Chapter Text
Mike feels like he’s been walking for hours. Forced to walk through memories, some good, some... who is he kidding? They’re mostly terrible. He scrambles through door to door as he looks for a way out. Or a way to wake up. Currently, he has the pleasure of hearing his parents in a screaming match downstairs. Still better than half of the mess occupying the infernal cacophony he’s been stumbling through.
“Do you even know how old he is?” Karen shouts angrily.
Mike can hear his father scoff. “You’re being dramatic, Karen.”
Karen seethes. “Name one thing he’s interested in!”
“He seems plenty interested in that Byers kid,” Ted said bluntly, and Mike could feel his blood burning in his veins as he scrambled to open every door on the second floor. One of these has to be it; anywhere is better than here.
He opens the door to his own room, but unfortunately, it’s not the safety of his room, but the middle school gymnasium. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. This is ridiculous. He’s been stuck here for who knows how long, watching as his life always seems to unravel, and what's this going to be? Petty middle school drama?
“Didn’t you listen to the counselor, Wheeler? Grief shows itself in funny ways.”
Mike knows that voice. His shoulders tense, and he turns around. It’s Troy and that fuckface. He feels his fists tighten. This was a long time ago. Some middle schoolers’ words shouldn’t bother him anymore. But ‘should’ has nothing to do with it because he knows what he says next.
“Besides, what’s there to be sad about anyway?” He hears Troy sneer, “Will’s in fairy land now, flying around with all the other little fairies, all happy and gay.” Troy spat.
And to this day, his words ring like nails on a chalkboard. “This is what happens to fags like you and your pansy boyfriend Wheeler. What happened to Will was a warning. I think you should listen.” He said with a sneer, the boy behind him snickering.
Mike simply looks at Troy with a blank expression. It's funny how things look from the outside. Troy is what? 5 feet tall? Mike towers over him now. He poses no threat to him, not anymore. But his heart still clenches at his words, just like his fists.
He looks over at the smaller version of himself, and he doesn’t know what to think. His eyes are wide and blurry, seething with rage and simultaneously trying not to burst into tears. Mike closes his eyes for a brief moment as he looks away.
He starts walking out of the gym, making sure to get a glance when he pushes him down to the ground. He sighs. There's got to be a way out of this place in the halls; there's a shit ton of doors after all. This might take a while. He looks through the windows of the doors; some show empty classrooms, while others have a couple of old memories made between their four dreadful walls. Some you can hear the muffled screaming that feels like it's trying to claw its way out through the memory that holds it.
The last door on the hall isn’t solid wood like the rest; it's white. He glances around and presses his ear to it. At least he doesn't hear any screaming, so it can't be that bad.
He opens the door, but what awaits him is a hospital hallway. God, does he hate this place. It can’t be worse than where he’s been, though. He walks through this memory slowly. Something is here, he knows it. He feels this uneasiness tightening around his lungs. He freezes in his tracks when he finally remembers what this memory is.
“Let me go! Let me go!” That’s Will. He knows where he is. He was better back at the house. Hell, he was better back at the quarry. He covers his ears just like he did then, like a child. It doesn’t help; he can still hear him screaming in the back of his skull.
He scrambled for another door, opening it rapidly. Hospital room, hospital room, hospital room. The screaming gets louder. Hospital room, hospital room, hospital room. He’s yelling for help now. Hospital room, hospital room, hospital room. He’s yelling for him. He turns the final handle in the hallway and sees a large field. He doesn’t have time to think before he tumbles through the door, slamming it behind him and putting his back to it, like the darkness of the hallways was trying to claw its way through the gaps.
He sits there, hands still over his ears as he stays in place. The only thing moving is the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He slowly calms down as he looks around him. He knows this place, and he lets out a sigh of relief, slumping back and sliding down the door so he's sitting down. A smile tugs at his lips as he watches a tiny version of him and Will run through the tall grass, being completely tangled in it, given how small they were. Unlike the hospital, this field bursts with warm colors, the sun making the grass a golden hue. Mike stays with his back against the door as he watches them. He almost forgot how Will used to be taller than him.
He slowly stands upright and takes a deep breath. He thinks he’ll stay here for a while. He slowly starts to walk, his legs slightly shaky underneath him. He and Will look to be about 7 or 8. They held hands as Mike pulled him towards where the field of grass broke into flowers. He could hear his own excited rambling as Will nodded and waved his free hand around enthusiastically. They had sat down while Mike happily showed Will how to make a flower crown, which Nancy had kindly taught him to do the day before.
Mike let out a sigh. This was nice. He missed this. He closed his eyes, his legs tangling in the tall grass, and his face bathed in the warm sunlight. For the first time, he actually feels something positive, warmth. He can hear the sound of the two kids giggling, Mike rambling on and on about what sounded like The Hobbit. Will kept his eyes glued to Mike in pure focus as he nodded along to his story, humming and waving his arms around in expressive gestures.
Sometimes, Mike found himself longing for those simpler moments—just him and Will. He hadn’t made flower crowns in years. Well, not since Troy had crushed his creations under the sole of his boot on the elementary school playground, mocking him with the same words his father used, words Mike thankfully hadn’t even understood back then.
He shook the memory from his mind; he was not about to make his own next purgatory. When he snapped back out of it, he noticed something. The flowers had changed colors. He swears they were yellow... He remembers them being yellow... and now they're... blue.
He turns away, but he’s no longer in the field. His eyes widen when he sees he’s in the upside down, turning back to see the flowers fade to dust in front of him. The first thing he notices is the cold. The second thing he notices is the smell. It smells like something's rotting, and he can hear the buzz of flies. He turns back around and sees a body, but it's honestly too decayed to tell whose it is. Now he’s definitely going to puke.
He takes in a choked gasp of air and stumbles back, vines wrapping around his legs and holding him in place at the movement. He feels panic settle into his bones as the sodden vines curl and wrap around them. He tries to struggle, but they only get tighter. His eyes widen in panic as a vine wraps around his throat. He attempts to claw at it, pulling and tugging as sharp pains shoot up his neck and coil in the base of his skull. It's just a dream. It's just a dream he repeats to himself, but the loss of air from his lungs seems pretty goddamn real.
“Michael…” a deep voice bellows. Something pulls his hands from his neck, the vine around his neck growing tighter. “Why do you bother to run? That’s all you ever do. A real man sits in his misery, just like your father,” the voice rang out, dark and low.
He attempted to thrash but was held in place. He could see a dark figure lurking towards him. “But of course, you're not really that much of a man, are you, Michael?” The dark voice spoke; he could hear the sadistic glee in its voice. You know, words hurt a lot more when your own brain whispers them every time he's foolish enough to look in a mirror.
He’s getting tired of this nightmare. “And who are you supposed to be? My self conscious? The ghost of Christmas past..?” He grumbled, gasping for air past the vines constricting his throat. “When I rack my memories, I unfortunately seem to draw a blank for sadistic black silhouettes-” He tried to continue but the vines strangled any words out of him. Looks like he hit a nerve.
“You’ll figure out soon enough, Michael, but it looks like someone is calling for you.” How did it-
“Mike!”
Mike gasped for air as he sat straight up in his bed, crashing into someone in front of him. His mind was fuzzy and felt like it had been turned inside out. He gasped for air, each breath burning his lungs, his ribs aching with each breath he took. And holy shit. He was freezing. Completely down to the bone.
The ghostly sensation of vines still crept along his skin, prickling and cold, as if they were burrowing just beneath the surface. The stench of rot clung to his nose and throat, sharp and nauseating, making it hard to believe he’d truly woken up. And god, he was so cold—frozen down to the bone, like the nightmare was clinging to him from the inside out.
His eyes scanned the room, but he couldn’t make out anything; everything was a blurry mess as things melted together in his peripheral vision. The only thing his eyes could focus on was a very concerned Will that was extremely close to his face. His mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear any of the words his lips were forming. Mike stared at him, eyes wide open as his chest heaved. He could feel his eyes watering and cursed himself. But this added closeness did give him something other than a near heart attack, warmth.
He tried to open his mouth, but no words came out. He looked down, avoiding Will’s eyes. He felt shame building in his soul; his eyes welled up as he stared at their intertwined hands. He almost wanted to smile. Will seemed to be sitting in silence. But don’t worry, his brain happily supplied every thought Will was probably having. He knew Will’s voice better than his own, and his brain would never stop using that against him. He was such an idiot; he didn’t have any right to be so affected by this—people died to these monsters, Will almost died to these things, and yet he’s the one having nightmares? What gave him the right?
His eyes burned, tears brimming at the edges. Without thinking, his fingers worried at the blanket, tugging loose threads with the same restless motion he once used to weave flower crowns. Back then, those small, focused movements brought him pure joy; now, the urge to pick and pull was just a way to keep his hands busy, to keep the dread from rising up and choking him. It was strange—what once felt like creation now felt more like unraveling.
How long had he been sitting in silence? God, was he pathetic. Before he could even register it, he was pulled into a tight hug. And something in him just snapped. The weight of everything all came crashing down on him at once. He collapsed into Will’s arms, burying his face into his shoulder as he sobbed. His lungs heaved under the effort, and he could hardly breathe, but he couldn’t stop.
“I’m sorry I’m such an idiot…” he said with a forced laugh as he tried to wipe his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from Will. His voice sounded like sandpaper being gritted against a chalkboard, and it felt just as nice on his throat.
“Stop,” Will said in that voice that made him want to fall to pieces. And Mike listened. He always did.
“You need to breathe, Mike,” Will said gently as he kept one hand on his back, the other moving to the back of his head. If Mike wasn’t on the verge of insanity, he would savor the moment. Mike buried his face into the crook of his neck, one of the many voices in his head complained about his selfishness for getting Will’s shirt gross, while another berated him for taking advantage of Will with how he wished that could be like this more often. But another two were cursing him for taking up his time and worrying him. But there was a new voice in the back of his skull, but it boomed through his head nonetheless.
“He doesn't care about you; this is nothing more than the comfort that is offered to a sick mutt.” The dark voice spat; he could hear the venom in its words. Mike’s breath was strangled, like one of those cursed vines was still wrapped around his throat.
Shut up he grumbled in his mind as he buried his face deeper into Will’s neck, his breathing picking up further as he clung to him like a life support.
Will seemed to pick up on this, and he shifted, basically picking Mike up and putting him wherever he wanted. He seemed to have decided to take calming him down into his own hands. This was, of course, not helping the burning sensation coursing through his veins.
“Alright. I’m going to count to 4, you’re going to breathe in. I count to 8, you breathe out.” Will said with a gentle determination. Mike slowly nodded as his fogged brain tried to process the words.
Mike could practically hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Good. Now. Breathe in. 1, 2, 3, 4.” Mike followed his instructions. He breathed in, wincing slightly as his ribs made a sign of protest.
“Now breathe out. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...” Will said as his fingers absently tangled in Mike’s hair, who struggled not to combust at the touch.
Mike got down to about 6 when his breath caught on his decomposing throat and immediately sent him into a fit of coughs. When they cleared slightly, he couldn’t help but laugh, a grin finding its way onto his face. He looked over at Will as he wiped his eyes.
“I don’t think your breathing exercises worked as intended,” he said with a breathless laugh, still trying to get the air back in his lungs despite their refusal.
Will sat there laughing with a gorgeous smile on his face, and Mike just froze. He watched how his eyes crinkled, and his nose scrunched. How his mouth showed his perfect teeth, and his eyebrows raised.
“Well, you’re smiling, aren’t you? I think they worked,” he said as his smile turned into a slight smirk.
Mike let out a huff as he smiled. “Ah, yes, Will the Wise always has the best remedies after all,” he said with a smile as he leaned in.
Will laughed, a smug smile on his lips. “I always know best after all,” he said teasingly, before his tone got more serious. “Which is why I know something is bothering you.” He said as he looked at him like a bug under a microscope.
Mike froze; it looked like his distraction wasn’t working. He shifted anxiously, leaning back and looking down at his hands, which were completely destroyed from his nervous picking.
“What are you talking about..?” he said with a nervous laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck, looking away from him. Seriously, Michael? That’s what you’re going with?
Will let out a huff of a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Mike, have you looked in a mirror?” He deadpanned.
Mike let out a slight snort. He looked over at his mirror. Alright, he really does look like shit. His eye bags were so dark they looked like shiners and… shit. He tilted his head to the side, looking at his neck. He winced when he saw it, gently putting his hand against it and feeling how it burned. He had scratched the shit out of himself in his nightmare. Alright, so maybe this was a little worse than he thought. He sighed. There was no point in lying. Will could see right through him anyway. He sighed and leaned back on his hands.
Will looked at him cautiously. “Were you having a nightmare?” He asked gently, nudging his shoulder against Mike’s own. Which seemed to work somewhat well as Mike hesitantly nodded.
“Yes... I’ve been having… nightmares.” He admitted reluctantly, like it wasn’t already perfectly obvious.
Will hummed and crossed his legs. “What was this one about? It seemed pretty…” his eyes flicked over him, “gnarly.” He said as he tilted his head, trying to catch his eye.
Mike avoided it; he kept his eyes glued to the floor. “This one was pretty bad… I’ve been having them for… a while,” he said vaguely, silently pleading he wouldn’t press further.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked gently as he nudged his shoulder.
Mike felt his throat constrict. What was he supposed to say? That he’s had nightmares almost every night since the day he went missing on November 6th? That every night these past couple weeks, he’s been haunted with nothing but his worst memories and horrific visions? How still, on top of all that, nothing makes him feel quite as ill as taking advantage of Will by thinking about him like this, and that he’s the freak his dad always told him he was? To be fair. No. He doesn’t want to tell him about it. He’d rather do literally anything else than burden Will with his shitty problems. Mike sighed. But God, did he want to talk to him. To talk to anyone. It felt like it was eating him from the inside out. But then again, who was he to bother Will with his problems? He had it easy compared to him. He was going to say no, but when he looked over, the softness in Will’s eyes made him falter. He sighed.
Mike just stays frozen, staring at him as thoughts flood his brain, the overload giving off too much frequency to think coherently.
“Mike…” Will said as he moved his head to get back into Mike’s line of vision, which was currently glued to the floor. However, Mike’s eyes were glazed over as they stared far past him. He huffed and took his hands in his. He rubbed his thumbs over the knuckles of Mike’s beaten-up hands, attempting to calm him down. Will hummed and seemed to take note of how Mike had essentially destroyed his own hands, the skin around his nails angry and inflamed. However, the contact did seem to work somewhat well as Mike blinked and looked over at him. “You know you can talk to me, right?” He said in a gentle firmness.
Mike sighed, his shoulders slumping and his head bowing forward in defeat. He stared down at their hands that were still somewhat intertwined. Mike’s free hand tangled in his hair, twirling the curly and uncombed strands nervously. He always did this; he could never sit still, as much as it drove his father crazy.
“I… I know. But it’s just, I don’t, you shouldn’t—” Mike groaned, closing his eyes. Y’know, given Mike was planning on being a writer, you’d think he’d be better with words. He took a deep breath.
“You’ve been through so much, Will. The least I can do is not add any more to your plate.” Mike looked up, meeting Will’s gaze with tired, miserable eyes. His voice was quiet, raspy, edged with a plea. “So please, just drop it.”
Will sat, wide-eyed and silent, clearly at a loss. Mike watched as Will bit the inside of his cheek, his thoughts visibly swirling behind his eyes. Even feeling sick to his stomach, Mike almost smiled at the familiar determination slowly building in Will’s expression. After a moment, Will’s eyes snapped up, brimming with a newfound determination.
“Mike, have you forgotten all of 8th grade?” Will’s voice was firmer now, layered with conviction and a tremor of emotion. “There’s only one reason I got through that year—and he’s standing right in front of me, telling me he’s a burden. You saved me, Mike. You held my hand and led us through hell and back. You stayed by my bed every night, and you wouldn’t leave my side. And you still think you’re selfish? You’re the heart, Mike, the heart for all of us. I wish you could see what I see, Mike, but you can’t. So I’ll keep telling you until you believe me.”
Mike was completely caught off guard, staring at Will with wide, uncertain eyes as Will clutched his hand between his own, thumb gently tracing the scratched knuckles. Words failed him.
Will continued, voice softening but full of concern. “Now I’m going to give you two options, Mike.” He spoke with mock sternness, though his eyes were gentle. “One: you tell me what’s going on now. Or two: we talk about it later, when you’re feeling better. But bottling up your feelings and pushing them down for the sake of others? That’s not happening anymore.”
Mike sighed; he was too tired to protest. “I’ll take option 2 for 1000,” he said jokingly before coughing.
Will smiled slightly and squeezed his hand before letting go. Mike mourned the loss of the contact.
“Have you eaten anything?”
Mike tensed at the question. He had, in fact, not eaten anything since school lunch yesterday. He had completely lost his appetite.
“I ate breakfast, I’m not hungry.” He said as he began fidgeting with his hair again. That was a blatant lie, and not even a convincing one. His eyes glanced at the literally untouched food that was still sitting on his dresser. Yeah, not convincing at all.
Will clocked him immediately, giving him a blatant look. He followed his line of sight and sighed. “Yeah, I’m getting you food. What do you want to eat?” He asked as he put his hand on his hip.
Mike hummed and continued to fidget with his hair. “Whatever you want to make is fine, you really don’t have to go out of your way for me.”
Mike felt this common guilt eating at him, festering inside his heart like an infected wound. Here he was, bothering Will and making him work, while he was being completely useless.
Will rolled his eyes. “How about mac and cheese?” He asked with a slight laugh as he smiled.
Mike perked up slightly and nodded, watching as Will smiled in triumph before getting up to leave the room. As the door closed, a hush fell over the space, the lingering warmth of Will’s presence fading away. The room felt too still, too big, and felt suffocatingly empty. Which is a miracle, given it was a complete mess. Mike flopped back onto his bed and rubbed his hands over his eyes until darkness sparked behind his eyelids. God, he could not keep doing this shit.
When he finally blinked his eyes open, the clock glared back at him, time slipping away unnoticed. He’d slept longer than he had in weeks. Yet a short conversation with Will left him 10 times as rested. With a weary sigh, his gaze drifted to the window. The weather is dreary, like every spring in fucked up Indiana. Dreary spring light filtered in—a blue haze draping everything, blurring the edges of the world like a memory. But just outside, one spot of bright color caught his eye: a single yellow flower, stubborn and vivid, dancing in the wind as it clung to its roots.
It was such a small thing, and yet it felt so familiar.
Huh… Weird.