Chapter Text
Mike stands in the doorway, staring at Joyce’s body sitting on the couch, holding Will’s limp hand in hers. He feels sick. He can’t even remember the last time he ate a snack, much less a full meal. He feels sick and– and he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep since he and Lucas carried Will’s body to where it was now; unmoving on the couch. An all too familiar sight.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there.
Not really– because time seemed to have sped up when his family got attacked, only to slow back down when Will got into his coma-like state. Mike’s not sure about a lot of things anymore.
When Joyce eventually stands up from her position on the couch, passing Mike on her way to the station’s restrooms– he finally finds it in himself to take her spot next to Will. In truth, he had been avoiding physically touching Will after he and Lucas carried his body back inside. There was something deeply wrong with the coldness of Will’s body– coated in a layer of cold-sweat as his eyelids remained shut despite the fact that there was rapid eye-movement underneath.
Lucas had noticed Mike’s reaction first, pulling him away from the group as Joyce and Robin adjusted Will’s body on the couch. Mike remembers his arm being held by a strong grip and being pulled to the radio booth, a ringing sound in his ears as he desperately tries to tear his gaze away from the two women kneeling beside the couch– the body.
He felt it, even then- the sickness.
Mike does end up gagging, lurching forward as he holds onto Lucas’ shoulder– the other boy attempting to soothe his back with a heavy hand. His ears ring. His body aches with lethargy, and Will was– Will is on the couch, limp. Dying, for all Mike knows. At the thought, he takes another deep breath, gasping for air as the sound from his surroundings comes into focus once more.
“...ike! Mike! Dude, you’ve gotta calm down, man– Mike!” Lucas hisses through clenched teeth. Though even as he says it, Mike can’t help but see the absolute fear in his friend’s eyes. He concludes, then, that Lucas is helping him through his own experience– through his experience with Max back at the Creel house. “I swear, Mike– take a deep breath… exhale– inhale– exhale… yeah. Like that, just– just keep doing that.”
“How the fuck do you expect me to– to…” Mike does as he’s told, despite his words, “when he’s right there–”
Lucas probably saw himself in him. The panic, shock– the numbness. All of it. Mike kind of hates how Lucas was so accustomed to it; then, he realized midway that Lucas probably hates himself for being so used to it. Two different people– two different friends, and nothing to be done. Nothing could be done.
“Try, Mike,” Lucas mutters against his shoulder, “you have to try.”
He breathes, and it’s so fucking hard seeing as he hears the voices of Joyce and Robin just a few steps over– a constant reminder of what happened.
“Jesus, you’re sweating all over,” Lucas comments, pulling away as he digs in his back pocket for a handkerchief.
Mike swallows another breath of air as he catches a glimpse of himself on the glass panels; his eyes blown wide, skin layered in a sheen of sweat, and some of his hair sticking onto his neck. He looked insane. Desperate.
Which brings Mike to the present, feeling much calmer than he did a few hours ago, Lucas’ handkerchief in his front pocket, and still so, so scared. He doesn’t know when Joyce will be back, but he doesn’t think he can bring himself to move from his current position– next to Will, his own hand hovering awkwardly over Will’s cheek. Unable to touch– and fucking terrified to. Mike thinks that if he so much as lays a finger on Will’s cold skin, he’d feel that same urge again; that stupid, stupid urge.
Because Mike is nothing but weak. Weak for the boy lying in front of him.
He can call himself the paladin however many times, and yet, in the truest sense of the word, Mike is weak.
His hand hovers, still, moving lower and lower. In a blink, his palm is inches away from Will’s face. The other boy is completely motionless beneath him, not one of Mike’s own movements alerting his body, not even instinctively.
Mike lets his hand drop, resting on Will’s cheek as his thumb soothes the soft flesh. Everything within him is screaming wrong, wrong, wrong– the skin too cold, dea– he frantically looks towards Will’s chest, watches as it rises and falls, and his chest loosens. His thumb continues to caress his face, back and forth movements that aren’t for Will as much as they were for Mike. The longer he stays like that, Mike feels, the more the sickness returns.
The nausea slowly creeps up his throat, the corner of his eyes prickling as his breath grows quick.
It’s like he’s 12 again. Hiding behind a firetruck with Lucas, Dustin, and Jane as all four of them watch as the adults drag a body from the water. Will’s body. He was so small, then, all of them were. Despite being the oldest in the Party– Will remained the shortest, at the time. It felt wrong, seeing such a small body motionless. Lifeless.
Mike feels that very same wrongness as he slips from sitting on the couch to sit cross-legged on the floor instead. His hand doesn’t move from Will’s cheek; the only difference was, now, Mike could rest his cheek against the cushion comfortably– eyes fixated on Will’s face. The Party always jokes that Mike’s face was constantly covered with freckles due to how much he loathed sunscreen. Though looking at Will from such a close distance– the sun illuminating the station– he’s beginning to notice the ones the other boy bore. Fainter, sure, but there. Even his current position felt wrong; Will would never let him be this close.
His thumb stops his ministrations on Will’s cheek, choosing instead to trace over the freckles he could see on his face. Softly and unsurely.
“Michael?”
Joyce stands in the doorway, similar to how he was standing moments before.
Mike scrambles away in shock, his back hitting the coffee table as he lets out a wince, “Shit– s-sorry, Mrs. Byers.”
He sees her small smile, taking slow steps to where he’s trying to grab his bearings on the dirty station floor. Mike’s knees almost buckle as he tries to stand, the cross-legged position on the floor doing more harm to his body than good.
After an awkward few seconds of dusting himself and his pants off. Mike stands behind the armrest, facing Joyce, “Sorry, Mrs. Byers.” He clumsily moves his hands to gesture towards the empty spot on the couch, next to Will, where he sat.
Mike remains… uncertain as to what he is apologizing for.
Maybe it’s for taking her seat or– or doing whatever he was doing to Will’s face. Or, buried deep in his chest, encasing his beating heart, he thinks he’s apologizing for the way he treated Will. For being an asshole– rude, cursing too much–
(“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!”)
Fuck.
She lets out a chuckle, taking his invitation and sitting back on the cushion, “Looks like you were keeping him company.” There was a particular tone in the way she said it, as if she saw something he couldn’t see.
“Uh, yeah, of course, he’s my–” his throat closes up uncomfortably, “... my friend. He’s my friend.”
Joyce adjusts her jacket, fixing Will with a look, “I know. He’s always been very grateful for you, Michael.” She then uses her sleeve to dab at the sweat on his face, “even from when you were both kids. Will’s always– always been so happy to have gotten to know you.”
At that, Mike’s hands twitch from where they were laid on the armrest, fingers itching to touch Will’s body in front of him, “How– how do you know?”
Joyce fixes her gaze towards him next, and he almost lets out a startled laugh at how pointed it was. His heart beats faster as her expression morphs into a fond, knowing one. The thought of Will speaking about him so happily to his mom makes Mike want to cry– happy tears, of course. She smiles at him, noticing the lighter expression on his face, “Michael, it feels–”
“Mike.”
“Hm?” She tilts her head.
He looks downwards, self-conscious of the way he interrupted her, “It’s– It’s Mike. You… you can call me Mike, Mrs. Byers–”
“Joyce,” she nods, feigning seriousness, “I don’t know how many times I keep asking you to call me that.”
Mike thought it would be harder to talk to Joyce after everything that had happened. It was hard to even glance in her direction, for a while– it hurt too much to see someone so similar to his mom, in her own right. It’s easy, now; he doesn’t think it’s ever felt this easy. They each let out soft chuckles, and- and Mike feels lighter than he has in hours.
Joyce looks back down at Will, placing a hand over his, “Mike, it feels as if you don’t give yourself as much credit as you ought to… when it comes to being Will’s friend, I mean.”
He brings a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, feeling unusually hot, “Well, we are a party–”
“No, no– what I mean is,” Joyce makes a vague gesture with her hands, “I’ve– well, ever since the two of you boys met, I began seeing bits of yourself in him.”
What?
She laughs weakly, “Sorry, sorry– I know I sound crazy–”
Mike shakes his head, slowly stepping out from behind the armrest to sit back on the floor, knees to his chest as he leans against the coffee table, “No, no, you don’t– I… I, uh, I want to… to hear more. Y’know, it– it might help. Talking about him. Only if you want to, of course–”
There was intent behind his words; he doesn’t bother hiding it– Mike knows she’s smart enough to pick up on what he meant to say, anyway.
Will might be able to hear them talk.
He sees her pause, gazing down at Will before she nods, “Well, it started with very small things…”
Mike begins to lose himself in her voice.
–
His ass is starting to numb from sitting on the floor for so long, but his entire body feels much more rested than he expected.
He thinks that he and Joyce ended up talking for around 30 minutes, judging from the way the two of them began slowly getting more comfortable and looser with their words.
(“Will started fucking grabbi–” Mike slaps a hand against his mouth, only to relax when he sees her laugh.)
It was like a bubble– a comfortable, warm bubble. Up until he sees Robin from the corner of his eye, waving him to the corner. Mike, like the asshole he is, stays stubbornly put; however, he sees her wave a Kate Bush vinyl in the air, and the meaning is not lost to him.
After excusing himself and gingerly thanking Joyce for indulging him, Mike rounds the corner, finding Lucas already there.
Robin’s words are quick as she explains her theory– a trance-like state that Max, Will, and Holly are trapped in, making their bodies vulnerable, and the key to their proper return. Following that, the three of them make quick work of a plan. To which Mike, with a bit too much excitement, readily agrees;
“Good enough. Take Joyce’s car. Do not get pulled over– get to Max,” Robin salutes him as she and Lucas make a run for the exit, “I’ll stay with Will.”
As he hears the station doors shut, Mike walks back to where Joyce and Will are– noting the way Joyce is deep in thought, silent. He doesn’t try to intrude this time.
–
In the hours leading up to the end of the world, Mike does some stupid things. With Jane, however, he doesn’t feel as if they’re too stupid.
Mike stands next to Hopper’s makeshift bath as he stares at his own reflection in the water. In one of the rooms, he knows, is Kali. And in a different room, he knows, is Will. He turns his head around to the sound of a door opening, then closing, watching as Jane walks out in a new swimsuit. Mike doesn’t miss the chance to compliment her, although the words out of his mouth don’t seem to be reaching the intended ears.
She sits at the edge of the tub, and he mirrors her. Mike remembers the conversation with Kali and Hopper back at the station– a heavy, ruthless conversation that Mike believed he shouldn’t even be hearing.
“It won’t end,” Jane says, after a beat, “not after we kill Henry. All of it won’t end.”
Mike is taken back to that night with Will. His own, unyielding, words echoing in his ears as he attempts to soothe Will’s anxiety– presently, Mike tries to do the same with Jane. There is a fear that creeps up in his mind about the possibility of saying the wrong thing about a topic he knew next to nothing about. In any case, Mike tries.
He smiles, trying his best to look as reliable as he can, “Waterfalls,” Mike finds himself saying, “we wanted to go see waterfalls, right?”
Jane looks at him seriously, expression tense, “As much as… as I want to see those–” she sighs, “those waterfalls with everyone. I, Mike– I do not see how we can truly be winners. I do not.”
Her voice rings in his head as she recalls the fucking atrocities happening down at the labs– Mike’s own throat tensing as he attempts to help her feel better, even though he also knows what it means to feel hopeless. Jane’s voice is shaking as she continues speaking, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Without thinking, purely on instinct, Mike takes her soft hand in his (There’s a new scar he hasn’t seen before, he notices). In turn, Jane presses her free hand onto his cheek, rubbing her thumb against his skin, “Mike, this is not like one of your campaigns.” Her eyes are sad when she whispers, “You do not get to write the ending. Not this time.”
Mike nods, a heavy feeling in his heart, “Maybe I don’t, but we do. You, me, Lucas, Max, Dustin, and–” he chokes out, “... and Will.”
At the sound of his hesitation, Jane’s eyes soften, and he continues, “Because this is our story, and it starts with getting Will back.”
–
Mike flinches as Jane flings the door to the bath open, watching as she walks out of the water, still wet, in the direction of where Will is– Will is awake. Joyce is at his side in seconds, and so is Jane. Unaware of the water clinging to her, she jumps to pull Will in a tight embrace, letting out a laugh as he hears her whisper, “You are warm, finally.”
He brushes away how those words render him weak.
The two pull apart, having some sort of secret way of communicating, before they both warn the group of the danger posed by Max’s physical body's lack of security. At the mention of the redhead’s name, Mike stiffens, and, just like that, the relief of seeing Will awake and alive is immediately replaced by imminent fear.
As he stands in the doorway, Mike can’t even be bothered to hide the look of unease in his eyes.
And, like always, Will notices.
–
“Max!” Jane yells out, her face bathed in the sunlight as she runs towards the redhead. Mike can almost see the way Max’s eyes are reddening, the vestiges of tiredness washing away when Jane’s arms come up to wrap themselves around the girl.
He tears his eyes away from the scene, content with seeing both girls reunited after so long– especially after having experienced Jane’s reaction of utter devastation to Max’s condition the first time they had found out about it.
(“I am getting better at it,” Jane says, holding up the two braids so that he could see.
Mike’s lips quirk up, “You are.”
He pretends not to see the way Jane’s hand lingers for a moment longer on Max’s hair. Mike pretends not to see the way Jane’s own lips quiver.)
Mike walks back inside the station, figure hunching over as the events of the day weigh on him like boulders on his shoulders. His footsteps are heavy, loud– and so, when he turns the corner to the main area of the station, Mike doesn’t expect to see Will and Joyce buried in conversation. As if they hadn’t heard him at all.
Joyce notices him first, with Will following soon after.
“Is everything okay?” Mike blurts out, a bit louder than he wanted to be.
A second passes, and Joyce places a comforting hand over Will’s own. “Yeah, we’ll be out in a minute,” she nods.
Mike makes quick work of turning around, only to be stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of Will’s: “Wait.”
Don’t turn back around. He takes a breath and does the opposite.
“I think you should hear this, too,” Will’s voice cracks at the end, “... could– uh, could you maybe call Jonathan and Jane?”
“Yeah, ‘course.”
Will smiles, “Thanks.”
Mike gathers himself, nodding, “...Always.”
–
When most of the Hopper-Byers family gathers in the main area of the station, Mike feels a little out of place from where he’s sitting– purposefully away from the others, though still facing the sunlight, facing Will. Mike has a perfect view of the entire room, and he can clearly see the minute movements of the other boy, erratic and– and anxious. He watches as Jonathan looks at Will with so much attention, and he watches as Jane does the same, although, compared to her brother, she does little to hide her curiosity at this sudden family meeting (plus Mike).
“I…” Will steels himself, “I haven’t told any of you guys this, even– even though I probably should’ve but… but, I– I guess I just didn’t want you guys to see me any differently. I didn’t– I didn’t want you guys to look at me any differently.”
Mike sits up straighter in his seat as he sees the tears cloud Will’s eyes, his hands twitching from where they were interlocked in front of him.
“The truth is… I am different. I am– uh, I am different,” his voice cracks, “I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, because– y’know, everyone’s been telling me my whole life that I was different… and I guess part of me wanted to prove them wrong. But I–”
The air turns heavy with anticipation, but most of all– worry.
Mike isn’t feeling too good about himself, either.
There’s a nagging feeling in his head that he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t– he and Will aren’t even close enough for these types of things; these conversations. Mike feels the nauseating feeling that he doesn’t deserve to be in this room. A room full of Will’s people– closest people. If he was being honest, Mike hasn’t been one of those people in a long time.
But as Will steadies himself to continue, Mike stubbornly stays seated.
“...I am like you,” Will lets out a wet smile, gesturing to his family before glancing at Mike, “I– I love playing D&D with my friends and I… I love shopping for art supplies and– and trying out fancy clothes.”
Mike hears Jane’s soft laughter and Jonathan’s fond “Mhm.”
Will turns to him, and he finds himself unable to stop himself from returning that infectious, broken expression, “And… and I love the smell of popcorn and Pop-Tarts as we rewatch Bladerunner for the 100th time!”
Even now, as Will’s words of truthful vulnerability pierce through every chipped panel of his armor, Mike can’t resist the way his eyes linger on Will a second longer– to hold his gaze for a moment. Just the two of them. The flush on Will’s cheeks is highlighted by the tears streaming down from his hazel-green eyes, the sunlight beaming through the windows and bathing them all in a warmth that eases him into thinking that– that loving Will feels inevitable.
And so, when the next words out of Will’s mouth come out–
“I… I don’t like girls.”
Mike’s entire world stops.
Or it feels like it is, because how can he even begin to define the tumultuous emotions that that one sentence caused him to experience in a span of five seconds. His heart is beating hysterically, pounding in his ears as he watches the way Will looks around nervously at him and Jonathan.
“I mean– I mean I do… just not in the way that you guys do,” he mutters, “I, uh, I–”
Mike is at the edge of his seat, literally. Ready to run forward at any given moment to pull Will in the tightest embrace as he whispers words of adoration and support in his ears– ready to give him the love that he deserves.
He’s fucking ready.
And Mike’s never been this ready in his entire fucking life–
“I– I had this crush on someone and they– they’re… well, for a long time, I knew that they were all I’ve ever wanted, all I needed–” Will let out a bitter laugh, his teary eyes finding Mike’s own longing ones. The weight of that one look caused another wave of complicated and confusing emotions to wash over him, “Even though I, uh, I knew they weren't like me.”
His expression softens as he attempts to shake his head. However, all that comes out is an almost motionless movement, that, from where Will’s sitting– he surely hadn’t seen, “But I realized–”
Mike Wheeler’s carefully assembled armor is chipping away. The helm that hides his face and every expression he wears is crumbling to dust at his feet.
He’s about to do something stupid, anyone in the Party can tell (That is, if the rest of them were present).
“... he was just my Tammy.”
Wait.
Who the fuck was Tammy?
Will shakes his head as he looks downwards, hands trembling on his lap, “And by Tammy, I mean it was never about him. It was– it was about me. And I just–” he brings one of his trembling hands to wipe his cheek, “I was never going to have this conversation until… until Vecna showed me what would happen if I did– with all of you and them– everybody, basically. I was– I was just so, so scared that you’d all leave me or–”
Joyce doesn’t let him finish.
She grabs him by his nape and pulls him close in a locked embrace. Mike notices the dampness of her cheeks, and a similar sight on Jonathan’s– barely realizing the way his own vision clouds at the sight of Will sobbing relentlessly in Joyce’s arms.
In a second, Jane and Jonathan join in on the hug, with Jane caressing Will’s hair as she’s sandwiched in between Will and Jonathan. The oldest of the Hopper-Byers siblings is saying something, he knows, but the sound is muffled against the huddle. And before he does something stupid, Mike walks over to the group and takes one of Will’s hands and holds it.
Jane notices the action, and their eyes meet.
Like always, she seems to find herself in his head– in every deep pit he’s dug for himself over the years. This time, her gaze reads: Talk to him. Mike knows that Jane’s probably the most confused out of everyone in this entire room, but somehow– whether it be due to her powers or sheer intuition– she gets it. Gets Will.
In response to that, Mike simply focuses on the solid form of Will’s hand in his.
He hears Will cry, the words muted, “I– I…” he hiccups, “I was scared I was going to lose you–”
“You’ll never lose me,” Jonathan whispers against his hair.
Nothing mattered in the world– not even Vecna– aside from the boy in front of him. Mike’s thumb rubs in a soothing motion on Will’s skin, and judging from the way the hand tightened its grip– they both knew that they couldn’t keep avoiding each other forever.
For now, though, Will muffles his sobs onto Joyce’s sweatshirt, and Mike turns his face away to avoid revealing his own tears.
They’ll get there eventually, he thinks.
–
In the hours leading up to the end of the world, Mike prepares to do something stupid. This is the first time he’s ever been truly aware of that fact, and thus, the first time he’s been so terrified to do something.
Even though his backpack only held a handful of batteries, snacks, a bomb, and a couple of flares, Mike had never felt it weigh so heavily against his back. The painting was rolled up neatly against a bag of Doritos, and just the thought of it being so close is enough to give him a heart attack. The first reason was that he was way too afraid of damaging it, and the second reason was the conversation he intended to have with one Will Byers.
This time, he’s had the whole conversation planned out.
Mike’s not about to make a fool of himself on what would be the most important moment in his entire life, he thinks. Messing this up now was almost a no-go, especially since, in a few hours, they’ll be fighting the final boss in the Upside Down, and that requires his utmost focus.
However, in the present, Mike holds a record of Butthole Surfers and replays the entire plan in his head. His shoes tap against the chessboard floor of the Squawk to the rhythm he’s memorized, and the approaching footsteps match the beat perfectly.
Will rounds the corner, hands searching for something in his vest’s pockets before he finally notices Mike sitting on one of the armchairs– alone.
Mike stands up hastily, the planned conversation utterly forgotten. Threw away, never to be heard from again.
“Uh, hi,” he tries for a smile, waving his arm awkwardly in what he hopes looks like an inviting gesture. “I was– I was just… Butthole Surfers.”
It’s so fucking over.
Will lets out a small smile, one of his hands coming up to fiddle with his vest’s zipper, “Yes, I, uh– I can see that.”
Mike’s lethargy escapes him in a heartbeat, and he hadn’t even remembered having coffee this morning, “Right, yeah– yeah. Uh, do you want to…” he gestures for the couch.
Will nods, wiping his hands on his jeans as he silently walks up and sits down. Mike watches as he picks up The Age of Consent record he was holding previously, looking at it intently. After a second or two, he finally finds the courage to sit next to Will, locking eyes with the boy’s dark brown eyes.
“Earlier,” he starts, “that was really brave of you.”
Will’s voice is soft when he whispers, “Thanks. That, uh– that really means a lot.”
His hand comes up to his nape, expecting to feel sweat clinging to his skin, only for his fingers to brush up against newly formed goosebumps. Mike sighs, attempting to steady his breath. The fear of this entire conversation seems to douse him in cold water, his own body racking up shivers.
He grabs his backpack, fishing for the painting. Next to him, Will watches, curious.
When he finally succeeds, Mike unrolls the painting and takes in the familiar sight of the two-headed hydra and of the Party. Will looks at it and then back at him, “Why are you showing me this?”
He smiles warmly in response, “You told me, back in the van, that– that I was the heart of the party. But… here, look.”
Mike guides Will’s eyes to– to… the shield. An empty shield without the heart painted on it. He looks at it in confusion, “...What?” his fingers tremble as they attempt to instinctively trace the missing heart on the shield, “I– I swear I…”
“Michael.”
He freezes, his head unwilling to turn to the sound of Will’s voice– his cold voice. Mike’s hands shake as they grip the painting, eyes locked onto the shield before they drift towards the two…?
A two-headed hydra.
It was missing a head.
“Michael,” he hears Will say beside him. The other boy’s voice is soft, if not utterly unlike him that– that Mike almost wants to scream. When he finally turns his head, he sees Will– except it’s not Will because… because his eyes are supposed to be distinct hazel-green; not the deep, unsettling brown that this– this imposter had on.
He concludes that the boy- the being next to him, wasn’t Will.
Mike notices the windows darken a shade of red. He notices the uncanny actions of the imposter next to him– he notices that the sounds of the Party and Co. outside have completely silenced. Mike feels it before he sees it. The cold. A biting, fucking cold that makes him almost want to throw himself into a fireplace or something.
“Michael,” the voice says a third time, “did you really think that you could ever have a chance?”
He flinches, scrambling backwards and landing on the coffee table, knocking off a few mugs as his hands come up to cover his ears. Mike finally sees it. The dark veins crawling up the imposter’s neck, the tautness of the imposter’s muscles as if he hadn’t a clue how to use a human body, the darkness in the imposter’s eyes.
Mike lets out a quiet sneer, “Who the fuck are you?”
“I think you know who I am,” the voice deepens, its tone sinister as it walks towards Mike.
He crawls backwards hurriedly, his back hitting the wall not even a moment later. And before he could even comprehend this situation, much less get out of it, Will’s body transforms into a monstrous being– who, based on the horror stories Will and Jane have told the Party, was probably the monster’s true form.
Vecna.
Mike feels his body slide up the wall, tight against the cement as Vecna comes up in front of him. The monster whispers, lips– if they could even be called that– stretched into a sinister smile, “Did you really think he was talking about you, Michael? You, who disregarded him for a girl you barely knew. You, who sent him off to his doom that day in the rain.”
(“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!”)
He closes his eyes tightly shut at the memory, Vecna no doubt digging through his soul to get him to break.
“You, Michael,” Vecna tilts his head, his tone shifting to that of faux pity, “who could not even remember his birthday.”
Shit, shit, shit– he needs out!
Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes as he chokes, desperately gasping for air as memories flood his mind. Of him and Will– of Will and him. Mike claws at his throat, claws at the slithering vines that come up to further deprive him of oxygen. The lack of oxygen gives way to the black spots in his vision, which then gives way to his lack of muscle control and– and Mike Wheeler is about to die. There’s saliva dripping down his lips as the tears finally fall. He’s dying.
He’s about to die, having not gotten the truth about the painting.
He’s about to die without having rescued his sister.
He’s about to die without having told Will about–
Mike Wheeler is about to fucking die a coward.
But you never cried to them…
His left eye twitches open only to see a swirling vortex of light, juxtaposing the scarlet darkness he’s found himself in. Mike sees it, and then he feels it– the warmth that the vortex radiates. Mike hears it, then, too– the sound of music, more specifically, Smalltown Boy.
He grits his teeth in pain as he forces himself to turn his head left, fighting the tendrils that coil tighter and tighter around his neck.
… Just to your soul.
Mike sees the faint figures of Will, Jane, and Kali around his floating body– the two women having matching nosebleeds as they attempt to save him. Jane, by infiltrating his mind, and Kali, by having him listen to Smalltown Boy– fully intended to get him out of Vecna’s trap.
(“Sorry, dude, The Age of Consent won’t arrive for three more weeks,” Robin had said, shrugging.
He groaned, “The world’s fucking ashes by then!”)
Will, however, looks absolutely distraught.
“Do not kid yourself,” Vecna lets out a slow chuckle, “even if they try, time is of the essence. And your weakness is your downfall.”
Mike struggles to keep his eyes open, and even then, he could see that the shape of the vortex was slowly shrinking. The muffled voices grew even more distressed, and he heard the sounds of Will shouting his name over and over against the backdrop of Smalltown Boy.
“Please, Mike.”
Every bone in his body was screaming, every muscle strained as he fought– if Mike ought to die here, he thinks, he’d rather die having tried.
…No, you never cried to them, just to your soul.
He screws his eyes closed.
Fuck that.
Mike jabs a finger into Vecna’s right eye, the veins around his throat uncoiling almost instantly. His body drops to the floor as the rapid onslaught of all of his senses coming back to him renders Mike immobile. For a second, at least. He distinctly hears the pained roars of Vecna in front of him– a guttural, throaty sound that wakes him up. Mike is panting, now, staggering onto his feet as he runs.
Run away, turn away–
His legs are shaking, and yet Mike runs.
The lack of oxygen burns in his lungs, and yet he runs.
As Mike gets closer, he can see his own body floating several feet in the air in the main room of the station. Mike sees the way Will is desperately holding onto his legs, crying into the fabric of his pants.
He runs faster.
–run away, turn away, run away.
“Michael!”
Vecna’s voice booms throughout the hellscape as pieces of floating debris begin to fall around him– and Mike struggles as he attempts to avoid the barrage of attacks. He startles as he sees the way the tendrils slither beneath him, aiming to grab his feet.
“You cannot run!”
Mike finds himself unable to hold back the laugh that escapes him, the sight of the vortex just a few feet away easing him into ecstatic relief.
Run away, turn away, run away…
Right when he’s about to fall into the warmth of the vortex, Mike turns back to Vecna for a brief moment, holding up a middle finger as he falls backward into safety– into Will’s waiting arms.
…turn away, run away.
Mike wasn’t running away, this time.
He was running toward something– no, someone.
Mike was running towards Will.
–
In the hours leading up to the end of the world, Mike Wheeler remains asleep for at least two hours of it. When he eventually comes to, the sunset beaming through the Squawk’s windows, Mike realizes he’s taken Will’s spot on the couch, still clad in his gear, as a quilted blanket draped over his body.
He attempts to sit up, wincing, only to recognize a familiar tuft of brown hair lying on the cushion. This action doesn’t go unnoticed, and Will stirs awake with a soft grumble– his hazel-green eyes meeting Mike’s dark brown. It’s a warm sight– a familiar sight. And Mike knows that the feeling of wrongness has gone from his body. Will looks at him as if he were the only person in the world, and– and he almost cries at how right it all feels.
“Hi,” Will lets out a shaky smile.
Mike does the same, albeit weaker, “Hey, to you, too.”
He sees the way Will’s hand lies open above the quilted blanket; an invitation Mike takes easily. The feeling of their fingers intertwined does something to him– and unlike the last time, back in his basement– Mike doesn’t feel like running away.
“I feel pretty good despite, y’know, nearly dying,” he tries.
Will frowns, gripping his hand tighter, “Mike, don’t even joke about that. You nearly did die.” He sighs, “If it weren’t for Jane and– and Kali, you really could have… you could have–” his voice breaks, “I– We could have lost you, and that’s– that’s not something to joke about.”
Mike smiles softly, nudging Will out of the way to swing his legs down– urging the other boy to sit next to him rather than sit on the floor. Like this, their knees are touching– their hands remain intertwined in that small, sacred space. Unlike the vision created by Vecna, Mike feels the warmth radiating from Will’s body– a comforting presence that, if it weren’t for that fact, Mike could still picture the imposter sitting next to him instead. The memory makes his chest hurt.
“Do you– do you want to know what he showed me?” Mike says weakly, “Vecna. What– what he dug up?”
He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, aside from that lingering fear in the back of his mind– his heart– that if he keeps on running away, Vecna will find a way to use it against him. Something in Mike breaks at the thought that Will had probably felt the same way just before he opened up about himself– and he’s suddenly reminded of what Will talked about: Will’s Tammy.
Will sits up straighter, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Mike.”
“I want to.”
God, he wants so badly.
Mike attempts to school his face into something more resolute, relaxing only when he sees Will lean back against the cushion. His throat dries up without much of a warning, and Mike speaks, “It wasn’t too different from… from what we’re doing now, actually. I was– I was… well, I thought I was holding a Butthole Surfers record–” Will holds back a smile, “but– but it was so weird. You were… You walked in on me and I– we sat down just like this.”
He makes a vague gesture at the two of them with his free hand before continuing, “I had the painting and you– Will, oh my god, the Butthole Surfers record turned into The Age of Consent. And I didn’t even notice it at first, but I– I had the painting, right?”
“Mhm,” Will eyes look at him intently before morphing into confusion, “wait– the painting I gave you? the– the one Jane commissioned–”
If Mike didn’t know any better, he’d nod mindlessly. However, he simply settles for a soft glance. “The painting, yeah.” He says.
“Oh.”
He takes a deep breath, thumbing at the skin on the back of Will’s hand as he steels himself, “And– and I was trying to show you something. I– wait, it’d be better if we actually had the painting.”
Mike struggles to stand, only for Will to lean against the armrest as he later pulls out the painting, still rolled up. Will mutters, “When you– when Kali found you, she said something about you holding this just as you were about to–”
“Levitate, yeah,” Mike takes in the sight of the painting, scrunched slightly in the middle where he probably held it in a death grip. He unrolls the painting, pressing himself more securely against Will’s side as he opens it up in their laps, “I was– I was trying to show you the heart you painted on my shield, and– and I guess… I remembered? I remembered you calling me the heart.”
Will stays silent, “But the heart on the shield wasn’t there, and I could hear your voice next to me even though I knew–” Mike presses a hand against his face, his breath hot, “I knew that something was wrong because– because you were so cold. I could feel it– I felt nothing next to me aside from the cold.”
Will’s eyes soften, “He likes it cold.”
“Too fucking cold for my liking,” Mike nods, glancing back down at the painting. He sighs in relief at the fact that the hydra had three heads this time around, “Anyway, I– I noticed it, then, that the hydra was missing a head.”
Mike recounts every sickening detail he remembered from up until Vecna had him pressed against the wall, from the way his form shifted– and from the way the vines wrapped around his neck. And while Will stayed listening, silent next to him, he could feel the other boy’s hand tremble in his. Will’s hazel-green eyes locked onto his face as if he were scared he might disappear if he so much as blinked.
“And then I heard it,” Mike let out a wide smile, “I heard you. I heard Smalltown Boy fucking blasting in the distance and I– god, I was so fucking relieved to hear Jimmy Sommerville, I’m telling you.”
Will leans his head against Mike’s shoulder as he chokes out a laugh, “That was Robin’s idea, actually. She mentioned how you just kept pestering her about when the record would be arriving and– and Kali, well, you know the rest.”
Mike doesn’t stiffen from their proximity. If anything, he slides down the cushion even more to accommodate their differing heights, “Thank god for Robin, then. If it weren’t for the fact that Jimmy Sommerville felt like he was singing in my ear, I wouldn’t have– I wouldn’t have fucked up Vecna’s eye–”
“You what?!” he shrieks.
“I– yeah?”
Will looks at him with wide eyes, “What do you mean you ‘fucked up’ Vecna’s eye, Michael?!”
“Uh, I kinda just–” he imitated the jabbing motion with his finger, keeping his hand uselessly floating as Will followed the movement, “Y’know?”
A beat passes before Will flops back down into his previous position, sighing, “You surprise me every day, Wheeler.”
Hell, he surprised himself, too–
“Well, the strength didn’t really– I don’t think I could have done it without you, though,” he starts, pointedly avoiding Will’s gaze, “I– the music helped, of course it did– but… but I could feel you. I could feel your hold on me, and I just– I just, like, I just felt desperate to feel more of that; the warmth of your hand. If– if that makes any sense.”
Will mumbles against his shoulder, “...like what Max said?”
“Exactly, yes,” Mike exhales with a smile of relief. “I kind of… followed that feeling when I ran– scared shitless, by the way– I ran. And I ran to that feeling, and I ran to that– that vortex–”
He’s breathless when he continues, finally garnering the courage to meet Will’s eyes, “And I ran to you.”
They stay like that for a moment, lost in each other, in the warmth of the other’s body pressed against them. Will is panting, eyes darting to every point on Mike’s face, his hand is clammy against Mike’s own, and he whispers, “To me?”
“To you.”
Always.
“Which is why– why I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about the painting,” Mike forces out, a conflicted expression dawning onto his face, “can you… explain? I– Will, it’s been keeping me up at night when Jane told me that she– she never asked you to paint it.”
He sees Will’s expression crumble, “I– I never meant to lie–”
“But you did,” Mike whispers, tightening his hold around Will’s hands as a form of assurance, “and– and I really don’t care about that part, I just– I need to know why.”
Next to him, Will’s body stiffens, a tenseness he feels that wasn’t there before. In a blink, Will is fixing his position so as to face him better.
Will smiles, unsure. “Do you remember what I said earlier? About– about myself and about… what I felt?”
He nods, a nauseating ache forming in his chest as he remembers Tammy. Whoever the fuck that guy is.
“I need you to listen, Mike,” Will’s voice almost sounds as if he’s pleading, “I’ll make this quick because– because Murray’s probably done repairing the truck and everyone outside would surely want to know that you’re,” he chokes on his voice, “alive.”
Mike shakes his head fondly, “Take your time. I can be dead to the world for a few more minutes, Will.”
The station is silent for a few seconds, the sounds of the Party and Co. outside muffled against the thick walls (Mike sighs in relief as he hears Lucas’ shrill shriek, completely unlike the silence of the hellscape). As the sun beams its orange rays onto both of them– Mike could almost imagine being in that dream, in his basement, with Will.
Warm.
“When you told me that you and Jane weren’t really… doing too well, back in Lenora? I– I wanted to make you feel better, obviously. Don’t get me wrong, Mike– you were an ass to her–” Mike simply nods, looking downwards. “But– but I– I did a stupid thing, and I was so, so mad at you for forgetting my birthday and–” Will let out a bitter laugh, tugging at his own sleeve, “... and I– I couldn’t even get that look on your face out of my mind. That… that look on your face when you– you know you’ve done something wrong, and you just can’t say it.”
Mike is about to retort just as Will puts up a hand, silencing him, “And I lied to you because I thought that that was what you needed to hear.”
Shit.
“Not–” Will notices his crumbled expression and panics, “not what I said about you, but– but who they were from.”
Will continues, face dejected and voice quiet, “I’ve known you long enough to read you like a book I keep on my nightstand.”
Mike ignores the way that sentence makes him feel, “And– and, what, you thought I’d be happy to have it be said by Jane? Dude, I would have been just as happy if you said it came from you– Will, you were with me in that van. The two of us.”
Always Will and him– him and Will. Never one without the other. Mike whispers, remembering Jonathan’s words: “You’ll never lose me.”
“I know,” Will’s hazel-green eyes are soft as he looks at Mike, “Which is why– why about Tammy–”
Tammy.
He blurts out, not bothering to hide his bitter tone, brows furrowed, “Who the fuck is he? Was he… was he a guy you met in Lenora? Was he cool? Shit name for someone who’s supposed to be cool, by the way,” Mike instantly regrets his words when he sees Will hunch forward in a startled laugh, “what, wait– I really am curious–”
Outside, the sky darkens. It’ll be a cold September night, Mike thinks. With Will next to him, though, Mike knows he’ll be warm.
“Mike, I– I made a mistake,” Will grins, ear to ear, “When I told you guys about Tammy, I was wrong. Completely, absolutely wrong.”
Just hearing Will say he was wrong about Tammy makes Mike feel giddy– which makes him feel like an asshole, but he’s too focused on the fact that Will was wrong about the guy. Mike sits up straighter, although his muscles are pleading for him to do the exact opposite.
Will starts, a slight flush on his cheeks that Mike wants to feel underneath his palm, “He– he could never be my Tammy. I– I was so, so wrong, and I feel stupid, but–” there’s a look on his face that Mike can’t decipher, “being wrong has never felt so right.”
Okay, Mike is very confused. And he’s pretty sure it’s showing on his visage.
“I nearly lost him today, and I– no Tammy could ever make me feel what I felt at that moment,” he laughs wetly. Mike notices the way Will’s eyes are blurred with unshed tears, “That… that there was ever a possibility of living life without him anymore. It was– it was so fucking scary. Seeing him in front of me, there, but not really.”
Oh.
Mike feels the heat creep up his neck, down his chest, and onto his face. He feels it all– the despair, the want, and the need. Judging from Will’s face, this is the first time, in what seemed like hours, that the other boy has felt at ease. He feels everything all at once.
“Sounds like an asshole,” Mike bites his lip to prevent himself from smiling.
Will laughs, and god, it’s a sound he wants to keep all to himself, “He grows on you– I guess. The guy really grows on you.”
Oh, what the fuck. Mike just got back to the world of the living, and now he’s dying again–
“And, uh, what makes you so sure that this Tammy– this… guy, isn’t like you,” he says, voice going up an octave, “what if he’s just been… been confused and– y’know, scared.”
“Because I can read him like a book I always keep on my nightstand,” Will repeats his earlier words with an almost deadpan tone, a painful smile on his face.
Mike furrows his brows, eyes glancing at the painting forgotten on the coffee table, “And what if you’re wrong about Tammy again? What if– what if he wants you, too, what if he–”
“What are you saying?” Will screws his eyes shut, unable to bring himself to look at the boy in front of him.
A beat passes, “Can you just stop calling me Tammy, please?” Mike pleads, his lips curled upwards, “c’mon, Will, can you look at me?”
When Will does, Mike leans in closer as if he were about to divulge a secret, “Remember what I told you, about– about what I saw in that hellscape? Vecna he– he really fucking hit the nail on the coffin when he started replaying all the moments where I really messed things up with you.”
“But you–”
Mike shakes his head, “And I knew it, too, but I was too fucking scared to do anything about it,” he mumbles. “When I saw you, though, in that vortex– calling for me– I… I guess I snapped out of it. Well, as painful as it was– I ran, and ran, and ran…”
Will whispers, his hot breath mingling with Mike’s own, “You ran to me, yeah.”
At the end of the world, Mike Wheeler does stupid things. Kissing Will Byers, however, was not one of them. In a swift motion, he grabs Will by the nape and smashes their faces together, a desperate sound escaping him as he does so.
It’s warm, and it’s real, and he’s so, so relieved.
Mike Wheeler has never felt braver in his entire life.
Will’s body leans against his, heavy and secure as they move in tandem, before the other boy whispers, “Mike.”
Run away, turn away, run away…
He’s done running away.
“Mike,” Will whispers against his lips, coupled with one final peck as he pulls away, “We– I just heard, uh, Steve calling for us outside.”
Dazed and a little confused, Mike nods, throwing the quilted blanket off him, “Yeah, yes, of course. Uh– what the fuck, wait, sorry–” he sees Will chuckling against his palm from the corner of his eye, “I want to–”
Will nods, “Yeah, I know. Me too.”
(–Who the fuck else could keep up with his mind? No one– no one but Will Byers.)
“Okay, yes, great– me too,” Mike can’t help the delirious laugh that escapes him as he stands on wobbly feet, “Shall we?”
Will comes up beside him, stabilizing him with his own body as they slowly walk outside– the cold September air chilling him to his bones. With Will, though, Mike can’t help but feel warm.
In the days and hours leading up to the final battle, Mike Wheeler does some stupid things. Looking at Will now, however- he’s thrown in some brave shit in there, too, Mike thinks.