silent sub-conversation.

“Cool. That sounds like a good plan,” Wyatt said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he rose out of the seat and headed for the exit.

“Cool,” I whispered back, reminiscent of a certain afternoon in a certain town in California in a certain room with a certain boy that made me feel a certain way. But that was the past, and I believed I was ready for the future. 

When I started seeing Wyatt Bowman, we’d established that our relationship would not be serious. We were, in a small amount of words, friends with benefits. And we were actually friends. We could hang out without getting all hot and heavy. And I didn’t have any objections; I actually preferred the idea of friends who sometimes had sex over the label-less, no strings arrangement that Elvis and I had. It left less room for loopholes of chronic insecurity and self sabotage. It also, in turn, left more room for exploration.

I met Wes Butler in August at my first ever visit to an actual bar. I'd been sitting at the counter with a few of my female friends (Ruby, Alexis, and Julia), and had just received one of the fruitiest cocktails I'd ever tasted when a piece of eye candy, who might as well have been dressed in nothing, lightly tapped my shoulder and asked me to dance. Of course the girls encouraged me, not really giving me an option in the matter, but hey, good dick was good dick. It didn’t really turn into much else; once we’d had a few rounds of unnecessarily loud sex in a supply closet (ironic, but typical), I bid goodbye to my friends, tossing my condom wrappers in the trash on the way out.

I met another guy, Walker Brooks, in September at an off-campus nerd rave. He looked a lot like Eddie Munson, which may or may not have been coincidental. We left the party not even an hour after it began to go to Walker’s dorm. We fucked in between Lord of the Rings themed bedsheets, and I had to endure an excruciating hour and a half of Walker speaking Elvish rather than English. Afterwards, he invited me to join the University of Indy D&D Club, of which he was, of course, the Dungeon Master. I politely declined.

On a particularly difficult October night following being roofied followed by some unwanted advances, I slapped myself awake with one hand as I unsteadily held my handlebars with the other, biking back to my apartment. My grip slipped, and the front wheel hit the curb, which sent the bike to come to a screeching halt and throw me over the handlebars, tumbling onto the concrete. Warren Blakely, one of my classmates in English 101, watched me fall, stopped me from biking again before I hurt myself even more, and asked me what exactly had happened. Once I told Warren what had gone down, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Over the next two months or so, Warren kept me safe and let me take control back over my own life. Warren and I had a special bond. If I didn’t still love Will, and if I didn’t have such extreme trust issues, I would have absolutely dated Warren if provided the chance. But I couldn’t, not until I got over Will, so I ended things with Warren. This specific relationship put things into perspective for me. In the end, none of these men I slept with would ever be Will Byers. So I'd either have to get over Will, or find someone better.

On the nights I wasn’t at parties, I was at my desk, writing letters to Will. It was kind of cathartic, honestly. I'd rip a piece of college ruled paper out of my notebook, just like old times, and write letter after letter saying things along the lines of:

Dear Will, I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry that I love you. I’m sorry I did what I did to you. And I’m sorry I can’t take it back. I wish we could be best friends again. I wish we could have late night walkie conversations like we used to. I want nothing more than to play D&D in the basement with you for the rest of our lives. Love, Mike

These occasional letters became a part of my nightly routine… whenever I wasn’t too fucked up to focus my eyes on my own handwriting. And recently, it was more often than not that I couldn’t actually fall asleep without drinking. I wasn’t even of legal age yet, and wouldn’t be for another two years.

I stopped attending my classes halfway through the semester, so it wasn’t a surprise when my grades plummeted. My mailbox became inundated with letters from the registrar’s office, advising me to withdraw from the classes I was failing before the pass/fail deadline, but I couldn’t care less; so, not only did I fail out of my classes, but I couldn’t even retake the classes even if I wanted to, because my record forced me into the red zone. And the entire time, I couldn’t feel a thing.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I'd probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I'd given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

“Hey, by any chance do you know the time?” a deep voice asked, and I lifted my gaze up from my lap to a muscular brunette. I blinked a few times in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

“I, uh– I don’t—” I stuttered, lifting my bare, watch-less wrist up to show to the guy, who merely lifted an unserious eyebrow and chuckled. He took my hand in his and let it down gently before sitting next to me on the couch.

“It’s all good, man. I was just using that as a reason to talk to you.”

I was surprised someone clocked me that quickly. But then again, I was wearing insanely tight jeans that I'd cut right above the knee paired with a floral print shirt. I wasn’t exactly being subtle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” the guy laughed, extending a rough, calloused hand. Did he lift weights? Or play guitar? Or both? “I’m Carter, by the way.” At least his name didn’t begin with a W. Or maybe it did, but the W was silent. Wcarter. Ouah-carter. Wah-carter. Double-you-carter. Dub-yuh-Carter. Cart… Chart… Astrological chart. I made a mental note to check my horoscope. What was I thinking about originally? I couldn’t remember.

Jesus. I was hammered.

“I’m Mike,” I replied, taking the guy’s— Carter’s— hand, but Carter didn’t shake it. He instead let our fingers intertwine, anticipatorily slow. Okay. I could be good with this.

“Do you maybe want to get out of here, Mike?” Carter asked, and I felt a blush rising to my face.

“Sure, yeah,” I breathed, and let Carter pull me up out of my sunken spot on the couch, down some hallway, and into an empty bedroom. I scoped out the place and noticed a photo of Carter with a dog framed on the desk; this was his room. I exhaled in relief. I didn’t want to have sex in someone else’s bed. Never again.

Carter pulled the door closed and locked it, turning around to face me before looking me up and down. I gulped. I hadn’t realized before, because it was so dark, but in the lamplight, Carter’s resemblance to Will was uncanny. He was a few inches shorter than me, and had a muscular build– that much I knew already. Thank god he didn’t have a bowl cut. He had a strong jawline but a subtle softness to his features. His lips were a light pink, the upper one a bit thinner than the lower one. The most similar feature they shared, though, was their bright green eyes, full of life, and something else I couldn’t name… intention? Vulnerability? Yearning?

In my inebriated state, I didn’t notice how close Carter had gotten until I felt two hands snaking their way up my shoulders and joining behind my neck, pulling me down until our lips met. I couldn’t move fast enough, lifting my shaking hands to rest on Carter’s waist, pulling him into my chest and deepening the kiss immediately. Carter was more languid in his movements, while I was more firm and calculated; this felt strangely antithetical. It probably had to do something with my increased tolerance. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, but if there was one person who knew how to repress their feelings with a series of bad decisions, it was me. Mike Wheeler. My life was already on fire, what more could possibly happen to exacerbate the flame?

The two of us made our way over to Carter’s bed, where we quickly undressed. Carter kissed down my body, and I ran my hands through Carter’s hair. Then he went down on me without warning.

“Ah!” I yelped in surprise, my exclamation becoming a moan almost instantaneously. This was good. This felt nice. This is exactly what I’d imagine–

“Will…”

“Excuse me?”

And with that, the night was over. Carter stopped what he was doing, got up, muttered a “fuck you,” and left without another word. I felt the world zeroing in on me. I could just picture what I’d write in my next letter:

Dear Will,

I said your name while another guy had my dick in his mouth. Do you believe me now?

Love, Mike

next part

homepage