Chapter Text
November 1987
Will leant heavily against the console table in the middle of the radio station. He knew everyone was milling around next to him, but it was like they were at a great distance, and all he could hear was a buzzing static. Someone switched off the overhead projector, then switched it on again. Doors opened and shut. The tired old bulb above his head flickered, its weak light barely illuminating the table covered in plans.
The buzzing in his ear built to a roar, then suddenly:
Silence.
He was alone.
He stared down at the console table. There was a dark notch in the wood on one corner, like a knot had been picked clean out. His fingers always made their way there, fiddling until the dent was rubbed smooth.
Will looked up sharply at a shuffling sound across the room.
Mike was standing in semi-darkness by the stairs, his posture hunched and heavy.
All week, Will had had the strangest feeling that the presentation pointer he’d been using was the wooden staff of Will the Wise, and that he could send magic bursting forth into Hawkins with just a flick of his wrist. His dreams had been filled with images of a young Mike dressed up as a paladin, careening round a bright blue bedroom and yelling at Will to duck as he pulled him from imaginary danger.
But now, all Will could think of was the painting that still sat somewhere in Mike’s room, and a confession he’d never found the courage to give.
It’s your fault, came the voice again. Always the same one; deep and terrible.
Will wanted to meet him. He didn’t care if he got hurt; he just wanted this all to be over.
He swallowed, running his fingers tentatively along the curling edges of the plans.
Over in the darkness, Mike still hadn’t moved.
‘I suppose this isn’t what you signed up for, is it,’ laughed Will ruefully, not looking at him, ‘When you walked up to me on the swings.’
‘I had no grand plans,’ came Mike’s distant voice. ‘Just being your friend.’
Mike's plain-faced sincerity made Will’s stomach ache. He huffed a dry laugh.
‘Well, look how that turned out.’
Mike made a strange face, and turned away.
Something sour curled in Will’s belly. This wasn’t about him. He shouldn’t be distracting Mike at a time like this with his wallowing, sentimental talk.
The deep, low throb of the generators hummed through the room. The sound of it had made Will anxious, once.
There was a rustling and Will looked up to see Mike shouldering off his pack. It dropped to the concrete floor with a thunk.
Slowly, he approached.
Will watched in a trance, his finger continuing its compulsive path along the sharp paper edges of the maps. The mechanical hum got louder and louder, pounding deep inside his abdomen.
Mike walked around the edge of the console table, coming to stand so close that Will could see the differing lengths of hair on his chin where he’d missed some shaving that morning. Tiny stubble, sharp and crisp, deep chocolate-black on his pale, bruised skin.
Will hissed as a slicing pain shot through his finger, and a stern voice sounded through the room.
‘Mike.’
Hopper stood in the shadowy doorway, wearing a low cap and a heavy expression. El lurked behind him in the shadows.
Will stepped hastily back from the table, clutching his bleeding finger. He glanced at Mike, who was staring at him with a look of guarded desperation.
‘Mike,’ said Hop again, low and dangerous. ‘Let’s go.’
Mike stayed still for so long that Will worried what might happen, but then he finally wrenched his gaze away and marched back around the table. He picked up his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked heavily to the door, disappearing past Hopper without a backwards glance.
Hop nodded once at Will, his expression softening, and followed Mike out of the room.
Will stood there, frozen, feeling the throb of the generator echo through his belly, a rumbling so deep it was almost comforting. The familiar blinking lights flashed across his vision, and he swayed dizzily before snapping awake and sprinting for the door.
He burst out of the radio station into the hazy dusk, throwing his hands over his eyes as Hop’s truck headlights beamed to life.
The last thing Will saw as the truck disappeared into the gloom was Mike’s face, peering at him through the passenger side window that glowed with the red-blue neon reflection of the WSQK sign.