Chapter Text
September 1989
…
The second week of September found the cloying heat of the summer breaking into a gentle breeze that promised cooler nights and bitterly cold mornings. Mike, Lucas, and Max had found a tentative routine in their fourth week as college students—well, Max was still finishing up some remedial classes to officially be accepted into the University, but she was taking those classes on campus so Mike considered her a college student too.
They had the same break between classes on Mondays and Wednesdays and took advantage of the overlapping period to meet up in the cafeteria. Mike didn’t actually care to eat, he’d been struggling to settle his stomach the past few weeks—something he was sure was due to nerves. It was only his second time ever being away from home—from Hawkins. While he was only an hour away in Bloomington—it felt like an entirely different world to where he had grown up. People didn’t know each other here in the same way they had in Hawkins. They were friendly yet respectfully distanced—not intrusive and knowing. He found himself thinking of Hawkins a lot—despite everything that had happened. If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t actually Hawkins he was missing—more the familiarity—and Will.
Will had left for New York the first week of August.
He had been the first of the party to leave—Joyce and Hopper driving with him. Mike knew to look at houses in Montauk where they would be moving. Will had told him first—one of those humid nights early in the summer. They’d been sat under the stars passing a joint pilfered from Jonathan’s stash back and forth when Will had said it.
Montauk, which was on Long Island—was only two hours away from the city—from the apartment Will and Jonathan would be sharing. It meant that come school breaks, Will would not be returning to Hawkins—returning to Mike.
His eyes scan the room automatically—not quite realizing the person he’s looking for isn’t there. That he is hundreds of miles away. When the thought fully processes, he has to reorient his eyes. Swallowing, he looks down at the table. Battered and chipped—the laminate raised and heat-stained.
Lucas spots him first, setting his and Max’s trays down with a clatter that was almost too loud even in the crowded dining hall. Max settled next to him, resting her cane against the table’s edge before taking her seat.
“Not eating?” She asked, “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Shut up,” He says reflexively, “I’m just not hungry—I don’t have to eat if I’m not hungry…” He is hungry—but his stomach lurches when he thinks about eating.
“Wow, defensive much?” Max snorts, popping open her styrofoam container to reveal some kind of fishstick and mashed-pea monstrosity.
Mike’s nose wrinkled.
“Children!” Lucas chastised, opening his own container. He had a double serving of meatloaf with what Mike knew were tasteless and slightly watery mashed potatoes and a heaping pile of steamed broccoli. “If you can’t say anything nice, you can do it away from me—I’m starving and I don’t want to deal with it while I’m eating,”
Mike’s stomach burbles uncomfortably.
“Whatever,” Mike says, hoping it will dislodge the feeling crawling up his throat.
It doesn’t.
The combination of Max’s fish and Lucas’ broccoli hits him in full force. He is rising quickly and is almost fully bent over the trashcan when it hits. He feels it struggle past his fingers and dribble down his chin. Just when he thinks he is done—the smell from the trashcan makes him gag again. Max and Lucas are on him as quickly as they can manage—Max trailing behind as she walks unsteadily without her cane.
“Jesus Christ, Wheeler,” Max’s face is screwed up in disgust and maybe a hint of concern.
“Whoa, Mike—” Lucas winces and tries not to gag himself—the back of his hand coming to cover his nose.
He’d never really been good about puke.
Max grabbed napkins from the dispenser on the closest table and shoved them in Mike's face. “Clean yourself up—“ she’s pulling him away from the trashcan awkwardly and holding him by the wrist, “like seriously—you’re covered in it! You’re not going to your afternoon class like this,”
…
He finds himself at a small mom-and-pop clinic a mile and a half from campus an hour later. He walks there instead of taking his car. He tells himself it's because it's a nice day—that the fresh air will do him some good. Not because the idea of being in a car made his stomach churn.
They accept walk-ins after 3–Mike knew from when he had taken Max just before the semester had started. She had been late—had confided in him of all people—scared to tell Lucas until she knew for sure. She had looked more frightened than he had ever seen her, and they had literally fought inter-dimensional monsters together since they were thirteen.
It had been a false alarm—the pregnancy test the clinic had given her had been negative and she got her period a few days later. Mike didn’t know if she had told Lucas about it—but it was just one of those things he and Max hadn't talked about, like how Max had spent so much time at the Wheeler house in 1986 that his parents weren’t shocked to see her without him when he had visited Will and El in California before Hawkins split open.
Still, his decision to see a doctor about this weird stomach thing that had been plaguing him since classes started had been something he’d wanted to keep to himself.
The clinic was small, two patient rooms, what was presumably the doctor’s office, and a waiting room that held more reception desk than places to sit. It was nestled between a barbershop and a butcher and Mike had to look pointedly away from the meat hanging in the window lest his stomach revolt again.
The receptionist was nice enough, handing him a clipboard with forms to fill out—pen dangling from the loop of the clip by a piece of yarn that had seen better days. He began to fill out the information he knew—his name, his birthday, his emergency contact, why he was there today—but then, when it came to how he would be paying for his visit he froze. He had insurance—his father’s insurance. The little laminated card his father had handed him grunting about him needing one now that he was away for school. Mike isn’t really sure an hour counts as away, but from Ted—it had felt as close to approval as Mike had ever gotten.
He hovered over the boxes—insurance or self pay—he wasn’t sure if his father would receive a statement if he selected insurance—if it would become a conversation between them or not.
He checked self pay.
Nana had given him $500 for graduation and he still had a decent amount saved from it—more than enough to cover the visit and any medication the doctor prescribed.
…
It wasn’t long before he was called back. The doctor was already in the room, sitting on a stool by the examination table looking over his paperwork. She was a middle aged woman, maybe around the same age as his parents. She smiled at him warmly before gesturing for him to sit on the paper-lined table.
“So, Micheal, what brings you in here today?”
“Uh—well—“ and even though he knew why he was there, it suddenly felt stupid, “I’m… sick, I uh—threw up,”
“I’m sorry to hear that—when did your symptoms start?” The warmth in her dark brown eyes is almost familiar—it reminds him of his mother—which is probably why he answers her truthfully.
“I guess a couple of weeks ago?” He sees the doctor's eyes narrow a bit and he feels a bit too-seen under her gaze. He drops his eyes, suddenly too interested in her deep red nail polish, “I mean—I actually threw up for the first time today,” his fingers fiddle with the white paper of the exam table, feeling it wrinkle under his fingers, “before that I was really just nauseous—I thought it was about school, I mean it started around the same time that the semester did…” He inhales like he wants to say something else—but thinks better of it—swallowing instead.
The doctor hums but doesn’t say anything for an uncomfortably long period of time—watching him. “Any other symptoms you’ve noticed?”
“I guess… headaches—uh—“
He worries his bottom lip between his teeth—deciding if it was worth it, before—“My—um, chest? It feels—it’s like—sensitive? That’s weird—right?” He does look up then, his curiosity overpowering his nerves momentarily.
She puts down his clipboard on the counter and leans forward in her chair, her hands resting open on her crossed knee. Her nails are perfectly manicured, almond shaped and just slightly longer than her fingertips. She gives him a tight smile, “Micheal—”
She sounds so much like his mother it’s unbearable—almost too much for him to handle when he knows whatever is going to come out of her mouth next can’t be good.
“Mike—please—call me Mike,”
She pauses, her pink painted lips half curled around the rest of her question. Readjusting, her voice softens slightly. “Okay, Mike—have you noticed any other sensitivity—something that didn’t bother you before, but does now?”
It’s almost immediate. Mike had used the same shampoo since he was 10—his mom had bought it on sale and Will had complimented it and he never considered a different one after that. He liked the smell of it—fresh and slightly floral with a hint of pine—and his hair seemed to like it well enough, but recently he could barely get through a shower without feeling the need to gag.
“Yeah—actually—I mean I hadn’t thought about it, but my shampoo doesn’t smell the same—”
Her lips press together and her eyebrows knit. Her face is pensive for a moment before she looks at him over her glasses, “are you sexually active?”
Whatever he thought she was going to say, it wasn’t that. He blinks for a moment, brain needing to reorient itself, “Uh—like—not now—currently,”
Unbidden, his mind goes to Will, to the sticky summer nights they spent together. His face flushes. “But—I—I’m not a—I have been… um… sexually active—before, I mean,”
“That’s alright, Miche—Mike, you’re an adult,” She gives him a kind smile before destroying him with her next question. “When you were sexually active, was it with male or female partners?” She says it so openly, so normally that it catches him off guard. He can’t imagine having this kind of conversation with his mother.
Dreads it, actually.
He can’t meet her eyes again. He knows if he saw even the slightest bit of anything cross her face when he says this next part—his mind would replay it forever—Karen Wheeler’s face transposed over hers.
“It—uh—” he feels the paper tear in his hand—hears it vaguely over the heartbeat in his ears, ”—was—uh—male,” He had never said it out loud before—he can’t imagine saying it in front of a room full of people like Will had—how had he found the strength to do so.
She hums again, “and did you use protection? Condoms?”
Mike’s face heats and the assurance is almost half out of his mouth when he freezes—they had been using condoms but there were a few times—
“Most of the time—I’ve only been with one person—we were each other’s firsts—you don’t—it’s not AIDS is it?” The panic is rising up his throat and he feels his stomach squeeze. He can hear his father’s voice commenting on the Gay Plague—feels it like Ted’s thumb on his neck at Will’s premature funeral.
“No, I don’t think so—we will test for it, but there are some other tests I would like to run, but first,” she leans forward and places a steadying hand on his knee. “Mike, what do you know about male gestational carriers?”
His stomach drops, eyes widening.
He’d only ever heard it referred to as something else—something vitriolic and demeaning.
He remembers hearing the rumors in high school about Peter Miller’s cousin from San Francisco who’d gotten bitched—remembers Peter being beaten bloody in the school parking lot because of it. Vaguely, he knows it was mentioned in a health class—in the same way that AIDS was mentioned—a disease—something that happens to sexual deviants. He knows he has heard Ted Wheeler speak about it—scoffing about so-called ‘paternity rights’ in the paper, “If a man lets himself get bitched he should be ashamed of himself—not asking the world to accept his perversions—It’s sick!”
Mike’s stomach rolls again, acid burning his throat.
He certainly feels sick right now.
…
Before Mike had fully come back into his body, Dr. Dreyfus handed him a cup and directed him to the tiny bathroom by her office.
It had been awkward and it took him far too long to pee—he kept psyching himself out of it. Kept worrying about the doctor or receptionist hearing him. About the ridiculousness of it all—if he was a carrier he would know.
There would have been signs. Something that would have or should have told him this could have been a possibility.
He walks back into the exam room with the plastic cup uncomfortably warm in his clammy hands.
There is a test kit on the counter already opened. Test tubes and reagents lined up next to a pipette. The sight of it makes the air in his lungs dissipate.
This is real—it’s really happening—there is reason to suspect he could—
“Mike?” Dr. Dreyfus turned to him, hands gloved in yellow latex.
He blinked and sucked in a breath to his air-starved lungs. She looked at him imploringly and he silently handed her the cup—trying desperately not to think about what exactly he was handing her.
He could hear her mixing the sample and the chemicals. Mike avoided looking in her direction. Instead, he studied the seams of the wallpaper, a pit steadily growing in his stomach.
Typically, he would be more interested in the chemistry behind the test—but he was trying so hard to not focus on what the test was to ask about it. When she was done, he heard her dispose of the cup and gloves into the trash before turning on the sink to presumably wash her hands. It’s then when he tastes the bitter tang of blood on his tongue and he realizes he has chewed his lip so hard he is bleeding.
Dr. Dreyfus coughs politely, gaining his attention, “It will take about fifteen minutes for the result—if it is negative it will stay clear, if it is positive it’ll turn blue—but while we wait I’d like to take blood samples—we’ll test for HIV and do a blood-pregnancy to confirm your urine results today,”
Mike just nods.
She ties a tourniquet to his arm before cleaning it with an alcohol pad. She puts on another set of gloves and palpates his arm. Her hands are warm where they touch him.
Mike hears the question leave his mouth before he feels it, “H-how would I know—know that I was a—a carrier? Like, I know a positive pregnancy test would—I know it would mean that—but—”
She hums, needle in hand, moving with practiced ease piercing his vein and taping the butterfly needle in place. It stings but Mike hardly notices. “How would you known before?” She grabs a vial and removes the tourniquet, eyes focused on his arm.
“Well—there aren’t very many obvious symptoms and testing at birth has only become a recent practice,” she removes the first vial, caps it and grabs another. Mike watches as it slowly fills dark red. “There is no menstruation in male carriers in the traditional sense, but many will experience cramping or irritability in a similar cyclical pattern starting from around the onset of puberty,”
Suddenly his monthly stomachaches didn’t seem so random anymore. Or their newfound absence.
She collects another vial, “some male carriers will experience later pubertal changes—voice drop or difficulty in growing facial hair being the most common,”
Mike tries not to think about the fact that even though he is the tallest, he is still the only boy in The Party who doesn’t need to shave—how Ted had bought him a shaving set for Christmas when he was fourteen that still sat unopened in his bedroom at home. About how his voice continued cracking until last year even when Will, Dustin, and Lucas’ voices had become deeper and steadier by the time they were sophomores in Highschool.
By the time Dr. Dreyfus is done collecting his blood and is pressing gauze into the draw site, he has a sinking suspicion he knows what the test will say.
When he finally builds up the courage to look at the test on the counter—it was blue.
Not ambiguous—not a light color he could try to wave away. A deep dark blue like a Hawkins summer night illuminated by pale moonlight.
It was positive.
…
His brain whirred the entire walk back to his dorm.
He hadn’t really thought about this being a possibility when Will was on top of him—the smell of earthy smoke in his nose and the taste of cheap beer and bad decisions on his tongue. Hadn’t thought about it when he was gasping into Will’s mouth and whispering things he’d never admit sober. Hadn’t thought of it when the tension and grief and drunkeness—and love they’d never truly admit to—boiled over into passion and lust that left marks on his body for weeks after—and, at some point, this too.
His stomach gives a low growl and his hand flies to meet it—his fingers stretching a bit too low on his abdomen. Reflexively, his hand fists in his shirt—fingers curled away from danger—fabric giving and not giving in a way that leaves him unsatisfied and reeling.
He doesn’t know what to do—what he should do. Objectively, there are options—options that would let him continue on the path his parents expect from him—college, a sweet girl to settle down with, marriage—socially acceptable children—options that Dr. Dreyfus had said were available to him even after writing a prescription for prenatal vitamins that still feels wrong and heavy in his pocket.
It would be easier—so much easier—if he could choose it. He would fly under the radar and avoid whispers about his dubious morality—but all he can do is think about El.
About all the life El never got to live. About all the life he had taken from her. All the things she never got to experience and will never experience. About the part he had played in taking that from her—about how he cannot stand to willingly cut himself in that way again. Can’t lose a piece of himself to his own hands again.
Deeper—he knows that the bundle of cells growing inside of him are half Will—are something Will gave him, even unconsciously. He knows he had never been able to refuse anything Will had given him.
Even if it might kill him.
…
He called Will, because of course he would. Will always has the answers, always knows what to do—what to say to Mike. Mike realizes after he has finished dialing that he is about to change everything—has already changed everything.
He can barely breathe as each dial tone brings him closer to ruining the lo—his best friend’s life.
Will was so happy at NYU—and Mike was reminded of this with each phone call and letter. Away from Hawkins and the shadows of Zombie Boy and the Upside Down, Will had been able to flourish in all the ways Mike knew he could. He had new friends—friends who didn’t read Will’s trauma laid bare in the Hawkins Post.
He was experiencing being free in a way that Hawkins would not allow—that Indiana would not allow. He was learning new things about art and history and the world. More recently—he was experiencing love that could be spoken out loud—away from the town that looked at a missing twelve year old boy who was too sensitive in all the ways a boy shouldn’t be and didn’t bother looking for him. It made Mike’s stomach crawl each time Will talked about it in a way that was hard to push down.
When Will answers on the fourth ring Mike is paralyzed by Will’s voice. Mike has known Will almost his entire life—grown up with him, lived with him, loved him—but Mike has never heard Will speak so openly and happily and he can’t—he won’t—take that away from him. At least—that’s what he tells himself.
That he is protecting Will’s happiness—preserving it. That Will’s happiness is why he chooses secrecy and in some way it is, but on some level he knows it is because he will never be as brave as Will Byers.
He knows that if he told Will, Will would drop everything to be there, because that is the person that Will is. That he would leave his friends and his schooling and the freedom to be who he is without having to hide—to be by his side, to support Mike in ruining his life—and Mike would be unable to deny that he loved him—that he loved Will with every breath—every heart beat. That he loved Will in a way that Ted Wheeler would sneer about behind his newspaper, full of hateful speculation about the artistic missing boy who had been his son’s best friend since kindergarten.
But Mike would never know if Will chose him because he wanted to or because he felt he had to.
“That’s what happens, Michael,” his chest tightening with each of his father’s veiled accusations. The knowledge of his incorrectness widening with every reminder. His stomach rolls and twists—and lower, he knows, grows the proof of his father’s disapproval—flesh and blood and a heartbeat.
He decides if he keeps this secret—he might be able to ignore the feelings that spilled over into lust under starlit skies and sticky summer heat.
He listens to Will discuss his latest project and the terrible art-house movie Jonathan dragged him to, Dustin’s last visit from MIT—he just had to be there—and the gossip his mom heard about the previous chief that Hop took over for in Montauk and—
“Oh my god! Mike I’ve been talking for almost an hour and I didn’t even ask why you called!”
His tongue feels like cement and his mind buzzes—“I—uh—I don’t think I remember actually… it was just nice to hear your voice,” Mike lies, and his chest feels tighter.
Friends don’t lie.
“Oh! Well it was nice to hear your voice too! I’ve gotta go though—I’ve gotta meet up with Carlton in like twenty minutes, there’s this club in West Village he wants us to check out!” Mike's heart throbs and his stomach protests.
“Oh… Have fun…I’ll talk to you later, Will,”
“Mike? Are you okay?”
“Yeah—no, I’m fine, seriously—have fun with Carlton!”
The words feel acidic on his tongue.
“Are you sure?” Mike knows he is not—Will hesitates for a second before continuing, “I mean—I can give him a quick call to cancel and—“
“Will, I’m fine—honestly—go have fun, you deserve it,” and Will does deserve it—he doesn’t deserve to be shackled to Mike because of Mike's poor decisions.
“Bye, Will.” It feels final—like something is fracturing between them forever.
Mike supposes it is.
“Talk to you later, Mike….”
…
He stares up at the ceiling of his dorm for nearly forty five minutes after he hangs up. He listens to the creak of the dorm’s ancient pipes as the shower in the shared bathroom runs. His body almost feels like it is floating—like he’s not inside of himself.
He tries to catalogue all the moments he had spent with Will—the moments he’d had Will inside him—trying to see if he could find the one that had gotten them—gotten him—into this situation. It had happened more than once—each time had involved alcohol—but Mike knows that after the first time the alcohol had become an excuse, that he nor Will had been more than a few sips in each subsequent time. It was a denial—the alcohol—a way to explain the intensity that kept bringing them together without ruining the years of them underneath.
He thinks about it too frequently—their couplings—heat coiling in his stomach and shame twisting his heart. He’s a teenage boy for Christ’s sake—he lives in a near perpetual state of hyper arousal—but he thinks he’s probably the only teenage boy on this campus who's got something growing inside of him because of it.
It still doesn’t quite feel real yet—even after reading through the pamphlet Dr. Dreyfus had pulled out of an unassuming white box titled “Male Gestational Carriers: An Overview.” Mike knew she hadn’t given out many of those pamphlets even before he read about the estimated 3% of the male population he somehow now fit into.
His stomach soured and he could feel the burn of stomach acid at the base of his esophagus. If he was lucky it would pass without needing to make use of the wastepaper basket under his desk.
Fuck.
What was he going to do?
…
The third Saturday of each month is DnD night—this is the second since they started college in August. It had taken some of Dustin‘s engineering and tech savvy to figure out how to make it work long-distance, but it had been worth it to keep the party together even if they were miles and states away. Even if the phone bill took a hit on everyone’s pocket.
Max and Lucas live off campus in a two bedroom apartment—the only way Lucas’ parents would agree to help pay for it even with Lucas’ basketball scholarship. Max works part-time at a bowling alley while she’s finishing up her admission requirements. It’s tiny, but it’s theirs and it’s the closest Mike has felt to home since Will left for New York.
He’s sitting at Max and Lucas’ tiny kitchen table—their wall phone placed in the center of the table on three-way speaker. It is Dustin’s turn to DM and he’s notoriously bad at it—he takes too long on exposition and the battles never flow just right—but he hasn’t felt this normal since the doctor changed his whole life with one word. Dustin is in the middle of explaining their penultimate boss’ evil plan when there is a knock at the front door.
“Pause—foods here,” Lucas says, cutting Dustin off mid-sentence.
“Dude, really?” Dustin is exclaiming—Mike knows he’s waving his arms all the way in Massachusetts.
“Pizza waits for no man,” Lucas says, grabbing his wallet off of the kitchen counter before heading into the hall.
“Pizza? Did you have to get that weird pizza Mike likes?” Dustin is asking—voice tinny through the speaker.
“Unfortunately,” Max yells in the direction of the phone, shuffling around the kitchen for plates—cane abandoned.
Before Mike can complain about them digging on his Pizza preference, Will is already defending him through the phone, “I mean, I don’t think it’s that weird—Jonathan likes pineapple and jalapeños on his—you should have seen the look on the bodega owner’s face when he asked if they had pineapple as a topping!”
“I don’t know if we should be taking your opinion on what’s weird or not—you and Mike are the only two people I’ve ever seen put maple syrup on their eggs and that shit is disgusting!” Lucas is saying as he carries in the pizza.
The smell is strong—grease and cheese and garlic—almost too strong. Mike’s stomach turns and he struggles to force down the bile that wants to rise up his throat. Not now—he wants to be normal right now.
Lucas catches the look on his face and furrows his brow, “you okay, Mike?”
“Yeah, just a bit queasy for a sec—thinking about pineapple on pizza—gross.”He doesn’t know if Lucas believes him, but he lets it drop in favor of grabbing three beers from the fridge—charmed off a junior on the Basketball team.
“Uh… None for me tonight,” he coughs to clear his throat, “Nana is in town, I’ve gotta drive early tomorrow,” he tries his best not to jostle the table with his bouncing knee.
Max and Lucas share a look, but Lucas shrugs and puts one back in the fridge. Mike can feel his panic rising with each shift of their faces—they’re noticing something, he’s sure of it. He tries to regulate his breathing.
“Okay, the Indie-lame-os got Pizza, I’m having a meatball sub—what are you eating tonight, Will?” Dustin asks conversationally while he waits for Max and Lucas to settle and play to resume.
“Oh, well Carlton’s stopping by with Chinese later…” Mike’s knee picks up in tempo.
“Carlton, huh? Things seem to be getting pretty serious with you guys—“ Max is saying, digging out a bottle opener from her and Lucas’ junk drawer. Mike feels the pit in his stomach grow. He tightens his jaw.
“I mean, we’ve been on a couple of dates—we’re just kind of feeling it out…” Mike can imagine his smile thousands of miles away. His heart aches. His lips press together tighter. He’s trying so hard not to think about it.
“Feeling it out? Is that why you had a hickey the last time I came down for a visit?” Suddenly, Mike is hot all over—saliva is filling his mouth. He’s standing too quickly and the table nearly tips—Will’s voice protests through the speaker “Dustin!”
He barely makes it to the toilet before the stomach acid burns his throat.
Absurdly—he can still hear the phone—hear Will’s “is Mike okay?” through the bathroom door.
No, I am not okay—he rests his too-hot face on the cool porcelain of the toilet.
…