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Things got… different when Will finally returned to Hawkins.
It wasn’t like a bad difference, but it wasn’t like Mike could say it was an entirely positive one either. Perhaps, just maybe, a part of him actually thought for a minute that Will being back to the small town would really make a difference, make him feel better, and then everything would be back to normal. He’d prayed.
It didn’t, of course, and he wasn’t entirely surprised about that, either. It wasn’t as if Will being back would suddenly make all of their weighing burdens just vanish off of their shoulders, but Mike would be a lying fool if he said he hadn’t hoped so. Max was still in her coma, and they’d all visited her as a group when Will and El first returned, and since then Mike has only paid her two visits.
He didn’t like hospitals, he never really had; the same, vast white tiles covering the floor paired with the white painted walls and bars of buzzing light overhead made him feel uneasily sick, which isn’t exactly the goal for a hospital. That feeling got worse when Will was possessed and Mike had to watch him scream in pain and, though muffled by the plastic oxygen mask covering his mouth, hear the guttural screams of pain emitted from him, sounding like they were wrenched out of his throat.
He didn't want to see Max in there anyway, and made an effort to imagine that the next time he did see her, she’d be out of that awful place, perhaps in her wheelchair. Her hair, such a particular shade of blazing orange, highlighted with small strands of auburn, would be ignited again, nothing like the dull ginger it seemed to take on in the gloom of the hospital, and her eyes would take on their cold look, even if they were directed with warmth.
Vecna was still a looming problem, too, precisely the reason Max was cooped up comatose in the hospital, anyway. He’d already gotten two of his sacrificial murder victims—Chrissy and Patrick—and because Max was in a coma, the group made a point of always keeping Walkmans, walkies and radios within arms reach at all times, locked and loaded with batteries.
It sounded awfully funny, the fact Mike was pouting over his mere feelings whilst Max was actually suffering and El had gone through so much just in a few days, at least enough pain to get her powers back. He felt stupid, and it made his stomach churn, because there were definitely more things varying higher on the level of importance that he should be focusing on right now, but here he was.
He should’ve been up earlier than this. He really should’ve, because early patrols started soon—a presumption, actually, because he wasn’t staring at his alarm clock to at least squint and give a guess at what time it read, rather just huddled in his bed—and they’d need every person to count.
But, Mike felt nasty, and that wasn’t just because he was positioned in such a way that he could catch a glimpse of himself in the foggy fingertip smudges on the rounded edges of his dirty mirror, seeing how hollow his face looked. He just felt like he was in such disarray, all of the time, felt so out of place, so strange.
It reminded him of 1985, feeling so angry all of the time, and his face distorted and his nose scrunched at the bridge as the thought appeared. He hated those times, even if half of that summer consisted of him and El kissing in her bedroom at the cabin.
He hated the rain after his fight with Will, and rain used to be his favorite thing. Now Mike instead preferred the clouds, probably the closest thing he’d get to rain without having to remember the words shared in his garage that day. Or primarily the words Mike had spat at Will, the latter’s eyes rounded with nothing but disbelief.
He hated that look, and he hated how it made him feel and right now he just felt nasty. Narrowly, Mike eyed himself in the mirror, squinting his eyes and knitting his creased onyx brows.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when the doorknob clicks open, a new noise to an otherwise quiet room, echoing as Mike tries to adapt.
“Hey,” Will’s voice was soft, like a lulling quiver, careful and gentle all the same, “Finally awake?”
When there was no answer, the boy on the other side of the door paused, perturbed, if only for a moment, and then queried again, jibing teasingly, “No more beauty sleep needed?”
Against his own wishes, Mike growls with a soft rumble to it, “Bold of you to say I needed beauty sleep in the first place.”
The door’s hinges creak once again as it moves to open more of a wide sliver, and now Will’s eyes are visible through the door, the lighter green speckles in the brown always a gleaming and relaxing sight to see. Mike shifts in bed, and from his new position, he can see the familiar eyes are paired with a relieved smile and his left hand occupied by a round bowl, the handle of a spoon resting against the mouth of the bowl.
Will, somewhat awkward, shifts on his feet, laughing nervously as he leans against the door, “Um, I brought you some cereal, your favorite.”
He winces, looking as if he’s cringing at his own joke, and Mike at least tries to fight the grin that wins its way aloft his pursed lips. Mike sits up, his thin frame still warmed by the covers he’s huddled up over him, draped like an extra layer, reminiscent of a puffy winter coat. He squints, giving his best act at a feigned consideration, and then rolls his shoulders in a shrug, motioning for Will to come in.
Will’s shoulders droop, but he doesn’t look sad; rather relieved, the awkward tension in his posture suddenly disappears as a loopy grin curves along his mouth. He pushed the rest of the door open with his shoulder, but gingerly took the time to shut the door behind him in such a way that the door had only an inch before closing, leaving a small crack showing the outside home. Outside of Mike’s safe little corner.
He’s still smiling, however, as he slinks over to Mike’s bed, setting the cereal bowl he had brought with him on the bedside table beside Mike's headboard and moving to sit on the bed, the mattress dipping down with his newly added weight. There’s some space between both of them already, but Mike shifts closer to his pillow and father from Will, and he’s not even sure why.
(liar liar you’re a liar you know why you know—)
“You don’t look like you just got up,” Will observes, and he doesn’t sound lighthearted at all, just flat, like he’s a little unimpressed, maybe a tad bit concerned. His legs are crossed— crisscross applesauce , Mike thinks dumbly—on the bed as he blinks at Mike, taking him all in, “Did you sleep last night?”
Mike should lie, but he can’t find it in himself to do so to Will. They’re a team. They promised themselves so in Lenora.
“A bit,” He answers, and just like Will’s, his voice sounds flat, though it has a slight quiver. Maybe that’s just a trick to his own ears, but Mike huffs anyway, feeling uncomfortable. “I’m fine, just didn’t want to get up, is all.”
Will still looks the epitome of unamused, arching one creased brow and pouting his lips in a small frown that Mike was sure only he could pick up on. One of his fingers twitch at his light khaki pants, perhaps to pick at the material, and Mike feels the urge to grab his hand and envelope it in his own, but he doesn’t.
Eyes narrowed to a skeptical squint, Will keeps that same frown as he nods over to the bowl with it’s lone silver spoon resting along the top, adding, “You haven’t ate since you’ve gotten up.”
It’s not just an observation, like his lack of sleep. It’s a hidden request, a suggestion, perhaps even a soft command. He’s noticed, and he wants Mike to eat, both to calm himself and to make Mike feel better.
Mike groans blearily, biting the inside of his cheek and hugging himself tighter, glaring daggers at the bowl, “Not hungry.”
Will blinks, and the lined specks of green in his eyes catch a hint of the light muffled by Mike’s closed blinds, making him look wondrous, though Mike can tell he just looked confused. He sighs, a huffing and exasperated release of air, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. Mike isn’t completely sure of this, but he thinks it’s not a dismissive gesture; he doesn’t think Will is just brushing it off, he’s merely opting to save the whole eating thing for later.
Mike internally agrees, and with his resolve, he fights the overwhelming urge rising in his throat to yawn.
“So,” Will carries on, and he remains in his same position, legs crossed against his slouched form on the bed. “How come you didn’t sleep so well last night?”
Mike doesn’t respond, rather biting his dry lip and blinking away awkwardly. He lifts his hand to his mouth and bites his already somewhat jagged nail, voice muffled and eyes momentarily flitting toward the cloudy mirror as he responds, “Just tossed and turned all night, I guess. I didn’t miss patrols, did I?”
Will’s auburn brown brows furrow for a moment, obviously befuddled, but he wets his lips and dismisses it with a quick and brief shake of his head, lashes fluttering a dark contrast to his skin, “Well, um… Yeah, I guess, we’d thought it would be good to let you rest. Let you sleep.”
Mike lets out what can only be described as a whine, sounding exasperated, “Shit,” the sh drug out and emphasized, “Nance is gonna kill me.”
Will huffs, “Don’t worry about that.” He nudges Mike, or tries to from his distance, leaning forward, “She said it’d be good for you to sleep.”
But I didn’t, Mike filled in for him, mulling it all over internally, staring down at the thin light blue bed sheets below him for a moment, onto for his eyes to roll straight back over to the mirror. His own reflection daunting him; pale milky skin like a vampire, an ugly spatter of freckles, messy black hair with loose strands kissing the sides of his face, some strawn right over his nose, moving sometimes when he’d breathe. The curls at the nape of his neck, usually somewhat curved, were tangled as if he hadn’t showered in days.
He couldn’t really remember if he had. Mike blinks, and he takes it in, something he really hates. His face, all of it, the narrow curve of his cheekbones, his crooked and hooked nose, how he looks like a malnourished fish. Or worse a frog.
“—Frogface,” A shove to his shoulder, causing Mike to wince and his side to be knocked against Lucas’, referred to by Troy and James as Midnight, who grappled gently to stabilize him. “And, Toothless!”
He shivers. Frogface.
Will notices, because he’s Will, always sharp and attentive, and because of course he does. Wheeler luck.
“Are you cold?” He frowns, and Mike’s eyes don’t move from his own reflection, no matter how much he wills them too, no matter how much he begs. Will’s frown deepens, and he turns.
All that Will sees is a mirror, and Mike’s awful ugly reflection. He blinks, confused, California tanned nose scrunched at the bridge, turning back to Mike, seeming even more bewildered.
“Are you cold?” Will prods, and though his voice was light, Mike could sense the underlying hint of worrying concern, eying Mike and his huddled thick blanket skeptically. He purses his lips, continuing, “If you are cold even with that blanket, you might be sick.”
And then he’s frowning, again, because of Mike, again . Mike blinks, his thick eyelashes fluttering a dark contrast to his pale porcelain skin, wetting his chapped lips as he opens them, to do something, say something, start sputtering an apology, to just try and reassure Will.
“Are you sick?” Will asks now, and Mike starts to get the feeling that Will’s talking to him like he’d talk to a baby, and he suddenly feels like he needs to do something.
“No.” Mike hisses, and it comes out a little sharper than he meant it to, but Will doesn’t seem phased at all, so he adds, “I’m fine, Will. Jesus . Stop worrying about me for once.”
And Will does nothing but sigh, a sound deep from his throat, husky and morose. He shakes his head, rolling his shoulders in a shrug that communicates something Mike desperately wishes he could read—he used to be able to tell everything about Will, but now he just ain’t sure when it comes to the boy—and slipping off of the bed quickly, mattress dipping with his weight.
Mike feels even worse. He didn’t mean it to be so rude, he just meant don’t worry about me this time, not hey, mind getting the hell away? and yet, here Will was, moving away, because Mike had been difficult, and he clearly wasn’t in a mood to try and fight his stubbornness.
Will’s halfway to the door when Mike purses his lips with a soft click, asking, “Will?”
It’s soft and gentle, like a whisper.
Will turns, and he looks somewhat hopeful as he hums his response even softer, “Hm?”
“Can…” Mike shifts awkwardly in bed, beck against his propped pillow, “Can you turn the mirror away?”
Will blinks, and he looks… both disappointed, and confused as he glanced over to the mirror, tapping it before looking back at Mike, quiering, “Um, why? Like fully turn it away?”
“Yes. I…” He sighs under his breath, averting his eyes, “I just don’t like it . Seeing myself, I guess.”
There’s a small noise, a thud perhaps, and Mike presumes it’s Will turning the mirror away like Mike had requested, no doubt in mind that he’s confused whilst doing so. There’s an intake of breath as Will asks, “Why?”
Mike bites his bottom lip, “It just freaks me out, I guess. I look…”
There’s a pause, and neither of them say anything, the room pregnant with nothing other than silence, until Mike finishes, slowly, like he’s taking his time picking out the word, “Weird. Just, not myself, I guess.”
Will’s silent, but it seems like a Will thing to do, to let someone speak, stay silent and let them talk for as long as they need to.
So Mike adds, hesitantly, “I—… I don’t like how I look, I think.”
He doesn’t think, he knows. But he says I think, and he’s not sure why, not sure why he can’t have one sentence leave his mouth the way he intended it to.
Then Will finally speaks, and Mike can hear footsteps, which leads to him to believe Will’s getting closer, maybe not so pissed anymore, “What? What do you mean?”
It’s soft, and he sounds genuinely surprised and curious, like he can’t imagine a world where Mike doesn’t like how he looks. Mike’s almost touched, and maybe he is, judging by the soft flutter he feels faintly for a moment, but he chooses to ignore that right now.
“It’s just…” Mike licks his lips, and the words seem to just spill out before Mike can even stop himself, sputtering, “I’m… Frogface , you know?”
He screws his eyes shut, clenching, “The ugly one. So… tall and awkward and… juh-just… stupid compared to everyone else. Nothing special there.”
Will’s breath hitches audibly and Mike can hear it, just as he also hears and feels Will sitting next to him, body pressed against his so close his warmth slowly spread to Mike’s thin bones, heart doubled in his chest and veins.
“Mike…” It’s soft, hinted with something sad.
“No. I get it, Will.” His own voice sounds watery, and he prays he’s not crying. He hates crying, especially when he does it in front of other people, the person in question being Will makes it even worse. “It’s stupid… I mean, Max had been through hell and I’m upset because I don’t look right and—“
“Mike.” Will’s voice is clear now, and the tone of it is enough to make Mike raise his head, curls kissing the sides of his face as he blinks.
“Stop it.” Will murmurs, and his expression has done nothing but soften, hell, he looked just as gentle as Joyce was.
That kind of kindness probably ran in his family, whilst the Wheelers were good at nothing but being troublesome.
“Fuck that,” And Mike can’t help the fact his lips part and he might as well be gaping because of the fact Will cursed, “ Okay? Fuck Frogface, because you’re not him. You’re Mike.”
He pauses, and whispers, “The heart. Okay? You’re amazing.”
Mike frowns, and Will only hesitates for a moment before he throws an arm around Mike and suddenly they’re hugging. Will’s warmth is now bleeding through his chest, pressed against Mike’s torso—he swears he can feel his entire body suddenly warm up, maybe even his ribs—as Mike buries his face in Will’s shirt.
“You’re not ugly and we all need you. Got it?”
Mike can’t find himself to say anything at all, so he just hums, not at all surprised to find that he doesn’t want to let go, so he latches onto Will with one hand, even if Will had pulled away just slightly.
They’re both silent for a moment, before Will smiles softly, gently elbowing him as he jibes, “Gonna eat that cereal or do I have to?”
Mike eats it, and Will’s there the whole time. He’s not leaving, and that makes Mike realize something he should’ve the whole time.
He shouldn’t push Will away, because never once has it helped. The outcome is always better if he has Will by his side, and he wants to keep it that way.