Chapter Text
Mike hated sitting on this couch.
The leather squeaked under him, a sharp, annoying sound that filled the silence every time he shifted. He hated the way Dr. Morgan looked at him, that steady, unblinking stare she used when she knew he was full of shit. He hated the sound of her pen hitting the paper, and the hushed way she whispered to his mom in the hallway after the hour was up.
But mostly, he hated that she was the only person who actually knew him. Not the whole him, not the dark, static-filled parts he kept locked in the basement of his head, but enough. She knew enough to be satisfied, and that bothered him.
It was a gross, complicated feeling. He hated coming here, but he also hated the thought of it ending. In this room, he didn't have to be the heart of the group, or the grieving boyfriend, or the perfect son. He could say the ugly things about El's death, about the trauma, about the way the world felt like it was made of cardboard. She didn't flinch. She didn't judge him.
That was the catch, though. For it all to work, for the weight to lift even a little, he had to be honest. He had to peel back the skin and show her the rot. He hated her for making him do it, but he loved her for not looking away when he did. It was a trade-off he couldn't stop making: his secrets for her silence.
Lately, the guilt was getting worse. He felt like a traitor to the Party. It wasn’t like he was out there spilling his deepest, darkest shit to Dustin or Lucas every day, but keeping it all for Dr. Morgan felt like he was living a double life. They wouldn't understand the things he said in here. They’d look at him like he was insane, or worse, like he was broken beyond repair. This office was the only place where he felt... allowed.
He scratched at a loose thread on the couch. Will would understand, probably. Well, with his other problem. The one that doesn't leave these walls, ever.
That thought made his stomach twist. He was so goddamn envious of Will. He watched Will these days, and it was like looking at a stranger. Will had gone from this quiet, shaking kid to a person who actually existed in the world. A social butterfly. Open. Free. He wanted that freedom, but he also wanted to reach out and snatch it away from him, just so they’d be on the same level again.
“Michael."
Dr. Morgan’s voice cut through the fog in his head. "You’re digging into the leather again
Mike looked down. His fingernails were buried in the seam of the cushion. He forced his hands to go limp.
"Sorry," he muttered, though he wasn't. He was just annoyed he’d been caught.
"You don't have to apologize for being frustrated," she said, her voice infuriatingly calm. "Is this about the move? About New York?"
Mike didn't answer. He just watched the way the sunlight hit the dust motes in the air. Everything felt too bright, too loud.
“You know I'm very proud of you for going through with it,” she continued, her tone softening. “I know you were having doubts a week ago. I really think it’s a great idea, Mike. A change of scenery... It’s a chance to be someone else, Mike. Someone who isn't always looking over his shoulder.”
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. I want to go now.” Mike’s voice came out sharper than he intended, almost defensive.
“Mike,” she challenged, leaning forward just an inch. “Are you saying that because you really want to, or because you know for sure that Will is going?”
The air in the room felt thin. Mike hated the way she could navigate his brain like a map. It made him feel naked. He wondered, briefly, if she was a mind reader. Hell, if El and Will could have powers, what said she didn't? Maybe she could see the gruesome images behind his eyes
“My life doesn’t revolve around Will,” he mumbled, but even to his own ears, it sounded like a rehearsed lie.
“It doesn’t?”
He glared at her. She didn't flinch. “Mike, all I’m saying is that Will’s life doesn’t revolve around you, either. He’s going to meet new people. He’s going to have a life that you aren't the center of.”
Mike felt a sharp spike of confusion. "Meet new people? Why would he meet new people when I'm right there?"
“That’s what happens when you go to college, Mike. You explore new dynamics. You find new friend groups.” She spoke slowly, as if he were 5 and might lose his temper at any second.
Mike scoffed. The idea of Will "expanding", of other people touching him, talking to him, taking up his time. The static in his head grew louder.
“Why does the idea of Will meeting new friends bother you so much?”
“It doesn’t,” he lied, his pulse thrumming in his throat.
“Why, Michael?” she pushed, relentless. “Is it because of the situation with him?”
“What situation?”
“How he is your—”
“Friend. Best friend,” Mike interrupted. He couldn't let her say it. If she said the words out loud, they might become real, and he wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
“Well, even though you guys are... best friends,” she paused, choosing her words carefully to not upset him, “you can’t keep making decisions for him. He’s an adult now. He’s going to want to do new things.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Mike said, his leg bouncing. He watched her write something on her notepad. Unstable? Obsessive? Dangerous? He wanted to rip the paper out of her hands. Mike groaned, throwing his head back against the wall.
“Okay. Well, when you’re in New York, and things get... loud... how do you plan to control yourself?”
“Isn’t that your job to tell me?” he grumbled. “To make the noise stop?”
She sighed. “Michael, I can’t tell you how to live every second of your life. All I can do is give you the tools. It’s up to you to actually use them.”
Mike looked up at the ceiling, watching the flickering fluorescent light. “Maybe the change of scenery will help. You know? Just... calm me down. Help me forget everything.”
“It doesn’t work like that, and you know it. Moving doesn't leave the problems behind; it just gives them a new room to live in.” She paused, her eyes searching his. “Have you given any more thought to the medication?”
Mike’s head snapped back down, an immediate, visceral no written all over his face. “I’m not doing that again. I hated it. I felt like I was a zombie. I couldn't think.”
He’d hated the way the pills made him sleepy and the way they made his brain numb.
She put her pen down and set the notepad on the table beside her. She leaned in, her expression moving past professional into something that felt dangerously like genuine care. “I really want you to try there, okay? Please. Enjoy the city. Focus on your writing. Meet new people-”
“All I need is Will,” Mike said, his voice flat and final.
“Mike.”
The silence that followed was heavy. They stared at each other for a long moment, a silent standoff. She saw the obsession; he saw her pity. She saw a boy who was one bad day away from a total break; he saw a woman who was trying to put a leash on him.
“I’m going to give your mother a referral to a colleague of mine in Manhattan,” she said finally, breaking the tension. “She specializes in... your specific issues. I think it’s in your best interest to continue treatment.”
Mike nodded, though he was already planning how to lose the referral paper. “Okay. I’ll see.”
She looked at him hard, her eyes soft with a pity that made him want to scream. “I’m serious, Mike. I want you to do your best. You’re a smart kid who has been through some truly awful things. Don’t let the things you've seen turn you into something you aren't. Try to venture out of your comfort zone.”
The timer on her desk let out a sharp, mechanical ding. The 120 minutes were up. The room's safety was expiring.
They both stood. To Mike’s surprise, she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. He froze for a second, then his shoulders dropped, and he reciprocated, burying his face in her shoulder for a heartbeat. She smelled like peppermint and old paper, the smell of the only place where he felt truly comfortable.
They pulled apart. “You promise me?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Mike said, his voice a ghost of a whisper. “I promise.”
He stepped out of the office, and the heavy door clicked shut. He felt the mask slide back into place immediately. The "Mike Wheeler" the world expected; the leader, the friend, the normal son, was back.
The first time Mike Wheeler killed someone, he was 18, during the summer after graduation. Sure, he has indirectly killed a lot of people in his time, fighting with the government and all, but this kill was from only him. He couldn't help it. This guy had hurt someone he cared about. He deserved it.
Friday, 2:03 PM
The house was quiet. Mike was in the kitchen, the scrape of a butter knife against bread the only sound in the room. He was focused on the sandwich, trying to ignore the restless hum in the back of his mind that usually showed up when he’d been alone for too long.
Then he heard the crunch of tires on gravel.
He didn't have to look through the window to know the engine sound; he knew Will’s car better than his own. He met him on the porch, the screen door creaking on its hinges. One look at Will’s face and the sandwich in the kitchen was forgotten. Will’s eyes were a raw, wet red that made Mike’s stomach drop.
“Will? What happened?”
He didn't wait for an answer. He took Will by the arm, as if he were made of glass, and led him to the living room couch. He hated seeing Will like this. It felt like someone had reached into Mike’s own chest and started squeezing.
“It was Lonnie,” Will said, his voice small. “He came over to the house.”
The name hit Mike like an electric shock. The need to protect him flared up. “What did the asshole do this time?”
“He showed up an hour ago. Unannounced,” Will said, wiping at his eyes. “Said he wanted to congratulate me on graduating. I... I might have said some snarky things back.” Will let out a weak, pathetic laugh that broke Mike’s heart. “And that upset him. He wanted to come inside. I told him no.”
Will’s breath hitched, and the first sob broke through. “He started calling me names, Mike. Names from when we were kids. And then he... he tried to grab me.”
Suddenly, the need to protect died, and something much darker took its place.
“He grabbed you?” Mike’s voice was too quiet. Too flat.
“He tried. I fought him off for a bit before Hopper got home from his shift. Hopper told me to go inside, and Lonnie finally left.” Will was shaking now. Mike pulled him in, tucking Will’s head under his chin. He let Will’s tears soak into his shirt, his own eyes staring blankly at the far wall.
“I don’t even know why he came!” Will yelled into Mike’s chest, his breathing becoming a series of sharp, panicked stutters. “I haven’t seen him in years! He went to my funeral and didn’t even stay to see if I was okay when I came back!”
Mike didn't say anything. He couldn't. If he opened his mouth, he was afraid he’d start screaming. Instead, he just stroked Will’s hair.
Eventually, the crying wore Will out. He fell asleep with his head in Mike's lap, his breathing finally leveling out. Mike stayed perfectly still for two hours, watching the way Will’s eyelashes fluttered in his sleep.
He felt a sick, possessive pride blooming in his gut. Will hadn't gone to anyone else in the party. He hadn't stayed with Hopper. He had come here. To Mike.
Mike was the only one who could fix this. Mike was the only one who truly knew how to keep Will Byers safe.
When Will woke up a couple of hours later, he was a little embarrassed but relieved. Relieved that he always had someone to go to.
“Thanks, Mike,” Will whispered as he stood by the door to leave. “For always being the person I can come to.”
Mike gave him a smile, “No worries,” he said softly. “You know you’re always welcome here. I’ll always take care of it, Will.”
Will waved as he drove away. Mike watched the taillights disappear, the smile sliding off his face like wet paint.
The front door hadn't even finished swinging shut before Mike was halfway up the stairs, his shoes thudding against the wood. He slammed the door so hard the frames on the walls rattled, and the click of the lock felt like the only thing keeping his ribcage from exploding.
He stood in the center of the rug, chest heaving, but the air felt like it was made of glass shards. Inside his skull, the sensation was sickening, like two tectonic plates grinding together, two versions of his own consciousness fighting to occupy the same narrow space.
He paced. Three steps to the window, three steps to the closet. Turn. Repeat.
Breathe, he told himself, the voice of his therapist flickering in his mind like a dying candle. Four seconds in, hold for four, out for four. He threw himself onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to force his lungs to obey. But the rhythm was wrong. The air was too thin. He felt a desperate urge to reach for the phone, to call her, but he knew he couldn't. He was stranded, suffocating in the silence of his own room.
With a groan, he grabbed his pillow and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull, pathetic thud that only fueled the fire. He wanted something to break. He wanted the world to sound as loud as the screaming in his head.
He marched into the bathroom, the harsh hum of the light buzzing in his ears. He gripped the edges of the sink until his knuckles turned a bloodless white; it was cold against his palms.
He forced himself to look.
He hated the boy in the glass. He hated the wildness in his eyes and the way his own face felt like a mask that didn't fit right anymore. As he stared, a sharp, phantom pain spiked through his temples, as if a needle were being driven into the soft tissue of his brain.
It felt like a stranger was standing just behind his eyes, someone cold and ancient, whispering poison into his ear, feeding him cruel ideas that made his stomach churn. The thoughts weren't his, yet they were coming from his own mind.
"Get out," he hissed at his reflection, his voice cracking. "Get out of my head!"
He sank to the cold tile floor, his fingers tangling in his hair, pulling at the roots as if he could physically yank his brain out of his skull. The anger finally broke, dissolving into a heaving sob.
He curled into a ball against the bathtub, shaking so hard his teeth chattered. Why was he so filled with this venom? Why can't he control himself? Why would anyone want to hurt Will?
That last question kept circling in his mind, overpowering him. The mere thought of anyone hurting Will usually made Mike’s blood boil with protectiveness, but now, the fear was different.
Right then, he made his decision.
Mike waited until the house was empty, listening to the muffled thuds of his parents packing the car. The sounds of their departure felt like a countdown. When the gravel finally crunched under their tires and the engine faded into the distance, Mike knew he had to do it now. They would be gone for two days, forty-eight hours, providing a window of time that felt like a gift from God.
At 2:00 AM, the Hawins air was thick and stagnant. Mike drove toward the edges of town, navigating by the ghost of a memory of where Will had mentioned Lonnie was rotting away. He found a dense patch of woods a few minutes from the property and killed the engine. He sat in the dark for a moment, his heart a loud drum against his ribs, before stepping out into the shadows. He moved through the trees and bushes like a predator, his mind replaying every story of the "hunting trips," the purple bruises, and the way Lonnie’s voice used to make Will shrink until he was almost invisible.
He saw the house with the same number Will had mentioned years ago and approached the back door, which was slightly ajar. He stood there for several minutes, his breath shallow, listening to the silence. When he heard nothing but the rhythmic rattling of a snore, he stepped inside. The interior reeked of beer and the chemical stench of cheap, discarded cigarettes.
He followed the sound into the living room. Lonnie was sprawled on the couch, a bloated ruin of a man surrounded by a graveyard of glass bottles. Two shotguns leaned against the TV stand, cold and mechanical. Mike looked at them for a heartbeat but turned away. He didn't want the distance of a firearm; he needed the resistance of the man who had dared to touch Will. He needed to feel the life leave him.
In the kitchen, he found a heavy chef’s knife sitting on the counter. He studied the edge, wiping the dust off on his jacket slowly. He took a long, shaky breath, coming to terms with the necessity of the act. He needed to do this. He stepped back into the living room, moving closer until he was looming directly over the couch. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, the knife growing heavy in his grip.
He lingered too long. The floorboards had let out a groan, and Lonnie’s eyes snapped open, jaundiced, bloodshot, and swimming with confusion. He squinted up at the tall, shaking silhouette looming over him, his voice a thick, drunken gravel.
“What the fuck… who the fuck are you? Wheeler? The fuck are you-”
The threat died in a wet gurgle. Before Lonnie could heave his weight off the cushions, Mike drove the chef’s knife downward with the force of his entire soul. The blade sank into Lonnie’s abdomen with a sickening, heavy thwack, the edge grinding against a rib before sliding into the soft, hot meat of his stomach. Mike ripped the knife back out with a violent twist, and a dark, rhythmic spray of blood instantly coated his knuckles.
Lonnie lunged upward with a choked gasp, his calloused hands, the same hands that had bruised Will, clawing frantically at Mike’s throat. They crashed into the coffee table, bottles shattering and showering them in beer and glass.
Mike felt a sharp, icy sting as a shard sliced deep into his cheek, but he was beyond pain. He was a machine on a mission. He ripped the knife back and slashed blindly, the blade catching Lonnie across the ribs and opening a wide red wound that spilled blood onto the grimy carpet.
The man hit the floor with a heavy, wet thud, his white shirt rapidly turning a dark, bruised crimson.
“I swear I’m sorry!” Lonnie sobbed, the sound turning into a bubbly, metallic rattle as blood began to overflow his lungs and spill from his lips. “For whatever I did… just… don’t…” Lonnie wheezed, his hands frantically trying to push his blood back into the jagged hole in his side. Mike didn't answer. He stepped forward, his boots squelching in the thickening liquid, and plunged the knife into Lonnie’s stomach again, feeling the blade hit something thick.
“You aren't sorry,” Mike whispered. His voice was flat, devoid of any empathy, “You’re just dying.”
The floor was coated in Lonnies blood.
Mike looked down at the ruin of the man, “You’ve committed too many sins, and now you have to pay.”
He began to strike, again, and again, and again. The knife making a repetitive, squelching sound as it entered the pulpy mess of Lonnie’s chest. This is for the bruises on Will’s arms. This is for the way Jonathan had to grow up too fast. This is for the fear in Joyce’s eyes. The deepest, most frenzied strikes were reserved for the tears Mike had seen Will shed just hours before.
Lonnie’s white shirt was no longer in one piece; it was tattered and soaked in blood. Mike’s hands were stained past the wrists.
He stood up, panting, his chest heaving with adrenaline. The light in Lonnie’s eyes had long since flickered out, leaving behind a hollow, staring corpse with its jaw hanging slack.
But the shadow in Mike’s mind demanded a total erasure. He needed to be certain this monster could never, ever crawl back out of the dirt to touch Will again. He grabbed the Remington shotgun from the TV stand and stood directly over the body, the barrel hovering inches from the ruin of Lonnie’s face.
He pulled the trigger.
The first blast erased Lonnie’s features, turning his head into a spray of grey matter, bone shards, and crimson that painted the walls in a grotesque splatter. Mike pumped the action, the hot shell casing clinking against the floor, and fired again, straight into the center of the chest.
A spray of crimson painted Mike’s face.
The silence that followed was loud. Mike snapped back into reality as if waking from a nightmare. He looked at the ruin on the floor and felt a sudden spike of terror. “Holy shit, what did I just do?” he gasped, backing away until his heels hit the wall.
Panic seized him. He grabbed the weapons and bolted, sprinting through the woods until his lungs burned.
He reached the car, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He ripped his shirt off, the fabric heavy and wet, sticking to his skin with the thickness of Lonnie’s blood. He threw the car into gear, tires screaming against the gravel as he sped toward the creek. When he reached the water’s edge, he didn't hesitate. He chucked the shotgun and the knife into the center of the dark water, watching them vanish beneath the surface with a hollow, final splash.
He scrubbed his hands in the freezing current, but the red stayed in the creases of his knuckles, staining his skin like a brand. On the drive home, the terror began to recede, replaced by a terrifying, heavy relief. He had plucked a demon out of the world.
He spent the next hour in a blur, trying to wash his clothes with every chemical his mother owned, but the stains were stubborn. He shoved the ruined denim into a bag and buried it in the deepest corner of his closet. He showered until his skin was raw, watching the pink water swirl down the drain. But when he finally climbed into bed, the nightmares didn't come. Instead, the static in his head was gone, replaced by a calm wave of peace.
He fell into a deep sleep, the most peaceful sleep of his entire life, knowing Lonnie was dead and Will was finally, truly safe.