Byler: A Queerbait Masterpiece
(or: how Stranger Things perfectly represents the limits of queer representation in mega-franchises)
Let me be clear from the start: this isn’t about “my ship didn’t happen.” It’s about storytelling choices, setup without payoff, and how queer narratives are still carefully contained in massive mainstream franchises.
Because what happened with Byler isn’t random. It’s not accidental. And it’s certainly not new.
What the hell is queerbaiting?
Queerbaiting is not “a slow burn that didn’t pay off”. At least, not the way people keep using the word lately. It is the deliberate use of romantic and emotional codes associated with queer relationships such as intimacy, symbolism, parallelism, longing without allowing those relationships to exist textually or to produce narrative consequences.
It’s important to clarify something here: not every unfulfilled queer romance is queerbaiting.
Unrequited love can be a complete, honest narrative arc but only if it is acknowledged as such. The difference is not whether the love is returned but whether the story allows that love to exist as truth within the narrative.
A genuine unrequited love arc includes recognition, confrontation, and consequences. Even rejection is a form of payoff because it acknowledges the reality.
Queerbaiting is not “love that wasn’t reciprocated.” Queerbaiting is love that is never allowed to be spoken.
In Byler’s case, the issue is not that Mike doesn’t explicitly return Will’s feelings. The issue is that the narrative carefully avoids letting Mike ever learn about them.
Unfortunately, we’ve seen this pattern before. Take Destiel in Supernatural. Castiel confesses his love. It is framed as romantic, explicit and undeniable. And the exact moment that truth is spoken, the narrative removes him. The confession is immediately followed by death. No conversation. No consequence except erasure. And this is a recurring queerbaiting pattern: when queer desire becomes textual, the character disappears. It can be death, silence or a vague off-screen future with “someone else.” But the logic is all the same: the story acknowledges queerness just long enough to neutralize it.
Stranger Things chooses a softer version of the same mechanism. Instead of death, it opts for containment.
Will’s arc is active. Mike’s is frozen.
Season 5 gives Will growth, power and emotion.
He literally unlocks his abilities in a moment that is deeply symbolic, after a discussion in which Mike tells him that he is a sorcerer, and that his powers are innate, and after remembering his happiest memories which the first one is his first encounter with Mike.
Then, Mike calls him a “real, honest-to-God life sorcerer” and pulls him into a hug. The hug is tender and intimate. It’s framed as important.
And THEN, Mike spends the rest of the episode repeating it to others: Will is a sorcerer, not a magician, his powers are innate, he defeated three Demodogs. He says it again and again. (He was actually so proud I kinda understood the power sexual jokes for a moment.)
Anyway, this is the same symbolic language Will used in his painting — the same D&D metaphors through which Will has always expressed love, devotion and belief in Mike.
What’s striking is that Mike himself actively reinforces that language here. The show aligns their emotional vocabularies and then refuses to let that alignment mean anything. No follow-through. No reflection. No confrontation.
The Robin scenes teach us how queer love works — and then stop??
Will has two major conversations with Robin that are not subtle.
First, Will directly asks Robin about signals. How you know someone likes you back. How obvious they are. Robin lists them: shared looks, a touch of the knees, small touches, accumulation.
Will asks, very specifically: “How obvious?”
And that question is somehow never answered narratively? Those signals are never applied: not to Will and Mike, not to Mike and Eleven and not even as misdirection.
Later, he asks how she moved on from Tammy and ended up with Vickie. Robin explains that it didn’t happen immediately. That before anything else, she had to talk to someone. She mentions Steve (an unexpected ally lol but love you Steve).
This matters. Because there, Will is learning that queer love often requires: trust, vulnerability and someone SAFE to talk to.
So, the show introduces the language of queer subtext and then refuses to use it? That’s not subtle writing, that’s deliberate restraint.
Symbolic language vs empty reassurance
In episodes 6 and 7, Mike and Eleven talk but their conversations are strangely hollow: talking about charging her batteries, about how it will be over soon, about writing their own ending without actually talking about them as a couple, but about everyone as a whole party.
At one point, Mike even says that their happy ending starts with bringing Will back from Vecna’s mind.
Eleven mentions that life isn’t one of Mike’s D&D campaign. And that line matters so much because for Will, it is.
Will’s powers activate through fantasy and symbolism, he believes in Mike’s metaphors. He is seen as extraordinary by Mike but that contrast is never explored.
Instead, Mileven is preserved through abstraction, not intimacy.
The coming out: acceptance replaces recognition
So, according to an interview, originally, Will’s coming out was meant to be with Joyce only. That version makes sense. It’s intimate and truthful. We even learned that his coming out was originally planned in the van scene in Season 4.
Instead, the show moves it to the end of episode 7, right before the finale, and turns it into a collective moment. Will talks about a vision that Vecna showed him. We actually never even see Vecna’s vision — another interesting omission.
Then, there is this long monologue in front of the entire population of Hawkins in the 1980s (so unrealistic by the way). Will says that he’s not different. Just that he doesn’t like girls.
We can see that the camera lingers on Mike’s reaction: tearful eyes, a small smile. But Mike doesn’t respond directly. Other characters hug Will first. And Mike joins late.
Will is accepted. But his feeling towards Mike are not recognized, there are dismissed as a ‘crush’ And acceptance, in this case, replaces truth.
The painting: a confession with no consequence
Will’s painting is the emotional core of his arc. It’s a love confession translated into Mike’s language. A lie created for survival and the sake of their friendship and Mike's relationship. And Mike never learns the truth? In 99% cases, either the lie is revealed or it is chosen clearly and consciously that it is a final secret. It was neither.
This painting exists to carry queer emotion without ever requiring response. That’s extraction with no pay-off.
The epilogue boyfriend ending
In the epilogue, Will is shown in a gay bar (I think it’s a gay bar? Right?) He is meeting up with a guy who vaguely resembles Mike. No words. No story. Just implication. The message is clear: look, he’s fine, he has moved on!
Such a classic narrative move… When queer desire can’t be resolved where it actually lives, the story relocates it off-screen where it’s safe, symbolic and non-disruptive.
This isn’t about endgame!!
Byler didn’t need to be endgame.
What it needed was acknowledgment, a mutual awareness, honesty AND consequences. Just one conversation. The truth revealed.
Instead, the show chose emotional containment.
The bigger picture: queerness in mega-franchises
This is so representative of the state of queer representation in mainstream medias right now.
We have enter a new era. We are no longer in the 2000s where queer characters were non-existent or stereotypical. We can see now that in mega-franchises, queer characters are allowed to exist, suffer beautifully, be accepted, have coming out scenes and secondary romances but they are rarely allowed to: alter the emotional spine of the story, complicate the main romance, force central characters to change and rewrite the ending.
Which is exactly what happened here : Will can be gay, can love, can suffer, can grow but Mike cannot because he is the face of the show, the ‘heart’, the love interest of the main hero.
Mega-franchises also really love that myth that only acceptance matters for queer characters. What matters is that the character is accepted or that he has accepted himself, which leads here to the collective coming out, the hug, the « and me ». But acceptance, especially here, does not solve the narrative arc : no rejection or reciprocity, the objet of desire never learns the truth. Acceptance here is a tool for neutralization.
Because a mega-franchise will never cross the red line, and the red line is making a main character queer when he was identified as straight for many years. Why ? Because it changes the whole series, because it cannot be ignored by the public and because it becomes political, even if not voluntary. So, they settle for controlled ambiguity, symbolism, subtext, emotional scenes, romantic tropes without going to end of it.
This is progress, but controlled. Visibility, but not disruption. Studios love being seen as inclusive, but it’s only as long as the queer arc do not change the structure of the show.
Byler sits exactly at that limit. That’s why it feels unfinished. That’s why it feels intentional. And that’s why it hurts. Us, the queer audience, we recognize all the signs : looks, silences, romantics parallels, subtext because it is the same dynamics that happen in real life, we love people without being seen, we don’t tell anyone to preserve relationships, we are accepted but not desired and we have to love somewhere else where we don’t disturb anyone. This is a loyal representation of a queer person hurting. Byler could have been that, but it’s not. They were so close, just one scene where Mike learns the truth and where both of them have to deal with consequences of that truth could have saved the blatant queerbaiting. But well.
It was so carefully, skillfully, and quietly contained.
I also want to point out that Netflix’s role matters here. We have seen that Stranger Things is not just a show : it’s a global brand, a carefully balanced product designed to circulate across vastly different cultural and political contexts. Business deals. And sadly, in that ecosystem, queerness is allowed as long as it remains local, contained, and non-disruptive. A queer character can exist. He can suffer. He can come out. He can even be loved but only in the abstract. (Even Robin and Vickie were the victims of this…) But queerness that reshapes the emotional center of the story, redefines the male lead, or destabilizes a long-established straight romance becomes a risk. Industrially. And I don’t even think this is some evil conspiracy — it’s just how these platforms work.
Whether it was the writer’s choice or not, it means that in mega-franchises, queer storytelling is often negotiated, delayed, softened or redirected and not because it lacks narrative strength, but because it has too much of it.
Byler didn’t fail because it was weak. It failed because it was powerful enough to change the story and the story was not allowed to change.
bro i had so much things to say bahahah, sorry for the mistakes im french
titsay
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