Archive of Our Own

Mike wakes up screaming for the tenth time in three days. 

He’s shaking and sweating all over, eyes darting all around the room, breathing too ragged. His chest heaves with every inhale he takes – forcefully dragging air into his lungs. His fingers curl into the sheets, twisting them in his hands as he calms down. 

The nightmare is already slipping through his memory – not normal for him, but it’s inconsequential now. He’s been..stressed lately. About school, his trip to California, his letters, his parents. 

Perhaps it's finally getting to him. 

He sighs, wiping harshly at the tears on his cheeks as he reaches across the bed for the glass of water on the nightstand. His hands are shaking badly; the water spills over his lips and down his shirt, soaking into the bedsheets. 

“Shit,” he hisses, setting it back down – the clink of the glass echoing in the quiet room. 

For a second, the shadow in the corner stretches forward, its edges darkening and elongating ominously. Mike whips around to look at it, eyes wide in panic. 

Nothing. 

He winces when he feels a sharp twinge of pain in his head, hands coming up to massage at his temples, willing the headache away. 

God, he has an early flight to California tomorrow, he seriously cannot afford this right now. 

Although…

His eyes drift to the bathroom door, lingering for a second before snapping away. He’d taken two pills of Tylenol before he went to bed, but it hasn't even been three hours since then. 

The pain spikes again. Mike chews at his lips thoughtfully. 

Fuck it. 

He gives up, swinging his legs down the side of the bed, groaning as he stands. The floor is cold beneath his feet, making him shiver as he crosses the room. His fingers wrap around the handle, wrenching the door open. 

The metal is cold to the touch – icy, like something taken fresh out of a freezer. For a second, he stands there staring at the darkness of the bathroom, something akin to fear taking root in his heart. 

He shakes his head. He’s being silly. It’s just a bathroom, nothing is going to get him in his own fucking bathroom. 

He flicks the light on as he enters – mechanical. This is routine to him now. He doesn’t have to think much. Pulling the cabinet door open, he grabs the bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out one pill, pauses, and then shakes out another. Better to take them both now than take another in the morning. Easier to avoid Mom’s questions. 

He pops them into his mouth and swallows them dry, not caring about the way they drag against his throat, though it makes him cough slightly. He puts the bottle back, shutting the cabinet. As he pulls back, his reflection in the mirror catches his eye, making him pause. 

He leans closer and sure enough, another nosebleed. 

“Eugh.”

He twists the faucet on, splashing some water on his face and wiping at the underside of his nose. He pinches it, tilting his head up for a few seconds before he ducks it down over the sink. He waits for a few seconds. 

Nothing happens. No more blood comes dripping down. 

Satisfied that this is a one-time thing for today, he switches the lights off, trudging back to his bed. He flops down, stuffing his face against the pillow, begging himself to go to sleep. 

He has a flight early tomorrow, he cannot afford to miss it. 

And just like that, his brain – ever the traitor – provides him with a high-definition image of Will’s smile. 

So beautiful, so angelic. His teeth so white, his hazel eyes shining with joy. Color would rise to his cheeks, turning them a pleasant shade of red. 

Mike imagines how it will be when he lands tomorrow – how excited would Will be to see him? Would he smile like that again? Would he hug Mike? 

Would Will tell him he missed Mike so much? Would he tell him to stay?

Mike thinks he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. If he gave in to what he really wanted, he’d probably run across the airport like a madman, throwing himself into Will’s arms the second he sees him. 

Despite his best efforts, his lips stretch into a wide smile, his cheeks heating up in the familiar way they do when he thinks about Will. 

Perhaps he’d pull back, gaze into his eyes. Perhaps he’d lean down, press his lips against– 

He snaps back to reality, sitting up suddenly. He stares down at his pillow, eyes going wide in horror at his thoughts. 

That’s your fucking best friend. He tells himself, stop thinking about him in that way, you sick bastard.  

Tears sting at his eyes, his lips twist as he crashes back down, stuffing his face into the pillow to muffle his sobs. 

Why the fuck is he like this? Why can’t he just be normal? 

He doesn’t think about how he hasn’t had a single thought about Eleven in a few weeks even though he has told everyone he’s going to see her.

That, predictably, is not what happens when he lands in Lenora. He waves at the Byers, eyes skimming over the crowd as he spots Jonathan first, then Eleven. His eyes ghost over the boy next to them – lean, maybe a little muscular but in a lithe way, tanned, smiling so broadly, so so HOT – before snapping back. 

Will. 

His brain implodes. 

Eleven rushes towards him, kissing him sweetly on the lips; her arms swing around him as she crushes him in a hug. 

(Too close. Away.) 

As if in a trance, he pushes her back, gesturing at the bouquet in his hand, giving it to her almost in a daze. 

His eyes are still fixed on Will. His very hot, super sweet, smiling best friend who’s standing there behind Eleven, fidgeting nervously. 

El releases him and steps aside for Will. He comes in, arms out, grin stretching impossibly wide, a soft “Mike!” leaving his mouth in that excited way of his. Belatedly, Mike realizes he needs to move and he lifts his hands awkwardly, patting him on the back. 

Muscles. Muscles muscles muscles. Those are tendons. Muscles. HOT.

Will’s smile drops instantly, and Mike’s heart drops with it. Did he do something wrong? Was Will expecting a gift? Shit. Mike should’ve brought him flowers too, or at least something. Will is probably so disappointed in him. Mike is such a bad friend–

Jonathan pulls him into a hug, and Mike wrinkles his nose at the smell that comes from him. It’s awfully familiar, and sure enough, when he pulls back, he can see that Jonathan’s eyes are red. 

Mike almost scowls – digging his nails into the soft flesh of his palm to distract himself, though he files away this interaction so he can confront Jonathan later. 

He steps back only to be yanked into another embrace by a weird dude standing next to Jonathan. He says something about Mike’s clothes not being the real deal – which, rude. And then they’re moving, Mike’s arm across Eleven’s shoulders, holding her as they walk through the corridors. 

She’s saying something.Telling him about how they’ll spend the day, and he knows this is bad, but he really can’t care right now. All he hears is that she’s planned the day to perfection, but all he can think about is that Will hasn’t spoken a word since their hug. 

Slowly – ever so slowly – he turns his head, peeking out of the corner of his eyes. Will is walking alongside them, head down, eyes sad and watery. Mike’s heart thuds in his chest. Did something happen? Did someone say something to Will?  

And most importantly, how the fuck did he miss it? 

Will must’ve picked up on his – very blatant – staring, because he looks up, turning the full force of his gaze on Mike’s poor soul. Mike quickly averts his eyes, looking back down in shame. 

Stupid. He curses himself. What the fuck are you even doing – staring at your best friend like that? 

He forces himself to remember Eleven, and turns his head to press a kiss to her forehead. He tries not to think about how he doesn’t feel a single fucking thing when she giggles in delight. 

The day moves fast, almost too fast for Mike’s liking. They stop by some weird burrito place to eat, but Mike can’t bring himself to take a single bite when Will sits in front of him, staring morosely at his food. 

Mike wonders if he doesn’t like it. Though he doesn’t remember Will ever being averse to most foods. 

But what would you know? A cruel part of him whispers again. You haven’t even bothered to talk to him this past year, have you, Michael?

And then as if he hadn’t suffered enough last night, his headache spikes again, sharper than before, making him wince. He presses his fingers against his temple, massaging it discreetly. 

No one notices. 

Mike kinda wishes they had.

He excuses himself after a while, when the pain doesn’t show any signs of ebbing away. Jonathan barely seems to realize, nodding along to whatever bullshit his friend – Argyle – is spewing. They’re both high as fuck, and it’s so obvious. Mike wonders why Will or Eleven haven’t said anything. 

(Perhaps it’s Jonathan’s new ‘normal’. Although, Mike can be sure Nancy won’t be too happy about it when she hears.) 

Eleven smiles at him in that easy way of hers, seemingly not noticing anything different in his behavior. 

But Will does. 

His eyes follow Mike the entire way to the bathroom door, burning into the back of his skull. Mike’s heart flips in his chest, almost squealing in victory. 

He noticed! 

Mike stands over the sink, gripping it tight, his knuckles tense. His vision blurs for a second before it focuses again, and sure enough, a trickle of blood falls from his nose. He wipes hastily, pinching it before tilting his head up, wincing at the copper taste of the liquid as it slides back down his throat. 

Eugh.

The water sprays out of the faucet as he twists it on and splashes the cold liquid over his face, willing the sudden exhaustion to go away. He slaps his cheeks a couple times for good measure, peering critically at the mirror to make sure he looks presentable enough to go back.

He doesn’t.

Deciding that he does, he dries his hands and his face, throws the paper towel into the dustbin by the door, and lets it fall shut behind him. 

For a second, the room twists and warps, turning into red skies and thunder.

Mike shakes his head, raking a hand through his unruly curls to ground himself. He slides back into his seat, shooting them a – hopefully reassuring – grin that no one returns. El looks strangely subdued, but she brightens up the second he asks if there’s anything else she has planned, so he must at least be doing something right. 

Although Will’s mood seems to sour further, so really, Mike must be doing everything wrong. 

The day – as expected – goes even more to shit. 

They get dropped off at a place called Rink-o-mania, which sounds a little ominous, and really, Mike should’ve listened to his gut, because they’re barely even there for twenty minutes before El gets humiliated by a bunch of mouthbreathers. 

And she’s also disappeared, but Mike really can’t concentrate on that right now. It’s not like she can run away very far, they’ll find her eventually. There are more pressing matters at hand. 

“You should have told me she was having trouble,” he says, wincing immediately at his own tone. 

That’s how you start a conversation, Wheeler? 

Will’s scowl is immediate and very much deserved. The hazel in his eyes turns colder, deadlier. It feels like Mike has crossed some kind of invisible line into Will’s ire. 

Shit. 

“Yeah, well,” Will says, voice tense, his way of giving Mike one more chance to get this right, “I didn’t know they were gonna be here, Mike.” 

“Yeah,” Mike allows, taking a second to wrack his brain for literally anything that might allow him to salvage the situation. “But you knew she was having trouble for, like, a year and you didn’t tell me.” 

Will’s whole face darkens, his lips twitching to the side in a very don’t make me madder way.

Mike’s heart thuds in his chest. He needs to resolve this situation like, right the fuck now. 

“I didn’t know she was lying to you.”

Mike pauses, his brain going into overdrive. Clearly, Will is judging his relationship. No matter how it’s falling apart – but he’s– he’s judging it. He’s judging Mike. 

He’s probably thinking something along the lines of I thought you guys had a healthy communication system. I thought you told each other everything. I thought you actually loved–

“Which is why you decided to be such a douche to us all day?” 

(Oh fuck. Foot has now officially been placed in the mouth. Mike should just go kill himself.) 

Will’s stony expression cracks for a second – a sheen to his eyes, lips trembling before he bites down on them. Mike blinks at him. With a sigh, he steps forward, ready to stop the hurt from spreading too much. 

“Listen–”

“I wasn’t being a douche!” 

Anger flares through Mike, hot and immediate. Will was being a douche! He was ignoring Mike and he was rolling his eyes at him and he was not talking to him and he reacted to that bitch Angela’s name and–

His mouth seems to move of its own accord, the exact words pouring out of him as he struggles to orient himself at the sudden stab of pain behind his eyes. Ugh, headaches.  

“You were!” he insists. “You were. You were rolling your eyes, you were—you were moping, you were barely talking. You basically sabotaged the whole day!” 

Will’s entire demeanour shifts. He blinks hard, curling his hands into fists at his side. His hazel gaze is watery and filled with hurt, trained on Mike, some distant part of him seemingly begging him to take it back. 

An image flashes in front of his eyes – of last summer, Will standing in front of him, hurt, driven to tears by Mike’s cruel words. 

He had promised himself then, that he would never allow it to happen again. He probably should’ve known better.

Mike’s an asshole, always has been. And perhaps he always will be at this rate; hurting his best friend, bringing him to tears, putting the blame on him. 

“Well, she was lying to you, Mike!” Will bursts out, voice cracking under the weight of his hurt. “Straight to your face! Ever since you got here!” 

He punctuates his sentence with a harsh jab to Mike’s chest – right over his heart – and somehow, that hits harder than a brick to the face. Mike stumbles back, still staring at Will in disbelief, like if he looks at him long enough, the cavern between them will close itself and they’ll go right back to being best friends. 

“And I- I’ve been a total third wheel all day,” Will continues, voice strained, threatening to shatter completely. “It’s been miserable. So sorry – if I wasn’t– wasn’t smiling or something.” 

Will sniffles. The sight of his tears hitting Mike all of a sudden. Oh shit. He had never wanted to do this again. No more tears, he had promised himself. 

Guilty. His mind whispers, ever so cruel. 

All he wants to do is step forward and wrap Will up in a big hug, pull him close, tell him it’s okay. 

Who hurt you? he’d ask, who’s making you cry like this? What happened while I was gone? 

But that’s not what happens. 

Mike opens his big, stupid mouth and ruins it further. 

“Yeah, whatever man,” he says, spinning on his heel and walking away like this isn’t absolutely breaking his heart. Like he doesn’t want to slap himself across the cheek – multiple times – for ever hurting Will to the point of tears. 

He takes a breath. He just– he just needs a moment. He’ll go somewhere calm and quiet, and he’ll gather his thoughts. Then he’ll find Will again and they’ll talk it out and they’ll be okay. It’ll be fine. 

His head hurts, his vision spins – blurring in and out of focus. 

“Well, what about us?” Will asks, and Mike spins around to face him like he’s some female lead in a stupid romance movie. 

(The room spins. Mike blinks twice to get it to focus.)  

“What?” he croaks. Did he hear that right? Does Will mean what–

“You’re mad that I didn’t talk to you?” He asks instead, shattering Mike’s dreams. 

Shut up, you sick bastard. If Will knew what you’re thinking, he’d throw you off a cliff. 

But I lo–

Shut. Up. 

“Seems like you made it super clear that you weren’t interested in anything I had to say.” 

No. That can’t be true. Mike is always interested in anything Will has to say. He always has been. 

He waited by the telephone like a dog waiting for treats, scanning El’s letters for any mention of Will – eating up the crumbs that she provided like a starving man. 

“That’s just not true.” Mike argues, desperately hoping that Will can see that he’s telling the truth – the absolute truth, and nothing but the truth. His eyes scan Will, shoulders hunching inward, begging him to see. To believe. 

Will scoffs, and it hits Mike like a thousand bullets to the heart. “You called maybe a couple times,” he bites out, crossing his hands, staring him down defiantly.

Silence. 

“It’s been a year, Mike,” he chokes out, sounding so close to tears. Mike feels like his heart just might tear itself apart. “Meanwhile, El has like, a book of letters from you.” 

“Yeah,” Mike says dumbly, his brain still stuck on the single tear that falls down Will’s cheek. He gets a strange urge to reach out and wipe it away with his thumb. Maybe he’d brush Will’s cheek after that. Maybe he’d lean in, letting his eyes flutter shut, press his lips against Will’s eyelids in a loving caress – kissing his tears away. 

His brain catches up again, a sharp stab of shame, shame, shame hitting him hard. “That’s because she’s my girlfriend, Will,” he continues, like he’s trying to prove a point. 

He’ll see, comes a cruel whisper. He knows how you hide behind Eleven, Michael. He knows. 

A pause. 

They all do. 

Shut up, he begs his brain. Please. 

Mike takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to do something stupid like slap his hands over his ears and curl up on the ground to sob his heart out. 

“And us?” Will asks. The question is so, so innocent, his eyes gazing at Mike the same way they did that fateful day at the swings – the way they stared up at him as he approached, a hopeful look in Will’s eyes. 

Mike has to get the answer right. He has to. 

Please. 

“We’re friends,” he insists firmly, not able to fathom that Will could’ve thought anything different. Mike is not leaving him behind.

He learned from last summer. He’s never again going to allow Will to feel like he’s anything but Mike’s top priority – any given day. 

They’re fine. Will hasn’t made any mistakes. It’s okay. “We’re friends.” 

“Yeah, well, we used to be best friends!” Will cries out, and Mike’s entire world shatters. 

Shit. 

Mike is the biggest idiot in town. He should probably be paraded out in the streets with a sign proclaiming exactly that. He should be shoved into a plane and sent straight back to Hawkins. 

He should jump off a cliff. 

But didn’t he already try that?

“I...” he says dumbly, staring at Will, eyebrows furrowing together. “I don’t– I…Will.” He finishes dumbly.

Will sighs, seemingly done with Mike and his pathetic self. Totally deserved.  “Let’s just find El, okay? Let’s just find her and get back home.” He looks away, blinking back tears. “Please.” 

Mike nods. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth. 

It only gets worse from there. 

El ends up slamming a rollerskate into Angela’s nose, drawing blood. Someone calls the cops and Will calls Jonathan. They argue for what seems like hours before the cops let them go, a warning issued to both El and Angela. 

Mike has no idea how Jonathan spun the tale, but it seems to have done the trick for now. They all bundle into Argyle’s smelly van; El at one end, Will on the other and Mike in the middle. 

Eleven turns away, refusing to look at them at all, tears streaming silently down her face. Will keeps looking out of the window, curled in on himself, shoulders hunched in defeat. 

Mike keeps sneaking glances at him, trying to gauge his mood. 

Argyle, predictably, ruins the fragile peace – something about how they should be glad it wasn’t steel skates or anything because that would’ve been so much worse, brocacho. 

And then Jonathan says something else, and the two of them dissolve into various iterations of blip blip blip. 

Mike wants to slam his head against a wall and fucking die. 

Once they get home, they find Murray of all people in the kitchen, merrily preparing them dinner. Mrs. Byers is particularly jumpy, eyes darting all over the room, biting at her lip – a nervous tic of hers that seems to have never really left her even after moving to California. 

Dinner is a rather…weird affair. Will keeps poking at his food, taking slow bites. El stares morosely at her plate, eating mechanically. Jonathan and Argyle keep whispering and giggling to each other. Murray stares at all of them like he’s trying to judge their souls. 

And then Mrs. Byers drops the fucking bomb. 

“I have to go to Alaska,” she says, smiling apologetically. “There’s a meeting.” 

Will gets predictably upset, Eleven glances up before looking back down at her plate. Jonathan does not react. 

Mike narrows his eyes at her. 

She’s a telemarketer, he thinks, what the fuck kind of meetings do telemarketers even have in fucking Alaska? 

Then everything goes to shit again. 

The situation escalates. Their day at the Rink-o-mania is brought up. Argyle says something stupid about how she was totally okay and Mike ruins it by opening his mouth. Again. 

“She didn’t look fine.” 

Both Eleven and Will turn to look at him in sync, identical dark expressions on their faces, eyes narrowed in barely contained anger. 

Mike is seriously thankful that Will doesn’t have telepathic powers. He’d be a pile of ashes otherwise. 

El throws her napkin down and stands up. Her lips twist into a snarl. 

“I dump your ass,” she spits, turning away. She leaves the table, stomping all the way to her room. Will keeps staring at him for a few more seconds before glaring down at his plate, taking forkfuls of food and shoving them into his mouth. 

He chews tensely, purposefully avoiding Mike’s gaze. 

Mike tries to ignore the way his heart wails in agony. 

Mrs. Byers looks between them with an awkward smile, clearly trying to gauge the situation. Jonathan keeps glaring at him. 

Turns out, weed doesn’t last that long. 

Mike practically fights Mrs. Byers and takes the couch, insisting that he’ll be fine and he sleeps down in the basement all the time anyway, it’ll be okay, I promise. 

It is not okay. 

He wakes up in the middle of the night – mouth open in a quiet scream, breath stuck in his chest, turning stale. He tries to breathe but he can’t, his chest tightening like crazy, making him choke as he falls to the floor, clawing at his throat. He makes some kind of pathetic noise, dragging himself to the bathroom. 

He doesn’t bother to turn the lights on, not wanting to disturb the rest of the house, before he shoves two fingers into his mouth – working them hard and fast. 

His stomach clenches, his throat spasms and whatever little food he had a few hours prior comes hurling out. He sobs as he heaves into the toilet, tears running down his cheeks, shoulders shaking. 

His fingers are still in his mouth. He doesn’t stop. 

He keeps going – again and again and again – until the pain is too much and he can’t see a thing. He’s probably coughing up nothing but bile now, the acrid taste stinging at the lining of his throat. His teeth press into his knuckles, cutting into the already flaying skin, drawing blood. 

He doesn’t care. 

The nightmare comes back to him in increments – shame and fear and guilt swirling together uncomfortably in his gut, begging him to purge himself of his sins. He works his hand faster now, shoving his fingers in without mercy, drawing out more and more until his stomach clenches painfully, making him choke as he coughs up something thicker. 

He blinks open his eyes, trying to see through his tears. 

The pristine white of the toilet bowl is stained with something darker, but he can’t make out what it is in the darkness. 

“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” 

Mike slams his fingers back in, uncaring of the thick, almost coppery taste of the liquid as it spills back out again. 

This time, the pain is too much to bear and he chokes loudly, gagging as the thick liquid bubbles past his throat and falls into the toilet bowl with a splatter, coating his tongue, teeth and fingers in the process. 

Through the intense ringing in his ears, Mike registers footsteps pounding down the hallway. The door slams open and the light is flicked on. Someone crashes to their knees beside Mike, pulling him away from the ground and into their arms. Mike thrashes weakly, chest still hitching with sobs, but it’s more painful this time. 

He just has to purge himself of his sins. 

Yes yes yes. Purge himself. He has to- he has to purge himself. 

“Mike!” Someone shouts in his ear, “Michael, sweetie, can you hear me?” 

It’s Mrs. Byers, he recognizes, but the arms holding him do not belong to her. They’re older, a little less toned than Lucas’s, but they’ve held him countless times before. 

Jonathan tightens his grip on Mike, his breath hitching. “Mom,” he calls, a hint of panic in his voice, “Mom, is that–?” 

Mike looks at the toilet bowl and his heart drops like a fucking stone in water. 

Blood. 

It’s splattered everywhere – inside the toilet bowl, around it, on the floor, on his clothes, coating his hands, soaking into his pant leg. 

He wonders just how one person can puke up so much blood. 

He wonders what happened and then it hits him. 

Oh. He thinks. Oh, shit. This is not fucking good. 

“Michael?” Mrs. Byers’s voice comes again, shaking him out of the daze. He drags his eyes away from the toilet bowl, only to be met with an even more gruesome sight. 

All of a sudden, his surroundings change and warp, turning into dark skies and endless rain. He finds himself staring from the back of a fire-truck, watching as they pull out Will Byers’s body from the quarry. 

His breathing comes too ragged, his chest too tight. His palms feel clammy with sweat, his thoughts are an endless loop of what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?

He barely has time to register what is happening before the scene shifts again – the air turning to dark, murky waters, the ground beneath his feet disappears, warping into the endless void of the quarry waters. 

In front of him is Will Byers – red vest, face too young, too gaunt, eyes haunted, having seen too much. Mike chokes back a scream at the sight of him, jolting back through the water. 

“Why didn’t you come to save me, Mike?” it asks, swimming forward with him, coming way too close for comfort. Mike can see the way his eyes are sunken, his complexion pale, too white. He looks dead. 

Mike shakes his head, feeling the way his eyes sting – with tears or the dirty water surrounding him, he doesn’t know. Not-Will tilts his head, staring at him out of his beady black eyes. 

Not black, Mike thinks. Will’s eyes are hazel. 

“Why didn’t you come to save me when I died?” He demands again, voice twisting and warping so it doesn’t sound like a 12-year old’s anymore. It sounds like the Will he knows now. California Will with his sunny smiles and warm hugs that Mike foolishly sabotaged for himself. He sounds and looks like his best friend, but he’s also clearly not, and Mike doesn’t know what the fuck to do. 

“Why did you let him die, Michael?” 

Mike twists, the water disappearing just as fast as it came, bleeding away into red skies, decaying ground and a strong smell of rot in the air. He gags on it, falling to his knees, the soft flesh of his palm digging into the terrain, coming away streaked in blood. 

Hello, Michael. 

Mike scrambles back, hands slipping on the ground, backing away at the thing standing in front of him. It towers over him – face and body covered in vines, squelching as they shift, lipless mouth stretched wide in a grotesque smile. His heart hammers in his ribcage, his pulse spiking. Every instinct in him is begging him to run, but he has nowhere to go. 

But you have no need to fear me, Michael. Not yet. 

The thing’s hand lifts up, fingers extending into sharp, arching claws. Your time has not come yet. 

Something pushes him backward, sending him tumbling through some sort of abyss, his scream lost to the wind in his hair. 

But eventually, it will. 

Mike jolts awake on the couch, immediately rolling over to fall to the ground with a harsh thud. The cold tiles are a welcome shock to his system, making him sit up straight almost instantly, all traces of sleep gone. 

His hands fist the blanket tangles around his legs, chest heaving as he drags in air in greedy gulps. 

Just a nightmare, he tells himself, willing his eyes to focus on the couch in front of him, it was just a fucking nightmare. 

But it had felt so real – so true. The accusation in Will’s voice, the cold of the water, the bone-deep dread that he had felt when he faced that thing. It almost made him want to crawl under the sheets and cower in fear. To curl up and fucking sob like a kid. 

It makes him want to go to Will’s room and beg him for a hug.

He takes one last, deep breath and then he pushes himself up, wiping at his cheeks when he feels a wetness there. With growing horror, he finds that he’d been crying. How foolish, he thinks, crying like a kid because of a simple nightmare. 

He drags himself to the bathroom down the hallway, switching on the light before shutting the door behind him, locking it with a soft click. Despite himself, his eyes drift to the toilet bowl, the image shifting for a second.

Blood. Then white. 

A glimpse of blood. Then white again. Flickering.

Mike gulps and splashes water on his face. It drips back down in the sink with a red tinge to it. Mike frowns, gingerly swiping the back of his hand under his nose. Sure enough, there’s a streak of blood. 

He groans lowly, pinching his nose and tilting his head back again, grimacing at the taste of the thick liquid as it trickles back down his throat. 

He tilts his head down over the sink again, groaning when he feels the blood come rushing back out. He wipes the underside of his nose with his hand, continuing to do so as the blood keeps falling. 

Three minutes later, he’s starting to panic. 

The blood won’t stop. The sink is stained red, the water swirling into the drain is more rust-colored than clear, the front of his night shirt is covered in blood and his hands are coated in red too. 

He opens the door with shaking fingers, feeling lightheaded and dizzy as he steps out into the hallway. 

He just needs to find Mrs. Byers, she’ll know what to do. She’ll help him figure out what’s wrong, and maybe take him to the doctor if it’s needed. 

He pauses just outside the door, wincing in pain at the sudden spike in his headache. He should probably take a tylenol first, get rid of the headache so it doesn’t get in the way again. 

Except when he turns to go back, the floor seems to fall away beneath his feet. His hands flail out, trying to hold onto something, but to no avail. He crashes to the ground, the loud thud echoing in the empty space. He groans, clutching at his head as it continues to ache like crazy, tugging his hair in a desperate attempt to get rid of the pain. 

There’s a click from further down the hallway, and a sliver of light spills into the darkness, making Mike wince and hide his face. 

His head is aching. It’s too bright. Please please please– 

“Mike?” 

He looks up, blinking, trying to concentrate on the blurry figure in front of him. His vision keeps going in and out of focus, his balance tipping as he falls sideways again, an unintelligible sound leaving his throat. 

Someone catches him before he can hit the ground again, strong arms wrapping him up, pulling him close. It’s warm, and so comfortable. Mike feels like he could just go to sleep like this. Like he wouldn’t mind.

This is the first time in a whole year that he’s felt this safe again. 

The arms jostle him, his name being repeatedly called. Clearly, this person wants Mike to say something – respond, maybe. But Mike doesn’t know what to say, and even if he did, he doesn’t think he can speak right now, given that his nose is leaking blood like a fucking faucet, and his tongue feels like lead in his mouth and his stomach is twisting and he– he can’t breathe. 

“Mike!” 

His vision goes black. 

His eyelids flutter open, the light assaulting his sensitive retinas, making him wince. He feels something soft under his head – feathery and warm. Like a pillow. He groans, turning his head to the side. 

Footsteps approach. Someone crouches down beside him, worried hazel eyes locked on his face. Mike groans again, something unintelligible leaving his lips as he attempts to scoot forward. 

Someone else's voice from his side, Mike turns his head to see Owens standing near the door with Mrs. Byers. Eleven and Jonathan stand at the foot of his bed, watching him with identical expressions of…something. 

The ringing in his ears fades slowly, Owens’s voice filtering in slowly. Mike catches the tail end of their conversation. Something about Hawkins and I think it might be better if Eleven came with me and you should probably leave too. 

Mrs. Byers keeps nodding, her eyes darting from Owens to Mike and back to Owens again, concern shining clear in them. She says something else, but it’s too low for Mike to hear. Owens shakes his head and then he gestures for Eleven to follow him. 

She does. 

Mike slips back into darkness. 

When he comes to again, he gets the strange sensation that he’s being rocked back and forth. A groan leaves his lips, and he peels his eyes open only to scrunch them shut when bright sunlight assaults his eyes. He hisses, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes. 

He can feel the tell-tale pinprick of a headache, although it doesn’t progress much from there. Maybe the Tylenol finally fucking helped. 

His head is pillowed on something soft and warm, but it’s firmer than a pillow. More…alive. Mike turns his head, his cheeks heating up when he realizes just what he’s lying on. 

Will’s thigh, his fingers carding through Mike’s hair. He’s saying something, talking to someone out of Mike’s view. 

Mike groans again, if only to gain his attention. It works. Will cuts himself off, looking down at Mike with wide eyes, his gaze worried and concerned. “Mike?” He asks, voice lowered to a soft whisper. “How are you feeling?” 

Mike shakes his head, turning to bury his face against Will’s torso, breathing in his scent to ground himself – an age-old technique that never fails. Will’s hands are warm on his back as he pulls him closer, murmuring sweetly into his ear. 

“You’re okay,” he tells him, “I got you, you’re okay.” 

“Don’t let go.” Mike begs, sounding far too needy and pathetic. “Please don’t go.” 

Above him, Will takes a shuddering breath, bowing his head down to tentatively press his lips against Mike’s curls. Leaning into the kiss, Mike savors what feels like the first touch of something other than hatred. 

“I’m not leaving,” Will tells him, with that quiet conviction of his, voice soft. “I promise.” 

“Okay,” Mike says with a nod, but his arms come up to circle Will’s waist regardless, holding on tightly. This is the first time he’s allowed himself to be hugged in over a year. He thinks he deserves to be a little selfish, though a part of him still sneers at himself for wanting it. So stupid.  

After that, it’s a blur of sunlight, half-heard conversations and the occasional cursing from the front seat where Mrs. Byers is sitting. She and Jonathan take turns in driving while Will informs him – slowly, in increments – that they’re driving back to Hawkins. 

Mike wonders about her meeting in Alaska, and asks Will as much to which he twists his lips thoughtfully before shrugging. 

“She talked to Owens, and apparently, getting to Hawkins is more important than going to Alaska. There’s a situation there,” he says, “Owens says he’ll bring El to Hawkins once she…gets her powers back. He– he said…he said it might be the Upside Down again.” 

Mike frowns, tightening his hold on Will, selfishly pulling himself closer to his best friend’s warmth. “What situation?” Mike asks, but he doesn’t receive an answer. 

In a way, he does understand why they’re going back to Hawkins. It all started when Will was kidnapped, so of course he should be present now that they have another situation, apparently. But on the other hand, he can’t help the surge of anger at the unfairness of it all. 

Will has already been through enough. He shouldn’t have to do this again. 

He pushes his face against Will’s torso and tries not to think about the way Will’s arms pull him even closer, like he doesn’t want a single inch of space between them. 

Not that Mike is complaining. 

A few hours later, they stop by a motel to freshen up and rest for the night before they start on their journey early the next day. 

Jonathan, Will and Mike are given one room and Mrs. Byers takes the one opposite them. 

“Don’t stay up late,” she warns them, though her tone is light, her eyes sparkling with something he doesn’t recognize. “We’re gonna leave early tomorrow, so I need you guys to stay fresh.” 

Will ducks his head, nodding even though the hazel in his eyes is streaked with the familiar glint of mischief. Jonathan looks between them, sighing as he claims one of the two beds available. 

Will protests the second Mrs. Byers walks out of the door. 

“I thought me and Mike were gonna get the beds!” he says to his brother, his tone almost a whine. “Can’t you, like, sleep on the couch or something?” 

Jonathan shrugs, putting on his headphones and rewinding some old mixtape he had made long ago. “You can just take the couch, Will.” 

Will narrows his eyes at him, stalking forward to stand at the foot of Jonathan’s bed, arms crossed. “I’m not asking for the goddamn couch, Jon! Mike needs a bed, and well, so do I.” 

Despite everything they have going on, the dynamic between Will and Jonathan still makes Mike want to chuckle. Brothers. He wonders if this is what it looks like to have a sibling who understands you – who you can argue with just for the fun of it. 

“Yeah, so?” Jonathan shoots back, clearly fighting back a smile. “There’s a bed right there. You guys can share! You’ve done that plenty of times before.” 

Will splutters, turning red as protests spill from his lips. Mike’s brain fucking short-circuits. 

His brain – the previously mentioned traitor – provides him with a nice mental image of them in a bed together, like he’s watching a VHS. 

Not in that way!

Maybe Will would wrap him up in his arms again, maybe he’d pull him in close. Maybe Mike would finally confess his secret to Will – his affliction of the heart as old-timers would call it. Maybe he’d tell him all about his nightmares. 

Maybe – just maybe – he’d show him his scars. Maybe Will would kiss them better. 

Maybe Will would kiss him. 

“Sure!” he blurts out before he can stop himself, stopping their argument in its tracks. They both turn to look at Mike – Jonathan with a sort of smug look on his face, while Will looks like a deer caught in headlights. 

“What?” he squeaks out, face turning red as a cherry. 

Mike shuffles his feet, staring down at the floor before looking back up at him, a strange sense of confidence washing over him. “You can sleep with me, it’s okay.” 

“What?!” 

His words catch up to him a second too late and he splutters as he denies the meaning, frantically shaking his hands in front of him while Jonathan falls on the bed, laughing like a maniac. 

Will is red as a beetroot now, and Mike doesn’t think he’s any better if the heat in his cheeks is anything to go by. 

Eventually, the misunderstanding gets cleared, and Will – very reluctantly – agrees. 

Mike gets into the bed first, pulling the covers up to his chin. He closes his eyes, feeling the bed dip as Will climbs in after him. There’s a  second of tense silence before Will seems to relax, settling down against his pillows. 

Mike pauses for a few minutes, waiting for Jonathan to start snoring before he turns to face Will with a tentative smile. 

Except Will isn’t facing him. 

Mike can feel his heart drop when he comes face-to-face with Will’s back, his fingers curling in the sheets. He blinks back the sudden sting of tears, swallowing past the lump in his throat. 

You made this awkward, a part of him whispers. He’s not like you. He didn’t want this, you made it awkward for him. He hates you now–

“Mike?” 

Will’s voice is low and soft in the quiet of the night. Mike opens his eyes – when did he close them? – staring at Will, who’s now facing him. Light filters in through the open window behind Mike, casting Will in an ethereal glow – painting him shades of silver. His hazel eyes are as bright as ever, looking right at Mike with so much emotion in them. 

Unbidden, his gaze falls to the shape of Will’s lips – the pink fullness of them only even more captivating in the glow of the moonlight. Mike traces the curve of his lips, following the dip of his cupid’s bow down to the way his bottom lip juts out slightly. 

His lips part, and Mike’s lips part with it. 

“Mike?” Will calls again, making him jolt. He tears his gaze away, looking back up at Will, meeting his concerned gaze. 

“Yeah?” He asks, wincing at the way his voice breaks towards the end. He clears his throat, trying again. “Yeah?” 

Will shifts forward, putting a hand between them, right next to Mike’s cheek. He can feel the warmth emanating from it – so enticing, and right there. Mike could just shift forward, and he’d place his face in Will’s hands. 

Will’s soft hands, holding him. Brushing away his tears, tracing his jaw as he pulls him in. His lips, the beautiful fullness of them, pressing against Mike’s own, coaxing him open. Maybe he’d swipe at his bottom lip with his tongue and Mike would open up – so pliant and so very hungry–

No. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Mike frowns, and only when Will’s thumb swipes under his eyes does he realize that he’s crying. Just a little, the tears leaking out from the corner of his eyes, pooling in the space between his cheek and his eyes. 

“Just… thinking.” He says, voice equally soft. Measured. 

Even with his cheek squished against the pillow, Will manages to tilt his head. “What about?” 

Mike sighs, and in an act of bravery, he shifts closer. Will’s hand nudges against his cheek now, the pleasant warmth of it pressing against his cold skin. “Just... what if...” He swallows past the lump in his throat, blinking hard against the sudden prick of tears. He decides to change his question. 

“Do you… hate me now?” 

Will seems taken aback, going so far as to recoil in shock. “What?” he asks, as though the idea of Mike asking such a question is unfathomable. 

“Do you hate me–” 

“No!” he answers – shaking his head vehemently – “Why the fuck would I hate you, Mike?” 

“Why wouldn’t you?” Mike shoots back, voice wavering under the weight of his emotions. His fingers curl weakly in the blanket, tugging it closer to himself. His vision blurs and he sniffles, blinking, letting the tears fall and soak into the fabric of the pillow. 

Will shifts forward, his hand coming up to hover awkwardly over his face before he sets it down on the curve of his shoulder. “Mike” he coos, rubbing soothing circles onto his arm, “I could never.” 

“Why?” Mike asks again, sobbing pretty openly now, the tears falling freely, soaking through the blanket under his head. “How– how many more times will you forgive me before– before I hurt you too much? How many– why would you stay friends with someone like me?” 

Will’s expression shifts. The hazel in his eyes darkens, his lips twitching downward. His fingers curl over Mike’s bicep, holding him tight as he searches his face, tracking the tears that continue to fall. “Mike.”

“And I mean,” Mike continues, ignoring Will, “I get it. I– I really do. You’re so brave and kind and amazing and I’m just – some guy. I– I’m so ugly and stupid and so rude all the time. I– I get it–” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Mike’s mouth clicks shut, his teeth clacking against each other. He stares at Will, surprised at the sudden bite to his tone. Will himself looks shocked at his outburst, but it withers away into barely contained anger soon enough. 

“Will, what–”

“That’s my fucking best friend you’re talking about,” he bites out, fingers digging into Mike’s skin. “Mind the way you speak about him.” 

Mike frowns in confusion. “Will, wha–?” 

“Do you think it’s funny, saying all that stuff? Do you think I’m gonna take your side? I’ve known Mike since I was five years old. He’s my best friend in the whole fucking world. I–” his voice cracks and he looks away for a second before looking back at him again. “He means so much to me.” 

“Will, I’m literally Mike.” 

“But you’re not acting like my Mike,” Will counters, and for the hundredth time, Mike’s brain short-circuits. “My Mike knows better than to talk about himself in that way in front of me. He– he knows. He knows that it hurts me to hear that. My Mike would never want to hurt me.” 

And then, ever so slowly, a voice full of doubt – “Right?” 

Mike surges forward, burying his face in the crook of Will’s neck, throwing his arms around his best friend, sobbing into his shoulder. Will’s arms snake around him, holding him tight in a vice-like grip, pulling him impossibly closer. 

Mike shakes as he falls apart in Will’s arms, sobbing like there’s nothing holding him back, desperately fisting the back of Will’s shirt, scrunching his eyes shut as he all but wails. 

Fuck this. 

“I’m so scared, Will. I’m so scared. Please.” 

Will shushes him softly, pulling them both upward so they’re sitting upright in the bed. Gently, he begins rocking them back and forth, and whispers into his ear. 

“I got you,” Will coos, “I got you. You’re okay. It’s okay. I got you. I have you, alright? You’re safe now. I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here now.” 

“Will,” Mike sobs, clutching at him. “Will.” 

Will’s arms tighten around him, squeezing to the point of suffocation but Mike doesn’t fucking care. The pressure is intense, and the warmth is everything he needs. Will’s presence seems to quieten his mind like nothing else, just as it always has. He needs this. 

Eventually, his sobs quiet down, the shivers wracking his frame disappearing. He sniffles every now and then, going lax in Will’s arms, allowing himself to be rocked back and forth in his embrace. 

“Mike?” 

The whisper is soft, spoken so caringly in his ear. Mike hums, snuggling closer, his thoughts growing foggier by the second. 

“Can I– can I show you something? It’s a gift. For you.” 

Mike pulls back, looking up at Will. He seems nervous, hazel eyes darting back and forth from Mike’s face to somewhere on the ground beyond their bed. He nods, extracting himself from Will’s arms, allowing him to bend forward over the edge of the bed. 

Nooo. He thinks. Come back, hug me more. 

There’s the sound of a zipper being pulled open and some rustling – like paper. Will pushes himself back up, a roll of brown paper held in his hands. They’re shaking ever so slightly, he notices. Mike saw it once before in the airport when he landed. 

(“What’s that?” 

“Oh, nothing!” 

“Cool.” 

Not cool, not cool, not cool at all–) 

Mike sits up straighter, trying to fight back the urge to fist-pump in triumph because take that, Angel-something-bitch! The painting is for him! 

Will hands it to Mike, and the moment feels almost like Mike is being handed something precious – so fragile, something to be handled with extreme care. 

Mike unrolls it slowly, taking care to not let the paper crease, his eyes widening further as more of the painting gets revealed. 

And when it is fully unfurled in his hands, Mike’s breath catches in his throat. He’s pretty sure his heart just fucking stopped. Like he’s died and gone to heaven. 

Because on the paper – painted in beautiful shades of nearly every colour imaginable – is the portrait of Mike the Brave. 

Sword held high, lips parted, eyes so intense and determined, brows set and shoulders braced. Shield held in front of him, protecting his body. On it, painted in a deep, soul-capturing red with a golden crown on top, is a red heart. 

And behind him, standing back-to-back is another figure. Clad in purple robes, hands and eyes aglow with magic, ears pointed, intricate jewellery adorning him, is Will the Wise. 

Somewhere behind them are the blurry figures of the rest of the Party, standing in various poses, battle-ready. 

Mike’s lips stretch into a wide smile, heat rising to his cheeks – swift and fast. His heart thuds loudly against his ribcage, begging to be released, to be placed ever so gently into the hands of Will Byers. 

Fool, Mike tells his heart, you have always been his. 

For a second, he wants to take it back. But when he pauses, and thinks…it rings true. Somewhere deep inside him, he knows. 

His heart has always been Will’s. 

From the start. 

“It’s– it’s so– Will! It’s so beautiful!” 

Will blushes under the praise, ducking his head to hide his embarrassed grin. Mike chances a glance at him before his eyes are drawn back to the painting. He traces the determined curve of Mike the Brave’s shoulders. The sheer loyalty glinting in Will the Wise’s eyes. 

But there’s something more in the painting. Every brushstroke feels deliberate, like it’s telling a story without words, like it’s trying to communicate something in the only way it knows how. It is so breathtaking, so beautiful. And even though Mike knows there are individual portraits in the painting, he can’t help but look at it together. 

Will the Wise and Mike the Brave, standing back-to-back, fighting monsters, defeating evil. 

Victorious. 

“I love this! This is so amazing! Will, you’re– you’re… holy shit! Will, you’re so- so–” 

For one of the first times in his life, Mike’s words seem to fail him. He keeps looking at the painting, tears welling up in his eyes, his smile growing impossibly wider every time he remembers that this is for him. Will made this for Mike. 

“Can you explain it to me?” he asks instead, because he has learned over the years that every one of Will’s drawings always has a deeper meaning to it. That what Will chooses to focus on is rarely coincidental – never a whim.

He doesn’t paint for the sake of painting – he paints to tell a story. 

Will nods, swallowing roughly before shifting forward. His thigh presses against Mike’s, a pleasant tingle of electricity flowing through Mike’s veins at the warm touch. 

“See the coat of arms on your shield?” Will asks, pointing at the heart symbol. “I know that it’s a little bit on-the-nose, but it’s a heart, right? And– and you’re the heart.” 

“What...?” 

Will’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, Mike tries not to let his gaze linger on the sudden, enticing look of his lips. 

He fails. 

Focus. 

“I mean, without heart, we’d all fall apart, right? And without you, the Party would be nowhere. You’re the reason we came together. You’re the reason we still have hope. I mean– I heard from Lucas and Dustin about the time I went missing. You were– I wouldn’t have made it back if it weren’t for you.” 

Mike flushes, ducking his head in embarrassment. “I didn’t do anything, though–”

“You didn’t give up on me,” Will insists, his gaze intense, burning into Mike’s soul. “You took El in when you had no reason to. You believed that I was alive when everyone thought I was dead. You kept looking for me, you never let the Party give up. It was you, Mike. It was you all along.” 

“Mrs. Byers–” 

“I’m her child, Mike.” 

“And you’re my best friend. I’d always find you. Always!” Mike counters. 

Will smiles, a small, sweet thing. “How many friends do you think are out there who’d go looking for the town freak when he goes missing?” 

“You’d have done the same for me!” 

“I’d have curled up into a ball and sobbed my fucking eyes out. I think I’d want to kill myself the second they found your body. I don’t think I’d ever be able to be as brave as you,” Will says, and he sounds like he believes it, too. 

Mike does not mention how he did try to kill himself. Multiple times.

“Not true,” he protests, “you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met, Will. Remember the Mind-Flayer? The Upside Down? Or even that time you got possessed, but you braved through it just so you could save us? You’d probably find me in a day!” 

Will groans. “Ugh, okay! I’m not having this debate with you now. Let’s get back on track.” 

Mike smiles smugly, knowing that he’s won, at least for now . 

“Anyway, you know how you’re always leading us in our campaigns? That’s because you’re our leader. Our Mike. The heart. And without the heart – without you – I’d– we’d all fall apart.” 

Mike looks back down at the painting, staring at the small, innocent red heart painted on the shield – just a symbol, not aware of how much it has just changed Mike’s entire life. 

He looks back up to see Will biting at his lower lip, his fingers twisting the sheet beneath them. He seems nervous, eyes darting about the painting before settling on the shield again, something in them hardens in resolve. 

“Even me,” he admits, voice low, eyes downcast, shimmering with an emotion that Mike can’t place, "Especially me.” 

Mike blinks at him, cheeks heating up. He bites down on his lower lip to stop his smile from widening further. 

He does not want to look like a lunatic. 

“These past few months,” Will continues, “I’ve been so– lost without you. It’s just... I’m so- so different from other people,” he chokes up a bit, and Mike realises with a jolt that Will is crying. “And when you’re– when you’re different, “ he pauses, taking a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself for something. 

But Mike doesn’t understand. What does he mean different? How is he different? 

He doesn’t mean he’s like Mike, does he?

“Sometimes…you feel like– like a mistake.” Will continues in a low whisper, tears spilling over his lashline now, falling down his face. Mike wants to kiss them away reach out and wipe them off. 

His breathing stutters. Why is Will feeling like a mistake? He’s the furthest thing from a mistake. He’s god’s gift to this ungrateful planet, he’s the smartest, the bravest, prettiest, sassiest, hottest  person that Mike knows. Will is not a mistake. Will is a fucking angel descended from heaven. Will is his best friend. Will is the reason he lives. 

Will is Mike’s first friend, the first person he trusted, his first love, his first sin.

Will Byers is not a fucking mistake. 

But just as he opens his mouth to tell him exactly that, Will continues, speaking fast as if he can no longer keep the words hidden–

“But you make me feel like I’m not a mistake at all.” 

Mike’s heart lightens; his chest feels freer, he can breathe more easily. 

“You make me feel like I’m somehow better for being different, and that is what gives me the courage to fight on. If I was– mean to you, or if it seemed like I was pushing you away, it’s because I’m so scared of losing you, just like you’re scared of losing me. And I thought– that if I was gonna lose you, I’d– I’d rather get it over with quickly – like ripping off a bandaid.” 

Will pauses, looking straight at Mike. His hazel eyes burn with… with something, making Mike feel so exposed, but so drunk on the feeling all the same. He wants to lean forward, wants to breathe in that courage, he wants to taste that feeling on his tongue. 

He wants – so much, too much, always too much. 

“So yeah,” he says, his voice dipping low, the rough cadence sending a pleasant shiver skittering down Mike’s spine. “I need you, Mike. And I always will.” 

And oh. 

Oh. 

Isn’t this such a wonderful thing to be feeling? Isn’t it such a heady thing – a rush of the sweetest honey, a hug of the warmest blanket. Isn’t it so all-consuming, so rich and intense? 

Isn’t it so intoxicating – to be loved so deeply by one Will Byers? 

And isn’t it such a better thing, to return that love ten-fold?  

Mike is burning and burning and burning. He’s so full of want, it hurts. He’s so desperate for his love, so free in giving his own, so taken, so far gone. 

“I love you,” he says. And this time, he means it. 

Will’s eyes widen instantly, entire face going cherry red. He splutters, staring at Mike in shock. In any other situation, Mike would’ve backtracked, apologized, said he didn’t mean it. 

But not today. 

He looks back down at the painting of Mike the Brave, the way he holds aloft his shield, the way his eyes burn with something more than just duty. 

No, today it’s Mike Wheeler who will be brave. 

“I love you,” he says again, because it is simple. No amount of speeches, and no amount of fanfare could get the sentiment across better. He loves Will – he always has. It's just that he's  been such a coward about it until now. 

He looks back up at Will, taking note of the way the tears well up in his beautiful eyes, spilling across his cheeks. His lips tremble as he continues to stare at Mike, parting around a soft inhale. 

“...what?” 

Mike smiles – slow, soft, ever so gentle. “I love you.” he repeats, looking Will directly in the eyes this time. 

Nowhere to go hide, he thinks. No more. 

For one suspended second, they’re stuck in that stalemate. Will stares at Mike and Mike holds eye contact; keeps staring right back. And then the moment breaks and shatters into a hundred different colors and a thousand different feelings and so, so much happiness – because Will surges forward and kisses him. 

It’s passionate from the very start, his lips steady and insistent against Mike’s, his hands coming up to trace his jaw, holding him steady. Mike’s hands fly up to Will’s hair on their own accord, fingers tangling in the brown locks as he pulls Will closer, bending backward onto the bed. 

He loses balance midway and Will’s arm snakes around his waist almost instantly, holding him steady, pulling him closer, making him burn. 

But it burns so good – so intense, so all-consuming, so full of love. Mike wonders how he ever thought he couldn’t have this. How did he ever think this could be wrong? 

Oh, but it is, Michael.

Mike pauses for just a second – hesitating – before he chances a bold move, swiping his tongue over Will’s bottom lip, swallowing his gasp as he plunges in. He glides his tongue over his teeth before licking against them. Mike’s fingers tangle further in Will’s hair, messing it up beyond belief. 

Will shifts the angle, pulling back slightly only to kiss him again with unbridled ferocity, pushing him back onto the mattress, arm still wrapped snug around Mike’s waist. He takes Mike’s bottom lip between his teeth, pulling at it before releasing. His palm presses flat against the cold skin of Mike’s back, sliding under his shirt and upward – leaving a blazing trail in its wake. 

Goosebumps erupt all over his arms as Will’s fingers brush featherlight over his shoulder blades, pressing him toward himself, deepening the kiss. 

He pulls back again, and Mike takes the opportunity to tackle him this time, pressing kisses along his jaw, dragging his tongue across the sharp junctures. Will lets out a deep, pleasant whine, tilting his head. 

“You’re so hot,” Mike says, giving voice to all the inner thoughts he had kept buried ever since he landed in California. “You’re so amazing and sweet and so so hot.” 

“Mmm...” Will groans out, ducking down, lips stretching into a wide, blushing smile. His other hand sliding across Mike’s jaw to grab at his hair, yanking his head back. Mike lets out a sharp gasp, mouth falling open around a choked moan. Will presses his lips just below Mike’s jaw, waiting a few seconds before sliding down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the column of his neck. 

He sucks on the skin at the juncture of his collarbone, making Mike writhe at the heady zing of pleasure, before capturing it between his teeth, rolling it before releasing. He presses his tongue – so hot, so hot – against the place to soothe the sting before kissing his way back up to his jaw again. 

Mike bites at his bottom lip to keep himself from moaning wantonly at the hot glide of his mouth, instead eagerly titling his head so Will can pepper kisses along his jaw. 

He reaches up again, capturing Mike’s lips in a slow kiss – savoring the sensation before pulling back to look at him. Really look.

The sight is intoxicating. Will’s lips are red and swollen, thoroughly kissed. His hair is messed up, looking exactly  like someone just ran their hands through it. The hazel of his eyes is nearly taken over by the darkness of his pupils. 

He looks wrecked. Mike’s sure he doesn’t look very different. 

He himself probably looks even more debauched. 

(It’s hot.) 

It’s a blissful haze after that. 

They fall asleep in each other’s arms, Mike’s face tucked against Will’s chest – ear pressed over his beating heart, a content smile playing on his lips. Will rests his cheek against Mike’s curls, pressing his lips to his hair in a soft good-night kiss. 

If Mike muffles a giddy laugh against Will’s chest, no one has to know. 

They are woken up early next morning by Jonathan who looks way too smug for Mike’s comfort. They have breakfast – a simple toast and eggs drenched in maple syrup – before bundling into the car again. 

Jonathan takes shotgun  beside Mrs. Byers, adjusting the rear-view for her. He turns for a second, looking between them and smirking to himself before he gives them a thumbs-up. Will groans, throwing his head back against the car seat. Mike’s face turns the color of Max’s hair. 

Oh fuck. He forgot Jonathan was in the fucking room with them last night. 

This is a nightmare. 

Mrs. Byers drives like a woman possessed after that, breaking the speed limit like it’s only a suggestion – which it probably is to her, actually – taking hard cuts and cursing at cars that drive too slow. 

Mike lets Will lean against him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding Will close to himself, relishing in the quiet moments they have right now. 

Soon, morning turns to mid-day and they stop at a gas station to buy random snacks of which they only pay for half. 

They’re on a mission to save the fucking world. They're allowed to have free snacks. 

Mike takes a granola bar and some chips that Jonathan bought, handing Will his packet of Reese’s. He takes it with a thankful grin, letting Mike have just one before he takes them all for himself. 

Mike doesn’t complain. It’s endearing. 

Jonathan takes the wheel for the next half of the day, driving slower than Mrs. Byers, which somehow manages to infuriate both Will and her. 

“Jon, that car hasn’t moved for the past two minutes, sweetie. Don’t you think it’d do the guy some good for you to roll down your window and–” 

“I’m not screaming at him, Mom.” 

Will rolls his eyes. “He’s always like this,” he says to Mike, making a face at Jonathan who makes one right back. “And he won’t even let me drive, either.” 

“You haven’t learned properly yet.” Jonathan gripes from his seat, finally pressing down on the accelerator so they crawl forward at a pace that is slow even for Mike. 

“Yeah,” Will shoots back, “that’s ‘cause you’re too scared to teach me!” 

“No,” Jonathan corrects, “that’s ‘cause you keep screaming at the people in front of you when there’s a traffic jam.” 

“That’s ‘cause they deserve it!” 

Mike chuckles, leaning against Will now, his head resting on the soft curve of his shoulder. He brings one hand up, fingers curling around Will’s bicep – feeling the muscle there. He keeps listening to the silly play-fight happening around him, letting the steady drone of Will’s voice lull him to sleep. 

Bright lights. Distant screams. 

Will is being wheeled away on a stretcher, the doctor attending him rushing alongside, hooking him up to the ventilator. 

He’s screaming himself hoarse, little body rising off the sheets with every agonized shriek that leaves him – tears falling down his face, sweat soaking his skin and clothes, eyes scrunched shut as he experiences wave after wave of intense, crippling pain. 

Mike is following along behind Mrs. Byers, eyes locked on Will’s trembling frame, filling with tears the more he listens to his best friend’s screams. Bob has a hand on Mike’s shoulder, guiding him along, occasionally coming up to cup over his ears to block out the sound when the screams get too intense. 

For a second, Mike pauses, looks up at Bob. 

He stumbles back in shock at what he sees. 

The lights flicker ominously, the distant shrieking of demodogs can be heard. Bob is lying in front of him now, eyes locked with Mike’s, throat torn open by a demodog. It’s feasting on his flesh, eating him with vigour – the crunch of bones and the squelch of flesh echoing in the too-quiet hallway. It looks up once, its mouth glistening with blood as it howls, calling on more of its comrades before it dives back down, mouth opening to suction around Bob’s chest. 

Blood spurts out in a gruesome arc. Some of it lands on Mike’s face. He winces.

“Guilty,” someone says and Mike spins around, stumbling, clutching at his head when the room spins. He scrunches his eyes shut for a second before opening them again. 

The room has changed; now he’s no longer in the lab. 

Instead, he’s at the sauna at the pool and he’s standing in front of Billy Hargrove. 

There’s no one else around him – only Mike and Max’s abusive older brother. 

Billy's veins are thick. Black and prominent; his eyes completely dark, expression cold. He snarls as he lunges forward. 

“GUILTY!” he screams, hands coming around to squeeze Mike’s throat. 

He doesn’t feel a thing, but he chokes, thick red liquid suddenly welling up the surface, spilling past his lips and down his shirt, splattering onto the floor. 

Billy’s hands leave his neck and Mike drops like a stone through the sudden darkness that envelops him. 

He lands hard among some rocks, the gravel crunching as he pushes himself up. The wind howls in his ears, his hair flapping about him. He looks up, glancing back down when he feels the sudden glare of the sun in his eyes. 

“MIKE! Don’t, MIKE!” 

He squints forward just in time to see himself disappear off the edge of the quarry. He waits, but Eleven doesn’t come to save him. Dustin, Troy and James wait for a few seconds before laughing to themselves, trudging away from the scene. 

Heart shattering at the betrayal, Mike inches forward, the edge of the cliff breaking away slightly, small pebbles falling down into the water. 

He gulps, tilting his head down. He looks and he sees–

Will’s hazel eyes stare at him in concern as Mike gasps awake. Will’s hands are cupping his face, lips moving around words that Mike can’t hear. He blinks and shakes his head, trying to clear the sharp ringing in his ears. 

He flinches when he feels Will’s finger swipe under his nose, coming away streaked in blood. 

“–ke, you really need to tell me what’s going on. What’s happening? Why are you having so many nosebleeds?” 

From the front seat, Mrs. Byers turns, her brows knitting together in worry. “Sweetie?” she asks, “Is the nosebleed very bad? Do we need to take a detour to the hospital?” 

“No,” Mike answers at the same time that Will says yes. They stare at each other for a second before Mike turns to wipe his nose on his shirt sleeve. 

“No, thank you, Mrs. Byers,” he says, giving her a polite smile, “I’ve dealt with this before. It’s not as bad as it was then.” 

She gives him a once-over, giving him a scrutinizing look before nodding reluctantly. “If you’re sure, sweetie.” 

Will frowns at him as he eases Mike back towards his thighs, carding his fingers through his unruly curls. “Mike,” he chides, “don’t neglect yourse–” 

“Let’s just get to Hawkins. That’s our priority for now, yeah? I promise I’ll get it checked out once we deal with whatever situation we have going on.” 

Will looks less than happy, but he agrees, pulling Mike closer. He snuggles against Will, wrapping his arms around him, stuffing his face against his torso, relishing in the warmth enveloping him. 

“We’re half-an-hour out from Hawkins,” Jonathan informs them all, taking a slow turn onto the main road. “Knowing Nancy, they’re probably using the Wheeler house as base of operations, so let's all go there directly.” 

Mike feels Will nodding, his fingers still working through the many tangles in Mike’s hair, gently easing out the knots with deft fingers. 

Mike feels the gentle pull of fatigue, but he doesn’t give in entirely – he can’t, for fear of another nightmare – instead choosing to stay awake with his eyes half-open, staring at the dull yellow checkered pattern of Will’s shirt. They turn onto another road, the car rattling as they go over a bump. Mike groans, stuffing his face deeper against Will’s abdomen. 

His killer headache is back and everything hurts and he just had a fucking nightmare during  the day. He just wants to get back to Hawkins and get this bullshit over with so he and Will can have a long overdue talk. 

Maybe he’ll ask Will to be his boyfriend. Maybe Will will agree. 

Half an hour later, Jonathan announces that they’ve entered Hawkins. Ten minutes after that, they pull up in the Wheeler’s driveway. 

Mike's mom is outside watering the plants. She whips  around as they climb out of the car, one hand flying to her chest in shock. 

“What..?” she asks, receiving no answer from either Mike or Will as they rush into the house, stumbling down the stairs into the basement. 

“They’ll be so excited to see you!” Mike tells him, twisting the doorknob and pushing the door open. He gestures for Will to go inside first, hollering for Jonathan before he follows him downstairs. 

Fully prepared to meet Lucas, Dustin and Max – he stops short when he sees the sheer amount of people in the basement. They pause awkwardly at the bottom of the staircase, smiles fading slowly as they take in their grim expressions. 

Nancy gets up first, uncrossing her arms, something like hope entering her eyes. “Is El–?”

“She’s on her way,” Will answers, “Owens is bringing her.” 

A collective breath of relief escapes the occupants of the room, the grimness decreasing substantially. Lucas and Dustin jump up, running across the room and crashing into Will with cries of joy. He stumbles back at the force of the impact, laughing happily as he squeezes them back. 

Max sidles up to them next, pulling Will into a tight – surprising – hug before letting him go almost instantly. “Glad you’re back, Byers,” she says, smiling discreetly. 

And– wow. Okay, that’s new. Mike didn’t know she was talking to the others again. He grins at her briefly before getting swept up in a hug by Nancy. 

“We tried calling,” she tells them, squeezing Mike tight in her arms, almost like she’s making sure he’s still there which is… weird, considering that nothing happened to him. “But no one picked up the phone. We didn’t know how to tell you that–” 

“The Upside Down is back?” Mike finishes for her, pulling back to get a better look at his sister. Her eyes look haunted and her face is streaked with dirt and dried up blood. Her shirt is torn at the bottom, and Mike thinks he can see a similar looking fabric wrapped around… Steve’s torso? 

“How did you know?” Dustin asks, finally pulling away from his (second) hug with Will. Mike tries not to frown at the way his hand lingers on Will’s shoulder. 

He shrugs, stepping back from Nancy to give himself some space. “Owens told them, apparently.” 

Max frowns. “Did you leave immediately after you landed then?” 

“Uh, no,” Will cuts in, “Mike had a bad nosebleed and we didn’t know what to do so we called Owens, ‘cause going to a doctor in California would just raise too many questions. That’s when he took Jane– El away so she could regain her powers and the rest of us drove here.” 

The room stills. 

Nancy steps back into his space slowly, her lips trembling. Max looks white as a sheet, staring at him like he killed her dog or something – which is silly, ‘cause she doesn’t actually have a dog. 

“Since when?” Nancy asks, shaking hands cupping his cheeks in a gesture of affection that is very much unlike either of them. 

“Uh... the nosebleeds or the headaches?” 

Steve lets out a strangled noise, staring at him strangely. Him, Robin and... Eddie(?) exchange a glance that Mike doesn’t understand. 

“You’ve had headaches?” 

Nancy sounds way too close to tears for Mike’s comfort. He glances awkwardly at Will who looks just as lost as him. 

“Um..yeah..?” He tries, going for a casual shrug, “But they’re like– whatever. They go away once I take some Tylenol. It’s just the nightmares that–”

He gets cut off as Nancy pulls him into a fierce hug, holding him too close and too tight. Something about the room feels different now – Max looks like she’s seen a ghost, her headphones hanging around her neck, continuously blaring out some song by Kate Bush. Lucas looks like he’s one second away from breaking down into tears and Dustin looks like he could faint any moment. 

Weird.

Mike makes a confused noise as Eddie springs up from the couch, pulling him out of Nancy’s embrace and into his own. He shares a glance with Will as Eddie’s hand comes up to cup his head, fingers tangling in his curls. 

“Guys...” Mike says, looking around at them, trying to somehow make sense of the fucking situation. “What the fuck is happening?” 

Nancy’s lower lip wobbles the longer she looks at him – something like heartbreak flashing across her face. “Mike,” she chokes out. 

Erica sighs. “You’re gonna want to sit down for this.” 

Nosebleeds. Headaches. Nightmares. Trouble discerning reality. 

Vecna’s Curse. 

“–float into the air–” 

“–he breaks their limbs and then–”

“–their eyes get sucked back into their head–”

“–it’s gruesome–”

“–Max is also cursed–”

“–hasn’t gone after her yet–” 

“–you’re saying you had a vision?–”

“Mike.” 

…

“Mike!”

…

“MIKE!”

He jolts back, turning to look at Nancy, both hands twisting together in his lap. A spare walkman is hanging around his neck now, a cassette tape continually playing Boys Don’t Cry. 

“... what?”

Nancy swallows, her lower lip trembling as she looks around at the others. Mike notices Will sitting next to him – sunk down by the stairs, a trembling hand pressed to his mouth, teary eyes locked on Mike. 

Mike’s brows furrow. Will shouldn’t cry. It… it’s not right. 

“Ok!” he says, calling order to the unruly room, standing up. “I’ve been cursed. Well, great! This means that we still have a chance at defeating whatever the Upside Down has thrown at us now.”

Steve looks confused. “What do you mean?” he asks, exchanging a glance with Robin. 

Mike smirks, motioning for Dustin to hand him the D&D figures. He takes a deep breath as his fingers close around the small metal pieces, tightening his grip so their jagged outline presses into the soft flesh of his palm. 

“We know that when- um…Vecna takes a victim, he puts them in a trance – in his mindscape, right? And if both the victim and Vecna are in the mindscape, that leaves his physical body unguarded. He’s vulnerable for however long he takes to kill. I say we take that time to attack him in his home turf – smoke that bastard to oblivion. We’ll divide into two teams and–” 

“Whoa wait!” Jonathan holds his hands up, sending him a scrutinizing glare, “you’re not going to bait him.” 

Mike runs a frustrated hand through his curls, looking to Lucas for support. He shakes his head, brows drawing together in concern. He turns his gaze on Dustin, and then Will – each of them seemingly imploring him to not do it. 

His lips twist to the side. Very well, then. 

“Max thinks it’s a good idea!” he protests, turning the full force of his glare on her, “Right, Max?” 

She scowls at him, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. “It’s a shit idea,” she says, making him frown further, “but, it’s the only idea that has any chance of working right now. Me and Wheeler will bait Vecna, he’ll take one of us and we’ll signal the others so you can start your attack on him. The second Vecna dies, the mindscape dissolves, and boom! We’re back in our own heads.” 

Mike smiles, nodding vigorously. “It’s a solid plan,” he says to Nancy, “and it’ll work. Like I said, we’ll divide into teams. You, Jon, Steve and Robin can handle Vecna, while the rest of us take our positions in the Creel House. We’ll set up Dustin and Erica for signalling, and me and Max will have Will and Lucas with us with our walkmans ready.” 

The tense silence is broken by Eddie letting out a confused noise, staring at his fingers on which he’d been doing some kind of counting. “What am I doing?” 

Mike rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “You’re gonna sit here and wait for us to come back.” 

Eddie looks enraged. “Like hell! I’m coming with you and Mayfield.” 

“Eddie–” 

“Don’t you ‘Eddie’ me! I’m not gonna sit on my hands while you risk your life out there! I–”

“The entire town is on a hunt for you! Realistically, we can’t take you anywhere,” Steve interrupts, crossing his arms. 

“Oh psshh.” Eddie waves him away, “like they could do a thing to me. We’re gonna move in the cover of night anyway, they’ll never know. Besides, if the basketball guys decide to pay us a visit,” his eyes glint, lips curling up like the cat that caught the canary, “I’ll be more than happy to put them in their place, man. I’m a huge help!” 

Mike chews on his lip, exchanging a look with Nancy. She shrugs, nodding in Eddie’s direction. “It wouldn’t hurt to have an adult with you.” 

Mike sighs. “Guess you can come with us, Eddie.” 

Eddie whoops.  

They move quickly after that. Nancy and Jonathan getting guns, while Steve and Robin sit down to make molotov cocktails – which, what the fuck? Where the fuck did they learn that? – Eddie, Dustin and Lucas whip up some make-shift shields out of garbage can lids and long nails they had lying around in the garage. 

Soon enough, they’re all decked out – strapping on their guns and gathering all their fire-power. They pile into Steve’s jeep, sitting cramped together to make space for everybody. 

They take an obscure route, the jeep easily evading scrutiny in the cover of darkness. Mike startles when he feels Will’s hand slip into his, squeezing tight. He turns to look at Will, brows furrowing at the sheen of tears in his eyes. 

“You promise you’ll be okay?” 

Mike takes a moment to think, taking a deep breath to steady himself before he nods at Will. “You’ll be there the entire time,” he tells him, squeezing back, “nothing will happen to me. Nothing can.” 

Will’s lips tremble for a second before he bites down on them. “You shouldn’t trust me so much,” he says. “What if something happens and I can’t stop it? What if you get hurt and–” 

“Will,” Mike cuts off his spiral, “I trust you, okay? I’m gonna be fine.” He pauses, looking around and lowering his voice, “I love you, okay? You’re not gonna get rid of me so easily.” 

Will sniffles, burying his face in Mike’s shoulder, inhaling his scent. Mike allows his boyfriend(?) to calm himself down as he slides his headphones back on. Across from him, Max is engaged in a quiet conversation with Lucas, both of them wearing tentative smiles and prominent – up to varying degrees – blushes. 

Her gaze flicks to him once, narrowing in a mock-glare before darting back to Lucas. Mike sighs heavily, settling down deeper into his seat. 

They drop Nancy’s team off at the trailer park. Eddie takes the wheel then, driving them seamlessly off the lanes and through some obscure pathway through the woods at his usual breakneck speed, even faster than Mrs. Byers. They reach the Creel House in record time – bundling out of the car as fast as they can. 

Eddie hands Erica and Dustin flashlights, instructing them on how to signal them once Nancy’s team has flipped. Erica nods, determined, while Dustin shoots him and Max a concerned look. 

“You’ll be fine?” he asks nervously, fidgeting with his hands as his eyes dart between them and their walkmans. “You won’t like– risk your life for stupid reasons, right? We still– oh.” 

He cuts himself off as Mike pulls him into a strong hug, the wobble in his voice proving too much for him to bear. 

“We’ll be okay,” he tells Dustin, a strange sort of conviction in his voice. “I promise that we’ll come back out of there alive, okay? It’s a promise.” 

Dustin sniffles, then Max – surprisingly – joins the hug and soon enough, they’re all piled up in the middle of the road, sobbing into each other's arms. 

“Be safe in there, losers,” Erica tells them, before turning around and climbing the tower swiftly, not bothering to wait and see if Dustin will follow. 

Which he does, after giving Mike and Max an extra hug each, – squeezing them tight and fast, letting them go very reluctantly. 

Eddie whistles as he ushers them inside, their blue lanterns already lit and throwing strange shadows across their faces. 

The house looks... ominous, to say the least. There are cobwebs hanging everywhere, spiders skittering back and forth over the ceiling. Mike gets the strange sense that they’re somehow watching him. Cataloguing his moves, sizing him up, looking at him. 

Seeing seeing seeing seeing seeing seeing SEEING–

“Mike?” 

Will’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder and Mike jolts, heart hammering in fear before relaxing. “I’m fine,” he says, trying to assuage Will’s obvious worry.

Will’s brows furrow. It’s clear he doesn’t really buy it, but he doesn’t say anything more, simply slipping his hand into Mike’s and holding on tight as they move through the house.

Max figures out that Vecna’s hiding in the attic, and they exchange grim looks before ascending the stairs ahead of the others. In a strange sort of solidarity; they sit down by some kind of wooden desk, cross-legged in the dim light. 

Mike is pretty sure they make for a hell of a sad sight. 

Will comes to sit beside him, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, glancing nervously at Mike every now and then, rubbing at the back of his neck in anxiousness. Mike places a comforting hand on his knee, making Will look back at him. Catching his attention.

He takes one of the many empty flash cards they had brought with them, uncapping the marker and quickly scribbling something onto it. Will sits up straighter, trying to peep, but Mike doesn’t let him – pulling the card away toward himself and fixing him with a mock-glare. 

Finally, after looking around to make sure the others weren’t paying any attention to them, Mike turns the flashcard around, hiding his blush behind it. 

Movie date on Friday night @ my basement??

Will chuckles, taking the marker and flashcards from him, pausing for a moment before quickly sketching something. This time, Mike tries to peek at his flashcard, but Will swats him away. He pouts at him, rubbing exaggeratedly at the side of his head until Will huffs and turns the flashcard around.

It’s a drawing – two figures, one with curly black hair up to their shoulders and the other with a bowl cut, holding hands and sitting in front of a box that glows. A promise.

 It’s not Will’s best work, obviously, but it’s endearing.  

Mike nearly giggles, pressing his palm against his lips in an effort to stop the spread of his blush. 

Will beams at him – his eyes lighting up for a second before they dim again. Mike frowns at him, taking off his headphones to grab his hands in his. “What’s wrong?” 

Will squawks, swatting at him, grabbing his headphones and plopping them back on Mike’s head. “Keep them on!” 

Mike rolls his eyes, and in doing so, makes direct eye contact with Eddie, who’s looking at them with a certain gleam in his eyes. Mike flushes, looking down, before he looks back up, biting his lip. Eddie smirks in amusement as he makes his way over to them.

“You gonna introduce me to this guy yet, Wheeler?” 

Will looks between him and Mike, a wariness in his gaze. Mike smiles at him, placing a hand on his knee reassuringly. 

“Eddie,” he says, “this is Will. My– my best friend. I love him a lot.” 

Will’s cheeks turn dark, Mike can only assume that they’re a pleasant shade of red, but there’s not enough light to be sure.Eddie nods understandingly, clearly amused as he holds out his hand to Will. 

“Well, nice to meet you, Byers. I only heard a lot about you, kid.” 

Will blinks at him. Mike groans, burying his face in his hands. 

“You... heard a lot about me?” 

“Don’t look so shocked, Will!” Lucas shouts from beside Max, “He only ever talked about you–” 

“Oh shut up, Lucas!” Mike protests, but it’s half-hearted. Will’s eyes have gone shiny, he’s looking at Mike with a... look that does things to him. It also makes him wanna do things. 

Things like falling to his knees in front of Will and begging. He wants to pray at his altar, he wants to only ever utter Will’s name for the rest of his life, he wants to belong to him like the stars belong to the sky, he wants. 

The moment, however, is disrupted by a rapid blinking of the lantern in front of them. Will takes a shaky breath, hand going up to cup the back of his neck. His wide eyes meet Mike’s own. 

Mike turns, looking at Max only to find her already looking at him. They nod. 

Five seconds later, they’re sitting facing each other, lantern between them, headphones off, placed to the side. Will sits beside Mike in the same way as Lucas sits beside Max, silently vigilant. Eddie stands guard in front of them, flashlight at the ready, pointed directly at the open window. 

“The second Vecna takes one of us, I want you to put the headphones on the other, okay?” 

They nod. Mike nods. Him and Max go back to staring at each other. 

“Favorite memory, Wheeler. Remember that.” 

Mike nods. 

“If you’re in there for more than five minutes, we’re pulling you out, Max.” 

She nods. 

The lantern starts going wild, the blue light going crazy, giving a kind of strobe effect to the room. Mike clenches his fists and counts down the seconds in his head. 

One. Then two. 

Three. Four. And Five. 

Six. Seven–

Max’s eyes roll back into her head. 

Mike’s breath hitches. He had kind of been hoping it would be him. He closes his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms against them before looking up at the others. 

Immediately, he wishes he hadn’t. 

Lucas, Will and Eddie are all still as a dead body, arms lax at their sides with their eyes rolled back into their head. Mike panics for all of three seconds before he realizes what’s happening. 

“Clever,” he mutters to no one in particular, but he knows that Vecna is listening. 

Mike pushes himself up, going to the closed door of the attic, thinking, for just a second,  about a playground and blue and yellow swings and “do you wanna be my friend?” before wrenching the door open. 

Almost instantly, he’s met with a strong, refreshing breeze, carrying the scent of something floral and woody at the same time. 

He hears the creek of the swings and the overlapping voices of excited children, but there’s no one there. 

“You are not trying to hide, Michael.”  

He smirks and doesn’t say anything. Instead, he scans the playground, looking for the obvious disparity in this memory. 

“Why?” 

There. The door to their classroom is painted a bright yellow with red polka dots. Mike stalks towards it, wrenching it open and stepping through to the day he shared his first geometry class with Max. 

He watches himself wince in pain at an oncoming headache, his fingers creeping up to massage at his temple. 

And then – a single drop of blood. His own quick fingers that wipe the evidence from under his nose. 

Mike walks into the classroom, ignoring the way a cold chill seems to creep up his spine. As he walks out of the door and into a deserted corridor, Max’s words come back to him.

It gets harder as you go. At a point…you begin to question if– if living is really worth everything you’re seeing.

“But you’ve got to remember,” he quotes to himself, “It’s all a vision. It’s. Not. Real.” 

He keeps walking. He takes a turn and stops abruptly. 

In front of him are the bodies of the government agents that tried to stop them that night in 1983. They’re still lying broken and bleeding, but this time, instead of Eleven standing in front of them, it’s Mike himself with a gun. 

Fake Mike looks up to meet his eyes, raising the gun at him. Mike sighs wearily, and then he walks around him. 

“Interesting.” he hears, “Very interesting.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he snarks, rolling his eyes. 

He takes another turn, walking out from the school and straight into a lab – fluorescent lights blinking down at him, the smell of blood and the screams of the scientists as they get eaten. Mike clenches his fists and he keeps walking. 

Turn after turn, the people reach out to him, already in the throes of death, begging him to save them. Turn after turn, Mike blinks away the tears in his eyes and walks away. Another corner, he skids on the sheer amount of blood on the floor. He looks up and there’s a man surrounded by the demodogs – their mouths suctioned around his body, tearing into him with vigour, eating him alive as he thrashes. 

Mike steps to the side, fully prepared to run out of the glass doors on his left, but he freezes when he sees the man’s face. 

Bob. 

He reaches out a trembling hand, the flesh under his forearms, torn and exposed, fingers stretching towards Mike. 

He stumbles back, hands trying to find purchase on the cold tiles as he scrambles away from the scene. And then, right before his eyes, it shifts and warps until it’s El standing in front of a demogorgon, looking back at him with such sadness in her eyes. 

And then it’s Will’s body being pulled up from the quarry, and then it’s the sickening crack of Lucas’s head hitting the hard metal of the bus in the junkyard. 

And then – cruel, so cruel – the image warps back into the present, but instead of Bob… Iit’s Will, this time. He's screaming, hazel eyes locked on Mike, begging Mike to save him. 

The demodog snarls, lunges forward to take a huge chunk out of his throat. Will falls silent abruptly – too abruptly. The blood sprays, some of it lands on Mike’s face. 

He feels like this has happened before. Somewhere. 

NOT REAL! Mike shouts in his head, clapping his hands over his ears as he scrambles back up, pushing through the glass doors and out into the night. 

Except it’s not night – the sky is red and the ground is rotten, decayed, the smell horrid. There are towering blocks rising out of the ground, four of them, standing tall and mocking. 

And Mike knows, even having never seen any of this, he knows. He’s in Vecna’s mindscape now. 

He passed the test. 

“You are an odd one, Michael.” 

Mike closes his eyes, breathing heavily. His hands curl into fists at his side, he clenches his jaw, shaking his head, trying to get rid of Vecna’s voice on his head. 

“Show yourself, you bastard!” 

The air before him shifts and not even a second later, Mike feels a clawed hand wrap around his throat, hauling him into the air. His legs kick beneath him uselessly as he struggles against it, clawing at it desperately, trying to get free. 

“Not so fast, Michael.” 

“Fuck you–” he chokes out, still fighting against Vecna’s hold. 

Vecna – the gruesome sight of him, twisting vines and rotting flesh – tilts his head, a slow, creepy smile spreading on his lips. 

“Why don’t I break you first, Michael?” 

Pain explodes behind his head and he’s thrown back through the darkness, mouth open in a silent scream that gets stuck in his throat. Wind whistles in his hair, and the pain in the back of his head grows sharper and sharper till Mike can’t take it anymore – clutching at his head and pulling at his hair in an effort to get rid of it. 

He hits the ground hard, groaning at the impact. For a second he sits there dazed, before he looks around, something about the sights and the smell is familiar. 

Sure enough, he spots the Party from five years ago, seated at the dining table of the Wheeler house, shovelling lasagna into their mouths, talking a mile-a-minute. 

“Do you ever shut up, son?” 

Mike’s eyes swivel to Ted, landing on the way he’s seated in his chair, fork scraping against his plate, not even bothering to look up at him. He sees the way his younger self wilts, shrinking down on himself, eyes going misty with repressed tears. 

He sees Dustin aim a scathing glare at the man, angrily chewing on his lasagna. Lucas and Will exchange a look – both of their expressions close to murderous. 

“Sorry, dad.” 

His mom – recently post-partum, newborn Holly held in her arms turns a look on her husband. “Ted!” 

Ted shrugs and goes back to eating. 

The scene shifts, the images falling away, warping into something new. 

It’s him under the porch light with Will in 1983, watching as his best friend leaves, ignoring the sudden sense of wrongness in his gut, the urge to call him back and beg Mom for a sleepover. 

“You let him go that day, Michael.” comes Vecna’s voice, scathing and cold, sneering into his ear. “Straight into my clutches.” 

Mike’s lips tremble, but he bites down on them before he can do something mortifying like sob. 

The scene shifts again – fluorescent lights and screaming in his ear. Will is being wheeled away on a stretcher, screaming for Mike. 

“Mike! Mike! MIKE!”

Mike stands to the side, watching as the doctors take him away, powerless to do anything but keep crying as his best friend screams himself hoarse. 

“You promised him, didn’t you, Michael – that you would protect him? But look what happened.”

Mike watches, breath hitching as demodogs enter the facility, tearing into the doctors with abandon, feasting on their flesh. The smell of blood fills the hallways – thick and cloying, the copper taste coating his tongue, never letting him go. 

“You failed.” 

The scene folds in on itself, warping into something newer. 

Sheets of rain, a summer day, two friends arguing on the porch. 

“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” 

Mike closes his eyes, tears escaping him, his chest hitching with sobs. He tries to remember that this is all done, it’s over. Him and Will talked about it and Will forgave him, he kissed him–

“Are you sure, Michael?” 

Mike’s eyes fly open in panic, breath punching out of him in a rough exhale. “What…?” 

The image shifts again – to that night at the motel. Except instead of kissing, Mike is fast asleep and Will turns to look at him for just a second before slipping off the bed and settling down on the floor. 

The moon comes out from behind the clouds, casting the room in its silver glow, making Will’s hazel eyes shine with pain and something that looks dangerously close to heartbreak. 

He sighs, and then he turns around, slipping his hand under his head to pillow it. Mike watches in horror as Will proceeds to cry himself to sleep. 

The other Mike is still sleeping peacefully. 

“No–” he chokes out, shaking his head, his hand going up to his face, finger tracing his lips. 

If he concentrates enough, he can still feel the way Will’s lips had pressed against his own, how his hands had slid around his waist and how he’d pushed him into the mattress – kissing him senseless. 

“No!” 

The image warps again, changing into something that looks like the present, except Mike is standing in the Wheeler basement, alone, as the others go out to stop Vecna. His eyes are rolled back in his head, body rising into the air, but there’s no one there to see. 

“You will die, Michael. And no one will save you. No one will care.” 

“No,” he says because they planned. 

Five minutes. Whichever person Vecna took would get five minutes in his mindscape before they pulled them out. 

But… but it’s been more than five minutes, has it not? 

And Mike gives in – he falls to his knees, arms wrapping around himself as he breaks apart, sobbing. Tears flow down his face, chest constricting as he fights for air. His lungs won’t expand and his tears won’t cease. He feels like he can’t breathe. He feels like he’s drowning.

He wails, arms tightening around himself, hugging himself for comfort, begging someone to hear him, to save him. 

But no one does. 

Because he’s not worth it.

Something drags him up, his back hitting a hard surface. His eyes fly open just in time to see Vecna’s clawed hand cupping over his face, his head tilting upward by a force other than him. 

Something sharp and painful stabs into his head, tearing into his mind, grabbing all his memories and yanking them to the forefront, making him live and re-live every single one – warped and twisted to fit Vecna’s narrative. 

Halfway through, Mike starts screaming, thrashing, convulsing, begging to be let out. Hot tears pour down his face as he struggles weakly against the restraints on his torso. 

“Give in, Michael–”

Something drags Vecna backwards, sending him flying through the mindscape. Mike whimpers as he falls to the ground, catching himself on his hands, still heaving – sobs breaking out of him. 

Someone steps in front of him, and Mike looks up to see El, face set in a determined scowl, eyes narrowed, hand outstretched, holding Vecna away. 

She turns to him for a second, the cold brown in her eyes softening just a bit. 

“I will handle him,” she tells him, “You follow Will’s voice. Back to the house.” 

Mike gapes at her, shocked for all of two seconds before he hears it – faint and barely there, muffled as if it’s coming through a barrier. 

“Mike, come back, please. Listen to me, come back. Mike. It’s me, it’s Will. Come back to me. Please. Please!” 

He sounds so desperate, so torn – like he’s seconds away from falling to his knees and breaking down. 

Despite the sharp spike of pain in his head, Mike pushes himself up, stumbling into a run. He sprints across the terrain, running faster and faster till he sees the tear in the mindscape, his way out of here. 

They’re still in the Creel house. Mike’s body floats in the air, hands lax at his side, head tilted up towards the ceiling. Beneath him, Will is a mess. He’s crying and shaking and pleading with him to come back, hands outstretched to catch him. 

Mike sees Lucas, Max and Eddie to the side, all of them looking tense and worried, tears shining in their eyes. 

Max’s words come back to him, Mike’s not sure why he ever forgot in the first place. 

And remember, whatever Vecna shows you – it’s not real. 

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, letting the warmth wash over him. Behind him, he can hear El and Vecna locked in battle, struggling for the upper hand. 

He opens his eyes. 

“Mike, please,” Will sobs, “come back. I– I love you.” 

Mike steps through. 

His eyes roll back and he falls to the floor with a gasp. Will’s arms catch him around the middle, pulling him to his chest with a joyous cry. They’re both sobbing, clutching at each other, pulling them in, babbling I love you’s. 

Mike feels Lucas and Max barrel into the hug, arms thrown around the both of them, sobbing their hearts out. He thinks it’s probably the first time they’ve all been this vulnerable with each other. 

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, but eventually, the walkie crackles and they pull away, looking expectantly at Eddie. 

He has a shit-eating grin on his face as he nods along to the garble of the walkie. 

“It’s over,” he tells them, “that bastard’s smoked and killed and chopped and dead and buried.” 

And then they all collapse into a hug again – Eddie included. 

At some point, Dustin and Erica leave their post outside to come into the house, sobbing as they announce their victory. 

“You’re alive!” Dustin cries as he pulls Mike into one hug after the other. “You’re alive!” 

Mike keeps nodding, he doesn’t think he could stop even if he tried.  

Later – after they’re sitting comfortably in Steve’s Beamer, waiting for the other team to re-emerge from the Upside Down, Mike finds out that the basketball team did come after them. 

“Jason Carver broke your walkman,” Lucas tells him, a guilty look in his eyes. “I tried to stop him, I swear.” 

Mike shakes his head. “It’s okay.” 

“No it’s not,” Eddie interjects from the front seat. “It’s alright now, ‘cause your boyfriend beat the shit out of him and Maxine put a bullet through his head.” 

Mike’s eyebrows raise in shock as he turns to them – both of whom look non-chalant as fuck. Max goes so far as to shrug. 

“He was saying some really bad stuff. I just shut him up.” 

Lucas looks proud, and well, Mike guesses it’s not that big of a deal, considering that Jason was out to kill Eddie, anyway. 

Once the others are out, they go back to the Wheeler house, getting a whole night’s sleep before they wake up early next morning, falling over each other to greet El at the door. 

She flies into Will’s arms, burying her face in his chest as they both sob, holding onto each other with a desperation only people bonded by a certain kind of shared trauma can achieve. 

Nancy’s grip on Mike’s shoulder hasn’t eased from the second she got back yesterday, but Mike isn’t complaining. 

It’s nice to have a big sister. 

Another surprise awaits them as someone else descends the car alongside Owens. Mrs. Byers is the first one to rush to Hopper, throwing herself at him before pulling back and slapping him across the face. 

“Don’t,” she warns, pointing a threatening finger at him, “Don’t you ever pull that shit again.” 

Hopper smiles, warm and affectionate. “Yes, ma’am.”

Will sidles up next to Mike as El hugs Dustin next, his arm snaking around his waist. He looks around for a second before tilting his head up and planting a sweet kiss on Mike’s cheek. 

Heat rises fast to his cheeks and Mike turns away, giggling uncontrollably. 

“So, boyfriend,” Will teases, “you gonna take me on that date, or what?” 

Mike turns back to look at him, gazing into his beautiful hazel eyes as he nods. “Of course, boyfriend. Does midnight today work for you?” 

Will responds by pulling him into a searing kiss. 

Later that night, as they set up the VHS and pick out all their favorite snacks and card games, Mike can’t help but wonder how he managed to get here in a week. 

He stands at the end of the couch, watching as Will pulls the table and the TV set closer, his biceps flexing with the effort. He steps aside to let Will sit down first, before grabbing the remote and the popcorn bowl. 

“You ready?” He asks Will (his boyfriend!) who looks up at him – a slow smile playing on his lips, the hazel in his eyes darkening with…something. It makes Mike’s stomach flip, a spark of desire tingling up his spine. 

Will’s arm grabs him around the waist, pulling him hard. Mike falls into his lap – looking very much like the female lead in a romance movie. 

The popcorn bowl falls to the ground with a harsh, metallic clang that neither of them care about. 

“Hi.” Will says, his fingers ghosting over Mike’s hip before sliding up, settling around his waist. Mike smiles down at him, knees sinking into the couch on either side of Will’s thighs. His hands cup his jaw, fingers splaying out, touching the edges of his silky hair. 

“Hi,” he whispers, a giddy waver to his voice, entirely smitten as he allows himself to look deep into Will’s hazel eyes. 

Mike watches as the corners of his boyfriend’s lips tilt upward even more. The hands on his waist shift, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt and sliding over his bare skin. 

Despite himself, Mike arches into the touch, a low, throaty whine leaving him as he presses himself closer to Will. His fingers slide up to cup the side of his face, bending down as he presses his lips against Will’s. 

He feels his boyfriend melt into it – body going lax as Mike swipes his tongue over Will’s bottom lip, plunging in at the sweet gasp that seems to echo in the room. 

Or perhaps it’s only in his head. 

Will tightens his hold on Mike’s waist, his touch making him burn so good. Like caramel. So sweet. So intoxicating. 

Mike glides his tongue over his teeth before pulling back, capturing Will’s lips in a kiss again, taking it slow this time.
“Love you,” Will mutters into it, making him whine with need. 

“Love you, too.” Mike says, pulling back to look at him. “So much.” 

Will grins at him, his hands sliding up even more – his touch a trail of fire on the canvas of Mike’s skin – before pressing against his back, making him fall into Will’s chest with a soft laugh. 

Mike presses his ear over Will’s heart, taking a moment to listen to the steady beats. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

He relaxes in Will’s hold, going boneless, tilting his head up as Will captures his lips in a soft, languid kiss. 

The movie remains forgotten that night. But that’s okay. 

They have all the time in the world for more movies. 

More dates, Mike’s brain produces and for what is probably the first time in six years, Mike agrees with it. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you more.” 

A soft look. A sweet smile. Another kiss. 

“I love you most.” 

Yeah. They’ll be very fine.