Chapter Text
The basement knew Michael Wheeler better than the people of Hawkins ever would. He was warm breakfast left untouched, a boy who jumped off cliffs with his eyes closed and believed in the safety of blanket forts on stormy November nights. He was the epitome of loyalty—and also the stray dice that rolled off the table and disappeared out of everyone's sight. Michael Wheeler was whatever the world needed him to be on any given day.
The problem with telling stories is that you start believing your own version. Grief has a strange way of creeping in—through the cracks along the ceiling of Mike's basement, seeping through fingers that never seem to hold on to anything strong enough. Through conversations in the produce aisle of his local grocery store, with a woman who is a constant reminder of everything he loved... and everything he never held onto tightly enough. And when she walks over, hand raised in a lazy greeting, the left corner of her lips lifting in a sympathetic smile, Mike is reminded of it all once again.
"Mike... honey—"
Her arms wrap around the boy's thin frame. The smell hits him instantly—stale cigarettes and nicotine, familiar and aching.
"Jo—Mrs. Byers," Mike corrects himself, shifting his weight as he hugs her back.
"It's been too long," Joyce says, pulling away to get a better look at him. "How come I never see you around anymore? Look at you—"
Her eyes take him in: messy curls falling to his jaw, a worn‑out T‑shirt hanging loose from sharper collarbones. Mike hopes she doesn't notice how he's shrunk over the last few months. He hopes it doesn't give away that eating has been difficult lately.
"How have you been?" she asks.
"Oh—good," Mike answers quickly. "Really good. Doing great. What about you?"
"Good to hear." She offers a small, unconvinced smile before turning toward the bins of fresh vegetables. "Tell you what—you should come help me pack. Hopper's been buried in paperwork with the move, and the house is always so quiet with Will and Jonathan out of town, and El—"
She stops herself and clears her throat.
"Anyway. You should come over sometime. Help me out."
"Sure," Mike says. "I'd love that. When should I come?"
"How about now?" Joyce replies, nodding to her cart. "You could help me carry these groceries in—unless you've got somewhere important to be."
"No, no," Mike insists. "I'm all yours."
He presses his lips together as she hands him the cart, already planning how to keep his secrets tucked safely out of sight.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
"So... most of the things, I already sorted into the boxes. But there's still so much left unpacked in the basement," Joyce mumbles as they walk into the living room.
The familiar scent of the house—the faint smoke, the worn carpet—hits him. In the corner, a crayon drawing clings stubbornly to the wall. Whatever tried to rise in his throat, he swallows it down, forcing his gaze back to the woman in front of him.
Right—the basement. The irony isn't lost on him. On the very day he decided to leave his usual spot in his own basement for some fresh air, he ends up in another one instead.
"We... um, we donated most of El's stuff to Goodwill. Not everything, of course—that would be insane. We kept anything that meant something. Took a lot of convincing Hopper to cut it down to two boxes!" Joyce calls from the bottom of the basement as Mike descends carefully.
Two boxes.
Was that all she ever was? Just two boxes?
Mike feels a wave of anger bubble up inside him. How could someone so vibrant, so alive, be reduced to nothing more than two cardboard containers?
If Mike has any thoughts of saying what he feels, he swallows them down like he always does.
"If there's anything of hers you'd like... something sentimental, maybe? I could let you take it home," Joyce offers.
Something sentimental. As if there was ever anything of hers that wasn't valuable. But he doesn't say that. He says nothing.
The smell hits him instantly: motor oil, cardboard... and dust. So much dust.
"Yeah, I don't really come down here much. It was always more of Lonnie's thing. And I guess after he was gone, Jonathan used it for... God knows what," Joyce murmurs, furrowing her eyebrows as she surveys the stack of boxes in the far corner of the basement.
"Now these, I need help with."
Mike follows softly, taking it all in.
It wasn't Jonathan's thing. Or Lonnie's. It was Will's. It always had been.
It's where Lonnie never bothered to come when he was in a fit of rage. Where the noise of thunder never reached. Where Will was never afraid. Where Will was always safe. And Mike was always there.
"I think it's the boxes from California—he never got around to unpacking them. I guess he was caught up with something else... probably forgot about them," Joyce mumbles as Mike carefully wipes dust from the cardboard.
He can't help but notice the stars drawn all over the box in blue and yellow crayon. A sad, crooked smile tugs at his lips.
"Anyway, I called him to ask if he wanted me to ship them. He said they're just memories he doesn't need anymore. You know Will—always trying to travel light."
"And they'd just be dead weight in Montauk. If there's anything you want, you can keep the whole lot."
Joyce mutters something about dinner and rushes upstairs, leaving Mike alone with the boxes.
Mike grabs a cutter that had been tossed across the table and slowly pries open one of the boxes.
Art supplies. Of course.
Why Will would just abandon such high-quality things in perfect condition baffled him.
He moves to the next box. Sketchbooks.
Mike laughs softly to himself. Of course. What else would it be?
He picks up a sketchbook and flips it open. His breath catches, lodged somewhere deep in his throat. His eyes glue to the page, hands clenching the book as if letting go would erase it all.
Page after page, he flips through them, heat rising to his cheeks. He sets that book down and picks up another. The same. And another.
Finally, he can't sit still anymore. He darts across the basement, pacing back and forth, heart hammering, mind spinning.
He laughs at himself, shaking away the stupidest assumption, and opens the third box.
California sun fading on envelope ink.
Unsent letters. Dozens of them. Addressed to Hawkins, Indiana. To—
Mike runs his fingers through his tangled hair in frustration, then grabs a fistful, letting out a defeated sigh.
He scrambles through the box, and then it hits him: it's full of letters. Letters to him. Unsent.
Mike forces himself to look calm, pretending nothing has shifted, pretending his world hasn't just moved a thousand miles in a few minutes.
He gathers the two boxes in his hands, heavy with the weight of Will's life, and slowly makes his way back upstairs.
The irony. Two boxes.
"Hey, I see you decided to take some of them home. So... something sentimental, is it?" Joyce calls from across the kitchen.
"Yeah... something like that."
"Listen, how about you stay for dinner? I'm baking up a mean lasagna."
"Thanks, but I'm not very hungry."
"Oh."
It wasn't true at all. Mike couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper meal.
"Thank you for the invite, but it's getting dark outside, and my mom would be waiting for me," he offers, a tight smile on his lips, before rushing toward the door.
"Oh, alright then. Get home safe. And—if you call Will tonight, do tell him you took some of the boxes. I haven't been able to reach him for a few days. Finals week and all, he's been very busy, but I'm sure he always picks up when you call."
"Yeah... sure thing," Mike mutters as he slips out the door.
What an amazing liar he had become.
Michael Wheeler couldn't remember the last time he'd heard the voice of William Byers.