we are 100% getting a mike wheeler breakdown in volume 2.
i know i've already said this but he is going to crack like an egg. he is bottling up so much and he is going to explode.
mike has every reason to be crashing out this season, but he's holding it together, taking on a leadership role, coming up with plans and theories.
mike seems surprisingly unbothered about his parents being hospitalized, at least compared to nancy - nancy breaks down with guilt and concern, while mike is holding it together, focused on action.
his sister got kidnapped after he told her monsters aren't real, and while he's working hard to get her back, we see no emotional fallout of feeling responsible.
all of this being so reminiscent of the first time, with will in 1983, digging up all the trauma of his best friend getting abducted and seeing them pull his body out of the quarry, yet we never see him panic.
he leads a group of children through a warzone and doesn’t stop protecting them, telling them “eyes on me” to be a rock for them despite surely being terrified himself.
and that's what i want to emphasize here: mike is scared shitless. he tells holly this in the crawl when she doubts he could be scared:
more than that, he tells holly HOW he is holding it together: he’s putting on a mask. mike the brave.
and yes, it's working. he’s leading, and he’s brave - he's faking-it-til-he-makes-it, and he is, as will says, the heart. he IS coming into his own, and it’s amazing to see, but it’s so so important to me that he’s doing it scared, and more importantly, that he's not going to hold it together forever.
he is going to hit a breaking point. and we are going into volume two with, yes, the relative win of will’s new powers, but also with some devastating losses: the kids were taken, holly is still gone, el and others are still awol in the upside down, dozens died, and vecna seems more unstoppable than ever.
after such a huge midpoint turn, there will need to be a heavy reaction beat for the characters to regroup, think everything through, and figure out how to move forward. during this time we’ll see a handful of necessary heart-to-hearts. and i hope to god that during that time we see mike wheeler be vulnerable and honest.
we also have this from the trailer, where mike approaches joyce who is sitting with an unconscious will. i'm guessing this is the aftereffects of overexerting his new powers, and will being hurt/unconscious after such a big reveal is the perfect catalyst for mike to finally BREAK.
joyce and mike are the two characters who (along with jonathan) love will the most and are most beloved to him. mike and joyce were the ones who always believed will was alive in season 1 and who fought hardest for will in season 2. my hope is they will bond over worrying for and loving will, and that mike will admit he's terrified rather than trying to hold it together forever.
it's so beautiful seeing mike be mike the brave, but we also must see him just being mike.
and like a geode, if we want to see what he's made of, he must break.
to be honest, as a mike wheeler stan, the thing I'm mourning the most is his character assassination. like, they gave me nothing, they do nothing for me, they didn't explore anything new for him, nothing happened.
and it's really fucking unfair because he was one of the MAIN characters of season 1 and 2 and 3, then suddenly, fuck it, no more mike wheeler. ALSO, no pay off for whatever the fuck has been up with him since season 3? then, he just magically changes, again, during this 18-month-long-time-skip, but you won't tell us why? and he's not even back to the way he was but has now become some watered down, bleak, emotionless version of himself?
Reclaiming the Self: Trauma, Autonomy, and Love in Stranger Things / Not Broken, But Wounded: Agency and Choice in Will Byers’ Story
This remarkable post by @hideaway311812 powerfully illuminates the fact that Will’s face-to-face confrontation with Vecna—and the psychologically manipulative monologue Vecna delivers in order to weaken and corrupt him—does not exploit only Will’s homosexuality. It also weaponizes his status as a survivor of abuse: abuse inflicted both by Vecna himself and by the society that failed to protect him.
When Will ultimately activates his powers, it is not solely the result of self-acceptance as a queer individual, nor only the acceptance of his feelings for Mike. It is also an act of reclamation. Will reclaims his agency as a victim who lost control of his own body on the very night Vecna forced that vine into his mouth. This moment marks the return of autonomy to someone from whom it was violently taken.
As I discussed in my analysis of Vecna’s speech to Will in episode 4, when Vecna shows Will a flashback meant to demonstrate that he “broke so easily,” we are shown the scene in which Will speaks to Joyce after the Mind Flayer has entered him on the baseball field. It is no secret that this entire sequence functions as a powerful allegory for sexual assault, and Will’s words afterward mirror with devastating accuracy the emotional aftermath experienced by survivors.
“I tried. I tried to make it go away. But it got me, Mum. I felt it... everywhere. Everywhere. I... I still feel it. I just want it to be over.”
Anyone who lives with post-traumatic stress resulting from such abuse—particularly when it occurs in childhood—understands precisely what Will is describing. These words capture, with painful clarity, the torture of continuing to exist while carrying that trauma within one’s body. Vecna deliberately uses this memory to reinforce his control, to convince Will that he has never truly belonged to himself—that his body and mind have been Vecna’s since that night in November 1983.
Compounding this violation is the response of the world around Will. Upon his return, instead of receiving empathy or understanding, he is met with shame and ridicule—branded with the nickname “Zombie Boy.” This is a disturbingly accurate reflection of how society so often treats survivors: by humiliating them, trivializing their pain, refusing to take them seriously, and ultimately pushing them to the margins. Before season 1, Will was bullied for being queer. By season 2, he is bullied for having survived.
This is precisely why the memories that brought Will back in season 2 are the very same memories that later allow him to activate his powers, reclaim control, and assert his agency. These three memories share something essential beyond love and joy: consent and agency.
Joyce recalls the Rainbow Ship Will drew. She explains that on his birthday, despite receiving numerous Star Wars toys—then the ultimate trend for children his age, especially for a nerd like Will—he chose instead to spend his time drawing, using every color from the box of crayons he had been given to create that Rainbow Ship. This was his choice. His desire took precedence over expectations, trends, and social norms. Will chose the simplicity of crayons to pursue his artistic passion rather than conforming to what was considered popular.
Jonathan speaks of building Castle Byers after Lonnie left. The day they created Will’s safe place—his space. A place with a password: without it, you were not allowed to enter, and even with it, you had to wait for Will to grant permission. Castle Byers is not merely a symbol of safety or childhood innocence; it is a symbol of Will’s boundaries being respected. The castle was conceived together, designed through Will’s sketches, and built collaboratively with Jonathan. It was a shared effort, born of mutual respect—but ultimately, it was Will’s decision to build it with his brother.
And finally, there is Mike.
Mike saw Will alone on the swings. He approached him—and he asked. He asked if Will wanted to be friends. Will said yes. Their very first meeting—one that irrevocably changed both of their lives and grew into a bond that would become unbreakable—was founded on the purest definition of consent. Will chose to say yes. It was his decision to allow Mike into his life. His consent.
The foundation of Will and Mike’s relationship—of their connection, their loyalty, and their love—is consent itself.
Thus, Vecna’s monologue directed at Will was not solely designed to wound him through his homosexuality or his love for Mike. It was also a deliberate attempt to reach the deepest layer of his suffering: that of a survivor still living with post-traumatic stress, a trauma that has shaped—but does not define—his being.
However, what is often overlooked is that the resurfacing of Will’s childhood memories—those moments of happiness anchored by his emotional pillars—and Robin’s words were not meant only to guide him toward queer self-acceptance. They also served to remind Will of something essential: he is not what was done to him when he was twelve. He is not the trauma he endured, nor the pain that has followed him ever since. The very core of his identity is not rooted in violence or suffering; it is rooted in love, joy, and above all in autonomy—in his individuality as a person, in his capacity to choose, in his own desires, feelings, and emotions.
Will is not a consequence of what happened to him. He has always been that joyful, carefree, passionate, and loving child. He is not broken, as Vecna insists. He was wounded—deeply, profoundly—but he is not broken. At his core, he remains the same boy he was before any of this occurred.
This is precisely why Mike’s expression as he watches Will use his powers is so deeply revealing. It is not the look of someone who suddenly falls in love because the other appears powerful or impressive. It is a look of admiration, yes—but above all, of pride. Mike is profoundly proud of Will in that exact moment. Not only because Will saves his life, but because Mike has watched Will grow since they were five years old. He has witnessed Will through his worst moments as well as his best. As the 8mm-style flashback so clearly illustrates, Mike has been by Will’s side their entire lives.
Mike has seen it all. He has seen Will doubt himself, cry, and likely suffer abuse at the hands of his father. He has seen him bullied at school and heard the town’s cruel whispers. He has watched Will endure torment and hell, carry trauma from season one onward, and slowly lose his light. He has seen Will terrified, shattered by fear, suffering agony before his eyes. He has seen his innocence and confidence fade. He has seen everything.
(Not for nothing if the cast and Duffers brothers insisted the audience to rewatch the season 2 before season 5 by the way)
And in this precise moment, Mike sees that same Will grow, bloom, awaken his powers, and—most importantly—take control. What he also sees is that Will listened to him, and in doing so, proved that Mike was right to believe in him. Mike told Will that he was capable of regaining control over the visions caused by his connection to Vecna. And that is exactly what happens.
And this is not the first time this dynamic appears. This scene directly parallels the moment in season two when Mike tells Will that he can use the “Now Memories” imposed on him by the Mind Flayer to spy on it in return—and that is exactly what Will does immediately after that conversation with Mike. I previously wrote a post analyzing this parallel in more detail here, for those who may be interested.
Will struggled to believe it himself—but he listened to Mike. He chose to trust him, to internalize his words, and to act upon them. Once again, Will made a choice: to believe Mike and to accept that Mike believes in him. He accepted the confidence, the conviction, the potential, and the power that Mike sees within him.
This is no longer a matter of “Will needs Mike.” Will has finally understood that he does not need him—he wants him. This is not necessity; it is choice. It is Will’s choice. Will does not need Mike to exist or to grow; he chooses to listen to him. He chooses to value Mike’s perspective and words. It is not “I need Mike to become myself,” but rather, “I accept what you see in me—and that belief helps me rise even further.”
Will wants Mike to live, to be saved, to remain by his side. He does not need him—he wants to be with him. Just as he never needed Mike to become his friend, but wanted him to be. This is not fate. It is not destiny. It is pure choice—pure consent.
Exactly as they both chose, together, to be part of each other’s lives.
This was never about fate or “simply dumb luck.” They built this bond themselves. Mike asked Will if he wanted to be his friend. Will said yes. And from that moment on, they constructed their relationship through years of shared conversations, daily companionship, Dungeons & Dragons, laughter, drawing and writing together, mutual support, and the shared discovery of passions—games, films, music, art. They introduced each other to new interests, nurtured each other’s curiosity, and grew side by side.
All of it was organic. Natural. Evident. And at every step, it was grounded in choice.
It has always been about consent and agency—never about fate or destiny.
In the same way, Max and Lucas have always represented a matter of choice. Max chose to listen to Lucas. She chose to believe him and to take the risk. It was never about destiny or about what they were meant to do. Never. It has always been about wanting something—about desiring it and choosing to reach for it.
It is also crucial to emphasize that the final image of episode 4—the slow-motion shot that zooms in on Will—is quite literally Mike’s point of view. In that moment, we are looking at Will through Mike’s eyes. The audience becomes Mike’s gaze. And Mike is profoundly, overwhelmingly proud of Will in that instant.
This is also precisely why that shot of Will—the one framed through Mike’s perspective—has gone viral on TikTok and across the internet, and why so many people perceive Will as extraordinarily beautiful in that moment, as if he has undergone a “glow-up.” It is because we are seeing him the way Mike sees him. Mike sees him as beautiful. That is why the shot is in slow motion; why, despite the sweat, the dirt, and the tears, Will appears so striking and ethereal. It is because Mike perceives him that way. Will is, quite simply, perfect in Mike’s eyes.
Mike is looking at him with love—not because he suddenly falls in love in the moment Will saves his life, but because, after two and a half seasons without genuine access to Mike’s point of view, we are finally granted it. For the first time since a long time, we are allowed to see how Mike sees Will. He has been deeply in love with Will for a long time, and in this moment he is so overwhelmed by emotion and pride toward the person he loves that the audience is invited to inhabit his perspective. And what we see, through that gaze, is nothing but beauty and perfection.
It is therefore no coincidence that so many heterosexual viewers—often deeply blinded by heteronormativity and by a lack of media literacy, and who had never seriously considered the possibility that Mike’s feelings for Will might be reciprocal because they had not engaged with the show’s subtext—reacted to this scene with humor and delight, interpreting it as a “turning point.” They joked that Mike was suddenly “turned on,” that he abruptly fell in love with Will because he had powers or because he looked attractive.
What they were responding to, however, was unmistakable: Mike’s awe. His emotional overwhelm. His captivated gaze as he watches Will take control—and, through that gaze, witnesses Will as beautiful. Even if their interpretation is flawed—mistaking a revelation of existing love for the sudden emergence of it—they nonetheless cannot deny the presence of those feelings. Despite their heteronormative framing, the scene makes Mike’s love visible in a way that is impossible to fully dismiss.
In the end, even through misinterpretation, the truth still surfaces.
Ultimately, Stranger Things does not frame Will Byers’ journey as a story of fate, destiny, or inevitable suffering. It frames it as a story of choice.
Vecna’s attempt to break Will is not merely an attack on his queerness or on his love for Mike, but an effort to erase his autonomy by convincing him that he is nothing more than his trauma—that his body, his mind, and his identity were permanently stolen from him in November 1983. Yet Will’s resistance does not come from denying what happened to him. It comes from remembering who he has always been beyond it.
The memories that empower Will are not random flashes of happiness; they are moments rooted in consent, agency, and self-determination. They remind him that his identity was never forged through violence, but through love, joy, creativity, and the freedom to choose. Will is not broken. He was wounded. And there is a profound difference between the two.
In reclaiming control over his visions and activating his powers, Will does more than fight Vecna—he reclaims ownership of himself. He chooses to believe in his own autonomy again. And in choosing to trust Mike’s belief in him, Will does not become dependent; he affirms his strength. Mike does not complete Will. He sees him. He believes in him. And Will, in turn, chooses to accept that belief.
This is why the gaze matters. The slow-motion shot of Will in episode 4 is not about spectacle or power—it is about being seen. Through Mike’s eyes, we witness Will not as a victim, not as a survivor reduced to his pain, but as someone whole, radiant, and deeply loved. That love is not sudden, nor is it born of circumstance. It is the result of years of mutual choice—of two boys who repeatedly chose to let each other in, to grow together, and to remain side by side.
Just as Max chose to listen to Lucas, and just as Will once chose to say yes to Mike on the playground, every defining moment in this narrative is rooted in consent. Not fate. Not destiny. Not obligation. Choice.
And that is the heart of Will Byers’ story: he is not the sum of what was done to him. He is the sum of what he continues to choose—himself, his agency, his love, and the life he actively claims as his own.
Max's relationship with Mike reveals more about his arc in season five than we think.
we all know the duffers really hinted at season two being crucial to the plot of season five, and the one thing that struck me about season two is how much they establish the relationship between Mike Wheeler and Max Mayfield
The relationships that the writers choose to explore are very intentional. Initially, we know Mike hates Max because he feels as though she's replacing El. But the more that the season goes on, it's clear that this animosity towards Max is something different, and this is revealed in their conversation after the escape from Hawkins lab and Bob's death.
Max starts talking to Mike about how cool El sounded and how she sees why Mike didn’t want her in the party, but despite Max’s efforts, Mike still insists that Max isn't a part of their party. Even after Max says that El sounded really cool, as some last ditch effort to end the conversation in a nice note, Mike turns hostile, saying
"Yeah, she was, until that thing took her, just like it took Bob."
Something I didn't realize until I rewatched is that Mike really internalized Bob's death. He talked about how Bob was the first one to start the Hawkins AV club, that he petitioned the school to start it, to fundraise for equipment, and that he taught Mr. Clark everything he knew. It's then he makes the effort to do something about the Mind Flayer.
And while this scene about not letting Bob die in vain is very heroic on the outside, it's something big for a young kid like that and it takes a toll. Mike has gone through losing Will, losing Eleven, losing Bob, and losing Barb. It all reaches a climax one Mike fights with Hopper, blaming him for everything that has happened.
This scene is much more than Mike losing El. It is a culmination of the trauma that he has endured and the hidden guilt he has surrounding everything
In terms of season four, I never expected that Max would be the main focus of the story. Sure we saw that her brother had died, and there was that split second scene at the end of season three showing her grief, but she seemed fine....right?
And while the depression she experiences seemed like something unexpected to a lot of people, it wasn't out of the blue. It was hinted at, and I believe the deliberate pairing of Mike and Max is meant to show us that they internalize things in similar ways, thus making Mike a large focus of season five.
After the events of season two, Mike SEEMS fine, all happy with a relationship with El, but he's not, and I think it goes a lot deeper than just internalized homophobia. It's the start of his feelings of uselessness, of his inability to stop bad things from happening, and his tendency to hurt this friends. the thing is...Mike is just better at hiding it. this goes on through season four, and while his insecurities are slowly revealed, I believe it's building up to something bigger. This is something that is going to be preyed on and i can't wait to see how the writers will explore his character more
edit: I can’t believe so many people are still liking this after that clusterfuck of a finale. thank you so much for reading, and for all the madwheeler fans out there, I’m glad we’re reminiscing about what could have been together <3
Mike Wheeler’s bedroom isn't just queer-coded, it's politically charged in context — thanks to this print.
Alternative title: Triangles, triangles and more fucking triangles.
The more you look, the clearer it becomes that Mike's bedroom is an absolute masterclass in queer-coded set design.
I probably don’t need to address the famous "one way" sign pointing to the closet — that symbolism should be obvious. However, I do want to focus on the print which has been placed (quite intentionally) beneath it:
Relativity (1953) by M. C. Escher
Relativity is one of Escher's most recognizable works. It's a lithograph (originally a woodcut) that depicts a labyrinth of staircases inside a world where the normal laws of gravity do not apply. In fact, it appears to have three centres of gravity occupying the same space.
It plays with dimensions, which is fitting for a show like Stranger Things which is about alternate dimensions.
The three gravitational forces could even be referencing the three known dimensions within Stranger Things: The Rightside Up, The Upside Down, and the mysterious Dimension X.
But beyond that, this image also speaks to Mike's character and psyche. Otherwise, it wouldn't be placed inside his bedroom which represents his personality, privacy, and inner world.
The Meaning of Relativity
Relativity is obviously the state of being relative.
To be relative means that something gains its meaning or significance only when compared to, or understood in relation to, something else.
When you focus on a single point of gravity in Escher's print, the scene appears normal. But when you assess the image as a whole, you notice that something is off.
The three centres of gravity are made interesting when we notice them in relation to each other.
That's why it's called Relativity.
Basically, we're being told that if we want to better understand Mike Wheeler, we need to look at him relatively.
We need to pay attention to the context and look at the bigger picture.
Well, you don’t have to tell me twice. Let's zoom back out.
In the bigger picture, the blocking has Mike stood between his bed and the closet. Framed above him is the "one way" sign, and the print of Relativity.
This is our point of interest: the spot our eyes are naturally drawn to.
All Signs Point to The Closet
As it turns out, the "one way" sign is highly relevant to this analysis.
That's because the perceived significance of the "one way" sign is relative.
On its own, a "one way" sign in Mike’s bedroom is just a traffic sign and nothing more. In relation to the closet, however, it transforms into a visual cue for the state of being "in the closet."
The symbolism of the "one way" sign depends entirely on its relationship to the closet, and Relativity (1953) underscores that fact with humour and cheeky precision.
It's a slapstick fish-to-the-face for anyone still denying the possibility of Mike being queer.
It's as if the set designers are saying, "Look at the sign in relation to the closet. And just to make sure you see it, here's Escher's Relativity sitting right between them to give you instruction."
It's not even hidden in plain sight — it's being pointed to.
And here's the kicker: the sign, the print, and the closet aren't just thematically connected — they are spatially triangulated.
Their relativity is both metaphorical and literal!
It's also queer imagery: Special thanks to costume designer Amy Parris for confirming that the creatives behind Stranger Things are well aware of the triangle's significance in LGBTQ+ history and symbolism. (More on that later).
The Penrose Triangle (Tragedy)
The triangle imagery becomes even more overt: at the centre of Relativity sits an inverted Penrose triangle, also known as the Penrose tribar or impossible triangle.
An impossible shape is a form that can be drawn, but cannot possibly exist in three-dimensional reality — unless it is an optical illusion.
Psychologist Lionel Penrose and his mathematician son Roger Penrose popularised the Penrose triangle in the 1950s, describing it as "impossibility in its purest form".
It's... actually quite tragic, when you think about it.
The impossible triangle suggests that Mike feels trapped in an unsolvable dilemma — caught between two realities (the two-dimensional and the three-dimensional) — with no way to reconcile them.
That's because Mike is at the centre of a dysfunctional love triangle:
The two-dimensional reality that only exists within his mind: a romantic union with Will Byers.
The three-dimensional reality that exists within real life: a romantic relationship with El Hopper.
But remember, the impossible triangle is an optical illusion — it doesn't actually exist.
Like Relativity, when you assess the bigger picture (rather than focusing on a single point) something about this love triangle is… off.
It's not just impossible; it's fake.
In Relativity, the three points of gravity hold equal importance. This mirrors the way Mike, Will, and El each contribute equally to sustaining this phony love triangle.
They're all either hiding something or being dishonest.
Their dysfunction comes to a head in the Rink-O-Mania scenes, where it is most obvious. It's the crux of the blame-game that even fans can't resist joining:
Who’s the real asshole in this love triangle?
Dustin already gave the most succinct answer long ago: they're all being little assholes.
But that’s the tragedy, isn’t it?
These aren't bad people — they're timid teenagers.
The impossible triangle isn’t a joke at their expense; it's a reminder that all three are stuck in a structure that can’t hold.
And Mike isn't the perpetrator; he's just at the heart of it.
That’s why Relativity hangs in his room and not El’s or Will's: the impossible puzzle is his to solve, because he's the one with the most to lose.
Since the problem with this love triangle is fakery, the only real solution is honesty. Relativity foreshadows that Mike will be the one to break the illusion — to reveal the truth.
The Pink Triangle (Triumph)
Of course, the fact that the triangle in Relativity is inverted is also significant. Maybe not in Escher’s original intention, but certainly for the creators of Stranger Things in relation to Mike Wheeler.
See what I did there?
As Amy Parris has noted, the inverted triangle is queer imagery, because it is linked to the pink triangle.
The pink triangle has a horrific origin:
During the Second World War, it was used in Nazi concentration camps to mark gay men and trans women.
At the time, the inversion signified "sexual inversion" — an outdated, offensive term once used to pathologise homosexuality.
Much like the word queer which was used as a slur before being reclaimed by the LGBTQ+ community, the pink triangle (or inverted triangle), was also reappropriated.
It’s now a symbol of pride, gay liberation, and equality.
This reclamation began in the 1970s, sparked by Holocaust survivor Heinz Heger's memoir The Men with the Pink Triangle.
In The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), Dr. Frank-N-Furter famously wears a pink triangle over his heart.
I used the word triumph in my subheading with intention, because triumph implies victory over persistent struggle and enduring resilience.
After the Holocaust, the queer community faced another devastating battle: the AIDS epidemic.
The conservative Reagan administration was infamously silent during the crisis's peak years in the 1980s — and Stranger Things is set squarely within this political backdrop.
In this era, the pink triangle's significance re-emerged, taking on new prominence as a symbol of the ACT UP coalition and the fight against AIDS.
Their slogan?
SILENCE = DEATH
Does this slogan remind you of anything from the show? Because it should. Eddie Munson said something strikingly similar in season 4:
"It's forced conforming... that's what's killing the kids!"
Silence = passivity, compliance and conformity.
This wasn’t just an empowering line to capture the spirit of Stranger Things; it was a direct and intentional reference to the fight against AIDS.
And let’s be clear: Eddie Munson is heavily queer-coded.
He appears to have used the hanky code, showed a clear attraction to Steve, and was persecuted by his community during a mass hysteria that mirrored the real-life Satanic Panic.
So Mike Wheeler — a teen growing up in a Reagan-voting household, a member of the Hellfire Club, and one of Eddie Munson’s chosen protégés — keeps a symbol of queer resistance and liberation hanging in his bedroom.
He also wears a custom-made shirt with a triangle over his heart.
Is that significant? Is it intentional?
Well, we have to go back to Escher's Relativity, which reminds us that it’s all relative:
The inverted triangle in the print hanging in Mike’s room, and the triangle over his heart, only gain their full meaning when viewed in context: the bigger picture.
And in Stranger Things, a story about freaks and outcasts beating the odds, that bigger picture is the AIDS crisis: it's right there, providing the backdrop — the context.
Pride is a Riot
Queer liberation is not supposed to be polite or palatable: it’s about breaking down barriers, opening doors, making people uncomfortable, and demanding visibility.
One of the most prominent visual motifs included in season 4 of Stranger Things is the Creel mansion door.
A door — something which opens and reveals the truth inside (like a curtain, a gate, or a closet). Notice that doors, curtains, gates and closets all play a recurring role in Stranger Things; this show has an obsession with metaphors about opening barriers and revealling truths.
Now, the set designers haven't just suggested that Mike is in the closet, they've implied it’s a "one way" destination.
He can’t leave. It’s the impossible shape. A locked door.
But Robin already demonstrated how we can open a locked door and let the light (truth) in.
By smashing it with a brick — a possible reference to the Stonewall riots.
They didn't need to include this moment. The door didn't have to be locked, and Robin didn’t have to be the one throwing the brick.
Heck, they could have thrown in a little fanservice and had Steve take off his jacket and punch through the glass with his fist.
Like the "one way" sign, the significance of the brick is relative — relative to its wielder:
Robin Buckley, a canon lesbian who is partially closeted and partially out.
Interestingly, when we look back at Mike Wheeler's room — and specifically his closet — we can see that the set designers placed a mirror inside.
Mirrors show our reflection; they expose truths and confront us with our reality and identity.
In this case, the mirror also catches rays of light streaming from Mike’s window, just like the beams that poured in when Robin’s brick smashed through the Creel mansion door.
Light is truth, illumination and exposure.
The Matter of Perspective
We can wax poetic about Escher's Relativity all day, but its core principle is simple; it's about perspective.
Is Mike Wheeler queer-coded?
Well, it's relative. Whether you read Mike as straight or queer depends on your point of view, and your way of seeing the world:
Are you sympathetic to the struggles and experiences of queer people? Are you queer yourself and know that experience intimately? Do you see queerness not as an "inversion" of the norm, but as an equally valid expression?
If the answer to any of these is yes, then you probably interpret Mike as queer due to your perspective.
I don’t at all begrudge those who simply aren’t familiar with queer-coding — but I do detest those who refuse to see it, or see it and choose to deny it.
Because silence is death.
Mike’s sexuality needs to be both recognized and canonized, because overt queer representation matters. It doesn't matter if it makes Them™️ uncomfortable — queer lives matter more than stupid respectability politics.
Stranger Things has already been catering to Them™️ by watering down the narrative: keeping Mike hidden behind the curtain, and in the closet.
I don’t mind because I love a riddle, but we’re heading into the final season now. The endgame.
The curtain has to open. The door needs to be smashed.
But will they do it? That likely depends on the perspective of the Stranger Things creators themselves.
So, what is their perspective?
What is the ethos that drives the show's storytelling?
For the answer, we can turn to David Harbour's SAG Awards speech (edited for brevity):
"This award… is a call to arms from our fellow craftsmen and women to go deeper, and through our art to battle against fear, self-centeredness, and exclusivity… and through our craft to cultivate a more empathetic and understanding society by revealing intimate truths…
We 1983 Midwesterners will repel bullies, we will shelter freaks and outcasts... we will get past the lies… And when we are at a loss amidst the hypocrisy and the casual violence of certain individuals and institutions we will… punch some people in the face when they seek to destroy the weak, and the disenfranchised, and the marginalized."
And remember the context: a story set in a conservative Midwestern town in the 1980s, in the shadow of the AIDS crisis and the Satanic Panic, where one of the main characters is a canon gay teen in love with his best friend.
I'd say their perspective is pretty fucking clear. 🔺
