Work Text:
Will doesn’t know when, exactly, he slipped, when his mind’s feet fell out from under it and it dragged them down, down, down into the ravine where he's drowning. All he knows is that, somewhere along the road, something went wrong in his brain, a wire got crossed somewhere and screwed him over.
Maybe it was when he was barely fifteen and he had to have music blasting in his ears constantly to keep Vecna from sinking his claws into his brain, to stay alive.
Maybe it was when he was fourteen and burned his hand on a firework he threw at the monster.
Maybe it was later in his fourteenth year on this planet when people started noticing him in a bad way, when he was the recipient of unwanted flirty touches and smiles, or even when he was drugged up and making out with the person dealing to him after the prescriptions didn't shut the voices up anymore and he didn't stop when Will froze up and stopped wanting it as he undid Will’s belt.
Maybe it was up until he was eight and he got called names and shoved around by the person who was supposed to love him like a father.
Maybe it was when he was twelve years old and the cards lined up just right so that he not only got kidnapped, but that he made it out. Would it have been better if he hadn't?
Maybe it was when he was six years old and his dad’s eyes lingered too long when he got him a drink, or the next year when he’d had too many whiskeys and it wasn't just his eyes. Maybe it was how his mom caught them when he was eight and hit his dad so hard he fell, screamed at him until he left before chain-smoking for days and not even looking at Will until a week later.
Maybe it was when he was possessed and forced to kill, when he was used as a puppet, or maybe when he had to push the only boy he ever loved into the arms of another or when that same boy said it wasn't his fault Will didn't like girls.
All he knows is that something along the road went wrong, and now he, William Jacob Byers, is wrong by proxy. And he must know it even subconsciously, because if he didn't, he wouldn't be where he is.
At least, that's his excuse for the scars on his arms, on his hands, for the drugs in his system and the lighter in his pocket as he looks up at the sky that's disappeared to dark red clouds as the apocalypse sets further in, just like it has been for months.
He chews on his lip as he fiddles with his cigarette, stolen from his mother, debating on whether or not to smoke it. He's not sure of when they can get more, thanks to the world ending, but God, he wants it.
But that's his sin, isn't it? ‘Want?’ The same thing that made his dad and dealer and other kids at school that didn't listen when he didn't want to be kissed do what they did? The same thing that littered his body with scars? The same thing that's made him crave the drugs, the Xanax and the Vicodin and heroin on the worst nights?
(He has track marks up his arms now. Another reason he always wears flannel now.)
Will Byers, the demon of want, the sinner, the lure to pull others over that edge too.
He lights the cigarette after about three tries, lifting it to his lips and inhaling the stale tobacco as the world spins around in his head like a ballerina.
Want. Want. He wanted to be a ballerina once. He loved the idea, loved watching the movies, loved the idea of him on a stage being loved for being beautiful and strong and graceful, loved the motions his former-ballerina mother had taught him when he was young.
His dad beat that out of him. Will knows better than to want.
Heh. The irony. He's sitting here, the craving for a fix thrumming through him like a pulse, while reflecting how he never gets anything he wants. The addict, saying how he wanted to be a dancer but couldn't want.
Such a strange word, just like 'good.' 'Good' doesn't exist. It only ever does in the context of circumstance. A baby is good if it doesn't cry and a day is good if nothing bad happens and Will is good if he shuts up and takes it.
He takes another drag, letting his eyes flutter shut as he leans back against the Wheeler house.
His eyelashes. He used to get told how pretty they were. Just like how he got praised for his waist, his bunny teeth, his big eyes, his smaller frame.
Will Byers is a boy made of vices.
Man. Boy. He doesn't know. He's sixteen, too young to vote, and he can't drive or even function alone, but boys don't get hooked on nicotine or drugs or sex or pain, and he exists in a strange in-between state of want, of being wanted by others while wanting both the next time he got sated and to be free, both to grow up and be able to drown in the dark of the river without hurting anyone while wanting to go back to the little boy he was before everything went wrong.
His vices are many now. At first, it was just pain, the feeling of burning reassuring him he was alive and free and himself, but then it turned to the drugs as the doctors upped his prescriptions and it wasn't enough, never enough, and then it was sex when he felt hands skimming his skin and eyes blown wide with lust for him, hearing the praise of how pretty he was, how good, even if he was too drugged-up to enjoy it.
The cigarette slowly burns until it's tar, and when the nicotine is gone, Will rolls up his sleeve and presses it down into his wrist.
His head falls back against the shingles in pleasure-pain as the heat rages through him, nerves lighting on fire and telling him hurt, hurt, hurt, fix it fix it fix it.
He smiles, then starts laughing, eyelids fluttering as he smiles wide enough that his teeth are showing.
Mike's been praising him too. Smiling when Will smiles and telling him it looks good on him, giving a sigh of relief and thanking Will for putting the headphones on and resurrecting his shield against his death, turning red and beaming behind his hand when Will wears his clothes or sleeps in his bed or accidentally touches him too long.
His skin apparently doesn't care if he's slept with people before, if he's been hugged within the last few months, because every time he gets touch it sings with joy and when he lets go it screams in pain.
He read somewhere that you need eight hugs a day to keep that feeling away. Will can't imagine all his loved ones combined willing to hug him that much. He's filthy, disgusting, dirty, broken.
Part of why he holds his partners hands down, usually. It makes him feel less sick, to not let them touch him, to make them feel good while not letting them return the favor. They can tell him what to do, but they can't touch him, not unless Will lets them.
It's not a power thing. He just doesn't want his skin to crawl, his skin to scream.
And there it is again. 'Want.' As if it could change anything.
Will pulls his sleeve down to cover the burn, flicking the gone cigarette into the grass before wrapping his arms around his knees.
Back in Lenora, he has a stuffed tiger on his bed. He used to hug it, hold it close and pretend he was loved and being held as he went to sleep. Who knows where it is after his house got shot up and a man died in the back of a pizza van?
'PTSD,' the doctors say. 'It can cause depression, anxiety, and self-destructive behavior.' Will doesn't think it's fair to blame anything he's done on a mental illness. He had a choice and he made it. Simple as that.
Will buries his head in his knees and pretends the wind is caressing him the same way he imagines the water in the quarry would. He imagines they would whisper in his ear as he drowned, as he froze, as he got what he deserved - 'oh, my sweet boy, what have you done?'
The last time he got called a 'sweet boy' was two months ago when his forks at dinner got switched to spoons. His mother had pulled him into a hug, cradling the back of his neck, murmuring that he had to stop, that it was okay to feel but not like this, you have to stop doing this.
Will regrets not cleaning up the bathroom floor and the old pencil sharpener blade better. It's the fourth time she's found out what he's doing.
He regrets his mother having him.
His thoughts are interrupted by the crunching of grass.
"Hey." Mike's voice, that slightly rough, deeper-than-it-used-to-be-but-still-higher-than-Will's-voice tone that makes his heart jump, rings. "It's too cold for you to be out here."
Will hums. "I'm fine."
Something's draped over his shoulders, and when Will opens his eyes, he sees Mike tucking the corners of a blanket under his folded arms to keep it secure. "See? Better."
Will uncurls slightly to touch it, to feel the same fabric as always but now imbued with Mike's care and gentleness (more than deserved) and just stare at it.
Mike gently bumps his shoulder, sitting next to him in the grass. "You keep coming out here. You okay?"
Will doesn't know how to shake his head, how to tell Mike that his carefully-rationed drugs and cigarettes are dwindling and soon he'll be in withdrawal, how to tell Mike that he just wants Vecna to take him already and get it over with, so he just nods.
Mike sighs, bumping him again. Will thinks of when they used to play outside and roll around in the grass like summer wouldn't ever end and they wouldn't ever grow up. "Liar. I've known you for eleven years. I know when you're lying to me."
Will knows that's a lie, and he keeps his mouth shut, burying his nose in the blanket and inhaling. It smells like safety and love and home. He doesn't think he'll ever get a home again. All signs point to them staying with the Wheelers for even longer, and once Will turns eighteen and is an adult, he doesn't think he'd be able to make a house a home even if he chose rent over heroin - and with how smooth and peaceful and makes-him-able-to-breathe it is, he doubts that would happen.
"And because I know when you're lying and because I know everything," Mike jokingly announces, "I know that you lied about the painting. And the confession."
That one makes Will freeze, looking up over his arm at Mike, bracing himself to be shouted at or hit or something, anything-
"Did you mean it?" Mike asks, suddenly soft and genuine as he reaches out, long fingers hesitating before brushing Will's hair out of his eyes. "When you said she would always need me and losing me hurt too much? Was that really what you felt?"
Will doesn't answer, looking away and squeezing his eyes shut.
A minute later, Mike's arms close around him, a chin hooked over his shoulder as he's hugged tightly.
"I'm sorry it took a year to realize." Mike whispers into his ear, squishing his nose against Will's shoulder. "I'm stupid sometimes. You know I am."
"Not stupid." Will sniffs. "You didn't expect me to lie."
"No." Mike says softly. "I didn't. But I don't blame you. I was lying a lot too."
"To who?" Will asks. He can't think of a single time Mike's lied around him recently.
"To El. You. Myself." Mike says. "I- I told myself I loved her. I- I'm supposed to, right? She's a girl. And I didn't understand why I wanted it to be you instead, but-"
Mike sighs, and it tickles Will's neck, even as goosebumps rise. "If you don't want- want me anymore, I'll back off, but, uh- if- if you do, I'm yours."
Will squeezes his eyes shut tighter as tears start to fall. "You- Mikey, you wouldn't be saying that if you knew everything."
"I would." Mike says softly, a hand rising up to gently thumb away Will's tears. "Nothing would ever change the fact that I love you."
Will's heart shatters as he realizes what he's going to do. "Let's go upstairs. Your room."
-
As soon as the door's locked, Mike's turned back around to face Will, brown eyes big and soft in that way that always reminded Will of the myths of Hera, how one of her animals is the cow because her eyes were so big and brown and beautiful. "Now what?"
Will fidgets with his fingers, a habit he was never able to drop. "Mikey, you don't want me."
He's probably using the childhood nickname too much.
"You," Mike says, hands hesitating before cupping Will's cheeks and tilting his face up, "don't get to decide that for me."
Will chokes back a sob, lifting his hands to gently grab Mike's wrists and pull them away from his face. He pauses for a moment, then leads them to the neck of his shirt.
"You can." he murmurs, avoiding eye contact. "Just- if you- if you say you love me, you- you should see what-"
He doesn't finish the sentence, looking at his feet and Mike's hands, stock-still where Will's holding them.
"Are you sure you want me to?" Mike asks softly. "When- when we would go swimming in summer, you wouldn't let- you kept your shirt on. I- you don't have to if you don't want."
And there's that word again.
Will nods slowly. "It's okay. I- I want you to."
Mike's hands slowly move, Will letting go and letting his hands fall to his sides as Mike starts to unbutton his shirt. After a moment, it's down to the bottom, and Will shrugs, letting it fall to the floor.
He pretends he can't see Mike trying not to look at his chest, his stomach, but whether out of respect or trying not to do something he'd regret, Will doesn't know.
He raises his arms and holds them out for Mike to see, scars and burn marks and track marks on display.
Mike inhales sharply, and Will flinches. "The- the burns I did with my lighter and- and cigarettes. The scars are from blades and the Upside Down and my dad. And the-"
Will slowly exhales around the lump in his throat. "The track marks are from syringes of heroin."
Mike's face crumples, and he practically dives to yank Will into a hug. "No, no, no, no-"
Will just stands there for a second, and then he buries his face in Mike's shoulder and twists handfuls of his shirt into his grasp like he's trying to keep Mike from running. "I'm not the same kid you asked to be your friend, Mike. I'm an addict, and I hate myself, and I- I tried to kill myself four times, and I'm n-not a virgin, and you- you deserve someone so much better, Mikey, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry you love me-"
He sobs, once then twice then again and again and again, and he hardly notices Mike carefully settling them both on the edge of the bed as he cries and cries and cries, something in him snapping and all his pain and frustration falling out in saltwater.
Mike holds him, arms firm but gentle as he rocks them both, one hand carding through Will's hair and scratching at his scalp in a way that's so infuriatingly soothing as Will cries until he can't breathe, until he's trembling and hiccuping and trying to catch his breath.
When Will's done, when his head hurts and he's worn out and so uncomfortably comfortable and cozy in Mike's arms, his best friend pulls back. Will avoids his eyes.
And then Mike's head bows and his lips brush against Will's forearms.
"Never-" Mike whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of Will's elbow, "never, never, never, never, never again, do you understand? No more. Please, I- I can't lose you. You're my world. I can't lose you to something like this."
Will watches in an unholy mix of fascination and love and horror and humiliation and confusion as Mike presses kisses to each old needle hole, to the old lines and circles and abused veins, kissing every scar and mark on the inside of his forearms before bowing further, pressing his forehead against Will's wrists. "God, please, please stop."
Will's heart breaks.
"I can't." he whispers. "Mikey, I don't know how."
Mike looks up at him, eyes rimmed with red and filled with tears. "I'll help you, then. I'll do anything. Just- God, Will, please, you have to stop."
Will hangs his head in shame as he nods slowly. "Okay. I- okay. I'll try, but- no promises, okay?"
Mike sighs and gives a small smile. "That's good enough, okay? I just need you to try. I'll do the rest."
Will doesn't know how he's going to do that, but as Mike sits up again, gently cupping the back of Will's head, he doesn't know how to ask.
"Can I kiss you?" Mike whispers, eyes dropping down below looking back into Will's eyes.
He nods, probably too fast, but as Mike cups his cheek and presses their lips together, he doesn't care.
It's quiet for a minute, just the sound of the two of them connecting and disconnecting echoing, and then Will falls backwards onto the bed, Mike wasting no time in getting over him, knees on both sides of his hips as Mike kisses his shoulder.
Will feels sick, but not like in the past where his mind was screaming not to be touched.
This is more… well, if Will is touch-starved, this is the nausea that comes when you haven't eaten in so long that your body forgets how to.
He tilts his neck for more access, fingers scratching at Mike's biceps. "Mike."
"Hm?"
"Roll over. I want to be on top of you."
Mike slows, and Will curses himself for moving too fast.
His hands are brought down from Mike's shoulders, his best friend adjusting as he entwines their fingers and presses Will's hands into the mattress. "It's okay. I'm not gonna do anything, I just- I just want to kiss your scars and make you feel safe. Okay? I'm not gonna hurt you or- try to do that with you, okay? I just want to- is it okay?"
Will feels frozen. This isn't how it's supposed to go. Mike's supposed to tell Will what to do and let him do it without touching or doing anything but praising and sitting there and enjoying what little Will has to offer anymore, but instead, Will's the one who's just laying there, the one whose hands are still.
It feels strange, but Will nods. Mike's always been special and gotten special privileges, and that means that he's the first person who Will's choosing to allow to touch him in this context.
Mike smiles, pressing his forehead into Will's chest for a minute before resting his chin there. "I love you."
Will gets a lump in his throat, but he mumbles back a close approximation, and Mike goes back to kissing, bowing his head and gently pressing both closed lips and an open mouth to the scar tissue adorning Will's skin like armor in a way that feels less like foreplay and more like reverence or worship.
It makes Will nervous - that plus the fact Mike said things aren't escalating - so he starts to wriggle around, twisting his hands to get Mike to let go. He needs to be in control. He needs to-
Mike lets go, but quickly shifts his grip to Will's wrists, keeping him gently but firmly pinned to the bed. He doesn't do anything for a long minute, just looking up at him from where his chin rests on Will's stomach with that patient look.
"It's okay." Mike says softly. "You're safe, I promise. You're in control. I'll stop if you say to."
Will's breath catches, and he quickly stops struggling, just looking down at Mike.
Mike must sense how Will feels, even if he can't label it, because he just leans down to press a kiss to Will's stomach, flat from lack of appetite (thanks, drugs and cigarettes) but still, in Will's opinion, unappealing.
"You're so cute." Mike says as he leans up, pressing their foreheads together and nuzzling their noses.
Will wants something else.
Will takes a deep breath before giving in to his useless, faulty brain's demands, craning his neck to rub their cheeks together.
Mike laughs, and he rests his weight on Will, and instead of being panic-inducing, it's soothing, like one of those weighted blankets he used when he first came back from the Upside Down and couldn't sleep without pressure.
"You're like a cat." Mike smiles. "I love you."
He lets go of Will's wrists, wrapping his arms around him and rolling them onto their sides instead, holding Will close like he's the most precious and fragile thing in the world, and Will can't help but melt even as there's a little voice in his head screaming that he doesn’t deserve this.
This is what he wants. And if he wants this more than drugs or pain or cigarettes or sex right now, he's going to choose it. Isn't that his M.O. anyway? To follow what he wants most in that moment?
He wants Mike to keep holding him.
Will curls up, burying his face in Mike's shirt and hugging around his waist.
He feels his face flush as he asks, just like a little kid, down to the high, uncertain tone of his voice, "Promise you'll stay?"
Mike presses a kiss to his head and runs a hand down Will's back. "Nowhere in the world I'd willingly go without you."
Will just stays there for a long time, feeling safer than he has in years.
-
Mike gently runs his fingers through Will's hair and up and down his back as his breathing evens out, feeling as he slowly drifts off to sleep.
As soon as he's sure Will is asleep, Mike feels himself start to fall apart, sniffling as he buries his face in the pillow.
Heroin. Will's hooked on heroin and hurting himself. He's tried to kill himself. The way he was struggling earlier when Mike didn't let him hold him down instead-
This boy. This beautiful, perfect, unbearably broken boy.
Mike muffles the sobs as best he can, careful not to wake Will as he pulls the blanket over them both.
He lets the thought spiral in his head for a moment, lets himself process the magnitude of what Will's gone through, before his sobs slow, then stop.
Will's... like a shelter dog.
The thought fits surprisingly well. He's been abandoned, kicked, broken, starved of food and love and safety until he thinks Mike's hands want to hurt instead of soothe and protect, until he tries to fix himself with horrible coping mechanisms.
Mike kisses the top of his head. It's okay if you bite me or are scared. I'll wait as long as it takes and be here until you stop flinching. I love you. I promise.