Chapter Text
“come home, will byers.”
he's twelve, wearing his blue plaid blouse and denim jeans, a white long sleeves shirt and yellow and red puffer vest to keep him warm from the cold november night – but not safe from–
“it was a seven.”
“huh?”
“the roll – it was a seven. the demogorgon, it got me.”
–what he knows is the demogorgon – its tall, looming figure and teeth-filled petals for a face haunting him even after all this time.
he's in the shed by the front of their house, trembling from fear as he holds a shotgun – ready to fire to defend himself – when the weak light above his head starts glowing brighter, just in time for his ears and nose to start bleeding.
when he hears a low growl coming from behind him, he turns slowly to face the dark corner of the shed – breath shaking and heart pounding and tears threatening to fall from his eyes.
“...p-please…”
he remembers seeing the silhouette of the demogorgon, four years ago now but still ingrained in the back of his mind, just before the light of the bulb gave way to an eerie blue version of the shed and a clawed hand of the monster reached out for him – and will could only run outside and away, trying his best to get further and further away from the demogorgon.
but now,
when he turns around,
it's to a disfigured man with roots and vines slithered around his body, misty eyes focused on will as a taloned hand wraps itself around will’s neck and lifts him up off the ground.
will lets go of the gun, fingers scrambling to scratch at the hand choking him, feet flailing and trying to find something, anything, to help him.
distantly, he hears a clock ticking – echoing – as the man continues to glare at him.
when the figure opens its mouth, a deep voice reverberates throughout the upside down,
“william byers.”
“n-no,” he manages, even when he can hardly breathe.
“come home, will.”
his fingers stop scratching, instead tries to hold onto the hand holding him up in a useless effort to ease its chokehold on him,
“h-help-p… p-please.”
the man lifts him higher, brings him closer just as tears fall freely from will’s hazel eyes.
“it's time to join us.”
and like the time he got stuck in the upside down, and when visions of the mind flayer started plaguing him the year after, and every time he had a nightmare – will calls for a name, desperate for the comfort it brings him,
“m-m-mike… m-mi-ike!”
he closes his eyes, shakes his head fiercely when the man lets out a low growl and the ticking of a clock continues and vines start wrapping around his feet and hands and neck and–
“mike!”
“will!”
his eyes shoot open,
charcoal black curls and freckled cheeks and doe dark brown eyes filled with worry fill his sight – the dark blue of the upside down blending with the night of hawkins, just enough to light up mike’s features.
he breathes laboriously and raggedly, heart beating a mile a minute and cheeks stained with his tears as his mind registers some things.
he's fifteen, not twelve, and it's 1986 – a few months since an earthquake shook the small town of hawkins as gates to the upside down opened.
he's in mike’s bedroom, after being invited by the boy to sleep over to try for a semblance of normalcy and the past when they were inseparable, on a sleeping mat on the floor.
he's sitting, mike kneeling beside him as big, warm hands clutch onto his shoulders and keep him up – before moving to cup his cheeks, thumbs stroking below his eyes and drying his tears.
“will? will, are you okay?”
sight focusing on mike’s eyes before unconsciously drifting down to his lips, will heaves in big breaths and tries to slow down his breathing. he closes his eyes and continues calming himself down, nods once to answer mike’s question non-verbally.
it takes a few more seconds for his heartbeat to go back to normal – mike’s hands never stopping in framing his face, fingers slowly stroking the short curls at will’s nape, as he stays quiet and just watches will.
when will opens his eyes again, his hands start reaching up to hold onto mike’s – used to returning mike’s touches to calm him the same way he does for will,
“i’m okay, mike, it’s oka–”
the moment his cold fingertips touch the back of mike’s hands, he feels a jolt run through mike – his hands freezing on will’s cheeks before abruptly returning them to his sides, as if he'd been burned.
will stays frozen in place at that, breath halted and eyes wide as he stares at the boy in front of him who's now scrambling for words.
ah, he thinks.
right.
being fifteen means this: having gone through a near fall-out with mike almost a full year ago now, fighting again when they were in california, then making up before shit hit the fan.
1986 means the touches that mike so comfortably and naturally gave to him back in ‘84 are gone – replaced by ones filled with uncertainty and this weird tension, even when they decided that it's better that they work as a team, best friends.
will at fifteen means that he's constantly hiding that he's in love with mike, telling himself that he's satisfied with whatever mike can give him – if it's moments of awkwardness or avoidance even when he expected anything but after he tore his own heart out in disguising his feelings as el’s back in the van, he’ll take it.
“sorry. i don't– sorry. are you– what’s wrong, will? are you hurt?”
seeing mike flinch away from him, keep distance between them – when he remembers how mike kept so close to him, practically didn't want to leave his side the last time something like this happened to him two years ago, and was acting the same way for days after they arrived back in hawkins from california before suddenly turning back to how distant he was when they were freshly fourteen – will just…
shuts down.
tired, because it's in the middle of the goddamned night,
and because months of trying to act normal around mike only to be shut down is so fucking tiring.
so,
“it's nothing, mike. forget it,”
before he lies back down on his sleeping bag, facing away from mike, and lifting the blanket that had fallen to his waist back up to cover until his shoulder.
he squeezes his eyes and forces his breathing to return to stasis, shoves down the anger and disappointment and bitterness he's feeling – aware of mike still beside him this whole time.
nothing happens for a few minutes, probably five, and when mike mutters a confused what?! he thinks that's it – that mike will shift to stand up and go back to sleep on his bed.
but when mike does move, it's–
“wha– hey!”
his blanket is snatched away from him, so he sits up and turns to mike – sees his lips downturned and his eyebrows furrowed.
“give it back, mike!”
mike though, doesn't move – will’s blanket crumpled in his hand with how tightly he's clutching onto it – and he stays looking like that at will.
“mike.”
still not moving, will goes on,
“jesus, just–”
will reaches for the blanket, only for mike to move the hand holding onto it further away.
for once, will curses in his mind that mike ended up with long limbs because of puberty.
“mike, give it back, i wanna go back to sleep.”
his own eyebrows are scrunched now, face no doubt reflecting how he's starting to get pissed off.
but mike – beautiful, smart, sassy, stubborn mike – shakes his head no.
will angrily huffs, rolls his eyes, and moves to his knees to gain the upper hand on mike and snatch the blanket back, when–
mike,
mike,
balls the fabric using both hands and throws it – landing on the other side of his bed.
will gapes at him,
“what. the. hell, mike? you suddenly decide that you want to play games with me now? in the middle of the night–”
“no.”
with him kneeling up, mike has his face tilted up to glower at him.
“no?”
mike shakes his head again, unruly curls bouncing with the movement.
“no.”
“‘no?’ no, what, mike, i’m–”
“no, you're not sleeping until you talk. until we talk.”
will blinks at him, disbelief evident in his hazel eyes.
“talk? you want to talk now, of all times, mike. now, when it's–”
he glances at the digital watch on mike’s bedside table, sees the 2:53 glaring at them in the dark.
“2:53? well before the crack of dawn, mike?”
“yes, will, i want to talk at– at 2:53 in the goddamn morning because i thought we already talked about it before! that we’ll work together to fix the end of the fucking world!”
“yeah, well, whose fault is that, mike? whose fault is it that we haven't talked when you've been avoiding me?”
and fuck, it's so shitty that they're fighting – again.
it's shittier that he's proper mad at mike, but his eyes are welling up with tears and when he breathes, it's in sniffles now because of his guilt.
even with how mike's treated him – is treating him – there's still something inside him – his whole being is protesting – that says that it's wrong to be mad at mike.
because at the end of it all, this is mike – mike wheeler – who he's been best friends with since almost a whole decade ago now.
mike, who's been the center of his universe for so long.
mike, who he's in love with – for god knows how long because he knows it in him that putting a label to who he is and what he's feeling for mike back in california doesn't mean that that's when it started, no.
he's been feeling this way for mike for so long that he thinks there was never a time in his life that he wasn't in love with him, the thought of it even feeling so foreign to him.
so yeah, it's 2:53 AM and he's arguing with mike because they're mad at each other – but will can't even stay mad at mike.
and so here he is, in the middle of an argument, tears threatening to fall and nose and cheeks most probably tinted red because he's a second away from crying.
(and mike? mike’s heart breaks when he sees will like this. because of him.
and it's almost so natural to him that he doesn't notice it when he whispers so lowly, almost just mouths it, to comfort will,)
“will. baby. will, i’m sorry.”
mike’s sitting on the floor with his legs in a criss-cross, and when those warm hands of his make their way back to the brunette – one palm returning to cradle his cheek, and the other holding will’s left wrist so delicately – will settles on his haunches so they're level with each other.
“will, i’m–”
“you can't act that way, mike. you can't just– push me away and ignore my existence then– then tell me you’re sorry and treat me the– the way you did before, mike. then cycle back, again and again and agai–”
will's tears, now, are free-falling – eyes blurry and cheeks sticky with the wetness.
and mike looks at him with such worry, both his thumbs stroking will’s skin so tenderly – wiping his tears and the other just moving on his wrist for the sake of touching him.
“i’m sorry, will, i've been such an asshole. and it wasn't even just after california – i-i’m sorry that i was so angry at you back at rink-o-mania, and that i blamed you for shit that you weren't to blame for. i’m sorry for– fuck, for last summer when i decided to spend almost the whole day, every day, with el and i pushed you aside.”
will sniffles, brings the hand mike’s holding onto up so he can press the heel of his palm to his eye – mike not letting go the whole time.
when his sight is a bit clearer, he sees mike with his own brown eyes teary.
“m-mike…”
“i-i’m sorry that i shouted at you back in the garage, and that i– i just let you go out into the rain. i shouldn't have waited, i should've gone after you – i should've been there for you when you saw castle byers destroyed by the storm–”
“stop…”
“no, will, i–”
“no, stop, mike, just…”
and mike does.
stops talking.
but when he sees mike’s eyes, the hurt in them speaks beyond his words.
(desperation, mixed and poorly concealed with that hurt, mike thinks.
what if this is will telling him that they can't fix them? but then–)
“stop… blaming yourself. for everything. not when… i should say i’m sorry, too.”
(and mike? mike breathes, lets go of the breath he's been holding – afraid that that was the end of the line for them.
instead, here will is, forgiving him again. forgiving him when he shouldn't be.)
will hears mike chuckle at him, sees him smile even when his eyes stay watery.
“you– you’re… saying sorry. you, will, when there isn't anything you should be sorry for, alright? these past few months… i’ve been thinking about how much you tried – been trying – while i just…”
mike peters off, mouth opening and closing and trying to find the right words before he ultimately shuts it.
instead, he closes his eyes and breathes in deep,
minimizes the space between them when he settles his forehead on will’s.
when he talks, it's a whisper – sure that will can hear him.
“let's just… let's talk, please? please, will, let's– let's fix… us.”
will separates their closeness – but doesn't move too far, afraid to lose their moment.
for all his feelings of being angry and pissed at mike earlier… well, will’s weak when it comes to mike.
folds so quickly at his every whim, ready to be anything to him.
so he moves back just enough for their foreheads to not be pressed together, but close enough that when he nods, their noses bump against each other,
“please. please.”
then relief floods through mike's face, his smile becoming a bit more sure.
“yeah?”
will hums.
mike strokes his thumb across will’s cheek one last time before he moves it down – cups will’s left hand with both of his.
“okay… okay, we can uh…”
(mike straightens up so there's a bit more space between them, but not before a quick look to will’s lips.)
“real or… not real?”
will breaks into a smile at that, ducks his head just as mike grins at him,
“mike, really?”
“what? we used to do it as kids.”
“yeah, when we were like, scared from a movie and we had to talk and agree on what’s real or not so we wouldn't be scared anymore and get to sleeping.”
“see? it's perfect! we do ‘real or not real’ so we can go back to sleep afterwards.”
will shakes his head, then rolls his eyes fondly,
“alright, fine. but i want to sleep right after, i spent almost the whole day with steve and dustin volunteering.”
“okay, so…”
mike stands up but doesn't let go of his wrist – pulling will along. he only does when he sits on his bed and scooches to the farther side, back on the headboard and patting the space beside him to invite will.
when will follows him and shifts around a bit to become more comfortable, mike bumps their shoulders together and doesn't move back – their arms touching.
when no one talks for a few seconds, will huffs out a laugh and turns his head to look at mike – heart stuttering a bit when he sees mike looking at him already with a soft smile on his lips.
will averts his eyes before meeting mike’s gaze again, bumps mike’s leg with his foot,
“you start.”
mike hums loudly, makes this grandiose act to show that he's thinking.
will can't help but laugh.
“hmm, you’re favorite… song! is ‘should i stay or should i go’ by the clash.”
he raises an eyebrow as he looks at mike, as if to ask, really.
mike just smiles brighter at him, nudges his chin to say, just go.
“real.”
“really? even after all these years?”
“yes, mike, and i could still listen to it on repeat – especially if i'm drawing or painting something.”
“mhmm, alright. now you go.”
and then,
will's kind of… scared.
scared to get something about mike wrong, scared to realize that what he knows about mike might be facts from long ago about him.
actually,
there are a few questions in his mind that he wants mike to answer – deep questions.
his fears about them, really.
but if the first thing he brings to their little game is something so serious, mike might… turn tail and run.
even if he was the one to propose that they do it.
so he averts his eyes from mike’s, and goes with,
“your… favorite color. it's blue.”
when he looks back, mike’s face is a mix of a lot of emotions.
there's a small smile, but also confusion. and guilt. maybe disappointment. sadness. in his eyes. before he schools it into a more relaxed look.
soft.
“as real as yours being yellow.”
he narrows his eyes at that, stares when mike just raises his eyebrows at him,
“inconclusive.”
“what?!”
“you can't base your answer on something you're not sure is factual.”
“uh, i can when i know your favorite color is still yellow.”
“well, what if it changed since the last time you asked me?”
“mhmm, i doubt it though. i know you, byers.”
unfairly so, he thinks.
he ought to hate yellow. remembers all too well that both times they practically exploded at each other, mike was wearing a shade of yellow – the color mocking him, almost.
but when he remembers a six year old mike asking him what his favorite color was while they were in the school garden, only for will to say i don't know because he never really thought about it, mike had sat down in front of him – a small yellow flower in his hands that he gently tucked on will’s ear – and said, i think it's yellow! because it suits you, see!
will had smiled at mike with pink cheeks back then, thought to himself, yeah, my favorite color is yellow because mike looks pretty with sunshine on him, and never looked back since then.
now though, blood rushes to will’s cheeks and he ends up flustered,
“s-shut up. next prompt.”
mike doesn't answer for a few seconds, only does when will feels the backs of their hands touch – and then mike speaks with a soft voice that's so familiar to will.
“you… you joined a new party. in california.”
will breathes out slowly,
“not real.”
“but… el said in her letters that… you guys made friends.”
“no, i…”
couldn't move on.
“i made friends in the sense that… i could just… get by. i talk to people to ask about homework or– or something. but joining a new party, i…”
he shakes his head, looks away from mike,
“i… couldn't find anyone who was like you guys. there wasn't anyone like you, and i don't think i even wanted to look for another party.”
not when he couldn't even move on from everything he left behind in hawkins.
“you guys joined a new party though, right? dustin’s been telling me about it.”
mike gets this pained look on his face,
(shame mixed in, when he thinks of how they easily joined a new party when will didn't – how they got back to playing d&d when will had practically begged them to last summer,)
“yeah, uh… real. it's– we were called the hellfire club, basically adopted by eddie when he first saw us.”
will smiles, wistfully,
“i wish i could have met him – eddie.”
“yeah… yeah, me too. i think you would've liked him – and he would've liked you.”
he pulls his legs close to him, holds onto them by the knees with his hands.
not for the first time, will thinks about how different things could have turned out if everyone just gave up on him back in 1983 – if he could have just stayed dead in the upside down.
“i’m sorry.”
“no, will– there's nothing for you to be sorry for. everything that happened here? it wasn't your fault – never, alright? it was all vecna, since the very start.”
mike places a hand on his shoulder.
and when will shrugs – not knowing anything else to say or do – he half expects the touch to retreat.
but it stays there, warmth never fading.
“... you had… no, you've been having nightmares. ever since we got back here.”
he stares off, focused on the window in mike's room that brings the slightest bit of light to the dark room.
he feels tears starting to well back up in his eyes, breath shortening.
it's a shudder when he inhales, doesn't know if he wants to tell mike about what he's been seeing.
“will, hey, hey, it's okay. you can tell me, alright? so we can fix it. we’ll fix it, together, yeah?”
he feels a tear drop, running down his cheek before it falls to his clothes when it drops off the edge of his jaw,
“i… i don't…”
mike scoots closer to him, wraps an arm around him and settles his hand on will’s shoulder blade – ducks his head so he can coax hazel eyes to look back at him.
“please, will. you– you might be in danger already and– and he might hurt you. so if i can– if we can protect you in any way we can, i–”
“yes. ye– real, it's real, mike, he–”
then the dam bursts, and the tears won't stop.
“what do you– what do you see, will? is– is it like what they say that max saw, or–”
“i don't know, he… sometimes, he shows me his plan – what he wants to happen. th-there’s vines an-and monsters and everything's dead and dark like in the upside down b-but it's not, it's just hawkins here.”
mike's hold on him slides down to around his waist, presses their sides flushed together, and uses his other hand to hold onto will’s forearm.
“then… sometimes, like– like tonight, i… i remember s-some moments in that– that week. but now, he's– he shows himself to m-me like… he… wants me to know. know that it's been h-him since the start and that everything's going according to his plan and that he won't stop, mike. he won't stop until he gets what he wants – until… he gets what he w-wants from me and–”
he's rambling and his voice is cracking from absolute fear, when mike pulls him close – so close that they're hugging and mike's arms are around him while will’s hands clench onto mike’s shirt, will’s forehead is on mike’s shoulder and his tears are staining mike’s clothes.
“hey, hey, shh, it's okay, will. he won't get you, okay? we’ll do everything we can so that doesn't happen – not again.”
“he told me to come home, mike. he was t-there and he said to c-come h-h-home and that it's time t-to join h-him.”
will doesn't remember how long it's been since mike’s held him this close, or how long it's been since mike allowed will to cry like this to him.
sobbing and holding onto mike like if he lets go he’ll disappear and trembling with his whole body,
“i-i don't want to go– i don't want to go b-back t-there, m-mike.”
mike leans his cheek on will’s head.
“you won't go back, will. i won’t let him take you back, not if i can help it.”
then, mike holds him.
just holds him.
close and tightly and warmly, until will’s sobbing turns into sniffles – then into tiredness from crying.
when his breathing starts evening out and his body starts leaning to the side instead of mike, mike maneuvers him – gently, slowly, endearingly – onto the bed, on his side with his hands curled lightly by his head.
mike carefully follows suit, afraid to wake will up with his weight shifting the bed, and lies facing will.
(his eyes linger on will’s face – his constellation of moles, the way his lips are pouted slightly as he sleeps this way – before making his way to will’s hands.
he stares and stares and stares,
before giving in to the urge of lifting his hand up to meet will’s – pinkies touching and slotting into a promise.
a moment passes, and mike’s still awake and just gazing at will.
when he's sure that will isn't having another nightmare anytime soon, mike breathes in deep and closes his eyes to fall back asleep.
but then–
“m… mike…?”
his eyes flutter open quickly.
“will? what's wrong?”
with a quick check, will’s eyes are still closed – face still peaceful and breathing calmly.
mike breathes out in relief.
“... cra… zy…”
his eyebrows shoot up in amusement, decides that this is an instance of will’s sleep-talking habit that he's had since they were kids.
“hmm? crazy… crazy what, baby?”
“... to… toge… ther…?”
he freezes,
feels a twinge in his heart.
after a few seconds of will breathing deeply, mike cups one of his hand with both of his – brings it closer to his lips before lightly kissing his fingers,
with regret, and longing, and a promise.
“yeah, crazy together.”)