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Mike watches as they pull Will’s body out of the water, can’t tear his eyes away when the blue and red lights bounce off his wet, waxy skin. His eyes are closed, but Mike wonders what he would see if they were open. Are his pupils dilated or just pinpricks of darkness surrounded by hazel irises? Are they the same, even days after he’s … ?
Mike turns around to get on his bike, to pedal home so he can cry to his mother like a scared little kid, but doesn’t find his bike. Instead, he’s in a rotting pumpkin field, watching Will — alive again — collapse from pain, screaming, clutching at his own arms, scratching at the skin. Will is screaming, it hurts, it burns, make it stop! His eyes are wide open now, glazed and staring at nothing. Tears run down his cheeks, and Mike feels matching wetness against his own face. He doesn’t know how to help, so he just stands quietly and watches, useless.
He takes a step forward towards Will, and then he’s in a hospital room. Will is strapped down, tugging on his restraints, eyes squeezed tight as he yells in anger and pain. Somewhere between the incoherent screaming, Mike can hear Mom, and then later, Mike. He grabs onto Will’s hand, hurrying next to the stretcher. He wants to tell Will: it’s okay, I’m here, it’ll be fine, but he can’t speak. He walks among all of the lab staff, and holds Will’s hand and cries in silence.
They walk through a pair of swinging doors that open with a thud as Will’s bed bumps up against them, and then Mike is standing in a wilting meadow of flowers, surrounded by death and decay as Will’s body floats in front of him. His eyes are rolled back, the whites eerily visible. There’s shouting all around him, a cacophony of voices trying to figure out what to do, asking what his favorite song is. Nobody knows, and even Jonathan is fumbling.
Mike knows. Mike knows it’s Boys Don’t Cry by The Cure, because the cassette was laying open on top of his stereo and it was highlighted in the track list. Will is precious about his music, so he wouldn’t draw on a tape he bought new for nothing. He tries to say as much but the words are stuck in his throat. Mike stands rooted to the spot, useless again as he watches Will rise higher and higher into the air until he drops and hits the ground—
“Mike!”
He flies upright, chest heaving and vision blurry. Where is he now? Where has he gone, where has he been taken? Where’s Will, is he safe? His lungs burn, heaving, trying to get enough air in but failing miserably. Mike brings a hand to clutch at his chest, digging his fingers into a soft, loose shirt.
“Mike, hey…”
Will?
“Just me, Mike, just me.”
Something warm settles on Mike’s shoulders and he immediately lets go of his shirt to grab at it. His hands make contact with warm, smooth skin. And things start falling into place. He’s sitting on a soft surface, and his legs are covered with something. A blanket. The warmth on his shoulders is hands. Familiar hands, rough fingertips against the exposed skin of his shoulders where the collar of the shirt is stretched out and frayed.
“Come back to me, yeah?”
And that’s Will’s voice. Mike blinks, clearing some of the blur from his vision, and things come back into focus. The room is dark but for the nightlight in the corner, and Will is sitting across from him.
Will.
Mike falls forward so his head is on Will’s shoulder, shudders as arms wrap around him.
“Breathe, Mike,” Will urges gently, and Mike takes in a shaky breath before he shatters in Will’s embrace. He presses his nose into Will’s collarbone hard enough for it to hurt and feels his chest rise and fall under him as he wraps his arms around his waist. Will’s hand settles quietly in his hair, moving soothingly back and forth.
Mike bites his lip to stop the cries from escaping and ends up letting out a pathetic whimper instead, and Will’s other hand brushes down his back.
“Mike,” Will says again, a bit more serious this time, “you have to breathe.”
Mike tries again, a shuddering gasp.
“Good,” Will says, “one more.”
They breathe together, Will and Mike, Mike and Will, WillandMikeandWill . Alive and safe in the relative darkness of Will’s bedroom. “Sorry,” Mike whispers.
One of Will’s hands leaves for a bit, and the room gets a little bit brighter. Will’s hand returns. “I forgive you,” Will says easily. Mike lays one of his hands over Will’s chest, off-center enough to feel his heart beating under his palm, ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
He feels his own pulse slow down to match Will’s more normal pace, feels the salty tracks of his tears dry down until his skin feels taught and tacky. Will lays his hand on top of Mike’s, surrounding him with gentle, comforting warmth that Mike doesn’t deserve, not really, because he’s useless—
“You’re not useless, Mike,” Will says into the stillness of the room.
“I didn’t say anything,” Mike croaks, hiding his face in Will’s shoulder. Will hums, playing with the ends of Mike’s hair.
“Mm, I could hear you thinking.” Mike doesn’t answer that, just listens to Will breathing. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. Will’s chest rises and falls gently, his heart is still going. “Do you want tea?”
“It’s fine, Will, really—”
“Do you want tea?” Will repeats, interrupting him but still being very Will about it. Gentle, but no-nonsense. Kind, but stern.
“Yeah,” Mike mumbles, “tea sounds nice. You don’t think we’ll wake anyone up?”
He feels Will shrug under him. “Then we’ll bribe them with tea.”
Mike, despite himself, laughs at that. Problem is, laughing is very close to crying, and the little hiccups of joy quickly turn to sobbing again. He sits up, wiping at his eyes. “God, fuck, sorry. This is so– I’m so pathetic.”
“Oh, Mike,” Will says, gathering Mike into his arms, resting their foreheads together. Mike thinks he’s awfully brave for being so close to his snotty nose. “It’s okay to be upset sometimes. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”
“For you, yeah,” Mike says, and he sees Will frowning. “I— you’ve been through… so much shit, Will. And I haven’t, I’ve just… watched as shit happened to you, you know?”
“Mike,” Will whispers, voice thin. “You— I— you’re not… in less pain because someone else is in pain. You still… you deserve love and care and kindness as much as anyone else. And you can be upset. It’s okay. God knows I would be fucked up if I watched something happen to you.”
“Really?”
Will breathes something that sounds like a sob. “Of course, Mike. You’re… the most important person to me, ever. If…” here, he hesitates, “if what happened to me had happened to you, I don’t know if I would’ve…”
Will glances down at the bed, eyes shiny. Mike dives forward to catch his lips with his own, pressing them together hard. He holds onto Will’s damp cheeks and tries not to sob as he kisses him. Will’s hands settle on his neck and he pulls back.
“Mike,” he says.
“I know,” Mike says, the words punched out of his lungs. Will kisses him, once on each cheek. He settles their foreheads together again, wiping the tears that are stuck under Mike’s eyes. Mike lets his eyes fall shut as Will’s thumbs brush against his face. “So, tea?”
Will laughs, the sound bright and happy even though it’s quiet. “Yeah, let’s go get some tea.”
“I don’t even like tea,” Mike says, as Will starts to wrangle them both up from the bed.
“Yes you do,” Will argues quietly, wary of waking anyone up regardless of plans of bribing them with hot beverages. “You just insist you don’t because coffee is ‘cooler’.”
Will rolls his eyes when Mike doesn’t respond, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the mess of blankets instead. He tugs him towards the door and they shuffle quietly downstairs to the kitchen. All the lights are off, which means that everyone has actually managed to fall asleep properly tonight. Mike flicks on the light over the kitchen table while Will reaches into one of the cupboards for their mugs — Will’s yellow one and Mike’s teal — as quietly as he can. He fills the cups up with water and plucks two bags of Sleepytime tea out of the box on the counter. Mike walks up and rests his front against Will’s back, winding his arms around his waist as Will punches in two minutes.
He can feel the beating of his own heart and Will’s, just slightly out of sync. Ba-dum-dump, ba-dum-dump, ba-dum-dump.
“What was the dream about?” Will whispers carefully after a minute, even though he already knows.
“You,” Mike says. He hooks his chin over Will’s shoulder, gazes at the mugs spinning slowly behind the door of the microwave. “The quarry. The tunnels, the hospital. Vecna.”
Will grabs one of his hands and squeezes it quickly. “We’re okay,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, we’re okay.” Mike says. “You can probably take them out now.”
“It’s not done,” Will argues.
“Yeah, but the goal is to not wake anyone up yet, yeah? That’s easier if things don’t start beeping.”
Will slaps his hand lightly. “Shut up. I’ll get it when there's, like, two seconds left.”
“I’ll bet you money that you won’t do it in time,” Mike says, loosening his grip in favor of sitting down on top of the counter and staring at Will. Will stares back at him, unphased.
“You don’t have any money.”
“And yet, I’m willing to bet it.”
The microwave beeps. Mike has to keep himself from laughing out loud as Will swears and rushes to rip the microwave door open. They both stand in silence, Will bathed in the yellowish light of the microwave and looking unfairly ethereal, waiting for any sound from upstairs. Once they’re sure they haven’t woken anybody up, Will takes the mugs out and hands Mike’s to him.
He steps in between Mike’s legs where he’s still sitting on the counter, laying a hand on his knee. “How much do I owe you?” he murmurs.
“Well,” Mike starts, “since I don’t have any money, apparently, I can’t bet it. So, I think eight million kisses is in order.”
“Wow, really, eight million? Sounds like I’m going to be in debt for the rest of my life.” Will smiles.
“That’s the plan,” Mike grins, leaning in for a peck.
Someone clears their throat behind them, and both of them flinch hard enough to send tea sloshing over the edges of their mugs. It all ends up on Mike, and his right pajama pant leg is soaked with camomille blend. They turn to look at the source of the noise, and find Joyce Byers standing on the stairs wrapped in her robe.
“Boys,” she says, amusement clear in her voice. “Next time you make tea at three in the morning, maybe don’t let the microwave beep?”
Will’s shoulders rise to his ears, and Mike grins apologetically.
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Sorry, Joyce, I tried to tell him.”
Will whips around to look at him, betrayed. Mike bites down on a laugh.
“Goodnight, Mike, Will,” Joyce emphasizes with the slightest hint of laughter in her voice.
“Goodnight,” they say in chastised union. Joyce walks back up the stairs, and Mike kisses Will’s nose lightly.
“So, eight million.”