Give A Poet A Chance (Byler!Fic)
Mike Wheeler x Will Byers
Fic Summary: Mike can’t stop writing about Will in his novels. It’s been fifteen years since graduation, since Will moved to New York to go to college and move in with his stupid boyfriend that Mike doesn’t even have the desire to remember the name of. It’s killing him slowly, trying to move on. He could barely move past Jane without falling apart every day, but now? Now, Will, so close, within his grasp, yet so far? They were once best friends, the most kindled, attached-at-the-hip friendship one could have. Now, Will can’t even muster a letter or a phone call.
AKA Will is the one that got away and now Mike has to deal with it.
Chapter: 1/? - Prologue
Word Count: 3.7k
WARNINGS: Brief mentions of alcohol within the chapter. Overall warnings consist of: Smut, unprotected consensual sex, cheating, consistent mentions of alcohol, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of attempted su!cide, mentions of masterbation, praise kink, anal sex, oral sex, fluff/angst/smut, mentions of depression and mental health, mentions of abuse, strong consistent mentions of SA, traumatic flashbacks, more TBA.
Song For Chapter 1: Don’t You (Forget About Me) - Simple Minds
Masterlist: TBA!
AO3 Link
Chapter Summary: An introduction to Michael Wheeler's anticlimactic day-in-the-life. An infuriating boss, a nagging mother, and a needy task that he just can't shake.
AKA Mike Wheeler is a pathetic boyloser. <3
Author Notes: Hello, hello!!! This is my first actual real fic and I have to say I am pretty excited for this one :) as much as I loved the finale, it left me feeling a sort of emptiness within Byler, not even in a romantic context, but even just platonically. I can’t stomach Byler being bones so I had to take matters into my own hands. Hopefully it’s a little more decent than the Duffers ending.
I can’t wait to start the journey with you guys!! Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are always beloved and appreciated. Thank you always!!
P.S., all chapters will be uploaded to both Tumblr and Ao3, as well as some fun character headcanons and scenarios relating to the story! I'll likely add a tag labeled Give A Poet A Chance to separate my posts from the rest of my boring ones, so follow along both places!
Sincerely, your author,
-Spencer
October 13th, 1997. Monday.
To-Do List:
• Finish editing process — Submit to Carl @ 9 am
• Complete Chapter 15 of Crown of Crystal— NO MORE WRITERS' BLOCK!!!
• Chiropractor appt.
• Groceries
• Call mom
• Take a shower
Mike softly balanced his pen between his index and middle fingers, staring down at the to-do list. They drove him crazy, in all honesty. Thousands of papers were wasted in a lousy attempt to stop forgetting to take care of himself. A doctor's appointment for his health, protecting his hygiene, a weekly phone call to remind his mother that he’s still alive and thriving on his own as a 26-year-old— at least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, they both know her calls are the only thing keeping him grounded.
Mike often thought back to that evening in his basement, the night of their graduation. Their last, final Dungeons and Dragons campaign. They all, collectively, agreed that it would be the last, the end of their childhood as they put it behind them with a soft kiss and a teary smile. They had to keep moving forward, no matter how much it hurt.
It was easy for the others, in a way. Dustin was a genius. He got into college easily, dedicating his life’s purpose to making scientific discoveries and seeking endless knowledge at his fingertips. He was doing well, still keeping in contact with Mike the most out of anyone in the party. They often met in restaurants and bars, and Mike would absorb every last word Dustin spat in his usual dose of word salad, though nothing truly held weight. It just constantly reminded Mike of how well off Dustin was. He was proud of him, hell, how could he not be? Dustin’s life was everything he’d ever dreamed of, and he deserved every last drop of it. Mike just wished those drops looked like progress and a place in the world, instead of droplets from the tap pouring into his golden mug.
Lucas and Max were doing just as well as Dustin, just in a different life. They were happy, successful, living life to the fullest. They both stayed in Hawkins, living together in a small house, dancing the days away to Louis Armstrong and the Sinatra’s. They were so sickeningly rich in love that whenever they had reunions, they were holding each other close and sparking laughter across the table that started deep within their hearts. They had a way of bringing light into a room with just their presence, and it was one of the things Mike adored about them. It broke his heart, however. He once saw that light within himself. Within himself and Jane.
Mike only found himself in contact with the three of them these days. There was one missing member of the party that left him feeling sick and empty. One missing member left him staring at the phone, desperately awaiting a call like a dog waiting for its owner to return. Perhaps he was too harsh to Will the day he packed up and moved into the city with his boyfriend. Perhaps— no, no, of course not. He wasn’t harsh; he was kind. His words were kind, his goodbye was kind, wasn't it? Maybe Will just needed space to process things.
Two unspoken years to process things, of course. Of course.
He struggled to understand the disconnect between his once closest friend. Over the years, their friendship began to water down. They were once inseparable, and now, Will could barely pick up the damn phone. Mike was sick of listening to his voicemail as many times as he had.
Maybe he was overthinking things. He had to be. Maybe Will was struggling with his job, with his overbearing boyfriend, with some argument he got into with Jonathan over not wanting to watch his stupid anti-capitalism anarchy film with pomegranates as symbolism for love and cannibalism, and—
Mike’s home office phone began ringing as loudly as the thoughts within his head, startling him into reality. He gave a soft gasp, blinking a few times as he processed where he was. His office, of course. Not the basement of his childhood home. God. He needed to take a damn Xanax.
Quickly, he jerked forward, grasping onto the wireless phone and quickly holding it to his ear with his shaky, bony fingers.
”Uh, hello?” He muttered quickly, a slight hint of desperation in his voice. He didn’t bother looking at the phone number, just hoping, for a second, that his long-distance best friend was on the other line. “This is Mike Wheeler, speaking.”
”Goddamn, Wheeler. Have you been daydreaming again?” The crisp voice startled him, sending chills down his spine.
“Jesus, Carl, I completely lost track of time.” Mike quickly glanced at his watch, swearing gently beneath his breath. Three-quarters past nine. “Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll have it on your desk.”
“You'd better have it, Wheeler, or so help me, God. If you can’t keep track of your deadlines, you can kiss my ass goodbye and find another editor who can put up with it!”
Mike flinched softly as the other line cut off sharply. He softly pulled it away from his cheek, staring down at it with a heavy sigh. Another day, another disappointment.
He quickly placed the phone back onto the receiver before shuffling through all of the stacks of papers on his desk. He continued to swear, knocking papers off onto the floor in desperation to not get fired. His hand slipped, knocking his boiling coffee off and right onto his slacks. He quickly jumped up, his eyes widening with frustration.
“God fucking dammit!” He exclaimed, trying to avoid burning himself as much as he could. He finally found the final copy of his novel, collecting the large stack of papers with a heavy, pissed-off sigh, and set it by the door. He flew upstairs to his bedroom to change into a new pair of not-wet slacks, in hopes that his boss wouldn’t humiliate him, as per usual.
Mike urgently rushed back downstairs, novel copy in his arms as he made it out to his car. He quickly started it and flew out of his driveway, passing through stop signs and crosswalks with urgency. His car flew up before the building downtown as he took a deep breath, muttering something of a pep talk to himself and shoving the papers in his briefcase.
“Good morning, Mr. Wheeler!” The kind secretary called out to him, though he did not respond. It took everything in him to not freeze in the hallway, hunch over, and projectile vomit onto the carpet, let alone socialize.
As he approached the looming door, he worked up enough courage to give a gentle three knocks, closing his eyes tightly. All he needed was for Carl to approve and pass it on to the next portion of the publication process, and not comment on his stupidity, via his usual daydreaming tendencies of a better life. Once Carl called for him to enter, he slowly pushed the door open, standing in the doorway like a child telling his mother he’d just puked all over his bedsheets with shame.
“You had three minutes to spare. Close call, Wheeler.” Carl noted, softly sitting up in his chair as he gestured for Mike to set down the final copy.
Carl was an… interesting man. He was old and stubby, a little short, with angry eyebrows and a graying haircut that made him look like Doc Brown. He was also fairly sure the man was a Republican, which was enough for Mike to swallow hard and turn a blind eye, for the sake of his career.
Mike cleared his throat and set the large stack before Carl, gently resting his right hand on his left arm as he awaited some sort of response. Praise, not exactly, but maybe acknowledgment for finally finishing the damn book after working on it for a year and a half.
Carl softly flipped through the pages with a hum, nodding contentedly. He hesitated for a moment before finally looking up to Mike with a quirked brow and a weird look on his face.
”The fuck are you doing, Wheeler?”
Mike jumped at his hostile approach, his eyes widening slightly.
“Pardon? I-“
“You have another book to be writing right now, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing standing there? Go home and write, dammit!”
“Uhm... yes, sir.”
“And don’t even think about missing that deadline! Or so help me, Wheeler, I swear to God, I’ll—“
Mike quickly forced himself out of the office and closed the door sharply behind himself, cutting off Carl’s repeatedly vulgar, heated comment about his poor time management. He sighed softly, closing his eyes and leaning against the door momentarily.
Fucking finally, he thought to himself. He was done with the stupid fantasy book. The book he was supposed to love and cherish, hold close to his heart, yet part of him wanted to set fire to. He loved writing, he really did, but he just wanted a taste of reality for a moment. Something new, refreshing. Something he hadn’t written before.
• Finish editing process — Submit to Carl @ 9 am
• Complete Chapter 15 of Crown of Crystal— NO MORE WRITERS' BLOCK!!!
• Chiropractor appt.
• Groceries
• Call mom
• Take a shower
Mike sat in the parking lot of the chiropractor’s office, his forehead pressed against the steering wheel. He hated his appointments, wishing God would end his suffering and cure him of his bad posture, sciatica, and poor circulation. If only he didn’t have to sit hunched over a typewriter all day. Mike slowly lifted his head, glaring up at the office through his dirty glasses. It was the last thing on Earth he could think of doing, sitting and staring at some overpriced, shitty wall art while someone felt him up and popped his back in so many places, it made him want to puke. As much as he hated the idea, he knew he needed to. For the sake of his career...
With a struggle and a lengthy sigh, he finally pulled his keys out of the ignition, making a dreadful start for the front door.
He gently pulled the door open, keeping his gaze low as he trailed to the front desk. He checked in, writing his name on the sheet with his neat, almost pompous handwriting, before trailing to one of the nearby chairs. He sank into it deeply with a heavy sigh, staring down to his briefcase. His mind wandered to other, more forbidden places, wondering about this supposed, theoretical book.
A romance book. It was unlike anything he’d ever written— sort of. He’d include the occasional romantic side plot in one of his fantasy stories, but nothing that was true, deep love. It was more just a cheap watered down version for the general audience, something kids and teens could look at and dream of, but it wasn’t really… realistic.
After what felt like hours of staring down at his briefcase, he finally reached downwards, his fingers grazing over the leather. He softly pulled out an old, worn journal that he jotted down his story ideas and concepts, always something elaborate and juvenile. This time would be different.
He jotted down a few core ideas to this supposed romance. A F/M romance, about late 20s, between a girl who fled to a big city, and a boy who stayed true to his small home town. They were high school sweethearts that had a falling out, who fall in love all over again later in life.
Just as he began to close the journal, the soft, warm voice of his doctor startled him out of la la land. He looked at the woman and softly cleared his throat, sliding the journal back into the case, collecting his things, and following her to the back room.
The appointment was almost like a fever dream. More often than not, he zoned out, mumbled a few responses to medical questions, and gave soft, pained responses when different joints and muscles were in use. He always left feeling like a virtually different person, physically and mentally. It was strange.
He wandered back out to his car, pulling his brown tweed blazer over his collarbones sharply. His key slipped into the lock and turned, the door unlocking with a soft click. He pulled it open and quickly sat inside, pulling the door shut. He pulled his seatbelt across his body and glanced into his rear view mirror, his gaze lingering on himself. His short, mature haircut. His round black glasses. The wrinkles that began to form gently on his face. He felt too old, too mature for all this. It was startling.
“A romance novel.” He muttered, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brows. “The fuck is wrong with me? A romance novel?”
• Finish editing process — Submit to Carl @ 9 am
• Complete Chapter 15 of Crown of Crystal — NO MORE WRITERS' BLOCK!!!
• Chiropractor appt.
• Groceries
• Call mom
• Take a shower
Mike pulled into the grocery store parking lot. He knew what his to-do list read, he knew the necessities that went into it, but part of him just… didn’t want to hear her voice. Her persistent questions. The softness in her tone whenever she’d ask if he’d gone on any dates recently.
“Hi, mom.” He sheepishly muttered, pressing the phone between his shoulder and his ear. He quietly pushed the cart down the produce aisle, collecting a few items here and there.
“Michael! Hi, honey. Where are you?” Karen asked gently on the other end, suddenly very involved in what he had to say. She hadn’t spoken to him in about a week, and for some reason, it was always like watching the latest action film talking to him, even though he was some boring author who was borderline agoraphobic.
“I’m alright.” He replied softly, continuing to grab things off shelves and toss them into the cart without really thinking. The conversation continued with mild tension, Mike giving half-assed responses to her usual questions that he could almost predict.
“Have you gone on any dates yet? Asked out any pretty girls? Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you! There’s this real sweet girl, Hilary, do you remember Hilary? She lives a couple towns over. She’s the youth leader at church, honey! I thought I would set you two up for a date.”
“Mom, seriously?”
“Michael, you need to at least try. I know things are hard, especially after Jane—“
Mike audibly tensed over the phone, his breathing growing slightly jagged.
“I know things have been hard since Jane passed away. Mike, honey, I do. But you can’t keep avoiding it forever. Do you really want to be alone for the rest of your life?”
“…no.” He replied hesitantly, swallowing hard to wash down the uncomfortable lump in his throat. “No, mom, I don’t.”
“Then you need to go on a date. At least try. Can you at least try for me?”
He gave a heavy sigh, cupping his hand over the phone and staring up at the ceiling, almost asking God, ‘Seriously, dude?’ He finally brought the phone back to his ear.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll try, mom. But not with Hilary McCarthy! She’s weird, and she smells like nana.”
Karen sighed from the other end. “Mike, just try, okay? Maybe try going to a speed-dating event. Have you heard of those?”
“Mom, stop.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad of an idea.”
“Mom!” Mike said a little too loudly, a few passersby looking over to him. He pressed his eyes shut tight. “Mom, I’ll figure it out. I’ll go on a date, and I’ll tell you all about it. Okay?”
“Oh, thank you, sweetheart!” Karen cheered softly, almost sighing with relief. “My little Michael is–”
“Gotta go, love you, mom! Call you back soon!” Mike jumbled out quickly, hanging up the phone before she could get another word out. He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “My life is a joke. My life is a fucking joke.”
He headed to the frozen section, grabbing six tv dinners of different varieties and tossing them in the cart. He continued to swear softly and pity himself for how horrible his life is, since his mother suggested he not die alone. So pitiful…
Mike shoved the bags of groceries into the back of his car, before climbing back into the driver's seat. He pulled the to-do list out of his breast pocket, along with his tiny pencil.
• Finish editing process — Submit to Carl @ 9 am
• Complete Chapter 15 of Crown of Crystal— NO MORE WRITERS' BLOCK!!!
• Chiropractor appt.
• Groceries
• Call mom
• Take a shower
“Not too bad.” He muttered softly, before heading back downtown, on his not-so-merry way home. A short, six minute drive to the lonely sound of Nirvana, and he was pulling his Pontiac into his driveway with a soft, slow halt. Mike climbed out of the driver's seat and slammed the door behind himself. He grabbed his three tall brown grocery bags and carried them inside with some struggle, softly dropping them onto the counter with a thump.
He sorted the groceries into their designated places, alternating between fridge, freezer, and pantry. A soft huff escaped him when he realized just how boring, anticlimactic this all was. To think, as a child, he used to imagine his future as an explorer, dressed in some magical clothes with his best friends by his side. Dustin, Lucas, and Will.
Mike gave up on finishing Chapter 15 after an hour and a half of writer's block. Something was causing him to feel nauseous and distracted, the thought of writing his millionth fantasy book. With irritation, he tore the paper from the typewriter and tossed it askew on his desk, standing and ditching his work in a desperate attempt to regain some of his sanity. He took a warm shower, tossed a tv dinner in the microwave, and sat in his new Flexsteel. As he pulled the leg rest and leaned back, silently flipping through channels, it began to feel all too real to him. Maybe his life really was as pathetic as he made it out to be in his nightmares– wearing oversized sweatshirts and sleep pants, sitting in a lousy recliner with a microwave dinner, watching Frasier and laughing softly to fill the deafening silence.
He was turning into his father.
Mike’s expression dulled as he found himself staring at the television, lost in thought. He gave a shaky breath of realization, before slowly pulling out his crumbled to-do list. He needed to add one final thought, one final task to bring him closure.
“Dearest Will,” He wrote, his hand shaking softly. He couldn’t figure out why. Maybe out of anxiety that Will would ignore him again, slipping the letters into the bin and leaving the phone off the hook to make the line busy whenever he’d try to call. Maybe he was just desperate to hear from his best friend again.
“I know it’s been a while, and you’re probably over my endless letters. I think this is #264, or something along that line. I hope your partner isn’t angry at you for how many I send. I never wish to give the wrong intention, just to hear back. It’s been two years since we’ve seen each other in person, and it just feels weird, you know? We used to be inseparable as kids, and now, I’m lucky to see Hop or Joyce for the holidays and hear about you. It’s just kind of weird to think about. I guess lately I’ve started thinking about our childhood, again. I used to think, when we became adults, us four would become explorers and wind up in some Nordic town, going on adventures, and when we returned back to the village, the town would throw some large banquet to celebrate us. I guess it’s awfully juvenile, but I somehow made a career out of it, didn’t I? I don’t know, Will. I guess things have just been weird without you here in Hawkins. Hopper’s cabin is still vacant. Jonathan comes back around once in a while to meet up with Steve. I often see them having dinner at Enzo’s, which is almost a bit shocking to me, considering they used to get into macho-fights over Nancy. I guess they’ve just made up nicely. I wish we could do that, too. I don’t know what I did, or what I said that angered you so much that Christmas, Will. I just wish I could fix it. Please. Give me the opportunity to fix it. I just need to hear back from you again, just once. Just to know you’re still there. That’s all I ask, Will.”
Mike sighed, resting his forehead against the letter. He blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears that dared to spill from his eyes.
“I hope this letter finds you well. Come back to Hawkins, or at least, give me some sort of sign of life. Please.”
With one final tremble of his hand, he hesitated, staring down at the letter for far too long. A letter to his once closest friend, begging for a response. It was almost desperate, but far too platonic to dwell on it. Platonic. He nodded softly.
“Love, Mike.”
He slipped the letter delicately into an envelope and wax-stampted the seal. He softly and carefully wrote Will’s name and address in the corner, adding one of his pricier stamps to the other, and walked it out to his mailbox. He slipped it inside and put up the flag, before wandering back into the house.
• Finish editing process — Submit to Carl @ 9 am
• Complete Chapter 15 of Crown of Crystal— NO MORE WRITERS' BLOCK!!!
• Chiropractor appt.
• Groceries
• Call mom
• Take a shower
• Write to Will
He poured a small glass of scotch and sat at the dining room table, adjusting his glasses carefully. He sighed heavily and flipped through an old, musty book he’d pulled off one of his shelves. Vanishing Shelves by Melvin Dixon. He’d heard quite good things about it. A gift from Nancy, who insisted it would be a good read for him.
He wondered why she was so persistent.