#because of the travesty that was season three | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

love-kurdt · 4 months

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This is Me Trying (byler): 2

word count: 10,471

warnings for this chapter: maaaajooorrrr depression!!! brief sexual content, homophobia, underage drinking, panic attacks, driving under the influence, near-death experiences, suicidal ideation. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

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

Mike’s eyes danced across the ceiling of Carter’s bedroom where, surprisingly, no one had come in and tried to kick him out. He detested popcorn ceilings. They were so… textured. Texture should not belong on ceilings. Maybe it was a good thing that things didn’t end up going any further with Carter, because then, he would’ve been staring up at a goddamn popcorn ceiling while Will Byers’ doppelgänger had his way with him.

He laid on his back with his skinny legs hanging off the edge of the bed, and folded his hands together over his stomach as he got lost in the travesty that was the popcorn ceiling. He tried to imagine that the endless expanse of polystyrene was actually just extremely puffy clouds, a bowl of cooked white rice, or freshly fallen snow that had recently been compacted together by a winter boot. His eyes trailed to the junction between the ceiling and the wall, which was adorned with a string of multicolored lights. He liked those kinds of lights, even if they kind of reminded him of the ones Joyce used to communicate with Will in the Upside Down. Over the years, slowly but surely, one of Vecna’s various torture mechanisms became simply Christmas lights again.

Fuck, Christmas break was coming up soon. He needed to get Nancy and Holly gifts before making the trek back to Hawkins. He hoped he’d have enough room in his car for everything, since he wouldn’t be returning after break. The realization hit Mike out of nowhere; since he no longer had a school to attend, he’d never have an academic “break” ever again. The last one he’d participated in was Thanksgiving, and he’d wanted to have one last memory of his parents being proud of him before he became the full-fledged failure of the family. It was evident, from the way his father had made multiple homophobic remarks aimed directly at Mike from across the dinner table, that he’d already failed. He chose to keep his mouth shut about potentially dropping out, at the risk of making things even worse. Now that his college career was officially over, though, “Christmas break” would be just “Christmas” from here on out.

He wondered if Will would be back in town for Hanukkah. He hoped so. The holiday season would be different this year. Mike would get the fuck over himself and leave the house. He would repair his purposefully neglected friendships. And he’d finally get the chance to see Will again, face to face. Though chances were slim, maybe Will would hear him out. Maybe Will’s hatred for Mike had faded a little bit. He still couldn’t quite comprehend the complexity of what exactly happened within the past year, and how what Mike already assumed to be pretty damn bad became even worse, considering how well the new year started off.

As soon as Mike had arrived back at his dorm in January, he diligently thumbtacked the post-it detailing Will’s phone number on the wall above his headboard. He wasn’t normally someone who believed in karma, omens, manifestation, or any of that hippie crap (because Mike was obviously a realist and a pessimist by nature), but he truly believed that seeing Joyce at Melvald’s was fate in its finest form. Forgetting his school supplies (along with his reluctance to just go back home and grab what he needed from his room) resulted in essentially coming out to Will’s mother. And that was one step closer to getting Will back. Now, all he had to do was call that number.

The post-it stayed on his wall for three months. Elvis hadn’t mentioned or questioned it; they weren’t official, anyway, so Mike was free to see whoever he wanted. Except Mike didn’t just want to see Will. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Will. If only Mike could pick up the goddamn phone.

It wasn’t that Mike didn’t want to call; he wanted nothing more than to hear Will’s voice enveloped in grainy audio. He longed for the day he’d get to say Will’s name out loud instead of just writing it. But Mike was waiting for the right time to do it. He couldn’t call in the morning, because Will had insisted for years that, in the words of his stepfather, “Mornings are for coffee and contemplation,” and refused to be disturbed before 9am. He couldn’t call in the afternoon, because Will would most definitely be in class, or at work if he had a job, or hanging out somewhere with his new friends, and Mike didn’t want to impose upon that. And he couldn’t call in the evening, because what if the conversation went south? He didn’t want Will to go to sleep angry or upset, especially at him.

In reality, no time was a good time. Mike knew that confrontation was inexorable, and whether it came across as offensive or not was dependent upon how the conversation began. Mike, ever the strategist, prepared himself for a multitude of scenarios, from worst to best case; it turned out that predicting all possible outcomes during a supernatural war would help him immensely in this process. Ultimately, he chose to pick up the phone and call Will on the least problematic occasion he could think of: the date was March 22nd, 1990– also known as Will’s 19th birthday.

Mike had parked himself in the middle of his mattress, sitting criss cross on top of his navy blue comforter. He’d pulled his phone, monstrous, pale yellow, and with a spiral cord, off of his bedside table and into his lap. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions to be in, and Mike’s back was slightly killing him (hunching over a notebook for hours on end all day probably didn’t help either), but it was the optimal setup for either an hours-long phone call or for slamming the handset back in place and hanging up as soon as the other end of the line picked up. But Mike knew he wouldn’t ever hang up. Never on Will.

Mike drew his eyes up the headboard of his bed and onto the wall until they met the post-it, in all its glory. Mike inhaled so hard he thought his lungs would spontaneously combust from the pressure in his chest. He feared his heart would stop the second the dial tone emerged from within the earpiece. Mike knew he had to do this now, or he never would. He’d already procrastinated doing this for too long. He gulped, his finger hovering over the rotary dial, and tried his luck.

The ringback tone went through once, twice, and–

One of the Christmas lights in the otherwise dark room flickered, causing Mike’s body to snap up to attention. He rose to defend himself from any monsters in his vicinity, ready to fight the– woah, he stood up way too fast. He was, apparently, still quite intoxicated. He sat back down on the bed, eyes still glued to the string of bright, colorful lights lining the perimeter of Charlie’s… Christopher’s room? Whatever. It started with C. After a few minutes of engaging in a staring contest with a fucking lightbulb, he let his shoulders go lax. Tension that he hadn’t realized had built up released from his neck as he rested his head on his palms. He wasn’t in danger, not anymore. Well, at least, not in the paranormal realm of things. The only monster he’d have to fight was himself.

More specifically, the raging… situation that had yet to go down in his obscenely tight shorts. Cadence had done a number on him, even though it only lasted for approximately zero-point-five seconds. Mike shut his eyes tightly, not sure of what to do. He could wait longer, and run the risk of being caught with a very obvious boner by someone if they entered the room unannounced… or he could make a run for it and try not to be sidetracked by anyone he knew.

Mike opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked through, and thankfully, it didn’t look like the escape would be too arduous. He rushed out of the room, pushing through the multitude of bodies in search of the exit. The room was extremely hot, likely due to everyone’s combined body heat and the space heaters stationed in the corner of every room, which made it difficult to breathe. He hadn’t been much of a fan of the cold ever since he and Will got stuck in the Upside Down during the Vecnapocalypse. They’d ended up staying there for longer than initially anticipated; having almost kissed at one point, Mike freaked out and ran away, stupidly tripping on a vine and causing an entire side-battle in the Upside Down, nearly ruining the Party’s chance to defeat Vecna. So, no, he wasn’t much of a fan of the cold, but right now, Mike needed to escape the sensation of molten lava that crept up and slowly wrapped around his throat. His eyes caught a glimpse of the front door, and relief flooded through his veins.

But that feeling was short lived, because a vine curled around Mike’s wrist before he could take another step. He whipped around to see that the vine was actually a hand, and noticed that he vaguely recognized the hand’s owner, who was a girl from his Quantitative Literacy class. “Hey, Mike!” she smiled. She had black hair, light brown eyes, and a septum piercing. She looked badass. Bitchin’, as El would say. However, her bright teal eyeshadow, even in the dark, served as both a boner killer and the source for Mike’s impending migraine. So it was a blessing and a curse, really.

He tried to remember the girl’s name, but didn’t want to disappoint her when he’d admitted to not knowing it, so he uttered a painfully generic, “Hey! How are you doing’? Good to see you!” and gave her a rather light, impersonal hug. She appeared to be satisfied enough with his greeting. She pulled Mike down by his shoulder so she could talk in his ear without everyone hearing over the music.

“My friend over there saw you earlier and was wondering if you were single,” she said, pointing over to a group of two guys and two girls who were all huddled on the sectional couch. Mike raised a quizzical eyebrow. This conversation could go one of two ways. Mike hoped he wouldn’t have to make it awkward, but then again, he knew he probably wouldn’t ever see her again after that night. So that made him feel a little better in that respect.

“Oh,” he hesitated. “Uh… which one?”

“Shoot, I should have led with that!” she laughed. Mike laughed along, but his voice felt hollow. Luckily, she didn’t pick up on it. “The one with the blue hair! Her name is Chelsea.”

Mike looked over at the group, and made eye contact with the girl with the blue hair. He watched as she blushed and looked away. She was shy. She looked sweet. Damn it, Mike, now you’re gonna break yet another heart. What is wrong with you? Why can’t you just be normal?

“She’s pretty interested, you know,” the Girl With No Name said, unknowingly twisting the knife that rested permanently in Mike’s stomach. The lava curling around his throat became even hotter, burning through his skin.

“Yeah, totally, uh… that’s so cool!” Mike remarked passively. And yeah, it was cool, in theory… but hopelessly incompatible in practice. He glanced at the door, then back at the girl before telling her, “I hate to break it to you, but I’m straight as a circle.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m gay, like, really gay.” Mike blurted, probably loud enough for the entire room to hear. He heard someone whistle, and a few others cheered him on, but Mike wanted to burst into flames. The girl stared at Mike, stunned at his sudden outburst, seemingly at a loss for words. Mike felt himself choking on air. He needed to get out of there, and quickly.

“Okaygottagoseeya!” Mike forced out in a single breath, not leaving any time for a response from anyone before he bolted through the crowd and out the door, successfully fleeing the scene. Grass met the soles of his Chuck Taylors as he continued to run across the campus quad, his breathing quick, ragged, and uneven. The frigid December weather did nothing to soothe the burning sensation throughout Mike’s body, which by now felt like it was burning from the inside out. His feet loudly slapped the pavement below him, and Mike was proud that he hadn’t slowed down or stopped yet. If one good thing were to come out of his time at the University of Indianapolis, it was his improved stamina from all the sex. Well, that’s fucking sad… and kind of hilarious, Mike thought.

He sprinted a few blocks, not caring to look for any oncoming cars. If he got hit, cool. Awesome. He’d thank the driver as he bled out in the street. But no one came to take him out of his misery. So he kept running, and running, and running. Mike’s long legs screamed as his practically nonexistent muscles struggled to carry him. The prickly, thin air he breathed in through his mouth reminded him of the sensation when he’d chewed a piece of mint gum and drank water right after. It was so fucking cold, but he was so fucking hot. Like, there was sweat dripping down his face. Or were those tears? Was he seriously fucking crying again?

Up until last year, Mike had never been the type of person to openly cry. He wasn’t raised to share his feelings or emotions. That was part of the reason as to why Mike had been so uncomfortable with the prospect of going to therapy. He never opened up to anyone, because he hated the feeling of defenselessness, and even more so despised the idea of being seen as weak. He prided himself on being the “fearless leader” of the Party. For fuck’s sake, he’d been the one to stare Vecna down as he thrust a sword straight into his heart. He’d proven his strength as a leader time and time again. But what would happen when Mike Wheeler let his guard down?

It turned out that Mike didn’t have to let his guard down; Will broke it for him. Will’s departure broke the dam of emotional repression that Mike had worked so hard for years to maintain. Mike suddenly became unable to stop himself from crying. He’d always silently envied Will for being able to express his emotions so freely, but now that Mike could do so as well, albeit uncontrollably, he didn’t envy Will at all. He wasn’t sure how Will had done it for all those years; the migraines, the exhaustion, the dehydration… It was awful. And Mike felt even worse when he recalled all the times when he was the reason for making Will cry.

Mike had also gotten accustomed to panic attacks. He had his first one on the day Will left. His mom came into his room to check on him. He’d looked up at her with scared, red-rimmed eyes, and his shoulders violently shook as he hyperventilated. His mom swiftly jumped into action, meeting Mike where he was at, grounding him, and helping him come back to earth. She’d held Mike in her arms as he sobbed, comforted him, and didn’t pry. But… she knew. He could never express enough gratitude towards his mom for what she did for him that day. Little did he know, though, that it only got worse from there. The second one happened after The Phone Call™, which led to his initial downward spiral. The third one happened in Warren Blakeley’s car after he’d been drugged and assaulted at that one party. And the fourth one… ‘twas a-brewin’.

Mike found his car despite his impaired vision, nearly ripped the driver’s side door off its hinges with how roughly he opened it, and slammed it shut behind him. He collapsed his entire body weight against the steering wheel before letting out the loudest, most guttural scream that he hadn’t even been aware he was capable of. He reached his hands up into his scalp, pulling fistfuls of hair with his hands as his surroundings melted away. Mike genuinely felt like he was going to die. Everything he’d said, done, and experienced within the past year and a half had been slowly building up inside him, and this was him finally cracking under the pressure.

Dear Will, I hate you. Dear Will, you broke me. Dear Will, I crave you. Dear Will, why? Why, why, why– Dear Will, fuck you. Dear Will, go to hell. Dear Will, I’m sorry. Dear Will, I miss you. Dear Will, I love you. Dear Will—

Mike turned his keys in the ignition, and the engine came roaring to life. He lifted his head up to the rear view mirror, rubbed his eyes a few times, and took a look at his reflection. The person staring back at him looked absolutely horrendous. He looked as if he hadn’t fully slept through the night since 1983. And that wasn’t far from the truth; Mike could count on a single hand how many a good night’s sleep he’d had since the day Will was first taken by the demogorgon, and all of those times, Will was there, by his side.

Mike shifted gears and turned his headlights on, pulling out of his spot and drifting out into the street. He knew what he was doing was a bad idea. Driving drunk was, first of all, illegal, and secondly, dangerous to not just himself, but to others. But he couldn’t give less of a shit; he’d figured out what he needed to do. He slowed down to a stop at the red light of the intersection where he’d have to take a left to go home.

“When you’re… different, sometimes you feel like a mistake. But you make [me] feel like [I’m] not a mistake at all. Like [I’m] better for being different. And that gives [me] the courage to fight on. If [I] was mean to you, or [I] seemed like [I] was pushing you away, it’s because [I’m] scared of losing you, like you’re scared of losing [me]. And if [I] was going to lose you, I think [I’d] rather just get it over with quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

The light turned green, but Mike didn’t turn left. He tapped his fingertips against the center console, drove straight ahead, past the light, and turned on his right hand signal.

He swerved onto I-65.

“Hello?” a familiar voice answered. Mike felt his breath hitch. His voice was deeper than Mike remembered. It was like he’d gone through a second puberty, if that were even possible.

“Will! Hi!” Mike exclaimed, sounding far too enthusiastic for his own good. He waited for a reply, but could only hear Will breathing on the other end of the line. He went to speak again, but Will beat him to the punch.

“… Mike?” Will said his name in a tone that Mike could only label as nostalgic dread. Oh god, he shouldn’t have called him. He shouldn’t have called him, but he did, and Will was on the phone, and had just said Mike’s name for the first time in a year.

Mike reclined onto his comforter so he was lying on his back with his knees bent, wrapping the cord around his finger a few times as he spoke. “Yeah, um… I was just calling to wish you a happy birthday, and to tell you that I miss you.” Well, that was vague, Wheeler. You can do better than– “And love you. So much.” …that. Fuck. Too far.

He heard Will gasp, then try to cover it up by clearing his throat a few times before responding. “How’d you get my number?”

Friends don’t lie, so Mike told him. “Your mom gave it to me over Christmas break.”

Will exhaled. Mike always savored that sound, and would have been content if that was the last sound he’d ever hear. But… that specific exhale didn’t convey contentment; this one was laced with light exasperation. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

Mike begged to differ. She most definitely should have done that, and Mike would be eternally grateful that she did. In the eleventh hour, where all hope appeared to have been lost in the most abysmal Christmas break to ever exist, Joyce Byers saved Mike Wheeler’s life. She’d given him a reason to keep on going.

“And you probably shouldn’t call me again.”

The color drained out of Mike’s face. His stomach churned with anxiety that seemed to exponentially increase by the second, and he suddenly felt the urge to throw up. This was the worst case scenario, but he didn’t think much of it. It was only a hypothetical, it wasn’t supposed to actually happen! Will was pushing Mike away. Again. But why?

“What have I ever done to you, Will?” Mike heard himself ask, his voice small. He felt like a kid again. At the end of the day, he was still a kid. He’d had to grow up too fast, a powerful disquiet having annihilated a majority of his childhood. He’d been so uncertain of where he’d end up after the war was over. And the one time Mike was sure of himself, sure of his feelings, and sure that Will Byers was his heart, he–

“Enough. You’ve done enough,” Will’s voice, followed by the sound of the dial tone made Mike’s blood run cold. He set the handset back into its cradle, and continued to lay there on his twin-sized mattress, the rest of his body completely frozen. He felt his facial features involuntarily crumpling in upon themselves as the grief consumed him.

This had to be a nightmare. This couldn’t be real. Mike rarely prayed; he only did in life-threatening situations, where the probable end result was dying. But right now, Mike prayed the hardest he’d ever prayed in his entire life. Please, God, help me wake up. Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, whoever the hell you are, if you even exist at all… if this is real life, please kill me. I can’t live like this. After a minute or so, he opened his eyes. Nothing. Mike huffed a quiet laugh to himself; it was so typical of him to place responsibility on others, let alone God, to deal with his problems. He’d have to face this alone. He was always alone. And he fucking hated it.

Mike hated that he would never have Will in the way he wanted him, no, the way he needed him. Mike hated that he could never seem to get the closure that he believed he deserved. Mike hated that Will wouldn’t just be honest with him! You’ve done enough. What the fuck did “enough” even mean? Had he done something else? Did he do something other than that one time in August? Something during his first semester, or over Christmas break, that he couldn’t remember due to his steadily consistent, months-long intoxication? He couldn’t think of a single thing, which made him even angrier.

He wished he could just… fall out of love with Will, or something. Maybe Mike could fall out of love with him. What was the worst that could happen if Mike picked up the handset again, and dialed the number written on that cursed post-it? What if he said to Will, “Actually, I don’t love you. That was just me being crazy”? Crazy together, that’s what would happen. He’d be reminded of the young boy who recognized his more-than-platonic love for Will; a version of himself that he could never get back; a boy who would call him out for lying to both Will and himself, because friends don’t lie. It wouldn’t be a lie to say that Will had hurt Mike badly enough to justify a grudge. At least he thought so. Then again, Mike hated grudges, and the person he became when he held them. Scratch that, he hated the person he’d become, period. He didn’t recognize himself anymore.

He’d started at the University of Indianapolis entirely heartbroken, but on the other hand, he’d finally discovered his identity as a young gay man. He met some new people, and fucked a lot more of them. But parties have to end sometime. Mike would lay in bed, covered in the sweat and cum of a random guy asleep next to him, and would get weirdly emotional when his mind would, as always, drift to Will. He’d sometimes close his eyes and pretend the guy was Will, and he’d fall for his own brain’s tricks, if only for a minute. After that minute was up, and he’d remember that Will hated his guts… he would drink. A lot. He was the life of the party… with a side of alcoholism. His temper got worse, his fuse got shorter, and his overall outlook on life became so cynical that he sometimes even contemplated dying, and not the kind of dying involving bones snapping and eyes exploding. But he’d never followed through with anything in his entire life, so he knew he wouldn’t be able to kill himself even if he wanted to.

The tears that previously poured out of his eyes like waterfalls had dried up, their presence remaining evident in the stiffness on the surface of Mike’s cheeks. He hiccuped, the sharp intake of air causing him to develop a cramp under his ribcage. He grimaced in pain, sitting up and lowering his feet to the linoleum floor. He shuffled to his wardrobe and opened it, sifting through some oversized sweatshirts, a windbreaker, and Will’s godforsaken yellow sweater before he found what he was looking for. It was over. This was it. He’d had his chance, and he lost Will for the third time in his life. He picked up the bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to his lips. Fuck Will Byers. Fuck everything.

The sun had traveled up and down across the horizon a few times following The Phone Call™ when he’d startled awake to a shrill ringing in his ears. He checked his alarm clock to see the time, and he rolled his eyes. He extended his arm out to grab the phone without having to move the rest of his body. “Bitch, I swear to God, you better be either pregnant or broken up with by Nathan, because it is two o’clock in the goddamn–”

“Mike. It’s El.”

Mike sat up then, his eyes wide with conviction. “El? Jeez, I’m so sorry for that incredibly blunt greeting. My friend Alex tends to call me around this time with all her latest life crises, so… I just kind of assumed.”

El hummed in understanding. “It’s okay. Let’s hope your friend Alex doesn’t actually get pregnant or broken up with, though.”

“Yeah, that would not be good,” Mike agreed with a laugh, leaning back onto his pillows and staring at the ceiling. He’d missed the sound of El Hopper’s voice. It had been way too long. “So, uh, what’s up?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” El replied, and Mike’s reminiscing came to a full stop. Of course Will had called El. They were siblings who told each other everything. Even back when they were kids, especially after Joyce and Hopper finally got married, Will and El were joined at the hip.

“What happened?” she asked him, and Mike scoffed, lifting his free hand to run it through his hair, regretting it immediately when his fingers got caught in one of the many knots, since Mike hadn’t washed his hair in nearly a week.

“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive for you to hear the same story twice?”

“I want to hear it from your perspective,” El told him, and Mike clenched his jaw.

“Okay. Fine. Where do I start?”

“From the beginning would be great.”

So Mike told her. He started at the beginning, all the way back to when Will and El had just moved back to Hawkins in April of 1986. He told her about how he and Will hadn’t spoken for the whole six months that he’d been in California. He told her about how he had, in fact, written letters to Will; he’d just never sent them. He told her about the distance that Will carefully maintained between the two of them throughout the entire duration of the Vecnapocalypse, up until when they’d almost kissed in the Upside Down. He told her about how Will–

“And then a few days ago I called him to wish him a happy birthday and… El, I genuinely think he hates me. He hung up on me and… I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. I can't undo the past, and I can't get him out of my head.”

El remained silent for a few seconds, and Mike feared that their call might have been disconnected and he’d been talking to no one. But then, he heard the faint sound of El breathing, so he continued, “If any of this gets back to Will–”

“Why do you think I called you, Mike?” El cut him off, and Mike sat there in silence, unable to reply. “I called because I care, and because I want the best for both you and Will. Not just Will. I think you did the right thing letting him know you’re still there if he wants you to be.” Well that was… unexpected. And really kind, considering that this was the first time they’d spoken since she moved to Nashville. He truly had no idea why El still gave a shit about him after everything. He’d been a shitty boyfriend and a shitty friend, and these reasons alone were appropriate grounds to cut him out of her life. But El stuck around.

“Oh,” Mike whispered. “Thanks.”

“I just…” she trailed off. Oh no. What now?

“Just what?” he pressed, and he heard El sigh. Greeeaaaaat.

“I just think you shouldn’t have called so soon.”

“So soon?” Mike repeated, horrified. “El, it’s been seven months since I last spoke to him! When do you think should I have done it?” Should he have waited until they were out of school for the summer? Should he have waited until they were both out of college? Should he have waited until Will had forgotten about him?

“You should have let him call you,” El said to him, her voice strangely calm. “Or not called him on his birthday of all days. I don’t know, I’m just throwing ideas out there.” Yeah, no shit. Mike reached over to his bedside table again to pick up the bottle of whiskey, which still had about half left, and took a gigantic gulp, instantly regretting it when it scorched his esophagus.

“I don’t see how the fuck this is helping, Eleven,” he spluttered, wiping his mouth roughly with his sweatshirt sleeve. Sometimes, Mike wished El’s powers extended beyond telekinesis and telepathy, and, like, contained the key solution to all of his problems. That would be ideal. But no, she had to be all vague and mysterious and just throw ideas out there.

“Okay, well, if you want to be that way, then fine,” El’s tone turned cold. “I highly recommend you consider hashing it out in person.” She had no idea what she was talking about. The Will she had spoken to must have been a figment of her imagination, because Will had made it abundantly clear that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with Mike. As far as Mike was concerned, he’d never see Will again. But then El spoke once more. “I hope you and Will can eventually get your heads out of your asses and admit that you still love each other.”

With that, the line clicked, and Mike was alone with his thoughts. Or rather, one lone phrase, as the rest of his mind faded to nothingness: You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. Those words played on a loop in Mike’s mind as he finished off his bottle of whiskey. From that moment on, “sobriety” and “Mike Wheeler'' would not appear in the same sentence, not until—

Woaaaahhhh! Livin’ on a prayer!!! The key change of the Bon Jovi song woke Mike back up with a start. This had already happened a few times, but thankfully, the loud rock music on Will’s mixtape would startle him awake each time he nodded off behind the wheel.

Mike concluded that he couldn’t blink anymore. Though his eyes were incredibly dry, due to lukewarm air blasting through the vents and directly hitting his corneas, blinking would cause Mike’s heart rate to lower and the rest of the world to move in slow motion. If only for a few seconds of his life, he’d trade out the mental torment, the anger, and the loneliness for tranquility, quiet, and warmth… then his eyelids would droop closed.

Mike pressed his foot a little harder on the gas pedal, trying not to get distracted by the corn fields that seemed to sway to the music with him. Hopefully Mike would get his third wind sooner than later (his second one was fleeting, and died out as soon as it began). The sun was coming up, which was definitely going to help keep him awake. The song ended, followed by a few seconds of suspended quiet between songs before a familiar guitar riff met Mike’s ears.

“Oh, fuuuuck me. Goddamnit,” Mike indignantly announced to the universe, gripping his fingers tighter on the steering wheel. The voice of Joe Strummer began to shout alongside the wailing electric guitar. Now, Mike was very awake. His mind became a film reel, playing back memories he thought he’d blocked out a long time ago.

Darling you’ve got to let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

Once everyone had been debriefed on what was happening in Hawkins, Will and Jonathan immediately went to work on making customized mixtapes for everyone. Mike sat on his father’s La-Z-Boy in the living room and watched in awe as the brothers put their minds together and churned out each tape as if it were second nature. He couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of Will’s extensive musical knowledge, for one, as well as the strong sibling bond they shared. Having grown up surrounded by sisters, Mike often felt like the odd one out. His parents shamelessly and openly favored his sisters over him, which further excluded him, whether it was intentional or not, on their part. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if they ever found out he was gay. That would be a disaster.

If you say that you are mine / I’ll be here till the end of time.

While Will and Jonathan were out getting more cassettes, Mike got a hold of and sifted through everyone’s handwritten lists. He had no idea Dustin enjoyed metal music so much; most of his list consisted of songs by Black Sabbath and Metallica. It wasn’t much of a surprise to him, considering how much of an impact Eddie Munson had made on the two of them. He still couldn’t believe he was gone. Part of him refused to accept it. Eddie could still be alive. He was just in the Upside Down somewhere. They could still save him. There was still time. There had to be time. Mike’s subconscious must have known he’d needed a distraction from the subject of Eddie— not dying— yes, dying, because he found Will’s list. To Mike, this list was a small glimpse into Will’s mind, so he decided to memorize it. He’d do anything to get closer to Will, even if it meant racking his brain in the process.

“You like my mix?” Will’s deep vocal timbre demanded Mike’s attention, and he swiveled his upper body around to see Will leaning over his shoulder, his hands planted on either side of Mike on the back edge of the chair. When did he get back home? That didn’t matter, because Will’s arms looked amazing in Mike’s blue and yellow striped shirt, stretching the short sleeves in all the right places. Was that a vein on his bicep? Mike gulped loudly, becoming flustered at their very close proximity. God, he needed to get ahold of himself. Pining over his best friend like this was not—

“I can make you a copy if you want,” Will said, and Mike’s eyes lit up in surprise. Will would really do that for him? Mike realized then that he hadn’t said any actual words during this entire interaction, and borderline blushed at the thought of Will rendering Mike speechless, but he needed to talk. Now.

“Really?” he asked, and Will nodded. “That would be amazing! Thank you!”

“Of course. I’ll have that ready for you in about an hour,” Will smiled, pulling out of Mike’s space, but not removing his hand from the recliner. Mike took this moment to shift in his spot to face Will, placing his hand atop his friend’s before he could walk away. Will turned back in Mike’s direction, eyes frantic yet welcoming.

“You’ve always had the best music taste of the Party. I’ve missed it,” Mike had a sentimental streak, what could he say?

“You have?” Will squeaked out, seeming surprised at Mike’s confession.

“Uh, of course! Why wouldn’t I have missed it?” Mike asked, and Will shrugged.

“I dunno, just… you’ve always liked synth pop stuff more than punk rock. Like, your first song on your list is ‘Smalltown Boy’ by Bronski Beat… which I’m not entirely shocked by? But I always thought you liked that kind of stuff over my taste.”

“Well, you thought wrong, Byers, because your music has always been my favorite to listen to,” Mike quipped, his voice infected by his ever-growing grin. “You taste top tier.”

Wait, did Mike just… What did he just say? He said, quote, “You taste top tier.” As in Will Byers, as a person… tasted top tier. What if… Mike’s mind meandered into treacherous territory as he wondered what Will tasted like– NO! Not now! He was just about ready to pass away right then and there. Mike could just imagine his headstone; Here Lies Michael James Wheeler. Cause of Death: Inability to Formulate a Fucking Sentence.

“Oh, do I, now?” Will raised an eyebrow, a smirk lifting a corner of his gorgeous mouth. Mike nearly fell off the chair. Could his egregious mistake have given him a little bit of leverage in the flirtation department? Will seemed to think so.

Mike played it off casually with a simple, “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Will remarked, placing his other hand over both of theirs, sandwiching Mike’s hand between Will’s palms. So Will liked being (accidentally) flirted with. Note to self, Mike thought, fuck up more often.

Mike smiled so big that his mouth nearly fell off his face. “Cool.”

So you gotta let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

It was the summer of 1989, and all was well. Hawkins was no longer nationally renowned as an extra-terrestrial hybrid between earth and hell, but simply as a small town in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. It was the summer of 1989, and Mike was lying on the basement couch with his legs hanging off the edge. His eyes were closed, and he wore his headphones which were attached to his Walkman, playing Will’s mixtape on repeat, just as Mike had from the second it fell into his hands back in 1986. He felt the thumps of the opening and closing of the basement door, followed by light footsteps treading down the stairs. He cracked a singular eye open, but opened them both fully when he registered that it was Will who was entering his space.

“Mike, we’ve gotta talk.”

It's always tease, tease, tease / You're happy when I'm on my knees

“Okay, what’s up? Are you–” Mike sat up, pulling his headphones fully off his head and resting them around his neck. Then he saw the look on Will’s face. He looked livid.

One day it's fine, and next it's black / So if you want me off your back / Well, come on and let me know / Should I stay, or should I go?

“What the fuck are these?” Will spat. Mike’s eyes widened at what Will held in his hands. How did he–

“SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO NOW!!!” Mike cried out, cranking the window down with his free hand and letting the wind rush through his long, black hair. His sobs broke into a maniacal, rueful laugh as his hair violently whipped into his eyes. He lifted his left hand and extended it out the driver’s side window, feeling his fingers being forced apart and back together by the rippling sea of oxygen and carbon. Rock bottom felt like the top of the world.

“IF I GO THERE WILL BE TROUB-ALLLLLLL,” he yelled through the thick strands, spluttering a bit as some pieces made their way into his mouth. He tugged them away, but to no avail, as the wind obviously had a mind of its own, but Mike continued on with his tirade of near-incoherent screeching, face full of loose curls. “AMIFF I SHTAY ISHWILLBEE DUBALLLL!”

The road took a slight bend, and Mike obliged to the demands of the pavement. The sun was bright enough that it burned into his retinas. He pushed his hair out of his face once more to view the scenery, only to be met with a pair of bright yellow headlights belonging to a tractor trailer. Only now did he perceive the loud noise of the truck’s horn; his car radio had been blocking it out. He also noticed that he was in the opposite lane, and about to collide head-on with the trailer if he didn’t move fast enough,

With enough adrenaline to fuel a thousand demodogs, Mike swerved to the right and dodged the truck with only seconds to spare. He took a moment to process the fact that he could have died. He knew his hands held the steering wheel, and his foot was still on the gas, but the rest of him was thoroughly detached from reality. “Should I Stay or Should I Go” blared on through the speakers, but Mike could only feel the vibrations rumbling from the floor of the car. He could have died, but he didn’t. But he felt his heart stop, and it felt simultaneously comforting and cataclysmic..

Mike knew that he couldn’t continue on, not like this. As if the road could read his mind, a small lookout area appeared within his vicinity, and he took this as a sign to pull over onto the shoulder to regroup. He parked his car, turned the music down, and clasped his hands in his lap, waiting a few more seconds before turning the car off, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door.

The actual sun had begun to rise. The air was crisp, and the wind chill slightly nudged it into even colder temperatures, sending a shiver down Mike’s spine. He hastily cowered back into the lingering warmth of his vehicle, searching the passenger side for… there it was. He pulled a crimson colored University of Indianapolis sweatshirt from behind him and shoved it over his shoulders, zipping it up. He did a double take at what the block-style letters spelled out, rolling his eyes and laughing bitterly to himself at the sheer irony. He continued to laugh as he opened the car door once more, heading towards the lookout.

Mike stood at the top of a steep cliff, guarded by a rusty guard rail that looked like it would fall apart with the next gust of wind that hit it. The trees below him were bare, their branches contorting every which way, slicing the air around them like an army of spears. Beyond the line of trees he could see the miles-wide stretch of farmland, and the miniscule house that sat on the corner of the property, chimney smoking. In an atmosphere as peaceful as this one, Mike stood idly at the edge of the lookout, thinking about how this would be a beautiful place to die. If he were to lift just one leg over the rail…

Mike, don't do it! I don't need my baby teeth, twelve year old Dustin’s voice echoed from the back burner of his mind. Seriously, don't do it, man! Of course his thoughts traveled back to that time at the quarry. How could he ever forget? Even as a child, he’d been completely wrecked without Will. If this memory proved anything, it proved that history repeats itself.

Dentist's office opens in five, young Troy’s voice began, and Mike glanced down. This time, he wouldn’t be able to turn back. Four… This time, El wouldn’t be able to save him. Three… This time, no one would be there to grieve for him. Two…

“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.”

“But I did mean it!!!” Mike screamed into the silence, startling a flock of birds below. He lifted his hands up to his face, covering his bloodshot eyes. He heaved out a low growl, raising his voice until it hit the top of his range, cracking with an agonizing shriek. “I meant all of it! I love you! I always have! Fuck, Will, why couldn’t you just see that?!”

He let out a quiet sob, but no tears followed; he’d cried the rest of them out over the course of the past few hours. His throat felt like it had been rubbed with coarse sandpaper. He took a step back from the ledge and kicked a few of the rocks at his feet, watching them fall. Mike decided he didn’t want to die that day; not by alcohol poisoning, not by tractor trailer wreck, and not by jumping off a cliff. The only way he could die was if he did all he possibly could to get Will back. He turned his back on the trees, briskly walking back to his car.

I’m gonna make sure you, William Jacob Byers, know that I meant every single word.

About half an hour later, Mike walked into the convenience mart of a gas station. His hangover headache was beginning to form, and his intermittent yawning had become more and more frequent, so he figured some coffee would solve both of those problems. He stopped at the entrance, looking down at the stack of newspapers to his right. Mike recalled himself making a mental note back at the frat party to check his horoscope, so he leaned down to pick one up, searching for Aries when he found the page.

December 15th, 1990: Do expect some appreciation for the efforts you've put into recent days, dear Aries. However, do not get your hopes too high, because your actions may not lean towards gratification if you expect too much.

Well, Chicago Sun Times, it’s a little late for that, Mike thought, tossing the paper back onto the pile and walking to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water, and then to the coffee station. He filled a cup and dumped about seven packets worth of sugar into it before capping it off and heading to the register.

The clerk behind the counter, an older man, looked like he’d been having the best goddamn morning of his life. He beamed from ear to ear, and Mike could feel the positivity radiating off of this man from a mile away. When he got closer, he noticed a singular studded earring on his right earlobe.

“Hi, how’s it going?” The man smiled at Mike, crows feet forming in the outer corners of his eyes. Mike tried to mirror the expression, but failed miserably.

“It’s going,” he sighed, setting the water and coffee down on the counter and watching the clerk type in the prices on the register.

“Looks like it. You look rough, kid,” the man sympathized, pulling the money Mike slid onto the counter towards him and counting the bills. Mike shifted from foot to foot, anxiously waiting for the cashier to hand him his change so he could get out of there.

“Wanna talk about it?” he quirked an eyebrow, and Mike stopped his fidgeting. He looked up at the clerk, took a deep breath, and–

“Yeah. God, you don’t know the half of it. So I’m gay, right? And, like, that’s cool. And I’m in love with this friend of mine who I’ve known since kindergarten. He’s… he was my best friend. For years. And we went through this major thing that nearly killed us, but somehow it didn’t, and that was great, because then I was able to tell him how I felt. Right? Wrong. So, like, he moved to fucking Chicago without any kind of warning, or maybe, I don’t know, a Hey Mike, you hurt me because you said or did A, B, and C, and this is why I’m leaving. Something that could represent ‘the end’ to me. Because I’m not that great at picking up on when to quit beating a dead whore– horse. Horse. Jesus. I’m not beating any whores, I promise. But anyway, I went to U of Indy, and that was fan-fucking-tastic, because I was finally okay with who I am. I’m pretty good at the gay thing, and other guys seemed to really dick– uh, dig that. And by that, I mean, well… you can put two and two together, right? Right. Okay. So, even when I was with all these guys, I always thought about Will. All the time. He’s a part of me, you know? I couldn’t imagine life without him. So when I called him up on his birthday in March, which was about seven months into the not-talking-to-each-other thing, which I never signed up for in the first place, he basically told me to fuck off and never speak to him again. And then I realized I had to live without him, so I kind of spiraled, and now I can’t fucking sleep without drinking, and I can’t function without some form of physical touch from another man, but I’m never fucking fulfilled because it’s not Will who’s doing the physical touch, and I fucking love him, and I need him more than he needs me, and now I’m fucking driving to Chicago to find him and… Oh my god, I literally just poured my heart out to a stranger. I’m still kind of loopy. I’m so sorry.”

“That you did. I’m happy to listen, though,” the cashier merely chuckled, waving his hand in friendly dismissal. “You’ve really been put through the wringer, kiddo.”

“Well… thank you,” Mike softly smiled as he took his change from the counter, and shoved it into his pocket before turning around in preparation to leave.

“Best of luck in your travels! Go get your man!” the clerk called after him, and Mike laughed as the glass door slowly fell shut behind him.

Pulling onto the campus of the American Academy of Art was not something Mike had expected to be on his Sunday agenda, but here he was, pulling into a visitor parking spot next to the Admissions office building. He got out of his car, slamming the door, and smoothing his jeans over his thighs, feeling slightly self conscious about how they’d been crumpled up in a ball in his back seat after his most recent midnight excursion with Wyatt Bowman. Although, if he were being honest, anything was better than those denim cutoffs. Especially considering the mission he was currently on. Speaking of.

At first glance, this was not a traditional campus. There was not a single quad to be seen. There were no outdated buildings or directories, let alone any form of indication of a college campus, aside from the little rectangular flags with the school’s logo that hung from every other lamppost lining the sidewalks. All of the academic buildings were dispersed amidst other buildings belonging to different businesses and companies within a specific limit of blocks, which would make it much more difficult for Mike to figure out where the hell Will could even be within this organized chaos. Mike figured it would make the most sense to head into the Admissions office building first, so he could at least get a map.

The interior of the building was bright, with students’ art framed along the walls. He walked over to the nearest painting in the room, pausing to admire the work. There was a Monet-inspired landscape closest to the door, and a cubist portrayal of a still life stationed beside it. Mike could see why Will chose this school. They cultivated the talents of their students and turned them into true artists. Nothing could have prepared Mike for the next piece that caught his eye.

It was him. It was Mike; large in scale, vibrant, and full of life. Mike held his breath and stared back at the incredibly detailed, realistic portrait. He knew he didn’t need to look at the label that was tacked to the bottom of the painting to know whose work it was, but he couldn’t help himself. His eyes dragged downward and nearly passed away when he read the title: William Byers (b. 1971), “The Heart” (1989). Oil on Canvas. Mike’s chest swelled with pride, but quickly deflated at the looming, deafening voice in his head that routinely reminded him of what he’d lost. But that’s where everything stopped making sense.

The label stated that Will had painted “The Heart” in 1989, the same year that Will left Mike without turning back. He’d begun attending the American Academy of Art in September of that same year, leaving only three and a half or so months of the semester to complete the painting. So why would Will, after he completely erased Mike out of his life, still refer to Mike as the heart? And which heart was Will referring to? His own, or the one he’d shattered? Mike hadn’t realized he’d zoned out, so when a middle aged lady appeared next to him, he nearly leapt out of his skin. Her outfit, a floor length dress paired with a shawl, made her look quite ominous out of the corner of his eye.

“This is one of my favorites,” the woman stated.

“Yeah… mine, too,” Mike hummed, unmoving.

“Have we met?” she began, but didn’t give him a chance to reply. “Perhaps you’re one of my lecture students, I can never quite put a name to a face. But I must say, you look quite familiar,” she told him, turning back to the painting with her arms crossed over her chest, deep in thought.

“Probably because I’m the guy in the painting, heh.”

“Oh gosh, silly me!” the woman exclaimed, flushing red as she put a palm to her forehead. “I didn’t even make the connection! So I assume you’re close with the artist, then?”

“Yeah, I know…” Mike began, then cut himself off with a grimace. “Knew him.”

“How nice!” Luckily, she didn’t pick up on Mike’s vacant expression. Instead, she continued on, “If you’d like, I can connect you with some students if you’re interested in touring the school.”

“Uh, no thank you, ma’am, that’s alright. I was just wondering if I could have a map if there’s one available?” he asked, and she nodded, turning on her heel to open a drawer of the front desk.

“Of course! And no need to call me ma’am, Miriam works just fine.”

“Well, thank you very much, Miriam,” he smiled at her as she handed him two pieces of color-coded, glossy paper; a campus map, and a map of Chicago.

“You’re very welcome, Mike. And when you see him, tell Will that I ordered those brushes he needed.” He didn’t recall ever telling her his name, or mentioning Will in their short conversation, but Mike became hyper aware of the fact that Miriam likely knew something he didn’t. Will had evidently told her about him. Apparently it wasn’t too slanderous, though, so he felt cautiously optimistic.

“Um… I… okay,” he rushed out, backing out the door as politely as he possibly could. “Thanks! Bye!” As soon as he was out of the Admissions office building, he ran down the street. He was so close to finding Will. Now, all he had to do was find the dorms.

Mike looked down at the map in his hands, then up, trying to find the building number, then back down again to confirm if he was even on the right street. The map said the boys’ dorms should be there, but all he could see was a brick wall in front of him. He was just about to rip all his hair out before he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned to see two girls looking up at him, concern etched on their faces. One of the girls wore a ski hat over her blonde hair, paired with a pink windbreaker, while the other girl donned a sherpa denim jacket and a beanie that still allowed her to show off her impressively long box braids that cascaded down to her hips.

“Hey man, are you okay?” Sherpa Girl asked. His gaze traveled down to notice their intertwined hands and he blinked, looking back at the two girls and nodding. At least he was amongst friends. He gripped onto the map in his hands for dear life, hoping they’d just leave him be so he could be disorientated in peace.

“Yeah, fine. I’m fine,” he shook his head, forcing out a smile. “Thank you though.”

That didn’t seem to cut it for Sherpa Girl, because she shared a knowing look with Windbreaker Girl. “Do you think he looks fine, babe?” she looked up at Mike with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think he looks fine.”

“No,” Windbreaker replied to her girlfriend, “He most definitely does not. Also, he shook his head ‘no’ while saying he was fine, so… busted.”

“Okay, what of it?” Mike waved his hands around in the air in frustration, pacing in a small circle before returning to face the two girls. “I’m just walking around this… very complicated campus.”

Windbreaker let out a giggle at that, leaning into Sherpa’s shoulder to muffle her laughter, which melted Mike’s heart a little bit.

“You’re obviously lost, dude,” Sherpa pressed. “At least tell us what you’re looking for, maybe we can help you.”

Mike let out an exhale of defeat, awkwardly shoving his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “Any chance you know of a guy named Will Byers?”

Sherpa’s worryful expression shifted as she exclaimed, “Oh yeah, Will? He’s the cleric in our D&D club!” Mike’s brain short-circuited at the weight that sentence held.

“…He still plays D&D?”

That was when Windbreaker Girl’s eyes widened in recognition. “Wait… are you Mike?” Mike felt like he was being charged with a crime, but he nodded anyway. “Thee Mike? As in Mike Wheeler?” she asked again, and he couldn’t refrain from feeling a bit embarrassed by the implication that her vocal inflections gave off.

“Unfortunately,” he muttered, but was completely caught off guard when Sherpa did a little jump in place, her face splitting into a wide grin. Wait a minute. They didn’t despise him? He was so confused.

“No. No, this is great!” Sherpa elaborated, letting go of Windbreaker’s hand in order to reach into her purse. Huh? “I’ll give you his address.” Oh.

“He lives off campus with our friend Kate, but she’s usually at work all day on Sundays,” Windbreaker explained while Sherpa found a fancy, expensive-looking art pen and scribbled the address onto a grocery receipt. She handed it to Mike, who read it, then had to read it one more time to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. 7 Maple Street, Chicago, IL.

He gulped loudly, peeling his eyes away from the piece of receipt paper. He nodded in thanks, as no words seemed to come out of his mouth when he attempted to speak.

“My name’s Ivy, by the way, and this is my girl Hannah,” Sherpa– Ivy– said, wrapping an arm around Windbreaker– Hannah’s shoulders, pulling her into her side as they walked past and away from him. “Tell Will we said ‘you’re welcome’!” he heard her call back to him. He wouldn’t even try to decode what the fuck that meant.

Mike eventually found his car after wandering around aimlessly for a few more minutes than he’d have liked to admit, and landed in the driver’s seat with a thud. He pulled the map of Chicago out of his pocket and dug in his middle console for a pen, locating Maple Street in seconds. It was about a fifteen minute drive away. Okay. He could do this.

As he drove, Mike thought about what to say. How could he even begin to explain why he was there, on Will’s doorstep? How could he justify his batshit insane motive? I got drunk for a year and moaned out your name while hooking up with a guy named Carter? I was driving under the influence and decided to come to Chicago instead of going home? I almost killed myself on multiple occasions on the way here, but made it out alive just to tell you that I love you? Mike groaned. He didn’t want to be a stuttering mess, so he figured he’d at least try to plan out his… speech. But he had never really been much of a planner in respect to his social life. Give him a few monsters, and he’d be golden. But his crumbling social life was far from an apocalypse, and Will was no monster. He’d just have to wing it.

Will’s house was pretty. It was a small Cape Cod style, yellow with blue shutters. It had a small plot of grass in front, with a few stairs leading up to the doorway. The doorway that Mike stood in, lifting his knuckles to the door.

Mike knocked.

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ladykailitha · 1 year

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Just a fandom thing, really. It’s something that I’ve picked up on my two decades in fandom and interest in BTS stuff. I used to binge interviews before interviewers got cringe and started asking actor wholly inappropriate questions about fans and fandom spaces (or sexually charged questions).

But it goes like this, if there is a pairing or “ship” they want fans to root for they will put the actors together on the press circuit. If they don’t want them to ship the character with a specific person, you’ll never even see the two actors in the same room. There are exceptions of course, like with BBC’s Sherlock and Supernatural, where the two they don’t want fans to ship are either the main cast or so closely tied to the continued success to the show (johnlock and destiel respectively) and it can’t be avoided.

Now take two examples of this type interview pairing. The Sandman and Stranger Things.

Disclaimer: FROM WHAT I’VE SEEN (don’t come at me if there was one obscure interview I missed)

The Sandman: Tom Sturridge was only paired Vivienne Acheampong (Lucienne), Kirby Howell-Baptise (Death), and Mason A Park (Desire). Not Jemma Coleman, Gwendolyn Christy or Ferdinand Kingsley (who was barely in any interviews which was travesty in its own right), the three that Morpheus would be most likely “shipped” with. Hell they didn’t even pair him with Boyd Holbrook who Tom himself described as sexy. They didn’t want him to be shipped with anyone because of what’s coming up next. Even though everyone else called Tom the cast bicycle (don’t make me explain that to you please) because of the chemistry he had with EVERYONE. But the powers that be didn’t want to link Tom with anyone in the minds of the audience that he had sexual chemistry with.

Stranger Things: Joseph Quinn was paired for the most part (with a couple of exceptions) Joe Keery, Jamie Campbell Bower, and Gaten Matarazzo, (Steve, Vecna, and Dustin respectively.) Interesting choices. If they were wanting a rivalry between the two Joes, why pair them at interviews? To highlight their rivalry? Why Jamie Campbell Bower? Especially since as far as I recall don’t interact in the show at all. Gaten, of course is a no brainer. They were trying to highlight Eddie’s relationship with Dustin (the heart of the so-called rivalry with Steve).

If they didn’t want people to “ship” or pair Steve and Eddie, why team them up in interviews? If Eddie wasn’t coming back as Kas and his connection with Vecna, why did they pair him with Jamie Campbell Bower? Gaten is fine, but Steve has a stronger connection with Dustin then Eddie did. But they’ve also said that Eddie plays a big part in Dustin’s final arc. And while deaths are traumatic it seems like they’re hinting at something bigger.

TL;DR: All this to say, Joseph Quinn HAS to come back for season five as Eddie and most likely Kas. It’s the only thing that makes sense with how they did the promotion of the show.

#meta #fandom #the sandman #stranger things #steddie

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frangipanilove · 7 months

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Vessels of Hope and Faith: more on the Blue Clues and the Venus symbolism

Sometimes you'll have these thougths and connections simmering in the back of your mind for years, but you don't know how to articulate them into something that sounds coherent.

And then new content comes out and there's a shot that unlocks a Pandora's Box of new theories and correlations.

Yesterday I tried to explain the significance of the blue bird symbolism and its connection to the 101 symbolism. I started researching all kinds of blue bird symbolism after Noah's T-shirt theory was confired all those years ago, and I found a few connections that seemed like they were obvious choised for tptb to utilize, and yet, tptb took their sweet time in confirming they were indeed real, actual connections. The connection between the yellow school bus brand Blue Bird was one of them. We have seen yellow school buses multiple times, some were indeed Blue Bird buses, others weren't necessarily easy to decide, and it wasn't always clear to me if a yellow school bus in an episode was a Blue Bird, and if it was meant to be read into as a part of the symbolism language, or if it was just a random coincidence.

And then, in TWD: Dead City 1x5 Stories We Tell Ourselves, we got the scene that confirmed that yes, the yellow school buses were indeed an integral part of the Blue Bird symbolism seen on the show.

Another blue bird reference I've been anticipating for years was the Crowned Victoria Pigeon. I always thought it was an absolute travesty and missed oppertunity if they didn't use it as a symbol, because it is absolutely perfect for the symbolism language they're already using. And in the episode "Amy/Dr.Everett" in the spin off series Tales of The Walking Dead they finally did. Here's a review on the episode in which it appeared.

"They come across a moment of beauty: a colorful Victoria crowned pigeon. Once on the verge of extinction, the bird is beautiful. "You're alive," Amy says. "You're right here." Amy's marveling turns to heartbreak when the bird flies away."

Sounds a lot like this blue bird is about resurrection. It's on the verge of extinction, and yet it reveals itself for Amy in the episode. And like we often see with symbolism in the spin off's versus on the main show, ot's a lot more over-stated. It's in-your-face type of glaringly obvious. "You're alive"? Come on! If that's not resurrection symbolism I'm eating my hat.

In my Trunk Resurrection 1 and 2 posts from a few years back I elaborate on cars and what they tell us about the subtext of a scene. I also touched on it yesterday, mostly because one of the spoiler pics from the filming outside the Louvre possibly involves a Jeep Cherokee (which I explain the relevance of in Trunk Ressurection 2) (and at this point this is only wild speculation on my part, nothing is confirmed) . TD has also tracked licence plates for years, which deserves a separate post so I'll leave that out for now, but it is relevant because it ties into the car symbolism.

So, anyone familiar with the Trunk Resurrection posts will understand why I was patiently waiting for a Crowned Victoria Pigeon reference, especially when I tell you that the police car Rick and Shane use in the car chase that goes horribly wrong in TWD 1X1 Days Gone By is a Ford Crown Victoria. The car was quite literally the first thing we saw in 1x1 Days Gone By.

From a symbolism language standpoint, Rick's Crown Victoria police car in season one ties into almost every symbol I'm tracking on this show. It's a car, which means it ties into the Three-Tree-Trunk theory (Trunk Ressurection 1 and 2), it's a police car, which means it ties into the Blue Clues theory, and we saw it in TWD episode 1 season 1 (which I talked about yesterday in relation to the 101-1x1-one one-symbolism).

TWD: Daryl Dixon episode 1 season 1 was wonderful in many ways, and symbolism-wise it was a treasure trove. I have so many thoughts it's difficult to decide which trails to explore first. Yesterday I touched on some stuff that I want to elaborate on here. It deals with the same stuff, but I'll try to tie it together some more, and mention a few other exemples that I find relevant. I mentioned the Venus and Sirius symbolism yesteday, and I'll continue to elaborate on that today.

Let's start with the opening minutes of 1x1 L'ame Perdue. We see Daryl, unconcious and resting on top of an overturned (inverted) boat (or shall we say VESSEL?), wash ashore on a French beach.

This little sequence of events sparked a chain reaction of lightbulbs firing in my brain.

For starters, all I could see initially was this:

We saw the painting "The Birth Of Venus" in TWD 7x3 WTDCK, and it was inverted. I've said it before and I'll say it again, @angelthefirst1 had an absolutely brilliant breakdown of the symbolism in TWD 10x18 Find Me, and she very cleverly was able to tie it to WTDCK. I think that's super relevant because Find Me, polarizing and divisive as it was, for me was one of the most magical episodes of the entire franchise. I thought it was absolutely saturated with "underworld" symbolism in every single scene, it was as though the veil between the Realm of the Dead and the Realm of the Living was particularly thin, and in my opinion it had a lot in common with Still and Alone in that respect. For someone who loves underworld themes and themes of liminal spaces between the realms of the dead and the living, it was pure magic. I even kind of liked Leah.

(A quick note on the name Leah, because I have zero self control when it comes to these things... For me, who's already primed to pick up on anything remotely underworld-coded...I wouldn' be true to my soul if I didn' put it out there that the name Leah is an anagram for Hela, which is the Norse goddess of Death. Hel in Norwegian, Hela in Swedish. Yeah. That's a hill I'm willing to die on. Leah was TWDU's Goddess of Death, Monarch of the Underworld. And I love that about her...ok, back to the regular scheduled programming)

In WTDCK, where we saw the famous Bottichelli painting, we could see that it was inverted. The painting depicts Venus, the Roman version of the Greek goddess Aphrodite, arriving onto the shore, aided by the wind gods, in a vessel that is also a sea shell.

In TWDDD 1x1, Daryl, with the help of the wind and ocean currents (I guess), reached shore on top of a vessel that was an inverted boat.

The painting is widely interpreted as to be dealing with themes of "rebirth", which @wdway had great insight into when I discussed this scene with her. When watching the opening minutes if TWDDD 1x1, where I saw the scene from Botticelli's "The Birth Of Venus", which is about "rebirth", she saw themes of baptism, which is ultimately also about rebirth.

When speaking of a "vessel", we are obviously normally alluding to a boat, or even vehicle, something meant as an instrument of transportation of some kind. But "vessel" can also be used about something which holds beverages, such as a "drinking vessel".

And as soon as we started down the rabbit hole of "drinking vessels" it was unavoidable that we eventually ended up discussing "Holy Grail" symbolism...

...which is something we've discussed a lot because of all of the thinly veiled references to the book and movie The Da Vinci Code we've seen in TWDU for at least the past seven years...

...which in turn is increasingly becoming interesting again, seeing as we keep getting spoiler pics of filming currently happening in and outside the Louvre. For those who aren't familiar with the book and film, here's a spoiler: the Holy Grail turned out to be the tomb of Mary Magdalene, hidden underneath the inverted pyramid under the glass pyramid outside the Louvre, where TWDDD are filming as I'm writing this. And there's more; the actual, real Holy Grail in the book wasn't so much Mary Magdalene herself as it was her womb, which in the story had carried and given birth to the child of Jesus, and one of the symbols of the female womb is a V... a reference to the shape of a uteris... Basically in TDVC the Holy Grail was the Tomb of the Womb. Or perhaps the Womb in the Tomb.

@wdway was kind enough to dig up her copy of the book and send over these convincing pics of the part in the book where Robert Langdon, the main character, and Sophie Neveu (spoiler alert: a direct decendant of JC himself) discuss the same symbolism I've just discussed above.

The female symbol:

Thanks @wdway, you're a star and an absolute legend!

Fear not, I'm not going to do a full synopsis of TDVC here, besides it's @wdway who is the real expert on these matters (she's been talking about chevrons for years). Go read it yourself, it's quite captivating. But for what it's worth, it does seem clear that someone in the writer's room in TWDU are more than just a little intrigued by the symbolism presented by author Dan Brown. And they're not afraid to use it in TWDU, because TD has consistently been tracking this type of symbolism since season 5 when Daryl paused in front of the carved wooden reproduction of Da Vinci's The Last Supper in Father Gabriel's church. Probably even before that, I have memories of TD'ers theorizing that Beth and Daryl's "white trash brunch" in 4x13 Alone was their "Last Supper", and that their kitchen scene was actually choreographed and modeled after Da Vinci's famous fresco.

And again, I'm bringing it up again because the writing of TWDDD 1x1 is practically forcing me to. That, along with the abundance of glorious spoiler pics from the Louvre...

Anyway, like the symbolism around the Blue Bird school buses and the Victoria Crowned Pigeon I mentioned initially, there are another few symbols I've been silently tracking over the years, and they both tie into the shot of Daryl stumbling out of the water, onto a Mediterranean beach, like a beautiful, though somewhat thirsty Venus or Aphrodite...

He finds a bucket of fresh water, and drinks it like his life depends on it (which it probably did, to be fair). And it's blue. Of course it is. A blue drinking vessel for our dehydrated but very much still alive Venus/Aphrodite...

My favorite method when it comes to researching symbolism revolves around etymology, first and foremost. Etymology is my go-to for everything symbolism related. And of course I've checked the etymology of the word "vessel" a long ass time ago.

How peculiar, the root word for "vessel" is "vas". And I'm not gonna lie, the results were interesting because OF COURSE I've also checked the etymology of the word "vase" a long ass time ago...

..and the reason for why I checked the etymology of the word "vase" back in the ancient times of Really Early TD was obviously because...

...I'm sure we all remember this lovely decorative piece on top of Beth's piano in 4x13 Alone.

BTW, @wdway, Queen of Chevrons and V symbolism would like you all to appreciate the lovely chevron pattern on Beth's knitted jacket...

...a pattern we've just established is a possible reference to the symbolism around the Holy Grail as it is utilized in TDVC...

And the reason we all instinctively knew this particular vase on top of Beth's piano was more than just random kitchy knick knack was because...

Yeah. In the words of the great Rick Grimes, "That vase...That's something special"...

Yeah. Rick Grimes knows a thing or two about vases/vessels, as he's just woken up from a Tour de Liminal Space between the Realms of the Dead and the Living...

Most certainly a special vase/vessel indeed...

In fact, it was special enough to make an appearence in a hallucination in TWD 9x5 The Bridge, when Rick "died" (but not really).

And much like our thirsty Venus/Aphrodite from the French beach...

...our OG Sirius figure Rick Grimes, the first one to dissappear from the night sky only to return/ressurect/be reborn later and have a reunion with his loved ones, was also feeling the dehydration after his return/resurrection/rebirth...

...and we know Beth likes her drink...

Remember how I’ve been talking about the importance of the Jeep Cherokee symbolism lately? I've even been theorizing, like the desperate fangirl I am, that one of the cars from the Louvre spoiler pics could be a Jeep Cherokee. (if you have no idea of what I'm talking about, do seek out yesterday's post plus the Trunk Resurrection posts)

A Cherokee rose in a beer bottle vase/vessel. Meant to instill hope and faith in Carol. Along with a story about the Grail of Tears, excuse-moi, TRAIL of tears…

(...also I have written probably 15 000 posts about beer symbolism in the past, check out those, and I also don't have time to elaborate on the name of the beer brand, Sweetwater, but I'm leaving it here for you @wdway)

I have a long list of Blue Clues, and I’ve compiled a bunch of them in the Blue Clue post, but among more recent examples that stand out is definitely the "Heart Of Blue" boat from 10x13 What We Become. Be sure to check out the numbers on the sail and tell me if you don't believe me when I say that the Blue Clues and the 101-1x1-one one- symbolism go together. Because it’s the number 11 (or 101-1x1-one one, as we discussed yesterday.

Also, @wdway who is a magician with numerology, would waste no time pointing out that the other number seen on the sail, the "22", represents the 22nd letter of the alphabet, namely the "V".

V for Venus perhaps? Or Team Violet?

This is the episode when Michonne finds Rick’s boots (boot = trunk = vessel) on a boat, no less (another vessel).

The boat has the numbers 672 written on its side...

...something which makes it easily recognizible in case we should happen to come across it again at a later point.

...which we did. We came across it again.

...like here, in the coda of 11x24 RIP, where we see a flashback of Rick throwing his backpack with his boots onboard the 672 vessel before he's apprehended by the Mean Helicopter Guy. This is why Michonne later was able to find his boots in the boat. Again, I highly reccomend this post by @angelthefirst1 for some absolutely glorious side-by-side comparisons of several Beth and Rick moments (and equally glorious additions by others).

So, from a symbolism point of view, what are we talking about here? It's about HOPE and FAITH. When Daryl told Carol the story of the Trail of Tears and the symbolism around the Cherokee Rose in season 2, it was to give her hope and faith. The Cherokee Rose in a beer bottle vase (vessel) is Daryl's vessel of hope and faith, extended to Carol at a time when she didn't have any.

When Michonne finds Rick's boots onboard the 672 vessel, she realises Rick could be alive (boot = trunk = vessel symbolism). She arrived at the island in a blue boat/vessel (called Heart Of Blue, no less), and she found Ricks boots (which in and of itself is a representation of Trunk symbolism, because boot = trunk, check out the Trunk Resurrection posts if you have no idea of what I'm on about) inside the boat/vessel, the same vessel we later see when we for the first time see Rick Grimes alive after he "died" (but not really) in 9x5 The Bridge.

Rick's boots gave Michonne the hope and faith she needed to go out in search of him. She found that hope onboard the 672 vessel.

Daryl's drinking vessel of choice when he stumbles out of the French waters in 1x1 L'ame Perdue is a blue bucket.

The vase we see on Rick's bed-side table in TWD 1x1 has blue decor on white background.

The vase we see on Beth's piano in 4x13 Alone has blue decor on white background.

The "Heart of Blue" boat that brings Michonne to the island where clues about Rick are to be found is blue (obviously, it's in the name), complete with a 101-1x1-one one-referance (and a 22-V referance) on its white sail.

It's like the vessel/vase symbolism represents the journey between the realms, a way for characters to move between the realms, a way in which loved ones, long thought to be dead, can travel between the realms, from the percieved Realm of the Dead, back into the Realm of the Living. They are vessels in which "dead" characters are given an opportunity to "wake up", they are vessels for "life", for "resurrection".

It's like they're Vessels of Hope and Faith...

...and venereal diseases?????

In case it doesn't come across, this helpful poster inside Michonne's Vessel of Hope and Faith implores the public to help stop the spread of syphilis and gonorrhea. I'm not at all opposed to effective public health measures, such as information campaigns, but this poster, in this particular episode, in a literal Vessel of Hope and Faith seemed super random. So I turned to my trusted old friend etymology for advice:

What do you know, the term "venereal” is directly linked to Venus, through my favorite academic dicipline etymology!

Michonne's vessel of hope and faith is ultimately a Venus reference. And because we love repetition:

Daryl stumbling out of the water is a dramatic reenactment of the Bottichelli painting The Birth Of Venus.

Venus and Sirius are two sides to the same story, as they're both concidered morning stars. Daryl's weapon of choise, outside the crossbow, is a Morningstar. Beth is a Sirius figure, a morning star.

Rick is the OG Sirius character, who disappeared from the night sky only to "resurrect" later. Beth is the next.

Beth, Rick and Daryl are all surrounded by the same blue bird symbolism.

And, there's currently filming going on at the Louvre, which, among other things, is home to the famous statue Venus de Milo.

And if this ol' fangirl is correct in her wild speculations, a car seen in a spoiler pic is a Jeep Cherokee, which certainly brings me lots of Hope and Faith that interesting Stuff and Thangs are coming up shortly in Daryl Dixon's European Adventure.

#bethyl #daryl dixon #beth greene #team delusional #team defiance #beth x daryl #the walking dead #twd

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katnissdoesnotfollowback · 3 months

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Reading List Game

I was tagged by @thelettersfromnoone. Thanks for the tag, friend!❤️ So here we go.

What are your recent, current, and future reads?

Recent:

Sea of Monsters by Rick Riordan (reread) + the graphic novel version which I had not read before

Siege and Storm by Leigh Bardugo

Once Upon a December by Amy E. Reichert

Game of Thrones by George RR Martin

The Ex-Mas Holidays by Zoe Allison

The Professor's Secret by mrspeetamellark

Have Your Cake and Eat It Too by c-r-roberts (reread)

Forbidden Love by mega-aulover

A Blind Date with Santa by MTK4FUN

Current:

The League of Gentlewomen Witches by India Holton

The Islands by Dionne Irving

When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through edited by Joy Harjo

The Chance You Didn't Take by ronja

Enthralled by damndonnergirls

THG Season of Hope 2023 entries by various

Future:

Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

Clash of Kings by George RR Martin

Becoming by Michelle Obama

The Titan's Curse by Rick Riordan (reread) and the graphic novel version which, as with SoM, I haven't yet read

Ruin and Rising by Leigh Bardugo

Be That Way by Hope Larson

Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen because I have somehow never read this one???? I swore I'd read all of hers but apparently not???? #Travesty #For SHAME kdnfb

A House United by shesasurvivor

The Firebird by merciki

Behind Blue Eyes by maxwellandlovelace

The Odds by mollywog

EDIT I CANNOT BELIEVE I FORGOT THIS ONE! MORE FOR SHAME ON KDNFB.... ahem Hunger Games par Suzanne Collins (l'édition française)

The first three of the future fanfictions on my list are all ones that I've started reading and then, for one reason or another that has nothing to do with the stories or writers themselves, I got pulled away from finishing them. So I am determined. They're getting read this year.

Tagging to play if you want to! : @pookieh, @awhiskeyriver, @bellairestrella, @distractionsfromthefood, @pitualba2015, @mega-aulover, @jroseley and anyone else who would like to play!

#reading list game

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sonofthesaiyans · 6 months

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Attack on Titan, where to even go now?

I don't even know how to feel about Attack on Titan ending. After years of cursing its existence, I'm just not sure what the hell to feel or what to do now that it's really done. After years of constant raving over every new opening theme, trailer, and after the thousands of cracks made about how season four just would NOT stop dragging out.........I honestly feel even emptier than ever.

I still remember back when Avatar: The Last Airbender was on.

For me, every episode of that show was a freaking experience. Everything about the world and its characters had me completely captivated, it was a phenomenally fun ride, and waiting for season three to air was a torturous wait. One that was worth it though.

When that show ended, I was truly happy and satisfied with its final episodes. I was on the edge of my seat, and it was so rewarding. I was heartbroken when I realized it was over and I still dearly miss my favorite characters from that show........but it truly ended on a high note, even if the ending was far from perfect.

With Attack on Titan...........the experience has unfortunately been the complete opposite.

It's been nothing but a trying ride, in the worst way possible. Despite my investment, it usually only filled me with dread. After that travesty known as Chapter 105: "Assassin's Bullet", I could not wait for the series to just die, or better yet crash and burn.

For me, the possibility of any satisfying conclusion went out the window five years ago, the only satisfaction I had was seeing how many people were as pissed a the manga ending as I was. I still stand by the fact that it's a hollow, unsatisfying end. In spite of all the anime onlys losing their collective shit because they think the animation and music magically did away with all its problems.

Unlike Avatar, I just feel regret with the ending. I can't watch the show again because of how angry it made me, but I'm even angrier than I hate it so much because I genuinely wanted to love it and for it to be better. The ending sucks, the entire fourth season I think is the worst and most shallow spectacle in anime. And yet it's because of what an empty and joyless experience it was that I'm actually devastated that it's over. Like, yeah I am fed up with the people who hyped this thing to hell and back, but I've invested so much into it and now I don't know where to turn that energy.

I have a far more sincere attachment to AOT's characters than I do to the actual show, like Avatar before Attack on Titan has some of my absolute favorite characters. So I take it VERY personally that they were treated this way and that this is the finish we're left with on the heels of all that.

I don't WANT to hate on Attack on Titan. I'm sorry I couldn't have attached to this the way everyone else did. But I also CANNOT defend the reasons so many people have for staying with it to the finish.

I try to swear off Attack on Titan: The Final Season as noncanon as I don't even like the people who animated that.......But the images that made it such a torment are too deeply burned in.

I wanted this show to go away and I wanted to see the ending fail, yes. Because I hate Hajime Isayama with a burning passion. But I love its characters and the people behind them too much that I desperately wanted better. I don't want to let those go.

Sorry, this post has gone on much longer than I was intending........I just don't know what to feel now.

Somebody help me make sense of this because I am scared of everything falling into irrelevance now.

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tabswrites · 9 months

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9 Questions, 9 People

Tagged by @writinglittlebeasts here :)

Gently tagging: @all-write @mthollowell-writes @clairelsonao3 @hd-literature @rachaellawrites @fayeiswriting and uhhh an open tag because I’ve run out of people. As always, no pressure!

Rules: Answer the questions, then tag 9 people.

List three ships:

Eda Clawthorne x Raine Whispers (The Owl House). Great bi/nb rep, especially for older queer couples! Not to mention they are two of the most canonically powerful witches in the show.

Amanita Caplan x Nomi Marks (Sense8). I tear up every time I think about the story of how they met. I would die for them, I really would.

Nico Minoru x Karolina Dean (Runaways). Nico is already one of my fave comic book characters and her relationship with Karolina is so powerful. It was one of the best parts of the show too, until the travesty that was season 3.

Currently listening to?

I have been listening to Childish Gambino a lot lately, especially Zombies.

Last movie you watched?

Clueless. Parts of it didn’t age well but it still has some solid one-liners.

What are you currently reading?

I just started The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. I am also reading As A Stranger, Or A Friend? by @writernopal which has been such a wild ride already and very compelling! Also Between a Rock and a Hard Place by @outpost51 has been taking me on a roller coaster of emotions.

What are you currently watching?

I just finished season one of Outlander, which was different than expected but very interesting. I love a man with curls, what can I say?

What are you currently consuming?

Ginger ale and cool ranch Doritos, and later, mac and cheese. “Day Off Tess” is very unmotivated to feed herself.

What are you currently craving?

Like most days, I want chicken wings. Or a yellow curry ramen bowl from downtown.

#tag game #9 people tag #writeblr #writing community

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loveisharderthanitlooks · 2 months

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911 Lone Star rewatch - S01E09

I'm pretty sure that Michelle and Judd saying hello to each other at the gender reveal party is literally the only time they ever interact.

It's perfectly reasonable for seven year old TK to be upset that his dad missed his birthday and to not really understand why Owen wasn't home a lot. I think it's reasonable to Gwyn to be upset that Owen didn't make the effort to come to TK's birthday. Gwyn being angry at Owen for "throwing 9/11 in her face one more time" makes me dislike Gwyn. It's only three months after 9/11. Ground Zero was literally still burning.

I completely understand why Owen gets defensive when TK accuses him of leaving their family for the firehouse, especially as we later learn his father really left him after his brother's death. But TK's feels are valid too and I'd love to see Owen actually listen to what TK was trying to express.

Zoe was definitely Owen's best non-Gwyn love interest but her being in this episode and Carlos being missing is a travesty. This whole episode is a testament to Tim Minear's terrible leave it to the last minute planning. If he could only have Carlos in 8 episodes this season, he should have planned it better. Because he didn't, he wasted a whole episode where Carlos had 30 seconds of screen time and he wasn't in this episode where TK and Carlos could have interacted, we could have seen some insight into their relationship, had a better build up to them officially getting together in the next episode.

The scene with the car up the kid's nose and then they have to come back because the dad has done the same thing is the funniest rescue they've ever done. Poor Paul.

It always confuses me that TK reaches out to Zoe for advice when he has a therapist of his own.

Is calling your father-in-law dad an American thing or a Texas thing or where does that come from and can we make it go away forever?

The Iris Plothole: AKA I count all the times Carlos definitely wasn't married to Iris when they wrote this scene.

Nothing in this episode because no Carlos and Michelle is there for about 12 seconds.

Running total (22)

#911 lone star rewatch 2024 #911 lone star #911 lone star s01e09

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blazehedgehog · 3 months

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Do you still play Fortnite? What do you think about the current season? I hate the ballistic shield and I wish it'd go away.

It's funny getting a "do you still play Fortnite?" ask basically a month after I wrote a big post about Fortnite's "metaverse" reboot. I also run a side-channel that at this point is like, 25% stream vods and 75% Fortnite clips.

youtube

But that was a month ago. We've had patches that have changed some of the stuff I talk about in that article.

I... like this season a lot more now that they upped the movement speed. You aren't quite as fast as you were in old Fortnite, but you're fast enough. The way this chapter launched, it felt like player movement was SO sluggish, and like I said in my big post, the fact that outrunning the storm was a major problem felt super weird to me. I think I also said this in the post, but it's like a completely new team came in and un-solved a lot of old problems, only to find they then had to re-solve what they broke.

I don't mind ballistic shields all that much, but you're also talking to a guy whose first Counter-Strike game was Condition Zero. A shield guy can be annoying to deal with, but I'm also usually a shield guy. And shield guys are not invincible, let me tell you. Especially not here, with them having shields stagger after you take a certain amount of damage.

What's getting to be frustrating to me are snipers. Again in keeping with "unsolving problems that were already solved", Fortnite kind of developed a silent rule that guns probably shouldn't do 200 damage (the maximum amount of health and shields). They even started getting cheeky with it -- I remember sometimes there have been guns that deal 190, 195, even 199 damage. There was one particular mythic super-gun one season that I seem to recall dealing 201 damage on a headshot; literally one 1hp over the maximum health limit.

The current chapter 5 sniper rifle at orange (max non-mythic) rarity does like 290 damage on a headshot. Even in Zero Build, where they give you an extra overshield buffer, this thing will punch through all shields and all health and is a guaranteed one-shot-kill if you nail your target in the head.

I think they made it that strong because of the new bullet drop mechanics they've been slowly introducing. Bullets react to physics and naturally fall over long distances now, theoretically making it harder to hit people because you have to account for time and gravity. All that really means is that once the pros adjust to that, they have lots of easy cannon fodder, because even a blue rarity is enough to put down most players.

So I'll be walking, not another soul around me, it's totally silent, and I'll just drop dead out of nowhere because some dude 200 meters away clocked me with his sniper rifle. I had full shields, full health, but this guy has a combined 40,000 hours between Fortnite, Call of Duty, and PUBG, so I guess I don't deserve to exist in the same zip code as him.

And -- AND! Whereas the previous super-powered rifle (the Heavy Sniper) was a one-shot-per-clip gun, meaning you had to unload and reload a new bullet every time you pulled the trigger, this instantly-kills-you-dead rifle has a three shot clip. Not instantly dead on the first shot? You have two more chances to get it right. Absurdity.

Also I think the attachments system is still stupid, what they did to wraps is still awful, and the new locker system continues to be an absolute travesty. At best, a lot of Chapter 5's new features feel not ready to launch and totally half-baked.

But BR is in an okay state right now, I guess. I wish and hope the map evolves over the course of a season like it used to, though. I miss the days of hunting gnomes and bears, or seeing what the rock family was up to, or tracking the progress of different vehicles as they moved across the map.

#questions #anonymous #fortnite #chapter 5

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sailtomarina · 4 months

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A Hefty Pour

Dean x Pansy | @hp-yuletide-bliss Day 15: First snow | “My car is not working because of all this snow.” | WC 1125 | Rating: T

The telltale jingle of her storefront bell alerted Pansy to another patron.

She sighed.

It was already past closing and she’d been about to flip the sign and lock up. It was just her luck that hers would be the shop they’d chosen to enter.

“I”ll be right there!” she called over her back, keeping her focus mostly on the boxes floating in the air in front of her.

She directed them to the back corner in neat stacks of three; she’d open them up and go over the products in the morning. Right now, promises of a roaring fire, her favorite armchair, and a generous pour of Sangiovese called to her.

First things first.

She brushed her hands down her silk robes. They were charmed to resist all wrinkles and dust, but she couldn’t help the reflex as little as she could help ruffling her blunt bangs to perfection. She turned and clicked her way to the front where there stood a tall figure whose back was to her.

“How can I help you?”

They turned, and her eyes widened in recognition. Rich caramel skin, eyes that glittered like obsidian, and a smile so blinding she almost raised her hand to shield herself.

“Thomas?”

“Parks!”

Dean Thomas had dimples.

It took her a second to look up from those damn delectable dimples and recall what he’d just said in greeting. “I’m sorry, but when did you ever call me ‘Parks’?” Nobody but her boys ever called her that, though they leaned more heavily towards ‘Pans’ or ‘daft witch’.

“Would you rather I call you ‘Parkinson’?” he bantered back, even as he gave her a smile so winning she nearly told him he could call her anything he liked.

Salazar, was he always this tall? He towered over Pansy in his wool peacoat, snow-dusting his head and shoulders and the notched collar revealing a button-up in a fetching shade of aubergine. His black jeans, too, stopped at a perfect fold above his onyx, wing-tipped Derbys, their soles a fashionable tan.

Ignoring her question, she hit him with another of her own. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

She wouldn’t have thought it before, but Thomas would make for an excellent model of her clothing line. She outfitted both witches and wizards in custom-made wizarding designs with a Muggle flair. Pansy had been convinced by Granger’s fashion magazines. Who knew the witch could be so forward in her tastes beneath all those shapeless robes and that travesty she called hair?

Her first collection had been an instant success. Now, three years later, she had a handful of brick-and-mortar stores across Europe and the loyal patronage of several notable public figures and even the minister herself, not that Granger or Draco would have allowed otherwise.

Dark eyes flitted away and he awkwardly palmed his neck. “I, uh…” he coughed to clear his throat, “I got caught in the snow and now my car’s not working.”

“Your…car?”

What wizard drove to Diagon Alley? There was no reason to, not with all the Apparition points and a readily available Floo network. She kept her own store fireplace freshly swept at all times of day and had even charmed the area to automatically clean visitors shortly upon arrival.

“I just got back into town and decided to stop at the Leaky for a pint, which turned into two, and then three, and, well, who knew the first snow of the season would be like that?” He gestured out the window. Behind him, she saw nothing but white. There was no spotting the shop across the street, even though she knew it was there, nor could she see any people or the cobblestone at all.

“Would you like to use my Floo and come back for your car in the morning?”

Now that he’d pointed out the abysmal weather, she spotted the traces of melting snow from the doorway to where he stood. Pansy couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the sight.

“Oh, sorry about the mess.” Before she could stop him, he turned and waved a wand over his footprints, vanishing them instantly. “And the Floo would be lovely. I hadn’t planned on taking advantage when I spotted your door; I just wanted to get in from the cold.”

Pansy shook her head at the excuse, still admiring the thoughtfulness of his quick cleaning spell.

“I get it. I don’t need an apology. I probably would have done the same.” She made a move to lead him towards the fireplace, but hesitated as he stayed still and looked around. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?

“I can help you close, if you like? As thanks for the save and all.” He grinned sheepishly at her and she couldn’t help but smile back in response, even as she winced internally at the thought of Dean Thomas of all people thanking her.

She hadn’t been exactly kind to him back when they were students, hadn’t even batted an eye at his disappearance Seventh Year. She’d rolled with the near-total loss of her Muggle-born peers like it was normal to cast out an entire population of people like it was nothing, like they were nothing. Pansy didn’t consider that one of her closest friends and a fellow Slytherin, Tracey Davis, was half Muggle, or that she actually missed the sight of Thomas’ pleasant face across the Great Hall. Those facts were pushed aside into a dusty corner and ignored like the inconvenient truths that they were.

The next time she saw him had been in the distance at the final battle, standing tall next to Longbottom. She’d been afraid back then. She remained afraid for a long time after.

It took the likes of Draco and Granger to pull her out of the dark, for which she’d be forever thankful. She might even consider the witch one of her closest friends these days.

Looking at Dean now, he didn’t seem in need of saving or her company. He looked good, like the years following their too-eventful childhood had been fruitful. That didn’t mean, though, that he couldn’t use a listening ear, or, at the very least, her gratitude for talking with her now like the past no longer mattered.

The wine could wait.

“I’d like that.” With a flick of her wrist, the boxes she’d relegated to the back came floating into sight and plopped onto the ground between them.

He perked up, and she huffed in amusement as he squatted down to get a closer look. He’d make a fine model, indeed, and, if she had her way, she’d get him out of that wool coat and into one of her designs before the night was out.

Cross-posted to Tumblr and AO3.

I don’t know what it was about these two that sprang to mind with this prompt, but I’ve been missing a bit of Dean in a lot of the fics I’ve read. We rarely see him featured in any prominent role, particularly as one of the romantic leads. Unless anybody has one in mind they can share?

#harry potter fanfiction #harry potter flashfic #Pansy x Dean #pansy parkinson #dean thomas #pansy parkinson x dean thomas #hp yuletide bliss #christmas hp fest

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love-kurdt · 2 months

Text

This is Me Trying (Mike's Version) (byler): 2

word count: 10,471

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

My eyes danced across the ceiling of Carter’s bedroom where, surprisingly, no one had come in and tried to kick me out. I detested popcorn ceilings. They were so… textured. Texture should not belong on ceilings. Maybe it was a good thing that things didn’t end up going any further with Carter, because then, I would’ve been staring up at a goddamn popcorn ceiling while Will Byers’ doppelgänger had his way with me.

I laid on my back with my skinny legs hanging off the edge of the bed, and folded my hands together over my stomach as I got lost in the travesty that was the popcorn ceiling. I tried to imagine that the endless expanse of polystyrene was actually just extremely puffy clouds, a bowl of cooked white rice, or freshly fallen snow that had recently been compacted together by a winter boot. My eyes trailed to the junction between the ceiling and the wall, which was adorned with a string of multicolored lights. I liked those kinds of lights, even if they kind of reminded me of the ones Joyce used to communicate with Will in the Upside Down. Over the years, slowly but surely, one of Vecna’s various torture mechanisms became simply Christmas lights again.

Fuck, Christmas break was coming up soon. I needed to get Nancy and Holly gifts before making the trek back to Hawkins. I hoped I'd have enough room in my car for everything, since I wouldn’t be returning after break. The realization hit me out of nowhere; since I no longer had a school to attend, I'd never have an academic “break” ever again. The last one I'd participated in was Thanksgiving, and I'd wanted to have one last memory of my parents being proud of me before I became the full-fledged failure of the family. It was evident, from the way Dad had made multiple homophobic remarks aimed directly at me from across the dinner table, that I'd already failed. I chose to keep my mouth shut about potentially dropping out, at the risk of making things even worse. Now that my college career was officially over, though, “Christmas break” would be just “Christmas” from here on out.

I wondered if Will would be back in town for Hanukkah. I hoped so. The holiday season would be different this year. I would get the fuck over myself and leave the house. I would repair my purposefully neglected friendships. And I'd finally get the chance to see Will again, face to face. Though chances were slim, maybe Will would hear me out. Maybe Will’s hatred for me had faded a little bit. I still couldn’t quite comprehend the complexity of what exactly happened within the past year, and how what I'd already assumed to be pretty damn bad became even worse, considering how well the new year started off.

As soon as I had arrived back at my dorm in January, I diligently thumbtacked the post-it detailing Will’s phone number on the wall above my headboard. I wasn’t normally someone who believed in karma, omens, manifestation, or any of that hippie crap (because I was obviously a realist and a pessimist by nature), but I truly believed that seeing Joyce at Melvald’s was fate in its finest form. Forgetting my school supplies (along with my reluctance to just go back home and grab what I needed from my room) resulted in essentially coming out to Will’s mother. And that was one step closer to getting Will back. Now, all I had to do was call that number.

The post-it stayed on my wall for three months. Elvis hadn’t mentioned or questioned it; we weren’t official, anyway, so I was free to see whoever I wanted. Except I didn’t just want to see Will. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Will. If only I could pick up the goddamn phone.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to call; I wanted nothing more than to hear Will’s voice enveloped in grainy audio. I longed for the day I'd get to say Will’s name out loud instead of just writing it. But I was waiting for the right time to do it. I couldn’t call in the morning, because Will had insisted for years that, in the words of his stepfather, “Mornings are for coffee and contemplation,” and refused to be disturbed before 9am. I couldn’t call in the afternoon, because Will would most definitely be in class, or at work if he had a job, or hanging out somewhere with his new friends, and I didn’t want to impose upon that. And I couldn’t call in the evening, because what if the conversation went south? I didn’t want Will to go to sleep angry or upset, especially at me.

In reality, no time was a good time. I knew that confrontation was inexorable, and whether it came across as offensive or not was dependent upon how the conversation began. I, ever the strategist, prepared myself for a multitude of scenarios, from worst to best case; it turned out that predicting all possible outcomes during a supernatural war would help me immensely in this process. Ultimately, I chose to pick up the phone and call Will on the least problematic occasion I could think of: the date was March 22nd, 1990– also known as Will’s 19th birthday.

I had parked myself in the middle of my mattress, sitting criss cross on top of my navy blue comforter. I'd pulled my phone, monstrous, pale yellow, and with a spiral cord, off of my bedside table and into my lap. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions to be in, and my back was slightly killing me (hunching over a notebook for hours on end all day probably didn’t help either), but it was the optimal setup for either an hours-long phone call or for slamming the handset back in place and hanging up as soon as the other end of the line picked up. But I knew I wouldn’t ever hang up. Never on Will.

I drew my eyes up the headboard of my bed and onto the wall until they met the post-it, in all its glory. I inhaled so hard I thought my lungs would spontaneously combust from the pressure in my chest. I feared my heart would stop the second the dial tone emerged from within the earpiece. I knew I had to do this now, or I never would. I'd already procrastinated doing this for too long. I gulped, my finger hovering over the rotary dial, and tried my luck.

The ringback tone went through once, twice, and–

One of the Christmas lights in the otherwise dark room flickered, causing my body to snap up to attention. I rose to defend myself from any monsters in my vicinity, ready to fight the– woah, I stood up way too fast. I was, apparently, still quite intoxicated. I sat back down on the bed, eyes still glued to the string of bright, colorful lights lining the perimeter of Charlie’s… Christopher’s room? Whatever. It started with C. After a few minutes of engaging in a staring contest with a fucking lightbulb, I let my shoulders go lax. Tension that I hadn’t realized had built up released from my neck as I rested my head on my palms. I wasn’t in danger, not anymore. Well, at least, not in the paranormal realm of things. The only monster I'd have to fight was myself.

More specifically, the raging… situation that had yet to go down in my obscenely tight shorts. Cadence had done a number on me, even though it only lasted for approximately zero-point-five seconds. I shut my eyes tightly, not sure of what to do. I could wait longer, and run the risk of being caught with a very obvious boner by someone if they entered the room unannounced… or I could make a run for it and try not to be sidetracked by anyone I knew.

I opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked through, and thankfully, it didn’t look like the escape would be too arduous. I rushed out of the room, pushing through the multitude of bodies in search of the exit. The room was extremely hot, likely due to everyone’s combined body heat and the space heaters stationed in the corner of every room, which made it difficult to breathe. I hadn’t been much of a fan of the cold ever since Will and I got stuck in the Upside Down during the Vecnapocalypse. We’d ended up staying there for longer than initially anticipated; having almost kissed at one point, I freaked out and ran away, stupidly tripping on a vine and causing an entire side-battle in the Upside Down, nearly ruining the Party’s chance to defeat Vecna. So, no, I wasn’t much of a fan of the cold, but right now, I needed to escape the sensation of molten lava that crept up and slowly wrapped around my throat. My eyes caught a glimpse of the front door, and relief flooded through my veins.

But that feeling was short lived, because a vine curled around my wrist before I could take another step. I whipped around to see that the vine was actually a hand, and noticed that I vaguely recognized the hand’s owner, who was a girl from my Quantitative Literacy class. “Hey, Mike!” she smiled. She had black hair, light brown eyes, and a septum piercing. She looked badass. Bitchin’, as El would say. However, her bright teal eyeshadow, even in the dark, served as both a boner killer and the source for my impending migraine. So it was a blessing and a curse, really.

I tried to remember the girl’s name, but didn’t want to disappoint her when I'd admitted to not knowing it, so I uttered a painfully generic, “Hey! How are you doing’? Good to see you!” and gave her a rather light, impersonal hug. She appeared to be satisfied enough with my greeting. She pulled me down by my shoulder so she could talk in my ear without everyone hearing over the music.

“My friend over there saw you earlier and was wondering if you were single,” she said, pointing over to a group of two guys and two girls who were all huddled on the sectional couch. I raised a quizzical eyebrow. This conversation could go one of two ways. I hoped I wouldn’t have to make it awkward, but then again, I knew I probably wouldn’t ever see her again after that night. So that made me feel a little better in that respect.

“Oh,” I hesitated. “Uh… which one?”

“Shoot, I should have led with that!” she laughed. I laughed along, but my voice felt hollow. Luckily, she didn’t pick up on it. “The one with the blue hair! Her name is Chelsea.”

I looked over at the group, and made eye contact with the girl with the blue hair. I watched as she blushed and looked away. She was shy. She looked sweet. Damn it, Mike, now you’re gonna break yet another heart. What is wrong with you? Why can’t you just be normal?

“She’s pretty interested, you know,” the Girl With No Name said, unknowingly twisting the knife that rested permanently in my stomach. The lava curling around my throat became even hotter, burning through my skin.

“Yeah, totally, uh… that’s so cool!” I remarked passively. And yeah, it was cool, in theory… but hopelessly incompatible in practice. I glanced at the door, then back at the girl before telling her, “I hate to break it to you, but I’m straight as a circle.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m gay, like, really gay.” I blurted, probably loud enough for the entire room to hear. I heard someone whistle, and a few others cheered me on, but I wanted to burst into flames. The girl stared at me, stunned at my sudden outburst, seemingly at a loss for words. I felt myself choking on air. I needed to get out of there, and quickly.

“Okaygottagoseeya!” I forced out in a single breath, not leaving any time for a response from anyone before I bolted through the crowd and out the door, successfully fleeing the scene. Grass met the soles of my Chuck Taylors as I continued to run across the campus quad, my breathing quick, ragged, and uneven. The frigid December weather did nothing to soothe the burning sensation throughout my body, which by now felt like it was burning from the inside out. My feet loudly slapped the pavement below me, and I was proud that I hadn’t slowed down or stopped yet. If one good thing were to come out of my time at the University of Indianapolis, it was my improved stamina from all the sex. Well, that’s fucking sad… and kind of hilarious, I thought.

I sprinted a few blocks, not caring to look for any oncoming cars. If I got hit, cool. Awesome. I'd thank the driver as I bled out in the street. But no one came to take me out of my misery. So I kept running, and running, and running. My long legs screamed as my practically nonexistent muscles struggled to carry me. The prickly, thin air I breathed in through my mouth reminded me of the sensation when I'd chewed a piece of mint gum and drank water right after. It was so fucking cold, but I was so fucking hot. Like, there was sweat dripping down my face. Or were those tears? Was I seriously fucking crying again?

Up until last year, I had never been the type of person to openly cry. I wasn’t raised to share my feelings or emotions. That was part of the reason as to why I had been so uncomfortable with the prospect of going to therapy. I never opened up to anyone, because I hated the feeling of defenselessness, and even more so despised the idea of being seen as weak. I prided myself on being the “fearless leader” of the Party. For fuck’s sake, I'd been the one to stare Vecna down as I thrust a sword straight into his heart. I'd proven my strength as a leader time and time again. But what would happen when Mike Wheeler let his guard down?

It turned out that I didn’t have to let my guard down; Will broke it for me. Will’s departure broke the dam of emotional repression that I had worked so hard for years to maintain. I suddenly became unable to stop myself from crying. I'd always silently envied Will for being able to express his emotions so freely, but now that I could do so as well, albeit uncontrollably, I didn’t envy Will at all. I wasn’t sure how Will had done it for all those years; the migraines, the exhaustion, the dehydration… It was awful. And I felt even worse when I recalled all the times when I was the reason for making Will cry.

I had also gotten accustomed to panic attacks. I had my first one on the day Will left. My mom came into my room to check on me. I’d looked up at her with scared, red-rimmed eyes, and my shoulders violently shook as I hyperventilated. My mom swiftly jumped into action, meeting me where I was at, grounding me, and helping me come back to earth. She’d held me in her arms as I sobbed, comforted me, and didn’t pry. But… she knew. I could never express enough gratitude towards my mom for what she did for me that day. Little did I know, though, that it only got worse from there. The second one happened after The Phone Call™, which led to my initial downward spiral. The third one happened in Warren Blakeley’s car after I'd been drugged and assaulted at that one party. And the fourth one… ‘twas a-brewin’.

I found my car despite my impaired vision, nearly ripped the driver’s side door off its hinges with how roughly I opened it, and slammed it shut behind me. I collapsed my entire body weight against the steering wheel before letting out the loudest, most guttural scream that I hadn’t even been aware I was capable of. I reached my hands up into my scalp, pulling fistfuls of hair with my hands as my surroundings melted away. I genuinely felt like I was going to die. Everything I'd said, done, and experienced within the past year and a half had been slowly building up inside me, and this was me finally cracking under the pressure.

I turned my keys in the ignition, and the engine came roaring to life. I lifted my head up to the rear view mirror, rubbed my eyes a few times, and took a look at my reflection. The person staring back at me looked absolutely horrendous. I looked as if I hadn’t fully slept through the night since 1983. And that wasn’t far from the truth; I could count on a single hand how many a good night’s sleep I'd had since the day Will was first taken by the demogorgon, and all of those times, Will was there, by my side.

I shifted gears and turned my headlights on, pulling out of my spot and drifting out into the street. I knew what I was doing was a bad idea. Driving drunk was, first of all, illegal, and secondly, dangerous to not just myself, but to others. But I couldn’t give less of a shit; I'd figured out what I needed to do. I slowed down to a stop at the red light of the intersection where I'd have to take a left to go home.

The light turned green, but I didn’t turn left. I tapped my fingertips against the center console, drove straight ahead, past the light, and turned on my right hand signal.

I swerved onto I-65.

“Hello?” a familiar voice answered. I felt my breath hitch. His voice was deeper than I remembered. It was like he’d gone through a second puberty, if that were even possible.

“Will! Hi!” I exclaimed, sounding far too enthusiastic for my own good. I waited for a reply, but could only hear Will breathing on the other end of the line. I went to speak again, but Will beat me to the punch.

“… Mike?” Will said my name in a tone that I could only label as nostalgic dread. Oh god, I shouldn’t have called him. I shouldn’t have called him, but I did, and Will was on the phone, and had just said my name for the first time in a year.

I reclined onto my comforter so I was lying on my back with my knees bent, wrapping the cord around my finger a few times as I spoke. “Yeah, um… I was just calling to wish you a happy birthday, and to tell you that I miss you.” Well, that was vague, Wheeler. You can do better than– “And love you. So much.” …that. Fuck. Too far.

I heard Will gasp, then try to cover it up by clearing his throat a few times before responding. “How’d you get my number?”

Friends don’t lie, so I told him. “Your mom gave it to me over Christmas break.”

Will exhaled. I’d always savored that sound, and would have been content if that was the last sound I'd ever hear. But… that specific exhale didn’t convey contentment; this one was laced with light exasperation. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

I begged to differ. She most definitely should have done that, and I would be eternally grateful that she did. In the eleventh hour, where all hope appeared to have been lost in the most abysmal Christmas break to ever exist, Joyce Byers saved my life. She’d given me a reason to keep on going.

“And you probably shouldn’t call me again.”

The color drained out of my face. My stomach churned with anxiety that seemed to exponentially increase by the second, and I suddenly felt the urge to throw up. This was the worst case scenario, but I didn’t think much of it. It was only a hypothetical, it wasn’t supposed to actually happen! Will was pushing me away. Again. But why?

“What have I ever done to you, Will?” I heard myself ask, my voice small. I felt like a kid again. At the end of the day, I was still a kid. I’d had to grow up too fast, a powerful disquiet having annihilated a majority of my childhood. I’d been so uncertain of where I’d end up after the war was over. And the one time I was sure of myself, sure of my feelings, and sure that Will Byers was my heart, I–

“Enough. You’ve done enough,” Will’s voice, followed by the sound of the dial tone made my blood run cold. I set the handset back into its cradle, and continued to lay there on my twin-sized mattress, the rest of my body completely frozen. I felt my facial features involuntarily crumpling in upon themselves as the grief consumed me.

This had to be a nightmare. This couldn’t be real. I rarely prayed; I only did in life-threatening situations, where the probable end result was dying. But right now, I prayed the hardest I’d ever prayed in my entire life. Please, God, help me wake up. Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, whoever the hell you are, if you even exist at all… if this is real life, please kill me. I can’t live like this. After a minute or so, I opened my eyes. Nothing. I huffed a quiet laugh to myself; it was so typical of me to place responsibility on others, let alone God, to deal with my problems. I'd have to face this alone. I was always alone. And I fucking hated it.

I hated that I would never have Will in the way I wanted him, no, the way I needed him. I hated that I could never seem to get the closure that I believed I deserved. I hated that Will wouldn’t just be honest with me! You’ve done enough. What the fuck did “enough” even mean? Had I done something else? Did I do something other than that one time in August? Something during my first semester, or over Christmas break, that I couldn’t remember due to my steadily consistent, months-long intoxication? I couldn’t think of a single thing, which made me even angrier.

I wished I could just… fall out of love with Will, or something. Maybe I could fall out of love with him. What was the worst that could happen if I picked up the handset again, and dialed the number written on that cursed post-it? What if I said to Will, “Actually, I don’t love you. That was just me being crazy”? Crazy together, that’s what would happen. I'd be reminded of the young boy who recognized his more-than-platonic love for Will; a version of myself that I could never get back; a boy who would call me out for lying to both Will and myself, because friends don’t lie. It wouldn’t be a lie to say that Will had hurt me badly enough to justify a grudge. At least I thought so. Then again, I hated grudges, and the person I became when I held them. Scratch that, I hated the person I'd become, period. I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

I'd started at the University of Indianapolis entirely heartbroken, but on the other hand, I'd finally discovered my identity as a young gay man. I met some new people, and fucked a lot more of them. But parties have to end sometime. I would lay in bed, covered in the sweat and cum of a random guy asleep next to me, and would get weirdly emotional when my mind would, as always, drift to Will. I’d sometimes close my eyes and pretend the guy was Will, and I'd fall for my own brain’s tricks, if only for a minute. After that minute was up, and I'd remember that Will hated my guts… I would drink. A lot. I was the life of the party… with a side of alcoholism. My temper got worse, my fuse got shorter, and my overall outlook on life became so cynical that I sometimes even contemplated dying, and not the kind of dying involving bones snapping and eyes exploding. But I'd never followed through with anything in my entire life, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to kill myself even if I wanted to.

The tears that previously poured out of my eyes like waterfalls had dried up, their presence remaining evident in the stiffness on the surface of my cheeks. I hiccuped, the sharp intake of air causing me to develop a cramp under my ribcage. I grimaced in pain, sitting up and lowering my feet to the linoleum floor. I shuffled to my wardrobe and opened it, sifting through some oversized sweatshirts, a windbreaker, and Will’s godforsaken yellow sweater before I found what I was looking for. It was over. This was it. I'd had my chance, and I lost Will for the third time in my life. I picked up the bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to my lips. Fuck Will Byers. Fuck everything.

The sun had traveled up and down across the horizon a few times following The Phone Call™ when I'd startled awake to a shrill ringing in my ears. I checked my alarm clock to see the time, and I rolled my eyes. I extended my arm out to grab the phone without having to move the rest of my body. “Bitch, I swear to God, you better be either pregnant or broken up with by Nathan, because it is two o’clock in the goddamn–”

“Mike. It’s El.”

I sat up then, my eyes wide with conviction. “El? Jeez, I’m so sorry for that incredibly blunt greeting. My friend Alex tends to call me around this time with all her latest life crises, so… I just kind of assumed.”

El hummed in understanding. “It’s okay. Let’s hope your friend Alex doesn’t actually get pregnant or broken up with, though.”

“Yeah, that would not be good,” I agreed with a laugh, leaning back onto my pillows and staring at the ceiling. I'd missed the sound of El Hopper’s voice. It had been way too long. “So, uh, what’s up?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” El replied, and my reminiscing came to a full stop. Of course Will had called El. They were siblings who told each other everything. Even back when they were kids, especially after Joyce and Hopper finally got married, Will and El were joined at the hip.

“What happened?” she asked me, and I scoffed, lifting my free hand to run it through my hair, regretting it immediately when my fingers got caught in one of the many knots, since I hadn’t washed my hair in nearly a week.

“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive for you to hear the same story twice?”

“I want to hear it from your perspective,” El told me, and I clenched my jaw.

“Okay. Fine. Where do I start?”

“From the beginning would be great.”

So I told her. I started at the beginning, all the way back to when Will and El had just moved back to Hawkins in April of 1986. I told her about how Will and I hadn’t spoken for the whole six months that he’d been in California. I told her about how I had, in fact, written letters to Will; I'd just never sent them. I told her about the distance that Will carefully maintained between the two of them throughout the entire duration of the Vecnapocalypse, up until when we’d almost kissed in the Upside Down. I told her about how Will–

El remained silent for a few seconds, and I feared that our call might have been disconnected and I'd been talking to no one. But then, I heard the faint sound of El breathing, so I continued, “If any of this gets back to Will–”

“Why do you think I called you, Mike?” El cut me off, and I sat there in silence, unable to reply. “I called because I care, and because I want the best for both you and Will. Not just Will. I think you did the right thing letting him know you’re still there if he wants you to be.” Well that was… unexpected. And really kind, considering that this was the first time we’d spoken since she moved to Nashville. I truly had no idea why El still gave a shit about me after everything. I'd been a shitty boyfriend and a shitty friend, and these reasons alone were appropriate grounds to cut me out of her life. But El stuck around.

“Oh,” I whispered. “Thanks.”

“I just…” she trailed off. Oh no. What now?

“Just what?” I pressed, and I heard El sigh. Greeeaaaaat.

“I just think you shouldn’t have called so soon.”

“So soon?” I repeated, horrified. “El, it’s been seven months since I last spoke to him! When do you think should I have done it?” Should I have waited until we were out of school for the summer? Should I have waited until we were both out of college? Should I have waited until Will had forgotten about me?

“You should have let him call you,” El said to me, her voice strangely calm. “Or not called him on his birthday of all days. I don’t know, I’m just throwing ideas out there.” Yeah, no shit. I reached over to my bedside table again to pick up the bottle of whiskey, which still had about half left, and took a gigantic gulp, instantly regretting it when it scorched my esophagus.

“I don’t see how the fuck this is helping, Eleven,” I spluttered, wiping my mouth roughly with my sweatshirt sleeve. Sometimes, I wished El’s powers extended beyond telekinesis and telepathy, and, like, contained the key solution to all of my problems. That would be ideal. But no, she had to be all vague and mysterious and just throw ideas out there.

“Okay, well, if you want to be that way, then fine,” El’s tone turned cold. “I highly recommend you consider hashing it out in person.” She had no idea what she was talking about. The Will she had spoken to must have been a figment of her imagination, because Will had made it abundantly clear that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. As far as I was concerned, I'd never see Will again. But then El spoke once more. “I hope you and Will can eventually get your heads out of your asses and admit that you still love each other.”

With that, the line clicked, and I was alone with my thoughts. Or rather, one lone phrase, as the rest of my mind faded to nothingness: You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. Those words played on a loop in my mind as I finished off my bottle of whiskey. From that moment on, “sobriety” and “Mike Wheeler'' would not appear in the same sentence, not until—

Woaaaahhhh! Livin’ on a prayer!!! The key change of the Bon Jovi song woke me back up with a start. This had already happened a few times, but thankfully, the loud rock music on Will’s mixtape would startle me awake each time I nodded off behind the wheel.

I concluded that I couldn’t blink anymore. Though my eyes were incredibly dry, due to lukewarm air blasting through the vents and directly hitting my corneas, blinking would cause my heart rate to lower and the rest of the world to move in slow motion. If only for a few seconds of my life, I'd trade out the mental torment, the anger, and the loneliness for tranquility, quiet, and warmth… then my eyelids would droop closed.

I pressed my foot a little harder on the gas pedal, trying not to get distracted by the corn fields that seemed to sway to the music with me. Hopefully I would get my third wind sooner than later (my second one was fleeting, and died out as soon as it began). The sun was coming up, which was definitely going to help keep me awake. The song ended, followed by a few seconds of suspended quiet between songs before a familiar guitar riff met my ears.

“Oh, fuuuuck me. Goddamnit,” I indignantly announced to the universe, gripping my fingers tighter on the steering wheel. The voice of Joe Strummer began to shout alongside the wailing electric guitar. Now, I was very awake. My mind became a film reel, playing back memories I thought I'd blocked out a long time ago.

Darling you’ve got to let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

Once everyone had been debriefed on what was happening in Hawkins, Will and Jonathan immediately went to work on making customized mixtapes for everyone. I sat on my father’s La-Z-Boy in the living room and watched in awe as the brothers put their minds together and churned out each tape as if it were second nature. I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of Will’s extensive musical knowledge, for one, as well as the strong sibling bond they shared. Having grown up surrounded by sisters, I often felt like the odd one out. My parents shamelessly and openly favored my sisters over me, which further excluded me, whether it was intentional or not, on their part. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if they ever found out I was gay. That would be a disaster.

If you say that you are mine / I’ll be here till the end of time.

While Will and Jonathan were out getting more cassettes, I got a hold of and sifted through everyone’s handwritten lists. I had no idea Dustin enjoyed metal music so much; most of his list consisted of songs by Black Sabbath and Metallica. It wasn’t much of a surprise to me, considering how much of an impact Eddie Munson had made on the two of them. I still couldn’t believe he was gone. Part of me refused to accept it. Eddie could still be alive. He was just in the Upside Down somewhere. We could still save him. There was still time. There had to be time. My subconscious must have known I'd needed a distraction from the subject of Eddie— not dying— yes, dying, because I found Will’s list. To me, this list was a small glimpse into Will’s mind, so I decided to memorize it. I'd do anything to get closer to Will, even if it meant racking my brain in the process.

“You like my mix?” Will’s deep vocal timbre demanded my attention, and I swiveled my upper body around to see Will leaning over my shoulder, his hands planted on either side of me on the back edge of the chair. When did he get back home? That didn’t matter, because Will’s arms looked amazing in my blue and yellow striped shirt, stretching the short sleeves in all the right places. Was that a vein on his bicep? I gulped loudly, becoming flustered at our very close proximity. God, I needed to get ahold of myself. Pining over my best friend like this was not—

“I can make you a copy if you want,” Will said, and my eyes lit up in surprise. Will would really do that for me? I realized then that I hadn’t said any actual words during this entire interaction, and borderline blushed at the thought of Will rendering me speechless, but I needed to talk. Now.

“Really?” I asked, and Will nodded. “That would be amazing! Thank you!”

“Of course. I’ll have that ready for you in about an hour,” Will smiled, pulling out of my space, but not removing his hand from the recliner. I took this moment to shift in my spot to face Will, placing my hand atop my friend’s before he could walk away. Will turned back in my direction, eyes frantic yet welcoming.

“You’ve always had the best music taste of the Party. I’ve missed it,” I had a sentimental streak, what could I say?

“You have?” Will squeaked out, seeming surprised at my confession.

“Uh, of course! Why wouldn’t I have missed it?” I asked, and Will shrugged.

“Well, you thought wrong, Byers, because your music has always been my favorite to listen to,” I quipped, my voice infected by my ever-growing grin. “You taste top tier.”

Wait, did I just… What did I just say? I said, quote, “You taste top tier.” As in Will Byers, as a person… tasted top tier. What if… My mind meandered into treacherous territory as I wondered what Will tasted like– NO! Not now! I was just about ready to pass away right then and there. I could just imagine my headstone; Here Lies Michael James Wheeler. Cause of Death: Inability to Formulate a Fucking Sentence.

“Oh, do I, now?” Will raised an eyebrow, a smirk lifting a corner of his gorgeous mouth. I nearly fell off the chair. Could my egregious mistake have given me a little bit of leverage in the flirtation department? Will seemed to think so.

I played it off casually with a simple, “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Will remarked, placing his other hand over both of ours, sandwiching my hand between Will’s palms. So Will liked being (accidentally) flirted with. Note to self, I thought, fuck up more often.

I smiled so big that my mouth nearly fell off my face. “Cool.”

So you gotta let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

It was the summer of 1989, and all was well. Hawkins was no longer nationally renowned as an extra-terrestrial hybrid between earth and hell, but simply as a small town in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. It was the summer of 1989, and I was lying on the basement couch with my legs hanging off the edge. My eyes were closed, and I wore my headphones which were attached to my Walkman, playing Will’s mixtape on repeat, just as I had from the second it fell into my hands back in 1986. I felt the thumps of the opening and closing of the basement door, followed by light footsteps treading down the stairs. I cracked a singular eye open, but opened them both fully when I registered that it was Will who was entering my space.

“Mike, we’ve gotta talk.”

It's always tease, tease, tease / You're happy when I'm on my knees

“Okay, what’s up? Are you–” I sat up, pulling my headphones fully off my head and resting them around my neck. Then I saw the look on Will’s face. He looked livid.

One day it's fine, and next it's black / So if you want me off your back / Well, come on and let me know / Should I stay, or should I go?

“What the fuck are these?” Will spat. My eyes widened at what Will held in his hands. How did he–

“SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO NOW!!!” I cried out, cranking the window down with my free hand and letting the wind rush through my long, black hair. My sobs broke into a maniacal, rueful laugh as my hair violently whipped into my eyes. I lifted my left hand and extended it out the driver’s side window, feeling my fingers being forced apart and back together by the rippling sea of oxygen and carbon. Rock bottom felt like the top of the world.

“IF I GO THERE WILL BE TROUB-ALLLLLLL,” I yelled through the thick strands, spluttering a bit as some pieces made their way into my mouth. I tugged them away, but to no avail, as the wind obviously had a mind of its own, but I continued on with my tirade of near-incoherent screeching, face full of loose curls. “AMIFF I SHTAY ISHWILLBEE DUBALLLL!”

The road took a slight bend, and I obliged to the demands of the pavement. The sun was bright enough that it burned into my retinas. I pushed my hair out of my face once more to view the scenery, only to be met with a pair of bright yellow headlights belonging to a tractor trailer. Only now did I perceive the loud noise of the truck’s horn; my car radio had been blocking it out. I also noticed that I was in the opposite lane, and about to collide head-on with the trailer if I didn’t move fast enough,

With enough adrenaline to fuel a thousand demodogs, I swerved to the right and dodged the truck with only seconds to spare. I took a moment to process the fact that I could have died. I knew my hands held the steering wheel, and my foot was still on the gas, but the rest of me was thoroughly detached from reality. “Should I Stay or Should I Go” blared on through the speakers, but I could only feel the vibrations rumbling from the floor of the car. I could have died, but I didn’t. But I felt my heart stop, and it felt simultaneously comforting and cataclysmic..

I knew that I couldn’t continue on, not like this. As if the road could read my mind, a small lookout area appeared within my vicinity, and I took this as a sign to pull over onto the shoulder to regroup. I parked my car, turned the music down, and clasped my hands in my lap, waiting a few more seconds before turning the car off, unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the door.

The actual sun had begun to rise. The air was crisp, and the wind chill slightly nudged it into even colder temperatures, sending a shiver down my spine. I hastily cowered back into the lingering warmth of the vehicle, searching the passenger side for… there it was. I pulled a crimson colored University of Indianapolis sweatshirt from behind me and shoved it over my shoulders, zipping it up. I did a double take at what the block-style letters spelled out, rolling my eyes and laughing bitterly to myself at the sheer irony. I continued to laugh as I opened the car door once more, heading towards the lookout.

I stood at the top of a steep cliff, guarded by a rusty guard rail that looked like it would fall apart with the next gust of wind that hit it. The trees below me were bare, their branches contorting every which way, slicing the air around them like an army of spears. Beyond the line of trees I could see the miles-wide stretch of farmland, and the miniscule house that sat on the corner of the property, chimney smoking. In an atmosphere as peaceful as this one, I stood idly at the edge of the lookout, thinking about how this would be a beautiful place to die. If I were to lift just one leg over the rail…

Mike, don't do it! I don't need my baby teeth, twelve year old Dustin’s voice echoed from the back burner of my mind. Seriously, don't do it, man! Of course my thoughts traveled back to that time at the quarry. How could I ever forget? Even as a child, I'd been completely wrecked without Will. If this memory proved anything, it proved that history repeats itself.

Dentist's office opens in five, young Troy’s voice began, and I glanced down. This time, I wouldn’t be able to turn back. Four… This time, El wouldn’t be able to save me. Three… This time, no one would be there to grieve for me. Two…

“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.”

“But I did mean it!!!” I screamed into the silence, startling a flock of birds below. I lifted my hands up to my face, covering my bloodshot eyes. I heaved out a low growl, raising my voice until it hit the top of my range, cracking with an agonizing shriek. “I meant all of it! I love you! I always have! Fuck, Will, why couldn’t you just see that?!”

I let out a quiet sob, but no tears followed; I'd cried the rest of them out over the course of the past few hours. My throat felt like it had been rubbed with coarse sandpaper. I took a step back from the ledge and kicked a few of the rocks at my feet, watching them fall. I decided I didn’t want to die that day; not by alcohol poisoning, not by tractor trailer wreck, and not by jumping off a cliff. The only way I could die was if I did all I possibly could to get Will back. I turned my back on the trees, briskly walking back to my car.

I’m gonna make sure you, William Jacob Byers, know that I meant every single word.

About half an hour later, I walked into the convenience mart of a gas station. My hangover headache was beginning to form, and my intermittent yawning had become more and more frequent, so I figured some coffee would solve both of those problems. I stopped at the entrance, looking down at the stack of newspapers to my right. I recalled myself making a mental note back at the frat party to check my horoscope, so I leaned down to pick one up, searching for Aries when I found the page.

Well, Chicago Sun Times, it’s a little late for that, I thought, tossing the paper back onto the pile and walking to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water, and then to the coffee station. I filled a cup and dumped about seven packets worth of sugar into it before capping it off and heading to the register.

The clerk behind the counter, an older man, looked like he'd been having the best goddamn morning of his life. He beamed from ear to ear, and I could feel the positivity radiating off of this man from a mile away. When I got closer, I noticed a singular studded earring on his right earlobe.

“Hi, how’s it going?” The man smiled at me, crows feet forming in the outer corners of his eyes. I tried to mirror the expression, but failed miserably.

“It’s going,” I sighed, setting the water and coffee down on the counter and watching the clerk type in the prices on the register.

“Looks like it. You look rough, kid,” the man sympathized, pulling the money I slid onto the counter towards him and counting the bills. I shifted from foot to foot, anxiously waiting for the cashier to hand me my change so I could get out of there.

“Wanna talk about it?” he quirked an eyebrow, and I stopped my fidgeting. I looked up at the clerk, took a deep breath, and–

“That you did. I’m happy to listen, though,” the cashier merely chuckled, waving his hand in friendly dismissal. “You’ve really been put through the wringer, kiddo.”

“Well… thank you,” I softly smiled as I took my change from the counter, and shoved it into my pocket before turning around in preparation to leave.

“Best of luck in your travels! Go get your man!” the clerk called after me, and I laughed as the glass door slowly fell shut behind me.

Pulling onto the campus of the American Academy of Art was not something I had expected to be on my Sunday agenda, but here I was, pulling into a visitor parking spot next to the Admissions office building. I got out of my car, slamming the door, and smoothing my jeans over my thighs, feeling slightly self conscious about how they’d been crumpled up in a ball in my back seat after my most recent midnight excursion with Wyatt Bowman. Although, if I were being honest, anything was better than those denim cutoffs. Especially considering the mission I was currently on. Speaking of.

At first glance, this was not a traditional campus. There was not a single quad to be seen. There were no outdated buildings or directories, let alone any form of indication of a college campus, aside from the little rectangular flags with the school’s logo that hung from every other lamppost lining the sidewalks. All of the academic buildings were dispersed amidst other buildings belonging to different businesses and companies within a specific limit of blocks, which would make it much more difficult for me to figure out where the hell Will could even be within this organized chaos. I figured it would make the most sense to head into the Admissions office building first, so I could at least get a map.

The interior of the building was bright, with students’ art framed along the walls. I walked over to the nearest painting in the room, pausing to admire the work. There was a Monet-inspired landscape closest to the door, and a cubist portrayal of a still life stationed beside it. I could see why Will chose this school. They cultivated the talents of their students and turned them into true artists. Nothing could have prepared me for the next piece that caught my eye.

It was me. Fuck, it was me; large in scale, vibrant, and full of life. I held my breath and stared back at the incredibly detailed, realistic portrait. I knew I didn’t need to look at the label that was tacked to the bottom of the painting to know whose work it was, but I couldn’t help myself. My eyes dragged downward and nearly passed away when I read the title: William Byers (b. 1971), “The Heart” (1989). Oil on Canvas. My chest swelled with pride, but quickly deflated at the looming, deafening voice in my head that routinely reminded me of what I'd lost. But that’s where everything stopped making sense.

The label stated that Will had painted “The Heart” in 1989, the same year that Will left me without turning back. He’d begun attending the American Academy of Art in September of that same year, leaving only three and a half or so months of the semester to complete the painting. So why would Will, after he completely erased me out of his life, still refer to me as the heart? And which heart was Will referring to? His own, or the one he’d shattered? I hadn’t realized I'd zoned out, so when a middle aged lady appeared next to me, I nearly leapt out of my skin. Her outfit, a floor length dress paired with a shawl, made her look quite ominous out of the corner of my eye.

“This is one of my favorites,” the woman stated.

“Yeah… mine, too,” I hummed, unmoving.

“Have we met?” she began, but didn’t give me a chance to reply. “Perhaps you’re one of my lecture students, I can never quite put a name to a face. But I must say, you look quite familiar,” she told me, turning back to the painting with her arms crossed over her chest, deep in thought.

“Probably because I’m the guy in the painting, heh.”

“Oh gosh, silly me!” the woman exclaimed, flushing red as she put a palm to her forehead. “I didn’t even make the connection! So I assume you’re close with the artist, then?”

“Yeah, I know…” I began, then cut myself off with a grimace. “Knew him.”

“How nice!” Luckily, she didn’t pick up on my vacant expression. Instead, she continued on, “If you’d like, I can connect you with some students if you’re interested in touring the school.”

“Uh, no thank you, ma’am, that’s alright. I was just wondering if I could have a map if there’s one available?” I asked, and she nodded, turning on her heel to open a drawer of the front desk.

“Of course! And no need to call me ma’am, Miriam works just fine.”

“Well, thank you very much, Miriam,” I smiled at her as she handed me two pieces of color-coded, glossy paper; a campus map, and a map of Chicago.

“You’re very welcome, Mike. And when you see him, tell Will that I ordered those brushes he needed.” I didn’t recall ever telling her my name, or mentioning Will in our short conversation, but I became hyper aware of the fact that Miriam likely knew something I didn’t. Will had evidently told her about me. Apparently it wasn’t too slanderous, though, so I felt cautiously optimistic.

“Um… I… okay,” I rushed out, backing out the door as politely as I possibly could. “Thanks! Bye!” As soon as I was out of the Admissions office building, I ran down the street. I was so close to finding Will. Now, all I had to do was find the dorms.

I looked down at the map in my hands, then up, trying to find the building number, then back down again to confirm if I was even on the right street. The map said the boys’ dorms should be there, but all I could see was a brick wall in front of me. I was just about to rip all my hair out before I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned to see two girls looking up at me, concern etched on their faces. One of the girls wore a ski hat over her blonde hair, paired with a pink windbreaker, while the other girl donned a sherpa denim jacket and a beanie that still allowed her to show off her impressively long box braids that cascaded down to her hips.

“Hey man, are you okay?” Sherpa Girl asked. My gaze traveled down to notice our intertwined hands and I blinked, looking back at the two girls and nodding. At least I was amongst friends. I gripped onto the map in my hands for dear life, hoping they’d just leave me be so I could be disorientated in peace.

“Yeah, fine. I’m fine,” I shook my head, forcing out a smile. “Thank you though.”

That didn’t seem to cut it for Sherpa Girl, because she shared a knowing look with Windbreaker Girl. “Do you think he looks fine, babe?” she looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think he looks fine.”

“No,” Windbreaker replied to her girlfriend, “He most definitely does not. Also, he shook his head ‘no’ while saying he was fine, so… busted.”

“Okay, what of it?” I waved my hands around in the air in frustration, pacing in a small circle before returning to face the two girls. “I’m just walking around this… very complicated campus.”

Windbreaker let out a giggle at that, leaning into Sherpa’s shoulder to muffle her laughter, which melted my heart a little bit.

“You’re obviously lost, dude,” Sherpa pressed. “At least tell us what you’re looking for, maybe we can help you.”

I let out an exhale of defeat, awkwardly shoving my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. “Any chance you know of a guy named Will Byers?”

Sherpa’s worryful expression shifted as she exclaimed, “Oh yeah, Will? He’s the cleric in our D&D club!” My brain short-circuited at the weight that sentence held.

“…He still plays D&D?”

That was when Windbreaker Girl’s eyes widened in recognition. “Wait… are you Mike?” I felt like I was being charged with a crime, but I nodded anyway. “Thee Mike? As in Mike Wheeler?” she asked again, and I couldn’t refrain from feeling a bit embarrassed by the implication that her vocal inflections gave off.

“Unfortunately,” I muttered, but was completely caught off guard when Sherpa did a little jump in place, her face splitting into a wide grin. Wait a minute. They didn’t despise me? I was so confused.

“No. No, this is great!” Sherpa elaborated, letting go of Windbreaker’s hand in order to reach into her purse. Huh? “I’ll give you his address.” Oh.

“He lives off campus with our friend Kate, but she’s usually at work all day on Sundays,” Windbreaker explained while Sherpa found a fancy, expensive-looking art pen and scribbled the address onto a grocery receipt. She handed it to me. I read it, then had to read it one more time to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. 7 Maple Street, Chicago, IL.

I gulped loudly, peeling my eyes away from the piece of receipt paper. I nodded in thanks, as no words seemed to come out of my mouth when I attempted to speak.

“My name’s Ivy, by the way, and this is my girl Hannah,” Sherpa– Ivy– said, wrapping an arm around Windbreaker– Hannah’s shoulders, pulling her into her side as they walked past and away from me. “Tell Will we said ‘you’re welcome’!” I heard her call back to me. I wouldn’t even try to decode what the fuck that meant.

I eventually found my car after wandering around aimlessly for a few more minutes than I'd have liked to admit, and landed in the driver’s seat with a thud. I pulled the map of Chicago out of my pocket and dug in my middle console for a pen, locating Maple Street in seconds. It was about a fifteen minute drive away. Okay. I could do this.

As I drove, I thought about what to say. How could I even begin to explain why I was there, on Will’s doorstep? How could I justify my batshit insane motive? I got drunk for a year and moaned out your name while hooking up with a guy named Carter? I was driving under the influence and decided to come to Chicago instead of going home? I almost killed myself on multiple occasions on the way here, but made it out alive just to tell you that I love you? I groaned. I didn’t want to be a stuttering mess, so I figured I'd at least try to plan out my… speech. But I had never really been much of a planner in respect to my social life. Give me a few monsters, and I'd be golden. But my crumbling social life was far from an apocalypse, and Will was no monster. I'd just have to wing it.

Will’s house was pretty. It was a small Cape Cod style, yellow with blue shutters. It had a small plot of grass in front, with a few stairs leading up to the doorway. The doorway that I stood in, lifting my knuckles to the door.

I knocked.

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