Archive of Our Own

They were bound to happen. The nightmares.

Mike knows it because there are still dreams haunting him from the time when Will disappeared last year. They’re from the same caliber as the ones that torture him now, gruesome and cruel. No matter how many blankets he wraps around himself when he goes to sleep, the dreams are cold and unforgiving and he wakes with all of his covers trampled away, lying at the end of the bed or on the floor entirely.

They’re not pretty, of course not. He doesn’t like dreaming anymore ever since the first nightmares started. They’re not comparable to the ones he’s had before, the ones when he was younger and scared by simpler things. He distinctly remembers a time when he staggered out of his bed and hurried down the hallway to his parent’s bedroom. He opened the door and then proceeded to wake them up, telling them he had had a nightmare and asking them if he could spend the night with them, too scared of the shadows casted onto the walls of his own room.

His mother would always scoot to the side to make some space between her and dad, mumbling a sleepy, “Of course, honey.” whereas his dad probably didn’t even wake up whenever Mike appeared in the doorway. 

It seems to be ages ago now, when he’s been long since told he’s old enough not to do that anymore. And he is. He’s thirteen, he shouldn’t bother his parents with stupid dreams that cannot reach him, cannot hurt him.

But still, when he jolts awake from yet another disturbing dream, his first instinct is to stumble out of bed and run towards his parent’s bedroom, desperate for some sort of comfort. He aches for a hand carding through his hair, telling him it was just a dream and that these times are finally, finally over. But he shouldn’t. He’s old enough to deal with these things by himself now, isn’t he. So instead of finding comfort next to his mother, Mike merely grabs the blanket he has discarded with his hasty movements throughout his restless sleep, pulls it up to his chin again and curls up into a ball, facing the wall next to his bed.

In a desperate attempt to muffle the first sobs that start to tumble out of his mouth, he presses the fabric over his mouth, stifling the sounds and his labored breathing – but that only makes it worse. He prays no one hears his cries as he makes himself as small as possible, burying his entire face in his blanket. Body shaken by the sobs wracking through him, he tries to shove away the cruel images that continue to show up in front of his eyes. 

How he fell to the ground, mouth opened in a silent scream, his pain too much to bear. He tries to forget about the image of Will screaming and fighting against the restraints they’ve put on him in order to keep everyone safe. He tries not to think about how it hurt his ears to listen to it, how his heart shattered into countless little pieces upon hearing his best friend scream and cry the way he did in that hospital bed.

In theory he knows it wasn’t Will himself. He knows it was the Mind Flayer, trying to break them with the idea that it actually was Will, defenseless and in pain and everyone turning a deaf ear on him, but that doesn’t make it any less hard on Mike, because after all it still was Will’s body spasming and fighting the ropes. It was Will’s voice yelling and crying, it was Will’s face distorted by pain and panic and anger and also Will’s eyes that ultimately found his, wide open, full of fear and something that Mike doesn’t want to call hatred but he is sure it was.

And like this, with these pictures and scenes playing on repeat in his mind, it’s so easy to tell himself that it was Will after all. That Will meant every word he said. That the hatred Mike was faced with when he declared him a liar was real, was Will’s, too. And the only thing that hurts more than this idea, is the thought that he could’ve never returned. This thing could’ve taken up his best friend entirely and made that small body his own until there would’ve been nothing left of him anymore. Mike already had trouble breathing for the few, excruciating seconds when Will’s face showed nothing but confusion upon seeing him; he doesn’t think he could handle losing him entirely.

But it could’ve happened. The Mind Flayer was so close to making it happen Mike doesn’t even want to think about it — but now, in the middle of the night, he’s not just haunted by these memories he’ll never forget, but also by these recurring thoughts. In the span of a year he almost lost his best friend twice and that was two times too many already. He can’t help but think of the what ifs; what if they hadn’t gotten Will out of the Upside Down? What if the Mind Flayer would’ve erased every last bit that makes him Will? Every memory the boy possesses, every stupid habit he can’t get rid of, even him biting his fingernails when he’s nervous or anxious. And worse: Every little thing of him that Mike holds so dearly to his heart. 

The way his eyes light up when he helps the party during a campaign. Or how he’s always honest to a fault, with every damn thing, no matter how small and unimportant it is. How he loves to draw and gifts him his artworks once in a while. He’s always super embarrassed but happiness shimmers through his blushing cheeks, because Mike gets so excited every time he receives one. His quiet voice, how he looks at him with so much trust, how he shares his deepest fears and strongest feelings with Mike, because that’s just how they work. 

That’s just how they work. Sharing thoughts, sharing feelings, sharing fears. 

It’s that thought that stops his sobs and has him raise his head from the damp spot in the blanket. It’s the first, coherent thing that shoots through his mind after waking up from that nightmare. Only seconds after that, he turns around and reaches for his Supercom on the nightstand. He knocks over his alarm clock and a few figurines while doing so, but he couldn’t care less as he grabs the device. With the dim light the moon casts into the room, he switches channels until he finds the one he needs and then he’s already whispering into the walkie talkie.

His voice is low and laced with new tears threatening to fall from his eyes as he lies down again and he mumbles a soft, “Will? Will, are you there?”

The seconds pass and he receives heavy silence from the other end of the line, a sign that Will, unlike him, is fast asleep in his own bed. Hugging the Supercom to his chest and biting his lower lip to try and fight back the sob that wants to rise from his throat, he curls up once again. He just has to try and fall asleep again, he’s not five anymore, he can deal with a nightmare–

“Mike?” The voice cutting through the quiet of his bedroom is muffled from where the speaker is pressed against his pajama. It’s unmistakably Will’s which doesn’t come as a surprise when Mike has switched to the channel they have decided to use only for each other, but somehow it still has a relieved whimper escaping his lips when he hears it. He sounds sleepy, but more than that, it sounds real, not like something else abusing what should only belong to him, but like Will is himself.

“Hello? Mike? What’s wrong?”

He needs another few seconds of calming his hitching breath and stopping the tears rolling down his cheeks, until he’s able to answer. “I’m sorry– I’m sorry, I just–”

He knows he’s acting stupid. He shouldn’t have woken Will up for shit like this. Especially not now, only days after these events, when he needs rest more than anything else. Not just because Joyce wants that, but also because Mike is aware how exhausting all of this must’ve been for him. Calling him in the middle of the night is pretty much the opposite of giving Will any rest whatsoever, but he just couldn’t help himself.

That’s also what he wants to say, but doesn’t dare to. He’s ashamed of saying just how scared he is. How he needs the comfort he thinks he’s too old for. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to say it, explain how terrified he has been for the last few minutes, spiraling into the idea that the Mind Flayer is still inside of Will. That some small speck of that disgusting thing might have survived the brutal attack on its host and that he’s just hiding away somewhere no one is able to find him yet. That he’s growing again, feeding off his best friend, festering, spreading, waiting to strike again and that this time, he’ll take all of Will. Every last thing. Until there’s nothing remaining but the body of a boy he couldn’t think out of his life anymore. 

“It’s alright,” Will mumbles on the other end. His voice is a little distorted and crackles once because of the distance between their Supercoms. And yet, despite all that, despite the noise on the line, Mike is able to make out how soft it sounds, how gentle and reassuring. It’s warm and Will doesn’t even know what exactly the problem is, because Mike doesn’t know how to say he’s terrified of losing his best friend, even days afterwards, but he still makes sure to give Mike the comfort he needs.

Maybe it’s that; Will’s softness. The way his voice delicately wraps around even more delicate words. How he reaches out without an explanation given. Maybe that’s what makes Mike want to be honest with him, despite the shame of admitting to such vulnerability. 

“I– I was scared,” he mumbles, ignoring the way his heart beats uncomfortably in his chest and how his palm is sweaty as he clutches the Supercom tightly in his hand, “Had a nightmare and– you– the Mind Flayer returned.”

There’s silence on the other end for what feels like painfully long hours after that and just when Mike starts regretting waking Will up for this and being honest with him, the boy finally answers. 

“It’s alright,” he repeats once more, “It was just a bad dream, Mike. He’s gone, he can’t get to us anymore.” His voice is still as gentle as before but Mike has had enough conversations with him at this point to hear the small change of intonation, despite the noise and cracking on the line. The way his throat seems to lock up and choke on an emotion he doesn’t want others to hear in his voice. And given the subject they’re talking about it’s probably his own fears. 

“Yeah... yeah, you’re right, I just– I think I needed to make sure of it…” he mumbles, trailing off as he’s fighting the shame crawling inside of his body and spreading into every part of it. He feels burning hot and stupid more than anything into every last fibre of his being, because he shouldn’t have opened up like that. It’s stupid, it’s so pointless — he disturbed Will’s needed rest for nothing at all and he shouldn’t have—

“You’re not the only one. Scared, I mean.” 

It feels like there’s boulders falling from his chest, making it a little easier for him to breathe again, but at the same time, the words and their implication only drop the heavier weight onto his heart right afterwards. He should’ve known that Will suffers just like him and probably a lot more than him, too — after all, it was him who had to deal with being possessed. It was him who lost control over his body almost entirely.

Sure, it was fucking terrifying to watch from the sidelines, trying to get through to him and bring him back to the surface, but Mike can’t imagine what it must’ve felt like for Will, being stuck in his own body like that, unable to control it anymore and quite frankly, he doesn’t want to imagine it.

“Every time I close my eyes, I’m scared that when I open them again, I’ll be stuck in my own body,” he continues. Now, his voice is clearly wobbly and Mike clutches the Supercom tighter, swallowing the lump building in his throat. “I can’t— I can’t shake the feeling that it’s still around somewhere and that the second I’ll allow myself to relax, he’ll attack again.”

“He’s gone,” he speaks up after that, no longer able to listen to the pain clearly audible through the speaker. He hears Will sniffle on the other end and his heart physically hurts . It feels like it’s being squeezed by a fist until it’s all crumpled up and small. Like someone’s stabbing right into it and then turning the dagger in the wound. 

All he wants is to keep Will finally safe after all that has happened to him — but being plagued by these nightmares and unable to comfort himself on his own attests to the fact that Mike, as much as he’d like to, can’t provide and guarantee such safety for him.

Still, he tries to give him the comfort of words, at least. “We got rid of him once and for all and even if he wasn’t gone, I wouldn’t let him hurt you again.”

“I know… sometimes I just feel like I’m losing sense of my surroundings again… it’s terrifying.”

And he gets that, because Mike called him in the first place for the very same reasons. It’s silent for a few seconds, both of them lost in thoughts, trying to deal with their own fears, trying to forget about the images that resurface now that Mike allows the thoughts in. The what ifs crawl around in his mind, make his breath rattle in his chest and new tears burn behind his eyes. 

How can they be sure it won’t happen again? That Will isn’t going to look at him and see a stranger instead of a friend? What if he gets lost between his own bones and veins, behind skin and flesh and the Mind Flayer uses his face as a mask of everlasting kindness? What then?

“You know how he didn’t remember your memories entirely?” he asks suddenly. Will makes a confused sound on the other end of the line, “He pretty much had access to everything?”

“I know, I know, but–” It feels like a hand closing around his throat or someone severing his vocal cords and he finds himself unable to say the words at first. As if they’re stuck and razor-sharp, slicing him open from the inside out. 

“When– When they asked you if you remembered me… He knew who I was. He answered correctly — but it took him a few seconds to get the right information,” he mumbles. His voice is hoarse when he presses the words out, eyes squeezing closed and the Supercom clutched tightly in his hand, still. He doesn’t want to think about how his eyes found his back then and how they seemed so empty. So void of any feelings and recognition. Will looked at him and it seemed as if he looked right through him, until his gaze focused again and he finally said his name.

Will doesn’t seem to be too fond of these memories either, when he asks, “What about it?”

“What if we established a codeword that would ensure us that you’re still yourself?”

“Mike you’re a genius,” Will breathes and Mike can’t help but chuckle, wiping drying streaks of tears from his cheeks. It’s like an anchor and Mike clings onto it the second he hears Will’s approval. 

“It’s got to be something not too easy. Something the Mind Flayer can’t just repeat and copy the second he finds it in my memories,” Will continues and Mike nods even if the boy on the other end of the line can’t see that. He feels himself relax against the sheets and his heart rate finally comes down a little bit. He turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, already trying to think of something that could work. “Maybe a foreign word? Something difficult that you have to know for sure. It has to make the Mind Flayer struggle to remember so I can realize it’s not you anymore. Something that you know by heart and can answer immediately.”

“Maybe one word isn’t enough for that,” he hears Will’s voice over the noise and crackles coming out of the speaker, “I just think he would be able to remember specific words quickly as soon as he realizes they’re important… he could tell who mom is… and he knew your name, Mike.”

Mike shudders remembering that moment and he swallows hard, carding a hand through his messy bed hair. “What’s your suggestion then?”

“What about that poem we had to learn for school a few days ago? The one about that two-headed calf? We both know it by heart and it’s easy but still long enough to make the Mind Flayer struggle to remember it, don’t you think?” 

“And you called me the genius,” he deadpans into the Supercom but the second he hears Will’s happy laugh coming through, his own lips stretch into a wide smile. The boy must’ve turned around and stuffed his face against his pillow because the sound becomes muffled all of a sudden, probably in order to not wake his mom and Jonathan. “You came up with the idea!” he hears Will giggle and Mike feels his body warm up again. 

It’s as if the freezing ice that caged his body in throughout the dreams and that refused to leave after he had woken up, finally melts away now upon hearing Will’s carefree laughter. Bit by bit. Inch by inch — until his entire body feels relaxed and warm.

“Alright, the two-headed calf then… Do you wanna recite it real quick?” He knows it’s silly, but he needs this right now. He knows it’s Will on the other end of the line, his laughter unmistakable, but now that he’s been given an option to actually, really check if he’s not just sitting on hopes and dreams, he wants to use it too.

“Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum. But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening, the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass,” he starts, voice as soft and gentle as it was when he picked up but ridden off the sleep in it. Mike closes his eyes and suppresses a comfortable sigh. There’s just something about Will reading out loud or reciting passages of books by heart that soothes him. He has a talent for using intonations of his voice perfectly in the right spots, his voice adapting to the lines he reads and carrying them with gentleness. It’s not how Mike tells stories or leads their campaigns, full of excitement, with grand gestures and a raised voice. Will keeps his voice down and yet he manages to draw everyone’s attention to himself. 

Despite that, he takes it upon himself to finish the poem, interrupting him and mumbling a quiet, “And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual.”

“I think that should work,” Will mumbles eventually and Mike nods. “I think so too… I’ll– I’ll let you sleep again now. Sorry for waking you up and– uh… making you use your brain like this in the middle of the night.”

“Mike,” Will chuckles, “It’s alright. It’ll help me, too. Just ask me to recite it whenever you need me to — even if it’s in the middle of the night again.”

“Alright… good night, Will.”

He waits until the boy whispers the words back to him before he turns off his Supercom and places it next to him onto the bed. Just in case he’ll wake up again tonight and finds himself needing another reassurance. He hopes it won’t be the case and he isn’t even sure he’ll ask a second time for such comfort, but knowing that he could gives him a bit more security when he rolls onto his side and closes his eyes again.

When they meet in school the next day, Will shoots him a knowing look together with a comforting smile. He’s not saying a word but his dark brown eyes say enough and Mike turns away, fighting an embarrassed blush as he thinks about how vulnerable he was last night. He doesn’t say anything either, but when the back of their hands brush on the way to the classroom it’s not a coincidence — Will knows that just as much as Mike himself.

The next time Mike wakes up drenched in sweat and shaking from the last horrible pictures sinking their teeth into his mind, he’s much quicker grabbing the Supercom. He keeps it next to him on the bed now, making it easier to find it in the darkness and prevents him from knocking over everything else he has placed onto his nightstand. He doesn’t even have to fumble with the channels and merely extends the antennae, establishing a connection before he speaks into the microphone, “Will? Are you there?”

There’s an urgency in his voice, it’s shaky and he’s still catching his breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He tries not to think of the nightmare still clinging to his small, panicked body as he sits up in his bed and pulls his legs to his chest, hugging them with his arms. “Will, please…”

“I’m here, ‘m awake, Mike.” His voice is drowsy and Mike can see the image of him rubbing the remaining sleep out of his eyes clearly. Hearing his voice helps a lot already, but he just needs a little bit more. 

“Can you– the poem, remember?” He breaks apart by the end of his sentence, a sob wracking through his entire body. He tries to make himself even smaller and even if it’s impossible, he tenses up every muscle in his body in a poor attempt to do so. His shoulders shake and he hides his face behind his legs, leans his forehead against his knees and lets the tears roll down his cheeks uncaring of how weak it makes him to show emotions like this. No one’s there to see him anyways, no one will know of his crying and his panic — no one except for Will, but that’s alright. It’s Will after all; he wouldn’t use that against him, he wouldn’t even dream of it. 

The latter doesn’t even say anything else after Mike’s desperate attempt to bring the request out. He follows it, knowing what he needs and why he’s on the line at this time of the night. And just like that he starts repeating the familiar lines to him. His voice is full of sleep, a little hoarse, but he says word for word precisely and without faltering. He doesn’t need any time remembering the poem, he recites it to the very last sentence. If Mike cries more through that, simply out of sheer relief that it’s indeed still Will who’s talking to him, then that’s for no one else to know except him and the boy on the other line. 

“Was that okay?” he asks in the end, small and still so tired and he has to bite back another, heart-wrenching sob before he answers, just as small and shaky, “Yeah, thank you.”

Just like the first time, they don’t talk about it afterwards. When they see each other at school, all they share is a fleeting, short glance and Mike drapes one arm over Will’s shoulder, pulling him a little closer to his side. They stay silent, even when Will willingly presses a little closer to his side than necessary, as if he’s trying to receive some of his warmth, or as if he’s still trying to provide some more comfort. 

It continues like that; whenever Mike’s nightmares arise and shake him to his core, he grabs the Supercom and asks for Will to recite the poem. That’s how it usually goes, a security mostly for him that Will is still here, that it’s still him and not the Mind Flayer and as a comfort to have someone after his disturbing dreams. 

But after a few times, Will starts doing the same, showing Mike he’s not the only one struggling to go on normally about his days and nights. Some nights it’s Mike waking up to Will’s teary voice and quiet sobs coming through the line. He says his name in a broken whisper and Mike’s heart shatters into a thousand little pieces, because Will shouldn’t sound like that. He shouldn’t sound like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. He shouldn’t sound so confused, so scared and helpless and instead of just replying with a quick, “Im here. I’m here, Will.” Mike would much rather sneak out of the house and go over to the boy’s house to comfort him in person.

He doesn’t elaborate on anything. The second Mike stops talking, he hears Will reciting the poem. He’s interrupted by his own sobs in between and Mike can’t imagine what he must look like right now, what he must feel like when he’s that shaken, but he tries his best to comfort him. He mumbles encouragement after every finished, correct sentence and as soon as Will is done, he asks through tears, “Did I get it right?”

Mike grips the blanket while his heart squeezes painfully in his chest and he nods. “Yes, you did.” Disregarding Will’s relieved sobs on the other end of the line, he continues, “You got it right, down to the very last word. You’re still here… You’re still yourself.”

That’s when he realizes it’s really not just for him but also for Will, acting as a security that he’s not losing himself, that he’s not losing against another entity trying to make his body their own.

One time, when he’s getting ready for bed, he hears Will’s voice coming through earlier than usual, “Mike? Are you still awake?”

Pulling the pajama over his head, he goes to grab the Supercom and answers, “Yeah, what’s up?”

It takes a few seconds, like the boy on the line doesn’t want to open up about whatever reason he’s calling. Mike is patient nevertheless, gets into bed and pulls his covers up and only then does his soft voice come through the speaker once more. “Can you stay and talk to me?” 

It’s an unusual request, since they’ve settled on reciting the poem and reassuring each other afterwards. There isn’t much else to it, whenever they call for these reasons and despite the unusual request, Mike is sure Will asks for the same reasons as always. He can hear the fear in his voice and in the way his words come out fast, almost jumbling over each other. 

“I mean sure,” he replies, “Do you think the poem doesn’t work anymore?”

“No, no, it’s not like that.” He hears him breathe out shakily and his confusion only grows. Rolling to the side and making himself more comfortable in his bed, he listens to Will finally admitting what’s wrong, “Have you ever heard of sleep paralysis?”

“No? What’s it about?”

“It’s when you wake up but your body hasn’t yet… So you’re conscious, but you can’t move or speak, you know?” The more Will says, the further Mike’s heart sinks until he thinks it’s sitting at the bottom of his feet, trampled into the ground, aching for the boy on the other end of the line. Will doesn’t have to elaborate any further, because he knows what he’s about to say, but he does so anyways. “I’ve had it a few times before but– being possessed? Kind of– it made it worse?  It’s been happening more frequently and it feels– it feels the same, Mike.” His voice is nothing but a whisper anymore, like he’s trying to fight back tears, “And it’s so scary every time, because I don’t know it’s only sleep paralysis until it’s over. And now I’m just– I'm terrified of falling asleep and waking up like that… not being in control anymore...”

“It’s okay, I get it,” he mumbles, breaths coming fast, like he’s the one scared out of his mind by the mere thought of falling asleep, “I’ll stay with you until you’re sleeping.” He agrees without thinking, because he doesn’t have to waste any thoughts on that matter. He would stay up the entire night if it meant it would help his best friend. If talking to him until he’s asleep is what he can do to give Will safety and comfort, that’s what he’ll do — and he’ll do it gladly.

He talks about anything and everything, about God and the world. He talks about every miniscule and unimportant thing, stuff he wouldn’t waste more than two sentences on if it wasn’t for Will to provide him enough comfort to drift off into sleep. He speaks in hushed tones and small voices. In suppressed laughter and soft smiles. He reminisces and plans out new adventures and sometimes he hears Will’s soft chuckles at an especially ridiculous idea or he throws in his own two cents about something.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, how many minutes pass and turn into full blown hours, until he realizes that his best friend hasn’t said anything in a while now. When he asks if he’s still awake, he is met with silence on the other end of the line and that’s when Mike calls it quits.

“Good night, Will,” he whispers, knowing he won’t get a response and the other boy won’t hear it.

There are still nights when Mike is the one who wakes from nightmares and asks for Will to say the poem. Whenever these nights occur, he doesn’t just focus on the soothing, warm tone he uses while speaking the words he knows by heart, still, but also on the implications of some of them. He focuses on the middle part, about the peaceful idyllic scene that is portrayed only hours before it will all vanish for the calf. Tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. He mouths that sentence every time Will says it and he imagines the other boy’s face to it, how he’s indeed alive, how he’s safe and at home in the real world. 

There are a few more times when Will asks him to talk until he falls asleep to his voice. Every time it happens, Mike feels his heart skip a beat at the proclamation of trust. It works every time and Mike can’t even fight the smile he falls asleep with after he has wished the sleeping boy on the other end a good night (and maybe sweeter dreams, too, but no one has to know about such things).

One time after such a night, Mike wakes up to Joyce’s voice coming through the speaker. The Supercom is right next to him, still on, still working, and is proof that this time, his talking worked on both of them. He hears Will groan on the other end, clearly upset about having to get up and when he chuckles softly, Will merely wishes him a good morning before they finally cut the connection and get ready for school.

But these instances aren’t just at night. It’s not just nightmares. Especially for Will it’s not just being scared of falling asleep. Mike sees it pretty clearly after the first few nights; maybe because he subconsciously pays closer attention to his best friend, but he realizes how on edge Will constantly seems to be. It’s little things but they add up and it’s not that difficult to get to the root of the problem, which is basically him trying to avoid anything that could make him feel like he’s being possessed again.

He wears t-shirts he definitely stole from Jonathan sometimes, oversized, giving him more space to move and breathe freely. He always seems to be dressed just right so he won’t feel hot or cold. He flinches when Lucas turns off the big lights of the basement once. Mike sees it in the dim light of the lamp on the table; he whirls around and looks at their friend, who doesn’t even realize that something’s going on, attention occupied elsewhere. He assumes it’s because the Upside Down probably is a lot darker and Will switched from this place to that one in an instant — but he never asks. He just tries to steer against it and be a support. Just as silent when they’re together or with words when it’s through the crackling and noisy speaker of their Supercoms.

One time, when there’s a particularly strong breeze and they step out of Mike’s house, Will goes rigid next to him. It happens in the span of a few seconds, when they’re still only by themselves and Mike notices his blank expression immediately. How his eyes glaze over and his focus is lost in the distance. How his entire body is tense, like there are electric currents running through him. For a horrible, quick second, Will imagines that that’s what he must look like when he wakes up and feels himself paralyzed. That’s what it must be like, frozen in place, not speaking a word, because you can’t. The fear in his face is evident and Mike wants nothing more than to chase it away, but how do you help with something you’ve never experienced yourself?

“Hey,” he speaks up, turning to face Will fully, “remember the poem?” 

It does the trick and the boy blinks once, then twice and then he looks at him a little lost but so scared, too. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “I just– sorry, yeah I remember it.” 

He still makes no move, doesn’t seem to be fully here with Mike and so he tries a little more than usual; he grabs his hand and slides his fingers between Will’s, ignoring the way his heart is beating out of his chest while doing so. The boy whips his head around again and stares at him through wide eyes and Mike tries his best to give him a reassuring smile.

“Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum,” he whispers and gives Will’s hand a gentle squeeze. He keeps staring at him and Mike is so glad no one is around right now to see them, because he’d turn into a stuttering, blushing mess trying to explain the comfort they share.

”But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother,” he continues, nodding encouragingly when Will’s gaze lasts on him and then, finally, he squeezes back. His lips stretch into a shy smile and he takes over, ”It is a perfect summer evening, the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he looks into the sky there are twice as many stars as usual.”

“See? You’re alive. You’re here with us.”

They look at each other for a few more seconds, holding each other’s hand and this time, when another breeze engulfs them, ripping at Will’s oversized sweater, the boy doesn’t flinch or goes stiff next to him. His eyes don’t glaze over — instead, they stay focused on him, looking right back at Mike and his smile, no matter how insecure and wobbly, stays on. 

It goes on like this. One always reaching out and the other one providing what is needed. It’s something that doesn’t need an explanation anymore, something that isn’t talked about more than absolutely necessary to bring across what they need from the other. No matter if it’s Mike talking or Will repeating the poem three times until he has calmed down after a nightmare, they help each other out and slowly but surely the world goes back to normal. It’s easier waking from nightmares and not bursting into tears, because Mike is sure the second he calls Will, he’ll still be here, no matter what pictures his subconscious put into his head. It takes less time and less talking for Will to stop responding, drifting off into a peaceful sleep until the next morning.

It gets easier, but they carry their scars nevertheless. It gets easier but it never truly vanishes, it never actually stops. 

It goes like this until the Snowball approaches. To be frank, Mike didn’t plan on going, because he didn’t have a date to go with. He thought about asking El, but somehow it didn’t feel right and so he put it off again and again and again until the day of the ball arrived. The only reason he still goes is because Will asked if he would join. 

It’s not like Will has a date. The same goes for Dustin and the only lucky fucker in their party is Lucas who’ll enjoy the evening with Max. But Dustin is bound to go, trying to find any girl that’s willing to put up with him, so him showing up isn’t even a question. That Will actively wanted to go isn’t as much of a surprise either, because he’s Will after all; he loves these kinds of events, no matter how out of place he might seem. He doesn’t care about not bringing anyone as a date as long as he gets to be there and enjoy his time. 

And maybe, after everything, he just wants to feel a little normal again. Not like the freak that people would stare at in a museum. Maybe he doesn’t want to be reminded of the stupid nicknames they’ve given him and what he has been through and he just wants to do what every other kid in Hawkins is doing as well. 

So Mike agrees to go as well, even if he’s embarrassed as fuck about not having a date for the evening. He agrees for Will, because when he asks him to tag along, he looks at him with wide, hopeful eyes and they’re so full of light and Mike doesn’t think he could deny him such a mundane, easy wish right now. Not after everything that has happened. 

If he wants him there, he’ll be there, simple as that.

He endures his mother taking countless pictures of him before she finally drives him to the school grounds to drop him off. The music is audible outside and Mike is dreading going in there all on his own so much already.

Still, he enters the gym and starts making his way through countless dancing students, trying to find his friends and ignoring curious stares from people that surely didn’t expect him to show up at such an event. 

He spots them at the other end of the gym, mostly because of Max’ bright red hair. When he joins the small group, Lucas is in the middle of making fun of Dustin’s hair, which earns a round of laughter from everyone and a heated counter argument from the boy himself. Mike simply watches the exchange, a grin on his face, as he finds his place next to Will like it’s second nature. The smaller boy greets him clearly excited and in these few seconds, Mike finds it easier to stand in the gym and be swept away by the same excitement. Maybe it wasn’t such a stupid idea to come here when his presence means so much to Will.

The joy is short-lived, though. The second a romantic song starts playing, Lucas and Max are off to the dance floor and only a few seconds after these two, Dustin leaves as well with a confident smile on his lips. “Wish me luck, guys!”

Both Will and him watch him make his way through the crowd and– 

“He’s not seriously trying his luck with Stacy, is he?” Will sounds not just skeptical but almost terrified and Mike can’t help but shake his head in disbelief before he takes his eyes away from Dustin. “I don’t wanna watch this,” he mumbles and shoots a short glance at Will, who merely nods in agreement, looking straight back at him.

“What about you?” he asks then, catching him completely off guard. His expression is curious and Mike furrows his brows in confusion, “What about me?”

“Aren’t you gonna ask someone for a dance?”

He doesn’t have the chance to respond as a girl suddenly draws both their attention to herself, calling Will with a loud, “Hey! Zombie Boy!”

And what the fuck.

Mike stares at her in obvious disdain he fails to hide, while Will shows no reaction to the insulting nickname at all. Instead, he simply looks at her questioningly and Mike’s distaste only grows when she has the audacity to ask him, “Do you wanna dance?”

First of all, who is this girl; Mike doesn’t even know her name. Second of all, she’s got a lot of guts using an insult instead of Will’s actual name and then still asking him if he’d like to dance with her. And Mike doesn’t like how Will seems to be absolutely unfazed by that treatment. As if he’s used to it by now. 

Which he probably is, considering how many people bullied him with names like these for the events that happened and they don’t know jackshit about apart from the rumors that were spread. But that only makes it worse, because his best friend shouldn’t feel like this is the way to treat him, like this is how people are allowed to talk to him. 

Despite him being asked, his first instinct is looking at Mike, like he needs a little push or help, whatever it is he’s trying to tell him with his eyes only. His heart does a little somersault at the realization that Will thinks so highly of his opinion that he’d turn to him in a situation like that, but he pushes the thought aside, because that’s not what he should be focusing on right now. 

What he should be focusing on is that this girl is being rude and unlike Will, Mike isn’t going to let that slide. However, instead of being straightforward and telling her as much, he starts panicking because she’s clearly waiting for an answer and Will fumbling with words, not actually getting to the point, isn’t helping any of this. 

“Actually!” he blurts out and when Will looks at him wide-eyed and surprised, his gaze switches between him and the girl before he stammers, “He can’t. He can’t, because there’s– there’s someone else who wanted to ask you for a dance already.”

Will looks at him with as much confusion as the girl, who proceeds to prod, “Oh really?”

“Yup. They’re… waiting in the hallway– I’ll bring you to them.”

He doesn’t wait for neither Will nor that girl’s reaction and puts one arm around his shoulders as he leads him away from her, in the direction to the exit of the gym, to make the excuse look as believable as possible.

“Why did you do that?” Will asks as they’re almost out of the gym and in the hallway and Mike has to stop himself from physically flinching as he dies a little on the inside. Obviously Will wouldn’t understand why he intervened; he’s too gentle with everyone around him, even when people act like absolute dicks with him. 

They enter the hallway, but Mike only stops and lets go of him as they round a corner so they’re hidden from any curious looks that would want to check if he told the truth or not. 

“Because she was rude,” he replies then. Will shrugs, turns around and watches the entrance of the gym from behind the corner, the music from inside still audible from here. “It’s just a name.”

“Just a– She should call you by your actual name if she wants you to dance with her!”

“It’s no big deal, Mike,” he replies and that’s the final straw for him. Grabbing the boy by the shoulder and turning him back around to look him in the eyes, he scoffs indignantly. “It’s disgusting, alright?! None of these idiots know what actually happened to you and they make it some sort of joke? And then she can’t even drop it when she asks you for a dance? Jesus, where’s your standard, Will?”

The latter chuckles. “The standard is being asked for a dance in the first place — and you blew that for me just now.”

“You can’t be actually mad at me for blowing a chance for a dance with someone who couldn’t even bother calling you by your actual name. There’s so many better options than that girl.”

The deadpan look he receives tells him he should’ve worded his response better, but Will makes sure to tell him so as he raises his eyebrows in fake anticipation and crosses his arms in front of his chest, “Really, Mike? Like who?”

Truth be told, he probably could name anyone who simply decides not to use Zombie Boy as a name for Will, but Mike knows that this isn’t specifically about that, but about who would ask him for a dance. That’s the important part of this whole subject. So he takes a deep breath, ready to name drop people that, maybe, possibly, with a little luck, probably, could still ask Will for a dance tonight. But his best friend’s face slowly but surely changes from his cynical expression to something that’s laced with disappointment and that’s his fault, isn’t it? And he wouldn’t want to give him empty hopes and stupid names that would disappoint him further the longer the evening continues.

“Like me,” he decides eventually and strictly ignores how his heart starts hammering in his ribcage, “I’m a much better option than that girl.”

“What?”

He shakes his head as if to silence him and extends his hand in a silent offer. He’s absolutely insane for this, but he doesn’t wanna take this away from Will and dancing together isn’t such a big deal. They’ve helped each other with nightmares and fears and trauma — dancing really is the least of Mike’s issues. It’s more how his heart is beating uncharacteristically fast and he’s fearing something that could be a rejection when this is just a dance with his best friend.

Still, he pushes through, “Will, do you wanna dance?”

Will’s eyes are as big as saucers as he watches him at first. Then, suddenly, he seems to come back to life and he nods, stepping forward and taking Mike’s hand with a small, “Yes– yes, sure.”

It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal at all, that’s what Mike keeps telling himself when they step even closer to each other so he can place his hands on Will’s waist. They’re best friends — if anything, they should be laughing and make this some small, happy joke. Two nerds dancing with each other because they can’t find any girls. That’s how it should be.

But it isn’t. Instead, Mike’s heart hammers against his ribcage like it wants to be let out and his hands are sweaty and he’s so nervous when it’s just Will he’s dancing with. But the latter doesn’t seem to be doing any better if his still wide eyes are anything to go by. He puts his hands onto Mike’s shoulders and Mike gulps, feelings very very hot all of a sudden. Will’s cheeks are dusted with a delicate blush and he feels him digging his fingers into his shoulders like he’s just as nervous about this as he is.

He starts to sway them slowly to the beat of the music coming from the gym. His movements are still a little awkward and jerky – clearly inexperienced. But it seems to be more than enough for Will, who starts to smile wider and wider with every passing second. Mike flushes like hell when he looks him in the eyes and Will’s are sparkling, full of joy. Like a dance with him, his best friend, is so much better than one with anyone else.

“You’re right. You’re a much better option,” Will mumbles then, a little breathless but clearly happy and Mike is about to lose it to reasons he doesn’t fully understand and refuses to think about further today. He’ll schedule them for a later date. When he isn’t so occupied with looking at his best friend and realizing he’s actually kind of pretty.

“Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum. But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother,” he suddenly says, a low whisper, almost drowned out by the music coming out of the gym. Perplexed, Mike falters in his movements for a quick second, before he falls back into the rhythm and continues to sway them with a little more confidence than at first. 

“Why are you reciting that right now?” He hasn’t seemed like he’s dissociating the last few minutes, so him saying these lines out of nowhere is weird. Will, however, lowers his head in an attempt to hide the shy smile that stretches his lips.

“I just– needed to make sure of something.”

Mike has a feeling, but he doesn’t push the subject. Instead, he scraps together every little bit of courage that he finds in his body and leans in until his forehead is touching Will’s. The boy looks at him a little surprised at first, before his features relax and a soft chuckle escapes his lips. 

“It is a perfect summer evening, the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass,” he continues for him, his voice a little shaky and not louder than Will’s. He feels the boy’s hands slip from his shoulders and with his heart beating in his throat, he notices how he places them over his own, still situated on his hips. 

He lets Will take the lead in their little dance and lets him grab his hands. Allows him to intertwine them with his own, sliding his fingers between Mike’s and holding him gently but also firmly. As if to make sure he won’t run away — and Mike could never. Wants to stay here for a little longer, just a few minutes. 

Maybe an hour. 

Maybe forever

When Will opens his mouth to whisper the last line of the poem, Mike makes sure to join in and, giving his hands a soft squeeze, they breathe into each other, “And as he looks into the sky there are twice as many stars as usual.”

This time it’s not for safety.

(And they both know it.)