Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

El runs.

She runs and she runs and she runs until her legs are filled with lead and her lungs are on fire. She runs like she’s being chased, even though the only breathing, the only footsteps in the dank tunnels that run beneath Hawkins are her own. She allows herself nothing more than focusing on keeping one foot moving in front of the other, on putting as much distance behind her as she can, and maybe if she does, she can ignore the tears that spill down her cheeks or the way her heart feels like it’s been scooped out of her chest to leave nothing but a hollow shell behind.

The weight of loss threatens to pull her down, faces of those she’s leaving behind, of those she’s lost, flashing in her mind’s eye, but El forces herself not to think about it. Lock it down, she tells herself, knowing that if she doesn’t, she’ll collapse to the ground beneath her feet and never get back up. But even still, she can’t banish the whispering echo of Mike’s mouth against hers, the ghost of one last embrace with the boy she will love for the rest of her days.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the past few days - little food, even less sleep - slams into her like a brick wall and El is forced to stop running. But not moving. Her pace slows to a walk, hand pressed against a sharp stitch in her side as her breathing struggles to catch up with her need for air, and El only concedes to her body’s demands to ease up because no one is following her.

No one is following her.

It’s a mantra that runs through her head with sickening clarity and El struggles against the nausea that roils bitterly in her stomach.

It feels like an eternity, but is probably only a half an hour, before El finds one of the many supply caches her and Hop had stashed inside the tunnels. It’d been one of their contingency plans, go bags stashed in multiple locations just in case she needed to make a quick getaway and didn’t have time to get back to the cabin. They’re filled with food and water, a couple of changes of clothes pilfered from the thrift store, and just enough cash to help get her as far away from Hawkins as fast as possible.

El tears into the bag, collapsing onto the ground as she hurries to rifle through the supplies, greedy hands grabbing at the bottle of water, granola bars and trail mix neatly tucked away at the bottom. Hop and Joyce regularly resupply the caches - everyone has a habit of snagging food from them when they use the tunnels to sneak around - so El doesn’t think anyone will notice that this one is missing (nor the other one she’s planning on grabbing as her last stop in Hawkins before she leaves forever). And if they do, it’ll be far too late for them to do anything about it.

As El eats, the weight from earlier creeps back up onto her shoulders and before she can stop it, deep, gut-wrenching sobs tear from her, echoing hauntingly in the empty tunnels around her. She curls in on herself, as if the simple act can hide her from the fallout of her decision. Part of her wishes, desperately wishes, that someone would come running towards her out of the darkness that stretches out in either direction - Hop, Mike, anyone.

But no one is coming. No one is ever coming. Why would they? She’s dead, disappeared with the Upside Down in front of their very eyes, no body, no proof she was there, nothing but a memory left for them to mourn. El thinks that maybe, someday, they’ll figure it out, figure out what she and Kali did. Hop, maybe; Mike, more likely. He’s always been good at putting the pieces together that no one else can.

But El also knows Mike is going to be too distraught to do that for quite some time and the memory of this night might fade too much for him to remember how all the pieces fit.

Maybe it’s better this way, El thinks as she fights to get her emotions under control. If no one knows she’s alive, then no one can put themselves in danger looking for her and she can prevent anyone else getting hurt because of her.

(the ghost of kali’s face rises to the forefront of her mind and el barely chokes back another sob at the thought of the sister she left behind, the sister who bears the fate everyone else thinks fell to el, left to die in the upside down as if she never existed at all… the sister who sacrificed everything so el could have this chance, a chance to live free if not happy.)

But El can’t banish the memory of the pain in Mike’s voice as she held him one last time in the Void. “Please don’t leave me, El. Please don’t do this,” he’d said, voice breaking along with her heart as he held her tight in his arms, as if by wrapping her up in his embrace, he could stop her from doing anything that might take her away from him.

El knows she hurt him then, knows the only thing he truly feared was losing her again. But El can’t, won’t be responsible for getting him hurt or worse. And as long as there’s even the slimmest possibility that the government will continue to be after her, El knows that she has to run and that it’s best if everyone she loves thinks she’s dead. This way, the government won’t suspect any of them of hiding her and then maybe, eventually, the government will finally leave all of them alone, safe to live out the rest of their lives.

The life she won’t get to share with them is a worthy price to pay if they get to have that.

But, oh, how she wanted that life, wants it still, will want it forever. She pictures school dances and late night sleepovers and agonizing over school and homework and college and jobs; she pictures quiet kisses and hands clasped tight on any one of countless date nights; she pictures the home she could have built with Mike, of the family she will never see come to be, of the future that will forever be nothing more than a dream.

Her heart is breaking and will never be whole for the rest of her life.

But at least she gets to have the rest of her life, at least she has the memories of what was and what could have been.

And it will forever have to be enough.

El doesn’t linger much longer, just long enough to repack the bag and swing it over her shoulders. She’s tired and hurt and wants to sleep more than anything, but she can’t. As much as she feels alone, she’s not truly safe yet, not until she’s well clear of Hawkins.

So El runs.

She runs and she runs and she runs.

And she doesn’t stop for a very long time.

Chapter Text

It’s almost 3 days later when a dingy sign proclaiming “Welcome to Chicago” (complete with a bright red graffiti tag reading “Shittown” half covering the word “Chicago”) rolls past through the fogged up window of the Greyhound bus El’s been on for the past 6 hours. She’s slouched in a seat near the back of the bus, hood of her sweatshirt pulled low over her head, and if there’s any consolation to be had, it's that the vague unpleasant smell wafting from the restroom a couple of rows behind her has to be masking the fact that she hasn’t properly bathed after so many days of running and fighting and surviving that it feels like she’s starting to lose count.

Getting out of Hawkins city limits had been relatively easy. With the military concentrated in downtown Hawkins, it had left little to no guard presence along the length of the fence marking the edge of the quarantine zone - easy for a telekinetic girl to find an unmanned stretch and heave herself over it with a superpowered leap.

From there, it’d been an almost 2 day slog through the backwoods stretching west of Hawkins, memories of making a very similar trek just 3 years before assaulting her with every step.

Only this time, El had waited until she’d put at least 24 hours of time between her and Hawkins before she started trying to hitchhike. And a couple of hours later, El had found herself in the front passenger seat next to the old woman who’d stopped and asked if there was anyone who was looking for her.

The old woman had clearly been someone’s grandmother from the kind air that surrounded her, smelling of rose and cinnamon, but El had only asked if she could get a ride to the nearest bus station. And even though the older woman had given El a pinched look, one borne of concern and worry, she’d nodded and said “hop in, dearie. I’ll get you safe to where you need to go.”

At the small Greyhound stop, there had been nothing to do but wait for the next bus passing through to Chicago the next morning. So El had taken the time to find somewhere to curl up, safe and hidden from onlookers and anyone curious enough to wonder why a teenage girl was by herself in the middle of nowhere Indiana, and dozed until it was time to board the bus, years of habit keeping her sleep light enough so that dreams couldn’t touch her.

The 18 dollar ticket doesn’t feel like it puts a dent into the nearly $1,500 El has tucked into an inner pocket inside her jeans (pilfered from two different stashes, all funded by the money Joyce and Murray had used to try and buy Hop’s freedom a year and a half ago). But El’s not ignorant to the fact that it takes money to survive and she only has a finite amount of cash to last for an indefinite amount of time, so she’s going to have to be careful until she can figure out how to keep money coming in.

But that’s a problem that can wait for a little bit. El has more pressing matters to solve for: finding somewhere to stay and preventing anyone from recognizing her. El doesn’t know if any of her missing posters have made it outside of the Hawkins area, but she won’t risk everything she’s sacrificed for on an “I don’t know”.

The bus comes to a final stop at a large bus terminal and El lets herself disappear into the crowd as she disembarks. No one looks at her, no one even seems to notice her. She’s invisible in a sea of people who are only concerned about their own lives and have nothing to spare for a slight girl who seems to melt into the shadows.

Sickening waves of nostalgia rock through El as she makes her way deeper into Chicago. She sees Kali in the stark architecture, in the shadows that linger around every corner, in the sharp bite in the air. Chicago is all grit and determination and ferocity and El wonders if part of the reason she came to Chicago isn’t just because it’s a familiar place she knows how to get to, but also because it’s her way of connecting with Kali one last time.

El’s lips tremble and she clenches her teeth as hot tears blur her vision. She won’t cry, not here, not out where the world can see her. The world has taken everything from her and she won’t let it have any more of her grief. So she swallows it down, lump hard and sticky in her throat, until she can find a place away from prying eyes and begin the process of letting go of all she’s lost.

It is late afternoon when she steps off the bus and day turns into night as El drifts through the streets of Chicago, neighborhoods turning darker, grimier. There are fewer people on the streets now and those who are will sometimes look over at her with calculating interest - a friend, a foe, an easy mark? is she worth it? El makes sure to keep her posture loose but contained, enough to look like she’s not scared, but not enough to make it look like she’s painting a target on her back.

She makes a stop at a drug store and is careful to keep her hood down when she notices the cameras littered throughout. She buys a box of black hair dye, a small travel bottle of shampoo, a toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste, a pack of granola bars, and a bottle of Gatorade. She knows she’ll need more supplies and real food eventually, but this will hold her over until she can get settled. And if the cashier eyes her suspiciously, El pretends not to notice as she carefully pulls out a $20 from the hidden pocket in her pants, taking care not to pull out the whole wad of cash she’s carrying. She doesn’t need anyone to know how much she’s really carrying on her (again, no need to make herself a target).

With her purchases securely stashed in her backpack, El continues on, this time in search of somewhere to stay. A few blocks away, she finds a seedy motel, faded white marquee sign limpidly proclaiming “VACANCY” with flickering neon letters. The man at the registration desk is probably as old as Hop, but the world has not been as kind. Deep wrinkles gather at his eyes and the corners of his mouth, which is pulled in a permanent moue, like he can taste how bitter the world is.

Beneath the yellowed fluorescent lights and laminated wood paneling, El approaches the desk and instead of waiting for the man to greet her, asks, “How much for a room?”

The man looks at her over the newspaper in his hand. His gaze is weathered and numb and El knows he isn’t going to ask her any questions, like why is a teenage girl asking for a room by herself in the middle of a bad Chicago neighborhood? Why bother asking questions? It’s not like the world has given him any reason to care.

So he sets down his paper, wipes his hands on the greasy striped bowling shirt he’s wearing, and reaches for a registration slip. “Single?” At El’s nod, he starts filling out the form before passing it over to her. El tries not to cringe at the warm dampness coating the pen as it presses into her hand. “Room’s $50 a week. Plumbing don’t always work so good, so mind what you flush down the john. TV’s crap, but there’s cable. If you break it, it’s $100 to replace it, understand?”

El nods, but otherwise doesn’t reply as she fills out the registration form, writing in “Eleanor Smith” on the line where she’s supposed to put her name. The more she makes herself look small, the easier it’ll be for him to forget her. She’s a ghost now, transient and transparent, no one special, no one worth taking a second look at. He hands her a key, she hands him the money, and just like that, El has a room.

El makes her way to her room, #207. The key sticks in the lock and it takes a couple of heavy twists to get the tumblers to turn before the door swings open on heavy, creaking hinges. 

El steps into the dark room and shuts the door behind her as she reaches out blindly for a light switch she figures has to be just inside the door. And when she finds it, the room fills with dim, yellow light from two scuffed lamps sitting on nightstands that bracket a full sized bed that looks maybe a little bit softer than the ground outside. A faded orange bedspread lays limply across the surface and the carpet beneath El’s feet is worn through in spots, which just matches the dings in the dark wood paneling that lines the lower half of the wall and the matching chartreuse wallpaper that sits above it.

It’s a sad, lonely room, but it’s hers and it’s as safe as she’s going to get.

El dumps her backpack on her bed and even though the bed, as dingy as it is, looks like the most inviting luxury she’s ever seen, there’s still things to be done. She rips open her backpack and pulls out a change of clothes, the bottle of shampoo, and the box of black hair dye. She knows she’s going to have to figure out where to get more clothes from - it’s getting colder outside and El knows she’ll need more layers to weather the winter - but, like so many other things in her life right now, that’s another problem for another day. 

Right now, she needs to do what she can to disguise herself. She can’t change her face and there’s no guarantee she’ll always be able to hide beneath a hat or a hoodie. And the government knows what she looks like with medium brown hair, long or buzzed, so cutting it is out (and El never wants to cut her hair ever again - she lived too long with hair cropped short, never by her choice, and she’ll never let anyone take her hair away from her again). So the only thing she can do is use hair dye to make herself look different and hope it works.

El doesn’t bother closing the door to the bathroom - why, when it’s only her? - and though the light from the ceiling is sharp and bright, El doesn’t dare look at herself in the mirror, not too closely at least.

She strips down to her bra and underwear (white, utilitarian, boring, though not that mike had minded any of times he’d seen her in them, looking at her like she was the most precious gift he could have ever received - no, stop, do not think about this) and turns her attention to the box of hair dye.

El follows the instructions closely and manages to keep her gaze locked on her greasy hair as she applies the dye. While she waits for the dye to set, she goes back out to the bedroom, towel wrapped firmly around her shoulders, and grabs the remote control off one of the bedside tables so she can turn on the TV.

TV’s another luxury, one she hasn’t been able to indulge in for quite some time. Too risky to have at the cabin, Hop said, so the only times El ever really got to watch it recently was the far and few between times when she spent time at the Squawk.

The sound of the TV is jarring to her ears and El hurries to turn the volume down to a barely audible level before she starts surfing through the channels. She lands on one of the cable channels playing “Back to the Future” and the intensity of the memories she has of watching this movie with Mike and the rest of the Party bowls into her with near physical force.

Chest feeling tight, El hurries to press one of the number buttons on the remote, needing to land on anything else. The droning of the evening news is a welcome contrast, benign and inoffensive. She zones out at broadcast playing, words going in one ear and out the other, and once enough time seems to have passed, El gets back up and trudges back into the bathroom.

She rinses her hair out in the sink, but gives it a decent wash in the shower. The spray above her is kind of weak, but the water is hot. She stands beneath the water and lets herself live in the way the water stings and burns at her flesh, scouring away the girl she was before.

The bathroom is filled with steam by the time El’s had enough. She dries off with a scratchy towel before wrapping it around her, cinching it tight above her breasts, and she lifts a hand to wipe away at the condensation fogging the mirror. This time, she can’t help but look her reflection square in the eye and she almost cries at what she sees. 

The dark hair hanging down her shoulders makes her look washed out and sallow - old in a way she feels deep in her bones but never expected to see reflected back at her in the mirror. There are matching dark circles beneath her eyes and her eyelids are rimmed red from emotion and lack of sleep. She looks half dead, which is fitting, she supposes.

Tears burn along the edges of her eyes and El blinks them away before she all but runs out of the bathroom. But just because she’s not facing herself in the mirror doesn’t mean she’s not facing a much larger adversary: her own emotions.

Her breathing is rapidly slipping out of her control as she gets dressed in underwear and a t-shirt and she’s barely able to sit down on the bed before the dam breaks.

El grabs a pillow from behind her and buries her face in it to capture the scream that explodes from deep within her. And just behind the scream are deep, wracking sobs that tear from her in painful waves.

She feels like she’s being split in two, cracked open so that her soul oozes out of her like yolk from a broken egg. Memories assault her like a malfunctioning slide show, one after the other in rapid, breakneck rhythm as those she left behind flash through her mind’s eye - her family, her friends, Max, Hop, Mike, Mike, Mike.

She can still hear their screams, Mike’s screams as they watched Kali show them her dying as the Upside Down collapsed. Mike, who screamed her name with painful desperation, begging the world to not take her from him again.

Mike’s screams live inside of her, burrow into her heart like a cancer, and El knows that sound will haunt her for the rest of her days. You deserve it, that insidious voice whispers to her, the one that has so regularly told her she’s broken, that she’s a monster, that she doesn’t deserve to be happy. And maybe she does deserve it - after all, how could she hurt the boy she loves more than life itself, the boy who gave her a home and a name and opened her eyes to a world of possibilities she had never dreamed of before? How could she betray the boy who only wanted to love her for the rest of their lives?

As long as he’s safe. I’ll sacrifice everything as long as he’s safe. But the realization is a bitter pill to swallow as the waves of grief pull her under. And caught up in the riptide of her loss, El lets herself drown.

Chapter Text

“El. Wake up, El.”

A hand on her shoulder shakes her awake, fingers curling into her flesh. The touch is familiar, the voice tattooed on her soul, but El doesn’t dare put a name to it.

“Come on sleepyhead, open your eyes.”

So she does, a soft sigh escaping her. A familiar face fills her vision, all freckled smile and soft, warm eyes, so unbearably handsome it makes something in El’s heart twist painfully. “Mike,” she breathes. “What are you doing here?”

His hand slides down from her shoulder to tug at her wrist, pulling her up from where she’s laying surrounded by grass in a sun-dappled field. Mike looks at her, askance, like it’s the silliest question she could have asked. “What do you mean? I’m here for you. I’ll always follow you wherever you go, you know that.”

But El’s not satisfied with that answer as she gets to her feet facing him. “No, I mean, how did you find me? No one knows where I am.”

Something in Mike’s smile shifts, turning sharp and manic. “Oh, you know you can never hide from me, El. I understand you better than anyone, remember? Isn’t that what you said?” His grip around her wrist is painful now, nails digging into the soft underside, slicing into the tendons.

El tugs at his grip, tries to tear her hand away, but his hold is rock solid and she doesn’t even budge him. “Mike, stop, you’re scaring me.”

“What did you think would happen?” The question is whispered, but slams into her like a bullet. Around them, the air turns dark, sky and forest blackening and rotting, the rancid smell of the Upside Down embracing her like a long lost lover. “Did you think you could just leave me like that with no consequences?”

The wind whips up around them, blowing their hair across their faces, surrounding them in a maelstrom. “Mike, no, that’s not what I-”

“You left me.” The look on Mike’s face is as dark as the air around them and his other hand comes up to grip her shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, I-” The words stick in El’s throat as the wind turns sharp, like sandpaper grating against her skin, peeling away layers until blood seeps from her pores.

“How could you betray me like that? Don’t you know I would die for you?” The skin on Mike’s face begins tearing away, leaving only blood and bone behind, face pulled in a permanent rictus grin. “Don’t you know you already killed me?”

El sits up and almost falls out of bed in her rush to make it to the bathroom before she loses the contents of her stomach. As it is, she only makes it to the sink before she’s upending what little is in her stomach into the cheap porcelain bowl, coughing and heaving as she bows over the bathroom counter.

El braces her elbows on the edge of the counter and lets her head fall into her hands. Tears drip down her nose to plop down into the sour mess of bile and saliva below and her nose runs and stuffs up, forcing her to breathe through her mouth as she cries.

But she barely notices any of that as the images of the nightmare that shocked her awake haunt her mind’s eye, seared into the backs of her closed eyelids. She can’t shake the image of Mike’s blood-smeared face, the exposed bone and muscle leering at her with grotesque mockery of a smile, and she nearly heaves again.

It’s been two weeks since she left Hawkins, since life as she knew it ended, and every night her sleep has been plagued by nightmares, horrific dreams of the people she left behind, but mostly of Mike. Of him dying, of him blaming her for hurting him, for betraying him, of him punishing her for the choice she made, the one she would make again and again and again if it always kept him safe.

She wishes there had been another way - god, does she wish that with every fiber of her being. But there is no world in which everyone she loves can stay safe if the world thinks she’s still alive and El knows she could never live with herself if people got hurt because of her. Being haunted by the ghosts of her past, the ghost of Mike, is a small price to pay for that safety.

El grabs a small wad of toilet paper to blow her nose and wipe the snot off her face before she turns on the water to wash away the mess of her vomiting. She quickly runs a damp washcloth over her face and neck, grateful for the coolness of the water against her heated skin, and pads her way back out to the bedroom.

The cheap clock with blaring red numbers on the bedside table reads 4:58am - too early to be up, but way too late to try and fall back asleep. With a sigh, El slides back into bed, feeling the scratchy bedspread prickle across the bare skin of her legs, and reaches for the remote she’d tossed by near where her knees are.

This has been El’s life for the past two weeks. With the exception of her first full day in Chicago when she went to a thrift store to pad out her very limited and very lacking wardrobe, making sure to purchase a necessary winter coat that had eaten up too much of her very limited budget, El has barely ventured out of her motel room. She goes out once a day or so to grab food (occasionally she’ll even splurge and grab a hot meal at a fast food restaurant, weighing out the cost with the deliberation of someone who doesn’t know how she’ll ever replenish her funds, but also desperately craves a hot meal), and there was one single trip to a laundromat to clean her meager collection of clothes, but otherwise, she just stays here and watches TV, hours and hours of it.

And for two weeks, this has been all she’s had the energy for. She’s in pain and TV is the only anesthesia she can handle. But reality is knocking at the door, forcing its way into her anodyne existence and El can’t afford to ignore it, literally or figuratively.

The main problem to solve is that she needs money. She needs money to survive and she needs even more money to put as much distance between her and Hawkins as possible. Not that El knows where she’ll go, but she figures she should at least aim for somewhere outside of the US, somewhere the government will have a harder time noticing her. (She mourns the forged passport Hop had Murray smuggle in for her, the one buried in a duffle bag deep in the back of her closet in the cabin, but there was no way she could have gone and grabbed it without letting Hop know she was still alive, which would defeat the purpose of the sacrifice she made. A missing cache or two, that’s one thing, but the bag that only El and Hop know exists? That’s another thing entirely). But regardless of where that is, the one thing she does know is it’s going to cost her money to get there.

Plus, El knows she can’t stay cooped up in that room forever. And if she is being honest with herself, there’s part of her that’s starting to get a little stir crazy. She used to think she was ok being still for hours at a time - turns out she might have a limit after all.

So when the sun has fully risen over the horizon, El gets dressed in her warmest clothes, turns off the TV with a flick of her mind, and heads out into the cool late November morning. 

This is the start of a pattern that will occupy her until nearly Christmas: wake up, get dressed, eat a little bit of breakfast, and wander the streets as she figures out what to do next.

The easy solution to the money issue makes itself clear on day two of her new routine. El’s wandering through the financial district, feeling very out of place among the rush hour traffic of suited office workers heading in and out of tall skyscrapers, when a man about twice her age stops near the low wall of a planter by an intersection and places one foot up on it so he can re-tie his shoe. And when he leans over, the jacket of his suit pulls up enough to reveal the corner of his dark brown leather wallet peeking out of his pants pocket.

Before she chickens out and talks herself out of it, El moves closer, close enough to block what she’s doing from prying eyes, but not close enough to look suspicious. There’s tons of people moving around and waiting for the light to change so they can cross the street, so no one really notices her loitering. And no one definitely notices the wallet slowly slide up and out of the man’s pocket as if lifted by an invisible hand, smooth and whisper silent.

El guides the wallet into her waiting hand and swallows down the guilt as she slips into the front pocket of her hoodie with a delicate twist of her wrist. He doesn’t need it, she rationalizes. The man is clearly wearing a nice suit, he can afford a misplaced wallet. The lie she tells herself tastes slick and oily in her thoughts, but she doesn't dare let it go.

It’s the excuse El continues to tell herself as she keeps pace with the crowd that crosses the street (it would look suspicious to run, even though nearly every instinct is telling her to, that someone must have noticed, that it’s obvious she’s nothing more than a grubby, little thief). 

The excuse, the lie, lasts two more blocks. By this point, the man she stole from has gone off in a different direction and El slips away from the crowd to duck into a service alley. She moves into the shadowed space, hidden from the sun by the tall buildings that flank it on either side and waits until she’s deep enough back before she dares to pull the wallet out of her pocket.

And when she opens it, guilt flares inside of her, hot as the molten sun. There’s $100 in the wallet (not an insignificant sum to someone with El’s limited cash reserves), but there’s also a small family portrait nestled in one of the transparent photo sleeves: the man, a delicate blonde woman, and two little kids, the oldest no more than 3 years old.

This is money he could use on his kids. It’s almost Christmas, El thinks as her throat tightens, swallowing down the painful lump that forms there. 

Her lower lip wobbles and El knows she can’t do this, she can’t be this person. Maybe if she was more desperate, she could swallow the bitter pill required. But she’s not there, not yet. Maybe not ever.

Still, $100 is nothing to sneeze at, even if she doesn’t do this ever again. So with the guiltiest conscience she’s ever experienced, El pockets the money. And when she walks past a blue post office box, she pulls down the tray slot and slips the wallet inside, hoping that a mailman takes pity and returns the wallet to the man she stole it from.

So pickpocketing is out. She could use her powers to break into a store in the middle of the night after it closes, but that invites a whole new level of risk, one El can’t afford. Break-ins means triggering alarms which means police response. And from there, it doesn’t take much more for the military to get involved and all the hard work El’s done to stay hidden disappears in a puff of smoke.

So, no, no breaking and entering.

One more possibility crossed off the list.

A couple of weeks later, she walks past a pawn shop and she slows to a stop in front of the storefront window, eyeing the items on display through the security gate that fences in the glass. For half a second, she entertains the idea of selling things to raise money. But the only thing El has that is worth selling is the gold promise ring that encircles her left index finger. Just the thought of parting with it makes her almost physically ill and her thumb wraps around the base of her index finger to rub at the band, feeling where the glide of smooth metal meets the rigid edges of the red stone embedded in the setting, just to reassure herself that it’s still there.

(god she remembers the moment mike gave it to her the christmas after she moved to lenora, the look on his face, all fear and nerves and excitement and love, so much love it shone bright in his eyes and lived in the trembling of his hands as he opened the ring box to her curious gaze. she remembers the way love flooded her veins as he explained the gift, “always, i promise always,” and the tears that blurred her vision as she delicately removed the ring from its snug confines. together, they slipped it on the index finger of her right hand, the only finger it fit on. 

mike had been distraught it wasn’t her ring finger, but el didn’t care. she had physical proof of mike’s love for her, of the way he’d promised himself to her for always, a reminder that he was always with her even when he was miles away. and so she’d kissed him then, rich and passionate, full of all the ways in which she loved him, letting herself lose endless minutes in their embrace, in the way their lips met over and over again, in the way the simple act of kissing him made it feel like fireworks exploding across every nerve ending.

when she moved back to hawkins, living once more in hiding, world reduced to training and preparing to fight, she’d moved the ring to her other hand - still on her index finger, but in closer proximity to where a different kind of ring might sit one day, an engagement ring with a diamond that catches the sparkle of the sun or a wedding ring, a permanent symbol of a lifelong commitment.

but that is a dream for a future that no longer exists. there will be no engagement ring, no wedding, no happily ever after forever. just the decaying hopes of a young girl, dreams ground to dust beneath the weight of her sacrifice, who will always live beneath the shadows of ‘what if’.)

El scurries away from the pawn shop, moving like if she lingers too long, a hand will shoot out and drag her inside and force her to give up her most prized possession, her only tether to the boy she had to give up and leave behind.

El heads back to her sad, depressing motel room after that, every step a trudging drag as she heaves herself over the threshold into her room and all but throws herself onto the bed.

God, what is she going to do? She can’t bring herself to steal, whether out of guilt or aversion to risk, and the only thing of value she owns is the one thing she can never sell. She has no ID, no mode of transportation, no way of getting a job - a real job, that is. 

El’s not naive. She knows there are jobs that people do under the table, or other unsavory ways of earning money. She’s seen them on the streets, drug dealers peddling wares to customers desperate for an escape, or girls in tight, revealing clothing offering their bodies for a price. Drugs hold no interest for El (never mind the possibility of getting caught by the police). And as for the girls on the street….

El’s stomach churns with the idea of selling herself like that. And though she understands why some girls do, she knows she never could. No, the only person she’s ever been with like that is Mike, the only person she ever wants to be with like that is Mike. As long as she still holds love for him in her heart, she doesn’t think she can ever be with anyone else like that. And even if it was her only option, El would rather starve than give her body to anyone else.

Feeling low and despondent, El curls up on her bed and buries her face in her arms. Hopelessness is creeping in and El doesn’t know what to do. Her heart aches with the weight of everything she’s left behind and the scale of the problem she has to solve in front of her. And like so many other people who hold on to so much pain, she finds herself reaching for the thing that brings her the most comfort: her loved ones.

It’s been over a month since El faked her death and escaped Hawkins. And in that time, she has never once used her powers to check in on those she left behind. It’s not that she hasn’t been tempted (and oh, how she’s been tempted). It’s that she knows she’s not strong enough to not take one look at the people she cares about the most in the world and not immediately want to run back to them.

But in this moment, El doesn’t care. She needs something to bring some warmth to the cold shell she’s become, to ease the pain digging at her heart.

El slips into the Void as easy as closing her eyes. Her powers have grown in the nearly 2 years since she’s gotten them back. There are still some limits - when searching for people in the Upside Down or in Vecna’s mindscape, a focus, some way of cutting out the distractions, is needed for her to slip between the barriers of reality. But searching for people in the real world? All she needs to do is slow down and focus on the beating of her own heart, meditating on it until the rest of the world fades away and she slips into the place between worlds.

The first person El checks in on is Dustin. He’s an easy choice, a safe one. She loves him as a friend, but doesn’t need him, not in the way she does some of the others. Looking in on him won’t hurt like the others.

She finds Dustin with Steve, because of course she does. It’s been long enough that their injuries from the final fight against Vecna are long healed and the only indication that anything physically happened is in the occasional scar, or the tightness at the corners of their eyes that speak to deeper wounds still healing.

But they both look well, which makes El happy to see. They’re at Dustin’s house, sitting at a table eating dinner. Claudia appears from the ether to set down a bowl of something hot and steaming before she sits down at an open seat. El doesn’t dare get close enough to find out what it is (Mike’s the only person she knows who can sense her in the void that she knows of, but she’s not sure if the others won’t be able to also if she gets closer, so she doesn’t risk it), but just the idea of a hot, homecooked meal has her mouth watering.

They’re far enough away that their conversation isn’t fully audible, just the rise and fall of their voices, the harmony without the melody. But it’s enough to bring some measure of peace, while also making her desperately wish she could be there with them.

El moves on down the list after that, lingering, taking her time, but always at a distance. Not close enough to hear what’s being said, but close enough to feel like they’re just in the other room, close enough to feel like she’s not agonizingly lonely. 

Lucas is with Max in a familiar tableau: her in bed, Lucas by her side, but this time she’s awake as they hold hands, the two of them exchanging soft words as they look lovingly at each other.

She goes to check on Will and Jonathan next, correctly figuring that they must be together, but gets an extra surprise that she wasn’t quite ready for in the shape of Hop, who’s sitting down for his own dinner with the rest of the Byers.

El’s lip trembles and she swallows roughly at the man she considers lucky enough to have gotten to call “dad” for as long as she did. He looks tired - actually, everyone at the table looks tired, but none more than Hop. He looks drawn, pained, mind half elsewhere, and El knows it’s because of her. She hugs herself tight, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt as she fists them at her sides, as if it’s the only thing holding her back from running to them and pulling them to her. And who knows, maybe it is. 

Joyce nudges Hop, pulling him into the conversation, and it’s like a light switch turns back on behind his eyes. He gives Joyce a small, grateful smile and begins digging into his meal with gusto as he watches the back-and-forth conversation happening between Will and Jonathan.

Her family. The one she built, the one she was invited into one piece at a time. The dad who protected her, the mom who soothed her, the brothers who supported her. Her heart is cracking, aching under the desire to be with them. God, she can even picture it: her own place at the table, giggling with Will at whatever new concoction Joyce has cooked up in the kitchen, Joyce’s offended gasp and guffaw but smiling throughout it; asking Jonathan about how his day was - did he take any interesting pictures or make anything new?; the feel of Hop pressing a gruff kiss to the top of her head as he passes by to take his seat next to hers. A table full of love and light and laughter, warm and welcoming.

God, this was a mistake. El can’t do this, she can’t watch this. The reminder of what she left behind digs into her with jagged claws, tearing into her soul, rending it to shreds.

But she’s committed now. And there’s still one more person she needs to see, the one person she needs more than anything.

Mike.

She barely has to think his name before he appears before her. Her powers have always been highly attuned to him, never mind the fact that Mike’s the only normal person who’s ever sensed her in the Void. It’s like their connection, their love, has transcended and woven itself into the very fabric of the universe.

It feels like it was always supposed to be like this, the easy way every part of her connects to him. Makes her think about words like “soulmates” and “destiny”. And if interdimensional monsters and parallel worlds can exist, then why can’t it be that they were meant to be, that they were put on this Earth to find each other? Why can’t it be that in every universe, there is no El without her Mike beside her?

El doesn’t know what to expect when she finds Mike, but all it takes is a single glimpse of him before she loses all control of her emotions. A sob bursts from her, the sound echoing obscenely in the empty Void around her, and her hands come up to clap over her mouth in a futile attempt to contain herself.

Unlike everyone else she’s seen in the Void tonight, Mike is alone. He’s asleep with his back to her, curled up on his bed, limbs pulled in tight like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible (an impossible task given how he’s stretched out over the years). El can’t stop herself as she breaks her one rule, don’t get too close, and slowly crosses the distance that separates them.

El can’t help but drink in the sight of him through her tear-filled gaze, taking in the way his hair flops against the pillow, or the way the navy blue thermal he wears stretches across the width of his shoulders, or how one of the legs of his flannel pj pants has ridden up to show the delicate architecture of his ankle and foot. She circles the bed, coming around to see his face, and it sets off a new wave of tears.

The look on his face is tight, brow furrowed and lips pinched, even in sleep. He looks pale, like he’s been drained of all blood, and there are ruddy tear tracks carved into the translucent porcelain that stretches across sharp cheekbones. He looks how she feels, hollow and lost, and El doesn’t even try to stop herself as she sits down on the edge of his bed, hip almost touching the arms that are folded up awkwardly against his torso, not close enough to be touching him, but just close enough that her entire body buzzes at his proximity.

Look how you hurt him, a sneering voice needles, words jabbing into her heart with painful accuracy. That’s all you ever do, isn’t it? Hurt and maim and kill. You don’t deserve him. You’ve never deserved him.

Another sob escapes her and she freezes when Mike, still asleep, lets out a pained whimper in response. Knowing it’s the worst thing she can do but unable to bear seeing him like this, El reaches for him, hand gently cupping his cheek, feeling for herself the softness of his skin, the warmth of it.

Something in Mike’s face relaxes in his sleep, tension bleeding from him with a sigh. And he whispers something in his sleep, not loud, but unmistakable in its utterance: her name, like a breath of fresh air, spoken with love and affection, rich with emotion and meaning that belong to him and only him. 

“El.”

Mike says her name like a dream come true and for as long as she lives, her name on his lips will always be one of her favorite sounds in the universe.

Sobbing in earnest now, El takes back her hand as if scalded, guilt and anguish tearing at her soul. It turns out she didn’t just leave her heart behind when she left Hawkins, she took his with her in its place, dooming them forever to live a half-life, holding on to each other’s missing piece.

El rockets back to her body with a force that leaves her breathless and she falls apart, curled into herself in a grim echo of how Mike is laying in this exact moment.

“I can’t do this.” The words, whispered and hoarse, tear from her mouth. “I don’t know how to do this.” How is she supposed to live without him? How is she ever supposed to feel whole or is this just the price she has to pay for what she did?

The admission and the questions it brings cut into her, and El doesn’t know how much more she has to bleed. It leaves a sluggish wound, a mere insult to the fatal injury she inflicted upon herself when she left behind the boy who made her life worth living.

And El knows that no matter how far and how fast she runs, there will always be part of her left behind with Mike, waiting for a day when she can be whole again….

A day that will never come.

El wakes up the next morning, hungover and drained. She feels like she’s sinking, trapped in darkness. The walls of her motel room loom over her, oppressive and draining, a leeching shrine to her pain and misery. And not knowing what else to do, El pushes herself up from her bed and does what she’s been doing for the past several weeks: wanders.

If there was any magic left in Chicago, El can’t find it. Or maybe it’s just hiding from her, not wanting her to sully it with the weight she’s carrying with her.

Feeling indulgent, and needing something to make her feel better, El splurges and has her first sit-down meal in weeks at a greasy spoon diner. She orders a Belgian waffle with a side of eggs and a hot chocolate and it’s the best thing she’s eaten in her entire life. It’s no magical solution, but even just a little bit of sugar and warmth, belly comfortably full, makes her feel just the tiniest bit better.

And like the universe has taken just a tiny bit of pity on El, it’s not the only good thing to go her way that cold, blustery day. Like the universe has finally acknowledge that it owes her something, just a little bit, enough to find a reason to keep living even for just one more day.

It’s hours later, well past noon. El’s circling the neighborhood her motel is in, not searching for anything, just trying to keep moving, to keep from thinking. The worn-down buildings are starting to become familiar, normal in their depressive state and El finds it suits her mood just fine.

But it’s half a block past a convenience store, one El walks by almost everyday, when things change.

Behind her, the door bursts open, metal frame slamming against the hinges, bell ringing with wild alarm, and El turns at the sound of a panicked shout. “Hey, you, stop!”

A kid, no more than 13, is running in her direction, something gripped tight in his hand, and close behind him is the store’s proprietor, an old man with a heavy belly and stiff knees struggling to run after him.

El moves on instinct, before she can even think about what she’s doing. She plants her feet and when the boy runs past, she shoots an arm out at just the right moment, clotheslining him, sending him spinning to the ground. His prize slips from his hand and, even as he’s sending her a frustrated glare like she betrayed him, he’s scrambling to his feet.

But there’s no time for him to reclaim what he stole, not without getting caught, so he turns on a slippery heel and keeps on running. 

El spares him a half a glance before she bends over to pick up what the little thief left behind, and straightens just as the old man comes puffing up to her, winded and red-faced. “That little shit, second time this month….”

“Excuse me, this yours?” El asks, voice hoarse from disuse, croaking around the words.

The man sighs in relief, wobbling a bit as he stops in front of her. “Oh, bless you girl. Thank you. You really saved my ass with the Lottery commission.” His voice is gravely with the thickest Chicago accent she’s ever heard.

El hands back over what’s in her hands - a thick stack of cards, connected at the corrugated edges, brightly colored and covered in silver discs. “What is it, anyway?”

The old man takes back the stack of cards. “What, you never seen scratcher tickets before?” He waves a hand. “Eh, probably for the best. Lotta money lost for a chance of a little hope.”

He sways dangerously on his feet, clearly not used to this kind of exertion, and El steps forward to offer a steady hand. “Here, let me help you.” El’s not sure how old he is, but he’s probably old enough to be Hop’s dad, at least. His hair is mostly silver, combed back to reveal a receding hairline, liver spots dotting his forehead. The skin of his hands are creped, stretched thin over a large frame that is bowed, but not broken, speaking of former strength in his youth, long gone to pasture.

The man grumbles with a resigned shake of his head, jowls shaking from the motion, but doesn’t put up a fight as El walks with him back to the store. It’s old and rundown, years past its prime and empty of customers, but El can see the signs of care for those who know how to look for these things: faded linoleum mopped clean, glass cases gleaming and spotless, goods neatly stocked on the shelves. The only signs of something amiss are the gaps on the shelves where things should be but aren’t, and the mess on the counter display next to the register, papers and product displays spilled everywhere.

“Ah, what a mess,” the man says as El helps him over to the counter. His breathing is back to normal and he seems steadier on his feet, but El doesn’t want to risk him falling. She only lets him walk on his own as he goes around the counter to sit on a worn stool, leaving her on the customer side of the counter. He sighs as his weight rests on the seat and looks over at her, eyes deep set but clear as they gaze at her. “Anything you want, on the house,” he says, a dry smile pulling at his mouth. “Reward for saving my behind.”

El glances around, and her gaze quickly gets caught on the taped piece of paper hanging on the back of the register, the one proclaiming in all upper case letters “HELP WANTED”.

Her gaze must have lingered too long because a wry laugh pulled out of him. “You looking for a job, kid? Had a guy stocking the shelves, but he got his ass arrested a couple of weeks ago, if you’re wondering why the shelves are lookin’ a little empty. Could use the help from a strong kid like you. Plus, considering what you did, I’m pretty sure you won’t steal from me.”

El’s gaze shoots up, eyebrows rising up towards her hairline. “But, I don’t have an ID or anything.”

The man laughs again, this time fuller, belly shaking with the sound. “Look around, kid, do you think I got the labor board breathing down my neck? As long as you can lift boxes, I’ll pay you $4 an hour, cash. You can lift boxes, yeah?”

El nods, doing the math in her head. If she can work at least 30 hours a week, she could start saving money instead of losing it, more if she can get more hours. It’s not a lot of money, but it’s better than nothing.

“Good,” the man says with a nod, as if the matter’s settled. He holds out a hand over the counter. “Marty,” he says introducing himself.

El feels a smile pull up on her lips, the first smile to grace her face in weeks, and she reaches for his hand, shaking it. “I’m Eleanor.” 

“Nice to meet you, Eleanor. Welcome to the team.”

El waits, fidgeting in place. “So, when do you want me to start?”

“Well, I gotta clean up this mess, so why don’t you swing by tomorrow around 3. Sound good?”

Relieve to have someone else make a decision for a change, El nods with a small smile. “Sounds good.”

“Right, well, see you tomorrow, then, Eleanor.” Taking it as a dismissal, El turns on her heel and begins walking towards the door, pausing only when Marty calls out to her. “Oh, and Eleanor?”

El turns to look back at him, curious and maybe a little worried, but not surprised there seems to be a catch. “Yeah?”

Marty smiles, brash but kind. “Merry Christmas.” She must have stared at him too long, confusion writ large on her face, because his smile softens. “You know, big man in a jolly red coat, giving presents to all the nice boys and girls?”

El blinks and shakes her head to clear the cobwebs. She knew Christmas was close, but she didn’t think it was today. “Y-yeah, sorry, I just…I didn’t know that was today.”

Something passes in Marty’s gaze - pity, empathy, El’s not sure - but he slides off his stool and goes around to the candy display hanging off the front of the counter. He grabs a couple of king size candy bars, a Kit Kat and a Reese’s, and walks them over to her, pressing them into her hands. “I know it ain’t much, kid, but here.”

The kindness, small as it is, makes her throat thicken with emotion, eyes beginning to burn with tears and she fights to keep her lip from trembling. “Thank you.”

Marty waves a hand, animated in his dismissal. “Eh, don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ll see you tomorrow, 3pm.”

“3pm, promise,” El says, nodding, feeling a warmth begin to blossom in her chest, something she hasn’t felt in quite some time: hope.

She leaves the store, steps a little lighter. The weight isn’t gone, the pain is still there, but it feels like maybe it’ll be a little more manageable, that maybe someday she’ll be able to carry it and not notice it anymore.

That night, El gorges on chocolate and eats the rest of a box of Cheerios while she watches whatever bad Christmas movies are playing on cable. And when she falls asleep, exhausted from the turmoil of the past 24 hours, for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like an escape.

It feels like relief.

Chapter Text

1987 turns over into 1988 and El realizes two things:

One, although she likes working with her hands, working in retail is really boring, almost mind-numbing at times from the monotony. Sometimes, the monotony is ok - stocking and reorganizing shelves, cleaning up spills and messes off the floors, helping bring in the weekly delivery - keeps her brain occupied, distracted. “Busy hands, quiet mind,” Marty says when El describes the sensation to him during one of their many conversations that take place over the months El will end up working for him (more on this in a little bit).

At other times, though, the monotony is wearying. The moments between tasks, between having something to do, lets all the bad thoughts roll back in. Without something to distract her, a problem to solve or just something that needs to get done, El can’t help but think about the anchor around her neck, the pieces of her heart and soul she left behind with Mike and the others. 

Maybe one day I’ll find a job that keeps me busy all the time, El thinks in those dull moments. Not that she knows what kind of job that might be, or even where she’ll be if and when she finds it. She knows Chicago is just a temporary stop, somewhere to gather her thoughts and resources, somewhere to rest before the longer journey ahead. But her final destination remains as much a mystery as it did that first night during her flee in the tunnels beneath Hawkins. So until she can figure it out, she just has this: a job given to her by a grateful old man to fill the moments of waiting and resting, working 3 to 11 everyday to save up enough money to get her to.

Which brings El to the second thing she realizes after the New Year: that Marty reminds her of Hop. A lot.

It’s in the no-nonsense gruffness that masks a well-hidden soft, gooey center. It’s in the lame jokes that only he laughs at as he tries to pull a smile from El. It’s in the protective eye he casts around the store and on the regulars who drift in and out throughout the day.

But the main difference between Marty and Hop? The one that helps ease the heartache just a little because it’s so very different? Compared to Hop, Marty talks, all the time.

He’s flush with stories about his ex-wife who took off 20 years ago, about his son who lives in Reno with his two grandkids, about the neighborhood and how he’s seen it change, and about the customers who’ve been his regulars for decades.

He loves to gossip and laugh with those very same regulars and it always brings a smile to his face and a twinkle to his eye.

It’s nice, hearing all his stories, overhearing the gossip and the laughter. It’s nice because she knows none of these people, because it just feels like a story, a happy one, full of people not untouched by tragedy, but just by normal, everyday things, both happy and bittersweet. It reminds her that there’s life on the other side of this, and it gives her a weird sense of hope that maybe someday, she’ll find a tiny piece of contentment.

Of course, just because Marty likes to talk a lot, doesn’t mean he doesn’t also try to get El to talk back, gently cajoling her, asking her questions. El doesn’t want to answer questions, doesn’t want to risk letting anyone else in. But he doesn’t get offended when El deflects or shrugs off the question, filling in the blank spaces easily with another one of his story.

But with each attempt, El feels her resistance to his questions weakening. There’s just something so disarming about Marty, like Hopper but warmer, softer. Maybe it’s his age, or maybe it’s something else, but she finds herself wanting to answer. She shouldn’t, she knows she shouldn’t, shouldn’t take the risk. But the fact of the matter is that El is lonely and there’s only so much of being alone she can take.

It’s the middle of January, a few weeks after El starts working for Marty. The weather is taking a turn for the fierce, snowing in steady sheets, but not quite a full on storm. It’s warm inside the store, though, so El doesn’t much notice the weather. 

She doesn’t spend much time outside these days. She’s either holed up in the motel or at the store with Marty. And already, her pile of cash is growing instead of shrinking, even faster than she expected since she finds herself unexpectedly not having to buy as much food as she once did. Marty is always pressing extra food on her, claiming “oh, it’s gonna go bad soon. Gonna have to throw it out if you don't take it” or “you gotta try this, one of the best things you’ll ever eat in your life” - some excuse to make El feel not so guilty for accepting it. She tried to protest the first couple of times he did it, but it didn’t put him off; now she just accepts it as the gift that it is, a funny little habit of an old man who likes to look after his own.

It’s near the end of her shift and she’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, loading boxes of chips onto the shelves, when Marty shuffles over to her. He stops a couple of feet away and leans on the top of one shelf with a cardigan-covered elbow. “How’s it goin’ over here?” he asks.

El glances up at him with a small smile. “Good, almost finished.”

Marty nods, brusque with approval. “Good, good.” He pauses, sniffing a bit. “Overall, though, you liking the job ok? You’ve been here a few weeks, just wanted to check in.”

El’s smile widens. She can’t help it, he’s a sweet, old man under that gruff exterior. Still, she shrugs, the beginning of an honest answer. “I like it ok, I guess. Never had a job before, so….” El trails off with another shrug as she puts the last of the chips on the shelf. 

Marty nods again, like this makes sense. “Yeah, when I was your age, my pops wouldn’t let me get a job. ‘You gotta focus on school so you can make it out of here,’ he would say. But he didn’t know nothin’, I thought.” There’s a flash in Marty’s eyes that speaks to a deeper history, a deeper pain, one that lingers at the edges of all his stories. El wonders if she’ll ever find out what it is. “Probably should have listened to him,” he grumbles, softly to himself, as if El isn’t even there. 

A second later, Marty shakes himself back to the present and re-focuses on El. “You got a pops like that? Or is he ok with you spendin’ all your time here?”

A lump forms right at the top of El’s throat and she has to swallow roughly to dislodge it. “I do. O-or, I did. I, um, haven’t seen him in a while.” El’s not an idiot, she knows she looks like she’s still just a teenager, not old enough yet to be on her own. It’s as close as she dares to get to admitting she ran away. She looks away and starts breaking down the empty box, using a little bit of her powers to help tear the tape apart in a way that just makes her looks strong, not superpowered. “But, um, I think he’d be ok with me having a job, taking care of myself.”

It’s the truth, but not the whole truth. Because the truth of the matter is that Hop would want her to be able to do that while also still having him in her life. She knows he wouldn’t want her to be alone again, surviving on her own.

El bravely lifts her gaze back up to Marty, almost afraid of what she might find - judgment, or disgust maybe? What kind of kid runs away from their family? But instead, she only finds understanding. “Well, if he’s a man worth his salt, he’s proud of you, kid.”

El knows if she tries to talk, she’ll burst into tears. She knows Hopper’s proud of her, but she also hopes he’d understand why she did what she did, leaving like she did, letting everyone think she died, even him.

Marty continues to treat her with his normal brand of gruff kindness and he looks away, glancing outside through the glass doors. “Why don’t you head home kid, yeah? Your shift’s about up and it’s snowing pretty hard outside. You got a long walk home?”

El stands and brushes off her jeans as she does so. “A few blocks, motel on 32nd.”

Marty pulls a face. “Tch, Hank’s place?” He waves his hand like he’s swatting aside a fly. “Eh, jagoff’s been running that place like a dumpster since Nixon.” He pauses, giving El a hard look. “Well, get on with you, then, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

El nods. “Tomorrow.”

She heads behind the counter and grabs her coat and the small bag of food Marty’s set aside for her (today it’s a small carton of milk, a lukewarm sausage roll wrapped in plastic, and an apple that probably should have been eaten a couple of days ago, but is still very much edible as long as she picks around a couple of soft spots). And on her way out, Marty tosses her a bag of M&Ms (El catches it, heart stuttering, and tries not to think about the last time she had M&Ms, sharing them with a dark-haired boy as part of an awkward but undeniably sweet attempt at flirting that made her heart feel all fluttery in the best ways possible), one last parting gift for the evening.

Even bundled up in her coat, the evening is freezing. It’s a little past 11pm and there’s barely anyone outside - only people like her, who have somewhere warmer they’re trying to get to as fast as they can. It’s only a few blocks back to the motel, but El is shivering by the time she’s unlocking the door and hurrying inside.

She closes it behind her with a tap of her hip and only consents to take off her jacket once the food cradled in her arms is set carefully on the bed. After a shower and changing into pjs, El eats her dinner while she watches an episode of “Night Heat”, letting the plot slip past her like water over a river rock. The sausage roll is filling and a little bland, but the milk El drinks with it feels like a luxury, rich and cold on her tongue. And what the apple lacks in crispness, it makes up for in tart sweetness that transitions nicely into the M&Ms she has for dessert. (It’s weird how it took her having to acquire her own food every day for weeks on end to truly appreciate it.)

Once her belly’s full and she’s all cleaned up for bed, lights all turned out, El slips beneath her scratchy bedspread and gets on with what’s become a normal nightly occurrence: slipping into the Void to check in on Mike.

During the day, before her shift at the store, El regularly goes and checks on her friends and family, watching them heal and laugh and settle into their new, safe lives. But she can’t bring herself to check in on Mike while the sun’s up. She did that just the once, a couple of days after she started working for Marty, and the sight that greeted her almost made her physically ill. He’d been sitting in the basement, hunched over himself as he stared blankly ahead, eyes unfocused and unseeing. It’d been like looking at a corpse, a shell of a human being, and El knew he’d been sitting there like that because of her, because of what she did to him. Guilt had flared furiously in her chest, banging against the fragile curve of her ribcage, and she pushed herself out of the Void so quickly, it left her dizzy and breathless.

So she only looks in on him at night, only dares to do so when he’s sleeping. When he’s asleep, there are moments when El can pretend, even if just for a few seconds, that he’s fine, that everything’s fine, that she didn’t also break his heart along with hers when she left.

Tonight, Mike’s sleeping on his stomach, blankets pulled up to his waist, arms curled up under his chest. He’s not sprawled out like any of the number of time El would catch him sleeping in happier times, before that final, tragic fight. Sometimes she would find him sleeping in the cabin, napping on her bed as he waited for her to return from a training run with Hop or resting on the couch at the Squawk. But often times she would find him just how she’s finding him now: in the Void. Only then, she would pull him in with her, going over to him so she could snuggle up to him and his starfished limbs, or maybe rouse him with a kiss that would often, but not always, turn into more amorous activities, but always, always full of love and light and happiness.

El doesn’t do that this time, pull him in with her - she doesn’t dare. But she’s not strong enough to not go over to him, not strong enough to resist laying down at the edge of the bed, just out of reach in case one of his arms escapes the cage of his own body weight. She stares at him, heart twisting and aching, drinking in the sight of him, this beautiful boy who she’s watched turn into a handsome young man, whose only sin was only ever having a heart big enough to love her and keep her safe.

El sighs and her eyes burn with unshed tears, but she doesn’t look away. It feels like penance, having to bear witness what she did to him. Because even in sleep, there is something muted about Mike Wheeler, some crucial part of his vibrancy that was taken along with his heart. And El’s punishment is being unable to look away from her crime, to be forced to see what ruin she’s left in her wake.

But her day’s been long and tiring and El can feel sleep pulling at her, eyelids feeling heavier and heavier with each passing breath. And just before sleep claims her, there is one last thought that echoes throughout the Void, unknowingly settling deep in the most hidden parts of Mike’s heart:

Mike, I’m here, I love you.

If the snow had been falling in steady sheets the previous night, tonight it’s turned into a full on maelstrom, snow blowing sideways on the other side of the glass doors. El hesitates as she stares out the door at the blizzard outside. Her shift’s coming up on its end and her stomach sinks as she realizes she’s going to have to go out in that. It’s not that she hasn’t been outside in a storm before, but never one that bad.

Marty must sense her hesitancy because he looks up from where he’s doing the daily tallies at the counter. “You ok going out there? I got a spare room upstairs, used to be my son’s, if you don’t wanna head out in that.”

El stares at him, unsure of what to do, what to say. On one hand, she’s only known Marty a few weeks, he’s still all but a stranger to her. But on the other hand, she really doesn’t want to go out in the storm. “Are you sure?”

“Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t,” Marty says with a shrug. He looks past her to glance outside once more, frowning at what he sees. “In fact, I might insist. Don’t wanna lose my favorite stock girl to frostbite.”

El rolls her eyes, smiling almost in spite of herself. “I’m your only stock girl.”

Marty lets out a raspy laugh. “Exactly,” he says, clearly amused with himself. “C’mon, let me lock up and I’ll show you the room.”

For a second, El wants to hesitate. Nearly all her stuff is back at the motel - her toothbrush, the meager collection of clothes she’s been able to gather - the only thing she keeps with her is the money she’s saved up so far, not willing to risk someone breaking into her room while she’s not there.

But the clothes and toiletries are replaceable, and with the money she’s earning from Marty, it wouldn’t take too much to replace if the worst case scenario comes to pass. Never mind the fact that El has to admit that going out in that blizzard, even for a few blocks, really isn’t safe.

So, when Marty finishes locking up the front doors, setting the alarm, and clicks off most of the fluorescent lights, El follows him through the unassuming wooden door in the back of the store, wedged between the refrigerators on one side and the magazine rack on the other. A rickety staircase lit by a weak incandescent yellow bulb leads up to the apartment upstairs and El finds herself looking around with a curious eye as the apartment comes into view.

The front door isn’t locked (which El thinks is maybe a little too trusting of Marty) and he pushes it open easily to let her in behind him, huffing a little from the effort of getting up the stairs.

The contrast of the apartment and it’s sole occupant is immediately stark. Where Marty is warm and animated, the apartment is stuffy, frozen in time, like a mausoleum or a monument to a different time. It’s clean, which doesn’t surprise El - Marty is fastidious about keeping the store clean, so why should his apartment be any different? - but it looks like it hasn’t been lived in for quite some time. 

The living room and small kitchen in front of her are dark except for a single lamp sitting on a side table, couch looking tidy but a little musty, kitchen more lived in with clean dishes stacked in the sink, but with worn fixtures. Her eye is drawn to the rows of bookshelves lining the living room walls and when she looks left, she sees a hallway stretching off into darkness where the rest of the living spaces are.

“Room’s this way,” Marty says as he shuffles down the hall, wooden floors creaking beneath their steps, his hand reaching out with well-practiced ease to flick on the hallway light. “Bathroom’s next door. Been years since Simon last stayed here, so the room might be a little dusty. But it’s clean and warm and beats heading out in the snow.” He stops at the first door on the left, just past the kitchen, and opens the door before moving so El can look in.

It’s a spartan room, just a full bed and a nightstand. And even if it smells stale and unused, there’s no hint of mess or grime anywhere to be seen.

“Look alright?” Marty asks.

El turns to him, a small smile on her face as she takes in the concern on his. She doesn’t know why he’s decided to be so worried for her, but at this point, given everything that’s happened, she’s decided that she’s not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. “Yeah, looks alright.”

“I was gonna heat up some leftover stew if you want some, before you hit the sack. It’s not much, but I’d be a pisspoor host if I didn’t offer to feed ya.”

El’s stomach rumbles at the thought of a meal, something warm and filling, and her face heats up at her body’s eagerness. “That sounds good, thank you.”

“Alright, a bowl of stew, coming up,” Marty says with a rasping laugh before he turns, a little unsteady, and heads over to the kitchen. “I hope you like lamb because it’s what was on sale.” He waves in the direction of the kitchen table, green formica surface with 4 vinyl chairs places equidistant around the perimeter. “Sit, sit, it’ll only take me a sec to heat it up in the microwave.”

So El sits and watches as Marty putters around his kitchen, grumbling to himself as he goes about pulling a couple of bowls from the cupboard, opening the fridge to pull out a scuffed metal pot, and ladling a small heap of cold stew into each one. El can’t help but smile a little, fondly and bemused, as he squints at the digital display on the microwave, clearly frustrated if the way he curses is any indication.

But it’s not long until both of them are seated at the table, each with a bowl of stew, a spoon, and a glass of water and El waits to pick up her spoon until Marty’s fully settled in his chair. “What, you waiting for an engraved invitation? Dig in,” Marty says when he notices El waiting.

El takes her first bite and something inside of her crumbles. She doesn’t have anything to compare it to, but it’s been so long since she sat down and ate a meal with another person, since she ate something cooked in the kitchen of someone’s home, and it surprises her at just how much she missed it. The emotion threatens to spill over, but El keeps it contained with a shaky breath as she eats, letting her stomach fill with the taste of rich meat and tender vegetables.

After a few bites, though, and El can’t hold back the question that’s been building for the past few weeks, the question that she thinks anytime Marty does something nice for her. “Why?”

Marty looks over at her, bushy eyebrows rising up towards his receding hairline. “Why what?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Marty pauses and, after a moment, sets his spoon down in his bowl with a trembling hand. “Let me tell you a story,” he says, voice soft and tired, but still so very warm. “Once there was a kid. Now, this kid, life hadn’t treated them so good, life had been hard. So one day, the kid ran off, got into a lot of trouble, got lost along the way. They didn’t know what to do, so they hid and just tried to survive. Sound familiar?”

Tears spring to El’s eyes and she can’t stop the way her lower lip begins to wobble. The story hits close to home, too close. But it’s not just a story about her, is it? “You?” she asks, forcing the word out through the lump in her throat.

Empathy, bright and fierce, shines in Marty’s eyes. “Yeah, kid, me. I made a lot of mistakes as a kid, got caught up in the wrong crowd, and I tried to run from my problems and I ran so fast, all I managed to do was run into more trouble. I was lost and I let the world swallow me whole. So I know what it looks like when someone else is running hurt. It took me years to find my way out and maybe, if someone had helped me when I was your age, I would have found the way sooner.

“Now, I don’t know what you’re running from, and maybe you’re running for a good reason, but I can see the pain you’re carrying. And no one deserves that, Eleanor, least of all a good kid like you. So if I can help you get to where you need to go, maybe even find a place to stop running, I’ll have done something right.”

Silent tears spill down El’s cheeks and she lifts a hand to brush them aside. “El,” she says, voice breaking. And at Marty’s confused head tilt, she continues. “You can call me El.”

Marty smiles, full of so much sympathy it makes El’s heart ache, and stretches his hand across the table. “It’s nice to meet you, El.”

El breathes out a laugh through her tears as she takes his hand, a callback to their first introduction. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, kid.” Marty’s gaze drops down to the half-eaten bowl of stew in front of her. “Now eat! Don’t want it to get cold.”

The rest of dinner is a silent affair and Marty shoos El away once their bowls are empty, claiming “guests don’t do dishes, now shove off. Off to bed with you,” leaving El to shuffle into the room that is hers for the night. She neatly piles her jacket and shoes in the corner by the door and only wrinkles her nose a little bit at the stale smell as she slides beneath the covers. Compared to the bedspread at the motel, the one in Marty’s spare room is soft and warm, the thick flannel feeling like silk. 

Warm and full, El doesn’t even have the energy to reach over and turn off the light, flicking the switch instead with a simple brush of her powers, and is all but asleep before her head even finishes hitting the pillow.

Her things are still in the motel when El goes back the next morning, trudging through snow drifts the city hasn’t cleared yet just to get back to her room, but they don’t stay there because a couple of days later, Marty offers to let her stay in the spare room, free of charge. “Not sure where you’re going, but you’re gonna need money to get there. And Hank’s robbing you blind, making you pay $50 a week for a dumpster fire of a room. This way, you can save up faster.”

El smiles at that, teasing. “You trying to get rid of me?”

“Bah,” Marty says with a wave of his hand. “We both know you’re not meant to stay in this dump, not like an old fossil like me. And it gets harder to leave the longer you stay in a place. Don’t get stuck here like me, kid.” Although she told him he could call her by her real name, the only one that matters to her, El kinda likes it that Marty still calls her “kid”. It’s like a private name, one he has just for her. Hop used to call her kid, back in the early days, in those first few weeks when she started living with him. It’s both soothing and a little painful all at once, like so many other things in her life.

So El drops off her motel room key to a perpetually surly Hank (and she guesses it’s nice to have a name to place to the most sour face she’s ever seen in her life) and hauls her meager belongings up into Marty’s spare room.

Her days change after this. There’s no TV at Marty’s apartment, but there are plenty of books, books for all ages from middle school chapter books (each complete with child’s handwriting proclaiming “Property of Simon”), to lengthy novels, non-fiction treatises, to an entire row of encyclopedias.

“My ex-wife loved books and when she left, she couldn’t take them with her. But my son, he loved them too, so I kept them. I know I should get rid of them - it’s not like I’m using them - but I guess I just got so used to seeing them there that the idea of getting rid of them don’t seem right,” Marty says as an explanation when El asks. 

So instead of TV to fill her mornings, El starts reading. Reading’s never really been her strong suit, and over the past couple of years, she hasn’t really had the time. But now she has nothing but time. She starts easy, plucking an old battered Boxcar Children book from the shelf and letting herself get slowly immersed in the story.

She also starts helping out in the store downstairs in the earlier hours of the day, spending a couple of hours on and off from morning to night. She’s working the same number of hours as before, maybe a little more, but in smaller chunks. Sometimes she minds the register while Marty runs an errand or two, or sometimes she just sits behind the register with him and talks (or, rather, listens to him talk while she pipes up every once in a while with a her own sparse contribution).

And when El’s not reading or not helping in the store, when the weather permits she actually takes the opportunity to explore the city that’s become her temporary home. She buys a pass for the L and watches the city roll by on the other side of the window. She grabs pizza from Pizzeria Uno and watches people walk through Millennium Park, or she wanders the waterfront while eating a hot dog, unable to decide if she likes relish or if it’s just weird, but glad she tried it anyway.

Sometimes, she checks in on the others through the Void and every night, she goes to Mike while he’s sleeping, partly because her guilt won’t let her stop, but also because she just wants to see him. El doesn’t think she’ll ever stop wanting to see him, no matter how many miles separate them. Which just leads to another question: how many miles will separate them? Where will El end up when she stops running?

It’s a question that occupies her mind for weeks as the calendar rolls on into February. She’s really starting to save money in earnest, now that Marty is letting her live with him for free, and she thinks by spring she’ll have enough saved up to find a way out of the country. But she needs to know where it is she’s going.

The question weighs heavily on her a couple of days before Valentine’s Day (and she’s trying and failing miserably not to think about Valentine’s Day in years past, in how she and Mike would honor the holiday dedicated to lovers, and she misses him so much it makes it hard to breathe, misses the way he held her and kissed her and just loved her with everything he had).

On this dreary February day, El’s behind the counter with Marty, leaning against it with her forearms braced on the clean surface. The mid-morning rush is done, leaving only the two of them in the store, and El’s just staring out through the front door, letting herself get lost in her thoughts.

“You wanna share what has you all wooly brained recently?”

Marty’s gruff voice cuts through the fog surrounding her brain and El turns to him, lips pinched in the beginnings of a frown. “How do I know where I should be?”

Marty draws in a deep breath, humming a little as he crosses his arms in front of him. “Hmm, that is a good question. It depends. Where do you want to be?”

Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? El knows what she wants, but it isn’t what she needs. “I want to be with my friends, with my dad, but it’s….” El trails off, eyes briefly squeezing shut in a bid to hold back the words that threaten to spill out of her. “It’s not safe for me, for my friends. I can’t tell you why, but it’s why I had to leave.”

“Well, that does sound like a problem. Sounds like what you need is somewhere safe, then. But there’s no reason why it can’t also be a place that can make you happy or give you something you want. Is there a place that isn’t home where you could find something you want, something you dreamed of?”

Something I dreamed of…. Memory surfaces of the last time she felt any sort of hope, to that sunset conversation with Mike on the roof of the Squawk, the light around them suffused with warm oranges and pinks as the sun sunk down towards the horizon. A beautiful place, somewhere with three waterfalls….

El’s heart squeezes at the memory, of the hope she’d felt, of the way Mike smiled at her all soft and supportive, full of his own brand of stubborn hope. He’d always carried more than his fair share of the optimism between the two of them, telling her that even when she couldn’t dream of a better future, he’d dream for both of them.

Mouth dry, El’s tongue flicks out to wet her lips, breath shaking. “There was… after everything… my boyfriend and I were going to leave, find somewhere new, somewhere safe.” She pauses and lets out a trembling laugh. “Somewhere beautiful with three waterfalls.”

“Well, there you go, then,” Marty says with a gentle smile. “You gotta find a place with three waterfalls. And then - your boyfriend, you love him? He love you?”

“More than anything.” El can’t speak any higher than a whisper.

To his credit, even though El is young, too young in the eyes of most adults to be so very in love, Marty just keeps on smiling, warm and empathetic. “Right, well, then after you get settled wherever you’re going, you send him a letter and bring him to you.”

“Oh, that’s not-” El swallows roughly, reality pulling her down like a lodestone. “It won’t be safe for him to join me.”

Marty shrugs. “Well, I don’t know the particulars of your situation, and all, but sounds to me like if he loves you like you say he does, he’ll risk a bit of safety for a chance of happiness.”

And that’s the problem. El knows Mike would risk everything, including his own life, to be with her. And that is a price El will never be willing to pay.

But El can’t tell Marty that. It’s enough that she’s opened up this much about her past. It wouldn’t do to put him in danger for simply being kind to her. “Maybe,” is all she says before she smiles, pushing aside her pain. “Thank you for the advice.”

“Eh, don’t mention it,” Marty grumbles. “When you get to be my age, all that’s left is telling young people what to do and pretending it’s helpful.”

“It is very helpful,” El says. She pauses, thinking. “Just one more thing, though…” She trails off, waiting for Marty’s inquiring grunt. “How do I find my three waterfalls?” She’s not sure when the waterfalls became “hers”, but it’s fitting, she decides - if she can’t share the dream with Mike, then at least it can be something that she can have for her own.

“Well, library’s gotta have at least a book or two about waterfalls,” Marty says, reaching beneath the counter to find a fraying phone book so he can slide it over to her. “Why don’t you find one and go see?”

Early morning the next day finds El heading back into the heart of downtown Chicago to find the central library. The way she sees it, if she’s going to be able to find a book on waterfalls, her best chance is to go to the biggest library she can reasonably get to.

The central library building is an impressive, austere monument, with bright brick walls and shining marble interiors. Everything feels both too loud and too quiet when she walks in through the front doors and El has to resist hunching over to make herself as small as possible. She doesn’t belong in such a place, a place full of books and learning, smelling like aged paper and wooden shelves. Maybe there’s a world out there where she does belong, where she feels free and welcome in the tall stacks that line each floor.

But that’s not the point of today’s visit. She has a mission and can easily push aside any unease in the name of accomplishing it.

A quick inquiry at the front desk points her in the direction of the reference librarian and before El knows it, she’s sitting at a wide table with a veritable stack of books, all about waterfalls, piled in front of her. El finds herself coming back every day over the next few days, picking up the research from wherever she left it off the previous day. 

And, after a few days, she finds it, what she was looking for.

It’s in a photojournalism book of famous waterfalls from around the world. El has the book spread open in front of her and is delicately turning the thick, glossy pages when she sees it. The book is organized into chapters by country or region, each new area boldly announced with large, block lettering cast over a particularly stunning photo emblematic of the area’s waterfalls.

And right there, behind the large letters that read “Iceland”, are three mystical, cascading waterfalls.

El feels her heartbeat quicken in her veins, heart pounding against the inside of her ribcage as goosebumps break out across her skin.

That’s it, that’s where I need to go.

The certainty settles inside of her with newborn warmth and El cradles it close, savoring the triumph, before she bursts into a new flurry of determination. Now that she knows where to go, she just has to figure out how to get there.

It’s easier to find resources on Iceland that fit her needs: histories, travel guides, maps. And it doesn’t take long for her determination to turn into apprehension.

Because in order to get to Iceland, she needs a passport; to stay, she needs a visa; and to get either, she needs a birth certificate. And she has exactly none of those things.

She heads back to the store, future having never felt further out of reach than it does now. El knows she’s broadcasting her mood when she passes through the glass doors and she also knows she doesn’t have the energy to try and hide it from Marty.

Not that it would have worked even if she had tried - for an old man, he’s surprisingly perceptive.

Marty looks over at her as she enters the store and he immediately grimaces. “Uh oh, what happened?”

El comes around behind the counter and all but hurls her jacket into the corner. “Do you know how to get a passport?” El asks in lieu of responding to Marty’s question.

If he’s confused, Marty shows no signs of it. “Well, I think you need a birth certificate for that. Or, if you don’t have that, someone you trust can forge one for you.” He tilts his head as he looks at her. “You want me to see if I can ask around? I probably still have some, uh, former coworkers who I could ask.”

But El’s not really listening to him anymore (not that she wants him to try and solve this problem for her; no, Marty’s done enough for her. She won’t put him in any more danger than her sheer proximity has done). Someone you trust, is what her mind keeps tripping over. And not because there isn’t someone she can trust.

But because there is.

Owens.

Owens proved once before that he was on her side. And if he’s safe, if he’s still alive, if he’s not compromised….

Then maybe he can be on her side once more.

El doesn’t immediately reach out to Dr. Owens. No, she’s not stupid. She knows the military had to have taken him in after what happened at the Nina Project and that they’re probably keeping an eye on him if they don’t have him locked up somewhere. She feels ashamed that she never once thought to check in on him in the aftermath of her escape from the project’s facility.

But El also knows that Owens can take care of himself, even if the government still has him (which, they might if they think there’s a chance El’s still alive).

So, for a couple of weeks, El just watches. She finds him easily in the Void and just lingers on the edges. He’s a little older, increasingly more silver in his hair than the last time El saw him, and the limp from the injury he sustained in ‘84 is even more pronounced. 

There are people who come and go from the mindscape surrounding him, people in suits, people in uniforms. But it’s only after El spots an older woman close in age to Owens, who leans in and presses a soft kiss to his cheek as he sits in a well-loved office chair, a gesture that radiates with spousal affection, that El comes to the conclusion that whatever happened after the Nina Project, whatever happened after the Upside Down disappeared from Hawkins for good, Sam Owens is free.

And now she just needs to bide her time and wait for the right moment.

There’s no getting around it: Sam Owens is tired.

It’s been one shitshow after another these past few years, ending with the biggest clusterfuck of them all when the Upside Down disintegrated and took Eleven along with it.

Kay had been raked over the coals, by the DOD first, but the DOE got its licks in too - this venture was, after all, a cross-agency initiative.

Sam hadn’t been involved in any of that, though. Not after the Nina Project, not for the occupation of Hawkins, not for the messy, quiet clean up that came after as the military left and went home with its proverbial tail tucked between its legs.

No, he’d been on what he could only charitably describe as military-generous house arrest. He and Cathy had been relocated to Dover Air Force Base in Wilmington and he’d been assigned to a new project, but kept apprised of what was happening in Hawkins so he could be pulled in on an advisory capacity when needed and closely monitored all the while.

Sam told them what he knew (well, most of what he knew - he still had some cards hidden deep up his sleeve) and advised when he didn’t. And all the while, watching with sickening revulsion as the mess grew bigger and bigger until it exploded so badly, no one in the entire military complex wanted to touch it with a 40 foot pole.

Oh, sure, if they could have kept their hands on Eleven, it would have made it worth it, could have salvaged something out of the mess. Not that Sam would have ever thought that - he knows he would have fought tooth and nail to keep that young woman safe, would have tried to figure out a way she could be free - but he knows how the government sees these things: use what you can while it’s useful and dispose of it when it’s not. And without her, everything else is useless as shit.

Sam finds himself thinking of Eleven - not every day, not even frequently. But often enough, especially when a report crosses his desk that has to do with the initiative. He’s been more involved as the cleanup has turned from boots on the ground to paperwork sliding across desks.

And, so, he finds himself at somewhat regular intervals thinking about Eleven, a quiet mourning tugging at his heart. He thinks of her, slender frame overflowing with determination, eyes that were both too innocent and not so innocent in equally heartbreaking measures. And maybe it’s the part of him that’s a dad, or maybe it’s just that he’s a decent human being, but Sam wishes the story, her story could have had another ending. That she could have gone back to her friends and her family and lived like so many other girls got to do, happy and free, the world an infinite spiral of possibilities stretching out in front of her.

It’s a quiet night the first week of March when Sam finds out that maybe there is another ending for Eleven’s story.

He’s working late, buried in his home office, soft light from a banker’s lamp stretching across the surface of his desk. Cathy came by 15 minutes ago to let him know she was heading up to bed and Sam can still smell the lingering scent of her perfume, lilacs, hovering around the edges. It’s a smell that, if there’s an afterlife, one he’s not sure if he qualifies for, will follow him there for eternity.

He finishes up reading February’s monthly status report, paper littered with his notes and callouts, before he sets the pen down and leans back in his chair with a sigh - 

-Only to have the world around him vanish in the blink of an eye, leaving only him and his office chair.

Sam’s heart leaps up into his throat as disorientation sets in, feeling like the wind’s been knocked from him. Is he having a stroke, a heart attack?

No, his clinical mind whispers. Not symptoms of either. Dizziness, catatonia, shortness of breath, yes, but not this.

Sam stumbles to his feet and looks down when he hears splashing. There’s water, maybe half an inch thick, covering the ground for as far as the eye can see, stretching out into inky blackness that surrounds him on all sides.

Panicking, his hands clench at his sides, before patting at his chest, like he’s trying to make sure that he’s still real (and it says something that he isn’t sure). And just before fear can fully set in, a voice calls out to him from behind. “Hello, Dr. Owens.”

It’s a voice that Sam knows, but - no, it can’t be. Sam turns around and his eyes widen when he spots her. Ill-fitting jeans, a thick red sweatshirt, jet black hair hanging down around her shoulders. But it’s the look in her eyes, the same steely determination, the same fire, that convinces Sam.

“Eleven.”

For a moment, El watches as Owens panics, looking around every which way, trying to decide if what he’s seeing is real, how much he needs to start freaking out.

It’s not the first time El’s pulled someone into the Void (a thought which makes her remember the first time she pulled mike in with her, and how she giggled as he flailed and yelped at the transition, the soft “holy shit” he’d breathed once she took his hand in hers, grounding him against the sea of nothingness that was her mindscape), but it is always interesting to see how each new person reacts.

But she only lets him wonder for a moment before she calls out to him and he turns to see her.

There’s something that alights in the his eyes when he realizes who he’s looking at, something that dredges up something sad and small buried deep in her heart. This is what it’s like to have someone who knows you, who remembers you from times before, look at you with recognition, with the weight of shared history.

It’s been a while since anyone looked at El like that and she’s missed it.

“Eleven.” It’s a gasp of air in the shape of the name given to her by the lab. “You-you’re alive. Is this real?” His mouth hangs open just a little, jaw working back and forth like he’s trying to find the right words.

El nods. “It is, I’m alive.” She takes in a deep breath. “I need your help.”

“Wait, wait, no, hold on.” Owens closes his eyes, trying to get some semblance of control, and holds up a hand, three fingers curled in while his thumb and index finger stick out in the point he’s trying to make. “That’s not how this works. I don’t even know if you’re real, or if I’m hallucinating, or-”

While he’s speaking, El has moved closer, eliminating the distance between them, and she reaches for him, grabbing his raised hand. At the feel of her touch - real, grounding - Owens stops talking, his eyes going wide. “This is real, not a hallucination.”

It’s not clear how much he believes her, but he seems to set it aside for the moment as he pulls his hand away. “Well, supposing that this is real - and I’m gonna need proof of some kind, but we’ll get to that - how? How did you survive? Because I’ve read the reports of what happened. Dozens of people saw you die. And your friends, family, they were interrogated after. And they all swore you were dead.”

“They don’t know,” El says. “It was my plan, mine and Kali’s.”

Owens lets out a breath, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Eight, Kali Prasad.” The knowing edge in his voice says that he’s starting to put the pieces together. El nods at the realization that’s dawning in his expression and proceeds to tell him the story of their plan, of how Kali stayed behind at a distance to fuel the illusion that El was standing in the mouth to the Upside Down while the real El fled through the tunnels below Hawkins.

Owens nods, frowning a little as he processes. “And since then, you’ve been…?”

El shakes her head. “I won’t say, it’s not safe.”

A ghost of a smile crosses Owens’ face. “Good girl,” he breathes, soft and warm in his pride. “And this place is…?”

“Inside my mind,” El says. “It’s where I go to find people.”

“So you still have your powers.” It’s not a question, but a statement, something to fit into the fact pattern to see how it changes the big picture.

“I do. We killed the Mind Flayer and Henry, but my powers stayed, even after the Upside Down collapsed. I…I think they’re part of me forever.”

“Curious, to be sure, but I’m thinking that’s not important right now.” A laser focus has reignited in his eyes. “You said you needed my help.”

El’s heart leaps in her chest, eager. “Yes, I-”

“Ah, ah, not how this is going to work,” Owens says. “See, I’m still not entirely convinced this is all real. And until I do, I’m not going to risk putting my neck out for what might be a really vivid hallucination. So what you’re going to do is send me proof that this is real.”

“Proof?” El asks, brow furrowing as she tries to puzzle out what Owens means.

“That’s right, proof. Send me, I don’t know, a postcard or something. Don’t sign your name, obviously, but leave me some sort of sign, something only you and I would know if possible. There’s a PO Box that someone I trust has access to and they can get it to me. Once I have that, we can meet here again. I’ll wait in my office, same time every night, and I’ll let you know when I’m ready to talk. Deal?”

El nods. She’s frustrated at the delay - who knows how long a postcard will take to get to him? - but she understands the caution, the need to double check. “Deal.”

Owens makes her repeat the address for the PO Box back to him 3 times before he’s reasonably sure she has it memorized. And the next day, El asks Marty for the day off and takes a 90 minute bus ride up to Milwaukee (she’s smart enough to know she shouldn’t send a postcard from the city she’s staying in) so she can mail a postcard to a PO Box somewhere in Dallas. The postcard, a stylized picture of the map of Wisconsin with the letters “Wish you were here!”, has just a simple, short message on the back: “I’m still waiting for my waffle.”

After that, El waits. Every night, same time, she checks in with Owens. Sometimes she has to slip away from Marty to do it, which has earned her more than one concerned, confused look. But Marty, for all his gregariousness, doesn’t pry, which El appreciates, even if she can never explain why.

It takes a week and a half of checking for El to receive a clue that Owens has gotten her postcard. Like always, he’s sitting in his desk chair, but this time there’s a second chair, place far enough so that he can rest his feet on it, but not so close that another person couldn’t sit down next to him.

He’s smart, El thinks with a smile, smart to realize that anything someone is touching gets taken in with them into the Void when El pulls them in. Now, it could be that El is reading more into this than is there. But it’s also the only thing that’s been different in all the other nights she’s checked, and enough time has passed that it’s reasonable he could have received the postcard.

So El reaches out with her mind and pulls.

Owens gives a startled gasp as the world around him changes, and he’s quick to swivel in his chair, feet landing in the dark water around them. He looks at her, eyes wide and rich with emotion, gleaming with what El thinks might be unshed tears. “It’s you. You’re really alive.”

El goes over and sits down in the chair Owens’ feet just vacated. “I am,” she says before she reaches over to where his hands are trembling, balled up on his knees, and curls her fingers around his fists. “You got my postcard.”

Owens lets out a laugh, and if it sounds a little wet, neither of them acknowledge it. “The waffle was a nice touch.” He narrows his eyes at her, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So I take it you’re not in Milwaukee.”

“No, I’m not,” El says. “But you knew that already.” 

“I did, you’re right,” Owens says. “But I’m figuring you’re close. I won’t ask where - plausible deniability and all that - but I have a few guesses.” He sighs, relaxing a little, and El pulls her hands away to lean back in the chair Owens thoughtfully brought with him. “The government really thinks you’re dead, kiddo. Your friends, too.”

A question that’s been burning at the back of El’s mind for months pushes to the fore. “The government, are they watching them? My friends?”

Owens nods and El’s heart sinks. It must show on her face because he rushes to reassure her. “Not closely, but they are. Just in case, you know. Your friends have been too tied up in all this stuff for the government not to want to keep a watchful eye on them for the foreseeable future.”

El nods, understanding. “But they’re safe, and the government doesn’t think my friends know where I am.”

“No they don’t, that I can say for certain.” The steadiness in Owens’ voice relaxes the knot of tension in her stomach.

Another question, one more hopeful, springs to mind and El can’t stop herself before she asks it. “Do you think… do you think the government will always be watching?”

Owens can read between the lines, can hear the question El’s really asking - do you think it will ever be safe for me to be with my friends? - and he sighs, sad and sorry. “I think they will. I don’t think they’ll ever stop, not if there’s a chance that something could be salvaged.”

It’d been a vague hope, a well buried one. A hope that one day, maybe, El could find a way to reach out from wherever she ended up, let the others know she’s safe, let Mike know she’s safe. At best, she figured it’d be a long time before she could. But to hear that it would never be safe? Oh, how El’s heart breaks.

“I’m sorry, Eleven,” Owens says, gentle, like a dad, all soft and tender.

El closes her eyes and wills away the tears burning behind her eyelids. “It’s ok,” she says, knowing that her voice is saying the opposite, but also knowing that there’s nothing she can do about it, so “ok” is what she’ll have to be.

“But we still haven’t discussed what is you want from me,” Owens says, diverting the conversation to something less painful.

El’s grateful for the turn. “Yes, I need a passport. And a visa.” At Owens’ questioning look, El continues. “I can’t stay in America. I need to go somewhere it’s more difficult for them to notice me.”

“That explains the passport, but the visa?” Owens asks. “You don’t need a visa unless-”

“You want to stay,” El cuts in. “I did research, went to a library and asked the librarian. She explained it to me, that other countries don’t let you stay unless you have a visa because they want to make sure you’re not going to stay when you’re not supposed to.”

Owens nods. “Makes sense. I mean, you could smuggle yourself across the border, but that’s risky if you get caught.”

“Too risky.” El had thought about it, thought about stowing away in a plane or a boat, making her way across the sea. But if she got caught, she’d have to use her powers to get free, which risks the wrong people finding out. No, better to hide in plain sight, to lose herself in the crowd of other travelers and tourists.

“Alright, a passport and a visa. I can make that work. The way I figure it, it’s the least I owe you, never mind the world.” Owens smiles. “Two questions for you, though: where do you want to go and what name do you want? I’m gonna need both for the paperwork.”

“Iceland, and….” El trails off, thinking. “I used the name ‘Eleanor Smith’ at the motel I was staying at. Could we use that?”

“I think that will work,” Owens says. “And nice choice, Iceland. Remote, small, no one would think to look for you there.”

Except maybe one person, El thinks but doesn’t say. She wonders if Mike will ever figure it out, put the pieces together that she left behind, even though she knows it’s for the best if he doesn’t. “How long will it take, to put together?”

“Not as long as you think, but a week, at least. Hardest part will be a picture. We have the mugshot from Lenora, we could use that, doctor the photo, make it match your hair color….” Owens is already getting lost in the details, brain racing to sort it all out. But he shakes himself out of it a moment later. “We’ll make it work, don’t worry. Check back in with me in a week. And once I have what you need, we’ll figure out how to get it to you.”

It takes a little over a week for the passport and visa to be ready. When El checks back in with Owens, he walks her through the particulars, explaining how he and his associates reached out a contact in the Danish government, who was able to connect them to someone in Iceland who could arrange the visa, and that the passport photo looks authentic to all but the most careful of eyes. “No one looks that closely unless they suspect. And with the visa in your passport, they won’t look twice.”

El’s grateful for the details, but ultimately she doesn’t care about the how - all that matters is that this is going to work.

But now comes the hard part: getting the passport into her hands. Not that arranging a time and place to meet Owens is difficult (first Thursday of April, 5pm, Grand Central Station in New York, Main Concourse). 

No, the hard part is leaving all this behind. Because once El has the passport, there’s no reason for her to stay in the country any longer. Once she has the passport, she’ll head straight to the airport, buy the first ticket available to Iceland, and never look back.

Which means saying goodbye to Marty.

El debates just waiting until the last minute and leaving a note explaining. But that’s just rude - no, cruel, especially when he’s done so much to help her, and especially when he didn’t have to.

So she tells him, not long after her and Owens have arranged a handoff. She doesn’t tell him the details, just that someone she trusts was able to get her a passport and that she’ll be moving on once she gets it in a week.

Marty’s eyes are watery with the sheen of tears, but he smiles at her with pride. “Good for you kid,” is what he says. “But don’t think you can get away with not letting me know when you get to where you’re going safe, you hear?”

El promises to let him know. And on the day she leaves for New York, Marty wraps her up in a tight hug. El lets herself sink into the embrace and wonders if this is what it feels like to be hugged by a grandfather, all the while promising to let Marty know when she’s somewhere safe and settled.

Then she’s off, watching Chicago disappear through the window of another Greyhound bus, the start of a two day journey straight east to New York City, her duffle bag and almost $2,500 tucked securely away.

And two days later, on April 7th, 1988 (Mike’s birthday, his 17th, El’s mind whispers to her traitorously), passport in hand for one Eleanor Smith, born June 7th, 1969, birthday moved up two years in order to be an adult in the eyes of the law and old enough to be on her own, and flush with an extra $2,000 given to her by Owens to help her for when she finds what she's looking for, El steps onto an Icelandair plane bound for the Reykjavík-Keflavík Airport.

(Three months later, in the middle of a hot and humid summer, Marty receives a letter. It’s covered in stamps, not ones he’s ever seen before, full of pictures of colorful flowers and different kinds of birds. And in the upper corner, where the return address goes, Marty reads “Eleanor Smith, Seyðisfjörður, Iceland” and he smiles, already reaching for a pen and paper to write her back.

“You made it, kid. Well done.”)

Chapter Text

In the aftermath, standing right in the middle of the MAC-Z, Mike Wheeler disappears. 

His body is still there, a physical shell with lungs that fill with air and blood pumping through veins and electrical impulses running through neurons and across nerve endings. But the essence of who he was, his soul, his light and his love, is gone, winked out of existence along with the girl who meant, means more to him than anything in the universe, known and unknown.

The lingering chill of drying tears sucks the heat from his skin and the whisper of a final kiss brushes against his lips like a ghost, but Mike doesn’t feel any of it. No, Mike is gone. He’s gone, numb and lost, never to be found again.

All around him, voices are shouting through the swirling dust that comes down to settle at their feet, in their lungs, on their skin. A hand grabs Mike’s arm, and then another, tugging, pulling, fingers clamped tight around him in a way that should be painful, but that Mike no longer feels, barely even notices. No, he’s standing there, unseeing eyes locked on the gaping maw where his heart used to be.

Those same hands pull him away and Mike doesn’t even resist. Why would he? The part of him that would have is gone. Does an empty shell resist the tide that pulls it away from the shore? No, it just exists, just drifts and drifts until it’s crushed beneath the weight of the ocean drowning it from above and only remains as jagged fragments that no longer hold the memory of its shape.

Mike doesn’t resist, he doesn’t even speak. His mind is suffocating in a haze of fog, leeching him of thought, robbing him of his voice. Hands - same hands, different hands, Mike doesn’t know, it doesn’t matter - shove him down into a chair in a featureless interrogation room. And there are questions, quiet at first, but growing in volume until they’re all but shouted. But Mike doesn’t understand the questions, barely even hears them. The ability to listen is gone, never mind the ability to respond.

They’d have better luck questioning a dead man. And maybe they are. Maybe he’s dead, maybe he died back there and this is the afterlife, the worst sort of purgatory where he exists as an automaton just going through the motions, waiting for his body to get the memo that he’s already dead and the world is just waiting for the rest of him to catch up.

The questions end with a frustrated growl and Mike finds himself being hauled up out of the chair, feet moving on autopilot as he’s dragged to another room, a larger one, this one containing his friends and his sisters.

They reach for him and their hands are infinitely more gentle, full of concern, of care. Their voices pierce the fog, but just barely - Mike, are you ok? - Shit, I think he’s in shock. Quick, let’s get him over to the bench. - Mike, can you hear me? - Hey kid, snap out of it, will ya? - Mike, what happened? Did she really…? - Mike, are you there? - Mike - Mike - Mike.

He hears without listening, looks without seeing. A blanket settles over his shoulders, but the warmth doesn’t touch him. He’s just a shell, after all, and shells don’t get to be warm.

Things go blurry for a while - hours, days, weeks, Mike’s not sure. Time loses all meaning. He goes home, his parents come home. His mom cries while she hugs him, his dad pats him on the shoulder. Nancy hovers, Holly frets, his friends come by and worry. He eats when food is placed in front of him, showers when prompted or when a towel is shoved into his arms. Sits where he’s told, moves when he has to. 

He stays home from school and stares off into nothing. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t interact, and the doctors say it’s a trauma response. “It’s good that he eats,” they say, “means he’s in there somewhere.” But he’s not, not really. He’s a puppet, a robot, just going through the motions, body too stubborn to quit even when the rest of him is gone.

(and he’s gone. he’s gone and she’s gone and nothing will feel the same again. she left and took the best part of him with her, took all the light and laughter and love, leaving him with cold nothingness, heart scooped out of his chest to reveal a black hole, black as the void where they used to hide away from the rest of the world.)

The only thing that feels normal is sleep. So when he’s not being made to eat or shower or let others fuss over him, that’s what he does: he sleeps. Sleep is his escape, the only time where the numbness stops, where everything stops.

He sleeps and he doesn’t dream. Doesn’t dream of her, of them, of the love they shared and the hopes they once cherished. And when he wakes up and feels the salt-dried tracks worn into his cheeks, Mike knows.

His heart is searching for its way home, a home it will never find.

“Are you ready?”

He nods at her question, an enthusiastic bob of his head. “Yeah, I’m ready. Just close my eyes, right?”

She nods in return. “Right. I’ll do all the work.”

He goes to close his eyes, but pauses, squinting at her. “Does it hurt?”

The look she levels at him is one part exasperated, one part amused. “Mike.”

Mike grins, he can’t help it - El’s just so cute when she’s annoyed with him. “I’m just asking. Because you always come out of these things with a bloody nose, which I figure has to hurt, and I just want to be prepared if-”

The rest of his statement ceases to exist as El leans over from where she’s seated across from him on the lumpy couch they’ve squirreled away in the Squawk’s hidden room and pulls him down for a kiss. Her hands curl into the fabric of his t-shirt, just above his shoulders, and he cups her elbows, fingers wrapped around her to keep her close. She’s warm where she’s pressed against him, her lips soft and full against his own.

Kissing El always feels like flying, free and exhilarating, and he finds himself chasing her lips as she pulls back. “I love you, but sometimes you talk too much.”

“And I love you too, but I maintain it’s a valid question,” Mike says, heart skipping a beat at hearing her say she loves him. In the five months since she came back with him to Hawkins, he’s been working on saying it, too. Most of the time, he’s successful, but sometimes the old fears creep in. Luckily, El understands and knows that even when he has a hard time saying it, he always shows her how he’s feeling.

A small smile pulls at El’s lips, shy and cute in the way that makes Mike want to lean back in and pick the kiss up where they left off. “It doesn’t hurt, I promise. My nose bleeds because it’s my powers, not yours. Now do you want me to show you what I’ve learned or not?”

Mike nods, eager to see how far her training has come. This time, he closes his eyes and waits. “Ok, ready when you are.”

“Ok, this might feel a little weird, so don’t freak out.”

And before Mike can question that last statement, he feels a tugging sensation deep inside his head and his stomach does this little wobbly thing that’s not quite queasiness as the world feels like it tips sideways even though he’s perfectly still. The reshifting of his equilibrium has his eyes snapping open and the shock of what he finds has him flailing. He loses his balance, overcorrects, and falls off the couch.

Water, cold and icy, bites into his palms, soaks into the knees of his jeans, and he cries out at the shock of it.

A soft giggle worms its way into his ears and Mike turns to see El leaning over, hand outstretched towards him. “Are you ok?” Her fingers wrap around his arm, gliding down the bare skin not covered by his t-shirt as he sits up and pulls himself back onto the couch. He doesn’t pull away and lets her take his hand, their fingers weaving together like they were always meant to be this way.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I think, I-” Mike takes a moment to look around, really look. The inky blackness stretches out infinitely in all directions, an abyss made real. The primal part of his brain recoils - who knows what’s lurking out there in the dark? - but El’s hand in his grounds him, reassures him. This is where she goes when she finds people, how could it be dangerous?

“Holy shit,” he breathes. He looks over at her, awe writ large over his expression, a smile tugging up at the corners of his mouth. “El, you’re incredible.”

El ducks her gaze, demure, cheeks pinkening in the wan light that surrounds them. She’s never been good at receiving compliments, so naturally it’s one of Mike’s missions in life to make sure she receives them frequently. “You think so?” she asks, looking up at him through her eyelashes and Mike feels butterflies take flight in his belly.

So beautiful, his brain whispers. She’s the kind of beautiful that, if they were normal, would make her so out of his league, she’d be in a different galaxy. (As it is, he looks at her and wonders how in the hell he got so lucky. Mike knows what he looks like and he knows it’s not like someone who belongs on her arm.)

El’s hair is still growing back, surrounding her face with the softest curls he’s ever seen, and it shows off the delicate length of her neck, the sweep of her cheekbones. Her lips, full, pouty and so, so soft, tease him with the beginnings of a small smile, one that he desperately wants to swallow in a kiss. 

But it’s her eyes that arrest him, that render him breathless. Warm pools of dark amber, inquisitive and sweet, but burning when the mood strikes her. One look at him is all he needs to fall at her feet for all eternity.

“I don’t think so, I know so,” Mike replies.

The smile on her lips grows and she tilts her head back up to look at him. “I’m glad,” she says before she reaches for him, gripping him tight as she swings her weight over his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs. Mike gulps as his hands go to her hips - it’s a dangerous position. Not necessarily a novel one, but a closeness he’s still getting used to with her, one that he wants more than he should and that he can never get enough of. “I wanted this to be a place where we could be together, where no one can interrupt us.”

Mike knows El well enough to know what she’s getting at and he chuckles, squeezing a little at the curves of her hips nestled neatly in his palms before his hands slip up under the hem of her t-shirt, fingers resting on her bare skin just above the waist of the leggings she’s wearing. He tries not to take pride in the way she shivers at the touch of his hands on her bare skin and fails absolutely miserably. “You’re a little minx, you know that? Hopper would be so upset to know you’ve found away around the 3 inches rule.”

El sniffs, indignant, but she’s grinning, so it ruins the affect. “Hopper doesn’t get to have a say in what I do with my boyfriend.”

“Oh? And what are we doing?” Mike’s grinning like an idiot, but he doesn’t care. He’s so in love with her, his heart is threatening to burst right out of his chest - what’s a little idiotic grinning, anyway?

El levels another look at him, still exasperated, but this time seductive instead of amused. Her hand comes up to caress his cheek, her touch thrilling against his skin as her fingers slide up to tangle in his hair, and she scoots closer, thighs squeezing his as she slowly brings their hips together. “You’re an idiot, Mike Wheeler.”

“Yeah, but I’m the idiot who has you in his lap, so from where I’m sitting, I’m totally-” 

El cuts him off with a searing kiss, one that makes his knees turn to jelly, and it’s a good thing he’s sitting down or he would have fallen. Her mouth is hot, hard against his, as she crushes herself against him. He breathes in sharply through his nose, every inch of him lighting on fire, and just before he can lean into it and return the pressure of the kiss, she pulls away, just far enough so that she can speak, her lips moving against his with bone-shivering intensity, each word a caress that makes his head spin with want. “Again, you talk too much.”

“Then why don’t you shut me up?” The words escape before he can stop them, but it doesn’t matter because the next nanosecond, her mouth is on his and, for a little while, thought ceases to matter entirely.

Eventually the dam breaks, because of course it does. Nothing lasts forever, after all, something Mike is painfully and tragically aware of.

It’s a small crack at first, one that comes in the shape of a phantom weight dipping into the mattress and the lingering, imaginary warmth of a hand caressing his cheek. But it’s that crack that opens the floodgates, that shocks him back to life with the pain of someone who was ready to let it all go.

It’s Christmas Eve and instead of waiting eagerly to find out what presents will be waiting for him under the tree in the morning, Mike wakes up with a jagged gasp, sitting up in bed so fast it makes him dizzy. He looks over at the empty space next to him and holds out a trembling hand over the gently rumpled sheets. His breathing picks up, every gasp of air tearing at his airways like fiberglass lodged in his flesh, and it’s not long until he’s panting, gasping for every breath that doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

She was here. She was here and now she’s gone, gone from him, from the hopes they had, from the dreams they shared. She's gone and she left him behind when all he wanted, all he wants is to be with her. And he would have gone, he would have, if only she’d have taken him with her, taken him alongside her to get swallowed by destruction they left in their wake, because he would follow her anywhere, anywhere, and without her, there is no him. He’s just lost, lost and alone and broken, missing a limb, missing himself, but he can still feel her, why can he still feel her even though he saw her disappear, saw her die, and it hurts, oh god, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

There’s a keening sound and it takes Mike a moment to realize that it’s coming from him and it’s all the warning he has before tears, sharp and hot, slice burning tracks down his cheeks. Sobs rattle his narrow frame and he hunches over his knees, helpless against the onslaught.

The door to his room opens, but Mike barely hears it. He’s too overcome, too lost in the pain that’s cracked him open, leaving him shattered and exposed.

“Mike, oh my god. Mike.” The voice is Nancy’s, ragged relief palpable, and then she’s there, kneeling next to him on his bed. Her arms pull him towards her and Mike doesn’t fight it, letting Nancy wrap him up in a strong embrace as he drowns.

And, oh, how he drowns.

When she hears the sounds coming from Mike’s room, Nancy’s laying in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, and trying not to suffocate in the misery that drapes over the Wheeler household like a funeral shroud.

This Christmas should have felt like a victory. Vecna, dead; the Upside Down, destroyed; the quarantine that made last Christmas feel so stifling and depressing, lifted and gone like the military who’d enforced it. But instead of celebrating, Nancy is left trying to hold everything together like grains of sand threatening to slip through her fingers.

Her parents are still healing from the Demogorgon attack where Holly was kidnapped - every day, they’re getting stronger, but her mom is still weak, and her dad is still suffering from the lingering affects of the head trauma he experience in the form of migraines that force him to go lay down for hours. Holly is dealing with her own trauma, fighting nightmares and panic attacks, regressing to needing to sleep with a white noise machine and a night light. And Mike….

Oh god, Mike.

Mike is a shadow, physically here, but mentally lost, taken away in the same maelstrom that swallowed El and stole her from the world. He eats, showers, goes to the bathroom - body doing the bare minimum for survival. But otherwise, it’s like living with a ghost. “A dissociative episode,” the doctors said, the ones Nancy had to bring Mike to while her parents were still in the hospital, his mind’s attempt at protecting him from overwhelming trauma. “It’ll pass eventually,” the doctors also said, and Nancy can’t help but admit that she’s afraid of what will happen when it does.

She’s prepared, she thinks. She’s hidden away the guns, locked up the knives and medicine, and is keeping watch, waiting for the tension to break.

She doesn’t expect it to break on Christmas Eve.

She doesn’t expect it to hurt as much as it does.

Nancy’s already moving before she realizes what the sound coming from Mike’s room is and her heart breaks when she bursts in through the door. She takes in the hunched form huddled on the bed, looking so small, so young, so lost, and the sobs that pour from him make Nancy’s eyes tear up in sympathy.

She rushes over to him and has barely wrapped him up in her arms when Mike just melts into her, folding over so that he’s all but curled up against her lap. He clutches onto her, fingers scrabbling for purchase, and Nancy ignores the pain as his grip digs into her skin through the thin flannel of her pajamas. It’s nothing compared to the emotional pain rocketing through her as the floodgates of Mike’s grief break open to spill out in messy, gasping waves.

And even more heartbreaking are the jumbled words that spill from Mike, words of pain and mourning and confusion. “She’s gone, she’s gone., I feel her but she’s gone, why did she go, why did she leave me…?” Over and over and over in a litany, begging for answers, seeking for absolution that will never come. 

Mike’s broken, maybe beyond repair, torn from his other half in a way Nancy’s not sure if he’ll ever recover from. And all she can do is hold on to her little brother and mourn the life that was stolen from him.

It’s a cold January night on the roof of the Squawk. 

What was supposed to be one of the first Crawls of the year has turned into a giant slumber party at the radio-station-turned-secret-base. The Crawl itself was cancelled after the Party all heard conflicting chatter from the military frequency they’re tapped into, but instead of going home, they mostly all decide to just stay spending time together. Joyce and Hopper are the only ones who’ve split off, taking the unexpected opportunity for a child-free evening to have a date night in at the cabin, leaving everyone else crowded at the Squawk.

Most everyone is inside - Will, Lucas, Dustin, and Steve are huddled on one of the couches, watching Top Gun on VHS while throwing popcorn both at the TV and each other. Meanwhile, Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan are gabbing about music and current events in the broadcast studio, flipping between topics with the fluency of kids who grew up too smart for their own good.

Mike knows he could be huddled inside with the rest of the guys, watching a brainless movie while eating cheap microwave popcorn. But when El pulls him aside, hand sweetly slotting into his own while she stares up at him with those big doe eyes of hers, and says “Can we go to the roof? For alone time,” Mike knows he’s a goner. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her when she looks at him like he’s all she’ll ever want.

So, together, they drag up a couple of sleeping bags to the roof, which Mike cleverly zips together to create a double sleeping bag, along with a space heater plugged in with an extra long extension cord, placed just so to keep their exposed heads warm when they snuggle up together inside the flannel-lined polyester. 

The soft sigh El lets out as she nestles against Mike’s side, head tucked in against his neck under the corner of his jaw, makes him shiver and not just because her breath tickles the skin of his throat.

No, it’s because this girl - this amazing, vibrant girl who’s growing into the most beautiful woman Mike’s ever seen - finds nothing but relief in his arms and that being this close to him makes her so overwhelmingly happy. There are no words for how blessed this makes him feel, no words that can accurately capture the depths of how much he loves her.

Mike breathes out a low laugh when El finishes settling and he wraps one arm around her back while the other comes to cover where she’s clutching the front of the thick sweater he’s wearing. “Comfy?” he asks, voice barely higher than a whisper, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

El lets out a hum of contentment, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “The comfiest.” She tilts her head and presses a whispering kiss against the edge of his jaw, which makes Mike shiver again for an entirely different reason. “Going to miss spending time with you.”

The admission, so soft and resignedly sad, punches Mike straight in the heart. It’s been Christmas break for the Hawkins school system for the past few weeks, which means Mike’s had all the time in the world to spend with El in between what limited family obligations his mom has been able to cobble together while everything’s locked down under quarantine. 

So he’s been spending as much time as he can with her during the day - watching Christmas movies at the Squawk, baking cookies with her at the cabin, taking snowy, moonlight walks in the woods between the cabin and the junkyard where the military never patrols. And at night, El’s taken to pulling him into the Void with her, sometimes just to snuggle and fall asleep, but more frequently for other decidedly non-sleeping activities. (And how El can look at him and see someone desirable, as someone she’s willing to bare herself to and let touch her and love her in all the ways they’re discovering together, Mike will never know, but he knows enough not to question the incredible fortune he’s become lucky enough to hold on to.)

But school is set to resume again in soon, which means he’s only going to be able to see her in person every couple of days, along with their nightly Void visits. But Mike is greedy and all he wants is a series of endless minutes, hours, days, forever by her side.

Mike sighs, aching and bittersweet. “Me too,” he murmurs. “It’s not fair.”

El nods against his neck and, for a little while, there’s just this: the two of them enjoying each other’s physical presence, each other’s warmth, as the night sky sparkles down at them from above. And with the added combined warmth of the sleeping bags and the space heater, Mike doesn’t see a reason to ever move again.

They don’t talk, but they don’t need to. Yes, Mike loves talking with El, loves hearing about what she’s thinking and feeling, but their connection is deeper than words and he’s just as content to simply be with her as anything.

But if there’s one thing about El is that, if she trusts you, eventually she’ll speak up with a question about something, if only because she’s curious and has an endless desire to find out more about the world that was kept from her for so long.

“Do you think the stars look the same everywhere?” El asks after a long peaceful while, the exhale of her breath soft against his skin.

Mike doesn’t startle at the sudden question and shrugs instead. “I think the stars look different if you’re south of the equator, but otherwise, I don’t know. Astronomy’s never been my strong suit.”

El hums in consideration before she takes in a sharp breath, air hitching in her chest. “I’d like to find out one day,” she says, almost hesitant, like the simple act of voicing a preference is something she’s not allowed. And he hates it, hates that she feels like she has no say in her life, no freedom, that she’s stuck here until Vecna is defeated with little to hope for. And he especially hates that she feels like she isn’t allowed to hope for a future beyond the fight in front of them.

Mike swallows heavily and shifts his hand so that it’s resting fully on top of the one that’s lightly grasping his sweater. “You will one, day,” he says solemnly. “We’ll make a trip of it, you and me.”

‘One more thing to add to the list,’ Mike thinks, an ever-growing list of the things he and El are going to do once all this is over. He hasn’t told her about this list yet, but he will - when the moment is right, when his thoughts have had more time to firm up and he can offer her more than vague plans. Because if there’s one thing that Mike knows is that El deserves the world and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, no end of the Earth he wouldn’t go to for her. She’s the only one he wants to share the world with - she’s his everything and nothing else will ever come close.

El’s next breath is a trembling one and Mike turns his head so he can press a lingering kiss to the top of her hair. “Promise?” she asks, sounding so small and so lost, it breaks Mike’s heart. He wishes he could take all her pain away from her, wishes he could just take her away, to a place where nothing bad can touch them.

But that’s beyond anything he can do, so for the moment, Mike just takes in a steadying breath and squeezes her tight. “I promise.”

Awareness comes back to Mike slowly in painful fits and starts. 

Some days are ok but most aren’t, especially in the beginning. The pain is a hollow, throbbing thing that digs into his chest, carving away at who he used to be. Some days he still dissociates, especially when the pain is too much, too deep. But he’s learning to how to exist alongside it, how to breathe through it instead of running away from it, even though it makes him feel like he wants to die.

And it hurts, oh how it hurts. It hurts in a way Mike knows he’ll never recover from, like a phantom limb he will always feel even in its absence. 

He exists under the close, watchful eye of his mom and Nancy. He knows they’ve locked away anything he could theoretically use to hurt himself with. And Mike understands the concern, he does, intellectually at least. So many people would be driven to self-harm or worse after what happened to him, after what he watched her do. (he can’t bear to speak her name, can’t even bear to think it. to do so will be to fully acknowledge that she’s gone and he’ll never be able to do that.)

But that takes effort, takes caring. Caring means accepting and he can’t, he just can’t. He’s not there, he’ll never be there. She told him he’d understand and Mike doesn’t. How could she do this? How could she leave him behind like this?

It doesn’t help that Mike still feels her sometimes. Never when he’s awake, but always when he’s just waking up in the morning, her presence lingering just past the edges of his consciousness. It’s not like it was during that year Hopper had her hidden away, when he could feel her watching him at varying points throughout the day. He knows now she was watching him in the Void, creating a psychic connection when a physical one wasn’t possible.

It’s how Mike also knows she’s gone. Because if she wasn’t, he’d still feel her. And he doesn’t. It’s only his subconscious mind conjuring her while he sleeps, infecting his dreams with memories and alternate realities alike. His subconscious fills with worlds where she’s still alive, where they got out, run away from Hawkins, go and live somewhere far from this shithole that took nearly everything from them.

But when Mike wakes, she fades away, the echo of her disappearing like smoke, the ghost of her voice whispering in the back of his head. Mike, I’m here, I love you.

Mike comes to both love and hate the times when he’s asleep. Love because it’s when he still gets to feel close to her, but hates because then he has to wake up and face a world that no longer has her in it.

And it’s a world that continues to move on, despite Mike’s best efforts to ignore it. December turns into January and school starts back up after Christmas Break. Mike hasn’t been since it happened and his mom, with Nancy’s help, manages to convince the school to let him continue to stay out for the rest of Fall/Winter semester, but sit for finals at the end of January so that he can rejoin the rest of his class for Spring semester. The school only agrees because of his near stellar academic record, and they only agree to it so long as Mike can pass all his classes with a B-minus average.

This is what brings the rest of the Party back over to the Wheeler household halfway through January. They haven’t been over since right before Christmas and with the way Mike’s been recovering these past few weeks, he hasn’t been ready to see them. He vaguely remembers the way he just sat there, zoning out, while they tried over and over again to talk to him, tried to find the old Mike Wheeler lost beneath the riptide of grief.

But the old Mike Wheeler is gone and the Mike that remains isn’t sure is one the others will still want around.

It’s a cold mid-January Saturday evening that finds them gathered down in the basement at Mike’s house. The basement is a place of mixed emotions, both comfort and pain, filled with too many memories. But it’s still one of the places Mike feels the closest to her, so he’ll accept the mixed emotions.

For a little bit, no one knows what to say. From where he’s sitting on the couch, arms loosely wrapped around himself, Mike can feel the weight of the awkward silence, coupled with the way the others are looking at him like he’s going to fall apart at the slightest gust of wind (which, to be fair, isn’t a far off estimation of how he feels most of the time these days).

Naturally, it’s Dustin who breaks the silence, because he’s never met an awkward silence he didn’t figure out a way to break somehow or another. “So, Higgins is gonna let you sit for finals, yeah?” Mike’s only response is to nod, and so Dustin continues. “That’s… that’s good. We didn’t think you were ever gonna come back to school, after what happened to-”

Dustin is cut off with a harsh smack from Lucas, the hit striking Dustin square on the shoulder, while Will looks on, eyes wide and panicked. “You shithead, we agreed we wouldn’t talk about it.”

“Hey, avoidance doesn’t help anyone,” Dustin says, gaze narrowing in Lucas’ direction. “And it’s not like I was gonna say her name, or anything. Give me a little credit, Lucas.”

“Then why did we even huddle before we came here. Dustin, I swear-”

“It’s ok, guys,” Mike says, cutting in. His voice is weak, scratchy with disuse - he doesn’t talk much these days - but it cuts through the argument before it can really get going. “Y-you don’t have to pretend nothing happened.”

Will rushes to speak before Dustin and Lucas can, trying to prevent them from saying anything worse, like the peacemaker he usually is. “We just… we know this must be hard, for you. It’s…” Will trails off, eyes going glassy with unshed tears. The depth of emotion radiating from Will catches Mike off guard before he remembers, remembers the way Will’s screams had echoed his own from behind him as she disappeared. And he forgets, sometimes, that even though they weren’t related by blood, Will was her brother, and he’s mourning part of his family.

“It’s been really hard, for everyone,” Will finishes, weakly. “But we know it’s the hardest for you.”

For a moment, Mike can’t speak. His throat is seized up, emotion forming a lump in his throat that refuses to dislodge for a couple of seconds. But he manages, drawing in a shuddering breath as he looks over at Will and nods. “Thanks, Will.” His gaze slides over to Dustin and Lucas as well, acknowledging their presence, grateful for their continued love and support.

Lucas leans over and gives Mike’s upper arm a gentle squeeze. Lucas has always been the most tactile of the Party, so his affectionate touches come as no surprise to the rest of them, not even Mike with how disconnected he’s been feeling. “You want us to give you an overview of what you missed? Should be pretty easy for you, but didn’t want you to be surprised by anything.”

Mike nods and leans forward as Lucas reaches for the backpack by his feet. “Yeah, sounds good, I guess.”

There’s a sense of relief that washes over the others at Mike’s agreement, like they thought it was possible he would just refuse to engage, to move forward. 

(moving forward, not moving on. moving on means acceptance, which mike can’t do. but moving forward he can do, moving forward means simply acknowledging the passage of time. and if mike once counted for 353 days, he can do it again, he can continue to count and move forward and tally up the days well into the thousands until his time is up and he can finally, finally, at the end of a long life, be with her again.)

Lucas pulls out a thick binder, organized and color coded, and Mike can’t stop the way his eyebrows raise in just the slightest expression of surprise at the level of detail. But he holds his tongue as the other boy walks him through their plan: Lucas will cover math and physics, Will history, and Dustin the rest.

In the end, though, Mike can’t hold his tongue. “Wow, this is… really organized.”

Lucas shrugs. “Yeah, well, we’ve been helping Max, you know?” He ducks his gaze, ashamed, and it hits Mike why half a second later.

Because Max survived and Lucas gets to be with her again, when she didn’t and Mike can’t.

“Oh, I see,” Mike says, tongue feeling like lead in his mouth. Envy, fierce and thick, flares in his belly, but it doesn’t stick. At the end of the day, Mike doesn’t have it in him to be angry, to be resentful that Lucas gets to be with his girl and Mike doesn’t. Because he saw how wrecked Lucas was during the months Max was in a coma and he wouldn’t wish that feeling of loss and hopelessness on anyone.

So Mike lets out a shuddering breath and tries to smile, the expression feeling unfamiliar on his face. “How is she?”

“She’s good,” Lucas says, slowly, tentatively, but with undeniable tenderness, soft and proud. “She’s been doing physical therapy and she’s getting stronger every day.”

Dustin chortles. “She’s been bitching about not being able to go to the arcade. ‘My arms work fine, just give me a fucking stool’,” he says in a horrible but unmistakable imitation of Max.

“Lucas had to hide her skateboard away,” Will says, chiming in, a soft grin on his face. 

“Yeah, well, you know how stubborn she is,” Lucas says. “It’s her way or no way and I can only win with trickery.” Everyone laughs, even Mike, who lets out a low chuckle that feels almost wrong coming from him.

It feels good, tempered as it is, to be with his friends, to even laugh a little. He knows his mom is probably hovering, concerned about how he’s doing, and Mike hopes she overhears this, hopes this helps her stop worrying quite so much (even though he knows she won’t ever stop worrying).

But underneath it all, a deep wellspring of sadness, never-ending and exhausting, begins to bubble up inside his chest. Mike manages to hold it together long enough for the others to go home. 

His mom comes up to him as Mike’s shutting the front door, hopeful smile a powerful contrast to the still healing scars across her throat and chest. “Did you have fun, sweetheart?” she asks, reaching for him, but not touching him, her voice soft and gentle and full of so much maternal love, it makes Mike’s heart hurt.

He can’t bear to burst her bubble, to make her sad, so Mike nods and grits his teeth against the maelstrom that’s cresting inside of him. “Yeah, it was nice,” he says, voice rough. “I’m, um, going to go sit in the backyard, watch the stars for a little bit, if that’s ok?”

His mom’s smile widens and she nods. “Yeah, of course Mike. Just don’t stay out there too long, ok? And take one of the porch swing blankets, it’s cold.” 

Mike grabs one of the thick quilts his mom has set aside for people to sit out on the free-standing porch swings they have set up in the backyard, and he wraps it around himself as he goes out, the night air biting against his skin in a way he acknowledges, but still doesn’t fully feel.

He all but collapses on one of the seats, hears the creak of the metal frame as he gently starts to swing, the cold outdoor fabric crunching beneath his weight. He leans back and tilts his head to look up at the sky.

The stars aren’t as visible here in town proper, but they’re still beautiful, still sparkling in a wide expanse of black velvet. And Mike can’t help but think of a very similar night, just over a year ago, just as cold but much, much happier, full of love and hope.

It’s just him, now, him alone with the stars that were once part of their dream - him alone to move forward without living, just existing.

And if his eyes blur with tears and they carve scalding paths down his cheeks, down into the hair at the nape of his neck as he stares up at the sky above, there’s no one else to know but him.

Chapter Text

Winter wears on, clinging tight with its icy grip, refusing to give way to the burgeoning hope of spring. 

Mike finds the sentiment all too appropriate.

He passes his finals as January comes to a close and goes back to school when the Spring semester begins. His teachers give him a wide berth and whispers follow him in the halls as he goes from class to class. They’re the same whispers that trail after Max whenever she makes an appearance, usually for tutoring sessions or teacher check-ins. There are rumors of course, about how the Party got involved with whatever happened the night the military decided to leave town and end quarantine, but no one knows any specifics and the Party isn’t inclined to give them.

Mike doesn’t pay attention to the rumors, doesn’t hear the whispers. That would be the action of someone who cares and that’s an ability Mike seems to have lost along with the girl who gave him a reason for caring in the first place. He just goes to school, does his homework, and keeps to himself.

And when he’s not doing any of those things, Mike can often be found just… wandering. He begins haunting the streets of Hawkins, a ghost haunted in turn by the memory of the girl he loves and lost. Long walks that go nowhere and everywhere, up and down streets that pass by in a blur. He walks until his feet are sore and his legs are tired and then he keeps on walking. He’s not running - that would imply there was something for him to run to or from - but he finds the movement hypnotic, soothing, a way to keep his brain from drowning in the stillness that only seems to remind him of why he’s feeling like this in the first place.

All the walking helps (even though his dad suggests maybe he take up running instead - it’s one thing to explain a runner, it’s another to try and explain why your kid just wanders endlessly). Mike finds he sleeps better at night, which lessens the sting of waking up and feeling like he can still feel her, like she was in bed with him and has just stepped away right before he wakes up. Every morning, without fail, there’s a split second where Mike believes, a split second where he doesn’t yet remember what happened.

It’s slowly driving him insane, but Mike just figures that’s the price for surviving when she didn’t.

So he still wanders, still just keeps walking, and accepts the fact that one day he’s going to lose his mind entirely.

In all of Mike’s wanderings, pretty much nowhere in Hawkins is left untouched by his footprints… except for one spot:

Downtown, where the MAC-Z used to be.

He hasn’t been consciously avoiding it, but he knows why he has. It’s the last spot he saw her, the place where he saw her die.

For him, it’s a gravesite.

But for others, apparently, it’s now a memorial.

It’s halfway through March when Mike’s footsteps finally take him down Main Street. He’s not sure if he just wasn’t paying attention or if his subconscious didn’t see a need to avoid the area any longer, but Mike’s standing across the street from the library, which is still in the process of being rebuilt, when he sees it.

A shining, brand spanking new memorial, complete with benches for those who want to contemplate the people lost in the tragedy.

Mike wants to be sick. Hell, he almost is, right on the pavement beneath his feet, stomach threatening to upend its contents onto the street below.

His feet carry him across the square, unheeding of cars or other pedestrians as his trembling frame closes the distance. As he gets closer, he sees the scores of names emblazoned across the surface and anger, hot and fierce and righteous, burns in his chest because he knows her name won’t be there when it’s her name that has more right being there than any other. Because everyone else would dead if it weren’t for her, the world wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her and the fact that no one else will ever know this is the greatest injustice of all.

Mike sinks onto one of the benches, almost panting from the force of the emotions that are coursing through him as he stares at the memorial. Anger and grief and disbelief pull at him, leaving him feeling scattered and worn thin. And he sits there, back rigid, hands balled in fists on top of his knees, unable and unwilling to look away.

Until, eventually, Jim Hopper comes to sit down next to him.

To say that the last four months have been among the worst of Jim Hopper’s existence would be a massive understatement. The only thing that can compare is the aftermath of losing Sara and the pit of grief he fell into after having to bury a little girl whose only sin was sharing his fucked up DNA.

But unlike with Sara, where Jim and Diane had both fallen into the same pit with no one to help pull them out or give them any sort of lifeline, Jim has Joyce this time. And while she’s also grieving, it’s not quite with the same intensity as Jim. Jim knows how much Joyce cared about El, but El had been Jim’s little girl, if not in blood than in every other way that mattered. Loving her, being her dad, had become his second chance at leaving the world a better place than he found it.

And he’d lost it. But this time, it wasn’t his fault. No, this time it was that fucking lab - hell, the entire US military industrial complex - that did it, that drove her to choosing to sacrifice herself rather than risk living under the yoke of those who would hunt her down to use and abuse her.

Joyce helped him see that then and continues to help him see that now. Her support keeps his anger from pointing within and firmly fixed on the people who deserve it and he will love her for the rest of his live because of it.

But it doesn’t stop the sadness, doesn’t fix or fill the hole in his heart made by El’s absence. And he misses her, so much, every goddamn day. He misses the way she would glare at him when he made a stupid dad joke, or the way she would bop her head along with the Miami Vice theme song, head moving against his shoulder as they snuggled on the couch. He misses being annoyed at finding her hair ties everywhere in the cabin, and misses the way he would teasingly roll his eyes at her giddy anticipation while she waited for Mike to come over.

But most of all, Jim misses the hope he had for her, the way he dreamed of watching her grow up and build a life for herself that wasn’t just fighting and surviving. He looked forward to walking her down the aisle, holding his first grandchild, and forever teasing her and Mike (because who else would El have done any of those things with) about their sappy childhood love story.

But now he’s not going to get to do any of that and he will forever be left dreaming of “what-ifs” that do nothing to fill the pain caused by her absence.

The only saving grace in the immediate weeks after, aside from Joyce, is that he has something to focus his attention on in the form of arguing with the government. Dr. Kay may be gone, but an entire military installation doesn’t just disappear overnight and whoever they bring in to help with the clean-up, well, they are very interested in talking with Jim.

Which is fine because he is interested in talking with them, too. Namely in blackmailing them into legally bringing him back to life and helping reinstate him as Hawkins’ police chief, otherwise he’ll take everything he knows, everything Nancy Wheeler and Dustin Henderson have documented, and release it for everyone to see.

The government is surprisingly acquiescent to the whole deal, probably because they really just want to wash their hands once and for all of all this, especially with nothing but failure after failure to show for all their efforts.

Like anything having to do with the government, though, progress is slow. It takes weeks for the paperwork declaring him alive to move through the system, and even longer to figure out how to give him back his old job. But by the beginning of February, Powell is out as Chief, eager for early retirement after the fuckery of the past few years, and Jim is officially back in the land of the living and in possession of the police chief’s badge.

It’s a shock to the rest of Hawkins when Jim reappears, alive and well after being declared dead, but people seem to swallow the cover story easily enough, that he had to go into hiding when an old case from New York came back to haunt him. So Jim gets back to work and tries very hard to ignore the memorial that’s being built just across the street from the police station, heart clenching in memory of El every time his gaze scans past it.

But things go sideways, just a little, a couple of weeks into his renewed tenure as police chief.

“You really need to clear out those caches,” Joyce says for the nth time on a cold Saturday towards the end of February.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, but he knows she’s right. He’s got somewhere north of 35 grand stashed in those bags and really it’s just asking for trouble to have left them there for so long. But it’s been cold and he really hasn’t wanted to go trawling through creepy underground tunnels while winter’s been raging outside.

But Jim’s a grown man and this kind of complaining is for pussies, so he bundles up and begins making the arduous trek through the tunnels to collect the caches he set, holding on to the map he used to mark their locations.

And things are going fine, everything is where it should be, and over a few days, Jim manages to gather roughly half of the caches, the entire time trying not to think of why they had them stashed down here in the first place.

But then, almost a week after he starts, Jim finds one that’s missing. Not ravaged through, not missing snacks or money, but missing. And then another, a little further away, that is intact except for missing the cash stashed in the bottom.

Jim looks at the map and draws the lines and can’t help but notice that the missing caches are pretty much in a line leading directly west of the MAC-Z… and heading straight out of Hawkins towards Chicago.

Hope begins to beat a traitorous rhythm in his chest and Jim has to work real fucking hard to tamp it down. She didn’t…she couldn’t… I saw….

But did he see? Did he really?

His mind races, arguments and counter arguments spinning around in quick succession. There was Kali, who could create illusions… but she’d died well before they’d been intercepted… but had she died or was that just what she and El wanted people to think? 

No, if El is alive, she’d have reached out by now… but not if she thinks people are still in danger because of her. She’d run and run until she felt safe and then she’d reach out. And if she’s running, then she would have needed the supplies stashed away for just that occasion. She wouldn’t have left without those.

Jim beelines it back to the cabin, heart racing as he tries to control the whirlwind of his thoughts. No one’s home when he gets there - which is good because he doesn’t want to explain why he’s barreling through the door like his ass is on fire - and he rushes straight for El’s room.

He falters just inside the doorway, just for a second. No one’s been in this room for months and, god, it’s like she just stepped away for a moment: bed half-made, books spread out on her desk, a magazine on her bedside table. Like any minute, Jim’s going to turn and see her striding back into her room, looking at him with that adorably confused expression as she tries to figure out why he’s standing in her room.

But she doesn’t, because dead or alive, El’s not here.

So Jim takes in a shaky breath and resumes his search, fingers trembling as he throws open her closet door and reaches for the false panel at the bottom, the one they dug out together, the one only the two of them knew about.

And there, laying against panels of pine, are two duffel bags, one for each of them, sitting in the same exact fucking spots Jim laid them down in months ago.

His breath leaves him a rush, blood fizzling with disappointment. He feels lightheaded, dizzy, and reaches out with a hand to brace himself against the wall next to the closet. He doesn’t know whether to rage or cry, feeling too old for the immensity of the emotions that course through him.

But in the end, Jim does neither. Instead, he takes in a deep breath and he thinks.

Just because her go-bag is here, doesn’t mean she’s not alive. ‘She could have left it behind on purpose,’ Jim thinks, which would mean she really doesn’t want anyone to know she’s alive. But Jim has to admit, odds are El’s really dead, which means he’s still left to grieve and move on without the girl who was the daughter of his heart, even if not the daughter of his blood.

Still, though, there’s a chance - the slimmest of chances, but a chance nonetheless. It’s just that the evidence is so very flimsy. A missing cache and some missing money out of another does not add up to a definitive sign El is alive out there somewhere. Hopper and the Party (though it makes him cringe to use that term) weren’t the only people who used the tunnels. Smugglers and kids used them often enough during quarantine and the caches, while hidden, weren’t invisible. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that someone would have found one or two.

But the ones that are missing are telling, and that is enough to keep hope alive, which is so much more than what Jim had before.

Unfortunately, though, it’s the kind of hope Jim has no real choice but to keep to himself. He has no real proof, just suspicion on the barest of evidence, and he won’t go giving other people hope without something more concrete to offer as proof.

So he holds on to it alone. That first night is the hardest, when Joyce curls up in bed with him and asks him how his day was. The words sit there, just on the tip of his tongue, ready to burst forth. But Jim is good at keeping things close to the chest, and this is just one more thing to carry.

It gets easier over the next few weeks, to hold on to this new hope, to feel the warmth of it push back against the icy grip of his grief.

And then, in the middle of March, he sees Mike Wheeler stumble across the street towards the newly finished town memorial and his heart sinks all over again.

“Ah, shit,” he mutters to himself as he spots the kid through the window, watching as Mike eventually collapses on one of the benches in front of the monolithic memorial. And even from a distance, Jim can see just how stiffly Mike’s holding himself, like the slightest breeze would shatter him, and the alarm bells are ringing loudly in Jim’s mind even before he makes his decision to move.

“Heading out for a bit,” he calls out to Flo, only barely remembering to shrug on a jacket before he head out into the nearly early spring afternoon.

Jim moves at a good clip across the street, but slows on his approach to where Mike is sitting. He doesn’t want to spook the kid, especially given how fragile he seems.

And now that Jim’s closer, he can see just how fragile that is. Mike’s usually pretty pale, with the kind of complexion that doesn’t tan but burns and freckle, but right now he’s practically white as a sheet. The rigid line of his shoulders speaks to the tension he’s carrying on his slim frame and the balled fists resting on his knees are a sure sign he’s about to explode.

He’d thought Mike was getting better - at least that’s the impression he’d gotten from Will when asked. He’s back going to school, spending time with his friends, that was supposed to be better. Guess looks can be deceiving.

Jim sits down carefully and takes in the pinched expression on Mike’s face, gaze locked on the memorial like it’s an insult to everything good and holy. And after a moment to compose himself, Jim speaks. “Hey kid, whatcha doing?”

Mike startles, but doesn’t lose the tightness holding him rigid and he looks over at Jim, eyes flashing, brow furrowed. “Did you know about this?” he asks in a voice that sounds like it’s not used to speaking, hoarse and reedy. Which is one of the most alarming things considering how the Mike he used to know would never shut the fuck up.

“The memorial?” Jim asks. “Yeah, I knew. Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.”

Mike’s lips pull in a thin, flat line. “They don’t know. None of them do, what she did. She gave up everything and her name will never be-” Mike gestures at the memorial with a rude wave of his hand, words cutting off like he couldn’t speak the words.

“I know, it’s unfair,” Jim said, hearing his own words wobble, eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Unfair!?” The word leaves Mike’s mouth with a humorless laugh. “What’s unfair is that she isn’t here. She’s never going to be here, she’s gone and I… I can’t feel her.” His eyes are glassy and manic, expression that of a man who can’t hold it together any longer, and the loss that radiates from him is almost overwhelming. Jim knows what that feels like, knows what it is to feel a loss so keenly, it’s like living with only half of your heart. (only 16 and already a widower, jesus fucking christ.)

The tiny flame of hope that Jim’s been nurturing over the past few weeks, the slim hope that El might be alive somewhere, flickers against the oncoming storm of Mike’s grief. Jim’s never really understood it, but Mike and El had some sort of sixth sense when it came to each other. When El went into the Void, Mike could sense her, and they always seemed to know when the other was nearby, even if they couldn’t see each other. So if Mike can no longer sense her….

Jim swallows roughly against the rising gorge of despair that rises in his chest. “I know, kid, I know,” is all Jim can say as he reaches for Mike, just before the kid dissolves into tears, collapsing against Jim’s shoulder as his arm wraps around him. 

Jim is thrown back to the last time he held Mike like this, that cold, November night almost 4 years ago, after El saved them and revealed to Mike and all her friends that she was still alive, when Mike had accused him of hiding her and fell apart a lot like this. Only this time, Mike’s anger and sadness wasn’t directed at Jim; it was directed at the world, at himself, and maybe even at El.

Jim bites back the urge to tell Mike about what he found with the caches, about the very, very slim possibility that El might be alive out there. Jim does because he knows it wouldn’t help in the long run. Sure, it might make Mike feel better now, but it would just be giving him false hope, one that would doom him to be stuck waiting for something that, in all likelihood, would never happen. Jim’s afraid he’s already going to be laboring under that waiting for the rest of his life as it is - it would be cruel to drag someone else along with him.

All Jim can do, then, is try his best to console this lost kid, no longer a boy but not quite a man, and breathe out the silent promise that if he ever finds out anything that proves El is alive, Mike will be the first person he tells. But until then, his private suspicious will stay just that - private.

It’s almost 4pm and they’re late.

The urge to pace up and down the length of the porch is strong - waiting’s never been one of Mike’s strong suits - but he settles for bouncing his knee up and down from where he’s sitting on the railing, back to the front door of Hopper’s cabin while he keeps an eye out for the adopted father-daughter pair, returning from yet another training run at the junkyard.

Mike can’t help the urgency that runs through his veins, making him unsettled and anxious. It was a shitty day at school - Dustin doing everything he can to antagonize the jocks and showing zero remorse for causing them to be targeted in gym class during a vicious game of dodgeball, a pop quiz in Spanish that he was super unprepared for, college counselors beginning to breathe down his neck even though it’s only their sophomore year and college has never mattered less to Mike in his entire life. Really, just the worst, taxing Mike’s patience in all the worst ways.

The only balm for his frazzled soul is El and he feels like a junkie, waiting for his next hit, counting down the seconds until he can wrap her up in his arms and pretend like he never has to let go.

Sometimes, Mike worries a little at how much he needs her. But then he thinks about how tightly El holds on to him, how she leans into the touch of his hands or the press of his body, how she looks at him with devastating intensity like he’s the brightest light in her life, and thinks that maybe it’s not so bad to need someone if they need you just as badly.

Still doesn’t help settle the feeling like he’s about to crawl out of his skin, though.

It’s another 10 minutes before there’s any movement in the distance. But it’s not two figures peeking through the trees, it’s just one: Hopper.

Mike’s heart leaps into his throat and he’s moving towards the older man before he’s even fully aware of having done so. “Where is she?”

Hopper levels him a look that is pure annoyance, mixed in with the lingering exhaustion that is the older man’s constant companion these days. “Well hello to you too, Mike.”

Mike gives Hopper the same look in return, a flat stare that says he won’t be deterred. “Cut the bullshit, Hop. Where is she?”

Hopper sighs as he moves past Mike, clearly intending on heading inside to clean up and rest after a long day. “It was a bad training run today. She stormed off, went to blow off some steam or something. Not sure where she went, but she’ll show up when she’s ready.” There’s more in Hopper’s tone that he’s not saying - disapproval, frustration, worry - but that’s not important right now.

Mike frowns, brows knitting together, a fierce wave of determination cresting inside his chest. Show up when she’s ready? Fuck that. “I’ll find her,” he says, knowing it sounds crazy, but also knowing it’s the absolute truth: no matter where El is, Mike will always find her. It’s just how the world works, after all.

Hopper breathes out a disbelieving laugh as Mike grabs his bike from where it’s leaning against the porch. “Good luck, kid.”

But Mike isn’t listening anymore, he’s too busy moving. He has to walk his bike to the road, which isn’t too far, but it feels like forever before he can swing his leg over the frame and push off. And as the pavement disappears between the thin tires, Mike lets his instincts take over, navigating with no clear destination in mind, just following the part of him that is tethered to her.

Mike feels her getting closer with each minute that passes and as he approaches the road to the quarry, he knows: he’s found her.

Mike drops his bike and his backpack to the ground as El comes into view. She’s sitting on the ground, legs dangling over the edge leading down, down, down to the waters below. A wave of weird nostalgia washes over Mike as he remembers the last time he was here, how he stepped off that very edge in a foolish attempt to save Dustin (never mind that it would have definitely killed him, but he was 12 and kinda stupid), and how she saved him, catching him mid-air and levitating him back up to high ground.

Mike banishes the memory with a shake of his head and focuses on what’s in front of him: the bowed form of the love of his life, hunched over herself, frustration and dejection radiating from her.

Mike makes no attempt to hide his approach - she knows he’s there, he knows it - and simply comes up to sit behind her, legs on either side of her so he can pull her back into the cradle of his hips, arms sliding around her waist with practiced ease as his feet dangle beside hers. It’s early April, a few days before his birthday, so she’s wearing a t-shirt and leggings with high-top sneakers, and her hair’s pulled back into a messy, folded ponytail held together with a faded purple scrunchy. She’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

“Hey,” he says, low and intimate, breathing the word against the side of her head before he presses a kiss to her hair, an inch above her ear. Something inside of him uncoils and breathes a sigh of relief at her proximity. She’s in his arms and he doesn’t have to itch with worry and need anymore.

El lets out a ragged sigh and leans back into his arms. “Hi.”

“Saw Hop, he told me what happened. Bad training run?”

“Lost 5 seconds. Don’t know what happened.”

If there’s something Mike’s discovered about El over the past few years, it’s that when she’s upset or tired or under any kind of stress, her speech regresses to the sentence fragments that used to be her cadence when he first met her, like her brain’s tired and falls back on old muscle memory, old habits. And it’s not that El can’t be eloquent when she wants or needs to, it’s just that it takes effort for her. Not that it matters to Mike - he knows she’s brilliant in so many ways and that the struggles she sometimes has with vocalizing her thoughts don’t take away from just how keen and insightful her mind is.

And besides, words have never been the only way they communicate together, even though he talks enough for the both of them, sometimes. They have the kind of connection that doesn’t require words to understand each other.

But that’s not what Mike should be focusing on right now. “Maybe you’re just tired,” he says, trying to offer an explanation, a way to soothe frustrated and fraying tempers. “You’ve been pushing yourself really hard lately. Maybe you just need a break for a day or two.” If anything, this feels like Mike’s failure. He knows how hard she’s been working and it’s his job to help give her what she needs, even and especially when what she needs is a break, a time to rest, something else to fill the time and let her be distracted from the pressures weighing down on her shoulders.

El turns in his embrace, one hand coming up to fiddle with the buttons of his polo shirt. “I can’t. I need to be stronger.”

Mike smiles (he can’t help it, she’s just so beautiful, even when her eyes are red-rimmed from the crying she must have been doing earlier). “I know, but everybody needs a break sometimes. Even, like, olympic athletes take rest days. You can’t push yourself to the limit everyday. If you let your body rest and recover for a couple of days, I bet you’ll be even stronger when you get back to it.”

“You think so?” The hope in El’s eyes makes Mike’s heart squeeze painfully in his chest. The fact that she trusts him this much, that she looks to him for love and support, will never not blow him away.

“I know so,” Mike says. “And if you need help figuring out what to do for a break, I’m sure I can plan something for us to do.”

That earns him a smile. “Us?” El echoes, hands now splaying low across his rib cage, her touch thrilling through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Uh, yeah,” Mike says, feeling the mood turn in a way that has him relieved. He knows this isn’t a permanent fix, knows that El is going to continue to wrestle with what she expects compared to what actually happens with her training progress. But that he can get through to her is good, even if for only a little while. “If you think I’m not going to want to be involved in you having time off, you’re crazy.”

El leans up and brushes her nose against his. “You’re the best boyfriend,” she says before she presses her mouth against his in a soft, lingering kiss that Mike finds himself unable to keep from deepening after a few moments, heart feeling like it’s going to explode with sheer happiness.

Mike’s not sure how long they sit there, flirting with gravity as they trade slow, deep kisses at the edge of the quarry cliff, secure in the knowledge that if they fall, she’ll catch them. All that matters in this moment is her and him and them together, unbreakable, woven together so completely, there will never be a way to untangle. She’s it for him and for the rest of his life, no one else will compare.

It’s Mike’s 17th birthday and he spends the whole day feeling like he’s going to throw up.

He’s been unsettled these past few weeks since he discovered the memorial, but it’s been getting worse as his birthday approaches. It feels like something inside of him is stretching to the point of breaking, leaving him untethered and shiftless in a way that makes him feel like he doesn’t know which way is up.

It’s a feeling that crescendos on his birthday, leaving him off kilter and snarling. It should be a happy day (one only turns 17 once, after all), but he spends most of the day thinking about how much different last year’s birthday was, when he was able to sneak off with her for a long romantic picnic in the woods near the cabin, something that would be come a regular occurrence for them over the rest of the spring and summer.

But today, he’s just lonely and lost, facing the first of who knows how many birthdays without her. And though the Party tries to cheer him up by taking him out for dinner at a diner after school, it doesn’t do much to put a dent in his mood. Because what’s the point of celebrating when the one who made life worth it in the first place is gone?

Still, Mike puts on a good show, smiling when he should, laughing when the others do, pretending like he’s fine when he’s everything but. And if any of them notice, they don’t say anything - maybe they’re just glad he’s trying.

But Mike’s not trying, not really. He’s just doing what everyone else expects of him, even if all he wants to do is curl up in a ball in the corner and never come out. And Mike realizes that this is it, that the rest of his life is going to be one big show, one big game of pretend where he puts on a mask and tries to ignore the hole in his heart, the half of him that’s missing.

He begs off from the rest of dinner soon after that realization, weary beyond his years. Four pairs of eyes look back at him as he stands up from the table, somehow both sad and hopeful at the same time, but understanding all the while. They let him go, just glad he was willing to let them treat him to something nice and after a series of full, back-slapping hugs, Mike’s out in the early spring evening air, shoulders slumping as he’s able to drop the act, even if just for a little while.

But then, on the way home, that stretching feeling suddenly snaps.

Mike stumbles, feet dropping from the pedals of his bike to skid against the pavement while he tries to regain his equilibrium. He feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under him, like his tether to gravity’s been severed, leaving him to freefall for all eternity. His breathing starts coming in harsh, ragged pants and the world goes fuzzy around him, fog closing in and swallowing him whole.

Mike’s not sure how, but in his delirium, he gets back on his bike and just starts pedaling, awareness only kicking back in when he realizes where he’s at, peering at the vista in front of him with tear-blurred eyes: the quarry. His bike is abandoned somewhere behind him and the toes of his shoes are inches from the cliff’s edge. 

Mike peers over the edge, down hundreds of feet to where the water gathered in the quarry swirls with glittering waves that reflect the waning daylight and wink up at him with seductive promise. For a second, just the barest of moments, Mike wonders what it would be like to take the water up on that promise, to fall into it and let it envelop him in its icy, concrete grip. Would it hurt? Would he even have time to feel it? Or would she catch him again, would she pop out of nowhere and save him like she did all those years ago when he was younger and stupider and didn’t know just how important she would eventually become to him?

But the next second, the next heartbeat that passes, a wave of vertigo sweeps over Mike and he gasps, reeling back onto his heels, forced back a couple of steps by the dizziness that swarms him.

And when the dizziness passes, when the vertigo fades away, what rushes in to take its place isn’t numb grief or aching sadness - it’s anger, white hot rage that burns magnesium bright and molten hot.

Mike reaches down, fingers scrabbling at the gravel beneath his feet, and closes his fist around the first decent sized rock he can find. He hurls it into the air, shoulder straining at the unusual motion, and screams. “Fuck you!” he shouts, over and over again, screaming it until his voice has gone hoarse, until his vocal cords feel like they’ve been scoured away. He tosses rock after rock into the quarry until his fingernails are cracked and bleeding, palms worn raw from the sharp edges, shoulder aching from the strain of the motion.

And still, his anger persists. Anger at the world for taking her away from him yet again, for never letting him feel any sort of peace. Anger at his friends for moving on when he can’t seem to figure out how, for just accepting her absence like it wasn’t the most unnatural thing in the world. Anger at her for leaving him, for not taking him with her, for leaving him behind to live this shadowed half-life. 

But most of all, anger at himself for caring so much, for needing her so much. Maybe if he’d cared less, maybe if he hadn’t been so fucking pathetic, he wouldn’t be so broken right now, wouldn’t feel like his life had ended before it really even began, wouldn’t feel like he was so irrevocably fucked up that killing himself seemed like a viable option.

And when his body gives out - because it does, because he’s weak - Mike doesn’t fight it as the ground pulls him down. He barely catches himself, wincing as sharp slivers of rock slice into his skinned palms, but it’s immaterial against the force of the tears that pour from him, tears of rage and sadness and exhaustion.

God, he’s tired, he’s so fucking tired. He’s tired of feeling like this and angry that he’s tired because he gets to live while she doesn’t and he’s so confused because she’s gone, he knows she’s gone because he doesn’t feel her anymore except for sometimes he swears he still can but that feeling is gone, snapped like a tether pulled too tightly, frayed and listless. But that doesn’t make any sense - how can he still feel her if he can’t feel her? - and it’s all so mixed up in his head and Mike just wants it to stop but he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

This is wrong, this is all so wrong. They were supposed to be together and there will never be any end to his anger that they’re not. Except that’s a burden that’s too heavy to carry, a boulder made of his anger and his grief and his loss that presses down on his shoulders with a weight not even Atlas could bear.

And as the sun sets on his birthday, feeling so much older and more exhausted than a mere 17 years can account for, Mike wishes he could just let it all go.

Chapter Text

Everything feels muted for Mike after his birthday. Colors and sounds are less vibrant, smells and tastes distant, his skin like it’s been wrapped in cotton fluff. It’s like whatever in him that snapped took all the life out of the world with it, leaving Mike swimming in a sea of dull beige.

It’s a fitting reflection of how he feels. He’s still sad, still angry, but mostly he just… is, simply existing, not dead but not truly living either.

Things do change, though, things that he can't help but notice. After his birthday, Mike doesn’t always feel the ghost of El’s presence in the mornings anymore. He still does, sometimes, but now every couple of days or so, Mike swears he can feel her at random times of the day. Never at the same time and never more than once in a day, but all the same, with the faintest brush along the back of his mind.

It’s not like it was before, not like it was the year she was in hiding. Then it'd felt like a buzzing sensation, almost tangible in how it shivered down his spine. But now, it’s a ghost of a sensation, more akin to what he learned in Anatomy and Physiology about phantom limbs than a real touch and Mike realizes it’s just his brain reaching for something that is no longer there, searching for meaning in a universe that has stopped making sense.

The realization sits heavy in his chest, becoming a near constant companion as the school year comes to an end. Week over week, Mike learns how to ignore it. It helps that he’s in school most of the day, that his night and weekends are filled with homework and studying for tests.

But then the school year ends and Mike is cast adrift. With nothing to fill the hours, he’s just… lost. May tips over into June and as the weather heats up, Mike can’t stop thinking about her. Summer’s warmth does nothing but remind him of happier times, full of romantic walks and endless discovery, tender conversation and heartfelt laughter, warm kisses and thrilling caresses and the tantalizing glide of skin against skin beneath dappled skies.

He’d felt so whole, so complete, even with everything that had loomed over them during any of the summers they’d spent together (Hopper’s rules, that first one, the quarantine and the hunt for her in the subsequent two). He’d been looking forward to the day where they could have escaped from the chains that bound them, running away to live free and happy and discover just how rich and full their lives could have been.

And he remembers when they first started making those plans, back when a bright future seemed possible, when he had hope that things would somehow turn out alright in the end even if they had to put in the work to get there.

But now, with the ashes of all those dreams, all those plans, lying scattered around him, the ruins of his hopes haunting him with their destruction, there are times where he thinks maybe it would have better to never have dreamt at all.

A soft breeze gently brushes against his skin, cooling the thin sheen of sweat that clings to him in the aftermath, and with the sweet burn of spent pleasure still fizzling in his veins, Mike would be hard-pressed to think of a time when he’s been more relaxed than he is right now. 

It certainly doesn’t hurt that he has his face buried in El’s hair, which is splayed out around her head like a chestnut halo, surrounding him with the scent of strawberries and coconut. Or the fact that their legs are entangled beneath the sheet they’ve dragged outside with them, the only thing protecting their modesty, while his hand glides effortlessly against the naked expanse of her stomach, her own hand drawing random patterns across the skin of his upper arm.

The sun is shining, but the shady tree above them gives them ample coverage to protect them from the worst of the sun’s rays, allowing just enough dappled light through its leaves to dance tantalizingly across their sheet-covered bodies. Behind and around them are the scattered remains of a picnic - mostly eaten sandwiches, empty bags of chips, a tupperware container with a couple of apple slices still inside - their clothes interspersed among it all, cast off with abandon in the haze of their passion. And neatly tucked away, hidden so Mike can dispose of it later when no one is looking, is a used condom, carefully tied off and folded up with its foil wrapper.

Condoms are easy to get in quarantine - the military doesn’t want a baby boom straining resources further than they’re already straining - and really it’s one of the only silver linings of being stuck in quarantine as far as Mike’s concerned. Though, as much as being with El like this is so much better in person than in the Void, this is probably the one area where the Void wins out: no awkward clean up afterwards.

Still, it’s a small price to pay to get to experience this, this feeling of freedom and completion that Mike only ever feels with El.

Mike pulls his arm under him, elbow braced on the thick quilt beneath them so he can prop his head up on his hand, sacrificing the intoxicatingly sweet scent of her hair so he can look down at her. El is the perfect picture of satisfaction: eyes closed, dreamy smile playing at the corners of her mouth, lips still swollen from the frenzy of their kisses, cheeks flushed and rosy. She looks like she’s melted against the quilt beneath them, with the languid set of her shoulders, the lazy loll of her head.

And then she opens her eyes to look up at him, lashes fluttering just so, and Mike is rendered breathless at the depths of what he sees in her gaze, all shining love and sated passion and bone-deep contentment. “Hi,” she breathes, the word wrapped around a sylph of a giggle. She fishes her other hand out from where it’s wedged between their bodies - Mike tries not to shiver at the incidental brush along his hip and ribcage, but fails - and rests her fingertips against the line of his jaw, thumb brushing against his chin.

“Hello there,” Mike says, unable to keep from smiling.

“You are-” She pauses, breath hitching in her chest before leaving her in a sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “-really good at that.”

An overwhelmed laugh bursts from him while a surge of masculine pride beats at the inside of his chest that he does absolutely nothing to try and tamp down (and why would he, after all the research he did, after all the ways he took his time to learn what she likes, what she doesn’t like, what drives her wild… he’s thorough and proud of it). 

Mike turns his head and presses a kiss to the heel of El’s palm. “Correction: we’re really good at that. And besides, you make it easy.”

El’s nose crinkles and it’s the cutest fucking thing Mike’s ever seen. “Easy?”

“Yeah, easy,” Mike says, shoulder lifting in a shrug. “I like making you feel good, and making you feel good makes me feel good, so, y’know, I guess you could say I’m extra motivated.” He pauses, a wicked grin crossing his face. “Besides, it’s my job to help you relax.”

El arches an eyebrow, matching his grin. “I think Hop would disagree.”

“Ugh, please don’t mention your dad while we’re naked,” Mike says with a groan and a shiver, head falling back dramatically for just a moment. “It’s his fault, you know, that we can’t do this back in the cabin, in a proper bed.”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” El says, rolling over onto her side to face him head on. “I think it’s nice out here.”

“Yeah, but it could be better.” Mike takes his head from his hand and mirror’s El’s position. “Someday, we’ll find something better.”

El’s gaze lights up, curiosity sparking inside of her. “Better?” she echoes.

A bubble rises in Mike’s chest and he slides his hand around so his fingers splay against El’s spine. “Yeah, better. Somewhere not here, somewhere far away from all this bullshit. When this is all over, no matter how it all ends, we’re gonna leave, El, you and me. We’re gonna see the world, find somewhere where no one can bother us.” Mike knows he’s starting to babble, but he can’t stop. All the dreams and hopes and plans have been building in his head for months and he wants them so bad, he can taste it.

El reaches for him and hushes him with the simple press of her finger against his lips. “Could we get a house? Maybe with a little garden?”

Mike kisses her finger before she pulls it aside. “We can get whatever you want.”

“Ooh, whatever I want?” A playful glint sparkles in her eyes and, before Mike’s fully aware what’s happening, he finds himself on his back, El straddling his waist as she braces herself above him, looking down at him with a look on her face that Mike’s been getting to know quite well recently, a look of desire and need. “And what if I just want you?”

Mike’s hands settle on El’s hips, the curve of her warm and soft beneath his palms, as his heart begins to pound in his chest. “Well, I’d say that’s convenient, because I just want you, too.” And as if to emphasize his point, Mike glances down at the space between them, letting his gaze linger on the length of her body stretched over his, biting back a groan as he does so - he gets to see her like this, him and no one else. God, he’s so fucking lucky.

And when he lifts his eyes back up to her face, eyebrow arched knowingly, he smiles at the blush that creeps up her cheeks, the pleased look in her eyes at the blatant way he just checked her out. She likes knowing he finds her attractive, like it could ever be a possibility that he wouldn’t, which is just ridiculous given how she’s literally the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life. “I ever tell you how gorgeous you are?” he asks, voice reduced to nothing more than a raspy whisper, air driven out of his lungs from the weight of how much he wants her.

“You have, once or twice,” El says as she lowers her face down to his. “But I think I want you to show me instead.” Her mouth brushes against his, hot and seductive. “Can you do that, show me?”

Suffice it to say, as El’s mouth comes crashing down onto his and he pulls her into him, the weight of her resting fully on top of him as their bodies press together from shoulder to hip, she doesn’t have to ask twice.

If Mike’s 17th birthday makes him sick and angry, then the day that would have been her 17th birthday leaves Mike feeling achingly and unbearably sad.

It’s a beautiful early summer day, June 7th, 1988, and instead of looking forward to a happy celebration - giving her a present, wishing her a happy birthday in private, giving her 17 birthday kisses plus one for good luck - Mike’s here, alone, left with nothing but dead dreams and painful what-ifs.

Mike holes himself up in his room - hell, he can barely stomach leaving to go to the bathroom or for meals, which he eats in his room. His mom comes by a couple of times and tries to cajole him into joining the rest of the world, but Mike is unmoved and by lunchtime, no one dares to open his door. At some point, the doorbell rings and Mike thinks it might be one of the Party from the muffled voices he can hear through the walls, but there’s no disturbance at his bedroom door, so either he was wrong or his mom turned them away.

It doesn’t matter. Mike doesn’t want to see any of them, not like this. His grief is a tangible thing, today, evidenced in the slow tears that pour from him on and off as the hours wear on, in the sunken hollow of his cheeks, in the slump of his shoulders and the hunch of his spine. He’s a broken thing, hollow and jagged, and no good to anyone like this.

But as day begins to turn into twilight, the light from the setting sun washes his room in golds and pinks and Mike’s heart threatens to implode entirely as his entire body begins to itch in the stifling air of his room. Because she loved sunsets, loved the way the sky light up in rich oranges and warm pinks. And she especially loved to watch sunsets with him, loved how romantic they made everything feel, like the sky was painted that way just for them.

Urgent need fills Mike and he finds himself pushing up from his bed, making a beeline for Nancy’s room, unoccupied since she went off to Emerson, and for the window that will get him out to the roof that sits over the garage. 

Because if she can’t be here to watch the sunset on her birthday, the least Mike can do is watch it for her.

When he was a kid, Lucas didn’t know it was possible to be both happy and sad at the same time. To him, it seemed impossible. The two emotions cancelled out, didn’t they? So if you were one, by default you couldn’t be the other.

But that was before Will disappeared, before the Upside Down entered their lives, before El and Max and moves to California and 18 month long comas, before the world ended and restarted with an explosion.

Afterwards, in the cold winter that followed, Lucas asked his mom how it was possible to feel both emotions at the same time, how he could be so happy about some things while so very sad about others at the same time. His mom just cupped his cheek, a maternal gesture of love and support, and told him with a bittersweet smile, “That’s just what growing up is, honey.”

Well, growing up is bullshit. If this is what Lucas is going to have to live with for the rest of his life, then he doesn’t want it.

But there’s no choice, not unless he dies right then and there. The days tick by, Lucas gets older, and learns too much about the knife’s edge between happiness and grief, about how a moment can slide from one to the next with little warning and no apology.

There are moments where he’s happy, really happy. Max smiling at him before reaching up for a kiss. Erica making some snarky comment at dinner that has him laughing while his parents try to hide their own laughter and chide her at the same time. Dustin and Will’s bright laughter as they meet up to play games at the arcade. These are happy moments, ones Lucas wouldn’t give up for anything.

But then the moment shifts and the ghosts of the past return to haunt him. The wince of pain on Max’s face after a hard day of physical therapy. The way he and the others jump at the sound of a car backfiring, or the sudden snarling bark of a large dog. The trauma is a weight Lucas can’t ever put down and sometimes he thinks he’s going to be cursed to carry it for the rest of his life.

And then there’s Mike. Mike, who lost the most in that final explosion. Mike, who lost half of himself when he lost El, cleaved in two as the Upside Down imploded and took her away from them, but from Mike most of all.

Lucas can’t see Mike, can’t even think about him without a deep ache that throbs in his chest, heart squeezing around an open wound that can’t seem to heal. 

It’s the oddest thing, mourning someone who’s still alive, and yet that’s what it feels like Lucas has been doing every day since November last year. The Mike he knew, the one he grew up with, is gone, leaving something that looks and sounds like Mike, but is missing the core essence of who he was. That part died with El, left to rot and decay in the vacuum of space or wherever the fuck the Upside Down disappeared off to when the gate closed.

(god, and how unfair is it that they didn’t even have a body to bury. Bad enough El’s gone, but there’s nothing left to mourn of her besides their memories and Lucas finds that unbearably sad in its own right)

This is when the paradox of being both happy and sad at the same time rears its ugly head the most. Because when they’re all hanging out, in the rare occasion they can get Mike to do anything besides go to school and mope around his own house like he’s taken up haunting as a serious profession, the juxtaposition of the two emotions has never been clearer. 

Max will say something funny or she’ll reach over and take his hand and Lucas’ heart feels like it wants to explode with happiness, but then he’ll glance over at Mike and be pulled down by a sudden wave of grief and guilt. Because Lucas gets to be happy with the girl he loves, who’s alive and getting stronger by the day, and Mike doesn’t get to do any of that.

Lucas gets it - he was very much in Mike’s shoes during the 18 months Max was in a coma, but Mike could still see El as often as he could. It wasn’t exactly the same because at least Lucas had a little bit of hope, but similar enough that when Mike begs off hanging out with the rest of them, Lucas doesn’t push it. He, more than any of the others, understands some of what Mike’s going through, and does his best to corral Will and Dustin into giving Mike the same kind of space.

But there are times where Lucas knows Mike shouldn’t be alone, where he needs the support he isn’t capable of asking for. And when Lucas looks out his window after dinner and sees Mike laying on the roof of the Wheeler garage as the sun sets off in the distance, Lucas knows this is one of those times.

It’s El’s birthday, his thoughts whisper to him as he heads out, briefly remembering to tell his mom he’s heading over to Mike’s.

Climbing up to where Mike is isn’t difficult, especially not since he’s gotten taller over the years. Of the group, Mike’s the only one who’s taller, standing a lofty 6’1” to Lucas’ 6’ even. They used to tease each other over that one inch difference, devolving into stupid, bawdy teenage boy jokes about the whole thing.

There are days where Lucas would give anything to joke like that again with his best friend.

The sun’s nearly set by the time Lucas finishes clambering onto the roof and he’s careful to keep his balance as he makes his way over to Mike. “Hey, man, can I join you?” Mike doesn’t respond except to shrug, and Lucas eyes the other boy carefully as he lays down next to him on shingles still warm from the summer sun.

Mike is sallow and pinched, skin stretched tight over tense features and a clenched jaw, with eyes that are obviously swollen and red-rimmed even in the dimming light of day. The rest of him looks like a puppet that had its strings cut and left to flop down onto the ground, limbs loosely cast and forgotten, a body that’s forgotten what it’s like to be a person.

Lucas doesn’t know what to say. There are so many words on the tip of his tongue, pushing against the inside of his mouth, but none of them feel right, so Lucas doesn’t say any of them. Instead, he lets the silence drape over them like a funeral shroud and waits. And even if nothing gets said, then at least Mike will know he isn’t alone, that Lucas will always be there for him.

The sun’s nothing but a memory and the night sky reigns supreme above them by the time either of them speak a word. And it’s not Lucas’ voice that pipes up - it’s Mike’s.

“She would have been 17 today.” Mike’s voice is raspy and dry, rusty with disuse and heavy with grief.

Lucas’ breath hitches in his chest. “I know, man. It’s not right.” He notices, as he always does in any of the rare occasions where Mike talks about El, that Mike never says her name, like he can’t. Lucas doesn’t know if it’s because it hurts too much or if it’s some weird defense mechanism, like if he doesn’t say her name than he could be talking about anyone and doesn’t have to fully accept she’s gone, but Lucas notices and, out of respect, doesn’t say her name either in Mike’s presence.

“She just wanted to be normal, a normal girl with a normal life. She should be celebrating her birthday with cake and presents and a party. But instead, she’s just gone.” He pauses, taking in a shuddering breath that speaks to the tears waiting to be shed if they’re not already. Lucas doesn’t know because he won’t look over at Mike, giving him at least that illusion of privacy. “The military, they were never going to stop chasing her. She… she was backed into a corner and we put her there. She stayed and fought because she wanted to keep us safe and when there was no other way, she sacrificed herself. She told me I’d understand and, god, I wish I didn’t.”

Lucas looks over at him, eyebrows arching up towards his hairline. “She told you that? When?”

“At the end, in her mind,” Mike says, ragged. Lucas wants to pry, wants to rip that statement apart and question every angle of it. But he knows it would get him nowhere and that Mike would only shut down. And when this is the most Mike’s talked about El since it happened, since she left, Lucas will put aside any burning curiosity just to not rock this particular boat.

Mike lets out a sigh. “Sometimes I think I would do anything to get her back. I would trade the entire fucking world, in a heartbeat, if that was the choice. But sometimes? Sometimes I think she should have never stopped running after escaping the lab, that maybe it would have been best if she never ran into us in the forest that night. Because then we wouldn’t have dragged her into this and made her feel like she had to stay to solve all our problems.”

“She cared about us,” Lucas says, unable to keep quiet.

“I know, I know,” Mike says, sadness and frustration tearing at his voice. “And she w-was so fucking selfless, but I just… I wish she had been selfish sometimes, y’know? She never put herself first, though, that’s just how she was.” It pains Lucas to hear Mike talk about El in the past tense, and yet that’s all he can do because there will never be a present or future tense.

Mike’s voice tapers off and, for a little bit, Lucas thinks that Mike’s done talking, exhausted his limited reserves for how much he can stand talking about El. But, then, after a couple of minutes, Mike keeps on speaking.

“We were going to run away together, after everything was over.”

The words land like a bomb going off between them, and yet somehow Lucas isn’t surprised. “Yeah, that sounds like something you two would do.” Lucas risks looking over at Mike. “Where would you have gone?”

Mike draws in another shuddering breath and Lucas thinks there’s likely a definitive answer to that question, but if there is one, it’s not one that Mike shares, probably something too private between him and El to want to let other people know about. “It wouldn’t have mattered,” Mike says with a shake of his head. “Just away, far away from all this bullshit, where she didn’t have to watch over her shoulder all the time, where she could be happy and free and safe with me.” 

Mike stops as his face crumbles and Lucas doesn’t hesitate to reach over for Mike, taking his hand, fingers weaving together in a bruising grip. Lucas can feel the sharp scald of tears tracing across his own skin, but he ignores it, his own sadness immaterial in the chasm of grief Mike has fallen into.

“I just miss her, so fucking much.” Lucas squeezes Mike’s hand just that much harder, bones creaking at the force of his hold - any tighter, and he swears they might fracture. “Why did she leave me? Why didn’t she take me with her?”

It’s a question Lucas has no answer for, but Mike doesn’t expect an answer. That’s not the point of the question - the point is just voicing it, letting the words scour his soul on their way out of his mouth and into the air around them.

There’s no more talking after that, just two best friends, silent in their grief, one holding on tight as the other falls apart.

Time continues on its steady march, despite how much Mike doesn’t want it to. Every day that passes is one more further away from her, one more without her, and it stretches the boundaries of Mike’s sanity, making him feel like he’s going mad when all he wants is for the world to stop increasing the distance between him and her.

Summer comes to an end, bringing with it the start of his senior year of high school, and Mike comes to a weary sort of acceptance. Not that she’s gone, no - Mike will never accept that - but acceptance of the fact that this is the best his life is going to be from now until the end of his days. The shock and anger are gone, leaving the world around him dull and muted and numb.

Still, Mike puts on a good show. He goes to school, tries his best to hang out with the Party, and manages to mostly hold it all together. There are a few slip ups, a few really bad days. 

The 1 year anniversary is the worst of them, leaving Mike barely unable to leave his bed, much less anything else. He spends most of the day reliving the memories, a haunting, horror-filled slideshow of what he once would have described as his worst nightmare, but now has become his reality: her saying goodbye, feeling her push him away, seeing her vanish with the disappearance of the Upside Down, the shock of realizing that he’s going to have to live without her. It’s a day that leaves him feeling ragged and thread-bare for weeks.

But almost as bad is much later in the school year when its time for Senior Prom. While everyone else gets dressed up and goes to the dance, Mike stays home. He manages to swipe a bottle of vodka off his dad’s bar cart when no one is looking and barricades himself down in the basement with it, looking for anything to dull the pain.

He doesn’t drink as much as he was planning - he’s a lightweight, both figuratively and literally when it comes to alcohol - and he throws up most of it at 2 in the morning. But while he’s drinking it… oh, he feels like he’s floating. His inebriated mind teases him with the dreams he once had of taking her to Prom, of seeing her all dressed up, of dancing with her and kissing her breathless beneath twinkling lights. He ends up crying himself to sleep in his drunken stupor, waking up in the middle of the night only for the aforementioned vomiting, and finally wakes up just after 11 am with the worst fucking hangover.

Mike decides it’s not worth it - the reentry to reality is too painful, not just emotionally but physically as well - and when he can stomach it, he pours the rest of it down the sink in the basement bathroom and chucks the bottle deep in the trashcan where no one will find it, determined to forget about the whole episode entirely.

After that, there’s only the lead up to graduation.

Mike doesn’t want to go to graduation - it’s enough that he’s agreed to go away to college in the fall. Once he had dreams, grand dreams, of going to somewhere like MIT or Northwestern, somewhere he could fully exercise his intellectual aptitude. But after losing her, none of that matters anymore, his life’s purpose gone and dusted. So he’s heading off to ISU in the fall, a short hour away from Hawkins, and will likely faff around until he settles on whatever fucking degree that takes the minimum effort to graduate with, just to say that he did it. Because it doesn’t matter, nothing he does has meaning anymore without her by his side. What’s the point of graduation in the face of all that?

So when the day actually comes, Mike makes it a point to be nowhere to be found. 

Except Hopper, the asshole, he clocks Mike almost immediately, finding him at the downtown memorial with plenty of time to spare.

Mike wishes he could say that visiting the memorial hasn’t turned into a habit, because it has even though Mike still thinks its the closest thing she has to a gravesite. There’s something about coming to the spot where he last saw her that’s soothing. Like maybe, if he stares hard enough, she’ll reappear, just in front of him.

There’s a brush along the back of his mind, the phantom limb of their connection reminding him of its existence, but before he can shake it away, he’s distracted by Hopper’s sudden presence next to him.

The sensation lingers, longer than it normally does, as he and Hopper talk. Mike wants to cringe at the bullshit speech the older man gives him - meaningless tripe about moving on and not letting pain wear him down - but he hears the concern, knows his mom is worried. And so, for her, he’ll go to graduation. Because Mike is not moving on, he’s never going to move on, and nothing can shake him from the course his life is taking.

And, naturally, that is exactly when something does.

Under the squeal of the sound equipment’s speakers, Mike Wheeler is hit with a world-shattering realization.

The sonic dampeners in the MAC-Z, they were on.

They were on.

They were on but she pulled him into her mind from 50 feet away.

No, no, that’s not possible. That’s literally impossible. The only way she could have done that, would be if….

If she wasn’t even there to begin with.

The realization slams into him with the force of a punch to the solar plexus. Mike finds himself increasingly unable to catch his breath, lungs feeling too tight, squeezed out by the burgeoning hope that rapidly crowding out everything else.

The world rewrites itself as Mike’s brain races to catch up, to try and make sense of it all, but he doesn’t have time yet to put the pieces together, to examine the way they shape up and connect. He floats through the next 30 minutes - watching like he’s seeing the world from outside his own body as Stacey invites them (or, rather, Dustin) to a party, to himself promising something better before they all go their separate ways with plans to meet at his house later in the afternoon.

And when Mike gets home, he’s no longer paying attention to anyone else. He races to change out of his button-up shirt and slacks, tossing them in the corner of his closet in a way that will definitely get him an earful from his mom later, but that doesn’t matter under the force of what’s driving him right now, the same force that drives him down into the basement, where he barricades himself and thinks.

How did she do it?

After a couple of hours of wearing out a length of the worn basement carpet with his pacing, his hair mussed and scraggly from the force of him running his fingers through it repeatedly, Mike is pretty sure he’s pieced together the only story that makes sense. He examines it from every angle he can think of, pokes hole after hole in his theory to see if it holds up. 

And in the end, given the evidence, even though there is so much of the minutiae he’s missing to get the complete story, Mike is forced (eager) to accept the only conclusion that fits the facts: she’s alive.

El’s alive.

The force of the realization drives the breath from his lungs, making him feel dizzy as he collapses on the well-worn couch. He only notices that he’s crying once the first few tears roll off his cheeks and onto his hand and once he does, it’s full on sobs, confused relief pouring through him. He hunches over himself, the heels of his hands pressing against his forehead, fingers gripping his own hair like the hold is the only thing keeping him from flying apart completely.

El’s alive - she’s out there somewhere, alone but alive. And he thinks - hopes - that maybe all the times he’s sensed her, all the times he swore he could feel her and chalked it up to just his brain reaching for something that doesn’t exist and making it up because it expected to still feel it, that it’s actually been her, probably from far, far away.

It raises a whole host of questions that Mike doesn’t have answers for - where is she? why hasn’t she contacted him? is she safe? is she ok? - but he’s ok without having the answers for the moment. It’s enough to know that she’s probably out there, that there’s a good chance she’s still alive.

It’s the only thing that makes sense, he thinks, running it over and over in his mind like a tongue poking at a sore tooth, knowing he should stop but unable to do so. 

Mike knows Kali had to have been involved somehow. He remembers the story Hopper told them, about how Kali’d been killed while they were in the Upside Down version of Hawkins Lab, but Mike also knows that Kali had the ability to make people see whatever she wanted, so who was to say that she didn’t do that just? Make Hopper believe that she was died while he was looking for something to help save her?

And Mike knows Kali had to have been involved because there’s no way that El could have pulled him into the Void with those dampeners on, much less make it almost 100 feet away to the mouth of the Gate as quickly as she appeared to. So the only thing that makes sense is that Kali survived and made them all see an illusion of El in the mouth of the gate while the real El ran off. Probably used the tunnels, Mike thinks - it’s what he’d do if he was trying to run off in a hurry away from the prying eyes of those who were looking for him.

Thinking about this just makes him circle back to his earlier questions, though, namely where she went and why hasn’t she reached out to him, and those are two questions that threaten to unlock a whole host of emotions Mike doesn’t think he’s ready for, definitely not now. Maybe not ever.

Then, unbidden, a memory surfaces. I need you to help them understand. Her voice, clouded with tears, whispers in the back of his mind, her meaning finally clear to him.

Mike closes his eyes, tears burning behind the lids, and he closes a fist over his heart, knuckles pressing hard against his skin through his shirt. I understand, El. I finally understand. And I’m sorry it took me so long. 

He wonders, if he hadn’t been so consumed by his grief, if he would have put the pieces together sooner and he curses himself for the lost time, for the time spent being so angry and so lost when he had no reason to be.

(but, buried so far down that he's not even aware of it, he’s still angry. so very, very angry. angry that he’s hurt for no reason, angry at himself for not figuring it out sooner, angry at her for letting him feel this way for so long. but it’ll be many years and thousands of miles away from here and now before he’s fully aware of this anger. so for now, it just sits and oh so slowly festers.)

Mike draws in a deep if shaky breath and opens his eyes, dragging his palm across them to clear away the tears. His gaze lands on the notes for the campaign he’ll be hosting and a fire lights in the forge of his determination. He races to grab a pen, scrambling a bit as he hurries to get settled. He only has a few hours to make the changes he now knows need to get made in order to tell the story the Party deserves to hear.

Because it’s time, finally, to begin telling the story of the Mage.

By the time Mike makes the final climb of the day up the stairs to his room, he’s weary beyond measure. Being the Party’s DM is always something that exhausts him (usually in a good way), but the emotional upheaval of the day leaves him feeling worn and spread too thin.

But there are some bright spots from today besides the obvious. The best of them, a chorus of “I believe” that echoes in Mike’s head as he gets ready for bed, and he smiles despite himself.

I did it, El. I told your story. I made them understand.

Mike’s not sure if the rest of the Party really believes, or if they were just saying that, caught up in the moment of Mike’s storytelling. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter which. What does matter is that he told them, he carried out El’s wish, which is all that’s important to him.

And as for Mike, he doesn’t just believe - he knows. He can feel it, a truth that’s been buried deep in his bones, just waiting for him to uncover. El’s alive and she’s out there somewhere. And now that he knows that, there’s nothing that can stop him from being with her one day.

Mike turns off the lights and slides into bed, letting the nighttime welcome him like an old friend. He stares up at the ceiling as hope beats a soothing rhythm in his chest. “I’ll find you, El. I promise.”

Chapter Text

The sun is just beginning to rise as the plane carrying El into Iceland begins to descend into Reykjavík.

She sits with her forehead pressed against the window, the blanket the flight attendant gave her draped securely over her lap, and watches the light touch down on the strange new land she’s going to be calling “home”. Her first impression is rugged coastline, long open stretches of green dotted with deep black rock, all surrounded by deep, blue ocean. She knows from the research she did that it’s cold in Iceland (which the name would suggest), but she hopes that since it’s April, it at least won’t be freezing.

The captain announces their final descent into Reykjavík and one of the flight attendants comes by to check to make sure everyone’s wearing their seatbelt. No one else is sitting in the row with El, so the flight attendant makes sure to catch El’s eye on her way past, her smile at El’s clearly buckled seatbelt sweet and perfunctory.

It’s El’s first time in an airplane and it hasn’t been the worst experience, though she doesn’t like the way her ears pop, or the dull, unceasing roar of the plane emanating through the walls.

But the meal they served was decent and there’s been as much soda as El could want (even though it’s forced her to try and figure out the airplane bathroom and, well, let’s just say it leaves a lot to be desired and that's coming from someone who lived in a tiny, rugged cabin for years). And the flight’s been smooth, which helps ease her nerves. She figured because she can literally fly, she wouldn’t be as nervous. But turns out it’s different when she doesn’t have any control over the matter, so she’s left just having to trust that the pilots know what they’re doing.

It’s a smooth landing in Reykjavík and something in El’s shoulders unclenches as the wheels touch down. 

She made it. She’s free.

El follows the cues of the other passengers as the plane finally stops at the gate: unbuckling her seatbelt, grabbing her bag from the overhead bin, and waiting for her turn to walk down the narrow aisle. The gap between the plane and the jetway lets in an icy shock of air that smells of rubber and fuel and El shivers as she hurries to keep pace with the line of travelers who are up ahead of her on the jetway.

El’s a little nervous as she makes her way through the airport. There are signs pointing the way to various services, written both in English and what El can only assume is Icelandic, and other travelers with passports clutched in their hands are all moving in roughly the same direction. El tracks their movements, sliding her own passport out of the side pocket of her duffle bag, and as her gaze flickers between the direction that they’re all moving and the signs overhead, she can only assume they’re all heading for Immigration and Customs, which gives her a bit of a sigh of relief because if she loses the crowd, she’ll at least still have some clue for where she’s heading.

Her nerves ratchet up as she gets to where immigration control is, heart hammering in her chest at the people in uniform, looking stern and official, and she takes a moment to catch her breath, to remind herself how. They’re not looking for you, you’re safe, you’re free. Just act normal.

El wants to laugh. “Act normal.” Like that’s something she knows how to do. She’s never been anything close to normal in her entire life. How’s she supposed to manage that?

Well, you have time to learn. Now get moving, her inner voice chides, giving El the motivation she needs to keep moving. She gets in the line for visitors and non-citizens behind scores of other, nameless travelers and wills herself to just blend in, to disappear in the crowd.

And when it’s her turn to speak to the agent checking passports, it takes everything El has to keep her hands from trembling.

“Halló,” the man says and looks down to see the passport in her hands. He glances back at her. “Passport please,” he says in cleanly accented English. The agent takes her passport after El holds it out for him and she holds her breath, watching as the man scans over the photo, eyes flickering to her face, and then turns the page to see the visa stuck inside. “Here for work?”

“Yes,” El says. She resists the urge to say more in pleading her case - she doesn’t know what she’s going to do, just that her visa allows her to come and work - just in case the agent sees through to the lie buried underneath.

“Good, good,” the man says before he presses a hand stamp on the page next to the visa. “Welcome to Iceland.” He gives her a tight smile before he looks past her, moving on to the passenger behind her.

And with that, El’s officially free. She pushes past the booth, awash with a feeling of relief that leaves her light-headed and tingling, like she’s floating on air. But there’s a ringing in her ears that goes with it, a tell-tale sign that she’s about to crash, overwhelmed from everything she’s feeling.

Needing an escape, El ducks into the nearest restroom and locks herself up in the first empty stall she finds. She barely remembers to tuck her passport back into her bag before she all but collapses on the toilet seat, hunching over so that her face is practically buried in her knees. She presses the heels of her palms to just below her temples and resists the urge to curl her fingers into her hair as tears burn behind her closed eyelids.

“You’re ok, you’re ok. You did it, you made it,” she whispers to herself, quiet enough that only she can hear it. The self-affirmation helps and El begins to get control of her breathing, slow inhales and steady exhales. After a few minutes, El feels steady enough to stand and she does, shouldering her duffle bag before making her way out of the bathroom and back into the terminal proper.

It hits her as she moves down the corridor, passing kiosks and airport restaurants and little shops, that this is it, that now that she’s made it, she has to figure out how to live out the rest of her life in peace. It’s a scarier thought than she expected, partially because there are so many things to figure out: how to get a job, where to live, how to be an adult, even who she is as an adult.

But she got this far on her own, even right at the beginning with fewer resources than she has now, she reminds herself. The thought fortifies her as she turns her attention to the first and most pressing of the things she needs to figure out: where to stay.

She finds a tourist information booth and, after a long chat with a very bubbly blonde woman who’s probably only a few years older than El, walks away with not only a list of hostels in the middle of Reykjavík and directions to each, but also things to do and places to eat during her stay.

Well, at least I won’t be bored, El thinks with a rueful smile as she heads off to find the bus that will take her into Reykjavík.

Up close, the Iceland is even more rugged, more magical. The air is clean and crisp, with a hint of both sulfur and brine that lingers when the air goes still; and the landscape is sharp, deep blacks and vibrant greens, starkly defined, looking like nothing El’s ever seen in her short, sheltered life. She can’t keep from staring out the window in wonder and wishes she had someone she could share this with, that her life was safe enough to have someone to share this with.

El shakes the thought from her head - a dangerous train she has no intention of taking right this moment - and refocuses her attention on just taking in the scenery as the bus drives into Reykjavík proper.

Her first impression is that it’s an old city, much older than anything in America - streets made to be walked on and winding every which way, buildings nestled wall-to-wall and painted all sorts of bright, cheery colors, little shops of all sorts dotted along corners. It’s intriguing and El is itching to explore, but only after she finds somewhere to stay.

With her duffle bag still slung over her shoulders, El huddles deeper into her coat as she gets off the bus in Reykjavík’s City Center and goes about finding her way to one of the hostels given to her at the tourist information booth.

The first one is a bust - a large group of British tourists just claimed the last of the rooms the day before El walks in - but the second one has vacancy. It’s a smaller hostel, with smaller rooms, but what makes it stand out is that El can have her own room.

The matronly woman who staffs the front desk shows her where it is. “It is small, yes, but good?” she asks in careful English, blue eyes shining bright above a soft smile.

El peers in to the room, takes in the single bed that fills up 75% of the room, with only a foot-wide corridor between the bed and one of the walls, a simple nightstand with lamp tucked back in the far corner, and she nods. The room is narrow, but the ceilings are high and there’s a large window higher up above the bed, curtains drawn over it. “Yes, it is good.”

“Wonderful,” the woman says. “A young girl should not have to share with strangers, yes?”

El doesn’t really have a response to that, but it seems no response is necessary as the woman gestures at El to follow her back out to the front desk, where she hands over the key in exchange for a set amount of local currency (El’s not really why amounts are so different between Iceland and America, but at least she remembered to exchange some money when she was back at the airport). She only pays for the week, not knowing how long she’s going to be there, but not wanting to be tied too long to a single location just in case.

And once El has her things stashed away in her room, she can move on to the next thing she has to do: find something to eat.

Making sure she has her key and some money tucked away in her pocket (and she should really get a wallet one of these days), El locks up the door to her room and heads back to the front desk, catching the eye of the woman who helped her earlier. “Excuse me, do you know where I can get something to eat?”

The woman glances at the clock, El following her gaze and noticing that it’s not even noon yet, before she looks back at El. “There is a cafe down the street that is very good. Tell Sigrún that Malla has sent you and she will know what to do.”

El quirks an eyebrow, confused at the open warmth and trust on display. Already, El is getting a sense that Iceland is very different to America in more ways than in just what it looks like. But, still, she smiles her thanks and heads off in the direction the woman, Malla, indicated.

El finds the cafe easily enough at the corner of the block, the pale blue walls and bright red awning over the shop window making it look happy and inviting. A bell above the glass door rings delicately as El pushes it open and she’s immediately enveloped in the warm smell of coffee and pastries, which stare at her from a display case tucked in next to a wooden counter. A couple of customers are huddled around tables, eating pastries and sandwiches, the low murmur of their conversations - all in Icelandic - filling the space with the sounds of life and happiness.

El’s stomach rumbles painfully and hunger pushes her forward towards the counter, where the old woman on the other side is refilling the top shelf of the display case with delicate, flaky pastries. She looks at El, eyes alighting at the sight of another customer, and calls out something in Icelandic, fingers trilling in a wave around a pair of tongs held firmly in one hand. Not knowing what else to do, El approaches the counter and leans against it as she waits, watching until the woman is finished with her task.

The woman, who El is hoping is Sigrún, puts the tongs down on top of the counter and wipes her hands on a rag before she approaches El, giving her a closed lip smile before rattling something off in Icelandic.

This time, El feels a keen wave of embarrassment wash over her and stammers in an attempt to get her words out, feeling like an idiot for not speaking the local language. “I-I was told to come here for food? Are you Sigrún? Malla said to tell you she sent me.”

“Ah, English! I should have guessed, you have the look of a foreigner.” The woman pauses, nodding. “And yes, I am Sigrún. You are staying with Malla, yes?”

El nods. “For now. She said I should come here for food and that you would know what to do.”

Sigrún clicks her tongue, still smiling. “That I do. Go on, sit, sit, I will bring you something.” She shoos El away with a wave of her hand. 

El relaxes under the insistence, finding something comforting in the easy, motherly way in which Sigrún takes control of the situation. Maybe that’s something you only get be like once you’re old, El thinks as she finds an empty table and sits down in a well-worn wooden chair. She watches, having nothing else to do, as Sigrún bustles around behind the counter, disappearing into the back where El figures a kitchen must be. And maybe 10 minutes later, Sigrún approaches El’s table, a mug of something hot in one hand and two plates carefully balanced in the other, one large and one small.

El looks with interest as Sigrún places the food in front of her. The smaller plate has a couple of pastries from the case, and the larger has a sandwich with what looks like roast beef on it, with a tidy pile of thick cut fries on the side. It looks familiar enough to be inviting, but there are pickles and what looks like fried onions on top, which El isn’t used to and is intrigued by. And the mug holds the darkest coffee El’s ever seen.

“Thank you,” El says, looking up at Sigrún with gratitude. “You did not have to bring out so much.”

Sigrún waves a hand. “You are too skinny. You must eat.” She pauses, eyeing everything on the table, checking to see if meets her satisfaction. “You need something else? Milk for coffee?”

El nods. “Yes, and a glass of water, if that’s ok.”

Sigrún’s only response is a grunt and a nod before she turns to fetch the last couple of things for El. And once those are delivered, she disappears back behind the counter, leaving El to eat. Which she does, slowly at first, but then with gusto as her stomach truly makes it known how long it’s been since she’s eaten a full meal. And everything is delicious, the sandwich just the right kind of savory, held together with dense bread that keeps everything in place. And the pastries are perfect, not too sweet and delicately flaky, pairing nicely with the very rich coffee that Sigrún brought out for her.

Later, El will learn what everything she ate is called. But for now, it’s enough that she’s full. With a sigh, she finishes the last of her coffee and goes up to the counter to pay.

“Everything good?” Sigrún asks as El approaches.

“It was perfect, thank you,” El says. “How much do I owe you?”

Sigrún passes on the total of what El owes and as El pulls out money to pay, Sigrún says, “You come back tomorrow. I will have ostaslaufa for you. You will like it.” The words are less of a prediction and more of a declaration, like Sigrún can will it into existence that El will like whatever food Sigrún has for her. And who’s El to say that she can’t, given what El herself can do.

“I will be back tomorrow, I promise,” El says, the warmth of everything that means blossoming in her heart.

As promised, El does come back to cafe the following day. And every day after that in the weeks that follow. 

She lets Sigrún introduce her to Icelandic food and even if El doesn’t love all of it (though the pastries are all fantastic), she at least makes Sigrún pleased by trying it.

And when El isn’t at the cafe, she’s exploring, learning about the foreign place she will eventually call home. The sun doesn’t fully set during the spring this far north, which gives El all the time in the world to wander the streets.

She comes to learn that people in Iceland have an oversized love of both coffee and books, that they love hand-crafted anything, and that they are fond of bright colors everywhere they can get them. The people themselves, as El will learn more of in the coming years, are kind but direct in a way that feels a bit like kinship. They appreciate her asking questions or for help and for being respectful and willing to partake in Icelandic customs and traditions.

But perhaps the most impressive of all is the sheer bounty of the nature that surrounds every inch of this place. The city is surrounded by nature, wild and vibrant and alive, in ways that are both gentle and violent. She walks through city parks and gardens and lets herself drown in the richness of it all.

On Malla’s suggestion, she goes on a day tour to see Gullfoss. The sun is shining as she steps off the tour bus and when she makes her way to the viewing platform, it doesn’t matter that she’s surrounded by countless other tourists, all standing in their bright jackets and holding cameras, jostling each other to get the best view of the stunning panorama as they chatter in all sorts of languages.

No, El takes one look at the majestic splendor, ears ringing under the roar of the water that tumbles over the edge, the mist casting rainbows in the air, and she bursts into tears, heart squeezing painfully in her chest, one hand clutching the other as she twists the promise ring on her left index finger.

I made it, Mike. I found our waterfall.

She’s missed Mike everyday since she left Hawkins, but she thinks she hasn’t missed him more than she does in this moment, staring at the dream they once shared together, a dream she now has to carry on her own for the rest of her life.

El is subdued on the bus ride back to Reykjavík and she can’t resist the pull of the Void as the road rumbles beneath her. It’s a 2 hour journey back to Reykjavík - she has time for this.

She hasn’t done this since before she left for Iceland, but a couple of weeks is not enough to take away the strength, the ease of her power, and it’s like slipping on an old, comfortable sweater.

It’s just after noon in Iceland, so it’s still early in the morning back in Hawkins. But not so early that Mike isn’t already awake.

El’s breath catches in her throat. It’s been months since she’s seen him while he’s awake. And though he looks tired and wan, a shell of his former self, he’s still the most beautiful boy she’s ever seen.

He’s sitting on his bed, dressed for school, while he packs his backpack with his books and notes. He pauses to flip through one of the notebooks, gaze scanning down the page, eyes bright and quick as they always are, blazing with the fierce intelligence El has come to so love over the years.

She stands there, feet away, and scarcely dares to breathe, even though every inch of her is begging to reach out for him, to pull her to him, to take him in her arms and let him know that she’s still here, she’s still alive. 

She doesn’t do any of that, though. Instead, she just stares and feels her heart tear to pieces in her inaction.

But he must sense something, even though she’s just standing here. Because he pauses again, looking up this time, the movement of his head jerky as he turns to look over his shoulder, brow furrowing in frustrated confusion.

He’s looking for her.

The thought slams into El with the force of a physical blow and she hurries to push away, returning to her body with a speed that has her gasping for breath. The brightness of the Icelandic afternoon is a stabbing contrast to the deep black of the Void and El closes her eyes against it. 

Tears burn behind her eyelids, less from the light and more from the heartache that pierces her chest. Her lower lip wobbles and El has to draw in a very slow, deep breath to keep the rest of her emotions from washing over her, knowing that if she breathes too fast, her breath will catch in her chest and that’ll be it.

And though she knows she should stop looking in on Mike if this is what it’s going to do to her, El knows she’s also powerless to stop herself. So she’ll just have to be careful.

It’s wearying, living life with these half measures that do nothing but frustrate and sadden her, but that she also can’t let go of. And when El gets back to Reykjavík, she heads straight back to the hostel and holes herself up in her rented room, barely able to give Malla a soft smile on her way in.

And there, able to hide away from the world, El brings her hand to her mouth, lips pressing against the smooth metal of her promise ring, before she buries her face in her pillow and sobs.

“You are running from something, Elea.”

El looks up from the table she’s sitting at in the cafe to see Sigrún standing at a different, nearby table, wiping it down as she tidies up between the morning and lunch rush, worn apron tied around her waist while her silver-blonde hair is neatly piled on top of her head in a bun. “How do you know?”

“A mother can always tell,” Sigrún says, pausing in her work to come over and look over at what El is doing. She reaches down and picks up a piece of paper off of the table in front of El. “And because you are looking at-” She breaks off, mumbling under her breath in Icelandic, like she’s trying to figure out the right words. “Job opportunities that are dead ends.”

El looks back at the table in front of her, seeing all the pamphlets and resource guides she picked up from the US Embassy in Reykjavík. “Malla said I should go to the embassy for help finding a job,” El says, feeling defensive about what she’s trying to do. After visiting Gullfoss and the painful reminder that she is alone and always will be, reduced to watching those she loves at a supernatural distance, El knew that her time playing tourist was over and that it was time to start figuring out how to make a living.

“Yes, but all of this is just more running,” Sigrún says, lowering the pamphlet she picked up back down to sit with the rest. “These are temporary jobs, nothing stable. You deserve stable, Elea.” Something in El’s heart clenches at the nickname Sigrún has given her. “Eleanor” is very close to a common Icelandic name and the shortening of it to something familiar makes El feel all warm inside.

El lets out a sigh. “I am looking for how to survive and I need money for that, Sigrún.”

“But why can it not be stable, as well?” Sigrún says. “I see you come here everyday, spending many hours, eating my food, listening to the answers to your questions. I have seen many American tourists come through, but you are different. You are not here for a fun time, you are respectful, quiet. I do not know what you are running from, but you deserve peace. You are a good girl, Elea.” 

Sigrún pauses and pulls out an empty chair at El’s table, sitting and reaching over to rest a hand on top of El’s, palm warm and soft with age. “My niece, Inga, she runs an inn in Seyðisfjörður - small town, on the other side of the island. It’s quiet there, but there are more tourists than before. She complains to me, ‘Oh, Sigrún, I need someone to help. These tourists, they will drive me mad.’” Sigrún squeezes El’s hand. “You will help Inga, work for her at the inn. And it will be quiet, a good place for you to stop running and find peace.”

Tears glaze over across El’s vision and her lip wobbles as she tries to find her voice. “You would help me find a job? But you don’t really know me.”

“Bah, of course I do,” Sigrún says with a wave of her hand. “I will call Inga and I will tell her, ‘I have found you someone to help at the inn. She is a good girl who will work hard and will not be a nuisance.’ That is you, yes?”

El nods, sniffling a little. “Yes, I promise, I will work hard, very hard.”

Sigrún smiles. “There, you see? I am right.” She lays her hand flat on the table and uses it to push up onto her feet. “Inga comes to Reykjavík every two months for supplies she cannot get from the Continent - there is a ferry in Seyðisfjörður, you see - and to visit me and she will be here next week. I will tell her to take you with her when she returns to the inn.”

El’s eyes follow Sigrún as she rises. “Thank you, Sigrún. I promise not to let you or Inga down.”

“You will not,” Sigrún says as if any other outcome is impossible. “Now, put away those papers. I will bring Snúður with chocolate and a coffee. You will like it.”

El smiles, the expression feeling wobbly under the weight of her emotions. “Don’t I always?”

Sigrún smiles and reaches out to El to pat her on the cheek in a grandmotherly gesture. “See, you are a good girl. I will tell Inga this and all will be well.” She ends the gesture with a pinch of El’s cheek. “And you must promise to come and visit me when Inga comes to Reykjavík so I can make sure you are not too skinny.”

El laughs and if it’s a little wet, neither she or Sigrún comment on it. This warm feeling, this feeling of being cared for and looked out for, it reminds her of Marty and she hopes, prays that the old man is still doing ok, remembering that she owes him a letter. When I get to Seyðisfjörður and get settled, I’ll write. “I promise, Sigrún, I will come and visit.”

“Good, good. Now relax, I will get your food.”

The following week, El packs up her duffle bag, wincing as her dirty clothes smush in next to her clean ones (doing laundry is expensive and El is loathe to spend the money when she knows more permanent lodgings are in her near future, but it’s still hard to accept putting her dirty clothes and clean clothes in the same bag). She returns the room key to Malla with a grateful smile and lets the matronly woman clasp El’s hands between her own before El heads down to the cafe to wait for Sigrún’s niece, Inga.

It’s just after 8 when El walks into the cafe and already Sigrún is hard at work. There is a steady line of customers, coming in for a quick coffee and pastry to go, but she catches El’s eye with a nod and El goes to sit at what is one of her usual tables up near the counter. She watches as Sigrún helps the people waiting in line, chatting warmly in Icelandic. El doesn’t understand any of the words - she’s pretty much only picked up “hello” and “thank you” in the three weeks she’s been here - but the melodic rise and fall of the language is becoming charmingly familiar.

Sigrún comes over during a brief lull to drop off breakfast for El, waving away El’s attempt to pay, and El continues to people watch as she eats, wondering if any of these people might be Inga and chastising herself for thinking that. Inga wouldn’t be a customer, El thinks with a shake of her head.

But the mystery to who Inga might be is soon solved as a tall, blonde woman, maybe a little younger than Joyce and wearing a pale blue blouse with black slacks, appears from the doorway to the cafe’s kitchen. Sigrún turns to the woman, a small smile on her face as the woman reaches out to squeeze Sigrún’s shoulder, and El thinks this must be Inga. The familial resemblance is strong enough that even El can piece it together and she continues watching as Sigrún gestures over to where El is sitting, drawing Inga’s gaze over to her.

Inga stops to grab her own coffee and pastry before heading over to El and El hurries to get to her feet as Inga nears the table. “Hello, are you Inga?” El asks, polite but direct.

“Yes, I am,” Inga says, her English more fluent and less accented than her aunt’s. “And you must be Eleanor, my new assistant.”

El nods and holds out her hand, which Inga takes after she sets down her breakfast near El’s. “Yes, thank you for letting me work for you. You didn’t have to and I appreciate it.”

“Well, I do need the help. And my aunt was most insistent you would be a good fit.” Inga offers her a small smile as she sits, prompting El to do the same. “Sigrún is very keen when she takes someone under her wing.”

“I won’t make you regret her kindness,” El says, trembling fingers tearing off a bit of pastry. “I will work very hard.”

Inga’s smile softens. “I am sure you will. You are no stranger to hard work, I can tell.” She gestures at the pastry El is trying to resist tearing into shreds. “Please, eat, eat. We have a long day of driving ahead of us. You will need your strength.”

They eat in a silence that is practically companionable, one that El doesn’t find awkward or in need of filling. And when the rush dies down, the last morning regular off for parts unknown, Sigrún rounds the counter, a tissue-wrapped bundle in her arms that she must have had stashed beneath the counter.

“You should be going soon,” Sigrún says, speaking in English for El’s sake. “It is a many hour drive.”

“Yes, you are right,” Inga says. “Are you ready, Eleanor?”

El nods, but pauses to look at Sigrún. “Thank you, Sigrún, for everything.”

“You do not need to thank me,” Sigrún says, a small smile on her face. “I do have one more thing for you, however - a parting gift, I think you say?” She hands over the bundle in her arms, El reaching out to take it from her.

With a careful hand, El unfolds the thin tissue paper and her heart clenches as she sees the folded wool sweater inside. The main body is a soft cream color and the pattern woven around the shoulders is done in black and a deep shade of purple. “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

“It is a lopapeysa,” Sigrún says. “It is cold in Seyðisfjörður - this will keep you warm.” Sigrún turns to Inga and says something in Icelandic that El doesn’t understand, her tone soft but serious.

Inga replies, echoing the tone, and gives her aunt a brief hug before Sigrún turns to go back behind the counter, leaving El and Inga to make their way out of the cafe.

El balances the sweater in her arms while she adjusts her duffle bag, a little fuller than normal with the books she found at a bookstore down the street. The selection of books in English had been limited, but El walked away with a copy of the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings Trilogy (trying not to think about Mike and the summer he read those books to her and failing miserably), The Color Purple, and Murder on the Orient Express. They are a little more advanced than the books El has read previously, but she has nothing but time to figure out how to make her way through them.

When they’re a few steps away from the cafe, El turns to Inga. “What… what did Sigrún say, at the end?”

Inga looks over at El with a small smile. “She told me to take care of you. She is most worried about you, Eleanor. You have made quite an impression on my aunt in such a short time.”

El blushes and glances down at the ground. “I didn’t mean to, but I’m grateful for her kindness.”

Inga takes pity on El and doesn’t drag the conversation on any further. “My car is just up here,” she says instead, gesturing to a dark green boxy car that is filled to the brim with boxes. “Can your bag fit by your feet?”

El goes around to the passenger side and peers in at the front seat. “I can make it fit,” she says with a nod.

“Good,” Inga says as she unlocks the doors. “Well hop in, the road awaits.”

El does as she’s told, placing her duffle down in the footwell, the sweater from Sigrún perched delicately on top of it, before she removes her coat to act as the final layer on top of her pyramid of stuff. Once everything is secure, Inga starts the car, leaving El with nothing to do but watch Reykjavík roll by through the passenger window, wondering if one day, she’ll ever get to stop saying goodbye.

It’s a long drive to Seyðisfjörður, made longer by the stops Inga makes along the way, a couple of bathroom breaks plus a longer one in Akureyri for a late lunch. El tries to read in the car, but finds that the scenery rolling by is far more interesting and easy to look at.

Inga doesn’t talk much - whether because she’s not a talkative person or because she’s giving El space, El’s not sure. But El’s relieved to not have to fill the space with empty conversation, not when her heart is aching and bruised. 

Every mile that rolls by is one mile closer to the new life she will have to live alone, without Mike or Hop, or any of her family and friends. And while she’s looking forward to no longer running, to settling down in a place where she can just be, she wishes so very badly that this wasn’t a journey she was taking alone.

Mike should be here with me, El thinks traitorously, knowing there is no relief to be found in that thought, but unable to stop herself from trying. They should be making this journey together, sharing happy smiles and unrestrained kisses, fingers weaving together like their hands are permanently fused. They should be finding somewhere to settle down, just the two of them, where they could live out the rest of their lives happily and blissfully in love.

Instead, there’s just her, sitting in a near-stranger’s car, a near-stranger who is now her new boss, while she waits to get a glimpse of the small town that will become her home.

“We are nearly there,” Inga says as they pass through a town called Egilsstaðir (a town El will become very familiar with over the years). “Half an hour, at most.”

El perks up at that - she’s getting tired of sitting in the car, despite how grateful she is that Inga agreed to give El a lift - and she gives the scenery out the window her complete attention. The highway they’re on turns winding as it navigates through a mountain pass, greenery giving way to sunlit snowcaps and iridescent lakes that make El feel like she’s stepped onto another planet.

“Seyðisfjörður is set in a fjord,” Inga explains as they begin descending the pass, greenery reclaiming its place in the scenery. Water runs everywhere, streaming over cliffs and bluffs in thin waterfalls that cut through grass and rocks. “It is very pretty, popular with hikers, especially during the summer months. Do you like hiking?”

El tears her gaze away from the view to look over at Inga and she shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I could find out, though.”

“It is a good hobby, a good way to clear your head,” Inga says. “There are many beautiful things to see in nature. Beautiful forests, majestic waterfalls. You should go see Vestdalsfossar or Gufufoss, both easy to walk to from town.”

As it turns out, those are only two of the waterfalls that surround Seyðisfjörður. El had been searching for a place with three. Instead, she finds a place with dozens. Waterfalls of all sizes - grand and small, hidden and loud, all waiting for her to find and explore.

And the town of Seyðisfjörður, once Inga navigates them down into the fjord, is nestled in a valley, perched on the edge of the water. Small boats cluster in the harbor, town stretching out on either side of it, small and hidden, tucked away from the world - a perfect place to hide.

Inga steers them to a sprawling, red inn right on the water, and the cold air that greets El when she gets out of the car is sharp and crisp on the exposed skin of her face. El gathers her things and follows Inga as she shows her to where she’ll be staying, one of two small studio rooms in the caretaker’s cottage.

“I live just up the street,” Inga says. “The inn’s housekeeper, Kirstín, lives in the other room. You will meet her later, once you have settled in.” She opens the door and lets El inside.

It’s a nice room, El thinks as she steps in and looks around. There’s a full bed against the side wall, a small sitting area with a loveseat, a coffee table, a TV and a wood-fire stove near the door, and a kitchenette squeezed in opposite the bed near the door to what El is assuming is the bathroom. The back wall holds a small kitchen table beneath a wide window with thick, blackout curtains open on either side. The room, half the size of the cabin she lived in with Hopper, smells of cedar, and is cleanly lit and warm. 

“Tomorrow I will show you around town, show you where to shop for supplies for your room. After, I will show you what your job will be. And before I leave you to settle in, is there anything you need?”

Feeling overwhelmed and bone tired, El shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Inga smiles and hands El over the key to the room. “I will be by with dinner for you later from the inn’s restaurant or you can come by yourself. It is just inside the main building, across from the front desk.”

El lets out a sighing chuckle. “I will come by later. You don’t have to bring me food.”

Inga nods. “Very good. Now, I must go check on the inn. I worry to think what Einar has done to my desk in my absence.” She pauses, grinning. “He helps fix things around the inn and he manages it for me while I am gone. Between you and me, I am hoping you can be that person for me sometimes, too. But one day, when you are ready.”

El smiles, hoping her nervousness doesn’t show, but wants to show that she’s grateful for the confidence Inga is already showing in El’s abilities, well before she even knows what El’s abilities are.

Inga wishes her farewell at that point, closing the door behind her to give El privacy. And later, El will go into the inn’s main building to figure out dinner, to continue her education in Icelandic cuisine.

But for the moment, she drops her duffle bag just inside the now closed door and lets her weight collapse on the small sofa. Her head falls back against the cushions as she sinks into the soft surface. And if she cries, tears dripping down her temples and into the cushions below, tears of both heartbreak and relief (because she’s free, but this just makes it real that there is no going back - this is her life now, for better or for worse), then there is no one there to know but her.

Chapter Text

The next day, Inga shows El around Seyðisfjörður, helps her figure out how to purchase things for her room and clothes to keep her warm in the Icelandic chill, and then, back at the inn, begins to show El the ropes of what she’ll be doing.

The first couple of weeks are hard as El tries to take everything in - figuring out her new duties at the inn, learning to interact with visitors and tourists, wrestling with buying food and feeding herself in a foreign country. Every night, she goes to bed utterly exhausted, mentally and emotionally drained from the effort of keeping everything together.

But she adapts. If there’s one thing El is good at, it’s adapting to new situations and as the weeks go by, she begins to find her footing. Walking to the store is an easy thing to add to her checklist at the end of her shift, and she doesn’t have to struggle to remember how to check in a guest when she works the front desk or how the laundry works in the back of the inn. She even has the mental and emotional energy to help out Kirstín with various housekeeping duties and lets Einar try to show her how to reset the circuit breakers for when he can't be there to help.

She even begins to make friends with the young woman who works as a waitress at the restaurant, a thin woman only a few years older than El with dark blonde hair named Anna, who peppers El with questions about America and has the grace to only be a little disappointed when El can’t tell her much. But they find a camaraderie in being two young women working in an inn in a fishing/port town and Anna gives her pointers on how to brush off flirtatious tourists and bawdy fishermen.

But of all the new people in her orbit, it’s Inga who becomes the center of her new universe. With a warm smile and gentle patience, she helps guide El through some of the worst of the hurdles she faces in those first few months: helping El get a bank account where she can put her paycheck, seeding the account with the money she brought over from America and converted into krona back in Reykjavík; taking her into Egilsstaðir to buy new shoes and hiking boots when the single pair of shoes El has begins to fall apart; helping El begin to learn the Icelandic language, gently encouraging her as she struggles with the pronunciation of some of the more complicated words; showing her how the post office works and how to correctly write the return address when El sends her first letter to Marty.

(the letter el sends to marty is the first in a long series of letters, a correspondence that stretches out over the next 15 as the two send letters back and forth, eventually with pictures once el gets her first camera, first from marty’s store in chicago, and then from reno where he moves out to retire near his son and grandkids. el doesn’t take many trips back to the united states, saving them for rare, special occasions that make the risk worth it, but one of them is a week-long trip to reno with mike not long after the new millennium, a trip to see an old friend who’s coming up in years who she’s only been able to see in the pictures he’s sent her. it’s the last time she sees him in person and the next time she comes back, mike by her side, is for marty’s funeral and she will forever mourn the gruff old man who showed her kindness when she needed it the most.)

Inga always has a kind word and a soft smile for El, and even when she’s correcting El on something she messed up or something she’s still learning, her rebukes are gentle, out of concern rather than judgment. There’s a knowing look in Inga’s eyes when she looks at El and even though El knows that there’s no way Inga has any knowledge of what El’s really running from, there’s an understanding there, that El is running from something and that she’s just looking for a soft place to land where she no longer has to look over her shoulder, where she can just be.

And Inga never pushes, never asks for more than El can give, and El finds that Inga is slowly worming her way into El’s heart in a way that reminds her of how she feels about Joyce. Like this is someone who she could look up to the way a child looks up at their mother. But El doesn’t say any of this, not when everything still feels too fragile, too new. Instead, she lets Inga gently fret over her, lets her encourage her to go out and explore and begin putting down roots in this new place.

And so El does, lets herself learn and explore and experience as much as she can. She discovers that, as summer approaches, the light in the sky never really fades and after a lifetime spent fighting off the darkness, this much unfettered sunlight is a precious gift. She spends her first birthday in Iceland awash in sunlight, drinking in the midnight sun (even though she can feel, like a dark tug in the back of her mind, an overwhelming sadness, one that she will eventually come to realize is being broadcast to her from all the way back in Hawkins from the young man who will forever hold her heart).

During her free time, she explores the town and the wilderness around it, slowly discovering the beauty of this place she now calls home. She explores the coastline and the various trails leading out of town, discovering magical vistas and pristine waterfalls. 

She makes the long hike to Gufufoss, an awe-inspiring waterfall that she can walk right up to until she’s nearly under the torrent of water pouring over the edge if she really wanted to (she doesn’t, if only because the water is freezing, almost quite literally). She finds a place to sit, grass and clover spongy beneath her, and just watches the water, letting the roar of it, the power, fill her empty spaces. She closes her eyes in this moment and doesn’t resist slipping in the Void to peek in on Mike, watching for just a little as he and the Party argue over what movie to watch, all smiles and good-natured teasing.

Her gaze lingers on Mike, who lets out a sharp laugh as Dustin flings a couch cushion at Lucas, who ducks just in time for the cushion to sail overhead and hit Will in the side of the head. The other boys pause and take in what just happened before they join Mike’s sharp laughter, clutching their sides as the mirth overtakes them. And off in a chair, watching from her own safe perch, is Max, rolling her eyes and doing a horrible job hiding her own amusement at the boys’ antics. El feels a sob bubble up in her chest, her heart aching in her desire to be with them, feeling the empty space that exists among them and knows that it’s the space that once belonged to her.

I’m here! El screams inside her mind, lips pressed together so hard they hurt, careful to keep the words locked inside lest Mike somehow hear her. Even at a distance, the connection between them is strong and unyielding in a way El isn’t sure will ever break. She knows she should stop watching - the longer she stays, the more she risks Mike sensing her - but she can’t look away from him or the Party, can’t stop from seeing for herself that they’re all happy and safe and alive.

It’s these moments that make it worth it, to know that her sacrifice had meaning. She would give up everything, again and again, if it would always mean they would stay this way, even if it means making the hike back to Seyðisfjörður with eyes blurring with tears, melancholy gripping her tight with sharp, aching claws.

Time continues to pass, days bleeding into one another, hours slipping by like grains of sand through an hourglass. Her hair grows long, the black dye fading until all that’s left is the natural honeyed chestnut that had been hiding beneath, and even if everyone around her notices, no one bothers to say anything about it to El, minding their own business in a way El can’t help but appreciate.

El falls into a routine as weeks begin to turn into months, an easy one, one that teaches her how to breathe. For the first time in her life, she’s just living.

She goes to work, first at the inn and then picking up stray shifts at the bakery down the street when the daughter of the owner, Pála, gives birth to her second child. Pála helps out in the bakery by manning the register and occasionally taking a turn at the ovens and El steps in on Inga’s recommendation when Pála takes time off for maternity leave.

When she’s not at work, El normally can be found wandering the town, hiking along its many trails, or just staring out at the water. At first, the locals eye her warily, unsure of this quiet American girl who’s come to stay unannounced. But as time goes by, the sight of her becomes familiar. Wariness gives way to familiar smiles and friendly greetings, a sign she’s becoming one of them, that this is becoming her home.

Occasionally at first, but more frequently as time goes by, El starts spending time with Anna, letting the older girl invite El over for movie nights or just to join her and her friends for drinks at the pub across the harbor. 

El’s not old enough to drink by Icelandic standards, not even with her forged birthday, but she doesn’t mind as she lingers on the edges of the conversation Anna and her friend Jóhanna are having. Sometimes, they speak in English for her sake; but since Inga’s been helping El slowly learn Icelandic, she doesn’t mind when Anna and Jóhanna begin chattering in Icelandic, if only to continue to immerse herself in the language of the country she’s living in.

El also finds herself spending a lot of time reading, especially as summer passes and the sun rapidly begins setting earlier and earlier while also rising increasingly later in the morning. She makes trips with Inga to Egilsstaðir and once out to Reykjavík, primarily to scour bookstores for more books in English, including an English dictionary to help her with some of the words she doesn’t know (though she doesn’t pass up the chance to also visit Sigrún, who wraps El in a hug and tells her she’s still too skinny).

Summer in Iceland is idyllic. The sun never fully sets and the world is awash in light. El soaks it in, letting it drive out the worst of her demons.

But then, with night lasting longer and longer as it gets closer to the end of the year, El finds herself besieged by nightmares - dark and violent and full of misery and monsters and so much death. The nightmares drag her awake in the middle of the night, sometimes screaming, and leave her feeling worn and fragile. Dark bags circle beneath her eyes and the lack of sleep makes her look sallow and pale.

Night after night, this drags on and El feels more and more tired with each passing moment.

Eventually, a few days before the winter solstice, Inga, who’s been watching El with growing concern for the past few weeks, speaks up as the two sit quietly at the front desk, each absorbed in their own small tasks. It’s the off season, so it’s been slow - the only visitors to the inn right now are a medium sized group of tourists who are there to ski at the local resort and they’re all clustered in the restaurant across the main entry way, quietly talking as they finish their dinner and drinks.

”You have been having trouble sleeping,” Inga says. El startles and looks over at the older woman, hands pausing from where she’s organizing a stack of receipts. When El doesn’t respond, Inga looks up from where she’s tallying the monthly numbers and gives El a small smile. “Kirstín has said she can hear you screaming sometimes.” 

There’s an unspoken question hanging in the air between them and El gulps, hands dropping down to her lap, fingers picking at her nailbeds in an old, nervous habit El thought she’d left behind. “The nights are… really long,” El says, haltingly, unsure. “The dark reminds me of… of before.”

“In America? From what you are running from?”

El nods, throat feeling tight. “Before I left there was…” She trails off, drawing in a deep breath. “There was a lot of fighting, a lot of running and hiding. It wasn’t safe for me to stay, so I left.”

Inga nods, slowly. “And this fighting, it is the cause of your nightmares.” It’s not a question, but a statement.

El closes her eyes and a horror show of images dances across her mind’s eye - monsters and alien landscapes and blood, so much blood. “Yes,” she says, the word a reedy whisper, forced out between breaths that are too sharp and ragged to bow to any sort of attempt at control.

A warm hand slides on top of her own where they’re still clutched in her lap and El’s eyes fly open. Inga has moved her chair closer to El’s, the wheels sliding near silently on the pad placed on the floor to protect the wooden floorboards beneath, and the concern radiating from her threatens to undo the tight hold El has on the worst of her emotions. “Nobody knows you are here, do they? Your family, friends?”

El swallows roughly and can’t stop the way her lower lip begins to tremble, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. On her index finger, the promise ring she still wears burns like a brand. “No, they don’t. They think I am dead. I’m all alone.” Her voice breaks on the last word, heart twisting and aching.

“Oh, Elea,” Inga breathes, shifting so she can pull El into a warm hug, letting El bury her face in Inga’s shoulder as the tears she’s been holding back begin spilling over, soft sobs shaking her slender frame. “You are not alone. You are here with me. For as long as you like, you will always have a place here. And if not here, then Sigrún would steal you from me in a heartbeat. She asks after you all the time, you know. According to her, I do not feed you enough.” 

The light hearted joke is intended to be comforting - and it is - but it also makes El cry harder, relief warring with deep, agonizing sadness. If she can’t have the people she loves most in this world, then at least she has this: a soft hug, quiet and stalwart support, a shield against the deepest black of night, a mother’s love to protect her until the sun rises once again.

Winter drags on, the nightmares continue, but El learns how to manage. Inga buys her a sunlamp and a journal as a Christmas present and El finds that the sunlamp helps when she’s feeling her worst. It doesn’t get rid of the shadows that cling to her, but the warmth and brightness of the light help her ignore the worst of it for a little while at least. And the journal is something that El never once considered, but she finds that it helps to get her thoughts out of her head and onto paper, where they don’t seem to weigh so much - it's the first of many journals she will fill over the coming years.

It also helps that she begins to discover the beauty in Icelandic winter, in the long nights that allow the Northern Lights to paint their way across the sky, lighting up the heavens in waves of green, pink, and white. The first time El sees it, she cries and wishes Mike were here to see it with her.

Bolstered by Inga’s support, El tries to make more of an effort to weave herself into this new community that has been slowly warming up to her. She invites Anna to go with her to coffee when their shifts are over. She makes friends with the young man who runs the visitor’s center, whose name is Andri and who helpfully shows her where the best hiking trails are when he’s not gushing about his beautiful baby girl and equally lovely wife. She practices her halting Icelandic with Jónas, the old man who watches the docks and pretends to blush when he gives her an early spring flower, chastising him as a flirt who should know better, which just makes him laugh.

And through it all, El begins to find if not happiness, then a sense of contentment, of peace. Her days are quiet and uneventful and full of people. She doesn’t have to hide or run or fight - she can just be a person, a real one who exists out in the world, who goes to work and spends time with friends and has pleasant conversations with the cashier at the grocery store.

But the life El left behind is never far from her mind. Try as she might, her thoughts and the Void regularly carry her back to her family, her friends, to Hop… to Mike.

She checks in on him every couple of days, as her schedule allows - enough to soothe her soul while making her ache with how much she misses him, but not so much that she tips over into being greedy or risky. El knows she should stop - every time she does risks Mike discovering that she’s still alive - but she’s powerless to do so. Her soul is so intrinsically and completely tied to Mike that she will never be able to untangle herself from him entirely.

She watches as he grows as his senior year of high school goes by. He seems to settle, just like she does - not happy, but present. He spends time with the Party and his family, engages with them, talks with them, but the smiles on his face never reach his eyes, not like they had with her. El’s heart squeezes painfully in her chest as she remembers those smiles - soft and a little dopey, eyes sparkling above cheeks that were suffused with the lightest blush, all lovesick and beautiful. El stole those smiles from the world when she left, a crime for which she knows she will never be forgiven.

El never lingers long when she checks in on Mike, a few minutes at most, just long enough to keep her going for the next day or two.

The only exception she makes is when she spies Mike and Hopper together, sitting on a bench somewhere in Hawkins, on the day Mike and the Party are graduating from high school. It’s El’s day off from work and she can’t help but linger as the two men she loves more than anyone talk about her, can’t help but let her heart shatter into a million tiny pieces as Mike talks about being unable, unwilling to move on, Hopper telling him he has a choice for how to move forward, one way full of pain, the other letting himself live.

She leaves them for a bit and, everyone’s image firmly in mind, she watches from this world between worlds as the Hawkins class of 1989 graduates. Mike and the Party are sitting in the seats with horde of other graduates; Nancy, Robin, and Steve are in the crowd, joined by Joyce and Hopper, with Jonathan off to the side, filming the whole thing.

She’ll leave them soon, not long after Dustin gives his valedictorian speech. But for the moment, she lets herself watch, lets herself take comfort in the existence of those she left behind. Here they are, everyone El sacrificed everything for, all of them safe and happy, which is all she’s ever wanted for them. But she wishes, oh how she wishes, that there could be a world where she gets to be safe and happy by their side.

It’s just too bad that’s a world El will never be allowed to live in.

As very reluctantly promised, Mike goes off to ISU in the fall of 1989. The weeks leading up it go by in a strange haze, the melancholy of realizing that the Party, who once all had dreams of going off to the same city for college, are all going their separate ways in a matter of days - Mike to ISU, Dustin to MIT, Will to NYU, Max and Lucas to University of Chicago - combined with the heartstopping realization that El is alive.

Sometimes, Mike wonders if he should actually tell them what he’s realized instead of weaving it into the story of a D&D campaign. But that’s all he does, wonder. Maybe if he had proof - something solid he could point to and say “see? Undeniable!” But Mike doesn’t and it’s not fair to pass on what boils down to nothing more than a theory (a strong theory, one with no discernable holes, but still just a theory nonetheless) before everyone heads off for college. Because, as much as Mike hates to admit it, there’s a chance he’s wrong, that his theory is really just a deluded wish cooked up by a desperate mind missing the other half of his soul so much he’d rather live in delusion than spend one more day in reality.

But Mike knows he’s not wrong. He feels the truth of it down the marrow of his bones. El is out there somewhere, alone, surviving who-knows-how. It’s a thought that keeps Mike up at night, worry slithering through his veins as the ceiling stares down at him. Does she have money? Somewhere to sleep, something to eat? Is she going from place to place, always running?

Sometimes, Mike closes his eyes and reaches, casts his mind out along the part of him that is forever tethered to her. He wishes he could try this when he feels her, wishes he could confirm with his own two eyes (even if metaphysically) that she’s alive, that she’s looking in on him, but the moment is always too fleeting and never when he’s in a spot to focus on the sensation. He wonders why she hasn’t done more than that, why she’s just looking in from a distance. He knows she can pull him into the Void, so why doesn’t she?

Maybe something went wrong with her powers, Mike thinks. Or maybe it’s not safe for her yet. The thought is the only thing that keeps him from going insane, it feels like sometimes. He can’t even contemplate the other reasons why she might not have reached out yet, the ones that sometimes whisper to him from the back of his mind in his lowest moments - she doesn’t want you, she’s happier without you, you’d only bring her more trouble.

Mike buries those thoughts deep, doesn’t want to face the meaning behind them. It still doesn’t stop him from trying to reach out, though.

Sometimes he thinks he can sense something, like words on the tip of his tongue that he just can’t quite recall. The taste of the ocean in the air, the smell of cedar, the roar of something surrounding him, the faint scratch of wool against bare skin. Not enough pieces to put anything together, but enough pieces that there’s something, a sense of her, palpable and teasing.

If only he’d put the pieces together sooner. If only he’d paid attention sooner. 

It’s a regret he’ll carry with him for the rest of his life, but it’s a regret more easily borne by the knowledge that she’s out there somewhere and that, someday, they’ll be together again, no matter if she reaches out to him or if he has to go out there and find her himself.

He just hopes he won’t have to wait that long.

Mike settles into ISU, for the most part. He drives away 3 different roommates his freshman year, all driven off by his incessant nightmares, the ones where he wakes up with El’s name echoing in his ears as it leaves him on the edge of a scream. Nightmares where he dreams of blood and death and monsters that leave his tongue feeling like ash in his mouth.

He ends up with his own room after that, because Housing can’t find anyone willing to room with him, and Mike’s glad for the privacy, feeling too exposed sharing a room with a stranger and happy to go through the rest of his college experience alone while he takes random classes to try and figure out what the fuck he wants to do with the rest of his life.

But then, spring semester of his freshman year, Mike signs up for a creative writing class that changes everything. 

At first, Mike signs up for the class just to get tips for how to write better D&D campaigns. His pride still stings from the shit Max gave him when they were all home for Thanksgiving, calling the campaign he ran for them “trite and derivative”.

I’ll show her, he thinks when he signs up for his next semester classes. And if it’s enough to get her to eat crow, it will be class credits well earned.

The first couple of weeks don’t have them doing any writing. The professor walks them through short story structure, has them dissecting and analyzing a couple short stories, namely “The Lottery” and “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas”, which gives Mike chills for how close it hits to home for him.

And then they get assigned to write their first short story of their own, with the prompt “draw inspiration from something from your childhood.”

Mike gulps at the assignment. His childhood is a minefield of horror and trauma, both natural and supernatural. How to pick something that won’t expose things he either never wanted to or literally can’t?

The typewriter his parents bought him for college stares up at him, mockingly, as Mike agonizes over what to do. After a while, Mike gives himself a shake, chastizing himself with a groan. His gaze lands on the framed picture of El on his desk, the only one he has. Something twists and swells in his heart, clamoring to get out. Don’t over think it, just write, he tells himself.

And so, he does. He tells the story of a young boy finding a magical girl in the woods, drenched from the rain that carried her to him, and how that same storm eventually took her away from him, leaving him bereft and lost. El’s story, their story, pours from him. Not a blow-by-blow retelling, not the truth, but something digestible, something that doesn’t leave the same sharp sting of trauma and pain behind that the real story does.

Mike’s professor pulls him aside a week after he’s turned the assignment in, waiting until all the other students have filed out of the classroom.

“Is something wrong?” Mike asks, nervousness tugging at him as he fingers the strap of his backpack, hands gone clammy.

His professor hands back Mike’s short story, a large and bold “99/100” written on top, followed by the words “Evocative and breath-taking.” 

“Have you ever written fiction before?” his professor asks, a keen glint in his eyes through thick, heavy glasses.

Mike shrugs, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Just, um - this sounds so lame - but just for Dungeons and Dragons campaigns, that’s it.”

His professor doesn’t question it - clearly he’s heard of it before - but he presses on regardless. “You have a real talent, Michael. A lot of students struggle with striking the right balance. Sometimes, the writing is too dry, not descriptive enough, no sense of story. Others sometimes lean in too much to descriptions to try and shore up the narrative’s shortcomings. But this,” he gestures to the paper clutched in Mike’s hands. “This feels lived in. It’s as if I’m there with that little boy, breathing the same air, feeling the same wonder and fear.” 

Mike’s professor leans back, one hip perched against the table near the lectern. “University of Iowa has an excellent creative writing program, if you’re interested. It’s too late to transfer for next year, but I think you could put together a portfolio and apply in the fall for the following year. It’s up to you, though. Have you declared a major?”

Feeling a little numb and a lot overwhelmed, Mike shakes his head. “No, not yet.”

Mike’s professor seems to take pity on Mike and just smiles, reaching over to clap Mike on the shoulder. “Well, if you decide you’re interested, let me know and we can work on putting that portfolio together.”

After that, so many things become clear. Mike does work on his portfolio under his professor’s guidance. And when he applies to transfer to the University of Iowa for his junior year, he gets in. His mom convinces his dad to cover the out-of-state tuition, encouraged by the fact that this is the first thing Mike has legitimately shown interest in since ‘87. And when fall 1991 rolls around, Mike finds himself safely enveloped in the Creative Writing program at UI.

He flourishes in the program, or as much as he can still living in the shadow of El’s absence. His professors praise his talent and help him grow it even more, helping him build a writing style that is achingly beautiful, able to cut through to the heart of the matter and build the reader up layer by layer, word by word. Mike tends to stick to the fantasy genre, but he also learns to love building worlds in sci-fi and his best works find a home in magical realism.

People ask him where he gets his ideas from, how he writes so evocatively, how he makes everything so real. Mike doesn’t know how to answer these questions - he just tells them he writes from the heart and lets everything work itself out from there. He doesn’t know how to tell people that he lived real, fantastical terror, doesn’t know how to explain that he’s intimately aware with what it’s like to fear for your life, or to bathe in awe over things that are beyond description.

He doesn’t know how to tell people that everything he writes is his way of honoring the woman who brought magic into his life, the one he yearns for, burns for, more with every day that goes by.

These questions ramp up especially once he has two published short stories under his belt, both published under a penname. Mike refuses to put his real name on his writing. So much of his writing is informed by everything that happened in Hawkins and if you know what to look for, it’s obvious where his inspiration comes from and he doesn’t fancy getting in trouble with the United States government, not after everything that’d happened.

The first story is published at the end of his junior year. But it’s the second, published near the holidays of his senior year, a story about a research institute on a remote space colony that accidentally unleashes an eldritch, cosmic horror on the colonists, which gets nominated for both a Hugo and a Nebula award at the end of his senior year, making him one of the youngest writers ever to be nominated. 

The Party is all ecstatic, their voices through the phone lines that connect them full of praise when Mike calls to tell them the news. Mike warms under their praise, thankful that he still has each of them in his life, even if at a distance.

But with every accolade, with every new review that comes out calling him the one of the best writers of a new generation, the one person he wants to share his accomplishments with is the one person he can’t. He craves the warm regard of El’s gaze, the soft smile that would grace her lips when she told him she was proud of him, the way she was so free with her hugs of support, the rich fullness of her kisses tinged with excitement.

More than anything, Mike wants to tell her that it’s all for her, it’s all because of her. That every word he writes is one he never could have written without her, without her love, without the wonder and passion she brought into his life each and every day she was in it.

And he wants, so very, very badly, to be able to share that wonder and passion with her again.

The years begin tick away and every year that passes is another where it becomes that much more real to El that no one is looking for her, that she’s safe… that she’s free.

She measures the time in the reflection that stares back at her in the mirror, in the cheeks that lose the last of the roundness of her teenage years, in the hair that reaches down to nearly her waist, in the way her body finishes filling out, rounded hips and breasts a contrast to the delicate dip of her waist, in the piercings that line her ears, three on each lobe, filled with glittering hoops and studs… in the eyes that no longer look so sharply haunted. 

She measures time in the things she learns, the accomplishments she achieves. Under Inga’s gentle guidance, El learns how to drive, and she uses her new freedom to head up to Husavik with Anna for a girl’s weekend at the hot springs there. She learns, guided into it on her 18th birthday, which her passport says is her 20th, that she doesn’t really care for beer, but sparkling wine is absolutely fantastic and also a really great way to have a horrible hangover the next day. 

With Inga’s help, she even buys a small cottage near the edge of town just before her 21st birthday, using the money she’s saved over the years and a generous loan from Inga. The previous owner, old Ásta who’s been living on her own since her husband died and decides to move to Reykjavík to be closer to her surviving family, sells it to El in a private sale. Ásta leaves most of her furniture behind, not needing most of it where she’ll be living with her daughter’s family and El finds joy in slowly replacing the pieces of furniture, heading up into Egilsstaðir to scour the furniture and small thrift shop up there to find things that fit her style.

She finds joy in watching the sun rise from the porch that wraps around half of her cottage, in the way the civil twilight peers in through the large window in her bedroom as she stretches out on the luxurious queen-sized mattress with the softest down comforter she’s ever felt, topped by a thick quilt that she learned how to sew in order to make. She appreciates the way she has a full kitchen, one she fills with the smells of the baked goods that she’s learned to make at the bakery, loves that she has space to invite Anna and Jóhanna over for dinner or just to watch a movie on the TV set against the wall across from a wide, low couch that she loves to sink into after a long day at work. 

She decorates her house in the things that feel like home and the things that remind her of the people she left behind. There are pictures on her refrigerator, pictures of her, Anna, and Jóhanna, pictures of her and Inga, pictures that Marty sends her of him and his family, pictures she takes of the stunning vistas and gorgeous waterfalls she regularly hikes to. 

There’s art on her walls that she buys from the craft fair that reminds her of Will, the hiking boots and backpack by her front door that makes her think of both Hopper and Lucas with their stubborn practicality and be-ready attitude. She fills bookshelves with books she acquires over the years - books on natural history that she reads to learn more about this world she lives in that remind her of Dustin, a collection of Wonder Woman comics she finds in Reykjavík in honor of Max, novels and stories of all shapes and kinds that never fail to make her think of Mike and all the stories he tells, the ones he used to read to her in the cabin during those idyllic summers.

A basket by the shelf the TV sits on holds her knitting supplies, a hobby she picks up during her second year, one that never fails to make her think of Joyce and the beanies she tried to knit everyone for Christmas during the last holiday El spent with them. There’s a VCR tucked in an open shelf right below the TV and a cabinet filled with tapes, mostly rom-coms and romantic period pieces, but also movies that remind her of home, of the others, movies that she watches when she’s the most homesick: The Karate Kid for Max, the Star Wars trilogy and Ghostbusters for Mike and the Party.

She fills her home in colors and textures, in thick rugs to ward of the worst of the winter chill despite the geothermal heating pumped in through the vents; bright sweaters and soft-knit, jewel-toned dresses lining her closet and dresser, feminine and comfortable. There are throw blankets on her couch and mismatched mugs and wine glasses in her kitchen cabinets and a soft, turquoise shower curtain in her bathroom. Her bedroom is a sanctuary of luxury: a thick, down duvet layered with a quilt, a mountain of pillows propped up on the headboard, a silk robe from Paris in her closet that she wears in the spring and summer, a delicate, indulgent collection of lotions and perfumes on her vanity, a stack of filled journals tucked into the low shelf of her nightstand, journals kept from the habit she has built up over the years.

She lives her days in relaxed, open peace. No one looks at her funny, or wonders why she’s there. Her neighbors wave to her when she walks by and say hello to her and ask her how her day was when she comes home at the end of her day. She speaks fluent Icelandic and no longer feels like an outsider when she goes to the grocery store or wanders the pop-up markets that line the main street in town. People call her by the name on her passport, but more often the nickname that Inga uses: Elea. 

Elea is part of Seyðisfjörður, part of the fabric of the community. She works in the inn, charming tourists with her sweet smiles and gentle regard; pitches in at the bakery where she discovers she has a knack for making pastries; and sometimes even helps out at the primary school, helping the kids with their English lessons (an irony not lost on El at all). She can regularly be seen at the local craft store, picking out fabric or yarn for another project, chatting up with the older ladies who teach her what they know, or taking coffee down to the old men who work the docks, letting them innocently flirt with her as she plays her part as the gentle chide. She’s learned to love lamb and fish and dark bread, and bears with good grace the hákarl served during Þorramatur (which no one really likes, she discovers, but she can power through a few bites as long as she has a shot of Brennivín to chase it with, like a proper Icelandic woman). She’s trusted, accepted, all but family.

But nothing makes her feel more like she finally belongs than when, not long after El moves into her new cottage, Inga approaches her and asks if she can adopt El.

“I know, you are an adult, and it is not usually done this way,” Inga says. They are at Inga’s house for a casual dinner, something that El does with her at least a couple of times a week, where they chat about the gossip around town, about how Sigrún is doing and how she continues to lament that Inga isn’t feeding El enough, despite the fact that El lives on her own and is not under Inga’s direct care. “One day I will be an old woman and will no longer want to work at the inn. But I have no children, and no one to pass it on to.” She pauses, reaching over to take one of El’s hand in her own from where they are sitting at Inga’s kitchen table. “I would like to pass it on to you. You have been a treasure, Elea, one I do not know how I could live without. And I would very much like to call you my daughter.” 

“I would very much like that, too,” El says before she launches herself at Inga in a fierce hug, grateful for all the good fortune she’s been able to be blessed with over the past 4 years.

They have to get special dispensation from the Alþingi and several of the townspeople write letters of recommendation for her, citing how invaluable and how much a part of the community she’s become. And before the year is over, Eleanor Smith is no more and instead lives on as Elenóra Ingadóttir, a full citizen of Iceland, with an ID card and passport and all the full rights that carries, her forged US passport tucked deep in the back of a drawer in her dresser, a relic of a forgotten past.

The following spring, she goes with Anna and Jóhanna on a week-long trip to Europe, going to London and Paris, and no one even looks twice as El presents her Icelandic passport. It hits her, in this moment, that she is totally and finally free. The trail to connect Eleven to Elenóra Ingadóttir is too convoluted and disjointed for anyone to follow but her and she doesn’t have to live in fear. She can’t be stupid - a trip to the US is out except for the most extenuating of circumstances, but she can travel anywhere else in the world and doesn’t need to worry about catching the attention of the US government.

It feels like she finally has a life, one that is full of friends and routine and peace.

But at the end of the day, when work is over, when friends go home, when people are bid goodnight, El is left to go up to her room to settle in for bed alone.

Painfully, tragically alone.

For all that she’s found a place here in Seyðisfjörður, this quiet town in the remote eastern side of Iceland, there’s still something - no, someone, that is crucially missing.

In all this time, in all the peace that she’s found, in the contentment she’s built around her, every day El still yearns for Mike. Her soul still calls out to its other half, separated from her by thousands of miles and the lie she hides behind. She lives alone, no boyfriend to hold hands with as they walk down the street, no lover to warm her nights, because the only person she wants - the only person she’ll ever want - is the one person she can’t have.

Anna asks her about it once, during a slow day at the inn, during the lunch and dinner hour. “Elea, why is it you never date?”

El looks up from where she’s helping Anna fold napkins, heart skipping a beat in her chest. “I-I guess I’m just not interested in anyone.”

It’s not for lack of opportunities. El isn’t naive - she knows when other men are flirting with her. Hell, a few of them have even asked her out on dates over the years. But El has waved them off, each and every time. She smoothly deflects any and all attempts at actual flirting and makes it painfully crystal clear that she is not interested.

“But you are so beautiful and so sweet, I’m sure there are many men who would be eager to fall in love with you,” Anna says with a gently teasing grin.

El shakes her head and her thumb comes up to rub at the promise ring she still wears, even after all these years. She’s able to shake it off when the other ladies around town lament over her single status, but she knows she’s going to have to be more direct with Anna, who has learned to see through her in the years they’ve been friends. “There was someone, back in America, someone I left behind.”

Anna’s smile turns soft, gentle in its understanding of what El isn’t saying. “You still love him, this man you left behind before you came here.”

“More than anything,” El says, breath hitching in her chest from the force of her emotions, from the love she will always feel for Mike. He is the reason no other man could ever interest her - how could they when he still exists? “He was my perfect person.”

Anna pauses, head tilting in curiosity. “Does he still love you, do you think?”

The question is an innocent one, but one that has El’s stomach churning. “I believe so, yes,” El answers, but the truth is more complicated than that. Because in all the times El has checked in with Mike in the Void, there’s been no hint that he’s moved on at all, nothing to say that he still isn’t in love with her too - no dates, no other women, nothing. 

“Then what’s stopping you?” Anna asks, unaware of the immensity of what she is asking. “Bring him here with you. If he’s still in love with you, he would be here in a heartbeat.”

And that’s the problem. El’s almost positive Mike would drop everything to come be with her if only she would ask, throw all caution to the wind and risk everything to be by her side. But El can’t let Mike do that, she just can’t. She gave up everything to keep him safe, including him, and she won’t do anything to jeopardize that now. Dr. Owens said the government would always be watching him - how close, El doesn’t know. But she does know she won’t risk it, won’t risk him putting himself in the crosshairs when he’s been living safe these past almost 5 years.

But it still doesn’t stop her heart from yearning, still doesn’t stop her from missing him so completely that it robs her of breath. 

And she misses everything - the feel of his hand in hers, the way he would smile at her, eyes sparkling, as he told her stories about his day at school, or the intent way he would look at her as she spoke, eager for every word that fell from her lips. She misses the way he would look at her, equal parts wonder and worry, as he watched her train, watched her practice her powers (the ones she barely uses anymore except for small luxuries in the privacy of her home and the regular trips to the Void to check in on those she left behind). She misses the care he took in the gifts he would bring her, in the way he would get so, so nervous, like he was afraid she wouldn’t like whatever he brought her. She misses the way his kisses made her weak in the knees, the way the warmth of his skin bled in her hers, the way he touched her, worshiped her, when they were alone.

And, in a raw, primal way, El misses sex - god, does she miss it. El misses the intimacy of it, both physically and emotionally, misses the feeling of being one half of a whole, misses the rush of desire, misses the way her whole body would light up when Mike touched her, misses the feel of him between her thighs as his hips pressed into hers, filling her in a way she’d never thought possible and feels incomplete without.

It doesn’t help that she dreams of him, dreams that leave her empty and wanting where the only relief to be found is from her own fingers, wishing they were his instead, leaving her heart aching in the aftermath of her release.

It’s a problem that ramps up in the summer after she moves into her cottage. One of the habits she hasn’t been able to let go of are her regular check-ins with Mike in the Void. Her schedule is so erratic that she can’t always check in on him at the same time, but she finds a joy in that, being able to get random glimpses of his day, to see all the aspects of the life he’s living without her. 

She delights, even though it is very bittersweet, in discovering that he needs glasses when he hunches over the typewriter she often finds him working at. She marvels at the way he’s grown, a man fully now, the sweep of his cheekbones and line of his jaw absolutely devastating in his maturity.

Sometimes she catches him while he’s in class, sometimes when he’s out at dinner with friends, often times when he’s in his room at college, hard at work.

But she’s never caught him like this.

El’s having a lazy day. It’s her day off and she slept in, the blackout curtains doing their job against the late July Icelandic sun. She putters around her kitchen, making coffee, eggs, and toast, and lets herself get lost in the novel she’s reading while she’s curled up on the couch. 

It’s nearly noon when she decides that she wants to go check in on Mike and, as it has been for years now, simply closes her eyes after she puts her book down and lets her mind slip off to the Void between one breath and the next.

She finds Mike with the ease she always has when it comes to him, but the second she lays eyes on him, she freezes, breath catching in her throat.

Because Mike’s in the shower.

El’s no stranger to catching people in awkward or private moments when she looks in on them in the Void. She’s seen more of her friends than they would probably like her to have seen (the most notable of them the time she checked in on Max to find her in the middle of a very intimate moment with Lucas and El pushed out of the Void so fast, it left her a little dizzy) and she’s gotten good at keeping her eyes closed those first few seconds, just to make sure things are fine. It’s easier to forget sounds she’s heard than things she’s seen.

The sound of the shower running isn’t immediately alarming because this isn’t the first time she’s caught Mike taking a shower. It hasn’t happened often, but El normally likes those moments. She’s always found Mike exceptionally attractive and appreciates any opportunity to essentially ogle him. It’s one of the few pleasures she has these days and one she greedily hordes whenever the rare opportunity presents itself.

But that’s not what this is. Because it’s not so much that Mike is in the shower as it is what he’s doing in the shower.

Because he’s standing there, forearm braced against the wall so that his forehead can rest against it, hand clenched in a fist as he stands beneath the spray of the shower, water hitting his chest and sluicing down his body on the way to the floor of the tub, while his other hand moves between his legs as he touches himself.

Oh. Oh my god.

El finds she suddenly can’t breathe, can’t even look away, as her body suffuses with heat, desire pooling low and liquid in her belly and between her thighs. She takes in the way his face is screwed up with pleasure, eyes squeezed tight and teeth biting down on his lower lip; the harsh breaths he exhales through his nose; the way he strokes himself with long fingers wrapped around himself in a firm grip; the strangled moan he lets out that almost sounds like a whimper.

El wants, wants in a way she hasn’t in years, in the way only he’s ever made her feel. Every inch of her feels tingly, buzzing with heat, and her stomach swoops as every fiber of her being yearns, ragged with a desire that will never be sated. She wonders if he’s thinking about anyone, if he’s thinking about her. Does he do this often? Every day? Probably, her brain whispers. They’re not that far outside of their teenage years all things considered and she remembers how they couldn’t get enough of each other even then.

God, it would be so easy to go over to him, to pull him into the Void with her and replace his hand with hers, to sink to the floor in front of him and take him into her mouth in the way he would so rarely let her do when they were together. He always preferred to give instead of receive, never wanting to feel like he was pressuring her into doing something even though it was very much something she wanted to do. She wonders, if she’d never left, if she would have disabused him of that notion, if she would have been able to convince him that just like he got off on getting her off, it was the same for her with him, or if she’d have to hold him down with her powers and torture him with pleasure until he saw the error of his ways.

The need of that thought, sharp and urgent, combined with the image in front of her claws at her insides, leaving her aching, desperate. She pushes herself out of the Void, knowing that if she stays, she’s going to do something that she regrets, something that would ruin everything.

But it doesn’t stop her heart from pounding in her chest, doesn’t stop the desire that beats insistently in her veins. El is powerless to stop herself from slipping a hand beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts, whimpering as her body tips over that edge, pleasure flooding her every nerve, his name on her lips as she comes apart while tears burn behind eyes lidded shut.

She’s in the middle of it before she’s even aware it’s begun.

She’s standing in his room, looking over at him where he’s sitting on the edge of his bed. The low light in the room accentuates the lines of his shoulders, the length of his torso, highlighting the fact that he isn’t wearing a shirt, leaving him in only a pair of gray sweatpants.

She steps towards him and the movement catches his attention. He looks over at her, eyes meeting across the room, and the depths of what she sees in his gaze leaves her breathless. He stands, rising to his full height, and the way his gaze drags up and down her body feels like a physical caress. She feels exposed, keenly aware that she’s only wearing a thin camisole and a pair of panties, and goosebumps break out across her exposed skin.

She lets her eyes drink their fill of him, taking in the span of his shoulders, the planes of his chest, the low rise of his sweatpants that reveals the hollow of his hips. His arms hang by his side, fingers twitching like he’s barely holding himself back. 

She’s drawn to him just as he’s drawn to her and they lunge for each other, meeting in the middle as their bodies collide. And then she pulls him down towards her just as he pulls her into him, their lips meeting in a kiss that sets her aflame.

El can’t help the way she moans, dizzy as pleasure rushes through her. Mike’s mouth is on hers and all is right with her world.

He kisses her like he wants to devour her and El wants to let him. She wants to drown in his desire, wants to be consumed by him and never come up for air.

Her hands come up so her fingers can weave through the thick locks of his hair, while his hands hold tight to her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, his hold as bruising and desperate as the drag of his mouth against hers. His tongue licks into her mouth with a plea, beseeching, and El is powerless to deny him as her mouth parts beneath his, tongue entangling with his in a preview of the dance that is yet to come.

Mike’s hands don’t stay on her hips for long, though. His touch brands her as his hands blaze fire up the lines of her body, the pressure of his hands firm and confident. El shivers and gasps against his mouth as his thumbs trace the outer curves of her breasts on their way to where his palms slide around to press against the length of her spine. He lingers there for half a moment, pulling her firmly against him so there’s no space between them, before his hands slide down to the backs of her thighs, his body bending just enough to let him lift her into his embrace as he straightens.

Mouth never breaking from his, El’s legs wrap around him, knees pressing into his ribs, feet digging into the small of his back, as Mike turns, walking them to his bed and pressing her down into the mattress as his body hovers over hers. El slides her legs down, feet pressing right where the backs of his thighs meets the curve of his ass, and pulls him into her, feeling his hips slot into the bracket of her thighs. She arches against him, the hard length of him pressing against her, and both of them moan as the friction sizzles through them, needy and unfulfilled.

Mike’s mouth leaves hers, lips blazing a trail across her jaw and neck, teeth nipping at her collarbones, while his hands slide up under her camisole, pushing the fabric up the curve of her waist. She gasps at the warmth of his hands on her and she pushes up into his touch, shivering at the rasp of the fabric of her camisole against her skin as he removes it from her, leaving her bare to him.

He doesn’t stop there, mouth continuing to travel across her exposed skin in a determined course. El surrenders to his touch, to the weight of him on top of her, to the teasing pull of his lips and tongue as he maps a trail across her collarbones and chest, attention lingering on her breasts in a way that drives her mad, before he continues his way down her body.

Her panties are the next obstacle to be removed, his hands gliding down her legs as he pushes them off of her. Her chest heaves with a breath she can’t catch as his mouth drags down her stomach, leaving suckling kisses in his wake. She cries out as he nips the hollow of her hip and her thighs part easily as he settles between them with her knees hooking over his shoulders.

She loses herself in the heat of his mouth, in the curl of his fingers, in the firm pressure of his tongue as he laps at her, drinks from her, her hands fisting in his hair as her hips push up into him. He moves with her, never breaking contact as she arches against him, groaning against her skin as she sobs his name. He clutches at one thigh with his other hand, nails digging in to the tender flesh, and the shock of the pain brings a sense of clarity to El’s pleasure-soaked mind.

This isn’t a dream, she realizes, gasping with both pleasure and dismayed shock.

Or, at least, this isn’t her dream.

Somehow - and she doesn’t know how - she’s entered Mike’s dream through the Void and they’re in his mind, as real and together as they can be in this metaphysical limbo.

El sobs, lips trembling. She blames that moment where she caught him in the shower, in the way it’s left her desperate and wanting for days, haunting her day and night with longing. She should stop, she should push away, she knows this. But she can’t, she doesn’t dare. Mike doesn’t know he’s not dreaming, or that the dream is real. And if she disturbs the delicate balance they’re teetering on, she might ruin everything. He doesn’t know she’s alive and to do anything to stop this might reveal the lie she’s been forcing them to live. 

But this is dangerous, so, so dangerous. She shouldn’t let herself indulge like this, shouldn’t let herself be greedy.

But why not? she asks herself. Why can’t she be selfish, just this once? Hasn’t she earned this? Hasn’t she sacrificed enough?

She needs him, she decides, needs him in a way she’s never needed anyone before, needs him in a way that she’ll just die if she doesn’t get.

So she pulls him up, dragging him away from the pleasure he’s so selflessly giving her, and kisses him rather than answer the question that stares down at her from his gaze. She moans at the taste of her desire on his lips and the insistent undulation of her hips against his has him groaning in return.

El doesn’t dare speak, so as to not let anything slip that might reveal the truth she’s so painstakingly kept hidden. Instead, she lets her body do the talking for her. Her hands trail down the length of his back, feeling the ridges of muscle and bone pass beneath her greedy fingers. One hand slips beneath the waistband of his sweats, grabbing at his behind, and she smiles against his lips as he shudders against her, his hips jutting into hers in a way that has her eyes rolling back in her head.

With her other hand, she begins pushing his sweatpants down the length of his thighs, feet coming up to help push them the rest of the way down, until there are no more barriers between them. El can feel how much Mike wants her, hard and insistent against her leg, a feeling that is echoed in the way he clutches on to her, fingers digging into her thigh, her hip, palm squeezing her breast as he pants against her, breath ragged and needy.

El pulls away from the kiss and looks up at him, nodding at the question she sees in his eyes, and she refuses to look away as his hand nudges her thigh, parting her legs enough so he can push into her. El gasps as their bodies join, eyes locked on his, and the way he stares down at her, like nothing else matters, like she’s the only woman in the universe, makes her shiver with its intensity.

Her soul sings at the feel of him inside of her, feeling whole and complete, missing pieces brought together in pleasurable harmony. Mike lets out a shuddering breath as his head bends down, forehead resting on hers, lips just barely brushing against hers as he tries to breathe her in.

Their bodies move against each other, the push and pull of their hips playing out a familiar rhythm, one they discovered long ago in hidden moments and secret trysts. El clutches onto him, careful not to dig her nails into his skin, her arms curling up under his so her fingers can press into his shoulders, giving her the leverage she needs as she arches against him.

God, she’s missed this. Missed the way he moves against her, the sound of his moans as he pushes into her again and again, the way he whispers her name like a plea, a benediction and a love confession all rolled into one. Missed the way he can’t stop touching her, one hand touching everything and anything he can reach as the other braces himself on the mattress above her. Missed the way he feels, warm and solid and so, so right as he drives her closer and closer to the edge.

Mike’s jaw clenches and she knows he has to be close. She’s right there with him, every nerve alight with pleasure, breath leaving her in gasps and moans in the shape of his name. He slides a hand between them, fingers pressing into her right above where they’re joined, knowing just how to touch her despite the years that have separated them. Her eyes slide shut against the onslaught of heat that rolls through her. The bottom falls out of her stomach and she feels it, feels the way the pleasure coils tight inside of her, body hurtling quickly towards the point of no return, and she wants to shatter around him, wants to feel him with her as she goes over that edge. 

And she’s so close, god she’s so close. Her hips push up into his, needy and insistent, desperate and wanting, begging him for more. He growls against her, body shifting against hers, one arm hooking beneath her thigh to pull it up high around his ribcage, changing the angle in a way that has her seeing stars. She’s right there, the heat exploding inside of her, his name falling from her lips in a cry as the first wave of it begins to rush over her and-

Her eyes fly open, a gasp sticking her throat as her bedroom ceiling stares down at her in cruel mockery. Empty pleasure rockets through her, body coming apart around nothing, hollow in its victory.

She cries, sobs, tears sudden and sharp burning as they trail across her skin. She rolls over in bed, sheets tangling around her legs, and she curls in on herself, trying to fold herself into the empty spaces left behind.

El cries for how unfair it is, heart rallying against the injustice. She just wanted one moment, one single moment where she could forget about the things she’d done, where she could pretend her life is complete, where she could be whole and happy and blissfully in love with the man whose touch makes her forget her own name, who brings her to such heights she never wants to come back down to earth. 

But instead, she just has this: empty dreams and endless longing, yearning from a distance she doesn’t dare cross, her need to keep him safe outweighing her desire for happiness.

No matter how content her life gets, she will always be wanting him, always be waiting for him, as she lives a life devoid of true happiness. And while the sacrifice she made is one she would make over and over again, the weight of the lonely years ahead of her doesn’t make that sacrifice any easier to bear.

Mike wakes with a strangled groan, heart racing in his chest, desire piercing and insistent, leaving him hard and aching.

The depth of the need that ricochets through him has him gritting his teeth and Mike finds himself haunted by the dream that shocked him awake, fantasy ripped away right at the end, right before the good part, tantalizing him with the very thing he cannot have.

But, god, he can still taste her.

“Fuck,” he breathes through a jaw clenched so tight, he’s surprised he hasn’t cracked any of his teeth and Mike doesn’t even try to stop himself as he pushes his hand beneath the elastic band of his sweats, hissing at the feel of his touch on his most sensitive flesh, wishing instead that it was her hand instead - god, any part of her really, he’s not particularly picky right now. 

It’s not the first time Mike’s dreamed of El like this, not by a long shot, but, god, it felt so fucking real. Like if the dream hadn’t taken place in his bedroom, he could be convinced into thinking she had pulled him into the Void. But that’s impossible, right? As far as he knows, she doesn’t have the power to enter dreams, just memories, so he’s just left with the torture of a vivid dream, wishing instead with everything he has that it had been real.

It doesn’t take him long to find his release, too keyed up and turned on to last more than a handful of seconds. Mike wishes he could keep El’s name from pouring from his mouth, but he’s too wrapped up in thoughts of her - of how she sounded, how she tasted, how she felt as she writhed beneath him, skin soft and inviting and every lovely thing in the universe, surrendering herself to him with trusting abandon, wrapping herself around him as he pressed into her over and over again…

God, he just wants her, will always want her. He misses her with an intensity that literally aches, like an anchor weighing down on his heart. It brings tears to his eyes, the burn of them at odds with the relief of his release. It’s why Mike tries not to think of El in these moments - the fantasy of her just doesn’t compare to the reality of being with her and it only reminds him of why he has to settle for the fantasy in the first place.

Mike’s trained himself to keep his mind blank when he touches himself. The need for the physical release is still there - he’s a healthy 21 year old guy, after all, with all the normal sexual urges, if heavily pent up due to circumstances most definitely beyond his control. But thinking of El is too painful and no other woman does it for him. He normally seeks out relief in the shower, where the spray of the water can hypnotize him, letting him focus just on sensation and not leaning into a fantasy to fuel his desire.

It works, even if perfunctory, and Mike acknowledges that it’s probably fucking him up in ways that will later come back to bite him in the ass, but it’s the only way he can balance need against pain.

But, man, there are times, like tonight, where his heart, mind, and body all conspire to betray him, where he dreams of her and wakes up desperate and panting with need and unable to stop from thinking about her as he finds relief in the form of his own hand.

Sometimes, Mike thinks it’d be easier if he could be attracted to other women. El wants him to maybe think she’s gone forever, or for at least a little while, right? Maybe he could have tried moving on under the cover of that excuse, even if it hadn’t worked, just to feel some sort of companionship again. It’s not like there hadn’t been opportunities in the form of a handful of blind dates before people realized he didn’t want to be set up, and one disastrous coffee date that he hadn’t realized was a coffee date until he showed up and saw how nicely Beth had dressed up, leaving him to figure out how to awkwardly turn her down (turns out, the “it’s not you, it’s me” excuse doesn’t really work even when it’s the 100% honest truth).

Fuck, he’d settle for being able to find other women sexually appealing at all.

But that’s the problem with falling in love with someone like El. Quite literally no one else compares. How could they? How could anyone expect him to look at anyone else and have them not fall short next to her sheer perfection? How does anyone expect him to move on after finding his literal soulmate at age 12? His everything is wired around her, his first in all the ways that matter. His first kiss, his first love, the first person to ever touch him besides himself, the first girl he ever slept with. He came into his sexual awakening already fully in love and entirely consumed with her and she imprinted on him so hard there will never be room for anyone else.

In the end, it’s El or no one at all.

It’s why he has to find her, it’s why he’s waiting desperately for a sign, for anything to tell him that she’s out there, waiting for him like he’s waiting for her. All she needs to do is say something and he’s gone in a heartbeat. There is nowhere she could go that he wouldn’t gladly follow her to. And he’s been saving up, squirreling away money earned from part-time jobs and birthday/holiday presents for when the day comes, knowing that wherever she is, getting to her won’t be cheap, but he won’t let any little thing like logistics keep him from making his way to her.

Mike once thought he was content to wait, but it’s been just over 3 years since he put the pieces together, almost 5 since he last saw her, heart breaking as he realizes he’s been without her longer than he’d ever been with her, and he’s still waiting, patience running out, need slowly crowding out reason. He hopes, prays she reaches out soon and gives him a sign or a clue, anything to guide him. 

Because there’s not much longer he can wait before he tosses all caution to the wind and throws himself head first into a madcap search for her, whether or not she wants him to find her.

Chapter Text

By the time Mike graduates from UI, he already has a book deal. The success of being nominated for both a Hugo and a Nebula award has a horde of literary agents suddenly clamoring to represent him, each of them wanting the honor of snapping him up first. It’s overwhelming and Mike does the only thing he can think of: he calls Nancy.

He’s a hyperventilating mess when she picks up, a dizzying array of letters in his mailbox and voicemails on his answering machine, all eager for him to respond to. But she talks him off the ledge, speaking slowly and calmly like she’s trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Look, give me their names and I’ll do some research for you, weed out the bad ones and narrow it down to the best contenders.”

Mike’s shoulders relax and he lets out a strangled sigh of relief into the phone’s receiver. “You don’t have to do that for me,” he says, even though he’s touched beyond measure that Nancy would offer.

“Hey, my baby brother’s going to be a big time author. Gotta make sure no one is going to take advantage of you.” 

Despite being hundreds of miles apart, Mike can hear the teasing grin in Nancy’s voice and it makes him smile. “Ok, ok, hold on, let me get you the list of names. Warning, it’s long.”

Despite the task ahead of her, Nancy comes through and gets back to Mike a week later with the list narrowed down to three names with a list of questions to ask them. “From what I can gather, these three are the real deal. Give them a call, treat it like you’re interviewing them for a job because that’s exactly what you’re doing. They’re going to work for you - make them prove they deserve to.”

In the end, Mike ends up choosing a no-nonsense middle aged woman named Belinda Grost whose straight-forward answers to his questions remind him, in the best way, of both Max and Nancy, like she won’t put up with any of his shit (which Mike knows he needs because he is a master at wheedling shit, even if he’ll never admit it out loud). And before Mike knows it, as graduation date races towards him, he has a book deal with Macmillan under their Tor imprint, and with it comes a steady salary and deal for an advance on a novel once he proposes an idea.

After he graduates, with the pressure of an expected book proposal hanging over his head, Mike moves back home, car full to the gills with all the stuff from his dorm room. He thinks maybe it won’t be so bad to be home, to be back in Hawkins. He misses his mom’s cooking something fierce and Hawkins is the place where he feels closest to El - if he can’t be with her, then at least he can be in all the places that remind him of her.

Mike lasts exactly 3 weeks living at home before he’s itching to get out, practically crawling up the walls in his need for his own space. A couple of days later, he moves into a small apartment complex near downtown Hawkins, renting a 1-bedroom studio that’s barely big enough for his bed, a desk, a couch in the living room with a TV, and a small kitchen table. 

It’s a depressing apartment, devoid of character, sterile…lifeless. Mike’s mom waffles between bemoaning the sad state of the place and trying to find a silver lining while she proposes improvements Mike could make.

But Mike knows he’s not going to make any of them because he’s not going to be staying long enough to make them worth it. This a temporary stop, a place to gather resources and pin down an idea for a novel so he can earn that advance from Macmillan. Because at the end of the day, El is out there somewhere and he needs to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. So he only signs a lease that’s month-to-month and keeps most of his meager belongings packed in boxes.

He doesn’t tell his mom any of this, though - no one knows what Mike knows: that El is out there, alone, living who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what to survive. Someday when she’s ready, she’ll reach out and that’ll be it, Mike will be gone. He’ll leave this all behind and disappear into the wind, disappear off to wherever she is so they can live out the rest of their lives together like they were meant to all along.

But until then, he needs somewhere to live where his mom’s not poking her head into his room or the basement every couple of hours just to “check on him”, or where Holly’s inane pop music doesn’t blare through the wall separating their rooms and keep him from concentrating. And this shitty apartment can do that just fine.

Mike’s days settle into a routine of monotony. Most of his day is spent hunched over notebooks or his typewriter, trying to gather his squirrelly thoughts and focus them on the task at hand. A couple of nights a week, he goes to his parents’ house for dinner, mostly so he can load up on leftovers since he can’t cook worth a damn and doesn’t really have the mental capacity to learn.

Really, the only highlight of the summer that follows him moving back to Hawkins is that the Party is back too… or, most of them are at any rate. Hopper and Joyce moved to Montauk when they got married and Will already rents an apartment in NYC, so there’s nothing back in Hawkins for him to move to. But Dustin is home for the summer, having graduated from MIT before he moves out to California to go to UC Berkeley for his master’s degree. And Lucas and Max are staying in Hawkins pretty much long enough to save up to find an apartment back in Chicago before they move back to the city that’s become home to them.

So, for a couple of months at least, most of them are in the same place for a good stretch of time. And it’s nice, really nice. They’re all adults now, proper drinking age and everything, so there’s nothing stopping them from hanging out Mike’s (shitty) apartment, eating pizza and drinking beer as they crowd around the couch and the coffee table. 

“This place is depressing, you know that?” Max says from where she’s sitting on the floor next to Lucas, coffee table in front of her as she looks over at Mike who’s sitting on the couch.

“What, you offering to interior decorate it for me?” Mike asks, beer bottle raised halfway to his mouth as he looks over at Max with an arched eyebrow.

Max grabs a pizza crust from her plate and hurls it over at Mike, who chuckles while he hurries to duck before he’s hit in the face with flying carbs. “Oh fuck you,” she says, lips pinched and eyes narrowed in a sneer

Mike rolls his eyes. “Real mature, Mayfield.”

“Hey, guys, can we please not do this?” Dustin says. “I really don’t want to relive high school.”

“Yeah, we’re not kids anymore,” Lucas chimes in with, reaching over to slide his hand over Max’s, their fingers weaving together effortlessly. The tension drains out of Max’s shoulders with a sigh and Mike has to swallow hard not to react to the casual intimacy in front of him. God, he hungers for that kind of touch so badly it aches, a wound that will never heal, and even knowing that El is out there somewhere does little to assuage the pain. He mourns the lost time, the years, literal years that have separated them, and wonders how they will ever be able to make up for them.

“Sorry, Lucas,” Max says, her voice dropping low and soft, a tender tone she only takes with him.

Mike feels something give way in his heart - as much as he’s envious, he’s also so fucking happy the two of them are in a good spot after all they went through to get here. “Yeah, me too.” He pauses, eyes narrowing playfully. “Though I don’t know why I’m apologizing in my own apartment.”

Dustin chortles. “Max does have a point, though. It looks like you’ve barely moved in.”

Mike squirms under the weight of the comment. He won’t say anything about his true plans, not even to the Party. They wouldn’t understand, they’d just think he’s gone crazy with grief and the intensity of missing El. And there’s a bit of truth to that - missing her, being without her, grieving the loss of her by his side, it’s all driving him crazy. But it’s not because he thinks she’s dead. No, she’s alive but she’s gone from him, not from life, and the distance he swears he can feel stretching between them chafes like an itch he just can’t scratch.

So Mike just shrugs and tries to smile. He knows it probably looks fake, but hopefully they just think he’s embarrassed. “I mean, I’ve been focusing on coming up with an idea for my book. The publisher won’t give me an advance until I do.”

“How’s that going, anyway?” Lucas asks before he grins. “Mike Wheeler, big shot author.”

Mike levels a look over at Lucas. “Hey, I write behind a pen name, remember?” Lucas, who has his head tipped back to drink the last of the beer in his bottle, just rolls his eyes and shakes his fist in a crude jerking off motion. Max smacks him on the shoulder with a scoff.

Dustin very primly ignores the exchange. “Any ideas so far?” 

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Mike says with a grimace. It’s honestly embarrassing that how little he has to show for the past couple of weeks he’s been working. But none of the ideas have panned out past any first attempt to outline and he’s starting to wonder if the pressure is already getting to him, if the need to deliver has killed any and all creative ability. What does he know about writing a novel, anyway? He’s only ever written short stories before.

“Hey, why don’t you write about what happened to us?” Dustin says, mouth pulled up in a soft smile, spark of inspiration alight in his eyes.

“I kinda already did that with the short story that got nominated,” Mike says, brow furrowing as he frowns.

Dustin rolls his eyes, sighing like he’s surrounded by idiots (and considering he’s going of the UC Berkeley for a double masters in Engineering and Quantum Mechanics, maybe he is). “No, not the lab, us. The story of our journey.” His smile softens, sobering. “Her story.”

After all this time, they still don’t mention El’s name in his presence. Mike’s fine with that, really - he still isn’t comfortable talking about her, even with the Party. Talking about her makes him keenly aware of the weight he carries, the weight of missing her and waiting for her and all the trauma that took her from him, the weight of thinking she died and having to carry alone the realization that she isn’t.

Mike must be quiet for too long because Lucas and Max rush to chime in. “I like that,” Max says, the sigh in her voice bittersweet with nostalgia.

“Yeah, I think she’d really like that, man,” is Lucas’ addition.

Something in Mike’s stomach curdles. He hates this, hates how easy it is for them to talk about her, about how easy it is for them to accept that she’s not here. El left a hole in the world when she disappeared and it kills Mike that he’s the only one who’s still pained because of it.

Sometimes, Mike hates his friends for moving on and then he hates himself for feeling like that - not everyone deserves to be stuck in the past like he is, unable to move forward, existing without living.

But the idea of moving on from El Hopper is just such a foreign concept that he doesn’t understand how anyone ever could.

Still, Dustin’s idea sticks, even after everyone’s gone home for the night, full and pleasantly buzzed as the night air envelopes them. And despite being full and buzzed himself, Mike finds his feet carrying him the desk next to his bed. He opens his notebook, scoops up his pen, and begins writing like a man possessed.

It takes him a few days, but he thinks he has a solid idea under his belt: a story of a small band of childhood friends, who make a pilgrimage to offer the gods tribute in exchange for their missing friend, only to discover that the gods who have been tasked with protecting this world are hiding a great and terrible secret and the only hope for their home and their friend is a young priestess who’s been held captive by the gods’ most devoted followers. It’s a story of twists and turns, of near misses and heart-pounding terror, of conspiracies and cosmic horror, of love and determination and a devotion so powerful, it literally reshapes the world.

Within a few weeks, Mike sends a finalized outline and a draft of the first few chapters to his editor at Macmillan and by the end of the summer, a check arrives with more zeros than Mike has ever seen before, his advance paid in full, one thing checked off the list, one more step closer to El.

When Mike’s not writing, he’s spending time with the Party. Will comes out for a couple of weeks to visit and, for a little while, they’re all teenagers again, bickering and laughing and having a good time, but this time able to legally drink. Tired of beer, Max starts bringing by wine to their hangouts, leading Mike and Max to find the only thing they can agree on: red wine is vastly superior to the liquid bread that is beer. They playfully sit on their smug, lofty perches, teasing the others for drinking like “peasants” until Lucas begins grumbling about how it was better when Mike and Max fought all the time.

And the entire summer, they try to ignore the hole that exists between them, the 6th of their number, her absence keenly and silently felt. Mike has to bite his tongue to keep from telling them what he knows and suffers alone in a different kind of silence alongside them.

And then summer ends. Max and Lucas move back to Chicago, Will has long gone back to New York, and Dustin schleps cross-country in his mom’s station wagon out to sunny California, leaving Mike to wallow in a sad apartment, waiting for a sign that doesn’t seem to be any closer to happening.

All alone, as sometimes he fears he’ll always be.

By the time Mike decides to stop waiting for El to reach out and instead decides to go off to find her instead, it’s not because of any one thing, but a series of small things, one collapsing into the other like dominoes racing along the floor.

The first domino that falls comes during Christmas 1993.

It’s been 6 months since Mike graduated college, 6 months of living in a shitty apartment and burying himself in writing. With the rest of the Party all off living their lives, there’s nothing to stop Mike from holing up in his bedroom and hunching over his desk as he works, first churning out pages on a typewriter and then later on a brand new laptop his editor ships over to him, a marvel of a machine that has Mike’s jaw dropping as he reverently sets up the computer - it appears the future has arrived in the form of a portable computer and Mike is gobsmacked.

The laptop lets himself send disks with his latest chapters to the publisher, reducing the chance for completely losing his progress as they risk sending pages back and forth in the mail. It also makes it easier for him to edit or correct any egregious mistakes as he goes, but it also comes with the silent judgment of the word processor’s cursor blinking at him when the words sometimes stall, mocking him with his inexperience. 

As Christmas approaches, Mike is about 2/3rds of the way through his first draft. His editor is pleased, sending him encouraging feedback, sometimes with questions or legitimate critiques of what Mike’s written so far that help Mike dig in further and refine what he’s written. The further he gets into writing this book, the less he feels like a fraud and the more he feels like maybe he can actually do this, maybe he can make this into a legitimate career.

The writing also helps make the waiting feel not so bad. Every night, he falls asleep thinking of her, praying for a sign, heart aching with impatience, but he’s able to push those feelings to the back of his mind while he works. Mike feels like he’s in a bubble, holding his breath as the world holds it with him, just waiting for something to change. And he’s ready for it to change - god, is he ready for it to change.

But, like so many other things in life, the change Mike is hoping for is not the one he ends up getting.

The Wheeler family home looks like Christmas threw up all over it, his mother’s attempt at filling the cracks and fissures in their family with holiday cheer ramped up into overdrive. There’s tinsel and lights and poinsettias everywhere, draping the house in festivity that is almost nauseating for how over-the-top it is.

But, with Christmas, comes family and something in Mike’s soul eases when Nancy comes strolling in through the front door, suitcase in hand, looking like the proper East Coast sophisticate she’s become since moving away. She greets him with a hug and a teasing jibe. “When was the last time you saw sunlight, little brother?”

“Probably the last time you grew an inch,” Mike says. “I swear I could probably fit you in my pocket.”

Nancy throws him a look and Mike tries not to grin at how she has to crane her neck to look up at him. “Hey, I can still kick your ass, you know.”

Mike throws up his hands in mock defeat (though he knows if it came down to a real fight, she’d have him pleading for mercy within seconds) and lets her set her suitcase down by the stairs before they move together deeper into the house so Nancy can greet their mom.

Over the next couple of days, the festivities wash over Mike like a warm blanket. There’s a comforting nostalgia to Christmas at home and he lets himself sink into it and ignore the way everything feels like it’s balanced on a knife’s edge.

But then the world tilts in such a way that Mike can’t ignore it anymore. 

It’s after Christmas dinner and as Mike and Nancy are helping to clean up, she taps him on the elbow and crooks a finger at him. “Hey, I brought a flask down with me if you’re up for a nightcap,” she says with a grin that is awash with dry conspiracy, keeping her voice low so Holly doesn’t overhear.

Mike chuckles. “Hey, I’m always down for free booze,” he says with a shrug.

This is how Mike finds himself sitting on the garage roof next to Nancy, both of them wrapped up in blankets to keep away the night chill, passing a flask of bourbon back and forth as they sit side-by-side looking out over the cul-de-sac. “So, what prompted this?” Mike asks as he takes his second sip. They’ve just been enjoying each other’s company in silence as two siblings who have seen and done too much in the relatively few number of years they’ve lived on this planet.

Nancy gives him a grin as she shrugs. “What, I can’t just want to share a drink with my favorite brother?”

“One, I’m your only brother,” Mike says, leveling his gaze at her. “And, two, you only do this when you want to talk about something that scares you. You’ve been a little twitchy since you’ve been back.”

Nancy gasps, jaw dropping in insult. “Excuse you, I have not been twitchy.”

Mike chuckles. “Oh yeah? Then what was that whole spluttering thing you did when Mom asked you why you haven’t settle down yet?”

Nancy glares at him. “I didn’t splutter,” she says before taking a hard pull at the flask.

“Sure looks like you did to me.” Mike pauses, eyeing her. “So, fess up, what has you all freaked out?”

“Couldn’t I just want to talk, see how you’re doing? You’re not exactly easy to get details out of on the phone,” Nancy says with a tight smile.

“Alright, then, how about we make this a game or… or a fair exchange?” Mike says. “You tell me what’s freaking you out and then you can ask me a question and I’ll answer honestly.”

Nancy narrows her eyes at him. “Any question?”

There’s a suspicious glint in her eyes that has Mike doubting himself, but the warm burn of bourbon in his chest makes it easy to ignore. “Yeah, anything you want,” he says instead.

Nancy lets out a harsh breath, cheeks puffing from the force of the blow. “Ok, you know how I moved to New York for a job with the Times?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “I mean, this is only the 50th time you’ve mentioned it in the past few days.”

Nancy reaches over to shove Mike and he retaliates by snagging the flask from her grip, taking a sip. “Oh, fuck you,” she mumbles before she gives herself a shake. “Well, I have a date. For a New Year’s party.”

Mike raises an eyebrow, confused. “And…? Not seeing the issue here, Nance.”

“My date it’s…” She trails off, voice strangled, before she continues with a rush of breath and words. “It’s with Jonathan, ok?” she says before she hurriedly reclaims the flask, taking a long drink from it.

Mike blinks, wheels turning in his head. “Wait, you mean your ex-boyfriend Jonathan? Will’s brother Jonathan?”

“We ran into each other at an art gallery a few weeks ago, ok?” Nancy says. “And we started talking again and it turns out a writer friend of his is throwing this big New Year’s party and he asked me if I wanted to go.”

“And you said yes,” Mike says.

“And I said yes,” Nancy repeats back. “It’s just… we’ve been down this road before and I don’t know how many more times I can screw this up.”

“Hey, you won’t screw this up,” Mike says, reaching over to lay a hand on Nancy’s arm. “Do you still love him?” 

Nancy lets out a laugh that is a little too close to a sob for his liking. “Don’t think I ever stopped, really.”

“Then just be honest with him, tell him what you’re afraid of. You know he appreciates the honesty more than the performance.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I know you’re right,” Nancy says with a sigh. “I just don’t know who we are together when we’re not fighting interdimensional hell monsters and uncovering government conspiracies, you know?”

A sad twinge pulls at his chest and Mike shakes his head with a rueful laugh. “Not really, but I understand what you’re trying to say.” He pauses, taking in a deep breath. “I hope it works out for you and Jonathan.”

Nancy wrinkles her nose as she looks at him. “Really?”

Despite the low churn of envy deep in his stomach (god, does he wish he was figuring out how to be with the woman he loves under the shadow of peace), Mike nods. “I really do.”

“Thanks, Mike,” Nancy says, face relaxing into a small smile, soft in its authenticity. A beat passes and her smile shifts into something a little more devious with an eyebrow arched mischievously. “My turn for a question?”

Mike sighs and tips his head back against the night sky. “I think I’m going to regret this, Ms. Investigative Reporter, but ok.”

Nancy shifts beneath her blanket so she can look straight at him. The mischievous look is gone, softened into something both curious and concerned. “Why have you never tried to move on from El?”

The question lands as gently as a punch to the gut and Mike chokes on a breath as he gasps. He coughs and gladly accepts the flask Nancy’s handing back over to him. They’re halfway through it now and the buzz from the alcohol is settling nicely beneath his skin. But he still raises it to his lips and takes a steadying mouthful, letting the burn of it chase away the spasms in his throat. “Jesus Christ, Nancy,” he says, voice hoarse from both the coughing and the alcohol. “A little warning next time.”

“Hey, no dodging the question. You said you’d answer honestly.” Nancy pins him with her gaze and Mike knows he’s lost this battle.

His heart twists and Mike has to close his eyes to gather his courage as his breath stutters in his chest. “I don’t know if I ever can,” Mike says, voice tight and strangled. Nancy doesn’t say anything, just gives him the space to find his words. It’s tough for a couple of reasons. One being that Nancy’s question rests on the assumption that El is dead, when she’s not, and Mike can’t tell her this. But the other reason this is tough is because he doesn’t talk about El, not out loud. It’s been years since he’s had a conversation about her with other people, which he hasn’t minded because talking about her is painful, even if just because of how much he misses her.

“Sometimes I think I can still feel her,” he says, skirting as close to the truth as he dares. He can’t outright lie to her - he’s a shitty liar and Nancy can see right through him. “I don’t know why, but my heart doesn’t fully believe she’s gone. Like maybe she’s out there waiting for me and I just need to go find her.” He pauses, swallowing. “But even if she really is gone, I don’t think I could let anyone else in like that.”

“Oh, Mike,” Nancy breathes, her turn to reach over and place a hand on his arm. “El wouldn’t want that for you.”

“I know, I know she wouldn’t,” Mike says. He can feel the way his eyes start burning, tears building behind them, and he wills himself to stay in control. “But I think I do want that for me. And it wouldn’t be fair to anyone else, being with someone who can’t ever be in a relationship as an equal partner. And maybe someday it’ll be different, but until then, this is the best I can do.”

There’s a long silence, punctuated only by the sound of Mike sniffing occasionally as he tries to control himself, before Nancy sighs. “I get it, Mike. I mean, I don’t entirely understand, but I see what you’re saying.” She gives his arm a squeeze, comforting and empathetic. “And if you ever do go ‘looking’ for her, let me know, yeah? Just so I don’t think you’ve disappeared off the face of the planet. We’ve been through enough together - you owe me that at the very least.”

It’s obvious from the tone of Nancy’s voice that she doesn’t think El is alive. Which, fine - Mike can believe for the whole world and that’s all that matters. But he understands what she’s trying to say and he nods, trying his best to smile. “Yeah, ok, I promise to let you know.” He takes one more long pull from the flask before handing it back to her. “Here, I think I’ve reached my limit of sad bourbon drinking.”

Nancy does the same, taking one last drink with a smile and a shake of her head. “We are two fucked up people, aren’t we?” Nancy closes the flask and they stand up, gathering blankets in their way, before moving towards Nancy’s window.

“I mean, look at our entire childhood history. How does anyone come out of that and not be fucked up?” Mike asks as he climbs in after her.

“Ok, that’s fair.” Nancy closes the window behind Mike before she turns and gives him a gentle shove towards her door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to collapse in my bed in a bourbon-fueled food coma haze and I suggest that you maybe do the same.”

Mike chuckles. “Now that you mention it, the siren’s song call of my bed is strangely irresistible.”

Nancy rolls her eyes as she opens the door so Mike can leave. “God, spare me your writer’s melodrama and go to bed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mike says with a cheery, mocking salute, laughing outright as she slams the door in his face.

Ah, some things never change, Mike thinks with a low chuckle as he ambles down the hall towards his room. He could go back to his apartment, but when he thinks about trying, it just seems like too much effort when there’s a nice comfy bed just a few feet away.

Safely ensconced in his childhood bedroom, Mike strips down to his t-shirt and boxers, his sweater and jeans landing in a pile by the foot of his bed, before he flops down face first on to the mattress. He groans with the effort of climbing under the covers but manages to do it with minimal dramatics, sighing as his body warms beneath the blankets, eager to let sleep claim him.

But now that he’s in bed, ready to fall asleep, he finds it elusive. His mind replays the conversation he had with Nancy, running it over and over in his mind like a worry stone.

He’s happy for Nancy, he really is - finding her way back to Jonathan, the excitement and hope in her voice behind the anxiety that had carried her words to him. Nancy’s moving forward, living her life, discovering and rediscovering the things she wants and loves in this safe peace they now live in.

Mike envies her for it.

He wishes he could have that, that he and El could be figuring out their lives as adults, safe and happy. Not torn apart by who knows how many miles, him missing her so fiercely it feels like he’s stuck in the past, 13 years old and talking into a walkie talkie every night just waiting for a sign that never comes.

Mike eventually falls asleep, the ache of missing El sharp and poignant. He dreams of her that night, a soft, bittersweet moment, just the two of them lost in a sea of white nothingness.

“Why haven’t you found me?” El asks, hand cupping his face as she looks up at him imploringly.

“How can I find you if I don’t know where you are?” is his answer. “Just tell me, tell me where you are.”

She smiles softly up at him, sadness gathered at the corners of her eyes. “You know I can’t do that,” she says. “You know how to find me, in here.” She lays her hand on his heart, her touch light through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Follow your heart and you’ll find me there.”

He wakes in the morning, missing her more than he has in months, leaving him drowning in melancholy that doesn’t ease as the New Year approaches, wishing that, like Nancy, he had a path to a brighter future.

Nancy getting back together with Jonathan is the first domino to fall, the first in a sequence over the next couple of months that will push Mike past his thinning tolerance for waiting.

A couple of weeks after the New Year, during one of his regular calls with Will, Will excitedly passes on the news that he and Zach, his long time boyfriend, are moving in together at the end of the month. Mike congratulates him, tasting ash in his mouth the entire time as he looks around his shitty apartment, a lonely space waiting for someone else to share it with him.

The next domino is when Dustin calls him a week later, freaking out about this girl he just met who he’s taking out to dinner and he doesn’t know what to do, but he wants to pull out all the stops because he’s never felt like this before. When Mike asks Dustin why he’s calling him, Dustin just says “well, you’re the most romantic guy I know, so I figured if anyone had good advice, it’d be you.” Mike half-asses his way through giving Dustin tips, all the while wishing he had the one person who inspired them by his side.

But the final domino is when Lucas calls him in the beginning of February. And after a bit of rambling, catching-up conversation, Lucas takes a deep breath that sounds heavy through the receiver pressed against Mike’s ear. “Hey, uh, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

Mike settles into the couch, phone cord stretched across from where the base is anchored against the wall by the kitchen. “Yeah man, you can tell me anything, you know that.”

“I just wanted you to be the first to know. I’m, um, I’m going to ask Max to marry me.”

For a second, Mike doesn’t understand what Lucas is telling him. But he hears the words eventually and his breath sticks in his throat. “Oh wow,” he says, aware of how strangled the words are and unable to do anything about it. “You, uh, you have a ring and everything?”

“Yeah, picked it out a little while ago,” Lucas says, voice trembling with what is probably a combination of nerves and excitement. “I just - I just didn’t want you to hear about it from someone else, you know?” 

Mike does, oh how he does. He knows the care people take in mentioning relationships around him, knows that they’re all painfully aware of all the things they get to experience that he’s missing out on.

And, for a moment, white hot rage sweeps through Mike. It should be him proposing to El. God, he was ready to do it when he was 16. If she’d still been with him, he would have done it the second he graduated high school. He was ready, still is ready, will never not be ready to spend the rest of his life with her.

But Mike can’t tell Lucas any of this, not if he doesn’t want to shatter into a kaleidoscope of pain and emotion. So he swallows down the tangled lump of emotion in his throat and tries to sound like he’s happy for his friend (which he is, truly, but it’s an emotion overshadowed by everything else). “Congratulations, Lucas. That’s amazing. I’m really happy for you.”

“Yeah?” Lucas says, almost like he’s unsure, whether of Mike or himself, Mike doesn’t know.

“Yeah, you two have been together forever and you love each other. You guys deserve this.”

They hang up not long after this and the second the phone is back on the hook, Mike stops trying to hold back the complicated swirl of emotions boiling in his stomach and drowning his heart.

“Fuck!” His fist comes up to slam against the wall next to the phone, denting the plaster. What’s one more dent in this shitty apartment, Mike distantly thinks before he collapses back against the kitchen counter.

God, he can’t do this anymore. He can’t watch his friends and family live their happy lives while he sits here stuck in the past, watching with envy while waiting for something that seems less likely to happen with every passing day.

It’s been 6 years since El left him, almost 5 since he realized what she did and traded mourning her death for waiting for her to call him to her. But she’s not calling and Mike’s done waiting.

El’s out there somewhere and for whatever reason, whether because she can’t or she’s not safe, she hasn’t reached out to him. And that’s ok….

Because Mike’s going to go find her himself.

The decision to stop waiting and go after El is one of the most relieving decisions Mike’s ever made. He feels lighter, like the weight of missing her is more bearable knowing that he’s going to stop waiting and start doing. He might fail, Mike knows this, but at least he will have tried, which is better than nothing.

But, at his core, Mike doesn’t think he’ll fail. He can feel it, down to his marrow - he will always be able to find her, no matter where she is in the world, no matter how long it’ll take. He’s tethered to her in a way he’ll never be able to explain or fully understand how, but he and El are linked, bound together in a way that calls to mind words like “destiny” and “soulmates”. He’s belonged to her since the moment he met her on that rainy night in the woods and he’s tired of pretending otherwise.

But as much as Mike wants to run out the door and immediately begin his search for her, he doesn’t because he’s not stupid.

No, he needs to plan. He needs to pack his things and figure out if his publisher is ok with him writing on the road and make sure the car is ok for a long road trip and that he has enough money in his bank account for a life spent on the road.

Most of all, he needs to figure out where to start looking. You know me better than anyone, she used to tell him. If anyone can figure out where to look for El, it’s Mike.

But it’s a big world out there and Mike needs somewhere to start. 

So he thinks, tries to reach for her to get into her head, to think like her.

El is practical and driven. Leaving Hawkins, the first thing she would have done is find somewhere to hide, somewhere where no one could find her. She’d settle somewhere safe, or move from safe place to safe place as she figured out how to survive. She is smart and capable and above all determined.

But Mike knows her, knows who she is deep in her heart. And deep down, beneath all the layers of practical determination and skeptical caution, El Hopper is a romantic. She’d want to be somewhere that reminded her of the loved ones she sacrificed everything for, of the dreams the two of them once had for themselves.

And then it hits him like divine inspiration, a realization so swift and obvious, it takes his breath away: waterfalls.

She’d go find their waterfalls.

God, of course - that’s exactly what she’d do!

The realization is exhilarating and, once it fully sinks in, everything else seems to fall into place. He decides to start his search domestically, compiling a list of all notable waterfalls in the United States. Odds are, she’s probably not at any of them, but he has to check, has to be thorough.

He gets the car serviced - oil changed, brakes checked, everything looked over to make sure it’s in the best shape it can be. Next, he calls his editor, and after the preamble of greetings, gets right to the heart of the matter. “Question for you: what’s the policy on writers traveling?”

“Why, you thinking of taking a trip?” comes the response.

Mike thinks for a second, brain racing. He knows odds are somewhat decent he’s being watched. He doesn’t know if his phone’s bugged, but he figures the government is probably keeping tabs on him. But if they think he’s just a wandering writer, looking for a place to find inspiration, and his editor can speak to that? Well, then, isn’t that just the perfect cover story? “Yeah, I’m a little stuck in my novel.” It’s not…untrue. The words have been harder to come by over the past several weeks as he felt like everyone was moving on with their lives but him. “Was hoping a road trip could help clear the writer’s block.”

“Welp, as long as you have access to a post office and a phone, you can write from Timbuktu for all I care.”

“That easy?” It’s not that Mike’s skeptical, but…well, he doesn’t trust easy.

“That easy,” his editor says with a laugh. “You have a laptop and floppy disks - that’s all you need. Just keep me posted as to your itinerary and try to stay in place long enough so I can send disks back to you. We can overnight them back and forth if needed.”

The conversation closes not long after that, Mike offering profusive thanks until his editor just hangs up on him.

And with that, the last hurdles are his stuff and the people he’s going to be leaving behind.

The stuff is easy: he doesn’t have much of it and after packing the essentials, he takes the rest back to his house in dribs and drabs over a week or so, always timed so that the house is empty and he can squirrel away his things in the closet of his childhood room, tucked away where no one can see them. In the end, he’s just left with a suitcase, a duffle bag, and a backpack: laptop, notebooks, and a battered copy of "The Hobbit" stored in his backpack, clothes and necessities in his suitcase and duffle bag, his passport and El's picture secured in a side pocket.

The people he’s leaving behind are more difficult.

Mike’s under no illusion of the enormity of what he’s doing: in order to find El, in order to be with her, he has to give up everyone else he loves.

Is this what she went through, is this the weight she carried before she made her decision? The thought is heartbreaking and he finds himself sympathizing, now faced with the same tradeoff, the weight of it tearing his heart in two.

But he knows what his choice is. It’s what his choice always has been: her, just her. And if he has to give up the world to get it, then that’s a price Mike will gladly pay.

He doesn’t go without saying goodbye, though. Carefully, heart twisting and hands shaking, he writes them all letters: the Party, Nancy, Holly, his mom and dad, everyone who’d care to wonder where he went, or who might try to stop him. He writes to let them know he’s not dead, or dying, or planning on dying. He writes to let them know that this is something he has to do, that he’d rather search for something he might never find than stay in one place watching the world pass him by. He writes that he doesn’t want them coming after him, that this is a journey he needs to take alone. And he writes, eyes blurring with tears, how much he loves them, how much he’s valued each and every one of them for how they’ve cared for him over the years, and that he will always love them even if he never sees them again.

And in Nancy’s letter, he writes one extra thing, a postscript that only she will understand: I’ve gone to look for her.

Mike gingerly places each letter in an envelope, taking care when writing the addresses, making sure the postage is right. By the time anyone gets his letter, he’ll be long gone, no chance of anyone changing his mind.

And with the letters dropped off in the post box, the keys to his apartment resting on the kitchen counter for the landlord to find, Mike Wheeler climbs into his car and takes his final drive out of Hawkins.

Never to return again.

(thousands of miles away, huddled beneath blankets and wracked with fever from the flu that’s gone through the town like fire, a shiver runs down el’s spine as something buried deep in her heart sighs in relief.)