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It’s two in the morning, and Mike’s laying in his bed, awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. He tried to sleep, but his thoughts were racing far too fast and he couldn’t keep his eyes shut. His eyes are tracing patterns in the ceiling, and his brain is whispering things to him, mean things, horrible things (true things, he thinks bitterly). That he’s a waste. He’s a burden. Will was only taking pity on him when he said he’d be there, Will just didn’t want to have the guilt poured onto him when Mike inevitably tried something. And yeah, Mike kind of wants to hate himself for thinking something so rude about Will, but at the same time, he’s pretty sure it has to be true, since there’s no way even Will, kindhearted as he is, would be able to love someone like Mike.
Mike wants so badly to believe what Will had told him, he wants to believe all the kisses and words of affection are real, he wants to believe Will genuinely loves him back. Some days, he actually does believe it – those are the days that he doesn’t feel quite so disgusting, those are the days he feels like maybe he’s loveable. Those days don’t happen often, though. He usually just feels like a literal piece of garbage. Not something you dread even touching because it’s so gross, but more like a moldy piece of bread – not something completely nauseating, but still bad enough that you throw it out immediately. He wonders how hard it is for everyone around him to not walk away from him every day. He thinks they’re much stronger than him, considering that he’s wanted to escape himself for a long time. He knows it’s hard for him.
He hates days like these; it feels like he’s somehow gotten worse rather than better, and he feels guilty, because that just means Will’s wasting his time on something he can’t fix. Mike’s too broken, he’s crumbled into tiny shards and it’s impossible to figure out which pieces fit together. He tries to tell himself that he has more good days now, that he hasn’t cut in months, so he must be recovering in some way, but the not-so-little voice in his head reminds him that his good days are still so rare, and even though he hasn’t cut he still wants to. He still gets the urge to grab his razor and make up for lost time, but Will would find out. Sometimes, Will asks to see his arms, and the delightfully proud look on his face when all he sees are old scars makes Mike feel even worse whenever he thinks about cutting. But no matter how terrible it makes him feel, the itch in his arms persists, practically begging him to do something to make it stop. Usually he can ignore it.
Today, on the other hand, the voice is too loud, the itch won’t subside after he scratches at the scars. Today, he needs more.
He’s out of bed and digging through his sock drawer before he can process what he’s doing. He pulls out the razor, and shimmies his pants down until his thighs are exposed. Will would see if he did it on his arms, but he doubts Will would think to check his legs. Mike presses the razor against his skin, but then he pauses, just for a moment, to whisper out “I’m sorry.” He drags the blade across his thigh, over and over, and as he’s cherishing the sweet kiss of the metal on his skin, he’s apologizing for each time he cuts. He’s sorry for breaking his (albeit unspoken) promise to Will. He’s sorry for giving in to temptation. He’s sorry for putting them all through even more troubles, he’s sorry for being like this, he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry.
Mike finally stops when his hand is shaking too violently to hold the razor, and the blade falls onto his lap. When he looks down at his thighs, he can’t help but gasp at the sight of so much blood. His leg is a mess, blood flowing everywhere, and he’s never cut so much in his life. He curses when he realizes he cut far deeper than intended, and he scrambles off his bed to grab an old shirt from under his bed, pressing the shirt down on his leg. He winces in pain at the pressure, but keeps pushing down until, finally, the bleeding slows down enough for him to ease up and fumble for a roll of bandages. He wraps his leg up haphazardly, the bandages ending up painfully tight around his leg, but he doesn’t care. He’s far too out of it to worry about washing up like usual, and all he does is shuck off his bloodstained pants to clean up later and he lets himself soak in the temporary giddy feeling it had brought onto him.
When he’s finally come down from the euphoria, guilt hits him like a train. Will had trusted Mike to reach out for help, he had trusted Mike to not give in to his thoughts, and Mike had just gone and completely betrayed Will’s trust with no thought about it. Mike is mortified – he’s been trying so hard to stop lying so much, repeating friends don’t lie trying to keep himself from falling back into the habit, but all that has apparently been for naught. He decides it’s probably best if he never shows his face in public again and lets himself become nothing more than a faint memory in the back of everyone’s minds. He broke his promise, and he knows Will will eventually find out (that boy is far too observant, sometimes). Even imagining Will’s possible reaction fills Mike up with dread; his mind feeds him several scenarios, none of them good, such as Will getting mad or crying or breaking up with him, because clearly he’d overestimated the level of trust between them. The last one makes his body seize up, and he spends far too long thinking about how Will’s face looks when he’s angry, how Will would, for once, be glaring at Mike with hatred in his eyes.
He finally shakes himself out of it when the thought pops into his head. You need to tell him, anyways. At first, he panics at the thought – he’d just gotten through imagining all the different ways he could mess this up – but then he manages to reason with himself that Will would probably be more upset if Mike never told him, and he had to find out by himself. That would practically scream that Mike doesn’t trust him. Mike doesn’t want Will to think that, ever, because it isn’t true in any way possible. So, Mike stands, wincing at the pain that wracks through his leg and quickly readjusts his stance so he’s putting less weight on it, and he limps around his room, throwing some things into his backpack for no reason other than his gut insisting on it. The rest of his bandages, his walkie talkie, and a stuffed animal from when he was a kid that he has to dig out of his closet. He doesn’t bother taking out his school supplies before he’s changing into an outfit he doesn’t even look at and sneaking down the stairs and out the front door.
Mike’s a little over halfway to Will’s house when he changes his mind. It’s like a switch in his head got flipped, because all of a sudden, he’s scared again. Scared of what Will is going to say, scared of fumbling over his words so much and annoying Will, scared of not being able to breathe and breaking out in tears. He stops in the middle of the road, not caring to think about the warnings all the adults would tell them in elementary school (always stay on the sidewalks or near the side of the street, never walk in the middle of the road or you could get hit by a car) since the only people out at night are partying teenagers, and they’re always drunk and loud enough for him to have enough warning to get out of the way. Mike nearly turns his bike around and heads home, but quite frankly, he’s a little afraid of going back there. He’s afraid of how tempting it might be to keep cutting, how alluring the blade is every time he’s in his room. Instead, he starts pedaling again, but he’s not heading toward Will’s house. He’s biking towards the cliff.
Mike skids to a halt as he comes up to the area that overlooks the water. He puts down his kickstand, plops his backpack on the ground, and collapses in a heap onto the stone, panting. His leg is screaming in pain, and he’s tearing up at the burning sensation that’s overtaken his thigh. He raises his hand to his mouth and bites down, hard, something that he had discovered a little after he first started cutting – he’d done it out of pure instinct, and it helped distract him from the pain. He fights with the button of his jeans (which, he just now realizes, are just slightly too small, even though he thinks they’re pretty new), trying to pull down his pants one-handed, and he distantly thinks about how weird this would look to an onlooker, but he pushes that thought aside in favour of glancing down at his thighs.
The bloodied bandages make something stir uncomfortably in Mike’s stomach, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, quickly dragging himself over to the bushes, but nothing actually comes up, so he stumbles back over to his things. He’s slightly concerned over how squeamish around blood he’s been today; he’s never been bad around blood before, hell, people have been killed in front of him, so why is he so affected by it now, of all times? Is it just because it’s his own blood? Or is it because there’s so much? Both? He doesn’t know, but he thinks there would’ve been a much better time or place for it to kick in. He decides to leave that for later – he really doesn’t want to throw up right now – and he looks around at his familiar surroundings, memories surfacing as his eyes fix onto the exposed cliff edge.
He remembers standing there before his life went to shit. He had stood there, but he wasn’t alone that time. Will, Lucas, and Dustin had stood there with them, talking and laughing without a care. He remembers that when they’d turned to step back, Lucas had slipped on a rock under his shoe and nearly fell back, and it was only thanks to some quick thinking from Dustin that Lucas still stood here today. Mike’s pretty sure that was the first time any of their lives have been in danger. It was the first time he’d ever seen genuine terror on Lucas’ face, and the four of them had come together in a hug after Dustin pulled Lucas several steps away from the edge. They had sat there for who knows how long, finding comfort in the warmth of each other, and after they pulled back Lucas had smiled and thanked them wetly. They decided to spend the rest of the day talking in Mike’s basement, and before they left to go home, Lucas had pulled them all into another hug. For weeks after that, Mike had nightmares of Dustin not grabbing Lucas in time, and watching wide eyed as his friend fell over the edge. He had blamed himself, and well after waking up one thing he’d thought in the midst of the dream stuck with him.
It should have been me.
That’s the first time Mike ever felt worthless. Lying awake in bed, head on his tearstained pillow, it dawned upon him that they’d be better off without him. It was the start of his mental spiral that led him to where he sat today, bleeding from his thigh.
He remembers the day he jumped off the cliff. He remembers being scared. He had lost everyone – Will was missing, and Mike himself had caused Lucas and El to run off – other than Dustin, Dustin was the only one he had left, and he’d be damned if he let something happen to him when he could’ve done something. So he had stepped over to the edge, ignoring Dustin yelling at him to stop, and he thought back to the dreams where Lucas had died, he thought about the guilt he’d felt. He sent a mental apology to everyone, said an extra one to Dustin as he yelled his name, and stepped off as Troy reached one. The fall had felt like it lasted forever, and he had taken the time to think. This was his last action, sacrificing himself for the good of his friend. It almost felt too good to be something he had done. But that was it; he’d never get to see El, Lucas, Will again, Dustin would have to tell everyone else, Will would get back without Mike there to greet him. Then, it occurred to him that they’d probably be glad to be rid of him. (But he hadn’t died. El had saved him, and he got swept back into the action so quickly that he didn’t have time to think about what had happened until after El had disappeared, bringing the Demogorgon down with her.)
It wasn’t until early May of 1985 that he stood on the edge again. He’d biked there a few hours after school let out, and he’d told his mom that he’d be back by quarter to nine. He hadn’t planned to go there, but it was like his feet had a mind of their own, and he’d ended up there without even realizing it. He was too absorbed in his thoughts and how his arms itched to think about where he was going. He’s pretty sure he had made his way there because of how often he’d thought about doing just that. As soon as he got there, he dropped his bike on the ground and walked to the edge. And he just… stood. Staring down at the water, he took his time to think; no one would be looking for him for at least a few hours, he wasn’t in a rush. He remembered what it had felt like to fall – he remembered the wind in his hair, the air being ripped from his lungs and the weightless feeling. It had been so utterly exhilarating, like a rollercoaster, and he was a little excited to feel it again. He had smiled at the memory, and he was just about to step off once more when it occurred to him that he hadn’t left a note. He didn’t want his family to worry (and by family, he means Nancy and his friends), so he heaved a sad sigh and stepped back so his toes weren’t off the edge.
Mike’s staring at the exposed edge now, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this time he should go through with it. Maybe this time he could- no. He didn’t leave a note this time either. Instead, he stretches his arm out, not wanting to move and aggravate the cuts even more, and he manages to drag his backpack over to him. Opening it up, he reaches for his walkie talkie, but his hand stalls in midair as he sets his eyes on the notebooks sitting inside. He could write a note. He’s oh so tempted to reach over and flip to a blank page, but he doesn’t even know what he’d say. And even if he knew what to say, he promised Will. He promised that he’d ask for help if he ever came to something like this, and he intends to keep it. He reaches out and grabs the walkie talkie resolutely.
Will’s lying in bed, awake after having had a nightmare, when his walkie talkie crackles on. He startles at the sound, breathing quicker as he quickly scrubs at the tears on his cheeks. Through the static, he can make out Mike begging him to pick up. Mike’s voice is hoarse, and when he sniffles wetly, it hits Will that Mike sounds like he’s on the brink of tears, and he scrambles out from under his covers and over to the radio. He sits on the floor and waits until Mike’s voice stops coming through to press down the button. “Mike? What’s wrong?”
At first, there’s no response, and Will starts to wonder if Mike’s waiting for him to say over. But then, Mike speaks up again. “Will, it… it’s gotten bad again.” His breathing is labored, and Will is both confused and concerned before he figures out what Mike’s talking about, but when he does, his heart drops into his stomach.
“Oh, god, okay. Um, can you come here or should I come to you?”
“Can you come here? Please?” Mike sounds desperate, and Will’s moving to stand when he speaks again. “I’m at the cliff.”
Will feels cold, cold dread creep under his skin when he hears Mike’s whispered words. “Okay, Mike, just- just stay where you are, okay? I’m on my way, please don’t do anything, stay safe,” Will rattles out nervously, and stands up, swiftly changing out of his pajamas, writing a note just in case his mom comes to check on him, and, after a little thought, he grabs a water bottle that was sitting on his desk. He always has to chug some water after crying, and he’s pretty sure one (or both) of them are going to be shedding some tears today. Considering how close he feels to tears right now, it’s a safe assumption, he thinks. He slips the bottle into his jacket pocket and, just as he reaches to open the window, Mike croaks out one last word.
“Hurry.”
Will gives the radio a long look before he slips out his window.
Riding his bike on the unpaved path in the woods isn’t his best idea, but it’s faster than he’d be able to run while dragging along his bike, so he does his best to keep steady along the uneven dirt. He’s trying his best to stay calm, he’s helped Mike before, but then he remembers that he’s never been in a situation like this and he panics all over again. He can’t help but feel scared that Mike’s going to do something terrible to himself and it’ll be all his fault. Part of him argues that he can’t expect to know what’s going on with Mike all the time, but the rest of him screams back that they’re boyfriends, Will should be able to help Mike with things like this, he should be able to tell when Mike’s hurting. His internal argument comes to a halt when he spots Mike, who’s sprawled on the ground, from a distance. From where he is, he can barely even tell it’s Mike; it’s more of a blob of colour that differs from the rest of the ground, but Will knows it’s Mike because what else could it be? A passed out drunk, maybe, but they usually stick to where the alcohol is. It’s gotta be Mike.
Will stands up on his bike, pedaling as fast as he can over to Mike. As soon as he gets there, he’s off his bike and padding over to Mike. For a moment, the world stands still and he just stares, taking in his boyfriend. Mike’s wearing a pair of jeans that are several inches too short, mismatched sneakers, and a wrinkled polo shirt that he outgrew a while back (and if Will’s eyes linger on the way his sleeves are riding up so he can see the white lines underneath, if he gets a little choked up at the reminder of the day he first saw what’s going through Mike’s head, he does his best to not show it). But then, the world starts moving again when Mike sobs quietly, and Will kneels down beside him. He reaches out, and his hands hang over Mike at first; he’s unsure of what to do, he always is, but somehow his instincts always guide him through (mostly) safe and sound, so he trusts his gut and pulls Mike up into a firm hug. Mike lets himself be dragged like a ragdoll, and he ends up sitting on Will’s lap – Will’s cheeks burn, but he shoves that to the back of his mind and, instead, focuses on situating Mike’s limp body into a position that’s comfortable for both of them.
Mike’s head ends up tucked neatly under Will’s chin, and the first movement he makes is when he nuzzles into Will’s collarbone, and he wraps his arms around Will slowly. Will breathes out Mike’s name idly, and apparently, Mike takes that as his cue to explain himself. “I-I… um, I, I’ve been- I...”
“Mike,” Will interrupts gently, “it’s okay. Take your time.” But Mike ignores it; he just keeps trying to stammer out what seems to be several different sentences at the same time, changing his mind halfway through and switching to another, all while his chest is heaving violently as he shakes from the dry sobs that jerk through him. All Will can do is shush him, and he feels helpless as he runs a hand over Mike’s back. Then, he pulls Mike away, just enough so he can look at him, and grabs Mike’s chin. He lifts his chin so they’re making eye contact, and he tries to morph his face into a gentle, calm expression. “Hey, hey. Don’t rush, you’re fine. I’m not leaving until you want me to.”
Those were the key words, apparently, because then Mike’s face crumples even more and the floodgates open, tears pouring down his cheeks, and he buries his face back into Will’s chest. He can feel the tears soak through his shirt and onto his skin, and he plants one hand in Mike’s hair, sifting through the soft curls and brushing out any tangles he comes across. They sit there for what feels like an hour, the silence that surrounds them only broken by Mike’s whimpers and Will’s murmured words of comfort. Mike’s sobs eventually quiet, and when the cold night wind brushes past them, the two shiver simultaneously. The moment broke, and Will squeezes Mike tight, placing a kiss on the top of Mike’s head before Mike slides off of Will and onto the ground.
Mike’s eyes are red and his cheeks are still wet from the tears, and the sight of him is so pitiful that Will gets the urge to pull him right back into their hug, but he restrains himself – he knows Mike needs to do this, they have to talk or nothing will ever change. Looking into his eyes makes Will feel like he’s drowning in sadness, so he busies himself by looking at all of the other (pretty) parts of Mike’s face; the freckles that dance across his cheeks, his somehow always chapped lips that Will still can’t believe he’s had the chance to feel, anything to distract him from the streaks on Mike’s cheeks and the way his eyebrows are furrowed.
“I… I’ve been l-lying.” Will’s eyes snap back to Mike’s at the confession. Lying?
“About what?” He asks tentatively, unable to take his eyes off Mike’s face. He sees the guilt that’s spread across his face, and he sees the panic slowly creeping back into his expression. Will remembers the way Mike looked when he had a panic attack, and he can see Mike slowly slipping into it again, so he does the only thing he can think to do – he takes Mike’s hands into his and squeezes.
Mike takes a deep breath and continues, “I’ve been lying. I’ve been s-saying I’m getting better, but, but sometimes I feel even worse than before and I hate it. I feel- I feel like I’m broken, like I can’t be fixed, and you’re just wasting your time when you could be doing something, anything so much more worth it. I just, I don’t know how you do it.” Mike’s voice is choked up, and it tugs harshly at Will’s heartstrings. He wants to interrupt, he wants to tell Mike that it’s not true, that he’d stay even if Mike really were unfixable (which he isn’t), that Mike’s always worth his time, but if he says something now, he’s not sure Mike would ever finish what he wants to say.
“And sometimes, I think I might be getting better, but then I just spiral back into it all over again, and I stopped cutting but I still wanted to, I still want to. There’s this… itch in my arms. Most of the time, it just goes away if I scratch enough but- but tonight it wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I tried to make it. I couldn’t, it just- it just wouldn’t, I’m sorry, please don’t hate me, I’m sorry, sorry, I’m s-s-sorry.” Mike‘s shaking by the time he finishes speaking, eyes unfocused and lip trembling. Will’s about to ask why Mike thinks he hates him when Mike pulls his hands out of Will’s, and Mike’s pulling his pants down. Panic washes over Will – what the hell does Mike think he’s doing, they’re in public! – that is, until he sees it. There’s bandages wrapped messily around Mike’s thigh, the strips crossing over each other in a chaotic fashion, so unlike the careful precision Mike would usually put into anything like this, and they look like they’re extremely tight, the fat of Mike’s thigh sprouting up and out where the bandages end. Oh yeah, and they’re sopping red with blood.
Mike sees the way Will’s face shifts, and he thinks this is it, he’s going to leave, he’s going to yell, he’s going to be mad at me. He stutters out again, “P-p-please, please don’t h-hate me.” Will’s arm moves in his peripheral vision, and he flinches back, eyes squeezed shut, ready for a punch, a slap, anything. But it never comes. Instead, there’s a gentle touch on his leg below the bandages, and he slowly opens his eyes to see a sad, but understanding look on Will’s face, and there’s a silent question in the way his eyebrows are quirked, the way his lips are pursed; can I help? He nods his head once, and Will moves his hand up to the bandages, but then he pauses. He looks around, and Mike feels useless (as usual) as Will pulls over Mike’s backpack, digging through it. Mike watches through a pained haze as Will holds up the roll of bandages triumphantly. Will runs his hands over the bandages until he finds the piece Mike had hurriedly tucked under the rest, and he quickly unravels the soaking wet bandages. He drops it on the ground next to them with a disgusted expression on his face.
Will then reaches into his pocket, and, to Mike’s confusion, pulls out a mostly full bottle of water. Mike almost wants to ask why he has water in his pocket and how it didn’t fall out, but he knows he’d stutter and sob and it’d just make him feel even worse. Mike zones out after that – he feels numb, like he’s not entirely in his body anymore, and although he watches it happen with bleary eyes, he can’t feel Will pouring water on his thigh, he can’t feel Will wipe it dry with his jacket sleeve. He can’t feel the bandages being wrapped around his leg, tight but not too tight. He can feel, however, the way his eyes are stinging, the way his cheeks are burning, and he wishes he couldn’t feel that either. Will nudges him to say he’s done, and Mike pulls his pants back up as quickly as he can – he wants to hide it, he wants to pretend it’s not there, he wants to forget. He knows Will won’t let him.
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He’s choked up, there’s a lump in his throat, and he can’t speak. He looks at Will with tears in his eyes, hoping Will gets what he’s trying to say. And Will does, evidently, because then he’s being pulled up off the ground to stand on shaking legs. When Will lets go, he stumbles almost immediately into Will’s chest – his legs are asleep. So they stand, Mike leaning on Will, until his legs are awake, and then they’re getting onto their bikes, Will carrying Mike’s backpack. They ride slowly to Will’s house; they’d picked Will’s both because it was closer, and because if either Joyce or Jonathan wake up, they’ll be far more understanding than Mike’s parents, who’ve been getting more and more strict as Mike’s mood deteriorates. They somehow make it to the house without saying a word.
When they go to sneak through Will’s window, Mike nearly dies of embarrassment as Will insists on helping him through, lifting his leg carefully upwards and over the windowsill. Mike stands in the middle of the room as Will bustles around the room, putting the backpack on his desk chair, kicking off his shoes and stripping off his jacket. Mike feels disconnected whenever there’s nothing he can do, like he’s losing control of himself, like he’s slipping even further from his so-called leader position. Usually he can figure out a way to help, usually he can put off the feeling of uselessness for when he’s lying in bed, sleepless, but all he manages to do is toe off his sneakers before Will’s wrapping him in a blanket and pushing him over to the bed. They sit, Mike looking anywhere but at his boyfriend, and Will snakes an arm around Mike, pulling him so his head rests on his shoulder.
Will breaks the silence with a murmur. “I don’t hate you. I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it.” Mike’s pretty sure that means he should start talking. He tilts his face further into Will’s shoulder, breathing as deeply as he can manage, trying to sort out his thoughts enough to speak. It takes a few minutes of sitting in comfortable silence before Mike tries it.
“I couldn’t sleep. I tried, I really did, but I just, I couldn’t stop thinking. I know I’m a burden, I’m a mistake, I’m unlovable. And I want to believe you love me, I want to believe it, but I can’t help feeling like you’re just taking pity on me. I’m sorry, I know you’re not like that, but it’s just that- it’s hard to believe even you could love a piece of shit like me. I can’t believe how you’ve put up with me for so long.” Will looks like he’s going to interrupt, like he’s going to tell Mike that it’s not true, but Mike doesn’t want to hear it, not yet, so he surges on, not giving Will a chance to speak. “I hadn’t cut until tonight, I swear, but the itch wouldn’t leave. I didn’t even think about it, I just- I just did it. I felt so, so guilty, because I let you down, but at the same time it felt so good. And I hated it. I’ve been trying to stop lying, I really want to get better, but I didn’t want to tell you, I was scared you’d hate me. I was going to tell you, though, I was going to ride over here, but I got scared. I was scared that- scared that you’d…” He trails off, burrowing his face further into Will’s warmth, desperately trying to fight back tears.
The silence that settles in the room is thick, heavy. Or, at least, it was, until Will reaches up and tangles his fingers into Mike’s hair, scratching at Mike’s scalp. “I never thought you’d stop cutting altogether. I knew it’d take you a while to get better, and, yeah, I’m always happy every time I see you haven’t cut, but here’s the thing I don’t think you get. I’m proud of you every time you manage to not cut, because I know you want to. I knew you’d end up cutting again, because getting better after something like this is hard; I know that better than anyone. But you know what? I’m glad you were able to tell me, I’m glad you could push past it just enough to reach out. You might not think you’re getting any better, but I can see it. I can tell you are, because just the fact that you radioed tonight proves that you’re not trying to handle it alone anymore. It means that you’re starting to understand I’m here for you.”
The combination of Will’s hand rubbing at his head just the way he likes it, his words spoken in the most loving tone Mike’s ever heard, and the soft eyes he’s looking down at Mike with makes Mike melt into his boyfriend, and Will uses his free arm to hold Mike even closer to him. For a long time, they just relax into each other, and Mike feels content for the first time that day. He thinks, maybe, just maybe, he should take this chance to tell Will everything, because he feels so completely comfortable in this moment, something that so rarely happens. He feels like now is the time to let go of it all, to share his thoughts with Will and maybe then he can have someone there for him, someone who he can trust with everything.
So he talks. He talks and talks, he talks about anything and everything, spitting out all the thoughts in his head without pausing. He rants about his appearance, his problems with control, how he hates that he can’t stop himself from thinking like this. He talks about how scared he is all the time, how people looking at him makes his chest tighten uncomfortably and how he sometimes cries because of minor things, and how childish crying at the toaster not working made him feel. He talks for what’s probably an hour before he runs out of bad things to say about himself, and for a while he just whispers apologies on repeat until Will pulls back just enough to kiss him softly, quickly, and Mike finds himself mumbling about Will, instead.
“Will, Will, babe, I love you, you know that, right? I love you, you’re the best boyfriend I could ever ask for. You’re so good, so nice, I’m so glad we met. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I know you don’t like yourself that much either, I know you have a lot of trouble keeping yourself together, and I hope you know that I’m here for you, too. Because I am, I am. This isn’t just about me, I’m not the only one having troubles, so don’t put me before yourself, okay?” His words are slurred, he’s talking too quickly, but he needs to say it. Will isn’t a very light sleeper – he was, for a while, after the Upside Down and the Mind Flayer, but he’s finally started feeling safe in his own home – so there was no way he’d have responded so quickly unless he was already awake. The only times Will ever stays up late are when he’s either messing around with their friends, or if he’s been plagued with nightmares or flashbacks. He doesn’t want Will to put anyone before himself, especially not Mike, of all people. He lifts his head off Will’s shoulder to look Will in the eyes, trying to show Will that he’s serious.
All Will says is, “I had a nightmare. But you’re here now. It’s okay.” Then, he kisses Mike’s cheek and primly props his chin on Mike’s blanket covered shoulder. “I was only awake for about half an hour before you radioed. I know I can come to you, you made sure I knew that a long time ago. But, right now, it’s my turn to take care of you. I’ve been doing better lately, but you need someone to keep you standing until you can do it by yourself again, and I’m going to be that someone for you. I love you too much to let you fall back down alone, Mikey. I’m gonna be there for you, and we’re gonna get through it all together. No matter what happens, I’ll be here with you. I’ve told you this before, but I know your brain likes to say otherwise, so I’ll say it again: you changed my life for the better, you’ve been there for me through everything, you’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever met, and I love you so much it hurts.”
Mike can feel his face flush bright red, and he has to wipe at his eyes – it’s almost morbidly funny how much he’s cried today. No matter how many times Will says it, hearing him say I love you always makes Mike’s heart flutter. Right here, right now, he feels comfortable in his own skin, he feels like it’s okay for him to not be in complete control, for once. In Will’s arms, where they share their body heat and their issues, is where he feels the best he has in years. It’s the place where he feels loved, he feels alive, he feels beautiful. Will has a weird way of doing it, and Mike’s never understood it; Will makes him feel good about himself even when nothing else helps. Maybe it’s because, out of every person Mike’s ever met, Will’s the one who knows him the best, the one who understands everything Mike’s going through the best. (Of course, the fact that Mike’s in love with him helps.)
They sit for a long time, just wrapped in each other’s arms, leaving any other words unspoken but still there, before Will shifts the two of them over to lie down, not letting go of Mike the whole time. Mike’s thoughts are silent for the time being, and Will’s always said he sleeps easier with someone else there, so Mike feels content falling asleep with Will pressed tightly against him. Just as he’s dozing off, he feels a peck on his lips, and he manages to smile fondly before he falls asleep. He dreams of looking at himself in the mirror and liking it, and Will’s by his side, grinning at the look on Mike’s face. He hopes that’ll someday be more than just a dream.
(He wakes to the click of a camera. Blinking groggily, he manages to make out a blur that he thinks is Jonathan. Then, Jonathan apparently notices he’s awake and creeps quickly out of the room. Mike’s tempted to go after him, but then he realizes he’s utterly tangled together with Will, who looks so peaceful that Mike doesn’t want to disturb him for anything. He sighs and lays back down, tightening his arms around Will just the slightest bit. A little more sleep couldn’t hurt.)