Mike shudders as Nancy hoists the roll-up doors of the semi open, icy air rushing in. It’s his second (and hopefully last) time in the Upside Down and he’s still not used to it – the way the cold sticks to your skin and bites into your lungs, like inhaling crushed glass. With the stench of decay crawling down his throat, it reminds him weirdly of being a kid, picking up rocks to poke at the rotted ecosystem underneath. Except here it's suffused with this sense of wrongness, this burning conviction that they’re not supposed to be here. He thinks about Will, twelve-years-old in a hand-me-down puffer vest, shivering in a sickly-blue wasteland while waiting for–
He hops out the truck, feeling vaguely nauseous. He yanks his beanie down, but it does nothing to chase away the cold. Or the uncomfortable prickle that they’re being watched.
Behind him, he hears Robin radioing that candy striper girl - “it’s too early to be stressed, Vic, save it for later,” she says dismissively, and Mike glowers, even if it isn’t directed at him. How is even Robin taking this better than him, Jesus Christ. He knows they’re all scared shitless, he’s not stupid, but normally he’s better at hiding it – better at balling up his feelings and burying them in his gut, where they can’t hurt anyone. But as he looks up at the radio tower, engulfed in slimy tendrils and a heavy smog; as he looks at his friends, stacked against impossible odds; as he buries himself alive over realizations he isn’t brave enough to speak out loud – Mike feels something give inside his chest. He squeezes his fists until crescent indents dig into his palm and his eyes water. Stay focused, Wheeler.
In his periphery, he sees Will migrating closer and Mike suppresses the urge to run, to pull him closer, to ask him if– he shuts the thought down, his gut churning. Jonathon is saying something probably important, but Mike can’t hear a single word over the rush of blood in his ears. A gentle tap on his shoulder forces him to look over.
“Are you okay?” Will barely whispers, his dark eyes wide and unfairly earnest. Red lightning from above casts him in amber, lighting up the floating spores around his head like dust motes in a sunny room – like magic. Mike’s breath hitches.
I should be asking you that, he wants to say. How can you still care about me after everything I’ve done to you, he wants to shout. I am now, he wants to cry, because even in this Hellhole Will’s presence is impossibly soothing, like late-night DnD and malted milkshakes and reading comics under the covers. It’s a comfort he doesn’t deserve, but he clings to it anyway, shifting closer to Will until their elbows brush.
“Fine,” Mike whispers back, plastering on a reassuring smile even though he knows it won’t fool Will for a second. He pictures his Mike the Brave mini uselessly spinning on a record that he didn’t choose, just waiting until his time runs out and he destroys everything and Mike feels sick. “Listen, I–”
“Guys! C’mon.” They both jump, heads whipping around to where Robin hollered from the base of the ladder. “The world isn’t gonna save itself!” The others have gotten a decent headstart, Mike realizes with embarrassment – he and Will share one more weighted look, one that says Later, before they jog over to catch up to the others.
just a little snippet of a tower scene rewrite i started cooking up after the finale. with gratuitous use of shared looks, brushing elbows, and the interruption trope of course. instead of that half-assed fake out byler scene, it would be jonathon 'helping will get something he wants' by acting as mike's robin and giving him that nudge while also NOT dismissing his guilt like will did. "el never commissioned the painting...did she" "you're a wheeler. what do you think?" you see the vision